During this most very greatest of American holidays, please forgive us if we nod off on the couch with our hand in our pants and some drool on our collar. It might just be getting a little slow around here. So clean your plate, save room for some pie and, please, don’t feed any turkey scraps to the dog.
breaking news from northern ireland:
More than 100,000 fish worth more than one million pounds (2.1 million dollars, 1.4 million euros) were killed in the invasion at Glenarm Bay and Red Bay, on the County Antrim north-east coast.
“We are still assessing the full extent, but it’s a disaster,” said John Russell, managing director of Northern Salmon Co. Ltd.
“In 30 years, I’ve never seen anything like it. It was unprecedented, absolutely amazing. The sea was red with these jellyfish and there was nothing we could do about it, absolutely nothing.
“I have never experienced such concentrations of jellyfish spread over such a wide area. The vastness was unbelievable.”
The seven-hour attack over Tuesday and Wednesday last week saw the jellyfish covering a sea area of up to 10 square miles (26 square kilometres) and 35 feet (11 metres) deep.
“It’s touch and go if we can survive this,” added Russell whose firm supplies salmon worldwide. “It’s a disaster.”
Haha… he doesn’t even know we control them with an old Playstation, some duct tape and some CB radios!
If you’re an adult male coho and you came up through the gravel of Longfellow Creek and you want to get some tail…
you gotta swim under The Man’s steel mill (government subsidized) for a quarter mile…
up and over the latest in-stream habitat improvement project that some volunteers (bunch’a crackers) built…
continue upstream through the roughest ‘hood in town…
past more pool forming large woody debris that another, equally important, volunteer built (probably a boy scout or maybe even an eagle scout)…
then, finally… its business time.
collar up gay
black metal
sauce rouille
bigfoot sightings
driftboat deaths
satan
thai hookers
flopping rubber bass trailer hitch, with
how to tell you’re not mom’s favorite
donald beaver, elf
$18 at a local shop. 1/10th chest pack, 9/10ths Israeli Commando vest, 169% badasss.
I retired one of my fishing caps. Early retirement. Buddy of mine wouldn’t shut up about it. So I gave it away. And we’ve had the worst drought in 132 years since and I have fished very little. I’m such a dumbass.
Actual question published and answered in Fly Rod & Reel’s January/February ’08 Issue
“I carry too much stuff in my fishing vest. What items are essential to pack when fishing? I mean, am I really supposed to have something in every single pocket?”
Feel free to give your answer in the comments
“…in this fashion they crossed sometime near noon the international boundary line into Mexico, State of Sonora, undifferentiated in its terrain from the country they quit and yet wholly alien and wholly strange…To the east he could see one of the concrete obelisks that stood for a boundary marker. In that desert waste it had the look of some monument to a lost expedition”
- Cormac McCarthy “The Crossing”, 1994
Water is found at altitude where I currently live. The sky islands rising to my south are just high enough to support a stream or two and they are a long ridgeline of granite massifs thrusting upwards from the chapparal. They dominate the landscape and form a natural barrier between Sonora and my corner of Arizona, forcing most of the drug trade and undocumented migration east towards Douglas or west towards Nogales. Timbered with oak and mesquite, they support a healthy amount of wildlife, ranging from packrats on up to cougars. The mountains fall away to the south, leveling out to the not quite flat desert floor and once you cross Montezuma Canyon Road, you enter Mexico, which for me is terra incognita- a white blank space on the map that evokes images, fables and myth rather than a land of right knowing.
I was following a stream through one of the canyons there, not fishing hard because it’s doubtful there are trout in there, being the stream flow is unpredictable year to year, making this particular area unlikely to be stocked or support a native population. Still, it’s worth a try and I may be suprised as I gain elevation and the water gets bigger. I try to learn something each time I go fishing, and usually succeed, with most of the epiphanies being minor, the type of lessons that come to someone fairly new to trout fishing.
The holidays are approaching fast and so is the torrent of Crap With Fish On It(tm) for eager anglers everywhere. But is it quality or garbage or merely weird or whut the hell is that thing anyway? Well don’t sweat it, we’ll sort through it for you. Presenting the next installment of Buster’s Yuletide Gift Guide ’07. Please try to contain your glee.
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($45.99 from Delightful Deliveries) – For the fisherman with a sweet tooth. Old-fashioned fly fishing basket holds a half dozen brownies and a half dozen chocolate chip cookies. Perfect gift for the avid fisherman, at least according to the ad copy. Actual delight may vary.
Salty: Great idea except that if I got that Christmas morning, Wilfred Brimley would show up that night to talk about my impending diabeetus.
Brookwookie: Please, just give me the stupid cookies in a bag. I can trade them to the kid down the road for a couple of woodchuck tails or something. As for the cute little novelty creel, it’ll sit on the counter until it fills with junk mail and dust bison, and then I’ll toss it. Save your money.
Thee: Can you put your weed in there?
Smithhammer: Ooof. Ghey beyond belief. The person who gives you this really hates you, and just didn’t have the time or skills to throw a letter bomb together. Respond by lighting the damn thing on fire and throwing it at their head.
($19.95 from Collins Brothers) – It’s a flask that holds booze, but it looks like a set of binos, ha, binos for winos.
Salty: Hmmm, might actually improve the taste of Night Train, T-Bird or Cisco. Other than that, more weight than is useful, easier just to slip a bottle in the pack.
Brookwookie: Yess, let’s give the “outdoor enthusiast” some booze goggles to check out the local wildlife. Guaranteed to get toothless Uncle Gunther a headline on “News of the Weird.” And might also get you a cousin with antlers.
Smithhammer: “Hmmmm….that sounds like a red-breasted mattress thrasher, I better go investigate…”
Thee: Reminder — “The Man” does not want you to drink inside Seahawk Stadium. Fuck the man. I’ll take these.
($45.00 from where else? Orvis) It’s a leather trout paper weight, no real need to elaborate here.
Brookwookie: I have too much cash and no imagination, so I spent $45 on this fish-shaped lump of leather for you. Look, it’s even got your initials stamped on it, so there’s no way you can deny that it’s yours. No, really, you’re welcome, stop hugging me so tight, I can’t breathe.
Salty: Fine Corinthian Hand Stitched Leather!
Brookwookie: Are there really people out there with stacks of important papers next to a breezy window that need to be secured? And if so, is a rock or a coffee cup just not up to snuff?
Thee: It’s a fucking blackjack, you dipshits. I’ll take a case.
Brookwookie: And so began Thee’s rather unconventional descent into a life of highbrow thuggery and silly crimes.
($69.99 from A Gift Personalized) A personalized wood humidor. Nothing says Spring Ridge Club like having a wood box full o’ Cubans, and that’s just in the staff quarters. You can get your name and camp engraved.
Salty: Hey, you could put yer weed in there.
Brookwookie: Smithhammer could put his Micronauts in there.
Smithhammer: Hey, I could put my weed and my Micronauts in there!
Thee: Can you really put your weed in there? I mean, will it violate the warranty or something?
Salty: Does a wood box come with a warranty? It’d better be a lifetime warranty.
Bacon_to_fry: Fuck, does Thee’s weed come with a warranty? ‘Cause all i’m getting is a headache and an itchy toe.
($24.95 from Fish and Gifts) A TP holder that looks like a fishing reel. See, when you grab some TP the thing spins around and it looks like a fishing reel, which is really cool because you like to fish and stuff. On the toilet. I guess.
Brookwookie: Insert “fighting butt” joke here.
Salty: Pure GOLD, especially if it makes a screaming drag sound when I pull a strip off.
Smithhammer: “Whew, that brown took me into the backing…”
Bacon_to_fry: “No matter how bad the environmental conditions, we just couldn’t wipe out those invasive browns.”
($16.50 from Paper Source) For the fishing fool who wants to attach a cover sheet to that TPS report while fondly brutalizing a malformed psychedelic trout.
Brookwookie: This might just be THE item that says “under slightly different circumstances I could easily be that weird cat lady from down the street.”
Thee: As if we need to mock cube farmers even more. Cripes, give the poor bastards a break.
Salty: I’ve tried to come up with something to say about, but I am speechless in the face of that monstrosity.
($3.50 from Treasured Designs, though there’s a million others to choose from) The old standby. This one appears to feature a brook trout having a good laugh at the brand new golfer that just chucked all his fishing gear in the drink.
Brookwookie: I’ve got four or five of these, all of which do a perfectly good job of holding drinks or fly tying stuff. One even features the tail of the trout as the handle, which is all very oh ho aren’t we clever, but it’s an impediment to beverage enjoyment. It currently holds several boxes of hooks, a pair of pliers and a couple of ratty turkey quills. So a word of advice, ubiquitous fishing-themed coffee mug mongers: stick with a plain handle.
Smithhammer: It would be great to see a mug like this, but with an image of a trout swimming around all these gifts what had been chucked into the river.
($9.95 from Bass Pro) Action figure with raft, net, rod with magnetic “lure” thing, and magnetic bass. No, we’re not kidding. Behold.
Salty: What is that reel, the Tibor Farallon Islands model? Jesus, I know largemouf can fight, but that’s a friggin Warn Winch. Bet that rod has roller guides too.
Thee: Those are some nice leather dungarees, Chad.
Smithhammer: Hmmm, let’s look at the checklist: leather, rubber, fishnet, rope, a couple paddles. Yup – Chad’s all set for an “invigorating” weekend of tapping bass.
Brookwookie: Better keep those Micronauts away from Chad or they’ll kick his ass and take his pants and his fish and leave him with nothing but a charred rubber raft and wistful secret shame.
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OK, that’s all the Yuletide splendor you get for now. We’ll try to do a couple more of these in the weeks leading up to the big wrapping paper frenzy, because Buster’s got a soft spot for revelers. No, really, don’t mention it.
Hey shoppers, nothing poops up the holidays like the stink of desperation. Check out Part 1 here!
Invented in 1928 by Taylor “Beartracks” Williams, the Renegade has been thee culmination of old timey and badass for over 75 years.
Heavily hackled, twist of peacock and a gold tag.
The symmetrical profile of this fly extends well above and below the surface. Catches trout coming and going.
Buggy? The Renegade is state of the art buggy.
Wherein we provide highlight’s from esteemed fisherman Frank Lee Schwetty’s new book, “The Globetrotting Angler: Intrepid Expeditions Through Middle Age” We will be providing regular updates of Mr. Schwetty’s adventures. Yet another exclusive feature you can only find on BWTF:
“What a journey this has been so far!! Upon arrival in Ulaanbaatar and acquisition of a bodyguard to protect myself from ingratiating, ripe-smelling locals, I became aroused, err…amazed by the woolen-clad women and fecund livestock wandering the many virgin meadows. “A magnificent landscape sadly devoid of modern accoutrement,” I quickly jotted in my leather-bound traveler’s journal (thank you, Orvis). Understandably, my more advanced Western mind raced over all the ways in which we could bring these poor people civility. Just think of the economic benefits!
Instantly, I began Blackberry contact with my American partners to tell them of my new philantrhopic brainstorm, but not before sampling a trifling of glorious Mongolian fly fishing—opportunity for a further chapter in my upcoming memoir on the world travels of an inveterate expedition angler.
My travel advisor at the Explorer’s Club back home had strongly recommended hiring a guide, and put me in touch with the wonderfully skilled “Tuki.” After a short demonstration of my own skills on the front lawn of the Ulaanbaatar Sheraton, Tuki quickly decided my angling techniques were far too advanced to squander on the lowly river-dwelling taimen, a trash fish by most accounts. Instead we agreed to focus on pursuing the wary Mongolian grayling, a far more elusive species, Tuki had assured me. After just a few minutes streamside, I couldn’t have agreed more, and showed Tuki my gratitude by giving him one of the lightly used (but professionally laundered), T-shirts I had brought expressly for tipping purposes. Now this is the stuff of sport a globetrotting angler could cut his teeth on!! I have learned so much from Tuki, on the river and off. (to be continued….)
ten minutes from the bacon_to_fry compound, and two minutes from the 04:15 rendezvous hour, i’m lamenting my impending excuse laden tardiness when the mobile lights up with DG on the other end.
“man, shit, my alarm didn’t go off. i’m out the door right now. be there in ten minutes. fuck.”
“no sweat, i’m still en-route, myself. i’ll give you a call if we need you to meet us somewhere.” ‘cept now i’m thinkin’ up excuses for both me and my tardier friend, and damn, i’m just not that good a dancer. lucky thing is, bacon isn’t any better with household electronics than DG. he has a nice front porch though, perfect for sitting on and sipping my coffee, out from under the Portland drip, and waiting. three unanswered cell calls, the arrival of my late friend, and a crescendoed series of door raps later, he emerges, cross-eyed in boxers, feigning attempted focus on his wrist and garbles “damn, didn’t my alarm go off?”
it’s a gotdamn conspiracy.
no matter, off through the dark dampness at 04:53 is pretty good any how, and only puts us 20 minutes behind the crowd at the bait shack. our call to the shuttle man gets answered with a “river’s blown,” which on this day i’m pretty sure can be translated to “my head hurts from too many jack & cokes so please go home,” but we press on, the waning dimness at the put-in un-shrouding a river fresh on the drop and clearing, a frenzied procession of trailers each taking a turn at backing down the narrow ramp, sliding its boat off and into the gravel-barred eddy, and getting the fuck out the way. shoved off and around the inside seam, between the bankies’ giant bobbers floating gianter gobs of shrimp and eggs, down and out of range from the foot-bound multitudes, adrift at last and we’re ready to fish.
’twas the first time i finally got Mr. DG (aka birddog) on the same river together with our skipper, Mr. ‘fry, in my very own cherry-poppin’ run down that boiled-pea-green, wood-choked, umbilical rush to the sea, and truer words were never spoke than D’s after-shocked, post-death steam-breath adrenalized gush of “dude, you are one fishy mother-fucker.”
’twas also the first time i ever seen one of gjod’s great creatures dispatched to her maker with a half-empty thermos of fresh-roasted Stumptown Hairbender. and, while awkward to swing with rain-soaked mitts, i’ll have to say the stainless steel-lined caffeine dispenser delivers a dose of sufficiently concentrated mass to ensure a quick journey to His warm embrace.
every victory deserves a reward. celebratory snadwich. and no, that’s not cranberry sauce on the boot-foots.
with a slab like that in the bottom of the boat, the rest of the day can be nothing but gravy. thick, savory gravy.
tender hands for a dog on the hunt for some luvin’.
second pass = double vision and a nice snapshot for the baitshack corkboard. though marsh-camo is sooo 2006.
back at the ranch: eggs goin’ to the boat and D’s gutboard nail-o-pain.
atta way to row that boat, bacon_to_fry. only two fish on the checker’s list and they both came off the bow of your Slide Rite. you ARE one fishy mother-fucker. also, sorry about my heavy nods whilst home-bound, although i was up a little earlier than your ass. and thanks for pickin’ up my slack with the Raindog.
Planning a pike fishing road trip in the near future? Well, to be honest, we weren’t either, but you’d be doing the townfolk of Portola, Ca. a big favor if you did. And this ain’t no catch and release fishery – it’s hook ‘em and cook ‘em, baby. Seems the non-native Esox (first found in the lake in 1988) are doing a serious number on the trout of Lake Davis.
In Sept. folks gathered at a local hang out north of town, the Grizzly Store, to enjoy some beer, BBQ and beans. Nothing unusual about that, but as dusk arrived, things took a turn towards the dark arts, as they doused and torched a giant wooden sculpture of a northern pike, chanting “Death to Pike!!”
“We built it. We burned it,” declared Sara Bensinger, the Grizzly’s owner. “It was kind of like feeding the fish gods. Pleeeeease get rid of the pike.”
Since we loves chasing these prehistoric bastidges, here’s a simple, durable pike fly (which is prolly 169% what matters with pike flies…):
Black polar chenille, red rabbit strip, hunk o’ krystal flash and some white bucktail on top. If yer the type that likes to make this more complicated, tie some in chartreuse too. Strip it like a fiend.
And here’s another useful pike recipe:
Ingredients:
1 pound northern pike fillets
2 tbsp vegetable oil (feel free to use olive, or sesame oil instead)
1 cup chopped onions
1 cup of julienne carrots
1 large julienne green pepper
2 large tomatoes peeled
½ tsp fish seasoning
1 large squeezed lime
Cut tomatoes into quarters. Cut the pike fillets into bite size chunks. Heat the oil in a large skillet at medium. Add the carrots, pepper and onions, sauté for 8 to 10 minutes. Add the fish pieces and remaining ingredients. Cover, reduce hit to simmer for 10 minutes or until the fillet flakes throughout. Enjoy.
fuck yeah banknote, skipper had a giant, throbbing feeling.
best i can tell, among a few incidental farming incidents that earned one guy the title of Minister of Agriculture and a creepy ass dog salmon, that throb led to you humps going home with matching 30+ lb. ocean-bright chinook that cut deep, deep red and stand to feed your asses with the wildest of Central Washington coast rivermeat for at least two or three weeks. so badass the way you guys laid the screws into those big kings. badderass still is to see a couple of flyfishermen go damage with the gear rods, 30 lb. maxima and wrapped K-16′s. way laser awesome times whilst we wait for the winter steelhead, fellas.
it should be noted, banksnotes hooked him a damn fine fish far too damn close to a hella big amount of wood and gnar, stayed on it tight, turned 30some odd lbs. of mad pissed chromer king away from said wood, over the tailout and 40 yards down a maching riffle, wherein the fool ass skipper was finally able to get an anchor on good gravel and bleed that fish. swear to the perfectors of Rainier, man, i never once thought that thing was gonna leave that pool. honestly didn’t think you had a chance fella, and i’m not ashamed to say i was one proud captain. i was gonna tell you all that gushy shit on the way home, but you chose to saw logs the whole way back. and your Rainier in the cupholder? i drank it.
gotdam, despite high, near-out flows flows and noticeably rising gauge on a float we’ve never done, the rivergods smiled on us today. as opposed to the asshat in the black willie whose breath smells now like our collective nuts. you know, sometimes you should just mouth punch those guys sitting in a boat landing eddy with that smarmy-ass look before they even open their fool mout’s.fucker was even wearing an Orvis hat. that alone, man. that alone.
last fact: gotta love fall chinook season. back to swinging flies at steelhead soon, tho. i’ve had enough of the sardine-stank maggotry and my hands reek like i was just at a high school homecoming dance and got to third base between some lockers and a janitor cart.
PS: D, sorry you skewered your hand with that giant nail on my gut board, but i trust the sixer you downed on the ride home made things somewhat less painful. peroxide, neosporin, Bushmills 12, hope you’re well.
Can’t wait to git it.
http://www.drivebytruckers.com/writeup_btcd.html
http://www.drivebytruckers.com/bio.html
Important appointments must be kept.
i’m riding down a river on the Slide-Rite maggot train today. it’s the first real mega rain dump of the year, NOAA’s going out on a limb with a 100% chance of precipitation (which isn’t really a “chance,” is it?), the graphs are steep and **should be** on the decline by dawn, and skipper’s “got a feeling.”
i got a feeling ima come home with stinky fingers, damp ass and blood on me boots.
They’re tough. Like Remington 870 pump tough. And they like to eat something a little more meaty than a size 18 BWO.
Pic courtesy of http://georgiariverfishing.com/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?t=5053&highlight=buzzbait
Jedidiah, he’s got a dime
Says he catch a more fish every time
Lowell George & flying polyp trout, 28 years gone.
Lowell fun facts:
