Our friends from Hooké are everywhere. Hooké is to have fun and go fishing, Fokus is to work and bring the food home. It’s as beautiful as an waterfall of maple sirop falling on a building of pancakes!
You don’t’t need top top of the range camera to make a fly fishing film that touches us. All you have to do is shoot and show us how we can identify and feel what you are doning, that’s the best! It’s all a matter of feelings. There on the Au Sable river and on the Housatonic (sounds like technodance music) in the Adirondacks 5h North of New York. Golden Brown
You take an old school bus, a 1966 Mercedes-Benz model for instance, you make it all new, you take out all the seats with their generations of gums glued in the back, you redo everything in wood, with comfortables banquettes, a modern kitchen, comfortable beds, basic bathroom, a stove for cool nights and their you go! You have La Canchita! The best bus you’ll ever get to go fishing in Agentina (even if it’s mainly used for skiing in Bariloche) and I promise you it’ll be more fun than in a lodge filled with old farts who wantt to stop fishing at 4pm because they have to get diner at 7pm…Go check their website, I’m sure your rodsn waders and flies will feel at home!
Calfs are getting hotter, trying to gasp some air, thighs are getting harder, we want to stop and at the same time we cannot help to keep up the effort. At the end is the reward, the river with its cold water, the trout waiting behind a rock and the adrenaline that rushes when you catch it. Than when the night is falling, it’ll be the grreat downhill, with the air in the face, the very specific sound of the bearings, yet so metalic but so alive. Fishing and bicycle, who doesn’t realte to that?
There IT is, coming out warm from the press, the new Southern Culture On the Fly Fall 2014 edition, delivered to your door on a monday morning. Hmm this issue is saying something to you, like “hey, why do you go to work? Why don’t you stay home reading SCOF?” , it’s awful, you flick through the pages and the only thing you have in mind is going back fishing! Everything is in that issue, flytying, photography (I should say amazing photography), film, gear, trips, and an article everyone should read, acbout tipping the guides! Sorry I don’t write no more, I have to keep on reading SCOF!
It had been a shitty week, even to my own rather high standards. I emerge from the subway on the Place de la Bastille, Paris, in the hot and damp air of this late coming summer. I take the Henri IV boulevard, sweating under a too heavy backpack, and I feel as fine on my parisian walkway than a trout on the lawn, waiting to be shot by someone with something to prove. I sigh, light a cigarette, and soldier on. Ten minutes away lie the Maison de la Mouche at the upstream tip of the Saint Louis island, on the Seine river, and I’m not there for a stroll.
Jérôme joins me between the counters flies filled counters, as I was pensively wiggling a Scott F2, wondering what the Essonne’s chubs, under a certain bridge at la Ferté-Alais would think of it. J too is drenched with sweat, he comes running from his home with a large bag, five tubes sticking out…
We’re not there for a stroll.
Twenty minutes later, as the sun slides down the roofs of the Quartier Latin, J and I drop our bags at the foot of the Tournelle bridge. The light is magnificent, as are the legs of the girls here. We take out the rods, and the smiles. To my eyes, casting here, just in front of Notre-Dame, between the tourists boats and the cameras, is to claim the city in the name of the flying line and the beautiful loop… We’re also here to test a couple of rods: Loop Cross S1, in the virile category: two Flatsman, in #10 and #11. For me it’s a discovery thing, my arm being rather used to fly the long belly of a 4wt. I get acquainted with the subtle joys of zinging around a 11wt ultra fast sinking shooting head, which is an art not devoid of delicacy once you got rid of that feeling you left your ballet class for the rugby field.
And the best part of it is that J’s giving me a double handed spey 101. All of a sudden, the flow of the Seine takes an Oregon hue, and I dream myself a steelheader while passing my first snap Ts. That long carbon rod with its silky flex (Loop Cross S1 7122) is a cause for joy to my hands. From time to time I get a feel of the particular pleasure of DH spey, long flowing movements like a very ample respiration. Slow love.
Night chases us from the Seine’s banks, the line has turned invisible, and men are thirsty. At the Inévitable, inevitably, it’s Indian Pale Ale(s) and Ron Diplomático by the bucket. Very soon, it’s late, and it’s time to take up some carbon. The metaphysical edge of the exercise is reached under the orange sky of the city, sleeping, fucking, catching the last metro. Walking up the long straight Jeanne d’Arc street, you find yourself under the arks of the subway line 6. The stern doric order of the pilars gives this urban dump a paradoxal charm: antique temple with sodium steet lights, between incense and piss, asphalt, bird shit.
And there, drunk drifters in the night, suddenly inspired, we formulate late prayers to the gods of wind and dance, jealous tutelaries of the art to fly a line.
Take out the rods, occupy the streets!