Fly fisherman celebrates Matrimony with Viking Funeral

Some fellows just can’t help dancing with lightning bolts. With us already on the outs with numerous humane societies the idea of incurring the wrath of Modern Bride is fearful and heady stuff …

But that’s why us fly fishermen trod the path less taken, which goes double for the crowd at myexwifesweddingdress.com who are finding novel and humorous methods to dispose of the ex-wife’s trappings of finery…

It’s Dress Use #54 – Fly Tying. How to dispose of a diaphanous veil via upright and divided – featuring Largemouth Bass as unwitting participants.

exwife

Details aren’t provided on the degree of burden, or whether large-mouth might have done the relationship in …  Those of the Brotherhood that tempt all manners of violent death or the fiery furnace of the Scorned are worthy of admiration.

All that lace suggests a Zonker to me …

Most would be thinking Zig Zags

The Zig Zag Man I’d  assumed “leave the dance with them as brung you” was an unspoken truism, yet it doesn’t hold for the  Madison Ave crowd who are abandoning us fishermen in favor of the prime 22-30 age group.

Despite the century old tie between beer drinking and fishing, the self-styled “King of Beers” figures youth will abandon sour energy drinks in favor of sour tapwater – a flavor common to most American beer.

…and to cement the deal they’re even offering free beer as a come hither – which may be an act of quiet desperation,  if you can’t sell it you might as well give it away.

Us recently deposed anglers apparently have moved into craft-beer, our maturity alerting them newly-refined taste buds that waving a sprig of hops and barley over laundry water doesn’t make a compelling beverage.

… doubly horrific is that Budweiser would abandon fishermen just as we were about to return to their bosom. Now that we’re aware of the ecological impacts of bottled water and how much we’ve missed the tinkle of broken glass.

To appeal to the under-30 set that has ignored the brand — but is a prime consumer group for beer — Budweiser will unleash its biggest-ever national free-sample effort in trendy bars and eateries. The campaign begins Monday, with the slogan “Grab some Buds.”

… which assumes the younger element still has enough disposable cash to do trendy, and hasn’t already been laid off.

The 9% decline in Budweiser inhalation mirrors an identical plunge in angling participation. Rather than acknowledge the Recession or rampant unemployment – Budweiser may be compounding their problem by alienating droves of their staunchest supporters, or at least those outside of NASCAR.

Little doubt the board room was giddy at the understated elegance of its latest slogan, however, chances are they overlooked that most of the blue states would reach for Zig-Zags instead of the aging and tawdry King of Beers.

Brand consultant Robert Passikoff has serious doubts about Budweiser’s effort. “They’re in trouble because they don’t know how to talk to consumers,” he says. “They no longer know how to create an emotional bond.”

It’s an emotional bond if you have to sweep up behind those Clydesdale’s surely enough, but an aging wagon with a Dalmatian isn’t going to pry the Monster energy drink out of Junior’s sweaty grip.  

“Grab some Buds” is pure lowbrow, but as the advertising types have chosen the vernacular, we might lure some youth into the sport with, “Grab some Buds and Rods” or “Tie-stik is Monster Bud” – perhaps bringing hordes of youngsters to expand the coffers of our  angling organizations, or at least those adventurous enough to print the tee shirts.

On a cost basis, your fly tying dubbing is a girlfriend half your age, including the divorce

My poppa was overly fond of the Hershey with Almonds, as he cared nothing for money or markets, it was the yardstick by which he measured the US economy.

…in between telling us when he was a kid, it was only a nickel.

We learned the brightly emblazoned text, “33% more, Free” meant the economy was in tailspin and the price was about to rise, and the plain wrapper sans “free food” meant the stock market was a rocket ship headed skyward … (you can find the Hershey Cost Index here)

Most of this year I’ve been working towards a suite of dubbing under the Singlebarbed logo, not so much raw commercialization as awareness that an entire generation of tiers has never seen or used custom products, relying instead on synthetics that are one dimensional, like the unsatisfying part of a Mickey Dee’s burger.

A fistful of cash

Part of all that market research included buying some from all the major vendors, deconstructing the components, admiring the gilt packaging, noting the superlatives and claims of perfection, weighing, measuring, and studying benefits and shortcomings, as well as estimating their costs.

My premonition was dubbing would be a Hershey bar, only the shop tag obscured the “30% more, free” …

When I think of the expensive items we measure as minor trappings of wealth; a choice steak, a new car, a girlfriend half our age, they’re cheap* (unless a divorce is involved) by comparison.

Dubbing isn’t rare furs and endangered animals anymore. The modern marketplace is comprised of components shat from tubes, boiled in vats, and sold by the ton. So why is a six ounce “steak” of dubbing  just over six hundred dollars, and a new car of dubbing making a dent in the national debt?

The math is simple, I took a representative sample comprised of 10 fly shops and the 10 dubbing products common to all, which yielded a product package weight of nearly 4g, comprised of packaging weighing 3g, whose contents contain 1g of fur.

Given the taxation of those states and the average price,  the fly tying community is paying on average, $3.75 per gram of dubbing.

Most of the products are entirely synthetic, some contain two ingredients – a hint of synthetic sparkle and a natural or synthetic binder layer. Figure they’re paying about $10 per pound for the base synthetic, which they may dye, then re-fluff for packaging, that $10 investment becomes $1702.00 for the respective jobber and subscribing retail shops.

Not a bad return for the jobber, the retail side only gets to double the price once.

Comparison of the same product a decade ago (for those that existed) shows a decline in content weight of 50%.

… like the candy bar of yore, “fur” has shrankeled while doubling or tripling in price.

There’s no mystery to all this. Jobbers dominate the fly tying section and distribute the packaged dubbing too. With no in-house brand for competition they can do what they will, as they’ve got a monopoly on all that pegboard and what it contains.

… I’ll add that to the “ornery” side of why we need more choices. I just wanted to make something better, and already I feel the pull of  Jihad.

Outside of the obvious genetic tomfoolery, exactly where is all that water coming from?

“Extra labeling only confuses the consumer,” said David Edwards, director of animal biotechnology at the Biotechnology Industry Organization. “It differentiates products that are not different. As we stick more labels on products that don’t really tell us anything more, it makes it harder for consumers to make their choices.”

Which is exactly what troubled me about the “Mercury-toxic-no-eat-sign” featured prominently at every junction of the creek nearby, why would you go to all that trouble to label something genetically identical to the healthy specimen?

It must be more of that government waste I hear so much about.

Tastes like Chicken

The FDA defends its approach, saying it is simply following the law, which prohibits misleading labels on food. And the fact that a food, in this case salmon, is produced through a different process, is not sufficient to require a label.

We’re simply reminding everyone that this is the week the FDA rules on genetically engineered fish, our thoughts on the matter being well known, yet it’s still a landmark case with impacts far beyond the current focus.

The company has several safeguards in place to quell concerns. The fish would be bred female and sterile, though a small percentage might be able to breed. They would be bred in confined pools where the potential for escape would be low.

What concerns me outside of the obvious, is where is all that water going to come from? Most of the known world is already using its potable water multiple times between snowpack and faucet. Trucking saltwater in from the ocean would be cost prohibitive, yet terrestrial fish farms located close to market implies yet another water-craving industry determined to siphon those last few droplets from native fish.

Close to market means Los Angeles, Phoenix, Las Vegas, and a host of other desert cities, no?

Nestle and the bottled water crowd may be a blessing compared to the the rich soup we’ll soon see in our spigot. The agricultural industry has locked up the rights for any source of significance, yet the aquaculture crowd will insist on something “clean” to grow salmon in – and that combined payload of antibiotics and fertilizer should follow whatever slope is available to mix with local waters or intermingle with groundwater.

If they mix in salt you can add toxic to that blend.

Yummy.

The upside could be a gene or two added to all them roman nosed fish lying doggo in the salmon wastewater pond. If we get lucky we might wind up with sea-run Carp, or they’ll get white faces like the Joker – sight fishing would be so much easier.

Can fly fishing regulation restore fisheries with a stroke of the pen

Increased regulations Outside of some rare conservation program that’s reshaped a creek with instream cover or dredging, regulations, or fish plants, I don’t think any angler will make the claim that his favorite creek fishes better than it did a decade ago.

Intervention at any level is always a temporary boon. The organizations that promote quality public water can’t sustain them for more than a couple of years, and with funding drying up in lockstep with a battered economy, and increased threat to other creeks and rivers, the result is too many chicks vying for a meager worm.

Few in number compared to other anglers, we can still degrade a fishery quickly with constant pressure. All them feet tearing into the bank at the egress points, all those fish mishandled or gut hooked, thousands of crushing feet on the aquatic wildlife, and the continual stream of guides and clients that are part and parcel of the premier waters.

Over time, no matter how slight the mortality rate, we compromise everything.

Kirk Deeter of the Fly Talk blog brings up a worthy point in a different manner, but ignoring the beadhead-bobbercator issue entirely, are fly fishermen willing to adopt even more stringent regulations in return for big fish and watershed preservation?

Not more water reserved for fly fishing, rather more stringent regulations on our existing water, potentially hampering us enough to buy additional years prior to destroying a unique fishery due to our weight of numbers.

It’s something I’ve witnessed first hand. Living on the banks of Hat Creek during it’s reopening as a trophy trout fishery, it’s popularity enhanced due to vigorous magazine coverage, that resulted in most of California making the pilgrimage to test their skills on large wary trout.

About six years later anything over 16” was a rarity, and six years after that it was just another creek, despite the occasional attempt from CalTrout to intervene. A two year stint as CalTrout’s Hat Creek Streamkeeper during its heydays made me privy to the causal agents and much internal discussion, but the meager and uncertain funding meant the creek had to defend itself once the initial makeover was complete.

Certainly there were many issues that were unrelated to anglers, the Baum Lake canal burst, sending a slug of PG&E’s sediment into a spring creek among others. Regulated flows prevented the watercourse from freeing itself of sediment – as it lacked the winter scour so important to sediment flush and ridding itself of foreign objects.

Most of the persistent issues were related to anglers. California hosts a large population, plenty of fly fishermen, and the trophy water being a scant three miles long magnified the impacts of all them feet.

With all the emphasis on invasive species, and watching the Powerhouse riffle widen an additional 50 feet due to wading anglers wearing the bank down by entering and exiting the creek, I’d think a “no wading” regulation is now more pertinent than ever.

“… fishing is Catch & Release only, artificial only, barbless hook, no wading allowed.” 

With the new conservation ethic disposing of the flat felt bottom, cleated rubber soles (equipped with studs to improve traction) may reduce invasives – but due to cleats and steel studs will certainly increase the amount of bank removed by a fishermen scrambling into or out of the water.

Via regulation are we prepared to get us out of that business entirely?

It’ll send half of us back to the casting ponds as the available fishery is what you can throw and mend effectively. It’ll increase the amount of car traffic on nearby roads as we bounce between access points rather than crossing at the shallow spot, and will add “safe havens” for fish – as neither bank affords access or the ability to cast effectively.

Don’t expect vendors to help push this sterile initiative as it’ll remove a third of the gear we’re equipped with and a third of their gross.

“… fishing is Catch & Release only, artificial only, barbless hook, maximum 10 anglers, reservation only.” 

Limiting the human traffic will solve many ailments. Figure a fee-based system that pays for the 24-hour reservation system and limited back office staff to settle squabbles.

There’s brown water aplenty to handle those reserving too late, or turned away at the toll booth.

Profit can be recycled back into the fishery. Assuming a year long season and 300 capacity bookings, a $50 use fee equates to $150,000 per year. Figure half of that being chewed up by overhead and trash collection, road maintenance, and an occasional Porta-Potty, that would leave $50,000 a year for watershed improvements – or a Riverkeeper to maintain a constant patrol during daylight hours …

“… fishing is Catch & Release only, artificial only, barbless hook, dry fly only.”

Gear restrictions of any type would aid fish too, whether limiting the kind and type of artificials we throw, or how they’re thrown, should buy a watershed additional seasons of prominence. “Dry Fly Only” has a purism taint that obscures the conservation issue, but if adopted would impact fishing significantly.

… and no, an indicator is not dry. Nor is a dry fly with nymph dangling below, we’re insisting on only surface fishing – but we might overlook the dry fly pulled under and twitched fetchingly …

Having fished on dry fly only water, with mown trails between small fishing platforms (with seating) at each pool, I can attest that it’s rarified – but still fly fishing.

… and each phase of the aquatic insect would have to be ruled on in advance – and posted whether it’s dry or wet just to avoid your claims of innocence while being carted off in manacles.

I’m not sure that we’re capable of policing ourselves, so each turnstile into the quality water will have to be equipped with brass and tungsten detection…

“… fishing is Catch & Release only, artificial only, barbless hook, floating fly, upstream presentation only.”

There’s a perverted element that would welcome hideous restriction as the bragging rights would be commensurate. Thankfully they’re a minority albeit intensely vocal, but they exist.

Unfortunately as we pile on the restrictions we’re obligating ourselves to an increase in stern eyeballs monitoring all this extra ritual. Wardens being in short supply and with thousands of miles to patrol, we’d have to hire someone to monitor us while we alternate between spirit and letter of the law.

Which brings the spectre of fee based fishing and similarity with Europe.

The antics of Donny Beaver and viability of the private fishing club proves there’s enough rich folks to pay for exclusivity, the question becomes are us less fortunate willing to pay for a similar increase in quality?

“Quality” being a surrogate for less people, bigger fish, catered lunches, or whatever you find most attractive.

Despite their stated intent, many states tap license fees to cover shortfalls in other budgets. In the current economic climate that will persist for some time. Fee based fishing offers some small possibility that the funds would be dedicated to the watershed, the question would be is the angling brotherhood willing to pay for equal measures of restriction and pleasure?

The growth in “farm pond” fisheries suggest that both size and quantity are very compelling to anglers, enough so that many shops feature this type of “private access – hatchery enhanced” fishery – and participants are willing to pay extra for access to artificial lakes enhanced with brood stock.

Regulations are at the whim of the landowner, and some even charge by the hour.

It’s certain to be off-putting to some, but with all of the fanciful threats forecast by global warming, population growth, invasives, and alternate land use, and should only a fraction of that come true, it’s plain that public agencies and their stewardship of the public water could be unsustainable.

“… fishing is Catch & Release only, artificial only, barbless hook, floating fly, no wading, upstream presentation only, and the river is opened only in odd numbered years.”

How about resting the water every other season? That would make patrolling the Precious easier for wardens, as they’d be able to open fire on anyone seen on the bank …

With all we have vested in the sport, and all the conservation dogma we espouse at every cocktail gathering, why not alternate venues or pursue some other noble, more plentiful quarry in alternate years?

It would be curtains for many of the destination shops who are struggling already, but the agile will exploit the Internet, and the fortunate have more than a single watershed to service.

Perhaps three or five year closures might make more sense. Giving our discarded tippet and water bottles more time to flush.

“… fishing is Catch & Kill only, limit two fish over 6”, artificial only, barbless hook, floating fly, no wading, upstream presentation only, and the river is opened only in odd numbered years.”

Limiting our time on the creek might also work, although we’d have to stooge around on the bank waiting for a buddy to get his limit, or convince him to claim one of the carcasses was his. Naturally, you’d have to cough up cash or buy the dinner as you’ve obligated him to cease fishing on his next successful grab …

Local tourism and fly shops would be the benefactors, perhaps a few anglers would take up upland birds – spending the balance of the evening blowing hell out of pine trees.

“… fishing is Catch & Release only, artificial only, no wading, upstream presentation only, barbless hook size 20 or smaller, and no artificials may contain : a) rubberlegs, b) lead, c) beads, d) synthetic fibers, e) or may be predominately Olive, Brown, Gray, or Black.”

Now that most of the stoneflies, half of the dry flies, and three-quarters of your fly box is off limits, remember to get there early … to allow for ex-TSA employees to go through your vest and impound everything you can’t use.

As a fly tier I wouldn’t object too much. Knowing what goes in every fly I’ve tied has me dressing on the other side of the fence, watching you get hustled to the ground for illegal synthetics you didn’t know you had.

I’ll avert my gaze when I hear the snap of the rubber gloves …

The “20-20” Club is something that motivates a lot more anglers than you think, and with hooks being what they are and 18” fish having imaginary extra length there’s many fewer members than claim credit.

How big would the average fish have to be for that kind of rigor? Remember we’re protecting both fishery and fish, and any indignation is worthy…

“… fishing is Catch & Release only, artificial only, no wading, upstream presentation only, barbless hook, and each angler is limited to a single fly in possession.”

Again it’s a time limiter, you can select the fly after much observation the evening of your arrival, I suppose you can take a roundabout way back to the car after you snap it off on a tree limb and get another – which will spawn new paths through the underbrush to avoid the turnstiles and the watchful eyes nearby.

Or you can merely go straight to the extreme and stand in line for what will surely be the new esthetic:

“… fishing is Catch & Release only, artificial only, no wading, upstream presentation only, barbless hook, and each angler must construct his terminal tackle using native flora or the contents of the parking lot’s garbage can.”

Sadly Tonkin cane is in short supply throughout much of Montana as well as the Rockies or Sierra’s. The invasive threat being what it is, it should arrive within the decade however.

Saplings are fair game, and those skilled in furled leaders could conceivably weave some type of weight forward from the native grasses. Small game will suffer – as they’re chased about and disemboweled to return gut leaders to prominence. It’s not much of a reach to plant pen raised squirrels to ensure survival of native fish, and their fur can be utilized to craft both dry flies and nymphs, ensuring full utilization as a resource.

While I’ve strayed fairly far afield from the original question, given the trend of irreparable damage fostered by us stewards, and the outside issues that add to that mix, should we consider changing regulations to restrict our impacts on the Pristine, and in what manner would you make that palatable?

Fly fishermen are compensating for something, certainly, our rods aren’t fully automatic, belt-fed, or both

All I had to do was read any of my past posts to recognize “I don’t measure up”, yet PETA had to send me a zinger just the same …

compensating_something They’re on the warpath, and with the death of the UK’s famous “Two Tone” carp, PETA erected a billboard to chastise local anglers …

I’ve often wondered whether dry fly purists weren’t compensating for something, but I hadn’t trod the masculinity route. I’d left it at thinking these were the kids whose Ma cut the crusts off their PB & J, and they still had a chip on their shoulders.

PETA delights in bearding the prophet, nearly as much as we like laughing over their latest protest. This episode is no exception, featuring the debut of DoAnglersHaveSmallRods.com – which hosts a test to determine whether the water is both … cold … and deep.

I don't quite measure up

Finding out about my shortcomings doesn’t redden my cheeks a bit. What’s really going to be funny is when “Casper Milquetoast” knocks at my door to borrow a power tool, and he gets an abacus and a scratch awl to repair his roof.

“Yo, Casper, looking a little damp there, Sweetheart. Is that madam’s chamber pot you’re emptying – Wow, I bet she is pissed, huh?”

It’s Mrs Frankenfish fish actually, and as we’re part of the problem, we’ll accept the consequences

fof It’s a great subject worthy of much lampooning and bitter vitriol, but us sportsmen have no say in the outcome, will endure largely in silence, and be the first to point fingers when the inevitable occurs.

Call it “Frankenfish” or whatever comes to mind, but the truth is the majority of the world’s population aren’t fishermen and gets hungry three or four times a day and that dictates our fate.

I don’t suggest that I like the outcome, I’m resigned to it.

Folks that buy palatial houses by the river think the surroundings cool, perhaps some have a lonesome and expensive boat moored at their dock, many admire (or resent) the sight of us flailing in the water – but they don’t fish, don’t share our devotion to their survival, and like the trappings of wealth as much as we do.

They vote, fish don’t – end of story.

Rather than pound chest and feel violated about the pending FDA ruling on genetically modified salmon, what grow twice as quick in half the time, recognize that this is one of only two possible outcomes in the larger freshwater/ocean sustainable fisheries issue.

There are too many people on the planet, most like fish – all of them like to eat, and as we’ve alternately slaughtered or shat on all the natural surroundings and indigenous fish, we are about to eat what we’ve sown.

Our conservation organizations are underfunded and relatively powerless. Able to avert a dam or protest releases from a big power company, get one or two small creeks declared special, and they’re done. They cannot sustain the “special,” leaving the creek and its regulations to the hordes of anglers that destroy much of the bank and grind the aquatic population into oblivion just by weight of numbers.

It’s part of our history and part inheritance. Your Dad, his Poppa, and all them hardy types coming across the prairie in Conestoga wagons were fearsome killers. Surrounded by limitless wildlife they treated it as such – and kilt, built, or diverted all that precious infrastructure to their own ends, leaving us and future generations to clean up.

We didn’t – as that’s damn hard work, rather we invented things that harvested less fish even quicker, approximating the killing spree of our ancestors. Tales of conquest and adventure made us push further into the Pristine (shrinking it with every step) to find what few stocks remained in out of the way places like Mongolia, Kamchatka or Alaska, and we blew hell outta them too.

… as that weight of numbers thing is growing.

Then we gash ourselves and moan about how our Playstation-absorbed kid, who hasn’t budged off the couch in a fortnight, is going to be deprived of his birthright.

Proof positive we have learned nothing.

Bringing the existing stocks back will take a couple hundred thousand years. It probably took a couple million to invent salmon and their watershed in the first place, figuring science can give it a good nudge, perhaps 20 or so generations from now we can have something close …

… but that implies we bulldoze all those palatial homes, ban jet skis, restore the forested acres of each headwater, and evict a large, monied, and vocal chunk of the population from their ancestral estates.

… which is never going to happen, because you want Junior’s playstation to hum contentedly, otherwise you’d have to converse with the witless SOB, or worse find him a job.

So … we’re back at option two, grow the equivalent muscle mass of the ancient runs to feed a burgeoning world population, without using any of the original acres, streams, forests, oceans, or tidewaters.

As the most efficient process is test tube, that’s where we’re headed. Stem cell research has already produced both rudimentary flesh and muscle fiber, all that remains is to juice the cell replication so it produces a ton or more flaccid and tasteless flesh per hour, per minute, or whatever scale is needed.

… so your kid can whine and turn up his nose at his birthright.

In the interim we’ll stick big needles in animal flesh and zap them with all manner of caustic stuff so you can order sushi.

Some of the result will escape, just as the genetically engineered Roundup resistant crops have done, and if we don’t screw everything forever, or release something sentient that dines on us, we’ll slowly learn from many mistakes.

Rather than steep yourself in angry apoplexy, recognize that you’ve earned this birthright, and despite all of the hideous inequities, no one is giving up their homes, shopping malls, or movie theaters, to restore fish to prior levels.

… and if that’s not enough and you insist on saving some fish, I suggest you give up the sport entirely, as that will save some few, mark you as a selfless sporting martyr, as well as make more for the rest of us.

Fixing it is out of the question, Science is going to have their way with the Old Gal, and nothing you say or do will matter.

Resigned to it all, I’ll cling to the hope that through this process we may be able to salvage one or two small bones that might make our plight a bit easier.

Perhaps the conservation groups with their miniscule budgets can commission some type of boutique fish that survives in warming-water, resistant to chemicals and dines on oil slicks and auto exhaust – but fights like a bulldog when hooked.

That may be enough to keep a small cadre of us anglers content into the next couple of centuries, so that we can exploit anything found swimming in pure ammonia when we land on Mars.

As it’s certain that even though we acknowledge the debris field we’re wandering in today, we’ve not changed our spots one iota.

Hello 911? I’ve got a heron on life support and am out of baggies

Dr. Skinner's Animal Shelter They’re onto me …

Seven short miles away an entire UC campus is determined to find out why Yolo County drivers never hit anything while driving. My streets and thoroughfares clean of corpses and the local Interstate a lone buffer of Purity in California’s asphalt archipelago …

They claim they’re compiling more accurate statistics for the occurrence of animal-automobile kinetic couplings, but I think the county commission is thinking national game refuge and the funding that comes with it.

Now that they’re commissioning an iPhone app to ease road kill reporting, it gives me blanket absolution from my necro-scavenger hunt and burgeoning life list, and should the girlfriend complain, I can always blame science.

An old iPhone case tucked into the center console next to the array of Ziploc sarcophagi; a squeal of of rubber smoke, a hurried exit, and should the casual bystander note my interest in the bleeding corpse – I’ll give them a friendly wave and stab a forefinger at the cold glass of my Apple phone.

The site’s founders hope to soon hire a software engineer to design a smartphone app. They think one would attract new and younger volunteers, speed up the process, and, with built-in GPS function, assure more accurate location information.

Call me an ambulance chaser, but a quick scan of the website each morning – a quicker call to the boss to explain my tardy, and every Blue Heron that duels Detroit will be reclassified as “long beaked naked chicken” – just as soon as the clasp on my Buck knife closes …

While initially I was put out at the NY Times for lavishing the  “Doctor Roadkill” moniker on someone with clean conscience hands, I really don’t need the rest of the fly tying world finding out from Perez Hilton where I score all the free goods.

For those of you interested in assisting UC Davis and their scientific research –  road kill reports can be filed at the CROS site. While I don’t expect you’ll understand, it would be a great assistance to science should you standardize your nomenclature:

Don’t merely enter “stray kat”, rather use metadata that is useful to researchers, like; “medium blue dun with bronze highlights and a rich maltese note to the forelegs (or maybe that’s just axel grease). Light bouquet, rated a “double bagger” due to rampant livestock.

That’s the scientific method and befits us amateur entomologists.

Conspicuous is my omission of the route to work. Knowing the playful nature of our readership, I’m sure to discover that both Polar Bear and fur seal have a yen for the center divider.

There may be an Old Folk’s home for Admirals and Mariners, but there’s none for stove up fly fishing codgers

In the Old Days once them knees went or the arthritis set in permanent the only option would be a window seat, some sunlit bench where you’d tell and retell those precious war stories of youth.

None of them codgers would really be listening, and you’d lose track of the narrative once something half your age flounced by, but it’d be a way to retain some small contact with the sport that had played such a significant role throughout your formative years.

With the advent of Reaganomics and the generation of “Me Firsters” I resolved to be the fly fishing equivalent of Joan Rivers. Rather than face lifts, I’d blow all my cash on prosthetics allowing me to crawl or limp from parking lot to water’s edge.

With nanotechnology I figured I’d be a decade away from immortality, some snickering SOB in a lab coat would put a big needle in my arse and them little robots would replace muscle and worn ligaments, making me competition for the younger crowd …

… and when they invented Viagra, I was sure of it.

Like most technologies the promise was more than the delivery, and the Fountain of Youth remained fable, until now …

All terrain invasive wading wheelchair

An all terrain, rubber soled, wading skateboard that puts us aging Californio’s back in the thick of the hatch.

We endured your giggling about our blonde-surfing-Dood culture knowing you were shoveling snow. We ignored your laughter when you discovered we were eating raw fish.  We were practicing for our dotage, where those crucial skateboard-balance skills would allow us to regain lost youth.

Dude.

… and while that brawny male nurse heaves you onto your stomach before exposing your wrinkled nether regions for the daily vitamin suppository, think of me – exploiting the pristine in a cacophony of petrol smoke and spraying dirt.

Like the rest of the Extremist’s I’ll be tearing through what remains of the Pristine without thought to environmental damage or whether the vernal forest can handle the debris field of smoldering cigarettes, spent tippet, and amyl nitrate left in my wake …

Borrowed time imbues a certain invulnerability allowing us to skid to a stop in your riffle, claiming “we caught an updraft, sorry-kinda” before roaring over your feet enroute to someplace better.

Tortoise and the Hare: How rubber soled wading shoes pose an ecological nightmare

The inherent weakness in the Clean, Dry & Protect doctrine is the lack of attention to the entire wading boot in deference to a nearly complete focus on the sole material.

While the message has been taken to heart, many forums have questions and comments suggesting many anglers have a false sense of complacency regarding their feet once shod in rubber soled wading shoes.

Didymo cell count

Research documents on Didymo from New Zealand show quite plainly that a leather topped rubber soled wading shoe is only half as bad as a leather-upper felt soled shoe. Conversely, you could also make the claim that a rubber-upper felt soled wading shoe has the identical risk as a rubber soled wading shoe.

… and if you’re a neoprene wearing felt soled wader as I am, you’re a bloody plague on two feet.

But wait, there’s more …

“Because of the rapid spread of invasive species such as garlic mustard, Japanese knotweed and wild parsnip, hikers should include a whisk broom or brush as part of their hiking gear,” said Neil Woodworth, executive director of the Adirondack Mountain Club. “By giving your boots or shoes a good brushing before leaving the area, you can help prevent seeds from spreading to the next trail you hike.”

Hikers should also clean their clothing, backpacks and equipment before going to a new area to hike. Campers should shake out their tents before breaking camp to dislodge invasive seeds.

– via the Press Republican

Using Sherlockian Deduction, a rubber soled angler is likely to hike further than a felt soled fisherman, who is conscious that every terrestrial step is wearing down his beloved felt, and therefore …

While you might have the upper hand in the water, you’re a goddamn ecological nightmare once on dry land.

While us “true conservationists” take the long slow slog back to the parking lot in midcurrent – which we’ve irreparably soiled already.

These are the Good Old Days

It really matters little in the greater picture, the invasive species issue is on land, sea, and air. Plants are becoming a bigger issue than aquatic invasives simply due to the available land mass, versus the relatively miniscule amount of water that traverses all those acres.

We’ve got some really burgeoning issues with Knotweed, Mile a Minute vine, and Hogweed, and unlike contaminated ballast water on ships, many invasive plants are common to your subdivision as they’re sold in nurseries.

Given the felt sole bans and legislation cropping up in Alaska, Maryland, and elsewhere, it’s not unreasonable to suggest that some well meaning hiking organization won’t insist that your footwear be antiseptic for the terrestrial pristine as well.

… and while you’re thinking “that’ll never happen” ask yourself why New Zealand confiscated 80,000 pair of rubber soled shoes at their airports.