Category Archives: Fly Fishing

In all this suffering can it be that an occasional fly fisherman can play fair without it being considered weakness?

Now that the worm is so much smaller does the resolve exist to do the right thing or are we fishermen insistant that previous wrongs have been so egregious we’re going to plow forward without thought to consequences and our fair share?

The federal government is starting to trim their budget meaningfully, not meaningfully enough to abandon that trillion dollars of rare earth discovered in Afghanistan, nor is it willing to leave Iraq and 12% of the world’s petroleum to its fate,  but it’s going to play hell with a half dozen  federal fish hatcheries – as well as renege on the promise of a few dam removals and let salmon fisheries wallow their way into extinction.

States meanwhile are raising the prices on licenses 30% to 50%, closing state parks on weekdays and reducing budgets on unnecessary entities like fish & game wardens and enforcement agencies – all to plug the gaps that federal funds and their sudden withdrawal have played in their fiscal integrity.

It’s the New Austerity, complete with the economy completely “fixed”, the big banks a feeding frenzy still on life support at the fed window, Wall Street is now honest again, and only the middle class civil servants defy the new frugal, insisting on driving the country deeper in debt and into the waiting arms of the Asian menace…

Naturally, the fishing and hunting conservation pundits are crying foul, insisting on “a day of Salmonid Rage”, hosted by Starbucks and someone’s film tour, without benefit of anyone knowing what to protest, so long as they look upset and slop coffee with verve …

… which draws me back to Morgan Freeman’s speech in “Glory” – “how them white boys have been dying for years and now its time we ante up like men …”

All this living beyond our means, dining out versus eating in, and a new car every three years was supposed to teach us something. Now when things are grim there’s no talk of “the tough get tougher” – rather it’s  mail in the house keys and walk, hoping the neighbors don’t notice you lowering their property values further.

Sure, John Wayne is long gone, and the last vestiges of the Marlboro men wink meaningfully from the damp rail at the gay bar – with them the pioneers and selfless individuals that tossed the yoke of oppressors, and built this cathedral in the first place …

Yet it begs the question, with the last of the Greatest generation becoming fewer, can this be our rallying cry – and if so, “how many trout streams is our part?

We arm wrestled federal and state governments at every turn, we claimed rare and sacred songbirds nested there, famous Indians were buried close by, and them timbers were the last refuge of the spotted owl. We litigated until we made it hideously expensive no matter what the solution was, as it was our tax dollars and it was about time that dam came out regardless of who was using it.

It’s a difficult topic to be sure. But with our conservation groups insisting we still should be angry should the teat be denied us, despite all of the hardship and suffering of those around us, it simply doesn’t sit well to resume business as usual.

With this latest tragedy in Japan demonstrating the frailty of nuclear reaction contained in our best engineering, it’s likely to come to a perfect storm for anglers, especially so due to all the uncertainty in the Middle East.

Islamic Fundamentalism could claim a couple more countries as easy as not, and we’ll feel obligated to occupy them too, or it’ll mean less oil exports due to sanctions from our government, and with nuclear no longer seen as “clean” we could see a redoubling of drilling in our interior, our exterior, and the wholesale embrace of the oil shale industry.

Which in contrast with liquid oil, is a dirty, water-intensive business.

Most of which exists in the Western trout states. Especially the Bakken deposit of North Dakota and Montana, rumored to contain as much oil as Saudi Arabia.

Fracking oil shale isn’t the same as pumping liquid oil. Freshwater is pumped into the ground to float the crude to the top and increasing a well’s recovery rate. Considering most of the West is flirting with drought due to population increase, it’s liable to add yet another commercial interest with the lawyers and politicians to force their way to the head of the table.

… where they can litigate farmers and livestock interests for the little clean water remaining.

… and they’ll bring those pipelines down from Canada, through Montana so they can carry all that brew to someplace that’ll refine it. They’ll want right of way, which won’t be hard to get especially if it involves national security or some heightened Defcon consideration.

All that’s coming soon enough, but for the time being I’m not going to protest to my senator or congressman on the next three rivers I’m asked to save. I figure that’s my share for the dream of a balanced budget given that I’ve responded like a proper whiney-bitch-spendthrift and complained that the government should save ________ by removing its dam, intervene in the water pumped south for lawns, or ban the use of dill pickles in sandwiches, all of which saved the spotted owl.

I need to save those precious goodwill-fairplay credits for when they’re really needed, like in the next couple of years …

Fresh out of X’s, so we’ll let the fly mark the spot

Last night’s thunderstorm had scrubbed the Little Stinking as clean as I’d ever seen it. I woke Sunday expecting to see more of the same, but all the weather was at a distance and I had a large chunk of blue sky to make a mad dash for the creek. Enough time to get muddy and perhaps lock horns with that big smallmouth.

Fishing on the heels of a weather system is never very productive, but since every living thing had been dodging lightning bolts last night, I was hoping I could get something hungry to stir.

Not a chance.

… even the small fish weren’t interested.

Little Stinking Fall color

… and with the people still abed, and all the candy wrappers, water bottles and toilet paper washed away, the cattails gave a glimpse of brown water majesty – the Valley version of Fall colors.

The RootBall

Hisself lives on the right side of that downstream root ball.  With the beaver dam raising this run about two feet in depth, it’s nearly eight feet deep. I managed to swim the fly through the area effectively, but nothing was eating.

Once the rain starts in earnest his protective cover will be a distant memory – and with it will go the beaver dam providing the safety of the extra depth. I’m sure he’ll stay within the area, but there’s no telling whether some big mass will wash down this winter and either change the character of the flow, or mash life out my quarry.

Little_Stinking_Christmas With a stiffening breeze and a mass of dark clouds bearing down on me I opted for the safety of the car.

I snuck over and dragged the fly through the deep end just to let the fish know I meant business, then forgot my surrounding during one overly ambitious cast and got a jump on the holidays and tree decoration.

Which gives me ten left, and moot testimony why some of my good ideas are tied in quantity, versus carrying one or two.

Now that fly fishing is all mainstream and snuggly

I always wondered just how much the fishing angle would play if I strode up to the voting booth and was faced with the unenviable choice of Tweedledum, “I love the out of doors, some of my best friends live there” – and Tweedledee, “I love the out of doors, I fly fish there often.”

As both were generously financed by Goldman Sachs – and all other things being equal … would fishing tilt the balance ?

The Palin Infomercial

… not after last weekend.

But the publicist that dreamed this stuff up should be elected Lifetime Press Secretary, as this is the logical conclusion to a decade of reality TV, the Celebrity Infomercial.

“Infomercial” because you can’t call them candidates, as the Law requires all your opponents equal time to fidget with guns, snow, and fly fishing – and try to look polished in the doing.

It’s the same dance seen on your TV each night. Commercials with ornaments and pine trees, snow, and smiling white teethed children – only nobody dares say the C H R I S T M A S word, as the Thanksgiving turkey hasn’t been carved yet. (Part of the deal struck with the major networks when they swore never to call the election before the polls on the West Coast had closed … you can’t say “X-Mas” until turkey’s been served.)

In four years time, it’ll be Jerry Brown’s California – where they’ll prop up an aging Linda Ronstadt, slather her with ‘dark tan’ pancake ending around her Adam’s apple – prop her next to a surfboard, and let her crack wise about Sushi …

Episode 2 through 8 will feature Jerry peeling off his Birkenstocks so he can tout “green” jobs while barefooting wine grapes, then posing nest to a waving field of premier bud – while he rationalizes balancing California’s budget by exporting reefer to the rest of the lower 48, and specifically your block …

He won’t mention that his plan to balance the Federal deficit involves similar trade with most of the European Union. The Cartels will have to be content smuggling Bananas, as they’ve got plenty of foot soldiers, but they lack Cruise missiles and the half dozen nuclear carriers needed to make us take them seriously.

Then some fellow from Wisconsin will want thirty minutes on Sharp Cheddar, before yielding the floor to his colleague from Hawaii who’ll pimp pineapples and grass skirts.

Trust me, you’ll love it.

Oprah Winfrey Infomercial

Oprah Winfrey’s retiring from the little screen, can she be part of this burgeoning trend seeking office?

She’s got the docu-drama in the can, featuring fly fishing and Oprah’s Top 10 List, and most fear executive office may be one of them.

You cheered the new fly fishing movie thinking it was going to bring flocks of young folks to fill gaps in our line, how it was going to mainstream our quaint little craft into a marketing juggernaut like NASCAR, and now look what we’ve got …

Guys older than us airbrushed into health, adding to the burden of empty water bottles in your riffle.

While you’re up in the parking lot barred from the water, with those nice professionally dressed – yet unsmiling men with sunglasses examine both your fly box and your colon.

We’ll name it properly once we’ve been introduced

I’ve always fought shy of naming fish, mostly because it can mark the angler as a bully, some small indication that camping on known water might be preferred to something new or unknown.

That’s not the same thing as a pool within feet of some cabin, where the fish are known so well simply due to proximity. Driving a couple of hours to catch “Charles” or “Bob” however, is a bit disquieting  …

… and why are they always masculine names?

It must go back to our playground days, where you kicked Bob’s ass when he reached for your cupcake, or owned Charlie in four square or kick ball. The retelling sounds pretty good, only Bob is about half your size and Charlie was the kid with braces, who was nearly 60 pounds when soaking wet.

Naming a big fish, especially one that’s been hooked and lost is another matter, as both honor and Jihad may be involved …

While pounding gravel last weekend, I noticed a big root ball near the bank, and taking a breather, I got out some oddball experimentals to test their sink rate in the deep pool made by that mass of tree trunk.

There were a couple of six inch largemouth bass that were mildly interested, and while jigging the fly in front of them hoping for a strike, a big piece of tree trunk detached itself and came over to investigate …

It was the Great White Whale hisself, Moby Dick, the biggest smallmouth Bass I’d ever seen on the creek, and while he sat there inspecting what I was twitching, I attempted to remain immobile so I could eyeball the beast without spooking him.

Looking at the size of the fish and his surroundings, I realized that like Ahab, this was going to be a story of lost flies, fruitless courtship, and obsession, and could end badly for both of us.

“Towards thee I roll, thou all-destroying but unconquering whale; to the last I grapple with thee; from hell’s heart I stab at thee; for hate’s sake I spit my last breath at thee. Sink all coffins and all hearses to one common pool! and since neither can be mine, let me then tow to pieces, while still chasing thee, though tied to thee, thou damned whale! Thus, I give up the spear!”

Moby Dick, Herman Melville

While working this weekend on chores and raiding the local crop of Pomegranates, Walnuts, and Persimmons, I’m thinking about that big bass and what it’s going to take to seduce him.

… or her, a fish that big might even have a zip code. In either case we’ll name it properly once hooked – which by all indications won’t be soon.

A deep root ball with the limbs facing upstream, nearly guaranteeing the fly will snag, an eight foot pool of water with him at the bottom, requiring a cast that’ll have to sink quickly and avoid all the smaller fish on its way to the base of the tree, and the poor angle I have on his position; water too deep to wade, opposite bank impenetrable, and I’ll have to cast the line where the fly lands on my side of the root ball, and the belly will have to land midcurrent.

The physics suggests that root ball will soon become a Christmas tree of my best efforts, with weighted and gaudy visible on every branch.

LSO Frog Style

Knowing this fish has been sent to haunt me, and we may have even met a couple seasons ago with the Little Stinking Olive doing the introductions, I’ll start with what has worked and update it in light of the fish’s size and surroundings.

LSO_Frogstyle

While the original pattern is a known killer, it needs additional weight, a bigger size, and a larger hook. Originally a Crayfish design, I added some frog-like features so it’ll serve double purpose. The above is a weighted #2 hook tied to ride upside down.

With weather in his favor I won’t get too many opportunities before the winter floods, which will likely remove his precious barricade and deposit it many miles downstream. His Whale-ness I’m not worried about, a fish this size is a survivor.

Lang’s Fall 2010 Fishing Auction this weekend

A reminder that Lang’s will feature their Fall 2010 auction this weekend. I counted about 250 rods available, ranging from Horrocks & Ibbotson to Paul Young, F.E. Thomas, and a number of older Orvis rods, both cane and fiberglass.

Paul Young Parabolic

I always enjoy paging through all the old gear, and am always fascinated by the fish decoys used back East for ice fishing, which has no parallel out West . We’re scared to go out when the thermometer drops below 85° and the Warden doesn’t think kindly of our efforts to reopen trout season once it closes in November.

The catalog for the November 6th auction features rods, reels, and flies, and November 7th is books, wicker creels, fish (and duck) decoys, and all manner of old catalogs and similar errata.

There’s a great deal of contemporary tackle in a Lang’s auction – it’s not just antiques. I saw a couple Z-Axis Spey rods, and quite a few Tibor reels, and bidding isn’t limited to something destined to hang in the den and never used …

Although some of the many framed flies by Paul Schmookler and Charles DeFeo might wind up hanging somewhere above them empty beer cans.

The textured fly line Redux, we may be done donating fingers

Mastery Textured Nymph Indicator I fancy myself a textured line expert, only because I’ve whined louder and longer than anyone else…

I’ve been addicted to the sound of fingernails on shower curtain since owning my first Masterline.

I’ve lost more flesh and fingertips to the Sharkskin than I care to remember, and as I’ve learned little from that hellish torture, I spent all weekend flinging a “golf dimpled” Scientific Anglers Mastery textured line at everything that moved and most things that didn’t …

Textured fly lines have always been the bastard stepchild of fly fishing. Manufacturers seem gun-shy of the technology because each time someone has the temerity to release one it’s accused of numerous ills of which it’s blameless.

… and so few have been released over the last couple of decades that they’re always claimed to be revolutionary – despite silk and horse hair lines having an obvious woven texture for a couple hundred years, compared to the plastic polymers we’ve used for a short half-century.

The Masterline Chalkstream was the first textured line I remember; launched in the 1980’s, it was rumored to be made by the Sunset Line & Twine folks for the European market, available under the Masterline “Chalkstream” label in  the UK, and the Hal Janssen label here in the US.

The Sharkskin series offered by Scientific Anglers is of recent manufacture, and while it’s a fine casting line, earned a reputation as a surefire fingertip removal method, and unpleasant memorable to fish without finger protection. 

The Ridge line is a similar idea with a bit of a twist, only because its texture runs parallel with the line to accomplish similar function, instead of a cross-grained pattern like the other vendor’s products.

While the physics of texture are sound, Scientific Anglers may have opted to release this less abrasive flavor in light of some painful Sharkskin feedback. Manufacturers rarely cede ground on their brainchildren and give every conceivable rationale to the contrary, yet this newest flavor is completely delightful, easy to cast and appears to leave both fingers and fingertips intact.

Masterline boasted of “glass bubbles” imbedded in the finish that made the texture lumpy. Sharkskin claimed it was the “ridges and valleys” or a lotus based facsimile, and the Mastery textured line smoothes the harsh edges and lays claim to a model based around a golf ball’s dimples.

The forums will soon be ablaze with claims that “I seen this guy, that knows this other guy, who claims his guides was sawn clean through ..”

If you have old bamboo rods whose guides are not hard chrome, you may have reason for concern. As 99% of the rods made in the last couple of decades are ceramic strippers and hard chrome snakes, there is no known wear issues with any of the textured products. I had a stealthy set of Japanned black snake guides that a Masterline ate about 30% of over the course of two seasons, but traditional chrome is quite hard, and impervious to a flexible textured surface.

The Snakeskin ate fingers, fingertips, and anything else it touched and persisting this myth, producing much heat on the subject in the Internet forums, but Scientific Angler was very much aware of the fingers issue and recommended the use of some type of protection even at product launch.

I didn’t see the necessity to add more gear just to fish a fly line, abandoning the Sharkskin shortly after a 15 pound carp took advantage of sand sticking to the line to carve a bloody track across four of my fingers …

It appears this new textured Mastery variant learned from the Sharkskin’s excesses and sports a finish less abrasive, a bit less noisy, and provides a great replacement for all those that admired the old Masterline and its casting qualities.

Note: It still goes “wheet, wheet” when you double haul, so if you’re made of sugar and can’t handle the noise, nothing’s changed here. Sirens still echo through the brownline as do the gunshots and howl of two-stroke off road crazies,  “wheet, wheet” is relaxing by comparison.

Mastery Textured Nymph Indicator dimensions

There is little doubt we’ll hear about fancy polymers and painstaking research, be force-fed formulas with “X’s” and exponents, which allows children to shoot an entire fly line with a single false cast. But that’s the traditional hype, for those interested in how texture can improve their fishing, or is worth the $79.95 cost, the explanation of what you may experience is quite simple.

Bubbles, Ridges, Valleys, and Dimples all cause the line to come out of the guides like a fast moving powerboat running perpendicular to waves. Both boat and fly line will touch the guides only at the bulges – allowing the valley of the line to pass without incurring friction at all. Less friction means an extra five, eight, or ten feet in your cast when released.

Extra distance is always useful, especially in lake fishing when you can use it to cover additional water.

Extra distance is not a textured line’s best quality however. The real value is fishing the downstream dry fly – either seated in a boat or wading.

Most guided trips with a boat feature a guide yelling in your ear to flip slack and avoid waking the fly. The guide is leaning over your ear yelling, “ …flip, flip, flip … set the %$# hook!”

That lessened resistance to line exiting the guides means feeding line to the current requires less effort even compared to smooth line, and a tiny flip of the wrist will add three feet of slack giving your fly precious extra seconds to cover water without drag.

That is what your money bought you, and why you may prefer it to any smooth fly line.

Over the coming months we’ll continue to be inundated with all the vendor techno babble; claims of cackling fellows in stained lab coats wearing thick spectacles, who’ve spent their entire lives researching polymers that rival a woman’s skin, repel water, and cast themselves.

Occasionally some of that will be true.

Remember that exponents and polymers cannot impart the correct motion to a fly rod, only you can do that – and the results you’ll see will vary based on conditions and skill.

Specifically I purchased a Mastery Textured Nymph Tip in WF7F. It replaces my old Cortland Nymph Tip WF7F that I use in the brown water, which is a far harsher environment than a relatively clean trout creek.

The Sharkskin line had been tested under similar conditions, and I noticed a lot of color fade, likely due to unknown farm chemicals and effluent.

The texture supplied on the line is misleading. It’s small and unobtrusive almost like a matte finish, not the obvious embossing of the older Sharkskin. Only running a fingernail down the line reveals the subtle “tic-tic-tic” of the texture, and promises to be much less abrasive on the initial feel alone.

It possesses a short and very clean color demark or transition than other bi-color combinations I’ve owned. The body of the fly line appears off-white with a tinge of cold, and the two foot orange section of the nymph tip clashes cold color with a warm – making the transition stark and quite easy to watch for a subtle move.

Running line and contrasting orange

Many of the other vendors persist the traditional peach running line with the orange head, which is a bit less distinct, as both colors are warm.

I liked the new line marking system destined for the balance of the Scientific Anglers stable, a fine vertical print of line weight and taper printed on the head portion – far enough back so that if you modified the taper by trimming sections from the front, the label will still be available.

The WF front taper was both responsive and authoritative to cast on a fast action graphite rod. I spent much of the weekend flinging the long cast to see how much floating slack it would yank off the water’s surface, and how it felt to strip all that back over the same index finger.

I mashed the running line into the sand at the water’s edge and repeated the process with much longer strips, and faster speeds, and didn’t feel the tell-tale warmth of a line burn.

To wit, I don’t think this line will bite quite as badly, and it may be suitable for heavy use without the rigor of tape, bandages, or forced amputation. One weekend isn’t a surefire test by any stretch of the imagination, but I rode this beast hard and it performed admirably without injury.

I’ll continue to use this line throughout the Winter, should it prove harmless, I’ll be replacing some of my other lines as well as laying in a couple spares. I’ll post the outcome after a couple of months, so you can learn from my extended testing in the muck water.

Summary: I think Scientific Angler has struck a nice balance of texture and function with these latest offerings. If you’re a distance craving fisherman, or tired of listening to the guide claim you’ve got reflexes of stone, you may consider giving these lines more than a single glance.

At the list price of $79.95 it’s in the zone of other lines, but given the economic times we’d as soon test the line before purchase (and your shop should be quick to accommodate that request with a rod, reel, and their front lawn).

As with all technologies espousing chemical formulae, we want to see whether the technology provides you an obvious difference – or merely a shoulder shrug.

Full Disclosure: I liked this line before I ever unraveled it from the manufacturer’s box, mostly because I love textured fly lines and think them superior to ANY slick finish. My ardor may not be shared by everyone, so you need to test this line for yourself to ensure your opinion and experiences are similar – before you trust my superlatives to write your check for you.

I purchased this line from FishWest at full retail ($79.95).

Fly Fishing – an essay in prose and pictures

On rare occasion someone says it in such a way that completely captures the experience of fishing, from darkened early morning departure to darker parking lots and damp feet …

… and his prose is damned good too.

Take a look at both and tell me if he hasn’t got the high points for an entire season in one eloquent missive …

The Author, this time with better beer In October my father called to wish me a happy birthday, and to remind me that in all probability I now have more years behind me than I do ahead. Thanks Dad. With that in mind, I made it a point to get out on a lake somewhere before the onset of winter, and so this past Saturday I headed east into the Sierra Nevada range for a solitary day of fishing.

I’d invited my friend Neil to join me, but he declined because the weather forecast called for rain and snow. Neil is a steelhead fisherman, so I couldn’t help but take it personally, but going alone gave me the opportunity to experience the maxim often quoted by Singlebarbed: one is a fishing trip, two is half a fishing trip, and three is no fishing trip at all.

I left the house at 5:00 AM, and was on the water and fishing by 10:00. My trip took longer than it should have because someone had hit or removed the sign identifying the road that leads down to the lake and I ended up driving right past it.

This lake usually presents me with a number of mysteries,and it did not disappoint. There were fish rising and jumping and carrying on everywhere I looked, but I didn’t see a single bug anywhere on the surface. I suspected the fish were chasing midges, and so I tied one on under an indicator and chucked it out there. No luck. I rigged up my father’s old fiberglass five weight with a double tapered Cortland Sylk line and a furled leader, then tried out some new mayflies I’d recently tied, more to see how they looked on the water than anything else. I also tried a new ant pattern, as well as a new beetle pattern. No love there either.

I rigged up my six-weight with a clear intermediate line and tied on a streamer. After casting out the fly I remembered what happened the last time I fished streamers, and decided I had better put a band aid on my stripping finger. The band aid ended up sticking to itself (with my help)and I messed around with it for five or ten minutes, all the while drifting in circles aimlessly around the lake. That’s about when a nice brown grabbed the streamer and started peeling line off the reel. I got a few more bumps on the streamer, but I was never able to duplicate the unique retrieve that enticed that first fish.

Throughout the day I’d been sampling some Costco-brand beers my wife had purchased for me – it’s what all the cool kids will be drinking a year or two from now – and it was while I was watering one of the bushes in ______ Cove that I noticed what looked like a small black caddis fly squashed onto the side of my raft. I hadn’t seen anything like it throughout the day, but since nothing else had worked I decided to tie on the closest thing I had to it and give it a whirl. I hooked a nice brown on my second cast, and the fish kept hitting that fly for the rest of the day. After releasing my sixth fish, I re-cast the fly and let it sit for a few seconds, then saw a very slight ripple and watched it disappear. I set the hook and started stripping in line, but instead of the fish coming towards me, my boat started drifting towards the fish. After a couple of head-shakes the fly popped out and sailed right back towards me. I never saw what took the fly, but it must have been pretty big.

I figured that by now it had to be lunch time, so I went back to the truck and pulled out the nice big tri-tip sandwich I’d bought for Neil, and then checked the time. It was 4:10. I wolfed down half the sandwich and then got back on the lake, and after hooking several more fish I finally lost the fly, which I took as a sign that it was time to pack up and head home.

Attached are some photos. (click for a larger image)

1 Left the house at a bit after five.

2 Ran into a little snow.

3 On the lake there was some of this...

4 ...and some of this

5 Thought these would work. They didn't.

6 But this did.

7 Christened my new boat net.

8 Had a beer.

9 My new ashtray worked well.

10 Caught another fish.

11 Had another beer.

12 Caught another fish.

13 Had a drink at buddy cove.

14 Caught another fish.

15 Had a late lunch.

16 Home by nine thirty.

I could struggle for weeks and never see anything with this type of eloquence. I guess to some folks the lying and exaggeration comes natural, while the rest of us have to work at it.

Dear Izaak Walton – Costco beer is simply … so … very, working class. While we delight in keeping both elitists and purism at safe distance, we do have some standards … and that bottle must be presented empty and downstream, and with great force.

… and our thanks for letting us join your trip.

I handed out Olives and Oranges and free root canals, while you hid on the couch

NoKandyIt won’t hurt to admit it.

While them kids was bee-lining it to your place because you handed out Snickers last year, and as the train of ghosts, fairies and skeletons climbed the long flight of stairs to your darkened doorway, and while their darling little eyes looked expectantly at the door after knocking … you sent the little tykes away teary eyed and sniffling …

… while you lay sprawled amidst the carnage of candy wrappers and discarded Dots, watching football or the World Series, or both.

Likely you made an entire generation resentful; no candy, and when they’re old enough, they’ll know of your unspoken guarantee to treat their Social Security the same way.

Beast.

At least I was stand-up about my desire to trick versus treat. I didn’t hide behind drawn shades and a hot TV, I brought the badness to them Innocents and giggled in the doing.

Trick, no treat for you ..

The Pikeminnow kept knocking, each more optimistic than the next, but every “apple” held a razor blade – which turned their greed into root canal, compliments of that menacing dark shadow with the big hammy feet.

I hoped they’d bring an enraged parent back – but what few were left knew better, remembering the Will O’ the Wisp from last year, when dental work was again free for the asking.

Birdsnest Apple & Razor blade color

Olive with a touch of Pumpkin drew the greedy from under the cut banks and cut a swath through the hatchery water. A grinning Jack O’ Lantern promising sugary treats by the fistful, and delivering base metal instead.

.. and when all are clustered around that big bowl at work, where all the health conscious parents deposit their child’s haul, and inquire did I have many little footsteps on my porch last night, I’ll opt for the noncommittal, “about the same as last year.”

How to torment your fellow fly fisherman and wind up in a foreign prison for a decade

Archaeopteryx Everything PETA has ever said about me is true, although I am mellowing a bit with age …

The thought came unbidden, I’m reading about the hundreds of birds that remain unseen by human eyes, and have never been catalogued by Science, and visions of something more brilliant than Blue Chatterer, more vibrant than Indian Crow, dance like sugarplums before my eyeballs …

( … and don’t blame me for the Christmas reference, it’s not yet time for Thanksgiving and yet the entire merchant class has determined you should start shopping already … )

Now that the statute of limitations has worn off I’m allowed to mention some of those dark secrets confessed to guides. We’re often seen as a combination of Mother Theresa and hardened psychologist blanch.

Myself and two other guides were charged with escorting a party of six producers, screenwriters, and directors from Hollywood. Part of an annual outing where each fellow was responsible to pick a fishing venue and book lodging and guides for the entire cabal for three days of fishing.

Each fellow was also required to one-up the fellow before him, by finding some rare or unique material that would be incorporated in a custom fly tied for the entire group. The member who caught the largest fish on the unique fly, won bragging rights for the subsequent year.

As this had been going on for some time, it was an effort to one up the last guy – and niceties like legality and societal constraints had long since been discarded in pursuit of rare and even humorous …

That year the host had found himself in a museum in Mexico, and when the curators weren’t looking had pulled a six inch strand of wool from a serape owned by Pancho Villa…

Naturally it wound up as the body material for a couple dozen dry flies, which were distributed among the contestants. Now that I was party to the dirty little secret, my job was to find a big fish with a yen for a hundred year old dirty gray #14, and record the catch so my two fellows could claim victory.

I thought that was just about the best contest I’d heard about – right up until the release of Midnight Express and six or seven years in a Turkish prison made me rethink yanking a tuft off of Tutankhamen’s burial shroud, which was at the DeYoung in San Francisco.

… and neatly explains my sudden yen to visit the Philippines in advance of all them scholarly birdwatchers. The first fellow to spot a Blue Fanged Fidget, can insist flies just aren’t the same with a tawdry dyed substitute.

… and the only fellow that may be able to one-up a bird never seen by science is the fellow that trips over a frozen million year old Archaeopteryx, recently exposed by global warming.