Category Archives: Fly Fishing

A Yellow Brick Road would be a close second

Good, just police your butts enroute to the store Fishermen have always had a love-hate relationship with roads, largely because their presence ensures high traffic, making  the fast water home to drunken teenagers throwing rocks, and attracting refuse – beer cans and food containers discarded callously by persons unknown enroute to someplace better.

Firemen hate them as someone always builds a fire or flings a cigarette, ecologists despise them as wilderness has been tamed forever, and all of us are deafened by the hordes of ATV hellions that find these capillaries as quickly as they’re constructed.

As darkness falls, we’re often glad to see some even footing – especially after slogging against fast cold water all day, and a tailgate is a welcome surface to prepare a midday meal – but if you’re willing to walk a mile for a Camel, are you willing to walk two for a better hatch?

We’ve seen the pictures many times, tons of Hexagenia mayflies ovipositing in a Chevron station due to light pollution – a lethal combination of attraction to white light and mistaking the asphalt for water.

Recent studies suggest dark surfaces can polarize light better than water and can override the natural environment in favor of mass egg laying on dry land.

Polarized light pollution (PLP) caused by artificial planar surfaces has clear and deleterious impacts on the ability of
animals to judge safe and suitable habitats and oviposition
sites. In particular, PLP presents severe problems for
organisms associated with water bodies. Orientation to
horizontally polarized light sources is the primary guidance
mechanism used by at least 300 species of dragonflies,
mayflies, caddisflies, tabanid flies, diving beetles,
water bugs, and other aquatic insects. This is used to
search for suitable water bodies to act as feeding/breeding,
habitat, and oviposition sites (Schwind 1991; Horváth
and Kriska 2008). Because of their strong horizontal
polarization signature, artificial polarizing surfaces (eg
asphalt, gravestones, cars, plastic sheeting, pools of oil,
glass windows) are commonly mistaken for bodies of
water (Horváth and Zeil 1996; Kriska et al. 1998, 2006a,
2007, 2008a; Horváth et al. 2007, 2008). Because the p of
light reflected by these surfaces is often higher than that
of light reflected by water, artificial polarizers can be even
more attractive to positively polarotactic (ie lured to horizontally polarized light) aquatic insects than a water
body (Horváth and Zeil 1996; Horváth et al. 1998; Kriska
et al. 1998). They appear as exaggerated water surfaces,
and act as supernormal optical stimuli.

Thinking of buying a car? I’d consider a light colored model – especially if you’re planning on parking it near where you’re fishing, every bug that mistakes your hood for water is one less you can fish over.

As rural areas succumb to development, light pollution and polarization is becoming a larger issue – especially with insects that use dusk or full dark to oviposit.

No research describes the percentages of affected insects, but as a layman, can’t we draw the conclusion that those stretches of the river without buildings, cars, or roads have more bugs?

… this might be the scientific proof of our conventional axiom, “the farther we get away from the parking lot, the better the fishing..”

Those of you contemplating construction of your fishing “dream retreat” take note – cover your driveway with white quartz, and make sure the Jacuzzi cover is light canvas.

Brownliners have exploited this scientific “wrinkle” for years, we’re often asked why we’re trailing 400 yards of black VisQueen behind us – mostly we smile and keep walking, figuring you’ll assume the Port-a-Potty lacks toilet paper…

Big slathering mean Dogs with a weakness for Strawberry

Just abandon this in your pocket and let the sun work its magic I call it fishing but it’s mostly exercise. The misdeeds of late December have a habit of lingering until Spring, with every morsel of See’s candy, every indiscretion of fruit cake or Egg Nog – visible on my portly frame.

They’re gone, aided in part by a snarling big wet pooch that tracked my progress through the gravel, before succumbing to a Kashi Strawberry fig newton a couple miles upstream.

I’m evil incarnate as regards the family mutt, I’ve got more sunwarmed fart bars tucked away in vest pockets than Walmart has on their shelves. At precisely this very moment some farmer just launched “Killer” through the screen door – nearly overcome by colon-baked Soy goodness.

I warned him … while doling out the second one.

The Olive Clownshoe is no longer a victimless crime Three miles up and three back suggests I’m back to summer form, and for the entire journey, there was but six fish visible. The bass are nowhere to be seen, and even the small fish aren’t in their normal haunts.

I went up as far as the big pool that normally has Carp and the only thing stirring was an immense beaver that delighted in surfacing and smashing water whenever I drew a breath.

He didn’t care for the Strawberry Fig Newton, could be the trajectory was wrong … or the big hungry dog that followed was offputting.

I left the Beast upstream and started the trek out, he was engaged in extruding the beaver onto a whole wheat crust and no longer cared for my meager rations.

A phalanx of large Pikeminnow caught my eye in one of the deep stretches,  they were the only fish I’d seen all day so I stopped to admire them. These were a remnant of the “Untouchables” – cruising fish that I’d flung lots of flies at with no effect.

A facefull of clownshoe nymph I’d been throwing an Olive Clownshoe earlier hoping to get some interest out of the pool above and figured a couple casts at the squadron wouldn’t hurt much – they were patrolling a regular route, and as they went downstream out of view I snuck out on the bank and dropped a fly on an intercept.

Using a Skagit head on my little 9′ rod offers a really nice feature, you can fling a lot of line with one backcast – as it’s really just a shooting head with thin running line, not the traditional WF that requires a lot of air time to get goodly distance.

The fly was midstream swinging for my bank when the fish reappeared below, I just let the fly tumble across the bottom into their midst. The tip of the fly line headed for the bottom, I tightened the line and the lead fish broke into “escape and evade.” All six vanished in a mushroom cloud of mud, and I’m hopping from one foot to another trying not to step on the running line as it came at me off the ground.

Untouchable no longer

One victory doesn’t win wars but it’s mighty nice to get bit, especially on an untested prototype. I got a solid hookup in the upper mouth – so he figured it was food and was cleanly duped.

If I can land the other five I might come up with something else to call them, until then I’ll call myself, “lucky.”

Shirtsleeves in January doesn’t bode well for the season ahead of us, but with every other Friday off compliments of the state, I’ll hit it early and often, as should you.

That which will never be spoken in polite company

USDA inspected For fly fishermen it’s the number we’ve always feared. We think about it with every trip but it’s strictly a “don’t ask, don’t tell” topic in the parking area.

Spouse and family members have brought it up multiple times, we shrug and pretend we didn’t hear, often followed by some weak retort on what they’ve spent recently.

Not one for politeness, I’ll just stomp on your hobby and tell you.

Six dollars and thirty four cents per pound.

… and that makes your average 12″ mountain bred trout worth nearly $3.16 each.

Figure a $1.50 per fly, you’re at break even if it takes two to catch one.

I’m wincing too, given the cavalier way I treat my bugs. They’re quick to tie and just as quick to adorn a tree branch, yet somehow I figured my investment was being squandered a little less quickly.

… and here I am poking fun at hedge fund managers for pissing away our collective earnings – when they may have done us a favor by taking it all at once.

Figuring a typical weekend afield is; $40 worth of gas, $50 lodging, $40 in food, and $50 worth of tippet and flies, you’ll need to catch and eat 28.4 pounds of trout to break even.

Look at the bright side, a brownliner has to eat nearly 300 pounds of carp in the same period. Yummy.

Is the garage the only possible venue for wildlife art?

The dreaded dead fish trophy Art and the sporting fraternity have an uneasy relationship, usually predicated on a spur of the moment artistic bent, followed closely by the threat of divorce.

There’s nothing sporting-neutrals fear more than a spouse bursting through the door, scanning the living quarters for an appropriate shrine, then nailing some gawd-awful dead thing to a living room wall.

Degas, Gogan, and Van Gogh knew there was no money in immortalizing his Lordship’s catch, so they cashed in on the portrait craze, occasionally painting some fellow bait fishing in the Somme, Seine, or Rhone, but that was pro bono work.

There’s a couple exceptions to the rule; duck decoys come to mind, but only because they depict something living, while the Big Game crowd and fishermen drag bloated carcasses into the living room insisting the lifeless stare of dead animals enhances Puce divans and ancestral china.

A pastoral scene featuring an angler casting flies can pass muster – but it’s unsatisfying as it lacks testimony to our personal skills, which is why the stuff we like hangs in the garage.

I’m thinking there’s a chilling message in all this. It’s unfortunate, but the living critters we’ve spent half a lifetime chasing are prettier alive – which is why the Bible insists Jesu Christo was a fisherman, but lacks a “grip and grin” sketch, no marble saints holding largemouth bass, and little proof other than he could walk on water – a skill only a fishermen would prize.

The DaVinci Code was a work of pure fiction, but is it too much of a stretch that the oppression we face in possessing sporting art might have some secret society at it’s heart?

… and in some dusty vault under the Sistine Chapel, a forgotten trophy might adorn a small alcove – proving John the Baptist was a fly fisherman – and the baptism ritual was developed because both the Tigris and Euphrates were a sumbitch to wade in sandals?

Thin. Really thin.

The whole religion thing has me wading a slippery slope, but after seeing the mosaic unearthed by Buster Wants To Fish might some canny fellow have retouched other relics under the direction of a shadowy splinter society?

Add the good nun, Dame Juliana Berners to the legend of the Holy Grayling – and I’m hearing black sedans in my driv

Hardy and Grey’s reintroduces the glass – carbon composite

Hardy glass fly rods Not to be outdone by the Retro Movement, the venerable Hardy and Grey’s dips its toe in the fiberglass market along with Sage.

Four rod models are available; Aln, 5′ for #2, Brook, 6′ for #3, Stream, 7′ for #3, Test, 7’6″ for #4, and Trout Fisher, 8′ for #5, retailing for $300 to $400 each.

These are composite rods using a mixture of 90% glass and 10% carbon fiber, akin to the many hybrids of the 1980’s, when carbon was first introduced.

The companies website and it’s international sites are down for renovation so very little technical detail is available.

I smell a push into American markets, solidified by their opening of a 14,000 foot distribution center and retail outlet in Lancaster, PA., last month, and creation of the wholly owned subsidiary, Hardy North America – suggests a larger strategy to come.

If they can weather the economics, they’ve certainly got the brand.

Things that make you go, huh?

The Moffitt fly fishing system The “system” word always scares hell out of me. I’ve always assumed it’s the rugged individualist that gets squeamish at the thought of tailoring his fishing to someone else’s system; it doesn’t mean it’s bad – we just know our opportunity for freestyle points evaporates.

Circle hooks have really made an impact in saltwater – and most of the big game market has converted to their use. Moffitt Angling has adapted Circle hooks to their hookless fly fishing system.

My reaction is like everyone else, “Huh? Eww…” But that’s based on years of conventional fly fishing – and like they say, only a baby likes change…

Hookless soft cored flies attached to a leader via looped connection, with the leader tipped with a Circle hook. Fish eats fly, angler sets hook, and hook makes contact with outer jaw only.

The theory is sound.

The hideous flaw is angler ego, now that bug and hook are separate they can be differing sizes, and ego will dictate the #24 Trico will be used in the retelling , even though the Circle hook was a #14.

Despite the ease of release and the claim that fish no longer need to handled – they’ve forgotten the need to immortalize the event, so the fish is yanked out of the water and manhandled for the lens…

The Science appears sound, it’s us that may need changing.

It’s always interesting to see something that doesn’t fit the traditional mold, you may want to visit and watch their video on how it all works.

Tweed might itch, so we’ll let you wear Polyester

A Professional - you can assume the tie is a clue Professional has its moments, but if “Unwashed Bob,” who catches more fish than any human alive, is unbooked, wouldn’t he be equivalent to a smiling courteous staff?

“Professional” is as common as fish on ads for fly fishing outfitters, lodges, casting schools, waders, and accessories. Vendor coffers spew oodles of dollars to show beaming clients, pristine cabins, heroic guides, and crisp linen. Owners insist that their clean cut “professionals” are of different cloth than the hard drinking, eye patch wearing, womanizing brutes that made your last trip an adventure.

Is professional really so, and do we need it?

The foundation of fly fishing lore is some crusty local whose homespun wit and flies makes enormous fish do bad things. His secret is the unique color of the flea bit hound snoring on his porch, who might resent being awakened but doesn’t mind you yanking a handful of dubbing – unless it’s from a sensitive area. 

Miriam Webster defines a professional as, “participating for gain or livelihood in an activity or field of endeavor often engaged in by amateurs.”

That covers the full gamut – from part time guides to full time drunks.

Guides would be the first to complain, as full time guides are superior to part timers, and local full timers are seated next to the Holy Ghost hisself.

Using the same criteria, the little Sri Lankan gal tying Hare’s Ear’s for a dime a day – why isn’t she awash in certificates? She’s a professional, she lacks the free time to become the complete fly tier as we know them, but after tying 47,266 #14’s, I’d include her in any sweeping usage of the term.

Apparently there’s more than one kind of professional, and confusion lies in the small advertisement space, wherein the proprietor doesn’t have the print real estate to explain which kind of professional he’s employing.

If I’m engaging a bush pilot for the last leg to the lodge, I’d prefer the Professional professional, the fellow with a silk scarf that flew P-39’s with Claire Chennault, not the regular kind. If I’m fishing in bear country, serenaded by the roar of Grizzlies, I want the fat and slow professional, the fellow that wheezes after a single flight of stairs. If I’m learning to cast, certification is an aging yellow paper, I’d prefer the medical professional, as we’d both save money on the insurance.

Accommodations are professional, I want an empty ashtray, clean linen, and the professional steak; most steaks were actually cows, so they can’t be professional, I’m willing to take my chances with the stem cell variant.

… and for all else, I want them hard drinking homespun fellows from down the street. They ogled my daughter, swear at me for mistakes, and serve bologna for lunch – but the pictures I show the office won’t have any of that – just a lot of slab sided, dripping fish with me “making heroic” in the background.

Real professionals wear ties. They dress up to fish, invented the fly you’re using, and can add 60 feet to your cast just by uncrating the crystal dinnerware.

Scheherazade is easy. The little black dress is hard.

Miss Holly Golightly, Breakfast at Tiffany's I’m not sure that “the little Black dress” is just a girl’s best friend, it’s one of my favorites as well.

I was reminded again Sunday, when older brother and I endured another fruitless expedition; we’d tried everything else and I knotted on a battered black thing hoping it would reverse sagging fortune. One large fish rolled off the bottom to intercept -one brief throb of the rod, and the dance was over.

Why the black fly drew a lethargic fish when all else failed is unknown, but it adds to the notion that Black is somehow different.

Like the Little Black dress, black has a legion of followers. It doesn’t matter whether you’re a naturalist, impressionist, or surrealist – you’ve got a handful of black flies in your flybox, and at least one of them has made your “top 10 list.”

Black is singular lacking gradients or shades, and the flies we make from it use action words, not qualifiers. There’s no ambiguity in absolutes, and while “pale”, “medium”, and “rusty” work for other flies, black flies are syllables bitten off by teeth …

Black Leech. Black Gnat. Black Martinez, AP Black. Black is past seduction, it’s more “date rape”; failing light and you’ve tried those pastel bugs the other fellow mentioned – now you want a fly that makes Momma’s fry pan happy…

Nature sees it the same way, black doesn’t mess around, black hurts; Black Widow, Blackfly, Black eye, Black Belt, Black Death.

Black’s reputation is well deserved, a unique combination of underwater phenomenon and canny anglers whose series flies almost always have a black variant. It’s the universal color, as effective in salt as fresh, fished in conditions of “too bright” or black dark, and is the benefactor of a significant physics advantage versus all other colors.

Light rays (comprising colors of various wavelengths) passing through water penetrate only to certain depths. Water clarity plays a huge role in how far they can be seen, but the warm spectrum; red, orange, and yellow are the first colors to be filtered. Red is removed within the first 10′ of water, orange next, and yellow may persist to 30′, but beyond each boundary that color becomes unlighted and dark. Increasing depth removes all remaining colors in turn, until everything’s black.

Black is most visible against a light background, and considering the fly is often above the fish and sky makes a light backdrop – a black fly offers the best silhouette and can be seen at distance.

‘When it’s clear and bright, tie on a Silver Doctor. When dark and overcast, use a Black Doctor’

Coco Chanel is credited with the Little Black Dress, with unknown  influence from the Black Doctor, her favorite salmon fly immortalized by the above quote.

For the last 80 years – countless fellows have waited impatiently at the curb and been rewarded by her fashions, for the last couple of centuries many more have swung flies and applauded the absence of color.

Will Taimen be as compelling if we use the other five senses?

With Odorama!With Hollywood scheduling eight 3-D films this year, will the extremist angling film crowd be swayed by the flames and guts splashing over the audience – and play the same card with an angling feature?

Me? I’d say it’s a “no brainer.”

All them fellows were raised on zombie movies and carnage, and the neo-traditional “grip and grin” pose is yesterday’s news…

Prepare for the Attack of the Giant Chrome Slab of Steelhead Death – thrust into the theater by some fellow dressed like a crazed homeless person, complete with the Slimy Fingerless Gloves of Possible Strangulation.

All them fellows have a maniacal laugh – mostly because they didn’t have to pay for the trip, nor supply the camera crew with Yak Butter Margarita’s of local manufacture.

I’d suggest that AEG Media and it’s followers skip the entire genre. Instead resurface Odorama, and unleash Scratch n’ Sniff hell on a unsuspecting film audience.

A big fish is admirable, but once you’ve seen a couple dozen them 3-D glasses start to itch. The smell of a Mongolian Yurt, with adjoining stable of Yak’s in full rut – is an olfactory pinnacle whose memory lingers forever.

Ditto for every carcass washed up at the high water mark. Thrill to the bouquet of Taimen – caught after a week of direct sunshine …

Some follow fashion, and some set it, certainly there’s a unique opportunity for a film director imbued with real passion.

Part 2: Spey Kung Fu: There’s two kinds of experts, them as can cast – and them as can’t

More danger to myself than to the fish After a week of practice I’m the second kind of expert; I have a theory or opinion on absolutely everything, I’m quick to point out the trifling defects in everyone else’s casting, in both tackle and form, but don’t ask me to show you, ’cause I still can’t cast for beans..

I got some assistance from the fellows at the Washington Fly Fishing forum whose site is blessed with a low “signal to noise” ratio. Lots of talented folks that fling these lines in anger, and readily share what they know with a clueless prospect.

I’d found a couple resources that listed grain weights and had deduced I needed a RIO Windcutter or Airflo Delta Spey, these are mid-belly lines markedly different than the Skagit head I already owned. The Echo website suggested the Airflo and the WFFer’s suggested The Red Shed, a small Idaho fly shop, whose proprietor, Poppy – was strong in the ways of the Force…

They weren’t kidding, some fellow answers the phone and as I stutter a greeting he says, “You seek Airflo, for your rod, the #7/8.”

Now that I’m armed with the proper line, I’m captive to the weather – which is alternating between icy fog and rain. The gleaming unsoiled rod is parked by the back door and in between squalls I’m in the backyard committing a multitude of casting sins.

The pop-crack-whizz flushes every cat and squirrel hidden in the underbrush, the fleeing felines get everyone’s dogs barking, and I’ve got Grandma looking over the fence sternly – assuming I’m harassing “Pootsie-Poo” her pampered and fat Persian.

Part of the noise is my use of a  “grass leader“; a knotted leader with barrel knots about every 3-4 inches and the tag ends left untrimmed. The friction of knots and tags in the grass offers additional resistance and assists in loading the rod akin to ripping the line off the water.

Despite my daily sessions I’m not able to get anything resembling what’s desired – my loop is open like a roll cast, and a completed stroke dies horribly in mid-air; no power or direction and I’m left scratching my head.

Saturday breaks with “bluebird” weather and I’m on the creek as soon as the sun is high enough to light my path. I figure an hour of practice and with my newfound “l33t” skills I’ll be rolling in fish. I figured the floating tip would be the easiest to fish with … and destroy.

Multi-tip spey lines include a floating, intermediate, 6″ per second, and 8″ per second sinking heads. They’re 15′ feet segments looped onto the line belly (both are equipped with welded loops) using a loop-loop connection which is unnoticed when casting. This is one of the areas of confusion for us beginners, some Spey lines are incomplete unless a tip is added – and are underweight because a tip is expected. The converse is also true, some lines are just tips – with no belly and it’s mighty important to understand the difference.

I’m focusing on two casts, the Snap-T and the Snake Roll, figuring I’d have them committed to memory quickly via numbing repetition rather than divide my time between a dozen different maneuvers.

There’s a wide pool a couple hundred yards below the duck blind, (far enough away from the watchful eyes of anyone inside), and I figure if a wounded mallard floats by I can grab a couple fistfuls of flank with none the wiser. Striking my best heroic pose I launch my first cast – watching it soar across the frothy water and land an astounding 20 feet distant.

That’s no mean feat with 54′ of belly, 15′ of floating tip, and attached 9 ‘ leader.

As an experienced one hand caster I know how to control the cast stroke to do my bidding, I thought I could translate the timing to the two hand rod and get some semblance of the correct cast.

I was dead wrong.

Water tension replaces the wait on the traditional rearward false cast, and the amount of time the line is on the water determines how much you’ve got to rip off the surface on the forward stroke.

Terms like “kiss and go” have meaning now, a peck on the cheek is what’s needed – and I keep swapping tongues..

The Snake roll was easier to learn and I was able to get distance even with an unguided and hideous open loop. The Snap T was a disaster – but I was able to get the snap portion operational. I think I managed about 40 feet with 70′ out of the guides.

The water is the backcast, therefore casting is entirely foreign – it’s neither intuitive or easy to understand the rod physics or the water load component.

My biggest problem is too much strength. Watching the videos on YouTube you see the rod cradled by the upper hand, and I’m “white knuckling” the cork with all the finesse of a baseball bat.

My hour passes and then some – and because I insisted on realism, I’m out a dozen flies. All of them cracked off by my baseball version of the Snap T. None entering my torso unbidden – so I’m succeeding at building the necessary self preservation skills.

I managed a little fishing, but the fish had all expired in laughter – I couldn’t see their carcasses as I’d put a nice “head” on the creek akin to bruising a good lager. 

I’ve confirmed what Spey is useful for and what it’s not. It’s a “big water” fling and swing style ill-suited for my little creek. Retrieving flies close means you have to shake all the line out of the tip before the next cast, and while the casts can be used in close quarters with traditional lines – it’s not a style requiring you to suddenly replace all your tackle in a mad rush to be first.

The extra handle below the reel does have issue with bulging front loaded vests. It’s used in lever-action mode, drawing it into your brisket with each cast.  Once I learn the proper cast – this may not be much of an issue, but I thumped my fly boxes routinely – something unnoticed in my backyard proving ground.

I’m going to transfer the line to my one-hander. This will eliminate the unknowns of the long rod and let me experiment with the timing and casts with known equipment. It’ll also aid in fishing, because I can fish through the run using traditional casts, then beat the water to death afterwards.

After wind milling a 13′ rod through 30 minutes of Snake Roll, I was feeling the exertion. It’s a great workout – it’s not supposed to be, but I’m grasping at any positives.

The last train from Gun Hill, the Little Stinking MilitiaThe wind started to pick up a bit, and I’m hearing the staccato reports of gunfire upstream – not duck hunters, someone’s unloading seven round clips of Eastern Bloc high powered stuff – which can go some distance.

I’m up and out of the streambed quickly so’s I can be seen, and stumble into the last convoy out of Sadr City. Four motorcycles, 2 ATV’s, 2 trucks, and a dozen pimple-faced hardcore types looking stern and scanning for FSW’s ..

FSW’s are more dangerous than IED’s and common to California watersheds .. it’s easier to yell “FSW” to alert your buddy to “Fleeing Startled Wildlife” – otherwise you’d fail to empty the entire clip into its carcass.

I gave them a wave and headed out of Baghdad, hoping to clear the watershed before the gunships rolled in…

More suffering to follow.