Whiteyville 2009

I think his driver's license says John, but I can't say for sure and I have always called him Whitey. He is retired, but occasionally fills in behind the counter at the local Orvis store, where I met him a few years ago.

Every year he balls his trailer and burns gas to a campsite north of 260 on Country Road 1325. The trailer-lined dirt circle with its industrially stocked chow tent and monstrous fire pit is base camp for dirty smelly fishy men, and is just another excuse to go to the mountains and drink and act retarded. After you wake up late and slap off a headache and eat a breakfast that would make a Waffle House line cook jealous, you might even have time to go wet a line.

Sticking with our usual modus operandi, Aaron and I set off for the mountains well after dark and arrived clanking and groaning around 3am, raising the pop up camper with as little hammering and pounding as possible. It was kinda cold, not like freeze-your-eye-lids-shut-and-your-fingers-to-your-man-parts-while-trying-to-pee-in-the-dark-without-falling-over cold, but a welcome 26° as we climb into sleep for a few hours, The travel over, and now on mountain time. Participants we are for the second year.

The Camp - photographic evidence:

The Starcraft, as far as I can tell, was manufactured in the late 70's. Re-canvased once after my father bought it, she is a fat assed with a broken leaf spring and stops the wind about as well as a chain link fence but the beds are damn comfortable, and the most of the stuff works just fine for the likes of us.

An evening in Whiteyville, I believe this was post cornbread cassaroll and seafood paella dinner, but I can't remember to well. You understand.

One thing required of the participants of Whiteyville is meal preparation. If you ain't cookin', you washin' dishes, and every man is assigned a night to cook dinner. If you happen to be in camp on nights where dinner has already been assigned, you cook breakfast.

For our breakfast, Aaron and I scrambled up some eggs, and made some kick-ass sauteed potatoes with jalapeno-smoked bacon, diced and blackened chicken breast and bell pepper topped with a cheese sauce and a tortilla on the side. We don't fuck around when it comes to grub, and neither does anyone else in camp if you haven't gotten the drift.

Good dumps are just as important as good eats, and this little creation was made by pimp master chef and Whiteyville veteran Phil. The Meditator 550LE is equipped with waterproof TP dispenser and hand pump bidet, and even has a journal for one to log their experience.  Aaron and I stuck to our Crapmaster 350, which does not have the upgrade options the 550LE has, but gets the job done.










The Fishy Stuff - photographic evidence:

This fatty Silver Creek rainbow ate a beadhead emerger that was slowly rolling along below some parachute what-have-you that Tom Teasdale gave me while I was in Colorado.

Silver Creek is a few mile long stretch of skinny, slow moving water that comes down from Silver Creek Hatchery, where the Native Apache trout are bread to be stocked in White Mountain Lakes.

Aaron standing on the bank of Silver Creek. Does this image look a little strange to you? 10 points and a gold star if you can figure out why.

Becker lake is located north of Springerville and is a weedy bastard, but holds some nice fish.

Aaron's Becker Rainbow.

Another Becker resident.

At Big Lake I found this brave little traveler battling with the native mud monsters. I saved his life, and now he belongs to me.

The person who comes up with the best name for him will win something sweet.




-Alex