River Tails

June 30th, 2008 by camping_chief

Boston’s mayor, Thomas Menino, has built a place that offers kids a respite from the city’s roughest neighborhoods.

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June 30th, 2008 by camping_chief

The place where you sleep at Tanda Tula is not what most people would consider a tent. This is anything but roughing it.

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June 30th, 2008 by camping_chief

The new destination wedding: summer camp.

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June 30th, 2008 by fishing_expert

I’m guessing something is in order as Singlebarbed turns “one” today.

Blogging is hellish enough and a niche subject like fly fishing reminds me of a High School English assignment, “write 200 words on the appearance of a spoon.” “Round and shiny” comes easily enough but there’s still 198 more words left and you’re dry.

428 posts in 365 days is a lot of practice, I’d always been taught that writing is like any muscle, and must be exercised to keep tone. The slow evolution of stilted, unfriendly prose to labored and ponderous – suggests something’s changing. It appears I require a lot more “reps”  before the “Ghosts of English Teacher’s Past” will stop rattling those chains each night.

Maybe cutting those classes was a bad idea..

1000 valid comments and 4000 attempts to sell you Viagra. I’m not sure whether the fishing fraternity has a problem with tumescence, but the spam ‘bots think you do. This is strictly, “don’t ask, don’t tell” from my perspective, but if you’re interested in offshore Viagra made from Kitty litter and Agent Orange, I’ll send you some links.

The Contest That Was Never Announced

The winner of the Singlebarbed “Contest That was Never Announced” is Singlebarbed reader, San Mateo Joe. SMJ commented about twice as often as other readers, on 40 pieces total, and has earned his choice of 40 dozen trout flies – or a new Orvis T3 9′ #4 rod (with a prominent “R” on the cork) and 20 dozen flies.

Knowing he sat on the last one and may have nothing to wave in anger, requires us to assist, and should prove a sturdy backup should his arse get a taste for more graphite. Comments are as rare as 20″ trout, and even bad writing is a lot of work, it’s nice to know someone reads this stuff besides me.

Joe, you let me know what’s needed, but you can forget about the #18 married-wing Silver Doctor’s …

My thanks to all of you for enduring the last 12 months of split infinitives, outright made-up words, and dangling participles, and I’m looking forward to some serious misspellings, crazed hyphenation, and outright lies next year.

Bare Bear Bayer with me.

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June 29th, 2008 by fishing_expert

Brownlining is fine, but I’ve got to draw the line somewhere. Fishing anywhere in Northern California would be best described as “Brown Lunging” regardless of elevation and venue.

I did manage to sneak out between shifts Saturday morning, fires traditionally dampen down in the evening due to the increased humidity, and the smoke decreases somewhat. I hit the American River at first light and the entire place smelled like Ma’s home cooked Peanut Butter cookies.

I managed to stick a single fish but lost it before it could be identified. I assume it was a Shad – briefly contemplating hanging it from a tree limb for an hour to smoke it …

I headed home before the worst of the smoke returned, nothing like smoking a pack of cigarettes per cast – even the hardiest fishermen would turn tail.

Next week is more of the same, bring your own oxygen mask or stay out of the area.

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June 28th, 2008 by fishing_expert

Dust off your ascot and meerschaum, admittance to the “cane fraternity” is only pennies away. Then again, it may take a few decades for you to really appreciate the simplicity and elegance, giving you time to gather the appropriate accoutrements.

At $39.95 for the base model, comes with #8 line and appears to have as much tip flex as an axe handle. A little on the drab side, but the addition of a large arbor reel stuffed with day-glo backing should add measurably to the appeal.

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June 27th, 2008 by fishing_expert

I’ll just take the rainbow.

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June 26th, 2008 by fishing_expert

Per the Trout Underground’s scoop about the pending production of “The River Why” – comes the news of who’s actually in the feature. William Hurt and Amber Heard have been given the nod for two of the starring roles in the production.

William Hurt plays the father, and Ms. Heard the “tomboyish love interest.” On the surface little about Ms. Heard appears roughshod, we’ll hold our Oscar vote until we’ve seen her cast.

OK, I’ll withhold my vote, the rest of you can sell yourselves cheaply.

Who actually plays Gus the protagonist is immaterial – you fellows are circling calendar dates based on the above picture alone. Read the book first so’s you can get out of the doghouse when your spouse wipes your chin.

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June 26th, 2008 by fishing_expert

Sorry for the radio silence here on FFC. I was home in Austin for one little ole week, and I was in 100% mommy-mode.

Little Chick is officialy at sleepaway camp for the first time ever…..ah!! (No tears, no tears.)

So now I am back in Montana where the rivers are high and my internet connection is slow. Bear with me while I juggle fishing and hand-cranking this computer to locate the world wide web.

I’m headed back to the river with my mother today so I’d better dash away for now and get ready. I will send a more colorful report when I figure out how to load pictures on this computer. Ciao for now….

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June 26th, 2008 by fishing_expert

I’ve always been fascinated by “Old School” perhaps too much so. A friend from Alaska had narrated a tale that stuck with me; how hunting with a rifle was almost too easy, so he switched to bow and arrow, closer to the hunter-gatherer ethic, but also proved easy. So he resolves to make a loin cloth and a spear, carefully hardening the tip in a fire, then stealthing through the brush intent on dinner.

As he comes out of the brush a large moose is within range, and he lets fly with the spear – which smacks the moose in the side, bouncing off the now startled animal, who proceeds to “tree” the ersatz Indian for a goodly part of the day. Loincloths ain’t much for mosquito protection, so the fellow donates three or four pints of blood waiting for the enraged moose to lose interest.

I’m a slow learner myself, so I figured it may be fun to go “Old School” on them Brownliner trash fish near my house. I’m not keen to throw spears or donate blood, but using some of the old flies and tackle seemed like a hoot.

The flies were the easy part, as “genuine” old school flies are available from Big 5; Yellow Sally, Parmachene Belle, Coachmen, White Miller, McGinty, all machine tied on straight eyed hooks at least two sizes bigger than optimum.

The loincloth angle was genius, but enthusiasm lost to embarrassment as I surveyed the vast expanse of “lily white” flesh, likely to blind passing motorists and prey alike.

Catgut would be tough to come by, so I allowed the use of contemporary fly line and monofilament leader. All the old bamboo rods I had stashed away were oddities, likely to splinter on usage, but wedged in a dark corner was the first flyrod I had used in anger, a Fenwick Feralite 8′6″ for #5 line, a wonderful rod created at the zenith of fiberglass. I was set, I dripped .. primitive.

Lust overtook me as I knotted on a Yellow Sally, it was labeled a dry fly by Big 5, but I resolved to make it work. It hit the water like a Boeing 707, managing to float for 4 inches before succumbing to the weight of the round wire #8 hook. I’m possessed by tradition, quartering down and across, working through the brushy area – knowing these fish were easy meat and hadn’t seen a wet fly in at least 50 years.

Sacramento Pikeminnow and Carp intermingled with Bluegill and the occasional Bass, none known for selectivity, all favoring the impossible lie – sandwiched between the sunken shopping cart and castoff living room furniture.  In no time I’m firmly imbedded in a rubber tire – the take was none too delicate, so I knew it was a steel belted radial.

The Coachman was next, I went garish on the first fly – figuring to go sedate on the second. A couple of casts later I see my first boil, a fleeing fish scared witless by the fly, it went south in a hurry and I buried the next cast into the brush, scratch the Coachman.

Two more flies later and I’m starting to think this is harder than I figured, I’m fishless and surrounded by fish that are either giggling or fleeing in panic. Shaken, I tied on a Pheasant Tail nymph and quickly hit three fish, two Bluegill and a Squawfish. I’m tempted to leave it on, but science got the better of wisdom, and I’m throwing a White Miller, tinsel and all.

The water is clear enough to see fish and the fly, and from all indications their having nothing to do with it. I figured the McGinty might sink a little faster and Bumblebees being natural might induce some passion – but even the Bluegill turned their nose up as it lumbered past.

I’m well into “the spear bounced off the hide” part of the adventure and can’t help but wonder how many fishermen Big 5 killed in their infancy. Poor bastards – if they’d just gone farther down the aisle they might have found the Montana nymph, and the story would’ve ended on a positive note.

Smaller sizes might’ve helped – smaller ego would’ve helped more…

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