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.

Habeas Corpus may apply to our beloved Asian Carp

I see it as tantamount to complete submission, just one more highly paid fellow standing around scratching his head when the Silvery Horde pours through the locks …

The White House has tapped a former leader of the Indiana Department of Natural Resources and the Indiana Wildlife Federation as the Asian carp czar to oversee the federal response to keeping the invasive species out of the Great Lakes.

via Sacramento Bee

The reference to the former body politic for the Greater Russian Empire, whose family was dragged into the Siberian chill and shot, along with their doctors, maids, and servants, doesn’t breed thoughts of success, and may be partly to blame.

We’ve had security czars and drug czars but their job was easier. Dealing with human foibles or cravings is a sight more predictable than slowing the spread of a remorseless silver vacuum capable of eating half its weight each day.

“When it comes to the Asian carp threat, we are not in denial. We are not in a go-slow mode. We are in a full attack, full-speed-ahead mode. We want to stop this carp from advancing.”

I suppose like his predecessors, the Asian Carp czar will mobilize the military, carefully lining up phalanxes of mechanized infantry and their supporting cast, and unleashing holy hell on the Chicago River and its tributaries, until the environmentalists complain about the swans ingesting spent .223 – and calling a halt to the hostilities.

“Certainly there are some legal questions that are in process, but there has been a history already of good cooperation among the states,” Goss said. “I believe that will be one of my strengths, talking at the level of the department of natural resources in each of the states so that we can very carefully coordinate our efforts.”

It’s certain that I’m cynical and jaded and coloring this in the least favorable light, but this issue doesn’t have the years  to construct some alternate system allowing commerce to flow from the Great Lakes downstream. Our sacrificial lamb and his meager 80 million budget are opposed by both people and fish, not merely the fish alone.

The extensive commerce and barge traffic of the region enjoys voting privileges, which can slow an aggressive solution just long enough to have the fish pour into the area with little or no opposition.

Once established and with free rein of the Great Lakes, everyone can throw up their hands and point fingers, then resume business-as-usual, free of the potential costs of portaging goods overland.

Attorneys for the defense countered that the DNA research has never been used in this manner and was unreliable. They argued that even scientists disagree about the likelihood that Asian carp are capable of sustaining a large and destructive population if allowed to enter the Great Lakes

It’s a repeat of the California Salmon debacle, where the interests of business are at loggerheads with the environment. Attorneys deny the most basic scientific tenets for fear of the financial implications to their clients, and despite plenty of consistent scientific opinion, the process drags on until ..

poof

.. too late, all gone. Now we can all go home happy.

It may be us colonists like a good insurrection

I had wondered whether the e-zine phenomena was a reflection of the US fly fisherman and the paucity of quality reading material we’re forced to endure. With a blizzard of product surfacing, it might be that us colonials are practiced at grass-roots insurrection, and therefore unashamed to show our collective discontent.

Then again, it may be a world wide angling issue and like all asexual invasives, it just takes a little time to gain a foothold in more rarified venues.

New Zealand colonists join the e-Bellion

Instead it may be the colonial thing, what with New Zealand entering the fray with an e-zine featuring horribly colorful and obese trout whose obscene lust for feathers will make you shield your child’s vision, lest they be tainted forever …

We missed the first issue, but it’s available online.

Flyfishers Inc. is in the stunning photography coffee table mode, where you quickly leaf through the pictures in awe, yet there’s little text to accompany the work. Each issue features a reader poll, which is a hint of interactivity, something not yet seen in the US versions.

Something to consume with your lunchtime sandwich.

Art Flick or Roy Steenrod would’ve given away the Farm

It’s one of the necks you’ve always heard about, likely never seen and may never see. Fly shops still maintain pecking orders, some small vestiges of times past, but rare colors require blood kinship – as they’ll never make it past the avaricious mitts of the staff.

It’s the Holy Grail of fly tying and most older books devote whole chapters to the quest of securing enough dun hackle to feel contentment. As most of the old timers were conspicuous hoarders, even plenty wasn’t nearly enough.

The sample cape now dry

You’ve substituted for them since you began tying, usually with regular dun and the offshore fly tying companies have done similar. Many legendary flies are no longer true to pattern because the rarer hues of Iron Blue, Bronze, and Honey Dun, still aren’t readily available and certainly not enough to tie the legions of flies needed commercially.

An occasional cape slips into the Whiting mix, but they rarely make it to the street. Once the proprietor and his staff are satiated a rare color begats a phone call to specific patrons – alerting them to their presence.

Dun necks were dyed prior to the advent of genetic hackle. Commercial fly tiers could sort through thousands of India capes to find only an occasional dun, but white and cream were plentiful and many thousands of capes were slipped into gray RIT or TINTEX to satisfy demand.

From the earliest genetic efforts of the Darbee’s and the Catskill coven, Whiting, Hoffman, Metz, and other chicken farmers developed a plentiful supply for the standard light, medium, and dark, dun with most shops now having a regular supply in both neck and saddle.

When the early strains of these birds debuted in the 80’s, the only commercial offering was from the Metz company. Henry Hoffman was still focused on the perfect Grizzly (among other colors) and most of the Dun necks were only half Dun – the feather tips were nicely colored, but the butts were often white.

Fly tiers fought and begged for the necks uniform in color, but only 15% to 20% of a dun shipment were fully colored. The Blue Andalusian strain was also much leaner of barbule, and spreading a feather would show less barbules per inch than the robust breeds like Grizzly, Ginger, or Rhode Island Red.

Those early chickens could tie far fewer flies than those available today.

Dyeing Dun necks often yielded a superior feather, especially when light barred Grizzly or Ginger was used as the base color. Having a few darker strands in a Hendrickson never hurt much, and Metz Ginger necks were plentiful and easy to come by, they’d be last on the rack after the hordes of tiers had picked through everything else.

Those of us willing to risk the $45 were richly rewarded, as we pulled rare colors out of the dye bath, those self-same colors unavailable today.

The Contemplative Angler outlines many shades of Dun and some of the history behind all the variants. There’s little secret to achieving Honey Dun or a good bronze flavor; shell out the $85 for a nicely marked cream or ginger neck and plunk it in a dye bath.

Some of my past pieces on dyeing covers the rudiments of water temperature, color, and dye selection, the rules are the same only the dollar values increase; good preparation, a known dye, and using some rudimentary lessons from cooking school …

Chicken skin is fragile, treat it as such

A chef is trained to warm a dish or reheat an entree by using a lower temperature than was used originally. It makes perfect sense as the meat is cooked to a certain point by the initial temperature, and will continue cooking if the reheating temperature is raised to equal or greater.

Preserving those rare and medium rare cuts of Prime Rib is important given much of the cooking and preparation is done prior to the customer ordering the dish.

A chicken neck is just skin and feather follicles that have been treated and dried by the grower to remain flexible, it can be cooked further if the bath temperature is too hot.

It’s really the only mistake you can make if unfamiliar with dyeing necks, chicken skin cooks at lower temperatures than elk hide or heavier items, and when dried can shrink as much as 40% in addition to becoming brittle. It’s an imposition mostly, the feather color will be fine but the neck section will snap off the cape if flexed and you’ll have pieces of skin and feathers in the bag, versus an intact neck.

Know the dye, and get a clean color

As Gray is a relatively simple color to dye, it can be done in lukewarm water preventing both shrinkage and brittleness.

The problem with Gray is that it’s a weak black, and comprised of other dark colors which can show unbidden. It can be a “blue” gray or a “red” gray – just like black, so you’ll need to find a clean gray that is free of other tints as is possible.

Test dyeing on cheaper materials is the best way to determine the dried color. Look for a pale gray that allows you to steep the neck for a bit without turning into a shade of charcoal. I’ve found Jacquard’s Silver (gray) to be a really nice color with very few overtones.

The Process of Under-Dyeing

Under-dyeing is simply coaxing the material’s existing colors into something else. Unlike other forms of dyeing we’re not attempting to overpower the material, merely tinting it in the right direction.

Pump until no more air bubbles

Neck preparation is identical to other materials with hide attached, merely place it feather-side-down in a bowl, cover it with lukewarm water and pump the back of the skin until air bubbles cease coming to the surface. This supersaturates the material so the dye hits all the feathers and duff at the same time, ensuring the same tint to the entire neck.

honeydunWe’ll watch the top half of the hackles to monitor how deep the color will be before pulling the cape from the bath. The webby lower feather absorbs dye greedily and will darken much faster than the harder, shiny tips, often causing us to pull the cape from the dye prematurely. Hackle tips take dye slower, and we’ll pull the neck when the top half of the feather is the color needed.

This is the most important lesson of dyeing, picking the “action” area of the material to monitor for color change. Wet materials are always darker than dry, but for exacting matches – it’s the useful area that must be watched, not the webby portion.

Above is a damp Ginger neck pulled out of Jacquard Silver dye bath. I warmed the water enough to facilitate dissolving the dye, and removed the heat and added the white vinegar to cool it to merely warm. This is shown in indirect daylight to show the depth of the gray assist.

Honey_Dun The edges of the cape show the “clean Gray” color – largely absent blue or purplish tinges common to gray or black dye. The ginger center is assisted by the gray to form a really nice tint of honey or bronze dun.

At right is the same damp cape in direct sunlight, which shows the depth of the bronzing or honey color.

A cape this color is a rarity and would fly off the shelf unbidden, little wonder that flies, reels, and even split cane rods were traded for a hint of the proper colors.

The darkness of the Ginger chosen controls the “bronzing” effect on the final color. The dye merely assists the process by laying down a complimentary mask of Gray which acts with the natural color to bring out the final shade. Under-dyeing is really a tinting process designed to preserve the original color while nudging it gently into something quite different.

I still rely heavily on the dyed dun as compared to natural Dun necks or saddles. Their quality has improved a couple hundred fold since the 80’s, yet supply still seems to be an issue. Many shops have an assortment but not all colors are present in the full range of light, medium, and dark.

Ginger necks outnumber Dun by a wide margin, and sometimes I yank a creation out of the dye pot and understand why Art Flick or Roy Steenrod would have given away the farm …

Where we interview for the position of fly fishing sidekick

We’ll be back around seven, and we brought Sweetums’s Frisbee for you to throw. Try not to tire Precious too much, knowing his delicate sensibilities and fragile constitution.”

Right.

I had dog watching duties this weekend, and while tossing slobber-Frisbee is a rarified treat, peeling the layers of domestication off a well mannered beast is twice as much fun.

“Little Meat” is a burner, and freed from the leash and dropped into the primitive, there was a better than average chance that all my Spey flies would be real Blue Heron …

All we had to do is corner one on a stretch with no deer carcasses or desiccated anything – as maggot-ridden has a special draw equal to something fleeing in a panic, and only to a dog occupying the seat next to you.

Triple_axel

… only they were smart enough to keep their distance, mostly …

The nametag says I’ve never seen him before, akin to the perfect crime. While the Fish & Game is frantically searching for a second clip and with closure approaching Mach 0.6, like everything else that breaks cover …  Toast.

Me and “Cheetah” have a few rough edges to work on … Tennis balls can be returned, but anything screaming or bloody should be consumed behind bushes – so I can feign horror like the rest of the onlookers.

Any animal “siding” you while fishing has to have personality aplenty. It may justify its oxygen providing precious “pointer” skills; lift the right paw if it’s a Pikeminnow, left paw if it’s a sucker, droop both ears if its Bass … yet while attentive to my pantomime, Meat’s keen eyesight and rocket-speed were reserved only for terrestrial prey.

eat_drink_roll

While twenty-four hours isn’t enough to undo years of obedience, there was a tell tale gleam of malevolence after a scorching march through the watershed…

Otter fleeing in terror

… especially after consuming two of the three Otter that have migrated down into the Big Fish stretch. It’s both the first and last time such magnificent creatures have been seen on my creek, and despite blanket protection provided by the Fish & Game, ag chemicals made them slow and fat, something my companion exploited unmercifully.

Taco_Bell

Chase stuff, crap on stuff, roll in stuff – look wounded when hurled into the creek after acquiring a disguising scent, and expect to go to Disneyland or Sizzler upon return to civilization.

Almost like fishing, with the only difference being our insistence on cooking or photographing stinky stuff, rather than wearing it proudly.

California Free fishing day tomorrow

Nasty! Tastes Nasty! Just a friendly reminder that Monday, September 6th is the second of the two free fishing days for California. Residents 16 and older do not require a license to catch, thump, or eat anything, in either fresh or salt water.

Note the lifting of the license restriction will not make fish tastier, so the screams of joy and adventure will not extend to the dinner table. Like all real fishermen – kids hate fish – unless a clown serves it …

… and then only maybe.

I’ll urge you to be firm despite the scowls and tears. Teaching them to catch fish may be an elective, but teaching them to eat what they kill is a requirement, a rite of passage.

A lot has changed since A River Ran Through It

I’d guess Madison Ave has found us again, what with a movie in the works and everyone focused on “greening” their septic little township, doubly savaged by the exodus of industry and the continued plummet in home prices.

The image of the fly fisherman plying his craft offered up to establish a little bit of quaint, and a lot of pristine –  because fly fishermen, like other forms of exotic wildlife, only exist in scenic and rural haunts …

 

While them clever advertising types might have rediscovered our appeal, it’s plain they haven’t been in tune with all the revolutionary changes to the sport, like Goat’s Milk from Mongolia, how we’re the dimwits leaving all those predatory aliens in our wake, and the entire Brown water movement.

Just because there’s a fly fisherman dumb or desperate enough to fish in a sewage outflow doesn’t mean you should drink the water.

A bloody important distinction given the grocery list of toxins and shots needed before the rod is pulled from its quiver.

Surprise, It's Brownlining

I had a similar civic-minded bent, convincing the locals that the prospect of “trophy brown” might lure some of the well-to-do element into settling our little burg. We shot plenty of footage and lost a cameraman or two, but I never saw it air … and always wondered why.