I am the King of the “fishless” fishing trip, even as a raw youth I had the knack. It’s a title coveted, but not by many. While the bulk of the angling community has the good sense to go to work and be productive, I burn calories and daylight tromping through brush watching my breath precede me.

Ma’s Christmas fruitcake was burned off earlier this week, and that last indulgence of holiday See’s candy vanished today, but I have little else to show for my ardor other than muddy boot tracks and startled wildlife.

Vacation is drawing to a close and none too soon, as the number of experimental flies created and queued for testing is on the increase, with no fish to confirm whether merit is part of any design.

Today I fiddled with glass beads, attempting to determine whether they’d be too fragile for fly usage. These are the small “seed beads” – about $1.99 /thousand at the craft store.

I assembled a “leech-like substance” by stringing 4 of them on a hook and adding a tuft of marabou; without protective hackle I figured they would take the brunt of casting, the false cast  dropped too low, and any in-stream collisions, enough of a workout to determine if the glass would survive.

They did, and even unweighted the combination of slim profile and bead weight allowed them to sink about a foot per second.

The river has returned to it’s historic flows and the color has morphed from brown murk to cloudy green, with about 30″ of visibility. That’s enough to get my hopes up, but not enough to make the fish receptive.

I hiked upriver about 2.5 miles to see what changes had occurred and found plenty. Gravel isn’t a stable bottom and some areas had lost  multiple tons of it, other stretches gained those tons. Fresh deposits would allow your feet to sink 3-4 inches, so it was easy to feel where the missing river bottom had come to rest. It was fairly treacherous as all the river crossings of the past had to be discovered again.

I’ve got a new deep stretch created nearby, nearly 100 yards long and suddenly 3 feet deep – compared to the 6″ depth of two weeks ago. That’s an awful lot of shifting rock streambed, who would’ve thought it would behave like sediment?

I did chance on a fellow fly fisherman walking his dog, he didn’t run screaming at the sight of me, so the “brownliner” angle isn’t as off-putting as once thought. He confessed to fishing for smallmouth on occasion, so I may have found a kindred spirit.

I’ve been watching the gauge all week waiting for the worst of the water to pass, cabin fever got the better of common sense, so I hit the river armed with tackle, instead of a cup of coffee.

I had lots of experimental flies to test and was badly in need of exercise, a wintertime phenomenon that coincides with cold temperatures and driving rain.

Water visibility was 18″ – which is similar enough to normal to make me figure with some colorful flies and blind luck I may be able to set hook on something other than a chocolate Old Fashioned.

The Little Stinking was running at 254 CFS, which is about double it’s normal flow, enough water that I’d have to pick crossings carefully, yet not enough to wear something other than hip boots.

The Bridge Pool has new holding water, a pair of recliners that were heavy enough to find purchase in the gravel beneath, they replaced the sectional sofa that spawned the cursed “fly eating eddy” – so I was pleased at the prospect of new substrate. No fish were visible anywhere but the Merganser Squadron was on high alert, so something must’ve been available.

That was the high point of the adventure, birds, scads of them – and the fishing took it’s cue from the feathered menace, it was “for the birds” as well. I tested some of the new flies checking both visibility and sink rate, wandered upstream to Old Nondescript’s lair, noting the beaver dam had been blown out – but the beaver were intact. They eyeballed me warily while I flung assorted flies at stuff and disappeared quickly when I got too close.

Nondescript was nowhere to be seen and the watermark on the bank suggested he’d had an additional 3 foot of water through his favorite lie in the last week, likely he was nursing some resentment at his living room suddenly transforming itself into an aquatic interstate, so he left my offerings untouched.

I’ll try it again next week as the flow should have returned to normal. No evidence of any salmon – but with the water off color it’s not likely they’d be visible.

I’ve never caught a fish enough times to name it, I always thought the practice was proof the angler needed to fish somewhere’s else. Old angling cartoons first acquainted me with the practice, usually with some big city swell telling some kid to put the big SOB back before “Old TackleBuster” expired.

If I was the kid, I would’ve kicked Mr. Aberchrombie and Fitch in the nuts, then taken off running, but I always was an insensitive little brute..

I was supposed to go Christmas shopping and when no one was looking snuck the rod in the back of the truck instead – figuring two hours of fishing and an hour of shopping technically qualifies. If you are lucky enough to have water nearby, Christmas is the perfect subterfuge – you scuff  the ground with your toe and claim it’s her present you’re shopping for – otherwise you’d be thrilled at spending the afternoon shopping for Aunt WhatsHerName and her idjit children.

That’s not insensitive, that’s practical.

It’s getting cold in the morning, and even the fish were huddled for warmth. I hit two or three spots and had little success – figuring the bite may pick up with additional sun on the water.

The beaver had completed the dam on the “Hatchery” stretch, raising the water level by two feet. Industrious fellow, I would love to see a time lapse photography of how he managed to get all that brush and timber into the creek. It’s a two phase build method, they plunk all the branches into the water then go upstream and uproot as much weed as they can, the branches catch it all and make a perfect watertight wall.

I had tested Curly’s Nondescript nymphs here last week, and remembering that big smallmouth that cracked me off, I had another six Nondescript Blacks to tempt him. I didn’t figure he would be fool enough to eat another one, I was hoping some of his relatives might.

The fourth cast into the brush pile was perfect, the fly was in the branches above his hiding spot and I let the current pull it off and drop it in his living room. I gave it one tug and then all hell broke loose, water flying, fish airborne, and me standing there with an unlit cigar and a foolish grin.

I got as far as “Son of a…” before the line went slack. “Old Nondescript” had busted me off a second time, and now he had two flies in his face. I can only hope they’re at opposite ends of his jaw so he still swims straight…

Nice fish, and with the extra two foot of water depth he’s likely to get a lot bigger. Addiction to Nondescript nymphs should prove his undoing, as I’m the only “dealer” in the area, I’ll be sure to make him pose.

Technorati Tags: brownlining, smallmouth bass, Old Nondescript

Remind me to add some form of prosthetic device to my spinners, as these eyes ain’t what they once were. Perhaps a move to Alaska is in the cards, as my buddies mentioned the mosquitoes are as big as Honda Civics, and carry off farm animals and small children. That I may be able to see.

I had a couple reasons for sustained abuse, a new Sharkskin line from Scientific Anglers arrived in the mail, and the “rain” that was to dominate this weekend failed to materialize.

In either case, I figured a couple hours on the Little Stinking was in order, far away from humans in case my sudden switch from Double-Taper to Weight-Forward rendered my casting uncontrollable.

I headed up to the Conservancy stretch figuring to scare up some fish and arrived in time for the morning spinner fall. I’m counting how many cigars I brought with me and comparing it to the clouds of spinners, and I’m woefully outgunned.

I’m thankful that mayflies live no more than eight or nine days as adults, figuring none of this horde will recognize me as the cigar chomping Torturer of Things Smaller than Him, from last week. They didn’t, instead I was forcibly recruited as an “aircraft carrier” for the many squadrons comprising the Mayfly Strategic Bomber Command.

Fish were rising all over, anything that had fins was out in the middle of the river sucking down as many spinners as fast as possible. Fish didn’t even bother to submerge fully, they were running neither silent nor deep, dorsal and shoulder areas exposed, setting in the current with mouth open.

I’m listening to the inner demon who insists I throw a nymph, despite all the evidence to the contrary. It’s just fear, as I can’t remember whether I stuffed that pinch of spinners in my nymph box like I was supposed to …

They were there, and I was resolved to land my first trash fish on a dry fly.

The will was there, but the vision wasn’t – reality is a harsh mistress, I realized I’m the “old hunting dog contentedly licking his nuts by the fire,” and when the Boss reaches for the shotgun, the desire is there, but youth is gone.

I’m reduced to an area effect strike, hoping that the dimple I saw was my fly, rather than the four hundred million naturals next to it. It works well enough on greedy fish, less effective on selective less voracious beasts.

If there was any doubt about Pikeminnow and dry flies, it’s been dispelled. Ditto for anything else with fins, including smallmouth.

There was one broad shouldered brute under a cane canopy that defied me, he made sucking noises like a freckled kid finishing a milk shake – naturally I took offense. I managed to drop the spinner into a clear area that fed his protective lair, and was rewarded with an explosive battle, line screaming off the reel, aerial antics, and the thrill that comes once in a lifetime, trophy Pikeminnow.

Technorati Tags: pikeminnow, little stinking, dry fly fishing

Brownliners love all them barbaric male rituals, like football players we pat each other on the bottom after a good fish, like Indians we name each other after some act, deed, or singularity.

Mostly because of the limited membership – no one is willing to remain downwind of us, so we’ve overcome our fear of societal censure, that coupled with our boring cocktail conversation has us on the outs with the balance of the social scene.

Everyone else is too smart to accept an invite to fish with me, so I had to lure an “innocent” to go fishing. One of the lads at work is taking up the sport – and is untainted – at that rarified stage where he has no false idols, many bad habits, and hasn’t developed an inflexible opinion on anything. Fishing is still a source of mystery, and he hasn’t learned that the effluent water is anything other than great sport, better than sitting on the couch watching football.

He’ll learn the horrible sin he’s committed later, right now he’s a blank canvas upon which the Brownline stain is starkly visible.

Meet “Dances With Bushes,” the man who showed me a thousand landscaping tips for 5X tippet, none of which are sanctioned by the vendor.

DWB was a good sport despite the time spent punishing undergrowth, we all did it, some still do it – it reminds me of  sage advice my father gave on the eve of my first fly fishing trip, “Kid, you may want to leave the fly rod at home, you don’t want to learn casting while fishing.”

He was right, and I ignored him, thankfully I didn’t lose an eye – I just lost esteem, and most of the flies I brought with me.

Dance With Bushes landed 5 fish today, then promptly lost his Indian name by going golfing afterwards. Damn golfers – they never understand that if you lose a fly to underbrush you’re penalized a fish..

We’ll see you on the Brownline.

Technorati Tags: brownlining, tippet abuse, weed whacker