It’s the other number I’m afraid to compute – the number of miles hiked versus pounds of fish caught, only this metric doesn’t require you to blush and stare at the ground when asked.

Between Saturday and Sunday I added another 10 miles to the boots, which are starting to look mighty worn. Every other usage winds up with one leg or the other full of water – it’s like a car that’s starting to show the cumulative wear and tear.

Saturday I fished with Singlebarbed reader, Scott V – who braved the Little Stinking bare-arsed without ill effect. The small fish remain aggressive and the larger fish are without the urge to cooperate, something we’ve all seen before.

Sunday I moved higher on the river and fiddled with a spey line and third phase trials of the crayfish fly. Olive is the go-to color, but I tied additional in brown, flamingo, black, purple, and orange – I’m still waiting for the shipment of Cardinal (red/black) to arrive.

Based on the below, “cardinal” may well prove to be as popular as the olive, it’s the other color combination I’ve seen in abundance in the native crayfish, bright red and black. This fellow was about 6 inches long, so I may increase the fly accordingly.

I managed a half dozen nice fish on the brown fly Sunday, and got some half-hearted grabs on all the other colors, there’s no question the fish are suddenly aloof – content to watch the fly pass, rather than chase.

Pikeminnow continue to inhale the pattern with great relish, why they take it so much deeper than the bass is still a mystery. The brute below inhaled the entire fly, with only one leg visible in his gob.

The river continues to deepen – adding about 4 more inches since the week prior, and all the surrounding irrigation ditches were dry. Quail hunters are out in force – most are the older wiser types with dogs, I don’t mind sharing – but “the Young Guns” that roar up, dismount, and blow hell out of everything have to be watched carefully. Adrenaline is a heady drug, and most are uncaring about where their shot pattern is headed.

There’s little finer than watching a talented dog work a drainage, and I stopped to chat with a couple of old timers as I was leaving. They wanted to know how I’d done, and I was interested in their morning – so I jawboned while sneaking both dogs chunks of “hooter” bar.

I asked the fellow seated under the sign, “that sign says one meal a month for fish, so how’s them Quail taste?”

His buddy immediately chimes in, “yea, Bob – they’re all drinking the same crap, how do they taste?”

Apparently I’d uncovered a hunter’s metric, one where he blushes profusely and stares earthward, not sure which one it was though – it could be that he was quietly tossing Nature’s Bounty – hoping his buddy didn’t know.