Duration : 0:5:36

Technorati Tags: Brown trout, Fly Fishing, New Zealand, tips

Unlike the Duncan Loop, this knot will not slide, closing the loop to the fly. I use this knot for salt water, steelhead, and freshwater when I want a more natural drift, swing or strip presentation from my fly.

www.DreamCastIdaho.com
Boise Idaho’s Premier Fly Fishing & Casting School
Beginning, Intermediate, Advanced Casting Techniques, Spey & Switch Casting.

Duration : 0:3:8

Technorati Tags: fly fishing knots, no slip mono, non slip mono loop

The Elk River system in the Southeastern corner of British Columbia is a fantastic destination for fly fishing. Your target species are westslope cutthroat trout, bull trout and mountain whitefish. Last summer, we had the opportunity to drift down this beautiful stream with our Outcast Power Drifters and catch some trout on our dry flies.

Many thanks to the following supporters for making this project possible:

http://www.islander.com

http://www.outcastboats.com

http://www.scientificanglers.com

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Camera: Nina Manique & Rodney Hsu
Edit: Rodney Hsu
Music: Getty Images Inc.
Copyright: Fishing with Rod Production

Duration : 0:19:54

Technorati Tags: BC fly fishing, BC flyfishing, BC trout fishing, Dry Fly Fishing, Elk River fly fishing, Elk River flyfishing, Fernie fly fishing, Fernie flyfishing, fishing in BC, Fishing with Rod, fishingwithrod.com, Kootenay fly fishing, mountain whitefish, Outcast Power Drifter, trout fly fishing, trout flyfishing, westslope cutthroat trout

Dearest Henry,

I look forward to my impending voyage, and seeing you again, with utmost pleasure, but my advancing years raise a concern that I may never again see my beloved London. I bear the thought with sadness, but also a certain reserve that, I suppose, is proper for a man of my station. Examined closely, such fears for my mortal body seem unmanly, and are more likely the outgrowth of a concern, not easily set aside, that the beloved city I leave in little more than a fortnight has already been lost. The city of my youth, Dickens’s London as some wags have taken to calling it, is already so far removed that it seems a place of fancy, a Crocker Land, no more substantial than the rolling fires of Guernsey. Astronomers have made much of the near approaches of both sun and moon two months past, as if such matters could usher in a new age, but I do not believe in a clockwork universe. On the other hand, what heart of stone could look on dispassionately as his noble servant lost all most dear to him? No, Dickens’s London has ceded territory, piecemeal, to modern life!
Lost to all but memory are the sights, sounds, and smells that were uniquely London’s. Gone are the multifarious market gardens of Deptford, their turnips, onions and raspberry canes, and livestock driven from Kent stopping to graze along the roadways. Cheek by jowl with scenes of bucolic bliss laid vast rubbish tips, conical dust-heaps swarming with vagrants searching for useful wares. Everywhere were inns and stables, their grooms currycombing horses. Almost as common was the sight of milkmaids laboring under wooden yokes, as red-sailed barges crowded the Thames near at hand. Along London’s outskirts, windmill sails creaked, whilst at Bricklayer’s Arms the iron-shod wheels of innumerable coaches clattered over cobblestones, their drivers’ incessant shouting all but lost amidst the ear-splitting din. Lost, all lost! Ground beneath the insentient wheels of progress, replaced like ancient and venerable London Bridge; Pip and Master Copperfield can cross it no longer! Lost is the Pool of London beneath, its cutters, skiffs, and paddle-steamers, side-wheels athrash, banshee whistles shrieking, and funnels belching pitch-black clouds, bobbing in the wake of larger vessels, as everywhere sailors and stevedores tirelessly busied themselves with their labours.
It is nigh unto impossible to recall the London of my boyhood without its odors rising unbidden into the nostrils, the ubiquitous smell of coal fires, smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, a fine patina of soot overspreading buildings, and ebon smuts on clothing and faces. Here and there wafted up the diverse stenches of industry, a nauseating admixture of breweries, foundries, forges, and tanneries, and everywhere the odor of horses. This pungent miasma was accented with vile tobacco fumes, the scent of decaying vegetables and dubious mutton pies peddled by costermongers in Spitalfields and ancient fish rotting on horse-drawn carts in Billingsgate. The water of the Thames itself, greenish-brown from the sewage of the city’s denizens, was a tocsin to any soul crossing London Bridge. I am certain I owe my life, and perhaps my fond memories of bygone London, to the good sense of slamming coach windows shut when passing over London Bridge! My heart is cleft in twain by the memories of it, and I know not whether the knot in my throat is merely gorge rising or sentiment for that which has flown forever.

The author of this letter is a brilliant writer.

I smile through bucolic bliss, take my raspberry cane and walk – Giorgio Walker. Hmmm….

Impressive letter! Apparently it took many years, to be delivered. Admirable writing – I realize how people expressed themselves back then.. Attentively, aristocratically.. Like living in another time-zone with more minutes to dedicate to their thoughts.. Very good writing!

Take a look at the link below…

http://www.dnr.state.mn.us/fishing/fin/flydestinations.html

Hope it helps

Good Luck and Tight Lines!
Mariam,

http://www.marinews.com/

Duration : 5 min 27 sec

Technorati Tags: lizard