… and spread the Powerbait so thick, there’s probably a platoon of watermelon Gumby’s rolling about the deep water

It’s likely to trigger a most difficult chicken and egg debate, considering us fly fishermen can save a trout stream or save a forest, but we can’t do both …

Recent salmon studies suggest “you are what shades your banks” – and if the surrounding forest isn’t healthy, neither is your fish population.

More insidious than Zebra mussels, more cunning than a middle aged divorcee, and while we gash ourselves over saving the outdoors by eschewing filthy felt wading boots and their porous inserts, our woodlands are being overrun by eyeless and slimy creatures that fly fishermen are sworn to defend …

… the lowly earthworm, and we’re all guilty as sin.

image Clean, Dry, and Protect all you want, but it was you that drug them little Styrofoam canisters up to the bank and left them there to reproduce unchecked.

Once you learned to fly fish you got all huffy and resentful at the thought and claimed your hands had never touched the Unclean Thing, but the rest of us are claiming ignorance and we know better. First you unleashed hordes of the Big Assed American Nightcrawler, then after despoiling most of the American West, you trained your kids with them effete Eurotrash skinny types from the liquor store cooler.

… we ain’t going to mention the mountains of Powerbait you left in your wake, that would only be piling on …

Penance is possible only if you wad the butt section of your Boron BIIX into the leafy substrate and affix both leads from your car battery. Stomp everything that moves, then Clean, Dry and lament …

The sure fire way of making friends fishing

The only thing the fly shop can’t stock is that “icebreaker” needed to make the local fishing crowd greet you with open arms. It has to work at distance, so the wading throng clustered tight to the hole sees you and either motions you among them – or generates the en masse exodus, ensuring you’re the focal point for tales of prowess, slow reflexes, and near misses.

Half naked tanned and taut has a better’n average chance of waking the crowd in the fast water, yet giggles have a life span, after which the audience is immune.

The Beer Bike

Then again, the hardship of moving into a new town, a new drainage, and working up the street cred’s to be a member of the inner circle, might be aided somewhat by the Hopworks Beer Bike.

… especially if that’s a couple of large sausage & mushroom catching their death of cold in the rear cargo area.

Didymo spreads to sleepy Connecticut hamlet, women and children abducted

DidymoA confirmed sighting of Didymo sent thousands screaming from Hartland Connecticut, as the West Branch of the Farmington rose out of her ancestral trench and descended on the town without warning, sending a massive algal backlash through two zipcodes and an isolated Dairy Queen.

Casualties are streaming in from the countryside while the Connecticut Department of Environmental Protection (DEP) closed all thoroughfares south of the Riverton Bridge.

Casualty lists posted here.

Considering all the misinformation the Maryland media has published in the last two weeks, they earned this.

We who will do battle with water all year and lose, salute you

Too much water I missed the third digit of the snowpack measurement yet instinctively I knew it really didn’t matter. Three digits means a repeat of last year’s watery excesses, and while I resolved myself to keep working on the dry flies like I’d planned, they were unlikely to see much action.

There’ll be plenty of opportunities for fishing, but you can start ticking off the hatches that are off their timetable due to a high water year. Their predictability a thing of the past as they dribble off in smatterings versus the more traditional en masse emergence.

Shad will be for the lucky few, those folks that know their river well enough to seek the proper depth despite the torrential release from the dam upriver, and those that own boats …

… or seek guides, who have boats …

Fishing is like rooting for the home team, and some years there’s that sickening feeling when the quarterback slumps to the ground clutching his knee, and the crowd begins to deflate with, “there’s always next year.”

Sure I’m whining, but only because it’s tough to get mad at something we so sorely need. A billion people without water by 2050, and I’m already making excuses why twice as much has already prevented me from catching a damn thing.

I’ll giggle madly when I get to set down all this drab and mottled, so I can tie another 20 dozen of the brightly garbed beadchain bling, most of which will still be unscathed in the box for next year. I moved to the second box of Shad flies last year, a mixture of anticipation and restocking followed by two years of high water and forced to go cheek to jowl at the few spots it wouldn’t sweep you off your feet.

A single fish hooked for all my efforts.

Again I’ll have an entire week’s vacation primed for the first hint of fish. My boss will gaze at me each Monday morning expectantly, and I’ll be gazing at the floorboards – wishing I could tell him this was the week he would have to make due with the second stringers  …

…while I treat the steady stream of casting injury and sunburn, complain about sore shoulders and limp wrists, and how I can still cast twice as far but only for half as long.

It’s well knows that world’s records have a weakness for bacon rind

I’d come across them many times, and while always cognizant of their presence, I’d always considered landlocked salmon more of a novelty fishery rather than something you spent a lot of time pursuing. Naturally that all changed if I was camped on the bank, in which case its bright red meat was a delicacy, and I’d make plans to include the piney woods version of surf and turf wherever possible …
In most of the venues I’ve caught them it was evident that it was a put and take fishery with most of the fish schooled to a size, somewhere between 12” and 14”, which makes a great pan sized meal but fails to invoke images of smoke filled pine lodges and leaping silver fish.
Just up the road from me is a lake filled with Kokanee, and while it was rumored the next state record was imminent, they were still talking a fish under five pounds …
While I wondered just how big some of these fish would get – and could they resemble real salmon in size, I was surprised to learn a fly fisherman had bagged the world’s largest – at 26 pounds, 12 ounces.
Naturally a world record had to be on some ratty home tied fly, absent any real genteel properties like married wings or jungle cock. Real fisherman know all that art and color is reserved for the glossy magazine covers, and only world’s record prove their addiction to bacon rind …
mysis_shrimp
Taken on an unknown Mysis Shrimp pattern, minus the bacon rind and the rest of the feathers as well.
Deep down I was hoping it was something horribly old fashioned, with yards of bright colors and tinsel, and we’d all be rushing to the fly shop as it called for something completely esoteric … alas, no.

The difference between a feral cat and a domestic tabby is only how much to lead them…

Ate lives left, fleabag I’ll confess to a morbid fascination with the larger invasive species issue, I spend far too much time reading about all the horrors headed our way.

With national parks mulling all manner of restrictions, before banning humans outright, it’s indicative of a war against an enemy that can’t be beaten.

Just insert “seed” for diatom, and you’ll understand why your narrow ass is completely toxic to native flora and fauna. You’re carrying hundreds of them in the folds of your shirt, pressed into the bills of your wallet, stuck to your rubber shoe soles, imbedded in hair, mouth, and anything else that has direct contact with the atmosphere.

As we’ve demonstrated so many times before, the pendulum will swing far past intelligent, until we get into the truly rarified spaces. Our good intentions morphed into some sort of foreign plant Jihad, that’ll spread into secondary markets and accomplish little other than to anger everyone.

 … but the idea of ballistic husbandry, to allow me to rid my yard of my neighbor’s furry passions, and the hides that will result, that I will not curse.

… yea, that’s right, were going to put “rabbit” back on the menu.

A lifetime of uncaring neighbors loosing “TinkerBelle” to crap wantonly anywhere she feels like it, lay waste to any birds I may have sheltered through the winter, and scent my mornings with the penetrating aroma of cat urine…

…  you little furry Motherfu**er, them days is over. You’re going to rediscover camouflage and stealth, leave the quail in my yard alone, or I’m blowing daylight through all that Purina.

Biologists claim that domestic and feral cats are an invasive threat that along with store bought exotic plants, reduce the meager Big City green belts ability to compete with all those discarded invasive plants.

New Zealand and Australia already allow hunting of feral cats, but our domestic population is still killing about 500,000,000 birds per year, which compounds the problem of city blight, whose meager green belts are filling up with invasive plants those missing birds might have found delicious.

Household cats were introduced in North America by European colonists; they are regarded as an invasive species and have few natural enemies to check their numbers. “They are like gypsy moths and kudzu — they cause major ecological disruption,” Dr. Marra said.

– via the NY Times

It’s still comforting to know that once we get a ways down this path, absolutely everyone will be pissed off, not a single invasive will have been diminished, and the cops will be plying the billy club to old Missus McGillicutty whose got a death grip on Cho-Cho, despite the city ordinance to the contrary.

“Salad Days” for the fly tying community coming, with a goodly chunk of Maltese making up for the lack of Eastern Cottontail.

The Graphite rod with the curves of a woman

I didn’t know much of anything when I saw first saw it, now I’m not sure I know more, but I’ve certainly scratched my head enough.

Knowing that the only truism about “advances” in [insert angling gadget here] science, is that whatever the manufacturer claims can be discarded immediately. It’s up to all them other fellows who’ve laid hands on product to pick the proper tone for the superlatives … as that’s all we ever hear in any product testimonials.

But they’ve still been able to fling the SOB, and reading between the obvious gushing prose and the overtly favorable yields some small barometric differences.

Certainly an “S” shaped rod is a bit of an oddity, and knowing that the maker would have 17 reasons why it was twice as good as a straight rod, I was hoping I’d have that “ahah” moment before I read his line of speculative logic so I could follow that esoteric principle of physics which was being exploited.

I briefly entertained particle physics and quantum theory, but the fit seemed just a bit forced.

Global Dorber Ultra Wave

Seventeen guides on a five weight was easy enough to swallow, given the manufacturers belief that more friction resulted in the fly line touching the blank than anything or anywhere else in the cast. That’s plenty of epoxy and extra weight, but I could follow the scent of the physics – and could therefore nod sagely enough.

A couple of reviews suggested what most reviews do, it was great, mostly awesome, and everything else ever cast was now obsolete, landfill even.

Naturally the forums were quick to Pooh-Pooh everything – as forums are wont to do. Something about anonymity and someone else’s mother always breeds courage …

But having seen all this before, and not having one to fling to offer anything actually learned, I kept fixating on the unknowns and what it couldn’t do …

I’d love to see what the rod tube looked like. I wondered how I could toss it into a truck bed, or lash it to a pack frame, and mostly I wondered how all the scientific data suggested I needed a double recurve in the rod so I could fling enormous gouts of five weight, into a stiff wind, given that 95% of the time I’m fishing at 35 feet or less?

But that’s my fishing, which differs from the manufacturer, and all those stalwarts that fish polar ice caps, forest fires, and really arduous geography.

I figured those self same stalwarts insisted on the technology because all their aging bamboo fleet had kinks, sets, and curves rivaling women, and naturally they were homesick.

Asymmetric is a tough road to hoe, evidenced by the continued fervor over whether to match segment splines or no. Most of us have an elliptical casting stroke, because straight back brings the fly in line with them precious eyeballs. An asymmetric rod with an semi-oval casting motion and you’re going to have a rod release or jump where you’ve never had one before.

I’ll wait a bit and read more – it’s certain that it’ll foster additional forum based hot air, and perhaps we’ll all be enlightened.

Bainbridge Island being so yesterday and all

barbie dumps Ken for Boron OK, so all the free thinking types live in Utah, home to plenty of desert and even more Mormons …

Utah Governor Gary Herbert signed the bill into law this week, designating the Browning model M1911 automatic pistol as the official state firearm.

Polygamists are big on the multiple hit theory of gunplay, hence their choice of an automatic. Any real god-fearing western state would’ve chosen a Colt something-or-other if only to piss off all them Texicans – who believe all that Louis Lamour hogwash and figure they annexed Hartford, Connecticut sometime during the War Between The States.

Actually the Browning M1911 has its roots in Ogden Utah, hence a very real connection to the state and its infancy.

While rod makers showed only after most of the real estate was civilized, most states should still scramble to honor what rod makers are left, only they’re a curiously nomadic lot and like the NFL will insist on a generous stipend to keep them in their existing stadi … er … quarters.

Legislatures will have to glad-hand whatever craftsmen remain at whatever political cost, overlooking the tacky epoxy and graphite dust ingrained in their suddenly firm grip, and offer both keys to the state and/or a two week stint in rehab, depending on the degree of varnish inhalation.

All them eastern states will be fighting over everyone whose ever fished in Vermont and built bamboo anything.

I’m hoping California overlooks all past glory. Winston got miffed over Hollywood’s refusal to add their star to the Walk of Fame and fled to Twin Bridges, Montana. Leaving California only the sullied Powell brand, long fallen from any real prominence.

Hopefully our now penniless legislature will skip any ties with the besotted crowd that remains and adopts China, as their lock on manufacturing and volume may be just what’s needed to introduce the boron II Barbie rod, and we’ll again assume our rightful place as trendsetters versus followers.

Not just restore the fishery, but Big Trout and the Lewis & Clark kind of stupid

lewis_and_clark_trail The lack of commentary on our previous article suggests fishermen are a stoic and heartless lot, unwilling even in the face of  insolvency to spend less of the government’s cash to balance budgets, bomb Libya, or any other semi-humanitarian act …

So we’ll pose the question again, this time with science insisting that were we only to close our most sacred fisheries for a couple of years periodically, we’d have more fish, bigger fish, and they’d all be stupid again.

You heard right. That fearless kind of  Stoopid.

Enormous hungry fish unafraid of the harsh glare from your Magenta reel, no longer skittish of your Orange-Orange florescent weight-forward hurtling overhead, and uncaring that your sticky rubber wasn’t – and while you wring the Didymo from your sandwich with much cursing, they’ll continue to feed unhurried and within arm’s reach.

” It seems that by closing the area off, communities may not only build up the amount of fish in the area, but make them easier to catch, which helps meet the goal of having fish for a feast. But this may pose a problem where temporary closures are used for conservation rather than community goals.”

“Our results highlight a previously unconsidered mechanism through which a rapid and large decline in fish biomass may occur when a closed area is reopened to fishing; reduced flight distance resulting from protection may increase some fish species’ susceptibility to spear fishing,”

– via PhysOrg.com

If science insists special regulations may be needed to protect all them fatties lolling in the current once the fishery is reopened, then it’s the closest thing to “guaranteed” ever.

Weigh the sacrifice before insisting on being heard. A couple of marginal years spent hardscrabble fishing for foot long federales, versus a couple years at a new venue resulting in unmitigated slaughter upon your return.

Think, Gents. How bad can a few days off your home water hurt, compared to the larger picture?

There’s no houses floating past, yet …

Tsunamis must be in fashion, given my last 48 hours crouched under the bed hoping a tree limb isn’t headed for the roof – and with it, thousands of gallons of California’s freshwater variant…

Now as the water district trucks snarl and slide toward the abyss, counting the remaining feet from the lip, I’m wondering whether this’ll all be gone by shad season, or whether I’ll be shaking fist like last year.

Big dark clouds rolling inThe 10-day forecast suggests it’ll rain constantly, and my sleepy little backwater is already running 73 feet deep, so there’ll be little respite from gnawing fingernails and hoping the creek starts to recede given it’s less than 20 feet from flooding Interstate-5.

tsunami2

Those oaks are on an island thirty feet above the creek, evidence that the last couple of days have added generously to the drainage burden, and we’re looking at an additional 40 foot of water over last weekend. The I-5 bridge in the distance has about 13 foot of freeboard before it’s flooded too.

The familiar bridge view

The familiar bridge view is obliterated, the creek has filled in the normally dry areas and is nearly 200 yards wide. A flood of this magnitude will moves hundreds of tons of gravel, and nearly all the root balls and debris remaining in the flood plain.

Good for cleansing purposes as it’ll flush all the chemical spills and nitrogen fertilizers into the ocean, along with a couple more truck chassis and a horde of rubber tires.

With flood stage a scant 11 feet distant and 10 days of rain forecast, it’s liable to be close.

Hope these forecasts are better'n weathermen