The Kate – fly and photo by Glista, still the maddest doctor at a vise.
Buster has some cool pals. You can find Agua Fria Alchemy in the blogroll.
It starts with deep pools and log jams in its lower reaches and ends curving through meadows beneath cliff faces hundreds of feet tall; the section of Rock Creek that is being proposed for Wild and Scenic Designation has every type of water you could possibly expect. Rock Creek hosts not only, rainbows, browns, the odd brookie, native cuts and bull trout and whitefish it provides habitat for deer, moose, goats, bears, pikas (meep!), foxes, coyotes, wolves (probably) , various species of pocket gophers, voles and moles, beavers, otters, the occasional wolverine, mountain lions, countless bird species, mayflies, caddisflies, stoneflies and terrestrials. It is an awesome place.
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.
“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
Tyson Spey – from the fevered mind of Buster stalwart (Obi-) Jon, and the vise and lens of Brother Glista.
So it seems that the American Museum of Fly Fishing has found itself in a public relations pickle. Invited Cheney to speak and everything went KABLOOM, and then the Dick didn’t even have the courtesy to turn them down. Hoisted with their own Boga. Bad days. Crazy days.
But jeez, it’s a gnurly little museum and we’d hate to see it consigned to the ever-filling dustbin of Things That Should Be Cool But…you know? So to offer a helpful hand the mad brains at Buster Labs (boiler room, left past the incinerator, put lotion in basket, ask for Epol) have schemed up a way for the AMFF to gracefully put down the Dick and back away with their reputations intact…by making them a donation they can’t refuse. And this way, they get a dinner speaker AND an exhibit in one neat package. Brilliant, no? AMFF, we give you
The Hideous Jabbering Head of Theodore Gordon
Hello! The great charm of fly-fishing is that we are always learning! Hello! Thank you! The angling fever is a very real disease and can only be cured by the application of cold water and shooting your lawyer friend in the face! Hello! It is the constant – or inconstant – change, the infinite variety in fly-fishing that binds us fast, but it is not a sufficient basis for a sound, comprehensive energy policy! I think they’re in the last throes, if you will, of a sport that is never the same on any two days of the year. Thank You! Hello!
It, uh, just sorta goes on like that. Epol can certainly probably get that fixed up by the fall, at least long enough to deliver a speech. Then the AMFF can just put it under glass and presto, instant tourist attraction! Just imagine all the big fat Orvis customers students of our noble pursuit arriving to have a word with the reanimated jabbering head of the father of American dry fly fishing! They’ll have to hold another fundraiser just to afford all the new parking they’ll need!
Here’s the good and bad thing, though…to be perfectly honest, it’s a little bit unstable, and the quicker they get it under glass the better (and keep the fluids topped off). Which is why they really have no choice but to cancel the Dick. Really, what’ll it be, a once-in-a-lifetime procurement and a historic speech by a luminary of the sport and a marvel of mad science, or Dick Friggin Cheney?
Anyway, are we awesome or what? Buster is confident that we will, in fact, be greeted as liberators by the AMFF. And they are welcome.
Field & Stream really did get out of control with those covers in the 1940s.
HA! Is joke! This is called Bad Day on the High Sea, by Brandon Bird. Here’s what he has to say:
“Here, raw sexual aggression is symbolized by the sperm whale, while the squid acts as a thinly-disguised metaphor for the multi-armed oligarchies of Rockefeller, Hearst, and Morgan. Their battle plays against the backdrop of the sea, standing in for–what else?–the vastness of the unconscious mind.”