By: stevens (offline) Saturday, September 20 2014 @ 11:54 AM EDT (Read 6041 times)
I'm a flyfisherman from Arlington, MA (just West of Boston) and a life-long lover of the White Mountains. As a kid I hiked all over the area with my dad and brother. I've fished with a fly since my 20s, but since my knees can't take carrying a fifty pound backpack up steep mountains anymore my hiking trips to the Whites are morphing into fishing trips, too. I've fished a few blue-ribbon streams around the US (Yellowstone, San Juan) but my first love is small streams and brooks.
One of my favorite places is the upper Ammonussuc River. I was there last week and had a great time after the water warmed up (in September, yet! Sheesh!) I look forward to chatting with you all and sharing fish stories. Can't wait for opening day 2015! ?S.
By: stevens (offline) Sunday, September 21 2014 @ 11:05 AM EDT
I've never heard of the Smith River, maybe you mean the Swift River? I fished it a few times many years ago, and it is sweet. It feels very much like a big mountain river from northern New England. The trouble is, it's just as far for me to drive to the Swift in Mass as it is to drive to the Swift in the White Mountains, so..... you know which wins out.
By: stevens (offline) Tuesday, September 23 2014 @ 10:24 AM EDT
Well, it's 1.5 hours to the Swift in Mass, and 2 hours to the Swift in NH. If I go west I'm at the Quabbin, which is scenic enough. But, if I go north, I'm in the White Mountains (see painting).
You don't get scenes like this at Quabbin. I'm just sayin'.
By: Dave V (offline) Sunday, September 28 2014 @ 12:16 PM EDT
Welcome to the site Stevens . Hope you find it a nice little fishing site to visit and take part in . Looking fwd to seeing more of your post.
Words from the late Stephen .Throw another log on the fire and pull up a chair good folk on here . Dave V
Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was
cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time.
On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words,
and some of the words are theirs.