Celebrate the Wins

If you fish flies and surf the web, you might have noticed a lot of recent focus on protecting our public lands. Buster’s done a bit of mouthing off about it too, and we know it’s easy to let the bastardos get you all down in the chops.

So pick your ass up, get your Muir on, and celebrate the addition of 400 acres to Yosemite’s western boundary.

ackerson-1

Ackerson Meadow was part of John Muir’s original plan for Yosemite

via Luke Hunt, Ph.D. for American Rivers:

Through this addition to Yosemite National Park, Ackerson Creek – which flows through the property before flowing into the Wild and Scenic South Fork of the Tuolumne River and the greater San Joaquin River – will have its water quality protected from threats for years to come.

Aw hellz yeah!

8775222-0

Mikey Two-Shoes and His Groove

Buster has some cool pals. You can find Agua Fria Alchemy in the blogroll.

Good Wholesome Head Wounds

There was a day when some of us scampered at the rusty, toxic, helmetless edge of the void, turned out there by our parents with just a few instructions, most of which amounted to “shut up and don’t monkey around.” We formed feral bicycle gangs, waded in storm drains, blew up stumps, set things on fire, built tree forts and fell out of them. We were targeted by Mattel and the like with colorful happy diversions, some of which turned out to be highly flammable and/or bad if you swallowed them.

After a few squealers suffered Thingmaker burns and wrecked the fun, the grownups finished their drinks and put out their smokes and decided to look out for us. Let’s see where we are now, shall we?

Jarts

lawn-darts

The Danger: skull piercing, and your brains will squirt out and I’m not cleaning that up.

Result: BANNED

Clackers

clackersbig

The Danger: whacking yourself in the face or the crotch. Also sometimes they shattered and shrapnel went everywhere. Big whoop.

Result: BANNED

Sticks

3-Reasons-Why-A-Stick-Is-Better-Than-Your-Toothbrush1

The Danger: blunt force trauma, eye injury, gun/sword/lightsaber wound (true, ask any kid).

Result: not BANNED, but it might just be a matter of time and blood loss. Still the integral component of a game of Stick Quiz.

Rattling Around in the Back of a Pickup at Highway Speed with an Iron Rake and Some Loose Firewood

pickup

The Cordwoods head home after Family Fun Day at Broken Bottle Park

The Danger: occasionally a kid or two would bounce out and you might not find them again. Make some more.

Result: mostly ILLEGALED

Fishing

RockFishing-CapeByron-ZB2

The Danger: drowning, skin cancer, hypothermia, fire, dehydration, tetanus, unemployment, bottomless pits, lightning, shark attack, bear attack, tweaker attack, misanthropy, salmonella, choking, chafing, gunfire, stabbing, swamp ass, stank foot, alcohol poisoning, strangulation, blindness, marriage failure, road food, terrible coffee, Lyme disease, West Nile virus, leeches, lampreys, bats, rabies, rabid bats, poison ivy, potty mouth, criminal prosecution, lies, exaggerations, terminal smartassery, low self-esteem, butthurt, blogging, slack, and general sketchiness.

Result:

logo

WELP!

Free the Collect!

“On the lower end, two fair-sized streams drained the interior. One rose from a series of springs that poured forth from hillocks around today’s 20th Street and Fifth Avenue. The Saponickan band living there called it Ishpetenga. It flowed southwest into the Hudson near the mouth of another trout stream. This one had its origins in a deep, fair-sized pond where Worth and Centre streets now cross. It flowed northwesterly, almost in a straight line, and became the course for today’s Canal Street. The pond was known as The Collect. The Dutch name for this trout pond was derived from one of its beaches, which they which they called Kalk Hoek – Chalk Point or Chalk Hook. It was given the name because the early Dutch settlers came here to collect the shells of freshwater mussels, which were ground and added to the mortar used to build their homes. When the English took over management of Manhattan in 1664 they assumed many of the Dutch words already in use for geographic features. Their inelegant pronunciation of Dutch turned the monosyllabic word “Kalk” (or “Chalk”) into the dissylable “Kal-leck”- hence, “Collect.” The pond’s name had nothing to do with collecting water in the area, as some writers have suggested, although it did have two small feeder streams. For decades, in the 1600s and 1700s, it was the source of drinking water for all of lower Manhattan’s residents. The Collect and its associated streams contained brook trout as late as 1740.”

– from Brook Trout by Nick Karas

rmzXV

…and a shovel and a fly rod!

Lat 43°32’00″N, Long 76°02’20″W, Hello Bozeman!

bwtfl

Come in Rangoon!

And props to StickerJunkie.com, that BWTF one-off ‘s survived 3 Oswego County winters like a goddam champ. You try standing in front of a snow gun for 3 years, look as good you will not, hmm?

Dean Ween Wants to Fish

Dean Ween on fishing and why making albums is a drag these days.

dogg400x300

Boognish fish. Arf arf!

Money quote:

“The guys that work on these partyboats, they’re out working one trip in the afternoon, and then they’re a commercial scallop fisherman at night. They know everything. They know the tuna grounds, they know how to bottom-fish, they know how to drag for scallops. It’s intense. And it is a generational thing. Some salty ass guys. (laughs) Those are the people you want to listen to.”

Sanctuary!

A long cold hinterland winter here in Freestonia doesn’t mean that the fishing stops entirely, but it does slow down, and that means increased exposure to the noisemakers. You know, the ones that force-feed us the narrative of our lives, that thin clammy broth of postures and judgements and cheap shiny plastic crap that we can’t live without. The noise comes from the tubes, the mailbox and the halls of power in 30-second sound bytes and bumper sticker platitudes, telling us what’s important, what should be dismissed with scorn, conveying our targets for rage and humor. Even the goddam Olympic Games, something that’s supposed to celebrate the hard work of dedicated amateurs, shows up shrinkwrapped in disposable computer-animated bubble packaging that’s obviously been designed and focus-grouped years in advance, complete with instant blowdried celebrity hero toys ready for tomorrow’s water cooler worship. Collect ‘em all, $14.99.

shaunwhite

Fully Articulated Flying Tomato

(Haha see, Shaun stowed away on Tuesday’s delivery and stocked all this sk8punk stuff in the dead of night, because he’s a subversive nutty scamp®. What can we do? On sale now.)

The noise is the anthem of the Transnational Lizard People, who purely through the power of cash have erased the importance of place, allegiance to country, recognition of borders, and necessity of breathing, eating, drinking and being of this place where we plant our feet. They recognize no law, no neighbor, no change of season or migration. They experience no hunger or sickness or fear. No disaster matters, except as an opportunity to pad those numbers. Their decisions and actions bear no consequence, aside from possibly being hauled before a Congress of their own creatures for an afternoon show trial, let’s get it over with so we can all go get drinks. With any luck they’ll soon have cash-powered spacecraft so they can all lift off and blast each other with beams of numbers that used to represent something of worth, and be free of the bothersome bounds of the human experience. Man, we’re all such a nuisance.

But here’s the thing: we’re not all where we’re supposed to be, fretting over today’s manufactured outrage on one side of an aisle or another, shaking our heads about who’s fucking whom and oh how could he do such a thing? Sometimes we very deliberately dash out of the pasture and do things that the handlers never counted on. See, there are no blue lines on their demographic maps. They can’t conceive of a shade of green in winter-dormant cedar and water that’s deeper than the one in their veins. Eventually we’ll probably be rounded up and put down for the greater good of the herd, but we likely won’t hear them coming.

img0860cr

You say something?

Calling H.G. Wells

timemachine

It’s worth a shot.

The final couple of work days before a fishing trip are probably best used as an exercise in patience, something fisherfolk are supposed to have in voluminous reserve, but for me they’re mostly spent almost telling coworkers to go piss up a rope. My brain checked out a few days ago, so making time pass by being productive, while laudable and maybe even expected, is a joke. So instead I’m left searching for alternatives, like:

  • Chew off own face (not arms, I’ll be needing those)
  • Create ridiculous new fly designs, give them names like “spleen venter” and “jeebus fucking fuck”
  • Stand outside cafeteria window, grease ferrules while performing rod-section-up-the-nose trick
stevemartin

TA DAAAH!

  • Piss up a rope
  • Write self-evaluation, give self high marks for “not murdering you all in your sleep”
  • Tie on big pyramid sinker, practice double-hauling at lunchtime joggers
  • Get head start on three-days-in-wool-and-waders body funk, offer hugs to middle management
  • Attend status meeting, assign new names to coworkers like “Bait Bucket Joe,” “Pete the Pusillanimous Pinner” and “U. Barking Idiot”
  • Stabby-type foul-mouthed blog posts, try to make keys fly off
  • Take steroids, get huge, bend time and space

Any and all further suggestions are welcome in the comments. Well, they technically won’t be welcome until next week, but you get the idea.

Further Dave Appreciation

Since it’s some sort of unofficial last hurrah for summer’s mad knees-bent running about behavior, and also because part of the joy of this weird pursuit is in the characters you meet.

bongguitar850100

GIDORAH!

“We had just been invited to join an all day golf scramble and drinking bash hosted by a whole medly of fraternal lodge organizations. Elks, Moose, and Eagles strolled about the first tee. Most of the people were meeting for the first time; our identities seemed secure, but since you can’t be too careful we traded our fishing hats for the fezzes of three staggering-drunk Shriners from Anaconda, then filled out our name cards as Methyl, Ethyl, and Nitrate Blitz.

Not all of the Blitz Brothers were strangers to a golf course. One of them had even played in college. Ethyl had the distance, Methyl the hot irons, and Nitrate, to his bemused delight, found that he could putt. Just like lining up the eight ball for a bank shot, he said. The Brothers for as long as they could maintain their momentum atop the bell curve of enhanced perception were like besotted Jedi knights: the force was with them. The tournament was a scramble, a format ideally suited to their condition.

On the holes that ran with the wind the Brothers were absolutely splendid. They birdied the first and third, then Nitrate drained a thirty-foot putt for eagle from the fringe on the par five sixth. First prize was two hundred dollars, and the Blitz Brothers had already decided to spend it all in one place – like maybe Idaho. Then, on the eighth, Methyl was driving the cart in the rough searching for a hooked ball and lighting a cigar when he should have been watching where he was going. All three brothers hiked the tall weeds to the car, then stopped at a drug store, bought a postcard, drew a map to the cart and signed it with a sketch of a scuba diver, then continued fishing toward the Big Hole River, where it was deemed by popular acclaim to be cocktail hour, and time to switch to gin.”

-from True Love and the Woolly Bugger by Dave Ames, 1996

Trick Out Your Trout Stream

opener2

PSSSHT!

Conan! What is Best in Life?

To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the sizzling of their bacon!

baconcross

Is it safe?

Just in time for Easter it’s Mjolnir, the hammer of Thor! The bacon, which represents awesome, is bound to the world-burger with the blood of the giant Hymir, here provided in a handy squeeze bottle.

Thor once went fishing with Hymir the giant, who refused to provide Thor with bait, so Thor struck the head off Hymir’s largest ox to use as such, even though he was planning on fishing flies anyway, because Hymir was an annoying dick. Thor’s offering was eaten by Jörmungandr the Midgard Serpent, whom Thor pulled from the water, whereupon the two faced off, Jörmungandr spewing blood and poison. Hymir went pale with fear, and as Thor reached for his hammer to kill the beast, Hymir cut the line, letting the serpent sink beneath the waves. Because Hymir was also a pussy.

thorfish

Dude stop crying and get the net! Damn!

The texts are unclear, but one presumes that Thor then beat the living snot out of Hymir to give him something to cry about. The lesson I guess is that bacon is awesome, and you shouldn’t fish with giant whiny annoying pussies.