More Ricecakes riding exploits:
The kid continues to amuse.
MG signing off (to buy him a beer…or maybe a helmet)
Editor’s note: A full length video will NOT be released anytime soon.
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Tag Archives: Will Rice
Carp have arrived. Again.
A long time ago, in a galaxy far far away, it was the Wall Street Journal. Now Chris Santella of the New York Times reminds the incredulous fly angler why the real action can be found right out the back door…
“I like to equate carp fishing with soccer. Around the world, carp is the No. 1 sport fish. A staggering amount of money is spent on carp angling. But here in America, it’s just starting to catch on” [says Kirk Deeter].
This may be true among casual anglers, but many professionals know better. Ask guides on the finest trout streams in the American West what they do on their days off, and they will sheepishly admit that they chase carp.
“There’s a pretty common theme for anglers who get excited about carp,” [Will] Rice said. “They start out fly-fishing for trout, and then take a saltwater trip where they catch bonefish and tarpon. In the course of the saltwater fishing, something clicks about getting bigger fish on the fly. When they get back home and fish for trout again, that big-fish thrill is a little lacking. Then they discover carp.”
Chris Santella is a fine specimen of a human being, but who are these Deeter and Rice chaps?
MG signing off (since I refuse to nymph for carp, although the method can be quite effective in winter)
“Tebowing” Carp Angler Style
It could be that my compadre Will Rice is a rejuvenated Denver Broncos fan, or maybe he’s just a persistently enthusiastic carp fishing fan. Either way, he shows us how it’s done within eyeshot of the Mile High Stadium.
I’ve seen the playbook, but I’ll go no further than to say photo credit goes to Mr. Mitch Palin.
MG signing off (because carp fishing always requires hope and a prayer)
Carp Slam Pre-Game
Mono a mono…
Two amateur competitors in the upcoming South Platte Pro-Am Carp Slam duke it out before pre-game fishing restrictions rear their ugly head.
Twas a damn fine grudge match.
MG signing off (to get my hands wrapped before the main event)
The improbability breeds the obsession
Every year around the middle of the third week of September, I make my way down to South Park. No particular reason per se, and I usually go it alone. There I sit by the bank, fiddle with my gear, make a few select casts, and catch a few trout.
This past weekend marked the pilgrimage, but I didn’t travel any further than Englewood. I forsook a cool, clear mountain stream, winding across a tall grass expanse and over round, moss covered rocks for the faint scent of industrial decay, rusty barrels and re-bar the only potential cover for my prey. There is no comfortable place to rest, at least not without an updated tetanus shot.
On the way home I pick up some tying materials. The hook choice is not Tiemco 200Rs in size 16 but Gamakatsu 3X heavies in #8. They have a warning label on them…
HANDLE WITH CARE. EXTREMELY SHARP HOOKS. KEEP OUT OF REACH OF SMALL CHILDREN.
I ponder that, and smile. But the true reason for my glee doesn’t sink in until well past bedtime.
Fishing the urban warmwater, you need every edge you can get, even if you have to pay triple for it. The quarry can feel your feet hit the ground after you hop a fence fifty yards from the water’s edge, and smell you upstream at twice that distance. They can see 4X flourocarbon bouncing on the bottom, and hear your reel clicking over a train full of coal passing by.
Your adversary leaves numerous traces of their presence, but either feigns ignorance of yours or rockets away as though you haven’t brushed your teeth in a month. But if it’s Friday the 13th, Mars is in retrograde, an El Niño is forming around the Bering Strait, and you’re holding the winning ticket on a forty week Powerball run, you find yourself on the set of an old Clint Eastwood movie.
First, there’s a faint whisper in your ear…
You feeling lucky, punk?
Then a tail pops up, and over the whirring of the reel’s drag there’s a distant shout…
Make my day!
You lose or destroy an inordinate number of flies, not by the usual snagging on branches but via wanton theft and stone cold violence. And now you have to ship your shattered fly rod back to the manufacturer too. It’s a good thing they don’t ask whether you broke it over your knee.
The consolation prize? Outside of the box office stars, there’s still a fine cast of characters.
MG signing off (to join the Paparazzi)
An ibuprofen-worthy aftermath
It is eerily quiet now. There is nary a sign of forced entry – a single unopened bottle of Kentucky bourbon is all that remains. The expedition took ten wily anglers to the suburban nether regions and back. We encountered caprs, walleye, smallies, as well as pea soup and the dearly departed. It cost us roughly five cases of beer and a half bottle of tequila. Neither homo sapiens nor pescado was harmed, unless you consider the lingering want for ibuprofen.
It was the 2010 South Platte Invitational, a damn fine affair if there ever was one.
And it went kind of like this…
MG signing off (to refuel, and rehydrate)