San Juan Skills

Fumble.

-Alex the fish wrangler.

readying

Main Entry:  leave
Part of Speech:  verb
Definition:  depart, abandon physically
Synonyms:  abscond, beat it, break away, clear out, come away, cut out, decamp, defect, desert, disappear, ditch, elope, embark, emigrate, escape, exit, flee, flit, fly, forsake, fuck off, give the slip, go, go away, go forth, head out, issue, migrate, move, move out, part, pull out, push off, quit, relinquish, remove oneself, retire, ride off, run along, sally, say goodbye, scram, set out, slip out, split, start, step down, take a hike, take leave, take off, vacate, vamoose, vanish, walk out, withdraw

Lets go already.

Seriously.

Between Waters

I started writing a closing post for the MI trip. It's tasty, but not ready. I am going to Lee's Ferry... just like Michigan, but with 5X instead of 12lb floro. And 40 degrees warmer. And rainbows. And cactus. Whatever. Soft set soft set soft set.

-Alex who thinks Kirkland Signature spiced rum has a little more caramel flavor than most.

BLISSS

I will be here. You should be, too:

Barothy Lodge Retreat & Indigo Guide Service Present:

Barothy Lodge/Indigo Spring Steelhead School 2013 (BLISS)

Thursday, March 14th -Sunday, March 17th Price: $780

The event will include three nights lodging, two half days of guided fishing, two half days of in class workshops, meals and a few things to take home. A deposit will be required to reserve your spot with the remainder due at check in.

Everyone will have their own bed but rooms will be shared. Accommodations can be made in advance for buddies or couples that want to share a room or anyone that may wants to upgrade to a private room. Tap water and coffee are available but anything more is BYOB. There will be two people per guide, though just like the rooms, we can accommodate friends, couples or upgrade to have your own guide, just let us know in advance. You can also opt out of the guided or workshop portion and do your own thing, we can adjust price depending.

Workshops:    Options and Rigging, Streamers, Fly Tying and Outdoor Photography.

Agenda:          Thursday -- Guests will arrive throughout the afternoon and evening. A host will be on hand through the evening (within reason) to get everyone settled. We’ll have some snacks but your on your own for dinner.

Friday and Saturday -- We’ll provide coffee and a grab and go breakfast (cereal, roles, breakfast bars and fruit) and then hit the water early for a morning guided float. Guides will serve a hot grilled lunch on the water. A bit of time to get reorganized after fishing and then spend the rest of the afternoon in workshops. Dinner will follow with informal fly tying with one of the guides each evening.

Sunday -- Time to head home though everyone has the option of reserving another half or full day on the water.

Guides and workshop instructors will include: Guide Kevin Morlock, Guide Steve Martinez, Guide Walt Grau and Photographer and Writer Alex Landeen (coming all the way from Tucson Arizona).

The event will be completely hands on and personal, offering all the guests the ability to ask unlimited questions and pursue topics that interest them most. Please contact Barothy Lodge for any questions or to reserve your space. With several people signed-up before we’ve even officially announced the event, spaces are likely to go fast. 

Barothy Lodge
Peggy Anderson, General Manager
(877) 898-2340
barothylodge@carrinter.net
www.barothylodge.com

Indigo Guide Service
www.indigoguideservice.com
www.thirdcoastfly.com

 -Alex who knows you want to come hang out. 

life like noodles

He had packed it like a cigarette smoked to the filter and the zipper made a hot noise as it closed like night around day.

SSSSSZZZZZZHHHHHHHHHHHNNAP!

The duffel hit the floor at his feet. A disturbed dust bunny made a break for the safety under the box spring but settled for a discarded leather slipper. He coughed like an afterthought and walked to the kitchen.

He stared at the other packed stuff on table and scratched at the stubble on his cheek. His fingernail found a little scab and he thought absentmindedly about the important things he was probably forgetting.

He picked the scab and examined it closely in the buzzing, greenish light.

He rarely forgot things but when he did he had a tendency to make it something spectacularly important.

He flicked the scab to the carpet and turned to the refrigerator. The door sucked open and the interior was illuminated in yellow long enough to show him again that there was still no sustenance contained within before he closed the door again.

Something tickled his cheek and wiped at it. There was a little blood smear on the back of his hand. He licked it and grunted in agreement and tasted plastic.

He stepped over a wet spot and moved to the sink and squeezed some dish soap into his palm as the hot water struggled through the old copper in the walls.

He tried to scrape what looked like an old noodle from the edge and only succeeded in bending his thumbnail back painfully. He put his hands under the water and flung them away from the lava-hot flow with a yelp.

He bit his knuckle and tasted soap as the space heater hummed on the counter drying his freshly washed hat.

Out the window a light breeze gently pushed the mosquitoes in wobbly circles in the shadows of the carport.

He looked upon the defiant noodlet with contempt.

The hours before a trip were always the longest hours of his life.

-Alex who has long hours, too.

chunky

Fat Bitches love snacks.

Damn, girl you chunky.

You get more whether you like it or not

Videoness edit by Rick Mikesell of Trouts.

-Alex who knows you know that the fish of 2:23 is pure awesomeness.

Port Sulphur, In Some Particular Order of Epicness

Ziiiip. Push. Pause.

The sound of the wrapped push-pole reminded Alex of a guiro as it slid through the guide’s gloved hands.

Ziiiip. Push. Pause.

The boat crept along through stained water near the bank where birds and small creatures watched suspiciously. Alex removed his sunglasses and squinted into the glare as he wiped water spots from his lenses with the tail of his shirt. There were small faded purple stains on the yellow/green fabric. Fish blood. Why did it turn purple? He didn’t know. Those bonitos always seemed to bleed but he liked the stains. They added legitimacy to the garment. He snugged the glasses back on his face and looked back over his left shoulder at the man on the poling platform.

 Ziiiip. Push. Pause.

Shane Mayfield stood above the outboard and stared at the clouds. “Burn off, you mothers,” he said again. The sun’s rays snuck through the grey checkerboard, brightening the landscape and briefly illumination the muddy shallow bottom before being once again blocked by the hanging vapor.

Something unseen ran from the boat leaving little swirls of mud hanging in the water. Cody pointed.

“Sheepshead,” Shane said, and again turned his attention toward the sky. “C’mon you mothers. Burn off.”

Alex stood on the casting platform and stared at gray reflections on the brackish water.

Two days. How long is that? Can you build a relationship with a landscape in 48 hours? Is a three-night -stand getting serious? Will she expect you to call? Come on, baby. Let me see what you got under that blue dress in that stained water. We’re just gonna pole around your marsh for a while, take a little look-see. No harm in that, is there?

Shake the dust off.

"The Red Drum (Sciaenops ocellatus), also known as Channel Bass, Redfish, Spottail Bass or simply Reds, is a game fish that is found in the Atlantic Ocean from Massachusetts to Florida and in the Gulf of Mexico from Florida to Northern Mexico.^"

Get Some.

sometimes

Sometimes you go to the cold mountain lakes.

Sometimes there is a guy that you didn't know you kinda knew, but not really, fishing from the dock.

Sometimes he hooks a nice fish.

Sometimes you take a photo.

-Alex who is embarrassed that he forgot to reset the exposure compensation on his camera... amateur move, bro.

Part 1 - suspect behavior, dirty undies and slime.

Someone painted red stains on the eight-foot white cross where the nails would have been.  Men sometimes sit behind the small store on a dirty picnic table. They are open when they feel like it so go away and come back later. Dogs roam feral through tall trees over the bitumen and aggregate and through the trampled field where soiled undergarments are discarded. The cows don't seem to mind.

Two men in an early 70's off-white Ford F100 bounce and rattle down the dirt path that bisects the field. They are up to something at the far end, their heads dip and bob as they slowly move across the ground, occasionally disappearing altogether behind the taller shrubs and grass as they walk back and forth from the bed of the truck.

Clouds loom ominous and move quickly over rusty playground equipment. A faded carousel slowly choked by weeds longs for small hands as a school bus rumbles out of a dirt drive across the street.

The road from here to there curves through the middle of this place and I have driven it often over the last fifteen years and never stopped. The pond is on the edge of a hill and reaches out just far enough to caress the highway and make fishy passersby wonder at sixty miles per hour if there might be something swimming around in that shallow weed-choked water.

Why did the fat guys cross the road? Because they heard there was pike on the other side.

Up Next: Bartenders with boyfriends, a new nacho recipe, and we play another exciting round of "What Important Thing Did Aaron Leave at Home This Time?"

-Alex who brings the bacon.

Always gone.

When I am here, I am usually gone.

I am leaving soon so I was especially gone today.

Reality in four dimensions, so it would seem.

I was watching tv and eating a triscuit while unloading my pontoon and assembling a rod.
I was scrubbing myself in the shower and scratching my man-ness in the thin afternoon mountain sun.
I was driving to a job while paddling to a weed point, simultaneously yelling into my phone and whispering across calm waters while washing a dish in the sink and slime from my fingers in the lake.

What has already taken place will soon just have happened.

I can only hope that it will be as good as it was.

-Alex who packed his truck tomorrow and will tie some flies yesterday because he is always gone today.

End of Day

Happy Monday.
Wish you were here.

-A

crooked

There are no more pine trees. There are no more lakes or streams. There are no more rods in my truck and fly boxes in my pockets.

The clothes that I am wearing are clean. There isn't any dirt under my nails or dried slime on my pants. All the chairs are straight.

I will probably wake up tomorrow before the sun rises with anticipation, only to roll over slightly depressed.

At least nobody robbed my house.

-Alex who won't know what to do with himself for at least another twenty-four hours.

on the good days it does.

There are probably things that I should tell you. There are also probably things that you would want to hear, that I can't say, won't tell you, or don't know. Not for sure.

We took a trip to a new place. A place where you could probably get down the hill with two wheel drive, but you better hope that transfer case engages if you want to get your ass home.

A place where the end of the road is your only hope and you don't have to walk quite so far to feel like you are truly out of the world...

...and it was good:

Ditch...

Where is Pete McDonald when I need him?

-Alex who will do anything to make K8 happy.

Things to come: falling two miles into the sea

The anticipation is nearly drowned by responsibility, coming up for air only long enough to stir up my guts and make me feel like I don’t have enough time to prepare. I will go to Mike’s  soon to tie up some leaders and flies after picking up some Rio Hard Saltwater Nylon in the 44lb, 33lb, and 22lb variety, and also some 40lb Seaguar Classic fluorocarbon for the baby tarpon and snook. I still need to procure a 10wt, having ready an 8 and 12…

Holbox Island will be the host for the party that will start less than 48 hours after the conclusion of the twenty-first Wrinkleneck Invitational Tournament -- Five days of insanity in the White Mountains of Arizona followed by a full week of white sand, rum, and hardcore fly on saltwater action. The photography of a wedding is what brings me to this island, but also friendship and the opportunity to finally bust my saltwater-on-the-fly cherry.

I have much work to do before the Wrinkleneck tournament, things that must be done because it is my duty but also because it is necessary for the promotion of ass-kicking…  Things that on a daily basis seem to get in the way of excitement, but maybe it is a good thing and keeps me from tapping my proverbial pencil waiting for the day that shit finally gets fishy and I can cast a line without worrying about the next pile of retardation to plop into in my inbox.

Also, Gracie and I are cooking up something the likes of which the online fly fishing world has never seen that may very change the way you read fishing-related blog posts for the rest of your life… but all in good time, my friends. All in good time.

In less than 2 weeks the insanity will begin.

I should probably put some pants on and get to work.

-A

The Salt River - Big on scenery, small on fish.

It was like those Southwest Airlines commercials, where the dude does something stupid like call his girlfriend the wrong name in bed... you know - "Wanna Get Away?" Yea, that's how it felt around here, minus the mid-coitus faux pas (you need to have a girlfriend for that to happen). As Aaron put it during one of our where-the-hell-should-we-go-fish phone conversations, "If I don't get out somewhere soon I think I might kick a baby into the sun." Which would be totally impressive, but very out of character for the guy.

After some thought we decided to take a drive up to Phoenix to play in the lower Salt River, where during the hot summer high-flow months bored teenagers and sun-baked alcoholics alike pay a small fee to float the few mile stretch on old inner tubes and try not to pass out and sunburn their nipples.

(This bridge is about 1/3 the way down - you wouldn't notice your nipples roasting till later)

I can't say for sure what the flow was, but I would guess it was somewhere in the 300 range as Aaron and I arrived on the sunny Monday afternoon. After yanking on a pair of waders and a quick head scratching session over the contents of my fly box, I picked the 2 least abused-looking things I saw and jumped in feet first. Aaron quickly hooked a small rainbow on a copper john, and I decided to take a little stroll across the river where upon arrival at the far bank realized that that funny feeling in my boot was water pouring into my sock. Lovely.

A few hours and as many hook-ups later we decided the action was about over for the afternoon and so Aaron, I, and my soggy toes decided to head to the hotel. A hour later with a stomach bursting with Golden Corral and a bottle of 92 proof rum we retired to rest up for the next day. And by rest up, I mean get stupid. (See video in previous post)

The next morning after sleeping through the incessant beeping of my phone telling me that it was time to fish, we checked out of the hotel with minutes to spare and headed back to the river, this time to a place stop named Water Users, where a few months from now buss loads of relatively sober half naked thrill seekers with "Show Yer Boobs" sloppily written on old beer boxes would begin their slow trek downriver.

I have only been to this spot in the summertime, and it is a completely different beast during the winter months; the colors are somehow both calm and vibrant, the situation as a whole seemed  muted but full of potential.

The afternoon fly fishermen stacked in the quick shallows, eavesdropping on one another, being privy to a apparent midge hatch, drifting zebras and what-have-yous under caddis flies and other floaties, doing just alright.

I decided to stick to my nymphing... and struck out. Some days this would ave bothered me, because I, like other fishermen will occasionally admit in a drunken state, think going fishing and not catching fish is basically a failure. But when the beauty of the location outweighs the lack of success, one must just be happy to be there, and I was.

As the evening pushed the afternoon under the horizon, it was just about time to head home and we packed the rods and wet gear into the truck bed. It was a pleasure to meet Dan and Ron (I apologize if I messed up on the names), I am sorry we didn't get to meet up with Greg from AZ Fly and Tie, and I missed the guys from Goodyear, but we will be back soon. You can bet on that, and hopefully before the first wave of drunken reprebates of the new year contaminate the shrinking shores with old socks and empty beer cans.

-Alex

A preview of things to come, v6.0

Tonight as Aaron mentioned, we are off to the mountains, but next week it's back to work. So stay tuned for the trip write-up.

Also coming next week:

Fat Guy's and their stiff shorties:
Redington Predator 6wt and 8wt review.

-Alex who has 2 inch balls on his hitch.

Space Fail

Alex and I are packing up the Jeep for another trip north to Arizona's white mountains. The space issue is not quite this bad, but I can relate.

No use in bitching, You just gotta keep on keepin on and kick some ass!

-Aaron, who is glad he didn't opt for a mid size car.