Category Archives: trout fishing

The K-2 of fly tying, a solo ascent on dry fly hackle

It was a comment made by Alex at 40 Rivers to Fish that had me pondering fly tying as a whole. Like all artisans you wake one morning and realize you’ve explored most continents – and wonder is this the pinnacle of the craft, and after years of toil – are there no dragons left to slay?

Two or three hundred years of small hooks and smaller feathers doesn’t leave many Everest’s to climb, and with the few surviving manuscripts of “them as came before”, you never know whether it’s really invention or modification you’re working on.

Most real innovation in fly tying has come from new synthetic materials, rather than technique. Simple items we’ve taken for granted hold a great deal more promise than their older counterparts – and poring over countless synthetic fashion yarns has introduced new worlds for me to conquer.

The Granddaddy of all fly tying mountains has been hackle, and most tiers will admit that the big dollars is invested in their collection of genetic chickens, and the unending desire to accumulate more colors and rarer strains to assist in either floating flies or imitating the terrestrial bug.

So long as that continent remains untamed, there’s plenty of uncharted territory for the tinker tyer.

Despite all the synthetics we’ve grown from test tube, and despite the efforts of thousands of fly tiers attempting to find a substitute, only the Haystack/Comparadun series of Caucci-Natasi has yielded an adequate substitute for hackle. Some may argue that the Swisher-Richards No Hackle was viable – but mallard wings don’t stand up to abuse and once tattered, may be eaten as a caddis emerger versus the fully terrestrial mayfly dun.

Cul Du Canard (CDC) has its legion of followers, but most flies are hybrids – a mixture of CDC and chicken hackle – not the truly hackle-free dry that would free us forever of the genetic chicken.

In response to the larger question, I’d suggest there’s a great deal more real estate for the journeyman fly tyer – but it’s rarified turf, a combination of physical properties and technique, where you’ll have to know the first and invent the other.

I’ve attempted Everest many times, and this year I’ve got working prototypes. Chicken farmers are safe, it’ll take a couple more seasons to figure out the tool I need to tie these blazing fast, but the physical qualities are sound, the materials tough as nails, and all I really need are some hungry and desperate fish to make me feel the effort was warranted.

There’s still plenty of refinement needed in both form and execution, and my Brownline activities don’t offer the ability to test dry fly theory – most hatches are Trico or Caenis and I’m reluctant to fish things I can’t see – hackled or otherwise.

I’ve never seen their likeness anywhere – but that doesn’t mean some canny Victorian fly tyer didn’t get tired of his stringy old roosters and use Red Deer in a similar fashion – the only advantage I have is his work was lost to Time.

Flies float because of combination of surface tension and square footage. Meaning, materials heavier than water can float so long as they occupy enough surface to prevent the fly from sinking. Chicken hackle itself is not lighter than water, neither is the hook, tail, or dubbing.

The hackle above the water provides no flotation, neither does the hackle underwater, so it’s the cross section that occupies enough real estate to resist sinking.

Drop a needle into the water point first and it sinks instantly, lay it on the water lengthwise, carefully, and it’ll float.

The answer to our Everest is to find a substitute material that’ll provide the same cross section as chicken – and if it’s durable and cheap, we’ve got something.

Like the Caucci-Natasi Haystack/Comparadun, I’m exploiting deer hair.

The profile is a parachute dry, which after a couple decades of intensive personal use, I fish more frequently than the traditional Catskill dries popularized over the last century.

The Brownline NoHack, slow water edition 

This is the lightly dressed variant, a Blue Wing Olive in size 16. Dun gray elk hair is tied in as the wing, then bent 180 degrees and flared around the post. Wing length and “hackle” retain traditional proportions. The whip finish is spun around the wing rather than the hook shank, as the wing is the final component of the fly.

I had an idea that I could cut the wing loops and pull down more hackle if the fly was fished in broken water. If it works you’ll be able to adjust the amount of hackle with your nippers.

That and you could sever the wing to make the spinner, leaving a little nub so you can pick it out from all the other naturals in the surface film.

The heavier hackled variant is tied completely differently and is still in the beta phase. I’m hoping to finish a couple dozen for the season Opener, which’ll give me and SMJ something to giggle over while fishing.

 Brownline NoHack PMD freestone flavor

Above is #16 Pale Morning Dun using the “heavier hackle” construction method. I didn’t put too much more hackle on this version, but this style allows me to reduce the wing mass despite the use of more elk hair. Hackle and wing are a single bunch of elk/deer that’s trimmed to produce the final wing shape.

I guess I’d answer 40 River’s comment with something different; you spend a couple decades painfully mastering the craft, and when you look around and see nothing that stimulates you, it’s time to stimulate others, taking the craft one small step past your comfort zone.

For me, the tinkering component is an endless amount of hideous barriers to overcome; chicken hackle a physical obstacle, and angler perception an emotional barrier, both await some fellow not satisfied with a McGinty – and wonders can he make a better bug’s arse with a popsicle stick.

You have to read between the lines sometimes

“Furlough Friday” had me on the prowl on the west side of the valley, I’d had the foresight to grab Sweetpea, got her grain-fed and rubbed down and while she gathered her possibles, I’d snuck a rod, vest, and waders into the cab while she wasn’t looking.

It’s the old “winery” gambit, “I think there’s a winery on this road somewhere’s..” – and it worked like a charm. Her howl of indignation at the sight of the rod was much too late, it’s telltale rattle as we squealed onto the Interstate had blown my cover.

Monstrous carp, rainbow trout, bass, and blue water was in the offing – and while the firm set of her chin slowly melted away, compliments of wild flowers and orchards in full blossom, she grudgingly allowed the trip might have merit.

Comes with instructions, rod assembly required 

Winds were gusting heavily and the day use area was being repaired, so I parked in the campground instead. The friendly instructions at lakeside gave me pause,  as the last panel seemed out of place. The arm holding the dead fish somehow didn’t jibe with “Good Luck.”

Locals recognize this as the salutation warning you of the gastronomic consequence of dining on your prey, out-of-towners are oblivious to the mercury laden watershed and must pay the ultimate price.

… hence the “Good Luck” – and explains why the campground bathrooms have big signs limiting “parking” to 30 minutes …

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The missing link discovered and the Olive branch extended

Throw that man an olive branch It’s unification of a sort, something that’s sure to unite the “X-stream” crowd with Blue and Brown water anglers. The Chinese call it a “Snow Trout“, it looks and acts like a Rainbow, only it’s a member of the Cyprinid family which contains both Carp and my beloved Pikeminnow.

I can hear the collective groan from here – both camps pause momentarily in battering each other hoping I won’t suggest a group hug.

Not a %$#@ chance.

The locale is exotic, Mongolia will be left to cruise ships and the camp followers that live in their wake; it’s called a trout – so when the dry fly types hold up their catch in an accusatory manner and insist otherwise – the local guides can smile widely and hide behind the language barrier, and the Pearl River is considered one of the world’s most polluted waterways, which will make the Brownlining aficionados plant flag.

All the enterprising expedition outfitter has to do is keep the respective zealots far apart, add some local myth about ravenous feeding habits and missing schoolchildren, ply both camps with alcohol and watch the cash registers act like slot machines.

Zhujiang Brewery, one of the three largest domestic breweries in China, is located on the Pearl River Delta within the city of Guangzhou.

Paradise.

“Pearl River” conjures some fanciful imagery in the mind of the fiscally prudent spouse; trade winds, grass skirts, and perfumed beaches – all you have to do is nod vigorously on the “perfumed” part, keep a straight face, and you’re there …

My Brook Trout has a first name

Somebody has to put them on a couch Canadian scientists have noted at least two personality types in studies of newly hatched Brook trout, loosely described in lay terms as “Jocks” and “Couch Potato’s.” This shouldn’t surprise any of us – as we’ve been dealing with the human variants since infancy.

“Jocks” feed actively in the water column, and “Tubers” feed in a sedentary manner near the bottom. Interpretation would suggest that the agile fish seek the food, and the more sluggish variant wait for the food to come to them.

It’s likely scientists don’t always have time to follow each other’s research, and coupled with another study that suggests angling selectively targets aggressive fish (Jocks), with the introverts handling much of the reproduction, Brook trout are doomed.

Leaving the species to fat and shy couch potato’s doesn’t bode well for long term survival.

Humans have the wrestled with similar issues; the agile are shipped overseas to be shot at, leaving the sluggish and shy introverts to play video games.  Eventually both groups have to get jobs, which enhances their reproductive viability.

This research explains why the Eastern Brook Trout is the Official Char of the Trout Underground,  throwing those slow bamboo tapers is akin to chumming  for the Couch Potato Brookie, who adore bamboo almost as much as Twinkies.

Braided, dammit – not shaken nor stirred

One of the reason you buy copper wire by the pound versus the shop spool is so you can dominate the Spring runoff with forty-leven pounds of non-toxic, gutslammer nymphs.

Dynamite is neither green nor legal, and on occasion something just as sinister is warranted.

My take on the Copper John, I call it the "Copper Johnson"

It doesn’t look like much but that’s three feet of 34 gauge wire per fly, 20 turns of 1 amp fuse wire and a 4mm bead chaser – just what’s needed when the runoff will be short and violent, just like it was last year.

Actually I’m polishing my braiding skills, I used to be able to bang these out really fast – but declining eyesight has slowed me somewhat.

I bought the “Goldfingering” for Shad flies, which should start sometime in the next couple months, it’s a heavy nylon floss wrapped with a complimentary color of mylar. No sooner did I spy it in my “weird stuff to try” bag – when I started braiding more goodies than I’d anticipated.

Goldfingering, add a Walther PPK to your arsenal

The dark brown and orange made a handsome combination. The balance of colors (especially the multicolored flavors) will flavor my shad flies for the season. This is really tough material, the mylar shine is partially muted by the floss, so it’ll lend itself to a variety of questionable inspirations.

The Over and Under seen from the bottom

The bottom view of an “Over and Under” variant. Woven Goldfingering body (dark brown and orange) two turns of Gedifra Costa Rica polyamide hackle. Dub a little fur in front, then grab the hackle on the top and bottom and pull forward to make two wingcases – leaving the fibers on the side for legs.

Outside of the tail and a dab of dubbing it’s another all yarn fly; cheap, expendable, and when your orthodontist pal asks for some you can tell him, “Doctor, No” or equally bad movie quip.

Will the new frugality reduce the hatchery bonuses paid to anglers?

Angling FatCats supping at the Public Trough? I like the sound of it regardless of motivation, a “put-grow-and-take” fishery versus the standard watery extrusion of 10″ fish through the gauntlet of floating Cheez-it scented Powerbait.

I’ve been many kinds of fisherman throughout my career, but the portrait of the “ovulating” hatchery truck being stalked by a cadre of militant anglers – has always been offputting.

It’s the Charge of the Bucket Brigade reenacted with great violence and no quarter; a stream of pellet-fattened silver splattered from the bridge, accompanied by the snarl of offroad tires, hoots and catcalls mixed with unruly sportsmen jostling for position, and the cheese scented screams of “federales” wrested from their new home.

Planting them at the fingerling stage would end the carnage, allowing them to populate something other than the pool they’re thrust in, and might even engender hatchery fish with “stream smarts.”

With state budgets in upheaval, and wildlife agencies among the first to suffer cutbacks – it might prove to be the economical alternative.

“A put-grow-and-take program is cheaper,” Young said. “It gets fish out of the hatchery system earlier — at six months instead of 18 months — and they look better and have more of a wild-fish behavior. It only takes a year for a fingerling to reach catchable size.”

High mortality rates are an issue with fingerlings, but the mortality rate of planted fish of catchable size may rival that of fingerlings in small waterways.

The costs of hatchery fish cited by the article are fairly astounding. If I were buying them off the restaurant menu, I’d be thinking I was in rarified company ..

The agency has scrapped a program it began five years ago in which it purchased hatchery trout from Tellico Fish Farm in North Carolina to make up for the 2001 closing of Pennsylvania’s Big Spring hatchery. Tellico had charged the state an average of $1.15 per fish (last year it was $1.27) — significantly less than the $2.14 it costs to raise a trout at a Fish and Boat Commission facility. When this year’s Tellico bid came in at $3.38 per trout, the commission drew the line.

Assuming three fish to the pound, that’s a $10 meal. I’d be staring down my nose only long enough to find a wedge of lemon.

Fishing was good, but dinner was better

August and early September are the “boxing” months, not enough bug activity to make any imitation conclusive – and what little is available are the “bar fly” insects, out just before closing time hoping to hook up with something of loose morals and lower standards.

It’s the cause of much head scratching and contemplation, where you dig into the deepest recesses of your fly box for experimentals, bright ideas, and the ugly duckling – something you conceived out of dim light, feather duff, and a hunch.

Boxing makes me think “stick and move” – covering a lot of water and fly patterns hoping something proves consistent. It’s low water and aggressive wading – where a misstep is part calamity and part refreshing – as you’ll dry as quickly as you dampen.

I think SMJ and I pulled out all the stops this weekend – hitting upper, middle, and lower river, and poring through countless flies and pounding the heavy water – fearing little other than a misstep and “the other guy’s” camera..

Friday my fish were on dry flies, Saturday it was all nymphs and Sunday was a blank, neither style proving effective. There was no consensus, as both Joe and I caught fish on a large array of bugs; little Black AP nymphs and black midges for the lower river, Creamy-Orange Parachutes in the middle river, Caddis Variant’s and Brownline Czech-style caddis for the Upper river.

Joe opted for a couple flavors of rubberlegged “stonefly” nymphs, midges, and landed his largest fish on the Brownline Manhattan Leech. We couldn’t agree on much other than dinner was overdue, cigars are good, two splitshot minimum, and that pillow was going to feel really good tonight…

This will galvinate the crowds shortly It’s too early for the fall reawakening, mornings are starting to chill a bit, but that burns off much too quickly. October Caddis always seems to energize the crowds – and there were plenty of the underwater flavor in evidence.

Call it the “Trout Underground Influence” – but the fishing rapidly took second fiddle to SMJ’s sumptuous dinners.

The Upper Sacramento drainage, like most backwoods venues, offers its heroes a choice between cold pizza and velvet-Elvis hamburgers. The first course is a napkin and the last is the bill, with charred bovine somewhere betwixt the two.

SMJ's dinners were multi-course gutbusters

SMJ’s dinners were multi-course gutbusters, pre-cooked for minimal effort – and accompanied by the prerequisite “hearty red” served in plastic ice cream cups. Coupled with the daytime exertion, it was an effort not to fall asleep during the cigars and brandy chaser.

Us “Old Guys” watch our priorities change – where cold ground and cold cuts morph into creature comforts and warm soup.

As Poppa says, “.. any damn fool can be uncomfortable..”

Me and Joe went fishing – a forced introduction to Organo-Radiant cookery

I was hoping for some portly fellow, about 40 pounds past lean, maybe a decade older than me – and with eyesight that died about 4:30 in the afternoon, unable to tie on anything other than a hot toddy.

That way I could dance about striking heroic poses while rescuing him from the fast water, show the same fish six or seven times (claiming they was different), and validate the theory Internet writers are all lean, hard, supermen – able to leap an algae covered boulder in a single bound.

That was my fantasy, anyways…

Instead, I’m staring at some lean predatory fellow in the pre-dawn darkness, he’s got twice as many rods as me, is in better shape, and is still breathing through his nose after loading the truck.

I figure I can shake him in the first riffle, using my superior flab mass to hold bottom while he floats helplessly past, that didn’t work, and as I’m straining to sheath my hindquarters in neoprene, he’s already finished the first two riffles, and patiently waiting for me to catch up.

 

Pure hardcore, the kind of angler where hatches are a luxury, the raw heat of midday is countered with a second split shot, and is waste deep in fast water while the crowd roars out of the parking lot to the cold bosom of air conditioning and heroic storytelling.

Singlebarbed reader San Mateo Joe (SMJ) and I brought the Brownline fervor to the blue water this weekend, leaving cleat marks on rocks, brush, and bear scat with equal aplomb; fishing was difficult with few hatches and little activity, but we were able to counter by covering a lot of water – finding the occasional unwary fish in the areas less traveled.

Down and dirty fishing, perched precariously midcurrent slinging nymphs and shot – “high-sticking” pockets with promise, dawn till dusk with scavenged Blackberries and creek water to hold us between gourmet meals – featuring SMJ’s “organo-Radiant” cookery.

I forgot the fishing after Joe debuted the evening meal, spending the rest of the weekend following him around asking, “..is it lunchtime yet?”

It’s “Organo-Radiant” cookery, eco-friendly and “double green” – bake the lunch in a car interior for seven hours and enjoy cheese melted to perfection, water warmed to near boiling, and Cadbury chocolate reconstituted into a semi-solid by stomping it into the cold creek bottom.

Double Green, compliments of Mayonnaise Then you turn green again when you realize there was mayonnaise on that sumbitch.

Pure heaven after leaning into fast water for most of the day. Precious life-renewing calories that let you shrug off the heat and exertion and settle scores with all the fish you missed earlier.

We made the pilgrimage to visit Darth Chandler and inquire as to the fishing – but he confessed the Maine/Montana exotic venue was more to his liking, and mentioned the astrologist and shaman in nearby Mount Shasta was a wealth of information on local conditions.

He did offer up Wally the Wonderdog as a guide, but only if we dropped him at the masseuse upon our return.

The shaman was a bust, requiring “the beating heart of an eagle, and the adipose fin of those you seek” – and the astrologist was ill mannered, “.. it’s a full moon, dummy – you no catch crap.”

Joe and I gutted it out old school, and did just fine. Details to follow.

Great menu, Cookie – but is that char or dirt on my Dog

The first fishing trip with an unknown angler is always a source of trepidation for both parties; you’re never sure what hand is being dealt, as prowess at the watercooler can turn into any number of outcomes when Nature’s involved.

Anything’s possible, a grizzled veteran or an utter novice, an incessant whiner, or that fellow surprised to find he’s only carrying hundreds.

It’s all part of the new-fishing-buddy pre-nuptial agreement; one or both lowers their guard and reveals the sacred fishing hole hoping they’ve found someone of similar mettle.

Those trashy Louis Lamour Westerns that I memorized described it as, “someone to ride the ridges with ..” – but Louie’s heroes never had to worry about going Dutch at Mickey Dee’s or camping with a metrosexual.

It’s worse than marriage and far more permanent – as you’re stuck with each other for the entire weekend …

Week after next it’s me and [name_redacted] doing a duet on pristine water. I’ve lowered my guard as Brownline activities have me shunned from the marble terraces of clubs, fraternities, and any real angling organizations – and fishing pals is hard to come by.

It’s not personal, I just refuse to be sprayed with 409 prior to the banquet – it plays hell with my complexion.

I open my email last night and [name_redacted] and I have finished the negotiation phase of the pending orgy; he’s doing the cooking, and I’m reclining on a divan helping, “Uh, needs more Garlic..”

I get the below update:

Got an invite to join some friends on a small Sierra
stillwater, so this past Friday night I met my brother
at his house and we headed east up into the Sierras.

We got a late start on Saturday, and saw fish rising
and the tail end of a massive midge hatch, but by the time
we got our float tubes in the water the sun was high and
the fish were down.  I strung up a pair of rods – one
with a floating line and the other with a sink tip – and
started working my way through my fly boxes. It had been
awhile since I’d fished a stillwater, and I had some new
patterns/techniques I wanted to try out.  Long story
short:  everything failed, and I eventually tied on
an olive wooly bugger and just trolled it behind me while
I kicked right down the middle and enjoyed a beer and a
cigar.  That’s when the brown hit and I was once
again reminded that sometimes easy and simple work best.

That's a [name_redacted] fish and I'll be able to learn photography at the very least

Everything’s good up to this point; punctual, adversity met and conquered – the whole astute angler bit – adapt, evolve, overcome.

Then it gets a bit … squeamish?

I had volunteered to cook lunch that day – grilled
Polish sausages with mustard, sauerkraut, and red onions – so
I kicked back to the takeout and started setting up the
new Coleman stove I’d recently purchased.  This is the
first stove I’ve owned that uses propane instead of white
gas, and I’d forgotten that you can’t attach a propane
cylinder directly to the stove without a regulator,
and the regulator was at home.  Without an artificial heat
source, I did the next best thing:  I put the Polish in a
cast iron skillet and set it out in the sun for about a half
hour or so – long enough for sausages to build up a sweat, but not long enough for any insect larvae to appear.  It was a memorable meal, but not in a good way.

Massive “pioneer” points scored in the above, but no mention of alerting his flesh and blood to the cooking methodology or the gastronomic risk. Think wilderness, doubled over in acute pain, and a multiple hour drive to safety.

That evening the fish started rising again, but I’ll
be damned if I could figure out what they were after, and
eventually I went back to dragging a bugger. That’s when
I got my second brown (not pictured), an angry beast
that gave me one helluva fight.

Sunday my brother and I decided to take a little hike
little fish, but nothing to hand. Later that day we heard
rumors of some guys who had caught fish on the stillwater
by drifting midges under indicators, so we decided to give
that a try before heading home. There was a film of dead
midges covering the water, mixed into the mess I could
see an occasional mayfly,not much bigger than the midges.
I couldn’t see anything coming off the water, but there
were fish coming up all around us, giving us the fin
I suppose.  I tried some of the smallest stuff I had.
Nothing.  We finally packed it in and headed home.

One final note:  Igneous Rock will be happy to know
that no rods were broken on this trip, and my ass came
through unscathed.

So I’m left with the impression of an angler of uncommon skill, wit, and no remorse over feeding flyspecked food to his kinfolk? This same fellow who’s the designated cook on our pending expedition?

If it was my brother I would’ve emptied the pan near the RV hookup, kicked the sausage around a bit, then aged the result in my extra pair of wading socks, so I can overlook that crime …

… It’s the not telling part that’s pure evil.

Do I beg off, insisting that weekend was reserved for a pedicure – or should I renegotiate?

I’d use downriggers but the Pink Lady objects

What’s really needed is some clever technical name like “Pre-emergent Taut drifting” or “Kinetic Nymphing” – something with enough action verbiage to engage the print media into reams of “how to” literature.

I figured it was trolling mostly, what with the wind blowing you in one direction and frantic paddling to counter wind drift, hoping to preserve your orientation to the bank and fly.

Kelvin used it to great effect and converted us skeptical types after only a couple hours on the water, more importantly, it produced fish during midafternoon when everyone else was thinking sandwich. 

The weeds are about six feet below me

The above picture shows the bottom of Manzanita Lake and its stunning water clarity. Them monstrous feet are submerged – and the vertical weeds are about 6 feet below me. Getting a fly in the weed is a bad thing, and the fish instinctively head for those tough stalks the moment they’re hooked, with us collectively losing a third of the fish on the initial sprint downward. 

The trick is to use tackle that keeps the fly about midway between weed and surface. This is the exclusive turf of the intermediate sink line – one of the slowest sinking lines available – or adding 5 feet of tippet and a beaded nymph on a floating line.

Sink tip lines would work as well, but the key is to keep mindful of the depth to the weeds, if you stray into the deep water the fly passes above their visual range, too shallow and your fly is toast. At the right depth, the cruising fish will oblige you. We landed about ¾ of the fish using a simple “fling and retrieve” and the balance from dry flies and nymphs during periods of insect activity. 

Brown J.Fair Wiggletail and Algae CarpKiller

Pre-emergent Taut drifting flies start with the J.Fair Wiggletail nymph (in brown above), Olive was the preferred color – which matched my most productive, the Algae CarpKiller. I had these in the box from the Little Stinking and equipped with a 4mm bead were heavy enough to drag 5 feet of 5X down to the appropriate depth.

My deteriorating eyesight has a new wrinkle for me to overcome with each trip – and the larger tippets and bigger hooks of Kinetic Nymphing  gives me a chance at threading a tippet come dusk.

Tradition is useful as long as it doesn’t interfere with the fishing, and delicate sensibilities are trod upon with gusto, it’s all part of the obsession. Unfortunately there’s more hours between bugs than with bugs and with us weekend warriors, every hour is precious.