Hello world!

17 Years I have worked full time at Kiene’s Fly Shop, and fished the Central and Northern Californian watersheds. Home base is Sacramento, capitol of California ware I have resided since 1982 having moved there to attend  California Sate University Sacramento. I graduated from there with a Master in Art focused on printmaking and painting. But it was while in junior college that I became enamored with the art of fly fishing…

Kurt Arens forms a beautiful loop.

It was in between  Advanced Drawing, and the History of Women in Art classes, when I was walking across the baking hot campus during lunch brake. I looked above me and noticed several turkey buzzards circling in the searing blue sky, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw above the brown lawn something  zipping back and forth through the 105 degree air. Fly line!!!!! It was a fly line rolling and unrolling off the tip of the photography instructors bamboo rod.

Charley Gonzales launches a cast!

Back then I didn’t know what fly fishing or fly lines were. Spin fishing ? Yes. My youth was spent catching bass, pike, perch and sunfish in the outlying areas of Detroit, Michigan ware I was born. While Mom ( her name was Rosemary ) was flipping Sunday pancakes for breakfast to feed my dad and 5 hungry kids, I was dreaming about flippen the bail on my Zebco Cardnal 4 spinning reel, tossing night crawlers, reel live blood sucking leeches, and jointed rapallas… Still,  Mom’s pancakes and that graceful, beautiful fly line rolling through the summer air remains most vividly etched in my memory.

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One Response to Hello world!

  1. Brian O'Rourke says:

    ANDY!!!
    Congrats on starting a blog.
    Loved your story of growing up near Detroit and the fishing experience. My first “reel” was a level wind bait casting rig equipped with 20 pound test with black rayon line. The rod was at least a $2.98 special out of the discard basket located at the dusty corner of the little hardware store . About a 2 ounce sinker gave you a 30 foot cast swinging that sucker like a base ball bat. If you didn’t have the right amount of finger drag on the emptying reel you had a Phyllis Diller hairdo emanating around the handle area, and my patient Irish dad swearing fresh out of Sunday church services just hours earlier. Baits of choice were garden worms, corn, or a chunk of rough fish if it fit the rusty Eagle claw #6. After the subsequent tsunami when the works hit the water, sometime later one often caught carp, suckers, catties, sunnies, and the rare rainbow left over from the annual Firehouse trout derby in the mill pond.
    The beautiful pond and red building that housed the mill which were hand built by my grandfather and his sons are gone now in southeastern Pennsylvania. The Pond has been filled in, the stream is underground in a culvert pipe, picking up noxious effluents from each industry before it empties into the Perkiomen creek which ends up eventually the Atlantic ocean. The people live in their new town homes with illusions of grandeur on “Little Creek Way”.
    However, the wonderful memories of Sunday afternoon fishing with my pop and friends go on forever.

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