Naturally if I see a big splash of bright color and “Used by the Armed Forces,” I’m thinking Delta Force or Seal Team 6, and how the murmur in the parking lot will be all the fellows wishing theirs was extreme DEET, just like mine …
… then again, were I to round a darkened boulder come dusk to see a fellow angler crouched while applying a generous spritz to both hands, I might be thinking something else entirely …
Remember that especially gentle and reassuring voice I used when I mentioned, “don’t fear dyeing your precious fur and fibers, as everything is useful for something …”
Boy was that a windy.
I’m pawing through a drawer full of goodies and see that dusty plastic bag scrunched under all that marabou, and naturally figured it had to be those long lost bucktails I simply knew I had …
Rather than the burst of bright colors I was expecting, I get the Color that Cannot be Used, a reminder of my greatest fur mistake …
I’d spent the better part of six months higrading all the shops in San Francisco for their best bucktails – each with hair damn near six inches long, as I was prepared to tie a big fistful of striper flies.
I needed a dark olive layer for the Anchovy imitation I had in mind and tossed three-quarters of those tails into the pot with a brand new dye and too much heat …
… which yielded shrunken pumpkin orange bucktail with olive tips. Twenty years later I’ve not found a use for a single hair – despite fishing fresh, salt, and everything in between.
I know. You’re sitting there saying, “CRAYfish …uhm, STONEfly dry …uhm, no …uhm, WAIT …”
Just like I did.
Given the volume of invasive species and how quickly they’re encroaching by both land and sea, at some point you throw up your hands and cease keeping score …
The Little Stinking just started its third dunking in raw herbicide for some 250 known outbreaks of intrusive grass. Its banks still covered with faux bamboo they attempted to eradicate last year, and the sprayed green outlines of the erosion preventing brush CalTrans introduced to protect overpasses that wound up enveloping the native fauna instead.
Reminiscent of some of the disarray shown in some conservation organization’s trout plants, wherein they wad rainbows or browns where Cutthroats and Brookies live … only to Rotenone everything year’s later in an attempt to restore native stocks.
So many self inflicted wounds and botched attempts at eradication that you can’t help but wonder, “… if you persist on doing this why am I supposed to drop everything and express outrage over something else that’s entered the country unbidden? …”
The herbicide sprayed around the creek to control plants is done so with no regard for water quality, and the green silhouettes of invasives left on the ground by overspray is testimony to what’ll be on the large sign telling me – were I pregnant I shouldn’t even be walking below the high water mark, let alone eat something from there.
It’s tough to imagine not doing anything about all of this, but as each government appointed czar tells me they’ve declared war on something smaller than me, I have to ask, “…is this to be a stand up fight or another bud hunt?”
Given the War on Drugs has been going for a couple of decades, and the effects are noticeable in most California neighborhoods. Before we had to walk to the street corner to score reefer – now the vendor is mid block, and a subsidiary of Wal-Mart.
… and with global warming in full swing and the Pristine slowly baking in slightly higher temperatures year after year, it really is no surprise that the Jewel of California, Lake Tahoe – issued yet another horrific finding, how they’ve discovered Smallmouth Bass in the lake.
That on the heels of finding almost everything else swimming in the slowly clouding SOB, including largemouth bass, invasive mussels, and Jimmy Hoffa.
Despite the Republican candidates insistence on clamping down on illegal aliens, I’m thinking most of the federal funding that’s aiding states in combating foreign biologics will be drying up soon. Victim of the trillions of dollars in cuts we’ll mandate as part of a balanced budget amendment or something similar.
Oddly enough a piece of me is beginning to think that may not be such a bad idea. We called ourselves “Native Sons” if we can trace our roots to the Revolutionary War, which at last count was only four or five generations from our current coddled flavor …
We may want to rethink all this costly suppression and just admit that anything we can’t eat to extinction is granted native status, making us and our declining environment all the hardier. All we’ll have to do is come to grips with Lahontan trout having ate all the Coelacanth, and what a shame that was.
We were always fighting symptoms rather than the problem anyways. The lack of a mid-Atlantic or mid-Pacific ballast purge ensures everything can get here quickly and with no ill effects, and with airline travel and pressurized cabins absent a placental barrier, it’s only a matter of time before each continent enjoys the same complement of “native” flora and fauna, thanks to the efficiency of the jet engine.
WUSS, you’re nothing without those precious nickel silver ferrules kept limber by red deer fat …
… especially since Hardy extincted the supply many years ago, and what few are left are stalked by flute playing sophomores with a penchant for re-enacting “Her Majesty’s Secret Service.”
One of many treasures recently unearthed from the pile of unwashed laundry and fly tying materials in the Room That Has No Name.
I carry it on the outside chance that someone will forget butter and I’ll need something to flavor my Grits while they’re being rendered lovingly in the camp fry pan.
… Nose grease being right up there with Crisco as a potential substitute, unless BP has a well in the area and you can simply dip your ferrule in the creek …
As the wind shifted abruptly I remembered the market pundits and their “catch a falling knife” question, and as I tensed for the fly fishing equivalent, wind driven lead core on a collision course for my unprotected haunch, I knew this had to be what was meant …
Everything involving freshwater has been a complete disappointment this year, not just in my area, rather it seems the entire continent has suffered through too hot, too little, or too much, and us anglers are reduced to hoping a vigorous lawn mowing can become a surrogate for woodsy adventure.
I traded untamable CFS and water levels for a peek at tide tables – hoping their predictability will be a welcome change given the guesswork of fishing my normal haunts, which seems to favor too high or the uncontrollable brown torrent. Most shop reports seem a bit unreliable – given their desperation at luring a few paying customers, and given an hour’s drive into the woods or towards the ocean, I’m taking the ocean for the remainder of the season.
Living inland for the last couple of decades has crimped my saltwater fishing entirely, although memories of throwing a five weight sinking line into the brine of Crissy Field, or being chased out of the yacht harbor are still fresh.
Rock hopping for salt water fish is nothing like what we’ve seen of Florida saltwater or the mild surf of the East Coast; there’s no flats to speak of, no sun bronzed guides polling through marl, and almost every access to good water involves bleeding, twisted extremities, and a great deal of cursing …
Whatever limbs aren’t being twisted or scraped on slippery rocks are being filleted by fast moving lead core, or wind based slop in a cast that can’t be evaded.
… you learn never to move fast unless it’s a wave coming, everything else is liable to cause greater pain.
My youth was a couple of decades of fishing those same rocks with boat rods and bait, we learned to make our own tackle, castoff spark plugs and tobacco sacks filled with beach sand, knowing the combination of salt water, harsh environment and wave action destroys everything.
A big spool of lead core serves as fly line, given there is always a rogue wave sending you scrambling while your fly line is washed against kelp flumes and wrapped tight against mussel beds. Drawing a normal fly line tight will sever it instantly on a sharp mussel or barnacle shell – so you dispense with expensive factory tackle and build everything you need.
A ten weight head (~ 300 grains, Hi-Speed Hi-D Sci Angler) is 25 grams, and a spool of 13 grain/foot lead core can be spooled onto a scale and trimmed to the proper weight. A couple of barrel knots attaching loops of 50 lb Maxima at each end and a four foot level leader of 15 or 20 lb test is all the terminal tackle needed.
Flies are whatever you have left over from Shad or steelhead (for smaller mouths like Perch) and anything resembling minnow in whatever color and size you think best serves briny appetites.
Everything is going to get torn to pieces by the fish, poor footing, the salt air, or pounding surf, so epoxy anything that isn’t welded to the hook shank already.
Nylon yarns serve better than fragile feathers and bucktail. Skeins of the eyelash variants (recently marketed by Jay Fair as Swimming Hackle) are tough as nails and resist color fade, making them useful in fresh water for bass flies and in salt water as streamers.
Lead core heads are shorter than the traditional 30 foot length, and as wind is always an issue, you’ll tend to add more steam to the cast to keep it away from your flesh. Fast moving lead core can cut you like a knife, or imbed a large hook up to its bend in your defenseless arse, so you need to practice casting your saltwater rig before taking precious flesh in harm’s way.
A heavy rod in the 10-12 weight range is required for the open ocean, as you’re never sure what’s liable to eat next. Extra long rods are particularly useful as they keep the line as far from you as is possible.
Those heavier rods are a necessity given you’re not fishing down at the water level, perched on rocks above the waves will test your knots and tackle in excess of anything you’ve ever done before, and while you can’t lift fish with the rod, and have to point the tip at anything you’re about to bust off, even a 12 weight will feel woefully inadequate …
… especially when you stand there massaging your wrist as it’s not used to heaving that much weight …
A plastic stripping basket is standard equipment – especially so if fishing the surf line. The severe undertow will keep your feet moving to avoid being dropped by a receding wave, and both head and loose shooting line will be wrapped around both feet ort ankles via tidal surge.
When rock hopping you should visually confirm an escape route should the tide strand you on an outcropping. If fishing is good, or you aren’t sure whether the tide is incoming or outgoing, you can easily have the route onto the rock(s) made impassable with time and tides. You need to be conscious of your surroundings and know in which direction lies high ground and safety.
With the hordes of people living in cities nearby, beaches like Fort Cronkite in Marin County have legions of joggers and dog walkers that are unfamiliar with fly fishermen and their craft. They’ll jog into the path of your backcast without realizing their danger, and loose animals freed of the leash will meet with big hooks propelled by your sizzling backcast, and a Corgi or Toy Poodle will become a yelping, snarling buzzsaw of teeth and angry owner … earning you the fury of every dog lover within earshot.
With all the forces allied against you, you recognize that this is what they meant when they described that a fish has to take in enough calories to make the journey to eat the bug a wash. As you plunge yourself into the safety of your car seat after scrambling about the surf, you’ll see it as one of the most hostile environments left for the jaded jet-setting fly fisherman.
Bring a pal, no invasives to fear and misery surely loves company ..
After I kicked my faithful fifty-something gal-friend to the curb, I knew I needed some image work to make me marketable on the eSexualPredator sites.
It’s part of that larger health kick wherein sixty is the new fifty-seven …
… and change.
I’ve got the last great stash of foot long Grizzly hackles in captivity, and figured now that you lads have cashed yours in for a new rod or boat, I’ll leverage them hoping they’ll add a hint of vulnerable-fetching to my more traditional stern and taciturn.
The UPS man was mostly speechless. I could tell he was smitten given his propensity to stammer … which I’ll consider success of a sort …
It’s the real reason the fly fishing age demographic is 51-55, we’re well read – men of science and letters, and have limited our excesses to Viagra and Internet porn.
Man Finds Brick Of Unknown Substance, Snorts It, Dies
Thomas Swindal, 53, was offshore on Marathon when he and his brother Kenneth discovered a brick of an unknown substance, possibly cocaine, floating in the water.They ended up tossing the package into a bait well until a short time later, when Kenneth said he turned around and saw his brother snorting some of the substance.
– via WPBF.com
Not every fisherman is lucky enough, nor smart enough, to make it this far … only to discover this last, most irritating, form of fishing.
In our youth it was braided Dacron, the City pier, and a balky Ace hardware boat rod. Fortune smiled if we had an accomplice that sprung for a box of Safeway Calamari and a 24-pack. Those of us that could deliver a six-ounce pyramid with precision (despite the beer) survived. Them as flung that ensemble over everyone else’s line often enough … eventually slept with the fishes.
Later it was the open face spinning rod, and our repertoire expanded beyond the Salmon-Egg-Marshmallow-Open-faced Sandwich of Death, to include Kastmasters, Mepp’s spinners, and other gaudy hardware …
… and we fled salt water in favor of the piney woods. While communing with Nature we stumbled over the drip irrigation and the vibrant green Hemp, neat rows extending under the forest canopy as far as the eye could see …
Them as forgot themselves in a mad rush to stuff it all in their vest – got the rusty bear trap or punji pit skewer – and angry Mescans boiled out of the underbrush once we became entangled in the pebble-filled tuna cans strung from concertina wire. Those that could run – did so to the accompaniment of small bore .223 rattling off the branches overhead …
… with the proceeds we bought the boat, the ice chests packed with cold suds, and attracted all them ne’er do well blood relatives who invited themselves to our liquor, and anything supple or tanned we’d draped across poop deck or fantail …
Which is why we pointed to the large brick of rat poison we’d slid into the water when they were sparking our girlfriend, knowing we were doing both the planet and humanity a solid.
“Why, no. No problem at all, Mrs.. McGillicutty, you know how I adore looking after Froo-Froo. Yes, Ma’am, most men would consider it offputting to have to tote around a lap dog, rest assured I am secure in my masculinity …”
Society has all manner of non-complimentary names for it, but I like to think of it more as a form of regular opportunistic collecting …
Little Meat being key to that hobby, given his domain contains the Thanksgiving Tree, where 20-30 turkeys roost each evening, so close as to make a thrown tire iron a legitimate harvesting tool.
The downside being his bargaining skills and obsession with fast food, given that all evidence of the misdeed must be consumed or buried before his owner’s return … and yes, brushing his teeth is growing tiresome …
I’m giggling while reading a tirade on whether hair extensions and hippie chicks should be mutually exclusive, and though both are taking a considerable beating, the unthinkable occurs to me …
Fly tiers and dry fly fishermen are the only folks complaining over the loss of Grizzly hackle. Dry flies being tougher to tie than bead-headed-anything suggests my loyalties could be purchased …
Is it possible that the dry fly, and the idolaters and devil worshipers that exalt them above all else, are the source of angling’s bad press and should be cast out so they can lie with snakes and vermin of like (base) nature?
Sure it’s archaic and harsh, but there’s considerable evidence to support such a fanciful conclusion.
Think of all those distant relatives gazing at you in hushed expectation as you open your Christmas gifts, and how you’re forced to gush superlatives over; cut glass highballs featuring Cahills and Adams, ties festooned with March Brown and Fanwing Coachman, and cute but useless leather coasters featuring Humpies, Elk Hair Caddis, and the Rat Faced McDougal.
… most of which will never grace your fly box, you’ll never fish nor recognize, other than it’s something lacking the familiar bead head, and therefore sinks like crap …
All you really wanted was a slot car set, a new rod, a subscription to the Drake, or an AK-47 – but Grandma is a couple of time zones away and the nice man sold her them drink coasters instead …
Think snooty old guys and their down-the-nose grimace when shown newly purchased composite rods, synthetic flies, and plastic creels. Think clubhouse shunning and the coldest of shoulders should you mistake the lowly Caddis as a viable food group – equal perhaps, even to Mayflies …
Think chickens raised in isolated airless closets, their only companion being the curses of Mr. Whiting, and the promise of dismemberment in a cloud of downy agony…
“We are informed that you visited the conditions in which the roosters are confined and killed for their feathers,” wrote PETA Foundation General Counsel Jeffrey S. Kerr. These conditions include confining roosters to solitary cages stacked one on top of the other in noisy, windowless sheds until the birds are finally gassed and skinned. Mr. Whiting admits that he and his workers abuse the birds, even hurling them across the barn.
– via PETA
Surely it’s rarified turf belonging to ancient Field & Stream issues, pipe tobacco, rough hewn porches, toddies, and Ben Gay, none of which has survived to present day – being the yuppie Outdoor accoutrements of your Dad, not the 5 Hour Energy crowd of today.
As we’ve been dismantling the equally sacred “Match the Hatch” mantra for some time, I’m thinking it may be time to purge the fedora, aromatic pipe, Mr. Aberchrombie and Mr. Fitch, and the notion that visible is more cultured – when it’s merely suited for those whose reflexes rival a Mastadon …
I remember reading of Milk Fed Veal, never again was I able to look a calf in the eye.
Times change, and the old ways are rethought or simply discarded. Now, I simply idle in the parking lot while Ronald McDonald stares at them soft brown eyes before clubbing the little prick senseless.
There are as many flavors of angler as counting systems, and we’ve all been faced with “The Accounting” … that most common of questions put to us by spectators. It has to blend with our ethics, for those that think them other than liability has to match any remaining shreds of honor, be capable of impressing a disinterested onlooker with the quality of the experience we’ve completed, and convey to other anglers the measure of our sophistication, whether that be as a smack down, a gentle greeting, or in rare cases – the truth.
… and while we wish it otherwise the body count of the day’s fishing is made fulsome or sparse based on whichever counting system we hold in esteem, our mood, and the demeanor of them posing the question.
“… all I caught was a cold.” Humorous, dismissive, lacks detail. Best used on non-fishermen as the experience is known and shared.
“ … I caught fitty-six.” Smack down flavor, omits fly used and technique, no mention of location. Best used on fellow fly fisherman that saw you as a source of quality information – yet failed to recognize the tell-tale signs of you being a humorless prick …
“ … it was slow, they were finicky, and my fingernails are too long.” Semi-friendly, non-committal, best used when two “gunslingers” feel each other out – terse without being mean, reluctant to give offense …
Then there’s this guy …
2,649 Bluegill landed in one 24 hour angling marathon. A Guinness World Record for that many colored maggots drowned by one fellow for the sake of charity. Lacking a calculator … it’s two fish per minute.
Jeff Kolodzinski completed the marathon fishing event as part of Fishing for Life, a non-profit organization that exposes kids to the outdoors and creates a sense of community through fishing.
The new record is now 2,649 fish caught in a 24-hour period.
The previous record was set last year at the same spot.
I’ve seen a documentary on this fellow from last year, how the area is baited in advance of the effort, no reel used as it slows him down, simplest rig possible – dyed live maggots in a half dozen shades.
… and yes, the number of curious onlookers that ask him “how’s fishing?” or “how’d you do” is equally staggering.