Anticipation  noun  (an-ti-sə-‘pā-shən) – the act of looking forward; pleasurable expectation; visualization of a future event or state.
“An emotion involving pleasure, excitement, and sometimes anxiety, fueled by expectation”

The seat-belt ding on the plane elicits an almost Pavlovian reaction from me every time I hear it in this particular airport. The mental fire lit over the course of a long, cold winter has become an inferno, and the menialities of trip prep, the handling of the rods and flies like icons and fetishes, have done nothing but fan the flames. Now that all obstacles have been overcome and I am about to hit the ground running, I have to fight down the overwhelming and startlingly involuntary urge to salivate.

Expectation noun  (ek-spek-‘tā-shən) – the act or state of looking forward or anticipating; an awaiting.
“A belief that is centered on the future, and which may or may not be realistic. A less advantageous result gives rise to the emotion of disappointment. If something happens that is not at all expected it is a surprise.”

On the blurry ride up to the hop-in hole, the built-up stress and anxiety only add to the queasiness of a hung-over mind and body. As I wind the throttle up, I feel the break in the process – the visualization placebo that has been silently looping in my brain, running on last years collective memories and photographs, is about to be replaced by the crunch of gravel, the scream of gulls, and the vicious yank of this years first fish.

Disappointment noun  (dis-ə-‘pỏint-mənt) – the act or an instance of failure to fulfill the expectations or wishes of; to defeat the fulfillment of (hopes, plans, etc.); thwart; frustrate.
“The feeling of dissatisfaction that follows the failure of expectations or hopes to manifest. Similar to regret, it differs in that a person feeling regret focuses primarily on the personal choices that contributed to a poor outcome, while a person feeling disappointment focuses on the outcome itself.”

Why does losing a big fish sting so much? The wailing, the gnashing of teeth, the despair and anguish over these brief connections and sudden departures, all for a fish you were going to release anyway. As the spray and smoke clear I replay the dance in my mind, searching for the fatal flaw in my technique, the disturbance in the force that leads to this dreaded outcome. I know they are just fish, and fish are supposed to be a bonus, but I’ve come too far too many times to keep believing that.

Tranquility noun (tran-‘kwi-lə-tē) – the quality or state of being free from agitation of mind or spirit; free from disturbance or turmoil; unvarying in aspect.
“Serenity of the body, thoughts and consciousness on the path to enlightenment. Interpretation of the word “tranquility” is typically linked to engagement with the natural environment.”

The Game starts to numb a fella after a few days. The initial flurry of excitement after the opening bell has settled down and the transition to deathmarch isn’t quite complete, but it is on the way. The routine is settled into: out of the boat, top of the run, cast, swing, step, repeat. The metronome ticks away in waltz time, 3 steps and a cast written on the sheetmusic of the river and played on the line as it arcs though the water. Every now and then the rhythm is broken by a tug or a small fish, but for the most part the anesthetic fog rolls in and the runs and days start to blur.

When it happens, it happens quickly, and there isn’t time for anticipation or expectations of outcome. The die is cast at the first surge of line off the reel, and there isn’t time for critical application of technique or theory – the hook finds purchase, or it does not. I get lucky, the hook holds and a new dance has begun. Time slows and focus narrows, and all is lost but a thin, crook’d finger pointing a fluorescent line into the flow, indicating the ever-changing location of my dance partner. Several nerve-fraying runs, many unexpected changes of direction later, there is a wash of relief as the fish enters the net.

This, I realized, is why I come up here to be angered and humiliated by fish. The intense feeling you get when holding one of these dinosaurs is worth all the anxiety and disappointment, the soul-searching and self-loathing that accompany a missed opportunity, a blown shot. This is the fuel that lights the fire in winter, the memory that fans the flame all spring, and the blaze that draws me back again, year after year, to have my fishing self-esteem crushed repeatedly just to get the chance to pick one of these creatures up again.

With the release of the fish comes a release of tension, an awkward display of emotion usually reserved for different times, different settings, different people. I sit because I can’t stand, and I stare because there isn’t anything left to focus on. After awhile, I get up and start the cycle all over again.

Two will enter. One will leave.

(Photo credit: Adam Hope http://www.thisriveriswild.com/)

somewhere in texas, the mortage payments are gonna get made…

Before:

After!

Feathers reclaimed from Portland’s SE Lincoln bike route (just added a little arctic fox and Finn racoon.) North Williams ought to be worth a look, too.

After twenty years of letting these rivers beat the hell out of me and taking the occasional steelhead out of them, I started to get the feeling that I had seen the most of what the territory had to offer. At least once a year I drive north to take a pulse, see if the fish are around and  try to cross a particular tailout that just keeps getting deeper and faster. Upon reaching the first piece of water, I happened to notice that the fish were not only in the river, but also attempting to leap a five foot cascade of water over shale. I laid my gear down, sat down on a comfortable hunk of granite and with the old beater digital camera (the poky one with no video), attempted to make a sweet shot of a large silver fish in the air. An eddy graces the east side of this particular plunge pool and as I waited and watched I witnessed several fish deliberately swim with their heads out of the water. I could see their pectoral fins doing the doggie paddle around this swirl. And see their eyes. Looking at the falls.

?!!

I’m undecided. Are these fish freaks? Can they reason as well? The nearest nuclear facility is a hell of a long way from here. I’ve seen and fished the awesome steelhead waters of the northwest, the driftless region in Wisconsin, the Battenkill. I’ve floated the fish tank called the Green. I had best sex of my life with lady luck on the Miracle Mile. I thought I had a lot of fishing under my belt.

Not enough, I guess. Never enough.

Big props for laughs to Montana Governor Brian Schweitzer today. Like in many other states, Montana’s tea-drunk conservo-muppets have been flailing around introducing tough-guy bills like SB-112 – “An Act Providing that a Hand-Thrown Spear Must be Considered a Lawful Means of Hunting.” AW YEAH OOGA BOOGA!

This morning on the radio Governor Schweitzer said that he’ll use an “amendatory veto” on it, which will send it back to the Montana State Houses with the provision that spear hunting must only be performed while wearing a small blaze orange loincloth (with maximum size requirements, you know, for the ladies), and nothing else. The Governor seemed anxious to put this matter behind him so that he could move on to another of their stack of Frodo-fantasy bills about seceding from the United States or something. Anyway, KILLIN STUFF CONAN-STYLE IN MONTANA!

Republican Lawmakers are to Fucksticks as Sky is to

a) blue

b) unicorn

c) lamp

d) bandsaw

 DENVER—A special Colorado license plate saying “Protect Our Rivers” has been rejected by a Republican House committee because the tag would raise money for Trout Unlimited.

In the spirit of the $100 nipper:
http://www.jessejamesreels.com/
It’s yours in the comments

Personally, I’m waiting for the matching necktie.

Maybe an explanation is on order, but well, fuggit.

The Pebble Limited Partnership CEO has called those who oppose development of the Pebble Mine, wait for it, “Legal Terrorists” (Video Link)

It’s official- if you believe in clean water, sustainable living and protecting America’s fisheries, both commercial and recreational, you are a terrorist. Words have lost all meaning now.

A big hat tip to Headwaters for the video link.

I’ve seen what oilfield transportation corridors do to the economy and community of a region. It is a hurly-burly low-wage twenty-four hours/seven days a week service industry that does not build community. - Rick Bass, Author

The first big beneficiaries of this hijacking will be a Korean steel company hired at the expense of Canadian steel workers, and Exxon—the richest corporation in the world: the losers will be the American people, starting with us. - David James Duncan, Author

America continues its apparent national quest to despoil every square inch of the continent with the plan to truck large tar sand “modules” down HWY 200 in the Blackfoot Valley of Montana. The modules are about 3o feet tall, 24 feet wide and the length of a football field. Apparently the most direct route from their construction in Korea is from port at Lewiston, ID, through Montana and on up to Canada. Due to the width of the modules, both lanes of HWY 200 will be one direction and both sides of the road will be cleared for the additional 8 feet of clearance needed.

Not surprisingly, residents of the valley, which is the location of Norman Maclean’s “A River Runs Through It”, are pissed. They formed the grassroots org All Against the Haul to coordinate opposition to the project, which would severely alter the character of the valley and negatively impact the natural resources there.

As always, when oil and money combine, you get the politicians coming out of the woodwork to defend poor, helpless Exxon Mobile,;  Politicians such as Montana Governor Brian Schweitzer. Here are some choice quotes from the good Governor in a NYT article along with some commentary: 

“Chlorine, insecticides and fertilizers go down these roads in trucks every day,” he said. “If they spill, they would kill fish for 50 to 100 miles.”  

Yes they do, but chlorine, insecticides and fertilizers are also packaged as HAZMAT, and are limited by CFR 49 to certain amounts per transportation method, all with the goal of not spilling. Yes accidents happen, but there is a world of difference between an 18 wheeler and the transporters moving these modules.

But the large loads, he said, “are inert, like big shoe boxes made of steel. If one fell in the river, they could be cut in half or taken out whole.” Until they were removed, he argued, “fish could spawn under them.”

Well fuck, I guess that makes it all better; Although the effort to remove the giant shoebox would probably destroy a fairly large swath of habitat.

Many residents worry that the loads will block emergency vehicles, but the governor said helicopters could provide transport.

And how many air ambulance helicopters does the area around Missoula have? A quick check indicates 2 and the cost for a 56 mile flight ranges from $12K to almost $17K. Medicaid and the insurance companies are going to love this.

But Mr. Schweitzer argues that the roads are a federally financed transportation corridor. “Montana can’t up and change the rules because we don’t like somebody,”

Umm, didn’t Montana tell the BATFE to take a flying leap with the Montana Firearms Freedom Act? Oh yeah, it did:

The bill was introduced January 13, 2009 by Joel Boniek, Gerald Bennett, Edward Butcher, Aubyn Curtiss, Lee Randall and Wendy Warburton. It was signed in to law by Governor Brian Schweitzer on April 15, 2009 and became effective on October 1, 2009.

So, the good Governor is perfectly content to tell the Feds to STFU when it comes to guns, but meekly accepts the rules when it comes to limiting damage to the Blackfoot Valley. Uh-huh

Just lobbed across the wire from the TU AK security bunker somewhere on Douglas Island…

National Geographic December 2010 article on Bristol Bay

While you are there, take a look at the Photo Gallery that goes with the words.

Contrary to popular opinion, the active ingredient is AfroSheen™ and a blowout comb.

Good for a little Wild love in the dark.

The great Friday Night Buzzer Beater, as photographed by Chou-dog.