Proof positive that fly fishing is too expensive

They left most of the marshmellows Considering the thieves broke into the first building just to tunnel through three additional brick walls and snatch all the fly rods, I’d suggest that it’s  proof we’re spending way too much on tackle, or there’s little confidence on the Euro rebounding anytime soon …

… not that I expect the vendor community to feel guilty or lower prices any, I was merely hoping the Fed would realize us anglers should take part in the next round of quantitative easing, complete with access to the fed funds window and that tasty interest rate.

While our lending institutions are still holding the cheap cash close to the vest, our unrealistic need to own IM-6, IM-9, and IM-XVII might jumpstart the economy in time for the holidays.

The annual “I ain’t drinking that shit no more” post

There's little comparison Now that Canadian researchers have discovered that Goldfish under the influence of Prozac do not respond to sexual advances, I’m duty bound to ask how much tap water do our Northern neighbors drink before a Goldfish looks good enough to hit on?

… and aren’t we glad that fish have scruples?

Californians are known to house most of the native crazies, much of the lower 48 exports their antisocial types to the coast, where we hose them down and provide a change of wardrobe, before returning them as Presidents or members of Congress…

In other related news, British researchers now have proof that all the gender bending chemicals released into the watershed via sewage treatment – actually bend gender, affecting fish reproduction and inducing as much as a 75% failure rate.

Endocrine disrupting chemicals (EDCs) disrupt the ways that hormones work in the bodies of vertebrates (animals with backbones), including humans.

They can be found in everything from female contraceptive drugs and hormone replacement therapy pills, to washing up liquid, with the most well studied EDCs being those that mimic estrogen (female hormone).

EDCs have been seeping into rivers through the sewage system for decades and have an observed effect on fish, altering male biology to make them more female – hence the ‘gender bending’ reputation of these chemicals.

– via PhysOrg.com

All this research puts us anglers in a bit of a quandary. As many of our planted fish have been gargling EDC’s by the bucketful, imported into the watershed from numerous federal “gladiator academies” – which requires us anglers to adhere to the “Don’t ask and don’t tell” statute.

Which explains why the fish are so damn tight-lipped when my fly floats past.

My Bologna has a first name, unfortunately so does the pen-raised mongoloid I picked for my trophy

It'll be everything he's used to Tom Chandler posted a short Twitter link yesterday that’s worth the read. Eye-opening to some, but not too far a reach to  suggest that the future of fishing and hunting might be private enclosures seperated by cyclone fence so I don’t interfere with my fellow “sport” in the neighboring enclosure.

The quarry might even be pen raised and as timid as domestic pets, but those qualities won’t show in the photos of the carcass, or the magazine article to follow.

These days a child’s first exposure to fishing is some above ground pool where images of Dumbo contrast sharply with a school of panicked trout milling about while smiling old guys bait hooks for kids. It’s like a street gang, where the initiate has to kill and eat something before he’s allowed to wear the colors.

Proud papa lingers behind snapping pictures and encouraging his bewildered child as he  jerks squirming silver fish into the air where they’re thrust into a plastic bag as quickly as possible to make way for another future sportsman … and his Poppa.

Then he spends the next four years glued to Nintendo killing everything else with equal glee. When Poppa deems him old enough he’s exposed to the heat, cold, wet, chill, mosquitos, and perspiration of the out-of-doors,  just enough to remain skeptical about it all while realizing that air conditioning and a fistful of Ma’s cookies is much superior.

Then it’s Internet Porn, Music Video’s, cell phones, texting and sex-ting, iPods, iPads, Facebook,  instant oatmeal, pop tarts, and instant gratification, and like a computer processor loses any developing attention span to become interrupt driven.

He’s old enough to understand the woods is one of the few environments he doesn’t control and fishing is a lot more fun when it’s bookended by hamburgers.  The lack of cell phone coverage limits  communication with the digital real world, but this imposition he might be able to endure for an .. OMFG .. entire weekend.

… we stuffed all manner of insta-gadgets in his sweaty little palm so he wouldn’t complain on those long vacation drives. We went digital to keep him rooted to the rug and avoid those mean city streets, and now the little snot would rather tweet and Facebook someone than hold a conversation, and reluctantly parts with a damp and lackluster handshake.

Just like a dead fish.

His is the generation that inherits everything we stomped life out of , he’s got the memory of “back when me and Dad went, they wuz huge” – only they aren’t anymore and are few and far between even in the smaller flavor.

With an attention span of 94 seconds, and the reflexs of a gunfighter, why wouldn’t he want his sport to be fast and on demand?

There is little question that the freshwater fishing of the future will bear little resemblance to what it is now. Our collective terra-forming cannot be undone. Roads pierce the last remaining wild areas, guys like us driving to the last remaining reaches of the Precious, providing those important ruts that will erode with winter’s downpour, and piss mud and silt into the last remaining quality fisheries, there to mingle with our discarded water bottles and toilet paper.

Private property will be the last bastion of off limits, and it’ll be there we’ll fight the first dozen or so court cases over who owns the rights to all the genetic enhancements, and whether fish grown to eat rock snot are fish at all.

We’ll have a glut of privately grown trout reared to order and sold to members on a rent to own, or catch and kill basis. The well healed package might include a movie filmed by video cameras that line the banks, edited by lodge staff with all expletives deleted, and a slo-mo action sequence of the trophy that the future angler will personally select like a lineup at a Nevada brothel. genetically enhanced, dosed with adrenaline and released into the private pond for a lifetime of memories or bragging rights.

It’ll have a first name and have spent the bulk of its lumpy existence wallowing in Growth hormone and Tofu-Watermelon Pizza, but so long as it’s big and stupid – them modern day sports will not care.

It’ll be like everything else enjoyable; fast, on demand, and him and his pals can be home in time to watch the video on the lodge’s web page.

The only reason you’re shaking your head with “that’ll never happen” is because you think we can actually restore something, even though we never have – and never will.

All that finery on the banks that you’re trodding  is shrinking inexorably with each year, and what’s removed first is the unspoiled and wild portion we hold dearest.

Your kid will never know your favorite creek without the water bottles and overflowing parking lot garbage can – because the public trust … isn’t …

Twenty bucks to CalTrout doesn’t fix a damn thing, it merely slows the future for a split-second.

Instead he’ll find a manicured ersatz facsimile for pay, and assume that’s what you meant by unspoiled – and the half mile drive by golf cart to his rented waders will be the “roughing it” part of which you were always so fond.

All them animal rights groups will be bought off with, “we’ll restore this unloved little toxic backwater, plant the fish the week prior, promote the fishery as ‘you can actually eat these’ because they ain’t lived here long enough to be completely toxic and you won’t picket us … right?”

That’ll ensure we’re not tracking deadly bacterium and nasty into or out of the carp infested public areas, nor are we swearing or blocking the view of all them birdwatchers.

The beauty is how economically feasible all this can be. With farmed fish comprising 50% of all fish sold already, and the fear of releasing tampered genetics via pens lolling in existing water, much of the increased reliance on farmed fish will come from landlocked waterways – ponds, creeks, and the like.

As most will be close to large urban areas to ensure freshness and ample commercial storage, it’ll be easy to lure a monied or aggressive angler to partake. Rented waders and wading paraphernalia ensure nothing foreign is introduced and fish planted in such numbers that guarantee the angler can be charged be the hour or day and still think it special.

It’ll allow fishing our generation has never seen. Wading a saltwater pond for Bluefin Tuna, and after tiring of 60 pound fish and 30 mph, spending the balance of the day using pellet-nymphs and indicators for Ling Cod or enormous trout.

I’m not suggesting it’s esthetically pleasing to us guys, we’re responsible for crapping on more than our share of the Pristine, and like our Pop – limiting our conservation efforts to our yearly twenty bucks to a Green organization, hoping someone else does the heavy lifting and lightens our conscience. It’s a legacy we’ll leave to the interrupt-driven instant gratification offspring we’ve managed to produce.

… who’ve had their genetics tinkered with all manner of our environmental excesses – just like the fishing.

My Bonefish loves Jesus

Trout Unlimited's Car Decal I suppose it’s piling on, but as absolutely every organization insists they’ve pulled out all the stops to attract youth, I can’t help but notice my yearly Begging for Dollars solicitation from Trout Unlimited, is about as marketable to youth as spinach.

… it might be a trout, but after looking closely I get more of a “My Bonefish Loves Jesus” instead.

Fish being the symbol of the Christian faith, and as most of the really talented anglers and their children are neither Christian nor god-fearing, it’s about as likely to grace a bumper as a Social Studies term paper or a root canal.

Kids love advertising, they wear slogans and maker’s mark proudly on tee shirt and bosom, status symbols all, announcing their social status without reservation.

… and none of them will be tattooing some tired old fish to their forearm.

We’d all be thrilled at some new blood, some additional exposure to our presence and ideals. But some stylish dead fish isn’t going to make the gals lust after the wearer, nor can it be “dope” gear without contemporary or risky. We’re not wooing anyone under the age of fifty-one – and then … maybe.

A bit more contemporary

It’s a bit more contemporary, but I’m much too old to be in touch with what’s really worth gracing a tee shirt. With finances and the continual prostrating for dollars, what’d be better is if the TU logo was adopted by Columbian drug lords and became “colors” for either the Crips or Bloods. With a steady stream of dollars TU might be able to fix more than a creek or two …

Lefty updates the tired old fish

Sure,  Lefty is getting pretty long in the tooth, but with the Oakland Raiders color scheme – just the kerchief and jersey sales alone might keep Trout Unlimited in the black.

Silver and Black is fourth all time in NFL merchandise sales, and while the Cowboy colors have outsold everyone else, it’s their cheerleaders that are largely responsible for that gold mine…

Save the old familiar to appeal to the fellows on the bench, snazzy won’t hurt much and may lure something other than those who’ve given twice already.

Heavy Metal fly tying, we’ll let the EPA stew on a brass ban

It goes without saying that fishing in Minnesota has been denied me. Roughfisher and I split the entire world of fly tying between us, he gets all the Tungsten in North America, and I can have an occasional dry fly hackle …

… maybe, and only if he gets to pick which one.

In the face of true Genius, I had to risk it all …

Hatches Magazine sent an email featuring some of their latest patterns, and the above Chain Gang Stonefly (by Dean Myers) is to die for …

The fact that it weighs a quarter-pound will only be off-putting to the dry fly contingent, who’ll wish they had a dozen or two when they meet that shadowy plunge pool with the rock overhang. The self-same pool that defies a good drift – because of the speed and direction of current.

I recognize it’s one of those must have flies that offers access to the dark depths where that enormous and cagey 13” lunker calls home, denying the lie to all the 10” pretenders.

I would think the steelhead crowd just went into salivate as well.

Chain_Gang_Espresso_Claret

As I saw it first I’m allowed a bit of artistic license – somber and its steelhead cousin, tied in Espresso-Claret spectral. I simplified the pattern as this is a fly you’ll snag in quantity.

I just want to see Roughfisher eat his cork grip when he sees the gravitational pull of Brass as it blows past his Tungsten enroute to an impact crater in the creek bed.

Some flies you lay eyes on and rush to the vice, this being just the ticket to send the most jaded tier scrambling for colored bead chain. Significant out-of-the-box thinking on the part of Mr. Myers.

How to torment your fellow fly fisherman and wind up in a foreign prison for a decade

Archaeopteryx Everything PETA has ever said about me is true, although I am mellowing a bit with age …

The thought came unbidden, I’m reading about the hundreds of birds that remain unseen by human eyes, and have never been catalogued by Science, and visions of something more brilliant than Blue Chatterer, more vibrant than Indian Crow, dance like sugarplums before my eyeballs …

( … and don’t blame me for the Christmas reference, it’s not yet time for Thanksgiving and yet the entire merchant class has determined you should start shopping already … )

Now that the statute of limitations has worn off I’m allowed to mention some of those dark secrets confessed to guides. We’re often seen as a combination of Mother Theresa and hardened psychologist blanch.

Myself and two other guides were charged with escorting a party of six producers, screenwriters, and directors from Hollywood. Part of an annual outing where each fellow was responsible to pick a fishing venue and book lodging and guides for the entire cabal for three days of fishing.

Each fellow was also required to one-up the fellow before him, by finding some rare or unique material that would be incorporated in a custom fly tied for the entire group. The member who caught the largest fish on the unique fly, won bragging rights for the subsequent year.

As this had been going on for some time, it was an effort to one up the last guy – and niceties like legality and societal constraints had long since been discarded in pursuit of rare and even humorous …

That year the host had found himself in a museum in Mexico, and when the curators weren’t looking had pulled a six inch strand of wool from a serape owned by Pancho Villa…

Naturally it wound up as the body material for a couple dozen dry flies, which were distributed among the contestants. Now that I was party to the dirty little secret, my job was to find a big fish with a yen for a hundred year old dirty gray #14, and record the catch so my two fellows could claim victory.

I thought that was just about the best contest I’d heard about – right up until the release of Midnight Express and six or seven years in a Turkish prison made me rethink yanking a tuft off of Tutankhamen’s burial shroud, which was at the DeYoung in San Francisco.

… and neatly explains my sudden yen to visit the Philippines in advance of all them scholarly birdwatchers. The first fellow to spot a Blue Fanged Fidget, can insist flies just aren’t the same with a tawdry dyed substitute.

… and the only fellow that may be able to one-up a bird never seen by science is the fellow that trips over a frozen million year old Archaeopteryx, recently exposed by global warming.

Where we touch on fly fishing theory aided by the Commutative Law of Base Mathematics

A valid theorem packed with fact If you think it’s because of the preponderance of green, or the gold tinsel rib, or because the river’s full of them and they’re about this size, or exactly seven turns of lead, or the dark barred grizzly collar, or the sun being off the water, or whatever you insist makes your fly an absolute killer, you’ve developed an original and possibly valid theory.

… and you’ve every right to insist on respect, as conjecture on why fish ate something can never be validated via direct testimonial, and therefore remains untested and inviolate.

In all of recorded angling only a single such theory has been elevated to  fact, as it can be proven without testimonial. A single theory whose outcome can be predicted with uncanny accuracy, as it’s roots are in base math – removed from fishing taint entirely.

“I caught all my fish on a #16 Adams.” ( I only carry one fly with me, it’s a #16 Adams, and it’s the only fly I tied on during the entire day, but its legendary killing power is a secret known only to me, hence my utter confidence in the fly.)

Most of your pals lose interest immediately, as your fly is at best successful only due to math, and not to any innate quality of the local insect population, or weakness of the native trout.

It’s the Fool’s Gold theorem, and any fly can be imbued with killing qualities if fished long enough. It is best practiced in the final phases of an angling career – in concert with sunlit benches and the welcome embrace of a couch.

Mostly it means the practitioner is unwilling to countenance change or variation at any level, doesn’t realize that whether the Adams chose him – or he chose the Adams, (A+B=B+A) the end result is the same.

… and he likes baseball, as every baseball fan knows …

“Never ‘fuck’ with a winning streak.”

A desperate attempt to prop up a dying pastime

Hunters and Fishermen all I was surprised to learn that next month’s elections will have four states choosing to add hunting and fishing as constitutional rights; those four possibly adding to the ten that already have passed such a statute.

Apparently political correctness is very much alive and well, and the recent success of newcomers like the Tea Party has caused us few remaining outdoors types to ensure our sporting heritage isn’t compromised by some photogenic charismatic and a few choice sound bytes …

I’m thinking it may be overkill, but I’m often wrong.

I’d always assumed that once men found out that farmed Tilapia were steeped in enough hormones to change their sex, even the animal first-er’s might grip crotch and demand wild-caught everything.

Tilapia often contains an artificial male sex hormone that is absorbed by humans when eaten. Because male tilapia grow faster and are more lucrative than females, the fish are often treated with the hormone to induce a sex change.

Then again, Mom does most of the shopping …

With animal-friendly organizations litigating everything involving hunting or fishing as a wildlife control, it neatly explains why us fishermen are never called to defend native fish from invasives – or why Rotenone is the preferred fishery management tool, versus us lawn chair predators and our bottomless ice chests.

I’m not so sure we’re not in a gunfight already.

The new initiative synthesizes Friends of Animals’ tradition of opposing hunting and predator control with scientific evidence pertaining to coyote behavior and ecology, thereby fostering respect for coyotes in Pennsylvania so that these animals may live on their terms. Our campaign will promote respect for coyotes as conscious beings, and educate people about the role of coyotes in the local ecology and how communities can support alternatives to the lethal management of coyotes.

I’ve never doubted that coyotes weren’t conscious beings, they’re one of a few species that successfully negotiate the rural-urban interface, and can be found living in some our largest cities.

I just cannot understand why us hunters and fishermen, who celebrate the outdoors – who ask our respective legislatures and representatives to save a little water for wildlife, or please don’t pave the entire state – save a small corridor of greenery so them tasty quadrupeds can enjoy some small dignity … before we blow daylight where daylight shouldn’t be. Why does it always fall to us killers to propose less freeways, strip malls, and civilization?

All around us, nature is being managed to death, with malls and freeways taking its place. Animals are being driven from the land on which they were born and concentrated into smaller areas and blamed for a laundry list of ills they never created. It’s time for communities to call for ceasefires, and reverse a trend that’s bad for all of us…

Ok, here it comes – less development so the community will have precious open space where the animals can frolic – and have unprotected sex …

… Community leaders should deliberate on the facts, seek and nourish what’s best in our community, and keep recreational and controlled hunting, deer contraception and sharpshooting out of Westport.

… nope, we’re keeping hunter’s away and embracing the Wal-Mart Superstore. We’re not passing out freebie condoms, and begs the question – how many of these stalwarts would buy guns if threatened with bulldozing their home so deer would have a dab more forage space.

Who knew a Mullet had such a flair for showing off

Tossing a trash fish onto the bank is a time honored angling tradition. It’s been frowned on of late, but the Asian carp has brought back the practice along with baseball bats, shoulder pads, and now with easy to clean wading boots with cleats and rubbers soles, we’ve even resurrected the River Dance … of Death.

… because like terrestrial cockroaches, it’s them or us.

It doesn’t jibe well with the Catch & Release ethic we’re so fond of espousing, but clean water and black dots seems to cloud vision making some fish more equal than others …

Special regulations apply to trash fish as well, but many are not bothered by hurling lesser fish to an excruciating death, gasping out their final moments on some hot rock amid boot heels, curses, and giggles.

While I don’t ascribe to the above practice, we’d like to point out that those that do probably throw a baseball like a girl, grunting when they do ..

 

Considering the world’s record is an astounding 196 feet, the only question is whether that record is held by the fish, or by the thrower – or is it a joint venture?

“A very official world master’s record for a mullet,” Bradstock said in an interview with the New York Times.

Bradstock also claims to have hurled an iPod 154 yards, a mobile phone 132 yards, a soft boiled egg 118 yards, a football 82 yards and a golf ball 180 yards, with all but the mobile phone footage available on his YouTube page.

… and here I thought all tournament fish were released gently.

The Marlboro Man does Catfight

Once the fishermen find out it’s an island they’ll scatter to the four winds hoping they can scrounge some old monofilament and feed the less fortunate members of the tribe. Once they see the size of the local Bonefish they’ll insist on Catch & Release – or some form of ultra-purism – which’ll piss off the camera crew and producer, who’ll trade an off camera Bologna sandwich to the swing vote – sending Mr. Fisherman packing …

My money is on the hunters. Fishermen are wound too tight and lack the social niceties to survive the group scene. They’ll skip the all important backstabbing alliances; “I’ll give you my last pair of dry socks if you vote for Betty” whispered at the council fire, and then disappear for hours when they should be doing tribal chores.

You knew they would do it

Another in a long line of trashy reality shows, pitting 12 outdoorsy types against insurmountable hardships like; running out of shampoo,  not wearing a cowboy hat, throwing a temper tantrum at a Chevron vending machine,  keeping a Boy Scout Troop pinned down while rifling their foodstuffs, and exposing the lean Marlboro Outdoorsy is prone to fits of childish rage when wearing a grass skirt in mosquito country, without any protective mint Skoal …

“The Ultimate Sportsman” slated to air Thursdays at 10:00AM EST, 2010 on Versus is a premier hunting and fishing reality
TV series. Twelve contestants will have the opportunity to participate in a series of hunting and fishing adventures
throughout North America.

You can apply for the freebie fishing via their website. As a film of yourself is involved, you may want to practice that steely grimace – where you discover salmon eggs are mixed with your JuJuBee’s …

It’s plain these fellows don’t know the difference and don’t care to know.

13) If you were going to be in People magazine, what inside info about you would be put up next to your picture?

17) List your past experiences with hunting and fishing. If you have no past experience with hunting or fishing then explain your
intentions for wanting to be introduced to the sport of hunting
and fishing!

… and don’t really care, they’re mining ratings and are desperately seeking drama queens in camoflage. I think they’re hoping someone will respond as below:

Hunting and fishing seems like a lot of fun, but I actually prefer running around a darkened campsite brandishing sharp objects and wearing a hockey mask.

Throw in some poor sport blowing daylight through a doe, and two fellows caught stuffing lead shot down a trout’s gullet – and it’s pure ratings gold.