Category Archives: Fly Fishing

The last rod you’ll ever need

It’s been an arduous wait, but I’d promised a revolutionary step in fly rod design and pricing, and by all that’s Holy, I’ve delivered…

Introducing the Singlebarbed “Crapper” rod, just in time for Christmas – and with a sturdy “one size fits all” system allowing a non-fisherperson to head for the counter knowing they’re purchasing the right rod.

For the older angler, the Crapper blank has been hand painted in Bamboo® to assist adoption of contemporary fibers and rod construction.

The Crapper features a two piece design, and a revolutionary Cork® grip with adjustable reel seat that accommodates both Spey, Switch, and conventional grips.

Traditional Seat

Sulphated Bismuth-Gallium Arsenide® (BiGaS2) retainers are the latest advance in reel seat technology, featuring all weather, corrosion proof, condiment resistant, shock absorbing, reel seat security – that adjusts on the fly, often in mid cast. 

Whether you prefer the traditional grip, “switch” style, or European Spey, a simple twist and slide will reset your grip, facilitating both roll casts and complex spey casts.

switch / Spey style with the BiGasS2 reel seat iPhone users can purchase the optional Spey Hero II® add-on that assists in teaching the rhythm and timing of the “Reverse Snap ‘T’ ” and “Duck on a Hot Plate” casts.

You’ve had a pretty rod, you’ve owned a pretty expensive rod, isn’t it about time you owned a pretty damned good rod?

Speedsloped guides,ThreadZ, and Pure X The Crapper features vibration dampening ThreadZ® that serve to reduce rod reverb, transferring the “Y” and “Z” plane energy into Pure X®. Pure X® technology adds dozens of yards to your cast through SpeedSloped Guides® and longer thread wraps on the tip side of each guide – serving as a PowerReservoir® of energy that will grant you long effortless casts free of tedium.

“In our factory we make rods, on the stream we make Heroes.”

Sidestep to the Singlebarbed difference, wade with confidence, cast with authority, and lie like the Big Dog.

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Enough caffeine in that cup to keep me amped for a fortnight

You’d figure a fellow nice enough to bring a bottle would get treated better, but not knowing I was getting paid for the excursion – I just took him to the semi-crappy spots.

If I’d known there would be beef jerky, cigars, and real coffee – I’d have carried him through the discarded Pampers and medical waste. I might’ve run down to the Christmas tree lot, scored a couple fir trees, and stuck them near his backcast hoping he’d think it was the tall pines of the Sierra’s…

 

Instead, he got an invitation to the “Four Lane” club; itself a rarified and heady experience – with membership limited to those who’ve caught a fish larger than four inches while fishing from the center divider of a four lane freeway.

… but, it hardly compares to the “care package” I got.

SMJ’s reward for upgrading our stash of coffee beans and cigars was four miles of gravel bed, questionable company, and a meager helping of unwilling fish.

Fishing isn’t fair, but exotic foodstuffs requires justice, dammit.

Peet Two pounds of Peet’s French roast proves Singlebarbed can be bought – and cheaply. No fancy Orvis endorsements necessary, no need for rods or flies bearing our stamp, we’ll stand in line with Bank of America, Morgan Stanley, AIG, and GM, and take ours off the top.

Thanks for the wonderful gifts, SMJ – sorry the fishing was so poor…

He doesn’t move too fast after he’s been skewered

If a healthy shrimp can move that fast without sign of fatigue, I can only imagine what speed he’d achieve if dropped on the Barbie…

Healthy shrimp ran and swam at treadmill speeds of up to 20 meters per minute [66 feet per minute] for hours with little indication of fatigue.”

To further challenge the healthy shrimp, the researchers designed a small backpack made of duct tape to add extra load to the shrimp. With the extra weight and lowered oxygen, they were active for up to an hour.

If this kind of physical agility is indicative of more than shrimp – perhaps extending to some of the other bait groups without offensive capability,  It might alter my thoughts on a retrieve. Pauses while stripping may be the opposite of what the bait actually does – and with no defenses it may run until safe or it’s eaten.

We’ve spent so much time examining bugs and very little researching behavior on all those minnows, crayfish, shrimp, and other opportunistic foods – it could be we’ve been lulled into complacency by their aquarium behavior.

Rivers in Motion: The Yellowstone

The Yellowstone DVD The lads at DryFly Media sent me a DVD entitled: “Rivers in Motion: The Yellowstone” – it’s a novel idea akin to “visual white noise” – the sights and sounds of the best stretches of your favorite river to put you at peace with the world…

Knowing that Singlebarbed wouldn’t be at peace if the Holy Ghost hisself was present, I volunteered to give it a look see.

No, it didn’t lull me to sleep, but it made the fly tying 10% faster. The omnipresent roar of big water in the background made me feel like I was tying on a park bench before the hatch started in earnest. Tongue firmly sandwiched between teeth, casting furtive glances at the monitor to see if the fish are rising yet –  and the only thing missing was the afternoon breeze sending my materials flying.

It played hell with my blood pressure.

I watched/listened to a couple of the scenes at home with my tinny little headphones – which destroyed the entire purpose,  so I swapped it out for the Dolby SurroundSound setup, which upstaged the book my girlfriend was reading – who stomped off to bed in a huff.

In the right hands this could be a powerful tool, clear the ManCave with the sounds of thunderous, slippery, rapids then enjoy the bliss of tying uninterrupted. 

I took it to work to try it there, had a couple simple speakers meant for cubicle use and with a pair of monitors had the Yellowstone flowing down one screen and a document in the other … worked swimmingly, but I had to turn it down whenever the humans intruded.

The guy next to me leans over, “Dude, you frying bacon in there?”

“No, Meathead – that’s the sound of some severe Blueline rapids filled with ravenous giant trout.”

He grabs the DVD cover, “Yellowstone, I got to go there. You going there?”

“I was there until you poked your nose into the cubicle, now I’m having trouble breathing through my eye lids, my aura is out of kilter, and your fruitless search for a free donut has messed with my ‘Happy Place.'”

In short, the audio dictates most of effect, 10 different stretches of the Yellowstone filmed for 9 minutes duration, and you absorbing it all via computer screen or TV/Stereo.

I found myself wishing there was some fellow fishing, or a herd of something peacefully grazing within the view of the camera, adding the perspective of size to the mass of water flowing past. All in all it was an interesting experiment.

The final scene hosted a large pod of fish munching their way through a nice hatch. That was a difficult watch – as the volume of rises and their frequency had me extolling the cameraman, ” .. are you a Man, to hell with the video, get a rod and get down there, dammit.”

I think adding a couple fellows fishing has potential – you’d have to edit out all the swearing, but watching another fisherman fish would likely glue you to each episode. It’s the reality of fishing, it’s so rare that you’re alone on a river these days – it’s almost part of the experience.

Something for the stocking this Xmas – or something to send someone whose been shoveling his driveway for three months, and hasn’t touched a rod for same … it’ll likely torment hell out of this erstwhile pal.

The most dangerous encounter a fly fisherman can expect?

I hadn’t ever considered the high risk nature of the hobby, but after reading the recital of ills, they missed tromping on medical waste while wading, but that’s a recent hazard – known only to us locals.

...and they left out all the really deadly stuff

There’s a lot we take for granted, mostly because it’s home turf and we’ve seen most of the repertoire; bears, mountain lions, rattlesnakes, are all part of the surroundings. While we’re often surprised by their appearance, most of us know how to conduct themselves properly and not elevate the risk.

Our California Brown and Black bears may seem fearsome to those unacquainted with them, but they’re mostly curious and hungry – not looking for a confrontation. Bear cubs start me backpedaling in a hurry, however.

Places like Alaska and Montana have real bears and multiple critters that can stomp a human without breaking a sweat. Despite the long list of perils I can’t believe they missed the most dangerous foe in the woods:

  • The typical McDonald’s meal ingested at sea level, prior to the climb to altitude, and subsequent stoppage of normal body function.

Almost all of my near death experiences have a pre-dawn departure with some fellow in the back seat insisting on coffee and an Egg McMuffin. It’s Old Scratch whispering in your ear – and we fall for it every single time.

Mashed flat or swallowed whole, the fate of the legless frog

It’s a systematic exploitation of every living thing in the watershed, and in pursuit of large fish – it’s best to leave no stone unturned.

I’m on the second “alpha” prototype – struggling with how to make the head wider without altering the physics or causing some instability in construction. “Wider” has always been the nemesis of fly tying as hook shanks are narrow and bodies have to be bulked up using benign materials; you can’t use bulky materials that float if you’re designing a sinking fly, and vice versa.

They’re constantly underfoot so I’ll assume they’re eaten with the same enthusiasm shown by Herons and Egrets. The ATV crowd mashes a million of them at every river crossing – guts, fins, eyeballs, and stunned tadpoles tumble down into the deep water routinely.

 

I’m fiddling with the details of retrieve, silhouette and weight. I’d describe the naturals as a muted brown streak that instantly buries itself when its flight is complete. I pile on the lead, fling it at the far bank, count two – then give it a yard long pull.

One large bass pulled the line out of my hands on the take – so he thought it looked good. A half dozen smaller bass ate it so there was some small consensus. Pikeminnow haven’t touched it yet, but with only a couple outings that’s not proof of much.

Tied on the above kirbed Togen Scud hook, and weighted to ride upside down; shank filled with 2 Amp fuse wire, broadened with chenille tied in on the sides, and cover the result with “Sable” boa yarn (mixed brown and gold).

Rain is in the forecast which will cut into the ATV hatch, I may sneak out between showers this weekend for more conclusive testing.

The first Catch and Release, artificial only, single barbless Brownline fishery – and I’m planting flag

Trophy Roundtail Chub The Ghost of Charles F. Orvis is rattling about in mock anguish and we’re unimpressed. He’s had his heyday and legion of devotees, now it’s time for a little rough and tumble – where last year’s Ford preempts the gleaming Eurotrash roadster, and brown water licks your boots…

I figured it had to be a western state with the foresight and gumption to make the first “Catch and Release, artificial fly and lure-only (single barbless hook) fishery” for Chub, mainly because half of the western states have run out of clean water – and the other half are busy seeding clouds or siphoning under the Rockies while acting innocent.

Yea, you saw that correctly … CHUB.

Little misunderstood, roman nosed trash fish hits the bigtime – and can the four star resort be that far behind?  Singlebarbed applauds the Arizona Game and Fish department – and confers upon them the  distinguished title of Official Patron of the Brown Arts.

It’s a clone of my Little Stinking, featuring the rare and endangered Colorado Pikeminnow, smallmouth bass, and a bevy of brownline beauties sought by nobody and scorned by everyone else.

Hell, I won’t even have to shower, – and the first trout I catch will be thrown up onto the bank to suffocate – along with all the other invasive species.

I’m going to race them lads over at Roughfisher.com and lay claim to this turf – figuring a couple dozen gaudy variations of traditional patterns, invent a couple insect families that don’t exist, and we’ll have him hitting the text books instead of signing the monstrous book deals, hugging debutantes for the Phoenix society column, or claiming the deluge of Chub rods that’ll sprout from them “suddenly-Brown” upscale vendors.

There’s two “L’s” in sellout, lads – now which of you can spare a breath mint?

The roar of the accelerator, the howl of the victim, and a mouthful of blue denim

Two days of balmy idyllic fishing weather was forecast and I was able to deliver the “I’d rather stay home and scrub the place spotless” speech without a hint of guile.

I figured the first day would warm the water to a nice tepid temperature and the following day would unleash famished fish – that’d run me out of flies in an orgy of mindless feeding.

I had a plan.

Guys can’t clean for snot. Somewhere between grade school, where we dropped a lollipop and slapped it back in our gob without ill effect, and maturity – where we pass dirty dishes through warm water, minus soap, and call it good – we lost the ability to pass the Missus’s White Glove Test.

Sure, I’d score a few points for good behavior, a couple more for moving a pile of fly tying materials from one room to another, but dropping a couple shekels for a hired-gun “cleaning goddess” would likely square the Little Black Book of Misdeeds – and I wouldn’t have to escort Madam to the next seventeen highly charged romantic melodramas as penance.

The “Two Squee-Gee Kid” arrived without incident, and while she cauterized the interior with a flame thrower, I busied myself with the exterior.

The Plan was flawless. I’ll take credit for all the combined labor, blinking big “doe eyes” of hardship when significant other arrives for Monday’s White Glove inspection.

… and freeing up Sunday for another fishing trip that won’t be charged to my account.

I didn’t count on the neighbor’s bass boat uprooting the entire Internet with his late evening departure. The lights blink out and the TV dies, and I’m looking at a smoking crater in the lawn where the cable infrastructure used to be.

No Internet again, but at least he didn’t spatter mud on my newly immaculate abode. I pointed the enraged battalion of cable guys at the hole and in my best grade school voice, “I didn’t do it..”

As my neighbor is a fisherman, I did my best to rake the tire prints out of the grass, leading to his boat – I was hoping he’d do the same for me someday.

I dragged A.Wannabe.TravelWriter out with his trusty ATV eating, deer killing dog, and despite our late start, I was hoping we’d get one last round of late season fish death – compliments of the weather.

Too much avaricious lying on my part, I’d used up whatever Karma is required to seduce fish in my earlier misdeeds – tilting the fishing God in favor of blanking us completely.

I managed a couple small fish on a tadpole fly I’m tinkering with – and had a nice bass on for a couple headshakes, but that was it for the day.

“Foxly” was top rod, he had a doe on for a couple of headshakes, and returned later with the seat of someone’s blue jeans. I figured he had great potential as a brownline dog, but removing his collar so’s we could disavow ownership might be the wiser move…

Honest, Lucy will hold the football this time, Charlie Brown

I’ve never understood why anglers (as a group) scored so poorly in the math department. Sure, we got a double helping of optimism, but that was so’s we’d stand out in the rain all day…

Jesus and the Apostles were fishermen, but they had the same problems with figures and addition… It might be why JC was so upset with the  money lenders, one of them had the audacity to ask, ” if a barque loaded with Menhaden left Antioch on the morrow, and at the same time a skiff full of Olive oil left Delphi, how much would I …”

Recent events suggests the Roman approach of skewering would have been a better tactic, but like most anglers – Jesu Christo practiced “catch and release.”

I’m not complaining about the raw estimation practiced by our profession, both rounding up and significant digits are all schools of Mathematics with many weighty tomes to back their usage.

The average age of fly fishermen is 51, that’s the number used by Madison Avenue and explains why old scotch, young broads, and things that make a large arse comfortable are featured prominently in our advertising. It’s why angling periodicals feature foreign destinations, and rods are so expensive, because you’re supposed to be older and wiser and have a couple pesos to rub together.

All that by the wayside, what is it about statistics and averaging that gives you fellows so much trouble?

The condensed version, “average” is the important concept to grasp. Simply put, for each one of these:

 

There’s one of these:

bikini What we can agree on is that both specimens are in extremely short supply.

Ignore the candy thrown at you by the “Yellow Journalists” at TroutUnderground, he fishes cane – synonymous for a slow learner.

“Slab of the Week”, “Arse of the Week” or “Breastmeat of the Month” is all smoke and vapor, and the “eye candy” that teases you into thinking monstrous hatches are followed by Lust in the Dust, are pure myth…

… propagated by middle aged fat guys that passed English (barely) and failed math too.

Average age 51, suggests there’s plenty of ladies interested in the sport – they may not have the long legs or bustline to suit your particular kink, but plenty own great tackle, can cast like hell, and own boats.

If Grandma had 60 acres of river frontage, I’d consider raising my standards to match.

Who says Pikeminnow can’t jump

It’s one of those luxuries we’ve all enjoyed, parking within proximity to a thriving business and leisurely gearing up as all the fishermen within either burst into tears, or shake their fist at you.

Yesterday was Veteran’s Day, and I had a pocket full of experimentals to try out – overcast and clouds present but high enough not to threaten me with much moisture.

“Fatty” intercepted the second Matuka with a vengeance, I had to marvel at his grit, exactly what is a six inch fish going to do with a four inch minnow? It’s sitting down to a five foot long hero sandwich; you may be really hungry – but outside of dribbling meat and tomato slices down your shirt front – what’s the point?

The “transitional crayfish” were well received. I’d mixed a strand of Orange and a strand of Olive on the LSO – giving it some color reminiscent of the red crawdads. As red hasn’t claimed a victim, the  question, “is it the color or the size?” remains unanswered.

I hit a half dozen nice fish on the Olive and Orange mixture, implying the color is acceptable.

This suggests the red version should have no issue, but it’s size may be offputting.

I’d brought a Magnum Little Stinking Olive, tied on the same hook the red uses – both flies are identical in size, and only colors differ.

The Magnum had the identical reception as it’s smaller cousin. I tied the dry bug on and flipped it at a rock on the far bank, it sank smartly despite my removing half the lead. I gave it one twitch and five pounds of Pikeminnow leaps out of the water with the Magnum down its gut.

 

I guess “size does matter” – as I’ve fished through this stretch a dozen times without laying eyes on this monster. Pikeminnow are long thin fish, and this fellow is about five pounds, and nearly 27″ long.

With only a single Giant Olive, I fish really carefully from then on.

The stretch below yielded another Pikeminnow of nearly the same size and a half dozen nice bass – making me wonder whether the two species aren’t fighting over the darn crawdads.

I didn’t have the courage to try the big red, husbanding the sole Olive flavor until the rain interrupted both me and the fellow shaking his fist from the gravel conveyer up above.

He must’ve been shouting encouragement – or bemoaning his lack of vacation day.