Author Archives: KBarton10

Barbed wire, machine guns, and a handful of hackle

manzanar My past experiences with fishing videos had made me unprepared for something quiet and truly dignified.

I’m used to a (pirated) over-amped  Van Halen “Jump” – blaring at me while the artsy- angle turns Agile, Big & Silvery into Slow-Mo, while it showers the camera attempting to free itself from some coifed super-consumer, who’s just as intent on not spilling his Banana Daiquiri, while waving the carbon equivalent of a house payment.

Rather it was a simple historical narrative suggesting that to us fishermen, the McQueen-esque “Great Escape” is something we’re all willing to endure, given how fishing can be both defiance in the face of oppression as well as instrument of restored dignity and balance.

The film is entitled “The Manzanar Fishing Club” and recalls the outbreak of World War II and the subsequent removal of Japanese Americans from the West Coast and their relocation into the interior of California, near Lone Pine.

You see, in our house there was a sort of family prejudice against going fishing if you hadn’t permission. But it would frequently be bad judgment to ask. So I went fishing secretly, as it were–way up the Mississippi. – Mark Twain

With trout streams bordering the mile-square perimeter, and with 10,000 Americans penned within, many featuring a life-long fishing heritage, it’s not surprising that the barbed wire and armed guards of the US Army might prove porous in the face of large and willing fish.

As it was Veteran’s Day and my television was already dominated by tales of bravery mingled with blood and guts, it seemed fitting to take a break from Steve McQueen and James Garner evading the Nazi Menace and watch the ingenuity of an internee fashion a split bamboo rod out of glue, a garden rake, spent brass cartridges as ferrules and bent paperclip guides.

Funny how there are no red carpets and Academy Awards for that …

Lines made from cotton sewing thread and hooks made from bent needles, flies scrounged from Sears Roebuck or Herter’s, or simply a pocketful of freshly dug earthworms to make unsophisticated trout into a meal.

What’s more astounding is the details of long forays into the Sierra, how the lure of Mount McKinley had the most adventurous in search of Golden Trout, climbing the 12,000 foot peak and catching both the Colorado Cutthroat and Golden Trout, spending weeks in the woods with a minimum of equipment and often alone.

I’ve always been keenly interested in this period in American history, so I enjoyed the 70 minute feature very much. It illuminates a sordid piece of our past we’d just as soon forget, yet through their narrative gives us anglers insight and understanding on how our hobby can represent so much more in the face of loss of Liberty.

The DVD is $24.95 and available from fearnotrout.com.

But those were Trout, which is a fairly amiable fish

I remember my first attempt at feeding a visible fish ended badly, with my own nerves subconsciously willing my arm to pull the Adams upstream and away from the monstrous brown trout that was so keen on eating it.

That was the problem with a kid whose best fish ever was 10 whole inches, who’s only mastery was the Wind Knot.

Monstrous Brown Trout being akin to the Tooth Fairy, something that was commonly talked about, but rarely seen and impossible to verify.

Later we fought the “yips” and demonstrated our coolness under pressure, when we discovered the high Sierra lakes could be mastered with a black floating ant – so long as you cast it out before the fish got near, and hid in the brush as they finned closer.

I remember seeing the stark white of their mouth as it opened prior to rupturing the surface, and how gratifying it was to watch the slow arc of intercept without fear of my committing a horrific faux pas, complements of my steely nerves.

But those were Trout, which is a fairly amiable fish – largely unsophisticated and outside of a generous helping of skittish, being fairly predictable …

… now I find myself repeating those same lessons, only each lesson ends with a Polaris-class shadow accelerating into an intercept course – before fading back into the massive root ball whence it came.

If you’re in just the right place at just the right afternoon hour, the sun’s rays can penetrate deep enough so you can alternately watch your fly and gnaw on the bloody stumps of your fingernails. The Bad News being our quarry is a Largemouth Bass, known for fits of pure stubborn interlaced with lockjaw and irascibility.

I’ve just discovered him and his pals in a snarl of downed timber. Their location suggests they’ve seen everything in my fly box save the hinges, and I’ll have to invent something unknown and irresistible just to spark interest.

One of the smaller ships in the Fleet

Complicating all this is the need to get my offering past the smaller fish in his battle group, as a stung or caught fish scatters them to the four winds.

After many hundreds of rejections, the on-again off-again controversy over bead headed flies comes to mind. How the Bulletin Board’s erupt in righteous fury when someone suggests all that mass might make them lures instead of flies …

… suggesting I might want to downplay my latest idea, how I might present a live mouse on a cedar shingle with a 3/0 Stinger rubber banded around his hindquarters – and would that make me merely a lesser Demon, or the actual Anti-Christ …

It must be Winter, ample sunlight and nary a cloud in the sky

Summer_NotSummer I’ve wondered whether the root issue with us native Californians, why we appear odd, unhinged, or off kilter to the rest of the Lower 48, is us having to endure a calendar year without seasons.

Summer and Not Summer, both require an umbrella at the beach and the only way to distinguish sweat from rainfall is its temperature.

Our inability to observe Fall or Spring, our single wardrobe and our lawns remaining green from August through New Year means the only way to determine May Day from Christmas is the raw fish we’re served, as only the “Catch of the Day” changes, and little else.

Which explains why we’re so keenly interested in Candied Eel and the Pumpkin Latte, as it’s an important seasonal indicator …

Us fishermen have it much worse given it was ninety-five on Friday, seventy-five on Sunday, and Monday is scheduled for fifty-five. Without seasons, with ample sunshine, and with the barometer a falling knife, even the bait shops shrug and wish you luck.

… and while the rest of the nation turns the page on their calendar, clucking in admiration at some Fall color scene from the Adirondacks, I’m liking my “lack of seasons explains why we’re a Blue state” – noting how it serves double duty explaining why I spend so much more time feeding fish instead of catching them, without impugning my few skills or imagined talents.

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It’s why we walk so far from the parking lot, why we forego all them creature comforts

I had a hard time coming to the realization that my passion for fishing had limits, and despite having suffered every deprivation known to civilized Man, there was a hard limit to what I was willing to endure to catch fish …

jagger

… I was unwilling to “teabag” a cold dead fish as a budding celebrity, just to make sure you thought twice about fish stix …

Fish love, over-exposed celebs posing with over-fished carcasses all to make you really want to kill a contented, grass chewing, Chuck Roast instead.

We’ll see if the gals are as good a sport

DKNY_Does_GrizzlyIt’s plain the “Grizzly-Hackle-enmeshed-with-tousled-mane” made a lasting impression on women’s fashion, and while we’ve resented their wanton consumption, Grizzly may have become the next “Ombre” – something required of the everyday well-heeled-gal.

While I’ll admit to public displays of petulance, given all that premier saddle hackle is gathering moth eggs in some darkened  jewelry box, could it be we’re about to endure a speckled renaissance complements of a few hundred expensive chickens?

I’ll let you be the judge.

DKNY_Grizz_Closeup Think finely printed faux fur that will dye into steelhead killing, eye-watering, fluorescents capable of tying enormous Intruders, fast sinking Sculpins, and take salt water fly tying from humdrum  to two foot-long articulated Squidz …

Think oodles of fashion designers cranking out acres of sophisticated fashion that will hang in closets forgotten, or better, discarded within the year …

Then again, $295 for eight square feet is about what you’re paying for crappy jobber-packed deer hair – allowing you to rush out and throw elbows with the other patrons of DKNY …

Just make sure you explain the receipt to your wife – and I wouldn’t mention the “cutting it up” part – nor would I attempt the equally lame “I gave it to my secretary” excuse.

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It took the fly, then fought me to a standstill, like a Bulldog in a flushed toilet

sixpack_tilapia I feel obligated to alert the Scientific community to their shortsightedness, what with the medical doctors urging us to ignore burgers and eat more fish, and fish farmers unable to solve the “flaccid flesh” dilemma, whereby a farmed fish filet is soft, pale, and unattractive.

… and in this election year, with all the “Green Bux” being flung at Greener Jobs, all manner of fitness regimens are being developed, everything from swimming robots to zombie-drugs to make fish school more readily, and all simply to rectify their sodden musculature.

Which leads me to ponder what gets us off the couch and swimming in circles, which I’m pretty certain is mealtime and the drive thru …

We ignore the commandments of our doctors and caregivers, ignore common sense and even good taste, forsaking green salads and fruit cups for Mondo-Fries slathered in Chili, or the inert shake whose straw is perched jauntily as decor, given the compression needed to pull the inert mass through its plastic aperture could pull a tugboat through a keyhole …

And despite our knowing of the leaden meal that awaits us, we leap off the couch with great alacrity, swim upstream navigating traffic, fish ladders, and unruly neighbors, intent on spawning at the mechanical clown with the scratchy teeny-bopper voice.

“It is not completely clear which are the factors that would ‘fool’ live fishes and make them behave in a determined way,” he noted.

… but it’s pretty clear saturated fat might have a big role.

Now that we’ve postulated what might instill the herd mentality in fish, and they’re all swimming in an orderly mass, shouldn’t our hatchery scientists watch for those fish that break ranks, or speed ahead of the pack – and harvest what few defiant genes remain?

We’ve always felt that hatchery fish were inferior to their wild brethren, and now that we’ll be growing legions of lean, hard, Salmon and Tilapia, shouldn’t we select all the rebellious fish as replacements for the wild strain?

… or are you content fighting fish in ever-shortening circles?

Another peril in the coming Zombie Trout Apocalypse

I’d tried to put all the science together so even the dimmest of fishermen (most dry fly purists) could understand their peril…

How most of the species in both fresh and salt water had come to realize that our increased girth was turning this from an innocent blood sport to an “us or them” all out war of extinction …

How carp and stingrays were either flinging themselves out of the water in the hopes of killing the unwary boater – or impaling naturalists as they sought to please Mssr. Nielsen and his coterie of number junkies …

How catch and release had lost its luster with non-fisherfolk, and both society and the fish population regarding us as beasts – intent on impaling fish simply for amusement …

… and how you laughed and elbowed each other thinking I’d obviously been smoking something I shouldn’t …

… now, while that all-knowing smirk still adorns your face, you can add lust for human flesh to the things those flushed female hormones and Estrogen has added to the genome …

Leave it to Beaver

beaver_round2 I liken this to the search for the Fountain of Youth, one of the truly great unfathomable questions of fly tying, guaranteed to plague many generations to come:

Have any suggestions for a cheaper substitute for rabbit fur?  I’ve been using rabbit as a binder, but for whatever reason, the price of a bunny skin has increased about 50%.  And for whatever reason, I can’t get rabbit skins to dye all the way down to the skin and/or turning the skin into a potato chip.

From a cost perspective, only road kill is cheaper than rabbit. Of course there are many unpleasantries associated with your asphalt bounty, most can only be overcome if you’re single and your neighbors ignore the screams …

A rabbit skin lacks any real leather, it’s paper thin and when subjected to heat turns brittle as a potato chip. Cold water dyes alleviate this only slightly, as age will also turn a rabbit skin into a potato chip.

Depending on the species of rabbit (and its climate) the hair on the skin can be quite dense, making “dyeing to the root” difficult. To fix the issue you must dye the hide exactly like a dry fly neck. First clean and presoak the fur, then pressing it against the bottom of the bowl until all the air bubbles stop coming to the surface – and only then can you transfer it to the dye bath completely saturated (do not wring it out).

Air bubbles are trapped at the roots of the fur – and so long as they appear when the fur is pressed underwater you will have an area the dye will not touch in your final product.

The solution to your problem is to buy a beaver “round”. Coffin Creek Furs offers a large Beaver pelt for $25.00. It is superior to rabbit fur as a binder – and is among the finest of dry fly dubbings as a side benefit. Typically these are 36”-44” in diameter and will offer the average tyer a lifetime of quality dubbing.

Beaver has a thicker skin than rabbit and will only go “potato chip” on you if your kitchen is aflame, along with the surrounding house ..

Caution: Coffin Creek shipments can contain moth eggs – so the pelt should be quarantined (treated generously) in moth crystals for at least a week before adding it to your collection. This is true of most furriers and their hoards of hides.

The Neanderthal documented as a Dry Fly Purist

I call it “blackmail science” – where you dare not disagree with my all encompassing really fucking thin hypothesis … for fear I’ll reveal you’ve shacked up with a Neanderthal …

… and when coupled with those silly plaid golf pants you’re prone to wear on weekends, could lead to your pals at the Club stammering excuses as to why they can’t share the bunk next to you at the next outing …

Rather, consider what we know of written history and fly fishing, and while we’re able to trace our roots back to the ancient Etruscans and their feathered lures used for fishing … didn’t someone have to teach them the One True Path?

… and might those people not have had a written language for Dame Juliana Berners to plagiarize – and therefore no record of their love of the weight forward exists today?

Science has concluded that Cavemen,  or perhaps their women, might have used bird feathers as adornment, which in the present is about as far fetched a possibility as can be considered * …

… the researchers first looked at the massive amount of data that has been collected on both birds and Neanderthals, specifically regarding their geography and whether birds with long feathers even lived in the areas where Neanderthals roamed. In all, they studied data from 1,699 sites across Eurasia and found that there was indeed a correlation and that there appeared to be a lot of raptor and corvid species living in the same areas as Neanderthals.

… given the your correlation between them hairy-arsed girls of the Pleistocene and present-day-sweet-smelling-genteel awesomeness, will result in your unintentional comparison of their bottom to their hairy-arsed cave squatting cousin – which owned a gigantic and ample posterior …

… and your being banished to the garage for the thought.

You like Spey?

Instead,  consider the hypothesis that Neanderthals were early adopters of fly fishing.

… then turned their attention to actual bird bones found around or near Neanderthal archeological finds and discovered that many of them were wing bones that had been manipulated with sharp stones, causing cutting marks, a clear indication that they had been used for some purpose other than as food as wings don’t have any meat on them. They noted also that the Neanderthals appeared to have a preference for birds with dark feathers. Also, they found that marked bones were found at many of the sites indicating that whatever was going on wasn’t local. These findings indicate that Neanderthals were clearly using the long wing feathers for something”

I’m thinking Iron Blue Dun was as desirable to our ancestors as it is today, and it’s only the size of the insects that have changed. Long tail feathers were needed to wrap dry flies that likely averaged 6/0 to 9/0 (using today’s hook scales) and big feathers and chemically sharpened Obsidian were necessary to pierce the armored mouths of those toothy critters that inhabited fresh water.

Then again, you could have really gi-normous stones and inform your wife that the reason she plucks her eyebrows is genetics …

See what that gets ya …

* wink wink

Small can be pretty big when spread on a windshield

From the angler’s perspective they’re a nuisance. A summertime constant whose dimutitive size requires small hooks, smaller tippets, great patience, and much frustration.

From the watershed perspective they are the “bologna & white bread” of my chemically-enhanced lukewarm tomato effluent, whose great numbers and summer-long hatches ensure everything has something to feed on in between the sexier bugs and tastier fare of Spring or Fall.

Small enough to provide fodder for the smallest of fry, yet exists in such dense numbers as to ensure the residents of the marginal lie and shallow water get fed.

Dense enough in flight to lure every barn swallow and songbird from the safety of the bridge abutment, to provide a protein reward for the careening birds and their morning dogfight.

Each summer it becomes clear to me what an enormous contribution this tiny insect makes to our watersheds, both the tepid and pristine. Among the longest-lived of all the mayflies, the miniscule Trico provides nourishment to most of the watershed, not simply the fish, which we miss because we’re fixated on their presence and the fishing, never understanding how big they really are …

Trico spinners caught in spider web

… just ask the spiders.

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