Birds and Bees do it, but nobody raw-dogs Old Faithful

Let Darwin mete out punishmentI suppose Grandma viewing the deed via web cam requires management intervention, but I’m not sure corrective action is required, as Old Faithful is likely to get some – when least expected.

“Raw-dogging” a geyser probably had them fellows in hysterics, as it’s the highest form of Russian Roulette with the Precious. I figure it would’ve made YouTube anyways – probably spawned another Internet sensation or two – but if the fellow hadn’t consulted his watch, or Old Faithful forgot daylight savings, that would have been funnier.

Fishermen are a bit more discreet, but just barely. We’ve peed on almost every sacred monument and artifact out there – and if it wasn’t in it, it was near whatever fed it – which counts double.

Being experts in fluid dynamics and swathed in impenetrable layers of Goretex or Neoprene means every step is calculated; which houses are visible, road traffic patterns, joggers and dog walkers, boaters and hikers, each threat is logged, noted, and categorized.

There’s a shiftiness in eye movement that betrays the deed. Intently scanning water gives way to clipped syllables and furtive glances at available rocks, Old Growth, impenetrable blackberry thickets, and the calculated measurement of mid-riffle to bank – and whether he can get back before opposition slides into his spot.

Impromptu just doesn’t fit the mold. The average bladder is 1 liter capacity and gives the signal when half full. Naturally it’s overridden by whether the fish are biting, a hint of fish activity, or human competition.

Banned from Yellowstone for two years is harsh, an overcooked dog and six months of skin grafts, priceless.

I’m with Darwin.

Technorati Tags: , , ,

Cold water, mountain bikes and minimalism

Jam a fly box and a spool of tippet down your waders, wade out far enough so’s you can execute a double haul without slopping creek water over what freeboard remains, if you’re careless you’re wet – and the fish care not.

Primitive is a good thing – you soak it up for those “technical” outings that require stomach pumps, landing nets, hatch charts, gossamer and tiny; where you rattle up and down the creek bank with vest bursting with supplies, medical utensils, and more gear than necessary.

Stuff it all down your shirt front and call it good I’ve got dozens of flies in a dozen colors, but this one will do just fine.

The first trip of the year reacquaints you with everything you forgot from last year; “Shad knitting” – how to hold 70 feet of monofilament using only three fingers, and how a double haul is yanked parallel to the surface, versus casting pond vertical form. It doesn’t take long as half gallon of cold water in the armpit serves as a harsh reminder.

Dawn broke with me waist deep in the American but the flow was heavy and I wasn’t expecting fish. 4300 CFS gets you about 30 feet from the bank – not far enough away from the dog walkers and jogging crowd to cast with impunity – but far enough so’s no one will be tapping your shoulder.

The same couple of old fellows were slinging sardines for Striped Bass. They’d upgraded their retirement tackle to include a mountain bike with saddle bags to hold hooks, bait, and terminal tackle. I stopped briefly to chat and they suggested breakfast was time better spent.

Old guy’s know – as they’re out everyday, while us working stiffs only pound chest, get soaked and dream of such obscene luxuries.

Water flow is my nemesis this season, mostly the lack of it – I wasn’t prepared for an over abundance. We’ll hit it again next week if she drops so much as a pint.

Perhaps the Pristine is only a memory as well

The all too familiar Rather than giggle about what’s on my waders you may want to test yours.

The California Department of Water Resources has been testing 100 California lakes per year for a litany of pesticides, toxins, and Mercury, and of the 152 results released to date, 86% of the lakes will get warning labels.

As we’d expect the high elevation Sierra lakes comprise the bulk of the 21 testing “clean” (less than governmental guidelines), and the balance have at least one chemical that exceeds the government’s recommended exposure.

The all too familiar, “..pregnant women and children should eat one meal per ..” label will be greeting you in the parking lot.

About one-fourth of the lakes surveyed had at least one fish species with a mercury level high enough that state health officials would consider prohibiting it for the most sensitive humans – pregnant and nursing women, women between 18 and 45 years old who might conceive and children.

Naturally anything emptying out of the lakes is similarly afflicted, ditto for everything swimming in that too. Squirting them waders with 409 might be the cleanest thing they’ve seen in awhile …

Single Tasteless and Artificial Only

It’s demonstrative of the raw power of Singlebarbed prose – Berkeley has introduced a “mutt” Powerbait, but what’s scarier is they’re claiming the moral high ground with a “green” biodegradable Trout Nugget.

Single Barbless and Artificial I’ve always assumed “bait” had to be biodegradable by definition, if not it’s artificial.

Plastered on a single barbless hook, it’d fit the spirit of the “single-barbless-artificial” requirement of trophy water, and I can’t help wondering why some angry fellow hasn’t tested that statute.

They’ve planted Pike in Lake Davis and Sunfish in Martis Reservoir in protest – why not engage in some massive class action suit that ties up these regulations for a couple millenia?

Even Merriam Webster is in the know “3: a decoy for attracting animals to capture: as a: artificial bait used for catching fish.”

The California Department of Fish and Game lacks a definitive answer in their regulations pamphlet, and I drew a blank on both website and the volumes of errata and legislation contained therein.

“Artificial-fly” is defined in the 2009 Freshwater Regulations:

1.08. Artificial Fly.
Any fly constructed by the method known as fly tying.

PB&J_Stone

The “PB&J Stonefly” I whipped up would qualify; I should’ve used Creamy versus Super Chunk, but  the proportions were close – and Strawberry is every kids favorite.

The technique was simple, daub a finger full on chenille so it sticks – wind the resultant mess up the hook shank, smooth to the proper taper and top with jam.

… and before you get all huffy, note the jam was applied with a dubbing needle just like head cement – only with a lot more finger licking.

Caper & grilled Mozerella Midge

The “Caper Stuffed Grilled Mozzarella Midge” simply leapt off my plate.

Melted Mozzarella partially cooled and spun into a gelatinous fiber – wound around a Scud hook, and topped with a neutral buoyancy Caper.

… the Brown Trout variant uses Sauerkraut …

With all the robust and fibrous foodstuffs available, I’m wondering whether the “Rachel Ray of Fly Fishing” isn’t worth some serious coin on the lecture circuit.

… sure, all the purist SOB’s would boo and catcall – then notice their wife had wandered off and the outcry would dim accordingly  … she’d be clustered around my sample tray inquiring which wine went best with a Royal Stroganoff…

I’d be the next “Doctor Death” – and while the gendarmes would follow me around the state, giggling as they slapped the cuffs on me, my attorney would be filing yet another motion daring some court to prove that a Chicken had Nuggets – or the McNugget was part of something with a recognizable Genus and Species …

I’m sitting in the docket looking all polished and remorseful, and my attorney leans over and whispers, “… and if he starts me off with that weak-ass breaking ball, I’m gonna take him downtown ..”

They’re planted but I wouldn’t call them Peanuts

I’ve always keenly followed angling in Europe as a portent of what we can expect. Our brethren “across the pond” have had an extra thousand years to civilize their landscape, and many of their practices and restrictions are headed our way … with time.

 They call him El Diablo

Fascinating to me is the concept of named fish – and how carp anglers will flock to a certain impoundment knowing that “Old Breadcrust” – when last caught weighed 87 pounds, has packed on a few kilograms more.

Many years ago, one of the fellows I fished with had names for specific fish in a specific run he’d fish nightly. Hearing the score card was a little creepy, ” I caught Alan and Chad, foul hooked Bob in the arse with a Little Yellow Stone, right after breaking off George.”

A voice from one of the other cars in the darkened parking lot, “Oh, you finally broke it off with George?”

Me, I peel waders innocently counting on darkness to hide my grin.

I’ve named quite a few fish in the dirt water – most because of distinguishing characteristics; unnatural lust for a certain fly, missing body parts, or something similar – but mostly I’ve always thought of the practice as reason to fish somewheres else.

“Legendary” fish gives an interesting slant – provided the names are appropriately evil, desperate, or vicious. “I busted a cap in TinkerBelle’s ass.” – could lead to another darkened parking lot exchange – or tears streaming down the face of a child, and both should be avoided.

It certainly makes explaining “catch & release” easy, how the fish gets bigger if he’s allowed to live. Perhaps we’ll get to stop preaching and spend more time practicing that concept.

As we migrate to private impoundments and association-owned stillwater, it’ll offer the proprietor a steady source of revenue – as care and maintenance should influence growth, thereby making his fish notorious and worthy of a multiple hour drive.

When the world record dies of old age, we’ll get dozens of “Loch Ness” sightings; pre-dawn monsters seen by the red rimmed eyes of grizzled locals – hushed whispers in the parking lot over cold thermos coffee, while the distraught dogwalker asks had we seen Fluffy…

“Hey Bob, bet ‘Old Razorblade’ is burping up a dog collar …”

As always there’ll be some uniquely American slant to the affair so we can claim we invented it, my bet is we’ll eschew the “boilie” concept in favor of the single, artificial …

… Deep Fried Twinkie.

The similarities end short of the bailout

Shad flies share similarities with the automobile industry, like cars they have a few features swapped out and a yearly naming convention. Trout fishermen refine flies to catch more fish – and Shad anglers refine their patterns just to tie something different…

Look what they've done to my car… must be something to do with catching 50 or more fish on the same fly in a single day, you’re no longer concerned with selection as much as incorporating new colors or materials to fix weaknesses.

My continual quest for materials has me “cheek to jowl” with something that’s bound to turn 50 into 100 fish, or so I think – and it’s all trundled onto the tying bench to patch together the 2009 variant of whatever was successful last year.

The last couple of decades were ruled by fluorescence, this decade pearlescent is the go-to material.

I’ve banked quite a bit of pearlescent oddities for just this purpose; addressing shortcomings and frailties found on the 2008 version, so the 2009 flavor is sleeker, shinier, and twice as confounding to tie.

Pink has been pure death for the last two years, so I’m sticking with the tried and true –  updating the hackle to bulletproof compliments of Bernat Boa and its indestructible nylon fibers, ribbing the body with ultrafine pearlescent braid – which’ll keep the soft crimp Angelina from being torn to shreds, and upgrading the tail to the heavier crimped Angelina so it’s not missing after the fifth fish.

Shooting heads and heavily weighted flies translate into a truly abusive environment, slippery running lines and cold fingers relax at the wrong moment and it’s a watery bullwhip that highlights all shortcomings in construction – and you’re left reaching for a replacement much sooner than you should.

2009 Peppermint Kestrel 

Last season I went through about 10 dozen flies all told; snags, knots that I should’ve checked but didn’t, broken off fish, and shredded patterns retired just before the bare hook showed.

Figuring friends, friends of friends, and older brothers – I’m thinking 15 dozen ought to get me through this weekend, and partly into next. Those rare days where you’re doing all the catching warrants packing a couple dozen at a time so you can share with the fellows on either side.

Funny how manly Pink can be when the fellow downstream is landing his seventh fish ..

I’ll confess to being tempted to try a swallow

Considering the number of scientists working feverishly to combine the proper amount of glitter, motion, color, and scent, a 65% “eaten” rate isn’t bad. Unfortunately, tank-raised Brook Trout have the IQ of bar soap -which may skew the numbers a trifle, and adds a little urgency to the bulletin.

Gummy Lizard

Maine would prefer you not drop worms and grubs in the water any longer – and if possible, retrieve those that you do ..

Take a tank full of 14 year old humans and toss in a combination of Rice Crispies, Chex, Corn Flakes, and Raisin Bran, along with a shovel or two of Gummy Bears, and you’ll see “natural selection”, where the healthy crap is trodden under in a rush for sweet goo.

Given that soft plastic lures are the product of countless hours of painstaking research, materials from the Space Program, and millions of dollars of seed money from the likes of Rapala and Shakespeare, now that they appeal to all kinds of fish they want us to stop using them?

Thirty-eight brook trout Salvelinus fontinalis were fed a commercial trout diet mixed with a free-choice assortment of soft plastic lures (SPLs) over a 90-d period. Fish growth was recorded and compared with that of a control group. The brook trout readily ate the SPLs from the water’s surface as well as from the tank bottom. At the conclusion of the study, SPLs were recovered from the stomachs of 63% of the test fish. Several fish stomachs contained multiple lures. Twelve percent of the fish voluntarily ingested more than 10% of their body mass in SPLs. These fish lost a significant amount of weight during the study, had a significant decrease in body condition factor, and began displaying anorexic behaviors. For these reasons, anglers should be discouraged from discarding used SPLs in trout waters.

After a lifetime of careful testing, observation of trout feeding patterns and entomological behavior – I finally develop “King Solomon’s Mines” – the fly that catches a fish everytime it’s thrown. Whilst enjoying my new found stature (I haven’t paid for a drink in weeks), some bespectacled fellow in a white lab coat admonishes me for dropping them in the water?

Here’s a better solution; consider growing a Brook Trout that can distinguish between a dog turd and a tootsie roll, and eats one and not the other, then I’ll feel properly mortified.

Landing the Mother’s Day Carp

He will win who, prepared himself, waits to take the enemy unprepared

There’s no question I’m a backbiting SOB, but little brothers learn to fight like the Taliban; stick and move, utilizing mobility to strike where your opponent is weakest – never hanging around for a static defense, as the size of your opponent is overwhelming.

All warfare is based on deception.

I called Older Bro to mention the creek was dead, water flow that of a garden hose, mentioning his new reel had arrived, but as I was distraught over the demise of my fetid little trickle – I was to mourn its passing by getting gloriously drunk.

Peace proposals unaccompanied by a sworn covenant indicate a plot.

Knowing Older Bro was keenly reading slurred speech and apparent sloth, but was fat and soft from year’s of non-competition, he’d lower his guard just enough not to set the alarm clock.

Now in order to kill the enemy, our men must be roused to anger; that there may be advantage from defeating the enemy, they must have their rewards.

The elusive Mother's Day Carp, golden and succulent, but you've got to get up early 

Mother’s Day dawns with my ample hams perched in Ma’s bounteous kitchen – surveying the Golden Fleece, a pound of Ma’s famous Lemon Cake with nary a scratch to mar its surface.

No ruler should put troops into the field merely to gratify his own waistline; no general should fight a battle simply out of greed.

I feign disinterest, despite the insistence of the Cook whose delight at seeing the prodigal son (who lives hours away) requires her to bundle the entire .. blessed .. whole.. dessert – without thought to Older Bro; whose scouts alert him far too late to marshal his forces in time for my blazing .. fast .. getaway.

If it is to your advantage, make a forward move; if not, stay where you are

A couple of zipcodes later, I checked my dust for signs of pursuit. Seeing none I make a reasonable Chipmunk imitation; cheeks bulging with golden baked goodness. – intent on despoiling my prize, as fingers is the least of an older brother’s worries.

To Sun Tsu’s legacy I’ll add:

Damn, Ma’s Lemon Cake is sure tasty.

A two hour movie is all that separates you from Lefty Kreh

Agent Smith knows Spey Casting Every guide has been there, a novice client attempting to learn fly casting while fishing, and for the want of practice no fish will grace the deck anytime soon.

The Matrix had the promise of knowledge at the touch of a button, but “wet-wiring” the cerebral cortex may take a couple more decades.

Until then we’ll have to rely on a two hour special on Spey casting and the Haptics jacket.

It shares the same tailor as those Startrek tee shirts circa Shatner & Nimoy, but science has never understood fashion – and once Simm’s or Eddie Bauer adds floor length leather and three layers of Goretex we’ll be cracking the piggy bank for sure..

The jacket contains 64 independently controlled actuators distributed across the arms and torso. The actuators are arrayed in 16 groups of four and linked along a serial bus; each group shares a microprocessor. The actuators draw so little current that the jacket could operate for an hour on its two AA batteries even if the system was continuously driving 20 of the motors simultaneously.

A couple of fish porn DVD’s with the wearer buffeted by tactile feedback and you’ll have the muscle memory of a casting professional. Add a 100 pound Tarpon thrust into your living room with a flick of the remote, and dispel cabin fever instantly.

As the entire human race is at stake, it’s certain why the jacket ends at the waistline.

Technorati Tags: , ,

The Creek ends here

I may have been just a tad hasty distancing myself from all those blueline trout fiends –  now that I’ve been banned from all other venues, some dry fly purist dam operator just gave me my comeuppance.

The Creek stops here 

Add three consecutive years of drought, a ton of tomatoes, and a satanic water manager with a grudge, and it’s time for a profuse apology.

“I love trout fishermen and their pristine environs, in fact, some of my best friends fish dry flies...”

Rings kinda hollow, but it was a semi-sincere first attempt. I figured a stunning Mother’s Day bouquet left on his porch tommorrow, with the inscription, “Me sorry, now turn the creek back on Mother%$**r.”

The “home water” is no more. Potholes and the deeper runs will contain water, but as temperatures grow and the flow isn’t restored – it’ll be a dead creek shortly.

Not much a fellow can do other than empty his hydration bag in the deep spot, and stifle the sobs with Shad.