Author Archives: KBarton10

More Freebie Scissors for fly casting clubs

scissor_spiderI’ve got additional defective scissors to dispense should your fly casting club wish to assist prospective students in defraying their new vice …

… yes, vice. You didn’t think it was possible to promote immoral behavior with such innocent intentions, but by urging them to tie flies, and given their well known propensities for spiraling out of control on any fishery-based science – the coveting of the neighbor’s tabby, and frittering away the child’s college fund follows, means you’re peddling sin.

Those that participated in the last round of freebies will remember it’ll be a mixture of stainless and tungsten styles, all will be operational, some may open or close a bit rough, may have one tip slightly longer than another, or a defect in visuals – but all will serve a student well.

My mail contact information is on the “About” link at the top of the page, drop me a note with your club mailing address, and I’ll get the packages out this weekend.

This will be a first come, first serve queue.

Can you flippinbelieveit ?, Palin says “Dig Dig Dig” on Pebble

With 24000 pages of email from the Sarah Palin regime just released to the public, I figured none of our guys would wade into all that puffery to glean how the Pebble mine fared, as that’s asking way too much of us action-oriented types … palinmail

Meanwhile the press is focused on the next extra-tasty history rewrite, or something scandalous. The Pebble Mine hardly garners a shrug given the possibility of secret love children sequestered away by shadowy housekeepers, paid with hush money. Given the torrid state of affairs of our politicos, little wonder the issues take a back seat to gossip.

There’s about five pages of email on Pebble and plenty of side-bar banter about similar projects as Miss Dimwit holds court with her closest aides.

Keough’s 2012 harvest is mostly committed, no word yet from Whiting

It’s a simple question really. Given that Grizzly hackle is critical to most western dry flies, bass bugs, saltwater streamers, and most minnow imitations, just how long can you last on your current stockpile?

… or are you waiting for the saddles to breach the $500 per barrier on eBay, before unloading while the market’s hot …

While I’ve chided you many times in the past about, “seeing a good deal and jumping on it with both feet,” this is liable to be the first such shortage felt by this latest generation of fly tiers – where the idea of hoarding and stockpiles get mulled over while you survey what storage remains in the man cave …

Hair tinsel, 410 degrees melt point = polyester, same as ours

Us older tiers can remember when Belding-Cortescelli phased out Nymo thread, and how we bought every spool we could scrounge in advance of that dark moment.

It appears we’ll be left with the more expensive neck hackles, which may or may not be a suitable substitute, and we’ll still get plenty of Chinese saddles (6” – 7”) in Chinchilla (currently $70 for 18 feet strung), but it’s looking like the genetic saddles will be MIA for a goodly spell, much longer than first anticipated.

Hana Johnson, president of Hair Flairs, a Florida company that distributes feathers and other beauty products to salons in the United States and Canada, said she has sold a million feathers so far this year. That compares to 3,000 in 2010.

“We’ve been spinning our little feather wheels like hamsters since day one,” she said.

Hair Flairs has already bought the bulk of feathers that will be produced in 2012 by Bill Keough at Keough Hackles in southwest Michigan.

– via Reuters.com

There’s about 20-50 articles on this phenomenon going to print daily, worldwide. I scan them all to dig out new developments. Every facet is being debated, from the euthanizing of chickens, the squeals of new owner’s delight, the finger wagging of us fly fishing types, and the sudden interest on ramping production of those vendors torn between profits and angry phone calls from more traditional customers.

Practitioners are on record adoring their flexibility and temporary nature, they can buy multiple colors to match multiple outfits, can add and remove them at will, so they can mix, match, and amass collections, and the chicken farmers and fly shops adore them for it.

Suggesting everyone but us is happy, the fad has legs, and we’ll have to make do with less. I would expect most fly shops will soon be taking a back seat to better funded salon merchandisers like Hair Flairs, especially if they’re buying an entire year’s output at a go.

I’ll keep my fingers crossed that Keough or Whiting doesn’t sell the farm and retire outright.

Just a gentle nudge, the chicken you save may be your Adams

mindcontrol Dammit Goebbels, I read your book!

at least the part about how to bend society to your will using a mind deadening mix of rumor, fear, and alienation, playing up the perceived differences between the splinter group and mainstream.

My quarry frequents the Tofu aisle. Impressionable vegetable radicals intent on turning lead into gold, planting a couple of electrodes into curdled bean juice and zapping up a couple flavorful steak facsimiles, it never happens but we do love their optimism.

Just outside of view I taped a handheld recorder under the lint shield at the local Safeway, playing low volume Rebecca Black interspersed with the sounds of a thousand roosters getting their heads separated from their “hair extensions.”

Figuring that as soon as most of the “extension-eligible” realize harvesting a chicken is synonymous with decapitation via dull bandsaw, they might rethink all this fashionista crap, allowing us to pocket thousands of precious hackles tossed unceremoniously in dumpsters – free for the taking …

Actually things are getting out of hand now that screaming teenagers are running over the birds intentionally, in public

My efforts appear to be yielding fruit, a hint of  anti-extension propaganda beginning to show, and the promise of much more, based on a couple of manila envelopes tucked under the door at PETA, who were horrified that an entire generation of young folks assumed them feathers grew only on the chicken’s nugget.

In order to save Whiting from a very profitable demise, I’d suggest each of you add a bit of misinformation to your spouse’s favorite beauty forum. All them feather lusting fashion noobs have millions of questions which you can provide much needed answers …

You should warm quickly to their patter as they’re similar to the Drake forums, but with a lot more f-bombs.

Just a little nudge

Nothing hostile or degrading, just a nudge  …

Save Bristol Bay so we can keep picking on little guys

smallfish I suppose the good news is that none of us has cracked under the pressure and sent pictures of The Family Jewels to some anonymous campus sweetheart, but that’s coming.

Looking down, I think I’ll be safe enough, given that I haven’t seen mine in a couple of decades, but the rest of you concern me.

With societal censure clinging to us outdoorsy types like a dark cloud, issues like Catch & Release, invasive species, trespass, the despoiling of the watershed with our two and four wheeled gas guzzlers, planted versus wild, and the delight we show in blowing daylight through the arse end of anything exhaling CO2, have painted a bright target on our backs.

Now all them fellows we teased in school roam the halls of science and are determined to blame us for undoing millions of years of genetic selection, how all the small fish is our doing.

After studying data going back to 1943, Kendall has discovered that the average length of a (Bristol Bay) sockeye salmon is now 14 millimeters (0.25”) shorter than it used to be. She also discovered that the number of sockeye that spent two, instead of the normal three years, out at sea before coming upstream to lay their eggs, had increased by 16%, suggesting Mother Nature was trying to make up for losses incurred due to fishing.

via PhysOrg.com

While nets and the size of their mesh is doing the bulk of the selection, our squeezing the life out of the big fish so we can show Ma, thumping the SOB as its bigger then most, or bouncing Fatty off the rocks while the guide gets pictures 62 through 74, has to play some small part.

What took thousands or even millions of years of evolution to accomplish, has been undone in just a couple of centuries of human fishing practices.

Just a reminder that you guys suck.

It couldn’t have been me, all I ever catch is dinks …

Real Anglers wipe the Goo on their pants leg

Flo-Green Artificial Leech I can finally ditch the expensive gear and G-suit necessary to keep arm, rod, and line in the same dimension. Shortly, I’ll be donating a Semi worth of rotting pelts, feathers and synthetics to the local casting club, along with my collection of waders and never used, newly illegal, felt soled wading shoes …

… only because I’ll be jettisoning the company of you grim and overly serious fly fishing types for the company of wide-smiling, truly genteel folk.

Sweaty, happy fellows that welcome you with a hearty backslap and firm handshake, insisting your lawn chair scoots in as close to theirs as is possible (makes passing chips easier), and are smart enough to stay out of the cold damn freshet in the first place.

That’s because real men can hit the other bank from where they’re sitting, and if there’s any goo left from filching goody out of a jar, that’s nothing a brisk wipe on the pants leg won’t fix …

That whole “lean and predatory extreme angler” bit kicked to the curb in favor of “extreme buffalo wing eating”, or “extreme bankside alcoholism”, complete with “X-treme tossing of empties” over that fleshy shoulder.

Now that I’ve left the priesthood, I’ll be able to hold a steady relationship with a female of the species, I’ll be able to catch and gut stomp anything edible, and I can finally fill that lonesome freezer humming in the garage without fear of reprisal …

yellow_nightcrawlersBecause Bait fishing is Cool again …

We’ll leverage the secret food that makes worms take on fluorescent colors, tinker with the DNA so science dubs them both single and ©Artificial, allowing me to skirt most restrictions (rubs hands together), and lay waste to your favorite corner of the Pristine.

With my new Artificial Fluorescent Leeches® you’ll be dumping all that wasteful and expensive ostrich on those Intruders, opting to spin some EcoGreen® fibers instead … their constant wiggling a bit of a distraction initially, but that’ll soon pass …

… (especially when your buddy just blanked …)

I can’t imagine not adding a bit of refried bean to the current chow, inducing flatulence and the Dry version of the worm floating leech®.

Absent all them secret handshakes, the knowledge of thousands of useless fly patterns, most dating back to the Pharaohs, and me no longer alienating some splinter cell with every comment spoken, it’ll be fishing as it was meant to be, simple and pleasant.

Dare I say, even Born Again?

… and we stank, and Dad scored a couple of Hot Dogs … and …

Before bamboo, before graphite, long before we learned to curl an upper lip, before we could distinguish light and heavy, spinning from bait casting, and fly – prior to swearing off the Unclean Thing – and back when everything  was mystery, fear, and wonderment, there was this fishing stuff…

Dad mentioned it, and we assumed it was fun due to the change in Poppa’s face and tone when he rehashed it with his liquored up buddies around the kitchen table. We were ordered off to bed, but it sounded like a big thing; a place where Ma feared to tread, whose practitioners returned home bearing nasty stuff that stank.

We adored nasty stuff that stank …

… until Ma mentioned it was dinner.

We were all there once

Before we got all know-it-all, before we argued whether a bead headed fly was still a fly, before indicators were considered dry flies, before we caught everything and claimed double that …

… we were a blank canvas.

… and it was cold, and it was fun, and it was us that was hooked.

Too big to fail was an interesting experiment, not likely to happen again, which is why Kaufmann’s Streamborn wasn’t bailed out.

The latest issue of Angling Trade brings together a number of articles related to the growing gulf between anglers, fly shops, and manufacturers, given that each is struggling to evolve and survive in the face of a double dip recession.

It’s probably their best issue yet, but after digesting it from cover to cover I’m unsettled by some of the commentary.

Maybe we should all wake up and smell the coffee. It isn’t about hair salons, or Costco, or even big box stores and direct sales over the Internet. It’s about who really cares about fly shops, and who backs words with action. Any action. Think on that, and you already know who has your back, and who doesn’t.

Naturally I’ve got my own ideas about how all this is supposed to work, and knowing that us taxpayers share an increasing frustration over posturing politicians, CEO’s, and those that nearly bankrupted the economy, yet I’m still a little surprised that someone would think we owe anything to anyone that wasn’t earned the old fashioned way.

Why does someone in this industry think I owe an underfunded childhood fantasy a decent living?

There’s little to fear in a good Darwin-esque pruning of fly shops, and with the economy teetering on the brink of another possible swoon, my responsibility is to look out for me and mine.

China as manufacturing juggernaut

With a literate and professional clientele, one possible shakeout is reflected in the upheaval of the fly fishing media business. It’s not so much dead tree versus digital as it is frustrated anglers realizing they can do a better job themselves – with an explosion of eZine’s to back up that bold claim.

A dozen or so that I’m aware of – and probably a half dozen or so that I’m not, with non-existent costs and imaginary profits. They’ll persist long enough to dilute the Dead Tree crowd a bit more – perhaps becoming the last straw for a few old timey companies, given the high costs of print, and leaving a few digital “labor-of-love-zines” that are the voice of some edgy niche, just to keep the print survivors honest.

While each of the Angling Trade articles speak to a separate niche within the overall industry, the common thread uniting all of them appears to be the question, “when is it okay to break the traditional specialty business relationship between manufacturer and shop to save your own arse?”

Evolution being impossible without breaking a few eggs.

The reality is I don’t need Scott, Sage, Echo, Orvis, Hardy, Thomas & Thomas, Winston, Loomis, and all their ilk to keep me in fly rods. I could lose two or three of these hoary old brands and not miss a thing.

In contemporary graphite rods, the difference in their tackle is more marketing fluff than tangible feel – and it’s been that way for some time – fly rods being like cars, with devotees and zealots devoted to their respective brands. Yet rod companies remain aloof, they never asked me whether I liked two-piece better’n three-piece rods, and now that you’re hawking three deadening ferrules on a nine foot rod, I’m wondering what in hell they’re thinking about.

In short, we share the same rarified levels of loyalty for one another …

Everyone is looking for an elusive, evil “middleman” so they can drive profits up finally drive costs down, but who is that shadowy guy, and isn’t he the shop that you are telling ME to save?

K.C. Walsh, president of Simms Fishing Products, also
acknowledged that fly shops need to make a living. But, when some shops are selling gear that competes with his company’s products, it does change the relationship somewhat.

So the big manufacturer’s break with tradition and opt for the big box stores and go Internet-direct to the customer. That’s been done before, it appeared to work for the old Fenwick business model in the Eighties, whose rods were the “Sage” of its day, yet were in every Big 5, most gas stations, supermarkets, and were the premier brand for the little niche shops.

Niche shops were robust with some crazy-good talent and able to distinguish their value-add from one another, more failed than prospered but that’s always been true of small hobby markets whose proprietors fail to fund and plan their retirement livelihood.

Service has always been the key to success, especially so given the homogeneity of products from one shop to the other. The difference now is that so few of the old skills remain, it may be who can react quickest that determines survival. Dumping the jobbers and stocking their shelves the old fashioned way – knowing the product and where it exists in the wild.

Support My ass

In retaliation for being jilted, the small shops band together to make purchasing alliances and serving manufacturers with an extended index finger. Then they’ll opt to leverage Asia as manufacturing juggernaut to purchase low cost shop-branded rods and reels, and import them to our shores along with millions of invasive species – complements of tainted bilge water.

“The minimums are usually around 250 rods per style. If you can justify that quantity, then you can buy your own private label from China.”

The rod making space gets a bit more crowded given the shop-branded rods that reroute the bulk of the rod dollar to the middleman (whose now a rod company) and lacking the loyalties of proprietor and his legion of sales associates, and still stung at being jilted, the manufacturer stares damp eyed as the sales staff point to the cheaper rod, the in-house brand.

The Chinese make a pretty mean rod for $100 wholesale, and I should know as I own five of them already.

They’ll ignore copyright law and the government will let them. All the marketing departments work to invent Superkalifragilistic-XP-alladocious Graphite with its ion-woven crystalline lattice, and how much better it is than any other graphite, they’ll steal immediately. Given their steadfast ignorance of Bill Gate’s Windows copyright (costing Bill into the Billions) just why do you feel you’ll fare any better?

All the tackle will acquit themselves well, and should make enough inroads in the marketing hype to get their own measure of respect.

Which will buy the angling press a little time to grow a pair, given the past “nothing but superlatives” style of review we’ve had to endure. That self-same style adopted just as quickly by the eZines and bloggers so the river of manufacturer freebies flows unimpeded.

The shops aren’t immune to Darwinian law by any means. Given the materials vended are from the same lackluster jobbers, whose rod selection is part shop brand and a few of the commercial variety, whose counter-men are amiable enough but don’t distinguish themselves from the competition, I wonder why I’m expected to be fiercely loyal to some other fellow’s underfunded job fantasy?

… and we should feel really good about it too, anything less is unpatriotic.

You’ve got every Spey and Switch rod ever made, but I don’t do either.

You’ve unloaded all your Grizzly saddles to the salon down the street. Now that I’m darkening your doorway you shrug your shoulders in mock helpless.

I inquire about local conditions and now I’m trying to extricate myself from a full day guide trip, and a new rod, when I only wanted to know which flies to use …

Now guides have a way to cash in on their product expertise and client connections. Pro Guide direct (proguidedirect.com), an online retailer of fly fishing and other gear, offers 15% of a transaction to the guide who refers it.

… and all I’ve found is another SOB with his hand out.

A run of the mil shop lacking in personality and talent, that doesn’t make an effort to get me to return – to “brand” their service as well as their tackle and other offerings, is owed nothing.

I can buy Twinkies anywhere, and they taste the same regardless of their source.

The Game hasn’t changed only prices have

When rods were fiberglass and the Pfleuger Medalist was king, we were out the door for about a hundred dollars, and a full outfit with waders, vest and shoes, was about a hundred more.

Now, we’ve got $800 rods, $400 reels, $200 boots, $700 waders, and a full ensemble is the better part of $3000.

I’d say during that same period, the quality and breadth of most shops has eroded. A couple of movie-based surges in interest, more fish considered fly-worthy, an increase in tackle and the accessories commensurate, and the slow demise of quality staff, as the best of the best opt for guiding where the money is better than tending counter.

What cost only a couple of days pay is now a full month’s paycheck, without a corresponding increase in shop service level. All this in an uncertain economy, where 20% of my neighbors are underwater on their house, whose child just graduated college at wants to move back in, just as they were about to mail their house keys to the bank …

Paradise is modestly priced in 2011 at only $1,995 per week.
It’s a point that resonates in this economy and makes sales easier.

No, Bigtime tackle manufacturer, if you want to break with tradition and eliminate the middleman, you’d better be certain of your clever new business plan, because I’m not going to keep your shops afloat, I don’t owe you or them a farthing.

Especially now that I’ve got two rivers I don’t fish anymore – mostly because of the steady price increases finally caught the eye of the criminal element, and an empty rod tube in the front seat nets us anglers a broken window, the contents of our car rifled and quickly vanished.

No one bitched at Whiting after they bumped prices upward given the massive demand for hair hackle, in fact most applauded – making it one of the few success stories of recent times.

The rest of the industry won’t be so fortunate however, they’ll have to evolve less precipitously to ensure they don’t anger too many at one time, or plunge the entire sector into a free fall price war.

But I don’t owe the three shops in my area a damned thing, given the only thing distinguishing them is their parking.

… and among all them long noses is statistics

cowfartjuice The hardest of all fishing tasks falls on your circle of trusted companions.

They’ve gone fishing with you enough  to recognize blatant from bald-faced, but they continue to wrestle with  facial tells on minor infractions, the stretching of truth, a couple inches added, or a couple phantom fish added to your evening’s tally.

The biggest of windies earns their collective scorn and the much coveted “complete bullshit” label, similar to a brief shunning but with less ceremony. Less egregious falsehoods earning a sliding scale of ire, from “horseshit” to simply outright lies and exaggeration.

Now that they’ve bottled it ($60.00 an ounce) you can simply dispense it on them like Holy Water (vest attachment extra).