Category Archives: Fly Fishing

… and the New Year is like the Old Year, only dirtier …

It was our love of Frappachino that likely proved our undoing …

While engaged in another heated discussion on where to fish this weekend, I mentioned that I had produced some out-of-the-way spots that all had appreciated – and perhaps it was their turn (being natives to the area) to show me some of the watering holes known only to the hardened local fishermen, those willing to trade a little sweat-equity to scramble furthest from the beaten path …

… and all I got were blank looks and how’d they’d rather pay then walk. Coughing up twenty or forty bucks to lounge on the bank of some hatchery embankment isn’t liable to put the bark on anything.

… which is their way of saying that “bark” ain’t what it once was …

As I watch the Oft-Crapping-Pooch snarl menacing at darkened underbrush, I am reminded there are fishermen in the older “Pioneer” vein, and there are those that claim the heritage, but lack the urgency to blaze trail, preferring to wait until there is a taco truck in the parking lot or neon sign pointing at the Really Good Fishing.

Which is not a condemnation of the current Outdoorsman, rather it’s my observation of the perils of continuing gentrification, evolution of the species to a higher order and calling.

Little Meat and I delight in braving thorns and barbed wire, thumbing our nose at “No Trespassing” signs, medical waste, law enforcement, and illegal agricultural chemical dumps, but only because we know the Really Good Fishing isn’t some pristine stream or icy blue lake, rather it’ll be some overlooked freeway off ramp graced by some fetid trickle and punctuated with rotting couches.

… and a Happy New Millennium to you too …

The Undiscovered Continents of our youth no longer exist, most have been uber-marketed to guys with a taste for mortgage debt and umbrella drinks, which used them shamelessly. Many are already decline, some gentle and some precipitous.

The Outdoorsy-types that follow in our footsteps will have to embrace the sprawl of the rural-urban interface, and find their sport where others fear to look or tread.

For the observant angler, evidence is everywhere

Unspoiled isn’t in the urban dictionary, rather the best fishing will be limited to those spots impossible to reach, smellier than most, sports a homeless encampment, or patrolled by law enforcement, everything else being  exploited by the urbane “glamper” crowd.

Anglers will have to hone skills tainted by exposure to the Pristine, as the clues that line the banks of your rapidly-warming, icy trout stream are not shared by the valley floor.

Empty Pautzke’s jars, the whitened carapace of Styrofoam worm containers, the snarl of tippet caught in the underbrush, and omnipresent energy drink containers, all give testimony to quality fishing in trout country.

But the Rural-Urban Interface lacks these tell-tale clues, and those seeking the best fishing must be able to read “sign” – the litany of naturally occurring floating debris that a man-made water flow leaves in its wake.

Above is the rotting corpse of a 15” sucker – which you would have missed except for the skinless tennis ball that caught your eye …

… and while you mentally wondered which court was upstream and whether it was an unruly forehand lob or simply a bad serve that sent “Mr. Wilson” into the creek, that dead fish proves Fish Live Here.

ThinBrownLine on a Map

“Here” being another unloved thin brown line on your freeway map, likely not having seen an angler in two or three decades.

Nameless_Forebay

Likewise for this nameless little depression, now swollen with rain water and agricultural runoff, and in need of a thorough working over with a sink tip and some flies that push a lot of water.

I know how these warm water, dirty venues cause the Frappachino Fisherman to blanch, but in 2013 and beyond, riffle water will come in many shapes and sizes, and the only truly important thing is that it imparts lots of oxygen into the flow – ensuring the environment is capable of supporting the “clean” bugs like stoneflies and their ilk …

I got your riffle water right here, Mr Bead Head

… the valley version of riffle being about four feet long – and a mile wide.

Wonder what lives here …

One thing is certain however, I’m done sharing with pals, as these unloved gems that I’m visiting can only support a rarified few – those willing to suffer scorn and fingerpointing, those few stalwarts that recognize adding chocolate to coffee is the first in a long line of genteel sins leading to soft couches, saran-wrapped trophies, and the stern admonition of their physician.

We’re not the only ones preying on the defenseless, the parking lot has its share of predators too

They left a mountain bike inside Sights like the one at left are increasingly common on the wildland-urban interface.

I like to blame the vendor community (unjustly) but only because I like to think they’re at the root of the requirement that our fishing rod costs the better part of a grand, we can’t mountain bike without our bike costing double that, nor brave the white water in our kayak without our craft costing the same as a Nimitz class carrier.

It’s not at all surprising that our light-fingered brethren would learn the costs of the things we’ve left visible in the back seat as there’s a Big 5 in their neighborhood too.

With us preoccupied with fish and fast water, and potentially miles upstream, it’s not surprising our vehicles have become such easy pickings.

Avoiding unwanted attention and the shattered window that follows is an urban skill like any other. Our chariot looks every bit as appealing as the BMW next to us, and alarms and force fields no longer matter, their bleat considered “white noise” in the City. Real proof against unwelcome surprise is making someone else’s car look twice as tasty as yours ..

… it’s the classic bear joke, how you don’t need to run fast – you only need to run faster than your buddy …

The Pig:

“The Pig” is the easiest possible subterfuge, simply transfer the contents of your back seat to the front, so it looks like you’re an uncaring sloth whose table manners and palate rival that of a Yeti in full rut.

Cell phones and expensive tape decks aren’t hand-in-hand with mustard down your shirt front, and the Bad Guys know it.

Any real fisherman has to clean his back seat before “Momma” spies the debris field of illicit and forbidden snack food wrappers, none of which are permitted on his diet, nor by his physician.

The opposition can’t help but notice the rancid banana peels and sodden carpet which convey an eloquent message, “these are not the Droids you seek … move along …”

The Animal:

“The Animal” is a product of my own creative genius, I drape a jacket on the passenger seat like I’m making something sentient comfortable.

From the driver’s side it appears as some unknown creature is sleeping peacefully in the passenger’s seat. All the identifying elements like paws and fangs aren’t visible, so it might be a dog, a ferret, or something worse that’ll awaken when the window breaks to tear out your carotid artery.

The_Animal2

Sleeping, or expired from the heat of the car interior. Resulting in it convulsively crapping itself and vomiting Purina all over the inside of the car, which having baked most of the afternoon is liable to smell like death itself …

… making your car look twice as attractive as mine, which IS our intent.

“The Animal” is merely a badger fur collar removed from a woman’s coat, large enough so I can fluff it into a full three dimensions.

… and yes, that minivan was parked next to me, but he also left a mountain bike visible, way more attractive than the sleeping feral unknown in my front seat …

In celebration of the well chewed fly

I remember the four letter words I hissed when I found the saddle hackle had teeth marks on them, or the moth equivalent. Minimizing the contagion always is the priority, but rather than toss all that hard work and trimmed deer hair, I’d sealed the flies in a plastic baggy and added it to a little-used pocket in my vest.

Worst possible outcome being the moths could duke it out with Didymo and Zebra mussels while hanging in the garage … Bass poppers being at the minimum messy and time consuming to tie, and at maximum expensive as hell to replace.

The Thrill That Comes Once in a Lifetime

I found that pocket this weekend, containing both flies and left over sandwich from the weekend prior – which was added to the front pocket after we eyeballed the color of the mayonnaise (it hadn’t gone green yet).

Finding out that moth chewed bass poppers take on the mythical properties of the “the well chewed fly” , and are therefore twice as likely of catching fish and capable of fooling the most discerning palate …

Num Num

… and while aloof and hard to catch bass became child’s play, we eventually ran out …

And with a last epithet I managed to snap off the last of the mange-bugs in some fish’s jaw, only to hear an audible burp and watched as our purple and white popper floated to the surface.

While thoughts of the Lady of the Lake and Excalibur came unbidden, we still had plenty of gasoline leeches for the route back to safety and the parking area.

gasoline_leech

In any other venue they would be the source of great storytelling, much beer being drankled, outright lies and falsehoods. Instead, they are something you drove over enroute to some other place, and we thanked you for it.

Proof that for all our collective efforts we’ve advanced fly fishing not at all

I told him, “… you’re not to go into a fly shop without me holding your hand, you’re simply too vulnerable. You need absolutely everything – but you need a Sensei to prioritize purchases, so you don’t blow a couple paychecks on stuff you wad into a vest, yet lack the vest to fill …”

He nods with great sincerity, and we part company …

Later I’m the recipient of an email:

“The budget fisherman went by big 5 on the way home and saw this for 4.99 and had to buy it. You can’t go wrong with FAMOUS patterns. They did not have a holder. Would you have a fly box your willing to sell? Talked to wife and if you are still up for tomorrow I can meet you at work at 3:30 and follow you home. “

Big5_Famous2

I recognize the McGinty, the Parmachene Belle, White Miller, Black Gnat, Yellow Sally, and a host of patterns from the 1950’s, but where is there any evidence of the last seventy years of fly fishing, and why is that so?

Dear Eager-Beaver,

The label says, “Great for every game fish”, but you’re interested in Largemouth and Smallmouth Bass, which aren’t game fish. Anything in still water is considered by the fly fishing industry to be a ‘gamey-fish’ – something you toe into the underbrush while no one is looking.

I’ll hook you up with some bass flies this evening, and a fly box, and anything else I’ve got two of …

Stop spending money.

Sensei

In Spring an Old Guy’s thoughts turn to divorce, or the encroaching Bony Silver Menace

The physics of it all dictate lighter and smaller, the biology suggests buggier, and all the painstaking research says we’ve only scratched the surface of their depravity, as their tastes might range from drab to the ridiculously bright.

Physics because there’s a lot less water and rather than flinging high atomic weight, I may drag bottom with bead chain. Smaller because the absence of all that water suggests the prey may well be discriminating – shy of big flies in that shallow water …

Biology because the off season led to a wealth of papers on the American Shad, their eating habits, and my surprise to find out that the reigning angling wisdom on what and how they eat – has no basis in reality.

… and while they might seine all manner of smallish creatures in the salt and brackish estuaries (mostly small shrimp from stomach samples), the oddity of their attraction to bright colors may well be that of an expatriate dining on foreign cuisine – snacking on visual cues or the opportunistic feed when an item resembles something familiar.

Which is all that a burgeoning fly inventor need know … armed with a pocketful of bright will still work, but a cornucopia of experimental caddis and mayflies, minnows, moths, tee shirts, tennis balls, and discarded Doritos, might actually yield a Secret Fly of Complete Shad Dominance (SFoCSD), something that’s rumored to have surfaced many times in as many zip codes.

Number10OJ

I’ve got a pocketful of unknown and untested and am proof against both parking lot catcalls and all-knowing snigger. I’ve got buggy and somber, drab and motile, bright and bug-shaped, and every other combination a fertile mind can summon …

… and now I’ve got them in trout sizes, out of respect for low water …

You lads can flee to elevation and keep all those fragile trout company while I defend the local waters from the Silvery Invasive Menace surging upriver from the deep. All those bony palates, buck teeth, and feelers, paired with loose morals and lower standards, exactly what’s needed to keep a fly dresser thinking he’s distilled pure genius to a hook shank.

There’s hope if they’re finally ditching light beer

Can it be that the root cause of declining outdoors participation isn’t Nintendo, nor the warm confines of the couch, rather it’s a lack of appreciation for straight liquor?

beer_Fishing

Campfires and the out-of-doors have always been associated with a return to the simple, unsophisticated life of our adventurer-hunter-gatherer ancestors, and the measure of what we can do without is stressed as the new masculinity.

… or at least that was my Poppa’s take on his Poppa’s lectures …

It didn’t matter if it was battery-operated, solar-powered, or threw off enough BTU’s to render tents and bags unnecessary, unless it was hand-cranked and raised blisters, you didn’t get to bring it.

What we didn’t take into account was how the younger crowd would be so much smarter than us. Our generation watched Gus Grissom punch out early, a president take the rap for covert misdeeds, and discovered that John Wayne wore four inch lifts, and we unknowingly communicated our mistrust of authority to our kids …

… who question everything taught them by Poppa, including dumping both beer and the out-of-doors in preference for faux-sophistication and exotic cocktails.

Baby boomers prefer wine, while millennials like exotic cocktails. Compared with those beverages, light beer is about as exciting as a glass of milk.

– via MSN.com

It’s not rocket science to understand that juggling Grenadine while filching a fistful of capers out of a darkened container at the campfire, could wind up as a finger full of Pautske’s dipped in the last of the good liquor, and “shaken not stirred” won’t prevent your pals from spitting up all over their sleeping gear …

Start by giving your child an appreciation for straight liquor, then work your way up to mosquito bites, skinned knees, and sandwiches with sand in them …

Options in the face of legislative unrest, or how to avoid becoming an unwilling economic patriot

soles After a couple of decades on studded Weinbrenner’s, the felt sole started slipping off. Disappointing but understandable given I had used the boots hard over many seasons.

With laces and uppers intact the thought of resoling the boots crossed my mind, but getting new felts alone wouldn’t have worked, everything below the instep needed replacing.

Some time later, and quite by accident, I stumbled across a company that resoles wading shoes (all makes and models) and refits felt soled boots with Vibram’s Streamtread sole, should you wish to get additional use out of the uppers.

That led to a search of other companies that perform the same work, which also took me to the Simm’s website that lists additional cobblers, and I got an quick education on the subject.

I would think that those states that legislate rubber soles would find many thousands of anglers with relatively new felts that would prefer to convert than buy new …

… and then there’s those economic patriots that would rather pay full retail a second time …

Nice to know an option exists.

Hoisted on my own Petard

… and I was hoping I had the lock on death and despair.

Tackle Trade World has easily one upped me by presenting the rumors of Cortland’s demise were premature, Hardy & Grey’s lays off 27 staff (31% of their Alnwick workforce), and both Hardy and O. Mustad & Sons have been hemorrhaging money and Mustad is about to be taken over by a private investment firm …

despair

It is interesting to note that similar US Industry-focused rags are touting percentile increases in fishing as a means of cheerleading, whereby any ray of light in a darkened tunnel has to be the exit …

Also interesting was the reference that the Cortland CEO made to having trouble with banks and financing, and how the economic malaise seems to have caught up with a luxury business. These being consistent with the economic commentary of numerous CEO’s in the Fortune 500.

Where we adopt more downtrodden orphans and get them all muddy and foul smelling

I was reminded that my recent trip to the woods failed to include all my pals and therefore some proof of kinship was in order. All them road miles leading up to my “whang-leather” hardened-frame had not been shared with other road-conscious neighborhood residents and somebody was owed …

Some-thing was owed … and mightily …

bad_Doggy

As he’s a product of a “broken home” whose owners flit about the Northern Hemisphere slurping aging grape juice, ignoring any real responsibility, which is the hallmark of the true Californio, given we only tinker with Sushi so we can amuse tourists…

… and as Little Meat lacks any real pals to play with we did the Mud Junket, only this time absent any real supervision …

live_crayfish

So we spent most of the day catching fish and making crayfish swim so we could capture their silhouette accurately. The gaily colored “mud bugs” being lightning fast swimmers, and appear only as a set of claws being drug behind the body, with no other movement apparent.

Except the jaws on Little Meat, who finds them quite the treat when they’re exhausted …

… and outside of the week-old flatty cottontail we met on the trek into the creek, offers an opportunity for the rare roll should we find them already deceased and upwind.

Now that I’ve properly tuckered his fuzzy little arse out, I’m permitted to boast of our outing …

When two tips is good, and three tips would have been better

Last week’s trip to the Pristine was the first I’d used my RISE 9’ #4 as the main rod while relegating the lightly injured Sage LL 905 as my backup. The Sage reel seat epoxy had given up the ghost last season and tightening the reel seat occasionally results in the rod butt removing itself from the wood insert.

Which is it? I’ve been lazy given the repair is easy enough. I just need to find something with a fine point to spritz a little epoxy under the rear hood to make the problem go away.

While the RISE rod performed admirably under the steep, rock-hopping climb of the plunge pools, it didn’t like the back of the truck much – and after a small tangle at the tip between a partially strung rod and a fly imbedded in a fishing vest, I lost the top 3” of the tip without having a chance to defend it.

It’s not a defect so much as the odd leverage of the tangle, and while I’m still unsure how it happened, I was thrilled at the prospect of owning a second tip. The next morning I’m back on the water blessing that choice of foresight and frugality, and with a march ahead of me I put the rod together, but saved stringing the rod until I got closer to the water.

You sure? It’s one of the things I learned as a guide, what you think may be on the water never lives up to reality, so I hike down from the parking area to scan the water versus force feeding fish with my best guess.

/beginrant

I’ve not been a fan of the trend in four piece construction – mostly because every ferrule deadens the rod regardless of how light the material is, and figure most rod makers are victims of their own press, which assures us that four thicknesses of graphite when mated flex like two.

As they’re no longer asking us anglers what we want, three ferrules must be better than two, which is why a nine foot rod is now broken into four 27” sections, even though there’s no need.

/endrant

… and as I’m parting the bankside willows, ensuring I creepy-crawl slowly to blend in with the foliage until I can scan the water for working fish, I suddenly realize that the top 27” of my rod is missing.

Hell, I made it easy for you While working through the willows, something had hooked one of the guides and pulled the tip right off the rod, and now I’m on hands and knees looking for a two foot length of brown, amidst a lot of brown things.

This didn’t end well. A 27” section of brown rod tip resembles every willow twig imaginable, and there was no chance of my finding the missing section.

I learned an important lesson given that it could of been much worse, and the car and my backup rod weren’t close by. Always string a four piece rod – even if it’s the end of the evening and you just broke off your fly, and can hardly see.

Reeling all that line into the reel is the expedient thing to do, but 27” of your rod tip can be removed without your ever knowing, and that fly line is the only clue you’ll have about being hung in a branch.