Author Archives: KBarton10

Kinda Flies, half what you started to make, half what was laying close by

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.

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Everyone likes a fish that jumps, until now

… and Brownliner’s are the only line of defense for the nation’s waterways.

A recent story on a child being knocked unconscious by a jumping Asian Carp piqued my interest, what I wasn’t prepared for is the scope of the issue and how far reaching the problem has become.

Imported by Midwest farmers to filter ponds, and escaping into the Mississippi River during flood season, the Asian Carp is on a collision course with the cold waters of the Great Lakes and Canada – and only an electric fence exists between them and the projected collapse of the entire fishery.

Asian Carp Invasion – Part 2

Their behavior is something you have to see to believe. It’s thought that the leap into the air as a reaction to predators, but millions of 10-20 lb fish going airborne at the same time is enough to deny rivers to pleasure boat traffic completely.

Asian Carp Invasion – Part 1

I’d hate to think a wading angler might get the same reaction.

We’re used to mini and micro invasive species that a liberal dose of 409 can stymie, but I don’t think you’re prepared to combat something that can take you out just as quickly.

The rough fish contingent may be able to slow them somewhat as they blow through the brown water, but this is a cold water fish and may be the future of many streams that hold trout. It’s silver and jumps so you may not miss much …

I’ve just enough time to squeeze in a nap before midnight

Maybe we need to rethink what's attractiveWe’re being shortchanged, California anglers pay $35 bucks a year to fish from dawn till dusk – legal hours unchanged for the last half century.

It’s for the greater good, fish need beauty sleep – and I’m all for their being rested and refreshed the following day, but if the environment changes, shouldn’t these legacy rules change in lockstep?

Science is on our side, what with the recently released study on the Tennessee River, whose findings demonstrate radical change in mayfly behavior, complements of Starbux, and the Mega-caffeine craze…

Caffeine exists in a high-enough concentration to force-feed a typical baby mayfly the equivalent of 26.6 cups of coffee a day, according to Sean Richards, associate professor of biological and environmental sciences at the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga.

We never put “two and two” together, enduring all those miniscule evening hatches assuming water temperature or weather prevented the normal hatch from coming off. What’s really happening is mayflies – and by inference, caddis, and stoneflies, are partying into the wee hours of the morning and emerging in pre-dawn darkness.

I never intended my hard earned license dollars to support prepubescent youngsters pissing away their youth in a cataclysmic blur of hyper-reproduction – where the frantic paroxysm of emergence occurs after legal hours – when wardens prowl and the legal anglers are abed.

Trout populations may not be in decline, and if we’re able to fish between midnight and when the Seven-Eleven closes, 100 fish nights might be common. Even “Whirling Disease” may be a myth, fueled by a diet of caffeine laced invertebrates, trout chase as much tail as we did.

Congress is busy bailing out the unfortunates that don’t fish – so save your moral outrage for the election, where we can really apply pressure.

“If you think about Prozac, it mellows people out for the most part, and gives them a state of well-being,” he said. “If you give that to a fish, then how well are they going to be able to avoid a predator?”

On second thought, don’t write anybody – things are peachy-fine, and I’ve just got enough time to squeeze in a nap before dark.

I’ll see hear you in the fast water.

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An interesting experiment, but I doubt we could agree on anything

Is it my turn to fish yet? If you think Chandler and I are up for this, think again …

I’m sure most of you snickered when I mentioned toasting the lads at work with your prowess afield, naturally you’re waist deep in water – and their waist deep in something else – when the Boss peers over their shoulder.

All those electronic gadgets are here – just a question of who you want to delivery the photo to – and what caption will best get their goat.

Two ghillies on the River Tay are already online, posting daily updates of the water, fishing, and including a photo of every fish caught that day. Enough real-time intel to keep some hopeful fellow glued to the screen as his fishing reservation approaches.

It’s also a double edged sword, if someone says “you should of been here last week” – you can look it up and call them a liar on the spot.

Jock Monteith’s blog, Speycasting is a great way to drive interest, and migratory fish being as fickle as they are – a sudden flurry of catching would likely enhance bookings. I can’t see it as anything less than a boon to both guide and client.

Then again, driving your cubicle mates batty over that really enormous brown would be worthwhile also – they don’t have to know it was the lad next to you that caught it, and you offered a sawbuck to hold it …

Collaboration is always a touchy business and the idea of the Trout Underground and Singlebarbed alternately fishing and hunched over a laptop is unsettling.

Why? Trout fishermen lie about the size of their fish, where brownliners only lie to law enforcement…

“Nice fish Tom, he’d go, what – nearly 11 inches?”

“No, don’t use metrics, on my fish use superlatives. A ‘Penultimate specimen’ sounds bigger, see – trout aren’t slimy, they glisten, the sky isn’t blue, it’s azure – imbue the reader with the entire experience!”

“Oh, OK – how do you spell penultimate?

” s-e-v-e-n-t-e-e-n   i-n-c-h-e-s, the ‘s’ is capitalized…

Decrease your dependence on offshore hooks, it’s all the rage

The Singlebarbed Carp flavor You’d think there’d be more fly fishermen given a child’s glee at throwing pennies in fountains. That early lesson may have given you the yen to throw quarters and dollar bills with every cast.

Fly tiers throw quarters – with little remorse for the other fellow who’s buying flies; we’re not certain he isn’t paying less than we do, what with our gargantuan collection of moth food, decaying flesh, and the angry spouse that comes with that turf.

As is Singlebarbed practice, we eat what we preach – and while a gear review might trigger a salivary response, reviewing all that flowery prose a season later is always more informative than first blush.

A practice conspicuously absent in our industry..

The demise of the Partridge hook company (assimilated by Mustad) marked the end of hook variety, as small hook makers would risk a limited run of specialty hooks; akin to Keith Fulsher’s Thunder Creek Streamer hook, (6X long, ring eye), the Carrie Steven’s streamer hook, (10X long, heavy wire), the Partridge Bartleet single salmon hook, and oddities – like the Yorkshire Flybody hook.

In an economic downturn, what sells is stocked – and variety suffers. As only the largest makers remain, and we’re gripped in the bosom of economic upheaval, expect plenty of standard dry and nymph wire, and damn little else.

I’ve been looking for alternative vendors for some time, as many are overseas, and hampered by a declining dollar, the search has been largely fruitless. Competition fly fishing is adding some variety to the mix; kirbed and/or barbless hooks – but most are in the same vein – standard dry and nymph wire – with a Czech variant thrown in due to recent popularity.

I’m stymied. The variety we’ve seen in the past two or three decades has largely vanished.

Unhappy with the traditional favorites due to their spiraling cost, this season I switched to Togen hooks ( of Togen Enterprises, Canada ) for my traditional flies. They’d made a favorable impression on the first blush – and are available at significant discount compared to the normal fly shop fare.

They look identical to the Tiemco/Gamakatsu/Daiichi fodder, boast the same chemical sharpness, cost about a third of normal, and fish extremely well. I would describe their cosmetic blemish rate as slightly higher than Tiemco or Daiichi, but blemishes aren’t defects – and the hook is unaffected.

The points are nearly bulletproof, and with a lot of rock hopping, heavy water split shot use – and the inevitable rock snags that result – I’ve failed to bend or break any of them. None were prematurely dismembered due to barb pinching, and only their Scud hook will crack the barb (suggesting forging) – versus the traditional soft-mash-to-flat of the unforged hook.

Searching for a heavy wire hook for Carp has been largely fruitless, so the Togen Scud hook; heavy wire, forged bend, kirbed (offset) shank, is my default for Carp and Bass flies.

Kirbed hooks have never enjoyed much popularity with fly anglers, but that’s all changing. Competition hooks are reintroducing Kirbed shanks as a means of increasing hook gape (the distance between shank and point) – due to the increased bulk of heavily weighted Czech nymphs.

The Togen Scud has a fine offset (kirb) of about 6-8 degrees, not enough to notice when tying the fly (requiring you to reposition the vice head).

Togen is most accommodating in their sales – covering both the casual and professional tier. Lots of 1000 can include different sizes and hook styles to qualify for reduced price. $68 dollars per mixed lot of 1000 (traditional trout styles only), and that decreases to $58 for 1000 hooks of a single size and style.

Considering that Tiemco hooks after taxes can range to nearly $18 per 100, you get 1000 hooks for the price of 3 boxes of the traditional fare. Pretty darned compelling, you’re throwing dimes versus quarters, and every little bit helps.

Togen lacks the variety available from major manufacturers, but I’m finding that variety is lacking in many of the largest fly shops, which are stocking the traditional Tiemco 100 / 3769 stuff in quantity – and very little else.

I like taking my business to an agile “little guy” – rewarding that customer focus and entrepreneurial spirit that’s also vanishing with each small shop closed.

Good hooks, great price, and I can’t imagine you not being happy at the outcome.

The Brownline convention will be held at Love Canal

Vote the Brown Line Throwing away both parties and starting anew may be the answer, what with the dismal offerings we’ve seen in past elections – whose debate may only be who slept, or didn’t sleep, with whom.

The Fishing for Words blog has a short piece to assist you in the forthcoming election, and we may be able to ignore the traditional schlock in favor of who fishes for what and how.

McCain may be a brownliner and Obama an independent with blueline aspirations, based on the featured quotes. Age aside, what may bring Sarah Palin into the picture is how toxic the effluent McCain is wading through.

A hardened Brownliner may be what we need – I’ll withhold my vote until I see what his gear looks like – and what patterns he fishes, as I’ve been sucked in more than a few times by publicity stills.

The last legitimate brownline candidate was Jimmy Carter, wading through his pond with a landing net, the direct method, eschewing all that expensive tackle – and it’s likely the Secret Service had to keep an eye on Bother Billy – who was known to light a stick of “really direct method.”

Our symbol would have to be the goat, only because they float so nicely, like one of those bloated beach seals – only hairier.

Funny how Ma’s pie never seems to make the hour journey

I suffered through one more outing suckling off the plasticine teat before adding lemon juice to the bag, just enough tart to take your mind off the rest of the taste – it’s cold, tastes like Pepsi Light, which I never could stand, but I’ll live.

You get a couple “old guys” in the crap water and elementary school reasserts itself; an artificial spry that lasts until the other fellow ain’t looking.

Saturday was solo and Sunday the Peanut Gallery showed – Singlebarbed reader, Igneous Rock – aka “older bro” – decided he needed to get bit, bad enough to flee the City.

It’s good to know that even in our dotage the testosterone playground  is still alive and well. Forty years ago it was who could run fastest, hit the ball furthest, and drink most-est. Now, with the weight of years, it’s who’s suffering more:

“That’s nothing, they want to replace both hips, I passed a kidney stone the size of a softball, and the doctor can’t explain why I’m still breathing.”

“Dude, Lameness. I’ve been diagnosed with three kinds of inoperable cancer, which are contentedly eating each other, they want to amputate both legs, and my doc says, ‘what circulation, I can’t detect a heartbeat.’ “

“What do you got, Blue Shield?”

“Nope, I got your Momma, right here …”

A couple of old degenerates, content to molest small fish and pound chest in the doing. Me, I fiddled with the endless cornucopia of odd variations created over the last couple of weeks, and color – lots of it.

I can’t say that the reception was much, but the tie-dye crowd would have appreciated the up-tempo changes.

Tweety-Bird is the hot pink, gold, salmon variant. Parrot is the multi-hued purple flavor. Bass ate both – but not the way they flock to the Little Stinking Olive.

I did get the physics right, as all the hookups are in the top of the mouth. The filamentous algae will cling to the hook bend on a traditional fly, and can increase it’s size by 4-5 inches. I was wondering whether this was part of the reason Carp flee in panic when my flies get within visible range.

Parrot Flavor, Bass like Purple Just methodically ticking through food groups, physics, and the engagement process, at some point I’ll discover what ails me.

In the meantime I’ll host the Big City Swells, carrying their luggage, kowtowing constantly, without hope that some of Ma’s baked goods will survive the trip.

Funny how they’re always misplaced. I do the “good son” bit, sending Almonds, Walnuts, and all manner of raw materials, yet each shipment is hijacked minus an apology.

Hey Meathead, remember when you took that long pull off my water bag, and you mentioned it tasted funny? The other end of the siphon was in the pooty water – and when you recover, you be sure to send me a card.

 

Shameless enlarged picture for Ma, of her baked goods hijacking oldest son – so’s she’ll bake even more goodies. As much avarice and profit motivated advertising as we’re able to stomach on Singlebarbed.

If it’s a Cadillac, then we’re fishing Blue Ribbon chemicals

I thought I was on to something but all I’ve proven is that I’m a slow learner. Fiddling with textures and colors is fine, but revealing that brownline fish have an unnatural obsession with “oil slick” colored glass beads – is about as revolutionary as Mr. Wonderbread eating a Twinkie.

Manhattan_Leech_victim Ernie Schweibert could have told me in an instant; “Match the Hatch” is based on representing common insects with flies – to lull fish into eating.

Folded into the brown water paradigm, I’m looking at abandoning natural insects and attractors patterns in favor of the common food groups available to fish in the stink water.

Kicking over rocks and straining the result is normal entomology, which has proven antiquated and useless, what’s needed is to regroup and see the bigger picture.

Chrome and rust dominate the watershed, and I’m leaning on at least one of the essential food groups while pondering. It also explains the fascination with “oil slick” flies; like the Arizona, most of the best “holding water” was driven into the creek, and has been leaking for years.

Agricultural chemicals and methyl Mercury are more of an aura than a food group, it’s a basting agent like Soy sauce or Olive oil. I can easily counter with pure DEET, call it brownline dipping sauce.

Further investigation is warranted, as we’re thinking outside the streambed – the source of most of the crap we’re wading through …

The feathers are strictly a “don’t ask, don’t tell” – suffice it to say the effluent has grown long legs on our pigeons. It’s a significant faux pas to wear four white feathers, that’ll identify you as a trout fisherman.

Hell yes, we can build a better one, maybe a couple dozen flavors

You design it, but don't shoot the messenger I’ve mentioned the topic before, but am reminded anew by today’s story on the FDA’s genetically modified animal approval process.

A great deal of emphasis has been placed on the fly fishing “boutique” experience, complete with ponderous grain fed trout lolling in hygienic currents – for rich patrons and their entourage. It’s been folded into the sport, compliments of the “grip and grin” photo – where “slabs” are awe inspiring, despite being fed Fruit Loops by the shovel full – with a leavening of Human Growth Hormone as chaser…

There’s only a couple million of us – but that’s enough to have Sage or Orvis commission the “perfect trout” – grows four times faster than normal, eats sewage without ill effects, and can reproduce in a rain puddle without stress.

Declining water quality and the loss of critical watershed to development could be countered with genetics – although we’d fist fight over whether to put an asterisk next to any IGFA record book.

We could switch genetics as often as fashion, introducing Brown Trout capable of 60 MPH speeds underwater, prefers Mud Snails to Mayflies, and glows in the dark – allowing all the conundrums of fishing to be laid bare.

In a neighboring watershed we could feature Eastern Brook Trout with teeth as big as sharks, whose impoundments are fenced with Concertina wire – and all the guides carry sidearms … adding risk and fear, something we’ve never had before.

Throw some original DNA in a freezer so’s we could always return to the “Old Timey” flavor, and toss a bunch of dissimilar stem cells in a blender to see what else we could catch…

You know it’s coming, the consumer angle will be first due to it’s broader market, but the boutique experience will surface in some indoor cement pond in lower Manhattan, featuring piped chamber music, Bling water, and complimentary Sushi.

River frontage in the crap water is still cheap – you may want to think outside the streambed …

Their water is icy and their gals are chaste

I had my three days of Grace, wherein we tiptoed through the clean water, drank coffee with our pinkie extended, showered regular, and didn’t wipe our nose on our sleeve.

It wasn’t enough to weaken us measurably – complying with all those societal norms, but once our feet hit the brown water, we were back to Schlock and Chaw, throwing off the yolk of the Oppressor.

We’re in the Jungle – eating rat meat, growing stronger ..

I missed the party; Popov Vodka, Basic Cigarettes, and some lass minus all her clothes – it’s one of the tribulations of fishing brown water – all them young impressionable dames throwing up themselves at portly, balding fly fishermen.

Blueliners don’t enjoy such luxury as their water is icy and their gals is chaste.

I discarded the Marquis of Queensbury rulebook on my arrival, none of this dry-fly-upstream, respect your fellow angler stuff, when last here we’d discovered the Little Stinking Olive – and the watershed was recoiling in terror. 

Verify and refine – the pattern is absolute death on Smallmouth, and is typical of fly fishing; you start out looking for a Carp fly and wind up with something Bass can’t resist.

The creek is on the mend and the water has risen about six inches, mighty welcome to get some flow back, but it means the fish will be repositioning themselves and I’ll have to find them again.

I’d managed to tie four of these Crayfish patterns – without modification other than more lead, boosting the “keel” to 15 turns of 1 Amp fuse wire – looking to increase the sinkrate enough to be effective in 4 feet of water.

Old Nondescript’s Hole beckoned as I trudged past – and I stopped to take the maiden pull off my Hydration Pack, finding it tasting like someone had strained water through Pampers. Yecch. It was cold and wet – and not much else you could say in polite company. Waist deep in heavy metal and selenium, and suckling off Poly-Vinyl Chloride.

I’m a poster child for industrial solvents, likely to earn a brass plaque over some Porta-Potty …

 

The first fish was four inches, he’d clamped down on the fly and tangled up with the Boa fiber – the next was eight inches, the third cast yielded the above pound-and-a-half fish, and the fourth cast broke off clean in the mouth of Old Nondescript hisself..

… either that or a relative, a swirl the size of a bath-tub and he catches me using 5X. Mea Culpa.

The Togen Scud hooks work fabulous – weighted at the crest of the bend to flop the hook over so the fly rides point-up, avoiding the algae and bramble of the bottom.

This weekend I’ll fiddle with alternate colors – as the Mallard is no longer made – and I’ve split what I found with my Brownline brethren at Roughfisherman’s Journal. It’s a weighty responsibility, as it appears the complete eradication of Smallmouth Bass is within reason, and I don’t want the South to rise again in anger..

Them fellows take their bass seriously, and guns is always close to hand.