Ow, revisited.

Spent a little time this afternoon on the Gong Show Flats, chasing the small and generally enjoying the spectacle of public fishing. Fishin' was good, but it turns out catchin' was better - We got a whopper.



We were bending over to release a fish when the hook came free under tension...Let's just say that we're happy we were wearing glasses, or we woulda been diggin' a bead out of our left eye.

Not exactly the worst hook job we have endured recently, but it still stung a tad. Owner Mosquitos are sharp little buggers, but next time we'll figure out a better way to check the sharpness of our hooks.

Meanwhile, back at the Ranch...

Narwhal is back in town for a week or two, so after a late-AM wakeup call - D-gro and RiFlo got all married up yesterday, you understand, on account of D finally getting a real job, and the riff-raff they invited are big beer drinkers, and there was beer to drink...But we digress.

Ahem.

After a late-AM wakeup call, we moseyed on up to the ranch with the Narwhal to see if there was any livestock to play with. Sunny day, beautiful weather for a little trip... After a quick ride we were at the low-tide end of things, where we proceeded to get down and funky with the locals.

5 hours and a wicked sunburn later, we called off the hounds and retreated. Several crateloads of fish were hassled, many rigs and hooks were snapped off in the chum-flavored water, and much fun was had by all.

Narlie with a friend.


The back pasture...nice char, man.


Gettin' to the point in the year where days off are a commodity - If we can have a few more like this'n, we'd be set.

20 reasons we like summer.

Things that make us go Hmmm, Installment #12

..."I cannot say whether the EPA’s compromise represents the best overall environmental result; but I do believe it amounts to the kind of detailed decision that the statutes delegate authority to the EPA, not the courts, to make."

Justice Breyer, in his concurring statement.

Excerpt taken from:
SUPREME COURT OF THE UNITED STATES
COEUR ALASKA, INC. v. SOUTHEAST ALASKA
CONSERVATION COUNCIL ET AL.
CERTIORARI TO THE UNITED STATES COURT OF APPEALS FOR THE NINTH CIRCUIT
No. 07–984. Argued January 12, 2009—Decided June 22, 2009

Never mind the fact that the CWA defines crushed rock as a pollutant. Disregard the fact that the USACE is supposed to be the permitting body for that organization. Ignore the fact that Coeur got conflicting permitting from the EPA based on syntax.

Words merely desensitize the issue. At stake is the continued health of a fairly pristine ecosystem, a wilderness area that plays host to a staggeringly large number of organisms. In a time when past digressions and egregious acts seem to be coming back to haunt us with ever-increasing frequency, how can anyone think that this might be a good idea?

If it were a responsible mining solution, we might be for the mine. This is the misuse of language acted out upon the environment, and not just any environment. This is a place in our backyard, and one of the sandboxes that we play in fairly frequently.

GoogleEarth view of the lake in question. Ignore the fact that the lake is merely a wide meadow, and that the water goes on to form the East Fork of Slate creek - and that many different types of salmonids happen to call that water home. They would understand, really.



Not only the lake and creek in question, but the health of the estuary is at stake as well. Estuaries are breeding grounds, nurseries for a wide range of animals. This particular bay hosts a massive hooligan run, one that has sustained indigenous folks for a few years, and the wildlife for a few years before that. Why tamper with the gold we already have?

ADF&G FDD map - each of the blue lines represents an anadromous stream, and each red square represents a dataset.



If Berners bay produces enough for the locals to eat and enjoy, as well as supporting the human folks that use it sustainably for both commercial and recreational interests...why mess with a good thing?

That'll do, Pig.

The call came around mid-afternoon.

"Gonger stuck a big one", the Dirty Hippie said, "Gotta be at least 40".

Sure.

The another call. "Your buddy bagged a thumper on the Outside Drag, we were right next to him. You gotta see this fish."

Interesting. We were starting to wonder if the Hippie had the proportions right, if the Gonger really did bag a big'un.

Then the knock at the door that evening. Gonger, covered in fish slime, holding a beer - "You gotta come see this thing, man."

And yes, it was big.



42¼" x 28½ ", which puts it at 44 lbs by conservative estimate and 48+ by some of the regression plots - Gonger couldn't find a scale, so we winged it with the old (but good) Weight X Girth² / 770 formula.

That'll do, Pig.

Silence Fini

Contrary to the rumors running rampant in the worldwide flyfishing community, we are still alive and kicking. The annual Spring Freakout went a little long this year, that's all. All told, over a thousand mile in planes, boats and autos, then another few hundred on foot. Not that we counted, nor that it matters, but as a way of tallying the days and the places, distance is a universal language that can be understood - a mental marker between rivers, between valleys, and between fish.

After awhile, the flows run together in your mind, and the sheer immensity of the landscape dislocates your brain...but the fish remain, etched, burned into your synapses, swimming your neural pathways every time you close your eyes.

The one that surfed a good six feet of standing wave to hit your fly, after you cast into the rapids as a joke...

The one that kicked your ass and nearly cost you a flyline in the Big Jam...

The little dude that came out from under the cut-bank to mash your fly at the end of the swing and bounced off of the bank on his first jump...

That brand-spankin'-new hen that ran you into the high tide, then back into the river.

The ones that gave us nothin' but fin.

The ones that moved on our offerings but didn't take, then left us, a fairly evolved higher primate, rolling around on the bank hurling sticks and tearing grass in frustration as we tried and failed to outthink them.

When it comes down to it, the fish are what it is all about. Not necessarily the physical connection, but the mere presence in our world...or perhaps us in theirs. Something about them devolves us, turns us into beings incapable of language, gesturing and grunting in wonder at the silvery creatures moving in the water.

But now spring is over, and we are forced to rejoin polite society. Conversational skill must be unearthed and dusted off, basic grooming habits must be relearned, and the poise and restraint of the genteel guide must be assumed anew - but every time we close our eyes, they swim by again.

























We're back...but that doesn't mean we're here.

Overdrive

Time for a breather.

Sorry we haven't been around, but it is officially spring, you understand. The annual "Spring Freakout" has formally gotten underway, and the days are fast becoming a blur of boats, planes rivers and creeks, with snippets of food, sleep, and the barest hint of civilized discourse thrown into the mix.

Seeing as how our command of clever syntax has temporarily abandoned us this spring for a more rudimentary system of grunting and pointing as a form of communication, we'll leave it up to the pics to do our talking.

Oongawa.



















Another plane, another boat, another day tomorrow...

Game on.