Category Archives: Nothing to do with Fishing

And so shall it return to the aquifer from whence it came

Naturally I attributed my proximity to my earlier howl of misfortune. Rant or critique being immaterial as there was no expectation of accomplishing anything, rather the commentary was like the Bat Signal over Gotham City – Justice being more important than revenge.

I walk in it, I fish in it (I scratch my chins after fishing because of it), and you are an unknowing consumer of it. Much of the Northern snowmelt feeds it, trucks haul it, and chemicals kiss it to juicy perfection.

Truckload436

… and on rare occasion the rear half of the semi stutter-steps into the turn just a bit fast, and the life giving snowmelt is returned to its prior form after a bit of sunlight and decay.

Which can smell like … well … Justice.

Naturally being a tremendous fan of both physics and dumpster diving, I opted to cut my fishing trip short and assist the Department of Transportation in clearing this dreadful mishap.

… with a shovel and a waiting pickup bed.

boiling_tomatoes

These are the Roma variety, commercial grown to be a dense fruit with a thick skin to aid harvest and transport.  Boil until the skin starts cracking, then shock under cold water to loosen the skin. Peel. Toss five pounds in a bag to freeze so they soften further when unfrozen, and then chopped or blended to make crushed tomatoes for spaghetti sauce. Toss in some extra parsley, basil, chopped onions, and a few bay leaves and refreeze as “Italian seasoned.”

Just remember my hammy feet when your spouse says, “We’re having Italian tonight, Sweetums …” A gift from my watershed to your suddenly sensitive colon.

A year’s supply of turkey tails in a single outing

The steady beat of his tail suggested he knew most of the dialog on his care and feeding was likely to be disregarded out-of-hand. I leaned over to scratch behind Meat’s ear, echoing the last commandments of his owner,  “… perhaps one tasteful cup of dry dog food with a little organic chicken broth sprinkled on it, should tide him over handsomely.”

Naturally that ration was fit for someone’s parlor plaything, not the fierce, trailblazing fishing dog I would be looking after for the next couple of weeks.

A real fishing dog is capable of fetching a rattlesnake in mid-rattle, whose exposed white teeth and fierce growl cause competing anglers to bolt for the safety of the car, and whose keen nose ferrets out the freshest of road kill, crunching through bones and meat yet always leaving the fur or most desirable feathers intact.

… and any animal capable of scaring a full year’s supply of turkey tails off fat-arsed birds unused to being first herded then chased, warrants a meal fit for a fellow outdoorsman ..

Dog_Dinner

Yes, he’s pretty much useless for the next four hours but that’s true of all of us. We recoup precious calories via midday orgy and subsequent nap, ensuring we’re in top form for the evening hatch.

I sprinkled it liberally with organic chicken broth assuming it would ease passage through the small intestine … I just need to take him to the creek again tomorrow to ensure all evidence of our misdeeds is left there, rather than on the front lawn.

And like everything else we hold dear, we’ll screw this up mightily

PictureScience suggests that with most arable land under cultivation and with the world’s oceans under duress, the only unexploited source of food remaining is insects.

By 2050 meat production will have to increase by 50 percent. Considering that we already use one third of croplands for the production of animal feed, we will have to look for alternative food sources and alternative ways of growing it," she said. Her suggestion for alternatives is in the form of a domestic appliance that can make protein food out of black soldier flies.

Which for fly fishermen should evoke mixed emotions; we’ll eventually find issue with wanton over-harvesting of Ephemera Guttulata, and we’ll insist on drone strikes on the fleet of Asian factory ships perched off the Columbia, Mississippi, or other local waterway …

But not before spawning a bevy of neo-prophets insisting we, “ …think like the trout, eat like a trout, BE the trout.”

… which will drive an outpouring of wellness-centric, nouveau cuisine,  dry fly recipe books where someone insists, “ … and with a hint of garlic and white wine, Baetis Burger is reminiscent of Chicken …”

The best part being all those YouTube videos we’ll watch featuring well known anglers postulating why a #16 Adams is the “go-to” dry fly … “Well Bob, if you were a fish which would you prefer, that Olive damselfly which tastes like a Chevron station urinal cake – or the Hex – which sucks up all those toxins while it spends a couple of years in mud? ..”

…  and like everything else we hold dear – we’ll screw this up mightily.

First we’re liable to turn our nose up at anything other than “wild bugs”  – which we’ll loosely define as “any insect clinging to a turd so long as its host dries above 7000 feet in elevation” (the notion of Pristine Bug).

Secondly, as all fishermen hate the taste of fish we’ll throw that same blanket over most of the six-legged stuff we currently mash into the gravel underfoot. Opting instead for large fries and some unknown buglike substance served in a greasy wrapper by some pimply teen at the drive thru.

Lastly, like the caste system of India we’ll have the Untouchable’s; any insect that was used as bait back when steaks were plentiful. This’ll ensure maggots, grasshoppers, and meal worms aren’t likely to make our sandwich anytime this century …

… just ask a fellow fisherman if he wants to split a can of sardines with you, note the involuntary shudder.

Of course there will be the occasional off-putting variant. Likely something on sale your wife brings home, so you can discover that Rhyacophilidae needs to be deveined – and even then tastes like chicken liver with a side of beach sand.

Bold New World coming, practice your smutting rise …

A couple guys in waders on Dancing With the Stars could change all that

I was forced to listen to yet another purported fisherman regale me with, “ … the only fish suitable to my palate is the Fillet O’ Fish” … an unabashed reference to the LongJohnus Silverus, that legendary gamefish known only as the “Breaded Unknown.”

… “Unknown,” because its DNA is indistinct and occasionally shows traces of horsemeat … unknown whether it’s a resident of the North Atlantic or South Pacific, and no living creature has witnessed whether it swims, humps its way through the mud, or reproduces outside of a test tube.

… and while my version of fish is often a noble animal and worthy adversary, that distinction has been lost on those that prefer “fast” rather than “good.”

It’s a combination of jaded and jealous, as the only aspect of our pastime that gets airplay is some environmentalist gashing themselves because they saw someone pissing into a trout stream, which brings out the same tired Old Guys to reminisce about the Good Old Days when you could kill everything without repercussion, and not surprisingly, we get few if any converts.

Top Gun boosted recruitment of would-be fighter pilots fifteen or twenty percent, yet for us fishermen the only positive news we can summon is:

fish_mcbites

… and while even that small bit of positive press from the folks that brought you “Umpteen Billion Served” is welcome in the absence of Hollywood starlets in waders, the reality of it all is much harsher …

They Can't Sell it Either Sustainable fisheries be damned, call it Pollack, Polack, or Alaskan Cod, nobody is willing to make eye contact …

… snores contentedly in the safety of His bosom

It’s become quite plain that God adores big fish and cares not at all for me … I suppose it’s because there are so few truly big fish, and there are so many aging and overweight atheists, that the planet could do just fine with less …

My early morning foray was premature in the least, what with Winter only half done and ice crunching underfoot. Nothing stirred in the pre-dawn chill, yet each big flood requires me to inventory 22 miles of river, and with couch-riveting NFL madness some hours distant, I figured to work up a sweat and earn some spinach dip.

Each year the Winter cataclysm reveals itself to be “cleanse” or “cover” flood – moving many hundreds of tons of gravel from upstream to deposit all over the the watershed. Sometimes the gravel removed restores deep water – and in other years covers what used to be a deep run or pool.

Naturally I’m pouting when a favorite spot disappears under a gravel bar, but on occasion during a cleanse, an old hole emerges – or a new hole is formed.

This being a “cleanse” year, I was getting fairly excited, numerous deep slots had appeared in the shallow stretches, and the former “Big Fish” stretch, which had been ankle deep last year, was now 5-6 feet deep and liable to hold considerable fish this Spring.

Then I thought about Old Logjam, that hoary and ancient Largemouth that I’ve been battling with all of last year. His hide-a-way being on the far side of an underwater timber, recessed in a 10 foot deep pool at the roots of an old willow tree, partially submerged.

I can get a fly in there from above, but the doing exposes me to him – and he giggles while pretending to flirt with whatever I toss his way …

… I’d guess Old Logjam to be about seven pounds, and if we were keeping score, which we aren’t, I would run out of fingers quickly … in his favor, naturally.

Old_Logjam

While most of the river is still too deep for hip boots, I slipped and slid my way across loose gravel and heavy current so I could see whether this year’s battle had been made any easier.

… instead, I got a newly scoured twenty foot deep pool, with twenty feet of logs and branch overburden stacked on his protective root ball, ensuring Old Logjam gets even Older …

With us aging fatties gnashing teeth while we donate yet another awesomely tied, impeccable minnow-Crayfish imitation, while Old Logjam snores contentedly in the safety of His bosom …

There’s more to a Crow than feathers

Eating Crow is the toughest dining there is – made especially so by the number of “soapbox sermons” I’ve delivered on the topic of foppish thousand dollar rods and how there was no place in fly fishing for that kind of cash outlay, unless there was a bet involved and this being the bar tab that resulted.

… and while I remain adamant on the subject of fly rods and the usurious dollars being charged, I have found a fishing accoutrement that’s worth a grand and cheap for that price …

 

It’s the Gibb’s Quadski, and while your toes curl at the idea that your fishing is liable to add to the earth’s burdensome carbon footprint, I say it’s time you shuddup and grew a pair.

Forty five miles an hour means never having to buy a fishing license, waders, or a float tube again. It’s immunity to “No Trespassing” signs and angry landowners, and bestows on its owner the awesome knowledge that you can kick sand in the face of interlopers in YOUR riffle.

Watch the angry warden pound the hood of his sinking truck, laugh at the landowner who’s sure you used his cow pasture to access his pristine trout creek, and thumb nose at the violently gesticulating float tuber as your wake pitches him overboard where the weight of his vest drags him under …

To hell with global warming and the price per gallon of dinosaur, with each passing day the best fishing is growing further from your home – requiring you to consume more gallons, spend additional cash, and endure litter, traffic jams, and the occasional movie theatre shootout.

The Quadski becomes your personal equalizer, the ability to tame any environment, pack exotic beer into the most hostile, pristine, or inclement environment, and leave your empties scattered about like D. Boone and his bear offal …

Uh, it’s $40,000 … but what price to outrun a radio?

One and a half days to standing water

It’s research to be sure, but there’s no starched white lab coats, it’s ducking and weaving behind tree trunks and skidding precariously down inclines, all to the continued amusement of the Oft-Crapping Pooch …

My current theory of rainfall, ground saturation, and the rise of the Big Muddy, is that my local soil can assimilate only one and one half days of sustained rain before the creek is the sole beneficiary.

After 36 hours of rain the Little Stinking became mud brown and rose a couple of feet. Three days later it was still up but clear …

After another 24 hours of heavy downpour, the creek was unrecognizable, as it rose about five feet and went from fifty feet across, to nearly 100 yards wide.

Wide and Muddy

Naturally, compressing all that water through the notch at Huff’s Corner narrows it some, which increases both depth and velocity, ensuring a heavy scour.

Narrower but deeper and much fasterAs each new season requires me to retrace my steps to assess all the scour-induced topography changes, I had mixed emotions about the new tree trunk in my favorite hole – whose corresponding root ball now dominates the shallows above. Most of these woody “gifts” claim many dozens of my finely crafted flies, typically when I’m down to the last of whatever is working that day.

I’d feel better if I could claim those flies during the dry spells, but that rarely happens. Each winter sends the log into the brush above the creek and away from view, or launches the beast into the Sacramento, along with all the lawnmowers and decayed shopping carts.

It’s why we walk so far from the parking lot, why we forego all them creature comforts

I had a hard time coming to the realization that my passion for fishing had limits, and despite having suffered every deprivation known to civilized Man, there was a hard limit to what I was willing to endure to catch fish …

jagger

… I was unwilling to “teabag” a cold dead fish as a budding celebrity, just to make sure you thought twice about fish stix …

Fish love, over-exposed celebs posing with over-fished carcasses all to make you really want to kill a contented, grass chewing, Chuck Roast instead.

It took the fly, then fought me to a standstill, like a Bulldog in a flushed toilet

sixpack_tilapia I feel obligated to alert the Scientific community to their shortsightedness, what with the medical doctors urging us to ignore burgers and eat more fish, and fish farmers unable to solve the “flaccid flesh” dilemma, whereby a farmed fish filet is soft, pale, and unattractive.

… and in this election year, with all the “Green Bux” being flung at Greener Jobs, all manner of fitness regimens are being developed, everything from swimming robots to zombie-drugs to make fish school more readily, and all simply to rectify their sodden musculature.

Which leads me to ponder what gets us off the couch and swimming in circles, which I’m pretty certain is mealtime and the drive thru …

We ignore the commandments of our doctors and caregivers, ignore common sense and even good taste, forsaking green salads and fruit cups for Mondo-Fries slathered in Chili, or the inert shake whose straw is perched jauntily as decor, given the compression needed to pull the inert mass through its plastic aperture could pull a tugboat through a keyhole …

And despite our knowing of the leaden meal that awaits us, we leap off the couch with great alacrity, swim upstream navigating traffic, fish ladders, and unruly neighbors, intent on spawning at the mechanical clown with the scratchy teeny-bopper voice.

“It is not completely clear which are the factors that would ‘fool’ live fishes and make them behave in a determined way,” he noted.

… but it’s pretty clear saturated fat might have a big role.

Now that we’ve postulated what might instill the herd mentality in fish, and they’re all swimming in an orderly mass, shouldn’t our hatchery scientists watch for those fish that break ranks, or speed ahead of the pack – and harvest what few defiant genes remain?

We’ve always felt that hatchery fish were inferior to their wild brethren, and now that we’ll be growing legions of lean, hard, Salmon and Tilapia, shouldn’t we select all the rebellious fish as replacements for the wild strain?

… or are you content fighting fish in ever-shortening circles?

Another peril in the coming Zombie Trout Apocalypse

I’d tried to put all the science together so even the dimmest of fishermen (most dry fly purists) could understand their peril…

How most of the species in both fresh and salt water had come to realize that our increased girth was turning this from an innocent blood sport to an “us or them” all out war of extinction …

How carp and stingrays were either flinging themselves out of the water in the hopes of killing the unwary boater – or impaling naturalists as they sought to please Mssr. Nielsen and his coterie of number junkies …

How catch and release had lost its luster with non-fisherfolk, and both society and the fish population regarding us as beasts – intent on impaling fish simply for amusement …

… and how you laughed and elbowed each other thinking I’d obviously been smoking something I shouldn’t …

… now, while that all-knowing smirk still adorns your face, you can add lust for human flesh to the things those flushed female hormones and Estrogen has added to the genome …