Category Archives: Fly Fishing

Light, composition, and Pink is the new Manly

“Media Day” featured an irresistible seminar on angling photojournalism and I couldn’t resist, as feeble photography and halting punctuation are two of many growth areas for me.

I’m scrubbed and coifed, sitting in the front row listening attentively to some eye-opening subject matter; which pastels clash best with bankside foliage, pink is the new green, and how judicious use of mouth to mouth can sustain a salmonid until the lighting is perfect.

Periodically, I’d raise my hand and ask about composition, post shot doctoring, preferred software to stretch a fish yet preserve aspect ratio, and why we reserve “Grip & Grin” for traditional fish, and the counter cultural “rifle” pose for anything else.

Before: the pretty flowers nice to see a hint of colorI got answers, and they were meaningful to my “toy” camera – chosen by waterproof versus optics, and I remained riveted by the discussion on f-stop and SLR focal planes. I caught up with the speaker at break to discuss composition, the subtle play of light and dark – and how the subject can be juxtaposed with it’s surroundings to convey meaning.

… all the really cool artsy stuff.

Prior to learning lighting, staging, and message, I would’ve simply snapped the pretty flowers and mentioned how nice it was to spy a hint of color on the landscape.

Now that I’ve learned the nuance of the cover shot, how to mix overtones with the piscatorial pinup, a vast new world has opened up.

Instead of editing the picture as before, I prefer the Grip and Grin pose to all else:

Meaning far beyond the subject, Grip and Grin at it's finest 

… and while the “Professor” was clueless, I’ve an inkling why Brownliners prefer the “rifle” pose …

Wherein the author eats massive crow and exposes his mincing, Poseur nature to the jeers of an angry throng

You’ll remember my pitiful bleat about “but Joe, it might … s-sn-snow!” – and how my iron will trodding through cow crap, farm chemicals, and scorching desert melted after the weatherman claimed it might pizzle snowflakes, with temperatures “near freezing” – or at least 85.

… I begged off claiming I was overdue for a pedicure, while San Mateo Joe blanched momentarily and decided to chance it …

Our policy has always been to turn the other cheek; insults and name calling flow off us akin to dollars out of federal coffers; we might be bullied, harried or buffaloed, but we’re never cowed, and always defiant.

Occasionally sheer eloquence requires I print my comeuppance – the epic spankage visual and without taint…

The cheap cigars that I missed

The Cigars that I missed

The liquor that made the stories better

The liquor I could’ve drankled

Even if it was cold this is what we'd be fueled with

The Breakfast that would’ve proofed me against cold

The snow that turned my knees to water

The deep piled snowdrifts that reduced the Donner Party to cannibals

The freezing temperatures, obligatory mayo-stained wifebeater

The poly-fleece mayo-spattered wifebeaters

The alleged frozen and chill resident that might have ate my fly, had I the good gotdamn sense to be there

The alleged fish that would’ve liked my fly better had I been there

The Missing Man formation at supper

The “Missing Man” formation at supper

Wayne Eng says thanks for the beef Jerky

Wayne Eng enjoying a vast trove of Teriyaki Beef Jerky, that had my name on it.

The word I’m searching for is “Owned” … and while you feast with relish on the dish best served cold, remember me fondly.

Diverse, fishless, and a sunburn chaser

That's why they're called CottonwoodsThe first fellow was towing a lure that looked like a plucked Olive chicken carcass – minus saran wrap and foam plate. I says, “what’s your buddy throwing – a pizza?”

He laughs, “there’s a lot of Bass in here but they ain’t biting today.” He ears back to fling that seaweed colored rooster, and I’m scrambling to avoid the massive stainless trebels.

This fellow knows something I don’t – or else Bass are intent on the closest log hoping there’s no backlash – sending an algae colored poultry meteor into their living room.

I blanked on the “Cotton River,” seems like everyone had done likewise, what with the Cottonwoods surrounding the creek spitting furballs that covered the surface.

Fling, strip. Stop. Remove cotton ball, strip, stop, remove …

Safe to say they weren’t eating white flies – it didn’t really matter what size or pattern you fished, the accumulated cotton would slide down the leader and ensure the top half the fly was snow white.

It was new water and adventuring is always optimism at the next bend, I’ll return later in the year when the trees finish bleeding duff.

Sunday was the secret trout creek I’d seen last year. I took Wannabe.Travelwriter in tow to see if we could scare some fish, explaining that this was “adventuring” rather than fishing, as fishing requires confirmed quarry, versus chasing rumor and innuendo.

While the creek and surroundings were visually stunning, the only confirmed sighting was a pod of Sacramento suckers, an indigenous species of Brownline origin. As I was carrying my five weight and a pocket full of gossamer tippet – I feigned disgust, danced around and said, “eww” a lot.

 TravelWriter makes a dash for cover while the Bolivian Army reloads

It was our “Butch and Sundance” with the Bolivian army on the bank above. Once breakfast was digested, each campsite erupted in small arms fire while we hugged whatever cover was closest.

All the best water was bullet-riddled – with the shattered remnants of propane bottles, City of Livermore traffic barricade, and unrecognizable plumage of the Coors’ and Bud genus.

Perfect trout water, cold, clear, big bugs, and no fish

The mayfly population of this little creek is extraordinary. Large mayflies are always the exception rather than the norm, and I’m turning over stream bottom and seeing quite the opposite. Everything that scampered across the exposed rocks were muscular “clinger” mayflies – mostly #10 and #12’s, heavily mottled with Olive and black.

It has to be their diet. Brass and lead are steroids to the mayfly kingdom – which may be why the National Park Service is intent on banning both. Pollution is secondary to park visitors being carried off and eaten by monstrous killer insects.

Muscular and mottled, some type of drake?My first blush would be some form of drake – two tails, pronounced mottle on all extremities – and large enough to make you snap off that anemic #16 and reach for the box containing meat…

With the cupboard stocked so generously and finding many pools deeper than 4 feet, I was really surprised not to see any fish.

Based on the surrounding canyon, this little creek drains an awful lot of real estate, and may be subject to violent scour in wet years. Plenty of bedrock was exposed and enough debris embedded in the surrounding brush was testament to periodic high water velocity.

We fished through the area without so much as a grab; a smattering of large adult mayflies trickled off around midday, but there was nothing to greet them but my camera.

We took a side trip to see the encroaching “Wicker People” – with the water level as desperate as I’ve ever seen it. The drought continues in earnest, and exposed timber lends an eerie aspect.

The WickerPeople with bones exposed

I can imagine attempting to navigate that barricade in the cool of evening with the remnants of a midday six pack as fuel, spooky.

At elevation the wildflowers continue unabated, but the Bear Valley panorama has all but disappeared. Only the California Poppy, our illustrious state flower remains on display.

The California Poppy

Not a bad ending to a weekend of “adventuring” – much needed salve for the inevitable fish story featuring that sumbitch SMJ and the big fish he allegedly caught in the snow.

Sometimes the smart money observes from a distance, or is that merely sour grapes

Obama’s got nothing on trout season, and while everyone was giddy at the millions watching his coronation, the trout season inaugural dwarfs even the President – many times over.

Weather predictions are all over the map, snow forecast and blue skies dominate, leaving us Milquetoast types alone and vengeful. Most of the foul weather blew through a day early, leaving the opener with mix of icy water, blue skies, and snow.

The hordes of desperate fishermen burning off six months of cabin fever is always constant.

The dry fly purists descend on the Holy Water

A combination of outdoorsmen, faux sporting crowd, and semi-interested onlookers – all waging pitched battle in the fast water, no quarter asked and none taken.

We who are about to die, salute you.

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Despite what Pop says, I occasionally show some good sense

He don't call, he don't write Pop would see the gear lined up by the back door and hear us revert to “sporting speak”, clipped sentences punctuated by, “you bringing the …” and “did you remember…” and he’d gaze out the window, gauging the rainfall and comment to no one in particular, ” .. another goddamn fishless fishing trip.”

Naturally we were incensed, I’d retort with, “fish are always wet!” and older bro would mumble something unintelligible – as older brother’s are want to do, letting me bear the brunt of Wisdom’s cool gaze.

Pop was almost always right. Sometimes we’d catch fish and other times we’d catch cold, but we always sniffled defiantly while Ma spooned us Chicken soup.

Somehow we all learned what Pop knew; for some it was early, for others it was much later (if ever). One day it was us gauging the water spilling off the roof and we reached for the TV remote rather than the rod…

Opening Day 2009

SMJ and I were headed North for the Season Opener, with the above weather forecast as backdrop.

Hardened Californio’s scoff at inclement weather, insist on camping outdoors versus moteling it, prefer “wife beater’s” imbued with wood smoke and mayonnaise – versus water resistant Poly-anything …

… at least we did in our 20’s, now that we’re nearing the Half Century mark – I’m not so sure old guys aren’t like a couple after their first spat, both poised over the phone refusing to be the one that wimps calls first.

Our womenfolk have witnessed this male ritual too many times to be fooled, yet endure our manly posturing like Pop did:

“It’s going to be snowing all three days, you guys are nuts!”

“Yea, it’s no problem, I’ll pack an extra tee shirt, unless Meathead wimps.”

She’s out of earshot usually, scribbling “Chicken broth” next to “NyQuil” on the shopping list, so’s when Dan’l Boone returns she’ll have all the proper restoratives close to hand.

I’m sure SMJ’s jaw was set like iron as he leaned over the phone expectantly, so I sent an email instead. Wisdom intrudes occasionally and like my Pop I’ve begun to recognize the crucial underpinnings of fishless.

A tender release and the Darwinian refusal

After an exhaustive 20 year research effort scientists at the University of Illinois suggest that the vulnerability of being caught is an inheritable trait in Largemouth Bass.

You're showing poor form, but the guy on the far bank gets your point Science like this should stifle them yawns, as it bespeaks of vast changes in your angling habits.

Study anglers were allowed to fish only under a strict reservation system, with all fish logged and tagged over a four year interval. After draining the lake they divided the recovered fish into those that had never been caught and those that had been caught many times.

Isolating the two groups and breeding them over three generations increased the disparity, the “never been caught” group was now even harder to hook, and the vulnerable strain showed a slight increase in their already promiscuous catch rate.

For us bodycount-conscious anglers that suggests we want the catch and release ritual to be stress-free, ensuring the next generation of fish at our “secret spot” are doubly available.

It also suggests that modern vests should have a shoulder holster and special pockets for additional clips of large bore handgun ammo. Treating a caught fish with great tenderness requires us to be equally diligent in the converse, stomping the life out of anything that refuse our flies.

Note: Firing a high velocity round at a shallow angle – especially for “smutting” fish visible to the angler, will result in the far bank getting a fair amount of “skipping” ricochets. Be cognizant of your surroundings, line up both snooty fish and wading anglers – as “conservation minded” includes your ammo as well.

If the cops come don’t use any cheesy psycho lines, tell ’em Darwin told you to do it and they doubly-deserve to die.

These same researchers gave us the model for catch and release fishing, suggesting that the entire ritual take less than four minutes. Advice that Fly Fisherman’s cover-Wookie violated egregiously – as exposed by the ever vigilant Moldy Chum.

An interesting item in their research (on Bonefish) suggested that caught fish take four hours to recover from the ordeal, during that time they’re “woosy” and more susceptible to predators.

… that’s why I have my buddies fish through the hole first – they always think I’m being generous …

Yawn, is that supposed to be .. like .. extreme?

I suppose my life list can be etched on a "sleeve"Like you I’m the recipient of every strange aberration that is loosely connected to fishing. Today some well meaning cubicle denizen sends me a link to body piercing, featuring fish hooks and the traditional, “Dude, check it out!”

Any guide worth his salt would suggest fish hooks and flesh have a natural attraction – with client owning the hook(s) and guide owning the flesh.

… and as I’m poring through the pictures of nutcase’s insisting that meat impaled on hooks is a mixture of Jesu Christo and colonic cleansing – how their Shaman insisted it was the fast track to Oneness, I’m only mildly amused.

With tattooing, branding, and shaped scarring in great demand – what does a fly fisherman stab in his arm to prove he’s worthy – and will you want to erase the Sage tattoo if you become enamored of G. Loomis?

Just a thought…

My experience with piercing always involves being many miles from civilization with me asking, “did you pinch the barb like I asked, or will I have to operate?”

A good clean “through and through” on an earlobe is a thing of beauty. A combination of precise timing and a gust of wind; are we a tad hasty on the removal, and with most of the urbane sophisticates sporting the simple “pirate” hoop or stud, what fashion message is conveyed with a full dress Jock Scott?

Lang’s Auction, the estate of Martin J. Keane

Carrie Stevens streamer, one of many For the auction crowd, Lang’s April 17th auction contains the estate of Martin J. Keane, author of “Classic Rods and Rod Makers.”

Lots of classic bamboo rods available with hoary and rarified names; Young, Leonard, Pre-Fire Leonard, Halstead, Thomas & Thomas. Payne, Winston, F.E. Thomas, Goodwin Granger, Orvis, and Edwards. Reels to match with numerous Hardy, Fin Nor, Vom Hofe, Sage, and Orvis.

Flies by Carrie Stevens, Preston Jennings, Edward Ringwood Hewitt, Syd Glasso, Harry Darbee, Lee Wulff, Charles Defoe, and Poul Jorgensen, as well as many other published masters.

Buttressed by scads of first edition books, ancient catalogs, and (my favorite) hand carved fish decoys.

Add wooden duck decoys by the Ward Brothers, Harry Shourds, a leavening of Mason’s in most grades, and a couple hundred hand carved duck calls, and you’ve got an hour of unfettered desire ahead.

I think Scarface holds the answer to why Salmon are gone

I think “Scarface” holds the key to the entire salmon – steelhead issue, and is the poster child for what ails us…

A Crystal FX leech proved his undoing, which would suggest diminished capacity – as the fly does look appealing, but it in no way rivals a Big Mac.

 Face removal via rocky debris

My interest started with the winter floods, and while I could find little information about what fish did – there was a great deal of research on what bugs do in response to natural calamity.

Take a water district operating with complete autonomy;  no CalTrout, no Trout Unlimited, no passionate enviro-lobby, as there’s little glamour in little brown rivulets, couple that with a week long promise of heavy rain, and you get Scarface and more like him as progeny.

140 CFS is the normal flow, yet for 12 hours during the storm the dam release was 14000 CFS – enough to take the face off what few fish could hide, and blew the rest of the fish into the Delta accompanied by Dodge Escorts and rusty shopping carts.

I’m wandering an empty creek, barren of Bass – and what few fish remain show scrapes, scratches, and assorted wounds compliments of the “Zero Sum” water policy on the lake above.

You’re tired of hearing it, and I’m tired of saying it, “.. rather than spend those precious dollars on restoring the pristine, which we quickly despoil, perhaps we should be focused on restoring the balance of Nature.”

Most drown in their den, the rest are beaver burger In each of the last two years the release from the lake coincided with the wettest storm, suggesting the water district management blew open the gates in response to what runoff was anticipated. Swelling any river 100 times its normal size in an instant makes a killing machine; it destroys the insect population, kills or removes all the fish, and probably wipes a goodly portion of indigenous reptiles, amphibians, and anything else that calls the streambed home.

Both years would have scrubbed the creek at the height of the salmon spawn.

Beavers are great swimmers, but not when the river is a torrent. Likely it kills most in their burrow – and those that make it into the water are battered into pieces. At right is one of three dead beaver encountered at the high water mark. A little far-gone to determine cause of death, but it’s possibly additional evidence of an abusive water policy.

Multiply my little toxic creek by a couple hundred and you can see why there aren’t any salmon or steelhead, and why we’re dependent on the four hatcheries for the homogeneous mix that is shat onto the spillway.

Hatches Magazine is looking for the next Theodore Gordon

40 Rivers to Fish and his pals at Hatches Magazine are looking for a few crazed and desperate fishermen who can lie convincingly, or with a straight face, or both.

… and they’re prepared to reward you handsomely for your prose.

Hatches Magazine announces it’s first annual “The Season” Contest!
“The Season” is for anyone who enjoys sharing their fishing stories and pictures with other people. It’s a contest for anyone who keeps a journal, or has wished they would have; chronicling their fishing trips to look back on during the long, cold tying season or 20 years down the road with their grandchildren.

How To Enter
To enter, all you have to do is create a blog on the Hatches Blog Network and start recording your adventures during the 2009 fishing season. Writing a blog is easy. In fact it’s no more difficult than writing a post on an Internet message board. (Persons already part of the Hatches Blog Network are already entered.) You can tell your story through: words and pictures, just words, just pictures, long posts, short posts, whatever- It’s your season, so you can tell your story however you wish! When the snow falls in December, you’ll have a great memoir to read through, reminding you of all your triumphs and lessons learned from the past season on the water.

Only reports and photographs taken between January 1, 2009 and December 31, 2009 are eligible.

Writing a blog is many things but “easy” ain’t one of them. It’s fun, often addictive, sometimes a chore, and always a lot of cursed hard work. As described above, it’s a lot like posting to a message board – only the swear words have to be edited, and for varieties sake – every other post should start with something other than “Dude, your Mom.”

… everything else is just like a forum post, including finding out nobody but you likes that fly and everybody except you knew of that spot already.

You’ll also have the chance to win some excellent prizes…

A panel of judges will award prizes for best photography, writing and the best overall season. In addition, Reader’s Choice Awards will allow the public to vote in a variety of categories. Voting and prize details will be announced as they’re confirmed.

Click Here to Register for a Free Blog

There must be dozens of stalwarts itching to damage English – here’s an opportunity to share your saga while allowing us to live vicariously through your adventures.