Despite three fruitless trips and stinging only a single fish, I’m confident that Shad Fishing Died for Your Angling Sins.

A long winter of tying drab and dull, your “light” reading a mix of dusty tomes featuring metatarsals and pronotums, and you’ve exhausted both social venues and social networking and are conspicuously absent any cocktail invitations.

Your banter is free of celebrity gossip and your brow furrows over the finalists on American Idol, you’re prone to mumble, and coupled with a fetching hint of mothballs from your only sport coat, you can’t sustain eye contact with a nervous hostess as you can’t tear your gaze from her fish tank.

… and after months of isolation with Internet forums and that aging stack of fly tying magazines by the Crapper, you’ve bought their false prophets and notion of the One True Sport.

Trout fishing.

Replete with its aromatic tobacco, dimutitive flies, expensive tackle and long stemmed glassware, practiced by those strong in the ways of credit card debt.

You’re insistent that a large gold bead on your nymph has a parallel in Nature, a pre-emergent pronounced thorax, and while you struggle to pronounce “4mm, slotted, and Gold” in Latin, are just as insistent nymph fishing requires a floatational aid to make it more like Dry Fly fishing, elegant, gentlemanly, eliminating guesswork and a couple centuries of nymph fishing lore in the doing.

“Fling and swing” replaced by an upstream presentation, and should some timorous fellow suggest it reminiscent of the Unclean Sport, bait fishing, it’s an “Indee-kay-tor” versus “bobber” and how dare he insinuate otherwise …

… and now that darkened basements and the shameless exploitation of furbearers is out, your fascination with the “bug-like” thing is no longer quaint or charming, rather you’re linked with pressure cooker enthusiasts and egghead Chechnyan separatists. Our former, “ill at ease” with joggers and the cyclists suddenly an unpopular legacy now that BB guns and our leftover tins of black powder are under a societal microscope.

In contrast, Shad is the festive “Other White Meat” fishery – like Bass and Carp, a landscape where periodicals fear to tred, and its practitioners have firm sweaty handshakes, buy their rods on EBay, fashion their flies of Christmas tinsel, and non-tapered monofilament …

… that’s “mono-fila-ment” not “fluoro-carbon” – only asshats and Momma’s boys fish $22 tippet …

Empty beer cans line our rapids, castoff underwear festoon the brush and drunken college students holler encouragement as they wallow through our tepid water to throw up somewhere downstream. Shad fishermen embrace society and its many foibles rather than flee to the upper elevations and its gentrified antisocial notion of Pristine.

Shad fishing being the Mardi Gras of fly fishing, with brilliant tinsels, florescent, opalescent, and iridescent, mixed with chrome hooks, shiny toilet chain, gleaming gold beads, ALL designed to act like split shot and sink our fly like a leaden sonofabitch.

There’s no extended pinkie in our fishing, no privacy, no hushed bank of spectators intent on watching some fellow melt into hysteria when his BB shot and non-biodegradable bobber loop fetchingly around a distant tree branch. Neither do we complain about updrafts when explaining why our fly is imbedded in our arse cheek, or tree branch behind us.

Instead we hear the big gaudy SOB whistle towards us and duck while giggling mightily, knowing we’ve cheated Death – and how that interloper wading in behind us won’t be so lucky …

A tepid water introduction, compliments of a sharpened treble …

Shad fishing is for people that count fish, that club baby seals, that wax eloquent at the prospect of laying waste to hundreds of His creatures, who would rather torture and maim than kill and eat cleanly.

Our fishery, as brash and sordid as it may sound, doesn’t require us to tiptoe around concerned about we brought with us, what may have hitched a ride from our garage unbidden … we’re reticent to get into our water more afraid of what we’re about to step in …

A Fish so boney and unloved as to have never been eaten, never considered for table fare, and never commercial grown for anything other than fertilizer. Yet despite its peasant nose, wild, sea run, and having the pedigree of sport fish prized the world over.

Beats hell out of a fish spat “wildly” from the end of a hatchery nozzle, that dines wildly on floating plasticine dough or dyed salmon eggs –whose misfortune it was to he “shat” into water at elevation – and therefore conferred “wild” like a second virginity.

King Solomon’s mines were no different, immense wealth hidden away by inclement terrain, protected by idol worshiping cannibals and unspeakable terrors, whose existence was part fact and part fable.

I’m thinking along these lines as I hear the Yolo County flood control officer tell me of the Central Valley’s “lost trout stream”, whose canyon a narrow scratch through waist-high tick-laden scrub, flanked by impenetrable sheets of rock whose reflective capabilities amplify the stifling heat, whose trail-less slopes offer unsteady footing for deer and the most practiced outdoorsman.

… that being the Good News …

… and while this self-same official confesses they don’t fish, they are adamant they took a family member there who caught trout just prior to being chased from the ravine by hordes of Rattlesnakes unleashed by enraged Buddhists.

… Buddhists, why does it always have to be Buddhists …

The thought of a splinter cell of camo-clad Buddhists gives me pause -what with Karma being the kissing cousin of an Angler’s Luck, something even the most rational, level-headed, and scientific angler will tell you is something never to trifle with …

… and while I might scoff at private property, barbed wire, and enraged land owners packing weaponry, the notion of being luck-less with rod in hand suggests throwing streamers at a balky lawnmower might be as rewarding.

Then there was that bothersome “infested” word she used, “… the canyon is infested with rattlesnakes …”

Which doubled my enthusiasm given that how many and how big the trout were is always proportional to the danger present, and as only headhunting cannibals can rival angry Buddhists, ticks, and snakes snapping at every exposed extremity,  means I’ve stumbled on the Lost Dutchman – the Flying Dutchman, and Noah’s Ark – all captured on the greasy folds of a hastily narrated paper map.

Given that John Muir gave no hint, Audubon was afraid to commit an image to paper, and Father Serra crossed himself and returned to the coast, the trout are likely both wild and lonesome,  especially so given their remote location and inclement surroundings. Quite possibly they’ve given up insects all together – relying on a diet of rock-scalded rabbit and white rice, perhaps even bits of human flesh, as no one that has seen the creek returned alive … except the Yolo County Flood Control employee, and since she don’t fish can’t be considered people …

Committing all those directions to a hamburger wrapper and retracing that tortuous path in 4-wheel low, resulted in one long distance glimpse of my quarry from the ridgeline above. I was warned that it was too early to fish as it is still discolored by Spring runoff and three times its traditional flow.

I dubbed it Rattlesnake Creek, and while I can surely make it down without loss of life, getting back up is liable to be hellish – not to mention all those skinned extremities from rock hopping down the narrow canyon, or passing out from the heat while attempting to add waders, vests, and tackle to the mix.

… and if to make matters worse, as I stood in mid current framing a potential scenario where I might attempt the outing alone (as my fishing pals are unadventurous and complete pussies ), I had one of the rattlers that infest my Little Stinking swim up and attempt to share my waders. A reminder that they swim just fine – and even perched on a rock in midstream safety would still be an issue.

But only because Rattlesnake Creek is a trout stream, if it was full of Smallmouth, them snakes would fear the water more than my ponderous tread ..

… if it was full of Smallmouth, I’d be scared to go too …

I was never at a loss as to what to call it, my only concern was whether I would call it the same thing twice or merely be content with whatever epithet I spat from clenched teeth.

A technique about as awkward as is frustrating, and while those that attempt it are not likely to mention genius in the same breath, it shows rare possibilities of extending traditional wet fly hackle into materials and styles not considered traditional.

As hackle typically covers the tie off of everything that came before it, all you need remember is the amount of “hackle” you prepare must change based on the number of turns you’ll apply, as well as the circumference of the thread you’re about to cover. As “less is more” in wet fly hackle, consider using no more than three turns total – more if using this technique to build a “Palmer” hackle or specialty hackle like a Spey fly requires.

I start with a slip of paper about 3/8” wide and three inches long, and smear a hint of tacky wax to the bottom two inches, giving me an inch to hold that is not sticky. Two inches of “awkward” hackle is about 3-4 turns of a #8 hook.

The beauty of this style is that any fiber is eligible to make a hackle flue, so you can select them based on color, texture, action, or stagger lengths so one color is short and close to the fly – and a second fiber is longer and drapes over the body.

It can also be used to “right size” feathers too big for the hook size you’re tying, as you can pull the fibers short now they’re no longer connected to a bothersome stem.

Clip a few fibers of material and press them into the tacky edge of the paper at regular intervals. Select a second, third, or fourth material and fill in the spaces with additional fibers to make your finished hackle.

In the below example, I’ve added Maple Sugar Teal flank fibers every 1/4 inch, and filled in the gaps with Olive dyed Hare’s Mask guard hair, using both feather and fur to make my hackle. The teal flank is set longer than the Hare’s Mask, which should project a few tips out past the halo of Olive fur, ensuring their color shows separate and distinct.

Once the amount of fibers is appropriate for the hackle density, simply throw a loop of thread from the hook shank and slide the fiber side of the “hackle tape” through the loop, holding onto the top (or bottom) inch that does not have wax on it.

Now grit your teeth and hold the loop closed with your left thumb and forefinger and run your scissors up between the gap of paper and thread and cut away the paper.

Now spin the mixture as quickly as you can to have the thread loop capture each fiber and lock it between the threads. If you’re not swearing yet, start – as really profane swearing can alter gravity and it’s attempt at dropping all your earlier work out of the loop and into your lap.

Transfer the loop to a set of hackle pliers and continue to spin the combined materials tightly. The more turns per inch on the resultant hackle the better the fibers will be anchored on the completed fly.

Here is the completed “Awkward Olive” nymph showing the final hackle. The Maple teal was set longer than the Olive Hare’s Ear guard hair, and the regular rabbit duff found along with the guard hair was left in the final mix to offer softness and motion once wet.

Here’s the same fly shown from above which allows you to see the two lengths of hackle added with a single application. The long teal fibers offer considerably more motion than usual as they are not connected to a stem, and the secondary fibers of Olive Hare’s mask pulse when wet, giving the result a compelling action unavailable in traditional hackle.

Use your imagination, add feather fibers and marabou strands, hair, deer hair fibers, any fibrous material can be used including yarn fragments and bits of tinsel. The only caution is the larger the fiber diameter the harder it is to lock tightly with thread.

Don’t be afraid to add a loop of Size “A” thread or even Kevlar thread for super coarse materials or extremely large flies including those tied Spey style. Wax the loop assist it holding the materials in place for the delicate cut that must be made.

While wax is not as popular as it once was, any tier worth his salt ignores what the crowd likes in favor of what works. It comes from too many icy winters filling fly boxes with bits of dead animal, the kind of behavior that depresses your Facebook “friend” count and neighbors looking to borrow sugar …

It was an involuntary wince when I felt the resistance to my pulling an armload of fishing tackle from the back of the rig. Instinctively I’d bowed like a tarpon angler whose seen his quarry come airborne on a taut line, yet the crack of rod tip impacting something in the bed as it released lacked the rattle of broken -  yet sounded violent enough to trigger a burst of self loathing and profanity.

Only a dental visit makes an angler more repentant … a dangling fly and momentary sloth meeting something damp, oversized and heavy, with a prized rod thrust into Harm’s way and an armload of supplies making its peril invisible.

I got lucky, the overly loud snap of tippet and accompanying violent reverb off the truck bed merely disrobed half a snake guide of thread, and altered the tip top from spherical into ellipse.

… which didn’t slow my swearing any, just made the muttered epithets blanket North America, rather than the World at large…

After a year reacquainting myself with fiberglass, and my renewed pleasure causing me to move numerous rods from the back of the pile to the front, I could scarce afford to start trimming their number with carelessness.

Especially since I’d made the mistake of cracking a catalog and asking myself, “what’s the latest generation of glass going for?”

A house payment, Natch … silly question.

… and whether it’s got a couple of vowels or simply a consonant preceding “glass, “ it’s alternatingly a sharp intake of breath or a headshaking giggle.

After viewing a couple of contemporary catalogs, I figured the “S” meant “Super” or “Superlative” – yet just as quickly changed to – “Stupid”, “Simple” or possibly its owner merely a “Spendthrift”.

“Sudden Chastity” being part of the Mean Old Guy mantra, as we knew a good rod lasts a lifetime and saved the old gear, only occasionally upgrading our tackle with more fashionable contemporary fodder. Naturally, once heeled we feel free to comment on others and how their manhood comes cheap …

Yet from my Ivory pedestal, as I attempted to straighten what was now a damning ellipse, I realized its source was just as damning, as this was proof of my Urban Urchin youth, the unloved pristine Fenwick Feralite, Model FF807, that I’d spied in a curbside dumpster along with a worn Mad Magazine (Issue #50).

The gay colors of the comic book cover had me teetering precariously on the lip of the dirty container, brushing aside rancid can goods, broken lathe and plaster, and with comic in one hand, spying the cork grip of someone’s failed attempt at Gentile …

I ignored the angry screams from the second floor, figuring the same spinster was likely the cause of the rod owner’s premature death, and he wouldn’t mind my repurposing his tackle – nor my thumbing nose at his spouse.

Now some thirty years distant (and suddenly blushing from snooty commentary), I find this rod proof that I was never “to the manor born” – rather I was an ardent gutter snipe angler intent on killing stuff smaller than me.

… which is why I prefer sub-hundred dollar glass from eBay, and never turn up my nose at the creek’s bountiful offerings, including bullet riddled teapots and free shorts.

… and here I was thinking the Jigglicious video was the penultimate found thing …

I was forced to listen to yet another purported fisherman regale me with, “ … the only fish suitable to my palate is the Fillet O’ Fish” … an unabashed reference to the LongJohnus Silverus, that legendary gamefish known only as the “Breaded Unknown.”

… “Unknown,” because its DNA is indistinct and occasionally shows traces of horsemeat … unknown whether it’s a resident of the North Atlantic or South Pacific, and no living creature has witnessed whether it swims, humps its way through the mud, or reproduces outside of a test tube.

… and while my version of fish is often a noble animal and worthy adversary, that distinction has been lost on those that prefer “fast” rather than “good.”

It’s a combination of jaded and jealous, as the only aspect of our pastime that gets airplay is some environmentalist gashing themselves because they saw someone pissing into a trout stream, which brings out the same tired Old Guys to reminisce about the Good Old Days when you could kill everything without repercussion, and not surprisingly, we get few if any converts.

Top Gun boosted recruitment of would-be fighter pilots fifteen or twenty percent, yet for us fishermen the only positive news we can summon is:

… and while even that small bit of positive press from the folks that brought you “Umpteen Billion Served” is welcome in the absence of Hollywood starlets in waders, the reality of it all is much harsher …

Sustainable fisheries be damned, call it Pollack, Polack, or Alaskan Cod, nobody is willing to make eye contact …

I was thinking it was one of many hundreds of reasons why fishing in agricultural waste is superior to its rarified blue water cousin …

Outside of the obvious, how there’s plenty of brown and damn little blue, how brown is close and blue far, brown being cheap and blue expensive, and how blue water fans scrub their boots and waders out of fear for the environment, and we scrub anything wet for fear of what we’ll introduce to our garage …

… and while the Blue water crowd pouts at water bottles and the isolated candy wrapper, us brown water types “dumpster dive” the high water mark for West Hollywood Classics, knowing even our litter is dirtier than the trout stream equivalent.

Which is a comfort for a fishermen out on a morning he knows to be too cold, in a river swept clean of fish, with more miles of carrying the fishing rod versus using it.

Nothing like coming home to a warm fire and the questionable embrace of “Super Naturals” – featuring a bevy of round-bottomed Valkyrie, each bursting with … ample … uhm … stuff.

No, I’m not going to link to the site – it’s liable to BLIND the dry fly purists.

It’s become quite plain that God adores big fish and cares not at all for me … I suppose it’s because there are so few truly big fish, and there are so many aging and overweight atheists, that the planet could do just fine with less …

My early morning foray was premature in the least, what with Winter only half done and ice crunching underfoot. Nothing stirred in the pre-dawn chill, yet each big flood requires me to inventory 22 miles of river, and with couch-riveting NFL madness some hours distant, I figured to work up a sweat and earn some spinach dip.

Each year the Winter cataclysm reveals itself to be “cleanse” or “cover” flood – moving many hundreds of tons of gravel from upstream to deposit all over the the watershed. Sometimes the gravel removed restores deep water – and in other years covers what used to be a deep run or pool.

Naturally I’m pouting when a favorite spot disappears under a gravel bar, but on occasion during a cleanse, an old hole emerges – or a new hole is formed.

This being a “cleanse” year, I was getting fairly excited, numerous deep slots had appeared in the shallow stretches, and the former “Big Fish” stretch, which had been ankle deep last year, was now 5-6 feet deep and liable to hold considerable fish this Spring.

Then I thought about Old Logjam, that hoary and ancient Largemouth that I’ve been battling with all of last year. His hide-a-way being on the far side of an underwater timber, recessed in a 10 foot deep pool at the roots of an old willow tree, partially submerged.

I can get a fly in there from above, but the doing exposes me to him – and he giggles while pretending to flirt with whatever I toss his way …

… I’d guess Old Logjam to be about seven pounds, and if we were keeping score, which we aren’t, I would run out of fingers quickly … in his favor, naturally.

While most of the river is still too deep for hip boots, I slipped and slid my way across loose gravel and heavy current so I could see whether this year’s battle had been made any easier.

… instead, I got a newly scoured twenty foot deep pool, with twenty feet of logs and branch overburden stacked on his protective root ball, ensuring Old Logjam gets even Older …

With us aging fatties gnashing teeth while we donate yet another awesomely tied, impeccable minnow-Crayfish imitation, while Old Logjam snores contentedly in the safety of His bosom …

Eating Crow is the toughest dining there is – made especially so by the number of “soapbox sermons” I’ve delivered on the topic of foppish thousand dollar rods and how there was no place in fly fishing for that kind of cash outlay, unless there was a bet involved and this being the bar tab that resulted.

… and while I remain adamant on the subject of fly rods and the usurious dollars being charged, I have found a fishing accoutrement that’s worth a grand and cheap for that price …

It’s the Gibb’s Quadski, and while your toes curl at the idea that your fishing is liable to add to the earth’s burdensome carbon footprint, I say it’s time you shuddup and grew a pair.

Forty five miles an hour means never having to buy a fishing license, waders, or a float tube again. It’s immunity to “No Trespassing” signs and angry landowners, and bestows on its owner the awesome knowledge that you can kick sand in the face of interlopers in YOUR riffle.

Watch the angry warden pound the hood of his sinking truck, laugh at the landowner who’s sure you used his cow pasture to access his pristine trout creek, and thumb nose at the violently gesticulating float tuber as your wake pitches him overboard where the weight of his vest drags him under …

To hell with global warming and the price per gallon of dinosaur, with each passing day the best fishing is growing further from your home – requiring you to consume more gallons, spend additional cash, and endure litter, traffic jams, and the occasional movie theatre shootout.

The Quadski becomes your personal equalizer, the ability to tame any environment, pack exotic beer into the most hostile, pristine, or inclement environment, and leave your empties scattered about like D. Boone and his bear offal …

Uh, it’s $40,000 … but what price to outrun a radio?

It was our love of Frappachino that likely proved our undoing …

While engaged in another heated discussion on where to fish this weekend, I mentioned that I had produced some out-of-the-way spots that all had appreciated – and perhaps it was their turn (being natives to the area) to show me some of the watering holes known only to the hardened local fishermen, those willing to trade a little sweat-equity to scramble furthest from the beaten path …

… and all I got were blank looks and how’d they’d rather pay then walk. Coughing up twenty or forty bucks to lounge on the bank of some hatchery embankment isn’t liable to put the bark on anything.

… which is their way of saying that “bark” ain’t what it once was …

As I watch the Oft-Crapping-Pooch snarl menacing at darkened underbrush, I am reminded there are fishermen in the older “Pioneer” vein, and there are those that claim the heritage, but lack the urgency to blaze trail, preferring to wait until there is a taco truck in the parking lot or neon sign pointing at the Really Good Fishing.

Which is not a condemnation of the current Outdoorsman, rather it’s my observation of the perils of continuing gentrification, evolution of the species to a higher order and calling.

Little Meat and I delight in braving thorns and barbed wire, thumbing our nose at “No Trespassing” signs, medical waste, law enforcement, and illegal agricultural chemical dumps, but only because we know the Really Good Fishing isn’t some pristine stream or icy blue lake, rather it’ll be some overlooked freeway off ramp graced by some fetid trickle and punctuated with rotting couches.

… and a Happy New Millennium to you too …

The Undiscovered Continents of our youth no longer exist, most have been uber-marketed to guys with a taste for mortgage debt and umbrella drinks, which used them shamelessly. Many are already decline, some gentle and some precipitous.

The Outdoorsy-types that follow in our footsteps will have to embrace the sprawl of the rural-urban interface, and find their sport where others fear to look or tread.

Unspoiled isn’t in the urban dictionary, rather the best fishing will be limited to those spots impossible to reach, smellier than most, sports a homeless encampment, or patrolled by law enforcement, everything else being  exploited by the urbane “glamper” crowd.

Anglers will have to hone skills tainted by exposure to the Pristine, as the clues that line the banks of your rapidly-warming, icy trout stream are not shared by the valley floor.

Empty Pautzke’s jars, the whitened carapace of Styrofoam worm containers, the snarl of tippet caught in the underbrush, and omnipresent energy drink containers, all give testimony to quality fishing in trout country.

But the Rural-Urban Interface lacks these tell-tale clues, and those seeking the best fishing must be able to read “sign” – the litany of naturally occurring floating debris that a man-made water flow leaves in its wake.

Above is the rotting corpse of a 15” sucker – which you would have missed except for the skinless tennis ball that caught your eye …

… and while you mentally wondered which court was upstream and whether it was an unruly forehand lob or simply a bad serve that sent “Mr. Wilson” into the creek, that dead fish proves Fish Live Here.

“Here” being another unloved thin brown line on your freeway map, likely not having seen an angler in two or three decades.

Likewise for this nameless little depression, now swollen with rain water and agricultural runoff, and in need of a thorough working over with a sink tip and some flies that push a lot of water.

I know how these warm water, dirty venues cause the Frappachino Fisherman to blanch, but in 2013 and beyond, riffle water will come in many shapes and sizes, and the only truly important thing is that it imparts lots of oxygen into the flow – ensuring the environment is capable of supporting the “clean” bugs like stoneflies and their ilk …

… the valley version of riffle being about four feet long – and a mile wide.

Wonder what lives here …

One thing is certain however, I’m done sharing with pals, as these unloved gems that I’m visiting can only support a rarified few – those willing to suffer scorn and fingerpointing, those few stalwarts that recognize adding chocolate to coffee is the first in a long line of genteel sins leading to soft couches, saran-wrapped trophies, and the stern admonition of their physician.

It’s research to be sure, but there’s no starched white lab coats, it’s ducking and weaving behind tree trunks and skidding precariously down inclines, all to the continued amusement of the Oft-Crapping Pooch …

My current theory of rainfall, ground saturation, and the rise of the Big Muddy, is that my local soil can assimilate only one and one half days of sustained rain before the creek is the sole beneficiary.

After 36 hours of rain the Little Stinking became mud brown and rose a couple of feet. Three days later it was still up but clear …

After another 24 hours of heavy downpour, the creek was unrecognizable, as it rose about five feet and went from fifty feet across, to nearly 100 yards wide.

Naturally, compressing all that water through the notch at Huff’s Corner narrows it some, which increases both depth and velocity, ensuring a heavy scour.

As each new season requires me to retrace my steps to assess all the scour-induced topography changes, I had mixed emotions about the new tree trunk in my favorite hole – whose corresponding root ball now dominates the shallows above. Most of these woody “gifts” claim many dozens of my finely crafted flies, typically when I’m down to the last of whatever is working that day.

I’d feel better if I could claim those flies during the dry spells, but that rarely happens. Each winter sends the log into the brush above the creek and away from view, or launches the beast into the Sacramento, along with all the lawnmowers and decayed shopping carts.