Breakfast of Champions v3.0

When judged on the merits of relative intelligence, beauty, or personality, farm animals and tubers are on the lower left end of the scale.

However, if cooked in just the right amount of butter, salt, and pepper, they become things of sublime beauty and toothsomeness.

When paired with fine coffee, Breakfast Nirvana is reached.

The Elements





The Farm Trinity


The Aftermath


Now we can safely face the day.

High and Outside

Got an email from D-Gro earlier today, with a few words and a set of pictures that tell a long story.

Seems that D, Lawnmower, and the Dirty Hippie were gonna get a jump on this year's steelheading by taking a ski-plane into one of the many flows around here. Good thinking, provided the meadow that you intend to land in doesn't have 30" of fresh pow over a rotten crust...

...After 5 hours of digging, pushing, shoving, sweating, and swearing, they finally got the plane turned around and onto a snowshoe-stamped runway. Little did they know that the should have just cut their losses and come back with the magic carpet.

We're sure they had fun, though. First tracks on any river is always fun, even if there is 8' of snow on the bank and 65 cfs in the channel...

Just means more time to drink beer.


Notice the ditch dug by the belly-tank.


Apparently, everything had to come out of the plane to unstick it.


Dirty Hippie pushin' a wing with Lawnmower tryin' to reel in the port-side...D-gro, well away from where any actual work was happening, snappin' pictures.


There's always next time, boys. Give 'em hell.

Things that make us go Hmmm, Installment #11

Really?

Going Full-Geek

Occasionally, we have been known to be a little obsessive about our hobbies.

Ok, more than occasionally.

We had a chance to sit under the wings of some of the two-handed masters this winter, and we tried to absorb all of the casting and fishing knowledge that we could from these badasses without being an obsequious tool about it. All of these Jedi are really cool guys, easy to be around and willing to delve into the theory of 2-handed casting at the drop of a geeky hat.

To y'all that helped us get our head around taper profiles, recovery speeds, loop braking, 2-handed drift, top- and bottom-hand theory...Thanks. Y'all didn't need to listen to - much less answer - questions from some fool who wanted to get to the bottom of the geekiness, but you did.

The wife would also like a word with you...something about a bank account and a shotgun, or something...

The following is an essay in geekese, with the spoils of the sickness so far...

Echo TR 7130...the gateway rod. So easy to cast a Skagit compact, it should be illegal.



Winston BII-mx 6116...the über-underhand stick. Butta wit' a 425gr 35' head. Summer-runs, beware...



Loop Multi 8130...the Boomer. We decided that swinging for kings would be the next logical step in the sickness, so...



Redington CPX 5106...because you can never have enough switch rods. Seriously.



Beulah Platinum 6126...the Smoove Groover. Summer-runs in the cold H₂0 should be seriously nervous, 'cause this twig throws tips like a beast.


...Not to mention a whole pile o' lines to go with the above sticks.

So thanks again, gents. Next time we meet up, beer's on our tab...if we can still afford it.

An keep your eyes peeled for a shotgun-totin' Mama that might want a word with you...she's more dangerous than she looks.

Exotic species, v2

We opened our E-mailbox late last fall to discover yet another deleterious exotic species. Seems that Cap'n K and a few Eastern acquaintances spent a few weeks of last summer chasing Atlantics around on some cheesy little river in Canuckistan, and his grip n' grin was proof-positive that such animal indeed exists.



While we thoroughly enjoyed the Cap'n stories about the "ghillie" that kept falling asleep and the buddy that risked jail-time to smuggle some split-shot onto their "beat", we still gotta wonder - Atlantics? Really, Cap'n? We can understand the tropical stuff, but full-on, rent-a-beat-and-throw-goofy-old-stuff Atlantic fishin'?

Aren't you supposed to fish for those with silk lines? Gut leaders? Greenheart rods? Shouldn't you be wearing tweed, smoking a briar, and be seriously contemplating colonizing the nearest country full of folks more unlike and less well-off than you?

In fairness to the Cap'n, he's been wanting to do this for a long time, and judging by his $500/lb fish, he saw what he needed, and he probably ain't goin' back.

Perhaps there is something that we are missing in all of this...maybe some folks are drawn to tradition not for the sport, but for the comfortable ritual established around it. The familiar feeling of doing something that the rest of the herd is doing, achieving complacency through homogeneity.

Well, we never got the urge to wear the Old Man's cologne or fix up 50's rides, so we're really not sure what all the fuss is about. But when it comes to tradition, we think that it definitely has a place, and that place is behind us. It should be thoroughly reviewed from time to time, and looked upon as A Good Start.

55 Days...

...And counting.

The photographic capture and rendition of falling snow is an art form, one that we have yet to successfully engage in. We have no problem sneaking up on and photographically ensnaring the snow while it is resting upon the landscape, but we can't seem to digitally grasp the particular reckless insouciance with which the March snow seems to fall. This, however, does not prevent us from trying.


Scenes of snow at rest from the last of the semi-sunny days for awhile.







4 to 8 inches of accumulation expected today, more tomorrow, with a slight respite forecast sometime next week - Anyone have the number for the groundhog? We need to give him a piece of our mind on this whole "Winter" business.

55 days.

1320 hours.

That's all that separates this-


From this.




Waiting.

Home again, home again, jiggedy-jog.

Back, and officially done with show season. While the fight to save Bristol Bay continues on the front lines, we will be behind the curtain pulling levers and speaking into the microphone. Soon to be out from Sportsman's Alliance for Alaska is the "how-to" manual for hosting a RedGold movie night for your fly fishing club or organization...many thanks to Hick for gettin' the first one done up proper and paving the way for future functions.

We had fun hangin' with M² and B² (not to be confused with B2), chowin' down on Mex, Steax, Drinx, and BS. Lookin' forward to the next time, gents.

Big Honkin' Thanks to Cap'n Rajeff for the fine Thai meal Sunday night, and thanks to the Dalai Larimer for the company, conversation, and 30-minute-wonder spey lesson. We owe you both.

And while we're at it with the shameless pandering and casual sentimentality, we wanna give a shout out to a blast from the past...

Just before we left for Cali last week, the phone rang. Being the semi-civilized, mostly upright bipedal mammals that we are in the morning, we stared at the unknown, out-of-state number on the caller ID in mute incomprehension for a ring or two, then decided to answer it.

Us: "Hello?"
Them: "Is this ____ __________?"
Us: "...Uhh...Yeah."
Them: "HAHA! Whazz up Sucka?"
Us: "...Mmmm...not much...?"

...And for a minute or so, we had no idea what was going on. The voice on the other end of the phone was reciting names and places from what seemed like years ago with casual familiarity, and somewhere in the yet-to-be-caffiene-jumpstarted region of our rather small brain we could almost picture the person on the other end of the blower.

Then he said his name...

...and for about a half-hour, we caught up with one of the old college crew, Davey B. Livin' somewhere in CheeseWorld now, he's married and fishes as much as he can, but not as much as he wants to. Damn shame, 'cause this kid is one of the lights...fly-tyin' fool, and one of the cats that helped us along the path.

Good to hear from you, man...even if the circumstances were not optimum, we appreciate the call.

Don't be a stranger now, hear?