Category Archives: commentary

Hisself admits frailty, acknowledges the ravages of Time and resolves to be meaner

rice2 I remember calling the announcer a “know-nothing boob” when he claimed Jerry Rice had “lost a step.” Those were fighting words, inferring the world’s greatest wide receiver from the world’s best-est NFL team was somehow mortal…

Forgive my obvious “homer-ism” – there are other NFL franchises, but with the home team employing both Joe Montana and Jerry Rice the late 80’s and early 90’s were mostly a coronation rather than a contest.

Fly anglers are athletes only most of us don’t see it that way. Our contracts cover “love and cherish” and a lifetime of lawn mowing, and when the “head coach” tells us to come off the couch – we do so with all haste and don’t twitter our distaste for her play calling …

I’ve been wrestling with this notion all season, coming to grips with the fact that I’ve lost a step. It’s painful to admit and I’ve blamed all manner of external entities, but the plain truth is age is starting to show itself.

Mortality is a rude awakening, some find it early via cataclysmic event – but the rest of us feel like we’re in high school for forty years and then suddenly we’re not.

At 46 my lifelong 20-20 vision started to deteriorate. A visit to the ophthalmologist yielded a gleeful diagnosis of “old guy” Presbyopia, and nothing to be done about it. It meant reading glasses for fly tying, as I had trouble resolving small flies and hackles, and it meant glasses for knot tying while fishing – as I could no longer thread monofilament through the eye.

It meant that if the glasses were lost or broken, my fishing was done. The last 45 minutes of dusk – the Holy Time – when fish get careless and bugs grew dense – was now 35 minutes of swearing while trying to tie on the right fly, then finding I could no longer see it when it landed.

… and Shad meant healing between trips. All those broken fingers suffered in youth, and both thumbs broken while salt water fishing, have reawakened like some dormant volcano – reminding me of every youthful lapse in judgment.

The heavy rods with Ultra-fine, Half wells, Cigar, or Reverse half Wells, now are passed over in favor of the Full Wells grip, which seems to give better purchase and requires less finger pressure to keep the rod from rotating.

Throwing a Type VI head is always arduous. One or more roll casts to get it onto the surface, one or more false casts to position the running knot outside the guides, and then flung with great vigor.

Pop calls it “economy of motion” – where you start to favor a body part and refine the casting stroke to minimize repetition. I can still go all day, but this season taught me to use one roll cast, one positioning cast, and toss. Distance is unaffected, this is the cast you should have been using all along, the cast the rod’s taper was designed to deliver and only youthful ardor and invulnerability prevented you from learning it.

In addition to the reading glasses, we’ve added water and sugar. I’ve always been in good walking shape and trips start at the parking lot, with multiple miles of upstream or downstream before thinking of returning.

A couple liters of water and a snack bar have replaced the beer and a sandwich. Most of my local watershed is blazing hot and the refractive heat from sandy stretches coupled with the humidity of the creek can take the starch out of your stride long before the car is visible.

The forced march through the burning sands has been tempered by wisdom. We can still do the full frontal assault, but a spot of shade and some water makes it much more comfortable.

A Park Bench in our future? We’ve added glasses, hydration, and a fart bar to the vest – three more items we can forget in the pre-dawn flurry of fly boxes, tippet and other essentials.

But it’s the melancholy that makes “losing a step” so difficult. You know that another decade and you may not be fishing alone anymore, the decade after, fishing may be limited to the parking area, and in the decade that follows fishing may be a sunny park bench at the casting club – where you rub aching stuff and tell fish stories with other fellows in similar circumstance.

… all the while keeping a fatherly eye on the youthful know-nothings unable to keep a defined loop aloft, knowing your impatience with their casting stems from your inability to wade steadily, or rock-hop some small creek to show the lad how it’s really done.

You shake your head when he applies additional force to the cast which makes the tailing loop worse, and unable to suffer further you straighten off the bench to walk out to the fellow – enduring his glare of resentment when you offer to assist.

I suppose I was the same way when those old guys approached me. I knew everything already, despite only being 12.

I can dump a few extra pounds to regain a short burst of squandered youth, but a couple years later even that won’t be enough and I’ll submit reluctantly to the ravages of Time.

The silver lining has to be passing on all that knowledge – learned painfully at the cost of self – to some scowling young prick that will only learn its value a couple decades later when he faces what I faced.

Those that tie flies will blink through thickening spectacles and continue their craft with renewed passion, as it preserves the connection to the sport despite age or frailty.

… and pressing six or seven flies into the hands of some youngster – whose eyes grow as big as silver dollars may be a suitable surrogate for using them yourself.

I’m toying with going out messy like Brett Favre. I’ll be the bane of the orthopedic surgeon insisting he replace stiffened tendons with sheep embryo injections or stem cells.

Some innocent fellow will be tromping through the woods and stumble across my prone form at water’s edge, and when he checks for a pulse I’ll startle him by croaking out a string of obscenities, “get your goddamn hands off’n me you lummox, and tell me whether that big Brown is still there despite your big assed feet …”

That’s the Gold Lining, being a mean old SOB for the last couple of fortnights …

Tags: Old guys, fly fishing, lost a step, mortality, Brett Favre, Jerry Rice, Joe Montana, mean SOB, casting club, impatient youth, economy of motion, retired athlete, sheep embryo, hydration pack,

Singlebarbed’s Gear Review, the Redington RS4 – Rise 5/6

I’ve had the luxury of testing a Redington RS4 9′ #6 the last couple of weeks, complimented by a matching Redington Rise 5/6 reel. I managed to paint some algae on it from a half dozen tepid backwaters, including the Little Stinking and Sporting Creek.

Redington RS4 9' #6

Now with the rod shiny and scrubbed with anti-invasive bleach, I’ll have to return it.

… but not before passing on some commentary.

Action:

“Crisp” covers the first two sections, and immovable describes the last two. It’s a six weight rod in name only – as the rear half is nearly inflexible. It casts a WF7F with equal ease, and a WF8 doesn’t even flex the third segment.

RS4 reel seat detail Fast action rods have the bulk of the flex contained in the top third or top half of the blank, but the RS4 is an extreme case typified by a club-like lower half. All rods should demonstrate some flex regardless of action type, and the RS4 was much too stiff in the lower two sections to see real deflection. As a result, it delivers the line with great authority, too much for delicate work – it’s bestial characteristic better suited for slamming deer hair bass bugs or waterlogged streamers into a stiff breeze.

Which was ideal for the creeks I subjected it to …

Bead head nymphs hit the water with terrific force – a reminder to back off the delivery stroke for fear of the ensuing fountain of water and suddenly empty creek …

Outfitted with a ST7S it can deliver a bead chain enhanced shad fly in excess of 110 feet, yet I still couldn’t confirm whether the third section was participating in all that double hauling frenzy.

I like fast, but this taper ended after the top half – yielding a wading staff from the bottom two segments.

RS4 Finish Detail

Spline Test:

Peering under the hood reveals the engineering detail of rod construction, and I was disappointed in the results of the spline test.

Simply put, a graphite rod is built by wrapping a fixed length of graphite scrim (fabric) onto a steel mandrel. When the appropriate number of layers are applied, the material is trimmed lengthwise, wrapped and baked into the final blank.

The start of the wraps and the end of the wrap create two points with an extra layer of graphite compared to the rest of the blank – these are called the major and minor spline(s).

The major spline is typically the outside wrap – the last wind of fabric before it was cut, and the minor spline is the first wrap of fabric – but it’s buried deep in the blank so it appears less pronounced.

Laying a rod section onto a flat table, you can roll the edge of your hand in the middle of the rod to feel both splines – the rod actually “jumps” in your hand as the two “edges” of extra material roll underneath.

All wrapped fabric rods have this phenomenon, both fiberglass and graphite, bamboo rods usually lack a spline, as they’re constructed of (usually) six hexagonal strips glued together, therefore lacking any “extra” turns of material.

Guides are traditionally mounted opposite the major spline. This makes the “top” of the rod contain the spline, and as it’s the stiffest section of the rod, and the “outside” of a rod bends further than the inside when flexed, it’s the side with the most resistance to bending.

It provides power.

Cheap mass produced rods pay no attention to spline alignment, mounting the guides wherever they feel like – or however the rod segment lands in the wrapping harness. First tier rod makers typically align the spline and guides to ensure a predictable action.

Redington’s guides are mounted without regard to the spline of each rod segment, and each of the four sections has the guides mounted in a different angle to the spline.

When casting the rod you’d be hard pressed to feel the difference of spline alignment and guides. Mechanically, the rod is reacting differently on each segment and is twisting to compensate for the poor alignment robbing the casting stroke of energy.

A fast action #6 with reserve power – mounted properly with the spline of all four sections on the top, would make this rod a true #7, as the spline adds additional reserve power and resistance to flexing.

Finish and Fittings:

Black finished dual foot guides complemented by a single carbide stripping guide, offered a traditional look and feel. Sturdy reel seat hardware accented with the neo-standard graphite spacer – and a nice broad rounded thread to tighten the reel seat. The wide thread resists grit from causing the reel to bind on dismount – a nice “fishing” touch – as we excel at putting reels in harsh environments.

Outstanding cork with little filler – a rarity in today’s rods.  eight 3/4″ rings used versus the traditional thirteen 1/2″ cork segments.

The finish was applied thickly, with all decals imbedded under a blanket of epoxy. Small dots marked on the blank for guide alignment got additional coats – and the male end of each ferrule has epoxy extending down the blank for an additional two inches, a bit of overkill considering.

This “decal” coat was abrupt and noticeable on each rod segment, almost giving the notion of a sag in the finish. It’ll be a “”turn off” to those that delight in a rod’s appearance – and assists in stiffening an already unyielding rod.

Rise 5/6 Front

Reel:

The Rise reel was absolutely delightful. Solid construction and good craftsmanship on both tolerances and finish. The drag knob was large and accessible and turned easily even with muddy or damp fingers.

It’s a mid arbor reel with both sides ventilated for weight reduction.

The holes on the rear of the reel are small preventing dangling vest attachments from getting into the mechanism once the reel is brought into your chest, and the backplane thick enough to avoid the “cheese grater” effect should a finger get into the wrong area on a hot fish.

Disc drag with easy access for lubrication and maintenance, and a pleasing muted click to alert you to line paying out.

Suggested retail is $156.00 (Spool $80).

RS4 Case with visible reel

Case:

It’s a clever case design allowing for the reel to stay attached when stored away. It makes for one less item to forget in pre-trip planning – as the mylar window plainly displays the reel attached to the rod.

Summary:

This is a clubby workhorse rod – not some gossamer reed that will assist your posing in the parking lot. Fit and finish are acceptable, with the notable exceptions of superb reel seat and quality cork, but finish and engineering (spline mismatch) are not Tier 1 quality.

Considering that I fish with rods whose trim is painted on the blank, that shouldn’t give you much pause ..

It’s a beastial fast rod whose action is limited to the first two segments, the butt sections are inflexible and clubby. You’ll treat the rod accordingly – no wincing when you yank a stuck dry fly from an overhanging branch, it’s the kind of rod you loan an in-law without regard for its safety, whose butt is perched in sand and water while wolfing a sandwich.

You’ll toss it into the truck bed fully rigged, and if it bangs the bottom of the boat when you shift your weight, you won’t worry about any nick or blemish.

Crisp action bordering on the insensitive, quality accessories yet only average finish quality, it’s a yeoman’s rod – something to learn with and loan to a friend once you upgrade.

TC’s test of the same rod offers additional insight.

Tags: Redington RS4 Review, Redington rod, Redington Rise 5/6, fly rod, fly reel, cork, round threaded reel seat, scrim, epoxy finish, rod spline, mass produced fly rods, Chinese fly rod

Can you spare some Kleenex, Bro?

Unfortunately the prognosis is full recovery. Brain function is currently limited to the non-artistic centers of the right lobe, while the playful and color conscious left hemisphere is still plugged with unmentionables.

Red Eyed Nose Blow

The desire to torment readers has resurfaced – which is a good sign, but I’m still leaving the bulk of my skills in discarded Kleenex.

The rest I’m husbanding for some new local waters which I’m determined to visit this weekend – where I can throw the above self portrait without censure…

Ice Cream on tap and the Pizza Chopper hovering overhead

Coin activated showers Once again I’m the center of attention as co-workers dance about me in utter horror.

We’re leaving this morning for the Annual “Guys from work go fishing and talk smack about everyone else,” trip – and I’m being admonished to bring quarters for the shower…

“Shower? %$#@ That.”

While the other fellows roll their eyes skyward pantomiming the “Eww” face, I’m wondering how we got to this sordid gentrified state.

When I backpacked we’d use a handful of wild lavender for soap and go bare-arsed into the lake – and only then after being voted off the island. Grubby clothing and a weeks worth of stubble was nothing when you’re cutting your own firewood and survival was Rainbow Trout stuffed with the last handful of trail mix.

Add eight miles of dusty trail to a week without Twinkies, sprinkle in 5000 feet of elevation and we swore Rice-A-Roni was ladled by Wolfgang Puck hisself…

Older bro’s hushed whisper, “this lake has Brown Trout!” really meant, “maybe these are imbued with different natural spices” – as we’d run out of Lemon Pepper a week ago.

Now, with pavement leading up to a groomed fire pit and a trunkload of gleaming cutlery, thousand candlepower lanterns, and Gnocchi’s boiled over a gas stove – we’re back to white dinner jackets and fine china.

“Maybe some cold cuts and a little bread to make a sandwich, we’ll have been on the water for 15 hours, horse shit will look and taste good by then. Just keep the cleanup light – as once that food hits your belly – and after all that fishing, you’ll be asleep in minutes.”

They weren’t listening. They were lost in a land of pizza choppers hovering overhead delivering cases of cold beer and thick steaks.

It dawned on me that it’s the converse that’s true – and why I find so many empty discarded water bottles in the forest. It’s not how rough it is that characterizes the outdoor experience – it’s the degree you tamed the outdoors that now separates the hardcore from the casual.

Unless you’ve got ice cream on demand, you’re not an outdoorsman, unless you transform that 30X30 regulation campsite into your living room, complete with satellite TV and NFL Ticket, you’re a total outdoor wuss.

I’ve only got a couple of choices, yank the generator cord and watch them cry over all that wasted dairy, asking each other in disbelief whether it’s safe to eat pate and gruyere with mayonnaise that’s been room temperature for the last nine hours…

“Bob? *Sniff* Christ Jesus, the Grey Poupon’s been kilt!” 

… or I could just skip the shower all three days … which isn’t nearly as fatal, it only seems that way.

… um, still deciding ..

The saga of the Columbian Bounty Killers

Clint does Trash Fish I’ve always assumed it’s professional disdain – why the Fish and Game is reluctant to use anglers for eradication or thinning fish populations.

The only venture I know of; “Fistful of Pikeminnow”, and “For A Few Pikeminnow More”, suggest that the bounty program on Columbia River Pikeminnow netted 158,000 fish for 2008, with anglers pocketing nearly $1,000,000 during the fracas.

Nice lump of change for many – with nearly $500,000 dollars paid to the top 20 fishermen. That’s $25,000 each for countless days afield and a swell suntan.

It’s plain that the agencies are reluctant to go whole hog – as the jobs created by bounty-killer “infrastructure” projects would be neatly offset by the number of anglers abandoning work in favor of professional fishing – otherwise we’d see thousands of such programs nationwide.

Since 1990, more than three million northern pikeminnow have been removed through the sport reward program. As a result of these efforts, predation on juvenile salmonids is estimated to have been cut by 38 percent.

Whether you believe the numbers or not, that’s a healthy return on investment – considering the multi-million dollar fish ladders and bank restorations that achieve single digit returns.

During the same period we’ve increased our appetite for cooked salmon nearly 12% – suggesting that while we possess a certain altruistic lean, we are listening to the doctors lecture us on heart health.

A little scrimshaw will make that tie-dye less attractive

I had another chat with Kevin Compton the distributor for the Dohiku and Grip hook lines and was reminded to check up on our my favorite subject, competitive fly fishing.

My contention has always been that all real evolution in tackle is occurring due to the competitive angler – and us hobbyists are pretty content with the current state of rods, lines, flies, and fly fishing sundries.

Considering we’re enjoying rods and tackle whose roots are in the Space Race – competition merely showcases the trends and materials early. American manufacturers hindered by our reluctance to embrace the competition aspects probably scowl as did “Fatso” Goering, when he asked Adolf Galland what was needed to win the Battle of Britain..

“Finally, as his time ran short, he grew more amiable and asked what were the requirements for our squadrons. Moelders asked for a series of Me109’s with more powerful engines. The request was granted. ‘And you ?’ Goering turned to me. I did not hesitate long. ‘I should like an outfit of Spitfires for my group.’ “

… it must be tough on the Sage rep to walk off as the American team wave their Italian rods , but the B.A.S.S. circuit knows a sponsor when it sees one – and will be thrilled to wear the Sage decal.

Competition is by nature secretive and ever changing –  the only reason the Bassmaster’s winner divulges his secret bait is because he has to – and digging up information on contemporary competitive tackle is like pulling teeth – at best you get what worked last year.

Jiri Klima “googles” nicely –  the Czech fishing coach introduced a line of jig hooks and pre-weighted nymph forms unlike the “shrimp” style seen in past years. These are turned into Caddis jigs versus the more traditional nymph tie.

Naturally we’re clutching our chest in horror, “jigs” being the Devil’s handiwork and proof the competitive instinct is damning our sport to perdition.

I don’t see it that way.

The return of the semi-automatic, in your face

.. now that the French are using semi-automatic reels it’s time to crack out all those old Martin wind-ups, as what’s old is new again.

Makes those tie-dye Abel’s look mighty drab – but scrimshaw will do that to you. The above Vivarelli Grayling runs just a bit under $1200, with the more mundane models, made from carbon fiber, around $250.

Nope, there’s no US maker with anything similar.

Eleven foot three weights are exciting to many, but competition is having its greatest impact on hook development. The absorption of the Redditch-based Partridge by Mustad marked a low point in fly hooks, the remaining manufacturers offering little variety and nothing but established styles.

Something as simple as a nickel/chrome hook for Shad or Steelhead left only Eagle Claw’s 1197N as the sole silver hook available. Targus has added one more in the 3908T – a replacement for the traditional Mustad 3908C that was swept under the carpet with all the other “marginal” sellers.

Dohiku_Nymph_Special_HDN302 While the Clouser minnow allowed fly tiers to consider jig hooks for streamers, the Czech nymph crowd have introduced the Nymph Special, a bent shank nymph hook designed specifically for bead usage.

Debarbing a traditional Model Perfect bend-forged wire hook has always been problematic; forged wire is much more brittle than its round wire equivalent – and the Model Perfect bend is the poorest for purchase and retention in fish flesh.

Sproat and modified Sproat dry fly hooks in round wire replace those missing short shanked Mustad’s like the 7957B and 7948A – both considered nymph hooks yet set the standard for tying our heavy water (large fish) western dry flies like the Humpy and many others.

Seeing the reintroduction of small niche players means big dividends for the rest of us. They’ll struggle with production, temper, wire, and all the other ills of hook making – but they offer us some interesting diversity – sorely lacking on the shelves now.

The upturned beak point, kirbed points,  and elongated “spear” style looks like it’ll address many of the barbless issues we’ve had in the past. Especially those makers that yanked the barb off their standard hook with no thought to redesigning point and bend to compensate.

I’ll be testing some of the styles from Knapek, Skalka, and Dohiku, in an upcoming article – I just need to learn Yugoslav and Czech first … maybe some Japanese as well.

My public school system only awarded degrees in Modern Chemistry, now the kids get Angling?

Degree in Timewasting mostly The credential is slowly winkling it’s way into our sport, and I have mixed emotions about the legitimacy that implies..

It was the same when I worked for a large brokerage house (now deceased); I asked the traders what it took to be a stock broker and was surprised how little training was required, “Basically, we offer positions at $1100 per month (1990), and after they take their Series Seven exam they’re brokers – so we turn them loose on their friends and family, and if they ever ask for their salary – we fire them.”

… OK, maybe I’m less surprised after the last six months …

If my kid ever darkened the doorway and announced proudly how he’d chosen to spend the next five years studying angling – he’d taste the boot heel, and as the door slammed behind him he’d hear the tail end of, “Good, start with the Fillet O’ Fish…”

Five years of womanizing and beer drinking I’m expected to pay for – but angling? Screw that …

We’ve got certified casters, certified instructors, and the Certifiable, can we assume there’ll be a “certified angler” shortly?

I’d bet on it.

Vendors have been “endorsing” all manner of anglers for decades, it’s the best way to cement brand loyalty and outfit a new angler from head to toe. A couple days on the lawn and a pancake breakfast on the Battenkill, with little pewter pins tacked on starched olive vests to mark coming-of-age.

That’s neither extreme nor hardcore, so the process will be amended to include rigor, that way we can have gradations of certification akin to military awards – with Oak Leaves, 1st Class, and with Cluster.

… then again it could be Boy Scout badges, where you can drape your accomplishments over your gut, and watch the riffle clear of riffraff at your approach.

The current flavor emphasizes the Big Three; casting, knots, and entomology (flies). Certified “fly fishing schools” all list some variant of the above like an intro to fly tying – or some similar difference. That’s way short of the mark. Angling certification should make you sweat akin to your driver’s test – where you hoped that little squinch-eyed fellow doesn’t ask you to parallel park.

A couple of weeks on etiquette is sorely needed; it’s bad enough the SOB can’t cast – but he’s put down all my fish too..

Toss in a couple of heartstoppers like, “identify which feather is called ‘Greenwell’ ” – have them demonstrate a Bimini Twist, and for graduation we could have them barehand a Ling Cod, replete with those icicle teeth …and we’d be getting somewhere.

Lastly, issue them an identity card with a unique serial number so you could build a database like the Sexual Predators system. Internet based so when you sidled up to your next prospective mate she could find your shortcomings via her cell phone.

… besides, that pick up line was truly awful, now she suspects …

Yep, he’s a certified angler.

We could call it American Idyll

We’ve played this game before; I try to wrench you into the 21st Century, and you’re content with the pasttime your poppa taught you.  Still leery of professional fly fishing as a sport, televised or otherwise, and scowling while I insist competition would liven the small screen, and using NASCAR rules would make an interesting twist…

Spying an article on collegiate angling set my too-vivid imagination in motion. Rather than a gaggle of anglers, camp followers, and their entourage in an exotic venue, with apres-hatch masseuses, cold drinks, and sponsor’s hovering about, why not start the competition with a cavity search in the parking lot of the fly shop?

… then hand each fellow $1000 dollars for his entire ensemble; leaders, rod, flies, waders, boots, vest, floatant, absolutely everything – and only then turn them loose on the stream.

Parity Czech, we'll see if they can handle real American food

Like football we could show the ambulance crew close in on the guy that invested his cash in flies, and opting to wade wet – froze his equipment and succumbed to hypothermia.

… and there’s the agony of the top seed forgetting to buy a reel. We’ll have popcorn coming out our nose as he stuffs line in pocket, oblivious to zippers and dangling vest essentials, breaking off fish after fish – while we giggle over the *bleep* intensity of frequent outbursts.

There’d be the petulant fellow unwilling to part with a single Royal Trude – staring menacingly at the register total, insisting that in his state sales tax was 2% less – and he should get a waiver…

…  and the fellow that drank far too much at the Scientific Angler’s party,  and missed out on the #16 Adam’s ..

Most sports aren’t about identifying heroes any more; the cameras insist on tirades, tantrums, and villainy – we can moan from the sanctity of our couch when this week’s “Snidely Whiplash” makes it through another episode, after spiking his pal’s waders when the judges were distracted.

Then as each fellow is eliminated the remaining anglers could descend on him like a pack of wolves and tear his gear from lifeless fingers. All them young eyeballs glued to the screen learning valuable hunter-gatherer techniques to bully the bus and dominate their playground.

Oprah couldn’t resist that much testosterone, and we could fete them in all the daytime gossip venues.

Fly fishing has more than it’s fair share of opinionated insensitive types that could light up the small screen with pouts, scowls, and blame-storming. As everyone hates everyone else – a little blood or a couple of spilled drinks, a fist fight or gunfire, and we’d be rivaling the Ultimate Fight Network for Thursday night Primetime.

Plows or Pavement, the fish don’t like either

Studying the diversity of New Zealand’s freshwater fisheries for the last 30 years suggests even the exotic locales are struggling mightily.

Overall, at a national scale, the health of fish communities declined between 1970 and 2007, especially over the last decade (2000 to 2007). The biggest decreases in the health of fish communities were in rivers in mostly pastoral (farming) or urban areas.

Farming could very well be the weapon that quashes our meager resistance to land exploitation and pollutants. Everyone understands eating  – and naturally wants to keep doing so, which puts the battle of clean water versus plentful lettuce on a unique plane – against a foe we’ve only begun to understand.

The resource-rich, food poor countries like China, Saudi Arabia, and other Middle Eastern countries are buying agrarian land in more temperate longitudes to ensure their foods supplies.

You pump their gas, and they pump your water …

Lacking water and arable land – but rich in dollars and oil, makes for a heady mixture that ensures salmonids will see no respite anytime soon – despite their out-of-the-way home…

A report in May, co-authored by international agencies estimated that nearly 2.5 million hectares (6.2 million acres) of farmland in five sub-Saharan African countries has been bought or leased since 2004: an investment of $919.98 million.

A Little Stinking toxic can dump, 100 feet from the water Africa and South America comprise the bulk of existing sales, but we’re just entering this new paradigm and have little idea how virulent the trend will become.

Cities are toxic, but we’ll continue to mitigate the obvious pollutants as we’ve been indoctrinated to their ills for the last 30 years. What city people don’t realize is that farms can be just as toxic – and have less controls or monitoring than industrial chimneys and sewage treatment plants.

Which are the Usual Suspects…

Wading through farm chemicals offered me a unique perspective of the issue, and while I still eat lettuce – there are times when I wonder which resource is the most precious.

Plows and pavement both terraform the environment into something other than native, rendering the stream less diverse than it once was, only the fellow behind the plow isn’t percieved as some sinister corporation fielding a bevy of legal firms to whitewash transgressions.

Welcome to the 800 pound gorilla in our future.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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