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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Fishing History – a fanciful name for obsessive collecting

More stuff for the garage There’s two kinds of sportsmen; them as love the outdoors and practice their craft often, and there’s them as does all that but has too much disposable income, and collects the trappings of bygone days…

If you’ve not formally “come out” as the latter, the clues are obvious; the dirty dishes go in a wicker creel, 1950’s Outdoor Life are stacked in the bathroom, and your door chime is shorebird complete with brass bill.

…and you’re single, or about to be…

Collecting is a curse, as knees and joints start to complain with pre-dawn activity, gear accumulation is an effective surrogate. I find myself showing tendencies and recognize this is “the pot calling the kettle black.”

There’s an interesting blog that caters to the obsession, written by Dr. Todd Larsen, a history professor that writes on the history of angling in the US. He’ll peruse eBay and highlight the wheat from the chaff – typically offering insight into some of the unique items available via auction.

I’ve always admired the old wooden bass plugs – admired because I can’t afford any – but the history of them is as compelling as the articles themselves.

The recent Lang auction of Ernest Schweibert’s gear is covered – with some of the more interesting pieces covered in detail.  You may want to take a glimpse of your future hobby – as you’ll all succumb to one degree or another.

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He’s either blogging or he’s playing with something he shouldn’t

I'm not quite ready for this, perhaps you lads are? With the whole “blogging angler” phenomenon on the rise, perhaps Simm’s may want to follow it’s “zipper front” guide waders with innovation liable to change the face of the fishing report.

We’ve all had to suffer – as weather and fishing are often reported too slowly to be opportunistic. Instead of idyllic weather and willing fish, we should have been there last week.

Now that gas prices are approaching $4 per gallon – our intel had better be accurate and timely.

“Blogging Guideweight” comes with an Internet Wireless hotspot in the left arsecheek, allowing the prospective author access to his blog if fishing slows.

I’m not quite ready for that much connectivity – especially when striving to connect with the damn fish.

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Moules de Quagga, comes with a large diet Coke

Want Rock Snot with that? It’s the best advice I’ve seen to date and based on our track record would work swimmingly, the downside is you’d have to develop a taste for Zebra Mussel Meatloaf, or Quagga Milkshake.

“How to handle an invasive species? Eat it” – an article from the NY Times suggesting there’s something we can do about a seemingly impossible problem. I can’t name a culinary delicacy that’s not already on the decline or completely extinct, it seems that the best weapon against aliens is our gut.

If these species have only the most rudimentary thought processes, would they be so eager to hitch a ride on the waders of “Mr. Supersize,” or will that dark spot under the rock be “.. just fine, thankee…”

Don’t act all squeamish, as you ain’t tried it yet, some garlic and rosemary and we could be sitting on the next great fast food franchise. Mix a little patriotism in, as it’s an election year, and we could declare a culinary Jihad.

All them catchy McDonald’s jingles you’ve memorized over the years can’t compete with “You want Rock Snot with that?”

We’re not the only ones with the savvy, as Jellyfish Ice cream has made one fellow a small fortune, but there’s plenty more invasive species that taste twice as good. With canny marketing, lobsters could be coerced to invade Nebraska, and perhaps we can get a sentient strain of Blackberries to invade Phoenix, or Illinois – then really hit it big.

The profit potential is limitless provided you can keep a straight face, add a fancy french pronunciation, and the Northern Snakehead becomes anything you want…

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A little Red Dye #3 and we’re there

Flame them deep seated Bovine feelings One million dollars for the inventor of the next great Fake Meat? I figured they ought to award some posthumously to the inventor of SPAM, and while they’re at it – something like a Nobel Prize for Culinary Bait & Switch for the scientists at Mickey Dees…

Most are too young to think of SPAM as anything other than unwanted email – us old guys know better. Technically it was meat, according to Doctor Mom, but in reality Ma was hoping we’d disappear the can with no complaints.

In her favor was the fact we’d been abandoned at the wharf and couldn’t drive, so that meant Pop was in on it too… We cursed a blue streak and contemplated whether the bait shrimp would make for better flavor – in the end, it was on the hook with even the fish curling their nose.

Now PETA is tired of us violating the unalienable rights of Bovines, and is offering to award one million dollars to the first scientist able to grow meat from a test tube.

That’s just fine by me, but the inner cloister of PETA probably is assuming we’d use stem cells from something without feelings, like dandelions or politicians. Fat goddamn chance of that happening – as the faux meat has to contain lard so the medical profession has something to scold us about.

I figure Hormel will get in there first, claiming their test tube is older than everyone else’s hence they’ll command the higher price. It’ll be the resurgence of “born on” dating – like they tried with beer.

One thing is certain – when it spews from the extruder, it’ll make a sound that rhymes with “blort.”

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They’re worse than teenagers and have twice the stamina

Which may be the reason they’ll be here long after we’re gone.

I rolled out of bed early Sunday, hoping for a repeat of last week’s bug fest, and to make sure it happened I left the dry fly box on the kitchen sink. It’s reverse logic – if I brought the flies nothing would pop – but if you forget them, hordes of the little buggers will be coming off.

As always, the odds favor the house.

I stopped at the Sex Pool to watch the Carp spawn, it’s an amazing display and four phalanx’s of fish were blowing hell out of the flat water. Each phalanx is a single female bullied by six or seven males – and they herd her up and down the creek, through rocks, brush, car tires, barbed wire and anything else in the way.

I waded out in their midst to record the action, figuring fish porn is popular, but the “good stuff” is worth money…

The swirl hides 7 fish, 6 teenagers and Big Momma

They were oblivious to me and I pounded the far bank for bass. I had replaced the missing “Manhattan Leech” flies – and needed to determine whether they were “all that” – or merely a fluke.

A big largemouth came out of the water with the leech in his gob, and two of the Carp squadrons were in proximity, he managed to tail walk into their midst sending everything scattering for cover.

I’m not sure which fish to watch as I’ve got two 12lb fish headed for my crotch thinking I’m cover. Instinct wins, I assume a deflective stance – the bass wraps the tippet around a snag and snaps it, and the “Nut Missiles” discover I’m a human and slam on the brakes..

I retreat hastily, the voyeur thing was fun but I can’t hang with the stress..

The Manhattan Leech, fish love ‘em

New fish are showing up regularly, and I assume they’re moving downstream to repopulate the areas scoured by winter floods. A lot of scarring is evident on the fish caught – suggesting they rode out the high water somewhere with better protection – but show the wear and tear from being buffeted about.

The creek bottom is covered in minnows – approximately the same age, not more than an inch in length. Great forage for the big fish that survived – these may be what I saw (and caught) last season in the 4″- 6″ size. The small fish stretches are still devoid of life, which is the one mystery remaining.

Any fish fool enough to get caught a second time gets a name, it’s part of the luxury afforded to “home water.” That really big Pikeminnow that swallowed the dry fly last week ate the leech this week. The reel screamed nicely and “Old Lacefin” was both pissed and chagrined. He’s got a nickel sized hole in his right fin – instantly recognizable to me – so I protected my nuts…

Old Lacefin - left fin has a round hole punched in it

Fish hold a grudge – and after my earlier brush with Death, I flinched badly. The drab winter colors are giving way to their traditional hues, and anything capable of making my reel spin backwards is both pretty and welcome.

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We didn’t make the top 10, but we’re still Number one

It loses it's luster over time The good news is angling trash didn’t make the Top 10, still 400 pounds of trash per mile is a bit less than pristine. With a mountain of plastic the size of Africa swirling gracefully off our West Coast – 2.3 million cigarette butts picked up in a day is a drop in the hat.

… the volume of trash collected tells only part of the story. It’s the items that are found that tells us about the behavior of people enjoying the beaches and coastlines of the world.

In part, I find this worrisome – as much of our love for the out of doors was imparted by our parents on similar excursions. Whether at the beach or in the woods, “policing your trash” was always part of your exit strategy.

Us kids would gleefully grab anything foreign, while Pop doused the campfire. It was all part of the “respect Mother Nature” mantra, driving home the lesson that we’re all stewards in some fashion.

Crapping on my woods – merely because you can – is inexcusable, and when your kid upends his happy meal out the car window, save the lecture, you may have been the role model.

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Oh hell, why not get inventive

Skiers get enough toys, I’d call it a “Spring Creek Float Tube” myself. Low profile for those all-too-common moments when you need just six more feet on your cast…

Need six more feet pull the ripcord

…Or, it’s getting dark and crossing the river at the car is faster. There’s no end to the cleverness of desperate fishermen.

We’ll have to lose the red color – but after a liberal dose of camo you can float right up to the wariest fish – just make sure you have the right fly on beforehand, as it doesn’t look like you’ll be able to access your fly box once inflated…

It’s actually head protection for avalanche prone skiers – but they’d never use it as they’re so fashion conscious …

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One brief spark of hope – ruthlessly extinguished

Plenty of Wisdom and damn little else We tuned them out once we heard the “lecture” tone, some old SOB wanted to tell us how it’s done, as if he knew anything. Maturity does have value, and fish research is postulating that we’ve got the regulations reversed, and should harvest all them young and dumb fish – as their absence isn’t missed.

“It’s not the young ones that should be thrown back, but the larger, older fish that should be spared. Not only do the older fish provide stability … to the population, they provide more and better quality offspring.

This isn’t going to fly with the “Gurl’s Gone Wild” crowd, you lecherous SOB but it does give you a bit of validation.

“Stability” in fish could be “wisdom” in humans – we’ve been preaching its benefits for years, not that it’s done much good – just count the number of stainless studs in your kid’s nose for proof..

A single large fish will simply grow a little when it gets more food, or lose a little weight when food is scarce. A population of many young, small fish, however, may explode in number or collapse depending on food availability.

Translation: Old guys learned a long time ago that consensus was the root of all societal ills, the younger crowd do everything at the same time causing massive upheaval – ’cause upheaval’s fun as hell.

This is especially important to know when trying to rebuild fish stocks.

This is where the research falls on it’s face, experience has taught us that despite our willingness to “rebuild,” the “grilse” will take one look at the available “mature” genetic material –  holding their breath to make their gut smaller – and the species is doomed.

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I was weak and went with the Variant instead

“Former” commercial fly tiers have all types of foibles, scars, and nervous tics – it comes from being hunched over the vice staring at dust motes, dim lighting, and tiny hooks.

I have a “love-hate” relationship with the noble Elk Hair Caddis; it’s a great fly, buoyant as hell, sturdy of construction, elegant, simple, and effective. It has earned its rightful place as one of my favorite dry flies – and continues to earn my wrath as a fly tyer.

Genetic hackles are the culprit, you get some elegant, long, size 16 hackle – with enough density and barbules to really make a well dressed fly – and you palmer it up the Elk Hair’s shank burning up 2/3’rds of all those great chicken genes – you’re left with not enough hackle to tie a second fly, and too much to throw away.

Cue nervous tic.

Even though we’re retired – we still hate waste. It’s the reason we have 2000 extra size 22 hooks and only two dozen 16’s, or why our neck drawer has 84 immaculate ginger capes – and all the brown and grizzly is picked over – with even the moths chanting in protest.

Every season I suffer bouts of “post traumatic customer syndrome” – the sweaty night terrors resulting from tiny flies ordered in massive quantities, with me already behind schedule. 

Chuck Stranahan solved my Elk Hair dilemma with an introduction to the Caddis Variant. It’s as simple, as effective, and uses less hackle – something us former tying whores can really appreciate.

Dun Caddis Variant

Use the fingernail to press the wing flat against the hook, in doing so it’ll flair the wing horizontally into a fan covering nearly 90 degrees. 3 turns of oversized hackle completes the pattern. A standard genetic neck hackle can tie two of them, making them easy on the budget as well.

Change the colors to suit whichever critter dominates your local water. It’s an elegant sparse dressing that floats like a cork due to the large surface area, for me it’s a wonderful change of pace from tying the Elk Hair Caddis.

Chuck Stranahan is featured prominently in my “night terrors” as he was the proprietor of Hat Creek Anglers back in the day. Every conversation started with “I need 100 dozen #16’s …” then we’d talk about the small sizes…

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