February Dries

Yesterday brought upper 40's and clouds and fish were up. I, however, took my streamer rod out again because I'm still hooked on the allure of landing another fatty walleye to slap in the skillet. I've tried now a few times in the last week and although I caught plenty of trout; no walleyes. On my way back to the Bull Pen where I parked my rig I ran into my neighbor, Mark Tinsky.

Mark is what I would call the quintessential fly fisher. He moved out here almost a decade ago because he was passionate about fly fishing. In the morning he carves tobacco pipes and sends them off in the mail to clients around the world and by the afternoon, he's driving up and down the river looking for targets and reading water.

Starting out like most of us, Mark employed every tactic in the book to land fish. On a river like the Missouri, that's understandable. Mark even bought plates for his rig that said, "Nymphr." Throughout the last few years, Mark has honed skills in every phase of this game and now might to some, fit the category of a fly fishing snob. The closest thing to a nymph he'll throw is an emerger and I don't think he's actually bought a fly in years--he ties all his own. And if they won't eat what he has to feed them, he goes back to his bench and tries to come up with something they will.

I have a lot of respect for guys like Mark. To him it's not the number of fish to the net; it's about studying his subject and looking for opportunities and using the skills he's developed in order to be successful. It's about taking the time to get to know a river as well as anyone could know it and taking each fish--one at a time--and working that fish until satisfied that either he's won by tricking it into eating a fair representation of the flies hatching or on that day, the fish were a little smarter than he was.

I watched Mark for about ten minutes and yesterday, Mark was winning. Keep 'em where they live Mark...