FLY FISHIN' FOLK SINGIN; AND A BIT OF ZEN: HELL OR HIGH WATER
Winter. Ungodly persistent winter. Stupid doodoo winter. What does one do with all this damn snow? Wiper blades suck, I’m constantly tired from shivering, me and my old lady aren’t even talking. And the walls are getting closer. The house is shrinking!? NYSEGGG!!!
Fishing videos. That’s right, I said it, fishing videos. To be more precise, fly fishing videos on Youtube. This feeds me like beer after work. Like sex after church. Like history before war. Like fishing before you can go fishing.
If you frequent some of the more dive-y dive bars in Binghamton, perhaps on a shameful early weekday, you might find me after one of my more bizarre sets of indulgent folk music, preaching the mighty gospel of Fly Fishing. A strange glint will get in my eye. I will make sweeping motions with my arms and call it ‘hauling.’ Then I’ll make even wilder gestures, flailing my arms higher, and you will hear me say ‘double-hauling’. I will begin to seduce you into conversation with whiskey and long descriptions of the life cycles of Caddis. You will begin to get excited and not know exactly why. I will bring up the river in your mind, and suddenly, the bar floor is clear and moving; the one with the boots and the sexy eyes is now a silver trout; I’m there whispering in your right ear over your shoulder, telling you to “cast, you fool, cast!”
The next morning, as you sludge your way through coffee and someone else’s life, you will remember that feeling of excitement in my voice, that image of the river in your mind, that mixture of science and art that spoke to your gut just like your first kiss. Your first memory of being alone in the woods. The first time you remembered who you were and changed. This is the birth of passion. The creation of every great fly fisherman.
And you rush to the river, the great and ever flowing river of modernity…. Google. It is here that you discover the hidden gem in our little corner of the world: The Catskills.
Fly fishing was born long ago in a place far, far away. Earliest man- hungry and artful, watching big fish eat in a clear stream- cut a slender limb from a nearby tree and crossed his eyes as a green fly landed on his nose. Fast forward to England after some war, and elegant country gentlemen are tying gorgeously ornate flies out of feathers, and thread onto metal hooks, while drinking black tea and taking over the world. Fast forward again, past yet another war and over a great ocean, and find yourself half an hour from downtown Binghamton, in a tiny town on the banks of the Delaware River.
The West Branch of the Delaware is the birth scene of modern Fly Fishing. American Fly Fishing. Just like the blues, a young man stripped away the ornate colors of Europe- the excess fluff of the past- and created a simpler, elegant way to connect with the fish of our new world.
The Catskills are littered with the beauty of long, slender, free flowing rivers, with names that remind us we are not native to this land: The Esopus, the Willowemoc, the Beaverkill, the Neversink, and of course, the Delaware. This small range of mountains- and its rivers, streams and creeks- are known throughout the world for the finest Fly Fishing to be had anywhere on our not-so-green-anymore earth. Its trout are unbearably intelligent. Its waters are undesirably cold. Its tiny towns are provincial in the hick-est sense (meaning Japanese men with cameras and $3000 fly rods stare at white American men with no teeth and $100 rods, while the worldly trout smartly swim past their floating flies.) I say ‘awesome.’ If America is great, it is because of its ingenuity, art, and the grand majesty of its nature. The Catskills are that.
Today, Fly Fishing has become an international phenomenon that has given birth to one of the greatest and most diverse subcultures in the world. In its best form, it is one big family of misfits, radicals and millionaires who all idolize the guy without a bank account but with, quite obviously, the best cast. This family has homes all over the world, made up of wood, good whisky, brewed beer, fancy cigars, rusty trucks, drift boats and dreams that could be realized every morning right at dawn. One of those homes is a mere half an hour away from our dear city of Binghamton. Its name is West Branch Angler. And yes, it is the shit.
On April 10th and 11th, West Branch Angler will be hosting its annual Film and Beer Festival, Hell or High Water. The best names in the industry will be there: Orvis, Patagonia, Simms, Hatch, Sage, Scott. There will be beer. There will be music. There will be the best guides in the world drinking at the bar. There will be beginner classes for the uninitiated at ungodly hours in the morning. They will give away free gear. The touring film series will entice you with slow motion fish porn. You will meet dreamers, wild women, and men who know more about stoneflies then they do about their own wives. You will discover passion, nature, and- more than anything- a new family. All rooted in the best pursuit of all, the pursuit of the fleeting and indescribable.
And yes, I will be there. Playing songs. With Milkweed. Singing about loneliness, family, love and fishing.
