Author Archives: KBarton10

On rare occasion we adopt Blueliner ritual without modification

I have to blame Tamanawis for my dilemma. I keep reading Mike’s Scottish fly fishing stories featuring grey skies, fish, and a variety of single malts. Their names sound harsh, with multiple “och” and “agh” syllables – and only a Scotsman can pronounce them so they sound buttery and delightful. 

My hydration pack debuts tomorrow, and while water sounds good – a quart of 15 year old Dalwhinnie sounds a hell of a lot better.

Nope, I’m not suddenly putting on airs – it’s the only bottle of good hooch my older bro hasn’t found and drankled yet, it’s tiring to check the liquor cabinet and finding my choice of aged Sterno or dusty Vanilla extract …

Besides ships are christened, and while new that plasticine bladder has to be unsanitary – requiring a liberal dose of medicinal spirits. At least that’s what I’ll claim when I wake up.

I saw a triple-filtered water bottle with handy squeeze action this weekend, used with the comment, “… it has an Iodine filter, kinda tastes like Scotch.” While it may filter living stuff down to 3 microns – the heavy metals and Metam Sodium, coupled with every other farm chemical has me a bit skeptical.

Tastes like Scotch has merit, and there’s less risk in insisting my new water system tastes like good scotch instead, no?

Slàinte mhòr agad!

You look quickly for a wide spot and hold the rod behind you

Trains are part of the fabric of the Upper Sacramento, a mixture of positive and negative that keeps you mindful of their presence and noise.

I’m sure locals have a more realistic vantage, having endured the extinction of the river in the Cantara Loop derailment many years ago.

I remember resenting their intrusion on my initial visit, but enjoy the spectacle in the years since then.

It’s an odd mixture of gaily “tagged” boxcars, horrendous vibration, deafening noise, and the wail of the horn; drowning your peaceful reverie in a cacophony of industry. It’s so out of place as to startle you no matter how often you witnessed their passing.

The watershed is a steep notch bisecting mountainous terrain where movement is never simple. Deep pocket water forces you onto the slope to move around boulders, and felt soles don’t offer much purchase. The level grade of the railroad tracks follow the river throughout, offering easy navigation and the vantage of elevation to scan likely water.

But you have to keep an eye on your surroundings, as blind corners can vomit a million tons of steel at a moment’s notice.

Squealing metal takes on an eerie component in the quiet of evening, with the draws and canyons alternately baffling and enhancing sound. Tromping the tracks back to the car after a full day of fishing and a sudden squeal lends wings to tired feet – especially when there’s so little clearance between you and all that freight.

Especially if you’re on the outside of the turn – in the river, you can’t help but expect some tank car to come over the lip and head for the streambed.

I was watching all those tank cars and remembering the Metam Sodium spill – wondering how much “soil fumigant” enters the Little Stinking on a daily basis, and how only the PPM (parts per million) makes one a stream enhancement and the other a stream killer. 2005 statistics suggest it is #5 in the list of chemicals applied to Yolo County, likely all 83,000 pounds used came through this same narrow canyon.

I still like trains – but now “eat a tomato, kill a trout” is running through my head – and maybe Vegans are bad for the environment …

I figure most of the caddis are addle-pated from the vibration of train traffic. Nothing like getting bounced around inside a stone casing to make an “October Caddis” emerge in November instead.

Fishing was good, but dinner was better

August and early September are the “boxing” months, not enough bug activity to make any imitation conclusive – and what little is available are the “bar fly” insects, out just before closing time hoping to hook up with something of loose morals and lower standards.

It’s the cause of much head scratching and contemplation, where you dig into the deepest recesses of your fly box for experimentals, bright ideas, and the ugly duckling – something you conceived out of dim light, feather duff, and a hunch.

Boxing makes me think “stick and move” – covering a lot of water and fly patterns hoping something proves consistent. It’s low water and aggressive wading – where a misstep is part calamity and part refreshing – as you’ll dry as quickly as you dampen.

I think SMJ and I pulled out all the stops this weekend – hitting upper, middle, and lower river, and poring through countless flies and pounding the heavy water – fearing little other than a misstep and “the other guy’s” camera..

Friday my fish were on dry flies, Saturday it was all nymphs and Sunday was a blank, neither style proving effective. There was no consensus, as both Joe and I caught fish on a large array of bugs; little Black AP nymphs and black midges for the lower river, Creamy-Orange Parachutes in the middle river, Caddis Variant’s and Brownline Czech-style caddis for the Upper river.

Joe opted for a couple flavors of rubberlegged “stonefly” nymphs, midges, and landed his largest fish on the Brownline Manhattan Leech. We couldn’t agree on much other than dinner was overdue, cigars are good, two splitshot minimum, and that pillow was going to feel really good tonight…

This will galvinate the crowds shortly It’s too early for the fall reawakening, mornings are starting to chill a bit, but that burns off much too quickly. October Caddis always seems to energize the crowds – and there were plenty of the underwater flavor in evidence.

Call it the “Trout Underground Influence” – but the fishing rapidly took second fiddle to SMJ’s sumptuous dinners.

The Upper Sacramento drainage, like most backwoods venues, offers its heroes a choice between cold pizza and velvet-Elvis hamburgers. The first course is a napkin and the last is the bill, with charred bovine somewhere betwixt the two.

SMJ's dinners were multi-course gutbusters

SMJ’s dinners were multi-course gutbusters, pre-cooked for minimal effort – and accompanied by the prerequisite “hearty red” served in plastic ice cream cups. Coupled with the daytime exertion, it was an effort not to fall asleep during the cigars and brandy chaser.

Us “Old Guys” watch our priorities change – where cold ground and cold cuts morph into creature comforts and warm soup.

As Poppa says, “.. any damn fool can be uncomfortable..”

Me and Joe went fishing – a forced introduction to Organo-Radiant cookery

I was hoping for some portly fellow, about 40 pounds past lean, maybe a decade older than me – and with eyesight that died about 4:30 in the afternoon, unable to tie on anything other than a hot toddy.

That way I could dance about striking heroic poses while rescuing him from the fast water, show the same fish six or seven times (claiming they was different), and validate the theory Internet writers are all lean, hard, supermen – able to leap an algae covered boulder in a single bound.

That was my fantasy, anyways…

Instead, I’m staring at some lean predatory fellow in the pre-dawn darkness, he’s got twice as many rods as me, is in better shape, and is still breathing through his nose after loading the truck.

I figure I can shake him in the first riffle, using my superior flab mass to hold bottom while he floats helplessly past, that didn’t work, and as I’m straining to sheath my hindquarters in neoprene, he’s already finished the first two riffles, and patiently waiting for me to catch up.

 

Pure hardcore, the kind of angler where hatches are a luxury, the raw heat of midday is countered with a second split shot, and is waste deep in fast water while the crowd roars out of the parking lot to the cold bosom of air conditioning and heroic storytelling.

Singlebarbed reader San Mateo Joe (SMJ) and I brought the Brownline fervor to the blue water this weekend, leaving cleat marks on rocks, brush, and bear scat with equal aplomb; fishing was difficult with few hatches and little activity, but we were able to counter by covering a lot of water – finding the occasional unwary fish in the areas less traveled.

Down and dirty fishing, perched precariously midcurrent slinging nymphs and shot – “high-sticking” pockets with promise, dawn till dusk with scavenged Blackberries and creek water to hold us between gourmet meals – featuring SMJ’s “organo-Radiant” cookery.

I forgot the fishing after Joe debuted the evening meal, spending the rest of the weekend following him around asking, “..is it lunchtime yet?”

It’s “Organo-Radiant” cookery, eco-friendly and “double green” – bake the lunch in a car interior for seven hours and enjoy cheese melted to perfection, water warmed to near boiling, and Cadbury chocolate reconstituted into a semi-solid by stomping it into the cold creek bottom.

Double Green, compliments of Mayonnaise Then you turn green again when you realize there was mayonnaise on that sumbitch.

Pure heaven after leaning into fast water for most of the day. Precious life-renewing calories that let you shrug off the heat and exertion and settle scores with all the fish you missed earlier.

We made the pilgrimage to visit Darth Chandler and inquire as to the fishing – but he confessed the Maine/Montana exotic venue was more to his liking, and mentioned the astrologist and shaman in nearby Mount Shasta was a wealth of information on local conditions.

He did offer up Wally the Wonderdog as a guide, but only if we dropped him at the masseuse upon our return.

The shaman was a bust, requiring “the beating heart of an eagle, and the adipose fin of those you seek” – and the astrologist was ill mannered, “.. it’s a full moon, dummy – you no catch crap.”

Joe and I gutted it out old school, and did just fine. Details to follow.

Cocoa Channel – Consumer Alert

An astute Singlebarbed reader checks in with this consumer warning:

“I saw your piece on the Chanel Rod, and it was most fortunate, as I was approached on Market Street by a shady vendor, selling ‘Cocoa Channel’ outfits – billed as Brownline couture.”

“I immediately went ‘Fist City’ on the perpetrator, confiscated the tackle, and ran like hell.”

That’s the public spirit I like to see, hardy pioneer resolve – no issue too big, no threat too intimidating that you can’t settle with a good hemp rope and an old oak tree.

Then again, the local constabulary likely doesn’t recognize our jurisdiction, what with “Roving Editor of Law Enforcement and Swift Justice” being out of fashion of late …

SMJ included photographs of the illicit goods – after wiping off most of the blood : 

Uh, wait a minute...

 Cocoa Channel Fly Box and flies …

... SMJ, I think there's been a mistake ..

Cocoa Channel Couture Reel case and matching reel

... That's the real thing!

 … Joe, that’s the real article, only the “Brownliner Limited Edition” came with the brown carrying case, whose serial number is the expiration date on the bleu cheese carton.

If it looks like Christmas outside and someone knocks on your door … don’t answer it …

Wolves identified as root cause of West Coast Salmon decline

Part Hollywood and part factual The Kern County Water agencies refiled their lawsuit against the California Department of Fish and Game over the Striped Bass depredation of Delta Smelt, and coupled with recent findings that wolves prefer salmon over deer, can another suit be far behind?

“Salmon is a safe resource in contrast to deer that could kick back and break your ribs or skull – which happens quite often with wolves. The fish is highly nutritious. Salmon offers a bit more protein but the real bonus is that it offers more fat. It has four times more calories bite for bite than deer.

We’re a silly and litigious bunch and anyone that filed the former writ and kept a straight face, should have no problem suing Idaho, Montana, and Canada.

Election year logic is always part Hollywood and part factual, I see the complaint as follows:

Since we haven’t yet agreed on the whole “human versus embryo” issue, it’s fair to say that the water evaporating off the rivers of California makes up storm clouds that rain on Idaho and Montana…

OK, sometimes they do that ..

Some innocent salmon Stem Cell in the throes of mitosis has to be sucked up in the water going skyward, what with all the estrogen and birth control residue saturating the watershed, feminizing everything – might spur a she-male to unleash something early.

As both Idaho and Montana, have propagated both wolves and habitat, wolves preferring salmon over every other furry critter – and the zygote being too small to see, it’s likely they kilt several dozen just by walking around – the rest they ate.

Still with me?

So the decline in Pacific Salmon is the wolves fault.

Wolves lack tangible assets, so we’ll sue snot out of anyone that every threw the mangy SOB a cookie…

She gave you that stern look and you put the candy bar back on the shelf

It’s not much of a glance – but it’s the best we’ve been offered to date. The fabled Chanel flyrod, priced at a paltry $18,000 dollars – is carbon fibre, and comes with matching reel and a box of flies.

Hell, that’s enough for half of you to ask Mommy can you … She’ll say no, and rightly so – everytime she’s mentioned Chanel to you – you rolled your eyes and forbade everything.

 

The case bears the all important logo, and a canny fellow would take a bandsaw betwixt the flaps, creating two purses – one for the missus, and one to auction off on eBay, defraying the cost of your purchase.

The fly box, with fetching chain adornment, will match nicely with the debutante-micro-dog crowd – all they ever carry is Poppa’s credit card and a condom…

 

We never use this stuff anyways, and likely the reel case would be a dramatic gift to Grandma – as a couture denture holder. A canny lad could come out ahead on the purchase – if good feeling has a dollar value.

I confess to being disappointed, all I can see is a synthetic grip, a full metal reel seat, a couple bugs in a box – and some nameless reel that doesn’t appear to be anything special.

As the real Coco Chanel was an ardent angler – I half expected them to come up with some form of tribute with both style and function. Instead, we get a warranty invalidated if the rod gets damp.

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There’s a conspiracy in here somewhere, I can smell it

It’s too simple to be on the level, and always alert for conspiracies, I figure it’s the latest CIA unmanned drone armed with a Hellfire missile. Some kid glued to a screen armed with a joystick, hoping Osama Bin Laden will let down his guard a little …

The Carp’s eyes are focused downward, implying both tone and lock – dead giveaway.

 

On the contrary, that Osprey has a legal hookup – as most fly fishing competitions require the hook to be imbedded anywhere in front of the gill plate.

 

Then again, there is another possible explanation – but who got the idea from whom?

Who was Glamorous Glennis? … anyone actually see her?

Via Dr. Todd of the Fishing History blog for the Osprey photo.

Me and the four Horsemen of the Little Stinking

I knew the weatherman was lying when the ATV crowd left at 8:30AM. It was supposed to be in mid-90’s, and I’d bypassed all the close fishing in favor of a trek to the clean water upstream.

A pocketful of experimental flies and the desire to observe the hookup had me three miles up the creek, sans paddle, and today she was the Little Stinking Frying Pan of Doom, accompanied by the other three Horsemen; humidity, rank decay, and the Reflective Pea Gravel of Searing Death.

I’ve got a liter of water, a pack of cheap cigars, and am on a mission from Izaak Walton..

At mile three I stopped and eyeballed the Big Bass stretch; in past weeks I’d sworn off this spot as the Carp are always in patrol mode. They’ll swim close by to lure you into sight casting, but never responded to anything I’ve thrown at them.

So I hunker down behind a screen of brush, and can see the tell-tale bubble stream of feeding fish, but there’s 30 feet of brush between me and the quarry.

Frustration is a powerful stimulant, and I’m addicted.

The fly made it to the water, but the path it took was torturous, like hanging Christmas tree lights around hedges, smooth curves don’t exist, and the line is draped over whatever’s tallest. I figured a half dozen casts before moving further upriver, and the last cast is on an intercept for a pod of three siphoning fish. I’d tried the flesh colored fly earlier and had an Ocher San Juan Worm swinging into their path. I couldn’t see any visible reaction from the fish – but the Nymph Tip started moving upstream and I set the hook.

I didn’t have to fear the fly line as it came up off the ground, but the five tree branches I was connected to enroute to the water was a bit troublesome. The extra resistance likely pulled the hook free – but as the fish went by, the line was headed for it’s mouth, rather than it’s arse, so I figured it was a clean take.

Sweet. Now I just have to lug in a Weed Eater to clear the bank debris and I’ll be all set.

 

The third digit in the temperature is making itself felt – and optimism has added visions of Sugarplums to the heat waves dancing off the rocks. I continued upriver to the deep stretch, only to find the fish hanging in the deep pool rather than feeding. They were smarter than me, hanging in the coolest part of the hole and avoiding direct sunlight.

Which is sounding plenty good to me by this point, and I start heading back to the car.

Shade is only available in a couple spots, and I plan my exodus around them – stopping to cool down and guzzle water rather than a forced march.

 

I still hadn’t tried my boa crayfish, and while enjoying a Brownliner lunch; a cheap cigar and bottled water, I knotted it on to test the construction. It’s made of the Mallard Bernat Boa fringe and a pair of rubberlegs for adornment, and it’s light, aerodynamic, and a pretty stark contrast to traditional bulky crayfish patterns.

Tied on a Togen Scud hook, and weighted to “keel” – flip over and ride upside down – avoiding the moss and bottom debris from accumulating on the hook – a problem noticed with the San Juan Worm. The real crustacean is available to the Carp, and Bass like crayfish – so I assumed it would be a good dual purpose fly.

I eased out of the protective shade and slammed the fly into the water to sink it – it had a medium sink rate (10 turns of 1 amp fuse wire) and looked really good when you yanked on it. A pair of “claws” off the tail area are simple trimmed from the fringe, and trail nicely behind the fly when motion is added.

I tossed it onto the far bank and drug it into the water – it didn’t even get damp before the line twitched and a smallmouth grabbed it. I released him and tossed the line further down – and it came right back at me with a big Smallmouth attached – jumping a half dozen times and heading off downriver despite my best efforts.

 

Three casts yielded three fish, and the fourth cast planted it firmly in a tree branch on the far side, which was appropriate as no fisherman should wield that much raw power..

It’s a really functional fly, the material is tough and resilient, resists fish damage, and is light even when waterlogged – allowing the luxury of using it on lighter rods, and lighter lines.

The natural twist of the fringe and it’s supporting braid allows the “claws” to flop around like marabou, yet everything tucks into an aerodynamic shape when yanked – just like a real crayfish.

Bernat makes a vibrant orange color called “Tweety Bird” that I’d like to try for the red crayfish. It’ll darken a couple shades when wet, and the brown water will darken it yet again, making it a good change up if the  Crayfish are the brighter coloration. The Little Stinking has both colors, but all of the live samples I’ve seen are the bluish Olive. I tied one other in the Peacock color, mixed olive and turquoise, but didn’t have a chance to try it.

Next weekend is a blueline pilgrimage, but I’ll have more than a single prototype in the box for the week following, you can be sure.

… Little Stinking Olive – has a nice ring to it, making all them trout fishermen think it’s some variant of a mayfly. Deceit rules.

I just want to foul hook him in the mouth

Fishermen have enough foibles, fears, and superstitions to keep a bevy of psychoanalysts at our beck and call. The only redeeming facet of our personality is that we’re upright and functional – or we appear that way.

My personal demon this week is the unnatural fear I’m not even close to solving the “Golden Salmon” riddle, and the bulk of the fish may have been foul hooked rather than ate what I threw…

It’s 106 outside, giving me plenty of time to mull events – and I can’t shake the feeling that last week’s “hooked 3 – landed 1” and this morning’s “hooked 2 landed none,” are suspicious.

I’d be happy to trade for anorexia nervosa, at least I could shed some flab while curled in the fetal position.

Carp have the world’s greatest mouth, thick and rubbery – and once you plant a hook in there it’s tough to get out. “Hooked 5 and landed 1” sounds like Democrats claiming Sarah Palin lacks experience, hoping nobody mentions Obama in the same breath.

I think my fears are well founded

This morning I was on the creek at dawn as it’ll be too hot to fish later. I dutifully flung experimental flies at bubbles and hooked up with two fish, both were short lived. The image at left tells the sordid story, a large scale from the back of the fish impaled on a flesh colored San Juan Worm.

It’s what you get for throwing weighted flies in the path of a large slab of meat, in water the color of a military vehicle.

Unfortunately any real trial is going to force me about 4 miles up the creek, where the Carp feed in cleaner water – that way both of us can be assured that the bug was eaten cleanly.

The profile is intact even when wet

The Clam pattern looks good, retaining it’s profile when wet – the bead forces the Bernat Boa material to keep it’s 3D shape.

So far it’s claimed only one small bass and a Pikeminnow – so I keep fiddling with colors and unnecessary gimcracks to keep me thinking positively.

I listened to both political conventions while adding another half dozen really oddball things to try. I guess the promise of a “Chicken in Every Pot” unleashes the imagination – as both groups insisted they could fix the economy, the Iranian Menace, Social Security, and anything else that ails you – with a 30 minute speech.

More insanity for me to try

The temperatures are supposed to drop to the mid 90’s tomorrow, so I’ll have a shot at the clean water without melting.

I’ve got 3 colors of worms – three sink rates, plus some Clam modifications, some strange color combinations – and a couple other tricks I’d like to try.

I ordered a 2 liter hydration pack this week to assist me through the searing heat of the riverbed; gravel reflects much of the temperature back at you – and the proximity to water means you’re sweating profusely at the same time – and if you’re not, you’re in big trouble.

No sense letting the Carp win due to my premature demise …