Base Ball
The Ball once struck off,
Away flies the Boy
To the next destin’d Post,
And the Home with Joy.
Published in 1744 by Anonymous, Base Ball is believed to be the first baseball poem ever published. We’ll be in section 321 of Safeco Field, our language will be a bit more colorful.
Old faithful delivers again. This time next week should provide a bonafide bonanza. Excuse me now, I have some salt & peppered buttery goodness to consume.
“Sergeant, what’s the banner they’re flying?”
“Sir, through the binoculars, it looks like a skunk”
Of course, I could be lying, because somewhere, down there, might be a trout stream
Runnin down a rumor in the Bootheel and that’s already more than you should know. Then again, that just might be misdirection.
Good morning sir! Please pardon the interruption of your Mud Season.
Furry Bignose thinks Spring snow tastes like poop.
But sometimes the sun she do shine.
And there are determined forces at work.
And hey, we’re fisherfolk, we’re supposed to be patient. Right? RIGHT?
Gone-too-soon howler Lowell George demonstrates slide guitar techniques to a bunch of Germans with bad 70′s haircuts, and spews greezy soul around the room easy as a sneeze:
The Trey Anastasio Band at Bonnaroo ’02 – Push On Til The Day – featuring uber-percussionist Cyro Baptista and a cast of thousands, it seems. Gitcher James Brown on.
Ogden the inapropriate yoga guy. Have some Goji berries.
If my name was Ghost Whip, my middle name would be Ride The – WT
Helluva good week, so far. May be it’ll get better.
Giving new meaning to “Extreme Brah!” Fly Fishing is The Baghdad Anglers Club and School of Flyshing. Set up at one of Saddam’s old palaces, the club was started as a way for soldiers to decompress and relax by fishing for stocked carp and asp in the artificial lakes. We’d like to see the Beav try and muscle his way over these anglers’ access. Something tells me it wouldn’t go well for him or his lawyers.
(Check out the elbows)
(Danger Jimmy Prozac!, Danger! These chicks pack heat)
As the blog’s author is no longer over in the sandbox, there are no more updates to this site. If the club he started is still going strong, drop me a line at salty@busterwantstofish.com and I’ll see if I can get some gear sent their way.
Camp Wally, on the Clark Fork c.2006
From the EPA.
(Helena, Mont. — March 20, 2008) The Milltown Dam cleanup is approaching yet another milestone. On Friday, March 21, the inlet of the bypass channel at the Milltown Reservoir Superfund Site will be opened and the Clark Fork River will be diverted into its new, temporary channel. The diversion will not cause any change in the Clark Fork River level but project managers expect to the river to be murkier for several days following the diversion. Earlier this week, the outlet of the bypass channel was opened and the bypass channel filled with water from the Blackfoot River. EPA required construction of the bypass channel to isolate the Clark Fork River from the contaminated sediments in the Milltown Reservoir, thereby reducing sediment scouring during the next reservoir draw down and impacts to downstream ecology and river users.
When the Milltown Dam is breached on March 28 (expected date), the reservoir level will drop another 12-14 feet (Stage 2 draw down) and approximately 300,000 tons of clean material will wash downstream.
The bypass channel represents a major effort to minimize downstream impacts of dam removal. When the dam is breached, having the Clark Fork River flowing through the bypass channel will reduce the amount of material scoured from the reservoir area by 60%. It also means that no sediments with high metals concentrations will be sent downstream. Most of the material that is scoured will come from the Blackfoot River and the from the earthen coffer dam that is washed away as the Milltown Dam is breached.
With the diversion of the Clark Fork River into the bypass channel, the project is another giant step closer to our goals of restoring the local drinking water supply, protecting the fishery, and restoring the Clark Fork River and Blackfoot Rivers to a more natural and free-flowing state.
The Milltown Dam was built in 1905-1908 to supply power to the local lumber mill and the surrounding area. The mill supplied lumber for the mining operations upstream in Butte. In 1908 an enormous flood washed mine waste downstream from the Butte Mining District, depositing the wastes behind the newly constructed Milltown Dam.
Over time, the arsenic in the reservoir sediments made its way into the Milltown aquifer, polluting the local drinking water supply. Copper in the sediments would periodically scour from the reservoir and kill fish downstream of the dam. Due to the public health risks, the site was listed as a federal Superfund Site in 1983.
In 2004, EPA and the Montana Department of Environmental Quality announced the decision to remove the Milltown Dam and contaminated sediments. Since then, EPA, DEQ and the site trustees have been working with Atlantic Richfield Company, NorthWestern Energy, and Envirocon to carry out the cleanup plan.
Woot! Woot! Watch it happen on the Clark Fork Coalition’s Milltown Dam Cam.
1. Knowing the Latin names for things
Nothing fills a fly fisherman with the sense of superiority, wisdom and general well being than knowing the Latin names for stuff. A rise of Hexagenia limbata, a hatch of Ephemerella subvaria or a bunch of Pteronarcys californica will make the flyfisherman twitter with self-satisfied delight. Even knowing that the name of a lodgepole pine is really a Pinus contorta and red-winged blackbird is an Agelaius phoeniceus will inflate the angler with puffed up good feeling.
But why Pteronarcys californica when “big-assed stonefly” works just as well? Because there’s a chance that you might not know what Pteronarcys californica is, giving the angler a chance to expound upon said fly, imparting you with his boundless knowledge. Allow the angler his speechifying, smile, nod your head continually and wait for him to finish — this harangue it ain’t quite like hell, as it will not last forever. When he finally finishes, thank him generously, “Wow, I never knew that. Thanks for sharing. Do you think I could get one of those beers?”
2. “The good old days”
Fly fishermen are filled with a vague nostalgia for periods of history in which they did not exist. This yearning for the past manifests itself in a multitude of ways: endlessly spouting quotations from long-dead authors; a frenzy for bamboo fly rods; ridiculous displays of facial hair and the willingness to snap up any illustration, knick-knack, geegaw, chotchke or artifact relating to fly fishing, so long as it is at least 50 years old. This passion for the past seems innocent enough — an opportunity to cherish and protect the sport’s long tradition, but the fly angler’s mania for the old days goes deeper. “The old days” were better. Period. The fish were bigger, there were more of them and the stream wasn’t filled with so many punks who just don’t understand what fly fishing is “all about.” As you approach a fly fisherman, make an admiring comment about his bamboo rod. The fly fisherman will then launch into a long exposition detailing the rod’s history, it’s maker and the latin name for the bamboo that it is made from. After the story, it is incumbent upon you to to reply “Wow… incredible. That’s really a beautiful piece of art,” in hushed, reverential tones. The fly fisherman will puff himself up, feeling the pride and superiority he feels are rightfully his. It is then you ask him for a micro brew.
3. Large, amiable dogs
If you find yourself where fly fishermen gather — boat ramps, riverside campgrounds, lake access points — you will certainly be first greeted by a posse of enthusiastic, friendly, tail-wagging labs, golden retrievers and border collies. Fly fishermen love these dogs for many reasons: They are obedient and will bend to the will of the angler, no matter how outrageous the demand. They are seen as handsome and loyal, qualities that the fly angler sees in himself. They are “better” than the run of the mill pooch in that they are smarter, friendlier, more athletic, and have a deeper appreciation for nature — they are also said to recycle — all qualities that the angler sees as a result of his diligent training, compassionate treatment and a generous homelife. Large amiable dogs are not just dogs, they’re large and amiable because the angler made them that way.
It goes without saying that a few pats on the head and a well placed compliment in the direction of Madison, Gibson, Timber, River, Gunner Bugger, Bear, Kenai, Sage or Winston will endear you to the angler forever.
It’s officially Spring, which in this part of the world at least, means it’s time to drop and drag some weighty snax. No! Not nymphing! The horror!! Let’s have another debate about bobbers!! Not.
Another laser example of inspiration from the vise of Glista:
Glass Bead Stone:
Hook: Curved shank nymph hook
Thread: Brown
Under Body: Lead wire.
Tail: Golden brown goose biots.
Abdomen: Blended golden brown dubbing and brown glass beads.
Thorax: Blended golden brown dubbing.
Wing Case: Pheasant body feathers cut to shape.
Legs: Brown mottled hen hackle.
Eyes: Burnt mono.
Feelers: Golden brown biots.
Good news – the new Under Armour line is out!! Still fishing “ON THE WATER.” Still providing “total performance.” Still approaching it like a Wall St. day trader whose next Lexus payment depends on it….
Great Moments In Cinema Asskicking Vol. 5 – The Wild Bunch
From Wikipedia
“The Wild Bunch is a controversial 1969 Western film directed by Sam Peckinpah and starring William Holden, Ernest Borgnine, Robert Ryan, Edmond O’Brien, Warren Oates, Jaime Sánchez, Ben Johnson, Strother Martin, L.Q. Jones, Bo Hopkins and Dub Taylor. The film details an aging gang of outlaws on the Texas/Mexico border in 1913 attempting to survive a rapidly approaching modern world. The film is notorious for its extreme violence during an opening bank robbery sequence and a concluding battle between the outlaws and the Mexican army…In 1999 the film was deemed “culturally significant” by the United States Library of Congress and selected for preservation in the National Film Registry. The film would be ranked No. 80 on the American Film Institute’s top 100 list of the greatest American films ever made and No. 69 as the most thrilling.”
“Burned all my notebooks, what good are notebooks?
They won’t help me survive
My chest is aching, burns like a furnace
the burning keeps me alive…”
The cranky Buster punditry can be justifiably critical of much in this crazy, mixed up world, and while I’m not generally a fan of navel-gazing introspection, I think it’s good to turn this on ourselves, and this thing we do, now and then. Serious, take a step back and think about this industry we’ve created – it’s reached a point of certifiable insanity, hasn’t it? Constructing rods of high-tensile carbon, attaching milled reels of advanced metals, fashioning expensive synthetic lines that imitate sharkskin to gain a purported slight edge on flotation and cast-ability, constructing global concoctions of feather, fur, foam, rubber, thread and metal, much of it, along with most everything else we consume these days, being manufactured by kids and shipped to us from factories on the other side of the world…and at the risk of not sounding as though I’m one of the fanatics as well – to do what, exactly? Feel an all too brief connection with a struggling fish?
Forget the analysis of “why” – that’s been done to death. I’m talking about the less romantic “how” and “what.” By most any objective account, the effort and expense many of us are putting into this are entirely out of proportion with those seconds, or maybe minutes, of experience (though of course to the irredeemably obsessed this is obviously irrelevant). Do we not currently pursue a form of recreation which only seems somewhat quirky, but not entirely insane, solely by virtue of comparison to our collective cultural refusal to think long-term about anything at all? Are we, who so often pride ourselves on our commitment to this pensive pursuit, being swept along like the rest of the herd in this petroleum-fueled, collective hallucination, this exorbitant lifestyle during this tiny blip on the radar in the history of a few fortunate nations in which we find ourselves so fortuitously ensconsed? Meaning, if fly fishing, and the industry that feeds it, seems like a “simple” pursuit, isn’t it only by comparison to the utter ueber-complicated insanity that the rest of our lives have become? A world where spending a 1/3 of your life between the freeway and the television, and the rest of it trying to pay off a 4,000 sq. ft. home that’s 2,500 sq. ft. more than you need, is considered a modicum of success?
But judging the relative sanity of a given pursuit by comparing it to greater insanities is merely a cheap political trick. In stripping the extenuating factors away, and looking at this thing on its own merits rather than in contrast to the rest of our lives, have things not reached a point of ludicrousness? Tell me I’m wrong, but first consider this – fishing vests are reaching the $200 mark, a day of guided floating on the Snake or the Madison costs more than most people in the world make in a month if not a year, we’re paying thousands of dollars to fly to the other end of the world to catch the same damn species of trout in another setting, as further proof, there are blogs like this one…and yeah, I’m neck deep in it as much as anyone, or I wouldn’t be asking myself these same questions. My point is that this thing we do, and the way it seems to be headed, may just be crazy – and not in some hyped, “extreme,” pseudo-sick, bro/bra marketing bullshit kind of way, but truly fucking crazy in the real definition of the word, and probably no more sustainable in the long run really, once the oil runs out, than anything else about our current lifestyle.
Maybe you don’t agree, or are currently fantasizing about smashing my soap box over my head, or think that I’m injecting an undue amount of heaviness into something that’s supposed to be a fun escape from the rest of the depressing world out there. Well, sorry – but for a moment, that’s exactly what I’m doing. All I’m saying is think about it, question it, consider stocking the bunker with macaroni, marabou and mai-bock and try to locate yourself within walking distance of some lovely patch of water, because when gas hits $5 a gallon, compadres, that’s all the escape there’s going to be. May the joy of waking up next to a river, eating a sandwich midday as you glimpse a waxwing and then, finally, settling in around a campfire with friends continue to be an option, or the rest of it might just be too brutal to face…
A few months ago I received an advanced reading copy of Donald Ray Pollock’s short story collection “Knockemstiff” and I held off on writing about as it wasn’t due to be released until this month, but the time has come. It is a collection of interrelated short stories set in the rural southern Ohio hamlet of Knockemstiff and the tales are powerful to say the least. A few other people I know have gotten advanced copies and their comments run from “vivid” to “I wanted to take a shower” and “I don’t think southern Ohio will experience a boom in the tourist trade from this”
Go out and get some as it went on sale March 18th. As a bit of a preview, here is Pollock’s NYT commentary on Ohio politics. Money quote “a blond woman who walks around downtown carrying a cardboard sign reading, ‘You are living on Indian land.’ I love this place.”
Trout Fishing In America – Murrel’s
Trout Fishing In America – My Hair Had a Party Last Night
Edmund Blackadder Meets Captain Redbeard Rum
“You can be my black Kate Moss tonight” – Wally
Gnarls Barkley – Run
Calexico- Sunken Waltz
The Boredoms haven’t played Seattle in 13 years. I was at the last one. I’ll be there tonite. The Boredoms have been getting further and further out there, tho this “tune” comes off a bit like the Dead jamming with Can. Regardless, once this thing gets going, the video images are amazing…. -thee
Rangeley Centennial – Tied by Glista – Photographed by Ginseng Sullivan
being that the lack of new boat conversation’s been, shall we say, lacking these days in the Northwest ’cause we all pretty much fish with each other every other day and all and have nothing really new to report, we thought we’d try some maggoty shit for no other reason than it made for good sentences.
saw some of these cool little Dick Nite spoons at the redneck store and being one who firmly believes there’s no more steelhead soul than crusty old, badass 75 year old dudes who swing Stee-Lee’s down and across and wail, i bought three. got them home, crimped the barbs on the size 6 siwash and tied it to the leader to the sinktip to the flyline. pretty psyched to say these spoons are actually lighter than most of the flies we’ve been fishing and given the abominable largeness/leadness/stinger hookness/tubeness of the local Oregon steelhead “flies” du jour, i’m really not sure what we’re doing is flyfishing anymore anyway. it’s bigger, cause it’s steelhead fishing. this is some real, genuine Ted Trueblood / Joe Brooks shit, here.
kinda cool, actually. it’s as if we’re making our weird way and we’re not some new-age yogapants trout robots who gotta do everything by the book, lest the fly club take our vest patches away or something.
anyway, proceeded to rock the down and across with a flypole and gotta say, the things cast super clean. 19 handsome casts into the run, my Dick found its hen:
Hickman claims when the fish hit and he heard my crusty old Salmon I (with a spoon attached! sacrilege!) start up, I actually screamed, “Fuckin’ A, Dick Nite!”
We do not remember this. kinda sweet to get paid for maggotry, tho i’m not sure i’m gonna make a habit of swinging Dicks. pretty much ’cause i can’t tie a spoon and i’m mega el cheapo.
positive outcome: naturally, this led to finer, more educated boat conversation, as it was intended. random sentences from the day:
“Wow, you really ground your Dick all over that tailout.”
“Man, your Dick’s really marinating out there like that.”
“I’ve really got faith in this black and red Ghost Prawn, but we both know it’s no match for your Dick.”
“The way this thing is fishing and fluttering around out there, I’m convinced my Dick is all powerful.”
Etc. etc. Open to new suggestions, cause it appears that a five-day bender’s on the horizon and thus, I look to the Buster loyal for some new material. i’m outta juice.
When Loop Tackle approached us about creating a Buster Wants To Fish series of fly rods we had to turn them down, creative differences. It looks like the AEG boys were able to work it out, good on ‘em.