In a typical shad season I’ll plow through 10 feet of bead chain easy. Handing out handfuls of whatever works combined with those buried into the bottom consumes plenty. It’s the weighting standard for most shad flies because it flips the hook over giving a shot at the upper jaw, traditional hook-ups tear through the sides - which is why so many fish are lost.

Years ago I had the foresight to score about 10 lbs of the silver and gold 3.2mm style, I was tying commercially and winter would bring steelhead orders, summer it’d be shad - and I was burning through a fair amount each year.

This season I’d seen little packs of anodized aluminum beadchain in two or three colors - and the lamp section of Home Depot had a couple pull chains in a nice glossy black - so I figured somebody was making this in quantity.

They are - the assortment is broader than what we’ve seen in fly shops. Many styles are available; brass, stainless steel, bronze, and aluminum - and those can be broken down into additional finishes like black nickel, polished brass, and all the colors of the rainbow.

Fly shops sell the basic chain for $0.10 per inch, and most of the online chain vendors are half that, metal is heavy and large quantities will drive up the postage, but the resulting selection is worth it.

Tungsten and brass beads are expensive - and I’ve often wished I could find the cheaper bead chain in colors suitable for trout flies - as the physics of a weighted nymph suggest if the hook rode up - we’d be losing less of them. With bead chain so much cheaper than tungsten or brass there might be some small economic reward as well.

Enough of a motive to get me to dig through the Internet looking for them…

Regular Silver and Gold are available at Home Depot and Lowe’s - what I needed was the “freak” stuff - the beads we don’t know exist, and would kill for should they ever surface …

I’m just starting to work through the respective vendor offerings - but I saw the above spool and about spewed lunch through my nose. Infinite combinations and colors and all of them yelling “Eat me.”

I’m interested in both brass and aluminum; brass for obvious reasons it’s heavy as can be and cheaper than beads, aluminum because it’s not - and I can envision many uses for both. Shad and steelhead will remain brass, but I can envision stonefly nymphs and lake flies, damsels and dragonflies, where I don’t need the massive sink rate yet could still use weight and the “eye” affect.

Here’s the Olive Mutt that worked so well on the Upper Sacramento last weekend, adapted to the Black beadchain. The fly will ride as shown so it’s tied “upside down” in the vise….

… fish don’t really care which side the wingcase is on - but we sure as hell do - hence the attention to detail.

Tied on a #8 3X long shank, it’ll make a wonderful dragon fly nymph at the same time - in fact, if asked what you’re catching all them fish on I’d call it a dragonfly nymph, it’d scare hell out of all them fellows playing Mayfly-Stonefly-Caddis, and you’re guaranteed they won’t have anything close as they left those in their “lake” box.

… besides, when they see the color and tinsel they’ll think you’re an idjit - everyone knows stoneflies is either brown, black, or golden …

…except us.

These are 25 foot spools of 3.2mm (#6) Brass beadchain - sold by the folks at BallChain.com - available in 19 colors if you include the silver and gold. You may be interested in Mystic Red and Antique finishes they have as well.

Called “Cool Spools” - they show the connector colors but only have violet, rainbow (shown above), black, and dark blue to purchase online. It’s a rather poor web presence - but I called and they mentioned the other colors were available - but not all were in stock.

I’m itching to try the Rainbow for shad - I’m sure the orange would work really well also. I’ll keep looking for a better deal - and the aluminum is already enroute from a different source, we’ll feature that when it arrives. Note the hollow tubes available in similar colors - just right for tube flies; either insert a nylon sleeve or make sure you deburr both ends.

The credential is slowly winkling it’s way into our sport, and I have mixed emotions about the legitimacy that implies..

It was the same when I worked for a large brokerage house (now deceased); I asked the traders what it took to be a stock broker and was surprised how little training was required, “Basically, we offer positions at $1100 per month (1990), and after they take their Series Seven exam they’re brokers - so we turn them loose on their friends and family, and if they ever ask for their salary - we fire them.”

… OK, maybe I’m less surprised after the last six months …

If my kid ever darkened the doorway and announced proudly how he’d chosen to spend the next five years studying angling - he’d taste the boot heel, and as the door slammed behind him he’d hear the tail end of, “Good, start with the Fillet O’ Fish…”

Five years of womanizing and beer drinking I’m expected to pay for - but angling? Screw that …

We’ve got certified casters, certified instructors, and the Certifiable, can we assume there’ll be a “certified angler” shortly?

I’d bet on it.

Vendors have been “endorsing” all manner of anglers for decades, it’s the best way to cement brand loyalty and outfit a new angler from head to toe. A couple days on the lawn and a pancake breakfast on the Battenkill, with little pewter pins tacked on starched olive vests to mark coming-of-age.

That’s neither extreme nor hardcore, so the process will be amended to include rigor, that way we can have gradations of certification akin to military awards - with Oak Leaves, 1st Class, and with Cluster.

… then again it could be Boy Scout badges, where you can drape your accomplishments over your gut, and watch the riffle clear of riffraff at your approach.

The current flavor emphasizes the Big Three; casting, knots, and entomology (flies). Certified “fly fishing schools” all list some variant of the above like an intro to fly tying - or some similar difference. That’s way short of the mark. Angling certification should make you sweat akin to your driver’s test - where you hoped that little squinch-eyed fellow doesn’t ask you to parallel park.

A couple of weeks on etiquette is sorely needed; it’s bad enough the SOB can’t cast - but he’s put down all my fish too..

Toss in a couple of heartstoppers like, “identify which feather is called ‘Greenwell’ ” - have them demonstrate a Bimini Twist, and for graduation we could have them barehand a Ling Cod, replete with those icicle teeth …and we’d be getting somewhere.

Lastly, issue them an identity card with a unique serial number so you could build a database like the Sexual Predators system. Internet based so when you sidled up to your next prospective mate she could find your shortcomings via her cell phone.

… besides, that pick up line was truly awful, now she suspects …

Yep, he’s a certified angler.

I like trout better.

Big trees, cold water, and a ready shade tree with rock to perch under - so I can dangle them big, tired Lumberjack feet in cold water …

I’ll be back to my senses shortly. I’ll remember the sphincter-puckering roar of that 100 car freight that surprised me on the outside turn, the cannot-assume-anything trek up the Upper Sacramento’s leafy bank - where the first step is four inches and the next step is four feet.

I’ll remember them bad burgers and wilted green thing accented with a spear point of grayish-red tomato; defying description even with the advanced color palette of a fly tyer…

But the present is a 112 degree blast furnace of Central Valley, where the shade trees have been plowed under - the fish simmer in warm water nursing hateful grudges and bad temper, and the angler starts perspiring while unlocking the truck.

I bounced all over the Upper Sacramento this weekend - submitting my portly frame to all manner of abuse pursuing the hidden, passed over, and seldom fished…

Mostly I found out the “why” them labels were attached, rather than ferreting out massive fish overlooked by the throng. Lots of anglers, lots of bugs to please anglers - and the fishing both enjoyable and arduous.

There’s no question the fish are keying on the large bug - both dry and nymphal forms. Those multi-colored beadheaded “Mutt” stonefly nymphs knocked the fish for a tizzy - and I spent a goodly portion of the weekend fishing all the colors, and Olive proved the biggest hit … the Purple a distant second.

Naturally I’d prefer to chalk it up to intense entomological research coupled with amazing foresight, but the yarn colors dictated all those oddball patterns - I was merely crazy enough to fish them.

Fishing is dominated by the unorthodox - a lesson drilled home after chasing year’s of uncooperative slimy - it’s the lack of boundaries fish display when hungry, despite the countless reams of angling text arguing the contrary.

The fish were small and plentiful, mornings spent wading up the center throwing weight at every good looking rock, evenings spent flinging even bigger dry flies - with the occasional #14 Yellow Humpy chaser. Egg laying Golden Stones were much in evidence and once keyed to the color the fish ate yellow whether it was large or small.

So did I - and despite the proprietor’s claim, that salad was past its prime …

One quick trip to the “Bachelor Store” (Chevron MiniMart) addressed the culinary hardship - and I dined on flat rocks in the river - tearing dried animal flesh and rinsing the result with trail mix and warm water.

The angling pressure is significant, and only the early riser gets to dictate his fishing grounds, as the throng starts arriving after breakfast.

I don’t get to fish with the Brotherhood too often - and as the tackle intensive, large-arbor crowd showed late in the morning, I’d perch on a rock with my “rat meat” and watch them move through the runs I’d completed.

That part of fishing will never change.

While the Chicken Fried Steak sure looks good on the menu, the time lost ensures you’re second through the prime water, and the digestive stupor guarantees you’ll miss the first half dozen fish …

… leaving us portly predacious types in the Jungle eating rat meat, and growing stronger.. (when we ain’t wilting from the heat.)

It was the same eerie death rattle I’d heard earlier from Wally, who was keenly aware of the piles of rods, waders, and tackle, being transferred from porch to vehicle, and once freed found two cars in the driveway with doors open - and he’d made a dash for the Old Familiar.

Tail thudding a steady beat, big pink tongue lolling at half mast, he’s regarding me from the back of the Chandler automobile, “I’m going to Sizz-ler, we going fish-ing, I’m going…” wet tongue pauses in mid pant, huh, Tennis?

A big Charlie Brown wail of anguish as Miss Nancy disappears in a cloud of dust, Sausage Dog trying to claw his way out the rear window …

Now I’m replaying the same scene, my navigator’s fingernails clawing desperately at the passenger armrest - as civilization and pavement becomes a memory, “No, you Caustic Ignoramus - I meant hard left!” - triggering yet another four point broadslide in loose aggregate, tires snarling for purchase as we careen through the woods.

“Jesus Tom, a little lead time on them directions would be appreciated, something akin to ‘at the next bloated deer carcass, make a left.’ ”

“Hush, I’m confusing your innate sense of direction, Break Right, RIGHT I said!”

Rocks and tree limbs bounce off the undercarriage, and we’re plowing sideways through another stand of small pines, 140 degrees into the full 360, when the tires find narrow purchase on the tent of unwary campers; kids and adults scatter screaming, and we’re through their dining area and clawing onto the road pulling a festive streamer of laundry and barking dogs…

“There, right there - go down that!”

I make out a dim track between tall pines and cut the lights, and as we jostle down the rocky path TC is scanning for enraged pursuers. “OK,” he says, “now the tricky part - I’m going to have to blindfold you.”

Before I can protest, my vision is obscured by an empty gallon sized “Baja Picante” Doritos bag thrust over my head, and I can’t help sneezing uncontrollably as each dip and bulge in the road shakes additional dust from bottom seam - all the while listening intently to “left, gas, right, brake, hard left,” from the passenger seat.

“We’re there, can you see the river?”

“Nope, TC - can I remove the fuggin bag now?”

“In a sec (I can hear the whine of the camera autofocus, click-whirr, click-whirr), OK - now you can.”

I’m clawing at the door, eyes watering from the combined Picante and pepper,  trying to blow the last of the potato chips out of my nose - and there’s a sudden steely grip on my arm. “Wait, I should warn you - there’s mosquitos.”

I crack the door anyway and we’re instantly inhaling waves of blood seeking flying suction. Two grown men making schoolgirl noises intent on securing whichever bag contains the worst chemicals. Out of my vest comes the last of the vintage Muskol, 100% DEET - guaranteed to cause birth defects, melt fly lines, and kill everything - including the wearer.

TC is doing homage to Michael Jackson away from the vehicle, attempting to shoot some inferior aerosol product on all the pertinent limbs, both his and the neighboring pines, and managing a reasonable falsetto while doing so.

I dived into the safety of my sweltering cocoon of neoprene to reduce exposure, then combed a generous double handful through my hair - and the pair of us re-emerge looking like slickened stock brokers, but we’re no longer a food group.

The mosquitos are at a safe distance, but undeterred; they know what we know - it’s early yet and with the heat of midday, coupled with a vast expanse of flank steak, that impenetrable barrier of protection will weaken with each droplet of perspiration…

I’m preparing the next edgy retort - when I’m robbed of speech; despite the dented truck smoldering nearby, and after donating a couple of pints of Hemoglobin, I’m surrounded by the Mother of All Pristine.

An alpine torrent surrounded by lush vascular growth, framed by fallen trees and deadheads. It’s a rare moment for any fisherman, and happens a half dozen times in our travels, the solitude and majesty of your surroundings is first in the retelling, and fishing may serve only as punctuation to the story.

“Watch out for the Cow Flop, it’s fresh …”

My revery is punctured grapically, yet I’m wondering about the role reversal; I’m the hardened callous urbanite - what wades in a chemical cesspool, and Mr. Bamboo Nestle-Anti-Christ is swilling Wasabi Peas, painting the forest with noxious chemicals, and ignoring the barbed wire …

“Catch the first fish, fling something over by that log there..”

I yank out some line and prepare to cast when I see the look of consternation on my host, “… the downstream dry fly - Oh well, if you must…” TC’s fumbling with the blue kerchief knotted around his neck as a mosquito barrier, and I can just make out its transformation to nimbly tied cravat - which makes me feel the better, as I’m much more comfortable as a callous heathen than consummate champion of the Wild.

The fishing was extra-ordinary - and we developed a modified variant of the “Cover two” - where one fellow leapfrogs the other while offering biting commentary, stomping the bank near his pal’s feeding fish, or hurls a soggy cigar butt into the midst of the prime lie …

… and absolutely none of it mattered.

The fish ate dry flies all day, and with the dense timber every pool was a blend of shade and direct sunlight, offering both bugs and fish someplace to hatch or eat from morning till dark.

Beautiful little brown trout that ate without restraint and whose coloration was dictated by hiding place; dark fish under the log jams, light fish in the riffles, and golden bellied to match the instream mix of volcanic rock and downed timber.

Ample shade offered a lot of egg laying stoneflies; golden’s interspersed with the smaller olive, and the occasional giant stone. Mosquito’s outnumbered everything but the repeated stop to re-dip the upper torso kept everything but the pesky bluebottles at arm’s length.

TC offered up some dried “kibble” bar for lunch, so I had to break out the chemical mainstays; trail mix with M&M’s, accompanied by a piquant fistful of Chevron station Teriyaki beef jerky.

I’m not sure that he wasn’t asking the same question, “did I put this in the pocket for the Sausage Dog, or is this human food?”

“Tom, you ever consider flaking this greenish-Wally kibble up and selling it by the kilo?”

It actually tasted pretty good - but after six hours of humping logs, concrete would’ve had its moments too…

Two tired and appreciative old guys embarrassed by the bounty of riches, buttressing our obscene resolve to catch even more fish, hoping that last swig was off the hydration pack and not the Muskol bottle…

“OK, on the way out we make a mad dash for the truck, toss your gear in the back at the run, then drive up the ridge in your waders until it’s safe, then we can stow everything.”

“Do I have to wear the Doritos sack again? Might slow us considerably.”

“Nice one, Smartass - just remember not to remember anything.”

Role reversal followed by living Catch-22 - and I’m giggling wondering whether Yossarian or Major Major is my co-pilot.

I mash gas and it’s  academic, we’re both careening about the cab in a dash for freedom.

Grab a rod for its length versus label, a reel for storage, a handful of simulated insects which have no latin counterpart, and go someplace singular - populated with scrappy fish whose idea of selectivity is hiding under a log. It’s exactly what lured us to the sport in our youth - one really superb day, forging a lifelong pursuit of another just like it.

My thanks to my host for sharing something truly spectacular.

(No, I can’t find it again, but as the directions to the party you were supposed to go to were on my dash - suggesting you were relieved of that responsibility, you owe bigtime …)

All I know is I’m missing a double fistful of dry flies …

I made it back from the woods with all my tungsten intact, but the dry fly box had some conspicuous holes in it - with the only clue being directions to a party I’d never heard of … and scrawled in crayon across the fly leaf was the single word, “thanks.”

(I think TC meant to link to the trip narration, above.)

Tom Chandler of the Trout Underground has been rather tight lipped of late so I knew something was in the works…

Espionage being crucial to us dirty water anglers - and with an embossed invite to fish the Upper Sacramento as a token gesture his guest, provided I bought all new wading attire and tackle, I figured to scoop the rest of the angling press by sneaking into his workshop the night before - to see what he’s working on ..

Wally isn’t a threat unless you run out of Slim Jim’s …

While innovative, I could see nothing “revolutionary” in its design or utility - nor could I find any bamboo present, although it was locked and I couldn’t make out the faux wood in the center console …

I’m not sure whether it’s the “Slaw Dodge” or “Slawdog” - the badging was still incomplete.

It’s a helluva gamble given the state of the economy, but with GM gone it appears the path to World Domination may go through Mount Shasta.

By this evening I’ll be waist deep in icy unclean water. It won’t have been that way before I arrived, but after I dip them big feet into all that fast moving pristine, it’ll make metam-sodium seem tame in the comparison.

The first of my “national average” 6 trips to the unspoilt - which will be unable to contain the greasy brown slick that comes off my outerwear, and will render all them nose-inna-air rarified fish into easy prey…

…or so I think.

I’ll be traveling incognito; Deerstalker set at a rakish angle, Meerschaum pipe with its well seasoned rosy-purplish tint, decked in Harris Tweed, and monocle clenched under the shade of manicured brow - offset with a hint of gayly colored ribbon affixing it to my starched uppers.

I’ll commiserate with the parking lot attendant - clucking my tongue in dismay at the appearance of discarded water bottles, empty beef jerky wrappers, and the really insidious invasives - capable of taking your legs out from under you at the run, leaving only the bloody fingernail marks disappearing into newly-murky water.

The Petrochemical Willard, with an entourage of polysyllabic pandemics in every vest pocket, defiler of the Untouched, and beloved of Sausage Dogs.

We’ve played this game before; I try to wrench you into the 21st Century, and you’re content with the pasttime your poppa taught you.  Still leery of professional fly fishing as a sport, televised or otherwise, and scowling while I insist competition would liven the small screen, and using NASCAR rules would make an interesting twist…

Spying an article on collegiate angling set my too-vivid imagination in motion. Rather than a gaggle of anglers, camp followers, and their entourage in an exotic venue, with apres-hatch masseuses, cold drinks, and sponsor’s hovering about, why not start the competition with a cavity search in the parking lot of the fly shop?

… then hand each fellow $1000 dollars for his entire ensemble; leaders, rod, flies, waders, boots, vest, floatant, absolutely everything - and only then turn them loose on the stream.

Like football we could show the ambulance crew close in on the guy that invested his cash in flies, and opting to wade wet - froze his equipment and succumbed to hypothermia.

… and there’s the agony of the top seed forgetting to buy a reel. We’ll have popcorn coming out our nose as he stuffs line in pocket, oblivious to zippers and dangling vest essentials, breaking off fish after fish - while we giggle over the *bleep* intensity of frequent outbursts.

There’d be the petulant fellow unwilling to part with a single Royal Trude - staring menacingly at the register total, insisting that in his state sales tax was 2% less - and he should get a waiver…

…  and the fellow that drank far too much at the Scientific Angler’s party,  and missed out on the #16 Adam’s ..

Most sports aren’t about identifying heroes any more; the cameras insist on tirades, tantrums, and villainy - we can moan from the sanctity of our couch when this week’s “Snidely Whiplash” makes it through another episode, after spiking his pal’s waders when the judges were distracted.

Then as each fellow is eliminated the remaining anglers could descend on him like a pack of wolves and tear his gear from lifeless fingers. All them young eyeballs glued to the screen learning valuable hunter-gatherer techniques to bully the bus and dominate their playground.

Oprah couldn’t resist that much testosterone, and we could fete them in all the daytime gossip venues.

Fly fishing has more than it’s fair share of opinionated insensitive types that could light up the small screen with pouts, scowls, and blame-storming. As everyone hates everyone else - a little blood or a couple of spilled drinks, a fist fight or gunfire, and we’d be rivaling the Ultimate Fight Network for Thursday night Primetime.

I figured I was uniquely qualified - knowing the stiff and austere demeanor of the Trout Underground, if either of us was capable of “hanging ten” it would be us native Californian’s, bro…

I routinely hang about 36, but that’s over my belt …

Like the Picante sauce, I’m not so sure dry fly purist’s aren’t always from out-of-state, fleeing to the coast to out themselves from whatever depraved closet their skeletons are hid.

I sure don’t fit the tawny, golden stereotype; don’t go near the surf without a sand spike and a couple pounds of anchovies, Speedo’s would cut off all blood to my entire body (and drain the blood of onlookers), so that’s out of the question - but if you wanted a treatise on surfboard wax, I’m learning more than I care to - and more product is enroute.

I’m still adjusting to their technical lingo, but as far as I can tell they’re the only fellows doing to wax what we’re doing to carbon fiber, and with the advent of numerous synthetic waxes - free of paraffin - this is where we’ll find the next really clever replacement to the toilet ring.

… and there’s much less tendency for strangers to recoil from a pasty brownish lump if reassured it belongs on a surfboard, versus a lavatory.

Tropical, Cold, and Lukewarm, describe the melt point of the material so it doesn’t slough off once applied. It also describes whether it’ll be stiff or soft at room temperature and how it’ll wear with you running threads and other materials over its surface.

I’m trying all three temperatures just to see what the differences are to the touch - and despite the claims of “super tacky” or “stickiest” there’s considerable differences in each compound.

Wax has fallen from grace over the last 20 years, and those that learned during those years don’t use it - despite the continued use of materials we tamed with wax many decades ago. I’d attribute that to the fly tying thread industry - whose unyielding-decidedly-unsticky version used on pre-waxed thread turned off an entire generation of tiers to its benefits.

Now that I can get a synthetic wax - yet still choose between coconut, mango, bubblegum, or anchovy scents, I’ll be the bane of sausage dogs the north woods.

I use wax on many materials unrelated to thread, it’s water repelling characteristics are especially useful for those thin, tight dry fly bodies, and can counteract the absorbent fur nemesis to some degree.

Considering 70 grams of wax is a decade, 99¢ worth is a prudent investment, half the price of a toilet gasket and in line with the New Frugality, and as the advert mentions, it’s globally right on, Bra ..

… and yes, TC - you can test the Sex Wax …

Pop always told me to “never turn your back on the Ocean.” It’s that mantra that all outdoor’s types learn over time, keep attuned to your surroundings as you never know what lies on the trail ahead.

I was reminded of that yesterday, I’m coasting into the parking area and greeted by the remnants of some audiophile’s  window - some fellow with a taste for fish and music, who met up with other fellows with a taste for his CD player.

Not much he can do but swear.

The urban interface requires a “fishmobile”; a battered rig with everything visible, no rod tubes in the back seat, a factory sound system lacking embellishment, and nothing but old cigar wrappers and empty soda cans for the crowbar crowd.

They’ll give it the once over and head for your car instead.

While the shady spot looked inviting, parking out in the sun meant all them dog walkers, strollers, and joggers would be able to keep an eye on my rig.

There’s not a soul on the river despite my late start - likely because most were smarter and saw the sudden increase in flow Saturday. I worked my way through the upper area without a grab, and was joined by a fellow using a switch rod.

The fish were there - but it was comeuppance time. They’re swimming between my legs without giving my flies a second glance, and I was thinking of the fellow with the smashed window, and hoping he’d received better …

It was a rare chance to study Shad behavior; big water rarely offers the opportunity to see much detail on depth and movement. The above fish were part of a large school that swam by me repeatedly. The three fish shown are just off the bottom - and it appeared as if the entire school moved around in circles shifting en mass either farther out or closer to my vantage point.

They were close enough to “highstick” - and I tried that with two or three different flies with no luck. I could easily see the gaudy beast swing through them, but nothing gave chase.

I dropped lower to watch the Spey caster, first asking whether he minded me doing so, it might have been the Windowless Angler and there’d be no telling his mood if I tromped up close and squatted on his turf. Sitting on the bank behind him allowed me to see what he did that I wasn’t doing, and I’ve got a better understanding of how to manhandle the Double Spey and Snap T casts.

Resigned to another fishless fishing trip, I headed back to my rig.

“Never turn your back on the Ocean” - and I spot a glimmer of movement in the grass ahead of me on the trail …

I wave off the approaching dog walker and stopped to snap a picture - of the biggest, best-fed rattlesnake I’ve encountered in the brush, about four feet long and armed with six or seven rattles. With the parking lot as close as it was my guess is the trash cans were prime “riffles” for local rodents, and “Meathead” sure looked like he’d eaten large last night.

It boiled down to mutual respect, I moved him along with the rod tip off the trail and out of harm’s way, all the while thanking my stars for being attuned to my surroundings.

I caught up with the two elderly ladies and their dogs and mentioned my find, to their combined gasp, “Oh my lord, rattlesnakes? Here?” - the poodles shot me an ugly glance as they didn’t care for being carried home …