Errant hooks

Fly-casting, in the hands of a master, is a thing of beauty and grace. It is a balancing act of power, elegance, timing that can land a scrap of fur and feather with a delicacy of a living thing, or send something the size of a baby gull into the teeth of a gale.

I'm sure that every fly caster who steps onto the casting pond at their local fly show imagines their form only slightly less than Jason Borger in A River Runs Through It. Indeed in our necessarily optimistic minds we are probably all only a glance away of being "discovered", given the opportunity to spend the rest of our lives fishing the globe, free from the worries of mortgages, freeway traffic, lawyers and midday tailwater releases and all other blights on modern society.

Sadly, the reality is a little different, at least when I'm the one with a rod in my hand. It's not that I'm a bad caster-- oh sure, a little polish wouldn't go astray-- but I get by. I might lack Lefty's range, but I can land close enough to a trout's nose at my distance, hence by necessity I can hold my own as a stalker. It's just that things happen when I have a fly rod in my hand.

Unfortunately, when "things" involve small sharp points, or heavy beadheads, traveling through the air at high speed, it can be a painful experience.

Mind you having things happen has been a lifelong affliction, particularly during those difficult teenage years, when my father, in the sensitive manner of Australian males dubbed me "Boy Blunder"-- a heavy burden for a hormone ridden teenager to carry. My wife, reading this over my shoulder, and laughing way too hard to be polite, is suggesting that in the modern era such a nickname would be a sure excuse for extensive counseling. I'm now trying to work out how to claim fly fishing as therapy and send him the bill for a new 4-piece, 4 weight I've had my eye on.

But the sorry truth was that if there was something to trip over, stumble up, fall down, tangle, break or smash I would unerringly find it. Thankfully, I managed to grow out of the worst aspects of the habit during my late teens, when I grew back into my frame, but there are occasions when "BB" crawls out of the closet. Waving around a nine foot fly rod, 12 foot leader and 50 feet of fly line, does seem to be tempting fate, particularly when you have been cursed with such a pseudonym.

I spent a couple of weeks roaming the beaches of Baja two years back, glorying in the freedom of fishing in shorts instead of layers of breathable technology. Assorted hungry munchers like roosterfish, sierra mackeral, and jacks were harrying schools of baitfish right on the edge of the surfline-- not that there was much of a wave but it turned out to be enough. I'd retrieved in from a cast to my right, the clear intermediate line swirling around my legs, when bait cleared the water to my left. There was wind, a wave, a funny sort of cross body roll cast, a sharp pain _ from my, umm, lower abdomen. Somehow, the Clouser's path had intersected with the gusset of my shorts and pierced the thin nylon.

Now you might have thought the weight of the dumbbell eyes might have pulled the point free from my most delicate anatomy wouldn't you, but nooooo! I had to be wearing one of those modern pairs of "fly fishing shorts". You know the type with the built in elastic mesh brief, designed euphemistically for male comfort and support? Let me say that once embedded in the elastic mesh, the material's close embrace to my person ensured that the Clouser point was anything but comfortable. Indeed any movement was a trial.

Emerging from the water's edge, clutching the crotch of your sodden shorts in a manner not even Michael Jackson would have appreciated is no way to win friends in a strange country, particularly one where the law carries automatic weapons. Neither is the contortions necessary to performing the required surgery at the waters edge, whilst trying to stay clothed and not render unto yourself a body piercing, generally not talked about in polite fly fishing circles.

But even when hooks aren't on the end of your fly line, they can be difficult little beggars. I can recall sitting in the lounge, tying flies one night, when a cruel twist of fate ensured that a single sneeze occurred at the exact moment I had a size 12 hook between my lips. Somehow, the violent movement was enough to trap my lip in the bend of the hook. The barb gripped the particularly sensitive skin on the inside of my lip, the shank tight on the outside, with enough force to convince me I had actually driven the point into my lip. My eyes were watering too much to use the mirror and my then partner helpless with laughter. BB had struck again!

At least the hook hadn't penetrated, something that at that point hadn't occurred to me, but was occurring to a succession of fishing buddies. But given my track record, the longer my failure to hook myself continued, the more I knew it would memorable event when it happened.

Stuie, a lure chucker, was the worst off having firmly embedded a finely honed set of Rapala trebles into the back of his wife's head during an outing on a local estuary. Thankfully, she was the forgiving type, and was able to see the funny side of the affair, during the trip to the surgery room and onto the operating table _ up to the point he started urging the doctor to save the lure. I don't think there is any co-incidence that she showed up in the brand new purple Toyota SUV the following week.

My oldest mate Pez was a star footballer and sprinter, and no slouch in the brains department but when it came to practical pursuits was also an accident waiting to happen.

Pez's Ponderosa is within walking distance of a lake filled with hungry redfin, well worth an after work visit to ease the soul. The area is also a popular walking spot for local dog owners but you would think there was plenty of room for both back casting and barkers to co-exist. Until the night Pez's line came tight on an adult German Shepard, who yelped and gave a fair impersonation of a greyhound. As I mentioned Pez was handy over the 100 yards as well, but at 6'4, beanpole thin, encumbered by hip boots and a fly rod his pursuit was anything but pretty, enroute to the dog's owner. Thankfully, the hook was in the dog's collar and had a relatively successful conclusion. Except when I suggested he should have entered his catch to the IFGA in the 4-pound tippet class. Pez's response was unprintable.

About this time I was still a responsible adult, with a real job, which meant most Tuesday turning up at the State legislature at 2pm, rather than 9am, to report on the goings-on for my home State's major daily newspaper. I was a fly fisher first and foremost, so this time schedule was meant for a quick trip onto a lovely little willow lined, fastwater, filled with plump rainbows and fat browns. It really would have been perfect for a rod under 8 feet, since my shortest was 8'6" I was careful of my casting unless there was a fish worthy of a possible trip into the trees to retrieved a fly and tippet.

I'd worked on one nice eddy-living brown, hard up under the fruit-laden blackberry bushes in the pool below the highway bridge for about 3 weeks in a row. He'd feed as regular as clockwork but getting the fly there was a challenge I couldn't resist. The shot was too far for a bow and arrow cast, but the room behind was about a foot too short to drop the fly into his feeding lane for long enough to trigger a strike. As usual, I overcooked a back cast and ended up in the trees. I didn't want to break the fly off, as I wanted one more cast before my deadline was up, and hence tried to strip it from the parabolically bent branches.

Just what happened I'm not quite sure, but the tippet popped; the branches slipped free from my grasp and I was left staring at a size 12 Royal Wulff embedded up to the bend in the pad of my index finger. "Hell, its going to be fun typing with this in two hours" was my first thought. The second was that it didn't hurt as much as I thought it should. There was no way to push the point through the skin as the bone was in the way and I wasn't keen for a dash to the emergency room.

Thankfully, I remembered reading an article a few weeks earlier about an easier way to get a hook out of your flesh. The principal is easy enough, form a loop of strong tippet and slip it around the bend of the hook. Push the eye down in a straight line, and pull the tippet. Pushing the eye down effectively "hides" the barb behind the shank as the hook is backed out.

Mind you, it took a few minutes and a shot of nicotine before I summoned up the resolve to yank on the tippet, with the required sharp tug. Miraculously the fly was out of my finger, just where it ended up was a mystery, but all that was left was a tiny red dot of blood. It's a technique we should all keep up our sleeves, just in case the BB ever escapes again.

Removing a Hook

Rule One: Pinch down all barbs then go fishing and you might not even need this technique.

In the Event of an errant hook in your zucchuni, or any other part of your anatomy, follow the following steps.

1. Examine the location of the hook. Do Not attempt this form of removal with hooks embedded in the face, particularly close to eyes etc. Refer these to a doctor Large hooks which have penetrated deeply are also worth taking to a medical professional.

2. Cut the tippet as close to the hook eye as possible.

3. Cut yourself a 4"-6" length of the heaviest tippet you have. Knot the ends to form a loop.

4. Slip the unknotted end over the hook eye and draw to the bend.

5. Press straight down on the eye of the hook. You need to exert enough pressure so that the bend of the hook rises up slightly and barb is "hidden" behind the hook shank when you take the next step.

6. Grit your teeth and give a sharp tug on the tippet loop, to back the hook out. The fly should pop out cleanly. It sounds much worse than it feels. (Picture 4)

7. A band-aid and a dab of antiseptic will see you back on the stream. It may be worth checking you tetanus shot schedule particularly if the hook is rusty etc.

Disclaimer: No zucchinis were harmed during the photography for this story.