The Art of the Tale

Most winters in Alaska, there is a run of fish at the local pub. These fish are all huge, they eat only the flies that you have, they all fight like hell and never break your line, and they all give you the phone number of a hot chick if you release them.

Really.

It is our contention that more fish have been caught in pubs than actually exist in the local watersheds. Some of these fish, it is said, raise the water levels of the rivers they swim in due to their sheer size.

If you think that fishermen in general are capable of stretching the bounds of credibility, you need to see the rare bird of the fishing tale world, the Alaska Free-Range Bullshitter.

While not our term, we wish it were. "Free-Range Bullshitter" was coined by another guy, a transplant from Outside (aren't we all?) who spent a winter doing dumb stuff to himself and his neighbors, and generally learning that mental attitude and the ability to bullshit are essential tools for Alaskan winter survival.

The telling of stories is in and of itself an artform. With subtle twists, you can take actual fish and transplant them a few islands over, thereby ensuring your relative privacy when visiting your home water. Straw castles can be meticulously built over a period of months, giving small bits of misinformation and sleight of fish to keep your water secret, hidden from the prying eyes of a small community.

Why not just shaddup, you ask?

Because we live in a small town and know (and are known) by all the fishermen that matter. Each and every one of us knows what the other's cars, trucks, and boats look like, and we all keep tabs on each other whether we are fishing or not. We all know where folks fish...and we all run into each other in the long winters spent moping around town.

A fella has to be polite, and since most of us are fishfreaks, we talk about fishing. Enter the Free-Range Bullshitting.

No one ever calls anyone on the stretching of the truth. That would be seriously bad form. It can be and usually is mentioned later, but not during the actual stretching or contorting. Points are awarded for the stretcher's ability to look another in the eye and flat-out lie about where he was fishing and what he caught. Deductions are accrued for any mention of "secret creek" or "I told (whoever) that I wouldn't tell".

We here at Neil Creek, being the pirates that we are, appreciate the fish-story almost as much as the fish, and we take pride in our ability to Hoodwink and Bamboozle. Every now and then, just to keep folks on their toes, we throw in a gem of truth for a few close heads, knowing that those folks understand the concept of reciprocity when it comes to fishing alliances and associations.

So sit back, hoist a pound, and tell us again about the one that just about ate your anchor when you got it near the boat, then we'll tell you about the one that chewed that bear's leg off in the Meadow Run.

132 days 'til we can do it again.

Beyond the Valley of the Geek

Let's get a few things straight.

In the world of flyfishing, there are a lot of everyday average geeks. Some of these geeks are hardcore Geeks, and of those a few are SuperGeeks. Of the grouping of SuperGeeks, one or two might be MetaGeeks.

In the rarified environment of the Metageek, there is a class of geekery that makes all others look like child's play.

This is the realm of the ÜberGeek.

The Gonger and his trademark goatee, presiding over another of his ÜberGeek creations.



A lot of folks tie their own flies. Some tie for others, and some even design flies to be tied by other folks. Hell, some folks are even really good at tying flies, and get paid for it.

The Gonger makes his own hooks. That in and of itself gets you the geek equivalent of an Eagle Scout Badge. Not only does he make his own hooks, but he ties ridiculously beautiful flies on these hooks, then makes and mats his own shadowboxes, in which he mounts these finished flies. When he is all done with this, he sells them to other geeks for prices approaching the cost of a decent 9ft flyrod.

If you are a regular reader, you already know the Chronicle's stance on Tradition and History...we are temporarily suspending the poo-pooing of tradition to be suitably awed by the culmination of hundreds of years of devotion by many acolytes to a single craft as displayed by the efforts of one superb tyer - the Full Dress Blind-Eye Salmon Fly.

A few of the Gonger's creations.


A few closeups.







Keeping the Art torch burning in the dim light of the fly-tying craft, the Gonger gets our vote as the guy most likely to be voted "2007 ÜberGeek of the Year."

Slow Water

My poor little creek! What have they done to you?



These yearly ice-ups never cease to amaze us. Once, while walking the wintery banks of another local, we came across a pool that was deep and slow enough that the frazil ice was compressing at the tailout, forming an ice-dam that was causing the now-slurpee consistency water to overflow into the woods. We threw rocks at the dam to see if it would release, but the ice would swallow the rocks with a soft Thsssh sound, often suspending the stones in slushy limbo. That fish can and do survive such icing is still a source of awe and respect for our finny summer dance partners.

Sleep well, friends. We will be together again come runoff.

Noteworthy Reading.

The new issue of This is Fly is out, with more interesting pics and stories from "off the tweed highway", as it were.

This issue includes stories on Float-Tubing for Tarpon, switchcasting for urban "alvacore" on Coney Island, and "22's for 22's", the art of fishing the small for the large.

We will decline comment concerning the models for the winter fishing fashion, although for some strange reason we have the urge to run out and purchase a Cloudveil vest...

Brrr.

It is damn chilly outside.

The mercury is hovering at 9°F right now, a 48-hour high. Hell, this feels like a heatwave compared to the 1°F and 30mph winds of Monday.

Oh well, at least it is sunny. The View from the pullout at one of my favorite saltwater beaches.


One of the locals, doin' her best to get back to the sea.



The time of slow water is also the time of ebb on the inner sea. Just as the ice forms a barrier, the long time between falls last and springs first fish form a layer, a strata of the year and a disconnect from our finny friends.
We will be back together soon, friends. This season of cold is just the intermission, the resurfacing, halftime in the big game...

Focus, dammit.

We here at Neil Creek don't mean to be the seasonal grinches that we seem to be coming off as in our post-RoadTrip bloggin'...

For this, we are sorry. We will try to focus on all that is good and right, and not wallow in a pit of despair and woe.

In the upcoming months We will be occupying our time at the Neil Creek R&D Complex, renewing our friendship with zap-a-gap and polar chenille, and in general making the Wife freak out at the amount of krystalflash and bunny fuzz in the carpet. Time will be spent planning the Blitz Occupation of both Texas and Hawaii, Focussing on the 3 B's...Bars, Beaches, and Barbecue. Naturally, fishing paraphenalia will accompany us on our travels, but the real joy will be in going to places where the water isn't frozen, or about to be.

It is also time to go through the Official Neil Creek Archiving Device and post a few photos of the first friends whose arrival we eagerly await in late April...



Focus, dammit.

Season of the Slow

15° Outside. East wind, movin' off the icefield at 20kts.

Nothing left to do but prepare the den for hibernation.

Like most other Large Omnivorous Mammals of the Boreal Forest, when the winter chill sets in, we enter a state of torpor. Not quite hibernation, but we ain't tickin' off no 6-minute miles, either.

Preparing the layer of adipose tissue that keeps us warm is of the essence now. The increased consumption of malted, hopped beverages goes a long way towards this end, as well as the high level of red meat intake. Since almost all of the deer on our Island croaked during last year's record snowfalls, the meat of choice this year is Cow. Sure, you get funny looks when you are stalking a Chuck Roast in the meat aisle of your local supermarket, and they don't offer much in the way of Fair Chase, but the "Organic, Grass-Fed" is close enough to real meat to fill the bill.



What about Fish, you say?

Fish are Spring and Summer food. We have a stash of Halibut, some smoked King, and a few Sockeye in the freezer, but fish are for warm-weather eatin'. Fish are for movin' fast, low to the ground...not suitable for winter sustenance.

At any rate, the long dark is now upon us. Just like the other endemic mammals of our SouthEast ecosystem, it is time to hunker down, keep warm, and expend as little energy as possible.