It’s an environment so hostile you’ve got to bet on the fish

salt_water_fliesAs 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 …

Something is always bleeding

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.

Whatever looks like bait to you

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.

Cronkhite_Beach

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 ..

I may have to darken them a shade or three

The Hawtness Hisself

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 …

If you fly fish you’ve beaten the odds

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.

coke_charlie_sheen

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.

… wherein we enlist the aid of small children and dogs

“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 …

The Big Payoff 

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 …

Archaic and Harsh, but we’re tired of putting a fatherly face on them as gas Chickens

field_streamI’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.

As we do so love to count the little darlings

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

kolodz

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.

It’ll be the last time you’ll swab a saltine in your Onion Soup

I remember what you said, “ … shan’t, mustn’t, can’t. Leave the dead and dying on the roadbed, as the warden is likely to grab you by the ass and slap a hefty fine on you.”

As it was technically possible that I’d grabbed the Opossum by his little rat tail and hurled him under that big-arsed tanker truck, I opted to remain chaste and walked by his flattened and fresh corpse with nary a thought of dragging him into the cornfield and vivisection …

Ditto for that raccoon that wasn’t there yesterday afternoon. It lay there grinning – knowing he’d expired on the crown of the road and his lumpy remains was visible for miles. I did take a second glance at the top half of that Mourning Dove – whose bottom half was a couple of zip codes distant, having lodged itself in Grandma’s grill … My thoughts were pure – which is more than I can say for her garage tomorrow.

But the Olive orchard treasure trove was defensible, I could stand there and defend my gallon sized jug of feathers without breaking into giggles, and the comforting “whomp” as I deployed that back-pocket extra large Ziploc was a pleasant reminder – to the Victor belong the spoils, fifteen pounds of duck feathers, breast mostly; no blood, no wings, beaks or feet, just a pile of breast feathers a foot high – like a feathery comet strike, spattered duck feathers as far as I could see. Definitely a capital crime given the birds are out of season, but even the Warden would admit there was enough for my needs and her Evidence Bag would still be lipping full.

A comet strike of waterfowl

Sprig, Widgeon, Mallard, and Teal, almost as if someone had emptied last seasons feather plucker into a Sunflower field.

I was two miles distant from the safety of home, as I clutched my bloodless booty to my chest and ran for cover – I was prepared to throw myself on the mercy of the court …

… and you’re right of course. I have plenty of this stuff, so why was I so giddy over the find? Flatty Racoon and extra freebie feathers take the sting out of learning to dye, where a little skill is warranted before risking the Good Stuff.

I’m fiddling with natural dyes and different mordants, attempting to see the ranges of color possible with iron and copper-based mordants, and a couple shopping bags of duck feathers represents many tests, many accidents, and a lot of –maybe- shoveled into the garbage can.

120 grams of Onion

You start with 120 grams of Onion skins purloined from the bin at the local supermarket. Given that I am the only customer with the nerve to shop at 0600, I asked the manager could I help myself and there was no issue.

With a copper mordant (50% water, 50% White vinegar, and a sanded copper plumbing “T”) you should get a light to medium brown-bronze color from the Onion skins bath. The plumbing tee is sanded to remove any surface lacquer so the acid can strip the copper ions off the fitting and dissolve them into the liquid, which will turn blue.

boiled_Onion_Skins

Add all the skins into a large pot of water and boil. The longer the skins remain in the liquid the darker the bath will become. I wound up simmering the pot (just under a boil) until the skins softened completely.

Straining the material yielded a dye bath as rich and dark as coffee. As the skins can be reused again to make more dye, you’ll need to decide to toss or dry them on newspaper outside.

Add the mordant mixture (about six cups) to the dye bath. The amount added will vary based on pot size and amount of onions used. Precision is not really needed, simply add plenty of mordant to set the color.

Not the rich coffee color of the bath

I added a double fistful of duck breast to the pot. Natural dyes require plenty of time to dye a successful shade – given that duck feathers can be oily (these weren’t – they felt dry to the touch), they can be difficult to color.

I wanted to “range” the dye/mordant combination. This requires me to pull feather samples out every hour and set aside to dry. It’s a method by which we can capture how quickly a dye colors mats and how deep a shade is possible.

I pulled four samples and then left the pot to steep overnight.

Final_Dry_Daylight

The hourly samples were indistinguishable, the dye added color very slowly to the materials. I was pleased with the outcome as the resultant color is almost an imitation wood duck or brown partridge style color.

Above is the colors in direct sunlight, below is the final colors in shade …

Duck breast in full shade

Very buggy and very useful color.

Saving a baggy of the result gives you the ability to compare the same ritual conducted with an iron mordant to see how the different ions make the final color. It’s this style of fiddling, with nothing at risk, that provides the background education that will embolden you to grab that $400 Hoffman saddle and  …

… all you need is a Ziploc tucked neatly into the back pocket, just slide the carcass in between two parked cars and hope nobody looks from the apartment above ..

Fish with Nugent & the Trumps, if not for the entertainment value, then perhaps for charity

Ted Nugent and us Weekend Warriors It’s a mixture of chance or luck that aligns celebrities with the love of the out of doors. We’ve enjoyed a lot of minor nobles and B-list celebs, interspersed with Presidents and hedge fund big wigs, but that mainstream banner-carrier continues to elude us  …

… mostly because the jury is still pending on that Jesus thing, at least until they roll away the stone and find a couple of hammered Roman KastMasters at the bottom of the ossuary …

Of them that’s left, only Ted Nugent commands enough testosterone and unabashed outdoor goodness to plow through all them animal firsters, animal rights and lefts, and Vegans, to hold a reporter’s interest long enough to pin a couple soundbytes on the evening news.

For that, we love him.

Now Ted has promised to entertain you for charity with some unlikely bedfellows, given that the Trump children aren’t known for straying too far from armed guards and penthouse – never the less both factions have decided to set aside all differences to entertain you while you fish.

The iconic madman and avid hunter has put a day of hunting and fishing at his Waco, Texas compound on the auction block at leading charity auction site charitybuzz.com. The lucky winning bidder and a guest with join Ted Nugent, Donald Trump Jr. and Eric Trump Jr. for a day they’ll never forget.
The experience, valued at $30,000, is open for bidding through August 8th at:
http://www.charitybuzz.com/catalog_items/270205

I can only hope one of the Trump’s breaks a nail – while Ted runs down live prey and eats it raw – sending the NY contingent scrambling for  their jet – or temporary cover behind their manicurist …

Knowing my audience I figure the Ted must’ve earned a special place in your Camaro or Trans-Am, and while your coin may come dear in this challenging economy, the desire is still there …

If Trout were Zombies we wouldn’t have the issue

strippers_versus_zombies With everyone alternately bemoaning the lack of newcomers to the sport, and cursing those that do show up as movie fanbois, it’s a wonder what few social organizations remain continue to insist on out-of-the-box thinking in the hope we’ll lure kids away from Nintendo and into the arms of us antisocial fly fisherman …

Porn would make the task easier, but we aren’t allowed to lead the poor child that far down the Dark Path, given little brother will supply all his needs once he realizes he can charge for it.

I say we need to play to the youngsters nervous skills and unbridled urge to kill everything. We’ve watched countless screens of Zombies expertly dispatched by knives, sharp sticks, and phase-plasma rifles, why not mention that fish bleed and writhe in pain when stomped?

A leading English supermarket opted to give away nearly 12,000 pounds of less marketable fish to its customers in hopes of making them less reliant on troubled fisheries…

In the first week of the campaign six tones of sustainable fish was given away by the retailer, with trout forming the largest share of this at 22%, and British Trout Association members are already reporting an increase in demand for farmed rainbow trout fillets with a significant increase in sales recorded.

Is it possible that increased trout fillet sales may drive increased interest in the fish, possibly even stimulating the palate enough to buy a rod, reel, and a jug of salmon eggs?

Whereupon the poor SOB has now availed himself of our tender mercies, allowing us to point out the error of his ways, demand that he repent and spend thousands on real tackle, wade into the water he’s fishing – giving him both finger and stink eye if his lower lip so much as trembles, then suggest he should let them all go if he gets lucky?

Yes, we are often our own worst enemy, funny how we overlook that.

Hopefully it’ll involve a loincloth and a dull Buck knife

It’s increasingly important for us torturers of living creatures to live up to the collective Metrosexual expectation at work, given that we freely admit to sleeping on the ground, and consider bathing optional.

We’re like the city kid that bought his first four wheel drive vehicle, way down deep he knows it needs a deep mud puddle to gain legitimacy.

And while both Congress and our beloved President are lecturing us on the benefits of compromise, suggesting both Executive and Legislative branches could use a leavening of us compromise-prone sporting types, who dearly love those grandiose boasts at the water cooler, yet compromise so the Missus can share the same tent

Kinda clean with a smoky edge

… when our real motive is to claim we rubbed ourselves down with greasy pork belly before chasing all them ravenous Grizzlies away from our trembling and fearful family.

It was them or me, so I kissed my wife goodbye then rubbed the bar on my nether regions and ran hell for leather at the biggest one, the one drooling the mostest …

As the only thing better than stretching the truth … is a complete outdoors falsehood involving loincloths, ravenous predators bigger than us, and a dull Buck knife.