Category Archives: Fly Fishing

This small booklet explains it all, just three easy payments of …

Almost human, but the chasm is still quite wide It’s in my nature to be easily amused. Ever wonder about those television shows hawking vast fortunes you make through the miracle of the Internet? How with no work on your part, and reselling other folk’s products, you can make billions?

I keep running across these sites as they scavenge content from my site and other “real” human authors.

It’s simplicity itself, set a “robot” script to grab anything containing the words “trout” or “fishing” and your web site sprouts many dozens of articles daily – all without effort.

“Vast fortunes” don’t exist in fishing, so of all the choices available why go with a small niche – when “Dick Cheney” or “Jeffery Daumer” would yield millions of eager eyeballs?

Chalk it up to “a fool and his money…”

Sometimes the results are funny, as the robot does what it’s asked, but not as well as you could..

Extreme Fishing

What’s extreme fishing?

Only refinance mortgage refinance most exciting, most thrilling, most fun water sport ever created – that’s what!

a) Extreme fishing is fishing with a shot accident compensation claim adrenaline!
b) Extreme fishing is regular fishing on steroids!

Trout and salmon fishing in small water (such as streams and rivers) is extreme fishing!

Ice fishing is extreme fishing!

…(snip)…

Fly-fishing

Fly-fishing is used mainly for salmon and trout, and sometimes for pike, bass, and carp.

Fly-fishing involves tying artificial flies onto a hook with thread, fur, line car insurance and other materials, in sizes and colors to match naturally occurring food Chardonnay to excite a fish.

…(snip)…

Noodling isn’t the only way of catching fish by hand. In Britain, a more sedate version of hand fishing is “trout tickling.” This is the art of rubbing the underbelly of a trout with your fingers. The trout goes into a trance state after a minute or Refinance adjustable rate mortgage and can then be flipped onto the nearest bit of dry land.

That’s some that you have to know about Extreme Fishing.

I’ve replaced the hyperlinks with italics and shortened the blog entry considerably, but it was fun plagiarizing them for a change. Now that I understand what extreme fishing is – I can call my mortgage guy right away.

The “Chardonnay” bit is a well known guide secret – we feed it to you in large quantities, you pass out – and wake to us congratulating you on your 65th large fish brought to net. Six bucks worth of grape yields tenfold on the tip.

He got me on the “three types of Beef” post. I figured it was, dead, living, and massaged, but no:

The 3 Types Of Beef

Alright vegetarians, avert your eyes and cover those ears. Antidepressants is a topic that could create nightmares for all the granola crunchers out there.

Oh, My… who would’a thunk it?

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Miss Manners would cross herself and back away slowly

The Bible of good breeding It’s one thing to be early and lucky enough to stumble on fish no one knows about – but that happens so infrequently – it’s time to “soldier up” and plan on fishing betwixt other anglers.

Most anglers prefer the solitude and quiet, but it’s an antisocial luxury we cannot count on in semi-urban settings and with migratory fish.

Anything coming up the river is at the mercy of the first dam upstream, diminishing their historic range and concentrating them in whatever free-flowing portion remains. It makes fish accessible and breeds anglers in uncomfortable proximity. Rumors of fish fly as fast as the Internet, and like Stripers  running on the beach, a crowd can form in minutes.

There’s a big difference being the first guy on the fish versus being the last fellow to arrive. We’ve all lamented the boorish angler who makes our good fortune less so – some assistance in how to avoid being “that guy” can be useful.

If you’re the lucky SOB that got there first – you’re not keeping those fish, enjoy them in solitude as long as possible, but when the avenging hordes of fellow fishermen arrive, and they will, suck in the lower lip and share. It’s expected of you.

I really like fishermen, as they’re one of the few groups of humans that don’t seem to have boundaries. You can make small talk with a “gang-banger” or swap flies with a religious zealot, somehow vocation and color, class, sexual orientation, and political persuasion all take the day off.

I try to share my fish gracefully and recognize they’re not mine. If I’ve got a couple of stalwarts scanning the water, I’ll motion them over and put them onto the meat bucket with little reserve. It’s always more fun to fish with friends – and by doing so, I’ve made two more.

If you don’t they’ll be edging closer anyway – and I’d rather be whooping it up with new pals than endure those sulking predator poses as they “crab-walk” closer, hoping I don’t notice.

It’s different if you’re the last fellow arriving, greeted by a line of fellows casting like synchronized swimmers. There’s good reason for precision and a smart fellow spends a few moments observing what’s going on before blindly wading in at head or tail.

I want to know who’s doing the catching, and where are they in relation to the rest of the line? This’ll give a clue as to whether the head of the group or tail is closest to the “money.”

I always prefer to wade in at the head, it’s easier for me to judge whether I’m crowding the man below. Watch his casts to see how far upstream he’s quartering, then pick that limit as the entry point. You can guess how far the lowest fellow’s swinging his fly – but you can’t see it, so it’s much harder to judge.

Learn to be the gregarious outgoing type as a means of introduction. Ask the fellow below you whether you’re too close. Nobody likes a silent standoffish prick in their midst, so don’t act like one.

You will always crowd someone, there isn’t enough room in the Solar System to be far enough away from the fellow who arrived earlier, don’t expect to be greeted warmly – and thaw the SOB to the best of your abilities without seeming chatty or obnoxious.

If you’re in the middle you’ve got two obligations, to watch the man above and cast when he does, ensuring your fly lands downstream of his. The fellow below will be watching you, so don’t dawdle or screw around when in the thick of things. If either fellow hooks up yank your line in smartly and hang fire until he’s reaching for the net.

If the fellow loses it, mention how enormous it was and he’s fortunate not to have lost a hand to razor sharp teeth. If he’s a friendly type consider mentioning his questionable ancestry, and how your 3 year old could have done it in half the time…

Never squander an opportunity to insult your fellow angler.

Always “Belly up” to the line of anglers, wade out until you’re making a straight line with the fellow above and below. If something happens and you’re late in making the next cast your line will be directly downstream of you – no sense making friends by pulling your fly into the leg of your neighbor.

Always fish barbless, it’s not an option when “cheek to jowl” with a press of humanity in proximity. Some fellow is going to get a cell phone call reminding him where he should be, will lose track of his surroundings and walk into your cast, or some interested jogger will wander too close and take one in the face – he won’t know better, but you will.

We all wish it otherwise – but the combination of too few fish and too many fishermen requires refining those dormant social skills, it’s like a cocktail party with fish hooks and no liquor.

One Olive or two, Sweetpea?

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I counter Pop’s Sage advise with some of my own

I woke this morning with sore shoulder, weakened grip and blisters. In the pre-dawn confusion,  I wasn’t sure who’d kicked whose butt yesterday, a sure sign that I had done something I shouldn’t. Pop used to put things in perspective, “Kid, if it feels or tastes good, it’s bad for you.”

At age 20, you shrug it off with “what the Hell does he know?” At 50, you ponder a bit longer, bandage the most grievous injuries, then shirk it off in like fashion – I figure by 70 I’ll understand what he means.

Yesterday’s marathon yielded quite an assortment of ills, most surprising was the blistered legs. It seems the pressure of waist-high water on the waders rubbed the pants against the skin, and I had 4 inch blisters covering my extremities from ankle to just below the knee.

Pop’s wisdom echoed prominently, but being younger (and therefore smarter) I countered with my own lesson’s learned; if there’s tons of fish and they’re eating, drop everything – as these are the Good Old Days and you may never get another opportunity.

… the blisters just made it personal.

Male American Shad, with prominent black dots

The fish were where they were supposed to be and the action was a little less lively than yesterday. Two other fellows were fishing nearby and as dawn broke and light hit the water, the bite ramped up considerable.

Shad are a notorious “morning and evening” fish akin to trout, I don’t know why but when light hits the water it’s like dropping a checkered flag.

Yesterday was dominated by the smaller males, and today held fewer fish and most were the larger females. I managed to get a shot of the larger fish (below) so you can see the difference, contrasted with the male above.

A larger female Shad showing her chrome

June is historically the best month to fish for American Shad, and it’s likely I hit a fresh pod of migrating fish yesterday. They’ll all be stacked up at Nimbus Dam shortly, but you can assume there’s fish distributed throughout the American River at this point.

For those outside the area, remember that Interstate 5 is closed in downtown Sacramento for the next six weeks, so plan your entrance and exit strategy in advance.

See you at the infirmary.

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The Meat Bucket meets the Peppermint Kestrel

The mouth is so thin you can see through it, just swear and keep castingIt’s a simple risk and reward gamble, all you’re risking is being a laughingstock – choosing a cold and blustery pre-dawn emergence over the sanctity of warm blankets.

“Fishless” fishing trips and me go way back, there’s no fear of censure and if I’m quiet enough I can even have the gear stowed before the rest of the crowd wakes up. On rare occasion a mixture of karmic debt and suffering means your number comes up and the reward outweighs all else.

It doesn’t happen that way often, but when it does you have to approach it like a veteran; no unnecessary false casting, keep your fingers warm so you can feel the running line, cast between gusts so you don’t take a fly in the cheek, and how long can you stand in waist deep water without a bathroom break.

Small Male Shad, the females are much bigger

Shad fishing is a social sport, someone catches one and everyone moves closer, and if you keep catching you’ll have a line of close friends looking to share your good fortune and your flies.

The “Meat Bucket” is usually only 2-3 anglers long, it’s a hole or depression that have the Shad stacked in like cord wood. In the old days neoprene waders allowed you to stay long enough to get near the fish, guys would gradually rotate out to warm up or use the bushes.

Shad aren’t known for gentleness, they’re a fast moving agile swimmer and the fly is stopped abruptly. The small males (1-2lbs) will often come to the surface, and the big hens (3-5lbs) will usually scream off with you attempting to get your fingers out of the path of a lot of fast moving Frog Hair.

The Silver Bullet hisself, and always guaranteed to splash you

It’s actually a lot of fun, especially when the guys around you are observant and skillful, you can pack quite a few anglers into a small space, and as long as your cast lands downstream of the fellow above you there’s no tangles.

This morning was payback for the last four weekends of fruitless casting, no fishermen to share the hole with – allowing me to cast and move with impunity. Knowing the general area of the hole allows you to zero in fairly quickly, once you start getting slammed, stop.

I got slammed a lot this morning, I kept the insane giggles muffled as I was alert to invaders, but no one came. It was just me, the Peppermint Kestrel, and a hole full of hungry fast movers.

The Peppermint Kestrel

I lost plenty of fish as Shad have paper thin mouths (see illustration), and it doesn’t matter how gentle you are a traditional “corner jaw” hookup will come loose every time. It’s unique to these fish – there’s no need to check your hook, just start swearing and keep casting.

Pink is the “hot color” for this year, and I always keep a couple dozen of the proven colors as a change up. It’s an odd phenomenon, and the only form of “selectivity” that seems constant. Shad feed on plankton and their ever-changing color obsession is not to be questioned, make sure you have plenty of choices and try them all.

The “Kestrel” is tied of “Aurora” Angelina fibers, with a ball of “Cotton Candy” two-thirds of the way up the shank. I Velcro the fibers to pull them off the thread and act as hackle. I lost a dozen of them in today’s obscene display, so I’ll be busy tonight making plenty more. Angelina doesn’t take a pounding too well – 15 or so fish and there won’t be many fibers left.

For those counting, I made it six and a half hours – then danced to the shoreline in a desperate race against time. I’m sure the folks living in the homes across the river were not amused, but modesty is overrated, especially after being kissed on both cheeks by good fortune.

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AARP will send your letter soon, enough with the giggles

Even the Mayflies were smaller than last monthThe 40’s ended abruptly and the 50’s started with a bang, but I’m still officially an “average” fly fisherman. I’m vague on the source but I read the average fly fisherman was 51 years old – the demographic angling publications target.

I was struggling mightily to keep a midlife crisis at arm’s distance, but my insurance company and AARP pulled the rug out. Nothing like ripping open a missive to find out you’re an old guy.

I sought solace in the muddy bosom of the Little Stinking. She doesn’t discard “Gray Hair’s” like the rest of society, she’s odiferous and loyal.

Nearly a month since my last visit – and the water is lower still. The tomato fields have been in for a couple weeks and other crops are being sown and irrigated. The waterline is down nearly a foot and it doesn’t leave much room for fish.

I had my girlfriend in tow, part of my sinister master plan to build an angler out of raw clay, and the warm weather, low flows, and gravel bottom builds confidence in someone that’s never waded before.

I call it “the Brotherhood of the Muddy Boot” – it’s not quite fishing, more of a sweaty and arduous hiking trip – with the occasional cast for a visible fish.

..and the fish weren’t visible, so we covered a lot of ground without tossing a fly in anger.

Big Yellow Something

I was explaining the intricacies of watching your line tip when something obligingly ate the fly. It was big, bright, and unknown – an inferior mouth like a carp, a bright yellow lower half and an olive upper. The dorsal was near midpoint on the back – so I knew it was no Pikeminnow.

My “cameraman” obligingly snapped what she could but the fish slipped from my grasp without posing. I’m assuming it may have been a Selenium enhanced super-strain of something – but I’ll have to do more research before informing the authorities.

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Would that make me the "Black Sheep" of Dry Fly Fishing

Genetics has a lot to do with it F.M. Halford has been called the “father of dry fly fishing” due to the many books he wrote while fishing the River Test in England.

The thatched fishing hut where Halford prepared his flies stands opposite Oakley Farmhouse, near Winchester. In short, if trout fishing has a spiritual home, this stretch of water is it.

The Oakley Farmhouse has recently been listed at 2.6 million pounds (5.1 million US dollars) but before you tap your 401K, know the fishing is no longer part of the property:

You would similarly have to join the syndicate at Mottisfont to fish from Oakley Farmhouse, where your application would have an excellent chance of being accepted.

Your application might stand a chance, I checked my heraldry and am descended of a long line of debtors and pickpockets, it’s not likely they’ll take to my quaint blend of boorish manners and colonial charm …

It is here, too, at the Grosvenor Hotel, that meetings are held of the Houghton Club, the most selective fly-fishing club in the world. Founded in 1822 with 13 members, its membership has ballooned to 25, but little is known about its activities – except that it has a changing area reserved for the Prince of Wales.

I would be very quiet, very polite, and learn of the intricacies of single malt versus blended; after a hellish six seconds – I’d make the mistake of mashing someone’s hand in a friendly grip, backslap his Lordship while he’s drinking and wind up a poacher on my own property.

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A Rose by any other name smells like controversy

It does get a little confusing at times I’ve seen much hand wringing and ire over fly names. Idle banter and fly fishing forum chat quickly turn to religious discussions over the ethical way to name your latest creation.

I’m puzzled why ethics should enter into it at all. Fishermen aren’t known as paragons of virtue, and fly fishermen are the worst of the lot.

At the crux of the debate is variations, how adding a green tail to a known pattern isn’t considered a new fly, merely a variant of whatever the tail got pinned on. I’ve no issue with the concept, just surprised how worked up fishermen get over the whole naming thing.

We could use a biblical scheme, laced with “begats” and immaculate conception – but we don’t use an oral history anymore, relying on books and printed media for hints of origin.

“Silver-Arsed Wombat Begat Green-tailed-silver-tipped Wombat begat Reduced-Low Water Wombat-with-egg-Cluster” seems overly tedious and would drive the guy labeling the fly bins crazy.

There’s the “Kentucky Derby” method, using Sires and Dams – but that’s  just as cumbersome.

Personally, I prefer the “Middle Management” naming schema – if the fly is deadly, I take credit for it – and if not, I blame someone else for its shortcomings.

I believe Darwinism holds for fly names as well, a hint of risque or fun is likely to make it more memorable than “that White fly.”

We’re not going to settle the issue here, but I’ve never cared for “tagging” flies with personal names – too many “Tim’s” and “Steve’s” for me to remember, and it lacks any of the flavor and energy that fly fishing represents.

Dave Whitlock started the “tagging” phenomenon back in the 1980’s, everything that came out of his vice was “Dave’s” or “Whit’s” – something or other – a practice that virtually guarantees oblivion. Old flies handed down from dusty tomes have catchy names and “Bob’s” or “Dave’s” isn’t among them.

I’m guessing immortality is the root of the practice, as vanity has no place in angling – especially after you smear insect repellant on your face using the same hand you dipped in the salmon egg jar…

Might as well name the creation whatever you like – and if you’ve just met the guy with his hand out for your flies – mention it’s a “Skunk with a Green Butt” rather than risk “Green Butted Skunk.” If you’ve just caught six fish and he’s caught none – no sense goading the fellow further.

But if you’re determined to inflict a new fly in everyone’s box – show some pizzazz .. I wouldn’t make room for Bob’s Stonefly Nymph on general principles – but I’d tie crap outta them if were called the “Snotty Dilettante” or “Rest-home Orgy.”

Think of the rest of us for once…

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Just me and the Geese Whisperer

Bead headed Sharp Stuff prior to donation I spent the last couple of weekends Shad fishing – and like many of my trips, spent more time tying flies and losing them then putting them to good use.

I’m close enough to see them though, and it’s enough to make the predawn outing worthwhile. Seeing some other fellow get some fish is enough boost to know your turn’s coming.

It makes up for the #8 beaded headed monstrosity that caught an updraft earlier. A couple of turns of 7X to close the wound, splash a little pond water to make the surgery antiseptic – and off to the next hole.

Last weekend it was the pram across from me, and today it was the small male someone had left on the bottom dead. Just enough affirmation to continue hurling bead-headed-sharp-stuff into a headwind.

I see a parallel to drinking, about the third “stiff one” you’re bulletproof and invulnerable, and the sight of your quarry lifeless imparts an irrational sense of pending victory, allowing you to pound water for another 50 minutes, despite everyone else leaving in disgust.

I did meet the “Goose Whisperer” – some young lass that belted out an eerie cry from the bank. It’s the “shock and awe” of urban fishing, odd rituals performed at dawn, with only the river as witness.

I was mid-river and distant, and watched as every feathered creature for miles swam up to the lady, surrounding her and clamoring for attention. She was dispensing bread and seemed content to ensure every gosling got its due, including every mallard, teal, and puddle duck within proximity.

I was summoning up the courage to ask her what she’d charge for calling Shad, but thought better of it.

I did manage to foul hook something ponderous. Thinking it was a tree branch I drew the line tight to bust the fly off – when it moved upstream smartly. It ignored my 8 weight and 3X and showed no sign that it knew I was attached. We parted company shortly thereafter, thankfully.

I’ll try again tomorrow. If you hear some bloodcurdling cry from the bank and some moron emptying goldfish flakes into the river – give a wave.

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Dad could earn massive points, but remember the dead pan delivery

Mickey takes one for the team It could be the most sinister fishing excursion ever – what with the kids screaming in delight and your spouse forking over the Bonus Points by the shovel full …

With proper marketing and your ability to deliver with a straight face, it’s instant hero – “Poppa finally sees the light” – and rather than drag the family into the woods for another Mosquito-fest, “we’re going to Disneyworld!”

Just pack the tackle after dark, while Mom and those golden haired waifs can dream of Sugarplums without the cold light of day to interrupt.

The lakes were stocked in the 1960s with more than 70,000 young largemouth bass, which were allowed to grow undisturbed until fishing excursions were begun in 1977, Disney publicists say.

How you extricate yourself for a couple hours is your own look out, you could try the time honored, ” something disagreed with me at Cinderella’s Royal Table” or maybe “Goofy put his thumb in my soup.”

A two hour “catch and release” outing, with guide and boat is $250.00 – that means no evidence to dispose of and you can have the tackle stowed before Ma and the kids get back from breakfast.

It may be the “Perfect Crime” as $250 won’t even raise an eyebrow when Ma gets the credit card bill, she’ll be guilting over all the other expenditures and will assume she spent it.

Pick a guide with “Normal” ears – it won’t help your case any when Goofy or Mickey takes a weighted Clouser upside the head. The bandage alone will arouse your kids suspicions – especially after Goofy has to be dragged to your table for the follow-on breakfast.

I’m betting the Pompadour wouldn’t move if he took a header

You’re aware of the decline in fishermen and license sales, how “them as will inherit” are more likely to play the electronic version than actually venture into the woods.

With state and federal budgets adversely affected, a tourniquet is needed to reverse the trend and restore “Man’s Oldest time-wasting pursuit” back onto it’s ivory pedestal.

A consortium of agencies undertook the development of an “Outdoor Fly Fishing Awareness” campaign, hiring the promoter responsible for the  highly successful “50 State Quarters” program of the US Mint.

Each state is represented by a celebrity citizen carefully chosen to demonstrate the qualities and character needed for the successful angler, whose role and activities in the angling community are near-legend.

Mr. Las Vegas hisself

First to release is the 2008 “Nevada” poster, guaranteed to make them disenfranchised couch potato’s flock to the stream in droves. Nothing like a little “Danke Schoen” to revitalize that waning hunter-gatherer ethic dulled by Domino’s Pizza.

Hell, you knew I was going to follow all them serious posts with something akin to lying outright and completely silly…

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