This sumbitch would be “FATTY”.
Steadfastly ignore everything your Momma taught you, spend the bulk of your day chasing tail rather than get an education, then tuck your feet under Ma’s table and ask, “What’s fer Dinner, Yo.”
The damn fly is as big as he is – and it’s up to us to give this fellow the education he’s sorely lacking.
Meet the Singlebarbed blog’s favorite glutton, a largemouth bass – which aren’t very numerous in the Little Stinking, now I know why.
I had to pay for all them free walnuts somehow. A.Wannabe Travelwriter had graciously extended gleaning rights to anything I could find on his grounds – and likely had second thoughts after looking out his kitchen window to see me stooped over vacuuming his estate.
Walnut “grabbling” is that way, all you see of the practitioner is his “southern half” bent over reaching for grounded goody, unsettling at best – and enough to despoil your morning coffee.
He tried the traditional farmer option; vicious dogs bursting out of the barn intent on blood – I let them wind up to full gallop before breaking their charge with the rustle of cellophane. By the time I’d exposed yesterday’s Tri-tip – I had a couple Walnut-sniffing-dogs, deaf to their master’s commandments, and hell on walnut detection – so long as I first found them and threw them.
I suppose an all expenses paid exotic angling trip was owed, so I took him to a section of the Little Stinking he didn’t own…
Igneous Rock had arrived earlier – so we followed his muddy footprints seeing what fish we could scare into submission. Nothing stirred, early morning with overcast skies – and nothing was biting.
I put TravelWriter into a likely looking pool and fiddled with the second prototype of the Giant Red-Arsed Cray (working title); the physics were perfect – I’d altered the pattern significantly and swapped the hook to the Togen “creepy-crawly” flavor.
I’d added a “turnip” of spun doubled-over yarn at the tail to keep the claws separated, altered the claw shape with “looped” boa yarn (makes a better, bigger claw) and added a loop on the top of the fly to simulate the big fan-tail that dominate a crayfish’s swimming motion.
The Togen hook makes the fly flop over and ride perfectly – although 25 turns of 2 amp is noticeably heavy when casting – the fly sinks nearly a foot per second, legs flopping wildly – and really responds to a twitch of the rod tip. The marabou quality of the yarn makes the entire fly undulate when motion is applied.
It didn’t wake anything up in the first pool, but neither did anything else we threw.
We caught up with older brother further downstream. I’d brought three of the big Red bastards (also working title) – and was husbanding them carefully, one was already gone, due to instream obstruction. I was using the smaller olive variation and managed to hit two nice fish in a pile of underwater tree limbs.
Igneous reported he’d landed a monster smallmouth in the 18″-20″ inch range on the Little Stinking Olive – I immediately demanded photographs knowing his lying, conniving, base nature.
It was me that got served, as he had proof plenty. Now I’ve got to call and explain to Ma how older bro is to receive my share of the baked goods until I can catch something bigger.
I may have been hasty about cutting the deal, I was backpedaling faster than a Wall Street banker, but I needed the lout to show me where he’d caught that monster.
While we were dickering over price, TravelWriter hooked up with another massive fish – and I did my best to coach him about camera angle, extended arm (to distort size), proper fierce scowl, and vengeful predator pose.
The picture would have been really good but his forefinger caught me in the eye – and reflexively I snapped the shutter…
We’ll have to work on the scowl more – unless it appears the angler is angry, it lacks the “money shot” appeal.
Another shot of Igneous’s monster; the Little Stinking Olive is about three inches long, giving you an idea of the girth on this beast.
For now, Olive > Red. Two of the three samples met tree branches and I saved the last for duplication. The physics trial is complete; fly rides true, weight needs to be reduced so it’s better behaved during casting, and I’ll update the Olive with the leg dividing “turnip” of spun yarn to boost its movement, and change the claw style.
I’ve got a date with Goliath above, I figure my eye and his lip heal at about the same rate.
This alternative energy thing may have gone a bit too far, am I supposed to keep a butane lighter nearby and cremate all the flies I don’t want?
I tie more nymphs than dry flies and can only assume that all the lead is removed via the handling system – but is some canny entrepreneur running a chipper-shredder on the limbs overhanging our favorite stretches of river, and can I file on the energy rights?
The Coal industry and fly fishing share some terms in common, a bit confusing, “dry fly ash” is why you don’t want a coal-fired anything next door. Apparently “dry fly ash” can be sold to fertilizer and cement makers, and “wet fly ash” is landfill.
Different industry, different science, and the “Dry Fly Guys” still go home with the Prom Queen. I guess we’ll have to settle for all the big fish …
Clearly I got the trick rather than the treat. It’s been raining steady all weekend which has forced me to double up on the coffee and fly tying ration. In a fit of rebellion, I figured getting wet was no big thing – I’m more comfortable with a leg full of water than dry.
The Bridge Pool beckoned, and with the rain and breeze I assumed I wouldn’t have to crouch behind the abutment while Carp finned lazily giving me the finger…
Instead Humanity saw to that.
I like a goat burrito as well as the next fellow, but enriching the watershed with 400 pounds of skins, hooves, entrails, and viscera, is hardly green.
Sure, it’s recycling – but you don’t call it that when the wind shifts.
Right about then a couple of kids open up with belt fed .22’s – and I realized I was really behind on my flytying.
The estate of Helen Shaw appears to be one of the highlights of the next Lang’s Auction, November 7th & 8th. Lang’s uses both the traditional auction venue and eBay (for remote bids) and the items for sale are varied and mind boggling.
Flies by Helen Shaw, Walt Dette and his wife Winnie, bamboo rods, books, tying materials, and a veritable time capsule of paraphernalia.
Both Helen Shaw and Walt Dette were fly tyer’s of the highest caliber. Meticulous flies that were largely created pre-synthetic materials, pre-genetic hackle, and without the use of a vice (in many cases.)
This is the realm of Pearsall’s Gossamer Silk, local chickens, and manually waxed thread woven into a precise delicacy rivaling anything we produce today.
Ebay has 2500 items listed as part of this auction, and if you collect old cane rods – all the masters are represented; Walton Powell, Payne, Leonard, Orvis, Winston, Gary Howell’s, Nash, Thomas & Thomas, F.E. Thomas, etc.
… and the reels to go with them are also present in force; Meek, Milum, Hardy, Gehrke, Meisselbach, Ross, Galvan, and everyone else.
There’s quite a lot of sporting gear including a Ward Brother’s Redhead decoy, canoes, and correspondence from almost every noteworthy angler to and from Ms. Shaw. Fish decoys, duck calls, something for every sporting taste.
I would eyeball the flies while you’re able, fly tyers of this quality are squirreled away to preserve the organic materials and dye colors. There appears to be about 50 lots of Walt Dette’s work, and nearly 100 lots of Helen Shaw flies – including one collection of 338 flies, starting bid $4000.
You must sign up for the auction in advance, simply click on any of the items and read the process. Grab a mug of coffee and wander through this unique display.
The Bass bite has been winding down even with the weather being stable. The Central Valley of California lacks seasons and much of the deciduous foliage that marks the change in weather patterns, and right now the fish are the best indicator.
This weekend the weather was in the mid 80’s, which is hot enough to spark a good thirst when stomping gravel beds, but not hot enough to be burdensome.
Saturday evening Kelvin and I fished the Upper river, me with six new colors of flies to try – and Kelvin outfitted in soccer coach regalia. Soccer is the politically correct version of football, where the kid gets to preserve those precious kneecaps and ligaments – so’s they can blow them out later on a greasy bottomed trout stream, or hyper-extend them walking into a muskrat burrow.
I’m still waiting for a shipment of colored yarn to complete some prototypes, but the Cardinal flavor enjoyed a warm reception with the Pikeminnow.
I added some orange rubberlegs from last weeks living rubber skirt shipment to the mix – but the Bass remained aloof and unyielding.
Kelvin scored early and often on the large sized Manhattan leech, so I abandoned all the scientific study in favor of getting bit.
It’s a face only a mother could love, the author, hisself.
It’s a brownline “Penitentiary Face” pose, regal almost – minus the double chin and big gut. The greasy curly brim adds that sweat-stained patina of wisdom, accented deftly by the white chin hair and pronounced arse. Not likely to grace the cover of Fly Fisherman anytime soon – and I’d be hard pressed to get service from the fellow behind the Orvis countertop..
I don’t see many pictures of myself, as I fish alone mostly. Now I understand why the Gangbanger’s and ATV crowd gives me a wide berth, not so much threat as imagination – anyone crazy enough to wade through a cocktail of Selenium and horse crap could be packing …
The Bass was the culmination of a slow evening, it ate the Manhattan Leech and I managed to stay connected. Kelvin was gracious enough to snap a few pictures – and now I know why he was grinning while doing so.
I spent the balance of the weekend playing electrician – it’s a close relative of fly fishing; lots of swearing, sweat and toil, the reward is a rush of adrenaline and a shower of sparks, with the biggest difference being able to suck on your fingers when injured. You sure can’t do that where I fish…
Every military entity has it’s elite shock troops – those fellows with polished braid, erect bearing, and starched berets. Sometimes they represent the best in us and sometimes the worst, depending on their leadership…
Bite Back magazine – a glossy rag appealing to the radical fringe of the anti-meat, anti-fur, crowd, lists among it’s victories the defacement and destruction of the Bank House Fly Fishery, a fly fishing club in Lancashire, England.
“On Monday 22nd members of the angling retribution squad visited bank house fly fisherie in caton lancaster uk. We ripped down competion pictures and generally made a mess of their little club house of death. Before leaving we trashed 3 windows including a big glass door. We want to make it clear this is just the start of our campaign and unless bank house fly fisherie stops the slaughter of innocent life for their perverted pleasure we will return and things will be taken to the next level. The choice is yours. Angling Retribution Squad
It begs the question, if fly fishing were to have elite shock troops – what great blow would they strike, and what would be the entry requirements?
Ski masks and AK47’s are old news, courtesy of Patty Hearst and the Symbionese Liberation Army, and a catchy name would help to strike mortal terror in the hearts and minds of the populace…
It’s a cinch some dimwit would suggest emptying bloody Cul de Canard feathers on the steps of Congress, but all the fly tyer’s in the group would either boycott the attack – or scoop what they could carry. An easy trail to follow with some fellow running down the street and a feather blizzard in his wake.
A scrawled note from the Nymphal Freedom Deliverance Army would have great effect, but once they found out it wasn’t porn, most of the leaflets would line canary cages.
I think if I had the opportunity to be the “Oberleutnant Sturmfuhrer” of the NFDA, I might suggest adding six or seven additional chromosomes to triploid fish, hoping to make them “grab-oid’s”. It’s self serving and anti-revolutionary, but then I’m not so sure I wouldn’t “drop dime” on my compatriots just to have the river to myself.
It’s the other number I’m afraid to compute – the number of miles hiked versus pounds of fish caught, only this metric doesn’t require you to blush and stare at the ground when asked.
Between Saturday and Sunday I added another 10 miles to the boots, which are starting to look mighty worn. Every other usage winds up with one leg or the other full of water – it’s like a car that’s starting to show the cumulative wear and tear.
Saturday I fished with Singlebarbed reader, Scott V – who braved the Little Stinking bare-arsed without ill effect. The small fish remain aggressive and the larger fish are without the urge to cooperate, something we’ve all seen before.
Sunday I moved higher on the river and fiddled with a spey line and third phase trials of the crayfish fly. Olive is the go-to color, but I tied additional in brown, flamingo, black, purple, and orange – I’m still waiting for the shipment of Cardinal (red/black) to arrive.
Based on the below, “cardinal” may well prove to be as popular as the olive, it’s the other color combination I’ve seen in abundance in the native crayfish, bright red and black. This fellow was about 6 inches long, so I may increase the fly accordingly.
I managed a half dozen nice fish on the brown fly Sunday, and got some half-hearted grabs on all the other colors, there’s no question the fish are suddenly aloof – content to watch the fly pass, rather than chase.
Pikeminnow continue to inhale the pattern with great relish, why they take it so much deeper than the bass is still a mystery. The brute below inhaled the entire fly, with only one leg visible in his gob.
The river continues to deepen – adding about 4 more inches since the week prior, and all the surrounding irrigation ditches were dry. Quail hunters are out in force – most are the older wiser types with dogs, I don’t mind sharing – but “the Young Guns” that roar up, dismount, and blow hell out of everything have to be watched carefully. Adrenaline is a heady drug, and most are uncaring about where their shot pattern is headed.
There’s little finer than watching a talented dog work a drainage, and I stopped to chat with a couple of old timers as I was leaving. They wanted to know how I’d done, and I was interested in their morning – so I jawboned while sneaking both dogs chunks of “hooter” bar.
I asked the fellow seated under the sign, “that sign says one meal a month for fish, so how’s them Quail taste?”
His buddy immediately chimes in, “yea, Bob – they’re all drinking the same crap, how do they taste?”
Apparently I’d uncovered a hunter’s metric, one where he blushes profusely and stares earthward, not sure which one it was though – it could be that he was quietly tossing Nature’s Bounty – hoping his buddy didn’t know.
I figure it’s a cross between Euell Gibbons and Basil Rathbone, a mixture of natural curiosity and dogged determinism; a personal quest, my ongoing War Against Six Dollar Items, where I delight in finding products “in the wild” – unfettered by middlemen, fly shops, and their obligatory markup..
I’ve been chasing down Ultra Chenille (Vernille, Velvet Chenille, Suede chenille) for almost a year. I thought I had it when I discovered a manufacturer in Turkey, instead it was an interesting crop of fibers and yarns, all cheap as dirt and as yet undiscovered.
Ultra chenille is a great material, tough as nails, low buildup, and has a variety of uses from traditional chenille flies to the nouveau dressings unique to the product.
At $2 for 9 feet, it’s also pricey.
I’d toss the old rayon stuff if the price was low enough to replace it – mainly because ultra chenille wears better and doesn’t come apart in your fingers if spun in the wrong direction. The fibers being so much shorter – it doesn’t mat or bleed, especially after the flies have been fished.
This fiber is made by a manufacturer called “Silk City Fibers” located back East, and is marketed under the “Tie” name, to distinguish it from the myriad of other yarns they make. It’s neither suede, rayon, or cotton, rather a synthetic nylon called “Polyamide.”
Acid dyes will dye nylon just fine – allowing the possibility of scoring a 2000 yard cone of white and making whatever color you fancy.
Chenille and yarn follow a number of sizing conventions and the “YPP” convention is commonplace. “YPP” is Yards Per Pound, and the higher the number the smaller the diameter of the material.
“Tie” is a 3800 YPP fiber which is about 15% smaller than the size sold in the fly shop. Also good, because we can use it on smaller hooks without making the fly too bulky – and it’s likely available in a variety of sizes – something else that’s missing from the fly shop selection.
A cone of ultra chenille is $90 from a reseller – and while only a commercial tyer will get excited – searching on eBay yields a vendor with 14 of the 16 colors available from the factory.
50g skeins for $5 is a steal, and she has plenty.
The top picture is her color selection, and contacting the vendor directly will score you enough of “the good stuff” to make it worth your while.
The smaller size is especially useful, as it’s diameter is small enough to make trout flies – expanding your use beyond traditional steelhead flies and streamers.
The War Against Six Dollars Items continues, with you folks the beneficiary.
Roughfisher and I have been jawing over the use of spey casts and switch rods for chasing prey through the dirty water, and both of us have decided to give it a shot.
That’s the easy part, now it’s gear evaluation and assimilation, and the begging that goes with the budget that has significant other’s demanding chores, feats of carpentry, electrical work, and sweat – something foreign to the both of us.
I was hoping I could remain the “Paris Hilton” of angling dilettantes, but with a three to four hundred dollar purchase pending, it ain’t going to happen.
Yesterday I found the “big water” where this kind of tackle would be useful, and the big bass that inhabit deep slots shielded by overhang, culminating in me swearing loudly after getting busted off on 4X tippet. The fish broke water afterwards to give me the finger, so we’re past dating and into the matrimony portion – he’s wearing one of my flies, and I’m wearing the sting of defeat.
No, I don’t consider it undermining the foundations of traditional marriage, but I’m still feeling rather cheap..
Today I’m doctoring the hook holes in body and waders, as yesterday’s bravado and adrenalin have been replaced by “old guy” mortality. I’m replacing the dozen flies lost yesterday, while groaning for sympathy. It never gets us out of the lawn responsibility, but it is good practice for later – when stuff really hurts, or an NFL championship game is close to airing.
I’ve got a bunch of oddities coming out of the vise, and I’ll share as soon as I rewire the kitchen.