He can’t talk so he wouldn’t rat you out if you’d been skunked. Just smooth out the teeth marks, dry him off, and throw him a Milkbone…

I’ve got to get me one of these - sure he’d be a liability, but any flea bit chow hound can do sit and roll over…

Tony Dungy laments he never went fishing with Michael Vick?

Jesu Christo, if the lad is going to toe a bleeding hound into the brush, what good could possibly come from taking Michael Vick fishing?

Tony: Mike, you insert the needle into the earthworms and blow enough air to make ‘em float just off the bottom - did I mention I respect your l33t football skills, but if you ever played for me you’d have to rein in that creative energy?

Mike: Does the air hurt the earthworms? … Really?

(Pfft, *POP*, Pfft, *POP*)

Tony: Save a couple for fishing Mike - did I mention you’re greased cat crap on the gridiron, but this boat is only fourteen feet long - and if you kill all my bait no way you’re gonna outrun the rod butt to the head I’ve got planned?

Mike: Oh. Sorry. Will them fish in the live well chew on each other?

Tony: No, Michael, most fish aren’t cannibalistic - did I mention you remind me of the son I never had?

Mike: You want to bet on the next fish?

Sorry, fishing is many things but if a fellow is going to stomp dogs - it’s not likely to teach him respect for wildlife of any kind - unless it’s Shark fishing … and then only if he’s the bait.

I’ll unleash a storm of precise imitation, a half dozen tell-all manuscripts, and turn both coasts of fly fishermen on their collective ear…

… and I’ve always wanted to do that, just once …

Having fished for American Shad for many years I’d always subscribed to the “attractor” theory; they smack flies out of spite/anger/curiosity but they didn’t feed in freshwater…

Conventional wisdom said, “Shad feed on krill and plankton in saltwater, but don’t feed while migrating…” This is “fishing wisdom” talking and after you get a similar response from the first nineteen fellows that know more than you - you stop asking.

A recent article in the American Fisheries Journal suggests Shad do feed in freshwater, but neither regularly or with much gusto..

(Extract follows - the article body is available only for purchase)

We evaluated the feeding habits of American shad Alosa sapidissima on spawning grounds in the St. Johns River, Florida. Feeding intensity in freshwater was generally low but highly variable. The items consumed were mainly pelagic (cyclopoid copepods and woody debris), although benthic (mollusks and sand) and surface (adult insects [Coleoptera, Hemiptera, and Odonata]) organisms occurred occasionally. The stomach fullness index varied by location for males, suggesting that ingestion is related to prey availability. Feeding by females also varied by location and continued during final oocyte maturation and active spawning. Egg cannibalism was suggested by the presence of some eggs morphologically similar to American shad eggs in the stomachs of males and females collected when females were running ripe. The results from diel sampling suggested that individuals consumed approximately 1.727 kJ/d in freshwater, which represents only a small fraction of the estimated daily energetic expenditure during the spawning run. Unlike iteroparous populations, Florida’s American shad probably do not conserve energy for out-migration. While this low incidence of freshwater feeding did not maintain fish weight, it may increase available energy and thereby increase fecundity.

Gives us something to think about. Shad don’t feed much and when they do eat mollusks, wood, shad roe, moths, damsel/dragonflies, and midges.

…which neatly explains why Shad are attracted to florescent flies with eye-watering vibrancy and dripping shiny … after completing a thousand mile journey to an exotic locale they’re sampling the local cuisine - same as we would.

Before you run out for eleven dozen egg flies of steelhead vintage, shad eggs are about a size 20.

Calf liver would be a close approximation to an egg sack - but the bait issue would send you mincing about gashing yourselves in mock horror - so I’d go for a couple packs of rubber dogshit and shape it with a paring knife…

… that shouldn’t offend them delicate sensibilities too terrible much.

In a typical shad season I’ll plow through 10 feet of bead chain easy. Handing out handfuls of whatever works combined with those buried into the bottom consumes plenty. It’s the weighting standard for most shad flies because it flips the hook over giving a shot at the upper jaw, traditional hook-ups tear through the sides - which is why so many fish are lost.

Years ago I had the foresight to score about 10 lbs of the silver and gold 3.2mm style, I was tying commercially and winter would bring steelhead orders, summer it’d be shad - and I was burning through a fair amount each year.

This season I’d seen little packs of anodized aluminum beadchain in two or three colors - and the lamp section of Home Depot had a couple pull chains in a nice glossy black - so I figured somebody was making this in quantity.

They are - the assortment is broader than what we’ve seen in fly shops. Many styles are available; brass, stainless steel, bronze, and aluminum - and those can be broken down into additional finishes like black nickel, polished brass, and all the colors of the rainbow.

Fly shops sell the basic chain for $0.10 per inch, and most of the online chain vendors are half that, metal is heavy and large quantities will drive up the postage, but the resulting selection is worth it.

Tungsten and brass beads are expensive - and I’ve often wished I could find the cheaper bead chain in colors suitable for trout flies - as the physics of a weighted nymph suggest if the hook rode up - we’d be losing less of them. With bead chain so much cheaper than tungsten or brass there might be some small economic reward as well.

Enough of a motive to get me to dig through the Internet looking for them…

Regular Silver and Gold are available at Home Depot and Lowe’s - what I needed was the “freak” stuff - the beads we don’t know exist, and would kill for should they ever surface …

I’m just starting to work through the respective vendor offerings - but I saw the above spool and about spewed lunch through my nose. Infinite combinations and colors and all of them yelling “Eat me.”

I’m interested in both brass and aluminum; brass for obvious reasons it’s heavy as can be and cheaper than beads, aluminum because it’s not - and I can envision many uses for both. Shad and steelhead will remain brass, but I can envision stonefly nymphs and lake flies, damsels and dragonflies, where I don’t need the massive sink rate yet could still use weight and the “eye” affect.

Here’s the Olive Mutt that worked so well on the Upper Sacramento last weekend, adapted to the Black beadchain. The fly will ride as shown so it’s tied “upside down” in the vise….

… fish don’t really care which side the wingcase is on - but we sure as hell do - hence the attention to detail.

Tied on a #8 3X long shank, it’ll make a wonderful dragon fly nymph at the same time - in fact, if asked what you’re catching all them fish on I’d call it a dragonfly nymph, it’d scare hell out of all them fellows playing Mayfly-Stonefly-Caddis, and you’re guaranteed they won’t have anything close as they left those in their “lake” box.

… besides, when they see the color and tinsel they’ll think you’re an idjit - everyone knows stoneflies is either brown, black, or golden …

…except us.

These are 25 foot spools of 3.2mm (#6) Brass beadchain - sold by the folks at BallChain.com - available in 19 colors if you include the silver and gold. You may be interested in Mystic Red and Antique finishes they have as well.

Called “Cool Spools” - they show the connector colors but only have violet, rainbow (shown above), black, and dark blue to purchase online. It’s a rather poor web presence - but I called and they mentioned the other colors were available - but not all were in stock.

I’m itching to try the Rainbow for shad - I’m sure the orange would work really well also. I’ll keep looking for a better deal - and the aluminum is already enroute from a different source, we’ll feature that when it arrives. Note the hollow tubes available in similar colors - just right for tube flies; either insert a nylon sleeve or make sure you deburr both ends.

The credential is slowly winkling it’s way into our sport, and I have mixed emotions about the legitimacy that implies..

It was the same when I worked for a large brokerage house (now deceased); I asked the traders what it took to be a stock broker and was surprised how little training was required, “Basically, we offer positions at $1100 per month (1990), and after they take their Series Seven exam they’re brokers - so we turn them loose on their friends and family, and if they ever ask for their salary - we fire them.”

… OK, maybe I’m less surprised after the last six months …

If my kid ever darkened the doorway and announced proudly how he’d chosen to spend the next five years studying angling - he’d taste the boot heel, and as the door slammed behind him he’d hear the tail end of, “Good, start with the Fillet O’ Fish…”

Five years of womanizing and beer drinking I’m expected to pay for - but angling? Screw that …

We’ve got certified casters, certified instructors, and the Certifiable, can we assume there’ll be a “certified angler” shortly?

I’d bet on it.

Vendors have been “endorsing” all manner of anglers for decades, it’s the best way to cement brand loyalty and outfit a new angler from head to toe. A couple days on the lawn and a pancake breakfast on the Battenkill, with little pewter pins tacked on starched olive vests to mark coming-of-age.

That’s neither extreme nor hardcore, so the process will be amended to include rigor, that way we can have gradations of certification akin to military awards - with Oak Leaves, 1st Class, and with Cluster.

… then again it could be Boy Scout badges, where you can drape your accomplishments over your gut, and watch the riffle clear of riffraff at your approach.

The current flavor emphasizes the Big Three; casting, knots, and entomology (flies). Certified “fly fishing schools” all list some variant of the above like an intro to fly tying - or some similar difference. That’s way short of the mark. Angling certification should make you sweat akin to your driver’s test - where you hoped that little squinch-eyed fellow doesn’t ask you to parallel park.

A couple of weeks on etiquette is sorely needed; it’s bad enough the SOB can’t cast - but he’s put down all my fish too..

Toss in a couple of heartstoppers like, “identify which feather is called ‘Greenwell’ ” - have them demonstrate a Bimini Twist, and for graduation we could have them barehand a Ling Cod, replete with those icicle teeth …and we’d be getting somewhere.

Lastly, issue them an identity card with a unique serial number so you could build a database like the Sexual Predators system. Internet based so when you sidled up to your next prospective mate she could find your shortcomings via her cell phone.

… besides, that pick up line was truly awful, now she suspects …

Yep, he’s a certified angler.

I like trout better.

Big trees, cold water, and a ready shade tree with rock to perch under - so I can dangle them big, tired Lumberjack feet in cold water …

I’ll be back to my senses shortly. I’ll remember the sphincter-puckering roar of that 100 car freight that surprised me on the outside turn, the cannot-assume-anything trek up the Upper Sacramento’s leafy bank - where the first step is four inches and the next step is four feet.

I’ll remember them bad burgers and wilted green thing accented with a spear point of grayish-red tomato; defying description even with the advanced color palette of a fly tyer…

But the present is a 112 degree blast furnace of Central Valley, where the shade trees have been plowed under - the fish simmer in warm water nursing hateful grudges and bad temper, and the angler starts perspiring while unlocking the truck.

I bounced all over the Upper Sacramento this weekend - submitting my portly frame to all manner of abuse pursuing the hidden, passed over, and seldom fished…

Mostly I found out the “why” them labels were attached, rather than ferreting out massive fish overlooked by the throng. Lots of anglers, lots of bugs to please anglers - and the fishing both enjoyable and arduous.

There’s no question the fish are keying on the large bug - both dry and nymphal forms. Those multi-colored beadheaded “Mutt” stonefly nymphs knocked the fish for a tizzy - and I spent a goodly portion of the weekend fishing all the colors, and Olive proved the biggest hit … the Purple a distant second.

Naturally I’d prefer to chalk it up to intense entomological research coupled with amazing foresight, but the yarn colors dictated all those oddball patterns - I was merely crazy enough to fish them.

Fishing is dominated by the unorthodox - a lesson drilled home after chasing year’s of uncooperative slimy - it’s the lack of boundaries fish display when hungry, despite the countless reams of angling text arguing the contrary.

The fish were small and plentiful, mornings spent wading up the center throwing weight at every good looking rock, evenings spent flinging even bigger dry flies - with the occasional #14 Yellow Humpy chaser. Egg laying Golden Stones were much in evidence and once keyed to the color the fish ate yellow whether it was large or small.

So did I - and despite the proprietor’s claim, that salad was past its prime …

One quick trip to the “Bachelor Store” (Chevron MiniMart) addressed the culinary hardship - and I dined on flat rocks in the river - tearing dried animal flesh and rinsing the result with trail mix and warm water.

The angling pressure is significant, and only the early riser gets to dictate his fishing grounds, as the throng starts arriving after breakfast.

I don’t get to fish with the Brotherhood too often - and as the tackle intensive, large-arbor crowd showed late in the morning, I’d perch on a rock with my “rat meat” and watch them move through the runs I’d completed.

That part of fishing will never change.

While the Chicken Fried Steak sure looks good on the menu, the time lost ensures you’re second through the prime water, and the digestive stupor guarantees you’ll miss the first half dozen fish …

… leaving us portly predacious types in the Jungle eating rat meat, and growing stronger.. (when we ain’t wilting from the heat.)

It was the same eerie death rattle I’d heard earlier from Wally, who was keenly aware of the piles of rods, waders, and tackle, being transferred from porch to vehicle, and once freed found two cars in the driveway with doors open - and he’d made a dash for the Old Familiar.

Tail thudding a steady beat, big pink tongue lolling at half mast, he’s regarding me from the back of the Chandler automobile, “I’m going to Sizz-ler, we going fish-ing, I’m going…” wet tongue pauses in mid pant, huh, Tennis?

A big Charlie Brown wail of anguish as Miss Nancy disappears in a cloud of dust, Sausage Dog trying to claw his way out the rear window …

Now I’m replaying the same scene, my navigator’s fingernails clawing desperately at the passenger armrest - as civilization and pavement becomes a memory, “No, you Caustic Ignoramus - I meant hard left!” - triggering yet another four point broadslide in loose aggregate, tires snarling for purchase as we careen through the woods.

“Jesus Tom, a little lead time on them directions would be appreciated, something akin to ‘at the next bloated deer carcass, make a left.’ ”

“Hush, I’m confusing your innate sense of direction, Break Right, RIGHT I said!”

Rocks and tree limbs bounce off the undercarriage, and we’re plowing sideways through another stand of small pines, 140 degrees into the full 360, when the tires find narrow purchase on the tent of unwary campers; kids and adults scatter screaming, and we’re through their dining area and clawing onto the road pulling a festive streamer of laundry and barking dogs…

“There, right there - go down that!”

I make out a dim track between tall pines and cut the lights, and as we jostle down the rocky path TC is scanning for enraged pursuers. “OK,” he says, “now the tricky part - I’m going to have to blindfold you.”

Before I can protest, my vision is obscured by an empty gallon sized “Baja Picante” Doritos bag thrust over my head, and I can’t help sneezing uncontrollably as each dip and bulge in the road shakes additional dust from bottom seam - all the while listening intently to “left, gas, right, brake, hard left,” from the passenger seat.

“We’re there, can you see the river?”

“Nope, TC - can I remove the fuggin bag now?”

“In a sec (I can hear the whine of the camera autofocus, click-whirr, click-whirr), OK - now you can.”

I’m clawing at the door, eyes watering from the combined Picante and pepper,  trying to blow the last of the potato chips out of my nose - and there’s a sudden steely grip on my arm. “Wait, I should warn you - there’s mosquitos.”

I crack the door anyway and we’re instantly inhaling waves of blood seeking flying suction. Two grown men making schoolgirl noises intent on securing whichever bag contains the worst chemicals. Out of my vest comes the last of the vintage Muskol, 100% DEET - guaranteed to cause birth defects, melt fly lines, and kill everything - including the wearer.

TC is doing homage to Michael Jackson away from the vehicle, attempting to shoot some inferior aerosol product on all the pertinent limbs, both his and the neighboring pines, and managing a reasonable falsetto while doing so.

I dived into the safety of my sweltering cocoon of neoprene to reduce exposure, then combed a generous double handful through my hair - and the pair of us re-emerge looking like slickened stock brokers, but we’re no longer a food group.

The mosquitos are at a safe distance, but undeterred; they know what we know - it’s early yet and with the heat of midday, coupled with a vast expanse of flank steak, that impenetrable barrier of protection will weaken with each droplet of perspiration…

I’m preparing the next edgy retort - when I’m robbed of speech; despite the dented truck smoldering nearby, and after donating a couple of pints of Hemoglobin, I’m surrounded by the Mother of All Pristine.

An alpine torrent surrounded by lush vascular growth, framed by fallen trees and deadheads. It’s a rare moment for any fisherman, and happens a half dozen times in our travels, the solitude and majesty of your surroundings is first in the retelling, and fishing may serve only as punctuation to the story.

“Watch out for the Cow Flop, it’s fresh …”

My revery is punctured grapically, yet I’m wondering about the role reversal; I’m the hardened callous urbanite - what wades in a chemical cesspool, and Mr. Bamboo Nestle-Anti-Christ is swilling Wasabi Peas, painting the forest with noxious chemicals, and ignoring the barbed wire …

“Catch the first fish, fling something over by that log there..”

I yank out some line and prepare to cast when I see the look of consternation on my host, “… the downstream dry fly - Oh well, if you must…” TC’s fumbling with the blue kerchief knotted around his neck as a mosquito barrier, and I can just make out its transformation to nimbly tied cravat - which makes me feel the better, as I’m much more comfortable as a callous heathen than consummate champion of the Wild.

The fishing was extra-ordinary - and we developed a modified variant of the “Cover two” - where one fellow leapfrogs the other while offering biting commentary, stomping the bank near his pal’s feeding fish, or hurls a soggy cigar butt into the midst of the prime lie …

… and absolutely none of it mattered.

The fish ate dry flies all day, and with the dense timber every pool was a blend of shade and direct sunlight, offering both bugs and fish someplace to hatch or eat from morning till dark.

Beautiful little brown trout that ate without restraint and whose coloration was dictated by hiding place; dark fish under the log jams, light fish in the riffles, and golden bellied to match the instream mix of volcanic rock and downed timber.

Ample shade offered a lot of egg laying stoneflies; golden’s interspersed with the smaller olive, and the occasional giant stone. Mosquito’s outnumbered everything but the repeated stop to re-dip the upper torso kept everything but the pesky bluebottles at arm’s length.

TC offered up some dried “kibble” bar for lunch, so I had to break out the chemical mainstays; trail mix with M&M’s, accompanied by a piquant fistful of Chevron station Teriyaki beef jerky.

I’m not sure that he wasn’t asking the same question, “did I put this in the pocket for the Sausage Dog, or is this human food?”

“Tom, you ever consider flaking this greenish-Wally kibble up and selling it by the kilo?”

It actually tasted pretty good - but after six hours of humping logs, concrete would’ve had its moments too…

Two tired and appreciative old guys embarrassed by the bounty of riches, buttressing our obscene resolve to catch even more fish, hoping that last swig was off the hydration pack and not the Muskol bottle…

“OK, on the way out we make a mad dash for the truck, toss your gear in the back at the run, then drive up the ridge in your waders until it’s safe, then we can stow everything.”

“Do I have to wear the Doritos sack again? Might slow us considerably.”

“Nice one, Smartass - just remember not to remember anything.”

Role reversal followed by living Catch-22 - and I’m giggling wondering whether Yossarian or Major Major is my co-pilot.

I mash gas and it’s  academic, we’re both careening about the cab in a dash for freedom.

Grab a rod for its length versus label, a reel for storage, a handful of simulated insects which have no latin counterpart, and go someplace singular - populated with scrappy fish whose idea of selectivity is hiding under a log. It’s exactly what lured us to the sport in our youth - one really superb day, forging a lifelong pursuit of another just like it.

My thanks to my host for sharing something truly spectacular.

(No, I can’t find it again, but as the directions to the party you were supposed to go to were on my dash - suggesting you were relieved of that responsibility, you owe bigtime …)

All I know is I’m missing a double fistful of dry flies …

I made it back from the woods with all my tungsten intact, but the dry fly box had some conspicuous holes in it - with the only clue being directions to a party I’d never heard of … and scrawled in crayon across the fly leaf was the single word, “thanks.”

(I think TC meant to link to the trip narration, above.)

Tom Chandler of the Trout Underground has been rather tight lipped of late so I knew something was in the works…

Espionage being crucial to us dirty water anglers - and with an embossed invite to fish the Upper Sacramento as a token gesture his guest, provided I bought all new wading attire and tackle, I figured to scoop the rest of the angling press by sneaking into his workshop the night before - to see what he’s working on ..

Wally isn’t a threat unless you run out of Slim Jim’s …

While innovative, I could see nothing “revolutionary” in its design or utility - nor could I find any bamboo present, although it was locked and I couldn’t make out the faux wood in the center console …

I’m not sure whether it’s the “Slaw Dodge” or “Slawdog” - the badging was still incomplete.

It’s a helluva gamble given the state of the economy, but with GM gone it appears the path to World Domination may go through Mount Shasta.

By this evening I’ll be waist deep in icy unclean water. It won’t have been that way before I arrived, but after I dip them big feet into all that fast moving pristine, it’ll make metam-sodium seem tame in the comparison.

The first of my “national average” 6 trips to the unspoilt - which will be unable to contain the greasy brown slick that comes off my outerwear, and will render all them nose-inna-air rarified fish into easy prey…

…or so I think.

I’ll be traveling incognito; Deerstalker set at a rakish angle, Meerschaum pipe with its well seasoned rosy-purplish tint, decked in Harris Tweed, and monocle clenched under the shade of manicured brow - offset with a hint of gayly colored ribbon affixing it to my starched uppers.

I’ll commiserate with the parking lot attendant - clucking my tongue in dismay at the appearance of discarded water bottles, empty beef jerky wrappers, and the really insidious invasives - capable of taking your legs out from under you at the run, leaving only the bloody fingernail marks disappearing into newly-murky water.

The Petrochemical Willard, with an entourage of polysyllabic pandemics in every vest pocket, defiler of the Untouched, and beloved of Sausage Dogs.