Author Archives: KBarton10

Old School is "Third World" with me the smudged and homeless waif gazing intently at them vittles

I’ll be sure to squat barefooted next to my cup full of fire, tattered loincloth hiding the barest of essentials as I first flame then rend my goat meat – keeping a wary eye for uninvited guests.

It’s plain I’ve missed a couple generations of outdoor gear and am completely out of touch with contemporary amenities and “roughing it.”

“Roughing it” is when you eat better than when you’re home, the bathrooms smell sweeter – and are far more spacious, the dining room is better lit, the booze and cigars are older and more plentiful, and instead of someone counting how many slices of pie you eat – they’re insisting you have two or three more… 

GGACC Pre-Dinner exertions

I thought jerky and bananas chased with warm water from a hydration pack was the ultimate in outdoor cuisine – in light of the groaning board of vittles inhaled at creek bank, there’s a new culinary ethic that renders my provisions Third World.

My crime is ascribing to the “anti-social” school of angling, not like the scowling tarts that resent intrusion into their riffle  – more of the Dan’l Boone, ” I kilt an eight weight on this Shad” explorer ethos.

Returning to civilization used to be the retelling of deprivation and manly prowess – to a horrified and sympathetic audience; this many days without shaving, that many days without bathing, and how you pried that bear’s jaws open with your fly rod to save a friend from certain death.

The New Outdoors are vastly different – shaving and bathing are essentials, and only running out of Worcestershire sauce or ice cream is met with outpourings of sympathy and horrified gasps.

GGACC base camp

I’m a man without a country, and insist on an outpouring of faux-sympathy.

I can’t help but blame SMJ and his fly thieving Older Bro for tainting my camping ritual beyond measure. They were aided by the fishing hardcore from the Golden Gate Angling and Casting Club, whose members showed equal skill with shooting heads and shad flies as white linen and spatulas.

Steaks, pie, corn, salad, fried rice, shrimp, Lumpias, and SMJ’s killer White Beans with Ham Hock as chaser – served by smiling attendants in starched livery. The  liquor was 15 years old, and the closest the cigars had been to the States was El Salvador.

I’m standing there with a pair of body temperature Kashi bars (Peanut Butter) – hoping someone had a soup pot going so I could contribute more than smiling and possessing an appetite.

I can remember fly patterns to the letter, and names not at all. My thanks to the fellow who makes the bamboo rods (Tom?) – my guess as to the host of this debauch.

I’ll lick my wounds while contemplating my battered collection of Sierra cups, fire blackened aluminum cookware, and tattered sleeping bag – as even the household pets slept on better …

The Shad line compliments of GGACC

The venerable old club has a new face, lots of talented young guys whose interest is in fine dining fishing – much different than the casting focus of the club I knew when living in San Francisco.

Hearing Armando Bernasconi’s gruff voice reminded me of those Old Days; even 20 years ago he was the club’s official greeter – a welcoming mustached figure whose energy and smile charm the public and sets beginners at ease.

One of the guys breaks from the choicest part of the line – insisting Armando take his spot. At 87 he’s slowed down some – and realizing the current’s heavy is about to back out when the guys break ranks and wade over to break the current and steady him as he wades deeper.

Made my entire trip – just to watch.

The club has a new face and so does the Outdoors, and while I thought Solar Showers were a cutting edge luxury – I find that running water adds an obscene touch that simply must be endured.

Like Poppa says, “any fool can be uncomfortable.”

My thanks to the Eberle clan, Max – and the rest of the crew for the vision of camping – the fishing, and mostly the meal. I’ll not see the likes of that for a couple of seasons.

It was kind of discarded, but it certainly wasn’t blue

Dear Nameless Angler,

That sickening pop followed by the absent splash probably caused you to curse mightily. I’m hoping you had plenty more tied – but also wanted you to know you’re not guilty of leaving brightly colored non-biodegradable waste on the riverbank for some innocent doe to ingest, cough her life out in a bloody paroxysm, and lie there rotting…

Bow serving is a known weakness of American Shad

That neon Orange bow serving caught my eye as I was dragging my aching rear end out of the line – feeling that five hours of eight weight is how Nolan Ryan’s arm feels after nine innings and a third comeback…

Recognizing real genius when I see it, I pocketed your sample and husbanded it back to the tying bench for massive duplication.

Like all selfless anglers, I was tempted to name it the “Singlebarbed Invented This All By His Lonesome Fly” – but small shreds of decency remain and I’m required to give credit where credit’s due.

Your fly is elegant, simple, sinks like a tramp steamer after a mating dance with an iceberg – and appeals to Shad in a sinister and potentially sexual manner.

The extinction of another noble species, but it's not my fault, really

Since you invented it, you should be ashamed of yourself.

You’ve placed an entire species on the brink of extinction, and even though I’m ass deep in cold water exploiting your fly at this very moment, the first warden that comes by and crooks his finger at me, I’m gonna rat you out.

Then I’ll make like Vanilla Ice and claim I never sampled your fly or David Bowie, and change the tail by a half shade – achieve fame everlasting and stomp life out of an entire species.

P.S. I found my spool of serving (circa 1985) – but was horrified to find the Brownell folks have switched to braided Dyneema, and no longer make the monofilament flavor.

If you would be so kind, drop me a note with your substitute – anywhere along the Sacramento or American would be fine…

She knew the fish would die – and they hung her for it…

Gorton's doing hard time It’s one of the more painful lessons a fisherman learns in his career; if the Fishing Gods smile  and you’re successful beyond your wildest dreams, never call your pals and insist “let’s go again tomorrow, we’ll get limits in minutes…”

… or at least find out what the statute of limitations are beforehand, as it’s now a crime?

A Danish TV reporter has been convicted of animal cruelty for killing 12 aquarium fish with shampoo for a consumer affairs show.

Firstly, it never .. ever .. works out that way. The God’s smile only once or twice per lifetime, and even though you caught and released hundreds – whilst cackling gleefully – your buddies will face a lifeless creek despite your protestations otherwise…

… and secondly, the call makes the crime premeditated, and the next decade will have you leaving the bar of soap where it falls, despite your exertions in the exercise yard.

You were fine until you discovered the mortality rate of caught and released fish was around 8% – now you’re liable in the all encompassing court of political correctness.

I hear that old Fisherman whose likeness graces Gorton’s frozen fish dinners – is doing life.

What color wine do you serve with Nintendo?

The Pedisedate Helmet Nitrous Delivery System I’m not sure this won’t spawn a revolution in casting instruction – curing timing ills, yips, wild animal incursion, and your golf swing – all with a single inhalation. Billed as an anesthetic delivery system for children and capable of administering nitrous oxide in precise dosages, why not have a  dozen ampoules in your vest for those “strategic” moments when your partner sets hook like Godzilla …

…or when the enraged Grizzly is charging the pair of you in dense underbrush –  as your pal giggles and points at 800 pounds of furry carnage you turn and run yelling, “take a big snort – it’ll turn you invisible!”

Watching some fellow attempting to cast for the first time, frantically keeping the line aloft by redoubling his efforts; hand him the head piece innocently and mention, “… talk to Captain Kirk …” That’ll slow tensed muscles and whippet-like reflexes so timing has a chance to assert itself.

I’d call it the “(Giggle) Sure!©” as it’s the only response you’ll hear once huffing starts in earnest.

A flat tire at the access and it’s black dark? Just crank the dial a couple notches and ask your pal to “walk to town for me, and get me a couple new tires, I’ll wait here … Oh, and a pizza …”

It’s certainly not for everyone as it’ll play hell with tying small dry flies. Big and colorful is suddenly twice as appealing, but by the third fly all you can think of is a Mango-Chutney Daiquiri with a generous dollop of Peanut Butter, and you’ll play hell finding those late at night.

Just think up a convincing tale for your buddy’s spouse – you’ll have to explain the torn clothing and abrasions somehow.

Can white be the new black (eye)?

Fly fishing has countless taboos and minor demons, accidentally trodding upon the grave can be overlooked, but violating the unspeakable sins warrants banishment and shunning …

As unkempt appearance and questionable hygiene draws me ever closer to that event horizon, a pocketful of permanent markers shouldn’t damage my stature much – even if the rest of the brethren start with the pitchforks and torches.

The last frontier - or merely earning the wrath of your fishing companions 

Considering all the glitter and effluvia I’m throwing around the living room while tying shad flies, and with the question of this season’s “must have” color not yet established, why wouldn’t the agile angler tie everything in white – then crack out the felt pens as needed?

There … I’ve said it.

Chemical based fly tying is long overdue. We’ve allowed dyed materials only because we kilt all the natural colored wild stuff, and with countless colors available, including bleaches and tie-dye effects, why wouldn’t we unleash some technology at this last bastion of the recalcitrant?

Fly shops have a longstanding cartel on patterns and variants, relying on our voodoo-luck based superstition to ensure they sell both Hendrickson’s and Dark Cahill’s, despite an Adam’s laying considerable smack on both those aged tarts.

Shad flies are horribly simple, tail, beadchain, and something that connects the two – a handful of fluorescent markers could be exactly what’s needed.

If the “hot” fly is orange, an interior pocket stuffed with Sharpies produces a fix to the glaring vacancy in your arsenal, and if purple – simply color over the orange flies used earlier. As long as your progression went from light to dark you could color over the flies multiple times like unwanted tattoos.

As there’s only about four possibilities each year; pink, orange, green, and shiny, 75% of the fishermen would benefit, leaving only the fellows that guessed right to get pissed.

Check that fellows pockets for felt pens 

Burn up last season’s aging colors by restoring the lost art of “tagging” – defacing bridge abutments, parked cars, and sleeping anglers. It’d be refreshing to trod under the highway bridge and glance up to see something other than misspelled bile.

The next great freshwater gamefish, and we all get to play

At times the news seems insurmountable, searching through the Internet for fish related topics yields a flood of extinct, dying, and on-the-brink stories – interspersed with articles on how to cook what’s left.

Like most fishermen I don’t eat as much as I fish – but there’s times when I get the feeling I should eat more fish just to get my fair share of the condemned.

Instead let’s focus on what’s doing just fine, which fish are enjoying explosive growth and how advanced mathematics and supercomputers can assist you in gear selection, what flies to stock heavily, and what the future gamefish scene will look like…

The Range of the Next Great Freshwater Gamefish

Both Europe and North America are experiencing a “changing of the guard” where former indigenous species are giving ground to the Next Great Freshwater Gamefish.

The green triangles show known captures, brick red describes the areas with the highest chance of supporting a significant fishery (where they’re headed next), and as the colors fade to white – where we can expect a lesser presence.

It’s comforting to know Mother Nature will repopulate all those salmon and steelhead streams once we’ve finished cooking the last of the holdout fish. When the pristine gives ground, swarms of fish will replace trout – and the guides in Montana have little to fear, the entire Northwest is “brick red” and the Yellowstone drainage will continue as a trophy fishery long after “Old Faithful” is firing methane blanks…

Toss those silly five weights as you’ve no need of them. Watersheds that supported 14″ fish in quantity will be supporting as many fish in the 20 lb class – so start dusting off the seven’s and eight weights. Trout iron will straighten – so while you’re at it, stock up of #8’s, #6’s and above – and extra stout, in stainless and black nickel …

It’s gold – like the scarce and rarified Golden Trout, grows to enormous size like Taimen, and is a muscular brute in both fast water and slack, akin to the Mahseer – only much more plentiful and perfectly suited to most of the globe.

Behold the computer model of the spread of the next great freshwater gamefish, the Golden Bullet of the Weed Water, the Common Carp.

A little garlic and a dab of dill … but save room for the Grass Carp (the entire east coast), the Black Carp (the entire South), and our pal the Silver Carp … busy claiming whichever waterway it feels like.

… plenty for everyone, and the depth of color suggests they’re destined for naturalized citizenship, losing that silly invasive label once they outnumber everything else.

Hooks don’t rust like once thought, but there’s still a bronze lining

Rust is slower than once thought Nobody likes busting a fish off despite it being an annual Opening Day ritual. Hammy hands and adrenaline results in that sinking feeling where the knot can’t be blamed, the tippet was new, and only your Gorilla-like reflexes turned success into a shameful ruddy blush.

It’s the “Nine Trips a Year” syndrome, it’s been three or four months since your last combat, and the presence of your buddy only adds to the anxious heavy-handed hook set.

There’s good news for all of us, recent research has shown how Largemouth Bass once caught are more likely to be caught again, and from Australia research on 249 species and a quarter million anglers – claims that leaving a hook imbedded in fish gives you an 18% better chance of it taking a lure again.

… assuming it survives.

Hooks decompose much more slowly than once thought, and tests in saltwater on larger circle hooks suggest it may take 3 or 4 months to decompose to the point it loses integrity.

Our smaller freshwater hooks may take as long or longer, as freshwater contains little corrosive agents to assist the process.

My personal best was recovering three flies from the mouth of a 13″ rainbow on Hat Creek, it’d developed a yen for Copper John’s (2) and a Gold Ribbed Hare’s Ear.

Take it from someone who knows, anything tastes better’n mashed mayfly with a side of Elodea…

Birds and Bees do it, but nobody raw-dogs Old Faithful

Let Darwin mete out punishmentI suppose Grandma viewing the deed via web cam requires management intervention, but I’m not sure corrective action is required, as Old Faithful is likely to get some – when least expected.

“Raw-dogging” a geyser probably had them fellows in hysterics, as it’s the highest form of Russian Roulette with the Precious. I figure it would’ve made YouTube anyways – probably spawned another Internet sensation or two – but if the fellow hadn’t consulted his watch, or Old Faithful forgot daylight savings, that would have been funnier.

Fishermen are a bit more discreet, but just barely. We’ve peed on almost every sacred monument and artifact out there – and if it wasn’t in it, it was near whatever fed it – which counts double.

Being experts in fluid dynamics and swathed in impenetrable layers of Goretex or Neoprene means every step is calculated; which houses are visible, road traffic patterns, joggers and dog walkers, boaters and hikers, each threat is logged, noted, and categorized.

There’s a shiftiness in eye movement that betrays the deed. Intently scanning water gives way to clipped syllables and furtive glances at available rocks, Old Growth, impenetrable blackberry thickets, and the calculated measurement of mid-riffle to bank – and whether he can get back before opposition slides into his spot.

Impromptu just doesn’t fit the mold. The average bladder is 1 liter capacity and gives the signal when half full. Naturally it’s overridden by whether the fish are biting, a hint of fish activity, or human competition.

Banned from Yellowstone for two years is harsh, an overcooked dog and six months of skin grafts, priceless.

I’m with Darwin.

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Cold water, mountain bikes and minimalism

Jam a fly box and a spool of tippet down your waders, wade out far enough so’s you can execute a double haul without slopping creek water over what freeboard remains, if you’re careless you’re wet – and the fish care not.

Primitive is a good thing – you soak it up for those “technical” outings that require stomach pumps, landing nets, hatch charts, gossamer and tiny; where you rattle up and down the creek bank with vest bursting with supplies, medical utensils, and more gear than necessary.

Stuff it all down your shirt front and call it good I’ve got dozens of flies in a dozen colors, but this one will do just fine.

The first trip of the year reacquaints you with everything you forgot from last year; “Shad knitting” – how to hold 70 feet of monofilament using only three fingers, and how a double haul is yanked parallel to the surface, versus casting pond vertical form. It doesn’t take long as half gallon of cold water in the armpit serves as a harsh reminder.

Dawn broke with me waist deep in the American but the flow was heavy and I wasn’t expecting fish. 4300 CFS gets you about 30 feet from the bank – not far enough away from the dog walkers and jogging crowd to cast with impunity – but far enough so’s no one will be tapping your shoulder.

The same couple of old fellows were slinging sardines for Striped Bass. They’d upgraded their retirement tackle to include a mountain bike with saddle bags to hold hooks, bait, and terminal tackle. I stopped briefly to chat and they suggested breakfast was time better spent.

Old guy’s know – as they’re out everyday, while us working stiffs only pound chest, get soaked and dream of such obscene luxuries.

Water flow is my nemesis this season, mostly the lack of it – I wasn’t prepared for an over abundance. We’ll hit it again next week if she drops so much as a pint.