Is good dental hygiene incompatible with dry fly fishing?

No flossing As Oregon evolves their fishing regulations to make salmon snagging less profitable, the unattended consequence could be shortening the fishing day, denying dry fly fishermen that last hour of twilight awesomeness.

The Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife is about to launch a public process aimed at revising state fishing regulations, something the agency does every four years. And ways to curtail flossing and other snagging techniques will dominate the discussion.

Every fly fisherman knows that last hour (actually that last couple of hours) after sunset is the best part of the angling day, when diminished light triggers the evening hatch, makes the angler less glaring as a predator, and shrinks 4X to the diameter of 6X, or so the fish think …

At issue is “flossing” a salmon; swinging a weight and hook through salmon holding water hoping to thread the leader through an open mouth and slamming the hook home on the outside of the jaw – rather than in the arse, stomach, or fin like traditional snagging.

That goes the same for flossers using monofilament, lead and hooks or the fly-fishing flossers stripping a fly line over the gums of open-mouthed salmon.

– via the Mail Tribune.com

Fish hooked in the inside of the mouth would be the legal caught, all other fish must be returned to the water.

Shortening the fishing day is one of many options being discussed at present, if successful it’ll require us visiting anglers to be doubly mindful of the time of day – given they resent us Californio’s for retiring there in the first place, for our importing high real estate prices and consumptive cultural rituals to our heretofore sleepy Northern neighbor.

It is us spreading it, mostly it’s you doing the clicking

Deep down I couldn’t shake the feeling that with all its soiled nooks and crannies the Internet was somehow connected to the spread of plague …

How Didymo spreads You going to click the button?

It’s not the wading boots, Meathead, it’s the spread of broadband and the cell phone you can no longer do without that’s despoiling our watersheds …

Intent on looking up the correct spelling of “Paraleptophlebia” and that big “Download Now” button throbs fetchingly, and you get sucked in like a Carp for an Spicy Peanut boilie.

Naked women with big boxes of free flies simply don’t exist, even if the Internet claims otherwise …

It may be time for us old guys to face fly fishing’s new music

frenzied_sweetcorn I’m rethinking all the bustle and commotion over how we’re no longer practicing something our Poppa once did. How our doing without Twinkies and store-bought Latte makes today’s outdoors an expedition on par with Shackleton’s Voyage, extreme survival, mere fishing transformed into an adrenalin-fueled primeval.

Competition and adrenalin is what we truly crave, fishing is just a means of getting there …

Fishing lacks the broken bones and has no contact between anglers, no pads or face masks, and doesn’t look much better under the hot Klieg lights of television, with few saints and less demigods – and no one trading paint in the pit area…

But they may have a point.

My generation picked fishing so we could decompress from both family and work – preferring the solitude and silence the Great Outdoors offered to heal the soul so we could return to the Big City fit for another grueling tour.

Somehow the “Rest and Relaxation” became today’s competitive and arduous, compliments of youth-oriented marketing and a generation that measured their worth in how much they owe versus how much they bank.

But that’s merely sour grapes, given the ability to “unplug” is fast disappearing, complements of satellites and broadband, and “them as inherits” might have had the right idea about the woods all along…

Most of the Pristine is on its last legs and requires tackle that can ferret out those few remaining fish from super-deep or super-fast, neither of which fly fishing has been any good at …

… which may explain why 3/8 ounce jig heads are considered flies, given that this new fishing lets us bring guns to gun fights …

I think I’ll dispense with the closetful of high-tech fabrics, the illegal SWAT gear, and those hideously expensive fly rods, which will get us clear of the adrenalin junkies who insist matching the hatch involves base-jumping with Mayflies …

We can watch them plummet earthward while we rest easy in our lawn chair and reacquaint ourselves with inexpensive rods, cold beer, and the new bait fishing …

AintDaddiesBait

That ain’t anything your Daddy fished …

The new EXTREME bait fishing made so by enormous amounts of Soy and your propensity towards flatulence …

The only real difficulty will be humping that cooler down from the parking lot now that we’re done with all the deprivation and Mother Nature crap. Fabric-based solar panels will energize our civilized comforts that accompany us back to the creek. Cell phones and Microwaves, televised football blaring while we ignore the rod and reach for a double fistful of those Spicy Peanut numbers – followed by the White Chocolate.

Poppa never had it so good. Potted meat and soggy bread, branch water and a long hike upstream to get away from us truly comfortable and well-rested angling types …

Where we get all solemn and lay it on overly thick for the non-fisherman

Fishing being a more painful variant of masochism, whose practitioners lust for big fish knowing they’re accompanied by hardship; cold rain, poisonous snakes, blisters, and other trappings of kink, yet are still at a loss to explain its attraction to normal folks.

While traveling last week, I did have time to inhale a small salad while enjoying the banks of the mighty Eel River. In between bites I noticed a bit of motion in the water and am rendered vengeful and solemn by the sight of 200 large salmon milling in a circle only feet away …

Nothing like a fish that appears to be six inches wide at the back to give a fellow real trouble swallowing lettuce …

Eel River at Weott, California

My accomplice was oblivious to the spectacle as he was negotiating  three inches of rare roast beef and a monstrous hard roll, while giggling at my self-inflicted dietary choice. Suddenly one of the larger fish comes cleans out of the water and dampens us both …

“Dude, that was a salmon.”

I nodded the affirmative as he noticed all the other fish leisurely rolling in contentment, finning their way over to give me the finger, then swimming a lazy circle to repeat the insult.

He exclaimed, “ I can run us back to Fortuna and you can buy a rod and reel, and we could be back in an hour…”

I shook my head, “No, fishing is a karmic-Zen-Masochistic thing – and while I don’t expect a non-fisherman to understand; the reason the fish are here is because I lack my fishing gear. In physical terms, both fish and fishing tackle are positively charged ions – and can never occupy the same space – nor get close enough to one another to cause harm – as their natural state repels the other.

If I had brought the gear we’d be standing in a torrential downpour with a flat tire, fishless – or that prominent badge on your truck would cause Weott’s version of “Jimmy Olsen Cub Reporter” to stop and immortalize us for the six o’clock news and the both of us holding big dripping fish and a pink slip …

Driving to Fortuna is for godless amateurs – who’ve not fished enough to learn this truism …”

At this point he’s looking at me fixedly, jaw open and roast beef visible, “OMFG, that’s some serious hokey horseshit,” he says.

I’d tried to explain it and failed. Now I was content to wave as the fish swam past knowing it as a quasi-religious truth recognizable only by those that believe. Not the old-timey religious types – more like those that are fool enough to stand in cold water and have done so enough times to recognize this immutable Law of Nature.

We aren’t as svelte as all that – nor is this Colorado

As soon as I mentioned the waves of famished fish eagerly casting themselves in the path of anything Olive, I knew I’d overstepped the boundaries of both physics or logic and brought unwanted voodoo magic into the mix.

Fishing being a simple exercise in Chaos theory most days, but if you promise anyone anything about the day in advance of the reality, you’ve hexed yourself completely, and Einstein and all his theories no longer matter.

And we fall for this ritual time and time again, simply because most of the retelling is done Monday at work – and any sharp pain as the pin is passed through the doll is assumed to be lunchtime gas or that second donut …

… so we delight in stretching truth or predicting how well we’d do if we all skipped work – and the curse wears off by the subsequent weekend, with us none the wiser to all that dark evil we’ve conjured.

Travel Writer makes like Colorado only more squeamish Naturally, I mention to TravelWriter how me and his Dog, which is no longer his Dog as it ignores him completely, have been faring and how he might want to hone his skills on some aggressively eating fish – and I have to listen to how much better the guides were as they rowed him through most of Colorado, versus the fart bar and lukewarm bottled water I’m serving on my stinky little creek …

And if that’s not enough he adds insult to injury by snapping my profile – which suggests the 26 pounds of lard I’ve removed from my frame through Herculean husbanding of calories, would be best served by another 26 pounds of lard yet to go …

Neither lean nor svelte, just overhang

Note my ever-present shadow, rooted to my side in case I need to be defended against hamburgers, whose recent discovery that not every home insists on dry kibble, where weekends can be woodsy adventure versus shackled to the garage, and in better homes Taco Bell is served on fine china even …

… and while fishing was off compared to the last couple of outings, we still got bit regular, just not regular enough to make the occasion memorable enough to brag come Monday morning.

Outside of swarms of small Pikeminnow on #20 dries, whose unwelcome hex will have been voided by my next visit to the creek.

While much has been made about all the fish we released, it’s what we kept that makes all this exercise worth while.

Fat of the Land

Me and Dogbert played along until our fellow angler turned his back and we made off with a goodly assortment of plunder. Walnuts, pears, persimmons, and fresh chard lend precious vitamins to any meal, especially the greasy, leaden variety I’d promised to preserve canine loyalties.

Montezuma ransomed for a garage full of German stainless

montezuma The nature of our business typically has us arriving a week too late and a dollar short. If it’s not the fishing, then its the enormous fabled garage full of old bamboo rods, or a couple wandering crates of Jungle Cock necks, or something rarer that we’d gladly divorce the spouse over.

I see it akin to any mythical treasure of myth or legend, from King Solomon’s Mines to the room of gold Cortez was promised for Montezuma.

The “ … old dude had a garage full of [insert_desirable_here], only it got tossed last week … If I’d known you wanted some I would’ve backed up the truck, bro … “ fable.

So, when a buddy at work holds out a set of forceps to me and mentions offhand, “I got these from this old dude and you use these fly fishing so’s I figured you could use a set.” I examine the 6” forceps, spy the “Miltex” label and am on his leg like a half-beagle, half-bulldog in full lovemaking ardor …

“Some old janitor dude cleaned out his friends office and found a box of these, so he offers me one.”

I recognize “Miltex” as the German surgical manufacturer, makers of scissors and implements that cost a bloody fortune – not to mention whose scissors never dull, even after cutting hundreds of bead chain eyes, concrete, and the hood off a ‘38 Plymouth …

I mention that fact, how most of the implements they make are a hundred bucks or more each – and how any fisherman in his right mind could make do with a couple handfuls, not to mention how useful fine pointed surgical scissors would be to them as tied flies …

Roadkill_Lab

And the entire trove shows up on my desk. The finest set of micro tweezers I’ve had the pleasure to witness, about 100 forceps with both cutting edges and clamped tips, and best of all …

surgical_Scissors

A really nice mixture of fine pointed surgical scissors in the 4.5” to 5.5” models. Semi-curved and flat bladed, sharp as razors and looking for some fellow daring enough to wield these in anger.

Now I can equip a couple of extra vests with clamps and forceps – and the rest will be window dressing for “Uncle Kiki’s Animal Hospital and Road-kill Emporium” – which will give all those grieving pet owners the illusion that I might be able to fixed the mashed SOB …

… when the plan is to skin it.

Note: Any time you get access to surgical goodies, boil them thoroughly, there’s no telling what type of doctor the original owner might have been – nor the history of the implements above. It pays to be extra cautious when it comes to disfiguring diseases and something sharp enough to prick you.

None of that silly “one hand for the ship” stuff

2Rafters1fisherman

I figure this is a larger lesson for society. The hubbub over perfumed and coifed Wall Streeters gambling with everyone’s 401K is moot for us outdoorsy types. As fishermen we knew whether tarred with the 1% label or granted membership in the other 99%, we’d land on our feet regardless of new economics …

Two Rafters, One Fisherman, whose instincts are akin to a predatory cat, never ruffled, never hurried, aware of everything and its consequences …

Guess which is the fly fisherman. No hint necessary as it should be that obvious …

Just the Feathers, Ma’am. You can cook or bury the rest

Even a muppet gets careless In traditional ass-biting fashion the Trout Underground  has done me “Short Cast” dirt, flinging our entire editorial staff me under a bus for the quick chuckle, not realizing that I would be horribly offended at the notion of any woman assaulted by a frozen furbearer.

“Road Kill” now somehow synonymous with the “Singlebarbed Experience,” versus our association with any of the finer elements of our sport; like finely honed titanium, polished nickel silver, or the fine micrometer taper of a weak-walled, hollow Asian grass, that when dried was flamed by craftsmen scared to inhale … as they weren’t Man enough to flex Carbon fiber …

conservationist … given that my worst offense would be breathing new life into something crushed, lifeless and a rapidly bloating eyesore – should’ve bought us martyrdom versus the “hyuk-hyuk” bull’s-eye on our rear. Making it doubly painful knowing those whose aberration includes running them over repeatedly until tender and eating the remnants are, “conservationists” instead of blogdom’s laughingstock.

‘I used to cut up dead animals to see their insides and when I did all I could see was fresh, organic meat …”

Burgeoning ax murderers from the sound of it, and my worst merely skinning it downwind of its former owner – without permission, and without last rights, naturally.

I figure living in that mansion on the hill, overlooking his personal trout stream – and knowing I was travelling lent him courage …

Brown water conservation, rags to riches in a single season

My mysterious benefactor appears to be the apron work on the bridge upstream. The source of thousands of fish my little creek is suddenly burdened with – as well as why it’s still flowing in October when it should’ve dried up in July.

It's a dog's life, especially in the front seatIt’s a sudden embarrassment of riches, hundreds of fish in every pool, visible largemouth bass – when they’ve always been a rarity, and oodles of hyper-aggressive Orange finned Bull Trout outracing both Bluegill and Smallmouth to the fly.

Sophistication is a hint of sparkle with a marabou tail – a recipe befitting a hundred fish day, assuming you don’t mind most being six inches or smaller.

Given the creek was barren in the Spring, and with only four fish counted in as many miles and I’m thinking the hell with trout fishing, where a couple of degrees temperature or a few milliliters of toxin denudes most of a watershed.

If we ever stopped to add the millions spent in care and feeding, all the  restorative spawning gravel planted, alder and willows to shore sagging banks, and substrate that can’t abide the press of an angler’s feet. Parking lots and paved roads, flush toilets, guides and drift boats, fancy flies and gossamer tippets – and all for a fish that’s mostly shat from a pipe after being fed Twinkies …

Hard to believe I ever doubted this creek’s survival, given its history of tomato tailings and fertilizer. Seeing this plethora of gamefish in a single season makes a fellow eager to spend his precious conservation dollars on a fishery showcasing hardy warm water species, that welcomes invasives, can tolerate a couple degrees of temperature increase, and can live off a diet of benthic scum and crushed water bottles.

Agressive as hell and expects no quarter 

Us fly fishermen have backed a freshwater loser these last couple of centuries, and the knowing is suddenly tough for me to swallow …

Pikeminnow Unlimited wouldn’t need yearly dues nor memberships, unless we opted for starched uniforms and well dressed lobbyists serving aged Cubans and Homarus Americanus to uncaring politicians.

… nor would I care much for what your soles were made of – as most of the locals know, it’s what’s on them that matters most.

Is it really Whirling Disease, or did we just make the entire batch spin to the left?

oOPSIe, we didn't know Until recently fisheries biologists have seen the adipose fin as largely superfluous, and have clipped it to visually distinguish planted fish from their wild cousins.

Now they’re not so sure.

Recent studies suggest the adipose fin is crucial to fish, aiding it in navigating turbulent water.

With the tiny fin removed, he says the fish need to use much more energy to maintain position and speed in the water.

– via CBC News Canada

Given that the practice is especially prevalent with salmonids, which re-enter fresh water when it is most turbulent, it may have been one of many reasons why hatchery fish have never adequately replaced indigenous populations.

Makes you wonder whether we’ve been our own worst enemy, accidentally even.