It’s Not All Bleak

Hat tip to Moldy Chum, this brought a smile today-

Today, Congressman Peter DeFazio introduced a bill that would protect roughly 100,000 acres in Douglas County, Oregon. The legislation was introduced by Senators Ron Wyden and Jeff Merkley in the Senate in May, 2015, and passed out of the U.S. Senate Committee on Energy and Natural Resources in July, 2016.

The Frank Moore Wild Steelhead Sanctuary Act (H.R. 6129) would permanently safeguard a tributary of the North Umpqua River that contains some of the best wild steelhead spawning areas in the Pacific Northwest. Named in honor of Frank Moore, a World War II veteran and a legendary steward of the North Umpqua River, the act would protect drinking water, critical wildlife habitat, and cultural resources in the Steamboat Creek watershed, identified as one of the most important ecological areas in the Pacific Northwest. The area provides more than 50 miles of high-quality river and stream habitat for summer and winter steelhead, Chinook and coho salmon, rainbow trout, and other native species.

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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.

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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!

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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

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

Result: BANNED

Clackers

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

Result: BANNED

Sticks

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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

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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

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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:

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WELP!

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.

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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.

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You say something?

The Return of the Extra Stabby Fisherman

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TASTES JUS LIKE CHIKKEN!!

To the lurching yappy meat puppet in the office across the hall, whom I’ll call “Dick” though it’s not the name on the door that you refuse to close while you’re hollering into your bluetooth growth like a big buttery dolt: tomorrow I’m going fishing, to a place full of water and chrome where this mocking clock has no meaning, with good company and good whiskey and fire. I’ve been looking forward to this for a while, but first there were the home repairs that got put off all summer, and a deadline, and then a foot of snow, and then Halloween and an election. But now suddenly they’re past, so I’m kinda keyed up you see.

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photo by Ginseng Sullivan

Now normally when you heave into view and begin your noise about your bike, or shooting woodchucks, the two things that your pachinko machine of a brain has identified as our common interests (woodchucks? really?), I’m able to zone march straight to my happy place. That’s right, those nods and uh-huhs are about bright water and forest smells and was that a rise right there? Caddis? Even when you’re not talking to me, you’re still talking, Dick, and your HARF HARF laugh operates on some hellish frequency that penetrates walls and headphones. But I’m normally happy to just crank the volume and forget you and the oxygen you’re using. We’re good.

But today there’s a bluebird summery day blasting through the windows and my happy fishing brain place is making me want to chew my arms off, so I can’t go there, and I’m left with nothing for you but thoughts of twisting your head off like an apple stem, shoving your darling little espresso glass in your mouth and then kicking the whole mess into a steel garbage can with an oh-so-satisfying crash and rattle. And then rolling it down a hill in front of a speeding bus. A burning bus full of angry hungry bears. Shut up, this is my happy place, not yours.

Your soul is an old dirty bug jar,
Wook

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Warren Ellis Technologies, where the future is NOW, DAMMIT

 

Get The Net!

Each and every one of you mutts that even dawdles with thee angle had best head over to Finspot’s Fat of the Land and read All Hail the Lunch Brookie.

“The next morning, operating under the theory that our lure-stealing fish had retreated to the opposite shore to sulk, we tried the far end of the pond, a mosquito-infested corner with tall reeds known as the “Back Bay.”

Watch the vid and let Riley remind you of what’s whut. Then go fishing.

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All Hail!

Propellerheads Discover Monkeys Fishing, Act Surprised

Scientists have found a bunch of long-tailed macaques (steady now, that’s the easy joke) in Indonesia that fish.

Film Title: King Kong.

We’re gonna be rich, boys!

Groups of long-tailed macaques were observed four times over the past eight years scooping up small fish with their hands and eating them along rivers in East Kalimantan and North Sumatra provinces, according to researchers from The Nature Conservancy and the Great Ape Trust.”

Four times in eight years? Why, that’s barely a dalliance. And no gear? What the hell do they have to argue about during all that downtime? I’m beginning to doubt their commitment to monkeydom.

Meijaard, a senior science adviser at The Nature Conservancy, said it was unclear what prompted the long-tailed macaques to go fishing.

Ahhhh, there we have it, they’re fishing writers. Welcome Bobo, Chim-Chim and Snowflake.

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Where have you gone, Kilgore Trout?

WTF?

Well now whut the hell was that shit?

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Laugh while you can, monkey boy!

I mean, there I was, hugging the bottom like I’ve been doing all spring, chowin down on delicious squirmy bugs gettin all fat. Why should I rise, dammit? That’s work! And along comes a bouncing bug thing and I’m all GROMF and the whole gig goes to hell. Gassed from jumping and pulling and then there’s a monkey in my face with his big stupid thumbs and here I am. DAMN MAN! I mean, was that really necessary?

Yes it was, fish. Yes it was.