Author Archives: KBarton10

They’re not too easy to catch, Obese fish are required to keep us all in proportion

We release the small ones I see it as a sign of the times, anglers unhappy with managed impoundments whose proprietors are following Ronald McDonald’s nutritional guidelines. Perhaps it’s the effect of four beef patties-special-sauce-lettuce-cheese-on-a-sesame-seed-bun slowing our desire to live reflexes just enough so only equally obese prey are vulnerable.

It’s a pity that girls don’t appreciate “big fish” – as us pear shaped anglers would be the new fashion esthetic – splitting time lolling in streamside currents and megabucks Hollywood fitness classes where the formerly fit revive sagging movie careers under our watchful gaze. “Brad, ‘feel the burn’ means doubling the Jalapenos on that Bacon burger, now finish up them fries…”

As the popularity of carp fishing has increased, however, so has the size of the fish. In the last 30 years, the British record has risen by 30 per cent, from around 50lb to 65lb 14oz.

Us humans lag the UK record by a paltry 10%, as the CDC statistics show a similar weight gain in humans over the same period.

Calling it a “bait cannon” versus a “Drive Thru” is splitting hairs. Most of our food resembles pellets, once you peel back the glossy wrapper or the deep fried coating – and we’ve never cried “foul” unless our Tater Tots were chilly or our JuJu Fruits removed fillings.

Like man-made lakes, our refrigerator is a semi-sterile barren environment that needs enhancing with pre-packaged, preprocessed cartoon food with engaging names and incomprehensible ingredients.

A lake’s natural food supply sounds as difficult to build as trophy fish – and to their credit, the fish farmers have forsworn the drive thru – ensuring the fish have to move an occasional fin in order to secure their next shovel full of enriched pellet chow.

No, the real issue is that we’re larger. An inch or so in height per decade – nullified by about 4 inches of girth every fortnight. Fish species are growing smaller, with over harvest and pollution – and a smaller fish in a larger, pudgy hand looks … well, completely lame.

hemingway All them black and white bleeding fish hanging from gantries died with Hemingway, and we’re straining to hold a dead fish away from our stretch pants hoping the biggest thing dripping isn’t our chin. A far cry from the heroic glare rendered while crouched predatiously over a fallen yet noble foe.

Instead we’ll force feed Carp like milk-fed veal – hoping that their sodden torso overshadows our own ponderous flanks – hiding our bulk behind the fatted calf – while complaining loudly at the quality of the fishery.

I see it a bit differently than the article; we’ve screwed their habitat, kilt their most fit and vigorous bloodline with hatcheries, screwed their women  – and we begrudge the condemned a last meal?

Chesterfield’s, Marlboro’s or Doublemint gum, Sir?

That's a laundry hamper belted to his waist I wasn’t quite sure what to expect from the Old Girl – but with visiting dignitaries from the Greater Bay Area, I was hoping she wouldn’t simply disgorge undergarments and turn the evening into a lingerie-fest.

Being known as a Brownliner has its downside, typically it’s in the middle of the Pristine speech, where you’re recounting all the bright spots in neighboring flora and fauna, water clarity, leashed pets, and tidy beaches – and then a corpse floats past…

That’s when the Bronx Cheer and catcalls start, intermingled with, ” you drug us all the way up here to fish in …”

But the mighty Underwear River was on good behavior, and we only snagged three gym socks – which gave a good account of themselves before being flung in the general direction of the beach.

I hosted Brothers Eberle; SMJ – who recently confessed to being the elder, so I’m only talking to him via the comments section – and younger sibling Jeff – whom I falsely accused of fly stealing, pilfering, and worse.

…  and while I’m busy extolling the virtues of clean living and cleaner water, I bury a “carrot” fly just behind the dorsal of a Sacramento Sucker – a decently large specimen whom I’m now obligated to tow sideways up the river – while he does his best to do likewise with me.

It must’ve been the Kashi Bar chilling in the vest pocket – it’s a chum line into the heart of anything with an inferior mouth, like Tarzan yelling “Kree-gah” and the forest erupting with a herd of Pachyderms willing to stomp grass huts and wide eyed tribesmen alike..

SMJ had never been “kissed” by a Shad, and heretofore the Underwear hadn’t seen fit to show him anything but the cold shoulder. As luck would have it – careful scouring of the river bottom yielded every tree limb ever dipped in cold current, and some fish – real ones, chrome bright hellfighters …

Jeff Eberle with a nice female shad

I kept thinking SMJ was the “cigarette girl” as he’d lashed a laundry hamper to his waist hoping to cash in on all the free underwear I’d bragged about – and like everything else I’d promised – even the underwear were a disappointment.

I half expected him to enquire “Cohiba, Beef Jerky, or Marlboro’s, Sir?” – but he was intent on fishing and reluctant to share precious angling resources. I did manage to find a token Kashi bar to add to his larder – bursting with soy-goodness it would have been a musical footnote to the drive home.

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Stranger than fiction, odd fishing laws still on the books

Silly string has a season? I discovered the below list on a web page since forgotten. Makes you wonder about all those expensive Montana fly fishing seminars for women – and whether a citizen’s arrest isn’t in the offing… 

In California it is a misdemeanor to shoot at any kind of game from a moving vehicle, unless your target is a whale.

Idaho residents cannot fish from a giraffe’s or camel’s back.

It is illegal in Ohio to get a fish drunk. Also in this state do not go fishing for whales on a Sunday, It’s a no, no.

Don’t get caught catching crabs in Sarasota, Florida.

In Oklahoma and Seattle, Washington it is illegal to carry a fishbowl or aquarium onto a public bus because the sound of the splashing water may disturb other passengers.

It is illegal to catch a fish in Kansas with your bare hands.

You may not catch a fish in Pennsylvania with any body part except your mouth. Also dynamite cannot be used to catch fish.

Tennessee law says it is illegal to catch fish by lasso. (Too bad, it would make it so much easier to carry them back to the trailer park).

It’s illegal to fish from horseback in Utah.

In Muncie, Indiana it’s a crime to carry fishing tackle into a cemetery.

It is illegal in Vermont to whistle underwater. (Not to mention pointless, stupid and down right impossible).

Montana wins the prize in my opinion for stupid laws. It’s illegal for married women to go fishing alone on Sundays, and illegal for unmarried women to fish alone at all. It is also against the law for a man to knit during fishing season. This one is not fish related but definitely worth a mention… It is illegal to have a sheep in the cab of your truck without a chaperone. (There go my Saturday night plans).

Across the pond

Scotland– You cannot fish at all on Sundays.

Liverpool, England– It is illegal for a woman to be topless in public except as a clerk in a tropical fish store.

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Making them fearsome Dark Woods less so

I can’t promise she’ll fish, but that last hurdle to sharing a trail with an unwashed lout has certainly been blown apart…

Thank the Space Program – now that they’ve mastered the flexible “O” ring, they can turn their attention to miniaturized, dehydrated, pulverized, and pastes we can stuff into vests and enrich our streamside wilderness experience.

Plagued by the obvious obstacles in conducting human sexuality research in Zero-G, namely how to make a fellow whose neither bathed, shaven, or changed his underwear in six months – comely, NASA scientists overcame the natural revulsion of both parties really one party with a revamp of their 70’s hit “Tang.”

Girls cannot abide the unwashed angler in full rut – and noticeably shrink from our return. Like astronauts, we’re now equipped with the traditional arsenal of romantic enhancements, and like that rarified “first date” they’ll overlook our obvious shortcomings and focus on our potential …

Dehydrated Red Wine

Dehydrated Red Wine powder; you guzzled it out of a bottle, box, Bota bag, now with a gallon of branch water you can make the Dark Woods less so …

Or if you’ve a yen for Jello Shooters, just pour it into an old newspaper yielding an 8.2% Pixie Stix.

They’ll stumble right past the dirty clothes and unwashed dishes – and won’t even notice the old hound you boot off your bedroll. It’s how we suckered them to our dive in the first place, no?

The name on the map doesn’t match the name its earned

Leave them on and spare us all It’s the same thing I tell new employees, ” if I forget your name and call you ‘New Meat’ – don’t take it personal, I have a helluva time remembering names, but once I catch you filching my favorite donut I’ll remember your name … just not in a good way.”

I use placeholder names as a survival tactic. Angling authors (in any medium) learn to tiptoe around certain words; obvious ones like “always” and “never” – and the not-so-obvious, riffle names, geographical landmarks, and anything that identifies someone’s secret spot – despite it being common knowledge.

Writing is the ultimate in brinkmanship –  as the author is only a consonant away from being flamed cruelly, and over time develops “Spidey” sense – that tingle that alerts him to unguarded prose.

Placeholders are more fun than actual names – as most rivers and landmarks out West were named after the robber-baron owning the most real estate or railroads. Our landscape is dotted with capitalists whose surname is unwieldy at describing a gleaming river filled with voracious fish.

Reading about the Battle of Hue and its Perfume River earned my creek “the Little Stinking” – and for obvious reasons. Renaming something as lofty as the American River is problematic, but after three weeks of exploiting its chilly bosom, I’m calling it “the Underwear” from now on…

Snags have always been part and parcel to fishing, and sunken tree limbs and brush piles lighten our fly boxes considerably. There’s always a sense of relief when a sustained pull gives ground instead of snapping your fly off – but on the Underwear it’s a sense of foreboding.

This weekend was typical. One set of checkered boxers, one bikini bottom, and a pair of Tidy Whities –  resembling Rock Snot.

I’ve assumed that somewhere between Folsom Dam and my riffle are tenements whose clothlines stretch over the river, but the locals assure me its the rafting crowd that contributes with such regularity.

It’s that memory that makes barked knuckles pause enroute to the mouth. The Brownline is simple, avoid water – stem the blood flow by wrapping the wound in your shirt. Blue water is equally straightforward, clean the wound with chill water – then dance around yelling “owwie” before leaving in a huff.

Is the Underwear something betwixt the two? Blue water strained through cotton briefs is unappealing … and based on my catch rate the “run” of partially clad nubiles is two-thirds male … Equally offputting.

I suppose the “silver lining” of dredging all those undergarments is not having to purchase any, but those bikini bottoms do chafe something fierce ..

We’ll settle for bionic knees and a right wrist

I hit it Friday, I hit it Saturday, and it hit back Sunday, but we were able to piece together one able bodied angler from the pieces that weren’t swollen or stove-up.

“Jim” was an off duty San Francisco police officer that made the mistake of parking next to me in the pre-dawn gloom. He saw me donning my Neoprene Girdle and figured me for a friendly.

He’d never fished for Shad and said as much – and that’s all us neo-old timers need, some innocent angler not yet able to sort truth from fiction, where we can tell them tired war stories again with twice the embellishments.

I figured I owed large; the SFPD had been chasing me unsuccessfully most of my youth, and it was time I paid back.

He had bum knees and I had no right wrist, so it’s a couple of walking wounded leaning heavily on wading staffs for propulsion. The water’s natural buoyancy would alleviate his frailties, and I was hoping adrenaline would overshadow mine.

The postman had delivered a new Type VI Scientific Anglers shooting head for my seven weight, and I gratefully left the eight weight at home figuring the lighter rod would buy me an extra hour before wrist rigidity vanished and I buried something terribly sharp into terribly sensitive.

I wasn’t far wrong – breeze helped, as did the 20 turns of lead wire I’d added to the bead chain monstrosity. It had the aerodynamics of the venerable F-105 Thunderchief, nicknamed “Thud” for good reason.

Fishing was slow and much colder – with the morning marine layer persisting until 9 AM – driving a cold wind down the river. I’d managed to hook up with a half dozen fish but most came unbuttoned quickly.

Apparently my new pal had taken a plunge when his knee buckled, and as I turn around I spy him wringing clothing in the lee of a bush. He gives me the all clear and I’m waving acknowledgment about the same time hell busts loose.

I’m caught ill prepared, left hand in mid-air with three coils of running line, right hand on the rod. I’m shedding coils so I don’t sever any fingers, and swap the rod to the left in time to get a burst of bruised knuckles on the right hand. I’m in blue water so the hand goes to the mouth muffling my curses to a child’s mewling.

I can count at least nine fingers with the tip of my tongue so the wound ain’t fatal …

I’ve got one of those oversized hens on the other end, and while most of the fish are similar size and weight, every so often you hit a fish that’s noticeably larger than the rest.

… and owns the same paper thin jaw of its smaller cousin.

I recovered the bulk of the backing and monofilament and endured the three or four gallons of ice water the fish slopped over the wader top, managing to snap a single picture before she was released, which you can contrast with the standard hen fish below.

Average American River hen

You can see from the above the fingertips visible in the bottom of the frame. Contrasted with “Fatty” – a much larger specimen:

Fatty, compliments of superior genetics

It’s one of the unique elements to shad, the occasional genetic superfish. The California state record is 7lbs 5 ounces – which is an obscene amount of dynamite packed in such a small frame, and compared to the 11 pound records of the East Coast – is still small.

Note my reluctance to remove the fish from the water. It’s not a sudden “artsy” flavor to my out-of-focus photography; American Shad are shaped like Pumpkinseeds and have two rows of sharp scales running down their belly. There’s no “give” to the fish, they’ll fight to the death in the net or in the hands – and those sharp scales can remove meat if they rake you right. Typically, you run your hand down the leader and unhook them without mauling them – or you.

This fish may have been 4-4.5 pounds – and on my suddenly fragile seven weight – was worth all the aches and pains suffered.

I sure hope I don’t have much handshaking to do tomorrow… I despise the flaccid grip, which is all I’ll be able to muster.

The Good News is that the first most powerful voodoo of fishing is at work

The Voodoo Laws of Fishing I recently endured that ritual where big strapping outdoors types get bashful as schoolgirls, or drink themselves into a self righteous fury over lost opportunity.

You call it a birthday.

There’s only two kinds of birthdays; the ones that get you closer to drinking legal, and the other kind – which aren’t near as pleasant, which get you further away.

Drinking to excess and wishing you hadn’t only takes about 15 celebrations – and they’re all legendary. After that it’s the long slow spiral downward where plastic soldiers and chemistry sets gives way to soap on a rope, drink coasters, and cologne – and you feign pleasure as it’s expected.

Now that retirements are gone, those 44 annual rituals become days of hedonistic pleasure, where you impose your will on innocents – while they feign pleasure as it’s expected.

Fishing voodoo is never tinkered with lightly, but the prospect of non-fisherfolk baking in the noon sun guarantees incredible fishing, but only if you summon the courage to park girlfriend on the bank watching you fling bright stuff at brighter stuff…

It’s the second most powerful fishing voodoo law; “if innocents are suffering under the hot sun, you’re virtually guaranteed a fish a cast.”

Neither “how many”, how big”, or “how often” tests your level of devotion – only the 2nd Law of Voodoo can determine your loyalties to sport versus family, instant pleasure versus intense long suffering pain – and as face’s flush red and skin starts to peel whether you’ll pantomime, “Just 5 more minutes, Sweetums.” – or wimp out.

Only a Jedi Master can hold their lie in the face of blistering retribution.

Hisself, as photographed by herself I get Dumpling parked on the bank provisioned with books, water, and chow – and stride purposefully into the water. She’s not seen a rational person wade in over their navel – so she’s watching with some concern as I plant feet and scrub a level spot – like a batter digging in at the plate.

I get the shooting head out of the guides and am yanking Frog Hair off the reel; 20 long pulls plus the head should be around a hundred feet, and I give it a half hearted toss so I can rethread the coils on the fingers of the left hand. The Shad Knit, keeping all the line in close, not downstream playing in the current.

The left hand’s threaded and I give it a couple of tugs and the rod buckles forward with a Shad on the other end. Sweetpea’s cheering on the bank and I’m alternately swearing and reeling trying to get some control.

I manage to land the fish and display it prominently. I recover my wading staff from underfoot and reel in the fly line and trudge out of the water,  much to the amazement of the missus…

She’s looking at me expectantly, and I says, “remember how I mentioned once you were really uncomfortable how I was guaranteed the best fishing ever?”

She nods.

“That was the second most powerful fishing myth ever.” I pause for effect, ” the first most powerful voodoo law of Fishing is if you catch a fish on the first cast, you’ll not scratch another fish all day.”

“C’mon, I’ll take you to breakfast…”

Proper execution of a double Spey could save a life

For valor, and a good backing knot A fly fisherman as “first responder” means a better than average chance of survival, especially if he’s armed with a two-hander …

Don Elder was practicing his spey casting in Oregon’s Big Sandy and landed a child and two adults – rescued from the frigid water by gripping his Spey line.

Makes you wonder why we can’t lose the “money shot” cover of a couple of angling periodicals to give props to someone that’s earned plenty. Sure beats the Red Headed Wookie doing a cavity search on a soon-to-be-dead steelhead.

Despite the heroics involved, I’m sure all that Mr. Elder was thinking at the time was, ” … I knew I should have retied that backing knot.”

Pretty remarkable tale.

.. and if it doesn’t work I can always make a charm bracelet

I’d call it “Michael’s to the Rescue” only I’m not sure it isn’t the Shad being done the favor. Fiddling with substitutes keeps me off the water long enough to allow fish to move upriver unmolested, which hardly seems fair.

While researching a “bow serving” replacement, only a few pale shades of pink and orange fishing line were available on the Internet, forcing me to look to other crafts for a likely substitute.

Michael's has assorted craftlace available in the target colors

Michael’s surrendered some items along a common theme, most are of the “craftlace” family – used to make woven keychains and bracelets. All of them are much larger than the 20lb mono and varying degrees of cumbersome to lash to the hook.

Rexlace is the most popular brand, it’s a rectangular shaped PVC that is available in a riot of colors – including all the fluorescent mainstays; hot pink, orange, and chartreuse.

Wierd and Bulky

No clearcut winners emerge, although the Stretch Magic fly looks most like the original bow serving. The real test is not so much the fish, who have marginal selectivity, as what remains of the fly next season when all those polymers have been exposed to direct sunlight and head cement.

In the meantime, we can fix the bulky issue with a teakettle and some steam. Drawing the Rexlace through the steam column while pulling on each end halves the filament size – making it much more manageable to use. 3-5 seconds of steam allows you to draw 10 or 20 yards of the smaller size in a couple minutes.

If you repeat the process you should be able to reduce it to trout sizes, saving you some money on some of those high dollar synthetic ribbings from the fly shop. Rexlace is about $3 per 100 yards – and you’ll wind up with triple that when you’re finished.

Now the Rexlace is a manageable size, making the old Green Weenie get a facelift 

The above fly is a longtime Shad classic, the “Green Weenie.” Normally it uses the florescent chartreuse floss for both body and tail, all I’ve done is give it a silver tinsel underbody and wrapped the chartreuse Rexlace over the top – giving it the “glow” factor.

The unsteamed version is in front to show the original versus steamed filament.

We’ll see how they look next season. It won’t be the first time I’ve had gaily colored bits of oxidized plastic and a lot of bare metal in my fly box after winter storage – remember all those latex caddis nymphs that turned into exploded golf balls?

… and don’t let the above colors fool you, I’ve got plenty of pink flies already tied, orange and chartreuse round out the “well heeled” angler.