Category Archives: Brownlining

You can have one, but you must renounce your ancestral claim to lands and castle

There’s nothing like the plaintive howl of a youngest son to turn Ma into a baking dynamo, and likely she made older brother eat a bar of Ivory Snow for high-grading the baked goods.

It’s the same rush of adrenalin that allows Mom to lift a car off a child, trifling details like “he’s round as a butterball and could afford to lose 20 pounds,” is lost in the rattle of pans and flurry of baking powder.

The least I could do was take older bro fishing, now that I’d ratted him out, an opportunity to torment him further – dancing just out to fist range – chanting “Ma loves me more’n she loves you..”

Little brothers are pricks even in their dotage.

New water was in order as I was still smarting from Saturday’s outing. We moved upriver to a stretch neither of us had seen, sandwiched between two gravel quarries.

I don’t think the fish had seen a fly before and we had our hands full; smallmouth, largemouth, sunfish, hardhead, and pikeminnow assaulted us in large numbers, mostly smaller fish – and the action was brisk.

“Igneous Rock” was fishing a Manhattan Leech and I started off using a similar fly I call a Jelly Belly, it’s another glass beaded monstrosity using oily rose colored glass beads.

 

The above fish is a Sacramento Sucker in pretty stressed condition, note the copepods attached to the lower extremities. He’s wearing a Jelly Belly, making him a double sucker.

Almost identical to the Pikeminnow, Sacramento suckers are distinguished by a bit more yellow pigmentation, and the lateral line is straight; Pikeminnow have an upward slant to the lateral line at the rear of the gill plate.

 

This time of year water is both low, and extra warm – making fish vulnerable to parasites.

I swapped out the smaller fly for the Little Stinking Olive – I’d had time to produce some variants that had double the lead of the earlier flavor, and added 4 strands of soft crimp Aurora Blaze Angelina to the tail. It’s the dredging version, fast sinking and with a bit of flash to assist in deeper, darker water.

Everything ate it, including bluegill and sunfish.

Older Bro busted off his leech and I palmed a Little Stinking Olive, it was time for some horsetrading. “OK, I’ll give you one of these, but you must renounce all claim to my Lemon cake, there’ll be no ‘tithing’ – no ancestral blood right, no imminent domain issue with the goodies, deal?”

I glanced back his way and saw him with a fish on, “See, I told you!” He paused long enough to call back, “hell, this ain’t the first one, this is the fourth fish..”

It was the scene from “Dances with Wolves” – two fellows separated by an insurmountable gulf of sugary citrus infused plunder, thinking, “Good Trade.”

That little voice we shrug off is always right

There are always warning signs that we choose to ignore, in part due to boundless enthusiasm, in part raw courage. Non fisher types cannot understand our premonitions, as it’s counter to everything they’ve experienced.

We wake up to a traditional western dawn and appreciate the riot of colors and hue, but it starts that unsettling little voice that whispers, “fishless” …

sunrise It’s not that we can’t appreciate beauty, it’s only that we’ve been here so many times – knowing that if everything falls into place, the fish will be absent.

I’d rather wake up in a torrential downpour, or forget my reel, needing something bad at trip’s start to build the karma for something good to happen later.

I peered over the railing of the bridge and the little voice started clamoring – in the absence of all the crap from the horse stable, the water was gin clear and the fish were visible.

Too good to be true, often is just that – and I’m attempting to temper my enthusiasm with unwelcome reality.

No horse crap means clear water and visible fish I tossed everything I had, every oddball experimental and all the proven patterns; weighted, unweighted, dead drift, and stripped, and there was naught to show for my industry.

It was yet another reminder of the perverse nature of fishing, dealing me all aces up until the other fellow caught his flush.

The fish weren’t feeding and likely were on high alert. Without the protective blanket of horse crap from the stable upstream, they weren’t interested in anything thrown their way.

Tomorrow I’ll start by launching my old water heater over the bridge, flies are for sissies.

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Everyone likes a fish that jumps, until now

… and Brownliner’s are the only line of defense for the nation’s waterways.

A recent story on a child being knocked unconscious by a jumping Asian Carp piqued my interest, what I wasn’t prepared for is the scope of the issue and how far reaching the problem has become.

Imported by Midwest farmers to filter ponds, and escaping into the Mississippi River during flood season, the Asian Carp is on a collision course with the cold waters of the Great Lakes and Canada – and only an electric fence exists between them and the projected collapse of the entire fishery.

Asian Carp Invasion – Part 2

Their behavior is something you have to see to believe. It’s thought that the leap into the air as a reaction to predators, but millions of 10-20 lb fish going airborne at the same time is enough to deny rivers to pleasure boat traffic completely.

Asian Carp Invasion – Part 1

I’d hate to think a wading angler might get the same reaction.

We’re used to mini and micro invasive species that a liberal dose of 409 can stymie, but I don’t think you’re prepared to combat something that can take you out just as quickly.

The rough fish contingent may be able to slow them somewhat as they blow through the brown water, but this is a cold water fish and may be the future of many streams that hold trout. It’s silver and jumps so you may not miss much …

The Brownline convention will be held at Love Canal

Vote the Brown Line Throwing away both parties and starting anew may be the answer, what with the dismal offerings we’ve seen in past elections – whose debate may only be who slept, or didn’t sleep, with whom.

The Fishing for Words blog has a short piece to assist you in the forthcoming election, and we may be able to ignore the traditional schlock in favor of who fishes for what and how.

McCain may be a brownliner and Obama an independent with blueline aspirations, based on the featured quotes. Age aside, what may bring Sarah Palin into the picture is how toxic the effluent McCain is wading through.

A hardened Brownliner may be what we need – I’ll withhold my vote until I see what his gear looks like – and what patterns he fishes, as I’ve been sucked in more than a few times by publicity stills.

The last legitimate brownline candidate was Jimmy Carter, wading through his pond with a landing net, the direct method, eschewing all that expensive tackle – and it’s likely the Secret Service had to keep an eye on Bother Billy – who was known to light a stick of “really direct method.”

Our symbol would have to be the goat, only because they float so nicely, like one of those bloated beach seals – only hairier.

Funny how Ma’s pie never seems to make the hour journey

I suffered through one more outing suckling off the plasticine teat before adding lemon juice to the bag, just enough tart to take your mind off the rest of the taste – it’s cold, tastes like Pepsi Light, which I never could stand, but I’ll live.

You get a couple “old guys” in the crap water and elementary school reasserts itself; an artificial spry that lasts until the other fellow ain’t looking.

Saturday was solo and Sunday the Peanut Gallery showed – Singlebarbed reader, Igneous Rock – aka “older bro” – decided he needed to get bit, bad enough to flee the City.

It’s good to know that even in our dotage the testosterone playground  is still alive and well. Forty years ago it was who could run fastest, hit the ball furthest, and drink most-est. Now, with the weight of years, it’s who’s suffering more:

“That’s nothing, they want to replace both hips, I passed a kidney stone the size of a softball, and the doctor can’t explain why I’m still breathing.”

“Dude, Lameness. I’ve been diagnosed with three kinds of inoperable cancer, which are contentedly eating each other, they want to amputate both legs, and my doc says, ‘what circulation, I can’t detect a heartbeat.’ “

“What do you got, Blue Shield?”

“Nope, I got your Momma, right here …”

A couple of old degenerates, content to molest small fish and pound chest in the doing. Me, I fiddled with the endless cornucopia of odd variations created over the last couple of weeks, and color – lots of it.

I can’t say that the reception was much, but the tie-dye crowd would have appreciated the up-tempo changes.

Tweety-Bird is the hot pink, gold, salmon variant. Parrot is the multi-hued purple flavor. Bass ate both – but not the way they flock to the Little Stinking Olive.

I did get the physics right, as all the hookups are in the top of the mouth. The filamentous algae will cling to the hook bend on a traditional fly, and can increase it’s size by 4-5 inches. I was wondering whether this was part of the reason Carp flee in panic when my flies get within visible range.

Parrot Flavor, Bass like Purple Just methodically ticking through food groups, physics, and the engagement process, at some point I’ll discover what ails me.

In the meantime I’ll host the Big City Swells, carrying their luggage, kowtowing constantly, without hope that some of Ma’s baked goods will survive the trip.

Funny how they’re always misplaced. I do the “good son” bit, sending Almonds, Walnuts, and all manner of raw materials, yet each shipment is hijacked minus an apology.

Hey Meathead, remember when you took that long pull off my water bag, and you mentioned it tasted funny? The other end of the siphon was in the pooty water – and when you recover, you be sure to send me a card.

 

Shameless enlarged picture for Ma, of her baked goods hijacking oldest son – so’s she’ll bake even more goodies. As much avarice and profit motivated advertising as we’re able to stomach on Singlebarbed.

If it’s a Cadillac, then we’re fishing Blue Ribbon chemicals

I thought I was on to something but all I’ve proven is that I’m a slow learner. Fiddling with textures and colors is fine, but revealing that brownline fish have an unnatural obsession with “oil slick” colored glass beads – is about as revolutionary as Mr. Wonderbread eating a Twinkie.

Manhattan_Leech_victim Ernie Schweibert could have told me in an instant; “Match the Hatch” is based on representing common insects with flies – to lull fish into eating.

Folded into the brown water paradigm, I’m looking at abandoning natural insects and attractors patterns in favor of the common food groups available to fish in the stink water.

Kicking over rocks and straining the result is normal entomology, which has proven antiquated and useless, what’s needed is to regroup and see the bigger picture.

Chrome and rust dominate the watershed, and I’m leaning on at least one of the essential food groups while pondering. It also explains the fascination with “oil slick” flies; like the Arizona, most of the best “holding water” was driven into the creek, and has been leaking for years.

Agricultural chemicals and methyl Mercury are more of an aura than a food group, it’s a basting agent like Soy sauce or Olive oil. I can easily counter with pure DEET, call it brownline dipping sauce.

Further investigation is warranted, as we’re thinking outside the streambed – the source of most of the crap we’re wading through …

The feathers are strictly a “don’t ask, don’t tell” – suffice it to say the effluent has grown long legs on our pigeons. It’s a significant faux pas to wear four white feathers, that’ll identify you as a trout fisherman.

Their water is icy and their gals are chaste

I had my three days of Grace, wherein we tiptoed through the clean water, drank coffee with our pinkie extended, showered regular, and didn’t wipe our nose on our sleeve.

It wasn’t enough to weaken us measurably – complying with all those societal norms, but once our feet hit the brown water, we were back to Schlock and Chaw, throwing off the yolk of the Oppressor.

We’re in the Jungle – eating rat meat, growing stronger ..

I missed the party; Popov Vodka, Basic Cigarettes, and some lass minus all her clothes – it’s one of the tribulations of fishing brown water – all them young impressionable dames throwing up themselves at portly, balding fly fishermen.

Blueliners don’t enjoy such luxury as their water is icy and their gals is chaste.

I discarded the Marquis of Queensbury rulebook on my arrival, none of this dry-fly-upstream, respect your fellow angler stuff, when last here we’d discovered the Little Stinking Olive – and the watershed was recoiling in terror. 

Verify and refine – the pattern is absolute death on Smallmouth, and is typical of fly fishing; you start out looking for a Carp fly and wind up with something Bass can’t resist.

The creek is on the mend and the water has risen about six inches, mighty welcome to get some flow back, but it means the fish will be repositioning themselves and I’ll have to find them again.

I’d managed to tie four of these Crayfish patterns – without modification other than more lead, boosting the “keel” to 15 turns of 1 Amp fuse wire – looking to increase the sinkrate enough to be effective in 4 feet of water.

Old Nondescript’s Hole beckoned as I trudged past – and I stopped to take the maiden pull off my Hydration Pack, finding it tasting like someone had strained water through Pampers. Yecch. It was cold and wet – and not much else you could say in polite company. Waist deep in heavy metal and selenium, and suckling off Poly-Vinyl Chloride.

I’m a poster child for industrial solvents, likely to earn a brass plaque over some Porta-Potty …

 

The first fish was four inches, he’d clamped down on the fly and tangled up with the Boa fiber – the next was eight inches, the third cast yielded the above pound-and-a-half fish, and the fourth cast broke off clean in the mouth of Old Nondescript hisself..

… either that or a relative, a swirl the size of a bath-tub and he catches me using 5X. Mea Culpa.

The Togen Scud hooks work fabulous – weighted at the crest of the bend to flop the hook over so the fly rides point-up, avoiding the algae and bramble of the bottom.

This weekend I’ll fiddle with alternate colors – as the Mallard is no longer made – and I’ve split what I found with my Brownline brethren at Roughfisherman’s Journal. It’s a weighty responsibility, as it appears the complete eradication of Smallmouth Bass is within reason, and I don’t want the South to rise again in anger..

Them fellows take their bass seriously, and guns is always close to hand.

On rare occasion we adopt Blueliner ritual without modification

I have to blame Tamanawis for my dilemma. I keep reading Mike’s Scottish fly fishing stories featuring grey skies, fish, and a variety of single malts. Their names sound harsh, with multiple “och” and “agh” syllables – and only a Scotsman can pronounce them so they sound buttery and delightful. 

My hydration pack debuts tomorrow, and while water sounds good – a quart of 15 year old Dalwhinnie sounds a hell of a lot better.

Nope, I’m not suddenly putting on airs – it’s the only bottle of good hooch my older bro hasn’t found and drankled yet, it’s tiring to check the liquor cabinet and finding my choice of aged Sterno or dusty Vanilla extract …

Besides ships are christened, and while new that plasticine bladder has to be unsanitary – requiring a liberal dose of medicinal spirits. At least that’s what I’ll claim when I wake up.

I saw a triple-filtered water bottle with handy squeeze action this weekend, used with the comment, “… it has an Iodine filter, kinda tastes like Scotch.” While it may filter living stuff down to 3 microns – the heavy metals and Metam Sodium, coupled with every other farm chemical has me a bit skeptical.

Tastes like Scotch has merit, and there’s less risk in insisting my new water system tastes like good scotch instead, no?

Slàinte mhòr agad!

Me and the four Horsemen of the Little Stinking

I knew the weatherman was lying when the ATV crowd left at 8:30AM. It was supposed to be in mid-90’s, and I’d bypassed all the close fishing in favor of a trek to the clean water upstream.

A pocketful of experimental flies and the desire to observe the hookup had me three miles up the creek, sans paddle, and today she was the Little Stinking Frying Pan of Doom, accompanied by the other three Horsemen; humidity, rank decay, and the Reflective Pea Gravel of Searing Death.

I’ve got a liter of water, a pack of cheap cigars, and am on a mission from Izaak Walton..

At mile three I stopped and eyeballed the Big Bass stretch; in past weeks I’d sworn off this spot as the Carp are always in patrol mode. They’ll swim close by to lure you into sight casting, but never responded to anything I’ve thrown at them.

So I hunker down behind a screen of brush, and can see the tell-tale bubble stream of feeding fish, but there’s 30 feet of brush between me and the quarry.

Frustration is a powerful stimulant, and I’m addicted.

The fly made it to the water, but the path it took was torturous, like hanging Christmas tree lights around hedges, smooth curves don’t exist, and the line is draped over whatever’s tallest. I figured a half dozen casts before moving further upriver, and the last cast is on an intercept for a pod of three siphoning fish. I’d tried the flesh colored fly earlier and had an Ocher San Juan Worm swinging into their path. I couldn’t see any visible reaction from the fish – but the Nymph Tip started moving upstream and I set the hook.

I didn’t have to fear the fly line as it came up off the ground, but the five tree branches I was connected to enroute to the water was a bit troublesome. The extra resistance likely pulled the hook free – but as the fish went by, the line was headed for it’s mouth, rather than it’s arse, so I figured it was a clean take.

Sweet. Now I just have to lug in a Weed Eater to clear the bank debris and I’ll be all set.

 

The third digit in the temperature is making itself felt – and optimism has added visions of Sugarplums to the heat waves dancing off the rocks. I continued upriver to the deep stretch, only to find the fish hanging in the deep pool rather than feeding. They were smarter than me, hanging in the coolest part of the hole and avoiding direct sunlight.

Which is sounding plenty good to me by this point, and I start heading back to the car.

Shade is only available in a couple spots, and I plan my exodus around them – stopping to cool down and guzzle water rather than a forced march.

 

I still hadn’t tried my boa crayfish, and while enjoying a Brownliner lunch; a cheap cigar and bottled water, I knotted it on to test the construction. It’s made of the Mallard Bernat Boa fringe and a pair of rubberlegs for adornment, and it’s light, aerodynamic, and a pretty stark contrast to traditional bulky crayfish patterns.

Tied on a Togen Scud hook, and weighted to “keel” – flip over and ride upside down – avoiding the moss and bottom debris from accumulating on the hook – a problem noticed with the San Juan Worm. The real crustacean is available to the Carp, and Bass like crayfish – so I assumed it would be a good dual purpose fly.

I eased out of the protective shade and slammed the fly into the water to sink it – it had a medium sink rate (10 turns of 1 amp fuse wire) and looked really good when you yanked on it. A pair of “claws” off the tail area are simple trimmed from the fringe, and trail nicely behind the fly when motion is added.

I tossed it onto the far bank and drug it into the water – it didn’t even get damp before the line twitched and a smallmouth grabbed it. I released him and tossed the line further down – and it came right back at me with a big Smallmouth attached – jumping a half dozen times and heading off downriver despite my best efforts.

 

Three casts yielded three fish, and the fourth cast planted it firmly in a tree branch on the far side, which was appropriate as no fisherman should wield that much raw power..

It’s a really functional fly, the material is tough and resilient, resists fish damage, and is light even when waterlogged – allowing the luxury of using it on lighter rods, and lighter lines.

The natural twist of the fringe and it’s supporting braid allows the “claws” to flop around like marabou, yet everything tucks into an aerodynamic shape when yanked – just like a real crayfish.

Bernat makes a vibrant orange color called “Tweety Bird” that I’d like to try for the red crayfish. It’ll darken a couple shades when wet, and the brown water will darken it yet again, making it a good change up if the  Crayfish are the brighter coloration. The Little Stinking has both colors, but all of the live samples I’ve seen are the bluish Olive. I tied one other in the Peacock color, mixed olive and turquoise, but didn’t have a chance to try it.

Next weekend is a blueline pilgrimage, but I’ll have more than a single prototype in the box for the week following, you can be sure.

… Little Stinking Olive – has a nice ring to it, making all them trout fishermen think it’s some variant of a mayfly. Deceit rules.

I just want to foul hook him in the mouth

Fishermen have enough foibles, fears, and superstitions to keep a bevy of psychoanalysts at our beck and call. The only redeeming facet of our personality is that we’re upright and functional – or we appear that way.

My personal demon this week is the unnatural fear I’m not even close to solving the “Golden Salmon” riddle, and the bulk of the fish may have been foul hooked rather than ate what I threw…

It’s 106 outside, giving me plenty of time to mull events – and I can’t shake the feeling that last week’s “hooked 3 – landed 1” and this morning’s “hooked 2 landed none,” are suspicious.

I’d be happy to trade for anorexia nervosa, at least I could shed some flab while curled in the fetal position.

Carp have the world’s greatest mouth, thick and rubbery – and once you plant a hook in there it’s tough to get out. “Hooked 5 and landed 1” sounds like Democrats claiming Sarah Palin lacks experience, hoping nobody mentions Obama in the same breath.

I think my fears are well founded

This morning I was on the creek at dawn as it’ll be too hot to fish later. I dutifully flung experimental flies at bubbles and hooked up with two fish, both were short lived. The image at left tells the sordid story, a large scale from the back of the fish impaled on a flesh colored San Juan Worm.

It’s what you get for throwing weighted flies in the path of a large slab of meat, in water the color of a military vehicle.

Unfortunately any real trial is going to force me about 4 miles up the creek, where the Carp feed in cleaner water – that way both of us can be assured that the bug was eaten cleanly.

The profile is intact even when wet

The Clam pattern looks good, retaining it’s profile when wet – the bead forces the Bernat Boa material to keep it’s 3D shape.

So far it’s claimed only one small bass and a Pikeminnow – so I keep fiddling with colors and unnecessary gimcracks to keep me thinking positively.

I listened to both political conventions while adding another half dozen really oddball things to try. I guess the promise of a “Chicken in Every Pot” unleashes the imagination – as both groups insisted they could fix the economy, the Iranian Menace, Social Security, and anything else that ails you – with a 30 minute speech.

More insanity for me to try

The temperatures are supposed to drop to the mid 90’s tomorrow, so I’ll have a shot at the clean water without melting.

I’ve got 3 colors of worms – three sink rates, plus some Clam modifications, some strange color combinations – and a couple other tricks I’d like to try.

I ordered a 2 liter hydration pack this week to assist me through the searing heat of the riverbed; gravel reflects much of the temperature back at you – and the proximity to water means you’re sweating profusely at the same time – and if you’re not, you’re in big trouble.

No sense letting the Carp win due to my premature demise …