Category Archives: Brownlining

Fly tying materials that grow on trees

I thought of it as answering one of many questions I’ve always had about watersheds and how soon they recovered from obvious trauma.

Travelwriter had spied some rising fish in a stretch of the river that was normally bone dry this time of year. Adding 170% more water to the stream means the farming community can’t suck it all down, and would as soon avoid doing so given the mattress springs, dead bodies, late model stolen-everything – all of which is tumbling in the current, surely to foul pumps and pipes alike.

Huff's Corner at 40-50 feet

BEFORE

That additional volume makes banks vanish, holes get created, and sandbars move miles overnight. Understanding who survived all that carnage would fill a big hole in my understanding of floods, fish, and who wins what …

Huff's Corner post flood

AFTER

Note the shrubs, trees, and grasses are completely vanished off the right side of the creek, leaving only a single innocent looking tree that isn’t quite as innocent as it would seem … as I found out later …

The water was about 40-50 feet deep here a couple weeks ago, now it’s only a foot to 18 inches in most spots.

I went down the next evening to investigate, as I skeptical of “mystery rings” and whether anything could have survived given the above circumstances …

Pikeminnow survives Tsunami

The stretch had become repopulated with about a dozen 4-6 inch Pikeminnow. Last season, the second since water was restored, the Pikeminnow fry had grown to three inches in length. The length of these suggests they’re second year fish.

Making these survivors of two massive earth moving floods (last year was wet too) I’d guess these fish survive by staying near the bank – despite the bank being a hundred yards from its historical norm.

I managed to land three or four fish – all similarly apportioned and nary a mark for their ordeal. 

Unfortunately they’ve survived only to die due to evaporation – which will start shortly. I may bring down a bucket and relocate what I can catch –  the creek is still starved of citizens and I don’t mind getting dirty. I’ll call it “Pee You” for Pikeminnow Unlimited – as I’m the only SOB willing to stick my neck out for a cockroach …

As I was there for a scienctific purposes, I hunkered down largely oblivious to my surroundings. I’m tossing cottonseed dander imitations and small nymphs into a small, deep hole in the wide part of the bend.

After pulling three or four fish out of  it’s depths I’m satisfied they’re all Pikeminnow, so I ease down the bank into the shallows below just to see if there’s any other activity .

The wind shifts abruptly and I get a faceful of meat decay. It’s close and I’m thinking big animal, yet dreading turning around and finding someone’s kid wedged in the crotch of a tree, victim of some upstream flooding accident.

I’m backpedaling while attempting to hold down the evening meal – all the while scanning the riverbank, underbrush, and everything else nearby, and nothing.

rotting_turkey

I ease around the tree and find Big Bird, the wiliest of all Mother Nature’s game birds, slammed into a fork of the tree at speed, and becoming more fragrant by the moment.

Naturally a moment of introspection was needed, especially as the little Angel on my shoulder was in heated debate with the little devil on the other …

The little angel claimed, “Dude, forget the bragging points, your girl is arriving tomorrow and the use of refrigerator or any other storage on your premises is completely out of the question!”

The little Devil snorted in contempt, “Dude, call yourself a Man? Don’t think of the rotting and swollen beached seal you cut too deeply, this time you’ll be able to get the stink out of your clothes easy, by tomorrow even!”

… just the thought of the rotting seal episode was enough, even if I was doing it for Science …

Fog, Muddy boots, and the Aggregate Insurgency

Muddy_Boot After two weeks of cold and dreary, damp and foggy, I’m reminded of all those English classics with Sherlock Holmes and Hounds of Baskervilles, debtor’s prison and moored Hulks. Victorian spinsters attempting to land Mr. Darcy … who fly fished and therefore had the good sense to pledge troth to some crone that owned the Tay, the Itchen, or something Salmon coveted …

… in between his riding the moors shirtless in search of impressionable young females of low to middling expectations …

I figured I could play the same game – perhaps landing some impressionable young farming wench, whose Poppa’s massive tomato acreage might encompass a couple of bluewater tributaries (not seen on any map). Naturally, she’d have to find portly and balding, unshaven and flabby completely attractive, but in her naiveté a badly contrived Cockney accent would appear terribly exotic, and I’d be snapped up like cheese dip.

In short, I had Great Expectations.

Unfortunately so did the local talent, and while I cut quite the figure slipping wading through high water and moon-walking on bankside mud, I couldn’t compete with the verandah full of gun-toting, bonfire-making, 4-wheel, drug-smoking-pitbull-equipped killers that accosted me.

“Dude, awesome! A fly pole, I wished I brought mine …”

Winter colors As he’s leveraging more rounds into the rifle magazine I’m really not sure how to take this, is it highwayman-speak for “hand it over, bitch” – or should I wait for a proper demand?

I opted for the non-committal, “… nice dogs, they yours?… and can you tell the big one to give me my nuts back?”

I was safe, these were kindred sporting spirits, the kind that our angling organizations wish to attract, can’t find, are scared of … who don’t like to walk far after shooting, running over, and unleashing ravenous killer dogs on their prey. They were friendly and good natured, made doubly so by a couple of large blunts circling the campfire, and warming themselves and Miss Tomato Acreage after an arduous morning of four-wheel gun crazies.

While me and the Two-Gun-Kid exchanged casting techniques, some his dad had taught him, and some my dad taught me, I gave Miss Tomato Acreage my rarified eye, the selfsame glance that makes a Whiting neck recoil in fear.

I figured her taste in gum ran to Spearmint, dinner out was Mac & Cheese, and the bit of ample that pooched out of her too-short tee showed the eight-ring of her deftly inked bull’s eye, suggesting Miss Tomato was both chaste and pure – of a sort.

… the frown suggested my portly and aging were no longer letters of Marque, it was a friendly and disinterested refusal, there was never a chance and we were both relieved …

teichert_insurgency On further reflection, the vast acreage owned by the local Tomato cartel pale in comparison to what Miss Gravel Aggregate could potentially offer her beau, unfortunately for the genteel there remains the pesky insurgency offered by us fishermen and … off road crazies?

… hell, nobody likes them.

Well maybe the six o’clock news does. It’s just as likely they’re tired of us hand wringing enviro types and could use a bit of sound and fury to rattle Grandma off her couch …

I handed out Olives and Oranges and free root canals, while you hid on the couch

NoKandyIt won’t hurt to admit it.

While them kids was bee-lining it to your place because you handed out Snickers last year, and as the train of ghosts, fairies and skeletons climbed the long flight of stairs to your darkened doorway, and while their darling little eyes looked expectantly at the door after knocking … you sent the little tykes away teary eyed and sniffling …

… while you lay sprawled amidst the carnage of candy wrappers and discarded Dots, watching football or the World Series, or both.

Likely you made an entire generation resentful; no candy, and when they’re old enough, they’ll know of your unspoken guarantee to treat their Social Security the same way.

Beast.

At least I was stand-up about my desire to trick versus treat. I didn’t hide behind drawn shades and a hot TV, I brought the badness to them Innocents and giggled in the doing.

Trick, no treat for you ..

The Pikeminnow kept knocking, each more optimistic than the next, but every “apple” held a razor blade – which turned their greed into root canal, compliments of that menacing dark shadow with the big hammy feet.

I hoped they’d bring an enraged parent back – but what few were left knew better, remembering the Will O’ the Wisp from last year, when dental work was again free for the asking.

Birdsnest Apple & Razor blade color

Olive with a touch of Pumpkin drew the greedy from under the cut banks and cut a swath through the hatchery water. A grinning Jack O’ Lantern promising sugary treats by the fistful, and delivering base metal instead.

.. and when all are clustered around that big bowl at work, where all the health conscious parents deposit their child’s haul, and inquire did I have many little footsteps on my porch last night, I’ll opt for the noncommittal, “about the same as last year.”

Where we interview for the position of fly fishing sidekick

“We’ll be back around seven, and we brought Sweetums’s Frisbee for you to throw. Try not to tire Precious too much, knowing his delicate sensibilities and fragile constitution.”

Right.

I had dog watching duties this weekend, and while tossing slobber-Frisbee is a rarified treat, peeling the layers of domestication off a well mannered beast is twice as much fun.

“Little Meat” is a burner, and freed from the leash and dropped into the primitive, there was a better than average chance that all my Spey flies would be real Blue Heron …

All we had to do is corner one on a stretch with no deer carcasses or desiccated anything – as maggot-ridden has a special draw equal to something fleeing in a panic, and only to a dog occupying the seat next to you.

Triple_axel

… only they were smart enough to keep their distance, mostly …

The nametag says I’ve never seen him before, akin to the perfect crime. While the Fish & Game is frantically searching for a second clip and with closure approaching Mach 0.6, like everything else that breaks cover …  Toast.

Me and “Cheetah” have a few rough edges to work on … Tennis balls can be returned, but anything screaming or bloody should be consumed behind bushes – so I can feign horror like the rest of the onlookers.

Any animal “siding” you while fishing has to have personality aplenty. It may justify its oxygen providing precious “pointer” skills; lift the right paw if it’s a Pikeminnow, left paw if it’s a sucker, droop both ears if its Bass … yet while attentive to my pantomime, Meat’s keen eyesight and rocket-speed were reserved only for terrestrial prey.

eat_drink_roll

While twenty-four hours isn’t enough to undo years of obedience, there was a tell tale gleam of malevolence after a scorching march through the watershed…

Otter fleeing in terror

… especially after consuming two of the three Otter that have migrated down into the Big Fish stretch. It’s both the first and last time such magnificent creatures have been seen on my creek, and despite blanket protection provided by the Fish & Game, ag chemicals made them slow and fat, something my companion exploited unmercifully.

Taco_Bell

Chase stuff, crap on stuff, roll in stuff – look wounded when hurled into the creek after acquiring a disguising scent, and expect to go to Disneyland or Sizzler upon return to civilization.

Almost like fishing, with the only difference being our insistence on cooking or photographing stinky stuff, rather than wearing it proudly.

When waist deep in the brown water, it’s all about the antibodies

I’m sure myself or my brown water brethren would have attempted to cool their ardor some. As much as we like standing on the bank giggling while you discover that it’s not Rock Snot – and really is toilet paper, we’re still obligated to get you home safely …

… mostly, a limb missing or suppurating infection is close enough.

It’s been all over the papers and is likely old news, but when you take a passel of hedge fund managers with those dainty dry fly only predilections, mix in an urban setting with white wine and a pedicure,  the results are predictable enough.

Bleached and embalmed

Those aren’t little chalk outlines, those are the bleached and embalmed participants.

We’ve harped on this many times, regardless of Orvis’s release of a carp podcast, sanctioning roman noses and inferior fish, if you lack the proper antibodies, you’re a goner.

It'll be a while before next of kin are notified

– via luzinterruptus

Sure, I wish I’d been there to give them a wave off, but the combination of dry fly purism and one-upmanship would’ve had the crowd ignoring most of my lecture. I would’ve consoled myself by gathering up all those expensive rods and accoutrements – and felt pretty good about the whole experience, however.

It’ll be awhile before the shockwaves hit Wall Street, most of their DNA has been wiped clean, and notification of kin will be problematic.

Test brown water fly fishing, dry fly purism, carp, Orvis podcast, fly fishing humor, pedicure

Some medicine comes with fins

Ankle deep in a big water year August colds lack the trappings of their wintertime cousins, luring a fellow out of bed prematurely so he can wheeze and wilt under summer’s heat.

Two weeks without wheels and I was desperate enough to risk the mile and a half to the body shop to claim my chariot. Nearly expiring in the process, another 24 hours alternating shots of Nyquil and orange juice emboldened me to attempt the local watershed, knowing it was still recovering from last year’s dewatering, and probably felt as healthy as I did.

The healing properties of brown water are well documented, whatever remained of the cold bug gobbled up by legions of voracious Ecoli, and like Popeye making me stronger with continued exposure …

… and invulnerable should I slip and take a header.

Given the continued high water the last thing expected was to see the bones of the Old Girl exposed.

 Little Stinking Aug 2010

The flow is only a third of the old normal, which is consistent with the acres of green tomatoes still in the field. The draw on the creek has extended into August as the harvest has been delayed by the wet weather of Spring.

There’s ample fry evident in the “frog water” – mostly Pikeminnow, but I did find largemouth spawn in the deeper water, and fingerlings up to 3” in size.

Most of my beloved creek was ankle deep however.

At least one pair of beaver survived the Purge, moot evidence of why their reintroduction into the UK is a hotly debated topic. Terraforming being part of their nature, and while both fish and fishermen are appreciative of new cover, the land owner is often less so.

This hole will get a new name

I rested on the bank watched for signs of fish life, but all the commotion was the result of fingerlings growing fat on tiny Trico spinners.

At the Siphon Pool, I managed to wake something of the brood stock, lean and sinewy – a Fedayeen who’d survived on a handful of dried dates all winter to plant a Stinger in the path of a Soviet Hind, or so he thought. A holdover from past seasons that had escaped suffocation, the both of us surprised and winded by the violence of the ensuing tussle.

It might be a tarpon, or a Rainbow

Perhaps through the miracle of a rare shot, you can glimpse them as I do, noble in their own right, burnished by early morning light and worth every droplet of sweat necessary.

Puts a lightness in a Man’s step, sorely needed when faced with the slow regeneration of a dead creek, and a couple miles of burning streambed cobble between him and his beloved Nyquil tit.

Test: Sacramento Pikeminnow, fly fishing for coarse fish, brownlining, Nyquil, largemouth bass, august cold

The Brown just got warmer and darker

delta The brown water looks bad enough already, now the federal government will be requiring California’s many thousands of aqueducts and levees to be shorn of all vegetation.

… meaning all those 100 year old oaks will be chipped and shredded, all the bankside willows and cottonwoods will be ripped up and vanished, and goats will be commonplace – given their incredible mowing ability.

For those out of state, the canal-aqueduct system of California is the next Big One. The potential for a natural disaster of epic proportions – due to water scarcity in the south state, and the relentless development that adds more toilets, mouths, green lawns, and swimming pools where they’ve no business existing…

Many are simple earthworks, built with now-primitive tools in the late 1800’s to reclaim fertile soil for farming. With our propensity for earthquakes, and the power of all that pent up water – a significant breach in the right spot would bleed the freshwater out and cause salt water from San Francisco Bay to rush inland, past the pumps to SoCal, and rendering everything south of Sacramento bone dry.

One temblor away from 25 million people thirsty. There’ll be plenty of soda pop and beer, but after the riots even that will be gone.

If the guidelines are enforced it’ll require the removal of a lot of vegetation and the shade it affords those waterways, and if there was anything naturally occurring – it’ll cease quickly.

… and for those anglers fishing the Delta, it may warm the water a bit, remove much of the bankside cover, and likely cause fish to abandon prior haunts in favor of those areas where vegetation remains plentiful.

Us fellows plying the long rod had better think of brain-addling daytime temperatures and pack plenty of water.

The Delta is a legendary Largemouth Bass and Striped Bass fishery, I imagine this type of change won’t be positive for the resident fish, but SoCal is owed, so it’s necessary.

Tags: California Delta, San Francisco Bay, levee repair, largemouth bass, striped bass, temblor, averting an eco-disaster, fly fishing for bass

One in the pocket is better than two in the bushes

It was the same story he used when in Italy, “… imagine my surprise when I rummaged in my pocket and found a single Little Stinking Olive!” I told him not to run it through the ponds at the Vatican, and doubly don’t dare hand twitch it through the green water at the Roman baths, but he ignored me both times …

LSO, Little Stinking Olive

… now, recently freed from the pillory of Saint Peter’s Basilica, I get another terse note from Panama…

“My employer dispatched me to Panama, and while I was pocketing Manuel Noriega’s collection of exotic Cubans, I found a single Little Stinking Olive …”

… naturally I’m a little concerned, as being caught hi-grading El Jefe’s stash has to be a firing squad and imprisonment, at the minimum …

Guided CIA Junket

Now I’m wondering who his employer is – and whether the company HQ isn’t in Langley, Virginia. Only “spooks” can take a dozen LSO’s and part them like the loaves and fishes – and by my count he lost nine of them by mid afternoon.

It’s a comfort to know he had permission, but I’m still unnerved by all them black sedans across the street.

Tags: Little Stinking Olive, Panama, Peacock Bass, Cuban cigars, pillory, St. Peter’s Basilica, fly fishing, Manuel Noriega

Obligatory colorful tail picture omitted

Girls prefer some well coifed, clean-smelling fellow to sweep them off their feet. Guys would prefer romance include some stunning female who’s statuesque, fulsome, and completely chaste, unless it’s them she’s disrobing … as that’s entirely proper.

TravelWriter being towed Nine web sites and nine supersaturated pictures of the dots on a trout’s tail, and I wonder how the trout became the measure of beauty. It’s not surprising that we’d gravitate to the wagging end of fish, given that most of our youth was spent chasing tail and boasting of same, yet it’s almost as if our rarified notion of selectivity chastity that’s defining the beauty of gamefish, not the qualities inherent to each species.

Underlying the olive and maroon and prominent black dots may be, “my fish is chaste, and gave it up just for me” – and it’s the learned gentlemanly qualities that cause us to forget how many, exactly where, and how big, things we shared in our youth … until we heard our sister mentioned and found out how unflattering it really was…

Someday I’ll find the right gal and settle, but until then I prefer the company of streetwalkers. Floosies, harlots all – that hide in ambush until darting out to intercept a likely customer.

That’s right, I pay for my tail.

She's pure harlot at heart

The price was a triple batch of Oatmeal Raisin cookies to the landowner’s spouse, whose confessed weakness for same may get me an invite back.

Bluegill are the pure harlot. You don’t have to kiss them – you don’t have to share your burger, all they require is your time and inclination – and a bit of lukewarm shade.

… and they’ve got black dots too, and if they were any bigger we’d be seeing them in our nightmares.

Tags: Bluegill, Oatmeal Raisin cookies, Trout, trout tail, fascination with tail, fish porn, fly fishing, panfish

Based on the grin alone, it’s fly fishing

I got the message The myth has it patrolled ruthlessly by a grizzled fellow in overalls whose well oiled Blunderbuss is flanked by aimlessly scratching hounds – who are wary of his large plug of chaw – which is spat indiscriminately at dogs, feet, and anything else that ain’t nailed down.

Last week while surveying the fishless Little Stinking, Travelwriter let it drop that down the road from his vast holdings, existed a farm pond where huge fish porpoised lazily in pursuit of flies. As these were few and far between – amused themselves by eating ducks in between chewing on rubber tires and the shattered remnants of rowboats, the only trace of the fellows that tried it last year, all of whom are still missing.

I’d had to pause in our casting lesson and deliver a stern admonishment, “firstly, a farm pond is a sacred thing, it could be the greatest fishing ever experienced by mortal man, or it could well be lifeless. Secondly, you’ve mastered the Third Law of Fly fishing – the casual private property name droppage, followed by the offhand mention of a white whale, or reasonable facsimile.”

“But you’ve got to learn to cast more than seventeen feet, Grasshopper – try to use less toes on your next forward cast …”

I’ve never met a pond I didn’t like, especially when trying to teach some fellow the rudiments of fly casting. I was hoping it would be full of starving stunted fish that gave no quarter and asked for none.

The fabled "Pond X"

Weed lined, perhaps a little over an acre in size, and 10 feet deep and the center … owning a flair for the dramatic she was dubbed, “Pond X.”

Travelwriter and I wandered around the edge tossing different colors of the Little Stinking Olive, which were received warmly – by small bass and bluegill.

With the blackest lateral line I've seen

… which owned the blackest, most vivid lateral line I’ve seen. The fish were in wonderful shape and most were under a pound. The owner had mentioned much larger fish present – but it was a blustery day, and a bit early yet. The spawn will be starting soon, no redds were yet visible and I assumed most of the fish were hanging in the deeper water, still a bit lethargic.

“ I see a fish … I see a fish, he’s right out from me”, came the wail from the tules behind me. Travelwriter was dancing with excitement, unsure what to do while pointing his rod at the offending beast. I says, “good, now catch the damn thing.”

“I got a fish, I GOT a fish” was the response. Naturally I dropped everything to immortalize the moment, “ … he was right out from me so I dropped the fly in the water and jiggled it … he ATE it … is that fly fishing?”

TravelWriter busts a cap on the Bass

I didn’t have the heart to tell him about all of the sins committed under the guise of fly fishing; how throwing the rod, rocks, or merely diving in with a loincloth and Buck knife could be loosely construed as same…

travel_victim2 “… now we’ve got to work on the pose, Grasshopper. That ain’t a Burrito, and your quarry is deserved of a little dignity, so hold it right side up, and give me a grimace … stretch them arms toward me to magnify …wipe that grin off your face … Oh, hell, we’ll work on the pinup later.”

“Grab that roach clip off’n your vest and see if you can’t remove that barbless hook without half the gills coming with it.”

Hell yes, based on the size of that grin, it’s fly fishing.

Tags: A Wannabe Travelwriter, farm pond, largemouth Black Bass, fly fishing, fly fishing humor, little stinking olive, bluegill,