Archive for the 'gotta be a place for this' Category
Two will enter. One will leave.
(Photo credit: Adam Hope http://www.thisriveriswild.com/)
Took the day off to go steelheading. Got to the Upper Queets Campground an hour before sunset. Water was greenish clear blue. Swung thru a run. Nothin.
Woke up to rain. Water color was good till about 10:30. While fishing thru the second (last) run of the day I saw the river blow out right in front of me. One minute I can see my feet in knee deep water – a dozen casts later visibility is less than a foot.
Salvaged the day by ranging around the Park and adjacent forest lands. Also let loose a box of .357 magnum.
note to self: bring ear pro next time you go fishing.
Combining the two things I like most; Montana and a mean techno beat.
“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.”
- Watch more Videos at Vodpod.
What separates the pros from the amateurs:
Armstrong, sleeping with one eye open, camera at the ready and a breakfast beer within reach.
“Bad weather always looks worse through a window.”
- Tom Lehrer
“Just as I started going over the next wave I saw something jump just off to the side of me, and sort of had to clench me bum cheeks for a few seconds and then I looked at it again and it was a dolphin comin’ up outta the water. Apparently there’s supposed to be no sharks where there’s dolphins but we soon proved that myff wrong…”
Just cuz you’re in a drifter doesn’t mean you can’t do a little motorboatin.’ Jamie Briscoe unveils a new creation on the Madison.
“When all the dangerous cliffs are fenced off, all the trees that might fall on people cut down, all of the insects that bite have been poisoned…and all the grizzlies are dead because they are occasionally dangerous, the wilderness will not be made safe. Rather, the safety will have destroyed the wilderness.”
- R. Yorke Edwards
It would be a stretch to say that I’m comfortable with the fresh tracks on the bank beside me. Far from it, actually. The bear is undoubtedly still near. But concern for my self-absorbed comfort aside, it still somehow feels right. Having to frequently look over my shoulder puts me firmly in context; anchors me, to a place at least one notch down from the easy chair of my accustomed apex. It makes me more aware of my own complicity in all this, more connected to the semblance of a predatory act I’m in the midst of committing as I tie on this imitation, hoping to fool yet another of the many resident consumers in this place.
Warm and fuzzy notions of “nature” are just that, when you’re standing in the middle of it. It all comes down to predation, everywhere you look, at every level. Our largely removed perception of it is comprised of what we choose to sympathize with, and just as importantly, what we choose to ignore. Think of it from the point of view of the caddisfly I just watched being consumed without hesitation – think of how terrifying trout must be.
I look upstream, trying to spot the person I came here with. He is already out of sight, picking pockets and moving, as is his nature when he fishes. I look downstream toward the boat, survey the landscape that surrounds. If the animal were to make a reappearance, it would likely be in the open space between myself and the craft that brought us here, the sheer walls elsewhere funneling he/she(?) onto the wide gravel bar. I run through scenarios of what I might do if an 800-pound, territorial animal were to cut me off from the boat, all the while trying to simply focus on the task of fishing, but the fact is I can’t focus. Not entirely. I am alone here, out of earshot of anyone, an hour-boat ride from the nearest road. There is no cell reception. No magic button. I realize that if this is what is to happen, there would be nothing I could do.
This isn’t relaxing. But the truth is I don’t necessarily want it to be, either. In the end, I catch nothing. But neither am I caught.
Cheesy beer coozie courtesy of the Ashton, Idaho Shell station.
“…I’ve come to realize that we love and venerate salmonids because they supposedly possess the traits that we’d like to ascribe to our own beings; sleekness, nobility, smarts, discernment and beauty. But the largemouth bass, with its pugnacity and straightforwardness, its big mouth, its lack of discrimination at the dinner table and the resultant bulge at the waist, just might be a more honest reflection…”
- Monte Burke, excerpted from his essay, “Bass Fishermen” in the Spring/Summer ’09 issue of The Drake, now available at finer literary establishments. Git some.
From the skilled hands of long-time Buster compadre Jay H. comes one of the stylier ways to get to the river we’ve laid eyes on:
The box measures 40″ x 20″ x 10″, all aluminum frame/rack, bed is marine grade ply, sides are mahogany, w/3 coats of varnish, 16″ wheels. According to Jay, the whole rig weighs 24lbs. soaking wet, will carry 40lbs. with ease and parking isn’t much of a problem.
Complete wiff rod tubes, which can hold up to 3 rods each:
Extra points for the Buster sticker on the back. Well done, sir.
We were somewhere around Ashton on the edge of the lower Henry’s Fork when the drugs began to take hold. Drugs, in this case, being obscene amounts of high-octane caffeine as an antidote to yesterday’s profusion of cheap beer, the rapid intake of which started immediately following breakfast and which still seems to linger in our systems like the occasional engine pinging you get from budget gasoline. I remember saying something like, “I feel like that hippie behind the counter back in Jackson dosed my burrito; maybe you should drive…”
Day 5 of a bender – a blur of stumbling in the rain down barely existent trails to obscure sections of otherwise famous rivers, of long days in driftboats, a bass tournament, convenience store sausage and egg breakfasts, smelly gear, smellier dogs and even smellier humans, of fishing as the reason for the expenditure of every bit of energy and cash we could muster. There was a brief moment in the haze of day 4 when my toes dangled over the greasy precipice of truly seeing this thing through till it ran into the ground, however long and wherever that might take me (even if it meant Utah…), and damn the reasons for turning back. And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us and the sky was full of what looked like huge bats, which turned out to be stoneflies, all swooping and screeching and diving around the truck, which was going about a hundred miles an hour with the pedal to the metal through a rainstorm toward Last Chance….
From our friends at Fly Talk comes this crazy ass pic:
(photo by Cliff Watts)
Yes, that’s a bird leg sticking out of a bass’s throat, and the beast still took a fly.
Read the story and more pics here.