It’s a quiet evolution, how competitive fly fishing is reshaping your quiver

The Hardy Marksman, 10 foot, #4 line I’ve always been keen on innovation – perhaps too keen, as occasionally new becomes trifling rather than mainstream. Watching the influence of competitive fly fishing overseas and the evolution in fly tackle spawning from Czech nymphing, is largely unnoticed by US anglers.

While we fiddle with the fly patterns, there’s a quiet evolution in leaders, rods, and hooks taking place without our participation.

I’ve always been a long rod fan, the additional reach offered by rods longer than 10 feet, offers a number of welcome advantages; longer roll casts, the ability to mend more line, holding more line above the water rather than in the current, longer casts, and the extra reach when using either Czech or “HighSticking” nymphing styles.

It hell to string a rod in midcurrent, but we should’ve done that on the bank anyways.

Hardy is following Modern Fly of Italy in introducing the Marksman 10′ for #4 – and with the today’s lighter, higher modulus graphite should be able to avoid the “willowy” action of older graphite rods, and have crispness available to set the hook on the deep nymph.

As our lads return home it’s likely one of our US vendors will start filling the breach and introduce the 10′ and 11′ light line rods currently dominating the European circuit and Fips-Mouche.

In between grumbling about how “fly fishing is no place for competitive sports,” don’t be surprised when next year’s catalogs tout “extra length” as the latest revolution. Rod makers insist on obsolescing your equipment each year so they can sell you more – it’s the other unwelcome facet of our sport.

I was waiting for the two piece with fighting butt

Imagine the little golden haired angel tugging on your sleeve, you point dumpling towards the rest room while holding her Barbie Rod between thumb and forefinger, with the same enthusiasm you hold your spouse’s purse, scanning the horizon for any of the known “gossips” from your fishing club.

A minute later Sweetpea’s forgotten as you’re wrestling the North Carolina state record Channel catfish – armed with sequins, a pink bait caster, and little else.

“Hayes took the fishing rod and seconds later the toy hooked a state-record channel catfish, at 21 pounds, 1 ounce.”

Naturally when the cameramen show – you elbow Dumpling out of the way – forgetting, in your haste, that all your buddies will be taping every move on the 6:00 News.

That pained expression says it all, the sudden realization that your erstwhile pals will be calling you this evening when they decide on your new nickname.

It’s not going to be “Killer” or “BarbedWire,” and I don’t think it’ll be pretty.

Worse yet, how do you explain to the child, “it’s all downhill from here?”

Just a reminder of my email address change

The old email address expired last week and the new one is available in the “About” page at the top of the screen. If you’re having trouble contacting me – it’s not in my nature to be a standoffish SOB, I’m merely a victim of Technology, as we all are.

… and you thought my excuses were limited to fishing …

kbarton10@single(removethispart)barbed.com

The (removethispart) is necessary to prevent the harvesting of my email address by automation – rendering me ineligible to receive thousands of offers touting economy size Viagra.

Merely omit that section and everything should work fine. All email addresses posted to web pages are harvested regularly by ‘bots and crawlers – it’s one of the easiest ways to find you.

Guys don’t whine if there’s a gal in the boat

Photo courtesy Dick Blume / The Post-Standard I hear the logic but remain unconvinced. Barriers to coed sports have been breached on many levels, but fly fishing requires us to drop all the advances of the last 100 years and isolate women from men?

I think it’s a farce, led by canny vendors and abetted by guides doing “high five’s” as next week is “the Amazon outing, wo0t…”

Women haven’t embraced fly fishing with any real vengeance, and while inroads have been made in other leisure sports,  I’m thinking part of the problem is their introduction and exposure to our silly notion of segregation.

It’s hard enough to instruct your spouse, but after she’s been mauled by a bunch of louts from the local shop, the memorable part of our sport is the stuff that sucks blood, and stuff that sucks … period.

Women can be vicious wags at the watercooler, their voices grow silent as you approach and animated as you depart. Guys do it too – we’re certainly no saints, but why would we introduce them to a supposedly restful and relaxing sport, when they’re subject to the haughty glare of whichever female clique takes possesion of the lodge and its environs?

Guys go fishing, it’s not “Special Guy Week”, it’s some gaggle of oversexed, overfed, and overbearing fellows, vying to impress others by how long they can go without bathing. Casting classes are not “for Guys Only,” yet somehow the “for Women” label seems to crop up at every opportunity.

I think it’s a setup. A “puppy mill” for hopeful boyfriends, desperate spouses, and avaricious vendors hoping they’ll dump their overstock of claret fishing vests and petite waders.

Guides, shop owners, and lodges don’t clear the decks of males to “ease the learning curve” – nor is their staff suddenly chaste, they’re giggling amongst themselves while the gals endure the presentation attempting to get some “rise” from a participant – and reluctant to acknowledge any “refusal.”

This ain’t a “Lonely Hearts Club” – and most are there at the urging of partners, boyfriends, and husbands. Likely they’d feel a good deal easier if there’s a friendly face to explain some of the technical detail, rather than having to strike up a friendship, and absorb the lesson all at the same time.

I’d want to be there when the instructor mentions her Shakespeare wasn’t as good as my Sage, supposedly the gear was split equitably – and now I’m the callow, gear hogging spouse that’s not to be trusted.

Having taught fly tying for 20 years, women aided the proceedings immeasurably. It keeps the machismo crap to a minimum, and most fellows watched their language – something they never did around kids. The ladies felt welcome – and were catered to politely, never pestered, and made comments that were insightful and welcome. It didn’t matter if they were 13 or 86, they had the same calming effect.

Women are the better novice, guys are too enraptured of the technical detail and reluctant to ask questions and take instruction, as they’ve been taught it’s not masculine to appear helpless. Mixing the sexes at the novice level is a good match – it’s liable to steady both participants; he’d stop whining and she’d have someone to break the current when crossing the deep spots.

Given the choice, I’d rather fish with women. They smell better, are less vain, tell the truth with only minor embellishment, share the fish equitably, and are as gracious in victory as in defeat.

Guys, well … they aspire to that.

I don’t expect some enmasse migration to the Brown water, but I’d expect a steely set to her jaw when I explained the fish wasn’t fit for Man nor beast. It’d be a sharp contrast from her trout loving boyfriend – who’d be dancing around the shallow end hoping I’m there to take the fish off his hook.

Vindication, Now us Rubenesque types can wag finger

Food worth dying over Brownline authors are a sordid lot, living a half-life of darkened ritual, half truths, fawning groupies and poor diet..

Lectured repeatedly on how much Sodium my beef jerky contains, how the chocolate Old Fashioned is the work of Satan, and how countless well meaning health buffs with an unnatural interest in my colon would liberate me from chocolate and sprinkles. 

Now, a little payback is in order:

The Wake Forest School of Medicine report found that farm-raised tilapia contained higher levels of omega-6 fatty acids than foods like doughnuts and bacon.

Excessive levels of omega-6 fatty acids have been linked to a number of diseases, including heart disease, arthritis, osteoporosis, cancer, and depression.

So, after a long productive life enhanced by leafy greens and whole grains, you’re wheeled into my room – and while we both wait to expire -I assault you with tales of the glazed obscenity you should have ate instead of the eco friendly cardboard foisted on you at the health food store?

Sure, I’m headed for the “hot” place – but they got bacon there too ..

Only Angelina Jolie adopts more orphans than we do

Brownliner's evolve with the terrainI followed up on last week’s find early Saturday morning, big brown fish roaming unmolested in a pea green bayou held promise, although I couldn’t find any sign of them this morning.

Plenty of human sign, as the proximity of the roadbed means you can empty your truck of trash with no one the wiser. It explains the multitude of “No Trespassing” signs – as it appears this is prime dumping ground.

Before you start blaming us Brownliners – and bringing up contentious issues like “watercolor-profiling”, think again. We obviously welcome the additions to the landscape, and only Angelina Jolie and Madonna adopt more orphans than we do.

We take most of this stuff home, usually it’s better furnishings than we’re accustomed to – and after you sanitizing it with a quick kick off the bridge, we get years of value from your gravity-me-downs…

The forebay looked a bit cleaner, and the current is headed away from me

The Ditch ended in a forebay which was a pumping station for another nameless brown creek that parallels the Sacramento River. Lots of families were present and everyone was fishing worms and bobbers. 

Another nameless brown creek, with lots of families fishing in it

I hung around hoping to see someone land something but other than the excited chatter of kids, it was slow fishing. It’s traditional August weather, which means it’s 100 degrees by 10AM, so I started thinking about the chores I needed to finish before going fishing tomorrow. 

Protector of Dikes, providers of cheese, and the nymphal stage of a burrito

The goats agreed, seeking the shade of the railroad trestle before their workday starts. These four legged eating machines clean all the flood control dikes so they’re not compromised by vegetation and roots. It’s a great untold symbiosis of the Central Valley, the herdsmen get free graze – and the folks in the floodplain sleep soundly knowing the earthen barriers protecting their homes aren’t weakened by forces of Nature.

The goats get to become a burrito, which is an ignoble end for such heroic service, but I always observe a moment of admiration before plowing into one.

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Catch me next, the Roughfisher’s creation brings the fish to heel

He tried to tell me but I wouldn’t listen, now I’m sitting here with a pleasant glow trying to put the proper spin on things.

A pal says, “go here, use this, you’ll kill ’em” – but we’ve heard that so many times it’s brushed off without conscious effort. Then all other options fail – we heed the advice, and we kill them.

Knowing of the impending confession, most anglers would choose to save face, “well, the spot was good, but then I noticed the post-coital phase starting to pop, so I used my …. and I kilt ’em.”

Us guys that fish the “stink water” have lost all self respect and much of our ego – so we cut to the chase and give credit where credit’s due.

Jean Paul Lipton of the Roughfisher’s Journal has created a monstrosity and should be punished. He calls it the X-Factor nymph, and claims it’s hell on Carp, I can’t vouch for the Carp bit, but it removed the thin veneer of selectivity from the fish I flung it at – and reduced them to primal eating machines.

It was traditional laziness at its best; I’d resolved to take the long trek up the Little Stinking to see what the sustained low water had done to the holes a couple miles upstream. I had time to putter and remembered Jean Paul admonishing me to try this bug.

As it is with every fly I lacked half of the materials, and improvised with what was laying around loose; copper Angelina instead of brown antron, varigated orange legs instead of clear, rust marabou for a tail, and copper wire rather than red. I banged out four #8’s – because they were closer than the #10’s, and tucked them in the vest.

Sunday morning was perfect, including a light breeze which would take us below the 100 degree mark for the first time this week. I was without drinking water however, thinking I still had some from Saturday and discovered both containers empty about a mile above the car.

I stopped at Old Nondescript’s hole and saw the beaver had restored his dam – giving that stretch an additional foot of water. It was a good place to start – the water was clear, 18″ deep, and I could see the nursery pods of Pikeminnow on the far bank.

I sidearmed the bug under the branches were Old Nondescript used to live and had a smallmouth on the line after the first yank. Figuring it was beginner’s luck I skipped the fly under the brush a second time, it didn’t have time to get damp before a larger bass came out of the water swearing.

I saw a swirl in the channel and laid the bug in above, and a 14″ Pikeminnow ate it, followed by four more bass, 5 sunfish, and a half dozen similar sized fast movers..

Gluttons, every one.

I moved up to the Big Bass Stretch and it was down low enough to wade, losing half its depth since the last time I’d visited. Two enormous carp were patrolling in circles, both would go 12 -15 lbs.

At this juncture I’ve landed about 20 nice fish, and could do no wrong. Merely dipping the fly into the water should have the fish rolling on the surface with little white flags.

The Carp are headed my way again, so I lay out a cast onto the clay of the far bank where it can’t make a splash. I tug it into the water so it can start to sink to the same level, and the tip of the floating line twitches.

A big bass will flare its gills to inhale a fly – just enough movement to show a twitch of the line tip – or disturb an indicator, but it won’t register on your fingers as the hook hasn’t contacted meat yet.

I set the hook on a 3lb smallmouth who streaked out from the bank and “T-boned” the incoming Carp right in the side. The Bass went south, the Carp went North and I’m laughing while trying to stay connected to the fish. I’d wind up with a leg full of water for my fun, and it was worth it.

Smallmouth bass are quickly surpassing trout as my favorite gamefish, they can be ornery, but they compete favorably with trout on every level, including aerial display.  Trout have tall pines and the Sierra’s in their favor, but Bass have the “Pumpkinseed” shape, and when you apply pressure to turn them, they shrug off your feeble flyrod with impunity.

I got “T-Bone” to pose briefly above, I never did see the Carp again, it’s likely they were still running for their lives.

Now all I have to do is figure some way to apologize to JP for butchering his creation.

It’s Old School economics, and it’s never wrong

The BeFi Indicator, it's never wrong With the government tinkering with all the numbers, and the nightly news assaulting you with economic hardship typified by gas prices, foreclosures, and the decline of the US dollar, us fly fishermen are left in a quandary, is now the right time to buy a rod?

Us brown water specialists have lots of time to ponder on the really weighty issues, it’s the price of solitude – as the rest of you elitist sumbitches conspicuous consumers insists we fish downwind of everyone else.

The short answer is “NO”, now is not the time to be spending precious dollars on a luxury item, as according to the Brownline Economic Financial Indicator (BeFi, or “Beefy”) we’re in for an extended period of financial hardship.

Candy maker Hershey Co said on Friday it was raising U.S. prices by roughly 10 percent and warned that the higher cost of ingredients such as cocoa, corn sweetener, sugar and peanuts would weigh on profits.

The price of a Hershey’s with Almonds has predicted the ups and downs of the stock market with uncanny accuracy, and while the well coifed “suits” foaming from the safety of your television insist the Market is near a bottom, don’t believe it.

A 10% increase in the “Beefy”, means we’re at least 20 months from stability, and you’ll need that cash to pay for important staples like Whiting Saddles and fly floatant.

That’s why statistics always raises eyebrows

Thank the stars he wasn't a fisherman Southwick Associates the statistical shock troops used by many in the industry decreed the venerable Orvis Company is the “number one choice among fly fishing fans.”

A representative sample of 16000 anglers suggests the Shakespeare Ugly Stik and Orvis are the large fish in a small pond of rod makers.

However, if cost plays a deciding role among users of conventional fishing tackle, the same is not true of fly fishing fans. Of all fly rod purchases, Orvis was number one. Orvis also sold the most fishing flies — and you should know that Orvis is not a bargain basement operation.

I’m not so sure about the bargain basement mention, seems to me that shoveling the rods through a different door may be just that. I would have assumed Sage was the most popular, but then again, there’s no telling with statistics.

In either case, as long as I’m able to score their tackle at one third retail, they’ve got my vote. Us Brownliners are known for tantrums – we’ll attempt to impale a recalcitrant fish if needs be, and the Shakespeare Ugly Stick is virtually indestructible.

Orvis rods are a bit more fragile – so we sand the “R” off the grip and claim we paid full retail ….

No morals, few scruples, loose standards … and unapologetic.

It’s the smile that’s the difference

I recognize that smile, it’s the one we all wore when we were younger, some of us still have it – but it’s largely absent from the print media.

Most covers feature some intently focused predator holding a flabby Salmo, whose truculent glare is undiluted by $100 sunglasses.  The guys in the advertisements don’t smile, the guys in the pinups are serious as death, and at best we get some half hearted grimace – because the fellow snapping the pic forgot to say “cheese.”

These guys … these guys are fishermen, Brownliners even – and the smile is the same on all our faces; wide as all creation, fulsome, packed with teeth, as we struggle to answer the question just asked of us …

“You gonna Eat that?”

The guy on the right caught it, the smile is the giveaway

That’s a purported world record carp pictured below, 260 pounds of toxin augmented muscle, with an IQ of at least Epsilon Semi-Moron, and probably has 14 different nicknames, one for each of the small children that vanished from lake’s edge.

Me, I let the fish go – the question’s answered by my actions, and the onlooker’s melt away.

The surge of adrenalin is wearing off, and the fellow on the right realizes he’s the sudden recipient of a lot of protein, and unless he has a really big family, he’ll need an even bigger shovel…

Dripping wet, standing in mud, and a smile as wide as all that, gotta love ’em.