Category Archives: humor

It might be a Space Peanut, you never know what tumbles down a gray water cataract

The way it ought to be I remember many years ago reading how Salmon meat coloration was a by product of its diet, and I can’t help feel for the Ph.D in the art department tasked with turning discolored and mushy salmon fillets into vibrant orange flesh.

Scientists are jubilant over the nearly vegetarian (contains chicken) diet they’re shoveling at pen raised fish – but I’d prefer just leapfrogging the normal fare – ignoring the things we can make them eat, and feed them the “end game” of culinary science, which is human waste.

“Fish have an amazing capacity to adapt very quickly to a new taste,” Obach said in an interview. “Salmon eat what you give them.”

Forget all that “sustainability, superior product”, nonsense – all we want is whatever follows in our wake to not impinge on the stuff we like to eat. Chicken is pretty darn tasty – there’s no way I like Salmon enough to share, and Rapeseed may make the best Oatmeal cookie ever – until I sample it I can’t be sure.

I know the cash-strapped waste management districts would leap at the chance to show their “green” fervor; touting their massive fishery just outside of New York, Los Angeles, or large urban venue, replete with green lawns, families on picnic – and Poppa heaving yet another 20 pounder onto the bank for dinner…

I’d call it “Sani-World” or “Six Flags of Poilet Taper” – something that’ll jam the parking lots full of eager families and restore angling as a full on tradition.

Brownliner’s would be overjoyed – each sewage outlet home to thousands of gleaming Salmon – shouldering Carp aside to fight over sanitary napkins and medical waste. With only a manhole cover separating you from a trophy fishery, it would decrease our dependence on fossil fuels, perhaps increasing our dependence on Tums, but they’re sourced locally and little issue.

The real measure of fish quality is whether the Fillet O’ Fish sandwich holds its shape absent the bun, and while we cram deep fried Snickers and Ice Cream, we’re confident that fillet will be met with great anticipation and your kids bursting with important Omega-3’s and Estrogen.

A blend of urbane and outdoor architectures, with concrete abstract boulders, sweeping lawns, and overhanging Eucalyptus lining septic pools connected with gray water cataracts – featuring olden names like the Mill Pool, the Coachman, and the Tweed…

Waste matter recycled by each pool’s inhabitants, the grilse would be frolicking in clean water with only the insolubles to digest; peanuts, tubers, and plenty of raw fiber – just the kind of nutrition to imbue tone and musculature to flaccid flesh.

Squeamish?, practice Catch & Release – no one’s forcing you to eat the darn fish.

Old School is "Third World" with me the smudged and homeless waif gazing intently at them vittles

I’ll be sure to squat barefooted next to my cup full of fire, tattered loincloth hiding the barest of essentials as I first flame then rend my goat meat – keeping a wary eye for uninvited guests.

It’s plain I’ve missed a couple generations of outdoor gear and am completely out of touch with contemporary amenities and “roughing it.”

“Roughing it” is when you eat better than when you’re home, the bathrooms smell sweeter – and are far more spacious, the dining room is better lit, the booze and cigars are older and more plentiful, and instead of someone counting how many slices of pie you eat – they’re insisting you have two or three more… 

GGACC Pre-Dinner exertions

I thought jerky and bananas chased with warm water from a hydration pack was the ultimate in outdoor cuisine – in light of the groaning board of vittles inhaled at creek bank, there’s a new culinary ethic that renders my provisions Third World.

My crime is ascribing to the “anti-social” school of angling, not like the scowling tarts that resent intrusion into their riffle  – more of the Dan’l Boone, ” I kilt an eight weight on this Shad” explorer ethos.

Returning to civilization used to be the retelling of deprivation and manly prowess – to a horrified and sympathetic audience; this many days without shaving, that many days without bathing, and how you pried that bear’s jaws open with your fly rod to save a friend from certain death.

The New Outdoors are vastly different – shaving and bathing are essentials, and only running out of Worcestershire sauce or ice cream is met with outpourings of sympathy and horrified gasps.

GGACC base camp

I’m a man without a country, and insist on an outpouring of faux-sympathy.

I can’t help but blame SMJ and his fly thieving Older Bro for tainting my camping ritual beyond measure. They were aided by the fishing hardcore from the Golden Gate Angling and Casting Club, whose members showed equal skill with shooting heads and shad flies as white linen and spatulas.

Steaks, pie, corn, salad, fried rice, shrimp, Lumpias, and SMJ’s killer White Beans with Ham Hock as chaser – served by smiling attendants in starched livery. The  liquor was 15 years old, and the closest the cigars had been to the States was El Salvador.

I’m standing there with a pair of body temperature Kashi bars (Peanut Butter) – hoping someone had a soup pot going so I could contribute more than smiling and possessing an appetite.

I can remember fly patterns to the letter, and names not at all. My thanks to the fellow who makes the bamboo rods (Tom?) – my guess as to the host of this debauch.

I’ll lick my wounds while contemplating my battered collection of Sierra cups, fire blackened aluminum cookware, and tattered sleeping bag – as even the household pets slept on better …

The Shad line compliments of GGACC

The venerable old club has a new face, lots of talented young guys whose interest is in fine dining fishing – much different than the casting focus of the club I knew when living in San Francisco.

Hearing Armando Bernasconi’s gruff voice reminded me of those Old Days; even 20 years ago he was the club’s official greeter – a welcoming mustached figure whose energy and smile charm the public and sets beginners at ease.

One of the guys breaks from the choicest part of the line – insisting Armando take his spot. At 87 he’s slowed down some – and realizing the current’s heavy is about to back out when the guys break ranks and wade over to break the current and steady him as he wades deeper.

Made my entire trip – just to watch.

The club has a new face and so does the Outdoors, and while I thought Solar Showers were a cutting edge luxury – I find that running water adds an obscene touch that simply must be endured.

Like Poppa says, “any fool can be uncomfortable.”

My thanks to the Eberle clan, Max – and the rest of the crew for the vision of camping – the fishing, and mostly the meal. I’ll not see the likes of that for a couple of seasons.

It was kind of discarded, but it certainly wasn’t blue

Dear Nameless Angler,

That sickening pop followed by the absent splash probably caused you to curse mightily. I’m hoping you had plenty more tied – but also wanted you to know you’re not guilty of leaving brightly colored non-biodegradable waste on the riverbank for some innocent doe to ingest, cough her life out in a bloody paroxysm, and lie there rotting…

Bow serving is a known weakness of American Shad

That neon Orange bow serving caught my eye as I was dragging my aching rear end out of the line – feeling that five hours of eight weight is how Nolan Ryan’s arm feels after nine innings and a third comeback…

Recognizing real genius when I see it, I pocketed your sample and husbanded it back to the tying bench for massive duplication.

Like all selfless anglers, I was tempted to name it the “Singlebarbed Invented This All By His Lonesome Fly” – but small shreds of decency remain and I’m required to give credit where credit’s due.

Your fly is elegant, simple, sinks like a tramp steamer after a mating dance with an iceberg – and appeals to Shad in a sinister and potentially sexual manner.

The extinction of another noble species, but it's not my fault, really

Since you invented it, you should be ashamed of yourself.

You’ve placed an entire species on the brink of extinction, and even though I’m ass deep in cold water exploiting your fly at this very moment, the first warden that comes by and crooks his finger at me, I’m gonna rat you out.

Then I’ll make like Vanilla Ice and claim I never sampled your fly or David Bowie, and change the tail by a half shade – achieve fame everlasting and stomp life out of an entire species.

P.S. I found my spool of serving (circa 1985) – but was horrified to find the Brownell folks have switched to braided Dyneema, and no longer make the monofilament flavor.

If you would be so kind, drop me a note with your substitute – anywhere along the Sacramento or American would be fine…

She knew the fish would die – and they hung her for it…

Gorton's doing hard time It’s one of the more painful lessons a fisherman learns in his career; if the Fishing Gods smile  and you’re successful beyond your wildest dreams, never call your pals and insist “let’s go again tomorrow, we’ll get limits in minutes…”

… or at least find out what the statute of limitations are beforehand, as it’s now a crime?

A Danish TV reporter has been convicted of animal cruelty for killing 12 aquarium fish with shampoo for a consumer affairs show.

Firstly, it never .. ever .. works out that way. The God’s smile only once or twice per lifetime, and even though you caught and released hundreds – whilst cackling gleefully – your buddies will face a lifeless creek despite your protestations otherwise…

… and secondly, the call makes the crime premeditated, and the next decade will have you leaving the bar of soap where it falls, despite your exertions in the exercise yard.

You were fine until you discovered the mortality rate of caught and released fish was around 8% – now you’re liable in the all encompassing court of political correctness.

I hear that old Fisherman whose likeness graces Gorton’s frozen fish dinners – is doing life.

What color wine do you serve with Nintendo?

The Pedisedate Helmet Nitrous Delivery System I’m not sure this won’t spawn a revolution in casting instruction – curing timing ills, yips, wild animal incursion, and your golf swing – all with a single inhalation. Billed as an anesthetic delivery system for children and capable of administering nitrous oxide in precise dosages, why not have a  dozen ampoules in your vest for those “strategic” moments when your partner sets hook like Godzilla …

…or when the enraged Grizzly is charging the pair of you in dense underbrush –  as your pal giggles and points at 800 pounds of furry carnage you turn and run yelling, “take a big snort – it’ll turn you invisible!”

Watching some fellow attempting to cast for the first time, frantically keeping the line aloft by redoubling his efforts; hand him the head piece innocently and mention, “… talk to Captain Kirk …” That’ll slow tensed muscles and whippet-like reflexes so timing has a chance to assert itself.

I’d call it the “(Giggle) Sure!©” as it’s the only response you’ll hear once huffing starts in earnest.

A flat tire at the access and it’s black dark? Just crank the dial a couple notches and ask your pal to “walk to town for me, and get me a couple new tires, I’ll wait here … Oh, and a pizza …”

It’s certainly not for everyone as it’ll play hell with tying small dry flies. Big and colorful is suddenly twice as appealing, but by the third fly all you can think of is a Mango-Chutney Daiquiri with a generous dollop of Peanut Butter, and you’ll play hell finding those late at night.

Just think up a convincing tale for your buddy’s spouse – you’ll have to explain the torn clothing and abrasions somehow.

Can white be the new black (eye)?

Fly fishing has countless taboos and minor demons, accidentally trodding upon the grave can be overlooked, but violating the unspeakable sins warrants banishment and shunning …

As unkempt appearance and questionable hygiene draws me ever closer to that event horizon, a pocketful of permanent markers shouldn’t damage my stature much – even if the rest of the brethren start with the pitchforks and torches.

The last frontier - or merely earning the wrath of your fishing companions 

Considering all the glitter and effluvia I’m throwing around the living room while tying shad flies, and with the question of this season’s “must have” color not yet established, why wouldn’t the agile angler tie everything in white – then crack out the felt pens as needed?

There … I’ve said it.

Chemical based fly tying is long overdue. We’ve allowed dyed materials only because we kilt all the natural colored wild stuff, and with countless colors available, including bleaches and tie-dye effects, why wouldn’t we unleash some technology at this last bastion of the recalcitrant?

Fly shops have a longstanding cartel on patterns and variants, relying on our voodoo-luck based superstition to ensure they sell both Hendrickson’s and Dark Cahill’s, despite an Adam’s laying considerable smack on both those aged tarts.

Shad flies are horribly simple, tail, beadchain, and something that connects the two – a handful of fluorescent markers could be exactly what’s needed.

If the “hot” fly is orange, an interior pocket stuffed with Sharpies produces a fix to the glaring vacancy in your arsenal, and if purple – simply color over the orange flies used earlier. As long as your progression went from light to dark you could color over the flies multiple times like unwanted tattoos.

As there’s only about four possibilities each year; pink, orange, green, and shiny, 75% of the fishermen would benefit, leaving only the fellows that guessed right to get pissed.

Check that fellows pockets for felt pens 

Burn up last season’s aging colors by restoring the lost art of “tagging” – defacing bridge abutments, parked cars, and sleeping anglers. It’d be refreshing to trod under the highway bridge and glance up to see something other than misspelled bile.

Birds and Bees do it, but nobody raw-dogs Old Faithful

Let Darwin mete out punishmentI suppose Grandma viewing the deed via web cam requires management intervention, but I’m not sure corrective action is required, as Old Faithful is likely to get some – when least expected.

“Raw-dogging” a geyser probably had them fellows in hysterics, as it’s the highest form of Russian Roulette with the Precious. I figure it would’ve made YouTube anyways – probably spawned another Internet sensation or two – but if the fellow hadn’t consulted his watch, or Old Faithful forgot daylight savings, that would have been funnier.

Fishermen are a bit more discreet, but just barely. We’ve peed on almost every sacred monument and artifact out there – and if it wasn’t in it, it was near whatever fed it – which counts double.

Being experts in fluid dynamics and swathed in impenetrable layers of Goretex or Neoprene means every step is calculated; which houses are visible, road traffic patterns, joggers and dog walkers, boaters and hikers, each threat is logged, noted, and categorized.

There’s a shiftiness in eye movement that betrays the deed. Intently scanning water gives way to clipped syllables and furtive glances at available rocks, Old Growth, impenetrable blackberry thickets, and the calculated measurement of mid-riffle to bank – and whether he can get back before opposition slides into his spot.

Impromptu just doesn’t fit the mold. The average bladder is 1 liter capacity and gives the signal when half full. Naturally it’s overridden by whether the fish are biting, a hint of fish activity, or human competition.

Banned from Yellowstone for two years is harsh, an overcooked dog and six months of skin grafts, priceless.

I’m with Darwin.

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Single Tasteless and Artificial Only

It’s demonstrative of the raw power of Singlebarbed prose – Berkeley has introduced a “mutt” Powerbait, but what’s scarier is they’re claiming the moral high ground with a “green” biodegradable Trout Nugget.

Single Barbless and Artificial I’ve always assumed “bait” had to be biodegradable by definition, if not it’s artificial.

Plastered on a single barbless hook, it’d fit the spirit of the “single-barbless-artificial” requirement of trophy water, and I can’t help wondering why some angry fellow hasn’t tested that statute.

They’ve planted Pike in Lake Davis and Sunfish in Martis Reservoir in protest – why not engage in some massive class action suit that ties up these regulations for a couple millenia?

Even Merriam Webster is in the know “3: a decoy for attracting animals to capture: as a: artificial bait used for catching fish.”

The California Department of Fish and Game lacks a definitive answer in their regulations pamphlet, and I drew a blank on both website and the volumes of errata and legislation contained therein.

“Artificial-fly” is defined in the 2009 Freshwater Regulations:

1.08. Artificial Fly.
Any fly constructed by the method known as fly tying.

PB&J_Stone

The “PB&J Stonefly” I whipped up would qualify; I should’ve used Creamy versus Super Chunk, but  the proportions were close – and Strawberry is every kids favorite.

The technique was simple, daub a finger full on chenille so it sticks – wind the resultant mess up the hook shank, smooth to the proper taper and top with jam.

… and before you get all huffy, note the jam was applied with a dubbing needle just like head cement – only with a lot more finger licking.

Caper & grilled Mozerella Midge

The “Caper Stuffed Grilled Mozzarella Midge” simply leapt off my plate.

Melted Mozzarella partially cooled and spun into a gelatinous fiber – wound around a Scud hook, and topped with a neutral buoyancy Caper.

… the Brown Trout variant uses Sauerkraut …

With all the robust and fibrous foodstuffs available, I’m wondering whether the “Rachel Ray of Fly Fishing” isn’t worth some serious coin on the lecture circuit.

… sure, all the purist SOB’s would boo and catcall – then notice their wife had wandered off and the outcry would dim accordingly  … she’d be clustered around my sample tray inquiring which wine went best with a Royal Stroganoff…

I’d be the next “Doctor Death” – and while the gendarmes would follow me around the state, giggling as they slapped the cuffs on me, my attorney would be filing yet another motion daring some court to prove that a Chicken had Nuggets – or the McNugget was part of something with a recognizable Genus and Species …

I’m sitting in the docket looking all polished and remorseful, and my attorney leans over and whispers, “… and if he starts me off with that weak-ass breaking ball, I’m gonna take him downtown ..”

They’re planted but I wouldn’t call them Peanuts

I’ve always keenly followed angling in Europe as a portent of what we can expect. Our brethren “across the pond” have had an extra thousand years to civilize their landscape, and many of their practices and restrictions are headed our way … with time.

 They call him El Diablo

Fascinating to me is the concept of named fish – and how carp anglers will flock to a certain impoundment knowing that “Old Breadcrust” – when last caught weighed 87 pounds, has packed on a few kilograms more.

Many years ago, one of the fellows I fished with had names for specific fish in a specific run he’d fish nightly. Hearing the score card was a little creepy, ” I caught Alan and Chad, foul hooked Bob in the arse with a Little Yellow Stone, right after breaking off George.”

A voice from one of the other cars in the darkened parking lot, “Oh, you finally broke it off with George?”

Me, I peel waders innocently counting on darkness to hide my grin.

I’ve named quite a few fish in the dirt water – most because of distinguishing characteristics; unnatural lust for a certain fly, missing body parts, or something similar – but mostly I’ve always thought of the practice as reason to fish somewheres else.

“Legendary” fish gives an interesting slant – provided the names are appropriately evil, desperate, or vicious. “I busted a cap in TinkerBelle’s ass.” – could lead to another darkened parking lot exchange – or tears streaming down the face of a child, and both should be avoided.

It certainly makes explaining “catch & release” easy, how the fish gets bigger if he’s allowed to live. Perhaps we’ll get to stop preaching and spend more time practicing that concept.

As we migrate to private impoundments and association-owned stillwater, it’ll offer the proprietor a steady source of revenue – as care and maintenance should influence growth, thereby making his fish notorious and worthy of a multiple hour drive.

When the world record dies of old age, we’ll get dozens of “Loch Ness” sightings; pre-dawn monsters seen by the red rimmed eyes of grizzled locals – hushed whispers in the parking lot over cold thermos coffee, while the distraught dogwalker asks had we seen Fluffy…

“Hey Bob, bet ‘Old Razorblade’ is burping up a dog collar …”

As always there’ll be some uniquely American slant to the affair so we can claim we invented it, my bet is we’ll eschew the “boilie” concept in favor of the single, artificial …

… Deep Fried Twinkie.

Landing the Mother’s Day Carp

He will win who, prepared himself, waits to take the enemy unprepared

There’s no question I’m a backbiting SOB, but little brothers learn to fight like the Taliban; stick and move, utilizing mobility to strike where your opponent is weakest – never hanging around for a static defense, as the size of your opponent is overwhelming.

All warfare is based on deception.

I called Older Bro to mention the creek was dead, water flow that of a garden hose, mentioning his new reel had arrived, but as I was distraught over the demise of my fetid little trickle – I was to mourn its passing by getting gloriously drunk.

Peace proposals unaccompanied by a sworn covenant indicate a plot.

Knowing Older Bro was keenly reading slurred speech and apparent sloth, but was fat and soft from year’s of non-competition, he’d lower his guard just enough not to set the alarm clock.

Now in order to kill the enemy, our men must be roused to anger; that there may be advantage from defeating the enemy, they must have their rewards.

The elusive Mother's Day Carp, golden and succulent, but you've got to get up early 

Mother’s Day dawns with my ample hams perched in Ma’s bounteous kitchen – surveying the Golden Fleece, a pound of Ma’s famous Lemon Cake with nary a scratch to mar its surface.

No ruler should put troops into the field merely to gratify his own waistline; no general should fight a battle simply out of greed.

I feign disinterest, despite the insistence of the Cook whose delight at seeing the prodigal son (who lives hours away) requires her to bundle the entire .. blessed .. whole.. dessert – without thought to Older Bro; whose scouts alert him far too late to marshal his forces in time for my blazing .. fast .. getaway.

If it is to your advantage, make a forward move; if not, stay where you are

A couple of zipcodes later, I checked my dust for signs of pursuit. Seeing none I make a reasonable Chipmunk imitation; cheeks bulging with golden baked goodness. – intent on despoiling my prize, as fingers is the least of an older brother’s worries.

To Sun Tsu’s legacy I’ll add:

Damn, Ma’s Lemon Cake is sure tasty.