You won’t find this at the Fly Fishing Film Tour, and with good reason

I was thinking it was one of many hundreds of reasons why fishing in agricultural waste is superior to its rarified blue water cousin …

Outside of the obvious, how there’s plenty of brown and damn little blue, how brown is close and blue far, brown being cheap and blue expensive, and how blue water fans scrub their boots and waders out of fear for the environment, and we scrub anything wet for fear of what we’ll introduce to our garage …

… and while the Blue water crowd pouts at water bottles and the isolated candy wrapper, us brown water types “dumpster dive” the high water mark for West Hollywood Classics, knowing even our litter is dirtier than the trout stream equivalent.

Big_Naturals

Which is a comfort for a fishermen out on a morning he knows to be too cold, in a river swept clean of fish, with more miles of carrying the fishing rod versus using it.

Nothing like coming home to a warm fire and the questionable embrace of “Super Naturals” – featuring a bevy of round-bottomed Valkyrie, each bursting with … ample … uhm … stuff.

No, I’m not going to link to the site – it’s liable to BLIND the dry fly purists.

… 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?

… and the New Year is like the Old Year, only dirtier …

It was our love of Frappachino that likely proved our undoing …

While engaged in another heated discussion on where to fish this weekend, I mentioned that I had produced some out-of-the-way spots that all had appreciated – and perhaps it was their turn (being natives to the area) to show me some of the watering holes known only to the hardened local fishermen, those willing to trade a little sweat-equity to scramble furthest from the beaten path …

… and all I got were blank looks and how’d they’d rather pay then walk. Coughing up twenty or forty bucks to lounge on the bank of some hatchery embankment isn’t liable to put the bark on anything.

… which is their way of saying that “bark” ain’t what it once was …

As I watch the Oft-Crapping-Pooch snarl menacing at darkened underbrush, I am reminded there are fishermen in the older “Pioneer” vein, and there are those that claim the heritage, but lack the urgency to blaze trail, preferring to wait until there is a taco truck in the parking lot or neon sign pointing at the Really Good Fishing.

Which is not a condemnation of the current Outdoorsman, rather it’s my observation of the perils of continuing gentrification, evolution of the species to a higher order and calling.

Little Meat and I delight in braving thorns and barbed wire, thumbing our nose at “No Trespassing” signs, medical waste, law enforcement, and illegal agricultural chemical dumps, but only because we know the Really Good Fishing isn’t some pristine stream or icy blue lake, rather it’ll be some overlooked freeway off ramp graced by some fetid trickle and punctuated with rotting couches.

… and a Happy New Millennium to you too …

The Undiscovered Continents of our youth no longer exist, most have been uber-marketed to guys with a taste for mortgage debt and umbrella drinks, which used them shamelessly. Many are already decline, some gentle and some precipitous.

The Outdoorsy-types that follow in our footsteps will have to embrace the sprawl of the rural-urban interface, and find their sport where others fear to look or tread.

For the observant angler, evidence is everywhere

Unspoiled isn’t in the urban dictionary, rather the best fishing will be limited to those spots impossible to reach, smellier than most, sports a homeless encampment, or patrolled by law enforcement, everything else being  exploited by the urbane “glamper” crowd.

Anglers will have to hone skills tainted by exposure to the Pristine, as the clues that line the banks of your rapidly-warming, icy trout stream are not shared by the valley floor.

Empty Pautzke’s jars, the whitened carapace of Styrofoam worm containers, the snarl of tippet caught in the underbrush, and omnipresent energy drink containers, all give testimony to quality fishing in trout country.

But the Rural-Urban Interface lacks these tell-tale clues, and those seeking the best fishing must be able to read “sign” – the litany of naturally occurring floating debris that a man-made water flow leaves in its wake.

Above is the rotting corpse of a 15” sucker – which you would have missed except for the skinless tennis ball that caught your eye …

… and while you mentally wondered which court was upstream and whether it was an unruly forehand lob or simply a bad serve that sent “Mr. Wilson” into the creek, that dead fish proves Fish Live Here.

ThinBrownLine on a Map

“Here” being another unloved thin brown line on your freeway map, likely not having seen an angler in two or three decades.

Nameless_Forebay

Likewise for this nameless little depression, now swollen with rain water and agricultural runoff, and in need of a thorough working over with a sink tip and some flies that push a lot of water.

I know how these warm water, dirty venues cause the Frappachino Fisherman to blanch, but in 2013 and beyond, riffle water will come in many shapes and sizes, and the only truly important thing is that it imparts lots of oxygen into the flow – ensuring the environment is capable of supporting the “clean” bugs like stoneflies and their ilk …

I got your riffle water right here, Mr Bead Head

… the valley version of riffle being about four feet long – and a mile wide.

Wonder what lives here …

One thing is certain however, I’m done sharing with pals, as these unloved gems that I’m visiting can only support a rarified few – those willing to suffer scorn and fingerpointing, those few stalwarts that recognize adding chocolate to coffee is the first in a long line of genteel sins leading to soft couches, saran-wrapped trophies, and the stern admonition of their physician.

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.

A light dusting of green for us damp Valley types

My only hope is the predictive services offered are a bit more accurate than your weatherman, as guessing on storms and their payload is a science based on an awful lot of hypothetical …

… mostly involving how much water the ground can absorb, versus how much will wind up as actual runoff.

beaver_scrub Travelwriter sent me this link just after I’d returned his dog from a hike through the watershed, which featured the obligatory back scrub in fresh beaver deposit, so I’m not altogether sure whether I’m doing you a favor or not. (You may want to rely on your own observations until you can confirm the site is accurate.)

In short, it’s a NOAA map of California showing what storms are calculated to dump and the resultant effect on watersheds. Additional tabs feature what the storm actually dumps and once past, allows you to compare the pre- and post- conditions for accuracy.

Just remember its tea leaves and tarot cards, a predictive engine for rainfall and runoff.

While flood prediction is not terribly exciting to fishermen, those of you chasing steelhead and salmon can get insight into what a fresh storm has in store, and how badly flows might be altered, and may save you a fishless fishing trip or two …

suddenly_green

Yesterday’s big winter blast rolled through the valley leaving green and chocolate in its wake.

chocolate_creek

One little turn of the spigot and I’ve got six feet of muddy water roaring through the channel, suggesting outside of a dry spell, fishing will be slim for the next couple of months.

Barbed wire, machine guns, and a handful of hackle

manzanar My past experiences with fishing videos had made me unprepared for something quiet and truly dignified.

I’m used to a (pirated) over-amped  Van Halen “Jump” – blaring at me while the artsy- angle turns Agile, Big & Silvery into Slow-Mo, while it showers the camera attempting to free itself from some coifed super-consumer, who’s just as intent on not spilling his Banana Daiquiri, while waving the carbon equivalent of a house payment.

Rather it was a simple historical narrative suggesting that to us fishermen, the McQueen-esque “Great Escape” is something we’re all willing to endure, given how fishing can be both defiance in the face of oppression as well as instrument of restored dignity and balance.

The film is entitled “The Manzanar Fishing Club” and recalls the outbreak of World War II and the subsequent removal of Japanese Americans from the West Coast and their relocation into the interior of California, near Lone Pine.

You see, in our house there was a sort of family prejudice against going fishing if you hadn’t permission. But it would frequently be bad judgment to ask. So I went fishing secretly, as it were–way up the Mississippi. – Mark Twain

With trout streams bordering the mile-square perimeter, and with 10,000 Americans penned within, many featuring a life-long fishing heritage, it’s not surprising that the barbed wire and armed guards of the US Army might prove porous in the face of large and willing fish.

As it was Veteran’s Day and my television was already dominated by tales of bravery mingled with blood and guts, it seemed fitting to take a break from Steve McQueen and James Garner evading the Nazi Menace and watch the ingenuity of an internee fashion a split bamboo rod out of glue, a garden rake, spent brass cartridges as ferrules and bent paperclip guides.

Funny how there are no red carpets and Academy Awards for that …

Lines made from cotton sewing thread and hooks made from bent needles, flies scrounged from Sears Roebuck or Herter’s, or simply a pocketful of freshly dug earthworms to make unsophisticated trout into a meal.

What’s more astounding is the details of long forays into the Sierra, how the lure of Mount McKinley had the most adventurous in search of Golden Trout, climbing the 12,000 foot peak and catching both the Colorado Cutthroat and Golden Trout, spending weeks in the woods with a minimum of equipment and often alone.

I’ve always been keenly interested in this period in American history, so I enjoyed the 70 minute feature very much. It illuminates a sordid piece of our past we’d just as soon forget, yet through their narrative gives us anglers insight and understanding on how our hobby can represent so much more in the face of loss of Liberty.

The DVD is $24.95 and available from fearnotrout.com.

But those were Trout, which is a fairly amiable fish

I remember my first attempt at feeding a visible fish ended badly, with my own nerves subconsciously willing my arm to pull the Adams upstream and away from the monstrous brown trout that was so keen on eating it.

That was the problem with a kid whose best fish ever was 10 whole inches, who’s only mastery was the Wind Knot.

Monstrous Brown Trout being akin to the Tooth Fairy, something that was commonly talked about, but rarely seen and impossible to verify.

Later we fought the “yips” and demonstrated our coolness under pressure, when we discovered the high Sierra lakes could be mastered with a black floating ant – so long as you cast it out before the fish got near, and hid in the brush as they finned closer.

I remember seeing the stark white of their mouth as it opened prior to rupturing the surface, and how gratifying it was to watch the slow arc of intercept without fear of my committing a horrific faux pas, complements of my steely nerves.

But those were Trout, which is a fairly amiable fish – largely unsophisticated and outside of a generous helping of skittish, being fairly predictable …

… now I find myself repeating those same lessons, only each lesson ends with a Polaris-class shadow accelerating into an intercept course – before fading back into the massive root ball whence it came.

If you’re in just the right place at just the right afternoon hour, the sun’s rays can penetrate deep enough so you can alternately watch your fly and gnaw on the bloody stumps of your fingernails. The Bad News being our quarry is a Largemouth Bass, known for fits of pure stubborn interlaced with lockjaw and irascibility.

I’ve just discovered him and his pals in a snarl of downed timber. Their location suggests they’ve seen everything in my fly box save the hinges, and I’ll have to invent something unknown and irresistible just to spark interest.

One of the smaller ships in the Fleet

Complicating all this is the need to get my offering past the smaller fish in his battle group, as a stung or caught fish scatters them to the four winds.

After many hundreds of rejections, the on-again off-again controversy over bead headed flies comes to mind. How the Bulletin Board’s erupt in righteous fury when someone suggests all that mass might make them lures instead of flies …

… suggesting I might want to downplay my latest idea, how I might present a live mouse on a cedar shingle with a 3/0 Stinger rubber banded around his hindquarters – and would that make me merely a lesser Demon, or the actual Anti-Christ …

It must be Winter, ample sunlight and nary a cloud in the sky

Summer_NotSummer I’ve wondered whether the root issue with us native Californians, why we appear odd, unhinged, or off kilter to the rest of the Lower 48, is us having to endure a calendar year without seasons.

Summer and Not Summer, both require an umbrella at the beach and the only way to distinguish sweat from rainfall is its temperature.

Our inability to observe Fall or Spring, our single wardrobe and our lawns remaining green from August through New Year means the only way to determine May Day from Christmas is the raw fish we’re served, as only the “Catch of the Day” changes, and little else.

Which explains why we’re so keenly interested in Candied Eel and the Pumpkin Latte, as it’s an important seasonal indicator …

Us fishermen have it much worse given it was ninety-five on Friday, seventy-five on Sunday, and Monday is scheduled for fifty-five. Without seasons, with ample sunshine, and with the barometer a falling knife, even the bait shops shrug and wish you luck.

… and while the rest of the nation turns the page on their calendar, clucking in admiration at some Fall color scene from the Adirondacks, I’m liking my “lack of seasons explains why we’re a Blue state” – noting how it serves double duty explaining why I spend so much more time feeding fish instead of catching them, without impugning my few skills or imagined talents.

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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.