I felt I was obligated to find all those fingerling salmon, steelhead, and striped bass we’d siphoned out of the Lower Sacramento, but all I got was another steely glare and the commandment to drop trousers and cough …

… which I complied with in all haste, knowing that were I to be outted as a whiny Norteno, they might nudge me over the fence as target practice for drug lords.

Despite whizzing over numerous concrete structures claiming they were bridges, there was no water visible. Only a bit of light green in the midst of darker green to mark what the sign claimed was a watershed.

The sudden glimpse of the Bridge over San Luis Rey sent me into a fervor, given how adamant Poppa was that I read the book. The sign appeared unbidden as I cruised over the Southern California waterway of the same name.

Many years had passed since I cracked Thorton Wilder’s small tome, and confused what I was speeding over for a contemporary replacement of the failed original. The sign, shallow wash, and thicket of greasewood were gone in an instant, and I spun around to memorize detail before realizing the fast food and gleaming mall had no relation to the real story, which took place in Peru.

“It’s when you’re safe at home that you wish you were having an adventure. When you’re having an adventure you wish you were safe at home.”
? Thornton Wilder

I understood why they take our water, they’ve got none of their own. I might hold my nose while drinking all the agricultural chemicals that’ve seeped into my water supply, and can only imagine what flavors and colors are added to the pumped version after its been drank and excreted through countless smaller burgs as it trickles its way into Mexico.

I stuck with Diet Coke and the occasional Iced Tea, never attempting the raw liquid from the tap.

Work related to be sure, but in the company of non-fishermen I walked soft – hoping to avoid confrontation. “What’s in that lake?” I pointed while attempting small talk …

“Water.”

(Note to self, ignore their obvious boorishness – being non-fishermen is proof they were abused children.)

The flight home was most welcome – and in keeping with the media references I was treated to a bit of Samuel L. Jackson, “… WHO put the Motherf**king Penguins on the Motherf**king plane?”

SeaWorld to be exact … and as the Emperor Penguins ran up and down the aisles of the aircraft, I wondered whether all the smiling people in blue shirts and khakis would remain smiling after I wrenched a big handful of hackle off of NumNum …

“Animal Ambassadors” I was told – and like summoning memories of the text,  I scrambled to think whether they squawked or screamed, and whether that could be heard over a pair of Pratt & Whitney turbofans at 41,000 feet  …

I’d heard they were smart, noticing how they kept alert to my every move as their trainer nudged them past my seat. I’d pulled the emergency can of sardines out of my carryon earlier to avoid TSA’s Good Squad, a detail I’d now regret.

Most have participated in

… which always takes you aback, given that you didn’t expect your recital of heroics would appeal to the metrosexuals listening, and what was an idle conversation has now become a huge liability. Largely due to your story that picked the venue and set the itinerary, and the balance being all the hot air you laid on so thickly when you guaranteed everyone enormous and hungry fish …

Worse is Poppa’s sage warning echoing in your ears,  “… one guy is a fishing trip, two guys is half, and three is no fishing trip at all …” – and instinctively for the workplace crowd that goes double.

A short time later you’re engaged in a work related issue when a questionnaire lands in your Inbox …

On a scale of 1 to 7 with 7 being the highest, you need to rate the following requirements for a 3 night fishing trip:

1. Catching an adequate number of fish which I peg at 6 or 7 per day –

Response

fish·ing

1. the act of catching fish.

2. the technique, occupation, or diversion of catching fish.

3. a place or facility for catching fish.

I would have to bow to the dictionary and make this a Seven. If we equate what you do in sexual terms, we’d have to describe it as, “traveling great distances to escape responsibilities and family, to play with ourselves and get muddy.”

“Fishing” as defined by the rest of us, is the heroic deeds associated with dominating a watershed, extincting anything tasty or large, and giving the balance a sore ass.

       2. Opportunity to catch a trophy trout ( 17 – 20 inches) –

I would have to give this a Seven. If I wanted something other than the largest fish equipped with the biggest teeth, I’d go to a pet store and torture goldfish.

1. Scenery (Lake Manzanita and Yosemite are nice places with Gunfire Lake not offering much scenic beauty)

Again with the Seven. I want a stunning postcard-worthy vista, so I can scorch most of it with a campfire, and tear the rest out freeing my flies from tree limbs.

1. Number of &%#%(  people fishing in my personnel space. –

ONE. I don’t feel obligated to share anything with the Human Race, despite their attempts to share empty beer cans, water bottles, used diapers, and discarded condoms, with me. None of those make a campsite homey, nor add to the woodsy ambience I seek.

5.      Available showers –

ONE. Only pussies and rich boys shower. In fact, you can’t appreciate the woods without smelling like armpit and wood smoke.

6.      Clean bathrooms –

ONE. Do Bears S*it in the woods? If so, you should be thrilled at the sight of a discarded Doritos bag and a handful of Poison Oak. Only Pussies s*it in toilets. Toilets were invented so that dumb SOB’s wouldn’t get any on their feet, are you a dumb SOB?

7.      Fees to access private lakes –

ONE. If I wanted to pay fees I would shop Safeway. You are not a PREDATOR is someone s*its fish into the mud, so you can snag them. That type of fishing is for guys that need showers and flush toilets, not us lean and hard Outdoorsmen …

8.      Float Tube opportunities –

ONE. Float tubes are for Pussies. If God wanted you to float about a beautiful lake while finning comfortably from a sofa, he would have made you a discarded water bottle.

9.      Driving Distance In time from Woodland / Davis….3 hours is reasonable with 6 hours out of the question –

ONE. Distance from Woodland or Davis is not the issue, distance from the closest beer is what matters..

10.     Dry fly-fishing options –

ONE. Dry Fly Fishing is merely an excuse for you to borrow flies from me and never pay me back …

11.     Rock hopping small creeks –

Seven. If you outfish me – I can chase you upstream and throw rocks at you..

12.     Lodging facilities (camping or hotel) –

ONE and SEVEN. Occasionally I like to s*it too.

13.     Meals…I don’t enjoy eating beef jerky for lunch and dinner –

ONE. What we’ve eaten in the past isn’t a meal so much as a room temperature abomination. Meals (in the woods) come from “greasy spoons” on cracked plates carried by gum chewing high school girls adorned with a poorly disguised scowl reserved for Old Dudes or their Dad.

14.     New destinations –

SEVEN. You outfished me at all them other places, let’s go somewhere I can catch something..

15.     Native fish and not recently planted by the D&FG truck –

ONE. Remember the excuse we rehearsed on our return? How “…it don’t’ matter we got skunked, just getting out is what’s important …”

(Hopefully that hygiene thing will scare ‘em ..)

“Forbidden” only because I’m tired of reporting how few are left, what’s in them that we (you and I) shouldn’t eat, and all the other reminders that we, (you and I), and those before us have kilt everything, ate what was tasty, and continue to piss on the rest …

It’s a lot like our system of politics, a truly great idea whose originators never envisioned being entrusted to the current crop of morons.

Instead of dwelling on “downer” issues that are classified forbidden, rather I’ll adopt the unpopular tone and make a “double negative” into something uplifting, something that adds a little verve to your stride, or makes the day seem less onerous …

… like an IGFA World Record Snakehead recently landed in Florida …

-via the Florida Sportsmen.com

On the one hand it’s an invasive and we don’t want it much, on the other, the sumbitch has big teeth, can warm a disc drag nicely, and after eating all the remaining pussy-native fish, will give us something to fish for once the sign says, “Don’t Eat Nothing From Here, Ever!”

You figure that we’ve not learned a damn thing despite all these gloomy stories, and therefore may be time to embrace some of these truly hardy interlopers as providing a much needed infusion of “extra-fit predacious DNA” into what little is left us by all them feminine hormones.

Opening Day has always had overtones of machismo, given our frantic preparations, the rush to clear the city limits, the dash for the creek while you shed clothes and any semblance of morals or decency, and then after a weekend of scrambling through blackberries and gas station coffee, and victimized by hard ground or a harder motel bed, you drag yourself to work – hoping nobody notices you’re wearing the shirt you wore Thursday.

… and only Monday afternoon do you realize your wallet is much lighter, something grew soft in the off season that now really hurts, and you’re proudly passing off your sunburn as a tan.

I know, me and my pals heard you on the bridge above us, Friday afternoon. We scuttled about using hand signals and shadows like Seal Team Six, knowing our only concern was avoiding the empty “Vente” Starbucks you’d flung from the car as you whizzed oblivious towards the Pristine.

Which suited us just fine, so long as you kept that big foot on the gas and our thin chocolate rivulet in your rear view mirror, we had our hands full of voracious and hungry fish.

Above, my beloved Pikeminnow prove that motor oil colored glass beads are brown water catnip, and how a five minute introduction to fly casting is all that’s needed to bring a watershed to its knees.

We likened it to a modern-day expedition; how we’d leave one car many miles distant and after loading up on jerky, water, sunflower seeds, and breakfast bars, fish our way to the distant vehicle hoping we could make the trek before our supplies ran out.

As it was we started at 0700 and arrived muddy, sore, and satiated, about 3PM.

… and by some odd stroke of luck they decided to cork the outflow from the dam which caused the river to drop nearly a foot and a half.

It proved just enough of a water-warming prod to turn the reclusive and shy into aggressive and willing to chase.

Which will only last about seven minutes longer given the volume of tomato seedlings being pressed into the pastures above. They’ll have to turn the faucet back on to handle all the water siphoned off for irrigation.

As in year’s past I stayed clear of the heroics, opting to spend the Opener visiting Ma on her birthday. Mostly I was hoping for a little sympathy, but Ma was smarter than that.

While I no longer grace her table with my big feet, you can never have enough favors or good feeling banked with the womenfolk.

All the heroic deeds and feats of arms being performed on planted fish in them dark woods, and us Old Guys and 4F’s forced to entertain all the gals you fellows abandoned in the Big City …

As I grow older I find

For us fly fishermen the lure of the Dark Side seems more appropriate given how close the downward spiral that is fly fishing, mirrors that of intravenous drug addiction.

The eventual homelessness resulting from too much fishing differs from other forms of dissipation only because the fishermen can boast of better dental hygiene, his dilution of conscious mind and productive spirit being quicker than a frontal lobe dipped in opiates.

Both share the same dingy blanket, the same zip code, the same fortress of cardboard ensconced in some darkened alley, only in the depths of their depravity is real distinction possible; one unfortunate sold his parent’s car because he needed to score drugs,  the other stole his roommate’s Sage because he simply wanted it – and both crossed bridges never taken lightly.

Itemizing decades of self-destructive behavior and the eventual chilly, “stone-pillow” finale to some fresh-faced Jedi hopeful can never aid a Dark Lord in his quest for fly fishing converts. These details are best revealed after taking a fisherman’s measure, ensuring your plebe has the courage and fortitude to finish his training …

When they inquire as to whether conversion to the Righteous Path will hurt much, I omit the sobbing spouse, hungry children, and bounced checks, rather I’ll focus on their resolve in spin, bait, or fly terms, using the same time honored milestones used on me …

Like knowledge of the Outdoors version of the Prime Directive, Do you eat what you catch?

This is an easy question for a true sportsman. A floating softball that can be smacked clear of any fence, or whiffed so badly as to bring a rush of blood to the cheek. There are hundreds of possible answers, yet there is only a single correct one:

The Prime Directive:

If by act or deed I am successful with rod, gun or steel-belted radial, and my quarry lies bleeding and lifeless at my feet, or is hemorrhaging and not long for this mortal coil, I will dispatch it in all haste, and endure the consumption of its flesh … with wrinkled nose, and with as much ketchup as is possible.

While other answers exist, involving lofty ambitions like catch and release, respect and care for an adversary, and serenading with harp music, the ugly truth is that at some point the hook is so large or so deep that we’ve kilt our foe, even if it was an accident.

With special regulations and “no kill” zones, obeying the Prime Directive is made more difficult, but in the recitation of his answer a special gleam enters the eye of the fish-hating-plebe, as he recognizes a crack in an Immutable Law of the Outdoors, and will make haste to exploit it.

Like a World Series of Poker player, a Sith Lord notes these “tells” and is unmoved.

Loopholes are for the 1% to covet at tax time, or for lawyers who make their living unearthing them, not for the sporting fraternity in their element, where only the Prime Directive and an unopened Twinkie truly matter …

If a spin, plug, bait, or fly angler insists, “… the only fish that passes my lips are Gorton’s or Filet O’ Fish ..” – then you know this acolyte unworthy, his training to end in the pyrotechnics of Force-based petulance.

For those that pass the Prime Directive, the last great hurdle is calling the fisherman on his bluff. Does the thought of an opened jar of Powerbait baking in the airless interior of their car sends them careening about in an “ew-Ew-EW” dance?

Each area of the country likely has its own  odiferous, disgusting, or life-threatening  bait, used to distinguish real fishermen from wannabe’s. In my youth, and for the Greater Bay Area saltwater crowd, that would be provoking an angry Pile Worm …

… Pile Worm, able to sever a man’s finger in a single bite, possessed of thousands of cold, slimy feet, capable of strangling unwary beach combers in a many-footed embrace of constriction,  or so we thought.

They were the Miracle Bait, the Super Expensive Bait, only slightly better than their evil cousin the Blood Worm, which sent us young anglers screaming in fear, as unlike the Pile Worm, it had two sets of razors sharp talons …

Any fellow contemplating learning to fly fish shouldn’t break rank at the prospect of steel hooks entering extremities either under power or uninvited. Nor should he wince at the thought of the thousands of slimy feet in his waders should he lose his footing and ship some inboard, or whether ten fingers are better than nine …

… and why all this suddenly matters is my promise to escort a noob into the brown water Friday, and his insistence that a set of borrowed fly tackle is no problem due to the Force being strong within him.

An earlier interview failed him spectacularly on both the Prime Directive and the Pile Worm test.

… so I’m prepared for another episode of blisters, tears, and force based petulance, meaning I should carry a couple six packs of Go Girl and additional Twinkies …

… I just hope this time I don’t have to carry him back to the parking area like the last guy.

“ I know it smells bad, Luke – but you’ll still need to cover your face with it so the fish don’t see you.” – Darth teaches his son to fish …

Ten thousand years from now that mix will be a petroleum product, but right now all you can think is how you’d better move about extra slow, so you’re not preserved with it …

You’d made the call from the safety of the freeway above, how that couple miles of ditch that moved dirty water from the close by rice to the distant tomatoes, would finally reveal its secrets, and in so doing provide a bit of sight fishing for unwary carp, newly exposed as their murky protective blanket had been drained away.

You’d seen monstrous shadows framed in chocolate milk, seen them fade and grow indistinct as fast as they showed, and knew that with so little visibility only the precise cast might result in a grab.

… and against better judgment, you’d waded out hoping the surface area of them monstrous size 12 boots would keep you suspended on top of the queasy, rather than arse deep in it.

All the while, getting that “come hither” action on the far side where big swirls in the chocolate bog attested to large carp feeding, the occasional fin breaking an opaque surface – proof that outside a noisy footfall, they couldn’t see you either …

Too far to roll cast, a wall of tall tules ensuring all casting was confined to the parallel versus perpendicular, and your best efforts landing three feet shy of money.

So I took that slow step forward – given the water I was in was only knee deep, and if the mat beneath held …

… which it didn’t, and I knifed through the bog with the front leg, pitching me forward too fast and putting all that ponderous bulk on them suddenly-tiny feet, and I’m waist deep in mud and wearing hip boots …

I got the cell phone free quick enough to save it, knowing that if I couldn’t extricate myself cleanly, it might prove really important later. Mud being like ice, it’s all about distributing all that great gut onto as broad a platform as is possible, given that struggling only sinks you deeper.

Climbing out of your waders on hands and knees is typically the best course of action, it’s akin to tearing the Band-Aid off the wound rather than teasing the edges, sock feet can find purchase on the interior rubber, and that’s enough to get you on top which is most of the way to dry land and safety.

I managed to flop closer to the bank, which couldn’t have been more than four feet away, and outside of shipping the waders full of mud and water, was able to use the prone rod to get me close enough to grab some foliage.

Outside of wallowing in mud and shipping some strange (completely gross) soapy agricultural chemical into both boots, I’m still breathing. Although both legs itch most fiercely …

What’s needed is bog wading boot that minimizes impacts to Mother Nature, resists the spread of invasives, and allows us pear-shaped practitioners to distribute our weight in such a manner as to be gazelle-like with either shotgun or long rod …

… I figured I would add a bit of caution to your giddiness …

The above was taken yesterday in yet another fishless fishing trip among the sordid little ditches of the Central Valley. The white specs are not cottonwood dander or disturbance on the surface, those are Trico spinners – doing what they know best.

This is not normal for the end of April, this dense a flight bespeaks late May or mid-June.

As I’ve mentioned in other fishless posts of the past few weeks, the overly warm Spring has enabled most of the traditional insects to come off earlier than normal – and was I in a panic-rush for the Sierra, I’d be stopping at the fly shop and grabbing a fistful of bugs better suited to an early summer bite.

Forget the big drakes and salmonfly’s, go heavy on PMD’s and little yellow stones.

Consider it public service brought on by a moment of weakness. I’ll be skipping the Opener knowing hordes of desperate anglers will be crapping behind every bush to lull my Boss into thinking I’m the Perfect Employee. Naturally, I’ll “drop dime” on all absent brother-anglers who call Friday morning sounding like they’re within an inch of Death’s Door.

“Really, a kidney operation? Didn’t he donate both of those to his Grandma last year at this very same time ? … (snicker)…

It’s not that we’re some form of hideous beast, merely we spend our weekends with lost causes. If it’s not the fish then it’s the watershed suffering, and while we’d adore curing cancer we know all the fly fishing traffic in the world would stand around expecting the other fellow to pay. Most blew their check on new graphite, what’s left of that paycheck can’t find each other in the same pants pocket.

Which is why most social niceties are reserved for outside the Intertubes. I get to keep the pages free of orphans, puppies, and lost causes, while donating a sawbuck or some time at work.

Instead, I’ll focus on baked goods, as any charity worth its salt knows it can pry dead presidents easily once a mug of coffee begins to look lonesome on the desk, and the rumor spreads of sugar in the break room, where Lemon Bars sleep at night – and cupcake frosting is fingerprint free.

… what they don’t know is that my preference for the rare, “Antarctic Lemon” is not because of their enhanced flavor, rather its the only plausible explanation on why my Lemon Bars show a faint tinge of Blue Dun.

I was tired and thought the pot on the stove was the Lemon filling.

Today however, I’ll break with dispensing the usual mix of hot air and horse manure to teach you how to pick your next, Best Fishing Buddy.

How you can tell the real McCoy from posers that starch their Sage hoodies, and iron their SIMM’s …

…  corrugator supercilii, one of the three muscles of the eyelid that helps wrinkle the forehead, and depressor anguli oris, a mouth muscle that is associated with frowning. In liars, they detected subtle contractions of the zygomatic major, a facial muscle linked with masking a smile, and full contraction of the frontalis muscle suggestive of a failed attempt to seem sad.

-via Msn.com

Knowing how fly fishermen love immersing themselves in Latin, I figured you’d want the unvarnished version of how to spot the best Liar.

… rather than backpedal insisting you’d never countenance a best pal stretching the truth even slightly, consider that fishing is a mixture of catching and not catching, and the best liar is likely to induce consistency in your take, which will raise you in the eyes of spouse, siblings, and community.

Which, eventually leads to you being able to go more often as you’re “successful” and everyone loves a winner.

With your newfound knowledge of where and how to fish, and how to spot a lying, cheating sumbitch, you can now frequent your favorite fly shop and ask them important questions like; “when is your next Whiting shipment”, and “do you have any Grizzly necks in the back room?”

If you get a tell-tale twitch of any of the three muscles above, take a pair of pliers to the thumb on his casting hand …

When I worked in fly

Then when I started guiding, I was told the same held true for guides. Both groups were grizzled, weather-beaten, and smelled bad … both tied flies and fished as often as the other, both had a quick smile and a firm handshake, yet it was explained our guides practiced the One True Religion – and them other fellows were Pagans and idolaters.

Eventually I ascribed this uneasy state of affairs to the natural discomfort one feels when seeing another angler on a stretch of water you had to yourself. How their sudden appearance brings cities, work, laws, debt, politics, the stock market, and everything else you’d fled Friday afternoon … with them.

Not holding with conventional wisdom, I nodded vigorously when the list of our merits and their shortcomings was recited, then tried to stay clear of any Mason-Dixon line, real or imagined.

Entering the work force I cast aside the angling industry as one of many childish things of my youth, and found that in the company of doctors, lawyers, plumbers, and steamfitters, some small vocational distrust existed, but nothing on the scale the fly fishing industry boasted.

In fact, antisocial types were frowned upon, and I had to unlearn habits developed in the fly industry, like drying my sneakers in the lunch room microwave, or dipping the same chip twice after idly clipping my toenails.

Perplexed, I filed this workplace oddity away as one life’s many unknowns, and was glad that in my new career I wouldn’t have to worry what the carpenter next to me thought of my nail hammering abilities, or whether the hygienist working nearby loathed the way I scraped teeth …

… and with my many weekends I hovered around the sport and its many facets and noted that while things around me had changed, this part of fly fishing hadn’t budged.

… so I’m on the Internet reading about fishing in Europe, and am jarred when some fellow lights into a minor fishing dignitary for the placement of his sunglasses. Either they were of the wrong type, were worn at a too-rakish angle, or someone was a poser – and they’d seen him at some show, and he was rude and …

Enough.

I’ve rethought my earlier idea, and have a different theory. Instead of us versus them, the issue is we secretly resent angling professionals and anyone making a living in the angling arts, knowing that if we chucked all our responsibilities and opted for the fish bum lifestyle, our bum would make their bum look civilized in the comparison.

A “bum” is the only vocation that requires no credential or course of study. A “fish bum” is therefore just a fellow with the courage to dump his job and its mindless toil, jettison the Old Bag and her brood of kids, and drop out of society.

… we’d be a better bum than the guy whose article dominates the fish mag we’re reading, better than the guy clicking through the slide show above us on the podium, and more believable than the nasal fellow who needs a bass boat to make his bum film-worthy.

Which is why we insist we’re alone on the One True Path, knowing the other fellows secretly miss their latte, still covet 401K’s, their toothbrushes, and the approval of society.