Like a refreshing cold brew, but for your eyes and ears.

Because there is a obvious lack of content on the internet, the boys over at Dry Fly Media have to decided to throw some more high-class balls-out ass kickery our way in the form of a new online magazine.

Fish Can't Read is a fact, at least I think. And it is a good thing too because there would be a lot more fisher-types scratching their heads in wonder and throwing their gear in discust over the idea of their quarry leveling the playing field.

I know you only have two legs, and for those who only have one, my apologies, and for those who have 3, send me an email, I want photos.... But back to the bipedal of us. I think it is important to be able to get those legs up in any way possible. (I don't condone cheating, but remember: it's not cheating if you don't get caught) So do your self a favor, and me a favor and the guys over at Dry Fly a favor and come over and visit us when the magazine comes our. I promise it will be a kegger for your brain, without the wonderful face-in-the-tiolet morning after.

Oh, and if you have a great fly fishing story or photos or video, don't hesitate to send them on in. Variety is the spice of life, and we're cooking meatballs.

-Alex who lied on his resume.

Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride:

The twig of a man sat behind thick glasses typing at an outdated computer terminal as Kyle and I pushed through the glass doors.

In keeping with the way all great things do, my Colorado partying and fishing extravaganza had come to an end: Out of the water and grass and happy sunshine into the artificially lit sterile depression of the Colorado Springs Greyhound Bus Terminal where the time-clock-smile under the spectacles looks up from behind the bulletproof sneeze guard.

I tell him I need to get to Holbrook. He tells me that he needs $117.01. A card swipe and sloppy signature get me a ticket to Albuquerque, then a ticket to Holbrook with a tasty 3-hour-layover meat product sandwiched in between. Delicious.

I give Kyle a manhug and send him on his way and take a seat on the curb just as the 10pm bus arrives. It’s an Autobuses Americanos brand of transportation. Oh boy. I stow my gear, and take a seat. Bruce Willis in Spanish on the televisions, and with a pair of seats all to myself we depart.

We arrive at Albuquerque at 4:15am without incident, (except for when I dozed off and freaked out because I thought I had somehow slept for 20 hours and ended up in Mexico.) and myself and my gear took a seat in the lounge/restaurant/game room/gift shop. My Holbrook bus was scheduled to arrive at 7:25am, and it was time for a snack.

It was probably the lack of sleep and ass-numbing chairs that clouded my decision making process, but it was not until after the fact that I realized ordering the “breakfast mini-chimichangas” was a bad choice.

Red or green sauce? How about the shit-your-pants-in-line-for-the-crowded-bus-sauce? You have that? Gimme some extra of that goodness! Mmmm, yeah! That’s the stuff.

As President Hot Sauce is giving the State of the Bowel’s speech in my pants, a Greyhound employee informs me that that the bus I am planning to board is going to be completely full, so it would be a good idea for me to place my bags in the line forming behind the loading door so I am “included in the initial count.” Lovely….

I notice people start to mill around the door as the supposed transport arrival time drew near, but I have faith that my luggage will successfully hold my place in line and I make a tactical decision to remain seated close to the toilet.

The bus ends up being over 2 hours late, and I smile from inside a bathroom stall when a nasal squeak over the PA lets everyone know that the bus has arrived and to please get in line. I have been sitting in here for 45 minutes, firstly because I have found the toilet seat more comfortable than the plastic coated steel butt-mare out in the lounge/restaurant/game room/gift shop, and secondly due to the super-happy-not-so-fun-time -mini-chimis.

Still not believing that the well greased machine that is Greyhound is quite ready to go, I slowly wash my hands and face and follow the litter box smell over to my bags and check the time: 9:45am.

The herd is antsy and jumps as the large metal door swings open, and a man in blue suit walks in and past the group without a word. False alarm. Wait, wait…. No, he is coming back. Could it be?

He opens the door again, stops, and extends his hand toward a young woman standing at the head of the line. Here we go. My turn comes, and out to the bus I go, into a window seat just barely more comfortable than my throne in the men’s room.

A couple minutes later, we are at maximum capacity and a weary, crumpled looking woman in a grey suit stands in the aisle looking confused at the faces that stare back at her from the seatless expanse.

A bus employee walks up behind her, and they chat for a second as the woman angrily waves her hand around, in obvious seat envy. Whether the trip was over booked, or a ninja passenger slipped in is unknown, but doesn't matter at this point.

The bus employee walks to the back of the bus and stops beside a man sitting next to a little girl, and after determining that man is the girl’s father, asks if he would mind letting her sit on his lap until the first stop, giving the woman a place to sit until a seat opens.

Yes! great! fine! fantastic! Good idea lady! Let’s get this show on the road! And while you’re at it, tell that cute woman two rows up that she is welcome to come sit on my lap too. Hell, at this point I don’t care is the prison-tatted gangster next to me has to spoon with a fat guy to get this circus moving. Desperate times, you know the story.

Yes, everyone thought it was a grand idea… everyone except the guy who matters most: The Driver, who apparently didn’t think it was a grand idea at all, and who argued with the employee and even a few passengers about it before walking down the steps and out of the bus, for good, apparently, because a few minutes later the employee informed us that the driver has quit, and they are going to have to call in someone to drive the route.

What? Oh come on… Seriously? Your joking, right?... Right? No, you are not joking, and we are actually getting off the bus, and being herded back into the terminal. I re-claim my stall and wait, while the automatic flushing device keeps me awake enough to know that I am not dreaming, and this may actually be some sub layer of hell. No, not hell itself, but defiantly on the right path to get there.

45 minutes later, we are back in line listening to what can only be described as a third-grade roll calling session as the new driver butchers last names and lets their owners back out to our tandem-axled chariot.

With everyone in place and accounted for, and no mention of the missing mystery seat-stealing phantom, we pull out of the parking lot and 5 hours later when we pulled into a dusty Circle K parking lot in Holbrook AZ, I shed a single tear of joy.

2 hours after that I was in a cabin in the White Mountains: Rods were again emerging from tubes, waders drying in the porch, and a cold New Belgium brew in my hand, my stomach quelled by a very large container of pork fried rice. Oh man, it was totally worth it.

A cliché, but still a winner.

Hi there little fella! Now go tell your mama what I done.

Who put crawdad parts in my Makers Mark? Damn hooligans.

Sometimes you just have to throw mice.

A fine Hawley Lake evening.

-Alex who's ass has been forced to see a shrink.

Just something to remember

I was going over the comments on our page and decided that this, from Alex, needed to be brought back up:

I have heard that dolphin is tasty... too bad they are so damn smart and cute.

Humanitarian- "Hey, look at this poor dolphin caught in this net, lets help him out."

Dolphin- "Thanks dude, that's awesome of you!"

Tuna- "What about me?"

Humanitarian- "Fuck you, stupid tuna. Get in my sandwich."

Fly fishing Colorado through the eyes of the Fat Guys

It was warm outside, those with xeriscaped lawns might call it muggy. My pack and camera case weighed heavily on my shoulders as the double doors slid open and I stepped out onto the shaded asphalt. I spotted the hoard of moderately attractive, middle aged women and knew that I was in the right place.

A bald man stepped out of his SUV to post-pubescent screams of lust and after pushing his way through the crowd, extended his hand. “It’s good to finally meet you.” This was the first time I met the man known as Michael Gracie.

We pushed through the swarm, threw the mildly-smelling-of cat-crap gear in the back of the vehicle and punched the go button, off to destinations unknown to me.

Pleasantries spouted, and hey-how-are-ya’s done and over with, we drive his modest cleaner-than-most bachelors abode, drop off the gear, and head to the local fly shop.

Discount Fishing Tackle is a non-descript storefront in a non-descript strip mall paralleling Sante Fe Drive. One fat guy, and one three-quarters fat guy pulled into the parking lot.

The man often known as MG turned the key and leaned over my way. “There is something I have to warn you about before we go in there,” he said. “As soon as we walk in, if the guy behind the counter calls me a [explicative] or a [explicative]…. don’t worry about it.” They say forewarned is forearmed, and I had a knife in my teeth and a blunderbuss in hand as we breeched.

“Oh shit, look who is here!” The stubbly counter guy exclaimed as the door beeped MG and I walked in.

There is fishing stuff on the walls, there is fishing stuff on the floor, there is fishing stuff falling out of and bulging from every crack, nook and usable cranny. My kind of shop.

The guy behind the counter smiles as he walks around the corner. “How you doing, I’m Tom.” I shake his hand and he shifts his glance to Gracie, “What’s up, bitch?”

This is the one, the only... Tom Teasdale.

My situation explained, Tom browses the fly selection, picking out all the flies I will need to, as a fellow named Nate Taylor would frequently exclaim thereafter, “crush some huge fish.”

Paid up, and paid out; rung up and run into the parking lot Gracie and I stowed our booty and headed home. Me with a new box full of flies and Gracie with some pimp new shades and net were ready, apparently, for any fish to come our way. A half a bottle of peppermint schnapps and a 12-pack later we were ready for bed.

A few hours later the coffee was brewing as we prepared for a day on water when the doorbell rang and in walked the aforementioned Mr. Taylor.

Dressed in white from head to toe, closely resembling a Bermudian cricket player, Nate seemed a little sleepy but nonetheless ready to throw flies. The drive to “this particular section” of the South Platte River allowed to sun time to crawl out from behind the Front Range and warm the preparing anglers.

I was told that because we had been so late in leaving the house, (what had once been a enthusiastic 2:30am departure time faded into a partially-hung-over 4:30am) that between four and eight cars would be cooling off in the river parking lot, and their passengers already beating the waters before us.

But it appeared that on this Saturday morning we were ahead of the curve as we pulled into an empty dirt lot and began to gear-up in the fresh morning light.

The air was crisp, and the mosquitoes many, as took to the trail and headed down stream.

The fish were plentiful but all small stockers as we threw and walked west downriver, and the aforementioned Mr. Taylor soon made an executive decision to halt westerly progress and head back up stream in search of larger fish to “crush.” That he apparently knows are there.

I shrug and begin the walk back through the grass and shin-stabbing bushes to find Gracie, who had intentionally fallen behind to beat up the pools we had turned our noses up to in our hunt for larger prey with stimulators and trailing emergers.

After a drink back at the car, and a short walk in the opposite direction, the little rainbows that had been so plentiful before started to disappear. And for good reason... the fish here are big, and in no mood to put up with the nonsense from their under-developed brethren.

Gracie on the reel! The aforementioned Nate Taylor on the reel! Big beautiful browns, with a surprising tendency for aerial acrobatics find their way into our nets.

Even a big fat rainbow (that Gracie spotted, but I "stole") liked my bug enough to accept the invite to the net party.

Hours and some fantastic dry-dropper and nymphing later, the afternoon faded into brought slower bites and annoying wind, but that was fine as we all felt it had been a very kick-ass day and turned back toward the parking lot.

Back to the house we flew! And then Ding-Dong! Tom Teasdale, Greg Drapeau (Some Primal Dudes) at the door and ready for partying.

We all drink a beers and as soon as my I-only-brought-one-pair-so-I-had-to-wash-them-before-going-to-the-bar-because-they-stunk-from-wet-wading shorts dried, then left for manly refreshments.

The night progressed as expected, and after the crew walked home from the pub we wished Tom, Greg and the aforementioned Nick Taylor luck as they left for shenanigans unknown, and crashed our sleep-deprived asses into bed.

Sunday morning was a lazy one and we slowly gathered our gear from some South Platte carp fishing.

We arrived and found James Snyder balls deep in the river already, with nothing good to report. Fish everywhere but not eating. We decided to head to some double-super-top-secret-well-populated-suburban lake, but the story remained the same. Slow.

Aaron Seymore , visiting from out of town, did manage to hook a fatty carp, and to the sorry fishless faces of his comrades exclaimed, “That’s how we do it Michigan!”

Enough said, Aaron.

In to the car, back to the house to meet Kyle and edit images… Then to the bar.

And now, here I sit in MG’s house, stealing his CPU time spilling the beans. I will be fishing tomorrow with Kyle, but will not have access to a computer machine for another week, as I will be in the White Mountains of Arizona catching beautiful (but most likely smaller) fish.

More eye candy...

Gracie contemplating the existence of fly

An ace double-hauler (Mr. Teasdale)

This is how you hero shot, drop a fish, and recover like a pro

My own badassness, from MG's perspective

Gracie's badassness from a professional standpoint

-Alex who thinks it would be really funny to go sit on Kyle’s passed out head.

A minor, stinky setback.

The fluorescents buzz as the dull round blade pops a slice into Chef Boyardee’s can of beefy noodely goodness.

Twist crunch, twist crunch, pop; the top flips up and I pour the contents into a bowl. Then I hear something.

What the hell is that? I think it’s the cat. Damn roommates cat, what has that damn thing gotten into now? I put my bowl in the microwave, Scratch, meow, scratch scratch. Push one, three, zero, start; meow, meow scratch. The light comes on, as the glass tray slowly circulates for maximum heating deliciousness; scratch, meow… Goddammit alright, ALRIGHT!

I follow the cries for help and for a moment it sounds like its coming from my bedroom. Dammit. I open the door and fuzzy yellow flies past my feet to freedom.

I start to close the door and stop: I smell something. Shit. Literally.

My eyes float to the floor, as I carefully navigate my cat-shit-colored carpet for the little stink jewel left just for me.

Not in my shoes, good. Not in the hamper or laundry basket, good. Not on the floor anywhere, that’s odd. I raise my gaze to the bed. Not on my pillow, good.

What the hell?

As I turn to check the closet, something catches my eye. On top of the floor, on top of my bed, on top of my freshly-packed-for-Colorado woodland camouflage duffle bag and blending right in is the biggest, red and brownest, runniest cat turn I have ever laid eyes.

Fantastic.

Latex gloves snap, soap bubbles, and brushes scrub, and I walk outside to hang the bag to dry.

I open the door and walk back into the kitchen, my nostrils still assaulted by the lingering particles, I leave the door open to try and clear the air.

As I move toward the back of the house, a beep reminds me that my meal reached tasty warmness a while ago.

I walk to the microwave, open the door stare into the bowl: Red, brown, chunky. Mmmmm. Don’t think so.

I was ready, so ready. Now I am hungry, partially unpacked, and out of beer while my zippered junk holding devise, still smelling of soapy cat-scat, flops in the wind outside just waiting to drive some airport drug dog batshit nuts.

Still, only a minor setback. And with a bit of luck, at 11:45am tomorrow morning myself and my doodie-duffle will be northward bound to kick ass and find carp and cutbows with MG and Kyle in Colorado. Oh joyous day!

-Alex who will double-check his pillow before retiring tonight.

I'm sorry, but I can't help myself.

I hate people that enjoy roping me into semantic arguments, but unfortunately, I feel one coming on and I apologize.

People say that fly fishing can never be extreme, but what does that actually mean?

An online dictionary tells me that extreme is:

“Of a character or kind farthest removed from the ordinary or average.”
“Going to the utmost or very great lengths in action, habit, opinion.”
“Chiefly Sport: extremely dangerous or difficult.”

Just because you are less likely to die, break bones, or get arrested fly fishing than some other things of "extreme" classification, doesn’t mean, by definition, that it is any less extreme when done by those who push the envelope when compared to the average.

Yes, it is cheeseball to label some dudes whipping bugs around as any brand of extreme, but that is our fault, not theirs.

-Alex, who has been drinking, and is just sayin’.

Satans new army VS. a Fat Guy

Everyone who fishes in Colorado knows about these little bastards, The deer fly.
When you fish for an hour and catch more bug bites than fish, well that is normal. But when your old can of Off with shit loads of Deet will not send these little fuckers running, then you have a problem.
Only so many time can you yell, "GOD" "WHAT THE FUCK" or even" DIE YOU LITTLE BASTARD" before you just have to pack up. Some how they have even found a way to bite me through my shirt, Now that is smart for a fly. Long pants, Off, long sleeve shirt, pants, hat, and gloves. That was what I was wearing, and they still defeated me.

I was looking around online for a patten and found this one, I tied one and it works.Yet my dumb ass lost it in a tree. So I will tie more and eat shit loads of garlic maybe that will keep the bastards away.

-Kyle, who is looking like a chickenpox kid right now

Oh lord is this Armageddon?

So yes Alex will be out here before long, With MG and Kyle to drink till the day is done we have only hit the base of destruction! Fish have no chance, well Alex has no chance! Just kidding!!!! So we all know the world (at least Colorado) has seen its last days, why can't Aaron come up as well?

Another preview of things to come....

-Alex who is excited about learning how to fly fish.

Sneaky Black Hawk urban lake reconnaissance.

"Where too?"
Said the UH60 pilot as he banked over South Tucson and glanced over his shoulder at me snugly strapped into the gunners seat.

I pushed the button dangling from my chest: "Castle Rock, I need to take a quick photo," I spoke into the mike as the rotor noise cut through the headset and the bird pitched northeast.

I am here for other photographic reasons, but when one has the opportunity to tell the pilot of the Black Hawk helicopter where to go, only a fool would not take advantage.

What I found: A sneaky ninja entrance from the wash.... good to know.

Bass and carp reside in this urban lagoon. See the trail on the right? Gated community, schmated community. It's ninja time!

My Taxi; yellow cab can suck it.

-Alex who thinks a helicopter is the only way to travel.

Everybody is somewhere all the time.

With Soundgarden playing and Charlie Sheen wondering around in the jungle muted in the background, I sit here at the computer with many things on my mind, but nothing to say, really.

I was sitting at the bar earlier today, drinking a Pyrat and coke and really trying to not pay attention to anything in particular when the guy on the bar stool next to me leaned over:

"This is great, right?" Waving a drink-laden hand toward a intoxicated woman's expansive cleavage near the end of the bar. "I mean, where would you rather be than here?"

Now that's an interesting question. Where would I rather be? Uh.... lots of places. But I really have no idea. I haven't seen the world, which really makes me unqualified to answer that question. People say it's a small world, and that may be true in some philosophical sense, but it still takes a hell of a long time to fly from the southwestern United States to the east coast. And that seems like a pretty long way to me, and there is still like 37,000 miles to go to end up where you started.

Call it stereotypical, but I would rather be fishing. And if I wasn't fishing, I would be taking photos of people fishing. Preferable somewhere cooler than here, and with my friends.

So where would I be? Who knows. But it wouldn't be in Tucson, and it sure as hell wouldn't be in a bar pretending to be stuck in some kind of rut.

-Alex who knows that wherever you go, there you are.