Category Archives: Brownlining

Brownliner decor makes you recession proof?

I probably should’ve held off until next week to give it that “lived-in” look; coffee spills, discarded beer bottles, Simm’s pinups, and greasy wrappers from lunch – but I was too giddy to play coy.

 The Brownliner Office, sans red stapler

The “before” is eloquence for us muddy cubicle warriors, yellow caution tape accent, paramilitary camo wall coverings, and the piece de resistance – a digital calendar that displays date and time in hexadecimal.

What’s not shown is the matching camo smock rendering the wearer invisible, proof against Boss’s that dole out a weekend assignment on a sunny Friday, and causes the lurking “Candy Dish Phantom” to crap himself as he reaches for your lunch – or the occasional leftover donut…

In the lofty echelons of the corporate world it’s important to announce yourself with authority. Fancy suits and expensive aftershave are as commonplace as McDonald’s – and when management strides the corridor looking for slackers to meet their downsize quota, you’ll be the last to go – as the hushed whispers of the Personnel analyst concur, “there’s gotta be an assault rifle in there somewhere’s.”

The Norman Rockwell thing is a trifle out of date

Ford Ranger making a spawning ReddThe excited catcalls and snarling gears suggested I’d better hurry if I wanted to watch the kid get stuck.

Rubber is pretty ineffectual when the “Bones of the Old Girl” are exposed – ocher clay, equal parts mud and Vaseline, with a veneer of gravel that lures the aggressive into complacency. Offroad tires and wading boots are equally ineffectual – and only the cautious remain dry.

It’s a female six cylinder Ranger making a “spawning redd” on the far side of the creek, the eight cylinder male is winching her out of the hole, and as I gain the crest – camera in tow, the high pitched squeals of anger and blame hush as the kids point in my direction – then vanish in a roar of mud, snapping timber, and giggles.

Some father is sleeping uneasily, replaying the scene of his darling handing over his SAT scores…

Further upstream I’m peeking through the foliage eyeballing the first smallmouth bass of the season, a pair of large fish cruising carelessly in shallow water. High pitched motor whine terminates in the “whump” of collision – as grape colored “female” and pursuing male crest the dunes upstream like T-55’s crossing the Suez Canal, slip-slide their way through the center of the river sending a rooster tail of mud and crap flying in all directions.

Steam hissing off manifolds they plow upstream and out of view –  and my fish are lost in the roiled ocher mass coming from upstream. 

The Carp Hole is occupied with the ATV subgenus of outdoor youth, and the approach of a portly scowling Brownliner with a couple days of stubble sent them scampering for the far bank.

I watched Carp chase each other around for a couple minutes; full mating ritual so I knew they weren’t hungry. Faced with the prospect of a forced march back – I sat and watched the kids climb aboard and disappear.

A couple of Pikeminnow broke the surface gobbling spinners, so I restrung the rod with 5X and a dry fly and waded in above them. The first couple of casts were ignored, and as I’m pondering something else to try the roar of approaching ATV has me wondering whether to pack it in completely…

It squeals to a stop behind me, and a voice asks, “..excuse me sir, are you fly fishing?”

The “sir” part was uncommon and I turned to see a couple of young fellows, replete with “Tat’s” and piercing’s – American flag emblazoned on one pectoral, possible White Supremacy sign on the other … but the look was sincere and the “sir” thing got me.

“Hell yes,” I says, “mostly I’m walking around looking impressive, but occasionally I throw flies in anger.”

I’d been retrieving a weighted nymph while chatting and a lonely Pikeminnow obliges me by eating it. I land the fish while basking in their apparent awe, and the kid harsh’s my awesomeness with, “you ain’t going to eat that shit are you?”

“Nope.” I let the fish go and back out of the water. The first fellow has a barbell through the lower lip, one eyebrow, and a nostril – and the second is a Texican, proudly wearing their flag engraved on his back.

“Sir, I just bought this fly rod, but haven’t had any lessons – and am learning how to use it, can you show me?”

Norman Rockwell and his ilk suggested it’d be some crewcut child chewing a wheat stalk – some Angel Baby, good grades – sings in the church choir, and as I’m watching the kid rigging his fly rod, I can’t help but smile at the picture.

“I’d be thrilled, unlimber that Beast and I’ll show you how to imbed a hook solidly in your partner there.”

Pierced Boy chimes in quickly, “no way, Dude – that shit hurts!”

Texican is looking at me expectantly with a sample of Big 5 wet flies, ” I bought these, which one should I use?” I crack open my box and hand him a fistful of weighted nymphs and streamers.

“No way!, Dude – you want a beer?”

Respect for elders, appreciation for the outdoors, and the all important iced suds. I spent the next 30 minutes drilling “10 o’clock – 2 o’clock” into the 2010 version of Norman Rockwell, while they hung on every word.

I can imagine the cover of Fly Fisherman in twenty years, and can only hope the Steelhead hides the Swastika.

They’ll wish they had it, but they’ve got to trod crap to get it

The Chest, now you can trod crap with impugnityBrownlining is so much more than a cheesy car decal or embossed ashtray. Singlebarbed readers can enhance their stature both instream and off with the addition of the “Chest” inflatable wading aid.

A misstep in our fetid world is always life threatening, a simple pull of the imbedded necklace inflates into a snug neck shield, with ample buoyancy to keep both head and mouth above the syrup.

Slip the Chest under your shirt, relax a couple of buttons and bask in the envious and hateful stares of your Blueline opponents.

The silk screened pectorals accented deftly via gold chain, offers a demure male enhancement, adding credibility to the retelling of heroic deeds, and lending the owner “presence” in all important social venues.

I think Scarface holds the answer to why Salmon are gone

I think “Scarface” holds the key to the entire salmon – steelhead issue, and is the poster child for what ails us…

A Crystal FX leech proved his undoing, which would suggest diminished capacity – as the fly does look appealing, but it in no way rivals a Big Mac.

 Face removal via rocky debris

My interest started with the winter floods, and while I could find little information about what fish did – there was a great deal of research on what bugs do in response to natural calamity.

Take a water district operating with complete autonomy;  no CalTrout, no Trout Unlimited, no passionate enviro-lobby, as there’s little glamour in little brown rivulets, couple that with a week long promise of heavy rain, and you get Scarface and more like him as progeny.

140 CFS is the normal flow, yet for 12 hours during the storm the dam release was 14000 CFS – enough to take the face off what few fish could hide, and blew the rest of the fish into the Delta accompanied by Dodge Escorts and rusty shopping carts.

I’m wandering an empty creek, barren of Bass – and what few fish remain show scrapes, scratches, and assorted wounds compliments of the “Zero Sum” water policy on the lake above.

You’re tired of hearing it, and I’m tired of saying it, “.. rather than spend those precious dollars on restoring the pristine, which we quickly despoil, perhaps we should be focused on restoring the balance of Nature.”

Most drown in their den, the rest are beaver burger In each of the last two years the release from the lake coincided with the wettest storm, suggesting the water district management blew open the gates in response to what runoff was anticipated. Swelling any river 100 times its normal size in an instant makes a killing machine; it destroys the insect population, kills or removes all the fish, and probably wipes a goodly portion of indigenous reptiles, amphibians, and anything else that calls the streambed home.

Both years would have scrubbed the creek at the height of the salmon spawn.

Beavers are great swimmers, but not when the river is a torrent. Likely it kills most in their burrow – and those that make it into the water are battered into pieces. At right is one of three dead beaver encountered at the high water mark. A little far-gone to determine cause of death, but it’s possibly additional evidence of an abusive water policy.

Multiply my little toxic creek by a couple hundred and you can see why there aren’t any salmon or steelhead, and why we’re dependent on the four hatcheries for the homogeneous mix that is shat onto the spillway.

We are so far behind the technology curve

I'd pour these SOB's on Ice Cream Can fly tying inspiration come from an unlikely source like mixed drinks and gourmet cooking?

If you’re desperate like me it can.

I spent most of this week tracking down scientific information on Carp feed, mating ritual, natural predators, response to stress, and preferred Ph – and endured the traditional dry dissertation that ensured we slept through Biology class.

Then I stumbled on the really good intel – the kind of information only hardbitten anglers produce, and I’ve been in the kitchen ever since…

After being bested by what many would describe as a “dumb underwater cockroach” – I was resolved to “man-up,”  it’s unsightly for a paunchy, middle aged angler to weep uncontrollably at streamside. It’s also mighty cold to recover a fly rod from deep water – having been thrown in a fit of pure infantile temperament.

Fly fishing can dim your vision after the first couple of decades, reducing the solution set to; dry, emerger, wet, and nymph. My repertoire is now enhanced after reading the Top 10 list of best selling Carp aids,  and neither Peacock herl or Glimmer chenille was mentioned once:

Creamy Pineapple, Double “G” Extreme Ice Cream, Wild Whiskey, Scopex,
Intense Sweetner, Cinnamon Butter Rum, Triple B, Creamy Pineapple Banana, and lastly, Pineapple Ice Cream Flavor

If that’s not inspirational just read the list aloud and see if the Missus doesn’t send you to Baskin-Robbins on the double.

We’ve been so focused on the perceived advances of ultra-extra light graphite, space age fabrics, and titanium – when the reality is we’re still lagging Carp technology. Likely it’s because revolutionary change occurs more frequently when the cost is six bucks, and we’re taking three and half years to pay off each fly rod.

Just think of these as Biodegradable Ultra Light Line – Scent Helpers with Intense Tastes, that … or fly floatant … whichever allays the suspicions of your effete dry fly pals.

Me, I’m adding a little alcohol to the mixture to numb my quarry’s lips; figuring he’ll swallow and digest the fly, and I won’t set hook until it comes out the other end.

These are doubly useful, if the Carp don’t care for the Tutti-Frutti, you can squeeze a dollop into your hydration pack …

The Systematic approach to Rejection

Monotheism simply lacks enough deities to curse and I’m contemplating a switch to Norse or Greek “Old Timey” polytheism.

Cursing is just one of many conversion advantages; you can junk the Solunar tables and paw through Crow guts to see tomorrow’s fishing forecast, there’s meaning to a bird flying past with a worm in its beak or taking a newspaper in the brisket from a kid hurtling past on a 10 speed.

They’re signs …

KreamedKorn, the bane of the Carp GenusWith so few practitioners and this being the heyday of Political Correctness, everyone will be back pedaling desperately not to give affront – and every sign points to your going fishing,  because you’re the fellow interpreting them.

My conversion occurred Sunday, I’d busted out to settle scores with a school of monstrous Carp I’d spotted last week. I had a fly box stuffed with sizes, weights, and colors, and having pitted wits with the wily “Golden Salmon” before – I’d resolved to use a systematic approach to rejection, akin to asking all the pretty girls to the Prom knowing the outcome is preordained.

Assuming 100 fish in the school, 5 swings with each candidate should yield enough curled lips and involuntary shudders to move to the next prototype or concoction.

I slunk away from the car while the Paintball Irregulars eyed my ample posterior. I’d left pride and elitism at home, as I’d stuffed a pocket full of patented “KreamKornKillers”, outlawed in 17 states and the bane of all Cyprinids.

Looks like a Chevy, the Ford's are stacked higher on the slope 

I hustled past the Pikeminnow, ignored the massive Trico spinner fall, was oblivious to partially clad supermodel’s that orbit the homeless encampment, and stomped my way past the Bank of Detroit to the magic Carp pool.

Deserted like normal, and a cloud of egg laying Trico’s drenching the far bank with an appreciative horde of small Bass munching undisturbed on the slow, infirm, and spent.

The school of Carp was still there, milling in a slow circle. No eating, no laggards, just a continuous stream of large fish like pedestrians disgorging from a subway escalator.

I tried: Small, Medium, large. Small, medium, and large, beaded. Small, medium, and large – weighted and no bead. I tried red, yellow, green, olive, moss, black, navy, grannom green, puce, paisley, gingham, and elderberry. Next was variegated black and yellow, tinsel equipped, turned up eye, turned down nose, sproat, kirbed, thick, thin, and maudlin. I asked the fat girls, the girls with cleft palates, the freshmen with disfiguring skin growths and their little sister, negatory – no dance.

I tried upstream presentations, downstream drifts, jerked, fried, and drifted. I bottom rolled, bunny-hopped, and pantomimed. Nada.

I’d offended no God – nor was I paying for misspent youth, or hellish and sinister past life – this is Carp fishing as I know it, obscenely difficult – and counter to everything I’ve read in print.

I discovered the advantages of Polytheism as I worked around the bend to the center of the pool, and saw the corpses and burned out wagon train…

 The bow is greater than the rod, it's still mighty wasteful

… and here I’d brought a rod and reel to a gunfight. A broadhead arrow makes a hell of an exit wound, and this “angler” had started lining them up by size until he got tired of touching them, then left them where they lay.

His Kung Fu was better’n mine.

The roar of the ATV from across the creek had me looking in that direction, and while the rider was still 65 yards away the Carp moved in response to his presence, coming enmasse to my side of the creek. A bit touchy still from the Bow orgy of yesterday.

I figure this is a sign. Fish milling in a circle is “response to predator” and means there’ll be no fish caught under any circumstances.

I finished my conversion to polytheism in a vocal manner, resolved little other than the “CoachSoccer “was more adept an angler than myself. Although I read better than he does;  Grass Carp is zero-kill in this watershed … I’d add “zero catch” but that’s just the sour grapes talking.

“Notch” improved my spirits a bit, he’s a Sacramento Sucker that came out of the water and tail walked through the finicky carp, it’s part of the beauty of coarse fish – many have the attributes of their noble cousins, yet so few fish for them they’re never recorded.

Neatly notched and healing nicely 

Early Spring displays the war wounds, tossed against unyielding object is my guess, an unlikely location for an Osprey’s talons or other predator, his gill plate neatly notched and healing.

Tossing a #20 Trico spinner with a Skagit head and a 4X tippet is perverse humor, but steady feeding Bass added much needed salve to the wound.

The fly lands south of the line tip and you have to drag about 30 feet of the running line to get the fly out ahead of the rest  – I managed to hook a couple fish, but they tossed the tiny fly after a brief tussle.

Kinda like the way them “gals” treated me, minus the tussle.

Is a world record Pikeminnow akin to the most Acne from a single candy bar?

When the wind's right you can hear the laughterThe roar of the motor preceded the scream of wind and shower of leaves, I broke left but evasion was useless, I’d received the Blessing of the Brownline – fertilizer dispensed via propwash – a gift from a leering ex-Warthog pilot, wrestling with his post-conflict internal demons.

The Blessing is why I retain a glossy full head of hair, it’s been fertilized, parted, and mowed regularly.

The really vile chemicals come later, as does my “full camo” ensemble, I dart from bush to brush and everyone assumes I’m just a bit zealous stalking fish. They miss the frightened glances skyward until the howl of Herr Rittmeister’s brightly colored monoplane dispenses an oily blast of fish-based fertilizer-substance.

A Stinger would be really useful, but I’m outgunned. I part the forest with my best oaths, and hope to Christ there’s nobody walking their dog within earshot – as they’d be a pillar of salt.

The creek bottom is barren of vegetation leaving me a porcine, slow moving target, we’re sure to see explosive growth in the next couple of weeks compliments of the Yellow Baron.

The Chunk Monster I rinsed the exposed flesh in creek water – swapping certain death for  disfigurement and continued my northward trek to survey what the runoff had brought me. All the really disgusting stuff is bobbing in San Francisco Bay by now – leaving a pristine creek full of snapped timber, root balls, and flattened vegetation.

Flattened and fertilized vegetation.

At the limit of the upstream section there’s a new beach compliments of a fresh deposit of gravel, and the rest of the creek was scoured much deeper. Lots of new holding water, plenty of deep slots cut along banks, and I’m left thinking the current version is superior to last year’s shallow flavor.

I saw my first fish on mile three, which is normal for Spring. Aided by dam release and winter floods the creek can grow to a thousand times its normal size, which purges everything that can’t hide, isn’t nailed down, or attached to a bridge.

A couple dozen large Pikeminnow and the occasional smallmouth were browsing in deep water – and without any vegetation available to hold insects, and with the catastrophic upheaval of the runoff, I guessed  these might be hungry and desperate fish.

I had a fistful of the “Ellis Island” reject flies I needed to expend and plopped an Olive unknown into the water above them. With a 4mm bead and 25 turns of fuse wire there was a corresponding mushroom cloud and crater in the river bottom – and most of the fish scattered.

I gave it a quick tug to free the fly and all hell broke loose, some silver flash comes out of the water and does its best Salmonid imitation, screams off downstream and returns to sulk.

I’m long past caring what it is – and from it’s profile it appears to be a trophy Pikeminnow – but thick and fat like a bass, not skinny and cylindrical like usual.

It’s laying in the slack water at the bank, and I realize it’s the new IGFA world record for Sacramento Pikeminnow. The old version was merely 6.25 pounds – and “Mr. Chunk Monster”, the genetically blessed fatty was likely to tip them scales closer to seven.

 See that little pink spot, right next to the dent from the vibram sole, it's bleeding profusely

After I kicked it seven or eight times I noticed it was bleeding profusely from the gills, and now I’m torn … do I rush into Raley’s Meats with a dripping cockroach and insist on fame everlasting, or release it and live in obscurity forever?

… and what kind of fame does an IGFA accredited World Record Pikeminnow really bring? Kissing babies and cutting ribbons, Paris Hilton on one arm, little mean-spirited rat dog clutched uncomfortably to my bosom, or is it really infamy, the kid with the largest unsightly blemish caused by ingestion of a single candy bar?

Fearing the outcry of concerned Singlebarbed readers, and knowing how my one small ray of sunlight would be morphed into a hideous crime, the prospect of dampening some Louisville Maple on the prone and defenseless genetic-super-specimen, froze me into immobility.

It regarded me with baleful yellow eyes, suggesting my ashes will trickle off that pristine Sierra mountainside, I’ll wind up a mayfly – and we’d take up this issue again … meanwhile I’m dribbling hollow points into my service revolver wondering whether they’ll show on the cover shot, whether they’ll just go through one side and rattle around a little – and can Fly Fisherman airbrush ’em out like Playboy?

If I’d had a garlic field close I might have been emboldened, but Chunk Monster is breathing atmosphere just fine and looks like he’s finished resting and is about to chase me back to the car.

I eased the hook out and watched him disappear into the murk.

It ain’t the Hoh River, but if I’d yelled loud enough a couple would’ve showed …

Me and Ellis Island is tromping stream gravel

Statue of Liberty box, containing the halt, lame, and weak of heart Every fly tyer has a “Statue of Liberty” fly box on his desk, it’s featured prominently close to his vice. It contains all his huddled masses, his wretched refuse of accidentals, flies missing legs, tails, poor color choices, or merely tempest tossed and a great idea that didn’t live up to it’s full promise.

After being held hostage by four days of howling winds, dawn broke airless and golden. I stuffed the “Ellis Island” specials into the vest and left – completely ignoring all responsibility.

I’ve got a new creek to discover – it’s actually the old creek that’s been scoured clean by this Winter’s floods. I’ll have new structures, new pools, and hopefully a few fish – although I’m not expecting to catch much other than brisk exercise.

105 in the shade might be an appropriate proving ground

The pace is glacial but someone’s keeping their ear to the catcalls from the brown water…

RIO's new Carp Taper

Summer is truly inhospitable and the combination of blazing daytime temperatures and chemicals in the water have bleached the SA Sharkskin and Cortland lines I’ve used in past seasons. It’s only a little bit less harsh on me – with my thin membrane of waders all that separates me from the chemical brew.

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The missing link discovered and the Olive branch extended

Throw that man an olive branch It’s unification of a sort, something that’s sure to unite the “X-stream” crowd with Blue and Brown water anglers. The Chinese call it a “Snow Trout“, it looks and acts like a Rainbow, only it’s a member of the Cyprinid family which contains both Carp and my beloved Pikeminnow.

I can hear the collective groan from here – both camps pause momentarily in battering each other hoping I won’t suggest a group hug.

Not a %$#@ chance.

The locale is exotic, Mongolia will be left to cruise ships and the camp followers that live in their wake; it’s called a trout – so when the dry fly types hold up their catch in an accusatory manner and insist otherwise – the local guides can smile widely and hide behind the language barrier, and the Pearl River is considered one of the world’s most polluted waterways, which will make the Brownlining aficionados plant flag.

All the enterprising expedition outfitter has to do is keep the respective zealots far apart, add some local myth about ravenous feeding habits and missing schoolchildren, ply both camps with alcohol and watch the cash registers act like slot machines.

Zhujiang Brewery, one of the three largest domestic breweries in China, is located on the Pearl River Delta within the city of Guangzhou.

Paradise.

“Pearl River” conjures some fanciful imagery in the mind of the fiscally prudent spouse; trade winds, grass skirts, and perfumed beaches – all you have to do is nod vigorously on the “perfumed” part, keep a straight face, and you’re there …