thee streamside companion & angler's frequent respite

thee beginnin' ay the end for Sgt. Chas. Floyd

2007-02-12T15:39:00.000-08:00

Charley Floyd is shittin’ it and boyo, it ain’t good. We has been up since the forepart ay this sleep, a hearing him a moaning and a groaning likes... likes a downer cow drowing in a puddle ay mud and snot; a stuck hog ay foaming and a bucking an a finally setting down into his own slop and blud; a wee and sickly lamb what has lost his mama and jest sets down for tay feed they wolves and coyotes -- as pure awful and mournful and hollow as you could ever conjure. Charley, jest layin’ there half on his spread, half in the dirt, his eyes leaking and him all panting like a beat dog, frothin’, bubblin’, sweating, quivering, his hands squeezing up into spasmodic fists full of tremble and terror. Him just biting his lips and lolling his head, sweat pouring out, and double damn them fucking tears a leaking, and he issuing the most pathetic sounds what I ever had to stand still for. He got precious little motion in him now, ‘cept for to grab onto his guts and roll over on his side to puke, which gets him to howlin’ and even more moanin’. Low. Low and down.
York been up and by his side, lending any assist what he might offer since Sgt. Charley come down with with this verry, verry terrible cholic. The business commenced verry shortly after that council with them Oto cheifs name ay Big Horse and Little Theif. One of our Catholik boyos, Hugh McNeal --- a devout conversationalist with his Jesus Lord -- been saying that it was them savages laid the hammer down on Sgt. Charley. Sayin’ that they savage prayers, though they is headed to they own god --- they own great father -- they goes right down to the devil below and that old trickster jest rises direct up from his pit and be liable to strike down any man -- white, nig, savage, canuck, who might be in the neighborhood. It don’t matter to Bezelbub as he eats souls every day like we downs hoe cakes and venison jerk. No difference in one hoe cake from the next --- much the same it is for Satan when he’s a chewing them souls conjured up by they whisky nigs. An it ain’t no wonder as we see considerable Inds what seem to be batshit afflicted. But ay - that’s the bit I finds solace in, a wild and kin type ay regard, as it seems.
Aye, poor Charley Floyd look like he been used up, sucked dry and turned inside out by some devil, or them Injuns Great Spirit -- or whatever you choose to name it. Right as I gets shook out of my spread by Sgt. Charly’s yellin, I seed into his eyes and they was like a staggered colt. Full ay terror. Wantin’ to bolt. I hate to speak it, but there ain’t no peace there. Not in the eyes of a colt wantin’ tay bolt.
Captain Clark still there with him, still setting there from when I turned in the last. And Mo Reed, that deserting fuck, that shitheel, he was a moppin’ Charly’s brow, wipin’ the puke from off his viz, squeezin that rag o’er Sgt. Charly’s lips.
I wanted to smash that kettle and flannel from Reed’s mitts --- like he ain’t got the sand or the soul to even stand next to Sgt. Charley Floyd -- the way that Reed boy was sobbing, crying and shaking like wet kitten when Drewer dragged his hide back to camp just two nights ago.
The captains call they orders for ay court martial and the boys is all jumpin’ to do they business. Guilty. Guilty, guilty, guilty. Every boy spitting the word. Eyes casting up tay Reed like to see some defect -- some wound what let the courage seep out of his soul and allowed the coward to creep in. Ain’t nobody got nothing left for Moe Reed. He done used it all up. That well of sympathy, of human consideration and kindness, has run dry as dust.
Them Inds was still there, eyes all agog at the likes of our Kaintuck whisky and the guns and the sheer cascadin’ river ay words from Captain Merry what had just fallen down upon they heads. They was stunned, sure likes, and likesay, we was all in our best blues, rifles shouldered and serious as the sun -- wheeling and marching up and over the empty prarie for they benefit. Peeling off two balls a man, growling and barking our calls and responses. Big John full ay thunder. Them Inds seen it all from us. But no boy really seemd to care that much regarding these savs. No body had a sight to impress these boyos. Nay, suh. Every dog soldier had just on thing on his mind and that was the settling of the score with Moe Reed.
Corps! Detail! In two lines, bays. Two lines, heya? Two lines! Big John was a stone in front of us, his paws still graspin’ that sounden horn in front of his face while we arranged ourselfs directly across from each other. Up double times Sgt. Pryor, an express from Captin Merry folded in his hands. Big John grabs it and stands there, stiff as cold new death
Coo-rah! Ten-shun! and again, we snaps to and Big John unfolds that express and commences to reading.
August 19, 18 and fo-ah, he begins. It takes a moment for it to set it. August 18, 1804. How long I been at this? How long I been out here? I starts to do the figures in my head... adding days, weeks, months, listing them, labeling them with the seasons, marking them with the sun and the rain, keeeping track by days cold, days blistering, nights shivering, nights at peace, snoring in the racks with belly full of venison, marrow and wild berries. A week full of whisky; a night spent shivering in the mud; a day blown through with twist, marrowbones and gunpowder; a month of larks flying over head and cats a laughing down there in the rocks. Ay... been with the Westward boys now since November? December? We been on the water going on ten months -- a year... . I again draw upon the verry fond memory of my ma. Of the dogs at home. Of the steady rise and fall of crops. The calendar of the fish in the stream, the bugs afloat on it’s surface. March browns, black stone flys, caddis on me ma’s birthday, green drakes, and the sulphers commencing on the 4th of July. Hoppers... It’d be hoppers on the stream now and the trouts would jump out they skins to git them one. Hot August days jest as the wind picks up in the forenoon. Aye... the ticket, and I snorts a thinkin’ bout how they fucking hoppers could be more trying to grab up then they trouts.

misery, etc...

2006-11-27T09:20:00.000-08:00

Joseph A is doing some strong work over at the steelhead diaries. just sayin'...

Won't ya spare me over till another year...

2006-05-16T00:57:00.000-07:00

bucked out
capered
gone to the cold cook
celestial discharge
in the eternity box
a dustman
deadly nevergreen
worm food
died dunghill
expended
under hatches
dead as a nit
dropped off the perch
gone under
gone beaver
wolf meat

Moe Reed -- water in my boots

2006-03-31T15:37:00.000-08:00

Looksee, Si, he goes, I gots tay ask ya a considerable favor, likes.
What is it Reed?
Look Si, I is feelin real low likes...
We all is Reed.
Si, my back is afflicted and I cannot even make to bend it, see? What say ya takes my turn ay humping crates out the barge and let me tend the fire.
No dice, Reed, hard bit ay this job’s been done. Ya ain’t taking me.
Ay Si, a bit ay heart, boyo... Likesay, I is feeling low... real low and pitiful.
That’s cause you is real low and pitiful, you worthless pile of shit, now get gone before ya gets a bit more affliction to cry about.
Likesay, I wasn’t in the best a moods, truth told.
And now Paddy, he burries his hatchet in a round and starts a chuckling like a hen, which no doubt boils Reed's kettle.
Outta line, Si, I was only asking for a favor, a bit ay kindness.
Well ya come looking for kindness in a well what run dry, Reed, now fuck off.
Now Paddy begins to whistle Cock and Bull, what gets the attention ay the Dutch boys humping they kettles to the fire.
Outta line, Si, ya prick drippin’ bastard.
Fuck off, Reed, and this is you last chance, see?
I though you was a right bower, Si... I though you was...
And that’s it for me. I gave the boy his chance. Fair game, fair go and now it’s game on. Short wick? Maybe, but I gots no use for whining cunts. I tosses down my hatchet and steps to him brisk. Reed’s eyes get big and I see him clench his jaw and ball up his fists.
What ya gonna do with them malls then, you weepy cunt, I goes, and puts my to hands into the windblown toss, knocking him back a few steps.
Si... you fucking serious? he sputters...
Even the sound of the cunt’s voice was a scratching at my hide now, so I just unloads upon him... a long swooping right what glanced off his cheek and sent him tumbling backward.
Si... hey boyo.. what the fuck, son?
And again, his voice was in my ear, thorns, fleas, ticks, briars, cold wind and water. So I runs up to him and begin battering him, just swinging and swinging, my fists hitting, skull, and shoulder and rib and face. Skull, shoulder, rib, face. Skull, shoulder, rib, face. I swings like a dervish, like me lid has come unskrewed. Skull, shoulder, rib, face. Battering, swinging, letting hir go, letting the cunt have it, every bit of it, letting it spill out of me, like soup boiling over, a forge stuffed red hot, hell with the lid off.
Finally, there’s Paddy, wrapping his arms round my neck; Willy Warner twisting my arms behind my back and a dozen other cunts yelling the name my Ma give me, laughing and hooting like coyotes. I expected to feel the hot, hot heat of hate, but all I could do was laugh. Laugh at Reed’s face, dripping cherry red and snot from his breather, his eyes swelling shut again, his ears ripe as summer tomatoes. Willy has me in a bear hug, but I lets fly with everything I can muster, shooting a glob of spit and shit in a considerable arc what lands in Reed’s black hair.
Reed, you broke dick dog. You whining cunt. Get your poxy hide out ay my sight before I send ya to the devil, you singed ass dog!
Reed, he just keeps stumbling backward, toward the barge, toward the water. He don’t utter, he don’t say shit to me or any boy.
Get to the drink ya cunt. Step in and keep walking. And I start a laughing again... Miserable piss mop. Worthless ass licker. Cunt. Idiot.
I feel my hart pounding, can feel the red rushing through my legs, my arms. My hair feels afire and I sucks in a bountiful ration ay air. Willy unlooses me and I just scream, not at any man, but at god, at the big nothing surrounding us, at the river runing slow and peacful 50 yards away. Arrrrrggggggghaaaa!
I spin to confront every cunt what is a watching... what you cunts looking at? What ya want. Ya want some ay that? I’ll turn ya cunts to pudding... any ay you cunts! I is still yelling... still breating fire but it’s Paddy who puts his meats upon my shoulders and finally gets me to settle.
You is raining the devil, boyo. Ay, let’s have us ay bit ay walk and get our feets beck ‘pon they ground, eh?
I swallows a big breath and says, aye... sound, Paddy.
Paddy wheels me away from the fire, his big mitt still upon my shoulds and we gets tay walking. What come ovir ya den, boyo? I ain’t never seen so much satan in ya... I was ‘bout tay get me beads oot fir that Reed boyo...
Cunts water in my boots, Paddy, what can I say? He sent me over the brink, likes...
I reckons ay bit ay dis will bring ye back, son... and the old fuck hands me his flask.
I feels something almost like love for the fucking bog trotting mic at that poing... a real kinship likes... a bond like we was close to brothers, and I takes the boy’s tin and send a stout one down me guts. In a second, Paddy outs his stag handle blade and has me by the hair and up against a massive beech tree. The blade’s at me throat and I can’t move or I slice my own neck, ear to ear.
Acknowleedge dis, son, ya tries that wilding with they likes ay Paddy Gass an’ by saints, you is lying in you grave.
I is too shocked, too overcome by this fucker’s power to even move, but I see the hellfire in his lamps and smell satan on his lips.
Hear me on dis, boyo, he goes, I tinks they whirld ay ye, but ya won’t get that shit by me, likes. Swear tay thee saints, I’ll send ya to eternity if ya ever so much as raise a fist to me, likes. See?
I gulps and nods quick likes and Paddy, he starts ay laughing and looses his grip from my hair. And the cunt he keeps a laughing, louder and louder as he sheathes his pick.
And I, feeelin so full of life and love and hate, I starts a laughing with him, but why, I can’t say...
What the fuck, you dry and whitered cunt... but the old dog soldier cannot get his wind back to answer, leaving me with only the option to stand there with my teeth in my mouth or to laugh along with him. I chose to laugh.

Dog town

2006-03-30T22:28:00.000-08:00

Rowed nine hours today, with two hours when we come by for the nooner. Passed a Mizzou Injun town what was filled only with ghosts. Three hundred houses painted bloody red, and not one bloody red injun to be found. Gives me the unease, as I ain’t never laid eyes upon an Injun town so extensive, let alone one lonely as this. They poles is bare, they firepits is grey blots and not a sound comes from thum, just the wind living there now.
Paddy says the pox got thum. Big John says they was waring with the Saukees and that be what snuffed thum. But I can’t scope no graves. Likesay, just the wind living there now. French boys was a shooting at the dogs running through the town, but they didn’t knock any over, of which I is glad. Prospecting a dead dog lying in the middle of that Injun town jest might send me to praying or to crying.

thee oil of gladness

2006-03-22T13:50:00.000-08:00

"Oh, we can make liquor to sweeten our lips
Of pumpkins, of parsnips, of walnut-tree chips."

A brick in the hat
All Nations
Angel tit
Anklegrab
Antifogmatic
Barleycorn
Bogus
Brown Cow
Blue tape
Bull’s piss
Busthead
Candle sweat
Caulker
Coffin varnish
Corn
Cheapjack
Diddle
Fogcutter
Grapple the rails
Grog
Gully wash
Gut oil
Hide your hat
Hoss kick
Killdevil
Knockback
Knock down
Legal daily ration
Mad dog
Milk
Mimbo
Mountain dew
Monongehala
Neck oil
Nockum stiff
Phlegm cutter
O Be Joyful
Oil of gladness
Old Hock
Pop Skull
Rag water
Rotgut
Sack
Settler
Sky blue
Snake milk
Sourmash
Strip me naked
Swizzle
Tanglefoot
Taterjack
Tatermash
Thee olde author
Thunder n’ lightnin’
Tiff
Tiger spit
Tongue oil
Tornado
Whip-belly

fare thee well

2006-02-06T12:38:00.000-08:00

These French cunts have been considerable accommodating to us, and now we is heading right into the rocks. I is torn... my hart instructs me to separate Billy Clark’s roughs from this frolic before calamity overtakes, by my head knows that, while gallant, this effort is impossible. On the other hand, My hart also instructs me to scour this place for that red-haired girl, but my head knows the ghost of hir smile will haunt me night after night on the river. Why drag hir with me? Why hump that weight when I have so far to go, so much to lift already.
But I ain’t like that. I ain’t the type to just pack up and stow me hart - to pound it into a keg and chuck it into the hold. Harts can’t be jerked, can’t be salted and stored, smoked, pickled in bitter brine. Just a bit of blood keeps them beating and thumping deep inside there. Harts ain’t river rocks. Harts is the fish that dash between them rocks, a-flashin' in the sun; breaking the surface in a shower ay gold and silver. Soon, I reckon, my hart will be a catched up in a river cold and a river deep. And it is then that I decide to get to trackin’. I put my head to swivel and I tries to spot hir on the floor, but she is standing there behind me, right in my shadow. Pri-veet, she says, pretty as a sparrow. And I gives her my silly little salute again. And I knows I am gaping at her like I is afflicted, but my thoughts is stacked up like a log jam. But this girl, she’s fair and fine and her hair shines like gold and she’s just grinning at me.
I thinks hard Pardonnez-moi., I says removing my lid, Je ne sais pas votre nom. And she smiles even bigger and then giggles into her frock. Mon nom?
Finally, it’s my turn to smile, and I nod my head I says, “oui”
Marie, she says, offering up her soft, small fingers. And I takes them precious fingers in my hands, just to feel them, just to remember her touch. I light up a full flame smile and asks, Dance? And she grabs my hand, but instead of shuffling to the floor, she makes a beeline right out the door, laughing as she heads out into the night. I’ve still got her tiny fingers, and she wraps them around mine and squeezes tight. And the silver flash of my hart rises and and I give her hand the most precious squeeze back.
We gets to strolling down the track, over to the rise what overlooks the river. When we crest the rise, I can hear the river, can smell it and can feel the barge down there, rolling and creaking against the bank. And Marie, she presses herself against me. Why? Who is this copper-haired French girl? Why is she standing on this rise with a dog-soldier headed into the heart of godless savagery? But I ain’t got the time to unriddle it as I feel her small hand rubbing over my back. I steps into hir, pulling hir into me, hearing that green fabric rustle, smelling hir hair, feeling her shoulders rise and fall with her breathing. Marie, I whispers.

Tzi-kal-tza -- son of Billy Clark?

2006-01-11T13:04:00.000-08:00

....Among the Nez Percé who died in exile was an old man named Halahtookit, or Daytime Smoke. According to Joseph's people, he was the half Indian son of William Clark, the American explorer the Nez Perce had sheltered more than 70 years earlier, the man who had first promised that the United States would always be their friend.

Meet Billy Clark

2005-11-08T14:37:00.000-08:00

Ordway, likesay, is a hickory tough Yankee rascal. Square as a shingle and serious as the sun. Gots nothing against him, no beef, no trouble, but gots no thought in my head as to what he'd utter.
Sah, it's good information. Boy can catch thum. Good water man, a tolerable good shot and I huv seen the boy in a few close scraps. He can load and fiyuh ahnd he shows no fear, Sah.
I felt my hart thudding against my ribs and the big man picked up his pen and scratched something. What have you for rigging, Private?
Sir... I've got the Ironwood of 12 feet, Sir, with 150 yards on a spool. She is for the cats, Sir. It’s a stout fucker, Sir. Pardon, Sir. For the trouts, I huv the Greenwood with 50 yards on a spindle. The Ironwood, Sir, she is trusty for me. She can really bring thum up. Strong likes. And for the trout, I cannot be beat on the greenwood. She is the sovereign on the streams, sir. Whitefish and trout. I cannot be beat, Sir. Not by any man here. Not by any man in Illinois, Sir. Or Kaintuck, Sir.
Drewer's hands is still on my back. He slaps me again. Bring the cats to my man York here, Billy Clark says, pointing over at the big nig, and bring your rifle out to the range. On your way fetch Private Whitehouse.

2005-11-08T14:24:00.000-08:00

Hard upon the beech oar
She moves too slow
All the way tay Mandan town
Long way tay go

Hard upon the beech oar
Up Mizzou we go
All the way tay Cook's Sound
Long way tay go

Hard upon the beech oar
Row you bastards row
Big John is blowing our roofs down
And it's a long way to go

one cigarette away from bein' done....

2005-10-13T18:44:00.000-07:00

Answer these questions truthfully
Parking lot, Gardiner, Montana. note: best western, it seems, has wireless in all it’s hotels. so there i sit, poaching best western’s wifi and conducting the beaurocratic whatevers that need attention. (“You have ten minutes, ask me anything”). i send out a coupla resumes and fill out my online unemployment verification: Were you able and willing to work? Sorta. Answer: Yes. Did you accept money in lieu of vacation days? Not money. Answer: No. Did you fail to go to any scheduled job interview. Certainly not. Answer: No. Did you serve on a jury? Reckoning that heckling fishing buddies does not constitute “jury” in the civil/legal sense, so. Answer: No. Did you serve in the military? Army of trout. Heh. Brave lads. Bearing the misery of Boston baked beans every night, beer, elevation headaches, blistery agony, shotgun casts, swarms of flies and propane cylinders tossed into the fire ring. Answer: No. Did you work in self employment? I keep telling myself this ain’t work, son. But if I worked this hard sitting in a cube, i’d be assistant crew chief in no time. Answer: No. Did you turn down any offer of employment this week. Fuck.... don’t get me started. Answer: No. Claim accepted.

F-150
what the hell ya fishing.
streamer.
yeah?
uh-huh....
whatcha call it?
well, i call it an F-150. ya gotta swim the fucker.
yeah?
clear line. clear intermediate line. helps. helps a lot.
well i’ll be... ya say it really works huh...
i tie on this fly more than i tie on a caddis.
now i think your tellin’ me a tall tale...
well sir, you can believe what you’d like. this is america, god bless it.

collosal brown
Shower. Mammoth Hotel, Northwest entrance Yellowstone Nat’l Park. It’s just stopped snowing. Now that I know where the showers are in this joint, I’ll never have to pay again, though I’m sure they have dirtbag fishermen well nigh marked.

Henry James was bored by Crime and Punishment
Yeats never finished Ulysses
I ain't read either

Wild Turkey
Bar, Gardiner Montana. I haven’t been to a bar in montana were somebody doesn’t yell at the top of his/her lungs, “GO FUCK YOURSELF. GO FU-UK YOURSELF!” It’s weird. It’s not happened in this bar, yet, but I’ve only been here for 15 minutes -- turkey sandwich, two rolling rocks.

Levi Strauss: the invention of melody is the supreme mystery of man

smog, wanda jackson, lee perry, david allen coe, op ivy and nofx, linton kwesi johnson, sleepy john estes bonnie billy and the supersuckers.

A tale of woe, for thee angler to ponder
three broken/lost rods in two days. and a reel - a fucking bauer -- i shit for an hour. with joan wulff triangle taper line. imho, the finest line made. it fell off my truck -- forgot to bungee the fucker, and the asshole creepy guy from florida camped near me picked it up. of this i am sure. i have cursed the rod (a sage 6 wt xp. fuck me!) from now until forever. god damn the fucker who has it, may he never catch fish. i chanted it three times and spit whisky into the fire. fuck you jerry, and fuck florida, too. elevator mechanic, he said.

the burkheimer (yes, jesus christ, etc. even had my name writ there on the side!) broke after releasing a fish where the lamar just enters the canyon there south east of the slough campground. nice big cut. i looked at him for a while and let him go. the next cast, the rod is flopping. a broke dick dog -- or god. this is, i forgot to add, my first day in yellowstone.

i call red in seattle -- send me the burkehemier (what can I say, they’re sweet rods. don’t hate.). the big one. it’s in the tube with the american flag and johnny cash sticker. she broke the fucking thing taking it apart, or got it stuck in the door, or it slipped and smashed into a million pieces.

three rods. two days. oh, and my waders sprung a leak.

gusto
kathi asked me on the phone if i was smoking. profusely, i says.

Spotted dick
two mini vans was looking at the birdies. old fella wearing wellingtons (yes, just like on tv) and a tweedy headcoat asked if i had any trout in my cooler. i laughed and offered him a beer after i caught him eyeballing the long necked micro on my bumper.
oh.. heh.. ‘fraid not then. sorry, oh but i’d love to. perhaps some other time then?
some old broad lassoed him and got him the fuck outta there.
i hung around to chat -- after uttering 10 words in 2 days, you’ll talk to anyone -- telling these looney, dopey old brits about a beaver damn 1/4 mile down the path.
is it safe, then, this lovely little welsh mum asked me. i looked at her all serious.
all you have to do ma’am, is outrun one of these old fuckers... i reckon you’ll be fine.
despite this, they still tromped down there. i landed a big cutt on one of my first casts, looking back up toward the trail, to see if they were in eyeshot.
they were not.

Clinton, MT
now them sons of bitches can really yell GO FUCK YOURSELF.

Poach
I send an IM to Red, again from the Best Western. It’s raining ice balls and the elk, undeterred, continue humping, bulging, attacking rental cars. Smiley face with little red heart pumping. She’s not there. I send another, and another, and another. Write: see yuo in Livingston. Wed., 1pm!!! Smiley face with devil horns. Love, S.

end music
slough creek -- second meadow. the world’s finest stretch. most beautiful river, best looking cutts, excellent numbers of fish. wildlife. weather. sweat. adventure. after that first 45 minutes -- all uphill -- it’s a stroll, i told an old man with a big red putty nose, puffy, spider-webbed cheeks and wolf eyes.
how long, he asked, how far up?
only two hours, but like i said, the only lung buster is the first 45 minutes.
steep?
Fuck...
Poor guy looked pretty crestfallen, but I guess he shoulda been, i mean, to get to the finest stretch in the world, you may have to be willing to rupture an aneurysm and have squirts of blood sploot into your brain; to break a hip and lay for hours overnight in agony, slipping in and out of shock and in the stiffening cold before help can find you; to have yr aorta break off from your heart, gushing blood all about your insides like a garden hose turned on high in a midsummer lawn dance; to have a griz(hey, i only gotta outrun the old guy! hahahahahah!) rip the back of yr skull off causing -- because you wandered between her and her two 312 lb cubs, who, by the way, are perfectly capable of defending themselves -- you to fall down a small slope where the millions of capillaries in yr skull fertilize the dirt with warm blood that seeps soft and comfortably into your ears. the ravens appear within minutes and begin.
Fuck it. Ya know what? I’m STILL going.

Emil Cioran: Nothing flatters us so much as an obsession with death; the obsession, not death.

Songs for bait
I have finished a beer and am walking back on the Gibby behind Norris Geyser Basin. I cut straight across the meadow, ignoring the scared bows that run from under the banks. There are a coupla buffs. An elk rib rack sticks up like a bleach white tumbleweed. Keep walking. Keep walking until you begin to smell sulfur in the air and the steam comes into view. then, and only then should the angler unfurl his lines.

There is a dire loneliness way out here. Truck long gone from sight. No bear spray. The bones of dead animals stripped of skin and sucked clean by bigger animals with sharper teeth. Ah, but the wading staff is reasonable stout. She should be able to fend off all manner of wild beasts. A coyote skitters across the horizon, licking his chops. Head down. Keep walking. Skirt the outside of that brush and compose a song sung loudly in a Scottish brogue: Oot ay thee bed bairs, oot ay thee bed bairs, I am a comin thru thee bram-ble!

As it turns out, the fish don’t get much bigger. Shy. Retiring, Skittish. Pussies, unwilling to come out and eat like men. But in reality, any excuse to vacate this lonely bone yard is a good one. And then I justify it all to myself: Fishing sucked. Fish were small. Heard ya coming a mile away. Too sunny. Anything here will do. And the decision is made and the retreat is commenced and upon passing that certain elk skull once again, a molar is extracted -- for luck. Something Will Clark or Paddy Gass mentioned in the Journals? Zebulon Pike? D. Boone? Perfect and white, into my pocket and a get the fuck back to the truck.

smells (alphabetically): armpit, ash, ass, bacon, baked beans, bandaids, bar, bbq, bear grease, beer, blood, bufallo shit, campfire, cedar, chicken, coffee, cold stars, cold water, cowshit, crotch, dirt, dust, elk shit, fish hands, formaldehyde, fresh snow, garlic, gatorade, gasoline, grease, hot water, jagermeister, meat, menthol, mold, mud, orange juice, pillow, pine sap, pit toilet, propane, rain, river, river froth,river mist, river slime, sage, salami, scotch, stale beer, sweat, sweetgrass, tobacco, urinal mints, weed, wet wipes, whisky.

Good walks.
Specimen Creek trail to the Lamar. A straight shot from the road for about 2 miles until you get to the river. Ants along the bank did just fine. Keep walking until the river begins to stink a bit. You wonder: did I fart in my waders a while back and not notice? No. the smell permeates. Soon the river becomes carbonated, the river bed a white cement. Stink steam everywhere. You begin to wonder about the time and just where the fuck the cache creek trail comes in. Fish or cut bait: turn back and hobble all the way back along the rocks or bushwhack across bison trails hoping to run into the return track? Swallow fear, begin to bushwhack. Skulls, bison shit, scant tracks, but no trail... where the fuck... it was just here... gotta be here somewhere... keep walking... is that another hiker or is that a bear.... the real trail is finally met, but by then it is held in contempt. return to truck, spitting and jabbing walking staff.

Slough Creek to Second Meadow.
Enjoy that last smoke at the trailhead, boyo.. Better thought: Don’t even light up. Stretch out instead. Gulp some gatorade. Suck in air. Best traversed by keeping you head down and blasting straight ahead for 45 minutes. look for bear to your north when the first meadow is reached. Enjoy the rolling hills. Keep you eye on the clock, it takes a while to get back down.

Fountain Flats to the woods: the Firehole.
Makes every other riverside hike look minor league. Mud pots, stink holes, hell gates, earth scabs, crust blisters, geysers, fumerals, lesions and planetary abnormality in an unabashed light. A bad case of the bilious ague; humors are all off; tremens delirium, or p’haps a lung deep case of consumption, swirling with unseen spirochettes; the gleets, boy’s got the gleets -- a drip, drip, dosed with mercury and sulfur. Fishing ain’t usually so bad, but the bastards didn't want adults, didn’t want nymphs, wouldn’t take emergers. All shook, A terrible breech. What the fuck is this, a fucking French restaurant. WT: A ten percenter would figure out a way to catch these fish.

The world’s fattest skinny man
two eight-inch poached trout served in a gervertzurminer reduction over mint, watercress and shelled baby peas.
poached? that seems odd to me...
it is the firehole, sir.
true..
sir?
i just remembered, i don’t like trout.

Death from above/homily
Trout want meat you stupid fuckers. I try en tell people that every god damn day. But no, they wanna come here and tie on dry files and size 20 emerging-ass, crippled up bullshit and 6 fucking x floro-fucking-carbon tippet. Them fish don’t want food with good taste, dude -- they want food that tastes great. And they want a lot of it. They want big meaty burgers, man, and they'll run right across a pool to get one. You just gotta know what yr doing on the operators side -- ya know what i’m saying? from the pilot’s point of view. But give them some Fuckin meat, captain. that’s what they fucking want.

According to WT:
steaks and sausages
skirt steaks
pot roast
kraut/kielbasa
bbq chicken
tortollinie/meat sauce
pork chops in chipolte sauce
hot dogs
chicken and dumplings
bbq beef ribs.
lots of beans. technique: open beans, leaving a small hinge. leave lid in place. set near fire. manipulate heat at will. when beans are done, use lid to strain bean juice. enjoy.

Recline
jim Harrison, russ chatham, mario batalli outside the livingston bar and grill. harrison: lemme see what yr readin’ there, son. i hand over richard wheeler’s eclipse. Ahh... richard’s right inside there. I lit a smoke and tried to just kinda hang out with them. Harrison fell asleep in the boat. Fishing decent. Salumi, in seattle, of course i’d been. Love the fennel sausage. Harrison: love the sausage, etc. I went to some bar to loose money at poker while kathi lost at keno, later at the murray bar, batalli holds court... he’s quite well tempered. nice genuine. he’s also hammered and locks himself out of the hotel.
he bangs on the door.... hey, lemme in, please.
only if you cook something polish, we yell back into the glass.

spaten octoberfest: bullshit costco import
rouge dead guy: amazing
red hook esb: dependable
full sail session: a comer
troutslayer: ya need a six, but that’s all
moose drool: boring
fat tire: in a pinch
bayern octoberfest: decent. their best
Neptune ipa: at least they are trying

montana bar
what the fuck is this? college radio? what a load of complete horse shit. i’d like to send in an air strike on these pretentious fuckers.

montana flyshop
what the fuck is this? a gawdam fairy ball? what a load of complete horse shit, i’d like to drop a nuke on those precious orvis boys.

One does not finish a poem, one only abandons it.

End

Steady on, lads, steady on

2005-07-22T19:41:00.000-07:00

Thee Wild Billy Childish, esq. and lads .

thee flyshop...

2005-07-20T15:38:00.000-07:00

anglers, heed thee link:

thee tackle of Lewis and Clark

the ashes of sgt. charly floyd

2005-07-08T14:45:00.000-07:00

new year's 1804

2005-07-08T14:40:00.000-07:00

Corps! Attention! We all snap to, quick likes -- even York pulls up, straight and smart. It’s snowing even harder now, and the big Virginian, he doesn't utter --- doesn’t move. He just a stands there before us, looking at us -- hard. I don’t move, not a fucking inch. The big redhead marches up to us and to a man -- gives us the glass, deep, deep down vision of our inner accounts and motives whatever it was a creeping round insides our hearts, is my speculation.

The sun was a coming up and Clark stepped to me. I present my musket and he grabs it: Goodrich.... I kept my tongue from a wriggling free. How’s the fishing, private.
A bit slow, sir, I says, and take the weapon back. Clark, he walks down the line: Colter, Werner, Paddy, Bonny Billy, the Fields boys... the all gets the heavy glass. Finally, he circles back in front of all of us. Gentlemen, he goes, I wish you all a happy new year. A couple of the boys mumble back a happy new year to him, but it sounded more like feet crunching in the snow. York, fetch the small barrel and some cups. Gentlemen, at your ease. Paddy pipes up: A hip-hip! And we all goes: Hooray! And York comes a trundling out with a small barrel and three tin cups. Line up, boys, goes the Captain. And we all step in front of York, who’s a gripping the keg upon his hip while the captain measures out a tolerable glug glug of the sweet, red phlegm cutter. And the boys, they was all meek like: Thank ya, Captain. Much obliged, sir. Best to ya, sir. And the big redhead, he was a nodding and a smiling as the boys took a sniff and poured it on down. It was York providing most of the commentary: Ere ya go, mon, put dis in yir kitchen. Dat’s right, mon. Always sovereign, dis ere. Go wan, mon. Ya drinkin’ it or ya courtin’ it? Dere tis. Tunes up dat whistle, mon. The wind began to die a little but the snow kept coming down, real pretty. I decided to go and look at the river for a spell. Have a smoke, maybe and just contemplate the situation and the surroundings.

The river was a glowing full of slow emptiness and a glowing full of the wholeness of the waking world. I drank it in as sure as I drank down the Captain’s port. I rolled the silence over in my mind and filled my pipes with all that was there. I’m amazed at how one -- the emptiness -- wraps up the other -- the wholeness. And I’m amazed at how the wholeness swallows up the empty. That’s the mystery. Nature going full chisel -- everything and nothing at once. This fills me up and my hart rises up to snatch it, like a trout gulping a mayfly off the current.

My ma was always up at first light, pipe curling, porrige on the swing and a laughing at the dogs running in circles around hir. Slow, slow, slow. The river moves so slow, so sure. I wish for the patience of the river and the patience of the rocks. I want to carry the wholeness in my one hand and carry the nothingnesss in the other. Carry thum back to camp and shove thum in my kit -- wrapped in the skin of a doe and tied fast with silver string.

2005-05-05T00:06:00.000-07:00

KOBUN

Hotei didn't need a zafu
saying his ass was suffcent.
The head's a cloud anchor
that the feet must follow.
Travel light, he said,
or don't travel at all

--Jim Harrison

novel excerpt

2005-04-29T11:36:00.000-07:00

I had broken all my blisters yesterday and used half my daily lawful ration to cleanse the wounds. Stung like a son of a bitch and I winced down the rest of my gill. Today, they is in bad shape. I have the devil between my shoulder blades now and the bastard has left his red hot fire irons. My neck has frozen solid and disabuses me of the very thought of even attempting to spin my head around -- even to swivel it, just a little. My teats hurt. I have never encountered the aching teat muscles, but the entirety of my teats is crying out. My shoulders is considerable weary but at least my arms is still sound. But my back, my back is my real blight -- and the blisters. Other than that, fucking stout!
I have cut two strips of linen and will wrap those around what stumps I have left. I pray for an upstream wind. I pray for guard duty, I pay for a storm that will force us to come to, to warm up, to rest.
But not today. Today it is just cold. Today the water is thin. Today the rocks is sticking up like fingers, the cobble like blisters. We gets ten boys up on the ropes at a time while the other boys warm up or man poles. Might I remind ya, Captain Clark, that it is December 5th or abouts, and that water is thinking about turning to ice? May I inquire, Captain, how we is to keep warm in and about its presence?
The bastard barge got high on the cobble and rocks and I was in the drink having to heave and pull, what with my stiff neck, boiled hands and sore teats.
There is no respite from the cold on decks. I can have a smoke, most likes, but my teeth chatter too hard. Instead, the boys is all mostly chewing now. Gritting teeth and fighting against the bastard current, which can run itself round and round into a considerable whirlpool. At times, we can only find a finger hold, just grasping to stay even with the current. Ordway shouting, the Fields boys and Drewer pushing away the sawyers bulling toward us. We is shouting and cursing on the oars. We is putting our backs into her. We is praying for some upstream wind. We is praying for a tin cup of steaming hot venison boiled with corn, white beans and salt. This thought nourishes me. This thought comforts me. It’s this thought I have as we finally pull up and come by at a settlement of Americans near Bell Fontain Creek. I am not on the guard, nor in the kitchen this night. And, if there is any luck to be had, there may be a roof over my head this evening. We is expecting to load up provisions here, but the head man in this camp ain’t seen em yet.
Clark is looking ready to spit tacks but he don’t get shook. And he don’t have at it with the squatter American. He says, “Mr. Barns, I expect you will notify the very instant this load is spotted. Am I correct in that assumption, Sir?”
And the squatter American, he just stands there with a handful of teeth in his mouth, a holding his hat and shaking his head like a rattle. He goes, Yuh yuh yuh. Yus shure. Yuh.
And Clark, he gives him the long glass. In an instant, he’s buttoning Ordway’s jacket. Sergeant, you do know what I’m about to ask you to do, do you not?
Aye, Sir, I reckon it.
Than move, dammit! And Ordway rightly flew down the plank a looking for someone to lash. Corps! Tents and Fires! Guards: Collins, Boley, Windsor. Kettles: Wieser and Shannon. Joseph and Reuben, join Drewer -- ask that baldheaded squatter about game and beaver. Newman! Newman what in blazes are you doing, he steams, running over to where the kid is engaged in considerable combat with a tent. My duty is the main fire pit, which suits me fine as I’m just about the first bastard to feel the fire’s warm in my knocking’ bones. Paddy and me, we gather up some rocks for the ring, which is the worst of it and then wait for some of the boys to start hauling in the timber. There is whacking and thwacking all around the perimeter, and the sheets is going up and boys is hauling some deer haunches up and out and old Paddy and I go at some dry pine with our hatchets, striking off shavings, then toothpicks, then sticks, then kindling. Finally, we sets it all up and strike up the fire. Sometimes, if we is fast, the boys will give us a hooray when the smoke starts to rise, but mostly, we gets the boys saying, nice fire after the flames is licking up waist high and the boys on the kettles gets them up and filled.

2004-07-15T12:23:00.000-07:00

thee redhead with monster brown on the madison

2004-06-11T17:09:00.000-07:00

UNGGGGGGH!

2004-06-11T17:01:00.000-07:00

a yakima river roundup

2004-06-09T13:07:00.000-07:00

The Olympian Leaving Tunnel on the Yakima River

2004-06-07T15:16:00.000-07:00

photographer/artist unknown, but possibly ashael curtis

Anglers! Heed thee word!

2004-06-07T11:23:00.000-07:00

"In angling, as in all other recreations into which excitement enters, we have to be on our guard, so that we can at any moment throw a weight of self-control into the scale against misfortune; and happily we can study to some purpose, both to increase our pleasure in success and to lessen our distress caused by what goes ill. It is not only in cases of great disasters, however, that the angler needs self-control. He is perpetually called upon to use it to withstand small exasperations."
—SIR EDWARD GREY: Fly-Fishing.

notellem -- 6/4-5/04

2004-06-07T11:08:00.000-07:00

we were almost to friggin' cle elum before we decided where the hell we were going. for 60 some miles, we debated creeks with names so secret that their mention will vanish with CIA-type cleanliness on certain websites. creeks shrouded in mystery. creeks a long way from you, a long way from me. creeks protected like precious state secrets. well, it just so happens I know a couple and so did old Snap. Back and forth we batted names like Ave Maria spring, Johnny Cash creek, Skunkweed creek, Thelonious Springs, and of course, Rattlesnake Creek which, in-the-know lips whispered, had lately been the victim of swarms of western diamondbacks and a rash of violent vehicle break ins. Sad. What times we live in....

We drove some more and listened to some music. There was plenty of things to see out the window. Around one corner, we were actually able to see years fall from the calendar. In the space of 1/4 mile, we had travelled back in time 44 years. I made a mental note to hit the general store up the road and buy a 6 pack of beer from 1960.

There were plenty of wildflowers blooming all around which neither helped or hurt us find the road. We finally did figure out where we were and I was able to power the truck up over and around stuff.
whaddaya say? how does this look?
dunno. looks pretty good. let's check it out

so we did. we stepped onto the 1960 dirt and walked down the trail and peered over the edge. water. current. foam.
i think this looks pretty good.
yeah, let's give it a try.
already, we had slipped into the angler's clipped shorthand. of course we were gonna "give it a try" we were gonna beat this water into a froth. damn right it looked "pretty good" hell, it was a vision. but, we were just being polite to the fish gods i guess. they hate enthusiasm.

the creek is small and we are standing at the point where it emerges from its meadow stretch and enters into a canyon. we elect to head upstream and into the meadow. snap, bless his soul, volunteers to carry beer in his backpack. i drop a sandwich in my vest after rigging a 7' 6" rod with a 9ft. leader to 5x. I put a caddis on. i trust most anglers would have done the same.

upstream it was. there really seemed to be no rush. stood over snap's left shoulder while he placed casts into pools ringed by wildflowers and tall bunchgrasses. trout were where we expected them to be. behind rocks, the head of plunges, along banks. soon enough, it was my turn at the next pool. i don't remember how many of the little pocket rockets i hooked into, but when i stepped into the pool to continue upstream, trout scattered along the bottom like mice running out of the grain bin.

up we went, stopping for a beer and a smoke now and again until finally the creek ran out. too small, too overgrown. too little of everything. we walked on back and i felt the sweat roll down my back as hoppers buzzed in my head.

at the truck, we chugged water. i still had the caddis on. it was still 1960, but it was getting hotter. Seeing as tho we had so much time, we walked into the canyon to check things out lower in the creek. within minutes, we were in a slot canyon maybe 10 feet across and 50 feet tall, casting into deep, kitchen table sized pools. as an atheist, it's amazing how often i wonder in awe at god's creation.

it was at one of these pools that a 14" rainbow pulled at my fly and shot all over the pool, finally finning into my hand as I whooped and hollered. that a fish that big can just materialize that quickly seems, in retrospect, like a heat mirage. but there he was, panting in my hand as i held him, my soul gasping at the sight.

before too long, we we found ourselves inexplicably crossing a scree slope on a faint game trail, looking 200 feet down, wondering just what the fvck we were doing. yes, it was stupid, but there were golden pools and runs down there. looking at my rod, i realized i still had on the same caddis i started with. a random thought wedged in between thoughts of my body thumping down the scree slope and crashing into the riparian band running along the creek. i decided to have one final smoke before proceeding.

by the time we had fished all the way back up the creek, it was 2004 again. my doorlocks clicked open via remote control. the beer was ice cold and i sat on the pickup gate and drank one down, not all that glad to be back

Thomas Tod Stoddart -- fuck the rock on!

2004-06-04T17:03:00.000-07:00

Here's a great little excerpt from An Angler's Rambles and Angling Songs, written by Scotsman Thomas Tod Stoddart (1810 – 1880). David Profumo describes Stoddart thus: “ … a fishing author from the Scottish Borders who devoted his entire adult life to the sport. In his journal, the redoubtable Thomas Tod Stoddart records that in fifty years he caught some 67,419 fish (not including eels). Regarded in his heyday as the literary heir to Izaak Walton, he was the presiding spirit of Scottish fishing and was dubbed by John Buchan ‘the Poet Laureate of Angling’; these days he is largely forgotten, except for a remark that has entered piscatorial mythology. On re-meeting a childhood acquaintance, Tom was asked what he was now doing in life; a little resentfully, he replied, ‘Doing? Doing? Mon, I’m an angler.’”

Fucking Ra!

"Old Lyon was in the habit of devoting the greater part of the day to the assortment of his tackle, one hour at the most being appropriated to the testing of it; and the capture of a brace of trout giving occasion to a fit of pedantic ecstasy which usually exploded in a quotation, as long as my arm, from Horatius Flaccus, or some other renowned classic. The military octogenarian was astir on his pins by day-break, up and at them, while the trout still lay snug under their coverlets. His march back to breakfast was in double quick time, and in double quick time he tucked in under his belt Tibby's ham and eggs, a relay of fried trout, scones, bannocks and wheaten loaf, with the proportional supply of milk (he abjured tea or coffee),then sallying forth, showed face no more until the verge of dusk, when in he strode with all the dignity his veteran form could muster; and, disburdening himself of his creel,shouted 'Attention' with the voice of a Stentor, emptying, as he did so, from the old-fashioned wicker-work, a dozen or two of trout so ridiculously, in point of size, unlike what we were led to expect, that Tibby, as she held out the dish to receive them, was in the habit of exclaiming, 'Ye ne'er got thae in oor Loch, Captain B. Ye hae been up the burn, I'se warrant, an' a sair day's wark ye'll have had o't."

drinking fisherman

2004-06-04T16:47:00.000-07:00

photographer, river and libation all unknown.

Marples, "The Take"

2004-06-04T11:31:00.000-07:00

George Marples, an etching from c. 1930.

"Fish, except by the Detmolds, have not been better portrayed in the British School than by Marples."

Raymond Carver fires up thee Webber

2004-06-04T10:18:00.000-07:00

a gentle reminder, offered with the kindest regards to thee angler...

2004-06-03T22:30:00.000-07:00

"if the trout are lost, smash the state"

--Thom McGuane

2004-06-03T22:10:00.000-07:00

a nice picean image of some trouts...

thee political song for jack mitchell to sing

2004-06-03T21:09:00.000-07:00

we are columnar basalt.
we are sticks, wind, sunburn.
we are just sitting there

this camp has been declared.
"You are dead now, Crazyhorse,"
spoken right into the camera.

it lived up in those cliffs,
she said.
cutting a tomato on the
tailgate of a pickup

Walt Whitman clears his fucking throat...

2004-06-03T21:05:00.000-07:00

Dazzling and tremendous, how quick the sunrise would kill me.
If I could not now and always send sunrise out of me--
--Walt Whitman

deschutes excerpts 4/16-18

2004-06-03T21:02:00.000-07:00

On my kitchen blackboard, I wrote some themes: wonder, basalt, snakes, no snakes, non-commerce, safety. I wrote them in my weak script and then went to drink a beer.

Sometimes only a few words are an immense effort.

I guess these are themes only because these are the things that have lingered. They’ve stuck around during the long drive, a couple work days, a hockey game and a pint or two. Yet the only thing I see in my mind’s eye is Tiger Stadium.
I walked thru the gates with my old man, relishing the picture of my two brothers undoubtedly writhing in agonizing jelousy back home. I was a baseball nut by that time -- age 5 -- and finally, finally getting thru the gates at Michigan and Trumble made me gasp with anticipation. We walked up the long ramps outside the stadium, my old man trying to keep me tethered; me bouncing, skipping, chattering like mad. As we stepped into the grand old park, I will never forget the glowing green field, the space, defined by the stands, the bleachers, the scoreboard. My feet could not move. I stood there, agape and agog, taking in this gorgeous baseball box canyon. We sat beside one of the stately columns -- columns that would doom this ballpark in the eyes of the souless-- and I took it all in, 9 inning's worth of baseball’s comforting flow.

A river canyon in the American West is a special place. Anyone on this website knows that. It holds everything we crave -- it holds the river, deep and cold; the trout we fish for even deeper and colder, the noises of the water and wildlife scatter and join the sage wind. It is the container that holds, to paraphrse McLean, “that perfect place” that every real fisherman creates within his heart.

David James Duncan writes of the notion of wonder: “unknowing experienced as pleasure.” That is a river canyon. Wonder, think about that!

We drove into the Deschutes, according to Karl, the wrong way. The drive was beautiful and green and twisting. I floated the Deschtes with WT. We drifted and spun and bounced in the current. Reduced. Immense. Only able to say the most obvious things -- lotta water.

Water. Polish soul food. Chai. Hummous. Olives. Elk Burgers. Winston Lights. Mole sausage, finoccia, and hot sopresetta, L’il Debbie. Keg of tightrope amber. Weed. Asprin. Taco Bell. Duck and lentil soup. Greek olives. Bourbon, single malt, Busch tall boys. Hot pepper cheeze. Emanthaler.

Wet wipes

Loaded for bear: streamer rod, nymph rod (2 flies) and dry rod (2 flies). I caught a fish on my very first cast - a dumb little flip. A medium sized nickel bright 12er decided he had to eat that fly. I obliged and knew, instantly, deep down, that I was cursed. Of course, I gave a w00t! And a Ra! And hoped to keep exercising these stupid Deschutes redsides. I didn’t catch a trout for another 2 hours.

It is a good fly stream wasted. What Yak bum floating the D hasn’t had this thought?

If only the Yak were managed this well. What scud dragger hasn’t pondered this possibility?

Dazzling and tremendous, how quick the sunrise would kill me.
If I could not now and always send sunrise out of me
--Walt Whitman

Nothing beats waking up on the river. In a canyon. It is possibility coupled with wonder. What a heady brew! All senses awake! Better, yes, it is shared!

We were standing along a bank broken by rocks and bars and what you’d call very small mini islands. Bugs were sporadic, but they were almost audibly popping. Big bugs. Size 14 bwos, march browns, same size -- smaller than our beloved Yak boys -- a coupla mahoganys -- bigger than our shy Yak boys. I grabbed the dry rod. I had a grind ‘em out combo on: grey parachute and a quigly. These are workmanlike flies, but they can be also be precise, sharp, trout-catching machines. I’d flogged the water to vapor with the nymph rig taking 4 trout. WT was pondering a hopeless tangle. It was go time. Get in the boat. We gotta get to where the fish are eating these bugs. We floated 200 feet, to the bottom of a slutty run. I asked WT: you want up or down. WT chose down. I ran up. Up was what I wanted. I thanked the gods. Up ! Yes!
The trout were there. Why did he say down? **** it. Cast. OK. There it is. No. Where. Splash! Strike. On! As the say in Canada, there are no ugly goals. I’ll take it. I saw the next two. Got the next 3 by ESP and saw the rest -- maybe. Call it a decent dozen. No huge ones. Still, a dozen trout is a massive number considering I didn’t move my feet. Trout ranged from 15-12 some shiny, some soot covered. Spawners, said the OR boys.

There is nothing to buy in the Deschutes River canyon. I can’t think of a better compliment.

Two grown men. Both fly fishermen. Both share a campfire. Both snake experts!
I have eaten a bowl of cheerios with a 4 foot rattler swimming around in the bowl.
Pffft. When I was 12 I played little leauge using a diamonback as a bat. Hit .359. 17 Home runs.

I started to talk about that first day walking into Tiger Stadium. I wanted to compare those columns holding the stadium up to the columnar basalt tower in this canyon and how the stadiums columns caused it to be torn down, but I was shushed quick and firm. Listen: we sat by the crack of the fire and heard rocks smashing down the walls. No, not a train. Rocks. Who said it? I can’t remember but he wondered: How great would it be if those slides trapped us in here?

thee

winter is over. this post is older.

2004-06-03T17:27:00.000-07:00

besides actually *getting there* there has to be some reason that it takes a coupla hours to get to your fishing spot. the more time i spend driving to fishing, the less and less it bugs me. it can be some fairly quality time. there is music to be listened to; conversations to be had, birds and landscape and weather to wonder over. and there's also a lot of nothing. a nothing that's easily chewed, easily consumed. a nothing that, if a taste is acquired, can be quite filling. random thoughts: what's the nature of obsession? did i pack the lamb sausage? will the red wing's defense be enough to offset the loss of sergi federov? am i getting old? what's old? well, guess it depends on what the subject is. **** the subject and **** the notion of age. i don't buy it. resolved: we will not buy into the consensus reality regarding age and ability. we set our own course. yeah, but hank williams died at 23! was the success of the green rockworm just a fluke last week? did i pack the tieing kit? i'd love a dog, but i don't want him to chew up my stuff. what's that buzzing sound? jezus, i don't even remember the last time i changed a flat tire. hank williams? where's my CD case. hank williams... did he fish? how could a guy that fucked up, freaked out and depressed sound so chipper? "The fish they ain't a bitin' the creeks are all dry...." He sang that like it was the beginning of an eternity of saturday mornings....i appears the swallows have all left for parts south. can't blame them...23 years old. what did he see? 23 is young and dumb. in his case, 23 is old and wasted. 23 was a death year. 23? where was I? i was on the make... what is that fucking buzzing?

Enough of this robust empty time and bingo-bango your at cle elum buying beer, smokes and a block of ice. i rolled into umptanum after dark on friday night. the hunters buying jerky and hot dogs and beer in cans in cle elum where also at umptanum. most were on the down low, trying to find the sweet spot between anticipatory glee and the brutal reality of a 4am wake up. i opened a beer and had the tent up in minutes. i ate chicken and read a novel. i felt the cold and finally, the moon rose. it was fat and full and glided up and over the canyon. a train came. hank williams, jr.: all my rowdy friends are comin' over tonight. hank senior spins.

i drank a coupla more beers, smoked a coupla cigarettes and did nothing. just standing in the dark. it was beautiful. i let all that nothing just be and sat on the side of it like an angler sits upon the bank. no talking, no punchlines, no commercials.

up early. into coffee. geared up. into waders. vlad has arrived with dog fat and dog skinny. spaghetti and meatballs. vlad: overcast. could be a good 'un for blue winged olives. me: uh-huh.

i can't say where we ended up, but there we were. i started out with that rockworm as the dropper to a light nymph rig. immediate success. 2-3-4 time to stop counting. but still, i told myself that it was indeed a fact that i would loose the rockworm. it was also a fact that i had no more. i dealt with the loss before it happened. sorta like buying a cemetary plot before one croaks. i was in touch with the loss... i got up on the tracks and moved downstream. vlad was casting directly below me, throwing fine, tight loops and landing whatever it was whereever it was supposed to be. one could get hypnotized, best to move down quickly and hope the SOB hasn't vacumed up the entire run.

more nymphing, more fish and suddenly loss. the rockworm was gone. ripped from its tether by a "small whitefish". i was prepared and decided to just get on with it and move to a dry rig. i pondered the bwo box for what seemed like hours. finally, a coupla nice lookin' lil' guys were strapped in and ready for action. bon chance, my friends! bon chance!

i don't know how a river turns on, what it's like to be living in the stream when it just goes electric, but i'm quite sure every trout in the river was scurrying underfoot, finishing up this and that in order to get to the kitchen as soon as possible. the dinner bell was ringing -- hell, the dinner bell was being pounded by the spastic, deaf and starving. within minutes BWOs were everywhere and trout were following them. popping, rolling, boiling. hank williams: "go get yer fishin' pooooooole..." i laughed out loud and began to catch fish. on it went -- noon, one, two, three, four p.m and i'd barely moved 200 yards. it was ridiculous. near the end, the trouts bellies were distended. in their torpor, it seemed they could barely levitate to the surface to suck down more flies. they floated up like fat men to the buffet and reluctantly grabbed just one more chicken wing... ok, one more... ok, one more.... no, really, this is my last one....

the fishing was so good that i had no thoughts. more delicious nothingness wrapped around frenetic activity. perfect. a zone. a painting. maybe i am getting old. my back was hurting. my gawdam ankle was killing me. i was hungry. i was tired from catching fish. my arms were wet. my left foot was filled with water. i climbed up to the tracks and saw vlad immediately. i am walking back to camp, i told him. and again, it stood before me -- 20 more minutes of that beautiful nothing. i may have hummed a hank williams tune on the way back in and i certainly saw the sheep in the cliffs, but that was it. that was all of it....

thee