Just a gentle nudge, the chicken you save may be your Adams

mindcontrol Dammit Goebbels, I read your book!

at least the part about how to bend society to your will using a mind deadening mix of rumor, fear, and alienation, playing up the perceived differences between the splinter group and mainstream.

My quarry frequents the Tofu aisle. Impressionable vegetable radicals intent on turning lead into gold, planting a couple of electrodes into curdled bean juice and zapping up a couple flavorful steak facsimiles, it never happens but we do love their optimism.

Just outside of view I taped a handheld recorder under the lint shield at the local Safeway, playing low volume Rebecca Black interspersed with the sounds of a thousand roosters getting their heads separated from their “hair extensions.”

Figuring that as soon as most of the “extension-eligible” realize harvesting a chicken is synonymous with decapitation via dull bandsaw, they might rethink all this fashionista crap, allowing us to pocket thousands of precious hackles tossed unceremoniously in dumpsters – free for the taking …

Actually things are getting out of hand now that screaming teenagers are running over the birds intentionally, in public

My efforts appear to be yielding fruit, a hint of  anti-extension propaganda beginning to show, and the promise of much more, based on a couple of manila envelopes tucked under the door at PETA, who were horrified that an entire generation of young folks assumed them feathers grew only on the chicken’s nugget.

In order to save Whiting from a very profitable demise, I’d suggest each of you add a bit of misinformation to your spouse’s favorite beauty forum. All them feather lusting fashion noobs have millions of questions which you can provide much needed answers …

You should warm quickly to their patter as they’re similar to the Drake forums, but with a lot more f-bombs.

Just a little nudge

Nothing hostile or degrading, just a nudge  …

Save Bristol Bay so we can keep picking on little guys

smallfish I suppose the good news is that none of us has cracked under the pressure and sent pictures of The Family Jewels to some anonymous campus sweetheart, but that’s coming.

Looking down, I think I’ll be safe enough, given that I haven’t seen mine in a couple of decades, but the rest of you concern me.

With societal censure clinging to us outdoorsy types like a dark cloud, issues like Catch & Release, invasive species, trespass, the despoiling of the watershed with our two and four wheeled gas guzzlers, planted versus wild, and the delight we show in blowing daylight through the arse end of anything exhaling CO2, have painted a bright target on our backs.

Now all them fellows we teased in school roam the halls of science and are determined to blame us for undoing millions of years of genetic selection, how all the small fish is our doing.

After studying data going back to 1943, Kendall has discovered that the average length of a (Bristol Bay) sockeye salmon is now 14 millimeters (0.25”) shorter than it used to be. She also discovered that the number of sockeye that spent two, instead of the normal three years, out at sea before coming upstream to lay their eggs, had increased by 16%, suggesting Mother Nature was trying to make up for losses incurred due to fishing.

via PhysOrg.com

While nets and the size of their mesh is doing the bulk of the selection, our squeezing the life out of the big fish so we can show Ma, thumping the SOB as its bigger then most, or bouncing Fatty off the rocks while the guide gets pictures 62 through 74, has to play some small part.

What took thousands or even millions of years of evolution to accomplish, has been undone in just a couple of centuries of human fishing practices.

Just a reminder that you guys suck.

It couldn’t have been me, all I ever catch is dinks …

Real Anglers wipe the Goo on their pants leg

Flo-Green Artificial Leech I can finally ditch the expensive gear and G-suit necessary to keep arm, rod, and line in the same dimension. Shortly, I’ll be donating a Semi worth of rotting pelts, feathers and synthetics to the local casting club, along with my collection of waders and never used, newly illegal, felt soled wading shoes …

… only because I’ll be jettisoning the company of you grim and overly serious fly fishing types for the company of wide-smiling, truly genteel folk.

Sweaty, happy fellows that welcome you with a hearty backslap and firm handshake, insisting your lawn chair scoots in as close to theirs as is possible (makes passing chips easier), and are smart enough to stay out of the cold damn freshet in the first place.

That’s because real men can hit the other bank from where they’re sitting, and if there’s any goo left from filching goody out of a jar, that’s nothing a brisk wipe on the pants leg won’t fix …

That whole “lean and predatory extreme angler” bit kicked to the curb in favor of “extreme buffalo wing eating”, or “extreme bankside alcoholism”, complete with “X-treme tossing of empties” over that fleshy shoulder.

Now that I’ve left the priesthood, I’ll be able to hold a steady relationship with a female of the species, I’ll be able to catch and gut stomp anything edible, and I can finally fill that lonesome freezer humming in the garage without fear of reprisal …

yellow_nightcrawlersBecause Bait fishing is Cool again …

We’ll leverage the secret food that makes worms take on fluorescent colors, tinker with the DNA so science dubs them both single and ©Artificial, allowing me to skirt most restrictions (rubs hands together), and lay waste to your favorite corner of the Pristine.

With my new Artificial Fluorescent Leeches® you’ll be dumping all that wasteful and expensive ostrich on those Intruders, opting to spin some EcoGreen® fibers instead … their constant wiggling a bit of a distraction initially, but that’ll soon pass …

… (especially when your buddy just blanked …)

I can’t imagine not adding a bit of refried bean to the current chow, inducing flatulence and the Dry version of the worm floating leech®.

Absent all them secret handshakes, the knowledge of thousands of useless fly patterns, most dating back to the Pharaohs, and me no longer alienating some splinter cell with every comment spoken, it’ll be fishing as it was meant to be, simple and pleasant.

Dare I say, even Born Again?

… and we stank, and Dad scored a couple of Hot Dogs … and …

Before bamboo, before graphite, long before we learned to curl an upper lip, before we could distinguish light and heavy, spinning from bait casting, and fly – prior to swearing off the Unclean Thing – and back when everything  was mystery, fear, and wonderment, there was this fishing stuff…

Dad mentioned it, and we assumed it was fun due to the change in Poppa’s face and tone when he rehashed it with his liquored up buddies around the kitchen table. We were ordered off to bed, but it sounded like a big thing; a place where Ma feared to tread, whose practitioners returned home bearing nasty stuff that stank.

We adored nasty stuff that stank …

… until Ma mentioned it was dinner.

We were all there once

Before we got all know-it-all, before we argued whether a bead headed fly was still a fly, before indicators were considered dry flies, before we caught everything and claimed double that …

… we were a blank canvas.

… and it was cold, and it was fun, and it was us that was hooked.

Too big to fail was an interesting experiment, not likely to happen again, which is why Kaufmann’s Streamborn wasn’t bailed out.

The latest issue of Angling Trade brings together a number of articles related to the growing gulf between anglers, fly shops, and manufacturers, given that each is struggling to evolve and survive in the face of a double dip recession.

It’s probably their best issue yet, but after digesting it from cover to cover I’m unsettled by some of the commentary.

Maybe we should all wake up and smell the coffee. It isn’t about hair salons, or Costco, or even big box stores and direct sales over the Internet. It’s about who really cares about fly shops, and who backs words with action. Any action. Think on that, and you already know who has your back, and who doesn’t.

Naturally I’ve got my own ideas about how all this is supposed to work, and knowing that us taxpayers share an increasing frustration over posturing politicians, CEO’s, and those that nearly bankrupted the economy, yet I’m still a little surprised that someone would think we owe anything to anyone that wasn’t earned the old fashioned way.

Why does someone in this industry think I owe an underfunded childhood fantasy a decent living?

There’s little to fear in a good Darwin-esque pruning of fly shops, and with the economy teetering on the brink of another possible swoon, my responsibility is to look out for me and mine.

China as manufacturing juggernaut

With a literate and professional clientele, one possible shakeout is reflected in the upheaval of the fly fishing media business. It’s not so much dead tree versus digital as it is frustrated anglers realizing they can do a better job themselves – with an explosion of eZine’s to back up that bold claim.

A dozen or so that I’m aware of – and probably a half dozen or so that I’m not, with non-existent costs and imaginary profits. They’ll persist long enough to dilute the Dead Tree crowd a bit more – perhaps becoming the last straw for a few old timey companies, given the high costs of print, and leaving a few digital “labor-of-love-zines” that are the voice of some edgy niche, just to keep the print survivors honest.

While each of the Angling Trade articles speak to a separate niche within the overall industry, the common thread uniting all of them appears to be the question, “when is it okay to break the traditional specialty business relationship between manufacturer and shop to save your own arse?”

Evolution being impossible without breaking a few eggs.

The reality is I don’t need Scott, Sage, Echo, Orvis, Hardy, Thomas & Thomas, Winston, Loomis, and all their ilk to keep me in fly rods. I could lose two or three of these hoary old brands and not miss a thing.

In contemporary graphite rods, the difference in their tackle is more marketing fluff than tangible feel – and it’s been that way for some time – fly rods being like cars, with devotees and zealots devoted to their respective brands. Yet rod companies remain aloof, they never asked me whether I liked two-piece better’n three-piece rods, and now that you’re hawking three deadening ferrules on a nine foot rod, I’m wondering what in hell they’re thinking about.

In short, we share the same rarified levels of loyalty for one another …

Everyone is looking for an elusive, evil “middleman” so they can drive profits up finally drive costs down, but who is that shadowy guy, and isn’t he the shop that you are telling ME to save?

K.C. Walsh, president of Simms Fishing Products, also
acknowledged that fly shops need to make a living. But, when some shops are selling gear that competes with his company’s products, it does change the relationship somewhat.

So the big manufacturer’s break with tradition and opt for the big box stores and go Internet-direct to the customer. That’s been done before, it appeared to work for the old Fenwick business model in the Eighties, whose rods were the “Sage” of its day, yet were in every Big 5, most gas stations, supermarkets, and were the premier brand for the little niche shops.

Niche shops were robust with some crazy-good talent and able to distinguish their value-add from one another, more failed than prospered but that’s always been true of small hobby markets whose proprietors fail to fund and plan their retirement livelihood.

Service has always been the key to success, especially so given the homogeneity of products from one shop to the other. The difference now is that so few of the old skills remain, it may be who can react quickest that determines survival. Dumping the jobbers and stocking their shelves the old fashioned way – knowing the product and where it exists in the wild.

Support My ass

In retaliation for being jilted, the small shops band together to make purchasing alliances and serving manufacturers with an extended index finger. Then they’ll opt to leverage Asia as manufacturing juggernaut to purchase low cost shop-branded rods and reels, and import them to our shores along with millions of invasive species – complements of tainted bilge water.

“The minimums are usually around 250 rods per style. If you can justify that quantity, then you can buy your own private label from China.”

The rod making space gets a bit more crowded given the shop-branded rods that reroute the bulk of the rod dollar to the middleman (whose now a rod company) and lacking the loyalties of proprietor and his legion of sales associates, and still stung at being jilted, the manufacturer stares damp eyed as the sales staff point to the cheaper rod, the in-house brand.

The Chinese make a pretty mean rod for $100 wholesale, and I should know as I own five of them already.

They’ll ignore copyright law and the government will let them. All the marketing departments work to invent Superkalifragilistic-XP-alladocious Graphite with its ion-woven crystalline lattice, and how much better it is than any other graphite, they’ll steal immediately. Given their steadfast ignorance of Bill Gate’s Windows copyright (costing Bill into the Billions) just why do you feel you’ll fare any better?

All the tackle will acquit themselves well, and should make enough inroads in the marketing hype to get their own measure of respect.

Which will buy the angling press a little time to grow a pair, given the past “nothing but superlatives” style of review we’ve had to endure. That self-same style adopted just as quickly by the eZines and bloggers so the river of manufacturer freebies flows unimpeded.

The shops aren’t immune to Darwinian law by any means. Given the materials vended are from the same lackluster jobbers, whose rod selection is part shop brand and a few of the commercial variety, whose counter-men are amiable enough but don’t distinguish themselves from the competition, I wonder why I’m expected to be fiercely loyal to some other fellow’s underfunded job fantasy?

… and we should feel really good about it too, anything less is unpatriotic.

You’ve got every Spey and Switch rod ever made, but I don’t do either.

You’ve unloaded all your Grizzly saddles to the salon down the street. Now that I’m darkening your doorway you shrug your shoulders in mock helpless.

I inquire about local conditions and now I’m trying to extricate myself from a full day guide trip, and a new rod, when I only wanted to know which flies to use …

Now guides have a way to cash in on their product expertise and client connections. Pro Guide direct (proguidedirect.com), an online retailer of fly fishing and other gear, offers 15% of a transaction to the guide who refers it.

… and all I’ve found is another SOB with his hand out.

A run of the mil shop lacking in personality and talent, that doesn’t make an effort to get me to return – to “brand” their service as well as their tackle and other offerings, is owed nothing.

I can buy Twinkies anywhere, and they taste the same regardless of their source.

The Game hasn’t changed only prices have

When rods were fiberglass and the Pfleuger Medalist was king, we were out the door for about a hundred dollars, and a full outfit with waders, vest and shoes, was about a hundred more.

Now, we’ve got $800 rods, $400 reels, $200 boots, $700 waders, and a full ensemble is the better part of $3000.

I’d say during that same period, the quality and breadth of most shops has eroded. A couple of movie-based surges in interest, more fish considered fly-worthy, an increase in tackle and the accessories commensurate, and the slow demise of quality staff, as the best of the best opt for guiding where the money is better than tending counter.

What cost only a couple of days pay is now a full month’s paycheck, without a corresponding increase in shop service level. All this in an uncertain economy, where 20% of my neighbors are underwater on their house, whose child just graduated college at wants to move back in, just as they were about to mail their house keys to the bank …

Paradise is modestly priced in 2011 at only $1,995 per week.
It’s a point that resonates in this economy and makes sales easier.

No, Bigtime tackle manufacturer, if you want to break with tradition and eliminate the middleman, you’d better be certain of your clever new business plan, because I’m not going to keep your shops afloat, I don’t owe you or them a farthing.

Especially now that I’ve got two rivers I don’t fish anymore – mostly because of the steady price increases finally caught the eye of the criminal element, and an empty rod tube in the front seat nets us anglers a broken window, the contents of our car rifled and quickly vanished.

No one bitched at Whiting after they bumped prices upward given the massive demand for hair hackle, in fact most applauded – making it one of the few success stories of recent times.

The rest of the industry won’t be so fortunate however, they’ll have to evolve less precipitously to ensure they don’t anger too many at one time, or plunge the entire sector into a free fall price war.

But I don’t owe the three shops in my area a damned thing, given the only thing distinguishing them is their parking.

… and among all them long noses is statistics

cowfartjuice The hardest of all fishing tasks falls on your circle of trusted companions.

They’ve gone fishing with you enough  to recognize blatant from bald-faced, but they continue to wrestle with  facial tells on minor infractions, the stretching of truth, a couple inches added, or a couple phantom fish added to your evening’s tally.

The biggest of windies earns their collective scorn and the much coveted “complete bullshit” label, similar to a brief shunning but with less ceremony. Less egregious falsehoods earning a sliding scale of ire, from “horseshit” to simply outright lies and exaggeration.

Now that they’ve bottled it ($60.00 an ounce) you can simply dispense it on them like Holy Water (vest attachment extra).

Which would be quicker if you ever lived up to them promises

fly_casting I remember peering through the bushes intently, awestruck at the grace them old duffers displayed while sawing their line back and forth in a double haul, back and forth seemingly without effort, leader never tangling, and I wondered whether I would ever be skilled enough to do likewise …

… and whether I would ever lose my fear of them same mean old SOB’s when it came to critiquing my casts, and like church, would I ever be accepted as a member of the congregation, able to walk erect versus hiding in bushes fearful some old cuss would claim I was afflicted with limp everything.

I remember thinking it must take forever to learn such skill. Now I find out “forever” is cheap – only about $79,000 worth …

Former garda and keen angler James Moynihan, whose fly fishing arm was seriously hurt in a scuffle with late night revellers, has been awarded damages of just over €43,000 in the High Court.

via the Irish Examiner

The math is actually pretty fair. Figuring a minimum wage of $10 an hour (it being a labor of love therefore you can be paid a pittance) that would be a monetary settlement of 7900 hours, or 329 days.

The average angler fishes nine times yearly, but spending most of his time arguing with kids, erecting tents, deploying stoves and camp gear, inflating mattresses and answering,  “No, we ain’t there yet!”

Figuring seven of the outings are the garden variety two day weekend, and two are the rarified three day “Total Woodsy Immersion” that makes 20 days per year of fishing.

Each weekend contains two such days, so that’s 20 days per year of fishing, suggesting that 329 / 20 = 16 years of fishing to learn how to cast effortlessly.

Quicker if you ever lived up to them offseason promises …

Why you want to learn to cast better and quickly

yellowstarthistle The famous “fly eating bush”nemesis of the western fly fishermen, appears to have a long and illustrious future should global warming descend on us in all its projected fury …

When exposed to increased carbon dioxide, precipitation, nitrogen and temperature, all expected results of climate change, yellow star thistle in some cases grew to six times its normal size while the other grassland species remained relatively unchanged, according to a Purdue University study …

Nice.

Yellow star thistle enjoying two qualities among fishermen that make it the most cursed plant in Mother Nature’s repertoire. The growth is tough and nearly impossible to sever, and the star shaped growth of thorns leaves no possible way to remove an errant fly without being completely butchered by its thorns.

In the western watersheds I frequent, star thistle grows easily to four feet, is almost always growing right up to water’s edge, and after retrieving two or three low casts manually – you start snapping the flies off versus going back to donate more blood  …

Yellow Star Thistle growing to a menacing height of 18 to 24 feet? It’ll require a machete as part of your wading ensemble, and breathable waders – regardless of layers – will not protect you one iota.

Guide wear for guides, how that nerveless glassy stare is caused by your hideous casting

One of those facts that every new guide is horrified to learn his first season. How clients never bother to practice casting before buying a fly fishing trip of a lifetime, and how the guide has to teach a heavy handed neurosurgeon how to cast more than ten feet, often simply thrusting a beadhead  Bobbercator combo into their hands to get clients into the proximity of fish.

Unfortunately, guides are now subject to new forms of lumps and contusions, and like the NFL are having to sit some of their marquee talent due to the increasing number of concussions …

Mark IV Guide Helmet

Most clients quickly become skilled in bead-bobber fishing, and no longer content with brass or copper, quickly opt for the increased density of Tungsten and the softball sized indicators needed to keep them aloft. As a result,  guides are showing  symptoms of brain scarring akin to lifelong boxers and NFL quarterbacks.

Protective gear has been needed for years, and the Easton–Bell Corporation gives us a sorely needed helmet, while continuing work on as yet unreleased flak jacket.

Given the countless hours a guide sits in peril, it’s nice to know he’ll only have to cut two small holes in his cowboy hat to ensure a couple of extra decades to his career … nerveless and unflinching as 4X long and 3X heavy flits by earlobes and soft body parts.

Then again they may be confused about their reason for being

Dear Large Outdoor Clothier,

Neon Persimmon Pink Gentlemen, I received the  shirt you’d asked me to review just before Memorial Day weekend.

Normally I would have considered the timing perfect, as that three day holiday is when all of us take to the woods intent on sport.

I would have subjected your clothing to an exhaustive battery of tests, wearing it overly long (ignoring the grimaces of my companions)and ensuring my commentary was both learned and factual.

Unfortunately, I cannot bring myself to remove it from its sterile wrapper, much less wear the damn thing.

This is not clothing suitable for the outdoors, this is the type of shirt you wear if you want to have sex in the cramped stall of a public restroom with a fellow angler.

I’m unsure what you call the color internally, but I would ask you how am I supposed to blend into my surroundings should I stalk a large brown trout feeding in the shallows?

Was I fortunate enough to have a pod of wary Bonefish within casting range, how am I to deliver the fly when my clothing is eye-watering, capable of searing a fish retina with prolonged exposure – and cannot help but make everything within a hundred yards flee without hesitation?

I consented to this arrangement as you made my last fishing vest. It lasted 25 years, and was a testament to your long history of quality outdoors garments. It was so well put together your stitching made me – and it – nearly invincible.

Those memories made me stray from my core competencies and entertain the idea that a shirt of similar construction and durability could become essential equipment in the woods, and I was qualified to judge both its fit and function.

Instead I receive a shirt suitable to flag the Coast Guard should I become shipwrecked on a deserted island, or making me a fashion plate should I wish to clink glasses with Bernie Madoff on the fantail of his yacht …

… with all his new boyfriends, and me blushing fetchingly.

An outdoor clothing company has the responsibility to make quality clothing to assist the hunter or angler, and should not insist that the cut of the garment or its color work at cross purposes to its owner.

If it does, it’s confused about its reason for being.

I figure it was the work of those merry pranksters in your marketing department – who read my column on occasion. Figuring they owed me one for all them “lifestyle” digs, and good sports all, they insisted you send me one in the heart-stopping “unsalable” color.

It was a great gag, especially as it was at my expense.

Full Disclosure: I’m returning the garment to its maker unreviewed, unopened, and at my earliest convenience, never to stray into riskier territory than a green Pendleton …