It might be a Space Peanut, you never know what tumbles down a gray water cataract

The way it ought to be I remember many years ago reading how Salmon meat coloration was a by product of its diet, and I can’t help feel for the Ph.D in the art department tasked with turning discolored and mushy salmon fillets into vibrant orange flesh.

Scientists are jubilant over the nearly vegetarian (contains chicken) diet they’re shoveling at pen raised fish – but I’d prefer just leapfrogging the normal fare – ignoring the things we can make them eat, and feed them the “end game” of culinary science, which is human waste.

“Fish have an amazing capacity to adapt very quickly to a new taste,” Obach said in an interview. “Salmon eat what you give them.”

Forget all that “sustainability, superior product”, nonsense – all we want is whatever follows in our wake to not impinge on the stuff we like to eat. Chicken is pretty darn tasty – there’s no way I like Salmon enough to share, and Rapeseed may make the best Oatmeal cookie ever – until I sample it I can’t be sure.

I know the cash-strapped waste management districts would leap at the chance to show their “green” fervor; touting their massive fishery just outside of New York, Los Angeles, or large urban venue, replete with green lawns, families on picnic – and Poppa heaving yet another 20 pounder onto the bank for dinner…

I’d call it “Sani-World” or “Six Flags of Poilet Taper” – something that’ll jam the parking lots full of eager families and restore angling as a full on tradition.

Brownliner’s would be overjoyed – each sewage outlet home to thousands of gleaming Salmon – shouldering Carp aside to fight over sanitary napkins and medical waste. With only a manhole cover separating you from a trophy fishery, it would decrease our dependence on fossil fuels, perhaps increasing our dependence on Tums, but they’re sourced locally and little issue.

The real measure of fish quality is whether the Fillet O’ Fish sandwich holds its shape absent the bun, and while we cram deep fried Snickers and Ice Cream, we’re confident that fillet will be met with great anticipation and your kids bursting with important Omega-3’s and Estrogen.

A blend of urbane and outdoor architectures, with concrete abstract boulders, sweeping lawns, and overhanging Eucalyptus lining septic pools connected with gray water cataracts – featuring olden names like the Mill Pool, the Coachman, and the Tweed…

Waste matter recycled by each pool’s inhabitants, the grilse would be frolicking in clean water with only the insolubles to digest; peanuts, tubers, and plenty of raw fiber – just the kind of nutrition to imbue tone and musculature to flaccid flesh.

Squeamish?, practice Catch & Release – no one’s forcing you to eat the darn fish.

If I’d only known pushbutton phones I’d have been helpless

Thank god I was raised in the rotary phone eraI’m impotently holding the handle in one hand, recently unscrewed off the reel as I wasn’t paying attention – some fish is headed south with purpose, and the newly “crankless” reel is spinning merrily while attached to the rod.

Being a grizzled Old Timer whose youth was spent with a rotary phone, I stabbed a forefinger into the largest hole and started cranking…

A cell phone user would’ve been helpless…

My attraction for the old Scientific Anglers (Hardy) System reels is well known; loud, largely indestructible, no finish to wear as half the reel is anodized aluminum – and they command a cheaper price than all the other old Hardy click-pawl reels.

… and has large enough ventilation holes to forefinger a Shad …

While I’ve admired owning some of the newer reels – their large arbor housing always seems sharp and thin – capable of slicing cheese if you’re on a picnic – not something I’d want to stuff a forefinger into with a hot fish on the other end.

… yes, I am shamefully biased, and make no apology.

American River shad are explosive compared to their Sacramento River cousin – most notable is the fight isn’t for deeper water, it’s more of a line peeling, surface battle – with a slab of mint bright silver heading every direction but yours…

Missing a white glove, but has all the moves 

The fish can swim in any direction regardless of their attitude, and is more apt to jump or roil the surface than bulldog for the deep water. As the above fish demonstrates, it’s the only freshwater fish capable of “moonwalking” at terminal velocity, absent the White Glove, naturally.

 He's coming close, prepare to get wet

The “Shad Shower” is a constant; they get close – and you get wet. It’s a welcome spray of water once the sun’s out, and if the fishing is fast and furious you’ll be showered accordingly.

Now you're showered for the second time that morning

Both Sunday and Monday mornings found me chest deep in the river, I took Wannabe.Travelwriter along on the promise of “they might be there” – they were – but not in large numbers. I’d hit passing schools for 2 or 3 fish each, while watching Travelwriter curse aging rubber chest waders, whose crotch seam chose to burst in the pre-dawn chill.

Naturally I offered to take him to breakfast in a public setting, which was summarily rejected. He did a fair job of feigned disappointment – whilst lounging on the riverbank keeping the iced beverages from overheating. 6 or 7 fish later he was anxious to get all wet again…

If it weren’t for the American Shad we might have an accent, and you’d be on better terms with Blood Pudding and her Majesty the Queen. Alossa Sapidissma is the Latin, “Sapidissma” means “delicious” – and apparently salted Shad was the last remaining foodstuffs sustaining the colonial army at Valley Forge.

I’ve tried them smoked, and it’s a big sardine. I’m thinking those frostbitten colonial tastebuds would’ve given microwaved shoe leather a four star rating, higher if feet were still occupying the uppers…

The reward for all that abuse and cold water 

The party appears to be starting in earnest – so the next couple of weeks should bring large numbers and an equitable distribution throughout the watershed – spreading those chasing them over a mighty large area.

I’ll be the vocal fellow cursing a screwdriver, feel free to crowd me.

Old School is "Third World" with me the smudged and homeless waif gazing intently at them vittles

I’ll be sure to squat barefooted next to my cup full of fire, tattered loincloth hiding the barest of essentials as I first flame then rend my goat meat – keeping a wary eye for uninvited guests.

It’s plain I’ve missed a couple generations of outdoor gear and am completely out of touch with contemporary amenities and “roughing it.”

“Roughing it” is when you eat better than when you’re home, the bathrooms smell sweeter – and are far more spacious, the dining room is better lit, the booze and cigars are older and more plentiful, and instead of someone counting how many slices of pie you eat – they’re insisting you have two or three more… 

GGACC Pre-Dinner exertions

I thought jerky and bananas chased with warm water from a hydration pack was the ultimate in outdoor cuisine – in light of the groaning board of vittles inhaled at creek bank, there’s a new culinary ethic that renders my provisions Third World.

My crime is ascribing to the “anti-social” school of angling, not like the scowling tarts that resent intrusion into their riffle  – more of the Dan’l Boone, ” I kilt an eight weight on this Shad” explorer ethos.

Returning to civilization used to be the retelling of deprivation and manly prowess – to a horrified and sympathetic audience; this many days without shaving, that many days without bathing, and how you pried that bear’s jaws open with your fly rod to save a friend from certain death.

The New Outdoors are vastly different – shaving and bathing are essentials, and only running out of Worcestershire sauce or ice cream is met with outpourings of sympathy and horrified gasps.

GGACC base camp

I’m a man without a country, and insist on an outpouring of faux-sympathy.

I can’t help but blame SMJ and his fly thieving Older Bro for tainting my camping ritual beyond measure. They were aided by the fishing hardcore from the Golden Gate Angling and Casting Club, whose members showed equal skill with shooting heads and shad flies as white linen and spatulas.

Steaks, pie, corn, salad, fried rice, shrimp, Lumpias, and SMJ’s killer White Beans with Ham Hock as chaser – served by smiling attendants in starched livery. The  liquor was 15 years old, and the closest the cigars had been to the States was El Salvador.

I’m standing there with a pair of body temperature Kashi bars (Peanut Butter) – hoping someone had a soup pot going so I could contribute more than smiling and possessing an appetite.

I can remember fly patterns to the letter, and names not at all. My thanks to the fellow who makes the bamboo rods (Tom?) – my guess as to the host of this debauch.

I’ll lick my wounds while contemplating my battered collection of Sierra cups, fire blackened aluminum cookware, and tattered sleeping bag – as even the household pets slept on better …

The Shad line compliments of GGACC

The venerable old club has a new face, lots of talented young guys whose interest is in fine dining fishing – much different than the casting focus of the club I knew when living in San Francisco.

Hearing Armando Bernasconi’s gruff voice reminded me of those Old Days; even 20 years ago he was the club’s official greeter – a welcoming mustached figure whose energy and smile charm the public and sets beginners at ease.

One of the guys breaks from the choicest part of the line – insisting Armando take his spot. At 87 he’s slowed down some – and realizing the current’s heavy is about to back out when the guys break ranks and wade over to break the current and steady him as he wades deeper.

Made my entire trip – just to watch.

The club has a new face and so does the Outdoors, and while I thought Solar Showers were a cutting edge luxury – I find that running water adds an obscene touch that simply must be endured.

Like Poppa says, “any fool can be uncomfortable.”

My thanks to the Eberle clan, Max – and the rest of the crew for the vision of camping – the fishing, and mostly the meal. I’ll not see the likes of that for a couple of seasons.

It was kind of discarded, but it certainly wasn’t blue

Dear Nameless Angler,

That sickening pop followed by the absent splash probably caused you to curse mightily. I’m hoping you had plenty more tied – but also wanted you to know you’re not guilty of leaving brightly colored non-biodegradable waste on the riverbank for some innocent doe to ingest, cough her life out in a bloody paroxysm, and lie there rotting…

Bow serving is a known weakness of American Shad

That neon Orange bow serving caught my eye as I was dragging my aching rear end out of the line – feeling that five hours of eight weight is how Nolan Ryan’s arm feels after nine innings and a third comeback…

Recognizing real genius when I see it, I pocketed your sample and husbanded it back to the tying bench for massive duplication.

Like all selfless anglers, I was tempted to name it the “Singlebarbed Invented This All By His Lonesome Fly” – but small shreds of decency remain and I’m required to give credit where credit’s due.

Your fly is elegant, simple, sinks like a tramp steamer after a mating dance with an iceberg – and appeals to Shad in a sinister and potentially sexual manner.

The extinction of another noble species, but it's not my fault, really

Since you invented it, you should be ashamed of yourself.

You’ve placed an entire species on the brink of extinction, and even though I’m ass deep in cold water exploiting your fly at this very moment, the first warden that comes by and crooks his finger at me, I’m gonna rat you out.

Then I’ll make like Vanilla Ice and claim I never sampled your fly or David Bowie, and change the tail by a half shade – achieve fame everlasting and stomp life out of an entire species.

P.S. I found my spool of serving (circa 1985) – but was horrified to find the Brownell folks have switched to braided Dyneema, and no longer make the monofilament flavor.

If you would be so kind, drop me a note with your substitute – anywhere along the Sacramento or American would be fine…

She knew the fish would die – and they hung her for it…

Gorton's doing hard time It’s one of the more painful lessons a fisherman learns in his career; if the Fishing Gods smile  and you’re successful beyond your wildest dreams, never call your pals and insist “let’s go again tomorrow, we’ll get limits in minutes…”

… or at least find out what the statute of limitations are beforehand, as it’s now a crime?

A Danish TV reporter has been convicted of animal cruelty for killing 12 aquarium fish with shampoo for a consumer affairs show.

Firstly, it never .. ever .. works out that way. The God’s smile only once or twice per lifetime, and even though you caught and released hundreds – whilst cackling gleefully – your buddies will face a lifeless creek despite your protestations otherwise…

… and secondly, the call makes the crime premeditated, and the next decade will have you leaving the bar of soap where it falls, despite your exertions in the exercise yard.

You were fine until you discovered the mortality rate of caught and released fish was around 8% – now you’re liable in the all encompassing court of political correctness.

I hear that old Fisherman whose likeness graces Gorton’s frozen fish dinners – is doing life.

What color wine do you serve with Nintendo?

The Pedisedate Helmet Nitrous Delivery System I’m not sure this won’t spawn a revolution in casting instruction – curing timing ills, yips, wild animal incursion, and your golf swing – all with a single inhalation. Billed as an anesthetic delivery system for children and capable of administering nitrous oxide in precise dosages, why not have a  dozen ampoules in your vest for those “strategic” moments when your partner sets hook like Godzilla …

…or when the enraged Grizzly is charging the pair of you in dense underbrush –  as your pal giggles and points at 800 pounds of furry carnage you turn and run yelling, “take a big snort – it’ll turn you invisible!”

Watching some fellow attempting to cast for the first time, frantically keeping the line aloft by redoubling his efforts; hand him the head piece innocently and mention, “… talk to Captain Kirk …” That’ll slow tensed muscles and whippet-like reflexes so timing has a chance to assert itself.

I’d call it the “(Giggle) Sure!©” as it’s the only response you’ll hear once huffing starts in earnest.

A flat tire at the access and it’s black dark? Just crank the dial a couple notches and ask your pal to “walk to town for me, and get me a couple new tires, I’ll wait here … Oh, and a pizza …”

It’s certainly not for everyone as it’ll play hell with tying small dry flies. Big and colorful is suddenly twice as appealing, but by the third fly all you can think of is a Mango-Chutney Daiquiri with a generous dollop of Peanut Butter, and you’ll play hell finding those late at night.

Just think up a convincing tale for your buddy’s spouse – you’ll have to explain the torn clothing and abrasions somehow.

Can white be the new black (eye)?

Fly fishing has countless taboos and minor demons, accidentally trodding upon the grave can be overlooked, but violating the unspeakable sins warrants banishment and shunning …

As unkempt appearance and questionable hygiene draws me ever closer to that event horizon, a pocketful of permanent markers shouldn’t damage my stature much – even if the rest of the brethren start with the pitchforks and torches.

The last frontier - or merely earning the wrath of your fishing companions 

Considering all the glitter and effluvia I’m throwing around the living room while tying shad flies, and with the question of this season’s “must have” color not yet established, why wouldn’t the agile angler tie everything in white – then crack out the felt pens as needed?

There … I’ve said it.

Chemical based fly tying is long overdue. We’ve allowed dyed materials only because we kilt all the natural colored wild stuff, and with countless colors available, including bleaches and tie-dye effects, why wouldn’t we unleash some technology at this last bastion of the recalcitrant?

Fly shops have a longstanding cartel on patterns and variants, relying on our voodoo-luck based superstition to ensure they sell both Hendrickson’s and Dark Cahill’s, despite an Adam’s laying considerable smack on both those aged tarts.

Shad flies are horribly simple, tail, beadchain, and something that connects the two – a handful of fluorescent markers could be exactly what’s needed.

If the “hot” fly is orange, an interior pocket stuffed with Sharpies produces a fix to the glaring vacancy in your arsenal, and if purple – simply color over the orange flies used earlier. As long as your progression went from light to dark you could color over the flies multiple times like unwanted tattoos.

As there’s only about four possibilities each year; pink, orange, green, and shiny, 75% of the fishermen would benefit, leaving only the fellows that guessed right to get pissed.

Check that fellows pockets for felt pens 

Burn up last season’s aging colors by restoring the lost art of “tagging” – defacing bridge abutments, parked cars, and sleeping anglers. It’d be refreshing to trod under the highway bridge and glance up to see something other than misspelled bile.

The next great freshwater gamefish, and we all get to play

At times the news seems insurmountable, searching through the Internet for fish related topics yields a flood of extinct, dying, and on-the-brink stories – interspersed with articles on how to cook what’s left.

Like most fishermen I don’t eat as much as I fish – but there’s times when I get the feeling I should eat more fish just to get my fair share of the condemned.

Instead let’s focus on what’s doing just fine, which fish are enjoying explosive growth and how advanced mathematics and supercomputers can assist you in gear selection, what flies to stock heavily, and what the future gamefish scene will look like…

The Range of the Next Great Freshwater Gamefish

Both Europe and North America are experiencing a “changing of the guard” where former indigenous species are giving ground to the Next Great Freshwater Gamefish.

The green triangles show known captures, brick red describes the areas with the highest chance of supporting a significant fishery (where they’re headed next), and as the colors fade to white – where we can expect a lesser presence.

It’s comforting to know Mother Nature will repopulate all those salmon and steelhead streams once we’ve finished cooking the last of the holdout fish. When the pristine gives ground, swarms of fish will replace trout – and the guides in Montana have little to fear, the entire Northwest is “brick red” and the Yellowstone drainage will continue as a trophy fishery long after “Old Faithful” is firing methane blanks…

Toss those silly five weights as you’ve no need of them. Watersheds that supported 14″ fish in quantity will be supporting as many fish in the 20 lb class – so start dusting off the seven’s and eight weights. Trout iron will straighten – so while you’re at it, stock up of #8’s, #6’s and above – and extra stout, in stainless and black nickel …

It’s gold – like the scarce and rarified Golden Trout, grows to enormous size like Taimen, and is a muscular brute in both fast water and slack, akin to the Mahseer – only much more plentiful and perfectly suited to most of the globe.

Behold the computer model of the spread of the next great freshwater gamefish, the Golden Bullet of the Weed Water, the Common Carp.

A little garlic and a dab of dill … but save room for the Grass Carp (the entire east coast), the Black Carp (the entire South), and our pal the Silver Carp … busy claiming whichever waterway it feels like.

… plenty for everyone, and the depth of color suggests they’re destined for naturalized citizenship, losing that silly invasive label once they outnumber everything else.

Hooks don’t rust like once thought, but there’s still a bronze lining

Rust is slower than once thought Nobody likes busting a fish off despite it being an annual Opening Day ritual. Hammy hands and adrenaline results in that sinking feeling where the knot can’t be blamed, the tippet was new, and only your Gorilla-like reflexes turned success into a shameful ruddy blush.

It’s the “Nine Trips a Year” syndrome, it’s been three or four months since your last combat, and the presence of your buddy only adds to the anxious heavy-handed hook set.

There’s good news for all of us, recent research has shown how Largemouth Bass once caught are more likely to be caught again, and from Australia research on 249 species and a quarter million anglers – claims that leaving a hook imbedded in fish gives you an 18% better chance of it taking a lure again.

… assuming it survives.

Hooks decompose much more slowly than once thought, and tests in saltwater on larger circle hooks suggest it may take 3 or 4 months to decompose to the point it loses integrity.

Our smaller freshwater hooks may take as long or longer, as freshwater contains little corrosive agents to assist the process.

My personal best was recovering three flies from the mouth of a 13″ rainbow on Hat Creek, it’d developed a yen for Copper John’s (2) and a Gold Ribbed Hare’s Ear.

Take it from someone who knows, anything tastes better’n mashed mayfly with a side of Elodea…