It must be why them backwoods fellows always get tagged with toothless and inbred, their lack of interest in Physics is what separates them from their urban kinfolk.

Despite ample deer tilting with MAC trucks, locals don’t gather them up and fling them off the Interstate to see whether they splat or splash – while their urban cousins delight in the practice.

Discussing particle physics with Bud Light, only the particles are washing machines and dead domestic animals and bob in the current almost as well as the beer cans.

I call it home.

I’ve spent the last couple of months trodding the rarified waters, some considered clean, and some fit for laundry. Standing in the shade of the bridge I’m struck by the real difference between where the river starts and where she finishes is the shape of the trees, and local interest in  physics – big particles, goat sized even …

The Underwear is twice her normal size – so the Shad may be done until next year, and the Little Stinking hadn’t seen me for some time – so I paid my respects to her bony remnants.

New trash and new “NO Trespassing” signs caught my eye, the river is about 1/10 normal flow – and the beavers have moved in to claim what’s left. The Cache Creek Conservancy has posted the banks to ensure no one alters the foliage, but the channel is forgotten – and anyone can have their way with the damp part.

Funny how the watershed can be parceled into dry part and wet when money hangs in the balance.

The creek is now only a series of beaver dams, with a thin rivulet of water connecting them all. The largest edifice is nearly four feet tall and marks the Conservancy proper, a warm currentless holding pond we’d call “frog water.”

The size of the dam is inspiring, keeping a mile of river channel filled to historic norms, where it’s bridged again by another beaver family both above and below the housing development.

Not many fish visible – and most of those were young-of-the-year rather than holdover fish. I stung a couple of four inch Pikeminnow and managed the capture of a live crawdad – which answered some of the questions I’ve had about their swimming style and streamlining characteristics, taking a couple of reference shots to capture their live coloration.

They’re fast movers and with legs and antennae tucked under them, swim as gracefully as minnows – in short bursts.

I’m struggling with testing a Reddington RS4 6 weight and matching reel (for a later product review), nothing’s amiss with the rod other than letting TC set it up as a “cast right, reel left” – more evidence them woodsy types have trouble tying their shoelaces.

…. by my account that 4″ fish took 86 feet of fly line – might’ve spooled me if I hadn’t discovered I was surrendering line with every turn of the handle. That’s the beauty of the path less trodden, flip the reel on top the rod and crank like you mean it.

… and no witnesses to point and laugh.

Pop always told me to “never turn your back on the Ocean.” It’s that mantra that all outdoor’s types learn over time, keep attuned to your surroundings as you never know what lies on the trail ahead.

I was reminded of that yesterday, I’m coasting into the parking area and greeted by the remnants of some audiophile’s  window – some fellow with a taste for fish and music, who met up with other fellows with a taste for his CD player.

Not much he can do but swear.

The urban interface requires a “fishmobile”; a battered rig with everything visible, no rod tubes in the back seat, a factory sound system lacking embellishment, and nothing but old cigar wrappers and empty soda cans for the crowbar crowd.

They’ll give it the once over and head for your car instead.

While the shady spot looked inviting, parking out in the sun meant all them dog walkers, strollers, and joggers would be able to keep an eye on my rig.

There’s not a soul on the river despite my late start – likely because most were smarter and saw the sudden increase in flow Saturday. I worked my way through the upper area without a grab, and was joined by a fellow using a switch rod.

The fish were there – but it was comeuppance time. They’re swimming between my legs without giving my flies a second glance, and I was thinking of the fellow with the smashed window, and hoping he’d received better …

It was a rare chance to study Shad behavior; big water rarely offers the opportunity to see much detail on depth and movement. The above fish were part of a large school that swam by me repeatedly. The three fish shown are just off the bottom – and it appeared as if the entire school moved around in circles shifting en mass either farther out or closer to my vantage point.

They were close enough to “highstick” – and I tried that with two or three different flies with no luck. I could easily see the gaudy beast swing through them, but nothing gave chase.

I dropped lower to watch the Spey caster, first asking whether he minded me doing so, it might have been the Windowless Angler and there’d be no telling his mood if I tromped up close and squatted on his turf. Sitting on the bank behind him allowed me to see what he did that I wasn’t doing, and I’ve got a better understanding of how to manhandle the Double Spey and Snap T casts.

Resigned to another fishless fishing trip, I headed back to my rig.

“Never turn your back on the Ocean” – and I spot a glimmer of movement in the grass ahead of me on the trail …

I wave off the approaching dog walker and stopped to snap a picture – of the biggest, best-fed rattlesnake I’ve encountered in the brush, about four feet long and armed with six or seven rattles. With the parking lot as close as it was my guess is the trash cans were prime “riffles” for local rodents, and “Meathead” sure looked like he’d eaten large last night.

It boiled down to mutual respect, I moved him along with the rod tip off the trail and out of harm’s way, all the while thanking my stars for being attuned to my surroundings.

I caught up with the two elderly ladies and their dogs and mentioned my find, to their combined gasp, “Oh my lord, rattlesnakes? Here?” – the poodles shot me an ugly glance as they didn’t care for being carried home …

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

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

I’ve got dozens of flies in a dozen colors, but this one will do just fine.

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

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

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

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

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

My New Year’s resolution was to learn how to Spey cast. Sure, I’m carrying too many pounds of flab, and drink far too much, but this resolution has a better’n average chance of me following through.

I thought it might be fun to return to those hideous days of clueless “Noob” – experiencing a mixture of fear and trepidation as you walk hesitantly to the counter hoping no one laughs outright at your halting, semi-understandable question.

Instinctively you look for the oldest guy there, figuring he’ll just sigh loudly and hand you what you need, versus the “young guns” who are enamored of technical detail and entirely oblivious of your struggle to follow their sermon.

I can pick up fragments of commentary; my tackle is “ghey” – ditto for the line I was thinking of buying and the antiquated click-pawl reel I was thinking of putting it on … I feel like someone’s wife hoping to score a Christmas present that hubby can actually use, and not knowing whether I’m being steered in the right direction, or how many hundreds of dollars is overkill.

Why is it that Spey casting has to set fly fishing back a hundred years?

All that pain and suffering to adopt a standard nomenclature, and based on someone’s whim – it’s thrown out the window.

My ambition was to start the long slow process of learning the physics and timing, just as we did years ago with a single hand rod. You get a  nice serviceable outfit and beat the water to a frothy lather, in doing so, you learn a little about what feels good and what doesn’t.

Being methodical I started with the Internet – watching countless YouTube videos and gleaning what I could from web pages and their commentary.

Things started to sour when I discovered rod vendors make two handed spey rods for #7/8 or #5/6 – and line merchants make spey fly lines in #6/7/8 or #7/8/9. As the rod merchants are in the same boat – they can’t recommend a line for the rod they’re selling – do you want a “light” #8 (6/7/8) or a “heavy” #8 (7/8/9) ?

Most rod makers list a grain range for the line best suited, and many line vendors don’t list grain weights on their packaging or website.

Traditional fly lines are weighed by the sum of the first 30 feet, and Spey lines can be sold by the first 50 of belly, or first 70 feet. Add Skagit, Scandinavian, and regular spey into long belly, short head, and multiple tips – and you can’t help winding up with a short fuse.

Searching for someone that seems to have sorted it all out leads you through a miasma of forums and bulletin boards on the subject. Within the first half dozen posts someone is calling someone else “ghey” – and you’re not sure whether the guy called “BashMomsHead” or the other fellow, “MyDickInTrout” is correct.

I think neither, which really adds to the quandary.

Multiple sinktip configurations abound; some require the purchase of running line, and some have it integrated, many of the online fly shop descriptions are unclear as to which you’re buying, and all have multiple 15′ or 20′ tips to add varying sink rates. At $150 per multi-tip line, you’re still wondering whether the light #8 or the heavy flavor is best – and throwing a lot of money at a hunch.

… and whose bright idea was it to call a sinktip a “polyleader?”

The AFTMA standards were developed so we wouldn’t have to play this silly “vendor specific” game, and we could buy any line labeled an “8” and feel confident we got something that works.

If you’re like me – with no casting club available or fishing buddy that is practiced – you’ve got a better than average chance of putting the wrong line on a rod and wondering why everyone else likes the style – when your rod feels slow and impotent when cast.

The whole “fit and feel” issue dominates the forums, with every third question being “what should I use with my ..” – so I’m in good company. I’m just disappointed that every other response involves someone’s mother – making the learning process painstaking slow as chaff is sorted from wheat, and opinions are isolated from ego.

I’m sure most of the issue lies in the original lines being hand crafted, assembled in garages out of chunks of other lines and leadcore, but it’s odd the mainstream rod and line vendors haven’t taken the initiative and evolved something resembling a standard.

I tried my first cast in anger last week, and it was a total disaster. I’d managed to find a brand new Echo Classic #6/7 on eBay for $130, and paired it with an Orvis Spey Wonderline that was on sale for $25. Orvis makes Spey lines in single sizes, the rod is listed for multiple sizes, and the answers on their customer service forum makes me feel somewhat vindicated.

Q: Please inform on the length end weight of the body (incl. tips) of your multitip speyline # 6/7, and #7/8?

A: Hi there. I’m Crystal from Orvis Customer Service. Since no one has answered your question yet, I did a little research for you, and here’s what I found out:
For the #6/7 weight the total length is going to be 110′ and for the #7/8 weight the total length is going to be 120′.

Naturally Crystal failed to answer the weight question, after searching their site and the Internet, it appears no one knows.

After my first outing I figured the Orvis line was woefully underweight, as even roll casting wouldn’t work. The beauty of having an abundance of old sinking lines means I can cut a chunk out of one and add it – clipping additional off until I have something that “feels” like it is the proper weight.

Spey lines with their multi-tip configuration run $150 each, and if you squawked at the Scientific Angler Sharkskin price, you can see why I’m being tentative, with the hideous price of the equipment and the lack of standards, I’d rather make a $30 mistake.

There’s little question that mastery of this style will allow any angler to add a couple tricks to his repertoire, especially if the space behind him is limited.

I’ll know how much help it’ll be once I can get a cast further than 20′ – which is my current personal best.