Yearly trico fuckstory.

Its 5:34am on a Monday morning when most people are heading into work.

I could be standing in the middle of a well regarded trico stream fishing banty drakes to stupid fish in about 30 minutes from walking out my door.

I have a fully rigged rod, plus a spare leader, a little jar of trico spinners, and everything I need sitting in the car.

The entire thing is ready to go for my yearly trico ritual.

And... I don't care. Its a stupid hatch for stupid people. Tricos are assholes. I'm going to bed.

Tales of Adventure.

I'm aware its the banner, now. But it won't be 

some day, now will it?

Every so often I wonder what the point of doing this nonsense is, until I'm relating some sort of rambling story to someone and I think, "oh, that's why."

See, I'm vain enough to figure someone finds it interesting. Probably because its not happening to them.

This is one of those stories.

I fished a section of local stream recently, and I fished it at its lowest possible section, the confluence with our big boy river, I'm on this wet fly thing, and so I'd swung my shit down and across 'til there was no more down to across.

Well, shit. I mean, I'm here, I might as well fish big river, right? It'd be a nice end to the day to pick up a smallie or something.

I look through my box, and the only streamer I have is a ratty old Mickey Finn. Fuck, make it worse, a super shitty job I bought from Walmart 7+ years ago when I first got started. But, y'know, run whatcha brung, and it was either that or a cast of size 14 wets.

So, tie it on and begin a few half hearted casts, being the stupidest thing I've tried to do all day thus far and aware that it was an exercise in futility.

I didn't just get a tug, I got a massive boil, and a the rod doubled down.

 I set the hook.

This is a stupid hobby.

There's a story with that.

Last year, it was all about the Usual. Shit, I blarged it and everything.

This year, I can't buy a fucking bite with it. At least not the sulphur variant. The grey fox or whatever version worked like gangbusters, but no bueno this year.

So, it was time to figure shit out. In so much as I decry assholes who speak Latin, there's a time and a place to have a vague idea of what's going on, and since it affected me, now was that time and place. Fortunatly, I had said vague clue, and I knew that sulphurs supposedly languished in emerger stage for a bit, and thus emergers will be effective.

So, a sulphur emerger pattern.

Googlating shit up turns up a few basic themes, and countless variants of them, both wet and dry. So there's a starting point, then it was just applying a little of what I've figured out to make it effective and interesting and "mine."

Now I can give it some sort of bullshit name and claim I invented it despite the fact that some greybeard has been fishing this exact same thing for the last 40 years and never thought it needed a name when "my sulphur emerger" was plenty fuckin' effective, and why waste letters there's war going on and we don't want Hitler to win.

On Sulphurs, the Lehigh Valley, its fly shops, and the Heritage Fly Shop.

C'mon, that bitch is charming, and you know it.

According to the US Census, the Allentown-Bethlehem-Easton-PA-NJ-Metroplex, aka Lehigh Valley, is the third most populated area in all of Pennsylvania... so why the hell can't we have a big ole fly shop without driving to goddamned Reading?

Oh well, at least we have the Heritage Fly Shop, formerly the Little Lehigh Fly Shop.

That's not really a fair assessment. To say, in the past, "at least there's the LLFS" was a fair statement, because the former proprietier was, for all intents and purposes, a raging cockhole. That's probably part of why its not his shop, but someone else's, now.

Don't get me wrong, Dave (the new guy) has the same floor space and general supplies the old shop did, but he brings a much better atttitude about the place...and frankly, that matters. Alot. I will go out of my way to buy what I can at the LLFS rather than bulk up a mail order for sundries elsewhere, because you want to support the local guy, and especially the local guy who's not a raging asshole.

So, this part of the post, Dave, is dedicated to you for not being an asshole, and for being not only the sole fly shop of the Lehigh Valley, but the one with the most character. While my meager purchases probably don't make much of a dent, I'll continue to give them to you because you smile at me and greet me when I come through the door, and that means a whole lot.

Dave sold me a Fenwick, gave me some tips on using woodchuck fur, and generally is a good guy. I wanted to give him free publicity. Go buy something from him. 

Now, if I hear one more asshole tell me they're fishing sulphurs I will fucking murder someone.

Welcome to Open Season. (see, its funny coz I used that title a year ago)

Sure looks regal, eh? Has no bearing on this post.

Fuckin eh, new year. Well. Open season and shit.

Christ, almighty I hate the four fucking weeks I have to endure "closed season" each year. Because, inevitably, it will contain awesome weather, time where I'm free, and...err, restrictions to the same two fucking miles on each stream segment as the rest of a fucking population of assholes.

Including super fucking self important internet nymphing superstars who will loudly splash into the stream less than 20' away from you, and just upstream of the pool that's frankly, filled with eager and happy fish under faster water so they're particularly stupid, that you were about to get into as soon as you went under the bridge (that's approximately 20' wide, if you see where I'm going here).

All the while shouting to his buddy how its is favourite spot to fish.

I won't mention the stories about watching you manhandle a fucking 12" fish for 3 minutes while your pal ran to teh car and got the camera, either. I suspect its douchebaggery such as this that has you out of the already douchey competitive fishing scene, eh, pro-spec?

fishing or suicide. fishing seems easier.

To say that I'd like to not be at work right now barely scratches the surface of my thoughts. 

If I'm lucky, the universe will coincide nicely between the moment between meetings with people I don't care about discussing problems I don't want to care about with an hour long sojourn to the local park where a rising cloud of blue winged olives I do care about will be imitated nicely on a fly rod I thought I didn't care about upon which it turns out that I do. 

This is why at 2:38am I was tying four tiny little flies with the first scraps I could find on my desk. There are many things I should be devoting time to. All of these things I do are not among them.

This is a problem. However, I'll continue to put it off one hour at a time.

Combat fishing: Drainage ditches run in funny places.

Allentown's urban streams require speciality equipment.

And not neccessarily "ha ha" funny, either.

One might surmise I had to augment the usual equipment for this (extended!) weekend's jaunts, and you're right. I took in two new places I'd been thinking about in the past, and since one was in a not-so-good area (or so I'm told), I figured I'd have to add something with a little more punch than the usual 5wt.

With all the rain and my distinct distaste of high water, when I got my chance to go out this weekend I decided to take in a new place I"d driven over many times, but never bothered to look at. A friend told me a new park had opened in Catasauqua, and I figured since I tried something new on the first chance I got, I'd try something different on the second chance: A look at Trout Creek in the middle of Allentown's most upscale neighbourhood.

Does it ever stop raining? Why I'm fishing in drainage ditches and reviewing 3wt rods that I keep buying even though I can't figure out what the hell I'm going to do with them and was perfectly happy with the first one i had. two. ok, ok, first two. still.

The mist hides dirt.

Clever cropping.

Seriously, man. I'd actually planned on commenting on my ability to be all timely and cash in on the fiberglass thing that seems to be reaching a point of pre-cool, but, no...later this week, maybe. For now? Rain, man. Rain.

Biblical rain level it seems. Maybe not, but it feels like it. It seems that whenever I have the chance to fish, some jackass is either breaking into my car or its raining.

Its constant. I was able to get out one day, and since then, its raining or blown out. As a man who won't drive 10 miles from the front door, the 45 minutes to the local tailwater is like travelling to Uranus. Ergo, I'm stuck for ideas in places to fish. My summer of exploration continues to be stymied by nature.  But, like everything else, you make due. Its tiny, its encased by filth (I think the trash holds the walls in), but there are fishable, wild, trout waters to be found. Its also forced me to use all the damned 3wt rods I seem to accumulate.

I mean, I know why I keep buying them, but I should frankly just say no. I think I finally have. I've been on the search for The One, as it were, and I think up next is a 4/5wt. Anyways, I'm up to four 3 weight rods, two this summer (y'know, the one I couldn't fish) alone.

Actually, five. I sent one back. At least that one was long, every other one is under 8', three 7' or shorter. I babbled about the Cabela's CGR 5'9" rod awhile ago, today its the Hardy 7' 3wt Classic Lightweight. I suppose the rain is fortunate, then, because its forced me to try something different: drainage ditch fishing.

Fish porn: a LVstoner novelty!

Don't get me wrong, its interesting. Its different. At its widest, its maybe 7' across, usually 4' and hemmed in and over by dirt, trash, and trees. Even though I've never seen anyone fish this, and these fish are unpressured, they bolt as soon as I lumber my ass in, but its still fun, especially as I missed the low and clear late summer fishing, which I like. Its nice knowing I can find it, and fish willing to eat dry flies, no matter how much rain. I'm thankful for that, really.

I just wish the average fish was bigger than 5" though. There's a few that one could eat if one were into eating them, but generally speaking, I think they'd qualify for PFBC fingerling programs.

More to the point, though, it provides me a reason to talk about 3 weight rods, and use them as intended. They're more practical than 1 weights, less utilitarian than 4 weights, and in my case all short little affairs.

Did I mention the one is a 7' Hardy? I know I didn't, coz that's what this is about. Its pointless gear, and a pointless review. You know how this works...

Three hundred sixty five. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. And then?

This post is gratuitous  and pointless. Deal. Its my shit, I can make these whenever I feel like it.

The thing is, I can't be assed to take fish pictures. Oh, sure, I tried today. I figured I'd go out and make this momentous sort of gesture in a return to proper fishing, since I'm tired of life kicking my ass around for the last six months.

So, the plan was to do this big presentation all sorts of wonderful visuals of stream life, still life, grab a picture of my first post-cancer troot and be all awesome.

Nope. Never bothered. Honestly, I don't fucking care.

Not that I catch many giant fish, lots of pretty wild ones, sure, but not giant. Still, its not a size thing, lack of them thing, or inability thing, its well... Somehow, I feel that its proper to put them back in the water as quickly as possible after I've jammed a steel hook through their face, drug them through the water, hoisted them out to drown in air as I rip the hook out..a picture, well, it just seems gratituous, no?

So no fish pictures. Fuck, no pictures of anything except a tired one of the shit I dropped on the hood of my trucklet when I was done.

But, whatever. I had a good time. I fished a ninety-six year old Hardy 8' Fairy rod (Hemingway's preferred tool, from what I'm lead to understand) and a seventy-six year old Pflueger 1496 reel swinging leadwing coachmen across-and-down.  One hundred sixty-nine years of accumulated fishing mojo in my hand, and a one hundred ninety-six year old fly pattern still worked well enough to take enough fish to keep me amused for the first time I went proper trout fishing since Father's Day.

What's old is new again.

It was nice to be back.

Alas, my waders leak. Goddamnit.

Pointless gear reviews: Cabela's Custom Glass Rod 5'9" 3 weight. (insignificantly updated 9/18)

Hi there!

Well, I was pretty enticed by the other end of the the CGR line, the 5'9" 3wt. I didn't have a very practical use for it, but fuck it, I truly do expect them to be limited availability, so I pulled the trigger a couple weeks ago. Not that I had a chance to use it, nor do I know when I will, but sometimes I do dumb shit.

So, with that said, even though I've only taken it out for some lawn casting and about 15 minutes in a very limited test on the water, I've got opinions (fuck yeah, do I ever!) on the baby of the CGR line.

An introduction to the casual vacation shore fly fisher: Part Final, Where to cast.

So, you've been told by one opinionated jackhole on the Internet what you need to casually enjoy fly fishing your summer beach trip, what you need to gear up with, what you need to tie on, and now, finally, where you need to fish it.

Water. Shit, that was easy. No? Fine, fine. Moar words. I can do that. Ask my wife, you can't shut me up, and yet it took me awhile to sit down and write this because its hard to not sound like some sort of grandiose jerk who knows all, and I don't. I do, however, understand the concept of keeping it simple and just going out there to give it a go, and sometimes you don't need to study books, build a home astrolab, or sacrifice virgins to Cthulhu. Sometimes, well, you just need someone to kick start your brain....

So, the thing is that ocean's a big fuckin stream, and, unlike the trouts, the fish are transient. This means you need to find a place where the fish will likely be, at a time they'll likely be there. The other thing is, as a once-a-year sort of guy, you don't have the advantage of learning the ins and outs of what you're doing because for the other 358ish days of the year you're knowhere near the surf, and thus you look at this all from the wrong angle, and you're gonna need to tilt the odds as best you can in your favour.

Hi Honey, I'm home...An introduction to the casual vacation shore fly fisher.

Its cliche, so what? Fuck off.

Well, the yearly family vacation to the great wilds of South New Jersey has come and gone, again. Its a nice time, every year we rent some dude's house in Ocean City and relax for a week. The kids have grown up with it, and enjoy it, and I've begun to make an attempt to fish it every year.

Not very successfully, mind you, but whatever. Its the thought that counts or some sort of bullshit, right?

A few years back, right when I started to fly fish, I was sitting on the beach thinking about how fucking boring it is to sit on a beach and looking at the crashing surf. I decided next year, I'd buy one of those massive spinning rods and fish the family vacation away. It was mildly successful, if you're into little fish. I was awash in croaker like you couldn't believe and all I could think of was, "man, I bet these'd be a blast on a fly rod."

And that was the start of my surf fly fishing adventure.

Goddamned tricos.

Who cares if its pretty, I'm tired.

There are few things that make me get up at the asscrack of dawn, and one of them is tricos, the tricorythodes genus of mayfly. For what its worth, they're so annoyingly stupid, they only get me to do it about once or twice a year.

Oh, sure, its a big deal hatch 'round here, coz we got the blighted little fucks in spades. Shit, the Little Lehigh is well known for its big spinner falls of the things, and I am a big fan of ultralight rods and dry fly action, so you'd think that being able to have a legit use for a 1wt rod in the form of tossing size stupid fucking stupid (26?! Fuck. You!) flies to happily feeding trouts up top would be like a wet dream for me.

You're wrong. I loathe it. I don't know why, probably because it means I'm supposed to be up on stream at 7am and shit.

However, I'm willing to acknowledge its The Thing To Do in the Lehigh Valley, so, well, I do it. Once. Maybe twice. OK, definatly twice, but highly doubtful as to do it three times.

The Modified Pflueger Medalist.

Seemed like a good idea at the
time, which was rather late.

Sulphur time is upon us. but I still can barely catch a fish, thank Jebus I don't fish for food or I'd starve.

Probably lose more weight, though. I suppose you find the good side of things when you can. That's probably why, when fishing through the park this evening and having my fly brutally ignored by every riser I put in front of, I didn't mind. Seems a nice group of churchies decided to spontaneously erupt into gospel for me, and provided a lovely serenade to my failure.

S'OK, though. Still had one of the nicest evenings I'd ever had. Beats the bad amateur rock bands I've fished through listening to, which was different but annoying. Its not that I'm a gospel fan, but really, its a great way to really accent the pleasure. I made sure to thank them, and they were kind enough to give me another song.

Being brutally skunked in the middle of an awesome hatch is pretty humiliating, though. So, I decided to get crafty, tie up a hair mouse and then go fishing in the same park (willfully breakin' the law!) at 2am. It was stupid, and fruitless, but what the hell, gotta try it once. Guess the music was the only blessing I was gonna receive that day, eh?

Less mouse, more Medalist. Go!

So, if its not obvious to anyone who's read this, I like to stand out. I also like to do things Ye Olde Way, with a real interest in proving to people that yesterday's junk is still good enough, and you don't need titanium alloy mega arbor reels with ceramic water cooled inline offset caliper 23 surface drags on rods constructed from boron-kevlar fiber that are as light as a gnat and propel triangular ribbed tactical strategic combat-ready line at light speeds. That meant  embracing the humble Pflueger Medalist.

 So, a throw away line in a Lefty Kreh book and some spare time was all the inspiration I needed to make a statement.

Gulf coast idiocy, a photoessay; CGR redux, gearwhoreage in paradise.

I like long walks on the beach and sunsets, ladies.

Hi honey, I'm home.

My father and step mother offered to fly myself, my wife, and the kids to Naples, FL for a week. Now, due to a mix of stress and associated bullshit, I never felt the urge to even look into this, so I went in blind knowing only there was a beach to walk, mangroves that would need a boat, and "a pond out back with little bluegills in it, but [your humble narrator] wasn't going to be interested in those little fish," or so thought my father.

Yep. Lies, BTW. Just about everything I read was lies, except for the guy who said "take a spinning rod." He was right, I think, although I ignored his advise. Also,  the airlines said "nothing over 28 inches," which is also a lie.

Until they kill Osama and your return flight features extra anal security. But, that's not germain to the story. Its not, really, except to say I had my gear shipped back to me. Thats what everyone suggests, and that's what I did.

But look, this isn't about any of that. Its about presenting a story of more-or-less leaving for South West Florida on a lark (coz again, I did zero research in the months leading up to this), with 48 hours to gear and go. Its also about appending the tale of the Cabela's CGR rod, and determining its good and its bad side. I won't lie, the first part of this is ego, that crunchy bit people might care about, well that comes last.

Welcome to Open Season, SEPA!

Collateral damage.

Well, the trout season is upon us. Not that qualified anglers haven't been able to fish pretty much all year, but it generally announces the arrival of Those Guys at the streamside.

You know who I mean. Boat rods spooled with what appears to be 20# test, throwing enough hardware to equipment a Sports Authority. Swivels to snelled line, monster size 8 hook with globs of PowerBait and a couple of size 3/0 Watergremlins an inch above the hook. If you're really lucky, there'll be a giant red and white strike indicator bobber there to bring it all together.

Its not that I belittle them for the insane ways in which they angle (well, I do, but still, work with me), its about the absolutely barbaric way in which they destroy every living thing they come across. 

I dunno, but I find it inherently displeasing to see fish gasping their last with a wire clamp out their gill, or worse yet, the ones in a plastic bag.

Nor will I belittle the guy's who was 'pinning the Monocacy Creek in Bethlehem... OK, yes, yes I will. I mean, sure, he and his buddy were putting them back, which is nice and all, but really... you broke out the centerpin...for....that?! Talk about bringing a knife flamethrower to a gun fight.

Hatches, matches, and the introduction of the LVLS Book Club.

Flies, yes. Fish, no.

So, there's life in the air, and maybe something on the water, but now that you've got a box full of stupid little hooks bedazzled in the most expensive feathers you could buy, what the hell do you do now?

If you read a book or hang out like one of the wallflowers in the fly shop, you know that Serious Flyfishers seem to experience glossolalia at these sort of junctures. They stand around, speaking in tongues, and getting quite animated over intricacies that most people shouldn't give a shit about. Why not? Because it doesn't have to be that hard.

The phrase match the hatch is, in my not so humble opinion, one of the most trite and over used in our sport. Its valid, sure, and its helpful, but its such a stumbling block that people think having a degree in entomology is an important part of this sport.

Its not. Just having a pair of working eyes and a few neurons that still fire is.

Seriously.