Category Archives: Fly Fishing

Why your biggest Shad comes early in the season

It’s the fish you think of on slow days and rekindles flagging interest. It’s the fish that makes up for fussy trout and flies smaller than #20, it’s salve for a season of sunburn and mosquito bites, cures hangovers, and for a couple of too-short months allows us to focus on important fishing principles like spite and revenge.

It’s Alosa sapidissima, the American Shad – and while you may have fished for them hundreds of times, I guarantee you know less about their habits, food preferences, and history – than any of the other gamefish you chase regular.

Why? Simple, it’s a glutton for bright and shiny, shows little selectivity and is available in enormous numbers – so you’ve never had to wrinkle a brow or crack a book to be successful.

I’m the first to admit guilt, having asked the questions of those more experienced – and assumed they spoke gospel. Now with millions of the Silver Horde ascending my rivers, and with the next couple of months devoted to their complete and utter exploitation, I’ve no excuse not to learn more …

“Know thy enemy and know thy self and you will win a hundred battles.”

Much of the research on American Shad are from their native Eastern drainages, and it’s a story that doesn’t match well with what’s been relayed in idle banter on the river bank.

East Coast Shad are distributed as far south as North Carolina, yet multiple genetic strains are responsible. They are an anadromous fish, but in their southern range and warmer water – are like our Pacific salmon, spawning once before dying.

Colder water allows the fish to make the multiple migrations like the steelhead trout, with an average lifespan of about a decade. How long they can survive in the river is dependant on the sex and size of the fish when it enters fresh water, and measuring your local fish can assist in determining how long they’ll be present – and in a condition to eat your fly.

A rough calculation follows (length in mm):

Therefore, the average daily loss in somatic weight of
males was 1.63 g at 359 mm, 9.37 g at 493 mm,
and 5.75 g for mean-sized males of 428 mm. For
females the average daily loss in somatic weight
was 5.75 g at 421 mm, 18.87 g at 531 mm, and
12.47 g for mean-sized females of 477 mm.
Daily weight loss can be used to suggest how
long fish of different sizes can remain in freshwater
before death. The amount of weight loss which
results in death of shad is not known, but death
occurs in many animals when weight loss exceeds
40% (Curtis 1949).

If death occurs at 40% weight loss and it becomes morose and lethargic at about 30%, then a 359mm male (14”) that weighs about a pound, will not be interested in flies in about 82 days. Females lose weight even faster, so if you’re looking for the biggest fish you’ll need to fish almost as soon as they arrive.

… and you thought Science was for eggheads.

Shad feed in fresh water, but as plankton is less available they’ll opportunistically feed on aquatic insects, baitfish, shad eggs, and terrestrials.

Stomachs of fish collected upstream
from Port Jervis, N.Y. (295) in late May and June
frequently contained a few insects. I observed a
large mayfly hatch in late May 1964 near Hancock:
hundreds of adult shad were rising to the
surface, apparently to feed, and the stomachs of
many fish (about 50) captured by angling were
packed with mayflies. Similar surface feeding behavior
was observed on several other occasions,
although fish were not collected to confirm feeding.
Many adults captured during the Tri-State
Surveys contained recently eaten young shad and
shield darters, Percina peltata.

– from Weight loss, Mortality, Feeding, and Duration of Residence of Adult American Shad, Alosa Sapidissma, in Fresh Water – Mark E. Chittenden Jr.

Sacramento_Shad_stomach

The California Fish & Game department has confirmed Shad feeding in the Sacramento delta, and the results of their trawls of the Sacramento River and Delta are shown above.

A Mycid Shrimp

Which suggests there may be a couple of dozen other flies we haven’t considered – and the above lends a little credence to the red/white shad darts that have been effective for decades. Feeding habits are ruled by opportunistic prey and local conditions, and much science cites the link between small shad and terrestrial insects, and in many cases their stomach contents were disproportionately (greater than 20%) comprised of terrestrials.

Most migratory movement within a river system occurs between 9AM and 2PM, with numerous studies describing increased activity during daylight hours – and spawning commencing with dusk:

Females release their eggs close to the water surface to be fertilized by one or several males. Diel patterns of egg release depend upon water turbidity and light intensity. In clear open water, eggs are released and fertilized after sunset (Leim 1924; Whitney 1961), with peak spawning around midnight (Massmann 1952; Miller et al. 1971; 1975). In turbid waters (or on overcast days; Miller et al. 1982), eggs are released and fertilized during the day.

As my beloved American River is choked with spawning Striped Bass at nearly the same time, it’s important to note the tender regard for Shad held by the larger predatory bass:

A recent study strongly supports the hypothesis that striped bass predation on adult American shad in the Connecticut
River has resulted in a dramatic and unexpected decline in American shad abundance since 1992 (Savoy and Crecco 2004). Researchers further suggest that striped bass prey primarily on spawning adults because their predator avoidance capability may be compromised at that time, due to a strong drive to spawn during upstream migration.

– via American Shad, Chapter 2

shad_Nutrition American Shad also hold an esteemed standing in American history, largely because of their role in feeding Washington’s army at Valley Forge. Alosa sapidissima is translated as “Very Delicious” and a starving patriot could ignore all those small bones as it chewed better than frozen boot sole …

The 2010 version has a few percentage points in Nitrosamines and PCB’s but the gastronomic benefits speak for themselves. Oily fat calories capable of sustaining a nation on the verge of independence.

Fast food has since become the 51st star on Old Glory, and it’s Pizza Hut that nourishes most of Afghanistan and Iraq.

For the rest of us gourmands it’s the Indian legend that holds more weight than precious Omega-3 fatty acids:

Shad are richly flavored thanks to a good bit of omega-3 laden fat, but they are among the boniest fish in the world. An old Indian saying has it that a porcupine fled into the water and was turned inside out to become the shad. It is not far off.

Tags: American Shad, Tsung Tzu, Alosa Sapidissima, shad feeding in freshwater, American River, Omega-3 fatty acid, Mycid shrimp, fly fishing for shad, fly fishing blog

Of Wooden ships and Iron Men

fouroldfishermen Sure it’s only a fragment of angling data, but it still imparts a horrifying aspect to how far we’ve sunk over the last hundred years.

A recent examination of trawling records from the late 1800’s suggest that despite all the carbon fiber, nylon, sonar, radar, Twinkies, Playboy, the Internet, and on-ship HBO, the average commercial fisherman works 17 times harder to catch the same volume of fish, as his turn-of-the-century counterpart.

Seventeen, it’s a magic number …

Modern fly fishermen carry seventeen times the gear of them old guys, forcing most of us to give up the sport at 35 due to curvature of the spine. We carry potable water, toilet paper, energy bars, poly leaders, split shot, extra spool, extra lines, cell phone, pager, flotation vest, credit cards, bug spray, nippers, flask, stomach siphon, and reading glasses, and that’s only the first two pockets…

Anglers of yesteryear were lean and vigilant, bringing the water to mouth in cupped palm, carried a single rod and a can of Red Deer Fat to grease things to float, or left alone to sink.

We carry seventeen times more flies, in seventeen new phases of lifecycle. We spend our precious time wondering whether it was dun, spinner, emerger, cripple, or nymph – and them old guys only considered two kinds of bugs, those that were bothering them – and those that weren’t.

They had shiny, drab, and bright, and were correct 33% of the time. We’ve got floating, sinking, beadhead, lead free, barbless, and borrowed, then we have to determine insect stage – all as daylight ebbs.

They had horses that might trot 10 miles an hour, but only had 5 miles to the Pristine. We’ve got agile and sleek testimonials to modern engineering – capable of 200 mph in seven seconds, and while those speeds are useful, it takes four hours of bumper to bumper to get clear of our fellow man, then seven seconds to your next ticket.

They fished with rods that took seventeen times longer to make, constructed by rod companies whose lineage could be traced through 17 generations of loving craftsmen. Their rods were gossamer wands of indescribable beauty, with the temperament of women, and when put away damp or hastily – would warp and buckle in vengeance.

We’ve got rods that crap themselves out of a nozzle accompanied by the musical notes of carbon-based flatulence. They’re cold and plasticine, and cost seventeen times what they’re worth.

For that matter everything today costs seventeen times more, including fishing licenses and divorce.

… but the wardrobe is cheaper. Modern fishermen eschew bathing in lieu of an extra hour of fishing. The tweeds and ascot replaced with an extra application of anti-perspirant and a wet-knap chaser. Just enough homage to the niceties of civilization to get you through the drive thru and toll booth without incident.

The saving grace, the item enabling us to continue hemorrhaging both time and money in pursuit of diminishing returns, is we’ve abolished Debtor’s Prison … whose return appears imminent given the current Congress, delayed only by the inevitable Republican filibuster.

Tags: fishermen work harder, fly fishing, fly fishing cost, fly fishing humor

Obligatory colorful tail picture omitted

Girls prefer some well coifed, clean-smelling fellow to sweep them off their feet. Guys would prefer romance include some stunning female who’s statuesque, fulsome, and completely chaste, unless it’s them she’s disrobing … as that’s entirely proper.

TravelWriter being towed Nine web sites and nine supersaturated pictures of the dots on a trout’s tail, and I wonder how the trout became the measure of beauty. It’s not surprising that we’d gravitate to the wagging end of fish, given that most of our youth was spent chasing tail and boasting of same, yet it’s almost as if our rarified notion of selectivity chastity that’s defining the beauty of gamefish, not the qualities inherent to each species.

Underlying the olive and maroon and prominent black dots may be, “my fish is chaste, and gave it up just for me” – and it’s the learned gentlemanly qualities that cause us to forget how many, exactly where, and how big, things we shared in our youth … until we heard our sister mentioned and found out how unflattering it really was…

Someday I’ll find the right gal and settle, but until then I prefer the company of streetwalkers. Floosies, harlots all – that hide in ambush until darting out to intercept a likely customer.

That’s right, I pay for my tail.

She's pure harlot at heart

The price was a triple batch of Oatmeal Raisin cookies to the landowner’s spouse, whose confessed weakness for same may get me an invite back.

Bluegill are the pure harlot. You don’t have to kiss them – you don’t have to share your burger, all they require is your time and inclination – and a bit of lukewarm shade.

… and they’ve got black dots too, and if they were any bigger we’d be seeing them in our nightmares.

Tags: Bluegill, Oatmeal Raisin cookies, Trout, trout tail, fascination with tail, fish porn, fly fishing, panfish

Based on the grin alone, it’s fly fishing

I got the message The myth has it patrolled ruthlessly by a grizzled fellow in overalls whose well oiled Blunderbuss is flanked by aimlessly scratching hounds – who are wary of his large plug of chaw – which is spat indiscriminately at dogs, feet, and anything else that ain’t nailed down.

Last week while surveying the fishless Little Stinking, Travelwriter let it drop that down the road from his vast holdings, existed a farm pond where huge fish porpoised lazily in pursuit of flies. As these were few and far between – amused themselves by eating ducks in between chewing on rubber tires and the shattered remnants of rowboats, the only trace of the fellows that tried it last year, all of whom are still missing.

I’d had to pause in our casting lesson and deliver a stern admonishment, “firstly, a farm pond is a sacred thing, it could be the greatest fishing ever experienced by mortal man, or it could well be lifeless. Secondly, you’ve mastered the Third Law of Fly fishing – the casual private property name droppage, followed by the offhand mention of a white whale, or reasonable facsimile.”

“But you’ve got to learn to cast more than seventeen feet, Grasshopper – try to use less toes on your next forward cast …”

I’ve never met a pond I didn’t like, especially when trying to teach some fellow the rudiments of fly casting. I was hoping it would be full of starving stunted fish that gave no quarter and asked for none.

The fabled "Pond X"

Weed lined, perhaps a little over an acre in size, and 10 feet deep and the center … owning a flair for the dramatic she was dubbed, “Pond X.”

Travelwriter and I wandered around the edge tossing different colors of the Little Stinking Olive, which were received warmly – by small bass and bluegill.

With the blackest lateral line I've seen

… which owned the blackest, most vivid lateral line I’ve seen. The fish were in wonderful shape and most were under a pound. The owner had mentioned much larger fish present – but it was a blustery day, and a bit early yet. The spawn will be starting soon, no redds were yet visible and I assumed most of the fish were hanging in the deeper water, still a bit lethargic.

“ I see a fish … I see a fish, he’s right out from me”, came the wail from the tules behind me. Travelwriter was dancing with excitement, unsure what to do while pointing his rod at the offending beast. I says, “good, now catch the damn thing.”

“I got a fish, I GOT a fish” was the response. Naturally I dropped everything to immortalize the moment, “ … he was right out from me so I dropped the fly in the water and jiggled it … he ATE it … is that fly fishing?”

TravelWriter busts a cap on the Bass

I didn’t have the heart to tell him about all of the sins committed under the guise of fly fishing; how throwing the rod, rocks, or merely diving in with a loincloth and Buck knife could be loosely construed as same…

travel_victim2 “… now we’ve got to work on the pose, Grasshopper. That ain’t a Burrito, and your quarry is deserved of a little dignity, so hold it right side up, and give me a grimace … stretch them arms toward me to magnify …wipe that grin off your face … Oh, hell, we’ll work on the pinup later.”

“Grab that roach clip off’n your vest and see if you can’t remove that barbless hook without half the gills coming with it.”

Hell yes, based on the size of that grin, it’s fly fishing.

Tags: A Wannabe Travelwriter, farm pond, largemouth Black Bass, fly fishing, fly fishing humor, little stinking olive, bluegill,

That elusive final frontier

You’ve tied your own flies, you make your own leaders and wrapped your own fly rod, and with each minor triumph the crescendo of endorphins ebbs to leave you feeling hollow and incomplete …

It’s primeval biology that’s your nemesis, the inner Hunter-Gatherer is limited to stalking asparagus, armed with a coupon, and under the watchful gaze of the spouse. Completely unsatisfying, nothing screams, nothing bleeds, and outside of the occasional fishing trip – your emasculation is nearly complete.

Eclectic_Anger_Reels

Photo Courtesy of the Eclectic Angler

But, perhaps not.

The Eclectic Angler has released his tome on handcrafting fly reels using little other than common hand tools and equipment you’ve got rusting in the garage. Even better, he’ll set you up with all the materials in kit form so you can work up the nerve to crack the book.

The Pfleuger Progress and its progeny was the height of fly fishing technology for decades, now you can craft an updated technological marvel that ensures your bragging rights for years to come.

Extension cord sold separately.

Tags: Michael L.J. Hackney, the Eclectic Angler, brass fly reel, Pfleuger Progress, roll your own, hunter-gatherer, fly fishing reel

We’ve covered our usual haunts and the larder is empty

neat_gravel You can’t fault them as it’s worked well for the environmentally conscious types.

Stop the creek with a well placed cork, extinct everything but ATV hellions and gravity donations from the housing dispossessed – and when no one’s looking – slap up new signs to keep out the dog walkers and environmentalists.

Are they worried someone will destroy the perfection of their mounded symmetry?

The latest batch of signs that surround a couple billion pounds of spawning gravel excavated out of the surroundings of my newly dampened – dirty little creek.

… soon to be part of your driveway or that subdivision up the road that’s dampening the resale value of your home – due to jinglemail and foreclosure.

It’s one of many changes I logged while tromping through the underbrush this weekend, part of the yearly Spring ritual which maps the newly deepened, the undercut, and the shallow.

… and the living, although there’s not much of that left.

Saturday yielded two turtles lounging in the shallows, away from the sterile scour of the main stem – proof that some of the larger life had made it through the de-watering and subsequent flood.

Root Ball upgrade, air conditioning

Old cars being a lifeform of a sort, and most are disgorging their contents independently of the chassis. This old Chevy moved a couple dozen feet closer to the Sacramento, complements of the root ball it has created.

I managed to sting one bass up at the Siphon hole, and the departing ripples suggested at least a pair of carp remained from the school that inhabited the area last year, so some small brood stock remains.

There are no minnows in the shallows, nor fry of any type.

goodweed Benthic drift suggests the smallest insects repopulate first, and the larger organisms follow. This may be why the watershed is dominated by Trico’s – who have yet to stage an appearance.

All algae and weeds are limited to the secondary channels which are typically dry by June. New growth is readily apparent and I stomped through the dense sections to assist Mother Nature in releasing plenty of algae and sprouted growth to repopulate the sterile sections downstream.

Sunday it was the upper stretch of the river, which had been completely dry last year.  The creek is running about four times normal, so crossing the main channel required trepidation and tree limbs morphed into wading staff.Sheared cleanly and starting to sprout

No sign of fish or weeds apparent, drastic bank removal complements of the earlier flood, and the bottom cobble covered with a thin layer of brown algae.

Much of the willow growth has been sheared cleanly, evidence of the flood’s ferocity.

What’s left is being eaten by those beaver that survived, and the ample tracks in the drying mud suggested numerous survivors.

After covering nearly five miles of creek in two days and finding visual evidence of fish in only a single spot, things look grim. It’s not unexpected, and the increased flow likely hides additional detail, but it will be some time before anything more than casting practice is offered.

Tags: rebirth of the Little Stinking, turtle, largemouth bass, grass carp, fly fishing, brownlining

Both of us were out of shape and ill prepared for company

It was many things, slippery mud, icy water, and blustering breeze, with the occasional dog walker giving me a wide berth. They were as uncomfortable as I was, me out of shape and unkempt – wearing too much olive drab to suit them – and me hoping they wouldn’t ask what luck I’d had, as luck wasn’t in the cards.

Greenwing Teal for the collection I had cork in my hand, the creek was a river – and hip boots weren’t enough to get me to the other bank.

Unsettled flood gravel gives no purchase when fording, and the water’s pressure merely drives you and the pile of gravel downriver without regard to how the cleats bite or the frantic tap-tap-tap of a wading staff.

I was content. A winter worth of couch pupation had birthed the awkward predator – the young lion, clumsy and unsure of footing and every disturbance an excuse for the stalk and pounce, yielding only dry leaves and dandelions, adventure of a sort as the den and safety only a few feet distant.

The river hosts a single green frog.

The insects are largely absent, many perished during the drought and those remaining were hunkered down for Spring. Cracks in the clay banks yielded small scuds and water fleas and little else.

The beaver dams are gone, but they served their purpose. Alder shoots driven flat by flood are starting to emerge from the matted grasses and sticks cast onto the bank by receding water – prime forage for beaver and the multitude of muddy tracks and gnawed ends suggested a few survivors.

I added a single green wing teal to my collection – the outdoor’s equivalent of dumpster diving, as everything manmade eventually becomes entangled in a root ball. This year was mighty slim as the scour was thorough and even the ever-present water bottles were gone.

I was content to throw experimentals at imaginary steelhead lies – or dangling them in the current to see their posture. Scouting via long line – as the far bank was inaccessible to foot traffic.

With the first week of dry weather scheduled, I expect flows will begin to dwindle and allow me a little elevation and ability to see whether any fish remain. Until then my fishing is reduced to out of practice, out of shape, and out of luck – old friends in our annual Spring purgatory.

Tags: Little Stinking, spring flood, green wing teal, spring purgatory, fishless fishing

She’s back – scourged clean and emerald green

An impressionist has the attention span of a small child. The fact that I tried it their way for more than six minutes gives me the license to bend all the rules. Curved hooks and razor points, and why should Caddis be the only beneficiary?

As a purely fact finding exercise I’ve extended the Czech style to all the major food groups, using a leavening of black and copper in the colorful attractor role. The effect is quite good, as shown below.

Little Stinking goes International

I’ve got my muse back. She’s deep green and completely rebuilt from dam to sewer pipe, and her 2010 christening befits flies that have never graced anything save imagination – as there’s no sign of life in her adorable semi-cleansed bosom.

February 2010, The Homecoming

Drained dry in August 2009, reborn under the damp umbrella of four weeks of steady rain, no fish of any kind visible – and requiring us to start the horrid transition from flaccid winter form to the lean – hard – Whippet of Spring …

… miles of water and no telling what we’ll step in.

We’ve cracked out the stretchable elastic and felt pens, and dangled plenty of Czech samples in the creek, and everything Czech rides upside down. We’ll counter with our colorful stuff tied to ride proper, as it’ll have to account for the magnetic interference of submerged farm machinery.

Little Stinking Buttercup

We’ve got lemon yellow’s and orange-orange’s, all infused with massive amounts of the basic attractor blends, featuring claret and golden yellow- with black highlights and copper flash.

In short, while we don’t expect to see a fish, we’ll be the best dressed – most equipped, panting fat guy on the watershed this weekend. NFL athletes drag tires to get in shape – I’ll be dragging the entire fly tying desk hoping to lose the spare tire …

Tags: Little Stinking, brownlining, the rebirth of a stream, Czech nymphs, mayflies,

Humanity returns and with it my oft questioned funny bone

All you can eat Small shards of humor are  intruding into flu enforced idleness – sure signs of a return to sparkling good health. 

It being Winter and tired of the steady onslaught of pending litigation, decline in fisheries, and coupled with knowledge that the Golden Years appear to have been replaced by the Golden Shower, I’m looking for something light and irreverent for a change.

##### Lodge at the ### River offers a top-notch dining experience, featuring dishes such as wasabi and sesame crusted halibut filet with a ginger miso vin blanc or pepper-rubbed grilled lamb loin medallions with a fresh California bing cherry compote. It has its own private-label wines as well, grown, produced and bottled in San Luis Obispo, Calif.

Fairly staid, traditionalist approach. Ascots and Port on the verandah, liveried servants serving fish to an above average clientele who’ve been lectured all day on why they can’t keep any …

We’ve endured a couple hundred years of the above – does the downturn in the economy imply fermented soy beans are the new frugal ?

…  arrested three Mexican nationals and seized more than 1,300 pounds of marijuana off a fishing vessel near the northern end of South Padre Island Sunday ..

Then again, this expedition sounds like the more active, predatory angling experience, featuring sunburns and the New Age outdoorsman. Camouflage, night vision goggles, and extreme something or other – cottonmouth most likely.

Care to guess which one has the Orvis endorsement?

… and while the cloying effects of Nyquil are still an aftertaste, did I read it correctly that the Alaskan Trout Unlimited organization is praising Target for removing farmed Salmon from the shelves and replacing it with wild Alaskan fish?

We want to market Bristol Bay salmon so it is as well-known as Copper River salmon,” said Paula Dobbyn,” spokeswoman for TU in Alaska. “

It’s the first time I’ve seen a conservation organization insisting we kill and eat the last remaining wild Salmon run in the US. Conventional conservation practices reborn under heat lamps and all you can eat.

It begs the question, how many Harvard-educated hedge fund managers did it take to dream up this humdinger. I suppose that once we’ve eaten them all we can buy Salmon Credit swaps – redeemable at the Pebble mine office …

… and if that salmon was hatchery bred (as are 80% of the Pacific Salmon in the lower 48) will it get an asterisk on the label?

A renewable resource isn’t  – until we’ve shown the proper restraint for fifty years and there’s still some left. Politicians claim it to be so, scientists pound the table as fact, industry gives us a wide toothy smile, but the only renewable resource on the planet is hunger.

Tags: Alaska TU, Target, Harvard educated, salmon credit swap, bristol bay salmon, pebble mine, Orvis

Dip the important stuff but once and you’re proofed against all invasives

Just a few stray electrons, I feel fine

With the promise of but a single day of sunshine between storms and with most of next season’s flies already completed, I had a fast closing window of opportunity, and took it.

Some prefer soaking in pricey venues with mud bathes and mineral springs, instead I uncrated all of my wading finery to launder – in the soothing and heated waters of an atomic forebay. Proofing me of New Zealand Mud Snails, Mussels, Asian Carp spawn and anything else that climbed aboard unnoticed.

It’s the root of my immunity to the lingering pestilence of brown water, how I can tighten knots with my teeth and expose my soft posterior to flesh eating disease, Ecoli, and submerged barbed wire.

… and now you know. The white blotches in the above photo testimony of the relentlessness of excited electrons that find the smallest recesses in felt soles and laced uppers – leaving enough residual radiation to keep the surfaces sterile for the season.

… ditto for me. I’m content with someone else’s bloodline relieving your darling of his lunch money.

Kelvin lands a nice one

Kelvin and I hopped fence and spent the afternoon lolling in the steaming current. Me testing how many kilorads Marabou can withstand before losing its supple, and Kelvin watching the waterline of his float tube until the seam actually blew.

We managed only a single fish between us, shown above … It started as a Rainbow trout, but like most of the larger fish, loses it’s genetic distinctness after the m-RNA becomes corrupt.

Sun on my cheek, something I haven’t felt in many weeks, and won’t (hopefully) for many more.

Tags: fly fishing, nuclear power plant, rainbow trout, marabou, subatomic particles, mud snails, mussels, invasive species