Make it a good one

OPEN THREAD! PILE ON!

Finally, a tying video without all the heavy breathing, instructional jibber-jabber and UV lamplight! And better keep that Scott dude away from your sister: he’s got fast hands, man.

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:

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:

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? :

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.

This one’s fer Windknot:

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.

Times are tough, in case you haven’t noticed.  If you aren’t raising your own chickens, canning your own vegetables, reloading ammo, and improving fortifications around your perimeter it’s doubtful you’ll make it through the year.  Enter Langdon Cook; poet, forager, chef, flight surgeon and author of FAT OF THE LAND.  Cook takes us on a seasonal tour of the Pacific Northwest showing us the region’s bounty.  We learn from Cook that no matter how bad it gets you don’t have to starve to death - you’re never far from your next meal.  Just pick it, trap it, catch it or spear it, make sure it’s not poisonous, then cook it and eat it.

From FAT OF THE LAND

Back at the house we fillet the rest of the shad. It feels good to have a cooler filled with fresh fish and know that a box of canned shad is in my future. True, it would feel even better to have a load of salmon, but we can’t complain. Beedle has recently sold his tutoring business, and though he tries to be optimistic, now that he’s in his mid-fifties it isn’t likely he can go back to his original career, teaching high school biology. The summer is often a time of rest for educators, though this summer I expect will offer more uncertainty than rest for my friend. As I back out of his driveway I ask him what he’s up to for the dry months. For a moment he looks totally serene, without a care in the world. “Driving school,” he barks at me finally. “I’ll teach the kiddies to drive. How about that!”

***

Whole Shad, Cooked Low & Slow, Carolina Style

Deboning shad is a chore left to sinners in fishmonger hell. The lowcountry cooks of coastal South Carolina approach shad like a hunk of pork shoulder: they do it low and slow, until the bones are mostly dissolved or rendered soft. This recipe comes from fellow forager and proprietor of the Hunter Angler Gardener Cook blog, Hank Shaw, who did time on both a fishing boat and a reporter’s beat in mid-Atlantic shad country.

Shad is meaty and flavorful in a way that’s surprising for fish, so serve with mashed potatoes and a solid Chardonnay. If you have a female fish and saved the roe like any true shad lover, poach the egg skeins briefly with a dash of vinegar and a pinch of salt, then fry in butter. They brown up nicely like sausages. Serve with eggs and toast for breakfast, or with mashed potatoes and onion gravy for dinner – an American version of bangers and mash.

2 tablespoons salt

1 tablespoon cider vinegar

3 tablespoons Old Bay seasoning

1 large whole shad (4 pounds), scaled and gutted

3 yellow onions, cut into half-moons

Freshly ground black pepper to taste

Smoked bacon to cover fish

In a pan wide enough to fit the shad, boil enough water to cover fish and add 1 tablespoon of the salt, the vinegar, 2 tablespoons of the Old Bay seasoning, and a few grindings of pepper. Add shad to boil, cover, and turn off heat. Let shad steep for 20 minutes.

In an ovenproof dish that is also large enough to hold the shad, add the onions, sprinkle the rest of the salt and Old Bay seasoning over them, and then pour in enough water just to cover the bottom. Place the shad so that it rests on the onions; make sure the shad does not sit in water. Cover the pan and put it in a 200-degree oven for 4 1/2 hours. After the second hour, and then after every hour beyond that, check to see that there is still water in the pan.

After 4 1/2 hours, uncover, lay the bacon over the shad, and broil until the bacon is crispy, a few minutes. Serves 4

Shot 20 blocks away from my house in Portland’s Mt. Taber Park. Epic badassness.

Always nice to hear where your head’s at, fella. Hope to see you soon. Actually, please stay up there in Washington until at least May. Please.

And while you’re at it, get you some mojo.

Fly Tying Uber Geek Alert!!!

Our West Seattle neighbor P. Diddy pushes the envelope to the near genius level…

Dispatch via email:
“Walked downstream for over an hour, turned around right as the thick clouds magically disappeared, the air warmed, and the cicadas started to go crazy. I have no idea how many fish I hooked, but it was pretty ridiculous.”

Uh huh. Damn.

Talk of lasers over at Apocalypse Steelhead reminded me of a shot from a warm, first-week-of-June afternoon. Check out bacon, keeping the duckies honest and on the far bank.

I’m glad there’s still plenty of winter left before spring.

Piscatorial Predator/Kanektok Spiritual Leader/Sod Layer THE Elaminator sluts out in the latest FFJ* ad in trade for more brown liquor and an extra set of night vision goggles.

Prolly your sister’s never been to third base. Yet, ’cause Elam rocks the dirty, dirty night prowl, that scamp, and he plays himself some wicked hardball. He’ll make a fine brother-in-law.

*We wholeheartedly endorse the FFJ’s awesomenality in trade for more whisky. thanks guys. anything else you need us to say? damn, this blog thing’s really working out.

Twenty-ten wild hen! And yes, she was a screamer.

You’ve seen the trailer. May be you want to see the whole video. May be you have seen the whole video. May be you should go here to see a little bit of what you might or might not have seen already. Some of it for the sure the latter.