Category Archives: fly fishing humor

The Unbearable Lightness of being a Rod Engineer

I’ve always thought lightness was among the most misunderstood qualities of fishing tackle. Manufacturers tell us how much better it is to have it, but I’ve always chalked that up to the engineer’s zeal – as it has little or no bearing with fishing.

I’ve heaved 12’ surf rods and a six ounce pyramid at striped bass for most of a day, and I’ve flung a 7.5’ #3 until darkness made me quit, and by day’s end both rods weighed heavy.

The lightest bamboo rod is still heavier than a graphite, a bead head nymph is heavier than its regular counterpart, a fly line can be a half size heavier, and while there are thousands of opinions and zealots that swear by one over the other, none will tell you that lightness outweighs the merits of what they prefer most.

… and if he’s fishing all day, no matter whether it’s saltwater or fresh, regardless of the terminal tackle being a nine weight or a five, all rods are heavy come twilight – especially so if there’s an uphill climb to the parking lot, or you’ve been skunked.

“Lightness” is something that engineers grow turgid over, while us fishermen look the other way and sigh.

with an ounce and an eighth added for balance

Knowing that the next ten days had forecast rain, I met up with a pal to see if we could find some fish. While I’m fiddling with my rod I glance down at [anonymous_meathead’s] weapon and spy three 3/8 ounce lead sinkers attached to the butt.

Images come unbidden, how that engineer rushes into his boss’s office out of breath, exclaiming, “Boss, I got this new resin made with superlight stuff, it appears as if it doesn’t screw up the existing stuff, so we can charge double for our stuff even though it’s half the weight of their stuff!”

… naturally the boss rushes to the elevator so he can tell his Boss in like frenzy …

Then how the marketing manager puts a handkerchief over his handset so he can call all his sales cronies at the other rod companies and claim, “your kung-fu is weaksauce, ‘cause ours is way lighter.”

Which later translates into a litany of superlatives used by hairdressers and chefs – to describe a good soufflé or chocolate mousse, but has little to do with fishing as the addition or subtraction of an ounce is something we do simply because we feel like it …

One Adams too many, Rhode Island Red sought in fly tying homicide

You assumed my earlier warning a product of an overly active imagination, and scoffed at the notion that animals were capable of holding a grudge.

Now as you bar the door and shovel your fly tying stash out the rear window hoping to escape the vengeful eyes of the neighboring flock, it ain’t so funny, is it?  …

In California, Killer Whiting Saddles are roaming the streets, slashing car tires and innocents alike, incensed by the wanton wrenching of fistfuls of small hackles, compounded by winter’s chill on featherless and skinny hindquarters, and the constant barbaric and ritualistic deep frying of their womenfolk.

Attacks on humans have become so brazen, a citizen was killed while under the watchful protection of the local police.

Dry flies are a lot of fun, but are they worth your life?

I’d rather have an intelligent rod than a smart phone

Tomy Virtual Fishing Rod The smart phone revolution allows us practiced urbanites the luxury of ignoring both our fellow man and the world around us. We get to demonstrate to others how small our existence has become, as we grimace and mutter in digital isolation, sparing us the uncomfortable interaction with others on the bus bench nearby, or ignoring that old lady and her sacks of groceries, assuming it’s someone else’s problem.

While the successful feign their importance, us fishermen can brandish hand held virtual fishing rods, giggling as the phone crowd place their faith in four square inches of glowing screen; ignoring parked cars, a quick bath in a sidewalk fountain, and walk without hesitation into oncoming traffic …

Instead we can put out someone’s eye when the subway lurches forward, trading tweets, twits, and chirps, for whirring gears and a vibrating handful singing the lament of big fish and too little backing.

Not to mention the convenience of shape, allowing you to park your sandwich on the main stem should you hook something requiring both hands to subdue.

Makes me wonder just how compelling Tenkara is – given how quickly all these Japanese fishing appliances dump the rod and retain the reel …

I’ve got something to show for the four hours other than heartburn

I’d call it just enough to acknowledge the Orgy of Pigskin without inducing undue strain on belt or zippers.  A couple of pretzels and some Garlic Salsa, absent dripping sour cream or lard-based condiment whose mere presence causes artery walls to tremble …

Like you I endured the inane punditry and pre-game hype, but resolved to get some work done while enduring the hoopla.

“Sure Bob, but if Green Bay overcomes Pittsburgh’s edge in Big Fat White ..”

“ … it’s not often Pittsburgh’s turns over the ball, looks like Green Bay really got lucky on that last play.”

1st Quarter

Like you I sat through what had to be the second to worst halftime show, thanking Janet Jackson’s wardrobe for alternating years of embalmed rock legends flown in from some Swiss clinic where they’re shot up with sheep embryos, and mostly tame newer acts that can’t carry a tune worth remembering …

halftime_Fur

… and the commercials sucked too … little in the way of memorable, and most leaked the week of the game versus their traditional debut.

“Well Bob, the momentum is shifting to the Pittsburg Steelers, given that Green Bay has been fielding mostly dead guys in the second half… “

4th Quarter mountain of hard work

Next time I’ll pick a color that doesn’t resemble Guacamole, as it was a close call during those tense moments of the fourth quarter. I might not have noticed but the guard hair made it nearly impossible to swallow.

… kind of like licking a cat …

No legislation needed your Honor, I’ll handle this trifling outbreak

starling_adult1 I guess I’m a bit less notorious with the authorities than the Trout Underground would have you think. In light of my sudden fascination with European Starling and then a mysterious kill of same – with carcasses scattered across most of Sonoma …

… the county next door that I never visit, ever.

Given a good bit of downhill and a tail wind, a silver Toyota pickup could resemble a big rig, especially when broadside to traffic and host to some idjit flailing around with a butterfly net …

It’s the perfect crime, given the fact they’re an invasive species and the Fish & Game folks wouldn’t  flinch if they caught me harvesting them with a Death Ray …

They should market it as a “waderless wading system”

Now that the Governor’s on the prowl – bent on trimming wasteful government spending, all the service unions are busy pointing fingers at one another trying to deflect attention to the the other guy, and how “them other fellows have been living really high on the Hog, your Frugalness .. “

Fish & Game’s new trout planting system

Fish & Game appears to have caught the Governor’s eye with their 13 million dollar deepwater trout planting system. Naturally the fingerling trout’s chance of survival is aided by a deep water release, versus running the gauntlet of salmon eggs and Cheetos thrown by eager anglers following the hatchery truck.

The governor is fuming, suggesting that planting trout for anglers to dabble with is an inappropriate waste of tax payer dollars, and amounts to an “angler bailout”, akin to greedy Wall Street investment professionals and banks.

When reminded that licensing fees are what pays for the hatchery system and the rainbow trout generated, Governor Brown responded with, “I already took them dollars months ago, they’re mine already, so that’s no longer true.”

I was farmed to be Wild would be more precise

seafood2 Now that the US seafood industry is again flexing its marketing muscle, having been stung with the backlash of Frankenfish, you’ve got to wonder how Madison Avenue will wring wholesome and organic from the vision of a muscular misshapen fish bumping into the sides of a plastic kiddy pool.

Like all the other industry trade groups, the seafood industry is searching for a catchy slogan like, “the other extruded white meat-like substance,” or something that encourages Mom to pause and spend some of her diminished family food budget.

Most of the slogans posted in my watersheds suggest for either fresh or salt, the slogan should be, “one meal a week, less if you’re pregnant.” That’s a marketing downer, and consultants would suggest something upbeat in the face of  industry-wide chaos, with third world nations impounding each other’s fishing fleets, and dispossessed Somalian fishermen trading up from tuna to oil tankers, and chemical waste leaching into the environment, I’m not so sure that our pal Frankenfish isn’t a natural spokesman for this new normal.

Baseball players suck up steroids and claim otherwise, politicians tap dance in airport washrooms, and fly tiers attempt to steal the last Bird of Paradise, and with all of our heroes gone, why not opt for some scarred stem cell orphan, whose likeness can be accented deftly with, ” I was born to be Wild.”

“Farmed to be Wild” might be more appropriate, but it beats crap out of a cartoon tuna.

(Most of the members of Steppenwolf should be in managed care by now, and shouldn’t put up much of a row …)

Make millions leveraging the power of the Internet

It’s a familiar story, late night infomercial hawks guaranteed millions using system of made-for-you websites that will make merchandise fly off shelves and change your life forever.

What you get is some search engine optimized website with a web crawler that searches the entire Internet for pages that contain keywords, like “trout” or “dry fly” – and when you get a match you harvest the page and put it on your site, sometimes even claiming you authored it.

Now with hundreds of pages of “free” content you start selling stuff …

… like Coachmen Motor homes …

More than one exists?

… actually you’re skimming existing sales from other sites and eBay, but harvesting all that goody without any real intelligence or discrimination yielded 13 pages of dry flies, etched cocktail glasses, tweed ties, and enough drink coasters to tile a couple of bathrooms.

… and the occasional motorhome.

As this “guaranteed” system probably allows you to call the Help Desk to guide you through depositing dump trucks full of money, you might ask them to refine the search criteria to at least get content of similar genre.

Tough when your website of guaranteed riches stumbles onto someone else’s reserved word.

Franken-fly … and he’s got little tiny studs in his neck

The Wastewater Stone, the Squalid Most of you recognize that noble profile, that harbinger of clean water, the stonefly, hisself …

What you don’t know is this stonefly came out of my soiled little creek, the product of “kitchen table” genetic engineering.

Grab some adult females from the Pristine, squeeze the arse end into a vial, mix with a proprietary blend of fertilizer and toilet water and toss into your favorite dirty little creek. The law of averages suggests an unknown chemical cocktail will gestate a half dozen mutations, and if none eat you, it’s viable as brood stock.

As everyone is hopping on the Skwala bandwagon, naming every darkish, smallish stonefly found in wintertime a  “Skwala” – I’m calling mine a “Skwalid”, to distinguish it’s taste for brown water and the hearty genes necessary to tolerate agricultural waste.

In France and Italy it’s vineyards or olives. Generations of careful grafting and documented lineage, with each successive planting a bit closer to perfection.

Me, I’m in it for the money.

I can make a fortune selling Skwalids to homeowners underwater on their mortgages, looking for that something extra to sweeten that horrific drop in value.

Throw a fistful of Skwalids into whichever toxic rivulet drains your subdivision, and if a prospective buyer shows any hesitancy you can thrust a dripping specimen into his palm, pointing out your home is a shrine to eco-friendly, and how you wouldn’t blink at washing your dishes in the local wastewater.

Stoneflies? Well they’re proof positive …

Fog, Muddy boots, and the Aggregate Insurgency

Muddy_Boot After two weeks of cold and dreary, damp and foggy, I’m reminded of all those English classics with Sherlock Holmes and Hounds of Baskervilles, debtor’s prison and moored Hulks. Victorian spinsters attempting to land Mr. Darcy … who fly fished and therefore had the good sense to pledge troth to some crone that owned the Tay, the Itchen, or something Salmon coveted …

… in between his riding the moors shirtless in search of impressionable young females of low to middling expectations …

I figured I could play the same game – perhaps landing some impressionable young farming wench, whose Poppa’s massive tomato acreage might encompass a couple of bluewater tributaries (not seen on any map). Naturally, she’d have to find portly and balding, unshaven and flabby completely attractive, but in her naiveté a badly contrived Cockney accent would appear terribly exotic, and I’d be snapped up like cheese dip.

In short, I had Great Expectations.

Unfortunately so did the local talent, and while I cut quite the figure slipping wading through high water and moon-walking on bankside mud, I couldn’t compete with the verandah full of gun-toting, bonfire-making, 4-wheel, drug-smoking-pitbull-equipped killers that accosted me.

“Dude, awesome! A fly pole, I wished I brought mine …”

Winter colors As he’s leveraging more rounds into the rifle magazine I’m really not sure how to take this, is it highwayman-speak for “hand it over, bitch” – or should I wait for a proper demand?

I opted for the non-committal, “… nice dogs, they yours?… and can you tell the big one to give me my nuts back?”

I was safe, these were kindred sporting spirits, the kind that our angling organizations wish to attract, can’t find, are scared of … who don’t like to walk far after shooting, running over, and unleashing ravenous killer dogs on their prey. They were friendly and good natured, made doubly so by a couple of large blunts circling the campfire, and warming themselves and Miss Tomato Acreage after an arduous morning of four-wheel gun crazies.

While me and the Two-Gun-Kid exchanged casting techniques, some his dad had taught him, and some my dad taught me, I gave Miss Tomato Acreage my rarified eye, the selfsame glance that makes a Whiting neck recoil in fear.

I figured her taste in gum ran to Spearmint, dinner out was Mac & Cheese, and the bit of ample that pooched out of her too-short tee showed the eight-ring of her deftly inked bull’s eye, suggesting Miss Tomato was both chaste and pure – of a sort.

… the frown suggested my portly and aging were no longer letters of Marque, it was a friendly and disinterested refusal, there was never a chance and we were both relieved …

teichert_insurgency On further reflection, the vast acreage owned by the local Tomato cartel pale in comparison to what Miss Gravel Aggregate could potentially offer her beau, unfortunately for the genteel there remains the pesky insurgency offered by us fishermen and … off road crazies?

… hell, nobody likes them.

Well maybe the six o’clock news does. It’s just as likely they’re tired of us hand wringing enviro types and could use a bit of sound and fury to rattle Grandma off her couch …