All I know is I’m missing a double fistful of dry flies …
I made it back from the woods with all my tungsten intact, but the dry fly box had some conspicuous holes in it – with the only clue being directions to a party I’d never heard of … and scrawled in crayon across the fly leaf was the single word, “thanks.”
(I think TC meant to link to the trip narration, above.)
Tom Chandler of the Trout Underground has been rather tight lipped of late so I knew something was in the works…
Espionage being crucial to us dirty water anglers – and with an embossed invite to fish the Upper Sacramento as a token gesture his guest, provided I bought all new wading attire and tackle, I figured to scoop the rest of the angling press by sneaking into his workshop the night before – to see what he’s working on ..
Wally isn’t a threat unless you run out of Slim Jim’s …
While innovative, I could see nothing “revolutionary” in its design or utility – nor could I find any bamboo present, although it was locked and I couldn’t make out the faux wood in the center console …
I’m not sure whether it’s the “Slaw Dodge” or “Slawdog” – the badging was still incomplete.
It’s a helluva gamble given the state of the economy, but with GM gone it appears the path to World Domination may go through Mount Shasta.
By this evening I’ll be waist deep in icy unclean water. It won’t have been that way before I arrived, but after I dip them big feet into all that fast moving pristine, it’ll make metam-sodium seem tame in the comparison.
The first of my “national average” 6 trips to the unspoilt – which will be unable to contain the greasy brown slick that comes off my outerwear, and will render all them nose-inna-air rarified fish into easy prey…
…or so I think.
I’ll be traveling incognito; Deerstalker set at a rakish angle, Meerschaum pipe with its well seasoned rosy-purplish tint, decked in Harris Tweed, and monocle clenched under the shade of manicured brow – offset with a hint of gayly colored ribbon affixing it to my starched uppers.
I’ll commiserate with the parking lot attendant – clucking my tongue in dismay at the appearance of discarded water bottles, empty beef jerky wrappers, and the really insidious invasives – capable of taking your legs out from under you at the run, leaving only the bloody fingernail marks disappearing into newly-murky water.
The Petrochemical Willard, with an entourage of polysyllabic pandemics in every vest pocket, defiler of the Untouched, and beloved of Sausage Dogs.
We’ve played this game before; I try to wrench you into the 21st Century, and you’re content with the pasttime your poppa taught you. Still leery of professional fly fishing as a sport, televised or otherwise, and scowling while I insist competition would liven the small screen, and using NASCAR rules would make an interesting twist…
Spying an article on collegiate angling set my too-vivid imagination in motion. Rather than a gaggle of anglers, camp followers, and their entourage in an exotic venue, with apres-hatch masseuses, cold drinks, and sponsor’s hovering about, why not start the competition with a cavity search in the parking lot of the fly shop?
… then hand each fellow $1000 dollars for his entire ensemble; leaders, rod, flies, waders, boots, vest, floatant, absolutely everything – and only then turn them loose on the stream.
Like football we could show the ambulance crew close in on the guy that invested his cash in flies, and opting to wade wet – froze his equipment and succumbed to hypothermia.
… and there’s the agony of the top seed forgetting to buy a reel. We’ll have popcorn coming out our nose as he stuffs line in pocket, oblivious to zippers and dangling vest essentials, breaking off fish after fish – while we giggle over the *bleep* intensity of frequent outbursts.
There’d be the petulant fellow unwilling to part with a single Royal Trude – staring menacingly at the register total, insisting that in his state sales tax was 2% less – and he should get a waiver…
… and the fellow that drank far too much at the Scientific Angler’s party, and missed out on the #16 Adam’s ..
Most sports aren’t about identifying heroes any more; the cameras insist on tirades, tantrums, and villainy – we can moan from the sanctity of our couch when this week’s “Snidely Whiplash” makes it through another episode, after spiking his pal’s waders when the judges were distracted.
Then as each fellow is eliminated the remaining anglers could descend on him like a pack of wolves and tear his gear from lifeless fingers. All them young eyeballs glued to the screen learning valuable hunter-gatherer techniques to bully the bus and dominate their playground.
Oprah couldn’t resist that much testosterone, and we could fete them in all the daytime gossip venues.
Fly fishing has more than it’s fair share of opinionated insensitive types that could light up the small screen with pouts, scowls, and blame-storming. As everyone hates everyone else – a little blood or a couple of spilled drinks, a fist fight or gunfire, and we’d be rivaling the Ultimate Fight Network for Thursday night Primetime.
I figured I was uniquely qualified – knowing the stiff and austere demeanor of the Trout Underground, if either of us was capable of “hanging ten” it would be us native Californian’s, bro…
I routinely hang about 36, but that’s over my belt …
Like the Picante sauce, I’m not so sure dry fly purist’s aren’t always from out-of-state, fleeing to the coast to out themselves from whatever depraved closet their skeletons are hid.
I sure don’t fit the tawny, golden stereotype; don’t go near the surf without a sand spike and a couple pounds of anchovies, Speedo’s would cut off all blood to my entire body (and drain the blood of onlookers), so that’s out of the question – but if you wanted a treatise on surfboard wax, I’m learning more than I care to – and more product is enroute.
I’m still adjusting to their technical lingo, but as far as I can tell they’re the only fellows doing to wax what we’re doing to carbon fiber, and with the advent of numerous synthetic waxes – free of paraffin – this is where we’ll find the next really clever replacement to the toilet ring.
… and there’s much less tendency for strangers to recoil from a pasty brownish lump if reassured it belongs on a surfboard, versus a lavatory.
Tropical, Cold, and Lukewarm, describe the melt point of the material so it doesn’t slough off once applied. It also describes whether it’ll be stiff or soft at room temperature and how it’ll wear with you running threads and other materials over its surface.
I’m trying all three temperatures just to see what the differences are to the touch – and despite the claims of “super tacky” or “stickiest” there’s considerable differences in each compound.
Wax has fallen from grace over the last 20 years, and those that learned during those years don’t use it – despite the continued use of materials we tamed with wax many decades ago. I’d attribute that to the fly tying thread industry – whose unyielding-decidedly-unsticky version used on pre-waxed thread turned off an entire generation of tiers to its benefits.
Now that I can get a synthetic wax – yet still choose between coconut, mango, bubblegum, or anchovy scents, I’ll be the bane of sausage dogs the north woods.
I use wax on many materials unrelated to thread, it’s water repelling characteristics are especially useful for those thin, tight dry fly bodies, and can counteract the absorbent fur nemesis to some degree.
Considering 70 grams of wax is a decade, 99¢ worth is a prudent investment, half the price of a toilet gasket and in line with the New Frugality, and as the advert mentions, it’s globally right on, Bra ..
… and yes, TC – you can test the Sex Wax …
Pop always told me to “never turn your back on the Ocean.” It’s that mantra that all outdoor’s types learn over time, keep attuned to your surroundings as you never know what lies on the trail ahead.
I was reminded of that yesterday, I’m coasting into the parking area and greeted by the remnants of some audiophile’s window – some fellow with a taste for fish and music, who met up with other fellows with a taste for his CD player.
Not much he can do but swear.
The urban interface requires a “fishmobile”; a battered rig with everything visible, no rod tubes in the back seat, a factory sound system lacking embellishment, and nothing but old cigar wrappers and empty soda cans for the crowbar crowd.
They’ll give it the once over and head for your car instead.
While the shady spot looked inviting, parking out in the sun meant all them dog walkers, strollers, and joggers would be able to keep an eye on my rig.
There’s not a soul on the river despite my late start – likely because most were smarter and saw the sudden increase in flow Saturday. I worked my way through the upper area without a grab, and was joined by a fellow using a switch rod.
The fish were there – but it was comeuppance time. They’re swimming between my legs without giving my flies a second glance, and I was thinking of the fellow with the smashed window, and hoping he’d received better …
It was a rare chance to study Shad behavior; big water rarely offers the opportunity to see much detail on depth and movement. The above fish were part of a large school that swam by me repeatedly. The three fish shown are just off the bottom – and it appeared as if the entire school moved around in circles shifting en mass either farther out or closer to my vantage point.
They were close enough to “highstick” – and I tried that with two or three different flies with no luck. I could easily see the gaudy beast swing through them, but nothing gave chase.
I dropped lower to watch the Spey caster, first asking whether he minded me doing so, it might have been the Windowless Angler and there’d be no telling his mood if I tromped up close and squatted on his turf. Sitting on the bank behind him allowed me to see what he did that I wasn’t doing, and I’ve got a better understanding of how to manhandle the Double Spey and Snap T casts.
Resigned to another fishless fishing trip, I headed back to my rig.
“Never turn your back on the Ocean” – and I spot a glimmer of movement in the grass ahead of me on the trail …
I wave off the approaching dog walker and stopped to snap a picture – of the biggest, best-fed rattlesnake I’ve encountered in the brush, about four feet long and armed with six or seven rattles. With the parking lot as close as it was my guess is the trash cans were prime “riffles” for local rodents, and “Meathead” sure looked like he’d eaten large last night.
It boiled down to mutual respect, I moved him along with the rod tip off the trail and out of harm’s way, all the while thanking my stars for being attuned to my surroundings.
I caught up with the two elderly ladies and their dogs and mentioned my find, to their combined gasp, “Oh my lord, rattlesnakes? Here?” – the poodles shot me an ugly glance as they didn’t care for being carried home …
The shad flies looked vibrant but my “FrankenStone” will be one of many beneficiaries. Blame SMJ’s coffee for clouded judgement, but shaggy and stitched works with both fur and Fritz.
Increase the amount of black vernille to hide or show the fritz underbody as your whim suits you. Brandon insisted on some fritz-based “fly porn” – and I banged out a mixture of trout and shad flies to restock empty slots.
The above closeup shows Fritz detail; the nylon fibers took the orange dye – and the opalescent polyester is unaffected by the color and remain transparent.
This is the 16mm large size wrapped as a body and hackle – a big bright meaty SOB that might pull some hoary ancient trout out of the depths and into your lap.
I’m fiddling with Targus hooks, the 3908T model (XS, duratin finish) that replaces the vanished Mustad 3908C. Chrome hooks are in awful short supply, and while I have plenty of old Mustad’s – they won’t last more than 5-6 seasons at the rate I’m gifting them.
Targus hooks appear to be a great substitute – but those silly 25 packs cause me to grate teeth together. I’ve mentioned it before; fly shops used to stock 10-20 boxes of 100, now it seems they stock 10-20 packs of 25. I mention needing 500 and the fellow looks at me and blinks…
More Shad action tomorrow, and a Thursday departure for the woods so I can shake off all those invasive species in the Trout Underground’s backyard.
As the bloggers whose content is most likely to contain a semi-dressed hardbody – veiled in some really thin fishing angle, in a round about kind of way, and then maybe … You should know I lived your fantasy last night, and it didn’t live up to your steamy advert.
The idea has merit; young vibrant females (humans this time) draped in various stages of undress, encountered while pursuing this most worthy of all pastimes, is solid. The deed itself, leaves much to be desired…
I suppose the restocking of the Underwear River’s underwear was a good thing, I know now from whence it comes – and after last night’s festivities the female articles now outnumber the male. Biologist’s think repopulation occurs as part of the upstream flight of mating insects – I now know that’s horribly wrong, it’s the downstream drift of mating insects that restores instream substrate.
I’ve never heard the word “like” used as noun, verb, and adjective, and all in the same sentence. I’m thinking these Californio’s were attempting to reestablish the SoCal Mallrat species of the 1980’s; like gross, like ee-Eww, like wet, like never, like Oh My God, like shut up. We’ve always insisted on exporting culture, but like – enough already.
… I did get fairly misty eyed over the loafers-no-socks-Miami-Vice-linen blazer memory – but then I’ve always had a weakness for Ray-ban Wayfarer’s…
I’m innocently waiting between rafts of youngsters, darting glances ahead and behind hoping not to hook the celebrants – while being assaulted by firm expanses of tanned flesh absent restraint. My thoughts were of you fellows – wondering whether your fantasy of Trout & Angling would survive the evening, or whether both blogs would be semi-chaste thereafter.
Sound carries quite a distance on the water, here’s the best quotes from the young ladies to caption your next Permit tattoo, or the next girl treating a boat rod like a stripper pole:
“He’s fly fishing, Old People do that…”
“Eww, fish – that’s so, like gross.”
It’s gut-wrenching, I know – but the shapely ladies that you depict, slathered in lanolin and gazing at the screen like a fat kid steaming a bakery window, the ones that’ll tear the waders right off your portly, aging frame – like, think you’re old – possibly quaint, but mostly old.
I got the “dime” tour last night – not just perched on the rocks, but prominent in the bow – with the boyfriend’s deep monotone, urging the buxom lass to play with her “cat” – for our everyone’s their mutual entertainment.
… for thirty verdammt minutes.
My lack of interest in the proceedings added fuel to the fire – and now the slack water behind me is occupied with … like … them.
Watching Grandma on the deck opposite swallow her dentures was kind of fun, but neither of us saw any feline.
I’m picking lint out of my reel, attempting to look occupied as another of Cleopatra’s barges idles past, doing my best to remain both cordial and responsive to the display of drunken debutantes and their beau’s..
… upstream I hear, “Dude!, Bro, go left, Go LEFT – you’re gonna hit him!”
I’m retrieving the metal tipped bludgeon wading staff from underwater where it’s unseen – and from the high pitched voices I can tell they’re at least 40 yards off, I’ve got plenty of time to sidestep and sweep their decks with either canister or grape – when I hear the gal chime in:
“You’d better get your act together, that guy looks mean.”
Best quote yet, and perceptive too …
Nothing can match Mother Nature’s natural beauty – especially when they’re untouched by Man. You can tell ’cause they float Be careful what you wish for – as room for a couple false casts may quickly outweigh both pert and upthrust by a long shot.
We understand you mean it all in good fun, as do I. Those belligerent, drunken boyfriends won’t see it that way, and as non fishing agnostics they’ll take as much glee wrapping precious cane around your neck as splintery graphite – whichever rod you’re holding..
Eddie Bauer filing for bankruptcy is just a small footnote today, but in my youth it was one of the better players in the fly fishing tackle mixture.
It was rare to have a dedicated fly shop back in the 1970’s – and Eddie Bauer, Aberchrombie & Fitch, and a couple of small sporting goods stores were all we had in the day.
In addition to fishing tackle, Eddie Bauer had the greatest single assortment of Sierra Cups known to Mankind; gleaming stainless steel contraptions that reeked of roughing it – far beyond the beaten path.
With the tiny backpacking and fly fishing markets well in hand, both vendors opted for the Metrosexual-Banana Republic-Mall Bait niche, and while enjoying brief resurgence, it appears they’ve bit off more debt than an economic downturn can service.
The proposed buyer, CCMP, is a middle-market private equity firm that once served as a buyout arm of JPMorgan Chase. The firm aims at deals up to $3 billion, and it boasts of its operational expertise in turning around companies. Last year, it hired Greg Brenneman, who helped fix Burger King and Continental Airlines, as its chairman.
There’s nothing quite like an epic outage of materials on the eve of a trip – where your own shortcomings cause you to lack whatever was required to catch fish…
I’ve been fishing rather than shopping – temporarily abandoning the quest for more materials in lieu of using some in anger.
Running out of Pink Cactus chenille was epic, so were the oaths sworn in the semi-darkness, wherein only trace amounts of the “perfect fly” would be available on the morn.
Steve Parton has addressed the entire Cactus Chenille issue for me. Steve has a store in the UK that sells “Fritz” by the pound and I’m no longer dependant on the microdot of material Hareline sees fit to hide behind its label.
The bulk skeins are available through the ebay version of Spartonfly, available in UV treated, untreated, straggle style, and regular cactus chenille in 6mm (Hareline) and 16mm sizes. 100grams ($16) is about a 1/4 pound and should serve the average tyer for a decade or so – saving considerable money in the process.
There’s more than one kind of “Cactus chenille”; the coarse filament material the Roughfisher uses, and the soft fiber material sold by Hareline in the traditional 3 yard pack. Three yards is about 3 dozen flies; no sooner do you discover the Shad’s innate weakness than you’re back at the store looking at the empty hook where pink used to be…
This type of chenille is (usually) 50% opalescent and 50% nylon, and while nylon takes acid dye quite well, the opalescent component – usually polyester, won’t. That gives the finished material a lighter sheen, as polyester requires a very hot dye bath with caustic chemicals to assist the color absorption.
Not seeing the colors I needed, Steve was nice enough to custom dye five colors of the 6mm and 16mm at my request, so if you don’t see what’s needed, drop the fellow a note.
Custom dyeing requires a reference color, so always supply a picture on the Internet that your vendor can see to give him which of the thousand shades of Olive you’re after… As different monitors and different resolutions can change colors a couple shades, send him the color by mail if you’re after an exact match.
The 16mm actually wraps as a hackle, its filaments being of long enough length to lose the chenille look. It makes a hell of a comet collar for steelhead and will cause shad to turn pirouettes on demand.
Roughfisher has been busy tinkering as well, and appears to have triggered a sudden lust for white on his home water.