… and why you may skip a few mortgage payments simply because everyone else is doing it you may want to lay in a couple extra given the circumstances.

Shifting graphite demand trends are driving prices for the flake variety to all-time highs, a fact not lost on investors or the companies scrambling to produce it. Market capitalizations are bouncing higher for companies across the board, from early stage explorers to others closer to actual production.

Investors’ burgeoning romance with the graphite industry follows another love affair with rare earth companies, key to technological innovations in components for vent fans, jet engines and laser-guided systems for smart bombs.

- via the Globe and Mail

With the graphite market at all time highs and increased use forecast across a multitude of industries, we’re sure to hear some rod maker claim how his prices are climbing exponentially and a thousand dollars isn’t near enough to break even …

… and were we to guess what it takes to build a typical fly rod given the current market, economic upheaval, a luxury industry, and a vendor trying to make up for a downturn in sales, will fact support such an outlandish claim?

The enthusiasm around Canadian graphite companies is almost palpable, and not for the first time. Many of the deposits being looked at today were already close to being put into production before they were shut down in the early 1990′s when No. 1 producer China raised output and prices fell to about $600 (U.S.) per tonne from more than $1,300 per tonne in the previous decade. Today, flaked graphite can fetch as much as $3,000 per tonne.

Cursory evidence (above) suggests raw graphite prices are in lockstep with rod prices. A Fenwick HMG rod in 1992 was between $250 and  $300, and in the 20 years since both the price of rods and the price of graphite per ton have increased five fold.

Guess-timate Portion, containing unsubstantiated obscene profits:

If we assume the amount of raw graphite needed to build a paper-backed sheet of graphite is about three times more than what lands on the paper (loss and compression in the manufacturing process) and the typical three ounce rod is half epoxy resin and half graphite scrim, then about 6 ounces of graphite will be needed to make a single rod.

A metric ton (tonne) is 2204 pounds (35,264 ounces), which based on the above rationale, will make 5877 graphite blanks. Based on today’s prices, the raw material costs of making the paper-backed scrim … is all of fifty-one cents.

In between them and us is a lot of folks screwing a lot of other folks.

… and a goodly amount of manual labor, regular capitalism, insurance, 401K’s and the overhead of a trained workforce.

Physics because there’s a lot less water and rather than flinging high atomic weight, I may drag bottom with bead chain. Smaller because the absence of all that water suggests the prey may well be discriminating – shy of big flies in that shallow water …

Biology because the off season led to a wealth of papers on the American Shad, their eating habits, and my surprise to find out that the reigning angling wisdom on what and how they eat – has no basis in reality.

… and while they might seine all manner of smallish creatures in the salt and brackish estuaries (mostly small shrimp from stomach samples), the oddity of their attraction to bright colors may well be that of an expatriate dining on foreign cuisine – snacking on visual cues or the opportunistic feed when an item resembles something familiar.

Which is all that a burgeoning fly inventor need know … armed with a pocketful of bright will still work, but a cornucopia of experimental caddis and mayflies, minnows, moths, tee shirts, tennis balls, and discarded Doritos, might actually yield a Secret Fly of Complete Shad Dominance (SFoCSD), something that’s rumored to have surfaced many times in as many zip codes.

I’ve got a pocketful of unknown and untested and am proof against both parking lot catcalls and all-knowing snigger. I’ve got buggy and somber, drab and motile, bright and bug-shaped, and every other combination a fertile mind can summon …

… and now I’ve got them in trout sizes, out of respect for low water …

You lads can flee to elevation and keep all those fragile trout company while I defend the local waters from the Silvery Invasive Menace surging upriver from the deep. All those bony palates, buck teeth, and feelers, paired with loose morals and lower standards, exactly what’s needed to keep a fly dresser thinking he’s distilled pure genius to a hook shank.

I felt I was obligated to find all those fingerling salmon, steelhead, and striped bass we’d siphoned out of the Lower Sacramento, but all I got was another steely glare and the commandment to drop trousers and cough …

… which I complied with in all haste, knowing that were I to be outted as a whiny Norteno, they might nudge me over the fence as target practice for drug lords.

Despite whizzing over numerous concrete structures claiming they were bridges, there was no water visible. Only a bit of light green in the midst of darker green to mark what the sign claimed was a watershed.

The sudden glimpse of the Bridge over San Luis Rey sent me into a fervor, given how adamant Poppa was that I read the book. The sign appeared unbidden as I cruised over the Southern California waterway of the same name.

Many years had passed since I cracked Thorton Wilder’s small tome, and confused what I was speeding over for a contemporary replacement of the failed original. The sign, shallow wash, and thicket of greasewood were gone in an instant, and I spun around to memorize detail before realizing the fast food and gleaming mall had no relation to the real story, which took place in Peru.

“It’s when you’re safe at home that you wish you were having an adventure. When you’re having an adventure you wish you were safe at home.”
? Thornton Wilder

I understood why they take our water, they’ve got none of their own. I might hold my nose while drinking all the agricultural chemicals that’ve seeped into my water supply, and can only imagine what flavors and colors are added to the pumped version after its been drank and excreted through countless smaller burgs as it trickles its way into Mexico.

I stuck with Diet Coke and the occasional Iced Tea, never attempting the raw liquid from the tap.

Work related to be sure, but in the company of non-fishermen I walked soft – hoping to avoid confrontation. “What’s in that lake?” I pointed while attempting small talk …

“Water.”

(Note to self, ignore their obvious boorishness – being non-fishermen is proof they were abused children.)

The flight home was most welcome – and in keeping with the media references I was treated to a bit of Samuel L. Jackson, “… WHO put the Motherf**king Penguins on the Motherf**king plane?”

SeaWorld to be exact … and as the Emperor Penguins ran up and down the aisles of the aircraft, I wondered whether all the smiling people in blue shirts and khakis would remain smiling after I wrenched a big handful of hackle off of NumNum …

“Animal Ambassadors” I was told – and like summoning memories of the text,  I scrambled to think whether they squawked or screamed, and whether that could be heard over a pair of Pratt & Whitney turbofans at 41,000 feet  …

I’d heard they were smart, noticing how they kept alert to my every move as their trainer nudged them past my seat. I’d pulled the emergency can of sardines out of my carryon earlier to avoid TSA’s Good Squad, a detail I’d now regret.

A woman goes into Cabela’s to buy a rod and reel for her grandson’s birthday.  She doesn’t know which one to get, so she just grabs one and goes over to the counter.

The clerk was standing behind the counter wearing dark shades.  She says to him, “Excuse me, sir.  Can you tell me anything about this rod and reel?” 

He says, “Ma’am, I’m completely blind; but if you’ll drop it on the counter, I can tell you everything from the sound it makes.”

She doesn’t believe him but drops it on the counter anyway……He says, “That’s a six-foot Shakespeare graphite rod with a Zebco 404 reel and 10-LB. Test line. It’s a good all-around combination, and it’s on sale this week for only $20.00.”

She says, “It’s amazing that you can tell all that just by the sound of it dropping on the counter. I’ll take it!”

As she opens her purse, her credit card drops on the floor. “Oh, that sounds like a Master Card,” he says. She bends down to pick it up and accidentally farts.

At first she is really embarrassed, but then realizes……there is no way the blind clerk could tell it was her who tooted.  Being blind, he wouldn’t know that she was the only person around?

The man rings up the sale and says, “That’ll be $34.50 please.”

The woman is totally confused by this and asks, “Didn’t you tell me the rod and reel were on sale for $20.00? How did you get $34.50?”

He replies, “Yes, ma’am. The rod and reel is $20.00, but the Duck Call is $11.00, and the Catfish Bait is $3.50.” She paid it and left without saying a word.

GQ magazine was kind enough

Detroit, San Diego, and Charleston, South Carolina. No mention of the piney woods, clean water, or any activity liable to soil a silk shirt. “The Real Outdoors” is for vacationing family guys, or worse, hideous and boring father-son outings.

But there is a better way to fish. You don’t have to buy waders or waste a long weekend in neck-beard country. We’ve found places where you can spend a day kicking back on the water, rod in hand, trolling for redfish—or, hell, battling a shark— then hit the city for a mind-blowing dinner and a stiff drink.

- via GQ.com

There’s considerable silver lining knowing the fashion conscious won’t be crowding us for space on the creek. While we’ve had numerous dinners that “blew”… the only “mind blowing” meal in recent memory was finding a room temperature sliver of beef jerky from last season, which I gulped gratefully with a palm full of branch water.

That image is a load of shit. There is no dock. The lake is a mosquito-infested bog twenty-three miles outside Moosejaw. And our grandpappy was a mean drunk who smelled like a Burlington Coat Factory.

I love it when they get all masculine and “edgy” … but they wilt soon enough when they find there’s no place to plug in a blow dryer.

Most have participated in

… which always takes you aback, given that you didn’t expect your recital of heroics would appeal to the metrosexuals listening, and what was an idle conversation has now become a huge liability. Largely due to your story that picked the venue and set the itinerary, and the balance being all the hot air you laid on so thickly when you guaranteed everyone enormous and hungry fish …

Worse is Poppa’s sage warning echoing in your ears,  “… one guy is a fishing trip, two guys is half, and three is no fishing trip at all …” – and instinctively for the workplace crowd that goes double.

A short time later you’re engaged in a work related issue when a questionnaire lands in your Inbox …

On a scale of 1 to 7 with 7 being the highest, you need to rate the following requirements for a 3 night fishing trip:

1. Catching an adequate number of fish which I peg at 6 or 7 per day –

Response

fish·ing

1. the act of catching fish.

2. the technique, occupation, or diversion of catching fish.

3. a place or facility for catching fish.

I would have to bow to the dictionary and make this a Seven. If we equate what you do in sexual terms, we’d have to describe it as, “traveling great distances to escape responsibilities and family, to play with ourselves and get muddy.”

“Fishing” as defined by the rest of us, is the heroic deeds associated with dominating a watershed, extincting anything tasty or large, and giving the balance a sore ass.

       2. Opportunity to catch a trophy trout ( 17 – 20 inches) –

I would have to give this a Seven. If I wanted something other than the largest fish equipped with the biggest teeth, I’d go to a pet store and torture goldfish.

1. Scenery (Lake Manzanita and Yosemite are nice places with Gunfire Lake not offering much scenic beauty)

Again with the Seven. I want a stunning postcard-worthy vista, so I can scorch most of it with a campfire, and tear the rest out freeing my flies from tree limbs.

1. Number of &%#%(  people fishing in my personnel space. –

ONE. I don’t feel obligated to share anything with the Human Race, despite their attempts to share empty beer cans, water bottles, used diapers, and discarded condoms, with me. None of those make a campsite homey, nor add to the woodsy ambience I seek.

5.      Available showers –

ONE. Only pussies and rich boys shower. In fact, you can’t appreciate the woods without smelling like armpit and wood smoke.

6.      Clean bathrooms –

ONE. Do Bears S*it in the woods? If so, you should be thrilled at the sight of a discarded Doritos bag and a handful of Poison Oak. Only Pussies s*it in toilets. Toilets were invented so that dumb SOB’s wouldn’t get any on their feet, are you a dumb SOB?

7.      Fees to access private lakes –

ONE. If I wanted to pay fees I would shop Safeway. You are not a PREDATOR is someone s*its fish into the mud, so you can snag them. That type of fishing is for guys that need showers and flush toilets, not us lean and hard Outdoorsmen …

8.      Float Tube opportunities –

ONE. Float tubes are for Pussies. If God wanted you to float about a beautiful lake while finning comfortably from a sofa, he would have made you a discarded water bottle.

9.      Driving Distance In time from Woodland / Davis….3 hours is reasonable with 6 hours out of the question –

ONE. Distance from Woodland or Davis is not the issue, distance from the closest beer is what matters..

10.     Dry fly-fishing options –

ONE. Dry Fly Fishing is merely an excuse for you to borrow flies from me and never pay me back …

11.     Rock hopping small creeks –

Seven. If you outfish me – I can chase you upstream and throw rocks at you..

12.     Lodging facilities (camping or hotel) –

ONE and SEVEN. Occasionally I like to s*it too.

13.     Meals…I don’t enjoy eating beef jerky for lunch and dinner –

ONE. What we’ve eaten in the past isn’t a meal so much as a room temperature abomination. Meals (in the woods) come from “greasy spoons” on cracked plates carried by gum chewing high school girls adorned with a poorly disguised scowl reserved for Old Dudes or their Dad.

14.     New destinations –

SEVEN. You outfished me at all them other places, let’s go somewhere I can catch something..

15.     Native fish and not recently planted by the D&FG truck –

ONE. Remember the excuse we rehearsed on our return? How “…it don’t’ matter we got skunked, just getting out is what’s important …”

(Hopefully that hygiene thing will scare ‘em ..)

But in the doing, stumbled across an interesting narrative from 2010 on research done on boats and their likelihood of carrying unwelcome goober from one water body to another.

Us wading fishermen would love to find out someone else was to blame for the foreign yummy we’re tracking through our usual haunts, and while our boating brethren are next on the suspect list, we still don’t know whether they’ve eclipsed us in the volume of pure toxins they’re carrying, versus Martians, Venusians, and other unwelcome life forms.

-via Paul Smith’s College, the College of the Adirondacks

What’s interesting in the 4.5MB PDF is their graphs and findings of the life forms brought to the lakes, as well as those found on the boat as they’re about to leave the host lake (some of the lakes in the study were infected by invasives).

Stewards removed 598 organisms from boats entering or leaving boat ramps, for a 6.8% infestation rate over all seven sites, and all watercraft types

Six point eight percent of boaters potentially carrying the Nasty might hold up well against us wading anglers, as we won’t sit still long enough for the obligatory cavity search …

… and while stories of animal pests like zebra mussels are common, what we don’t know (and our conservation organizations curiously fail to mention) is that many of the plant invasives can rehydrate from dry fibers on boots and waders, regardless of how long they’ve been clean, dried, and protected in your garage …

Even better, is that the act of “Clean , Dry & Protect” is breeding the killer “Super-Strain” of rehydrating vegetable via natural selection …

If there is variability within Eurasian watermilfoil populations for tolerance to desiccation, then fragments that ultimately are successful in colonizing new lakes that are transported via watercraft will be those that can withstand desiccation. It seems that long distance transport of milfoil strands could create a strong selection pressure against fragments of plants that are not tolerant to desiccation, potentially resulting in substantially increased desiccation tolerance in subsequently colonized lakes.

Next they’ll be climbing out of the mud in search of your wife … (which might be okay …)

Why all of this is important, is that issues with foreign plants appear to be quickly eclipsing pest animals, the exception being Asian Carp, and those of us enduring vegetable exposure might be forced to purchase more boots and more waders, as materials and what sticks to what may well be last year’s guess, since modified.

Interesting bit of research, by no means the final word on the topic, but the only one I’ve seen that’s credible. Worth the read.

“Forbidden” only because I’m tired of reporting how few are left, what’s in them that we (you and I) shouldn’t eat, and all the other reminders that we, (you and I), and those before us have kilt everything, ate what was tasty, and continue to piss on the rest …

It’s a lot like our system of politics, a truly great idea whose originators never envisioned being entrusted to the current crop of morons.

Instead of dwelling on “downer” issues that are classified forbidden, rather I’ll adopt the unpopular tone and make a “double negative” into something uplifting, something that adds a little verve to your stride, or makes the day seem less onerous …

… like an IGFA World Record Snakehead recently landed in Florida …

-via the Florida Sportsmen.com

On the one hand it’s an invasive and we don’t want it much, on the other, the sumbitch has big teeth, can warm a disc drag nicely, and after eating all the remaining pussy-native fish, will give us something to fish for once the sign says, “Don’t Eat Nothing From Here, Ever!”

You figure that we’ve not learned a damn thing despite all these gloomy stories, and therefore may be time to embrace some of these truly hardy interlopers as providing a much needed infusion of “extra-fit predacious DNA” into what little is left us by all them feminine hormones.

Opening Day has always had overtones of machismo, given our frantic preparations, the rush to clear the city limits, the dash for the creek while you shed clothes and any semblance of morals or decency, and then after a weekend of scrambling through blackberries and gas station coffee, and victimized by hard ground or a harder motel bed, you drag yourself to work – hoping nobody notices you’re wearing the shirt you wore Thursday.

… and only Monday afternoon do you realize your wallet is much lighter, something grew soft in the off season that now really hurts, and you’re proudly passing off your sunburn as a tan.

I know, me and my pals heard you on the bridge above us, Friday afternoon. We scuttled about using hand signals and shadows like Seal Team Six, knowing our only concern was avoiding the empty “Vente” Starbucks you’d flung from the car as you whizzed oblivious towards the Pristine.

Which suited us just fine, so long as you kept that big foot on the gas and our thin chocolate rivulet in your rear view mirror, we had our hands full of voracious and hungry fish.

Above, my beloved Pikeminnow prove that motor oil colored glass beads are brown water catnip, and how a five minute introduction to fly casting is all that’s needed to bring a watershed to its knees.

We likened it to a modern-day expedition; how we’d leave one car many miles distant and after loading up on jerky, water, sunflower seeds, and breakfast bars, fish our way to the distant vehicle hoping we could make the trek before our supplies ran out.

As it was we started at 0700 and arrived muddy, sore, and satiated, about 3PM.

… and by some odd stroke of luck they decided to cork the outflow from the dam which caused the river to drop nearly a foot and a half.

It proved just enough of a water-warming prod to turn the reclusive and shy into aggressive and willing to chase.

Which will only last about seven minutes longer given the volume of tomato seedlings being pressed into the pastures above. They’ll have to turn the faucet back on to handle all the water siphoned off for irrigation.

As in year’s past I stayed clear of the heroics, opting to spend the Opener visiting Ma on her birthday. Mostly I was hoping for a little sympathy, but Ma was smarter than that.

While I no longer grace her table with my big feet, you can never have enough favors or good feeling banked with the womenfolk.

All the heroic deeds and feats of arms being performed on planted fish in them dark woods, and us Old Guys and 4F’s forced to entertain all the gals you fellows abandoned in the Big City …

As I grow older I find

For us fly fishermen the lure of the Dark Side seems more appropriate given how close the downward spiral that is fly fishing, mirrors that of intravenous drug addiction.

The eventual homelessness resulting from too much fishing differs from other forms of dissipation only because the fishermen can boast of better dental hygiene, his dilution of conscious mind and productive spirit being quicker than a frontal lobe dipped in opiates.

Both share the same dingy blanket, the same zip code, the same fortress of cardboard ensconced in some darkened alley, only in the depths of their depravity is real distinction possible; one unfortunate sold his parent’s car because he needed to score drugs,  the other stole his roommate’s Sage because he simply wanted it – and both crossed bridges never taken lightly.

Itemizing decades of self-destructive behavior and the eventual chilly, “stone-pillow” finale to some fresh-faced Jedi hopeful can never aid a Dark Lord in his quest for fly fishing converts. These details are best revealed after taking a fisherman’s measure, ensuring your plebe has the courage and fortitude to finish his training …

When they inquire as to whether conversion to the Righteous Path will hurt much, I omit the sobbing spouse, hungry children, and bounced checks, rather I’ll focus on their resolve in spin, bait, or fly terms, using the same time honored milestones used on me …

Like knowledge of the Outdoors version of the Prime Directive, Do you eat what you catch?

This is an easy question for a true sportsman. A floating softball that can be smacked clear of any fence, or whiffed so badly as to bring a rush of blood to the cheek. There are hundreds of possible answers, yet there is only a single correct one:

The Prime Directive:

If by act or deed I am successful with rod, gun or steel-belted radial, and my quarry lies bleeding and lifeless at my feet, or is hemorrhaging and not long for this mortal coil, I will dispatch it in all haste, and endure the consumption of its flesh … with wrinkled nose, and with as much ketchup as is possible.

While other answers exist, involving lofty ambitions like catch and release, respect and care for an adversary, and serenading with harp music, the ugly truth is that at some point the hook is so large or so deep that we’ve kilt our foe, even if it was an accident.

With special regulations and “no kill” zones, obeying the Prime Directive is made more difficult, but in the recitation of his answer a special gleam enters the eye of the fish-hating-plebe, as he recognizes a crack in an Immutable Law of the Outdoors, and will make haste to exploit it.

Like a World Series of Poker player, a Sith Lord notes these “tells” and is unmoved.

Loopholes are for the 1% to covet at tax time, or for lawyers who make their living unearthing them, not for the sporting fraternity in their element, where only the Prime Directive and an unopened Twinkie truly matter …

If a spin, plug, bait, or fly angler insists, “… the only fish that passes my lips are Gorton’s or Filet O’ Fish ..” – then you know this acolyte unworthy, his training to end in the pyrotechnics of Force-based petulance.

For those that pass the Prime Directive, the last great hurdle is calling the fisherman on his bluff. Does the thought of an opened jar of Powerbait baking in the airless interior of their car sends them careening about in an “ew-Ew-EW” dance?

Each area of the country likely has its own  odiferous, disgusting, or life-threatening  bait, used to distinguish real fishermen from wannabe’s. In my youth, and for the Greater Bay Area saltwater crowd, that would be provoking an angry Pile Worm …

… Pile Worm, able to sever a man’s finger in a single bite, possessed of thousands of cold, slimy feet, capable of strangling unwary beach combers in a many-footed embrace of constriction,  or so we thought.

They were the Miracle Bait, the Super Expensive Bait, only slightly better than their evil cousin the Blood Worm, which sent us young anglers screaming in fear, as unlike the Pile Worm, it had two sets of razors sharp talons …

Any fellow contemplating learning to fly fish shouldn’t break rank at the prospect of steel hooks entering extremities either under power or uninvited. Nor should he wince at the thought of the thousands of slimy feet in his waders should he lose his footing and ship some inboard, or whether ten fingers are better than nine …

… and why all this suddenly matters is my promise to escort a noob into the brown water Friday, and his insistence that a set of borrowed fly tackle is no problem due to the Force being strong within him.

An earlier interview failed him spectacularly on both the Prime Directive and the Pile Worm test.

… so I’m prepared for another episode of blisters, tears, and force based petulance, meaning I should carry a couple six packs of Go Girl and additional Twinkies …

… I just hope this time I don’t have to carry him back to the parking area like the last guy.

“ I know it smells bad, Luke – but you’ll still need to cover your face with it so the fish don’t see you.” – Darth teaches his son to fish …