Each and every one of you mutts that even dawdles with thee angle had best head over to Finspot’s Fat of the Land and read All Hail the Lunch Brookie.

“The next morning, operating under the theory that our lure-stealing fish had retreated to the opposite shore to sulk, we tried the far end of the pond, a mosquito-infested corner with tall reeds known as the “Back Bay.”

Watch the vid and let Riley remind you of what’s whut. Then go fishing.

Arizona fishing is picking up these days. Hot off the wires from “America’s Trusted News Source,” comes this story of an alligator gar caught in Tempe:

‘Fishgator’ caught in lake .

Oh no, you humps didn’t forget the best thing about a Buster wednesday.

a new summer selection of high art from the exalted Mingo and Mingo’s Girl, skillfully holding stuff up in abstract July style and further proof that real artists wear more (or in this case, less) than black turtlenecks.

(insert old Aaaaruuuugah car horn noise here:)

The kind that edits Fly Fisherman magazine…

Well played, Coolconman. Buster wants to see some more. Get up on it, people.

Either the Lake Michigan Trumpetmouth have gotten a helluva lot smarter than they were 10 or 15 years ago or we just really supersuck at casting a singlehander now, cause picking on those those wily slimes of the freshwater flats wud’nt nearly as easy as it used to be. pretty weird.

Diabolically badass to get home for a bit, tho. No shot at gagger carps for us this time, but we managed to get our bend on enough times, the thimbleberries were out in force and we ate until our bellies was full of north ‘Sconny goodness: Smoked string sheese from Renard’s, southbound hwy 42-57. Brandy old-fashioneds, nightly. Best state in the world to be from, humps, but everyone there could stand to shut the eff up about Favre already.

This includes you, Brett Favre.

Since we’re already on the subject of flesh-eating organisms….

People around Washington D.C. are now paying money to let fish chew on them.

This is some sort of pedicure treatment, reportedly. Seems harmless enough now, but don’t they know what happens once these bloodthirsty little bastards get a taste for human flesh?

From ProPublica via the Albany Times Union comes news of another fresh hell. Seeing visions of dollar signs due to the increased profitability of drilling for difficult-to-reach deposits of natural gas, the NYS legislature is attempting to “streamline” the permitting process to fill their coffers.

Of interest are leases to the Marcellus Shale, 9,000 feet down and apparently rich in natural gas. But the extraction involves injecting huge amounts of water into the ground. Water that must be drawn from somewhere, likely from many small water sources, and New York does precious little to regulate surface water extraction. We’re talking millions of gallons of water per well, and if that doesn’t make your piscatorial skin crawl, then Buster doesn’t know what will. Not to mention the fact that the water gets toxified in the process (both naturally and with the help of trade secret chemical brews used for lubrication and preventing corrosion) and must then be treated. The local geology prevents it from simply being injected back into the ground as is common practice elsewhere.

Well dang, Buster, it’s a good thing that the NYS Department of Environmental Conservation’s got your back, yeah? Well, let’s just examine that. Some of the article’s relevant highlights. Um, lowlights:

• “In New Mexico, oil and gas drilling using waste pits like those proposed for New York has caused toxic chemicals to leach into the water table at some 800 sites. Colorado has reported more than 300 spills affecting its ground water.
• DEC officials told ProPublica and WNYC they were not aware of those incidents, even though that information could have been found through a rudimentary internet search.
• Some of the regional DEC offices that would oversee Marcellus wells have no experience with gas drilling at all. Yet New York officials said they see no reason to update their environmental impact statement, which was drafted in 1992, long before this form of drilling, called horizontal hydraulic fracturing or “hydrofracking,” was feasible on the scale now contemplated.
• DEC officials acknowledged that the state’s current rules allow independent contracting companies to take water from upstate streams and wetlands at will. They also acknowledge they don’t track the process drillers use to dispose of “produced water,” as the gas and oil industry refers to its waste.
• DEC’s current regulations require only that produced waste be treated to “high standards” before being discharged back into rivers. DEC officials said the water would be shipped to Pennsylvania and treated in specialized plants there.
• “Don’t bet on it,” said Paul Hart, president of Hart Resource Technologies, which owns and operates three of the region’s five qualified facilities, and whose phone number was given to Propublica by New York DEC.
• The NYS DEC’s Environmental Assessment Form, which drilling companies must file to get a permit, doesn’t ask where drillers plan to get their water, and only asks for a vague estimate of how much they plan to use. “You’re getting into the concept of cumulative impacts,” said James Tierney, assistant commissioner for the division of water. “One water withdrawal may not have an impact, but 50 would have a huge impact. We’re trying to figure it out.”
• “They add chemicals, we know they do that,” said Tierney, the water division official, in a meeting July 4. “We don’t know exactly what they are.”
• When asked how the DEC intends to shepherd its waste water, the DEC could offer few details. Making sure the water gets treated isn’t part of DEC’s permit review process, so long as the end result complies with state laws that say, somehow, it eventually gets treated and meets discharge standards.
• “If there is any doubt in anybody’s mind that we are going to proceed with these applications without full protection and consideration for the environment they are just wrong,” Washington said. “It may be that the applicants down the line are going to have to wait a long time for their permits. There are some things to sort out here.”

I guess there are, but NY Governor David Paterson only has one more day to sort things out before signing the bill streamlining the permit process (bill # A10526A). Any uppity mountain hippies that are inclined to help him sort things out can give him a call at 518-474-8390 or email him using this form. Aside from pure greed, I can’t see any reason to expedite a process for which they are so woefully unprepared.

Ahh, Utah. Kind of a “different” place in a lot of ways, no? State mandated 3.2 beer%?!? Sacrilege and downright un-American, says we. On the other hand, one town did recently approve the wearing of bikinis at public pools, providing they’re “modest.”

But a few days ago, the state what Joseph Smith wrought made a huge, noble and progressive move in favor of the common man and against locking rivers away from the public – the Utah Supreme Court has just decided that the public has a right to access waters that run through private property;

“The high court said that without the ability to touch stream bottoms, members of the public cannot effectively enjoy their right to recreational activities on state waters, all of which are owned by the public. The only caveat is that water users must behave “reasonably,” “cause no unnecessary injury to the landowner,” and “engage only in lawful recreational activities,” according to the ruling.“

In what seems to be a time of increasing privatization, I believe this calls for a healthy round of…

Cheers, Utah.

More here.

I really don’t know what else to say.

(Cochise Stronghold, Southeastern Arizona. Burial place of Cochise)

“When I was young I walked all over this country, east and west, and saw no other people than the Apaches. After many summers I walked again and found another race of people had come to take it. How is it? Why is it that the Apache wait to die- that they carry their lives on their fingernails. They roam over the hills and plains and want the heavens to fall on them. The Apaches were once a great nation; they are now but few, and because of this they want to die and so carry their lives on their fingernails… I have no father nor mother; I am alone in the world. No one cares for Cochise; that is why I do not care to live and wish the rocks to fall on me and cover me up.”

-Spoken by Cochise to General Gordon Granger during peace talks at Canada Alamosa, New Mexico. (Dee Brown, Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, Owl Books, 1970. pages 209-210)

Actual conversation that took place last week between two friends of mine:

Buddy #1 – “Hey bro, I’ve checked the flights and I’m having a difficult time finding a ticket and nothing is under $800.”

Buddy #2 – “Shit man, don’t worry about it.”

Buddy #1 – “You sure man? You’re not gonna be pissed?”

Buddy #2 – “Hell no! It’s just a damn wedding. Espescially if it keeps you from making a trip back over here to catch a game or go fishing.”

Buddy #1 – “What about your bride?”

Buddy #2 – She’ll be cool with it. Besides, she knows we have LSU, Tennessee, and Georgia all home this year. She’s cool. Just make sure you get over here for at least 2-3 ballgames and some fishing.”

Happy weekend! Have some.

Via FoulHooked and the Adirondack Almanack comes this editorial from the Albany Times Union with an unlikely protagonist – the Bush administration’s EPA, who attempted to advance something called the Clean Air Interstate Rule, which called for reductions of smokestack emissions across 28 states. The rule was struck down by a federal appeals court on the grounds that the EPA had exceeded its authority under the Clean Air Act. Well shit, just how bad does it have to get?

The rule “called for reductions of 70 percent in sulfur dioxide and 60 percent in nitrogen oxides — the ingredients of acid rain — by 2009, mostly through a cap-and-trade program that would require older, dirtier electric power plants to buy credits from newer, cleaner ones.”

Setting aside the merits of cap & trade programs, if you’ve fished the Adirondacks you’ve probably come across some ponds and streams that grab you by the scruff and pull you close and yell “BROOKIE” in your face like Sgt. Hulka. That is, until you discover that they’re sterile and empty. This isn’t anything new, sadly, and I suppose that the advancement of this rule might have been meant to fail, but these empty waters are a kick in the guts and it’s somewhat cathartic to see this problem get any attention at all.

The new issue of This is Fly has just come out and has a pretty damn interesting article on the current state of commercial overfishing, starting on pg. 65. Check it.

Much potential here. Have at it, skanks.

Da winner gits one o’ dese:

Which brings us back to Alfi, a man well-trained in the subtle art of curing retards. Alfi had a good program, he’d station himself and the boat above his dudes in the river, so he could both guide the folks in front of him and keep an eye on those below, who he had working the gravel bars downriver. Smart fella. Like I said, a pillar. Can’t be easy fishing three spread-out dudes who could need a boat ride at any second.

Apparently, Alfi had seen my fool ass sprinting down the island with the rod held high over my head hoping the fish wouldn’t saw me off turning the corner while leaving the pool. The whine of the jet pump said he’d had the good sense to give a fella a ride to the dance. A huge thanks, Alf, and that coming from a guy who’s only been guided twice in his life and still a bit uncomfortable playing the role of sport. If anything, it’s a sincere show of honest respect and gratitude. Alfi King is one boss dude.

Somehow got into the boat and kept a hold of that missile, despite the serious lack of backing we had left. The arbor knot had reared her ugly head and this was capital NOT GOOD. Fish was still ripping downriver, apparently fast enough to not see the logjams it was streaming past. All it woulda had to do was park inside one of those timber beasts and the deal woulda gone sour like so many before it, but she stayed true and in the main flow. Gjods, still momentarily smiling on the bacon-flavored turd.

There’s a wicked spot in a gagger chinook fight where things get sorta serene out there, placid , ethereal and otherworldly, like you’ve accepted death and you resign yourself to the fact that this one might very well be unlandable. At that moment, just 300 yards above saltwater, both Alfi and I were inside that  moment in the cosmos, so you do what needs doing, calm down, get all analytical and rational about the business at hand, talk through what that fish is doing, dial up the drag a click or two, and make corrections to boat and rod position accordingly. Truly a team sport, these fish.

That was the annotated notes of the first 30 minutes. Upriver. Downriver. Across the river and half-way up the opposite bank into a treefort made of knives. Repeat in a sequence that’s never the same, nor is it predictable. The remaining 15 were an all-out slugfest when the fish did decide to calm down and torque around in the slow inside of the Archeological Hole. The sun started shining and a fella knew if he could just keep his sinktip out of the tip top and conduct his business in a measured, orderly fashion there might some hope to meet the big girl with whom they’d been dancing. So far, we’d not seen the fish. Not really, at least.

Worse than saying to a friend, “Get the camera.” before the battle’s over is apparently saying “Alfi, I think she might be ready for the net.” My fool stupid-ass mistake. Alfi hadn’t so much as touched the net when 35+ poundeage of mint-bright, absolutely perfect king came clear out of the water 15 feet in front of our hairy eyeballs, which made them even bigger.

Now, marinate on that shit for a second; 30-some odd minutes balls deep into it, 30-some odd pounds of king jumped three feet. Then it did it again, backflipping like an Alaskan silver. Never seen kings this hot before and we’ve seen our share of kings, fellas. When they hit the water on re-entry, you pray you’re gonna feel the next headshake instead of a busted leader.

When it finally did settle down and point itself lazily upriver, the slow process of the winch began. Turn fish slowly, lead to the bank, don’t freak out when it goes back out 50 feet, repeat. This goes on for some time with a big king and it’s the last test: “Have you got your mojo rolling hard enough to just wait for the glory? Or are you gonna get all premature like a freshman virgin and blow your load trying to force some shit that’s not ready to happen?

You wanna do the former, but there’s a better than average chance you’ll end up geeking on the latter. How it goes.

Seemed like forever this went on (much like this story), the fish would feel the net and lose its shit. This gets hella freaky, but you both know its losing more piss and vinegar every time so you put up with the give-and-take hoping she’ll run out of the give before you do. Alfi had decided it was time, apparently, turning to me and saying in a language I could very much understand, “Man, we gotta fuckin’ do this. We’ve at least gotta try.” Normally, I know when it’s time with a fish. This one had given me no indication, tho Alfi had. Thus, I laid into that slob sideways and led her head up toward the net.

The river was in the willows that day, so in what had to be a last ditch effort, the gagger actually ran into the sticks and parked somewhere deep into the just-fucked-me.

Begin surreal Dean moment #57.

Swear banished angels or wood nymphs or something were singing and time slowed down to ¼ pace. All a guy could do was watch Alfi sorta stare into a mess of sticks and muddy water and theoretically, a gagger king buried down there somewhere, hoping his wading boot or a stick wouldn’t part the leader, trying to find the ideal second to stab the net in and actually call that fish landed. It honestly didn’t feel like that was gonna happen, and that’s when I heard him start laughing.

I damn near puked at the end of it all. Hands and heart were shaking, my arms were useless with my mouth trying to offer some sorta weak thanks when I saw the massively badass head and tail curled around and sticking out of the net. Haven’t smiled like that in a very long time, big , rat bastard and shit-eating. We’d done what we came to do.

Dumped over the gunnel as Alf was passing me the net and just cradled the thing for a short while in the water. So badass to see these fish up close, especially given the insane amount of power and violence they’ve got inside them. Thing was all mirror and muscle, her anal fins covered in sea-lice; a picture of perfect. Couldn’t believe the girth. It didn’t stop at her belly like other kings, instead extending all the way back to the wrist. Just unreal. We remember Alfi taping her at 40” x 26″, what would theoretically be a 34.8 lb. fish by the steelhead equation. Don’t know if Alfi was playing the role of bullshitter, but I made no argument when he proclaimed it to be at least 37, if not 38. Ginormous in size, but even better in heart, yet not uncommon on that river.

A few quick up and out shots and we were back in hip deep water with our greasy hand on her tail. You could feel her moving more intently. She was waking back up. Let it all go and while watching her lazily disappear into that deep, green-stained water, I thought of my buddy, the Banknote. After his first king of each day, he’d always stop and say, “From here on out, it’s all gravy.” and this has never been more true. The creeping feeling of needing to get your hand on that one symbiotic fish goes away after that, and you’re a different animal. Mellow. Reborn with the stoke. Soul-saved, knowing you’re in on something paranormal known only to a few. You avoid showering for a few days after that, ‘cause you’d be a fool to wash off that brand of hard-earned stink, grit and mojo. You’ve gotta keep it rolling like a dirtball proper. Always.

Light was failing by now and Alfi and I sat there in the boat sorta talking shit through and trying to hold onto what had just went down. I gotta think a fella who shares moments like these with other fishermen on a semi-regular basis gets a pretty badass, humble glimpse into humanity and what folks are all about. What they appreciate, etc. He sees people in their finest hour, without pretense. Gotta be something a guide calls a benefit of the job.

Being a big fish junkie himself, Alfi offered to drop me off back in the pool in the hopes we’d find another before nightfall, but this one was enough. The evening couldn’t get much better, quite frankly and we had other plans in mind, those involving sucker punching John Toker’s beer fridge we spoke of earlier. Repeatedly into the night and following morning. Accepting you’d had a true Dean, 45-minute moment and not wanting much more is by far good enough for anyone I wanna fish behind.

In closing, we’ll say this: we’re bonafide steelhead junkie freaks to the absolute core of our being, but never once in the next four days did we secretly even hope the next pull was gonna come from a steelhead. Fact. There was something otherwordly ascending that river, they eat swung flies with a power you honestly can’t imagine nor believe, and it only lasts a few weeks each year. Hit it right, and your head explodes.

In a word: go.

Woke up on day three to a river that’d risen 6 inches. Clarity had gone from four-feet-of-count-every-rock to 1.5’ and getting dirtier. Hotdam, spirits were rising, fish would be in the slow inside transitions and if we could somehow manage to keep our racket tight, there was a renewed sense of chance every steelheader or chinook fisherman I know lives for ’cause it’s something you can point at and think maybe. I’d been dropped off on an island in a run called Tony’s and while rigging up, noticed a roller out of the corner of my eye. Then another, like gjod smiling on a bacon-flavored turd. They’d arrived. They’d finally come in.

Got stationed in the eye of the run, where rippin’ fast bounce meets slow glass and made the first cast of many. There’s a sneaker rock out in that inside glass, one that I’d donated three flies to earlier in the week, so you sorta mark it with a rock on shore and pull your fly outta the grease just before it touches down. Dean rocks are grabbier than any other species of rock. They have seven mouths apiece. They will jack your shit. Know that.

More kings rolling in the tailout and my shit’s coming unbuttoned. It’s 60°. I’m sweating, trying to lead 14’ of t-16 out through super heavy bounce and then as far inside through the soft water as physically possible, ’cause they say traveling fish on this river could be in both types of water. Our cast’s going to hell. Happens to damn near everyone we know and bear in mind, we know some badass sticks with giant balls who were cool enough to never wear mousse even back in the 80′s.

First pass with black and blue, no bumps. Second with pink and orange, even less. Dorsal fins still blubbing out in the grease. Swear, they’re laughing.

That’s about the time you start talking aloud with stupid little thoughts that’d sooner have you committed.

Felt like i was under the fish rocking such heavy junk, so we switched our crud up to 10’ of t-11 and chartreuse in front of blue with more flash than Mr- T’s neck, ‘cause Alfi says chartreuse and blue’s the shit, and you don’t question a dude like the Alf. 18 seasons on the Bulkley and who knows how many on the Dean, on top of the fact he’s got hands big enough to crush skulls and break trees. The man is a pillar of moustache, wisdom and awesome.

Lighter tip meant I could lead the fly in shallower and just as I’m thinking this getup’s all wrong, I get lit up. 5 feet of running line flies out of the reel, we freeze waiting for that freaky little cosmic moment where something in our subconscious mojo tells us to bury the rod low and to the bank. The moment never comes. Fish dropped the fly. Fuck me.

Finish our third pass with a head hanging even lower, and start back to the top for another shot. Casting’s better now for some reason. Loops going out all prettylike, line rolling out high and the running line bucking against the reel and dropping the fly straight in. That grab musta gave us our what’s-it-all-about back, 10 feet tall and Sunday handsome. We’ve still got rollers.

Swear on my eyes, stains, that’s when the unquestionably hardest grab of my life happened. Fly laid down, mend was right and that Bad Hair Day was no more than a foot underwater when something evil took three times, Chugga, two feet of line out. Chugga four feet of line ripped from the reel. CHUUUUUG, the fish wasn’t fucking stopping. Didn’t have to really set the hook ’cause the rod was buried and the tip top was grinding riverrock, but I reared back low and to the side anyway and came tight on a lotta heavy pounds of ghost chrome chinook literally greyhounding its way toward the tailout en route to points unknown. Thing looked like a seal, its back out and just jamming its way across the surface. so laser. ultron badassness.

Honest fellas, there was no controlling this thing and I wish I hadn’t laid into it like that, cause it was mighty pissed about the whole ordeal. Absolutely nothing you could do but watch 1 or 2 or 300 some odd yards of backing disappear, and bear in mind, I was fishing a Burkheimer 10130 or an Echo 2 9126 depending on the run. Big guns, made for big shit this bigass and pissed, and we were putting the screws to this lady . These kings didn’t care fuck all about how much sack your rod’s packing in the ass end.

The entire event was so beautifully unreal I forgot to follow the fish, instead just standing there hella shocked at the power of one creature (or critter, as The Big Guy would say), drooling and getting my ass handed back to my ass reacharound-style. You clearly needed a boat and a skosh of divine intervention to keep up to this thing.

About the time I remembered to start running, it occurred to me I was on an island that ended in 80-odd steps. I’d forgotten my radio. The words triple fist-fucked with fists came to mind. Seven times.

Field & Stream really did get out of control with those covers in the 1940s.

HA! Is joke! This is called Bad Day on the High Sea, by Brandon Bird. Here’s what he has to say:

“Here, raw sexual aggression is symbolized by the sperm whale, while the squid acts as a thinly-disguised metaphor for the multi-armed oligarchies of Rockefeller, Hearst, and Morgan. Their battle plays against the backdrop of the sea, standing in for–what else?–the vastness of the unconscious mind.”

What else?