The flies. Or the Dudes. We can’t tell who or what looks more battered.

The lack of ego ran megahigh early on Week One/Day One ’round the dinner tent tables at AK West, which tends to happen when you’ve gotta group of dudes with little to prove, a lot of tundra time to kill and a 41° water temp/41° air temp that was making swinging flies for kings damn near fruitless for those devoid of proper karmic 401(k) plans. How it goes with coldwater king fishing, it eventually will and did go off and those with vested soul, as always, reap the reward.

Without much shit to throw anyone’s way yet on account of a botched gagger hookset, a blowed up rod/reel/running line from torquing down on a choker chinook before it was ready for sweet, sweet caressing or farmed 40+ lb. tanker that would haunt a fella well into next winter steelhead season, Horatio “the Instigator” Nailknot, in what could best be described as a sustained haze of brown/sinister conflict fabrication for languid personal entertainment, knocks the shit outta the dinnertime hilarity with a dual. One wherein neither of competitors could afford to lose. But then again, neither were all too sure they’d win. How it goes when two badass sticks decide to throw down with what many consider to be the two best mice patterns ever invented. Thats the beauty of Week One; if the kings don’t show for a day or two, not a problem. The ‘bows haven’t seen a fly since last September.

The Fight Card:

Jeff “The Creasewrecker” Hickman and his venerable Mr. Hanky Mouse

vs.

Kenny “Never Met an R&R Handle He Couldn’t Tame” Morrish and the legendary Morrish Mouse.

The Proving Grounds: The river of which never used to speak and one notorious for insanely stupid mousing, fishing the morning session from 8 a.m. to noon, because out-and-out competition when fly fishing is agreeably pretty wrong. Far be it to deny some soul fishing to these two steelheaders on what may be their only day trout fishing all year.

The Metric: Sheer awesomeness, as measured by guides Trevor Covich and Garrett Sullivan.

Horatio Nailknot’s High Stakes: Loser leaves Team Awesome and goes to Solitude. Ouch.

Blow-by-blow accounts from T and Gary (no one else was there) say the Morrish Mouse pulled ahead strong in early rounds with many and big, and Kenny went deep into a world of smack talk that had the Kid Hickman flustered as anyone named T or Gary had ever seen. Then, outta the tackle bag came Hickman’s secret weapon, his hairbrush. After getting his headmuff right, tight and talking like a dying poo-mouse skating across the surface on ten hits of blotter, we heard Mr. Hanky pulled out a handsome 11th hour save with a pile of rainbows that tore up the top. So much so, that a tie was declared and the Mousecapades were forever deemed a draw, they hugged it out in a uncomfortable-for-everyone-else kumbaya moment and two age-old agreements were reached:

There ain’t a damn thing wrong with mammal-eating A-rok rainbows, and someone really oughta get that flask away from Horatio and his diabolical ideas.

Fine time, guys. A precious few prono shots from the trip:

“I believe it is the purest form of fly-fishing.”

- Daniel Galhardo, Tenkara USA

You know, Danny, I really don’t care how other people fish. Honestly, as long as you’re not raping the resource, do whatever you want. But can you spare us the sanctimonious bullshit about how, just because you don’t have a reel, you’re somehow doing something that’s more “pure” than the rest of us?

But let’s take your logic forward – if ditching my reel makes me “more pure,” then ditching all of my tackle would mean a full state of never-ending satori,  right?

I give you His Venerable Noodleness, the Dalai Jerry Wayne:

(Photo by Pete McDonald)

After hearing way too many stories about the filming of this and, despite plying said filmmaker with a liberal amount of brown truth serum, never any damn mention of the places filmed, um, we’re still pretty jacked up about seeing this one:

“Eventually, all gutters merge into one canal, and something kind of resembling a river runs through it. The channel was cut by the Army Corps of Engineers and runs over riprap from the basement of time. On some of the riprap are timeless pieces of plastic and other detritus. Under the riprap are things best left alone.
I am haunted, and sometimes a little scared, by urban waters.”

Reason #438 why June rules…

Now appearing on a grill near me.

Native Fish Society Board President, badass stick and all-around salmon/steelhead warrior Peter Tronquet warming the inner fire and reveling in the heavy vibe of a swung fly 35+ lb. Kanektok Super Tanker chinook release.This moment was easily the heaviest soul I’ve seen rolled in many, many years.Addendum: Just got a shot of that fish prior to release. Freightliner? :

Have at it scamps

Regarding on offshore drilling

“And while we’re at it, let’s expedite the regulatory and permitting and legal processes for on- and offshore drilling.”—Speaking at the Tea Party conventionon Feb. 26, 2010, about six weeks before the BP oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico

“Unless government appropriately regulates oil developments and holds oil executives accountable, the public will not trust them to drill, baby, drill. And we must!” —Facebook note, June 8, 2010.

A big thanks to Palinisms on Slate for the quotes demonstrating naked political ambition and not a shred of intellectual consistency.

Yep, BP has hired Goldman Sachs as a financial advisor. What’s the over/under on Goldman helping BP declare bankruptcy to get out from under their very obvious liabilities? 

Fuckers

It’s been a long week, and I’m not sure where to start. Hell, I’m not even sure if I can properly convey an adequate sense of order to an insane week of fishing…

Maybe, if we were sitting in a dive bar somewhere and throwing back 24oz PBR’s, I could try to set a narrative about an awesome river system with ‘bows as big as your leg. With the broader range of emotive capability inherent in the spoken word, I might possibly get you to feel the fluttery, hyperventilating sensations that develop when a group of these large fish start busting smolt right in front of you on a sunny day. With the proper facial expressions and gesticulations, I might also be able to place you waist-deep in the flow, watching the birds working upstream, knowing that if you time it right, you just might have a shot at one of these fish.

After the second or third beer, I might find the particular word or phrase that would do justice to the strange, tunnel-vision feeling of swinging into grease so fishy that it practically glows. With any luck, I could probably describe the time-erasing sensation that you feel when you are going through a piece of big-fish water, knowing that each and every moment, all hell could break loose.

About beer number four, I could probably get something across about the wind, about my newfound love for the bug-removing wind, and my new respect for the cack-handed snap. I could probably set the stage for the two am stumble to the cabin door, fully clothed against the bugs, not quite ready for the sprint to the outhouse. By beer number four, I think I could have a pretty good shot at describing the zoned-out, goofy-ass mood that set in around day three, and the punch-drunk, rummy shamble through the holes on day five.

With  beers five and six, I might take a stab at the spare beauty of the place. This might not go over well, but I would probably, with the appropriate hand motions, show the bizarre path taken by the sun on its daily joyride around the horizon. I could probably get you to appreciate the zen simplicity that is tundra, bonsai for giants. We would probably rehash a bit about the wind, the bugs, and the huge fish, but that’s OK, they are an intrinsic part of the desolate, simple, and remote charm of the place.

After beer seven, it’s anybody’s guess. The conversation would start to deteriorate a bit, and in an odd sort of fashion, we might find ourselves at an impasse of sorts, an inability on the part of the speaker to properly manipulate the language in such a fashion as to convey cogent thought. Then we would be on the level we are now, the level of trying to thread an experience together that does not lend itself well to linear translation on the written page. Much like the old joke about dancing to architecture, the idea of typing about a trip like this is rather humorous because in the end, it comes down to a simple fact, a common phrase.

You just had to be there.

Damn, got to fishin’ and almost forgot about our friends. Yeah we know, it’s short notice, but what the hell, you can drop everything and show up anyway, right? Right. Hey kids, it’s Spey Nation the Third!

Saturday June 19th, 2010
Pineville Bridge Angler’s Access Site and Boat Launch on the Salmon River
Altmar, NY
8am- 4pm

Spey Nation is a grassroots organization dedicated to furthering the culture and techniques of spey fishing on Great Lakes tributaries, and they throw a great party, with free chow sponsored by The Oak Orchard Fly Shop.

Featuring presentations and demonstrations by:

• Lee Davison (CND/Snake River Outfitters)
• Bruce Berry (Buelah)
• Nate “Don’t Hate” Koenigsknecht (CF Burkheimer)
• Andrew Moy (Tight Lines Fly Shop/East Coast Spey)
• Walt Geryk (Northeast Guide Service)
• Neil Houlding (Guideline)
• Steve Taggart (Echo)
• Topher Browne (Atlantic Salmon Federation National Council)

Check out gear from:

• Buelah
• Echo
• Thomas & Thomas
• Scott
• Guideline
• CND
• Ross Reels
• CF Burkheimer
• Airflo
• Orvis
• The Spey Company
• JP Ross
• Castle Arms/Heritage Fly Rods
• Wild Water Fly Rods
• Hatch Reels
• Hardy
• No Float Stix
• Temple Forks Outfitters
• Sage
• Loop Fly Fishing

Raffles will benefit the Fish Creek Atlantic Salmon Club. They do good works. Also Shaq will be wrestling a drunken Scotsman, which should be quick because Shaq’s lost a bunch of weight and is weak as a kitten.

A Story That’s Funny To Everybody But Shaq

Shaq’s our pal and he runs this show. An outdoor writer from the Syracuse paper called Shaq to do a story on Spey Nation and wanted a demo, but Shaq was busy fighting crime or something and couldn’t make it. Shaq’s pal Zach (can’t make this shit up) filled in, and stuck a 28-inch Atlantic in the process. Nice! If you come, this probably won’t happen to you. Or to Shaq.

Directions:
Go to the intersection of Rts. 48 and 13 just west of the village of Altmar NY, turn north, cross the bridge and tumble down the hill. Here’s the Directions page from the official site. Here’s a handy list of accomodations.

Watch the official page for news and other details.

BP Spills Coffee – watch more funny videos

This one’s fer Windknot:

What separates the pros from the amateurs:

Armstrong, sleeping with one eye open, camera at the ready and a breakfast beer within reach.

Every year, millions of sockeye salmon come back to the rivers of Bristol Bay to spawn and die. When the eggs deposited by last year’s adult finally hatch and the young sockeye alevins swim up out of the gravel, they swim into the relative comfort and safety of their large feeder lake. They will spend up to 3 years in this lake, ostensibly to eat the rich freshwater zooplankton and grow into healthy smolts, but I think there is another reason…

I think they are scared out of their little finny gourds by some of the trout that happen to be in the river between their cozy lake and the big blue sea.

In 3 days, I get to test that theory.

Starting June 8th at 12:01 am, I get 89 hours in the greasy flows of what is arguably the world’s greatest wild rainbow trout river, huckin’ everything from itty-bitty smolt imitations to 8-inch monstrosities that would scare the bejeezus out of lesser trout. 89 hours with a case of beer, a 12-pack of ramen, a boat, and no lodge curfew. 89 hours to get all up in the sock drawer of this river, sniffin’ the air and lickin’ rocks, trying to figure out what makes these beautiful fish tick.

I got a case of gear that would make a diva blush, more flies than a Mexican dump, a whole golf-bag fulla rods, an extra set of waders in case I pee myself in excitement, and a brand new box of baby wipes.

Game time, fellas. Pins and needles until Monday morning.

The PDX > ANC leg of the Annual North Pacific Tundra King Parade commences in five days for the legendary Week One debauchery, and we aim to be there again as the greeting committee with a box fulla craft fur tubes and a pocket fulla hope. As always, something magically spiritual about seeing the kids swim home all growed up and what not.

Early reports say the Kanektok runnoff’s crested three days ago, the gravel bars are re-appearing, KP‘s been sent strict directions on how I like my damn bed turned down each night and the natives put the first king in the nets well over a week ago. Props to the set-up crews. Looks to be going off as planned, and without injury.  This is assuming the Nailknot doesn’t show up in Anchorage again with a bottle of 120-proof Old Potrero and the need to get the Kid all stinky in an effort to make him to stop sexting his girl the whole gotdamn night. Jeffrey: Sexting’s just flat creepy when trying to poach four dudes into a tiny hotel room to save cash.

Hell yes. Time to start following the king season North again and thanking gjod BP doesn’t have any holdings in Kuskowim Bay.

Until BP hired Dick Cheney’s former PR hack as their new PR hack.  If past experience tells us anything, it’s to expect the above presented with a serious expectation of acceptance.