Sure I went fishing, but it wasn’t for very long. My fly box is showing the ravages of a lot of fishing, after a couple extended trips, visits by kinfolk, and overly aggressive casting, it’s looking mighty grim.
Everything with weight is gone, and I’m limited to #18 wet or #18 dry, and neither is appealing.
Respectable types – pillars of the community with jobs, wives, and responsibilities, would’ve mowed the lawn or taken out the trash – hoping to fight again another day; instead, I sat the vise within visual range of the NFL – and tied weighty monstrosities whilst watching my beloved 49’er’s get crushed again. It’s fishing with pigskin – optimism abounds until the opening kickoff, then reality asserts itself.
I’m out of black, brown, olive, and gray flies, all the medium sizes and all the fast sinking stuff; what wasn’t left on the bottom of the Upper Sacramento is dangling off a tree branch on the Little Stinking. I’ll retrieve most of them this winter – once the leaves are shed and I can see them plainly.
I tie flies like a kid that can’t stay between the lines with his crayon. I start with noble intentions, knowing the color and size needed usually suggests a pattern, but half the materials require me to get up and find them – so I’ll use whatever is scattered across the work surface from the last thing I tied.
I’d like to think it was economy of motion, but it’s mostly sloth.
I call them “Kinda” flies – it’s Kinda a Gold Ribbed Hare’s Ear, only it has a cigarette butt for a tail.
It’s not “invention” that’s too strong a word to reward laziness, it’s more of a culmination of fishing experience where the right size and color proves worthy, and all the knotted legs and carapaces are for those with too much money or time.
That’s a baker’s dozen of Little Stinking Olives – the box that goes in the other pocket, safe from prying eyes and grabby mitts. That much pure Smallmouth Domination has never graced my vest, and I’m likely to get mobbed as soon as I step into the brown water.
If I ever see you on the water I am going to jump your ass to get me a box of those Stinking Olives, they sure look sweet. Or you can just hook a brother up.
Tied with materials the manufacturer has eliminated – rarer than unsplit Jungle Cock eyes – and you think I’m going to acknowledge any kinfolk?
I was thinking of counting them over and over like Scrooge McDuck …
Now I know how Donald felt, a rich Uncle that isn’t willing to help out those in need. Enjoy counting all your goods, just remember if you are buried with them I will get it them then.
I like those wannabe march browns. soft hackles rule the roost.
I gotta hit the vise, as my boxes has been ravaged as well. Lots of empty slots. Looks like I’ll have plenty of time to tie in the near future….
That’s right Pop, gone is the uninterrupted sleep, the endless opportunity for fishin – replaced by breakfast burped on your chest, and real responsibilities …
It’ll give me a chance to catch up – or at least get some furry foam so’s I can “Darth Clam” something with fins.
Sorry Fellas:
Imma shoot him mid-stream this weekend. He made the mistake of showing the color of the box. Japanese tied Royal Coachman between the eyes…messy but final.
Come on Barb, gives us the low down on the stinking olives?????
The Little Stinking Olive’s represent the complete extinction of warm water fish. I’m testing them on invasive species at the moment …escorted by two guys that don’t smile much and wear ear pieces, sunglasses, and suits with little American flag lapel pins.
One of you sumbitches talked!
hehe, no doubt there are black helicopters overhead too.