Archive for Tenkara Trips

Little Pond, Large Bass

October 31, 2012 at 7:22 pm · Filed under Tenkara Trips, Uncategorized ·Tagged , , ,

Little Pond, Large Bass . . .

An inviting autumn scene in the Croton Watershed. (photo taken 10 24 2012)

Small ponds hold deep potential for tenkara anglers on the hunt for large bass, especially in autumn when resident sunfish head for deeper water. With the sunnies bedding down for the colder months, and out of the feeding area, a gray fall day can offer the most focused largemouth bass fishing of the year. A long, limber, tenkara rod can be used to work the shoreline, along the weedline dropoff, where mature bass tend to cruise the dark water in search of a few last bites.

A green Matuka, fished slowly so its feather and fur could undulate in the microcurrents, proved this to be true during an October outing around a little country pond somewhere within the Croton Watershed in Westchester County . . .

Maryann Amici holds one of several largemouth bass we caught from a tiny pond in Westchester County north of New York City. (photo taken 10 24 2012)

Perhaps a foot of water lay above the submerged weeds of this pond. There are many openings in and amongst this type of plant growth where largemouth bass will hide, waiting to ambush a baitfish, crayfish, or nymph. Throughout this season the fixed length of the tenkara level line has allowed me to cast more accurately into this environment because I am working with, rather than against, the physical limitations of the tenkara tackle. I feel like I am shooting a narrow arrow rather than casting a wide net. The happy result is greater consistency in placing the fly over the target – and the fish – a situation that increases the number of direct encounters and, on a good day like this day, solid hookups with large bass.

– rPs 10 31 2012

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Grand Slam in The Bronx

September 30, 2012 at 12:09 am · Filed under Tenkara Trips ·Tagged , ,

Grand Slam in The Bronx . . .

Welcome to The Bronx! (photo taken 09 11 2012)

Just one of the five boroughs of New York City is situated on the mainland of the United States. The Bronx holds this distinction as well as a somewhat checkered reputation. Crime reports often vie for headlines beside the successes of its favorite sons: the New York Yankees.

The borough has its more quiet, bucolic, and unspoiled corners out of the media spotlight. Of these, Van Cortlandt Park is perhaps The Bronx at its best: 1,146 acres of green space, including the nation’s first public golf course and a freshwater lake that sustains black crappie, bluegill, largemouth bass, and yellow perch.

I paid two visits to the park this September. A leisurely ride to the end of the 1 train’s line leaves one off at 242nd Street. From there I hiked in about five minutes under a canopy of sweetgum and oak trees, through a short wetland trail, to the western shore of Van Cortlandt Lake. Fed by Tibbett’s Brook, a meandering flow full of lily pads, the lake was formed when this waterway was dammed by Frederick Van Cortlandt, son of Jacobus Van Cortlandt, in 1699. The surrounding park, once a mix of uncut forest and grain fields, was sold by the family to the City of New York in 1888. The fields became parade grounds, a public golf course opened in 1895, and the lake, long and narrow, remained a prominent geographical fixture for surrounding trails popular with cross-country runners.

The sign points the way . . . (photo taken 09 25 2012)

This month I fished the lake’s edges and discovered the joys of tenkara in the lily pads. Casting a fly-tipped tenkara level line provides much greater accuracy and fewer snags (and lost patterns) than a conventional fly rod matched with floating fly line. The reason, as I perceive it, is that a long rod and short line offers more control and less room for error than a short rod and long line. The spaces between the pads are usually tight and overhanging tree cover is often present. Tenkara threads the eye of this needle with a combination of less line, less extraneous motion.

As I fished, I could tell I was on the right path here. I spotted a great blue heron, a green heron, a great egret, and a kingfisher all at work. My feathers were bound to a hook, but in the presence of these well-preened anglers, I knew fish had to be present.

The end result of my exploration and experimentation drew me back to baseball. As the Bronx Bombers continued to race the Baltimore Orioles for sole possession of first place in the eastern division of the American League, I enjoyed my own fall classic in the form of an angling version of the grand slam – a four species outing – including:

Black Crappie . . .

(photo taken 09 25 2012)

Bluegill . . .

(photo taken 09 25 2012)

Largemouth Bass . . .

(photo taken 09 25 2012)

. . . and Yellow Perch. To my frustration, just as with the golden shiner at Harlem Meer earlier in the year, I failed to seal the deal with a photo of the perch. Fish photography, while angling solo, remains a challenge for this tenkara advocate. I admit I still need work on the second leg of the “Catch, Photo, and Release” tripod, but I have covered the four bases, the four game fish of Van Cortlandt Lake, thanks, in large part, to tenkara.

An egret urban angler. (photo taken 09 25 2012)

– rPs 09 29 2012

Postscript: To learn more about the history and ecology of Van Cortlandt Park, visit the website of the Van Cortlandt Park Conservancy by following this link:   http://vcpark.org/

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Olympic Summer

August 31, 2012 at 6:46 pm · Filed under Tenkara Trips ·Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Olympic Summer . . .

My friend, Stephen, photographed me with the Hamma Hamma River in the background. (photo taken 07 14 2012)

My wife and I visited the Olympic Peninsula of Washington for the first time this summer. We planned to visit two good friends, Mara and Stephen, who had moved to the region from Arizona last year. There was also the possibility we could explore the angling within this storied trout, salmon, and steelhead destination. When in an email our hosts made mention of the fact they had taken up the sport of fly fishing, I thought: What a happy coincidence!

The first morning of our stay in Port Orchard, Washington, revealed we had landed in a new landscape. As we sat with new friends around the dining table of our bed and breakfast, the Cedar Cove Inn, I paused at one point during the meal to absorb a view I could never see in Manhattan. The snow-capped peaks of the Olympic Range emerged through a cool fog dissipating on a July morning. I excused myself and walked outside. The Cedar Cove has a lovely wraparound porch, and the building and grounds are situated on a point overlooking the town harbor and the gunmetal gray ships moored along the Naval Base Kitsap across the Sinclair Inlet. The weather felt like early October in New York, but the view was fully Pacific Northwest summer.

The Kitsap Peninsula where Port Orchard is located resembles an arrowhead on the map. To the east is Puget Sound and Seattle. To the west lay the Hood Canal and Olympic Peninsula. The western slope draining into the Pacific is the land of the famous temperate rain forest and steelhead rivers such as the Hoh and Elwha. The eastern slope, which is somewhat drier, though just as forested, supports a number of other rivers that are better known for coastal cutthroat trout. Several of these, the Skokomish, Duckabush, Dosewallips, and Hamma Hamma, were within just an hour’s drive of our friend’s home beside the Sinclair Inlet.

The Hamma Hamma name I had encountered before through my love of oysters. The Hama Hama oysters found on restaurant menus, (note the slight discrepancy in spelling), originate from the delta of this river. For that reason I suggested we explore the main run during the two days we had set aside for fly fishing.

My Ebisu was ready to try this new and adventurous angling environment. I had successfully fished with the rod both in Manhattan’s ponds and the Pennsylvania trout streams near my in-laws home in southeastern Pennsylvania. What I did do new is add to my fly box. I selected a few steelhead flies from the bins at The Urban Angler. I had prepared for the trip in part by reading The Color of Winter by Doug Rose, and this book with its color plates of classic steelhead patterns inspired me to select both the white and purple Bead Head Woolly Bugger, the Jock Scott, and the Rusty Rat. I knew that our chances of encountering a steelhead in July were slim, so I invested in smaller size 8 and 10 patterns to perhaps lure two species neither of us had ever encountered: the Dolly Varden and the coastal cutthroat trout.

Jock Scott on Hamma Hamma River rocks. (photo taken 07 13 2012)

We drove to the Hamma Hamma River on an overcast Friday the 13th. We skirted the rim of the Hood Canal and passed through the Skokomish Indian Reservation. It took nearly all of my fishing excitement to prevent a detour into the parking area of the tiny log cabin casino there on the tribal land; a casino not much larger than a family restaurant, which, I’m sure, would have provided an interesting if not lucrative experience. I was feeling Lucky 13, and literary as well, knowing I was near Port Angeles and the legacy of Raymond Carver, one of my favorite fiction writers, who was also a passionate fisherman. Part of me wanted to pull out a notebook and just write all of this into something new right there, yet I knew fishing, and tenkara, would be the basis of the day’s real story.

We eventually followed a logging road that snaked through thick forest. A small sign pulled us toward the parking area of a small wooded camping area adjacent to the Hamma Hamma. We hiked a narrow trail surrounded by a canopy containing an infinite variety of green punctuated by bright orange salmonberries and pale yellow banana slugs, some nearly a foot in length. The water’s steady call drew us easily to its banks.

A thin row of alders separated a cobblestone bar from the river. The water was clear and cold, so cold that a mist hovered over the glacial melt. I could see the reason for the temperatures at work when I looked up and saw snow fields on the high slopes of the steep valley through which the Hamma Hamma runs.

Distant thunder could be heard and a spattering of rain that had followed us on our drive came and went. I have rarely been so excited to fish. Tenkara made setting up so much easier despite the emotional distractions inherent in enthusiasm. The telescoping rod, the lillian, the level line, a slip knot, and a size 10 Rusty Rat were assembled, tethered, and tied in seconds rather than minutes.

The gentleman in me handed the Ebisu to Maryann. I said I would rig up the 5-weight while she warmed up with the gentle casting action of the light tenkara rod. She asked if I was sure. Her smile and green eyes made a “Yes!” as easy as breathing.

Of course the first tapered leader I removed from the convenient 3-pack recombined into a bird’s nest after I had looped it onto the end of my pale green floating fly line. Maryann and Stephen were knee-high in the creek and casting when I turned to survey their progress. Both looked comfortably situated, throwing their patterns well upstream.

Maryann and Stephen fly fishing within the Hamma Hamma River’s mist. (photo taken 07 13 2012)

The second leader slipped on smoothly and I added a Jock Scott to its tip. I gathered up, zipped up, walked toward Maryann’s position. I paused beside the water to watch her. She raised the limber rod, made a cast, and followed the fly downstream. She lifted the line off the water again; I turned away to look at an especially pretty stone. That’s when I heard her say:  “Am I snagged?”

There was a deep bend in the Ebisu, that’s for sure. I followed the line’s trajectory into the water with one swift look to the left. “No, you have a trout!” I exclaimed. Above the jade and milky quartz collage of the stream bed, resisting both the rod and the stiff conflicting currents of the cold Hamma Hamma, maneuvered a living band of silver and white. She brought the fish to her side and used her new net before my own boots had graced stream gravel. Held within the damp black mesh was a steelhead parr. The rosy band, leopard spots, and vertical namesake marks of this strong native were more vivid than any eastern brown trout or stocked rainbow I have ever seen, more pastel than the earth-toned brookie. We photographed the fish for posterity and then twisted the little steelhead fly from the top of its jaw. The fish slipped away and Maryann, smiling, breathing heavily with excitement, held out the tenkara rod to me.

I shook my head. “Keep the line in the water.” And with that said I realized I had another kind of line. The ending that, as it so often happens, became another magical moment of conception.

Maryann Amici with her first tenkara-caught salmonid: a Hamma Hamma River steelhead parr. (photo taken 07 13 2012)

– rPs 08 31 2012

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Tenkara in the Dark

July 3, 2012 at 2:53 am · Filed under Tenkara Trips, Uncategorized ·Tagged , , , ,

Tenkara in the Dark . . .

A Crappie Photo: This blurry view simultaneously reveals the author’s tenkara angling skill and flash photography limitations. (photo taken 06 28 2012)

Summer has arrived and with the season comes heat, humidity, and an angler’s need to modify both the technique and time of the fishing in order to optimize the sport’s chief objective: outdoor action.

I usually fish alone, and during the day, but my most recent tenkara trip was an after-work group outing of urban anglers. Tony, Edwin, Jesse, and I, as well as a couple of other friends in the observer role, spread out around the west side of Harlem Meer at dusk in search of a refreshing breeze interspersed with bluegills, largemouth bass, and black crappies.

The slanted evening light spilled over the towers and tree tops alike as I worked a Deer Hair and White soft hackle along the pond’s weed edges. A few bluegills fell for the fly, enough to keep me busy. When I did pause to look up and around me, I was surprised to see another angler, not of my party, also fishing with a long rod. As our trajectories brought us closer and closer together, I took notice of an interesting detail. Something was missing . . . his reel! Yes, I encountered my first tenkara stranger outside of cyberspace. He carried two rods with him so, after introducing ourselves, we took a few minutes to speak the praises of the streamlined simplicity tenkara has given to our city fishing.

Meanwhile, the sun set and conditions changed: the bass remained elusive; the bluegills vanished for the most part. My three compadres had by this time clustered along a favorite strip of shoreline near the southwestern end of the Meer; a spot known for large nighttime bass. Their presence soaked up a majority of the spot’s bank space, so I walked farther east to where a small island forms a channel about thirty feet in width. I was now out of sight, without a light. Night was falling quickly, so before I lost all of the available light, I tied on a small (size 12) Brown Woolly Bugger with a bead head.

A black-crowned night heron and a foraging raccoon joined me by the water as I began to cast into the darkened depths of the Meer. By this time only anglers remained. The joggers and dog walkers had gone back to their air-conditioned indoors.

The pattern’s bead head changed everything. On my first cast I felt a light jiggling take that soon revealed the full extent of the Ebisu model’s flexible 5:5 action. I raised the rod perpendicular to the pond, which coaxed the fish to the surface. The headshaking commenced as well as an impressive spiraling dance. The limber tip registered all of its variations. This back and forth ballet lasted for over a minute before I had control enough to lift a silvery foot-long black crappie onto the bank.

The real challenge (as opposed to the reel challenge) occurred when I attempted to photograph the fish. The most daunting aspect of night fishing, for me, falls under the documentation department. I have a fairly good eye for composition, but my mastery of lighting remains to be seen in the exact sense of the word. The absence of sun, the resulting use of flash, left me with a well-composed, yet blurry, portrait of a big crappie resting parallel to the Ebisu on the damp grass. At least the scale of the fish was documented.

This trip was a group effort, as I mentioned, and that comradery soon proved its worth. Tony was the first to stop by to see why I had disappeared behind the island. The blurry image of the crappie, and another solid jiggling hit right before his eyes, answered him better than any loquacious verbal explanation. He switched to a bead head as well. Soon all four of us were back together, sometimes pulling in a quartet of crappies simultaneously. The action was so good that each one of us was satisfied to pause occasionally to take a snapshot or two . . .

Not as big a black crappie, but a much better picture. (photo taken by Tony Panasiti on 06 28 2012)

. . . Thanks, Tony!

– rPs 07 02 2012

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More Than Catching

June 25, 2012 at 7:22 pm · Filed under Tenkara Philosophy, Tenkara Trips ·Tagged , , ,

More Than Catching . . .

The Mianus River in southwest Connecticut. (photo taken 06 24 2012)

A Tenkara Road Trip

After a busy month engrossed in a new day job (as an associate at a fly shop), I at last got away at the beginning of summer to fish just outside the limits of New York City. I stayed with a fishing buddy who lives in Stamford, Connecticut, and together we fished both the salt and a stream, for both striped bass and the trout. The latter allowed me to take tenkara equipment and technique into its most suited environment – a forested trout stream.

The Mianus River is, for most of its length, a freestone creek just twenty or so feet in width. The winding flow is somewhat shallow with a cobbled bottom and a scattering of smooth granite boulders that project out into the current, creating many inviting pools and pockets. The Mianus chapter of Trout Unlimited has done a lot of good work here, and because the river flows through three separate parks, there is plenty of tree shade to keep the water cool and plenty of public water to fish.

Tenkara technique is well-suited for upstream presentation in close quarters. (photo taken 06 24 2012)

The trout residing here proved to be very wary, sipping my fly patterns sparingly and so lightly as to leave barely a dimple on the surface film. The fish appeared educated, too. If a size 16 Blue Wing Olive invoked a rise once, it would not do so twice. Only a generic size 18 Tan Deer Hair Caddis lured more than one half-hearted look from a Salmo trutta.  Of the five rises I enjoyed during my morning outing, only one managed to connect with the hook long enough to be felt on my limber twelve-foot Ebisu.

I learned much about tenkara during this road trip. I found that hiking, stopping, fishing, and then moving on to do it all again, was much easier without a reel. The telescoping nature of the rod and the simple slipknot attachment of the level line to the braided lilian permitted quick set up and take down in the narrow spaces between the tangled branches along the stream bank. Casting the longer rod sideways, over the water, allowed me to present patterns upstream much more easily than with a conventional fly rod and reel. Many potential midstream snags and hookups with tree fish were averted as a result.

An Achilles’ Heel

Many, but not all, snags. I did learn that tenkara has an Achilles’ heel, and snag removal is it. When one gets caught under a rock or onto a green branch, a snag can often be released with conventional gear, first by winding in the line until the fly meets the rod tip, followed by a gentle tug or two. Tenkara does not allow for this option so, if a snag occurs, one must wade out to the offending stone, or climb the tree. If that proves to be physically impossible, fly and some tippet will be usually lost.

One specific weakness does not overwhelm the general strengths tenkara offers in the realms of mobility and ease of use in wilderness environments. And while I did not land a trout on this quick trip, I did glean another insight from the tenkara way; its inherent ability, through simplicity, to reveal that fishing is more than catching. The sport is also a window onto experiencing, and living, outdoor life in full, in the moment.

Tired, but happy, after a tenkara road trip full of trees. (photo taken by Walt Neary on 06 24 2012)

– rPs 06 25 2012

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PROSPECTing

May 16, 2012 at 1:04 am · Filed under Tenkara Trips ·Tagged , , , , , ,

PROSPECTing . . .

Welcome to Brooklyn . . . really! (photo taken 05 15 2012)

The exploration of a pond can be a lot of fun when the body of water has a shoreline full of narrows and declivities where fish can cruise, hide, and challenge one’s casting. I like to approach this kind of deconstructed angling with a variation of prospecting as described by its most eloquent contemporary proponent, John Gierach. He devotes an entire chapter to “Prospecting” in his first published angling book, Fly Fishing the High Country; a minor classic that I seem to read at least once a year. While Gierach refers more broadly to the search for and exploration of new wilderness waters, his process can be applied, using maps and the soles of one’s shoes, to the microcosm of a single pond’s perimeter.

One of the best, perhaps the best, of New York City’s warm water destinations is the lake situated near the southern end of Prospect Park. Designed by Olmsted and Vaux, the same team who created Central Park, Prospect’s lake appears rougher around the edges, shaded by mature trees, with ample waterfowl and fishing opportunities for those willing to drag their gear onto the subway.

One of the potential drawbacks of urban angling is the logistics of carrying fishing equipment to and from the water. Tenkara has, for me, eliminated this concern. Before I left my West Village home to catch the Q train to Brooklyn, I first grabbed a reclosable sandwich bag and filled it with my assembled gear: fly box, spool of level line and tippet, and my two personal extra essentials, forceps for more humane hook release and a microtrash container.

PROSPECTing tenkara gear. (photo taken 05 15 2012)

Weighed down with almost a half pound of fishing gear, I ventured out into a gray morning. The rush hour commute was made easy and even more importantly, unobtrusive, by the single little bag of gear nestled in the right front pocket of my cargo shorts. No stares or questions from the other commuters. I was just another man on the train. Dressed down, yes, but just a man. And I even had a free hand to hold a to-go cup of coffee.

The morning mist had turned heavier and steadier in the outer borough. The scene inside the park, still in view of Parkside and Ocean Avenues, consisted of a giant rinsed salad. There was a steady breeze to give it all rustle and the jade surface of the lake a little ripple. Best of all for me, given my purpose, was no one else in sight. The real advantage of city fishing during inclement weather is the removal of the unwanted wildcard: individuals and crowds who use the park for purposes other than angling. When the lakeside is devoid of children playing, mothers calling, and old duffers drinking, the fish are much less spooked and casting is far less stressful. I don’t have to watch my back for “stick ’em up!” or potentially litigious passersby who could get hooked by a backcast.

I kneeled on a lush hummock, knotted on a size 10 Black Woolly Bugger, which was to be my one and only tenkara code streamer for the day. The pattern’s size and silhouette fit my estimation of what would look best from a fish’s point of view, considering the overcast white sky. A largemouth bass concurred after a few casts. Tiny, yet feisty, my first Brooklyn fish caught on tenkara took its cue from my most recent book; it was a small fry.

That’s one small fry for a tenkara angler. (photo taken 05 15 2012)

The fishing, and catching, continued from that encounter. The prospecting approach had me probing little coves, casting along the edges of cattails, and bending below overhanging branches. Tenkara, specifically the level line, allowed me to achieve these feats of fishing with much more accuracy and gentility than a 5-weight matched with floating fly line could.

Working a Woolly Bugger in the rain. (photo taken 05 15 2012)

There was also much to hear and see on the sidelines. Red-winged blackbirds sounded their rusty gate calls. Mallard ducks mumbled around me. One large swan visited when I paused to tie on a fresh tippet. The bird dipped its head below the waterline as it foraged, and then flashed me a look after it had finished; a look as if to say: “There are some fish down there.” I targeted the edge of some nearby abandoned bluegill beds and was in fact rewarded with a largemouth bass that made an athletic corkscrew leap above the lake.

Prospecting, swan style. (photo taken 05 15 2012)

Brooklyn Largemouth Bass. (photo taken 05 15 2012)

Another highlight I found along the bank was clusters of yellow flag, Iris pseudacorus: the wild iris that Henry David Thoreau admired so well in Walden. The middle of May marks the peak blooming period of this flower in the New York region and, on a day as overcast as this one was, the brilliant petals glowed, containing, it seemed, all of the bright light energy of the sun.

Yellow Flag, Iris pseudacorus. (photo taken 05 15 2012)

Once the rain turned up a notch after the noon hour, the bite declined, eventually ending. Sustained shivers started to shimmy up and down my back. Even the birds silenced. The only sound was the sizzle of the rain impacting on the lake and my mind’s voice encouraging departure. The afternoon was young, but seven fish caught and numerous near misses had given my first tenkara adventure in Brooklyn a solid B . . .

. . . for Bluegill.

(photo taken 05 15 2012)

– rPs 05 15 2012

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The Answer: TENKARA

April 20, 2012 at 7:40 pm · Filed under Tenkara Philosophy, Tenkara Trips ·Tagged , , , ,

The Answer: TENKARA . . .

Curly-Leaf Pondweed poses the question: How to Fish? (photo taken 04 19 2012)

Classical Japanese painting has depicted fishermen throughout its history. One of these works, “Catching a Catfish with a Gourd”  – the illuminated poem rendered by the monk Taiko Josetsu in 1413 during the Muromachi period– is the most famous example  His visual rendition of a koan, a Zen question designed to enlighten the student on new ways of seeing, was in itself a revolution in Japan. The painting, full of mist and sparse bankside vegetation, is credited with establishing suiboku, the monochromatic ink style, as well as a deeper sense of space in the pictorial plane. The latter achievement was not unlike the technical experiments early Renaissance masters were tackling at the same time in Europe.

My first visit to Central Park’s ponds this season presented me with a similar question inspired by nature and the fishing situation. Harlem Meer, bordered by stands of willow and cattail just beginning to go green, appeared healthy and full of spring vigor on a crisp April morning. The pond also resembled a great soup bowl of salad greens. The plant responsible was curly-leaf pondweed, Potamogeton crispus, an aquarium plant that has escaped and thrived to the point where it now has a cosmopolitan (global) distribution.

The wind was negligible, the pond calm, water clarity and visibility excellent. Several species of fish were cruising within the narrow water column between the top of the weed beds and the surface. Nymphs, legs kicking from curly leaf to curly leaf, were being hunted and surely consumed. I spotted several avoiding the strike zone by milling about the Meer’s edge. No fish were rising, but numerous swirls indicated active subsurface feeding.

Casts would have to be more than delicate in this situation. A sinking fly of any type or size would surely foul in the plants after just a brief one or two count.

The Question: How to Catch a Fish in a Meer Full of Pondweed?

The Answer: TENKARA

The physical characteristics of the tenkara level line turned out to be the solution to the fishing problem, that being: How to fish a sinking fly in a quick, delicate manner over the weeds? Had I brought my conventional 5-weight, I might have endured a headache rather than enjoyed a fishing trip. The floating fly line, as light as it is, would have been still too heavy for the calm conditions and narrow window of fishability. Even a delicate cast would have rippled the water enough to spook the fish hunting nymphs over the pondweed flats.

My 5x tippet ended with one of the small family of nymph and wet fly patterns I can tie. The first is predominately brown, made simply from pheasant tail feathers and black thread. Another utilizes gray knitting wool matched with a natural deer hair wing. I also had several Pheasant and Orange soft hackles with me, although I wish I had brought some tied with olive floss as well. Many of the nymphs I saw were green in hue.

The twelve-foot length of the Ebisu rod matched with level line allowed me to cast as far as twenty-five feet out into the Meer. I retrieved the nymph with a high stick and short twitches. The fly casting techniques developed for tight spaces, the roll cast and bow and arrow, all entered into the process. There were plenty of irregular pockets within the flat expanse of weeds. Here I could let a pattern sink for an additional second, which often resulted in a connection with a pouncing fish, including:

Largemouth Bass

(photo taken 04 19 2012)

Bluegill

(photo taken 04 19 2012)

Black Crappie

(photo taken 04 19 2012)

One surprise catch eluded my camera; my first ever golden shiner, which inhaled a pheasant tail nymph. I knew this species resided in the Meer, but this was my first close encounter with one. Pulling this foot-long fish from a springtime pond filled me with the same aesthetic I perceive when reading and viewing the exploits of British coarse fishing as documented by my friend, Dominic Garnett, author of Flyfishing for Coarse Fish. His blog “Crooked Lines” is full of waterscapes that look like Harlem Meer and fish species that resemble the golden shiner, which has the coloration of a tench and the profile of a rudd. I landed the fish, fair and fully, but it flopped away from the camera eye and rolled into the water with the dexterity of a martial artist. Is the golden shiner, perhaps, an Anglophile in style with the sporting acumen of a Japanophile? Maybe!

Questions. Questions. I am not a Zen master, nor am I an expert tenkara fly fisher. I have, however, solved the most recent koan fishing fate has cast my way:

The Question: How to Catch a Fish in a Meer Full of Pondweed?

The Answer: TENKARA

– rPs 04 20 2012

Postscript:

View Taiko Josetsu’s “Catching a Catfish with a Gourd” at Wikipedia by following this link:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Hy%C3%B4nen_zu_by_Josetsu.jpg

Visit Dominic Garnett’s “Crooked Lines” blog by following this link:

http://dgfishtales.blogspot.com/

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Kendo Meets Tenkara

April 16, 2012 at 6:49 pm · Filed under Tenkara Philosophy, Tenkara Trips ·Tagged , , , ,

Kendo Meets Tenkara . . .

French Creek fallfish that fell for tenkara. (photo taken 04 15 2012)

When earlier I addressed the theme of all things Japanese, the one that has paralleled the course of my life, I omitted a single important example, which I wanted to save for this, the proper moment.

My wife, Maryann, has also cultivated a close relationship with the culture of Japan. When we met, during the wedding day of a mutual friend, we discovered we both had an affinity for the Japanese that went far beyond food. Her primary connection turned out to be the martial art of kendo: the way of the sword.

Best described to the uninitiated as Japanese fencing, kendo is a fascinating, beautiful, and artful approach to swordsmanship, or kenjutsu. When I first visited Maryann’s Manhattan-based dojo, Ken-Zen Institute, I found her and her fellow students, or kendoka, to be serious, even reverent, during study and practice. Under the tutelage of their sensei, Daniel T. Ebihara, Kendo Kyoshi, 7-Dan, each class first divides into two sides, which face each other and follow a series of exercises: a contemplative warm-up; kiri-kaeshi, in which strike centering and stamina are cultivated in successive turns; and wazo-geiko, when kendoka learn and rehearse techniques with a designated partner.

What follows is the dramatic peak of a kendo class. Kendoka suit up into full body armor, the distinctive indigo bogu, which is necessary for Ji-geiko. This part of kendo employs undirected practice in which all assembled fight one another at once. The dojo’s floor, polished wood similar to a basketball court, resounds with the barefootwork, fumikomi-ashi, combined with the collective kiai, the emotional vocal unleashing of the fighting spirit. When this part commences, the experience can be rendered in words as a human eruption. The violence of the sound and controlled chaotic motion of the combat produce a visceral effect in the third-party viewer, an effect that reminds us that kendo is battle.

Ji-geiko in action at the Ken-Zen Institute, NYC. (photo taken 01 08 2012)

Conversely, my practice of fly fishing is commonly called the quiet sport. I was delighted, then, when Maryann not only expressed an interest in trying my way of the fly rod; she actually found she liked the experience. The 5-weight, in particular, appealed to her. The structural logic of the rod, this fishing tool, neither intimidated nor baffled her. Several years of study with the bamboo shinai translated into an easy transition to the fishing instrument. She was, to use the phrase, a natural.

I proposed to her in June of 2009, a few weeks after she had landed a large bluegill on an Olive Woolly Bugger. That first fish moment had all the details of a classic tale. We were casting along the grassy banks of Harlem Meer in Central Park. A passing breeze and a bad reaction on my part created a bird’s nest so complex I had to sit down on the ground to unravel my leader. A few minutes passed, and I heard her call my name. I thought she must have fouled up her line in the wind as well. When I looked up to see, I saw instead her 5-weight bent, its tip vibrating with life: “Fish on!”

We were married a few months later. I moved to New York City to join her. We have since fished freshwater and saltwater, warm water and cold water, lakes and ponds, rivers and streams. Whatever the fishing situation, we seem to find ourselves on the same side of the bank. We are more than life partners; we are fishing buddies.

Last year, when tenkara began to appear again and again on my online angling reading radar, Maryann encouraged me to learn more, to purchase a rod, and then to learn even more together with her. She liked the symbolism embodied by a Japanese sword and a Japanese fly rod residing under the same Manhattan roof. I agreed, but waited until the spring of the year, mainly so we could jump right into the experience after receiving the equipment.

The simplicity of the tenkara rod, especially the fact it supports no reel, continues to feel fresh to me, yet it has a familiar appeal to her. The red pine handle of our Ebisu model, in fact, resembles the tsuka of a bamboo shinai and hardwood oak bokuto.

From top to bottom: bokuto, shinai, tenkara. (photo taken 04 16 2012)

Close-up comparison of the tsuka. (photo taken 04 16 2012)

The traditional grip, with the index finger extended, allows the tenkara rod to be held at an angle familiar to a kendoka:

Tenkara grip: note position of index finger. (photo taken 04 14 2012)

The narrower range of ideal casting motion fits the technique of those accustomed to striking with a sword. When done correctly, with feeling, and surrounded by a pretty natural setting, a successful 3-Dan kendoka turned fly fisher can easily slip into the zone:

Maryann, casting the Ebisu model tenkara rod. (photo taken 04 15 2012)

Recently, we spent Maryann’s birthday weekend in southeastern Pennsylvania with her twin brother and parents, who live just a few blocks from French Creek, a freestone stream suited to the tenkara rod and method. The flow averages between thirty and forty feet in width along its main stretches. Several riffled areas, bends, and chutes narrow down to ten to fifteen feet. Here there are brown trout, some smallmouth bass, and one of my favorite fly-friendly species, fallfish, perhaps the gamest member of the chub family of minnows. The fallfish averages between six and twelve inches in length and, being insectivorous, makes a great fly rod quarry.  Once hooked, a fallfish will fight hard like a baby tarpon, a fish which it actually resembles, albeit one that is one-thousandth of the size.

Fishing the tenkara along French Creek created a pleasant experience. The casting proved to be easy and light. We both found the long rod and level line could swing an Amano Kebari or a soft-hackled fly into the kind of small bathtub depressions found in front of fallen trees and behind projecting stones. Tiny pools like these often hold all the catchable fish in shallow stretches overlooked by spin fishers who require greater depth. The result, then, is more fish for the fly fishers, which during our weekend included brown trout, common shiner, smallmouth bass, and fallfish.

A small stream, a simple rod, a single fish: these three can become one under a rising spring sun.

Maryann, out standing in her home water of French Creek, holding her first tenkara-caught fallfish. (photo taken 04 15 2012)

– rPs 04 16 2012

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