Category Archives: humor

A Rose by any other name smells like controversy

It does get a little confusing at times I’ve seen much hand wringing and ire over fly names. Idle banter and fly fishing forum chat quickly turn to religious discussions over the ethical way to name your latest creation.

I’m puzzled why ethics should enter into it at all. Fishermen aren’t known as paragons of virtue, and fly fishermen are the worst of the lot.

At the crux of the debate is variations, how adding a green tail to a known pattern isn’t considered a new fly, merely a variant of whatever the tail got pinned on. I’ve no issue with the concept, just surprised how worked up fishermen get over the whole naming thing.

We could use a biblical scheme, laced with “begats” and immaculate conception – but we don’t use an oral history anymore, relying on books and printed media for hints of origin.

“Silver-Arsed Wombat Begat Green-tailed-silver-tipped Wombat begat Reduced-Low Water Wombat-with-egg-Cluster” seems overly tedious and would drive the guy labeling the fly bins crazy.

There’s the “Kentucky Derby” method, using Sires and Dams – but that’s  just as cumbersome.

Personally, I prefer the “Middle Management” naming schema – if the fly is deadly, I take credit for it – and if not, I blame someone else for its shortcomings.

I believe Darwinism holds for fly names as well, a hint of risque or fun is likely to make it more memorable than “that White fly.”

We’re not going to settle the issue here, but I’ve never cared for “tagging” flies with personal names – too many “Tim’s” and “Steve’s” for me to remember, and it lacks any of the flavor and energy that fly fishing represents.

Dave Whitlock started the “tagging” phenomenon back in the 1980’s, everything that came out of his vice was “Dave’s” or “Whit’s” – something or other – a practice that virtually guarantees oblivion. Old flies handed down from dusty tomes have catchy names and “Bob’s” or “Dave’s” isn’t among them.

I’m guessing immortality is the root of the practice, as vanity has no place in angling – especially after you smear insect repellant on your face using the same hand you dipped in the salmon egg jar…

Might as well name the creation whatever you like – and if you’ve just met the guy with his hand out for your flies – mention it’s a “Skunk with a Green Butt” rather than risk “Green Butted Skunk.” If you’ve just caught six fish and he’s caught none – no sense goading the fellow further.

But if you’re determined to inflict a new fly in everyone’s box – show some pizzazz .. I wouldn’t make room for Bob’s Stonefly Nymph on general principles – but I’d tie crap outta them if were called the “Snotty Dilettante” or “Rest-home Orgy.”

Think of the rest of us for once…

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Dad could earn massive points, but remember the dead pan delivery

Mickey takes one for the team It could be the most sinister fishing excursion ever – what with the kids screaming in delight and your spouse forking over the Bonus Points by the shovel full …

With proper marketing and your ability to deliver with a straight face, it’s instant hero – “Poppa finally sees the light” – and rather than drag the family into the woods for another Mosquito-fest, “we’re going to Disneyworld!”

Just pack the tackle after dark, while Mom and those golden haired waifs can dream of Sugarplums without the cold light of day to interrupt.

The lakes were stocked in the 1960s with more than 70,000 young largemouth bass, which were allowed to grow undisturbed until fishing excursions were begun in 1977, Disney publicists say.

How you extricate yourself for a couple hours is your own look out, you could try the time honored, ” something disagreed with me at Cinderella’s Royal Table” or maybe “Goofy put his thumb in my soup.”

A two hour “catch and release” outing, with guide and boat is $250.00 – that means no evidence to dispose of and you can have the tackle stowed before Ma and the kids get back from breakfast.

It may be the “Perfect Crime” as $250 won’t even raise an eyebrow when Ma gets the credit card bill, she’ll be guilting over all the other expenditures and will assume she spent it.

Pick a guide with “Normal” ears – it won’t help your case any when Goofy or Mickey takes a weighted Clouser upside the head. The bandage alone will arouse your kids suspicions – especially after Goofy has to be dragged to your table for the follow-on breakfast.

I’m betting the Pompadour wouldn’t move if he took a header

You’re aware of the decline in fishermen and license sales, how “them as will inherit” are more likely to play the electronic version than actually venture into the woods.

With state and federal budgets adversely affected, a tourniquet is needed to reverse the trend and restore “Man’s Oldest time-wasting pursuit” back onto it’s ivory pedestal.

A consortium of agencies undertook the development of an “Outdoor Fly Fishing Awareness” campaign, hiring the promoter responsible for the  highly successful “50 State Quarters” program of the US Mint.

Each state is represented by a celebrity citizen carefully chosen to demonstrate the qualities and character needed for the successful angler, whose role and activities in the angling community are near-legend.

Mr. Las Vegas hisself

First to release is the 2008 “Nevada” poster, guaranteed to make them disenfranchised couch potato’s flock to the stream in droves. Nothing like a little “Danke Schoen” to revitalize that waning hunter-gatherer ethic dulled by Domino’s Pizza.

Hell, you knew I was going to follow all them serious posts with something akin to lying outright and completely silly…

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It’s either why I can’t catch anything – or they can’t dribble

My what big hands you have, GrandmaInstead of bills there’s a fishing mag waiting in my mailbox. I’m cradling it tightly threading my way through cars, chores, and girlfriends, hoping the porcelain throne and it’s locking door will provide me the uninterrupted ability to digest it properly.

Fly fishing magazines are “anti-matter” for the Playboy’s of our youth; the former is read by looking at the pictures, and the latter digested by reading only the articles…

.. at least that’s the story Ma got when she found my stash.

Grab any two covers off the current crop of angling literature and you can’t help wonder why these fellows weren’t first round NBA draftee’s. Most anglers are sturdy enough, of unknown size as they’re usually crouching –  and all possess a singular trait that the NBA scouts have to covet..

… hands bigger than their head.

Is it a freak of nature, or is this the reason I’m only marginally successful? Is the Spey rod craze merely an excuse to get a longer cork handle – so them “cover-guys” can get a comfortable grip for once?

Wouldn’t surprise me one bit – but it’s a tad discouraging, all the “fly tyer” covers have guys with normal hands, so we’re to toil in frustration while “Meat” goes home with the Prom Queen?

Dammit, I thought them days was a chilling and distant memory.

With the multi-million dollar contracts of the NBA, these lads are either philanthropists or they can’t dribble.

It certainly gives me pause – but I’m odd like that.

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Yes it borders on sacrilege, but is it Xtreme?

The Royal Coachman is the poster child for fly fishing, it adorns more highball glasses and drink coasters than any other fly in history. It’s an ancient and noble creation that spawns a popular variant every decade or so…

The last major upgrade was performed by Lee Wulff, converting the venerable duck quill flavor into a brawling fast water creation – the Royal Wulff. It’s a great fly – floats well despite calf tail wings and floss, and repopulated fly boxes for most of the 80’s.

It’s time we update the “old gal” – what with all the stunning synthetics we’ve added in the last 20 years, you’d think the “Royal Something-Or-Other” would have some opalescent synthetic, rubber bug’s arse, or wiggle legs that renews this timeless pattern for the next millennia.

“Political Correctness” has colored the last couple of decades – so the “Coachmen” may no longer be appropriate. “Equine Engineer” may be a bit much, but something is needed to jazz the fly up a bit as well as smooth over the cultural divide..

Something old and something new, the Pierced Plantagenet

With pierced nostrils all the rage – I’m thinking a couple barbels uniquely defines the decade, and as us boorish colonials remain fascinated by royalty, I dub thee “Pierced Plantagenet.”

I’m open to a better idea, otherwise I’ll see you at the coronation.

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I’m kinda partial to Miss Pikeminnow myself

It may be the perfect marketing ploy, combining babes, beer, minor fishing luminaries, and part of the proceeds for charity, now every mancave can be festooned with half naked gals sporting cold beer, and if anyone protests you can act wounded or hurt…

Miss Lakemaid Largemouth, agressive and vocal may be too much

I’m not sure Miss Lakemaid Largemouth (above) would be my first choice, I have to assume she’ll have some of the characteristics of both species; aggressive, vengeful, predatory, and vocal. You can skip the “caress and release come hither” bit – she may be willing but your reaction will be – “dammit, she slimed me.”

Minneapolis marketing agency Pocket Hercules has woven an intricate back story around the brew that features mythical Lakemaids (half woman, half fish). It includes a website (www.lakemaidbeer.com), mascots (12 Lakemaids) and celebrity endorsers (fishing personalities Dick Gryzwinski, Larry Dahlberg and Larry Bollig). Gander Mountain, the St. Paul-based outdoors retailer, is selling Lakemaid gear at its stores in Minnesota and Wisconsin. A portion of the profit from Lakemaid Beer and gear will be donated to the International Game Fish Association for freshwater fish research and conservation.

Miss Northern Pike Lakemaid - uses Rotenone for Shampoo

Stick with the beer, if the relationship is consummated you’ll spend your weekend’s parenting …  Imagine Miss Northern Pike delivering the “..don’t accept candy on treble hooks from strangers” lecture – and keeping a straight face…

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An unexpurgated interview with the Trout Underground, both of them

Tom Chandler releases another fish that I can't talk about “Jesus Tom, this is going to make a hell of a story, I’ll flip you for the rights to tell it.”

“What story?”

“We caught 56 trout in an hour, one of which is likely a new state record, all on dry flies, without budging from the car – in my book, that’s a hell of a good yarn.”

Tom looks at me like he stepped in something distasteful, “Noob, how do you figure 56 fish?”

“Well, there was the 4 at the big rock, the dozen from that nice pool, 8 we did in that riffle above, 6 at the Falls, 8 at the Bridge, 3 while we were signing autographs, 8 at the Island, 14 while we were posing heroically for them sunbathers, and 5 just now… I make that 56.”

Shaking his head with disgust, Tom leans closer, “You haven’t learned a goddamn thing today have you? You can’t mention the fish from Rock X as I’m under a gag order from the Shasta County Guides Association, Riffle Y can’t be mentioned as a buddy told me about it, and the Falls was a trick I learned from Jimmy Reams, who’d have my ass if I mentioned it in print.”

“Ahh,” I says, “I get it, but we still have the fish from …”

“Nope, the Bridge is private property,  the “autograph” fish were planted, and the Island …” TC visibly shudders, ” … forget about the Island.”

“Likewise for the 14 fish we caught near the topless nubile’s, the L&T Nancy will turn six shades of purple and I’ll be mowing lawn for months if she finds out.”

“No problem Tom, we still have the dozen from the pool and the last 5, including that bruising 9lb Rainbow you just landed, you may want to save a chunk of that 8X in case the IGFA wants to see it..”

“Negative, that was ‘Old Drooler’ – the guide’s use him for tips – and I’d be a Laughingstock if he made the print media, last year they all chipped in and had the Mount Shasta dentist add a prosthetic lower jaw, as he’s been caught that many times … the last five were Redband trout, we can’t mention they exist.”

I start tearing the pages out of my notepad, “..so we didn’t catch anything?”

“Not a damn thing, kid.”

Seeing my consternation, TC relents, “Interview Wally the Wonderdog, he loves seeing his name in print.”

On cue, the big lab parks his arse on my foot looking up expectantly – big brown eyes without hint of intelligence saying, “No one ever pets me, ever..”

I recognize I’m being thrown a bone, as Wally is a neo-icon in the angling world – so I open to an untrammeled page in my notebook, “Wally, dry fly or nymph, which do you prefer?”

No one ever pets me, ever …

“Can I put you down for a ‘Yes?'”

The distant tinkle of the telephone interrupts the reverie, and as Tom Chandler charges up the staircase to answer – I’m thinking, don’t get mad – get even…

The car door’s open, and I start shoveling chow at Wally like he’s a muzzleloader; overly-warm greasy beef sticks – unwrapped, gone … yesterday’s banana, inhaled, Kiwi Lime yogurt cup from last season, vanished … stale cookies from yesterday – woofed, Turkey breast and a Hardy reel case, skarfed …

The steady “thud-thud” of the tail wag is starting to slow, and TC appears at the top of the stairs. “How’s the interview going?”

I’m masking my giggle by chewing on my pencil, “Great, we’re just about unwrap … er …wrapped up here… and lastly Wally, how does it feel to crap indiscriminately near all of the finest trout water in Northern California?”

You are my new best friend, can you rub my stomach …

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We’re assuming standard "cover two" formation

The Computer Fishing Glove - coming soonWe’ve seen clothes that can store and generate power, what’s always been in doubt is what we need the power for….

The Boys at MIT have answered part of the mystery with the HCID (Handwear Computer Input Device), a glove based computer interface currently destined for the military.

“Old Guys” use fishing to “get away from it all” – but the Youngblood’s want to bring it with them, interfaced digitally with their cellular network, their Blackberry device, and satellite if needs be.

Why? Hell, that’s the easy part – so they can taunt their pals.

Can be a versatile electronics platform for a variety of possible
devices (e.g., metal detector, lifesign sensor, etc)

Select the view mode of your helmet-mounted display without having to take your hand off your weapon or vehicle handgrip.

Translation: Film the proceedings midstream and upload it to YouTube without changing the grip on your rod. Dial your buddy and via the audio component question his ancestry, simultaneously grinding your point home with slo-motion or instant replay.

Input commands into your computer using intuitive hand-arm gestures

I’m assuming you can desensitize the device to the common fly fishing hand gestures:

You should have been here last week

I was here first, don’t forget I’m next to you in the parking area

My fly is imbedded in your ear, no hurry, but could you…

You’re blind, that fish was no more than 10″

Nice fish, you hooked it in the ass so it doesn’t count

I’ve none of the good flies left, I want half of yours.

Large hole in my waders, I’m done

Warden visible

Tailing loop and split shot, you’re in jeopardy

My sandwich might have Salmonella

 Spinner Fall

My flybox is headed your way, grab it before it sinks

You’re wasting time with that fly

You’re mistaken, I did not take the last beer

It’s safe to cross here, you first..

(Props to the lads at unconventional.airsoft.com for their illustrations.)

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I’ll be doubly watchful for splinter cells equipped with Sage or Hardy

Somali style I’m studying “Boarding Strategies of the Somali Pirates,” a handwritten tomb outlining seventeen ways to abduct a small freighter armed with harsh language and an AK-47.

No, I’m not some nutcase – I’m rising to the occasion – the Federal government has just released anti-terrorist guidelines for small boaters, and that’s us…

“…the Bush administration wants to enlist the country’s 80 million recreational boaters to help protect the country against a nuclear or radiological bomb.”

I’m prepared to roar up to any fellow peacefully anchored in some lake and demand to see his identity papers. It’s immaterial that he’s actually fishing where I want to … I’m a patriot, and he’s out of luck.

According to an April 23 intelligence assessment obtained by The Associated Press, “The use of a small boat as a weapon is likely to remain al-Qaida’s weapon of choice in the maritime environment, given its ease in arming and deploying, low cost, and record of success.”

A float tube and a rusty 12 gauge should allow me to prowl my favorite water with impunity.  Any fellow with better tackle is suspicious, and if he catches more fish than me, he’s funded by a offshore terrorist cell. It’ll be a “shot across the bow” followed by Citizen’s Arrest and confiscation of anything chemical, longer than 8 feet, and made in England.

I’ll have to test for nerve agents back at the house, so he can forget about his sandwich and cooler, and as it’s a militia action, I can ignore the Geneva convention and drink his beer in front of him..

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Fly Tying theater, who needs Taimen when you’ve got ample bullshit

He's evil, but you don't have to look The only guys more wrapped up in fantasy than anglers are NFL Draft commentators. I see it as much ado about nothing, but Draft Day is the best fly tying theater imaginable.

There’s nothing to watch other than well coiffed analysts guessing what the coach will pick, then recovering quickly to say, “I told you so” as soon as the pick is in.

Old war movies and the NFL draft have always been massive profit tools for commercial tyer’s; you glance up quickly at the guts scene, or the partially clad heroine getting less clad, then return to wrap tiny hackles on tinier flies.

I do it to avoid eye strain, keeping the TV inline with the vise jaws – allowing me to focus close then focus long, so the eyes don’t fatigue.

It’s the first time Opening Day coincided with the draft that I can remember, as I’d elected to curry favor this weekend for the promise of adventure on the next, I put it to good use.

Mel Kiper shares a lot with Santa Clause, both are famous for a day and the rest of the 364 they’re forgotten. In Kiper’s case, it’s a good thing – as only his ego is larger than his bouffant.

I kept flashing on what it’d be like to fish with Mssr. Kiper, figuring it would be akin to his draft commentary;

“I project he’ll go for an emerger, but he’s got needs at both Hare’s Ear and Coachman, a sparkle pupa would be a nice fit, what with the combination of size and explosive speed.”

“A pale Olive paradun would be a reach at this position, but his last two selections were predictable, the caddis taken in the first round, and the oversized dun – who’d make a great prospect as a spinner…”

It’s sick, I know – but despite the banal drone from the Tube, I still managed to bang out 3 dozen Horner Deer Hair’s (Humpy), his hair reminded me of the need for more fast water dries.

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