Author Archives: KBarton10

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 …

Brownline patriotism at its finest

The IAC 1090, hat's off - gent's As part of the continuing War on Terror – wherein our beloved government ensures we go to bed scared of our own shadow, major cities are securing their water supplies through deployment of the IAC 1090, Intelligent Aquatic Biomonitoring System.

Lt. Col. Matt Schofield, an environmental scientist at the U.S. Army Center for Environmental Health Research in Fort Detrick, Md., says, “Everybody drinks water, and the question of whether or not there’s a contaminant or a toxic substance in the water is very real.”

Each IAC 1090 contains 8 very patriotic Bluegill that endure a three week tour of duty sampling our water supply. In an era replete with $600 toilet seat covers, no need to ask where Haliburton the government recruits these finned patriots – or what’s the cost per pound…

Fish cough by flexing their gills to get rid of unwanted particles, like grains of sand, from their breathing passages. If the fish shows signs of distress in response to something in the water by coughing or increased activity, the system automatically trips an alarm, takes samples, and summons authorities by email and pager so that they can investigate whether there is a threat to humans. The cost of the system is between $45,000 and $110,000.

I’m sure they tried trout first, but exposure to normal tap water likely proved fatal. Given the flouride laced, estrogen cocktail served out of our spigot, only a hardened brown water fish could pull a tour of duty without cracking under the strain.

It’s definitely the water

Fishdoo If I’m growing my vegetables with fish crap – am I going to get the same curled upper lip when I mention it was Carp that made that Spinach?

Like people, the “good looking fish” get all the breaks – and fish with big tails, feelers, and roman noses, are relegated to a second tier of desirability – except for the Catfish, and only because 72 million Southerners insist on it.

I figure the next big outbreak of Ecoli will have everyone pointing at the Pikeminnow, while the Salmon responsible crap indiscriminately in your radishes.

Farmed fish effluent transformed by bacteria into fertilizer – feeding a hydroponic vegetable plot. It sounds like the best of both worlds; no Red dye #3 to taint the rockfish below, and no “trout chow” shoveled into the ocean causing oxygen deprivation and blight.

“Aquaponics” is still on the pricey side – and cannot compete with a ball of fish in the Ocean, but it doesn’t have all the detrimental side effects plaguing the large aqua-farms.

These demands make it tough to compete with foreign and industrial-scale aquaculturists on the metrics of price and size alone. (Luckily, the fast-growing vegetable crops are the primary moneymaker.) Cabbage Hill’s customers are mainly local restaurants and markets that prize what Ferry refers to as “farm-to-table” relationships. “These systems are fairly expensive,” Rakocy notes. “So you have to raise really high-value crops and look for niche markets.”

Now all you need is a hardy, fast growing fish that can thrive in tepid water, doesn’t migrate, and is content to munch stems and seeds, as we’re eating all the other stuff.

Confessions of a born-again Worm Drowner

I saw the big dip in the daytime temperatures and figured fishing would be better served come Sunday and Monday, thankfully my resolve weakened and I went Saturday – as the rest of the weekend was blowing topsoil and “hunker down” weather.

That's a lovely color - perfect for dipping wounded fingers into Saturday saw me at the bridge pool eyeballing the cocoa colored mass as it ebbed past the bridge, I could see the feeding Carp as an indistinct lump in midcurrent, trailing the traditional mud plume.

It was the bubbles that drew my attention, oxygen bubbles filtering up to the surface marked the forward progress of the fish. I’m not sure how that’s possible – but as each fish tipped forward to siphon mud, bubbles popped to the surface.

I suited up and got down into the creek bottom, sidling up against one of the bridge abutments for cover. Sure enough, I could see 6 or 8 plumes of bubbles out in the open water. Gauging the water depth from above and knowing where that mouth was headed meant I knew how far above to drop the fly.

I started off with the brightest of the experimental flies – a scarlet San Juan Worm with a collar of red Angelina fibers to add some needed flash. Visibility in this section is 12″ or less – and the hint of flash might make the fly visible rather than fearsome – spooking fish like in the clear water upstream.

I’d added a 4mm gunmetal bead just ahead of the collar, enough to reach bottom within seconds. I’m guessing that in brown water the fish don’t vary their path much as it’s too hard to see anything other than what’s in front of them.

The remnants of an earlier bridge lies in the water opposite me – and the morning sun allows me to see a big shadow coming around the concrete from downstream – bubbles start trickling up to the surface and I lay the fly in about three feet above. Just when he should be eating it the line pauses and I yank about 4 feet of branches and root mass off the bottom.

I’m looking at dead glassy water – and all them Carp are gone. Every fisherman is an optimist on the first 5 casts – the predatory tree branch set the bar where it needed to be.

It’s growing warm quickly and the thought of the long slog through the sand and pea gravel to move upstream is suddenly onerous. I’ve got all these flies to try, it’s going to be triple digits shortly, and the next available fish are at least three miles distant.

I crack out a foul smelling cigar and am content with my mortality.

After 10 minutes, I see some bubble streams appearing below me – but ignore them – I’m fixated on that small patch of water at the end of the concrete that I can see into. A brown shadow appears and more bubbles, moving slowly upstream like the first fish.

I outsmart myself again – figuring I could slip the fly into the water by bouncing it off the concrete above the fish; the plan was sound – I just didn’t see that foot long chunk of rebar that the fly wrapped itself around.

So now I’m a pessimist. All the swearing and tippet snapping occurred out of the water and the fish is still feeding peacefully.  I’ve got three left, and after knotting on a replacement – I managed to avoid roots and rebar and bounce the fly into the water where it’s needed.

Just about the time it should be in harm’s way – the steady “tic – tic – tic” of the bottom stops, I rear back on the rod and have something living on the other end. It heads down the pool, slams on the brakes, and heads back towards me – all the while I’m trying to get those precious fingers away from all the fast moving Sharkskin …

Note to self, stop using this ^%$# line, it’s dangerous.

Just as fast the fly comes unbuttoned. I’m still savaged by adrenaline and full of bravado, gesturing at the water. “Hah, you ain’t invincible Dammit, Golden lockjawed Ghost of the Pooty Water, you sure as hell ate that !”

That nice lady behind me must’ve blushed about seven shades of red watching my obscenity laced war dance. “Excuse me, are you fishing?”

I smiled a bit sheepishly, noting I was knee deep in the river, holding a rod and pulling coils of green fly line off me, “Yes, at least I think so.”

I chatted with her for a few minutes before she jogged off up the river, she’d never seen anyone fly fish before – and I had to assure her all the swearing wasn’t part of it. It bought me time to let the water cool down and get another fly attached.

As if on cue another big shadow appears at the end of the concrete and the bubbles start welling up from below. I slip the fly in above it and the line stops dead – I ear back on the rod and start getting fingers out of the way, the fish is headed south and the running line is coming up at me like a vinyl-jacketed coping saw. I sacrifice the thumb and index finger to get the loose line under control and the fish on the reel – while both fingerprints are removed.

The fish is still headed away and I’m cradling the rod with an elbow trying to blow the smoke off my fingers. It hits the end of the pool and reverses direction – forcing me to back up smartly and reel at the same time.

It goes dormant opposite me, and I can finally do the wounded angler dance, “Ow-oW-Ow, %$#$ – Jesus, who thunk this ^%$&# line up?” It didn’t help that the fine grit and sand had added to the texture – what with my big feet stomping it into the streambed between casts. 

The antiseptic qualities of the Little Stinking are well documented – and I opted to put them in my mouth instead.

I’ve got a 4X tippet and two fresh knots – so I’m feeling ahead of the game, until that big tail broke water and it headed downstream. This fish is much bigger than I figured and suddenly I’m mortal again.

On my side is the shortness of the deep water – it’s only 50 yards long and this beast insists on staying within the confines of the pool. We sawed back and forth for the better part of 15 minutes – then I waded out and grabbed a fistful of tail to end it.

I’ve learned a couple things from all this; double digit fish on a 5 weight is silly – that’s why they make 8 weight rods. The Golden Salmon are mortal, barely – and the SA Sharkskin is a wonderful casting line – but I grow tired of protecting myself from it’s excesses.

I returned Sunday for the long march upstream, armed with a Sage 7 weight and a beautifully smooth Cortland 444 Nymph tip I had laying around. I upped the backing to 30lb after Saturday’s fish – there isn’t much room for error with only standard 20lb Micron. 

I did manage to hook one large Carp in the upper stretch – also on the San Juan Worm, but the hook came free just after the struggle started. My ears were feeling pretty good what with the extra power to push the fly through the stiffening breeze, so I’ll likely start carrying this on the dedicated “Golden Salmon” outings.

With low water I don’t have to worry about runs more than 100 yards, and the #7 allows the smaller Pikeminnow and Bass that attack the fly to give a good account of themselves.

I figure it’s a draw, both the Carp and I came to grips with mortality, and we both retired bleeding…

I suppose it wouldn’t be so funny if a couple fission clouds were the result

Coast Guard to the rescue The hideous part is no one is likely to believe their story. I’m still trying to determine if it’s the greatest fishing yarn ever told – or a someone’s worst nightmare.

I can’t possibly do the story justice – or embellish it, it’s too good already.

Weekend fishermen crash a 46′ WellCraft into a poorly lit Tuna pen in international waters, causing  incident with three different governments, and while the impasse unfolds – they break out the tackle and slurp tuna while gunboats and helicopters posture on the high seas?

I’d say they made the best of a bad situation, fortunately there’s plenty of pictures and narrative to substantiate the account.

You start with deductive reasoning, when that fails – you’re getting close to a solution

Logic and fishing is an uncomfortable pairing in the same sentence, but it gives you someplace to start.

I need a small olive clam whose shell is about the size of the nail on your index finger, light enough to cast with a #5 line, heavy enough to sink to the bottom quickly, resembles a clam in profile (loosely) – and has some small motion if lifted and moved.

Clams aren’t known for hopping away from your Linguini, so motion may not be a realistic factor. I’d like to have something move should I lift the fly out of the mud in front of a siphoning Carp, possibly drawing attention to the morsel.

The fly needs to be small (no larger than a #10) and drab, and the clam shell shouldn’t hinder hooking if possible.

The first that satisfies ALL of my requirements

Those are the requirements – and I’ve been mulling over solutions all week. I’m aiming to return to the feeding Carp I found on the Little Stinking, with a half dozen prototypes. Solving riddles is always a slow evolutionary process, and I don’t expect to be rewarded – at best I’m thinking I might eliminate some of the variables.

I’m an impressionist fly tier, convinced that knotted legs and precise imitation catch fishermen and not fish, and that credo imbues all the flies I invent. *

I’m leaning towards Prototype #19 (pictured above) – which uses the Bernat Boa fringe to give me an Olive cone shape that hides a 4mm gunmetal bead. The bead sinks the fly and prevents the yarn from altering it’s cone shape – keeping it flared and simulating the desired profile.

Both John Paul Lipton and John Montana put great store in the San Juan Worm, and Roughfisher’s “Clam Before the Storm” uses a similar “San Juan” style of fleshy foot – so I added that to give it a bit of movement.

With a three day weekend on the horizon this’ll give me a chance to start discarding what doesn’t work – and get me closer to what might.

* Invent = I’ve never tied it, I’ve never seen anyone tie it, it hasn’t appeared in any book, periodical, or magazine – but that doesn’t mean some fellow 100 years ago didn’t tie it first.

Who wants to be a millionaire?

I just need a grubstake Wayne Mumford over at Willfishforwork.com sent me a quick note on the 2008 Northern Pikeminnow Sport Reward Program. Factoring in the special rules for September – all I need is a patron willing to front me a grubstake.

This ain’t Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel, I just need enough to keep me in beef jerky and foul cigars…

I considered getting a battered drift boat, painting it in eco-sensitive camouflage and rowing myself into the path of all that barbed death, but outside of a couple of sound bites from my hospital bed, there’s no money in it.

At $4 to $8 per nine inch fish, I can make a couple of folks a tidy fortune. Figure on a snappy logo and a rented storefront – and “Jelly’s Pikeminnow Guide Service and Brownline Flies” should be a cash cow.

For all them fellows that insisted I was “wasting my time with them crap fish” – consider the above prices makes a pound of Pikeminnow worth the equivalent of a pound of wild Salmon.

… now who’s laughing? Hmmm?

A fat kid’s blog, masquerading as a fly fishing site

I think I’ve been outed … as I had the choice of painstakingly researching today’s post or scoring free food. You guy’s lost – but that holds for the bulk of my work..

Far enough from the creek to avoid most of the Mercury A.Wannabe.Travelwriter lured some unsuspecting landowner into thinking we represented a charitable organization, and they gave us pillaging rights to all the Black Mission Figs we could carry.

That’s not true, but embellishment always makes for a better story.

I read somewhere that a landscape shot leading a fishing article meant the guy didn’t catch anything – I use big fish pictures to draw your attention away from me scaling your back fence ..

This is a fat kid’s blog, masquerading as a fly fishing site. It’s revenge for picking me last on every sports team you captained in High School …

How many pheasant tails would it take to fill one of these? You ever wonder why we always have to do everything the hard way? Every trip is a memory exercise where the thousand things you need have to be rediscovered in every dark cranny of the house – then piled in the living room so you’ll remember to take them with you.

A couple of low wattage solar panels on the roof – a handful of quarters, and every nuance in fish mood, and every hatch countered.

Why not sandwich one of these between the Porta-Potties in the parking lot? You could make it eco-friendly by skipping the Plasticine container – just dump what’s owed you into your palm.

How many #16 Light Cahill’s do you think it’ll hold – and can that possibly be exhausted in a season?

Great menu, Cookie – but is that char or dirt on my Dog

The first fishing trip with an unknown angler is always a source of trepidation for both parties; you’re never sure what hand is being dealt, as prowess at the watercooler can turn into any number of outcomes when Nature’s involved.

Anything’s possible, a grizzled veteran or an utter novice, an incessant whiner, or that fellow surprised to find he’s only carrying hundreds.

It’s all part of the new-fishing-buddy pre-nuptial agreement; one or both lowers their guard and reveals the sacred fishing hole hoping they’ve found someone of similar mettle.

Those trashy Louis Lamour Westerns that I memorized described it as, “someone to ride the ridges with ..” – but Louie’s heroes never had to worry about going Dutch at Mickey Dee’s or camping with a metrosexual.

It’s worse than marriage and far more permanent – as you’re stuck with each other for the entire weekend …

Week after next it’s me and [name_redacted] doing a duet on pristine water. I’ve lowered my guard as Brownline activities have me shunned from the marble terraces of clubs, fraternities, and any real angling organizations – and fishing pals is hard to come by.

It’s not personal, I just refuse to be sprayed with 409 prior to the banquet – it plays hell with my complexion.

I open my email last night and [name_redacted] and I have finished the negotiation phase of the pending orgy; he’s doing the cooking, and I’m reclining on a divan helping, “Uh, needs more Garlic..”

I get the below update:

Got an invite to join some friends on a small Sierra
stillwater, so this past Friday night I met my brother
at his house and we headed east up into the Sierras.

We got a late start on Saturday, and saw fish rising
and the tail end of a massive midge hatch, but by the time
we got our float tubes in the water the sun was high and
the fish were down.  I strung up a pair of rods – one
with a floating line and the other with a sink tip – and
started working my way through my fly boxes. It had been
awhile since I’d fished a stillwater, and I had some new
patterns/techniques I wanted to try out.  Long story
short:  everything failed, and I eventually tied on
an olive wooly bugger and just trolled it behind me while
I kicked right down the middle and enjoyed a beer and a
cigar.  That’s when the brown hit and I was once
again reminded that sometimes easy and simple work best.

That's a [name_redacted] fish and I'll be able to learn photography at the very least

Everything’s good up to this point; punctual, adversity met and conquered – the whole astute angler bit – adapt, evolve, overcome.

Then it gets a bit … squeamish?

I had volunteered to cook lunch that day – grilled
Polish sausages with mustard, sauerkraut, and red onions – so
I kicked back to the takeout and started setting up the
new Coleman stove I’d recently purchased.  This is the
first stove I’ve owned that uses propane instead of white
gas, and I’d forgotten that you can’t attach a propane
cylinder directly to the stove without a regulator,
and the regulator was at home.  Without an artificial heat
source, I did the next best thing:  I put the Polish in a
cast iron skillet and set it out in the sun for about a half
hour or so – long enough for sausages to build up a sweat, but not long enough for any insect larvae to appear.  It was a memorable meal, but not in a good way.

Massive “pioneer” points scored in the above, but no mention of alerting his flesh and blood to the cooking methodology or the gastronomic risk. Think wilderness, doubled over in acute pain, and a multiple hour drive to safety.

That evening the fish started rising again, but I’ll
be damned if I could figure out what they were after, and
eventually I went back to dragging a bugger. That’s when
I got my second brown (not pictured), an angry beast
that gave me one helluva fight.

Sunday my brother and I decided to take a little hike
little fish, but nothing to hand. Later that day we heard
rumors of some guys who had caught fish on the stillwater
by drifting midges under indicators, so we decided to give
that a try before heading home. There was a film of dead
midges covering the water, mixed into the mess I could
see an occasional mayfly,not much bigger than the midges.
I couldn’t see anything coming off the water, but there
were fish coming up all around us, giving us the fin
I suppose.  I tried some of the smallest stuff I had.
Nothing.  We finally packed it in and headed home.

One final note:  Igneous Rock will be happy to know
that no rods were broken on this trip, and my ass came
through unscathed.

So I’m left with the impression of an angler of uncommon skill, wit, and no remorse over feeding flyspecked food to his kinfolk? This same fellow who’s the designated cook on our pending expedition?

If it was my brother I would’ve emptied the pan near the RV hookup, kicked the sausage around a bit, then aged the result in my extra pair of wading socks, so I can overlook that crime …

… It’s the not telling part that’s pure evil.

Do I beg off, insisting that weekend was reserved for a pedicure – or should I renegotiate?