*
Added April 2002
Greenleaf
By Dave Whitlock
When
I eventually write a book about my life as a fly fisher, I'll
call it Greenleaf, after a small lake and stream in northeastern
Oklahoma, 17 miles from my birthplace of Muskogee.
During
the Depression, the Works Progress Administration (WPA) constructed
a 40-foot, earth-and-rock dam across Greenleaf Creek, and it
quickly filled and formed a lovely 4-mile-long lake. According
to my folks, who were often jobless during that era, it was
one of the few good things that happened there.
My
first fishing memory of Greenleaf is from not long after the
lake was filled, when my dad, Joe, and grandad, Dee, caught
a big stringer of largemouth bass and channel catfish while
cane-pole minnow fishing. How exciting it was to have such great
fishing so close to home. Often, over the next several years,
dad and grandad took me to Greenleaf on weekends during school
and several times a week during my summer vacations. We usually
plugfished for bass in the morning and evening, and through
midday we'd tie up to some shady, bankside willows and fish
for catfish with ripe chicken entrails and shrimp. I
hated baiting my hook with that smelly stuff.
One
year grandad built a 16-foot rowboat out of cypress and oak.
It must have weighed 500 pounds when it was dry. Soon after
that he bought a moody and smoky old Johnson 5-horsepower motor.
It was wonderful because it allowed us to fish the entire lake,
even into the remote upper end at the farthest point from the
boat dock. But it was also terrible, because about half the
time that old Johnson failed to start and we often had to row
and paddle until after dark to return to the dock.
When
we'd finally reach it, there was always the nightmarish task
of lifting that water-laden wooden boat onto its homemade trailer.
In those days boat trailers lacked tilts, winches, or rollers
and getting the heavy wooden rowboat on the trailer was a four-man
job. grandad, a blacksmith and professional wrestler, had the
strength of two normal men, and grandma and I made up for another.
The final energy needed came from sheer determination.
When
I was nine years old, I received my first fly rod, a 9-foot
three-piece warped and peeling bamboo. Almost from the start,
I caught more fish with my fly rod than with my little
4-foot backlashing baitcaster. The fish I caught were smaller,
but at that age size mattered little and fly fishing was immediately
more fun than other methods. From what I had seen and read in
grandad's L.L. Bean catalogs and Outdoor Life issues,
fly fishing seemed a better alternative to backlashes and stink
baits. I learned that in some ways my judgment was correct,
but I also discovered that a fly rod has its share of physical
and sociological disadvantages.
None of my family or friends fly fished, and after watching
my spastic, line-tangling, rod-waving hookups on everything
except fish, they decided that the fly rod was a lethal weapon:
They banned me from fishing with it in grandad's boat. So, until
I was 15, my fly fishing was confined to waters near home that
I could reach by walking or riding my bike. On rare occasions
I'd cajole my folks into taking me to the smallmouth bass creeks
along Oklahoma's mountainous eastern border, and once we even
went to the Roaring River Trout Park in Missouri.
Then,
during the summer of my fifteenth year, something wonderful
happened. I was fly fishing at Honor Heights Park Lake, near
Muskogee, when a smiling, friendly boy, a little older than
me, came up and asked me if I was catching anything. His name
was Dick Storkes, a seventeen-year-old high school senior and
lifeguard at the park pools.
Dick,
much to my surprise and joy, was a fly fisher. In fact, he was
the first real fly fisherman I had met. We became immediate
friends, and that afternoon he asked me if I'd like to fly fish
with him the next Saturday on Greenleaf Lake. Dick had a 1938
blue Chevy coupe, a driver's license, and a canoe. What more
could anyone want?
I
wanted to go to Greenleaf with Dick more than anything in the
world, but my parents wouldn't give me permission until they
met Dick and his parents. It didn't hurt when they heard that
Dick was an honor student and an outstanding swimmer on the
high school team.
Of
all my hundreds of trips to Greenleaf Lake, my first day with
Dick was the most memorable, not only because of the great fishing,
but also because it was also my first taste of adult freedom.
Dick picked me up before dawn in his little blue Chevy with
his beautiful, long, green canvas-and-wood Old Town canoe tied
to the top. To my surprise, there was an attractive girl with
him - his steady girlfriend Shirley, whom he promised could
use his car after we'd launched the canoe at Greenleaf. I remember
thinking, "How much more fortunate could a guy be than
Dick? He's got everything: a car, a canoe, a fly rod, and
a pretty girlfriend!"
The
memory of that day with Dick is as vivid to me now as if it
happened yesterday. I got to sit in the front seat of
a car for the first time. Driving that familiar 17 miles with
him was like going on an epic adventure.
Daylight
approached as we pulled up to the lake's dock. After he untied
the canoe, Dick asked me to "take hold of one end and help
him lift it off the car's roof." The boat was as light
as a feather compared to grandad's old boat. We packed our gear
and lunch and said goodbye to Shirley. Dick had me get into
the bow and gave me a few quick instructions about canoeing,
and then we paddled out onto Greenleaf, as free as I'd ever
been.
Few
feelings I've ever had could match the ones I experienced that
day. The sleek canoe moved across the water quietly, smoothly,
and quickly on the lake's surface, beginning my 50-year love
affair with canoes that has never dulled.
We covered nearly every inch of Greenleaf's shoreline that day
with our bass bugs, bream flies, and lures. We caught largemouth
and spotted bass, bluegill, green sunfish, warmouth bass, and
crappie. I cannot recall a minute that one of us didn't have
a fish on. It was paradise.
About
two in the afternoon, we went for a swim to cool off, then sat
in the water and ate our fill of the crispy, brown southern-fried
chicken and fudge-chocolate cake that Dick's mother had prepared
for our outing. Afterward, we took a nap in a nice grassy spot
under the shade of a big oak tree, which turned out to be the
only mistake we made that day - I'll tell you why in a moment.
We
spent the late afternoon up in Greenleaf Creek, fishing the
deep shady holes from the canoe and wading the cool, shallow
riffles and runs. For me, fishing had never been better.
At
sundown we started back across the lake to the dock to meet
Shirley for the drive back to Muskogee. To my amazement, Dick
swam the last three miles to the dock. We loaded up and headed
home. That concluded my initiation into the free world of fly
fishing, but the effect of our adventure was long-lasting for
all three of us, because our midday nap had allowed dozens of
chiggers to crawl up on us and then onto Shirley on the ride
home. The chiggers found their mark, and we all itched and scratched
for a week.
My
dad, grandad, and Dick are all gone now, but the lessons and
experiences they and Greenleaf gave me about the value of friends
and family, nature, good sportsmanship, and fly fishing remain
fresh in my life. In appreciation for those gifts, I try to
pass along the same excitement and enthusiasm to everyone I
know.
Greenleaf
still exists, not only in my mind, but because it was made a
state park some years ago and it remains much the same as when
I was fifteen. I try to visit there at least once a year with
my own sleek, wooden, green Old Town canoe and someone I love.
When I'm there, I can feel my dad's, grandad's, and Dick's presence,
more than in any other place we shared.
It's
So Much More Than the Fishing
By Dave Whitlock
First appeared in Great Lodge Web magazine
2000
If
you had one day to pack the most pleasure into a fly fishing
adventure, how and where would you choose it? I'd vote for a
day floating a small, remote, spring-fed river in a kickboat
or canoe with my best friend and fishing buddy Emily, especially
if the stream was located in our lovely Ozark Mountains. For
sheer beauty, adventure, quality fishing and solitude, Ozark
'creek' fly fishing always exceeds our expectations.
The
best time to choose a day is in the middle of the week between
May 1 and September 30. During this part of the year everything
is prime. The water temperature is between 60 and 85 degrees
F, just perfect for the stream inhabitants: bass, sunfish, minnows,
carp, pickrell, catfish and even a few trout that summer in
the springs. It's also the perfect time and temperature for
their food sources to be active. You can forgo your waders for
wet wading and even dive in for a refreshing swim every hour
or two as the sun warms the late morning and afternoon.
Then
there's the scenery. Most of these Ozark streams are framed
with beautiful sand and gravel beaches, rubble rock and sheer
limestone bluffs. Willows, cane, sycamores, yellow birch, sassafras,
mulberry, black gum, oaks, hickory and maple line the stream
and mountain sides. The lush pastel greens stand out, vividly
highlighted against the darker cedars and pine that occupy the
higher hillsides. Floating quietly along in the spring-fed turquoise
currents allows us a stealthly approach to shoreline foraging
muskrats, herons, woodchucks, kingfishers, beaver, mink, racoons
and the bank travels of deer, squirrels, cottontail rabbits,
wild turkey, an occasional bobcat and even a possible elk or
black bear. The songs of redwing blackbirds, cardinals, mockingbirds,
wrens, tufted tit mice, robins, treefrogs and bullfrogs together
with the sharper notes of crows, red tail hawks, blue jays and
pilated wood pecker sooth the most weary of city ears. And behind
that there's always the natural background music of the wind,
rustling leaves and flowing waters.
One
might wonder when there is time to fly fish with so much to
watch and listen to. But, of course, it's easy because our paddles
and fly rods are the instruments that connect us with this creek
drama and with them we soon become part of the relaxing rhythm
and life of the stream. Each stroke of the paddle or cast of
the rod pulls us deeper into the next unfolding scene. What's
so neat is that our peaceful, nearly silent passage through
each section of rapids, riffles and pools seldom does more than
temporarily distract the wildlife players here. That's one of
the special parts of being a fly fisher. Like photographers,
we seldom kill or take away from the nature that we come into
contact with. In fact, it's the fishers, especially the fly
fishers that are the first to sense a stream's symptoms of early
environmental problems. As fly fishers, we try to study the
food chain and when any link is threatened or isn't intact,
it's quite obvious to us and so we become an important part
of the process of the preservation of nature's most special
places.
Let's
get on with a typical day floating and fly fishing our Ozark
Mountain stream. We park the car six or eight miles downstream
and shuttle back to our put in to get started by sun up ...
and plan on not taking out until dusk. The canoe, our 16 foot
ABS Bean canoe, resting on the streamside gravel gets loaded
with fly tackle, vests, lunch and water, snorkle and fins and
a camera case. The magical day begins as we climb into
the sleek green craft and push out into the current. Emily wants
to paddle back in the stern first! (What a sweetheart) The current
quickly seizes the craft and with here skillful paddling we
disappear downstream into the cathedral like scene of green
woods and turquoise water. Small curtains of hazy white mist
rise from the warmer water into the night chilled air. The mist
seems to amplify every sound. Birds are singing all around us.
Suddenly,
there's a series of sharp splashes as a trio of tiger-striped,
red-eyed smallmouth bass attack a school of fleeing emerald
shiners down at the tail of the first pool we enter. My bow
paddle is immediately replaced with a 6 weight, 8 ½ foot
fly rod. Then, with a few hurried false casts, a minnow-colored,
three-inch pencil popper flies over and past the swirls of the
bass. One, two, three quick line pulls skips the minnow imposter
into life and a fourteen inch smallmouth suddenly wakes the
water behind it and attacks the slender fly with a murderous
surface strike. For the next five minutes, Em and I both stop
hearing the birds singing or notice the little water snake swimming
across the creek or have any other thoughts of before and after
- we are completely enjoying this electric moment. The bass
is wild and it puts all his stream-tempered strength into a
series of leaps and runs that bend the rod to it's handle, straining
my wrist to fatigue.
Smallmouth
are truly my favorite fish. They never cease to amaze and thrill
me. Each one always seems stronger, more beautiful and unique
than the ones before. A look into their bright fiery-red eyes
when you land them, reveals the strength of their spirit and.
I'm almost always relieved when I get to remove the barbless
bug and return them to the water. The second a smallmouth re-enters
the water it streaks away to the deep, at the same time drenching
its opponent with a big tail-swipe splash. I usually wonder,
during and after each fly rod encounter with these golden atomic
torpedoes, why I sometimes choose a trout over them.
We
continue downstream through foam flecked riffles, blue hued
runs and quiet pools deeply shaded with overhanging white trunked
sycamores, flake barked birches and ancient, flood-scarred willows.
Big limestone rock chunks, released perhaps a century or millennia
ago from the bluffs above, poke their moss carpeted tops above
the bubbling current and hold the promise of big bass lurking
in their eddies and beneath their dark shadows. Somewhere behind
the purple flowered water-willow that borders the creek, a huge
male bull frog begins his deep, baratone mating song. His strong,
clear notes resonate right down our spines and remind me of
a lifetime well spent on other streams like this beauty.
It
seems like every cast against the deep shoreline brings some
instant response to my fruit cocktail-colored hairbug. Most
strikes are from the incredibly pugnacious and territorial,
palm-size long-ear sunfish. We smile in wonder at what
a sight a bold, spawning male long-ear is as he's lifted from
the water and rays of sunlight strike his turquoise and flourescent-orange
body, fins and eyes! Few exotic tropical fish can compete with
their intricate display of colorful tattooed scales. And, they're
so scrappy that if they weighed two pounds it would probably
not be safe to tempt them!
I
next cast my colorful bug so that it strikes and then drops
off a little moss carpeted ledge. The water instantly erupts
in a much more serious & noisy manner. I'm startled at first
as my mind begins to conjure visions of a three or four pound
spotted or largemouth bass. As the hook is set, the resulting
swirl and dash back under the ledge softens that expectation
and I grin to myself with the knowledge that I have just hooked
a half pound, pitbull-jawed green sunfish. No other member
of the sunfish family attacks a surface fly so viciously and
then gives up the fight so quickly. As I land this beauty, it's
pearly white-rimmed, deep golden yellow fins flare like the
pennants on a float. He has completely inhaled the popper with
the glutinous strike, but the barbless hook easily slips out
with the aid of a hemostat.
Green
sunfish are an exciting experience for fly fishers and ultra
lighters. Especially those that get great pleasure from making
those pin-point presentations where you put the bug behind,
under or very close beside the green's favorite hides of shoreline
boulders, stumps, logs and ledges. Their surface ambush will
please even the most experienced fly rodder.
Time
flows by as quickly and smoothly as the current carries us downstream.
Soon it's lunchtime and we search for a clean and shaded gravel
bar on which to beach the canoe. The picnic Emily has packed
for this creek day somehow taste twice as good sitting on the
warm gravel with our bare feet soaking in the creek's cool water.
Thick salami and extra-sharp cheddar, dill pickles and dijon
mustard taste so right between fresh slices of sourdough. Emily
must truly love me as she's also included my favorite (not-baked!)
potato chips and her homemade, saucer-sized chunky chocolate
chip cookies. I'm in heaven! ... or man - it doesn't get any
better than this!
With
the bittersweet taste of chocolate still on tongues, we exchange
our clothes for swimsuits, don face masks, snorkels and swim
fins and enter the creek to drift and swim down and across the
current. At first we slowly enter the chilly water, inches
at a time. The water quickly refreshes and cools our sun warmed
bodies. Then we begin to swim and I gaze through my mask into
another even more beautiful world of liquid blue-green with
millions of tiny pearl-like bubbles rising and drifting in the
current, oxygen freed from the bottom-living green algae and
aquatic plants as the sunlight ignites the process of photosynthesis.
The water is so clear we have the sensation of flying.
There
are fish everywhere. In the gravel bar shallows most are minnow
size. Then, as we drop off into the deeper main channel, turquoise-backed,
red-finned shiner minnows, black-sided golden chubs, dace and
bluebird colored darters as well as several comical black-banded
hogsuckers dash by. Every rock is speckled with cone-shaped
snails. The water then darkens with depth and ahead of Emily
and me looms a big, dark, Volkswagen-size image. Without discussion
or hesitation we both inhale and dive below the surface to angle
down and across to the big object. I glance at Emily and my
eyes catch silver chains of sunlight bubbles drifting upwards
from her snorkle tube and long blonde hair. I really love this!
We
plane deeper and the water pressure increases on our mask and
ear drums with a familiar, mildly unpleasant sensation that
divers soon learn to adjust with a swallow. We are almost head-first
perpendicular now, peering beneath the big boulder. As our eyes
accommodate to the dimmer shaded light, silhouettes beneath
the rock take form and color. Rock bass, channel catfish, long-ear
sunfish and smallmouth bass, peer back at us from their hides
and seem completely relaxed with our presence. There's a strange,
olive-colored, hand-size discs here too. It's a longnosed
leatherback softshell turtle that with one glance at us
vanishes before our eyes in a little brown cloud of silt. We
circle the boulder, pointing and smiling at the wonder there.
As we move upward to refresh our lungs, I notice rainbow colored
shafts of sunlight all around us with hundreds of slender silvery-blue
minnow fry schooling, just under the surface curtain. The sun
warmed air welcomes our heads and bare shoulders back to our
other world as we exhale and inhale deeply. I never dive into
one of the creeks that I don't surprise myself at how much hidden
beauty and life awaits, mostly unseen and never felt from above
the surface. There's an expression "Don't be afraid to
get your feet wet." I add to that for you "And also
your head and body!"
Just
before we reach the end of our after-lunch swim, we find a huge
sycamore log, half in and half out of the water. There are several
life forms sunning on top of it. As we quietly approach, like
two partially submerged submarines, Emily says, "They're
big sleeping red ears!" At the sound of her voice,
each turtle opens its eyes and lunges forward, plopping awkwardly
into the creek. We dive to intercept and watch their amusing,
crashing escape as they dive to the protection of logs and serpent
like rooted stumps. There, a half dozen dark, long thick forms
come into focus. They are giant carp, napping in the comfort
there.
At
the surface again we turn on our backs and swim leisurely back
upstream, sharing the thoughts and sights we experienced from
this noon-time diving adventure. In my mind, I'm so thankful
that such a special place exists and for the wife that loves
to share these experiences with me. She just doubles the quality
of these special days.
The
next stretch of creek is one of my favorites. It's an exceptionally
long, deep, narrow run strewn with all sizes of boulders resting
on a limestone bed rock. Some of the biggest smallmouth bass
in the creek live here and no other fisher, except a kingfisher,
is around. We quietly beach the canoe, choose fly rods rigged
with 5 foot/ #III sinking tip lines, 6 foot/ 1X leader and a
size 6 brown NearNuff Crayfish. We'll separate to split the
run into two beats and wade slowly, quietly, thigh deep down
stream.
The
imitation crayfish is cast up and across the stream almost to
the far shoreline, mended and dead drifted till it reaches and
crawls along the deep boulder-shaded bottom. There we hope to
wake and tempt a snoozing 18 to 20 inch bass to feed. The crayfish
pattern crawls and swims backwards with the hook up to mimic
the real thing and avoid the pitfall of most snags. Occasionally
we give them two or three quick strips to impersonate a crayfish's
backward dart to escape its predatory's attack.
I'm
watching Emily when I see her yellow line go taunt, followed
by her strike as she quickly raises her rod up into a full half-circle
bend. She responds with a cheerful "Gotcha big bass!"
That smallmouth tried everything in it's ability to separate
itself from her. It ran down stream, leaped its length out of
the water three times then bored under a boulder. She never
lost her focus and had a counter move for each of its tricks.
Eventually, it yielded its 18 inches of golden-olive body to
Em. I photographed it seconds later and she let it go back.
After it disappeared into its protective pool, we chuckled and
hugged. The run yielded several more bass, rock bass and long
ears, but her first fish was the best of the group.
Two,
three, four and five o'clock. We drift and wade, watch and
cast our way down the creek. Every minute is eventful. We see
blue herons, little green herons and kingfishers fishing as
intently as we are. A fat red fox squirrel is teaching her three
or four shaky young to eat stream-side ripe purple mulberries.
Then, after maneuvering around a sharp riffle bend, we're suddenly
in the middle of a herd of white face cattle cooling and drinking
in the stream. They hardly noticed us.
As
the late afternoon shadows begin to reach east across the creek,
the forest greens begin to take on richer golden highlights
and the streams mood changes again as it's inhabitants become
more relaxed with the lower light. We switch to larger diving
frog bugs in anticipation of bigger bass now.
Emily
casts her diver behind a pile of big rocks where a large log
and root clump had come to rest in the eddy. The hair bug makes
a froggy splat on the surface, she allows it to rest there more
or less motionless for eight or ten long seconds. Then
the water under the frog seems to lift as a very long dark motionless
form just materializes an inch under the frog. I begin to grow
large goose bumps at the base of my spine. One, two, three seconds
more crawl by. Em is poised and waiting patiently as I struggle
to hold the canoe in place against the tug of the current so
that the bug will not be dragged out of the eddy. Then, the
bug just disappears.
Displaying
almost superhuman patience, she waits another second then strikes
hard. A washtub size swirl comes next as the big bass jets away
from the sudden pressure it feels on its jaw. I'm sure it thought,
"Whoa - never knew a little frog could bite back like that!"
Before
she could strip slack and strike again, a monster largemouth
bass literally explodes out of the water, cartwheeling above
our heads, shaking it agape maul and propelling the bug almost
into Emily's lap. I see her duck from the erupting violence
and speeding fly. The water swallows up the big bass and it's
as if time had stood still for those twenty seconds. The only
evidence of the confrontation was the coils of slack yellow
fly line draped across her legs and around the rod, the bug
floating beside the canoe and a few large, foamy bubbles on
the eddy's shaded surface.
We
vowed to revisit this guy sometime again in the near future.
Such unusually large bass as this lady was are often AWOL from
over the dams of farm ponds during spring floods, so they are
always a big bonus surprise to a small creek float.
It's
nearly sundown now and we're still a mile from our take-out
point. We stow our rods, open and split an icy beer and begin
to paddle on in. The canoe under our dual paddling quietly knifes
the surface that mirrors the beautiful purple and orange sunset.
It glides along so smoothly that it feels like a fine sports
coupe as we negotiate the creeks fast riffles, boulders and
quick turns.
We
reach the old, weathered, low-water bridge where our VW camper
is parked. It's the first sight of civilization we've had in
ten hours. As we beach, I reach for the keys and we are soon
loading up our gear and canoe. We don't say a lot on the drive
back to our home, lost in relaxing thoughts, but it's evident
we've both experienced a rare and beautiful day on our favorite
Ozark creek. Our bodies, minds, spirits and hearts have been
pleasantly and totally occupied from sun up to sun down. We
both can think of no way that a day in our life could be spent
better than we'd just experienced.
Suggested
Ozark Creek Floating Equipment
Boat:
15 to 17 foot ABS Canoe with paddles
Kickboats with oars and swim fins
14 foot John boat with oars and paddle
Tackle:
8 to 8 ½ foot fly rod that will cast 5 to 7 weight lines
Single action reel with bug taper floating line and a second
spool with 5 foot #III sinking tip line.
Leaders - 6 to 9 foot OX to 3X
Flies:
Surface: Poppers and Hairbugs with rubber legs and
weed guards (sizes 10-2); colors: yellow, red & white, frog,
black & yellow, fruit cocktail.
Sliders
& divers with weedguards:
Colors: silver & white, yellow, frog and black
Terrestrials:
Whitlock's Bass Hopper
Whitlock's Crystal Dragon
Cicada
Subsurface
flies: Nymphs
Whitlock's Red Fox Squirrel with gold bead & rubber legs
(sizes 8,6,4)
Whitlock's Helgramite (sizes 6,4,2)
Whitlock's Improve Golden and Brown Stone Fly Nymph (sizes 8,6,4)
Streamers:
Clouser Minnows (sizes 8 - 12)
Colors: silver & white, chartruse & white, brown &
yellow
Whitlock's Deep Sheep Minnow - chub (sizes 6 & 2)
Whitlock's Nearnuff Crayfish - brown (sizes 8,6,4)
Whitlocks's Nearnuff Sculpin - brown & olive (Sizes 8,6,4)
Woolybugger - black & brown, oliver & black, white,
chartreuse, orange & brown
(sizes 8,6,4)
Ozark
Creeks to Float - Dave's Favorites
Arkansas
- Kings River, Illinois Bayou, Big Creek, Pine Creek, Crooked
Creek, Buffalo River, Caddo Creek, Spring River and Southfork
of Spring River, Illinois River and Lee's Creek
Missouri
- North Fork River, Bryant Creek, Current River, Pine Creek,
Jacks Fork, James River
Oklahoma
- Lee's Creek, Barren Fork, Illinois River & Flint Creek,
Spavinaw Creek
Seasonal
Advice
These
streams are classed as cool to warm water streams. Native fish
are most active to flies from April 1, to October 1. Prime time
is May 15 to July 1. Trout inhabit all these streams that drain
into the White and North Fork Rivers, from late October to early
June. Prime time for these trout is March to June 1.
Most
of these streams are least crowded by recreational canoeist
before June 1 and after September 1. I'd also advise you to
avoid weekends or long holiday weekends, if you want solitude
and better fishing.
You
can do your own shuttle or hire local canoe rentals, fishing
stores, or bait shops to shuttle you one or more days on the
stream.
Be sure to go in at marked accesses or ask permission from the
landowner.
Guides
If
you need the services of an excellent fly fishing guide for
these streams, Emily and I recommend:
Don
Adams - 870 445-8491
PO Box 358
Bullshoals, AR 72619
Davy
Wotton - 870-453-2195
1802 M.C. 7001
Flilppin, AR 72634
Whitlock's
Lore
By John Randolph
Editor/Publisher, Fly Fisherman magazine
February 2000
In
case you haven't already noticed, this issue looks like a Dave
Whitlock showing. When we opened Dave's editorial package on
his Sheep Series, it took our breath away: So many drawings,
so many slides of large fish, so much superb text on the evolution
of his flies and the techniques to tie and fish them. How, in
a small space, could we showcase the talents of this master
of fly and fishing innovation?
It's
an editor's problem: He/she has four pages within which to present
superb instructional art combined with a clean 4,000-word text,
balanced with just the right professional photography. The space
required to do it justice is eight pages. The answer, of course,
is, "Find the space."
It's
a typical Whitlock editorial dilemma. He has so much that is
important to say, and his artistic talents are so expressive
and wide ranging, that he turns white space into Whitlock's
World.
As
his Seasonable Angler column in our February 2000 issue makes
clear, Dave Whitlock's roots are sunk deep in the fishing traditions
of the Ozarks. The boy was born with the instincts of a fish
predator, but he also had the right mentor in his father, who
in the throes of the Depression had the free time to fish and
included his son in his forays on the new fish-filled lakes
created by federal dam-building programs.
How
fortunate for the world of fly fishing that Dave Whitlock was
born in the right place, in the right era, and got started on
the right road. In a sport where the arcane is standard fare,
he makes fly-tying innovations and new fishing techniques practical
and understandable.
Over
the decades, he has become a teacher to the world -- in effect,
fly fishing's Johnny Appleseed. He is arguably our most innovative
fly tier, and undoubtedly the most enthusiastic. And his Sheep
Series featured in this issue shows why: In the piece, he portrays
the classic evolution of a fish predator and his flies. He outlines
the development of a world-class universal baitfish imitation.
His Sheep Minnows catch fish.
Whitlock
represents what is best in our sport -- individual problem solving
through innovation at the tying vise and on the water. No other
sport so completely involves the creative instincts of the hunter;
it's the satisfaction of creating the fly that triggers the
bite of fish that quickens our pulse at the tying vise and on
the stream.
But
Whitlock has something that the rest of us don't. He can illustrate
what he has learned. His drawings are instructive and compelling.
They are instructive because they show us clearly what to do,
both at the tying vise and where the fish are feeding.
And
the drawings are compelling because they take us under water
into the fish's world, where Whitlock portrays graphically the
heart and soul of fish as predators. His baitfish look and behave
as baitfish should; his finny predators pursue their prey in
feeding frenzies that look like the real thing. One cannot portray
such realities without having witnessed and lived them. One
cannot accurately draw nature "red in tooth and claw"
without having the heart and eye of a hunter. And one cannot
portray the fishes' predator world without truly exceptional
drawing skills.
Dave
Whitlock's instructions expand our horizons. Our fishing would
be less understandable -- and far less successful -- without
these graphic expositions of his lore.
