It was Big, Awkward & Black last year

As SMJ so eloquently reminded us Monday, “… where them fuggin antz at?”

I have the luxury of fleeing the fishless and flooded creeks in my area for our traditional twice yearly pilgrimage to Manzanita Lake. It’s become ritual at this point; once to mark the opening of the season, once in the fall to mark the close, and the fish always playing second fiddle to the real prize of a year’s worth of bragging rights.

… and with all well known lakes and the best laid plans, it always comes down to “mystery meat” that determines the Victor…

… the puff of breeze that dislodged all them awkward carpenter ants, or the hot midge color is florescent orange (even though last year it was Chartreuse), and while most of the day you’re flinging or dragging everything you thought would be there, the perversity of Mother Nature means every day becomes an episode of Monty Hall’s “Let’s Make A Deal.”

I’m dating myself surely, but as every episode ended he’d glance down at the Grandma squealing in her clown suit and say, “I’ll give you $500 for every clothespin you brought in your purse … Two? Okay, I’ll trade your thousand dollars for what’s behind door #3 …”

A Lifetime of Cheese slices or …

… and has you scrambling for the darkest recesses of your fly box hoping you can cut up something normal to make what you really need.

…kind of like Granny felt when she paid a thousand bucks for a metric ton of CheeseWiz.

 Black_Double_Humpy

A fistful of moose hair tied in and double folded in both front and back to make a comely lump, with the remnants pushed upright and wrapped as a parachute. Moose being tough allows me to dress the fly on a #10 hook without a single fish tearing everything to pieces.

After a couple of fish I should have the rough look necessary, broken fibers trailing under the fly to simulate legs.

Ants are always accompanied with a stiff afternoon breeze, and with the water surface roughened nicely it’s a rare opportunity to fish the dry with OX. Typically by that time you’ve got a few scores to settle and are less mindful of hurt feelings …

Are we back to them scrawny Chinese capes?

Plucked Chicken A single sentence sent me gasping in apoplexy, but I’ll save the tantrum until I get another corresponding data point.

I’d suggest you do the same.

Denver’s WestWord News mentions in today’s article on the feather trade, suggests Thomas Whiting of Whiting farms has stopped selling feathers to fly shops …

When demand for his feathers intensified, Whiting initially held off on selling to the fashion world, preferring to save the saddle feathers for his regular clients. But then he discovered that many fly-fishing outlets were buying his feathers at regular prices and then reselling them for crazy sums; those $40 to $80 packages were going for $300 to $500 on eBay, while hair stylists were (and still are) selling feathers at anywhere from $10 to $40 apiece. So Whiting, who had been selling the feathers wholesale for twenty cents each, stopped selling to the fishing stores altogether and began raising prices for the fashionistas.

Non fishermen and certainly non-fly tiers can be easily confused by the reserved words and phrases of our craft, it’s likely the author has taken the quote from poor context.

It’s not surprising that Mr Whiting would want to cut the fly shops out of the loop, especially those that might have been early to the fad, assuring him they were selling to the fly tying public – and were stuffing them onto eBay as quickly as shipments arrived. Most shops vended the capes with the shop account, which would have been obvious to someone browsing feather sales.

Given the economic turmoil, it’s not surprising. In either case let’s hope this was a bit of exaggeration. If Keough Hackle has already sold it’s 2012 harvest, and Whiting removes his roosters from play, you’d better learn to love nymphing  … and quick.

I’d craft a few for the box your pals don’t grab

JSON stonefly nymph At some point we all flirt with the individual fibers, knotted legs, and artificial or synthetic everything – mostly because the flies look much too delicious to ignore…

… about our third fly we begin to wonder about synthetic reality and whether something that takes forty-five minutes to tie can outfish something made from a lumpy dog ear and owl feather.

About the half-dozen mark we’re willing to go back to the imprecise impressionism that is the Royal Coachman Fanwing, and we’re the luckier for it …

Not this fellow, I admire his work very much, and admire his resolve even more ..

He’s got quite a few videos as well as the wing burners and tools to speed the realism, always worth an eyeball.

Will Dan break with his prior creed, strict Catch & Release?

The Daddy CatchHarlequin Romance, you tawdry little strumpet, when did you come of age ?

From the back cover:

Jess Cofer isn’t fixing for a fight. All the single mom wants is to run her fly fishing shop and preserve unspoiled Phelps Cove, Florida, for future generations. Too bad Dan Hamilton doesn’t see it that way. It looks as if the tall, dark and sexy surgeon is in favor of handing over the endangered habitat to greedy developers!

Dan would love to get on his gorgeous new fishing instructor’s good side—if she has one. But he can’t throw away this opportunity to fulfill his dream to build a safe haven for foster teens. Dan knows that when it comes to the truly important things like love and family, he and Jess are on the same side. Will she forgive him when she learns what he’s been hiding?

In a word, Dan, No goddamn way.

Miss Jessie knows that limp grasp of yours was never meant to hold anything longer than a dessert fork. You take longer in the bathroom than she does, and them big male fingerprints in her moisturizer suggests you’ve got greasy skin and pluck your eyebrows. She noted your girlish squirm when she mentioned eating what you caught, and knows  its not Catch & Release that makes that fillet unpalatable, rather it’s your inability to stomach anything not smothered in Room Service.

Fly shop, greedy deviant developers wanting to destroy Nature, Doctor Dan the MetroSexual restoring his male dignity … Hot Damn!

The reality of all this remains bleak, but the idea that something might want to bask nekkid on hot streamside cobble will bolster your flagging spirits for another couple of seasons …

… despite “Leigh Duncan” being a truck driver from Des Moines, with two day’s growth of beard, and smell to match.

No, the Other Brown One …

There’s the fellow tasked with bringing all the cooking implements, the canisters of propane, the lanterns and mechanical vestiges of civilization, if he forgets something it’s a round of good natured ribbing and a bit of improvisation, like beans warmed in the can. Then its the guy tasked with the victuals; the ice chests bulging with steaks and cold libations, dairy products and lunchmeat, and if he screws up it’s a trip to the store, or salmonella, or both.

But the most feared responsibility is the stalwart supplying the flies. A bit of inattention and the whole purpose of being is lost, a nickname results, and most of the beer consumed while everyone lounges about waiting for your return from civilization and the closest fly shop …

You’d think after fishing the same lake for nearly twenty-five years I’d make this easy on myself. Ear mark a couple of weekends and bang out what worked last year without modification, despite recent lackluster reception, and should anyone disturb my lake-side communion with questions about their validity, feign outrage with the “Candyass” retort…

“Dammit, these flies work fine. Most of the problem is that Candyass rod you’re using, with its Candyass limp butt, complicated further by a stiff breeze and that Candyass open wrist you develop every afternoon.

Try some of the brown ones … Meat.”

This being the second year in a row that everything fit to hold water is swollen to the gills with runoff, we’re retiring to the safety of the Sierra’s and the millions of lakes that will be full – where we can remove the furrows from our brow dallying in the deep end – armed with floating sofa cushions and breadcrumbs for the ducks.

… and while the rest of the fly tying world plays stop-action with the phases of mayfly, we’ll focus on fast sinking, sinking, and Black Hole of sinking…

Three guys, three days, and one beginner. I figure eight dozen to cover the losses; broken branches, busted tippets, and the balance to be loaned long term.

Red_Butted_Leech

Brass cones, kirbed hook, red for blood and dark purple for great silhouette at depth.

Peacock_Rust_Leech

Not as big as the Red Butted, but equipped with a similar heavy bead and lead.

Green_Leech

Most importantly is to have plenty of leech style flies the same color as the weed growing up from the bottom, how else to imitate the hide and seek nature of the local chow.

Green_Damsel_thing

The latest in a long line of damselfly imitations, size 11, the real thing being a large morsel for a fish gaunt from ice out.

Calibaetis_Thing

… and for the almost sinking, semi top water, you’ve got to have a handful of Calibaetis nymphs should the midday emergence finally come to fruition.

Little_Rainbow

Small trout fry in case nothing else works, slim profile and nothing to impede sinking and stripping past a cruising fish.

Predator_Calibaetis

If we’re lucky we might encounter some Calibaetis, here are the “predator” flavor of that self same bug.

I’ve got the initial five dozen cranked out this weekend in between largemouth bass and bluegill, which’ll cover the other fellows nicely – yet save all the batter-dipped scented experimentals for my box and the secrecy of open water …

“Huh? I got it on the brown one like I said …”

Live by the Sword and so shall ye arteries perish

White bread has also been commonly used as a hook-bait for centuries and is even referenced in the fisherman’s Bible The Compleat Angler by Izaak Walton in 1653.

It’s well known that successive generations of anglers have lowered their expectations over the outdoor experience and game fish in general. As our beloved quarry is diminished in both size and numbers, we’ve been forced to ignore those qualities that made them great, and widen the available prey by adding the less genteel and outright untouchable into the game fish ranks.

Magazines that once talked about fish as, “…like a startled silvery gazelle, spinning in midair …” now rarely mention anything other than “wallow” , “snag” or “slugfest.”

With dams as plentiful as instream cobble, our once agile opponent has become some panting porcine slob that comes to heel when we whistle, disgorges its most recent meal into our palm from overexertion, poses for the camera in familiar “Gasping Fatty” cover pose, and must be coaxed back into the water. A far cry from our father’s “silvery greyhound – product of thousands of generations fighting miles of uphill currents.“

Sure it’s our doing. Ensuring the genetics of those lean and muscular fish are no longer viable, via selection for fish small enough to negotiate a live turbine – or fat enough to maintain their place without swimming.

Reducing our beloved sport to releasing some bloated softbody that eats your fly hoping you’ll shove its flaccid ass a bit further upstream, clearing some shallow spot blocking its next meal ..

The Bad News is that in addition to selecting fish whose belly drips through all but clenched fingers, you’ve  imprinted your eating habits on young and impressionable game fish, whose biopsies suggest that Type II Diabetes in fresh and salt water fish roughly mirrors the human populations nearby.

… your midday meal being such a nutritional wasteland that it’s a toss up whether your lunch provides the bare necessities to keep you alive – or whether your wife packed it with every intention of killing you dead.

If you had any sense, the thought should give them jaws pause. If the fish shouldn’t eat it there’s little doubt that you’re destined for a fiber-less haymaker delivered to the knotted remnants of your colon.

Hard to believe that in a couple hundred short years, we’ve destroyed most of the known fisheries, and corrupted even the bait used to tame all that Wilderness.

More Freebie Scissors for fly casting clubs

scissor_spiderI’ve got additional defective scissors to dispense should your fly casting club wish to assist prospective students in defraying their new vice …

… yes, vice. You didn’t think it was possible to promote immoral behavior with such innocent intentions, but by urging them to tie flies, and given their well known propensities for spiraling out of control on any fishery-based science – the coveting of the neighbor’s tabby, and frittering away the child’s college fund follows, means you’re peddling sin.

Those that participated in the last round of freebies will remember it’ll be a mixture of stainless and tungsten styles, all will be operational, some may open or close a bit rough, may have one tip slightly longer than another, or a defect in visuals – but all will serve a student well.

My mail contact information is on the “About” link at the top of the page, drop me a note with your club mailing address, and I’ll get the packages out this weekend.

This will be a first come, first serve queue.

Can you flippinbelieveit ?, Palin says “Dig Dig Dig” on Pebble

With 24000 pages of email from the Sarah Palin regime just released to the public, I figured none of our guys would wade into all that puffery to glean how the Pebble mine fared, as that’s asking way too much of us action-oriented types … palinmail

Meanwhile the press is focused on the next extra-tasty history rewrite, or something scandalous. The Pebble Mine hardly garners a shrug given the possibility of secret love children sequestered away by shadowy housekeepers, paid with hush money. Given the torrid state of affairs of our politicos, little wonder the issues take a back seat to gossip.

There’s about five pages of email on Pebble and plenty of side-bar banter about similar projects as Miss Dimwit holds court with her closest aides.

Keough’s 2012 harvest is mostly committed, no word yet from Whiting

It’s a simple question really. Given that Grizzly hackle is critical to most western dry flies, bass bugs, saltwater streamers, and most minnow imitations, just how long can you last on your current stockpile?

… or are you waiting for the saddles to breach the $500 per barrier on eBay, before unloading while the market’s hot …

While I’ve chided you many times in the past about, “seeing a good deal and jumping on it with both feet,” this is liable to be the first such shortage felt by this latest generation of fly tiers – where the idea of hoarding and stockpiles get mulled over while you survey what storage remains in the man cave …

Hair tinsel, 410 degrees melt point = polyester, same as ours

Us older tiers can remember when Belding-Cortescelli phased out Nymo thread, and how we bought every spool we could scrounge in advance of that dark moment.

It appears we’ll be left with the more expensive neck hackles, which may or may not be a suitable substitute, and we’ll still get plenty of Chinese saddles (6” – 7”) in Chinchilla (currently $70 for 18 feet strung), but it’s looking like the genetic saddles will be MIA for a goodly spell, much longer than first anticipated.

Hana Johnson, president of Hair Flairs, a Florida company that distributes feathers and other beauty products to salons in the United States and Canada, said she has sold a million feathers so far this year. That compares to 3,000 in 2010.

“We’ve been spinning our little feather wheels like hamsters since day one,” she said.

Hair Flairs has already bought the bulk of feathers that will be produced in 2012 by Bill Keough at Keough Hackles in southwest Michigan.

– via Reuters.com

There’s about 20-50 articles on this phenomenon going to print daily, worldwide. I scan them all to dig out new developments. Every facet is being debated, from the euthanizing of chickens, the squeals of new owner’s delight, the finger wagging of us fly fishing types, and the sudden interest on ramping production of those vendors torn between profits and angry phone calls from more traditional customers.

Practitioners are on record adoring their flexibility and temporary nature, they can buy multiple colors to match multiple outfits, can add and remove them at will, so they can mix, match, and amass collections, and the chicken farmers and fly shops adore them for it.

Suggesting everyone but us is happy, the fad has legs, and we’ll have to make do with less. I would expect most fly shops will soon be taking a back seat to better funded salon merchandisers like Hair Flairs, especially if they’re buying an entire year’s output at a go.

I’ll keep my fingers crossed that Keough or Whiting doesn’t sell the farm and retire outright.