S.I.D. 7
-If you haven’t already noticed, Sleeping in the Dirt: Issue 7 dropped on Thursday. As is to be expected, Aaron Otto and the gang bring us great photography, intriguing articles, and an all around polished digital magazine that lingers around the status of This Is Fly and Catch. SID7 is automatically my favorite issue of the bunch, but that probably has something to do with Up’North being featured in it (Pg. 44-45) for the first time ever. I consider this a huge honor, and on behalf of myself and the rest of the Up’North clan, I would like to thank Mr. Aaron Otto for including this humble northern Maine blog in his spectacular magazine.
Click to View
Something special sets SID apart from every other magazine out there today, digital, print, or otherwise. No, it isn’t the fact that it’s the only legitimate mag. to ever feature Up’North, although that argument could be made. Instead, something real, relatable, and almost comforting can be found in reading stories and looking at photos from locations people fish on a daily basis. Great moments in time forged right in the backyards of average Joes, weekend warriors, fathers, brothers, and sons. THIS is what Fly Fishing means to me, and so many others like me who don’t have the luxury of mixing work with pleasure, or traveling to Chile for a weekend getaway. The type of dedication SID represents to me comes in the form of men and women who have careers in everything other than fly fishing, or a family life that simply makes it impossible to spend every free moment on the water. Men and women who take advantage of every chance they get on the water, laying it all on the line for that fish of a lifetime, that moment of truth where every second counts and nothing else matters. Men and women who cast a fly to blow off steam, while making lasting memories in locations that don’t leave them with lasting debt.
At the end of SID: 7, AO writes, “You know SID, because you’re one of us too.”
Touche’ AO, Touche’
-Ben
Happy Mother’s Day!
Doesn’t it seem unfair that mother’s only get one day? For as long as I can remember, my mother has worked tirelessly so my life could be just a little less stressful. The time, money, and stress that she has lost and endured on my account makes her saint-worthy, and I wouldn’t be where I am today without her help.
So take this one day to show your mother just how lucky you feel to have her support. Use today to show her how much you care, just like she does the other 364.
Happy Mother’s Day!
-Ben
Inspired.
Let us write.
I’ll be the first to admit that lately I haven’t been in the writing mood. While I would hardly call myself a professional, I know how it feels to be at a loss for words. Writing typically draws on some level of inspiration, and lately I’ve been a little uninspired. School and work severely limit my opportunities to fish, and the grim reality that the real world is quickly winding up to sock me in the face has quickly become more evident.
I enjoyed a conversation recently with a valued friend and local guide in the Downeast region of Maine. While catching up on our favorite microbrews, my prospective career choices, and Spring fishing, he brought up an interesting point about the current state of fly fishing in Maine. Last year at a Fly Fishing Film Tour event in southern Maine, he told me that he spoke with a big name in the industry regarding the turnout at the show. The topic? A generation gap that desperately needs to be filled.
Mid-April Muskie Fishing on the St. John
I would hate to turn this into an East VS. West ordeal, but what has the West Coast discovered about attracting younger generations to fly fishing that the East Coast simply can’t seem to grasp? Shouldn’t I have 20 friends as excited as I am about the latest offerings from Sage, or the most recent film from Felt Soul Media? Shouldn’t the Fly Fishing Film Tour be filled with Maine’s next generation of fly fishermen, shouting to the rafters when the lights go dim and Frank Smethhurst appears on screen in a Big Foot costume? Am I missing something here?
I want to sit down on any given Saturday night in the local pub and talk to no less than ten people my age who are just getting off the river. I long for the day when Maine fly fisherman step out of 1950 and start driving the sport forward. The day when fly fishing ceases to be the pastime of their grandfathers, or the secret shame they enjoy somewhere between football and computer games. When Simms and Scientific Anglers are household names, and Patagonia isn’t automatically associated with the skiing. I need to see the change, we need to be the change.
I would never take away from the generations before me and the history they represent in the sport I love, but when does history begin to evolve into the future? Fly Fishing is cool in Montana and Idaho, why not Maine? We have some of the greatest fly fishing waters in the country, rivers and ponds filled with brook trout the size of footballs, and salmon that gorge on dry flies in mid-July. What part of the equation did we get wrong? If we don’t figure it out soon, fly fishing in Maine will fade away before we can even acknowledge its in trouble.
So take a friend fly fishing, even if you need to drag him/her to the water. Super glue a fly rod in their hand, and hold them at gunpoint on the river bank until they feel that mighty tug that so few of us know well enough to actually appreciate. And when they finally ask you to put down the gun in favor of a net, teach them how to smile at the sight of a cleanly released fish, and the possibility of catching it another day. Tweet about it, blog about it, post the pictures on Facebook and “Like” the SHIT out of them. Generate more excitement, and get more youth involved in the sport that you’ve grown to love. Make the men and women on the West Coast wish they could have what we have here; leave your mark on something special. Teach your kids, teach their kids, and encourage them to teach their friends. Who knows, maybe next Christmas instead of a Playstation they might ask for a fly tying kit.
God Willing.
-Ben
One Final Round
- In the summer of 2009 I was given the rare opportunity to work with one of the most respected firearms companies in the world. Bushmaster Firearms was founded in 1973, and in its thirty-eight year history has grown into the leading AR-15 type rifle manufacturer in the United States. The history of Bushmaster is full of monumental achievements. From world-wide military connections all the way down to individual consumers, Bushmaster has earned the respect of millions with a reputation for quality and friendly customer service. Simply put, Bushmaster Firearms is the real deal.
The Windham, Maine Bushmaster AR-15 "The Last Real Bushmaster"
In early December 2010 it was announced that Bushmaster’s owner Freedom Group would be closing the Windham, Maine plant. The sad news was conveyed to me shortly after my 23rd birthday, and the moment it was spoken to me is one I will never forget. The plant that started it all, the people who formed the very heart of Bushmaster, all of it was soon to be lost due to a corporate decision that few saw coming.
Corporate decision? Bingo.
When the dust settles, Bushmaster will be just another gun company. The blood, sweat, and tears that made Bushmaster Quality Parts a household name will be removed from the equation, replaced instead by a corporate move that reeks of mediocrity and lacks true heart. What the people at Freedom Group fail to understand is that Bushmaster Firearms was much more than a simple gun company. Bushmaster is nothing without the people who invest their lives into making it such a standout product, and a Bushmaster Rifle is nothing without ” Windham Maine” stamped into the lower receiver. The last real Bushmaster rifles will forever stand alone, models of perfection in an industry where quality is quickly becoming second to profits. Bushmaster was not the victim of a struggling economy, but the tragic results of a business move that failed to consider what made it such a successful company.
I for one will never fail to appreciate the hard work and dedication that went into making my rifle. The special attention to detail, and the strong sense of pride that went into assembling a Windham, ME Bushmaster AR-15 can never be recreated using machines, no matter the circumstances. Bushmaster will continue as a brand for years to come, but those who are lucky enough to know better will tell you that Bushmaster Firearms ceases to exist on March 31, 2011. The legacy remains alive in the eyes of those who dedicated their lives to quality for nearly four decades, and those who are truly blessed to own a Windham, Maine rifle.
I would like to thank, from the bottom of my heart, each and every employee who made Bushmaster the standout company that I will always remember. For four short months you took me in as family, allowing me the chance to be a part of something so incredibly rare and unforgettable. The experience changed my life, and I am truly grateful for being allowed to play my small role in such a special piece of history. With every round that passes through my rifle’s chrome-lined barrel, know that you are all in my thoughts and prayers. Know that your efforts and hard work at not lost on my ears, and that the impact of your lasting legacy will echo through the hills of northern Maine every time I pull the trigger.
See you at the range, to fire one final round.
-Benjamin Rioux
Gary Perry Quite Contrary
Mary doesn’t have sh*t on Gary.
Gary Perry Quite Contrary
Why do you ice fish so?
With golden spoons and country tunes
And Bud Light cans all in a row.
Gary Perry Quite Contrary
Since when have you gone rogue?
You used to jig for whitefish
Now you’re catching ten pound togue.
Tyler, Gary, Shey, and Brad with Gary's big Togue. BL Bottle for comparison purposes only.
Gary Perry & his 28inch, 10lb Togue
For those who think we don’t fish, you stand corrected.
-Ben
Felt Soul Gold
- This isn’t a review
I won’t tell you that Felt Soul Media’s latest flick Eastern Rises is the greatest fly fishing movie ever produced. I won’t tell you that bigfoot is real, or fake, or that Frank Smethhurst is the fly fishing equivalent of Jesus. I would never tell you that. I won’t tell you that Travis Rummel and Ben Knight actually put me in Kamchatca while watching this film, that would be silly.
1% For The Planet! Click here to Order Eastern Rises now!
What I will tell you is that Eastern Rises is about as close to perfection as I could have hoped for. Also true is the fact that they have far exceeded any expectations I had with this film; by a long shot. What I won’t hesitate to tell you is that I have never wanted to fish more badly at any point in my life, than I did after watching Eastern Rises for the first time. You may have seen the clips, you may have seen portions here or there, but until you have watched the film from end to end in its entirety, you simply don’t know what you’re missing.
Beyond the perfect location, trout the size of small (and large) dogs, and Soviet Era helicopters, Eastern Rises is simply a REAL fly fishing flick. It shows the essence of fly fishing beyond any movie I’ve seen before, standing alone atop a mountain of greatness with only Beaches of a Lost Coast there to keep it company in terms of realism. Eastern Rises is a 21 year dream realized, and a lifetime of memories that a majority of fly fisherman could only begin to dream about. I refuse to be part of that majority. You heard it here first, I WILL fish Kamchatca if it’s the last thing I do.
A monster congratulations to the fellas of Felt Soul Media for producing a spectacular piece of fly fishing gold. This is as close to a review as I’ll ever get, because giving up a single second of this film would ruin the experience for those still left in the dark. Spend the $25, it is honestly worth so much more. Call me a kiss-ass, these fly fishing lips are puckered!
Trout Dreams and Reel screams!
-Ben
Terrible Twos
- Hardy Har Har, Up’North turns two on this glorious day!
From the northern reaches of Maine, to northern California, to Alaska, to Finland, and even mother Russia, Up’North continues to reach a broad audience on a daily basis. Completely blowing away my wildest expectations, Up’North crushed my 100,000 views (in 2 years) goal in December, and welcomed over 24,000 unique visitors in its second year alone. Nearly 700 people follow my tweets, hundreds of guides, company reps, and fly fishing enthusiasts follow via Facebook, not to mention a large local following that includes the most supportive and entertaining group of fellas a fly fisherman could ask for. In the words of Bud Soucy, “CHAOS, WHOOOOOT!”
I am sincerely humbled by the outpouring of support that Up’North has received during the past year alone. L.L.Bean continues to be extremely supportive and helpful, and I would be lost without their guidance and the friendship-Thanks Mac! In addition, Up’North has added some new supporters to the mix during the past year. Life On the Fly Outfitters picked me up as a Fly Fishing Ambassador in October 2010, and owner Michael Davis has been nothing short of inspirational. I look forward to working more closely with LOFTO in the near future, and hope that our continued cooperation will bring rewarding experiences to all involved. Leland Fly Fishing Outfitters has also added me to their affiliate program, giving me access to colorful ads and great deals on thousands of products. In a program that could be extremely impersonal and bland, Ben Paull of Leland has been extremely accommodating and helpful, arranging ads that work for my site, and pumping me full of press releases and the latest gear info. I would like to thank Mr. Paull and the rest of the fellas at Leland for their support, you guys truly are a step above the competition. Graphic artist Steve Daigle at Paper Signs Ink in Fort Kent, for making me a killer banner, business cards, and the decals that grace the back windows of countless trucks in northern Maine and beyond-Thanks for the help spreading the love Steve.
Last but certainly not least, I would like to thank the sites and individuals who have given me support, inspiration, and in many cases, friendship over the last few years. Mr. Jean-Paul Lipton aka The Roughfisher has been a great friend since day one, my brother from anotha motha! Cameron Mortenson of The Fiberglass Manifesto, Lucas Jarrett-my daily fishing buddy during the summer months, and the only guy I know who loves fly fishing in northern Maine as much as I do. Jacob McGlothlin and the fellas at Chi Wulff, Nick English, Mac Mckeever, Michael Gracie of michaelgracie.com, Simon Graham of Pike Fly Fishing Articles, Mr. Brad Bohen of Muskie Country Outfitters, and anyone else who has ever offered up information, sent me flies, gear, or simply tolerated my learning curve when it comes to all things fly fishing.
And who could forget the Up’North crew, Alex Mitchell for accompanying me on backcountry trout ponds when the weather is less than desirable, Derick, Alex and the rest of the Plourde brothers for making catching a Muskie on a fly rod become more of a reality, Jon “Jizzon” Morin for finding the humor in everything and giving me company during those weeknight canoe rides on Soldier Pond. Gary Perry and the Gardner crew for introducing me to the Big Black, in what turned out to be my favorite fishing trip of 2010. Josh Caron for putting my 10wt Silver Ghost to work against some large Atlantic Salmon on the Miramichi. And of course, my family. My father for showing increased interest in the sport I love, and being there every step of the way to support my obsession (thanks for the truck). My mother for having patience with me when I left my waders by the front door, fly tying materials on the kitchen table, and fly rods scattered around the living room. I love you Ma! My brother for proof-reading my work and offering constructive criticism along the way, and anyone else I may have forgotten who has been there since day one. For your support I am extremely grateful, Up’North would be nothing without your continued involvement and inspiration.
At the end of the day, it’s all about the experience. On and off the water, fly fishing has been as much a part of my life as my morning coffee or my last name. To say I love to fish would be the understatement of the century; the locations, the friends, and the memories it has given me help to form the foundation of my life, my moral code, my reason for breathing. It’s not about looking the part, or making money, or gaining any sort of special recognition. For me its about trying to fall asleep at night after a day filled with hungry trout and large landlocked salmon. It’s that feeling you get every Spring when you cast a streamer at the start of another season, or when that fish of a lifetime comes unbuttoned right at the side of the boat. It’s the air you breath on a backcountry pond that just seems more crisp than anywhere else. It’s life, and I’m living the dream.
Thank you all for helping to make even my most distant dreams a reality, I am truly humbled. Look for big things to come this season, and as always,
Tight Lines!
-Ben
Casting For Recovery
- L.L.Bean is a proud supporter of Casting For Recovery, and now you can be to! Casting For Recovery is a program for Breast Cancer survivors that combines fly fishing, counseling, and medical information. The culmination of the program is a 2.5 day retreat where survivors can share stories, make new friends, and do a little fly fishing in locations from Argentina to Alaska, chasing everything from Brook Trout to Grayling. Head on over to the Casting For Recovery website to learn more about how to be part of the experience!
This year L.L.Bean is offering a nice collection of products stitched with the CFR logo, and will donate $2 of every sale of such products directly to Casting For Recovery. So whether you are a Cancer Survivor, a relative of someone who is, or simply a concerned fly fisherman/woman who would like to support the cause, this is a great way to do your part.
Click on the images above to read more, and visit L.L.Bean.com to view more great Casting For Recovery products!
Tight Lines,
-Ben
Use It.
- Ahhhh yes! Another Valentine’s Day is upon us.
Clearly this day is one of the more controversial holidays we celebrate, but who doesn’t love a little bit of controversy? The fact is, as much as we try to hate it, Valentine’s day is loved by all-deep, deep down. Every year countless men venture out into the terrifying abyss we know as the jewelry store, to blow their hard earned money on something they should be spending on a new reel, or perhaps some cozy new waders. To the untrained eye, it may appear as if, for once all year, fly fishermen are actually placing their other interests ahead of a favorite trout pond, or a peaceful day on the river.
Keep thinking that, please.
No matter how angry this message makes you ladies, you can't get angry. Look, flowers!
Valentine’s day is as much a tool for fly fisherman as is a pair of forceps or some nippers. We don’t spend money on flowers and chocolates, we spend it on vouchers that allow us one extra day of fishing, free from honey-dos or forced conversation at family functions. We spend it on that excuse to miss dinner, or your grandmother’s 130th birthday. Even Hallmark is in on it, did you really think we were that smooth?
Let’s face the music, Valentine’s Day is a Fly Fishing Holiday ladies and gents. Think of it as such, and your money is never wasted.
Tight Lines,
-Ben
This Is Fly: Vol 3-Issue 1
- Typically I post the magazine cover when This Is Fly drops and simply let you do the rest. Form your own opinions, smile your own smiles, grin your own grins. Well, this isn’t your typical issue. To say that this particular installment stopped my heart would be a bit much, but I am truly lost at how to describe the feelings it conjured up inside me.
Click To Read!
If any magazine has ever made you want to get back out on the water, this is it. From cover to cover, Volume 3-Issue 1 is solid gold. But if you take the time to travel into the depths of this gold mine, two real gems stand out among the rest.
Matt Harris has a way with words when describing his adventures that literally had me considering a move to Russia. His story “Where The Wild Things Are” is a magical account of his trip to the Yokanga River, in search of Atlantic Salmon few will ever feast eyes upon during a lifetime on the water. A truly impressive piece of writing, enhanced only by dream invoking photography.
And just when you convince yourself to sit back down and continue reading, Brad Bohen of Muskie Country Outfitters steps up to the plate and hits another one out of the park. My “muskie on the fly” outings have been largely unsuccessful and filled with frustration, but Brad’s article has my muskie fever burning red-hot once again. His feature film “Zero to Hero” drops in February 2011, and I simply can’t wait. Check out the trailer below.
At the end of the day, fly fishing is as much a part of me as my college degree, or my northern Maine roots. Sometimes the long winters can make me forget why I find casting a fly so exciting. I am thankful that there are anglers out there who dedicate their lives to reminding me.
Tight Lines,
-Ben
Horsing Around
- Howdy doody,
Things get pretty bland up here in northern Maine come January and February. Fly tying is always an option, but it hasn’t exactly held top priority with so many months to go until open water. To soak up the time, a few beverages and casual outings occur on a fairly regular basis. This is a time to speak about females, complain about work, and reminisce about the fishing seasons of the past. While safety is always the number one concern, occasionally we do horse around-literally.
The elusive Derplo has always been one with god’s creatures. When he’s not spending quality time with his brother’s pitbull Lexi, he enjoys taking long walks in the woods in search of pretty birds and squirrels. He partakes in hunting, but only to feed himself and his family. He would never carelessly harm any majestic creature, he simply loves them too much.
So Excited!
Recently we took a trip to Lincoln in search of a good time. After we went to church and volunteered our time shoveling snow for the elderly, we stopped by brother Shey’s family establishment to feed the horses. Derick was insistent that we feed them, his youthful enthusiasm was that of a young child’s on christmas. You can see for yourself just how comfortable and elegant he is around animals.
But be warned, the actions depicted in these photographs are demonstrated by trained professionals in a closed off area. Horses are extremely dangerous and WILL KILL YOU if you make them angry, or short-change them on hay.
Just another reason to love Up’North, you learn something new every day.
-Ben
Happy New Year
- It’s a new year on the Up’North front, or at least it will be when the clock strikes midnight!
2010 has been a busy year, not that I’m complaining. 2011 will be even busier, but I strongly believe it will also be better. I have some new ideas for Up’North that I’m hoping will blow your mind, new photography, new writing ventures, and more fly fishing trips than any previous year on record.
Happy New Year!
Here’s to hoping 2011 is a year for change in our country, change that brings prosperity to families and smiles to the next generation of young fly fishermen and women. Here’s to spending more time on the water, laughing, and not worrying so much about the things we can’t control. Heres to forgiving our enemies, but remembering their names. And here is to all the New Years resolutions we know we can’t keep, and to the surprising success of the ones we do.
My goal for 2011 is to not to make plans, because the adventures we plan are hardly ever the ones we remember. Tag along, it’s going to be an awesome year!
The people at Up’North Maine Fly Castings urge you to practice caution during your New Year celebrations. Remember, always find a driver, or man up and walk home. It sucks carrying a fly rod on a bicycle, and your parents don’t feel like driving you around on dates anymore.
Tight Lines,
-Ben
What To Do, What To Do?
- Christmas is right around the corner….but when does fishing start?
Here at Up’North, we look forward to time with family and friends, good food, and a few days of much needed rest and relaxation. It’s hard to believe that I haven’t picked up a fly rod in nearly three months, but I guess that comes with the territory when living in northern Maine. From closing day to Christmas is always the easiest stretch. Buying gifts and preparing for the holidays can be busy enough to occupy any water deprived angler, at least for a little while.
Merry Christmas!
What worries me is what happens after the holidays pass, when 2011 rears it’s ugly head and Christmas disappears in the rearview mirror. I know winter is a time to clean gear and brush up on the parts of life that don’t include fly fishing, but what happens when ALL parts of your life include fly fishing? I’m sure you can see my dilemma.
While I’ll eventually start tying flies again, filling my boxes with streamers, dries, and whatever else my mind dreams up, I still find myself daydreaming about the Spring thaw. I see myself dragging two or three large streamers on a sinking line up the roaring Fish River, chasing hungry landlocked Salmon with my father. I see myself casting large wets on a sink tip into Spring holes where hungry Brook Trout haunt the depths. But for now it’s not to be, todays winter storm reminds me of that harsh reality.
I created Maine Fly Castings to bring you my unique (I hope) view on fly fishing, but also to occupy my mind during the off-season. Writing about fly fishing is the best cure for this anglers aching heart, and Up’North gives me that little taste of fly fishing that I miss when the ice settles in for it’s lengthy stay.
It’s a beautiful thing to love something this much, and fly fishing will always hold a special place in my heart. But winter can be a blessing, even when it feels like open water is light-years away. Up’North leaves me with a fairly comprehensive journal of my past seasons, the successes and failures of a obsessed fly angler. Winter is a time to reflect on this years experiences, rethink past strategies, and place battle-torn flies on the brims of my fishing hats.
This winter I’ll rethink what has made me successful in the years past. I’ll sit down in front of maps and plan trips to new locations, changing plans only when the money runs out. I’ll take this time off to meet new people who share my passion, learning all I can from them before the season opens. This winter will make me a better fly fisherman, I can personally guarantee it. School is now in session, and I look forward to sharing a few lessons with all of you. So stoke the fire, put on your puffy slippers, and pour yourself a choice beverage.
Join me for the long haul, and make this winter the most educational one yet. Remember, just because you can’t go fishing, doesn’t mean you stop being a fly fisherman.
-Ben
Fluff
- Today is a snow day. Can I get a slow clap?
Almost eight inches of fluff have already fallen here in Orono, and northern Maine is on schedule to get it’s fair share as well. The first major snowfall of the year has closed businesses and schools across Maine, turned the roads into skating rinks, and has given me college students across the state a reason to sleep in, watch movies, and further neglect studying for finals.
Can you blame them?
Snow is one of those things that, unlike wine, simply doesn’t get better with time. Shoveling sucks, heat is expensive, and getting stuck is rarely enjoyable. The first few snowfalls of the year are usually something to smile about, but most people are only smiling because they know that most of it will melt in a day or two. This current storm will do no such thing, at least according to my keen sense of “snowology” (which is obviously the study of snowfall accumulation). My prediction is that, like it or not, this snow is here to stay.
These next few weeks on Up’North will be busy ones, and my lengthy Christmas to-do list has very little to do with it. I recently discovered that while improving, the income I generate from this website is vastly insufficient to get me through the holidays without a second job. While my original thought was that I had created something along the lines of what Bill Gates achieved with Microsoft, my bank account paints a different picture. A few non-fishing organizations have been lucky enough to hold interviews with me, and starting this week they will begin to benefit from my services for an hourly fee. All parties are aware of my fly fishing jedi status, so should my Up’North Empire explode in popularity, my employment hours will likely adjust accordingly.
Also on the agenda in the upcoming weeks are numerous final papers and exams before the end of the Fall semester. While my time will be stretched, dedicated fans should fear not! I have already readied various content to be deployed should I not report for duty. New partnerships are in the works with a few different companies, new advertising opportunities are presenting themselves almost daily, and numerous companies are coming out with some great products and deals just in time for the holiday season. A combination of new content should flow seamlessly during the next few weeks, so check back often to stay in the know.
For all of my Maine readers, do yourselves a favor and stay indoors if the weather is nasty and work doesn’t demand your presence. Tie a fly, watch a fly fishing movie, paint a picture, paint your toes, build a snowman, or give that significant other a well deserved face wash in the nearest snowbank. All is well in the name of Christmas right?
Have a safe and enjoyable snow day!
-Ben
Up’North Thanks!
- Thanksgiving brings with it a whole slew of things to reflect on; memories of good fortune, good times, good health, and good friends. I could give you a list of things I’m thankful for, but what fun would that been. Clearly I’m thankful for all of those who support me, as well as everything even remotely related to fly fishing (for the most part). Instead, I’ve compiled a list of things that I’m not thankful for. The theory here is that since this list is much shorter, you can all assume that I’m probably thankful for nearly everything that is NOT on it. Get it? Good, here goes!
I’m not thankful for switch rods, but that’s only because I still haven’t really figured out how to correctly use one. I’m not thankful for small breed dogs, cats of any kind, or beta fish. I’m not thankful for blood sausage, black olives, or cheap beers. I’m most certainly not thankful for high gas prices, useless politicians, or the overly bias liberal media. I’m not all that thankful for white wine, reds will always be better. I’m not thankful for liars, cheaters, or self-obsessed people, but I do enjoy the entertainment many of them provide. I’m not thankful for nymphing, probably because I suck at it. I’ve never been thankful for winter, even though it seems to be the only reason I set aside time to tie flies. I do love skiing, but I’m not thankful for the lack of time that keeps me from doing it.
I’m not thankful for bowfisherman, but only because the Roughfisher expects that of me. I’m not thankful for busy cities, expensive designer clothing, or overpaid celebrities. I’m not thankful for Coors light, because I don’t need a stupid blue mountain on my bottle to tell me my beer is cold. I’m not thankful for life preservers, they make fly fishing from a canoe difficult. I’m not thankful for ice, unless it’s in a glass. I’m not thankful for Taylor Swift, she’ll probably write a song about this.
Everything else is in the clear, anything at all that you can think of-I’m probably thankful for it.
The truth is, I have more than my fair share to be thankful for. To all the friends, family, and associates that have supported me along the way, I sincerely thank you for everything. Up’North would not be Up’North without you, and I wouldn’t be nearly so happy.
Enjoy your good eats and family time!
-Ben
It Never Changes: Part 2
Howdy Folks!
It seems as if writing has taken center stage in my college career recently. A rather lengthy senior thesis paper on Al Capone, a few papers for world politics, and of course a health portion of reading and fictional pieces for my creative writing class. While most of those would probably bore you to tears (although Capone was a pretty interesting dude), I did manage to double dip in my creative writing class again, this time bringing you an alternate ending (or sequel) to the story I posted last week entitled, “It Never Changes.” If you haven’t read the original yet, you can do so HERE. When you have finished, get a load of the goodness below. As always, comments are both encouraged and appreciated.
-The smoke danced through my fingertips and up into the autumn air, carried away by a brisk wind. In the distance I could hear the sound of a train, squeaking and squealing across the old tracks and echoing through the valley. I cast a gaze to the sky as flurries of snow began to float ever so slowly down to earth; the weatherman was right. Just then I felt a familiar brush against my leg that broke me from my trance. I took one more drag from my cigarette before reaching down to scratch chuck on the head. He glanced up at me, clearly feeling defeated by the groundhog, which had managed to elude him once again. I sat down against my fresh stack of hardwood and he took a seat directly in front of me, cocking his head sideways like he was trying to read my mind. But there was nothing to read, at least nothing worth any level of discussion. Looking out over the rolling hills and off into the distance, I saw nothing but god’s country; a vast array of trees, holding tight to their last bit of color before the Winter could set in and erase Fall. Chuck barked, clearly irritated by my blank stairs. I jumped up and dug around in my pocket for a dog treat while he spun around in circles wagging his tail. I tossed it into the air and he caught in with the hunger driven precision that only labs have. To this day I don’t think I’ve ever seen him chew food, it really is remarkable. My son Mason calls him the human garbage disposal, and I would have to agree that this title is indeed fitting. While bordering along the lines of obnoxious, Chuck provides a nice escape from undesirable meals; something I’ve grown to appreciate with my wife’s less than stellar culinary skills. Never underestimate the benefits of man’s best friend!
Around lunchtime I decided to take Chuck for a walk down to Knob Creek, located about a mile east of the field where I was cutting wood. I pulled my spare fly rod from the bed of my truck and stuck a few streamers into the weathered cork handle. Living in Maine has its advantages, and the occasional lunchtime trout adventure is certainly one of them. I grabbed a sandwich and a few beers from the cooler and stuffed them in my pack, feeling around in my pocket to make sure I had enough treats for Chuck. Eating in front of him was bad news if you neglected to share, and I knew that if I forgot his treats I would likely have to surrender half of my lunch. I started down the hiking path with Chuck in toe, chasing squirrels and zigzagging across the trail in true hunters fashion. When I reached the creek I set my things down and surveyed the area. October was my favorite time to fish, and for good reason. Knob Creek was one of a handful of area waters that fly fisherman where still allowed to fish year round. When most of my local waters closed for the season on September 31st, a quick walk down to Knob Creek was all I needed to set my mind right. The therapeutic nature of fly-fishing is one of the world’s best-kept secrets, and I relied on it regularly to keep me balanced. Henry David Thoreau summed it up nicely when he said “Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not the fish they are after.” To most this is probably just a silly quote, but to me it represents a huge portion of my being. Time spent chasing Trout is also time spent chasing away stress and the rigors of everyday life, not to mention a time for Chuck to chase squirrels!
I threw my line out onto the water as the snow flurries continued to fall around me. Chuck sat at my side assuming his fishing companion role and waited anxiously for a trout to grab my fly. Just then a flash of red and white pierced the surface, engulfing my fly and putting a bend in my fly rod almost instantly. Chuck spun circles on the shore while I fought the fish, running up and over rocks and fallen trees as he took me downstream. This was a beauty! I set the drag on my reel and began bringing the fish in, but it was destined to be a long battle. Every time I got it close to shore it would take off on a blistering run, making my reel sing like few fish had before. The trout fought furiously for the rapids, looking to use the current to his advantage for a final attempted at freedom. I knew he would likely break me off if I didn’t land him soon, so I made one final attempt at landing the fish before it was too late. Just when I thought that success was finally mine, he made one more blistering run. My reel sang a somber tune as the fish ran downstream, destined for the rapids and a quick escape. And that’s when it happened, as I pulled up on my rod to make one last effort at turning the fish, he came unbuttoned and my line went slack. I slouched down against a tree, trying to catch my breath in the face of defeat. Realizing that I was in distress, Chuck ran over and began licking my face, a clear attempt to clean my wounds. I knew the only one more disappointed than me was the dog, but like a true friend he would never show it. I reached in my pocked and gave him a treat, a friendly gesture that he accepted graciously.
The walk back to the truck gave me time to reflect on the lunchtime events that had just unfolded. Losing fish was nothing new to me, but this was the fish of a lifetime. In a split second I made a snap decision that cost me dearly, and this was something I would likely lose sleep over for some time. As the snow began to fall more steadily, I chuckled as Chuck began to snap at the large flakes. By the time we reached the truck, almost an inch of the fluffy white stuff had coated the windshield. I cleaned if off and started the engine, cranking the heater up as I climbed inside. Chuck shook the snow from the top of his head, pressing his warm nose against the window as I put the old Chevy in gear. At home a warm meal and a toasty fire would make things right again, and I longed for an evening of relaxation with my wife and son. I cracked the window and lit my last cigarette, inhaling long and deep and instantly satisfying an intense nicotine craving. “We have it good”, I whispered to Chuck, as I took in the windshield-winter-wonderland that was spread out before me. This is my life, nothing changes, and I like it that way.
It Never Changes…
- Hot off the press, here is the latest product from my creative writing class. For this piece I chose to take a more personal approach, not that any of my other stories lack a personal touch. Outside of fishing, life in northern Maine has really helped shape who I am as a writer, and more importantly as a person. I did my best to convey that message through this story. Feedback is welcomed and certainly encouraged, I enjoy reading what you all have to say! So without further ado, before it even graces the desk of my professors office, I give you my latest draft, appropriate titled: “It never changes.” Enjoy!
- It never changes. The breeze is still constant; the trees still grow lush with leaves during the summer, and then drop them like a bad habit in the fall of the year. It never changes, but I prefer it that way. Everybody knows your name, everybody knows your business, everyone acts like they don’t care; but you know they do. You know this because you feel the same way, you act the same way, and you live the same way. Life progresses like this for everyone, regardless of age, gender, or social demographics. It simply never changes, but at least you know what to expect. Or do you? Small towns have their fair share of drama. Liars and cheaters, unfaithful husbands and wives, and troublesome teens that can’t wait to grow up and leave, but they always come back. Why? Because nothing ever changes, and something about that gives people comfort and peace of mind, allowing them to sleep at night without worry or regret. Nothing ever changes, and we like it that way. Small towns are like math equations; add more numbers and symbols and you just complicate things beyond reprise. The same holds true for people, the more you add, the less life seems to make sense. At least that’s the way most people in a small town think; we’ll treat our tourists like gold until they decide to shack up and stay for good, then it’s a battle to save tradition and preserve normalcy. But as long as nothing changes, it’s difficult to find something to frown about. The economy might suck, you might be in debt up to your ears, and your wife might be cheating on you with one of your best friends, but at least you know about it. As fucked up as it is, it never changes. You’ve just grown to like it that way, or at least live with the hard truth.
My name is Benjamin Rioux, and I live in a small town. Don’t get me wrong; there is no place in the world I rather reside. Why, you ask? Herein lies a tricky question to wrap your head around. Unless you hail from a small town, the attraction most residents feel towards one can be difficult to grasp. For me its about the people, all so simple on the surface; but massively complex on the inside. All want something they can’t have, while at the same time doing so little to actually get it. Everyone wants to be rich, but no one wants to work. Everyone wants to find love, but most are too consumed in themselves to accept it into their hearts. Everyone wants to be your best friend, all the while searching for a way to get ahead at your expense. Well, maybe not everyone, but you get the picture. What most fail to realize is that the simple life is anything but. Sometimes giving people too much time to think can result in some pretty scary things. At least that’s my opinion; no one said you had to agree. We may not have gridlock or soaring crime rates, but we do have roads filled with moose, ungodly amounts of snow in the winter, and more potatoes that any one town could possibly consume. We may not have it all, but I still think we have more to offer than most. In place of chain stores and brand names, we have home cooking and Frenchmen fashion. A dazzling mix of plaid and flannel, work boots and dirty baseball caps are normal here, a classic mating of comfort and redneck style. We stand out in a crowd when we travel, but blend in when we dwell close to home. We listen to country music because it’s the only radio station that comes in clear over the truck’s radio. We’ve heard of other music, but can seldom relate. I guess some things just never catch on.
Today is the first day of the rest of my life, or the next day of the rest of my life, there really isn’t a difference out here. On this particular day I rose with the sun and stumbled to the bathroom, rubbing by eyes and cursing under my breath as the roosters sang their same old tune. Like every day before, I made a pot of coffee and sat down to the newspaper that my black lab Chuck had dropped at my feet. I never watch the news; why wait for the story you want to hear when you can just flip to that page immediately and skip all the garbage? Nothing new to speak of today, just more trouble in the Middle East, more political scandals, and more rallies for equal treatment and social justice. I guess that country singer was right; maybe it’s time for the whole world to have a drink. I poured a little brandy into my mug of coffee and raised it in the air, pretending to make a toast. “I’ll buy the first round world, I’ll buy the first round.”
I finished my coffee and poured myself another mug, the second of many that I would likely have throughout the day. Coffee has long been my vice, at least during times when drinking whisky isn’t exactly considered socially acceptable. Chuck ate his breakfast with the regular enthusiasm that he always brings to the table when a cup of dry food is poured into his bowl. It goes without saying, but I really hope that when I die, I come back as a dog. Chasing squirrels, mid-day belly rubs; food, and sleep are the only things he thinks about. Kind of sounds like the perfect day off, only he gets to live it on a daily basis. I’ll always be jealous of that dog, or any dog for that matter. I laced up my boots and whistled a tune, closing the door behind me as chuck darted out into the yard, barking and racing around the maple trees, announcing his presence to anyone or anything nearby. The day felt like a warning for the approaching winter, breezy and brisk. I pulled my zipper up closer to my chin and pulled down the brim of my hat; it was firewood time.
I finally reached the barn and located my chainsaw and pulp hook. After a quick sharpening of the blade, I loaded the pickup and drove into the lower field with chuck riding shotgun. Twelve cords of tree length wood won’t simply cut itself, but I didn’t mind. Like my father had done before me, every Fall I went through the motions, cut, split, and stack. I used to hate helping him with firewood; now I wished I had those precious moments back. It’s amazing the life lessons a young man can learn while cutting wood with his father. Everything from how to treat a lady, to how a garden should be tended was spoken of, and while I brushed aside those conversations in the early years, I still remember them like I had heard them just yesterday. The clouds began to roll in and the breeze started to pick up, the forecast called for flurries today. Chuck had located a groundhog and was busy chasing him around the far end of the woodpile, an activity that would ensure he slept well later that night. It put my chainsaw down and dug in my back pocket for a pack of cigarettes. Two left, I would have to make an unplanned trip to town for more smokes. I lit one up and began sucking away what remaining years I had left on this earth, thinking back to the first cigarette I smoked as a boy, clueless and arrogant in the bed of my buddies old Chevy. Back then they said that cigarettes could kill you, but no one ever believed they actually would.
The smoke danced through my fingertips and up into the autumn air, carried away by a brisk wind. In the distance I could hear the sound of a train, squeaking and squealing across the old tracks and echoing through the valley. I cast a gaze to the sky as flurries of snow began to float ever so slowly down to earth; the weatherman was right. Just then I felt a familiar brush against my leg that broke me from my trance. I took one more drag from my cigarette before reaching down to scratch chuck on the head. He glanced up at me, clearly feeling defeated by the groundhog, which had managed to elude him once again. I sat down against my fresh stack of hardwood and he took a seat directly in front of me, cocking his head sideways like he was trying to read my mind. But there was nothing to read, at least nothing worth any level of discussion. Looking out over the rolling hills and off into the distance, I saw nothing but god’s country; a vast array of trees, holding tight to their last bit of color before the Winter could set in and erase Fall. “We have it good”, I whispered to Chuck as I took in the panoramic paradise that was spread out before me. This is my life, nothing changes, and I like it that way.
Brother in Arms
- Hunting with the little bro doesn’t tend to happen very often, especially now that he’s one of those collegiate types. He doesn’t know this yet, but one day when he’s a doctor, he’ll probably be paying for my fishing trips to Belize, Alaska, etc, etc. For now, I’m more than happy to cruise the beautiful woods of northern Maine with him riding shotgun; especially in the Fall of the year.
Public Service Announcement: Hunting Season 2010
- Keeping with an Up’North tradition, what better way to welcome in a brand new hunting season than with an inspirational photograph, and a hearty safety discussion.
Remember, hunting is a dangerous sport that should be taken very seriously. While also highly illegal, the consumption of alcoholic beverages while driving or using firearms is extremely dangerous and can result in serious injury or death. Remember not to shoot from moving vehicles, or at targets that you cannot clearly identify. If it looks like a deer, runs like a deer, and smells like a deer – there is still a slight chance it might not be a deer. Mistaking your friend for small or large game is not only frowned upon, but also extremely inconvenient for all parties involved. Just ask Dick Cheney.
In addition, realize that you are not a Marine Sniper, so taking shots from a great distance doesn’t help anyone and will likely render the animal wounded but not dead. To minimize animal suffering, and to save your back from countless hours of lugging anything through the woods, only take a shot you know you can make cleanly.
Nom Nom Nom
Up’North Maine Fly Castings and all parties involved do not, in any way, shape, or form, condone the use of drugs, alcohol, or other mind altering substances during your hunting experience. Tobacco is ok if you have reached the legal age. For the safety of your hunting party, keep the festivities and spirits for after dinner when the guns are unloaded and in a safe place away from the shenanigans. Any depiction of what may look like Illegal or unsafe activities on MaineFlyCastings.com are strictly for instructional purposes and should not be copied for risk of the lowered reputation that comes with a lengthy jail sentence.
Furthermore, the Up’North crew would like to assure you that safety is at the forefront of every hunting excursion we partake in, along with having loads and loads of fun. While dangerous, hunting can be extremely satisfying and extremely safe when the proper precautions are taken. Remember, guns don’t kill people-PEOPLE kill people. Don’t be THAT guy, or you may have difficulty finding friends to hunt with. Failure to see the underlying message in this special post may result in serious misunderstandings and slammer headaches. Please dig through the humor and stay sharp while out in the woods.
Enjoy this fresh, new hunting season, and from all of us at Up’North-Good Luck!
-Ben
Moose Callin’
- This past weekend my father and I took a break from reality and decided to put some woods miles on that brand new truck of his. Our purpose? Calling Moose! With the first of a three week Moose hunting season right around the corner, big bulls can be found cruising the woods in search of love, starry eyed and blinded by the sweet scents of a woman. With “getting busy” on the mind, Bull moose see very little else in their conquest of sexual liberation.” In their deep trace, even people start to look and sound a little like their long lost love. This is what we were counting on.
Dad looks out over an overgrown cut where we had an encounter with a massive bull during our 2009 hunt. About a month earlier this year, the leaves and vegetation cut down on visibility greatly. The mist coming off of Round Pond, however, did provide me with some excellent photo opportunities.
After the usual morning coffee and the occasional “remember when” story from last seasons hunt, we finally arrived at our destination. The plan was to scout the area where we had spent the bulk of our time hunting last October, where I would ultimately bring down my bull. Neither of us had a permit this season, but simply being in the woods and scouting moose is probably the most satisfying part of the hunt anyway. As any experienced hunter knows, most of the hard work begins after the shot. Today was about calling and trying to figure out if some of the big fellas we had seen on last years hunt were still in the area.
A female moose (cow) steps out into the road in the early morning mist.
We saw our first bull early in the morning, probably somewhere around 6:45. Dad had been calling at the bottom of a cut for upwards of 20 minutes to no avail when we decided to get back in the truck and continue on down the branch road. Around the very next corner a sizable bull stood alert in the road, spooked by the sound of the pickup. Less than 10 more minutes and he probably would have pranced right down the road-he had clearly been coming to the call. This time he had seen enough, realizing that the big black GMC was not the lover he had in mind. Before I could take the camera out on this big fella he was crashing through branches and busting down trees on his way up a ridge. Bummer!
While the morning had started out hovering around freezing, the clear skies gave way to a warming sun that would push temperatures into the 60s before long. Dad knew this was a bad sign for calling, as most of the moose would likely bed down in the swamps and other shaded areas to keep cool. Still, we continued our exploration of the area, jumping two more cows before long. After a lengthy session of calling from a tree stand in the middle of a cut, dad even managed to capture the interest of yet another bull. I stood and listened as the monster made his way through the woods towards us, knocking over everything that got in his way. But just as quickly as the sounds came, they disappeared, taking our chances at seeing another bull with them.
Overall it was a really enjoyable day. We covered a lot of ground and even saw a few moose along the way, our ultimate goal. While it was still a little early for calling, the bulls did seem mildly interested and amused. With today being a full moon (Thursday, September 23rd) calling will be much more beneficial now that the rut is picking up steam. Hopefully dad and I will get out there a few more times to tango with a few more bulls.
In the meantime, I would like to wish all of this years moose hunters the very best of luck next week, and during the October and November hunts. Trust me, the hard work is very much worth the experience. I’ll never forget my first moose hunt, and I wish you all the very same.
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Happy Hunting!
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-Ben
Remembering 9-11
- It’s been said time and time again, but we all know exactly where we were 9 years ago to this very day. 9 years ago I had never even held a fly rod.
I was sitting in my 7th grade Science class, my aunt was actually the teacher. The entire group sat mesmerized around a single T.V., while the teachers paced back and forth wondering what sort of permission slip we should have gotten signed to watch this type of horror unfold. I remember feeling angry, confused, and even frightened at that age, clearly not grasping the gravity of the situation even then.
9 years, 2 wars, and a laundry list of political, economic, and social changes later, 9-11 still has a way of clutching to my memory. From the people we have lost, to the people who continue to give their lives so many years later, today is a day to be thankful for what we do have.
Today is a day where none of the World’s problems seem important in comparison.
Today is a day when casting a fly is about so much for than fishing. It’s about freedom, and knowing that being an American is pretty damn special. I may not have a suitcase full of money, but I’m free to do pretty near whatever I set my mind to. Millions of people around the world would die to be me, and with that knowledge comes a huge debt of responsibility. To live life to the fullest, and just work harder when things take a turn down unfavorable paths.
So whatever path you happen to find your boots stomping down today, know that thousands upon thousands have died to ensure that path remains safe. From every river, to every backcountry pond, enjoy a life made possible by sacrifice and freedom.
It’s all about bein’ free and easy ladies and gents,
-Ben
Tossing Thoughts
- Tonight I followed the tail end of a thunderstorm up to the pond in hopes of getting a little fishing in between storms. Water levels have risen substantially, but I didn’t care. A short break in the clouds offered me a welcome window for some casting, so I quickly began work launching line from my familiar spot on the bridge. Keeping a weary eye on the sky, and an ear out for the inevitable thunder that would surely echo through the valley, I began to vigorously work an active seem rolling off the edge of an old cement pier.
Strip, Strip, float
Strip, Strip, float
A lone salmon casually made his way to the surface to inspect my fly before disappearing into the murky water below. I remembered the spot and started fanning my cast to the opposite side of the pier, slowly working my way back towards where I last saw my landlocked friend. Again he appeared ever so slowly before turning away unimpressed. This time I picked up and threw a few yards further, dead drifting and hoping for the best. One aggressive swipe and a miss on my part and I was left laughing and shaking my head. I may have succeeded in fooling him, but he still managed the upper hand in the end.
I regained my composure and started casting again to the far side of the pier, gradually working my way across and back just as I had before. This time it was to no avail. As I began to question my next move I adjusted the hood of my rain coat and cursed under my breath as an approaching storm began to make it’s presence known. A clap of thunder rang out followed shortly by flash of lightning that tore through the sky like a warning from the heavens. It was time to stop waving my 9 foot graphite lightning rod overhead.
I quickly packed it up and made for the truck, snickering at the sky once I quickly found shelter from the storm. I drove to the edge of the pond and put the truck in park, opting to wait out what I thought was a passing event. As the skies continued their hellish dance all around me, oddly enough I found myself at ease. Maybe, just maybe it wasn’t the fishing that drew me to this location night after night. I sat mesmerized at this emerging theory.
It seems like lately, the more I fish the better I feel. The conflict I find in this is that while the rhythmic motions that come with casting always put my mind at ease, simply being in a place so familiar puts a smile on my face. I would in no way, shape, or form call it the most remote place in the world, but somewhere in the midst of all the organized chaos, I find myself constantly drawn to that historic location. Time after time I pass up more remote, and even more productive waters for that simple slice of concrete heaven.
Sometimes I catch fish, and sometimes I don’t.
Sometimes I enjoy the company of others, and sometimes I’m alone.
No matter the night, I always get the chance to sort out the day’s events and clear my head. Looking back at all of the curve balls life has thrown at me lately, I hold tightly to this welcome getaway. All the trials and tribulations, mixed with great success and the pride the comes from overcoming and accomplishing life goals, has left me with mixed feelings lately. Surely a post-college phase that many experience, right? But even as I move on to bigger and better things; a steady career and perhaps a family someday, I know deep down places like that bridge will never lose their undeniable grasp that firmly grips my soul.
When all is said and done, It is plain to see that sometimes, what I seek when fly fishing really has very little to do with the fish at all..
-Ben
10 Pretty Swell Things about Fly Fishing
- As a thrilling follow-up to the Top 10 most hated list, here are the things that are generally celebrated about fly fishing here at the Up’North villa.
- It’s better than work (…unless of course your a guide)
- Old Town Canoes > Float Tubes (….always)
- Home-made furled leaders.
- Big Native Brook Trout (…and Landlocked Salmon too!)
- Pretty ladies (…who can fish)
- Airflo 40+ Fly Lines
- Creative lies and the fishing buddies who tell them.
- An excuse to smoke cigars. (…”I do it for the flies”)
- An early taste of retirement (…only 48 more years)
- MaineFlyCastings.com (….obvious right?)
- Bonus: Ugly, shredded, completely busted flies and their uncanny ability to catch big trout.
So what did I miss?
-Ben
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