So there it is, I'm ashamed of myself for taking so long to do this. But, better late than never.
Thank you, George. For giving up the funk, and showing us how to live.
Saturday, March 29, 2014
We want the funk? NO. We NEED it!!
When I was 23 years old, I ate a large amount psychoactive fungus, and listened to "P.Funk Earth Tour" in it's entirety, twice. I consider this to be a defining moment in my life.
That said, I believe there are only two main reasons for blogs to exist. Fly fishing for Steelhead (of course), and paying homage to the Master of Funk. Ok, three, talking shit on Sammy Hagar. That guy sucks.
So there it is, I'm ashamed of myself for taking so long to do this. But, better late than never.
Thank you, George. For giving up the funk, and showing us how to live.
So there it is, I'm ashamed of myself for taking so long to do this. But, better late than never.
Thank you, George. For giving up the funk, and showing us how to live.
Thursday, March 27, 2014
This could be anywhere. This could be EVERYWHERE.
I stumbled across this recently on a forum I frequent. At the risk of pissing someone off, or worse, I have copied and pasted it here. The situation described is so horrifying to me that I want as many people as possible to read this and realize what can happen when no one is willing to say "enough".
I did NOT write this:
From a local fishing guide and writer.
His letter to the editor of a well-known Fly Fishing magazine
7/25/13
Dear Editor,
Last spring you contacted me about the possibility of me submitting several destination articles to your fly fishing magazine, about some of the Olympic Peninsula rivers. Though we had not clearly defined the rivers to be featured you had suggested the Queets and Quinault rivers as possibilities. There was a time when I would have felt very flattered to get such an editorial invitation, especially coming from a publication as prestigious as yours, one which I have long appreciated for its artistic accomplishments. And ordinarily I would appreciate the notoriety of being published with your magazine. And surely it would help my own guiding work too. But honestly, from the very beginning, I have felt serious misgivings about selling out these rivers and streams, and wild fish, with destination articles, inviting numbers of people to come fish here, promoting the fisheries even more etc. I think that all of this has already gone too far. Especially when writing about these Olympic Peninsula rivers.
I could certainly write some good words about the beauty of our watersheds, the unique features of topography, geology, indigenous wildlife and forests, the temperate rainforest, and of course- the beautiful last wild fish. I would say something about the good old days, the historic abundance of steelhead, salmon, cutthroat, char etc. I might interject some personality into comments on the tradition of fly fishing here, mentioning some of the long gone fly fishermen, their flies, favorite seasons, memorable catches, the runs of fish etc. And I could write about the fishing today here, some of the seasonal cycles of it all, the tackle and techniques, flies and presentations etc. I might even mention a few fly shops and guides, lodging, travel notes etc. And all of that would be entertaining and true. But how will it impact our fish here to do this kind of writing today? Honestly, I dread the unintended negative consequences that these promotional articles are having on the last of our wild fish here now. Perhaps if I also wrote about the time that all of my gear was stolen, or how I have been shot at, threatened with knives, harassed, or how my truck was repeatedly vandalized, or about the hundreds of times that my guests have been low-holed by some jackass in a drift boat, maybe that could moderate the outcome.
In the 13 years that I have lived here I have watched angling pressure increase on all of our waters as other Washington rivers have been closed, most notably the Puget Sound rivers being closed under the Endangered Species Act, to protect the remnant populations of wild winter steelhead. With each seasonal limitation or closure that was imposed elsewhere, the displaced anglers and guides have come here to have a go at the last wild fish. And many of those anglers are still harvesting wild steelhead here, legally and illegally. And there are numerous cases of our wild fish repeatedly failing the annual spawning escapement goals that our fisheries managers have set for them. And yet the harvest continues in the rivers here, supported by these same fisheries managers, by sports fishing and tribal netting.
And the numbers just keep getting worse. Last winter I counted almost 60 drift boats on the Hoh River in one day, and an additional few hundred people were wade fishing. As far up and down the river as one would like to have looked there were people fishing. I was surprised to see that most of them were fly fishermen, especially upriver where the wading access is generally more approachable. Every parking spot, campsite, pull-off and wide spot in the Upper Hoh road was occupied by vehicles, campers, trailers etc. It was almost a carnival atmosphere, a real “happening” on the river. Drift boats would come by with two to four people aboard, all rods out, and even the fly rods were working floats and weights, jigs etc., on the drift, all of the way down the river. Many of these boat fishermen and guides too are not avoiding the fish that are holding on the spawning redds, even when those redds are clearly flagged. Anything for a hook-up. Anything for a buck. The “fly fishing” methods too have become much more aggressive, and it is not unusual at all today to see a person fishing with a spey rod, rigged with a big floating indicator / bobber, a deep weighted fly or jig, and even a “slinky weight”, bumping it along in a conventional drift fishing style. On runs that I had rarely ever seen another angler in entire days of fishing, season after season, I was finding trash, campfires, and sneering contempt coming from brash young men whom I had never seen there before. As one industry friend has coined it, of the generation we see here today: “The new fly fisherman is not very nice”.
The rude behavior and bad attitudes that I see displayed on the rivers here are truly sad. Conflicts between guides and anglers are increasing. It was a pivotal reason in my choice to remain a walking and wading guide here, as doing so afforded me an opportunity to avoid some of the worst of this, and often get well ahead of the boats for most of the day. But now that the boats are launching in the pre-dawn pitch darkness, and now that there are three to four times as many people fishing here, avoiding the crassness of the entitled fleet has become all but impossible sometimes. The intensity of this fishing from the boats has left little refuge for the wild steelhead as well.
And it is not just the wild winter steelhead season that is going this way out here now. A new cadre of shiny young guides has arrived to claim the beaches as well. And the fly shops are leading group outings for beach fishing instruction on some of the more popular of these beaches. The problem is that they are encouraging six to eight different groups of people at a time, on a regular basis, to come back to these same beaches to fish. And many of them do so. For those of us here who have fished these places for any length of time we already knew we could overdo it, that we could spoil it, for the fish and for ourselves. And we had already regulated our own actions to accommodate the fish, and the fishing. Now we have seen a big change in the quality of our fishing here as a result of this added pressure. It seems that the sea run Coastal Cutthroat has become the new darling of the fly fishing obsessed. And even though these wild fish are protected from harvest by law in our salt waters, there are plenty of people still deliberately killing them on the beaches all over Puget Sound country. And they are still targeted for harvest in our streams, legally, and successfully. Poaching of these fish is rampant.
As a fly fishing guide and as a writer myself it is getting harder to support the big business approach to angling here. And it seems to me that there are some in the fly fishing “industry cult” who would be glad to sell every man woman and child on earth a fly rod, and all of the extras, and have them catch every last living fish out here, with no sense of concern for the ultimate impacts upon our fisheries. The truth is that the wild fish do not owe us a living wage. And there is no legitimate reason to assume that our fisheries resources can sustain this industry. I do fault our state fisheries managers in all of this as well as I feel that they have failed very badly indeed. It is entirely possible that we may have already lost much more than we know. With Washington’s “all or nothing’ approach to wild fisheries management, we just may well end up with nothing after all.
In my own angling life I have come to fish much less out here, and enjoy it more. Some of this is the likely natural progression for us fly fishermen, that eventually many of us come to this kind of appreciation. But certainly the realities of our declining fisheries here, and my willingness to face these hard facts, have forced me to reevaluate my own impacts. Today I would just as happily volunteer for a day of salmon stream restoration work as I would to go off for a day of fishing. My life on the water has not lost its charm, nor has the poetry of light and air, the magic sound of a singing reel, or the joyous yank of a bright fish escaped me. I cherish every breath of this outdoors life. And I am not so sure that the publishing goals of your destination essays and my conservation concerns here are mutually exclusive. But I just don’t know yet how to write about them on the same page. I can’t imagine that any of this means a hill of beans to you. I am sure that you have bigger fish to fry with running a magazine, handling writers, printers, subscribers and advertisers etc. And as a writer myself this probably won’t do me much good either. I am remembering the lines from the great angler author Thomas McGuane who- when asked what he thought of fly fishing guides and the modern fishing pressure scene on his own Montana rivers- replied: “A fly fisherman ought to have an honest job”. Maybe we writers and editors could take a lesson from that too.
Sincerely, Bob Triggs / Little Stone Flyfisher
I did NOT write this:
From a local fishing guide and writer.
His letter to the editor of a well-known Fly Fishing magazine
7/25/13
Dear Editor,
Last spring you contacted me about the possibility of me submitting several destination articles to your fly fishing magazine, about some of the Olympic Peninsula rivers. Though we had not clearly defined the rivers to be featured you had suggested the Queets and Quinault rivers as possibilities. There was a time when I would have felt very flattered to get such an editorial invitation, especially coming from a publication as prestigious as yours, one which I have long appreciated for its artistic accomplishments. And ordinarily I would appreciate the notoriety of being published with your magazine. And surely it would help my own guiding work too. But honestly, from the very beginning, I have felt serious misgivings about selling out these rivers and streams, and wild fish, with destination articles, inviting numbers of people to come fish here, promoting the fisheries even more etc. I think that all of this has already gone too far. Especially when writing about these Olympic Peninsula rivers.
I could certainly write some good words about the beauty of our watersheds, the unique features of topography, geology, indigenous wildlife and forests, the temperate rainforest, and of course- the beautiful last wild fish. I would say something about the good old days, the historic abundance of steelhead, salmon, cutthroat, char etc. I might interject some personality into comments on the tradition of fly fishing here, mentioning some of the long gone fly fishermen, their flies, favorite seasons, memorable catches, the runs of fish etc. And I could write about the fishing today here, some of the seasonal cycles of it all, the tackle and techniques, flies and presentations etc. I might even mention a few fly shops and guides, lodging, travel notes etc. And all of that would be entertaining and true. But how will it impact our fish here to do this kind of writing today? Honestly, I dread the unintended negative consequences that these promotional articles are having on the last of our wild fish here now. Perhaps if I also wrote about the time that all of my gear was stolen, or how I have been shot at, threatened with knives, harassed, or how my truck was repeatedly vandalized, or about the hundreds of times that my guests have been low-holed by some jackass in a drift boat, maybe that could moderate the outcome.
In the 13 years that I have lived here I have watched angling pressure increase on all of our waters as other Washington rivers have been closed, most notably the Puget Sound rivers being closed under the Endangered Species Act, to protect the remnant populations of wild winter steelhead. With each seasonal limitation or closure that was imposed elsewhere, the displaced anglers and guides have come here to have a go at the last wild fish. And many of those anglers are still harvesting wild steelhead here, legally and illegally. And there are numerous cases of our wild fish repeatedly failing the annual spawning escapement goals that our fisheries managers have set for them. And yet the harvest continues in the rivers here, supported by these same fisheries managers, by sports fishing and tribal netting.
And the numbers just keep getting worse. Last winter I counted almost 60 drift boats on the Hoh River in one day, and an additional few hundred people were wade fishing. As far up and down the river as one would like to have looked there were people fishing. I was surprised to see that most of them were fly fishermen, especially upriver where the wading access is generally more approachable. Every parking spot, campsite, pull-off and wide spot in the Upper Hoh road was occupied by vehicles, campers, trailers etc. It was almost a carnival atmosphere, a real “happening” on the river. Drift boats would come by with two to four people aboard, all rods out, and even the fly rods were working floats and weights, jigs etc., on the drift, all of the way down the river. Many of these boat fishermen and guides too are not avoiding the fish that are holding on the spawning redds, even when those redds are clearly flagged. Anything for a hook-up. Anything for a buck. The “fly fishing” methods too have become much more aggressive, and it is not unusual at all today to see a person fishing with a spey rod, rigged with a big floating indicator / bobber, a deep weighted fly or jig, and even a “slinky weight”, bumping it along in a conventional drift fishing style. On runs that I had rarely ever seen another angler in entire days of fishing, season after season, I was finding trash, campfires, and sneering contempt coming from brash young men whom I had never seen there before. As one industry friend has coined it, of the generation we see here today: “The new fly fisherman is not very nice”.
The rude behavior and bad attitudes that I see displayed on the rivers here are truly sad. Conflicts between guides and anglers are increasing. It was a pivotal reason in my choice to remain a walking and wading guide here, as doing so afforded me an opportunity to avoid some of the worst of this, and often get well ahead of the boats for most of the day. But now that the boats are launching in the pre-dawn pitch darkness, and now that there are three to four times as many people fishing here, avoiding the crassness of the entitled fleet has become all but impossible sometimes. The intensity of this fishing from the boats has left little refuge for the wild steelhead as well.
And it is not just the wild winter steelhead season that is going this way out here now. A new cadre of shiny young guides has arrived to claim the beaches as well. And the fly shops are leading group outings for beach fishing instruction on some of the more popular of these beaches. The problem is that they are encouraging six to eight different groups of people at a time, on a regular basis, to come back to these same beaches to fish. And many of them do so. For those of us here who have fished these places for any length of time we already knew we could overdo it, that we could spoil it, for the fish and for ourselves. And we had already regulated our own actions to accommodate the fish, and the fishing. Now we have seen a big change in the quality of our fishing here as a result of this added pressure. It seems that the sea run Coastal Cutthroat has become the new darling of the fly fishing obsessed. And even though these wild fish are protected from harvest by law in our salt waters, there are plenty of people still deliberately killing them on the beaches all over Puget Sound country. And they are still targeted for harvest in our streams, legally, and successfully. Poaching of these fish is rampant.
As a fly fishing guide and as a writer myself it is getting harder to support the big business approach to angling here. And it seems to me that there are some in the fly fishing “industry cult” who would be glad to sell every man woman and child on earth a fly rod, and all of the extras, and have them catch every last living fish out here, with no sense of concern for the ultimate impacts upon our fisheries. The truth is that the wild fish do not owe us a living wage. And there is no legitimate reason to assume that our fisheries resources can sustain this industry. I do fault our state fisheries managers in all of this as well as I feel that they have failed very badly indeed. It is entirely possible that we may have already lost much more than we know. With Washington’s “all or nothing’ approach to wild fisheries management, we just may well end up with nothing after all.
In my own angling life I have come to fish much less out here, and enjoy it more. Some of this is the likely natural progression for us fly fishermen, that eventually many of us come to this kind of appreciation. But certainly the realities of our declining fisheries here, and my willingness to face these hard facts, have forced me to reevaluate my own impacts. Today I would just as happily volunteer for a day of salmon stream restoration work as I would to go off for a day of fishing. My life on the water has not lost its charm, nor has the poetry of light and air, the magic sound of a singing reel, or the joyous yank of a bright fish escaped me. I cherish every breath of this outdoors life. And I am not so sure that the publishing goals of your destination essays and my conservation concerns here are mutually exclusive. But I just don’t know yet how to write about them on the same page. I can’t imagine that any of this means a hill of beans to you. I am sure that you have bigger fish to fry with running a magazine, handling writers, printers, subscribers and advertisers etc. And as a writer myself this probably won’t do me much good either. I am remembering the lines from the great angler author Thomas McGuane who- when asked what he thought of fly fishing guides and the modern fishing pressure scene on his own Montana rivers- replied: “A fly fisherman ought to have an honest job”. Maybe we writers and editors could take a lesson from that too.
Sincerely, Bob Triggs / Little Stone Flyfisher
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
Monday, January 27, 2014
I cannot bear to leave them.
I came down off the ramp and dropped der hammer. German
Engineering shot right up to 85mph. Even with 245,364 on the clock, 4.5Gs still
“ain’t no thing” for the 1.8. The big pipe hanging out the back screamed,
“Death to the polar bear!” in a low throaty rumble. It seemed unfortunate to me
that something as awesome as internal combustion, could also be so totally
evil. I knew there must be a way to save the planet and still enjoy German
Engineering and loud pipes, but I would have to figure that one out later. I
was on I-5 South, next stop Steelhead Paradise. It was 6:35am.
The water was looking good. I started at my new favorite
tailout. Because I am addicted to misery, I often like to fish spots where
landing a fish would be near impossible. And so it was here. The whole river
comes down and drains though a narrow slot on the opposite side. The fish, hang
out on the far side of a rocky spine which splits the whole thing in two. You
fish from one position at the top, there is really nowhere else to go. If you
hooked one and it took off down river, you would be completely screwed. But, it
would be a truly beautiful tragedy. I had hooked up twice in one sitting here a
few weeks ago. Both times the fish came unbuttoned shortly after the line came
tight. The feeling resembled a knife through heart. I started casting. It was
8:25am.
I thought about a girl that I work with. She is way too
fucking gorgeous, and it’s a real problem. I work at a tea factory, so my buddy
back East immediately dubbed her, “The Tea Baroness” when I originally
mentioned the situation to him. Clever nicknames aside, that chick gives me
funny feelings. In the interest of the children, that’s all I’ll say about
that. I will however say, that I don’t think it’s right or fair that I should
have to look at something like that, just to earn a lively hood. It’s inhumane.
Besides which, when I asked her for some time, she didn’t even have the decency
to say she didn’t care. Instead, she gave me some line about not dating people
she works with. Frankly, I don’t remember saying anything about a date. All I want
to do, is pour her a glass of wine, and throw another log on the fire, while
rubbing her feet and watching “Jerry Maguire” on a bearskin rug. Right away,
she’s gotta throw the word “date” out there. Dames.
I ripped my line off the water and bombed a Peyton
Manning-esque cast straight to the back of the end zone. I watched it swing. I
watched the water dump over the glassy lip and descend into frothy madness. It
was so juicy, there had to be a fish here. It was cold and my hands hurt. I
pulled in the line and watched the fly at my feet. I wasn’t all that jazzed
about it, so I switched it out for a classic, the “Summer of Love”. I fished through
once more and left. Apparently, there was not a fish here, or so I told myself.
On the way back up, I picked up the Big Gulp cup that I had walked past the
previous four times. When I got back to the car, I threw it on the floor amidst
fly boxes, a reel, a car charger for a cell phone, my pack, and other various
refuse. I think there were some flies down there loose, as well. Whatever.
I hiked in to another sweet tailout. It’s harder to come in
on the trail side, but that’s the better side. I did what I had to. When I got
down there I was less than stoked to see a rig parked up top, on the road side.
I held out hope, but sure enough, as I made my first cast, the wader swathed
heathen appeared. He was picking his way down with what looked like dual spey
rods. I prepared myself for a bad time. He got down there and waded in, I was
ready to holler. He was futzing with his line, and to my delight when he
finished he just stood there, and waited. Goddam right. I finished up, and as I
reeled in, he started. It’s nice when you can have that.
As I left the bait water and headed for points onward and
upward, I noticed a guy drifting a bobber in the gigantic pool that the
hatchery birds school up in. This was now two more people than I had wanted to
see. I was feeling a little stressed, so I dug around in the glove box, and found
my Misfits Collection I disk. I popped it in. As soon as I heard Glenn Danzig
crooning his desire to adorn his wall with my decapitated head, I instantly
felt better. Now we were in the spirit of things. I drove on.
It has been suggested, or more to point, flat out told to
me, that fishing above a certain bridge after January is bad business. I do my
best to play ball, with the exception of the spot directly above said bridge. It’s just too sweet. I worked it twice with not so much as bump.
This was all the sea lions’ fault, and I knew it. I hoped someone would file a
lawsuit soon to get rid of those things. I mean, the nerve of those guys!
Congregating at manmade structures that impede fish passage and taking
advantage, all to satisfy their basest survival needs. It was not cool. After
all, people never fish at dams, and even if they did, sea lions have killed way
more fish than people ever did. It’s a scientific fact. I left there in my
usual condition, skunked beyond all recognition.
As I made my way back down, Glenn was singing about a time
when he had apparently turned into a Martian. “Man, that guy sure has had some
wild times”, I thought. Just then, I passed yet another rig. I had had enough.
It was time for some secret spots.
By their very nature, secret spots do not have parking
nearby. I shut off the car, and started carrying my rod down the road. When I
got to the spot, I climbed down in.
I was standing there,
surrounded by great slabs of stone that rose straight out of the water to
heights far above my head. Like the fish that moved silently past them, they
were monuments to the beginning of time. I could not hear a sound except for
the crashing river, and the soft trickle of water moving between my legs. Even
the Ouzel which sat on a nearby perch twittering away seemed somehow muted. The
air hung deathly still, and the hollow cold which engulfed me contained a sweet
sadness that was so hauntingly beautiful, I could barely stand it. I am often
moved to tears by the sheer magnitude of this place. That does not happen
anywhere else, ever. It’s fair to say that my fascination with Steelhead is
largely driven by my jealousy over the places they get to live. I fish these
spots too long. I cannot bear to leave them.
I lit a cigarette, and watched yet another swing commence, I
was so hungry. Not only for a grab, but also for a sandwich, which I had
neglected to bring. There is no karma in fly fishing. There is only the river,
the fish, and the gods. All of which are equally fickle, and largely
unconcerned with the desires of a Pennsylvania boy with a fish jones, an aching heart, and an
empty stomach.
It was getting to be that part of the day when hope fades
into resignation. Nonetheless, I decided to hit just one more spot. It was
doozey. In order to get the spot where you fish, it is necessary to pick your
way across a rock reef. I was beat. A couple times I stopped and looked at what
lay ahead. I tried to decide whether this was going to be worth it. My feet were
less than sure, and I did NOT want to go swimming. It was pointless, of course
I was going to risk it.
I got out there and started casting. This was a good spot. I
was throwing cache-handed Snap Ts off of my left shoulder. I watched each one
sail out and unfold over the water, before dropping the fly with a tiny plop. I
was just about to start thinking about the Tea Baroness again, when something
stopped the fly. I felt drag build on the line. Without thinking, I raised the
rod. For a split second the line came tight and then went slack again.
Something had moved. “OH MY GOD!” I wheezed. I started shaking uncontrollably.
I couldn’t believe it. Everything had gone to ruin. I had worked so hard and so
long, only to fuck it up when it mattered most. I swung the fly through again
and again. Maybe I could get another chance. I knew that I couldn’t. I tried to
tell myself that it had just been a snag, but the fly never stopped again. It
had been a take, and I knew it. I switched flies and went through again.
Useless.
When I got home, I found the front door just as I had left
it, in darkness. I was just about ready for a beer and a round eyed woman. But
I would settle for just the beer.
Friday, April 5, 2013
JUICE
What is Juice? A tasty and refreshing beverage concocted from any variety of fruits? Cran-Ras anyone? Well, it can be, but that's not what we're talking about here.
Juice is putting your knee to the board and grabbing the rail as a 10' right comes curling over your head. Paddling out with an offshore wind behind you. You come over the swell and the salt spray comes down all around you. Juice is the 8 wave set that rolls in after everyone has been sitting on the boards for the last 20 minutes. Just like that, guys are taking off, hooting and hollering as the those big rollers come crashing through, one right after another. It's electric.
Juice is a 90' cast that turns over perfectly and drops the fly directly in the seam. Juice is the swing cut short by the solid take of a Wild Steelie that ain't messin' around. It's wading out in the half light of dawn, pulling out line, anything could happen. And really, just the fact that you're standing there is good enough, but still, you could end up kneeling in cold water holding 24" of Steelhead until it goes thrashing out of your shaking hands.
Juice is laying high snares over solid 4-on-the-floor beats. You drop that shit, and feel all the ants running around under your scalp.
Juice is that spot in the powerband between the top of 3rd and the bottom of 4th. Let out the clutch, and that bitch just pulls.
Juice is the first kiss on the REALLY cute girl that you've been crushing on FOREVER. Enough said.
Juice is Led Zepplin's "Heartbreaker". Those first few chords. Yeah.
Juice is letting an attacker beat you, and then bringing your stick over his head and checking his back hand so hard that he loses the ball and his stick. Coach hates this move. Sorry coach, it's Juice.
Juice is a Kirby Morgan 2700 on your head as you're cutting steel with fire underwater.
Juice is the skate sessions we used to have in the concrete drainage behind King's Supermarket. 6 or 7 guys all on the same page, all pushing each other and ourselves. Your doing stuff you never even thought of before. Some of those guys we didn't even know, but it didn't matter at all, it was just flowing. Those were the sessions that went until it got so dark we couldn't see anything. No one wanted to stop.
Juice is pure awesomeness manifesting itself in your reality. When everything is dialing in, and you are in the center of the dial. It's just fucking clicking. As a general rule of thumb, if you've got goosebumps, you've likely got Juice. Simply put, Juice is why I get out of bed in the morning. Because really, no one ever got Juice in bed. Well, not unless that REALLY cute girl stayed over.
Juice is putting your knee to the board and grabbing the rail as a 10' right comes curling over your head. Paddling out with an offshore wind behind you. You come over the swell and the salt spray comes down all around you. Juice is the 8 wave set that rolls in after everyone has been sitting on the boards for the last 20 minutes. Just like that, guys are taking off, hooting and hollering as the those big rollers come crashing through, one right after another. It's electric.
Juice is a 90' cast that turns over perfectly and drops the fly directly in the seam. Juice is the swing cut short by the solid take of a Wild Steelie that ain't messin' around. It's wading out in the half light of dawn, pulling out line, anything could happen. And really, just the fact that you're standing there is good enough, but still, you could end up kneeling in cold water holding 24" of Steelhead until it goes thrashing out of your shaking hands.
Juice is laying high snares over solid 4-on-the-floor beats. You drop that shit, and feel all the ants running around under your scalp.
Juice is that spot in the powerband between the top of 3rd and the bottom of 4th. Let out the clutch, and that bitch just pulls.
Juice is the first kiss on the REALLY cute girl that you've been crushing on FOREVER. Enough said.
Juice is Led Zepplin's "Heartbreaker". Those first few chords. Yeah.
Juice is letting an attacker beat you, and then bringing your stick over his head and checking his back hand so hard that he loses the ball and his stick. Coach hates this move. Sorry coach, it's Juice.
Juice is a Kirby Morgan 2700 on your head as you're cutting steel with fire underwater.
Juice is the skate sessions we used to have in the concrete drainage behind King's Supermarket. 6 or 7 guys all on the same page, all pushing each other and ourselves. Your doing stuff you never even thought of before. Some of those guys we didn't even know, but it didn't matter at all, it was just flowing. Those were the sessions that went until it got so dark we couldn't see anything. No one wanted to stop.
Juice is pure awesomeness manifesting itself in your reality. When everything is dialing in, and you are in the center of the dial. It's just fucking clicking. As a general rule of thumb, if you've got goosebumps, you've likely got Juice. Simply put, Juice is why I get out of bed in the morning. Because really, no one ever got Juice in bed. Well, not unless that REALLY cute girl stayed over.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Tao 1
Tao can be talked about, but not the Eternal Tao.
Names can be named, but not the Eternal Name.
As the origin of heaven-and-earth, it is nameless:
As "the Mother" of all things. it is nameable.
So, as ever hidden, we should look at it's inner essence:
As always manifest, we should look at it's outer aspects.
These two flow from the same source, though diferently named;
And both are called mysteries.
The Mystery of mysteries is the Door of all essence.
Names can be named, but not the Eternal Name.
As the origin of heaven-and-earth, it is nameless:
As "the Mother" of all things. it is nameable.
So, as ever hidden, we should look at it's inner essence:
As always manifest, we should look at it's outer aspects.
These two flow from the same source, though diferently named;
And both are called mysteries.
The Mystery of mysteries is the Door of all essence.
Epic Steelie cures hangover
I had been working the Sandy off and on all winter, and had really only gotten into one hatchery fish, which was taken at Oxbow Park. At some point, my lack of success, and the bait chucking masses got the better of me and I had a meltdown. I posted my tales of woe to another forum, and came up with an invite from a guy that I had actually met previously to come up and fish the upper river with him. I, of course, graciously accepted. We ended up fishing the weekend of St. Patty's Day.
The morning of, I was a little off. We had been up late the night before drinking and talking Steelhead, so I was a little groggy, and I had a little headache going. Your basic hangover. There was also a strong upstream wind at the first spot we fished, and I was trying to acclimate myself to the floating mono running line I had rigged up the night before. I was finding it hard to maintain. Still, I soldiered on, fished the water completely, and then we retired for some breakfast. Dave had already taken one behind me, nymphing. Feeling a bit better after some steak, eggs, potatoes, and a spot of tea, we set out again. The second run he put me on was a dream. Slow green braids twisting around some choicely positioned boulders. If there was a fish anywhere, it was in there.
I started casting.
About ten casts in, I got tired of the dumbell eyes I was tossing and traded up in favor of a simple un-weighted Hoh Bo pattern. I resumed casting. After about about ten swings, and nine steps down, the line came tight. A second after the fish rolled on top, I heard Dave let out a deep "YEAH!!" from behind me. It was on. The first run was a killer, the fish took out at least 250 feet on me, waaaay into the backing before it finally quit. The rest as they say, is history. This is why I don't mind waiting two or three months between fish.
The morning of, I was a little off. We had been up late the night before drinking and talking Steelhead, so I was a little groggy, and I had a little headache going. Your basic hangover. There was also a strong upstream wind at the first spot we fished, and I was trying to acclimate myself to the floating mono running line I had rigged up the night before. I was finding it hard to maintain. Still, I soldiered on, fished the water completely, and then we retired for some breakfast. Dave had already taken one behind me, nymphing. Feeling a bit better after some steak, eggs, potatoes, and a spot of tea, we set out again. The second run he put me on was a dream. Slow green braids twisting around some choicely positioned boulders. If there was a fish anywhere, it was in there.
I started casting.
About ten casts in, I got tired of the dumbell eyes I was tossing and traded up in favor of a simple un-weighted Hoh Bo pattern. I resumed casting. After about about ten swings, and nine steps down, the line came tight. A second after the fish rolled on top, I heard Dave let out a deep "YEAH!!" from behind me. It was on. The first run was a killer, the fish took out at least 250 feet on me, waaaay into the backing before it finally quit. The rest as they say, is history. This is why I don't mind waiting two or three months between fish.
All photos by Dave Kilhefner.
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