Category Archives: humor

Just a fast trip to spread a little pestilence

Follow the greasy Brown Ring By this evening I’ll be waist deep in icy unclean water. It won’t have been that way before I arrived, but after I dip them big feet into all that fast moving pristine, it’ll make metam-sodium seem tame in the comparison.

The first of my “national average” 6 trips to the unspoilt – which will be unable to contain the greasy brown slick that comes off my outerwear, and will render all them nose-inna-air rarified fish into easy prey…

…or so I think.

I’ll be traveling incognito; Deerstalker set at a rakish angle, Meerschaum pipe with its well seasoned rosy-purplish tint, decked in Harris Tweed, and monocle clenched under the shade of manicured brow – offset with a hint of gayly colored ribbon affixing it to my starched uppers.

I’ll commiserate with the parking lot attendant – clucking my tongue in dismay at the appearance of discarded water bottles, empty beef jerky wrappers, and the really insidious invasives – capable of taking your legs out from under you at the run, leaving only the bloody fingernail marks disappearing into newly-murky water.

The Petrochemical Willard, with an entourage of polysyllabic pandemics in every vest pocket, defiler of the Untouched, and beloved of Sausage Dogs.

We could call it American Idyll

We’ve played this game before; I try to wrench you into the 21st Century, and you’re content with the pasttime your poppa taught you.  Still leery of professional fly fishing as a sport, televised or otherwise, and scowling while I insist competition would liven the small screen, and using NASCAR rules would make an interesting twist…

Spying an article on collegiate angling set my too-vivid imagination in motion. Rather than a gaggle of anglers, camp followers, and their entourage in an exotic venue, with apres-hatch masseuses, cold drinks, and sponsor’s hovering about, why not start the competition with a cavity search in the parking lot of the fly shop?

… then hand each fellow $1000 dollars for his entire ensemble; leaders, rod, flies, waders, boots, vest, floatant, absolutely everything – and only then turn them loose on the stream.

Parity Czech, we'll see if they can handle real American food

Like football we could show the ambulance crew close in on the guy that invested his cash in flies, and opting to wade wet – froze his equipment and succumbed to hypothermia.

… and there’s the agony of the top seed forgetting to buy a reel. We’ll have popcorn coming out our nose as he stuffs line in pocket, oblivious to zippers and dangling vest essentials, breaking off fish after fish – while we giggle over the *bleep* intensity of frequent outbursts.

There’d be the petulant fellow unwilling to part with a single Royal Trude – staring menacingly at the register total, insisting that in his state sales tax was 2% less – and he should get a waiver…

…  and the fellow that drank far too much at the Scientific Angler’s party,  and missed out on the #16 Adam’s ..

Most sports aren’t about identifying heroes any more; the cameras insist on tirades, tantrums, and villainy – we can moan from the sanctity of our couch when this week’s “Snidely Whiplash” makes it through another episode, after spiking his pal’s waders when the judges were distracted.

Then as each fellow is eliminated the remaining anglers could descend on him like a pack of wolves and tear his gear from lifeless fingers. All them young eyeballs glued to the screen learning valuable hunter-gatherer techniques to bully the bus and dominate their playground.

Oprah couldn’t resist that much testosterone, and we could fete them in all the daytime gossip venues.

Fly fishing has more than it’s fair share of opinionated insensitive types that could light up the small screen with pouts, scowls, and blame-storming. As everyone hates everyone else – a little blood or a couple of spilled drinks, a fist fight or gunfire, and we’d be rivaling the Ultimate Fight Network for Thursday night Primetime.

An open letter to the Trout Underground-Moldy Chum collective fantasy

Really thin, and then only maybe As the bloggers whose content is most likely to contain a semi-dressed hardbody – veiled in some really thin fishing angle, in a round about kind of way, and then maybe … You should know I lived your fantasy last night, and it didn’t live up to your steamy advert.

The idea has merit; young vibrant females (humans this time) draped in various stages of undress, encountered while pursuing this most worthy of all pastimes, is solid. The deed itself, leaves much to be desired…

I suppose the restocking of the Underwear River’s underwear was a good thing, I know now from whence it comes – and after last night’s festivities the female articles now outnumber the male. Biologist’s think repopulation occurs as part of the upstream flight of mating insects – I now know that’s horribly wrong, it’s the downstream drift of mating insects that restores instream substrate.

I’ve never heard the word “like” used as noun, verb, and adjective, and all in the same sentence. I’m thinking these Californio’s were attempting to reestablish the SoCal Mallrat species of the 1980’s; like gross, like ee-Eww, like wet, like never, like Oh My God, like shut up. We’ve always insisted on exporting culture, but like – enough already.

… I did get fairly misty eyed over the loafers-no-socks-Miami-Vice-linen blazer memory – but then I’ve always had a weakness for Ray-ban Wayfarer’s…

I’m innocently waiting between rafts of youngsters, darting glances ahead and behind hoping not to hook the celebrants – while being assaulted by firm expanses of tanned flesh absent restraint. My thoughts were of you fellows – wondering whether your fantasy of Trout & Angling would survive the evening, or whether both blogs would be semi-chaste thereafter.

Sound carries quite a distance on the water, here’s the best quotes from the young ladies to caption your next Permit tattoo, or the next girl treating a boat rod like a stripper pole:

“He’s fly fishing, Old People do that…”

“Eww, fish – that’s so, like gross.”

It’s gut-wrenching, I know – but the shapely ladies that you depict, slathered in lanolin and gazing at the screen like a fat kid steaming a bakery window, the ones that’ll tear the waders right off your portly, aging frame – like, think you’re old – possibly quaint, but mostly old.

Taut and firm, with boyfriend's aplenty

I got the “dime” tour last night – not just perched on the rocks, but prominent in the bow – with the boyfriend’s deep monotone, urging the buxom lass to play with her “cat” – for our everyone’s their mutual entertainment.

… for thirty verdammt minutes.

My lack of interest in the proceedings added fuel to the fire – and now the slack water behind me is occupied with … like … them.

Watching Grandma on the deck opposite swallow her dentures was kind of fun, but neither of us saw any feline.

I’m picking lint out of my reel, attempting to look occupied as another of Cleopatra’s barges idles past, doing my best to remain both cordial and responsive to the display of drunken debutantes and their beau’s..

… upstream I hear, “Dude!, Bro, go left, Go LEFT – you’re gonna hit him!”

I’m retrieving the metal tipped bludgeon wading staff from underwater where it’s unseen – and from the high pitched voices I can tell they’re at least 40 yards off, I’ve got plenty of time to sidestep and sweep their decks with either canister or grape – when I hear the gal chime in:

“You’d better get your act together, that guy looks mean.”

Best quote yet, and perceptive too …

Nothing can match Mother Nature’s natural beauty – especially when they’re untouched by Man. You can tell ’cause they float  Be careful what you wish for – as room for a couple false casts may quickly outweigh both pert and upthrust by a long shot.

We understand you mean it all in good fun, as do I. Those belligerent, drunken boyfriends won’t see it that way, and as non fishing agnostics they’ll take as much glee wrapping precious cane around your neck as splintery graphite – whichever rod you’re holding..

The biggest Rapala ever?

Every guy loves armaments – it’s just some have bigger ambitions than others…

aim9

I know better, were I to find a discarded pineapple hand grenade, bazooka, or discarded Sherman tank – It’d be denied a place of prominence in my living room – so I’d leave it alone, but only after attempting to “dry fire” the thing six or seven times.

Yanking a live air to air missile off the bottom is a feat in and of itself, but strapping it to your boat for a week is just … stupid. You know the Missus wouldn’t consider a six foot finned chrome pipe – as it clashes horribly with Mediterranean end tables and a Turkish throw rug.

… and the garage is a pipe dream; if you’re collecting large discarded explosives – there’s no room in your garage – it’s filled with your comic book collection.

They’re not too easy to catch, Obese fish are required to keep us all in proportion

We release the small ones I see it as a sign of the times, anglers unhappy with managed impoundments whose proprietors are following Ronald McDonald’s nutritional guidelines. Perhaps it’s the effect of four beef patties-special-sauce-lettuce-cheese-on-a-sesame-seed-bun slowing our desire to live reflexes just enough so only equally obese prey are vulnerable.

It’s a pity that girls don’t appreciate “big fish” – as us pear shaped anglers would be the new fashion esthetic – splitting time lolling in streamside currents and megabucks Hollywood fitness classes where the formerly fit revive sagging movie careers under our watchful gaze. “Brad, ‘feel the burn’ means doubling the Jalapenos on that Bacon burger, now finish up them fries…”

As the popularity of carp fishing has increased, however, so has the size of the fish. In the last 30 years, the British record has risen by 30 per cent, from around 50lb to 65lb 14oz.

Us humans lag the UK record by a paltry 10%, as the CDC statistics show a similar weight gain in humans over the same period.

Calling it a “bait cannon” versus a “Drive Thru” is splitting hairs. Most of our food resembles pellets, once you peel back the glossy wrapper or the deep fried coating – and we’ve never cried “foul” unless our Tater Tots were chilly or our JuJu Fruits removed fillings.

Like man-made lakes, our refrigerator is a semi-sterile barren environment that needs enhancing with pre-packaged, preprocessed cartoon food with engaging names and incomprehensible ingredients.

A lake’s natural food supply sounds as difficult to build as trophy fish – and to their credit, the fish farmers have forsworn the drive thru – ensuring the fish have to move an occasional fin in order to secure their next shovel full of enriched pellet chow.

No, the real issue is that we’re larger. An inch or so in height per decade – nullified by about 4 inches of girth every fortnight. Fish species are growing smaller, with over harvest and pollution – and a smaller fish in a larger, pudgy hand looks … well, completely lame.

hemingway All them black and white bleeding fish hanging from gantries died with Hemingway, and we’re straining to hold a dead fish away from our stretch pants hoping the biggest thing dripping isn’t our chin. A far cry from the heroic glare rendered while crouched predatiously over a fallen yet noble foe.

Instead we’ll force feed Carp like milk-fed veal – hoping that their sodden torso overshadows our own ponderous flanks – hiding our bulk behind the fatted calf – while complaining loudly at the quality of the fishery.

I see it a bit differently than the article; we’ve screwed their habitat, kilt their most fit and vigorous bloodline with hatcheries, screwed their women  – and we begrudge the condemned a last meal?

Stranger than fiction, odd fishing laws still on the books

Silly string has a season? I discovered the below list on a web page since forgotten. Makes you wonder about all those expensive Montana fly fishing seminars for women – and whether a citizen’s arrest isn’t in the offing… 

In California it is a misdemeanor to shoot at any kind of game from a moving vehicle, unless your target is a whale.

Idaho residents cannot fish from a giraffe’s or camel’s back.

It is illegal in Ohio to get a fish drunk. Also in this state do not go fishing for whales on a Sunday, It’s a no, no.

Don’t get caught catching crabs in Sarasota, Florida.

In Oklahoma and Seattle, Washington it is illegal to carry a fishbowl or aquarium onto a public bus because the sound of the splashing water may disturb other passengers.

It is illegal to catch a fish in Kansas with your bare hands.

You may not catch a fish in Pennsylvania with any body part except your mouth. Also dynamite cannot be used to catch fish.

Tennessee law says it is illegal to catch fish by lasso. (Too bad, it would make it so much easier to carry them back to the trailer park).

It’s illegal to fish from horseback in Utah.

In Muncie, Indiana it’s a crime to carry fishing tackle into a cemetery.

It is illegal in Vermont to whistle underwater. (Not to mention pointless, stupid and down right impossible).

Montana wins the prize in my opinion for stupid laws. It’s illegal for married women to go fishing alone on Sundays, and illegal for unmarried women to fish alone at all. It is also against the law for a man to knit during fishing season. This one is not fish related but definitely worth a mention… It is illegal to have a sheep in the cab of your truck without a chaperone. (There go my Saturday night plans).

Across the pond

Scotland– You cannot fish at all on Sundays.

Liverpool, England– It is illegal for a woman to be topless in public except as a clerk in a tropical fish store.

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Making them fearsome Dark Woods less so

I can’t promise she’ll fish, but that last hurdle to sharing a trail with an unwashed lout has certainly been blown apart…

Thank the Space Program – now that they’ve mastered the flexible “O” ring, they can turn their attention to miniaturized, dehydrated, pulverized, and pastes we can stuff into vests and enrich our streamside wilderness experience.

Plagued by the obvious obstacles in conducting human sexuality research in Zero-G, namely how to make a fellow whose neither bathed, shaven, or changed his underwear in six months – comely, NASA scientists overcame the natural revulsion of both parties really one party with a revamp of their 70’s hit “Tang.”

Girls cannot abide the unwashed angler in full rut – and noticeably shrink from our return. Like astronauts, we’re now equipped with the traditional arsenal of romantic enhancements, and like that rarified “first date” they’ll overlook our obvious shortcomings and focus on our potential …

Dehydrated Red Wine

Dehydrated Red Wine powder; you guzzled it out of a bottle, box, Bota bag, now with a gallon of branch water you can make the Dark Woods less so …

Or if you’ve a yen for Jello Shooters, just pour it into an old newspaper yielding an 8.2% Pixie Stix.

They’ll stumble right past the dirty clothes and unwashed dishes – and won’t even notice the old hound you boot off your bedroll. It’s how we suckered them to our dive in the first place, no?

The name on the map doesn’t match the name its earned

Leave them on and spare us all It’s the same thing I tell new employees, ” if I forget your name and call you ‘New Meat’ – don’t take it personal, I have a helluva time remembering names, but once I catch you filching my favorite donut I’ll remember your name … just not in a good way.”

I use placeholder names as a survival tactic. Angling authors (in any medium) learn to tiptoe around certain words; obvious ones like “always” and “never” – and the not-so-obvious, riffle names, geographical landmarks, and anything that identifies someone’s secret spot – despite it being common knowledge.

Writing is the ultimate in brinkmanship –  as the author is only a consonant away from being flamed cruelly, and over time develops “Spidey” sense – that tingle that alerts him to unguarded prose.

Placeholders are more fun than actual names – as most rivers and landmarks out West were named after the robber-baron owning the most real estate or railroads. Our landscape is dotted with capitalists whose surname is unwieldy at describing a gleaming river filled with voracious fish.

Reading about the Battle of Hue and its Perfume River earned my creek “the Little Stinking” – and for obvious reasons. Renaming something as lofty as the American River is problematic, but after three weeks of exploiting its chilly bosom, I’m calling it “the Underwear” from now on…

Snags have always been part and parcel to fishing, and sunken tree limbs and brush piles lighten our fly boxes considerably. There’s always a sense of relief when a sustained pull gives ground instead of snapping your fly off – but on the Underwear it’s a sense of foreboding.

This weekend was typical. One set of checkered boxers, one bikini bottom, and a pair of Tidy Whities –  resembling Rock Snot.

I’ve assumed that somewhere between Folsom Dam and my riffle are tenements whose clothlines stretch over the river, but the locals assure me its the rafting crowd that contributes with such regularity.

It’s that memory that makes barked knuckles pause enroute to the mouth. The Brownline is simple, avoid water – stem the blood flow by wrapping the wound in your shirt. Blue water is equally straightforward, clean the wound with chill water – then dance around yelling “owwie” before leaving in a huff.

Is the Underwear something betwixt the two? Blue water strained through cotton briefs is unappealing … and based on my catch rate the “run” of partially clad nubiles is two-thirds male … Equally offputting.

I suppose the “silver lining” of dredging all those undergarments is not having to purchase any, but those bikini bottoms do chafe something fierce ..

The Good News is that the first most powerful voodoo of fishing is at work

The Voodoo Laws of Fishing I recently endured that ritual where big strapping outdoors types get bashful as schoolgirls, or drink themselves into a self righteous fury over lost opportunity.

You call it a birthday.

There’s only two kinds of birthdays; the ones that get you closer to drinking legal, and the other kind – which aren’t near as pleasant, which get you further away.

Drinking to excess and wishing you hadn’t only takes about 15 celebrations – and they’re all legendary. After that it’s the long slow spiral downward where plastic soldiers and chemistry sets gives way to soap on a rope, drink coasters, and cologne – and you feign pleasure as it’s expected.

Now that retirements are gone, those 44 annual rituals become days of hedonistic pleasure, where you impose your will on innocents – while they feign pleasure as it’s expected.

Fishing voodoo is never tinkered with lightly, but the prospect of non-fisherfolk baking in the noon sun guarantees incredible fishing, but only if you summon the courage to park girlfriend on the bank watching you fling bright stuff at brighter stuff…

It’s the second most powerful fishing voodoo law; “if innocents are suffering under the hot sun, you’re virtually guaranteed a fish a cast.”

Neither “how many”, how big”, or “how often” tests your level of devotion – only the 2nd Law of Voodoo can determine your loyalties to sport versus family, instant pleasure versus intense long suffering pain – and as face’s flush red and skin starts to peel whether you’ll pantomime, “Just 5 more minutes, Sweetums.” – or wimp out.

Only a Jedi Master can hold their lie in the face of blistering retribution.

Hisself, as photographed by herself I get Dumpling parked on the bank provisioned with books, water, and chow – and stride purposefully into the water. She’s not seen a rational person wade in over their navel – so she’s watching with some concern as I plant feet and scrub a level spot – like a batter digging in at the plate.

I get the shooting head out of the guides and am yanking Frog Hair off the reel; 20 long pulls plus the head should be around a hundred feet, and I give it a half hearted toss so I can rethread the coils on the fingers of the left hand. The Shad Knit, keeping all the line in close, not downstream playing in the current.

The left hand’s threaded and I give it a couple of tugs and the rod buckles forward with a Shad on the other end. Sweetpea’s cheering on the bank and I’m alternately swearing and reeling trying to get some control.

I manage to land the fish and display it prominently. I recover my wading staff from underfoot and reel in the fly line and trudge out of the water,  much to the amazement of the missus…

She’s looking at me expectantly, and I says, “remember how I mentioned once you were really uncomfortable how I was guaranteed the best fishing ever?”

She nods.

“That was the second most powerful fishing myth ever.” I pause for effect, ” the first most powerful voodoo law of Fishing is if you catch a fish on the first cast, you’ll not scratch another fish all day.”

“C’mon, I’ll take you to breakfast…”