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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All Hail The Jökulhlaup!

Suicide Basin is at it again…

Pretty sure a 63 foot water level drop in 48 hours is gonna wreak a little havoc.

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From the NWS –

AT 522 AM AKDT...BASED ON REPORTING GAUGES 
A GLACIER-DAMMED LAKE OUTBURST ALONG THE 
MENDENHALL LAKE AND RIVER IS CONTINUING. 
THE ADDED WATER FROM THE GLACIER-DAMMED 
LAKE INTO THE RIVER SYSTEM WILL RESULT IN 
CONTINUED RIVER RISES THROUGH FRIDAY EVENING. 
THE RIVER IS CURRENTLY RISING AT AROUND 
2 INCHES PER HOUR. ESTIMATED SUICIDE BASIN 
LAKE LEVEL PRIOR TO RELEASE INDICATES THAT 
MENDENHALL LAKE AND RIVER COULD SEE SIMILAR 
LEVELS TO THE 2014 RECORD EVENT OF 11.85 FEET.

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Better go put away the lawn furniture and get the livestock to higher ground, Larry.

 

 

Wrung Out and Hung Up

Since ice-out the whole world’s brimful of water and overflows with each passing blow, it seems. Down low the trillium are blooming with wet feet, but nobody can tell whether the Hendricksons have read the memo, and we’re all standing around at the pull-offs looking sideways at each other and not daring to complain about too much water. When the sun finally emerges it’s instantly warm, and we groan and stretch and make note of the fattening buds on the branches, and oh did you see the stickjam blew out up there by the Wall Pool. Yeah, the pool that’s had a standing wave in it for weeks, right, and we’re off to have a look at this meadow or that little feeder, splash-crashing through widening potholes full of the same caramel-colored water that’s now carving off the oxbow up by Bill’s place. It’s enough to make a guy quit drinking just so he can start again.

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Still no biscuit?

On the way home there’s a guy in red-checkered flannel way out in his yard, reclining in a lawn chair next to his burn pile and smoking a cigar. Damned if he isn’t going to burn something. Viking points for hanging tough, flannel man, might not rain tonight.

April Fish

Remain vigilant. Seems to me, though, that this should be easier for fisherfolk than for others. Assuming everybody’s lying, I mean.

Punchline: it’s also the trout opener in NY. Set up your own joke, you’re so damn funny.

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Freakishly jaunty in a fever dream sort of way

…in France, those who are fooled on April 1 are called the “Poisson d’Avril” (the April Fish). A common prank (especially among school-aged children) is to place a paper fish on the back of an unsuspecting person. When the paper fish is discovered, the victim is declared a “Poisson d’Avril.” While it is not clear of the origins of fish being associated with April 1, many think the correlation is related to zodiac sign of Pisces (a fish), which falls near April.

A paper fish. On your back. Haha jerk, now you’re an April Fish. Yeah that’s hilarious.

Yules, Fools!

Hard to believe, we know, but it’s time once again for The Hideous Jabbering Head of Izaak Walton’s Very Hairy Holiday Revue Special Thing! Ike likes to open with a song.

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gabba gabba HEY!

Oh the gallant Fishers life,
It is the best of any,
’Tis full of pleasure, void of strife,
And ’tis belov’d of many:
Other joyes
are but toyes,
and I hope I get the one with Kunge Fu Grippe!

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A traditional Drunktopian solstice celebration

In the Black Forest they celebrate by getting shitfaced, setting fire to 800-lb straw-packed oak wheels, rolling them down mountainsides into sleepy villages and making bets on the fates of the panicked peasantry as they flee in terror. Here comes a Merry Christmas! Who’s dreaming of sugarplums NOW, proles?! And though I can’t think of anything more perfectly German, I must say that they’ve at least got a handle on merrymaking. I mean, c’mon, who doesn’t want to try this? Like, right now, let’s go. 

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a foul and odiferous goo

A festive holiday story from a while back that I like to share at this merry time of year. I grant you The Power of Lutefisk!

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Have a Yes album cover Christmas!

And finally, Brother Glista’s done it again. Behold this year’s holiday fly candy, fever-dream fresh from the festive frankenlab:

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This is mine. Get your own!

Be safe, scamps! Now go make some merry!

 

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?

Calling H.G. Wells

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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
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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.

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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

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PSSSHT!