Passive...Aggressive...

Today, someone I work with told another co-worker to "keep religion a personal experience". Strangely enough the interchange happened over a staff-wide email...anyways...

Instead of responding to the statement over email, I have chosen this medium.

It makes me curious when people refer to Christianity as "religion". It communicates a complete lack of understanding of what it truly means to be a Christian. It is one thing for an Atheist to make the statement, but what really gets under my skin is when other "Christians" do the same thing.

Why do we find the need to water things down? Why do tip-toe around the truth? Why are we so concerned about offending others with Amazing Grace? Why do we take a backseat to those who are so willing to hide us under a bushel?

I guess I should be asking a different question. What does it truly mean to be a Christian?

What separates me from the rest of the world?

It's been a while...

The waders are dry.

The boots are stiff.

I'm not sure I would be able to make that tricky mend at just the right moment.

I hate to think I'm rusty...no, it's not that, but much like my rods in the basement, I've been hung up for a while.

It's probably a good thing that I haven't been focusing on the stream. Life has been full. School, LiFE, Camp Ojibway, new baby coming in February...yikes!!

Those things have been occupying my time, but the thing that has been occupying my heart/mind...compassion.

Or should I say...my lack there of.

My harsh realization this week is that I have pulled to the side of the road of life and watched opportunities to grow pass me by. And after the fact wondering why I haven't taken advantage of those opportunities to show compassion. The end of the spectrum I have chosen involves me assuming God will do all the work, and I just need to let Him. Bad idea!

Phil 2:12-13

God does not call us to be passive. We need to come along side God in the work he is doing in our lives. Active persuit of him out of obedient awe and respect is essential for seeing change and growth in my life.

I also realized that I have been filling myself with good truth, time in the word, sermons on CD, you name it, but I have not let it sink in. Spiritual Bolemia as Shane Claiborne describes it, when we take it all in but then spew it out on others with letting it nurish ourselves first.

Gross, I know...I need to take the initiative, persue God, let Him sink in and nurish me.

As far as fishing goes...I hope to make it out in late Dec/early Jan. I'll be sure to let you know how it goes...

Until then...

Cut the line...

A student just told me a story from his spring beak trip. He was fishing with his family in Florida when he hooked an alligator. Unlikely, I know, but he has the pictures to prove it. The story gets a little shaky when he claims to also catch a Bald Eagle, and an Osprey...

Anyway, in each of these cases the boy had to cut the line. In order to get out of the sticky situation he was in, the only thing left to do was to let the catch go. In the case of the Bald Eagle, he said he brought the bird in as close as he could before he cut the line that had wrapped around its legs after swooping down to grasp the fish that he had hooked...I know...

Can you imagine fighting something on your line that you know you won't be able to land? Knowing you have to cut the line can either be a relief or a dissappointment.

Lately I have had a grudge on the line. I've been fighting it far to long. I know that nothing good can come from hanging on to it. I need to cut the line. The problem is...I don't want to.

I don't want to admit defeat. I don't want to be the one to say, "I'm sorr..." Whoa, I almost said it. If I cut the line then they will never know what they have done!!

Wow, let the bitterness and icy rage build! (sarcasm implied)

The longer I keep this grudge on the line, the more tired I get. The more energy I spend fighting this hog, the less I have to give to those I care about.

Relationships...Why do I suck at them sometimes?

Dead Sea Scrolls

I've been in Kansas City for a few days now. Spring Break with the family visiting relatives. It's been beautiful down here. No fishing, but still worth the road trip!!

Just went to the Union Station today to see an exhibit on the Dead Sea Scrolls. It was amazing to learn more about them. Thousands of years old...preserved by the dry conditions near the Dead Sea...(not just a clever name)

These scrolls contain a ton scripture. they were written around the time that Jesus was in His ministry. It amazes me that jsut two thousand years ago He did what He did. How people can question the validity and accuracy of the Bible is beyond me.

...anyways, Happy Easter!

Fish of a lifetime...

Our guide was a scholar and a gentleman by the name of Will Blanchard of Animas Valley Anglers. He lead my father and I into a private portion of the Animas River in Durango, CO. It didn't take long to realize we were in for something special.

The sky was blue and the breeze was brisk. The rig included our good friend the Bead Head Prince nymph followed by teeny midge emerger. All this was about 7 or 8 feet below a colorful, yet very effective balloon indicator. Did I mention the #4 shot?

Drifts were long and deliberate. Nothing I would call overly technical, but there was a good amount of mending, stripping, and feeding going on. Dad hooked a couple of fish early on at the tail end of a nice pool while I stalked the big dogs at the top. No such luck for me.

Will decided to bring me upstream to "Sneaky Pocket"--deep, slow...never would have fished it properly myself (Thanks Will!) A few casts in I responded instinctly to a flash. "Could be a Sucker" remarked Will, "whoa..."

We saw it surface early on in the fight. It made 10 - 15 runs up, down, and across the current. I knew the fish was big, but how big? We had only seen it a couple of times, and each time was just long enough to get my heart pounding.

Dad made it up from his pool. He grabbed my camera and waited for the first sign of an "actual fish". By this time I was 20 minutes into the fight. I did not want to lose this fish. My shoulder was getting pretty tired at this point, but the same could not be said for the fish. A few more runs...Will did a great job of telling me to be patient--easier said than done.

Skillfully netted, the fight was over. Are you kidding me? What a fish...see for yourself:

Update from the Master...

Someday I will take a trip like my father is on right now--fishing his way across the midwest. I'll be meeting up with him in a few days to fish the San Juan River in NM, then make our way into CO and revisit the Dream Stream as it flows out of the Spinney Mtn. Resevoir.

I guess you could say...I'm a little excited.

The following was taken (without permission) from a recent message during my father's adventure...

Who would have thunk it....Oklahoma has trout....

Spent 7 hours fishing the Lower Mountain Fork of the Beaver's Bend State Park near Broken Bow (as in Choctaw nation) Oklahoma.

My oh my... could a day be so much fun.

Stopped at the fly shop near the river at 9:00 looking for a little guidance ... (in exchange for the customary 8 fly purchase, even though I have the flies already). Got a map from Sid Ingram, former navy Sonar Technican ... we chatted a little dots and dashes .... proceeded to the river formed by the spillway from the Beaver's Bend lake.

This spillway has lower flows than the power generating station which dumps it's water downstream from the Spillway creek portion. so the Spillway creates about 3 miles of very fishable water. I saw about 3 of it today.

Weather was pleasant, about 45 degrees, water was also 45 degrees when I measured at 2:00 PM. The stream below the spillway is a pretty steep grade, sort of like the Gallatin I think. But has the look of the North Branch of the Whitewater. Trees forming canopy over the stream in many places....

Used my 7 foot stowaway from cabela's . 4 wt with 4WF line and three different rigs. Dry Fly dropper worked early in the morning. Then fished a White BH wooly bugger like a streamer in the deep pools... and then in the afternoon a dry fly -- Griffith's Gnat and also a very tiny grey thing #22 with a small gray post. (ala Parachute adams)

I wish I was naming fish today... I started counting at about 10 and caught 40 more fish ... most were in the 9 - 12 inch range. But very fiesty....

Hooked two 15 inch football shaped rainbows on the White Wooly Bugger. They were really sweet. Also, caught a 17 inch Brown Trout .. very plump on a tiny Griffith's Gnat... you can imagine the delight of playing that one in the 4o yard pool. He went north and south a couple times. About 5 minutes of play in him. very nice fish.

Could I top it tomorrow? Well, I'll just have to see.

Don't even bother...

It was a cold, windy, and rainy day. When I say rain I mean sleet. When I say wind I mean a brick wall. When I say cold I mean my legs were convulsing and I had to pee so badly I could taste it. You get what I mean.

The fishing was not easy. We were in the stretch above the Texas Hole below the Navajo Dam on the San Juan River in New Mexico. Our guide was Dave T. He wasted little energy trying to convince you of things that would help you forget about the pain in your waders--like telling you warm stories of how many huge trout you were about to catch, or the way the hatch was coming off like a buffet for some seriously hungry dry fly action.

He knew the truth was better. "Dry flies? Don't even bother. We'll have enough trouble just trying to get one fish on a nymph in these conditions." He was like a ray of sunshine on a miserable day...unfortunately his ray couldn't pierce through the gray despair looming above us.

Dad was up stream false casting to the swallows that looped overhead...not really, but he did manage to convince one to take his dropper at one point in time...LDR. I was rigged up, Jeff was with Dave. He was right, fishing was not going to be easy.

The weather improved. I think we all managed to land at least one fish. I learned a lot about reading the water, looking for deep pockets, finding vegetation, and managing line to get the best drift possible--the challenge makes it fun!

The next day we drifted. That was much easier fishing. Kinda' like back in '98 when Dad and I first came down. Not a double hook up on every cast, but still a lot of fish. We had two guides that day, but once again my quest for dry fly action was met with "Don't even bother."

Day 3 we were on our own. We started above Texas Hole in the morning then moved downstream. The river was so huge in some places--big and tactical. I walked along a path for quite some time trying not to bother, but I was driven to find big trout sippin' on something.

I came down a small hill and popped my head out from behind a big rock. From me to the other shore, where I saw Jeff, was probably 300 - 400 feet. 20 feet in front of me was a substantial sandbar. On its far side was some pretty turbulent water that stretched about fifty feet downstream, but on my side was a fairly calm pool with a nice riffle at the top where I now stood.

I stayed out of sight behind this rock and watched the may flies make their way over the riffle and through the pool, but not a single one made it back into the main water. Sip after sip I watched as this hog-brown took each live offering. He circulated up and down the pool with stealthy precision. I heard myself whisper, "Don't even bother? Are you kidding me?"

There was no way to get a good cast from where I was, and I knew I wouldn't get many chances. A fish this size didn't get that way by being stupid. I moved way upstream and crossed to the sandbar then slowly (with an emphasis on lowly) made my way back down below the riffle.

Crouched in the gravel I tied on a tiny fly (#20 BWO or something, on second thought it was probably a Parachute Adams), made sure my 7x was straight and started to cast. The current was tricky. The fish was patrolling. I only made 3 or 4 casts before realizing I needed to reposition, so I crawled to the end of the pool and felt much more comfortable knowing I was right below him and that he had his back to me.

But he was gone.

Maybe I had lined him. Maybe the hatch stopped. Maybe the drift boat that just passed by clouded up the run. Who knows, but I was not about to give up. I stood and waited a few minutes remembering how miserable it had been the days before. I looked down and across stream. Jeff was still there. He must have just hooked a fish or a piece of driftwood was putting up a good fight. I tried to get his attention, but the river was too loud and he was a little occupied.

I turned back toward my riffle. The flies were back, and so was he. Patrolling and feeding--a thing of beauty. "Don't even bother." I made few false casts then laid my fly down 4 feet in front of where I thought he would come up. Perfect distance, but a foot to the right. Two more perfect casts--nothing. I took two steps up and toward the sand bar. Slightly cross currnet now...gentle...perfect drift...gulp...gulp.

The first "gulp" was me trying to remain focused, the second was his. I'm not sure who was more surprised. I lifted the rod--instant tension, like a boot on the end of my line. He made two moves toward deeper water while my elbow flexed--nice fish. I stripped the line as he made his way into the shallow water near the edge of the sand bar where I was now kneeling. I lifted my right hand over my head and reached down with my left.

Our eyes connected for just a moment as though to say to each other, "Good game, good game." I cradled him in my hand--so thick. He was about two and a half handwidths--at least 20 inches. Back to his patrolling he went.

Don't even bother.

Don't mind if I do.

By the way, I'll be sure to look for you again this February.