Author Archives: KBarton10

Where we get all solemn and lay it on overly thick for the non-fisherman

Fishing being a more painful variant of masochism, whose practitioners lust for big fish knowing they’re accompanied by hardship; cold rain, poisonous snakes, blisters, and other trappings of kink, yet are still at a loss to explain its attraction to normal folks.

While traveling last week, I did have time to inhale a small salad while enjoying the banks of the mighty Eel River. In between bites I noticed a bit of motion in the water and am rendered vengeful and solemn by the sight of 200 large salmon milling in a circle only feet away …

Nothing like a fish that appears to be six inches wide at the back to give a fellow real trouble swallowing lettuce …

Eel River at Weott, California

My accomplice was oblivious to the spectacle as he was negotiating  three inches of rare roast beef and a monstrous hard roll, while giggling at my self-inflicted dietary choice. Suddenly one of the larger fish comes cleans out of the water and dampens us both …

“Dude, that was a salmon.”

I nodded the affirmative as he noticed all the other fish leisurely rolling in contentment, finning their way over to give me the finger, then swimming a lazy circle to repeat the insult.

He exclaimed, “ I can run us back to Fortuna and you can buy a rod and reel, and we could be back in an hour…”

I shook my head, “No, fishing is a karmic-Zen-Masochistic thing – and while I don’t expect a non-fisherman to understand; the reason the fish are here is because I lack my fishing gear. In physical terms, both fish and fishing tackle are positively charged ions – and can never occupy the same space – nor get close enough to one another to cause harm – as their natural state repels the other.

If I had brought the gear we’d be standing in a torrential downpour with a flat tire, fishless – or that prominent badge on your truck would cause Weott’s version of “Jimmy Olsen Cub Reporter” to stop and immortalize us for the six o’clock news and the both of us holding big dripping fish and a pink slip …

Driving to Fortuna is for godless amateurs – who’ve not fished enough to learn this truism …”

At this point he’s looking at me fixedly, jaw open and roast beef visible, “OMFG, that’s some serious hokey horseshit,” he says.

I’d tried to explain it and failed. Now I was content to wave as the fish swam past knowing it as a quasi-religious truth recognizable only by those that believe. Not the old-timey religious types – more like those that are fool enough to stand in cold water and have done so enough times to recognize this immutable Law of Nature.

We aren’t as svelte as all that – nor is this Colorado

As soon as I mentioned the waves of famished fish eagerly casting themselves in the path of anything Olive, I knew I’d overstepped the boundaries of both physics or logic and brought unwanted voodoo magic into the mix.

Fishing being a simple exercise in Chaos theory most days, but if you promise anyone anything about the day in advance of the reality, you’ve hexed yourself completely, and Einstein and all his theories no longer matter.

And we fall for this ritual time and time again, simply because most of the retelling is done Monday at work – and any sharp pain as the pin is passed through the doll is assumed to be lunchtime gas or that second donut …

… so we delight in stretching truth or predicting how well we’d do if we all skipped work – and the curse wears off by the subsequent weekend, with us none the wiser to all that dark evil we’ve conjured.

Travel Writer makes like Colorado only more squeamish Naturally, I mention to TravelWriter how me and his Dog, which is no longer his Dog as it ignores him completely, have been faring and how he might want to hone his skills on some aggressively eating fish – and I have to listen to how much better the guides were as they rowed him through most of Colorado, versus the fart bar and lukewarm bottled water I’m serving on my stinky little creek …

And if that’s not enough he adds insult to injury by snapping my profile – which suggests the 26 pounds of lard I’ve removed from my frame through Herculean husbanding of calories, would be best served by another 26 pounds of lard yet to go …

Neither lean nor svelte, just overhang

Note my ever-present shadow, rooted to my side in case I need to be defended against hamburgers, whose recent discovery that not every home insists on dry kibble, where weekends can be woodsy adventure versus shackled to the garage, and in better homes Taco Bell is served on fine china even …

… and while fishing was off compared to the last couple of outings, we still got bit regular, just not regular enough to make the occasion memorable enough to brag come Monday morning.

Outside of swarms of small Pikeminnow on #20 dries, whose unwelcome hex will have been voided by my next visit to the creek.

While much has been made about all the fish we released, it’s what we kept that makes all this exercise worth while.

Fat of the Land

Me and Dogbert played along until our fellow angler turned his back and we made off with a goodly assortment of plunder. Walnuts, pears, persimmons, and fresh chard lend precious vitamins to any meal, especially the greasy, leaden variety I’d promised to preserve canine loyalties.

Montezuma ransomed for a garage full of German stainless

montezuma The nature of our business typically has us arriving a week too late and a dollar short. If it’s not the fishing, then its the enormous fabled garage full of old bamboo rods, or a couple wandering crates of Jungle Cock necks, or something rarer that we’d gladly divorce the spouse over.

I see it akin to any mythical treasure of myth or legend, from King Solomon’s Mines to the room of gold Cortez was promised for Montezuma.

The “ … old dude had a garage full of [insert_desirable_here], only it got tossed last week … If I’d known you wanted some I would’ve backed up the truck, bro … “ fable.

So, when a buddy at work holds out a set of forceps to me and mentions offhand, “I got these from this old dude and you use these fly fishing so’s I figured you could use a set.” I examine the 6” forceps, spy the “Miltex” label and am on his leg like a half-beagle, half-bulldog in full lovemaking ardor …

“Some old janitor dude cleaned out his friends office and found a box of these, so he offers me one.”

I recognize “Miltex” as the German surgical manufacturer, makers of scissors and implements that cost a bloody fortune – not to mention whose scissors never dull, even after cutting hundreds of bead chain eyes, concrete, and the hood off a ‘38 Plymouth …

I mention that fact, how most of the implements they make are a hundred bucks or more each – and how any fisherman in his right mind could make do with a couple handfuls, not to mention how useful fine pointed surgical scissors would be to them as tied flies …

Roadkill_Lab

And the entire trove shows up on my desk. The finest set of micro tweezers I’ve had the pleasure to witness, about 100 forceps with both cutting edges and clamped tips, and best of all …

surgical_Scissors

A really nice mixture of fine pointed surgical scissors in the 4.5” to 5.5” models. Semi-curved and flat bladed, sharp as razors and looking for some fellow daring enough to wield these in anger.

Now I can equip a couple of extra vests with clamps and forceps – and the rest will be window dressing for “Uncle Kiki’s Animal Hospital and Road-kill Emporium” – which will give all those grieving pet owners the illusion that I might be able to fixed the mashed SOB …

… when the plan is to skin it.

Note: Any time you get access to surgical goodies, boil them thoroughly, there’s no telling what type of doctor the original owner might have been – nor the history of the implements above. It pays to be extra cautious when it comes to disfiguring diseases and something sharp enough to prick you.

None of that silly “one hand for the ship” stuff

2Rafters1fisherman

I figure this is a larger lesson for society. The hubbub over perfumed and coifed Wall Streeters gambling with everyone’s 401K is moot for us outdoorsy types. As fishermen we knew whether tarred with the 1% label or granted membership in the other 99%, we’d land on our feet regardless of new economics …

Two Rafters, One Fisherman, whose instincts are akin to a predatory cat, never ruffled, never hurried, aware of everything and its consequences …

Guess which is the fly fisherman. No hint necessary as it should be that obvious …

Just the Feathers, Ma’am. You can cook or bury the rest

Even a muppet gets careless In traditional ass-biting fashion the Trout Underground  has done me “Short Cast” dirt, flinging our entire editorial staff me under a bus for the quick chuckle, not realizing that I would be horribly offended at the notion of any woman assaulted by a frozen furbearer.

“Road Kill” now somehow synonymous with the “Singlebarbed Experience,” versus our association with any of the finer elements of our sport; like finely honed titanium, polished nickel silver, or the fine micrometer taper of a weak-walled, hollow Asian grass, that when dried was flamed by craftsmen scared to inhale … as they weren’t Man enough to flex Carbon fiber …

conservationist … given that my worst offense would be breathing new life into something crushed, lifeless and a rapidly bloating eyesore – should’ve bought us martyrdom versus the “hyuk-hyuk” bull’s-eye on our rear. Making it doubly painful knowing those whose aberration includes running them over repeatedly until tender and eating the remnants are, “conservationists” instead of blogdom’s laughingstock.

‘I used to cut up dead animals to see their insides and when I did all I could see was fresh, organic meat …”

Burgeoning ax murderers from the sound of it, and my worst merely skinning it downwind of its former owner – without permission, and without last rights, naturally.

I figure living in that mansion on the hill, overlooking his personal trout stream – and knowing I was travelling lent him courage …

Brown water conservation, rags to riches in a single season

My mysterious benefactor appears to be the apron work on the bridge upstream. The source of thousands of fish my little creek is suddenly burdened with – as well as why it’s still flowing in October when it should’ve dried up in July.

It's a dog's life, especially in the front seatIt’s a sudden embarrassment of riches, hundreds of fish in every pool, visible largemouth bass – when they’ve always been a rarity, and oodles of hyper-aggressive Orange finned Bull Trout outracing both Bluegill and Smallmouth to the fly.

Sophistication is a hint of sparkle with a marabou tail – a recipe befitting a hundred fish day, assuming you don’t mind most being six inches or smaller.

Given the creek was barren in the Spring, and with only four fish counted in as many miles and I’m thinking the hell with trout fishing, where a couple of degrees temperature or a few milliliters of toxin denudes most of a watershed.

If we ever stopped to add the millions spent in care and feeding, all the  restorative spawning gravel planted, alder and willows to shore sagging banks, and substrate that can’t abide the press of an angler’s feet. Parking lots and paved roads, flush toilets, guides and drift boats, fancy flies and gossamer tippets – and all for a fish that’s mostly shat from a pipe after being fed Twinkies …

Hard to believe I ever doubted this creek’s survival, given its history of tomato tailings and fertilizer. Seeing this plethora of gamefish in a single season makes a fellow eager to spend his precious conservation dollars on a fishery showcasing hardy warm water species, that welcomes invasives, can tolerate a couple degrees of temperature increase, and can live off a diet of benthic scum and crushed water bottles.

Agressive as hell and expects no quarter 

Us fly fishermen have backed a freshwater loser these last couple of centuries, and the knowing is suddenly tough for me to swallow …

Pikeminnow Unlimited wouldn’t need yearly dues nor memberships, unless we opted for starched uniforms and well dressed lobbyists serving aged Cubans and Homarus Americanus to uncaring politicians.

… nor would I care much for what your soles were made of – as most of the locals know, it’s what’s on them that matters most.

Is it really Whirling Disease, or did we just make the entire batch spin to the left?

oOPSIe, we didn't know Until recently fisheries biologists have seen the adipose fin as largely superfluous, and have clipped it to visually distinguish planted fish from their wild cousins.

Now they’re not so sure.

Recent studies suggest the adipose fin is crucial to fish, aiding it in navigating turbulent water.

With the tiny fin removed, he says the fish need to use much more energy to maintain position and speed in the water.

– via CBC News Canada

Given that the practice is especially prevalent with salmonids, which re-enter fresh water when it is most turbulent, it may have been one of many reasons why hatchery fish have never adequately replaced indigenous populations.

Makes you wonder whether we’ve been our own worst enemy, accidentally even. 

The Cyprinid Finger, How Stupid Big Fish continue to ignore me

There’s a point where swear words are completely ineffectual and only  snagging can express your true feelings for a balky adversary. With small fish it’s the thrown rock that creeps unbidden into your psyche – but with the big brute measured in kilos, only a large treble can restore lost honor.

Watch my latest offering pass unmolested

While most of you have some small traces of scruples, I do not.

I spent the early part of Sunday hidden in the tules lining the bank making casts to large, fat, fish in excess of 15 lbs. After failing to even make a fish pause, I ransacked my collection of itty-bitty flies for a 4/0, and finding none – mentally calculated whether it was possible to construct the equivalent with dried grass and a couple hundred #8’s …

It was something primeval … old school, and had nothing to do with conservation. I’d release it after I was done, but only after hitting it a few more times with a rock.

So much for the carp fishing, I matched wits with them yet again and came up fishless.

I moved further up and did quite well, hooking and long-lining a nice smallmouth, and landing the first big fish of the season -  a super aggressive Pikeminnow with a taste for his master’s boot …

Some shreds of composure returning, by my standards, you see it as further depravity

… and we caught the rare “Orange Finned Bull Trout”- popular among those that fancy adipose fin photography …

The Orange Finned Bull Trout

Especially popular amongst the unfortunate anglers whose primary quarry gave him the Cyprinid Finger, despite pockets full of test flies and sure things.

Note: I’ll be doing extensive work related travel between now and Christmas, so posting will be shortened and brief, and only part of each week. This gives you a welcome breather – and allows me a bit of time off from the relentless invention of news that you would as soon do without.

You can blame Bin Laden for your lack of felt soles

He's restored us to greatness One of the great frustrations of fly fishing has been our collective hope that the rest of the planet would view our small hobby as something larger, perhaps embracing it as a way of life, or reason for a conservationist Jihad …

… how through us society would stop tossing empty water bottles into the creek, how we would adopt sustainable fisheries by letting a few small ones go, and would restore the reverence for Mother Nature, rather than letting industry blacken both the bitch’s eyes instead.

We were ignored with little fanfare, so we played the invasive species card; with us merry band of outdoorsmen alternately infecting or defending all comers from Green Slime – and the spectacle of your city streets coated in slug tracks while your women were hunted by multi-armed creatures with eight eyeballs …

Still they yawned at our quaint, yet “fringe” message, given their offspring were tatted as to be indistinguishable from the Alien Menace, and their womenfolk were already hunted by nearly everything able to carry a beer … cold or otherwise …

But to restore us to prominence is the news that we’ve regained the Holy War label, now that its been revealed that the World Trade Center was merely a diversionary raid by Al Qaeda – and Bin Laden was after bigger payback, infecting the nation’s food supply …

… or infecting McDonald’s, which is pretty much the same thing.

Dozens of foreign insects and plant diseases slipped undetected into the United States in the years after 9/11, when authorities were so focused on preventing another attack that they overlooked a pest explosion that threatened the quality of the nation’s food supply.

At the time, hundreds of agricultural scientists responsible for stopping invasive species at the border were reassigned to anti-terrorism duties in the newly formed Homeland Security Department – a move that scientists say cost billions of dollars in crop damage and eradication efforts from California vineyards to Florida citrus groves.

– via The Huffington Post

In another couple of months this will be blamed on the Democrats or the Republicans, but we’ll know what really happened …

Was I CalTrout or Trout Unlimited I’d have a dozen lawyers filling out grant requests for defending the borders in the absence of all those Ph.D’s allocated to something else …

What do you call a girl with two black eyes, other than moth bait.

Now they want the soft hackles We call it “Teardown Wednesdays” – where midweek shows and no massive oil spill has occurred on your favorite waterway, no invasive species is blissfully munching its way through your garage roof, and your daughter appears interested in an egghead for once, versus “SPaZ” the class psycho-killer …

… and you breathe that long sigh of relief knowing that the weekend is close, the home team is 4-1, and you might just eke out the remainder of the week as a 99%’er without suffering further…

Which is why we delight in grinding those rose-tinted spectacles underfoot, as we showcase the demise of your feather collection knowing greed will architect the demise of your soft hackle stash, given the speed you’ll pile these onto eBay.

It’s the next fashion menace designed to have you at war with Momma and the entire feminine contingent, which you know you can’t win.

kirk_by_your_side

Now that the premium saddles have been purchased for the next couple of years the unscrupulous have entered the market with every other feather, selling everything from bundled goose biots to Turkey blood feathers, and the howls of the duped are as loud as those glimpsing Two Girls, One Chalice …

It’s a great way to unload all those freshly discovered moth infestations. Just empty all the eggs out of the bag, smooth over the chewed part, and call it hair awesomeness …