What’s the odds that the word “Engineering” appears somewhere in John D.’s credentials?
Bookshelf bonus
from John D in Conrad, MT
I’m still lucky enough to fish with my dad now and then. He hasn’t followed me into the abyss of two-handed rods and day’s-per-fish statistics of my own anadromous affliction, though it does remain a mission of mine to corrupt him thus, eventually. Until then we generally “settle” for trout. In the latest case Montana trout; fat, wild, healthy and hungry fish who can’t say no to an easy meal. And nothing’s easier than a hapless terrestrial, blown into a river on the front of a summer storm, legs kicking and sticking out all over the place, caught in the surface tension without a prayer for escape. Can you say grasshoppers?
At times, most often in faster, bumpy water, the trout will snarf them down in an audible garwaffled boil. More often they’ll just lip the giant hunk of floating protein, some times just nudging it, knowing full well that if it’s food it’s not going anywhere. If the angler strikes too fast, he’s been had, and his hookset serves only as the start of his next backcast. If instead he acts with a measure of patience, waits to see that his fly has in fact disappeared, or until, perhaps, the cautious fish follows its nudge with an actual take, then a heaving resistance and enduring struggle are the prize.
We kicked a round Bozeman a bit and found some fish, some nice ones and some really nice ones. Not a ton of hoppers. Enough, though, to get the fish interested in the splat of our imitations. But storms in the park pushed down a slug of brown, so we headed east and south to the tailwater sanctuary known for obscene numbers of fish per mile. We weren’t the only ones, though hadn’t exactly expected to be, so it was roomy enough, especially once we got a few miles down from the afterbay put-in. Still, it was pretty entertaining. And the locust-swarms up in the grass held deep promise.
As it went, fish after fish after fish on big hoppers had us wondering “why all the bobbercators?” And all the weeds in the water must’ve made any kind of nymphing a real pain in the ass, but to each his own. The fish were actively feeding all afternoon on tiny caddis and/or mayfly emergers, pushing and bulging all over the shallow, glassy tailouts, but most were also suckers for the opportunity to eat a well drifted, low floating, rubber-legged gobstopper. We’d get out and wade into positions where we could cast to dozens of visible fish. A little twitch could get them to move 20 feet. Freakin’ awesome.
It was an easy place to have a blast, and we did. The fish weren’t dumb and refused any unnatural drifts, but they live through hundreds of anglers passing by every day. If they don’t eat in the perpetual presence of people and boats, they don’t eat, period. So it was no problem stopping at a spot, right behind a boat that just pulled anchor, to find a pod, or several pods, of risers to cast to. And we usually hooked a bunch, some times on the way back to the boat, in water we’d waded through ten minutes ago.
The hot fishing went from about noon to 5:00, but we’d still pick up a few fish here and there, banging casts in under the banks or in soft, mid-river pillows and seams, until twilight pushed us off the river. Next time we’ll probably opt to launch lower in the float and fish more thoroughly the water most folks end up rowing through to get to the takeout before dark.
Helluva good time, for sure. Damn fine fishing and a lot of good catching. Thanks a ton, Dad, let’s do it again, soon.
I really thought the recession would kill this off, except now the WSJ thinks it’s prime time to expand the idea.
“While glamping is sometimes caricatured as over-the-top luxury (think butlers with bug spray), its real potential is in making “roughing it” a little less rough but still affordable. At the moment, the very high-end dude ranches are still conspicuous consumption. But camping with trimmings — tents with heaters, eco-outhouses, showers hidden around the corner — has tremendous appeal. It’s outdoorsy, but with a good mix of the comforts of an active resort. The business people who provide these experiences get to skip building a big hotel, and put up “mobile rooms” instead. Meanwhile, glampers get a feeling of being close to nature, with a full complement of activities like hiking, fly-fishing and kayaking.”
The beaches run cherry red, the driftwood shampoo is, as always, free of charge.
*photos by Foghorn
Free, first ever Portland screening of Hustle and Fish this Thursday and it’s easily the most pants-pissing hilarious fly fishing film ever made not counting when Lani Waller screams ‘Steelie!” in those old SA vids. And looky there: Free beer and food compliments of the Hickmanimal. Sweet.
Same place on SE Ankeny as the Red Gold showing, Tillamook/North Coast slideshow beforehand that promises to be pretty badass.
No word whether JayJ and his crowd will be there to fully hesh out the parking lot scene. There will prolly be ladies in tube tops. We’re betting something gets rolled out there.
Cheesy beer coozie courtesy of the Ashton, Idaho Shell station.
Bonus Anthrax CD in this one
from Evan in WV.
Send yours to salty@busterwantstofish.com along with the requiste Russian viagra offers, notifications that I have been left $25M from an African president who died in a plane crash, and improved website design and search engine optimization proposed by Hong Kong rubber dogshit factories
Some poor bored working stiff in an office at a publishing house somewhere got a copy of a book across his desk recently and, on a whim, actually decided to open it. Perhaps it was result of an under-stimulated and over-caffinated mind, perhaps the guy was still really drunk from the night before, either way he really enjoyed it. This tie-choked bastard called his boss, who may or may not have been reeling from a successful quadruple bypass surgery and soaking in regret over his wasted youth pimping the work of others rather than living his own life. Whatever the mitigating circumstances, these misguided suits decided to pick up this book and add it to their “list of titles that should be shoved down the throat of the American public”. There’s just one catch: they don’t like the title. They don’t want to lose the title entirely, they just want to add a subtitle, something that captures the essence of the story and makes you laugh out loud and want to buy it even if you’ve never fly fished or gone to Alaska before, and they want this done in six words or less. Of course I told them no problem but rather than do any actual work, I’d rather pass this one along to the Buster cronies and sit on my ass some more. So here it is, the newest and most laserest awesomest Buster caption contest ever. If you are brilliant and/or lucky enough to come up with something that makes us all laugh our beer guts off, you will have the everlasting satisfaction of knowing that you helped out your fellow man and got your words printed on a book that at least five people will probably buy. Additionally I’ll throw in some stickers, a signed copy and a day of me rowing you around while we drink beer and don’t catch fish, ie a free “guided trip”, if you can make it out to Montana. Have at it brain-trust.
New vid about what’s at stake with oil and gas leases on Colorado’s Roan Plateau:
And to contact the Department of the Interior with opinions on this issue:
Phone: 202-208-3100
E-Mail: feedback@ios.doi.gov
“…it was like Twilight Zone, but Nirvana Twilight Zone…”
When the Moon is at first quarter or third quarter, the Sun and Moon are separated by 90° when viewed from the Earth, and the forces induced by the Sun partially cancel those of the Moon. At these points in the lunar cycle, the tide’s range is minimum: this is called the neap tide, or neaps.
Less is sometimes more
from Jim B
*instead, it’s a studio shot of a vac-pac food saver. Still, you get the idea….
A friendly reminder that two stern tie-down straps and a safety chain cost significantly less than your pride:
The hot beer breath of August was just waking up while we rigged at the put in. The sun brings that dry mouth bastard out pretty much everyday around now, it was blowing downstream and the bossman decided to call an audible.
“Change of plan, we’re extending the float today. I’ll call in the shuttle. Go bigger, go farther.”
Three boat trip with a good group of southern boys that bring big stacks of greasy green out to us bleary eyed guides. The shop owner was running the show, actually guiding for a change, he knows where his beer money comes from and he also knews that he wasn’t in the middle of ten straight guide days, like the rest of us, he got to sleep in the next morning.
“20 miles boys, keep em pointed downstream.”
Fuck me, 20 miles and these guys were already four beers deep into the 12er they brought- the boat wasn’t even in the water. One of them had never thrown a fly rod on actual water before and the only stick he had was a 10′ boo his grandpappy handed down with an automatic “Oreno” in the seat. All together the setup had to weigh close to 8 pounds and he planned to throw it all day…in the wind. This was shaping up to be a long one.
By lunch the bossman was wishing he had made a few different choices. He was rowing the high roller boat, guiding the money man and his partner. In the first four and a half hours they landed two whiteys and one DST (dick sized trout)- bobber fishing. Between the two other boats we had over thirty bows to hand, nearly all on top. Bossman been off the river too long, forgot it was hopper season. Money man fumed through the lunchtime banter and their boat pulled out hastily, before my boat was even loaded back up. I could see them in the distance as I pulled my anchor to the sound of fresh Bud Lights, halos of flyline and fat foam floating over their heads.
We were the last boat to shove off and apparently seeing those other high floating fakes on the water ahead of us began to alert our finned friends. The takes started to slow down, the beer cooler started to get light and I knew we still had 12 miles to go. The drawling southern jokes slowed to a crawl and boo boy in front was flailing against the wind like the new girl on the flag squad.
“Alright boys we’re switching it up. Time for the secret weapon.”
This is, of course, total bullshit. It’s something guides say when they put on a different bug simply to get that fishing fire back in the belly, to get people casting like they mean it again.
“Gentlemen, behold the Purple Haze.”
I let it sink in for a moment as I held the bright purple shiny size 10 dry fly in my fingers. It represents nothing in nature, looks like no bugs that have ever hatched on this planet and, every once in awhile, those twitchy fish come up and gobble it like troutchow on a stockpond. This turned out to be one of those days. Simply put, it was damn good, we got lots of fish on top and some of em were big brown bastards in the five pound category.
We hit the originally planned takeout at 4. We still had 8 miles to go. A few bends down we were up against a solid concrete wall someone built to keep the big bad river from stealing their manicured lawn, it was nearly as slow as a lake and I was pushing down, not expecting to see much there, then we got an eat on the hopper.
“Nice bow dude, she’s a slivery bi… wait what the hell is that?”
“It looks like a shad.”
“There are no shad in Montana.”
“Well, what is it?”
“I have no idea”
Turns out it was one of these:
Hilodon Alosoides or Goldeye as it’s more commonly known. I’ve heard about these but never seen one, a warm-water species that rarely ventures this far upriver. Catching one on a dry is almost unheard of.
The eats ended a good hour before the float and when we reached the ramp (eleven hours after putting in) we all had the 100 yard stare.
The next few days were not nearly as good, and I still haven’t seen another goldeye but the trout all seem to be Hendrix fans right now, the Purple Haze is still kicking ass.
Prolly won’t be on the youtubes much longer.
Dirty Dave Wells with a little dink he picked up on the South Fork of the Snake recently…
