**From the Reciprocal Plug Department, because The Drake is a good pal to Buster**

CONTEST! FIND THE GODDAM DRAKE MAGAZINE!

Whatta you win? Why, only the opportunity to peep a big fat bunch of good stuff about fly fishing. Stuff that’ll take more than 10 minutes to read. Stuff you’ll read twice or thrice or more. Stuff you won’t toss away afterward like all the rest. And it’s the 10th Anniversary issue, which is highly collectible so you’d better buy two. We’d compliment it some more, but The Snaz and The Tom have done it well already, and we don’t want the editor’s necklace to get too tight.

But finding it won’t be easy. Oh no. Because it’s elusive, like bigfoot. Some say it doesn’t exist. Like the local Barnes & Noble for instance, who have carried every issue for several years. “The what magazine? Drape? Drake? Hang on……….zzzz…………….no we don’t carry that.” Yeah. Sneaksy hobbitses don’t want you to find The Drake. You gonna let them get away with that? Hell nope you’re not, because you demand quality. So bug your book monger. Bug your fly shop dude. Bug your mom. Everybody wants it, so get moving!

Oh sure, you could subscribe. But it’s delivered by an army surplus shortwave-directed swarm of experimental courier bats, so there’s still an exciting element of chance.

So go! Search high and low. Do not be deterred. Find The Drake! It’s good for you!

“wanna swing this one more time?”

“nah. good.”

“move on?”

“yep.”

“all you, shitphoenix.”

“cool. the bouncy tailout feels leechy. and pinkyish.”

“yeah? then i’ll follow with black and claret.”

“like Barry White. slow and low, marinating the sultry, showman negrotude.”

“dude, white guys can’t have negrotude.”

“but my Gramma’s half-Cherokee.”

“holy fuck man, how high are you right now?”

“high enough to know you possess zero negrotude, my brother.”

“huh? need some Maxima.”

“bet. left bag pocket.”

“tack, ima roll a meat and mustard sammy and then slap my ballsack on your chin.”

“cool. whu? i’ll beat your ass, dude.”

“sure you will. just seein’ if you’re still awake, Barry.”

March steelhead madness, stains. the lack of sleep and food and abuse of caffeine, AquaSeal and performance enhancing drugs are starting to grind on our collective steelheader consciousness and it rules like an impromptu hallucination. the machine is oiled. we are guided by suspicions, riverlevels, tides, the new 570 gr. Airflo Compact Skagit heads matched to a prototype of what’s gonna be the new 13′ 7 wt. Dec Hogan Echo rod (which is the most badass 7 wt. we’ve ever cast), dubbing loops of arctic fox behind two turns of marabou and eight sprigs of the kinda ostrich that looks like rhea. and beer. a shitload of beer.

This was to be my last quail hunt of the season. Perfect weather, great hosts, great groceries, bourbon, etc. . Had the chance to hunt beside a very special retriever, Belle. She’s only 14 months old and is already a seasoned pro. The pointers (Dot, Bill, Tally, Frank the Tank, and Smut) rocked the house as well, but not like Belle. She picked up every bird and never showed any signs of slowing down. I could talk how great the shooting was or how great the scenery looked, but the dogs always take center-stage when it comes to bird huntin’. 

The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men, gang aft agley.

Hold my calls ’til noon, please, but it looks like banknote might be in the office tomorrow, after all.

Ed. note: BWTF is proud to welcome Bobby Knight’s Goddamn Guide Service to our list of sponsors. Bobby joins Satan’s Angler’s Death Metal Guide Service as one of out two (!) Premiere advertisers. To see your product or service here, mail BWTF. Operators are standing by.

Awrite, huddle up! You guys in front — take a knee. Eyes front. Now open those god damn ear holes, ’cause I’m only gonna say this once: This is a fishing opperation. We aren’t here to look at the birdies. We aren’t here to write poetry. We aren’t here to smoke dope along the bank. We are here to fish. And when I say fish, I mean fish. Keep the goddam fly in the water. Keep your goddam eyes downstream and cast the goddam fly WHERE IT IS SUPPOSED TO BE! Not two inches upstream. Not two inches downstream. Not two inches left. Not two inches right. But right on the goddam nose of that goddam fish.
Here’s the drill: fishing starts at 6:30 a.m. You’re late, YOU DON’T FISH WITH BOBBY KNIGHT! I supply the gatorade and the goddam orange slices. For everything else, your on your own. I’m not a baby sitter. I’m not a waitress. I’M YOUR GODDAM FISHING GUIDE. Everyone understand that? We alla speaka da ingrish in this group? Good. Now we got no goddam excuses. Fishing is over when I say it’s over. Don’t come to me at 4:15 with big crocodile tears welling up in your goddam eyes and say, “Coach Knight…. I’m tired. Coach Knight… my feet hurt. Coach Knight… I got the cramps.” Bullshit! That kinda dedication to this program won’t fly — not while Bobby Knight is rowing the goddam boat.
I’ll be booking trips as soon as the goddam basketball tournament is over, so call now and book your goddam trip.
Thank You and tight goddam lines,
Bobby Knight

So here’s the low-down: The Rio Baker is the largest wild (read: free-flowing) river in Chilean Patagonia. I’ve laid me eyes on a lot of rivers in me time, and the Baker is truly a thing of cerulean magnificence, besides being home to wild trout and salmon.

Along comes a company named ENDESA, with the brilliant idea that this river could be much more “useful” if a number of dams (up to 5) were thrown in along its length. Cue the typical PR rhetoric about all of the “benefits” the dam will provide, about how this is a project “by Chileans, for Chileans” (ENDESA is mostly owned by a European consortium), etc. Never mind that a fair chunk of the energy they plan to generate is rumored to be slated for export. Not only do they want to dam this world-class flow, but just as disturbing, they plan to run high-tension towers and lines all the way up the length of the Patagonian Andes, to Santiago. If the entire plan goes through, we’re talking up to 5 dams on the Rio Baker, and over a thousand miles of huge, high-tension towers and lines. And similar plans are underway for the Rio Pascua as well.

But here’s the interesting thing – a lot of the rural people in the region are seeing through the empty promises of this project improving their lives, and calling bullshit on the rhetoric. This is being reinforced by residents of the Bio Bio valley, who had the same promises made to them a decade ago when that river was dammed, and none of which have turned out to be true. A huge campaign has been launched, “Patagonia Sin Represas (Patagonia Without Dams).”

What’s more, last Nov a group of pobladores (rural ranchers), among those that ENDESA is trying to convince will have their lives bettered through this project, saddled up and rode their horses to the regions’ capitol, Coyhaique, to speak in the town square against the dam. This was no little day trip – many of these folks rode for 10 days to get to Coyhaique, including one man who is 90 years old. The site of 150 pobladores, in traditional garb, riding into the center of town to speak against the dams stopped all downtown traffic and had a huge impact on many. Public sentiment is on the rise against this project – power to the peeps, and may it never happen.

More info

 **Disclaimer – White Licker is best served WITHOUT fruit. Adding fruit has a tendency to have lasting effect(s) into the following day. And not in that good way. But the wimmin’s seem more acceptable to the jar if fruit is present.**

It’s Sunday morning, you want funny, well, we have funny

“I clear your bong rip”

Wherein we provide highlight’s from esteemed adventurer 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:

Sincerest apologies to my loyal readers for taking so long to post an update, but you’ll be relieved to hear that my employers at BWTF and I have been in successful negotiations for a long-term contract that will include, among other things, coverage of my travel costs, escort fees and bar tab as the business expenses they rightly are. These arrangements, along with my Tilley, Orvis, and Barbour sponsorships will ensure my continued exploits, and just as importantly, your continued insight into a singular life well-lived in pursuit of the angle.

You will no doubt be upset to hear that my loyal manservant, Tuki, and I have parted ways. The short of it is that during our angling explorations in the rugged backcountry of Swaziland, Tuki had the ill timing to burst into my wall tent one evening, exuberant with the news that the Banded Tilapia were seen tailing, only to find me in flagrante with one of the local, ahem, “delicacies.” While an uncomfortable scenario to be sure, I have long since abandoned feigning shame for my varied and salacious appetites – all part of the intrepid adventurer’s lust for life, and other things, after all. Tuki stomped off in a sullen rage, insisting he would not return to my employ until certain tests had been performed and results returned. Call me from the old school, but I refuse to be given ultimatums by the help, however dear to me they may be. Tuki was thus sent packing, with a handsome severance package, and an old vom Hofe that I had lying around. A bit of sentimentality, perhaps, but I wanted it to be apparent I hold no hard feelings against the young man.

With that unfortunate business tended to, I set off unencumbered to pursue the elusive Banded tilapia, a rather despondent brute which we quickly deemed unworthy of dignified pursuit, opting instead to retire to the expansive deck of our humble retreat to savor our G&T’s over the serenade of giraffes in rut. With my tastes for what Swaziland has to offer, angling and otherwise, well satiated, I began dreaming of where the angling winds might blow me next….

I remember when I first met you. I had shredded the soles of my issue jungle boots hiking around the Franklin Mountains in El Paso. I went straight to that boot repair place on Dyer Ave, walked past the Justins, Larry Mahans and Tony Lamas and asked Mr Rodriguez at the counter if he could hook me up. He pointed, without a word, to your display on the wall. I thought you were kinda pricey at $80 for a resole, but you know what? I rolled the dice and went all in. I thought you were kinda stiff at first, a little uptight, but once you got broke in, you were fine, fine, fine. You are firm, yet supple and you grip like a champ and that’s everything I look for. You never let me down, no matter where I took you- Georgia, California, Korea (shit, I could hear you laughing at the Manchu Mile). I thought I might have to let you go once I got to Florida, what with all them sandals showing some skin, but then you showed me what you were made of out on the flats. Oyster bars and rip rap were no match for you. All them years. You’re showing some wear at the heel now, but you still my number one.

Pogues – Sally Maclennane

Enter The Haggis – Maggie’s Pancakes

Cake – War Pigs

Wook, you obviously meant to post this Pogues/Dubliners video featuring the line “There was Johnny McKirk who was scarred stiff ay work”. Can’t watch this one wiffout thinking ay me auld ma and da, and the rotton coppers what chucked them in the gaul.

More of what I’ve had to suffer from my “friend” over the past three months. He’s pretty well on his way back home, right now, which serves him right.

Angler: “Good sir, what do you consider thee most difficult aspect of mastering the venerable spey stylee?”

Pescador: “It has been noted and I consider it true that thee most difficult aspect of mastering thee venerable spey stylee is informing your loving parents that you are, in word and deed, quite ghey.”

from “Travails of a Verry Worldly Angler, Verily”
–Sauk River Press, 1869

Update: Temps are dropping, the frost is on the pumpkin, and the bite is picking up. A few more days down here to squeeze it in before returning to the harsh, cold realities of the Northern Rockies. But hell, skwalas should be just around the corner…

Lone Pine Hopper – Fly & photo by germanbrown

Like that photo? He’s got many more available here, and you can maybe order yourself one of them fancy cane fish poles too. Cheggidout.

Mingo and Mingo’s Girl, they know what time it is.

That would be Egg Wagon Season in the Greatest Territory in All the Universe, humps.

They understand the need to make sweet, sweet art when the mood strikes, be that with a camera or while balls deep in a badass Northwest flow attached to a silver missle.

That means you say fuck all to the fool computer and get after it, ’cause Time, she don’t like you none.

Above all, Mingo and Mingo’s Girl know the March rains mean you either do your time with the down and across, as i and the boys have been doing, or you blast ass to Hawaii and keep with the art making, as the Mingos have. Suffice to say, we’ve all been a bit busy doing stuff, tho i suspect what Mingo’s been doing has been a bit more gratifying on a day-in, day-out basis.
Here, this fine late Wednesday afternoon (sorry for the tardiness, rolled the 6 a.m. coffee and rivershit program again this morning, broke our second-favorite rod while trying to run down the train and then lost the gotdam fish) we have a marked departure for Mingo and Mingo’s girl. We call it Formal Relaxation, where Kirin meets Donna Karan. so badass, this art. even tho that thing’s gotta be real heavy perched there in perfect bisection like that.

Once again, Mingo’s Girl proves to the Buster loyal why she’ll forever be our World’s Best Holder Upper.

A. Finished 28th in Bassmaster Elite Series points in ’07, which means no teacup rides at Disney World this year.

B. Caught a punk-ass sheepshead, pulled a hammy gettin all up in its face.

C. Needs someone to hold up his dignity, and there’s been no sign of Mingo’s Girl for three weeks.

Even in early march guides and clients outnumber fisherman, 9:1.

via The New Yorker/Roz Chast