Author Archives: KBarton10

Mix Peppermint Schnapps and a case of anything and it’s extreme something

I’m with John Merwin, but having had some experience in this area, I’ll decipher the part that’s giving him trouble…

It’s entitled, “Extreme Rock Fishing” – there’s a rock, some fishing, and it’s got a Metallica riff in the background. The words aren’t supposed to be a sentence – which is why it’s so difficult to understand.

It’s extreme because it has an bootlegged Metallica song – you can’t have elevator music or a light pop tune, it doesn’t make the participants on the fringe of society, isolated … a shining beacon of light in a dismal sea of conformity.

… and when Lars finds out you didn’t pay royalties for his tune, a very conformist brigade of lawyers in his employ will bust a cap in your bottom. Lars likes his music, but likes money better.

There’s a big rock in deep water, accessible only by boat – giving the extreme-carousing fishermen a chance to hide the jug if their spouse comes looking.

Rods and detached reel are bolted to the rock so that when the extreme drinking reaches a fever pitch, nobody kicks someone’s tackle into the depths when reaching for munchies or attempting to pee.

We did this in High School, only we called it “Extreme Muni Pier Fishing.” You take two cases of beer, mix that with a fifth of apricot brandy or Peppermint Schnapps, 3 pounds of raw squid, big hooks, and a boat rod.

When the squid tasted good, it meant you’d had too much to drink.

Of course chumming was illegal, vomiting wasn’t.

… and Mr. Merwin, the rod is there to keep the “million pound test” line off the rocks. Large fish plus tight line touching rock equals severed line and the angler missing a limb when the tension is released.

It appears the fish are cranked in close by the winch, the rod is lifted so they can gaff the beast, then it’s hand over hand from there.

I think “Extreme Lawn Chair Drinking” and the extreme hangover that followed is one of the reasons I gravitated to fly fishing. Certainly, the light line and lack of weight made the battle with fish so much more attractive, but as wisdom overtook youth – the extreme rowboat bass drinking, and extreme sturgeon beer guzzling lost it’s luster.

The first Catch and Release, artificial only, single barbless Brownline fishery – and I’m planting flag

Trophy Roundtail Chub The Ghost of Charles F. Orvis is rattling about in mock anguish and we’re unimpressed. He’s had his heyday and legion of devotees, now it’s time for a little rough and tumble – where last year’s Ford preempts the gleaming Eurotrash roadster, and brown water licks your boots…

I figured it had to be a western state with the foresight and gumption to make the first “Catch and Release, artificial fly and lure-only (single barbless hook) fishery” for Chub, mainly because half of the western states have run out of clean water – and the other half are busy seeding clouds or siphoning under the Rockies while acting innocent.

Yea, you saw that correctly … CHUB.

Little misunderstood, roman nosed trash fish hits the bigtime – and can the four star resort be that far behind?  Singlebarbed applauds the Arizona Game and Fish department – and confers upon them the  distinguished title of Official Patron of the Brown Arts.

It’s a clone of my Little Stinking, featuring the rare and endangered Colorado Pikeminnow, smallmouth bass, and a bevy of brownline beauties sought by nobody and scorned by everyone else.

Hell, I won’t even have to shower, – and the first trout I catch will be thrown up onto the bank to suffocate – along with all the other invasive species.

I’m going to race them lads over at Roughfisher.com and lay claim to this turf – figuring a couple dozen gaudy variations of traditional patterns, invent a couple insect families that don’t exist, and we’ll have him hitting the text books instead of signing the monstrous book deals, hugging debutantes for the Phoenix society column, or claiming the deluge of Chub rods that’ll sprout from them “suddenly-Brown” upscale vendors.

There’s two “L’s” in sellout, lads – now which of you can spare a breath mint?

The roar of the accelerator, the howl of the victim, and a mouthful of blue denim

Two days of balmy idyllic fishing weather was forecast and I was able to deliver the “I’d rather stay home and scrub the place spotless” speech without a hint of guile.

I figured the first day would warm the water to a nice tepid temperature and the following day would unleash famished fish – that’d run me out of flies in an orgy of mindless feeding.

I had a plan.

Guys can’t clean for snot. Somewhere between grade school, where we dropped a lollipop and slapped it back in our gob without ill effect, and maturity – where we pass dirty dishes through warm water, minus soap, and call it good – we lost the ability to pass the Missus’s White Glove Test.

Sure, I’d score a few points for good behavior, a couple more for moving a pile of fly tying materials from one room to another, but dropping a couple shekels for a hired-gun “cleaning goddess” would likely square the Little Black Book of Misdeeds – and I wouldn’t have to escort Madam to the next seventeen highly charged romantic melodramas as penance.

The “Two Squee-Gee Kid” arrived without incident, and while she cauterized the interior with a flame thrower, I busied myself with the exterior.

The Plan was flawless. I’ll take credit for all the combined labor, blinking big “doe eyes” of hardship when significant other arrives for Monday’s White Glove inspection.

… and freeing up Sunday for another fishing trip that won’t be charged to my account.

I didn’t count on the neighbor’s bass boat uprooting the entire Internet with his late evening departure. The lights blink out and the TV dies, and I’m looking at a smoking crater in the lawn where the cable infrastructure used to be.

No Internet again, but at least he didn’t spatter mud on my newly immaculate abode. I pointed the enraged battalion of cable guys at the hole and in my best grade school voice, “I didn’t do it..”

As my neighbor is a fisherman, I did my best to rake the tire prints out of the grass, leading to his boat – I was hoping he’d do the same for me someday.

I dragged A.Wannabe.TravelWriter out with his trusty ATV eating, deer killing dog, and despite our late start, I was hoping we’d get one last round of late season fish death – compliments of the weather.

Too much avaricious lying on my part, I’d used up whatever Karma is required to seduce fish in my earlier misdeeds – tilting the fishing God in favor of blanking us completely.

I managed a couple small fish on a tadpole fly I’m tinkering with – and had a nice bass on for a couple headshakes, but that was it for the day.

“Foxly” was top rod, he had a doe on for a couple of headshakes, and returned later with the seat of someone’s blue jeans. I figured he had great potential as a brownline dog, but removing his collar so’s we could disavow ownership might be the wiser move…

Running downhill is easier, the Michael Phelps fish

Salmon smolts in dammed rivers have a higher survival rate than a free flowing watershed?

Surprisingly, smolts fared just as well negotiating the heavily dammed Columbia as they did going down the free-flowing Fraser. Comparing the rivers section by section, Chinook smolts traversing the dammed system actually had higher survival rates than their cousins in the Fraser. Adjusting estimates to consider the distance and time smolts had to migrate to reach the river mouth revealed that average survival rates were much higher for both species from the Snake River than for those in the undammed Fraser. In fact, no matter how they analyzed the data, the researchers reported, “survival is not worse in the Columbia despite the presence of an extensive network of dams.”

Plos Biology has published a paper outlining a recent study of downstream migrating salmon smolts that suggests dammed rivers enhance the survival rate of ocean-bound fish. A combination of factors are mentioned, but no conclusions are drawn.

A synopsis of the article has also been posted, absent the graphs and methodology.

They found some of the salmon – most just the length of a hot dog – could swim distances up to 2,500 kilometres in only a matter months, putting their pace at about a ‘Phelpsian’ two body lengths a second – a reference the researchers made to the record-setting Olympic swimmer Michael Phelps.

Considering Michael Phelps only had to keep it up for a minute or two, that’s some powerful biological programming.

Maybe we could see fit to bailout that exclusive branch of the Gallatin and call it a time share

Tim Blixeth and the Yellowstone Club I’m not feeling sorry for the folks involved but it’s remarkable that so many of these exclusive retreats end badly. The exclusive Yellowstone Club, home to exotic “cabins” of the rich and famous – and licensing a goodly chunk of a fork of the Gallatin, is the latest victim of circumstance.

Wrestled over in a contested divorce, owner Tim Blixseth ceded control to his ex-wife – after taking out a loan on the property of nearly 375 Million dollars.

Now they’re asking Montana for a 5 million dollar bridge loan to meet payroll and keep the premises operational.

They added that it “appears that a large portion of the $375 million loan … was diverted for non-Yellowstone Club purposes. Had the funds been properly used, it is likely that the Debtors (the club) would not find themselves in the position they do today.”

It’s certain I don’t possess all the facts, but in the current climate it appears to be fashionable to raise the “bailout” flag. Considering the $250,000 entrance fee and the $18,000 per year ongoing – I might suggest taking up a collection from the existing 320 members…

Blixseth’s luxe resort–which attracted as members the likes of Bill Gates and former Citigroup (nyse: C – news – people ) Chief Financial Officer Todd Thomson.

As often as not whatever premise imbued the enclave is lost after it’s sold the third or fourth time, the rich flee and the new owner carts in ferris wheels, waterslides, and the press of the vacationing public.

There’s an article surrounding Mr. Blixeth and the creation of the Yellowstone Club at the Wild Rockies Alliance site. I can’t attest to the facts outlined, but it appears the development has a rocky history.

Honest, Lucy will hold the football this time, Charlie Brown

I’ve never understood why anglers (as a group) scored so poorly in the math department. Sure, we got a double helping of optimism, but that was so’s we’d stand out in the rain all day…

Jesus and the Apostles were fishermen, but they had the same problems with figures and addition… It might be why JC was so upset with the  money lenders, one of them had the audacity to ask, ” if a barque loaded with Menhaden left Antioch on the morrow, and at the same time a skiff full of Olive oil left Delphi, how much would I …”

Recent events suggests the Roman approach of skewering would have been a better tactic, but like most anglers – Jesu Christo practiced “catch and release.”

I’m not complaining about the raw estimation practiced by our profession, both rounding up and significant digits are all schools of Mathematics with many weighty tomes to back their usage.

The average age of fly fishermen is 51, that’s the number used by Madison Avenue and explains why old scotch, young broads, and things that make a large arse comfortable are featured prominently in our advertising. It’s why angling periodicals feature foreign destinations, and rods are so expensive, because you’re supposed to be older and wiser and have a couple pesos to rub together.

All that by the wayside, what is it about statistics and averaging that gives you fellows so much trouble?

The condensed version, “average” is the important concept to grasp. Simply put, for each one of these:

 

There’s one of these:

bikini What we can agree on is that both specimens are in extremely short supply.

Ignore the candy thrown at you by the “Yellow Journalists” at TroutUnderground, he fishes cane – synonymous for a slow learner.

“Slab of the Week”, “Arse of the Week” or “Breastmeat of the Month” is all smoke and vapor, and the “eye candy” that teases you into thinking monstrous hatches are followed by Lust in the Dust, are pure myth…

… propagated by middle aged fat guys that passed English (barely) and failed math too.

Average age 51, suggests there’s plenty of ladies interested in the sport – they may not have the long legs or bustline to suit your particular kink, but plenty own great tackle, can cast like hell, and own boats.

If Grandma had 60 acres of river frontage, I’d consider raising my standards to match.

Who says Pikeminnow can’t jump

It’s one of those luxuries we’ve all enjoyed, parking within proximity to a thriving business and leisurely gearing up as all the fishermen within either burst into tears, or shake their fist at you.

Yesterday was Veteran’s Day, and I had a pocket full of experimentals to try out – overcast and clouds present but high enough not to threaten me with much moisture.

“Fatty” intercepted the second Matuka with a vengeance, I had to marvel at his grit, exactly what is a six inch fish going to do with a four inch minnow? It’s sitting down to a five foot long hero sandwich; you may be really hungry – but outside of dribbling meat and tomato slices down your shirt front – what’s the point?

The “transitional crayfish” were well received. I’d mixed a strand of Orange and a strand of Olive on the LSO – giving it some color reminiscent of the red crawdads. As red hasn’t claimed a victim, the  question, “is it the color or the size?” remains unanswered.

I hit a half dozen nice fish on the Olive and Orange mixture, implying the color is acceptable.

This suggests the red version should have no issue, but it’s size may be offputting.

I’d brought a Magnum Little Stinking Olive, tied on the same hook the red uses – both flies are identical in size, and only colors differ.

The Magnum had the identical reception as it’s smaller cousin. I tied the dry bug on and flipped it at a rock on the far bank, it sank smartly despite my removing half the lead. I gave it one twitch and five pounds of Pikeminnow leaps out of the water with the Magnum down its gut.

 

I guess “size does matter” – as I’ve fished through this stretch a dozen times without laying eyes on this monster. Pikeminnow are long thin fish, and this fellow is about five pounds, and nearly 27″ long.

With only a single Giant Olive, I fish really carefully from then on.

The stretch below yielded another Pikeminnow of nearly the same size and a half dozen nice bass – making me wonder whether the two species aren’t fighting over the darn crawdads.

I didn’t have the courage to try the big red, husbanding the sole Olive flavor until the rain interrupted both me and the fellow shaking his fist from the gravel conveyer up above.

He must’ve been shouting encouragement – or bemoaning his lack of vacation day.

If I was to name a fish based on a single act or deed

This sumbitch would be “FATTY”.

Steadfastly ignore everything your Momma taught you, spend the bulk of your day chasing tail rather than get an education, then tuck your feet under Ma’s table and ask, “What’s fer Dinner, Yo.”

 

The damn fly is as big as he is – and it’s up to us to give this fellow the education he’s sorely lacking.

Meet the Singlebarbed blog’s favorite glutton, a largemouth bass – which aren’t very numerous in the Little Stinking, now I know why.

It’s like learning to tie flies, only cheaper

Fly shops and canny fellows Them heady days of a commercial resale license are long gone, compliments of the Internet. Manufacturers use minimum order to separate the riff-raff from the genuine capitalists – something I gleefully exploit at every opportunity.

With the economy in the tank those $50 orders from “Fatty” over at Singlebarbed are doubly precious, and plays well with my shameless hoarding nature…

I figure you’re interested, hence my mentioning where to find vast quantities of feather dander on the cheap – unfortunately not all my readers are Real Men fly tiers, so not everyone gets to take advantage.

Among the largest sources of capital outlay for fly fishermen are flies, it’s the reason most attempt to learn the craft somewhere in their career; the smart ones fail, realizing that’s it’s twice as expensive  – leaving us slow learners to master the craft.

India and Malaysia have provided most of the flies found in fly shops for the last couple of decades, but China and Africa are coming aboard as direct competitors – and a canny fellow may be able to take advantage.

Minimum orders from Kenyan manufacturers are often only 4 dozen flies – and counting your fishing buddies and their need to lighten your fly box, that’s a single outing. The rest require a minimum of 100 dozen, which represents a season of pals and their grabby mitts.

Both Chinese and African vendors charge about $3.40 per dozen, about thirty cents a fly, making a 100 dozen only $340 US.

Split an order with a buddy, and laugh all the way to the bank…

Alibaba.com lists 605 manufacturers of flies in their sales leads, all contain contact information and sample pictures of their wares. All it takes is an email to the manufacturer requesting samples, and you may find a new best friend, and score enough freebies to cover your next couple of outings.

Most of you may not have noticed the resurgent dollar, how in the last couple of months it’s beating almost every other currency available. As long as the dollar is strong against the Yuan, Drachma, Lire, Pound, etc – you’ll be paying even less for your tackle.

While you’re at it consider one of those really expensive pontoon boats – the ones listed at $1500 or more in the catalogs .. Who do you think makes those?

Minimum order is 10, and direct from the manufacturer it’s pretty much guaranteed to be less than half price. Shipping will add more, but 9 guys at your casting club might be interested.

… and no, you’re not harming American fly tyers – most shops use their best talent on the specific patterns they can’t get from the offshore vendors; all the watershed specific patterns, flies that require higher skill levels, and those patterns that are useful only a couple weeks each year.

It’s all the standard patterns that flesh out their fly selection that are imports.

My eye and his lip should heal at the same rate

I had to pay for all them free walnuts somehow. A.Wannabe Travelwriter had graciously extended gleaning rights to anything I could find on his grounds – and likely had second thoughts after looking out his kitchen window to see me stooped over vacuuming his estate.

Walnut “grabbling” is that way, all you see of the practitioner is his “southern half” bent over reaching for grounded goody, unsettling at best – and enough to despoil your morning coffee.

He tried the traditional farmer option; vicious dogs bursting out of the barn intent on blood – I let them wind up to full gallop before breaking their charge with the rustle of cellophane. By the time I’d exposed yesterday’s Tri-tip – I had a couple Walnut-sniffing-dogs, deaf to their master’s commandments, and hell on walnut detection – so long as I first found them and threw them.

I suppose an all expenses paid exotic angling trip was owed, so I took him to a section of the Little Stinking he didn’t own…

Igneous Rock had arrived earlier – so we followed his muddy footprints seeing what fish we could scare into submission. Nothing stirred, early morning with overcast skies – and nothing was biting.

I put TravelWriter into a likely looking pool and fiddled with the second prototype of the Giant Red-Arsed Cray (working title); the physics were perfect – I’d altered the pattern significantly and swapped the hook to the Togen “creepy-crawly” flavor.

 

I’d added a “turnip” of spun doubled-over yarn at the tail to keep the claws separated, altered the claw shape with “looped” boa yarn (makes a better, bigger claw) and added a loop on the top of the fly to simulate the big fan-tail that dominate a crayfish’s swimming motion.

The Togen hook makes the fly flop over and ride perfectly – although 25 turns of 2 amp is noticeably heavy when casting – the fly sinks nearly a foot per second, legs flopping wildly – and really responds to a twitch of the rod tip. The marabou quality of the yarn makes the entire fly undulate when motion is applied.

 

It didn’t wake anything up in the first pool, but neither did anything else we threw.

We caught up with older brother further downstream. I’d brought three of the big Red bastards (also working title) – and was husbanding them carefully, one was already gone, due to instream obstruction. I was using the smaller olive variation and managed to hit two nice fish in a pile of underwater tree limbs.

Igneous reported he’d landed a monster smallmouth in the 18″-20″ inch range on the Little Stinking Olive – I immediately demanded photographs knowing his lying, conniving, base nature.

 

It was me that got served, as he had proof plenty. Now I’ve got to call and explain to Ma how older bro is to receive my share of the baked goods until I can catch something bigger.

I may have been hasty about cutting the deal, I was backpedaling faster than a Wall Street banker, but I needed the lout to show me where he’d caught that monster.

While we were dickering over price, TravelWriter hooked up with another massive fish – and I did my best to coach him about camera angle, extended arm (to distort size), proper fierce scowl, and vengeful predator pose.

The picture would have been really good but his forefinger caught me in the eye – and reflexively I snapped the shutter…

We’ll have to work on the scowl more – unless it appears the angler is angry, it lacks the “money shot” appeal.

Another shot of Igneous’s monster; the Little Stinking Olive is about three inches long, giving you an idea of the girth on this beast.

For now, Olive > Red. Two of the three samples met tree branches and I saved the last for duplication. The physics trial is complete; fly rides true, weight needs to be reduced so it’s better behaved during casting, and I’ll update the Olive with the leg dividing “turnip” of spun yarn to boost its movement, and change the claw style.

I’ve got a date with Goliath above, I figure my eye and his lip heal at about the same rate.