Though I will say this: These falls are amazing (or is this a singular FALL?), and I was astounded that NO ONE was down there when I was. I believe that is the first time I’ve been there without at least some contingent of swimmers or bait fisher-people there.
Yeah. I know. Footage of actually catching fish would be more useful and/or entertaining than listening to some beanied yapper saying things like “these falls are beautiful.”
Truth is, trying to accurately convey fly fishing at the mercy of a selfie-stick is nearly impossible. Plus, I don’t want to get my iPhone wet.
Oh yeah. And then there’s this. I have no idea what kind of malicious code in the Youtube load system rigs the game to make sure that the representative still frame for the clip is possibly the WORST one that could be chosen. That nose scratch was so brief . . . yet, so ridiculously cast in stone . . .
Also, I’m too lazy to edit out the part where I shut off the camera.
I was going to include this in a larger post about the day in general, but I figured I’d pare it down a bit:
Of course there is zero useful information in this river report. But this should in no way stop reports from happening, or sports reporting would be eliminated entirely.
But this place is closing soon. Instead, I’m sitting in front of the also-closed Heritage Junction museum in MCCloud, charging my phone on the only exposed outlet in town.
If I’m not cited for vagrancy, I’m going to hopefully shoot a time-lapse of the mountain or something before I leave.
If I do get hammered for loitering, I’ll be at Siskiou County Jail.
As the weekend comes rolling towards us all, I will have the next few days to think about the book idea I’ve carried for years, the general attack plan, and the cool idea my daughter gave me to help me avoid plowing my literary ATV off the Deux ex machina cliff.
But I am also packing my gear for the McCloud River. Saturday, the only blogging I might be capable of will be from Floyd’s Frosty—the sole hamburger joint in that little town that brags its Bison Burger.
And that’s always a mere probability, because the WordPress app for the iPhone is an appallingly-horrible venture into the unweildy and traumatic. I can lose formatting quicker than I could drown at Ash Camp.
I’ve got a novel in my head. And I’m going to start discussing it in the general, even if I avoid the specifics.
A while back, I wondered about the idea of sharing snippets of a novel on the blog. And some people do.
I am reluctant. Not because I think anyone could pick up a gauntlet I’ve thrown and make it fit their hand, but because I know the world is full of nasty, advantage-taking proprietary purse-snatchers. With my luck, someone would Jack my idea, write a horrible novel, and get a book deal because of some magical connection they have.
Just an update for the fly-fishing-minded. Season opens here on Saturday, and I have managed to protractedly throw off the yoke of soul-sucking bond at work for a couple days commensurate with that time. I’m sure some other vampiristic, logistical Van Helsing will pop out of the ether and mess it up. But until then, I proceed as if I will make it to the river unimpeded.
One of the things I’ve ben doing is trying to repair my line–one that I’ve made out of horse hair. Yes, that’s right. The castbility, grace, and even-keel energy transfer from a line anachronistically yanked out of the 15th century works better for me than some microcosmically-balanced monofilament or fluorocarbon with whatever permutations those might have.
The problem is, those Stallion hairs break, and get a little weird. And once a section starts going south, it’s time to take that line out to the ‘little place where fishing lines go to heaven” and put it to sleep.
Oh, and my daughter’s wholesale obsession with a tousled, snarky, bowtie-wearing time traveler cruising through time and space in a British phone booth brought about this idea from her–the TARDIS, Tenkara kebari fly:
Doctor Who caught that fish!
Since I am in a mad rush to make sure I have enough flies tied before I hit the river, one can click on the picture and pick it apart by critical nuance, if they want. I can tie complex patterns, but quite frankly, doing so any more requires me to wear glasses, and have the attention span of a rat terrier when doing so. This fly is borne of an atrocious, lazy underpinning–and apparently a desire to pander to the reflexive fandom turns of a fifteen-year-old daughter.
By the way, she was three and a half when she hoped me design the fly featured in this clip:
To those that DO tie, I want to explain that I have started to use strung marabou for the hackle. I tie it in in reverse direction, and then fold it back and build a thread base behind it. The reason I am doing is this is because the color options are virtually limitless. I cannot say the same for strung saddle hackle and such. And the caribou tie-in can be made to any size.
That’s it for now. I’ve got a few other things to pack. Then, it’s just an hour drive,and couple of days to forget how much I hate thug life, and all that seek a degree in that cancerous pursuit.
Box Number Seven 