Category Archives: fly fishing humor

Will Dan break with his prior creed, strict Catch & Release?

The Daddy CatchHarlequin Romance, you tawdry little strumpet, when did you come of age ?

From the back cover:

Jess Cofer isn’t fixing for a fight. All the single mom wants is to run her fly fishing shop and preserve unspoiled Phelps Cove, Florida, for future generations. Too bad Dan Hamilton doesn’t see it that way. It looks as if the tall, dark and sexy surgeon is in favor of handing over the endangered habitat to greedy developers!

Dan would love to get on his gorgeous new fishing instructor’s good side—if she has one. But he can’t throw away this opportunity to fulfill his dream to build a safe haven for foster teens. Dan knows that when it comes to the truly important things like love and family, he and Jess are on the same side. Will she forgive him when she learns what he’s been hiding?

In a word, Dan, No goddamn way.

Miss Jessie knows that limp grasp of yours was never meant to hold anything longer than a dessert fork. You take longer in the bathroom than she does, and them big male fingerprints in her moisturizer suggests you’ve got greasy skin and pluck your eyebrows. She noted your girlish squirm when she mentioned eating what you caught, and knows  its not Catch & Release that makes that fillet unpalatable, rather it’s your inability to stomach anything not smothered in Room Service.

Fly shop, greedy deviant developers wanting to destroy Nature, Doctor Dan the MetroSexual restoring his male dignity … Hot Damn!

The reality of all this remains bleak, but the idea that something might want to bask nekkid on hot streamside cobble will bolster your flagging spirits for another couple of seasons …

… despite “Leigh Duncan” being a truck driver from Des Moines, with two day’s growth of beard, and smell to match.

No, the Other Brown One …

There’s the fellow tasked with bringing all the cooking implements, the canisters of propane, the lanterns and mechanical vestiges of civilization, if he forgets something it’s a round of good natured ribbing and a bit of improvisation, like beans warmed in the can. Then its the guy tasked with the victuals; the ice chests bulging with steaks and cold libations, dairy products and lunchmeat, and if he screws up it’s a trip to the store, or salmonella, or both.

But the most feared responsibility is the stalwart supplying the flies. A bit of inattention and the whole purpose of being is lost, a nickname results, and most of the beer consumed while everyone lounges about waiting for your return from civilization and the closest fly shop …

You’d think after fishing the same lake for nearly twenty-five years I’d make this easy on myself. Ear mark a couple of weekends and bang out what worked last year without modification, despite recent lackluster reception, and should anyone disturb my lake-side communion with questions about their validity, feign outrage with the “Candyass” retort…

“Dammit, these flies work fine. Most of the problem is that Candyass rod you’re using, with its Candyass limp butt, complicated further by a stiff breeze and that Candyass open wrist you develop every afternoon.

Try some of the brown ones … Meat.”

This being the second year in a row that everything fit to hold water is swollen to the gills with runoff, we’re retiring to the safety of the Sierra’s and the millions of lakes that will be full – where we can remove the furrows from our brow dallying in the deep end – armed with floating sofa cushions and breadcrumbs for the ducks.

… and while the rest of the fly tying world plays stop-action with the phases of mayfly, we’ll focus on fast sinking, sinking, and Black Hole of sinking…

Three guys, three days, and one beginner. I figure eight dozen to cover the losses; broken branches, busted tippets, and the balance to be loaned long term.

Red_Butted_Leech

Brass cones, kirbed hook, red for blood and dark purple for great silhouette at depth.

Peacock_Rust_Leech

Not as big as the Red Butted, but equipped with a similar heavy bead and lead.

Green_Leech

Most importantly is to have plenty of leech style flies the same color as the weed growing up from the bottom, how else to imitate the hide and seek nature of the local chow.

Green_Damsel_thing

The latest in a long line of damselfly imitations, size 11, the real thing being a large morsel for a fish gaunt from ice out.

Calibaetis_Thing

… and for the almost sinking, semi top water, you’ve got to have a handful of Calibaetis nymphs should the midday emergence finally come to fruition.

Little_Rainbow

Small trout fry in case nothing else works, slim profile and nothing to impede sinking and stripping past a cruising fish.

Predator_Calibaetis

If we’re lucky we might encounter some Calibaetis, here are the “predator” flavor of that self same bug.

I’ve got the initial five dozen cranked out this weekend in between largemouth bass and bluegill, which’ll cover the other fellows nicely – yet save all the batter-dipped scented experimentals for my box and the secrecy of open water …

“Huh? I got it on the brown one like I said …”

Live by the Sword and so shall ye arteries perish

White bread has also been commonly used as a hook-bait for centuries and is even referenced in the fisherman’s Bible The Compleat Angler by Izaak Walton in 1653.

It’s well known that successive generations of anglers have lowered their expectations over the outdoor experience and game fish in general. As our beloved quarry is diminished in both size and numbers, we’ve been forced to ignore those qualities that made them great, and widen the available prey by adding the less genteel and outright untouchable into the game fish ranks.

Magazines that once talked about fish as, “…like a startled silvery gazelle, spinning in midair …” now rarely mention anything other than “wallow” , “snag” or “slugfest.”

With dams as plentiful as instream cobble, our once agile opponent has become some panting porcine slob that comes to heel when we whistle, disgorges its most recent meal into our palm from overexertion, poses for the camera in familiar “Gasping Fatty” cover pose, and must be coaxed back into the water. A far cry from our father’s “silvery greyhound – product of thousands of generations fighting miles of uphill currents.“

Sure it’s our doing. Ensuring the genetics of those lean and muscular fish are no longer viable, via selection for fish small enough to negotiate a live turbine – or fat enough to maintain their place without swimming.

Reducing our beloved sport to releasing some bloated softbody that eats your fly hoping you’ll shove its flaccid ass a bit further upstream, clearing some shallow spot blocking its next meal ..

The Bad News is that in addition to selecting fish whose belly drips through all but clenched fingers, you’ve  imprinted your eating habits on young and impressionable game fish, whose biopsies suggest that Type II Diabetes in fresh and salt water fish roughly mirrors the human populations nearby.

… your midday meal being such a nutritional wasteland that it’s a toss up whether your lunch provides the bare necessities to keep you alive – or whether your wife packed it with every intention of killing you dead.

If you had any sense, the thought should give them jaws pause. If the fish shouldn’t eat it there’s little doubt that you’re destined for a fiber-less haymaker delivered to the knotted remnants of your colon.

Hard to believe that in a couple hundred short years, we’ve destroyed most of the known fisheries, and corrupted even the bait used to tame all that Wilderness.

Just a gentle nudge, the chicken you save may be your Adams

mindcontrol Dammit Goebbels, I read your book!

… at least the part about how to bend society to your will using a mind deadening mix of rumor, fear, and alienation, playing up the perceived differences between the splinter group and mainstream.

My quarry frequents the Tofu aisle. Impressionable vegetable radicals intent on turning lead into gold, planting a couple of electrodes into curdled bean juice and zapping up a couple flavorful steak facsimiles, it never happens but we do love their optimism.

Just outside of view I taped a handheld recorder under the lint shield at the local Safeway, playing low volume Rebecca Black interspersed with the sounds of a thousand roosters getting their heads separated from their “hair extensions.”

Figuring that as soon as most of the “extension-eligible” realize harvesting a chicken is synonymous with decapitation via dull bandsaw, they might rethink all this fashionista crap, allowing us to pocket thousands of precious hackles tossed unceremoniously in dumpsters – free for the taking …

Actually things are getting out of hand now that screaming teenagers are running over the birds intentionally, in public …

My efforts appear to be yielding fruit, a hint of  anti-extension propaganda beginning to show, and the promise of much more, based on a couple of manila envelopes tucked under the door at PETA, who were horrified that an entire generation of young folks assumed them feathers grew only on the chicken’s nugget.

In order to save Whiting from a very profitable demise, I’d suggest each of you add a bit of misinformation to your spouse’s favorite beauty forum. All them feather lusting fashion noobs have millions of questions which you can provide much needed answers …

You should warm quickly to their patter as they’re similar to the Drake forums, but with a lot more f-bombs.

Just a little nudge

Nothing hostile or degrading, just a nudge  …

Real Anglers wipe the Goo on their pants leg

Flo-Green Artificial Leech I can finally ditch the expensive gear and G-suit necessary to keep arm, rod, and line in the same dimension. Shortly, I’ll be donating a Semi worth of rotting pelts, feathers and synthetics to the local casting club, along with my collection of waders and never used, newly illegal, felt soled wading shoes …

… only because I’ll be jettisoning the company of you grim and overly serious fly fishing types for the company of wide-smiling, truly genteel folk.

Sweaty, happy fellows that welcome you with a hearty backslap and firm handshake, insisting your lawn chair scoots in as close to theirs as is possible (makes passing chips easier), and are smart enough to stay out of the cold damn freshet in the first place.

That’s because real men can hit the other bank from where they’re sitting, and if there’s any goo left from filching goody out of a jar, that’s nothing a brisk wipe on the pants leg won’t fix …

That whole “lean and predatory extreme angler” bit kicked to the curb in favor of “extreme buffalo wing eating”, or “extreme bankside alcoholism”, complete with “X-treme tossing of empties” over that fleshy shoulder.

Now that I’ve left the priesthood, I’ll be able to hold a steady relationship with a female of the species, I’ll be able to catch and gut stomp anything edible, and I can finally fill that lonesome freezer humming in the garage without fear of reprisal …

yellow_nightcrawlersBecause Bait fishing is Cool again …

We’ll leverage the secret food that makes worms take on fluorescent colors, tinker with the DNA so science dubs them both single and ©Artificial, allowing me to skirt most restrictions (rubs hands together), and lay waste to your favorite corner of the Pristine.

With my new Artificial Fluorescent Leeches® you’ll be dumping all that wasteful and expensive ostrich on those Intruders, opting to spin some EcoGreen® fibers instead … their constant wiggling a bit of a distraction initially, but that’ll soon pass …

… (especially when your buddy just blanked …)

I can’t imagine not adding a bit of refried bean to the current chow, inducing flatulence and the Dry version of the worm floating leech®.

Absent all them secret handshakes, the knowledge of thousands of useless fly patterns, most dating back to the Pharaohs, and me no longer alienating some splinter cell with every comment spoken, it’ll be fishing as it was meant to be, simple and pleasant.

Dare I say, even Born Again?

… and we stank, and Dad scored a couple of Hot Dogs … and …

Before bamboo, before graphite, long before we learned to curl an upper lip, before we could distinguish light and heavy, spinning from bait casting, and fly – prior to swearing off the Unclean Thing – and back when everything  was mystery, fear, and wonderment, there was this fishing stuff…

Dad mentioned it, and we assumed it was fun due to the change in Poppa’s face and tone when he rehashed it with his liquored up buddies around the kitchen table. We were ordered off to bed, but it sounded like a big thing; a place where Ma feared to tread, whose practitioners returned home bearing nasty stuff that stank.

We adored nasty stuff that stank …

… until Ma mentioned it was dinner.

We were all there once

Before we got all know-it-all, before we argued whether a bead headed fly was still a fly, before indicators were considered dry flies, before we caught everything and claimed double that …

… we were a blank canvas.

… and it was cold, and it was fun, and it was us that was hooked.

… and among all them long noses is statistics

cowfartjuice The hardest of all fishing tasks falls on your circle of trusted companions.

They’ve gone fishing with you enough  to recognize blatant from bald-faced, but they continue to wrestle with  facial tells on minor infractions, the stretching of truth, a couple inches added, or a couple phantom fish added to your evening’s tally.

The biggest of windies earns their collective scorn and the much coveted “complete bullshit” label, similar to a brief shunning but with less ceremony. Less egregious falsehoods earning a sliding scale of ire, from “horseshit” to simply outright lies and exaggeration.

Now that they’ve bottled it ($60.00 an ounce) you can simply dispense it on them like Holy Water (vest attachment extra).

Which would be quicker if you ever lived up to them promises

fly_casting I remember peering through the bushes intently, awestruck at the grace them old duffers displayed while sawing their line back and forth in a double haul, back and forth seemingly without effort, leader never tangling, and I wondered whether I would ever be skilled enough to do likewise …

… and whether I would ever lose my fear of them same mean old SOB’s when it came to critiquing my casts, and like church, would I ever be accepted as a member of the congregation, able to walk erect versus hiding in bushes fearful some old cuss would claim I was afflicted with limp everything.

I remember thinking it must take forever to learn such skill. Now I find out “forever” is cheap – only about $79,000 worth …

Former garda and keen angler James Moynihan, whose fly fishing arm was seriously hurt in a scuffle with late night revellers, has been awarded damages of just over €43,000 in the High Court.

– via the Irish Examiner

The math is actually pretty fair. Figuring a minimum wage of $10 an hour (it being a labor of love therefore you can be paid a pittance) that would be a monetary settlement of 7900 hours, or 329 days.

The average angler fishes nine times yearly, but spending most of his time arguing with kids, erecting tents, deploying stoves and camp gear, inflating mattresses and answering,  “No, we ain’t there yet!”

Figuring seven of the outings are the garden variety two day weekend, and two are the rarified three day “Total Woodsy Immersion” that makes 20 days per year of fishing.

Each weekend contains two such days, so that’s 20 days per year of fishing, suggesting that 329 / 20 = 16 years of fishing to learn how to cast effortlessly.

Quicker if you ever lived up to them offseason promises …

Guide wear for guides, how that nerveless glassy stare is caused by your hideous casting

One of those facts that every new guide is horrified to learn his first season. How clients never bother to practice casting before buying a fly fishing trip of a lifetime, and how the guide has to teach a heavy handed neurosurgeon how to cast more than ten feet, often simply thrusting a beadhead  Bobbercator combo into their hands to get clients into the proximity of fish.

Unfortunately, guides are now subject to new forms of lumps and contusions, and like the NFL are having to sit some of their marquee talent due to the increasing number of concussions …

Mark IV Guide Helmet

Most clients quickly become skilled in bead-bobber fishing, and no longer content with brass or copper, quickly opt for the increased density of Tungsten and the softball sized indicators needed to keep them aloft. As a result,  guides are showing  symptoms of brain scarring akin to lifelong boxers and NFL quarterbacks.

Protective gear has been needed for years, and the Easton–Bell Corporation gives us a sorely needed helmet, while continuing work on as yet unreleased flak jacket.

Given the countless hours a guide sits in peril, it’s nice to know he’ll only have to cut two small holes in his cowboy hat to ensure a couple of extra decades to his career … nerveless and unflinching as 4X long and 3X heavy flits by earlobes and soft body parts.

Then again they may be confused about their reason for being

Dear Large Outdoor Clothier,

Neon Persimmon Pink Gentlemen, I received the  shirt you’d asked me to review just before Memorial Day weekend.

Normally I would have considered the timing perfect, as that three day holiday is when all of us take to the woods intent on sport.

I would have subjected your clothing to an exhaustive battery of tests, wearing it overly long (ignoring the grimaces of my companions)and ensuring my commentary was both learned and factual.

Unfortunately, I cannot bring myself to remove it from its sterile wrapper, much less wear the damn thing.

This is not clothing suitable for the outdoors, this is the type of shirt you wear if you want to have sex in the cramped stall of a public restroom with a fellow angler.

I’m unsure what you call the color internally, but I would ask you how am I supposed to blend into my surroundings should I stalk a large brown trout feeding in the shallows?

Was I fortunate enough to have a pod of wary Bonefish within casting range, how am I to deliver the fly when my clothing is eye-watering, capable of searing a fish retina with prolonged exposure – and cannot help but make everything within a hundred yards flee without hesitation?

I consented to this arrangement as you made my last fishing vest. It lasted 25 years, and was a testament to your long history of quality outdoors garments. It was so well put together your stitching made me – and it – nearly invincible.

Those memories made me stray from my core competencies and entertain the idea that a shirt of similar construction and durability could become essential equipment in the woods, and I was qualified to judge both its fit and function.

Instead I receive a shirt suitable to flag the Coast Guard should I become shipwrecked on a deserted island, or making me a fashion plate should I wish to clink glasses with Bernie Madoff on the fantail of his yacht …

… with all his new boyfriends, and me blushing fetchingly.

An outdoor clothing company has the responsibility to make quality clothing to assist the hunter or angler, and should not insist that the cut of the garment or its color work at cross purposes to its owner.

If it does, it’s confused about its reason for being.

I figure it was the work of those merry pranksters in your marketing department – who read my column on occasion. Figuring they owed me one for all them “lifestyle” digs, and good sports all, they insisted you send me one in the heart-stopping “unsalable” color.

It was a great gag, especially as it was at my expense.

Full Disclosure: I’m returning the garment to its maker unreviewed, unopened, and at my earliest convenience, never to stray into riskier territory than a green Pendleton …