The Nefarious Voluntary Beatdown, b:1.7.07, d: 1.7.08

Anadromous fish have given me the highest of highs, the lowest of lows and the lens though which our fucked up world gains a modicum of clarity.

-Anonymous.

thought that was a McMillan quote but maybe it was just someone i traded pulls of whisky with in winter camp who said that once.


or perhaps you told me it when it was just us and the dogs, bumping down that two-track skidder road somewhere near the coast to a run that held a fish called hope.


or maybe i wrote that in my head when i was half-cocked and pissed about a four-day, low water skunk when something clicked. matters not, but one thing i do know positively: that statement is gotdam true of most of those whom i hold dear. way too fucking close to home.

so.

after exactly one year of exceptional laser awesomnality, 7402 Rainier Talls and a fuckpile of abject, giant-balls-swathed-in-a-Lacrosse-wader-sock, ultra-handsomeness, the Beatdown is officially going the way of the long-belly flyline in the Northwest.

that would be away. in a dense, plasticene ball of satan's gnarliest hellfire. call it an art project. just wanted to see what a year would look like, i s'pose.

the four of you who'd read these periodic intrusions, thanks.

huckmama put me up to it really. told me to write the story. "just get it the hell out," she'd say. celebrate that fucked up subculture, 'cause it sure doesn't feel like anyone else is.

write down something about Dirty T's snoosetooth chomlets and how you two call each other every night and pretty much know what each other's thinking and talk about what 2" of fluctuation in a river gauge might mean for tomorrow and whether some line needs more back taper and how you made a fly out of your truck's floormat's pile and it wailed on fish and how you tied a different fly that's got the sexy motion and swam it in the bathtub and it's gonna be the next sliced bread and fuck, the list goes on. write about Double R and your maggoty-ass experiments with salmon. the soulroller 13th Allman Brother and his 18" modified mullet and how he always describes stuff with cool words like "sinister" and "diabolical". the Cap'n and you incessantly bitching at each other about the time a third whisky's involved, then insisting like gentlemen each other go though first the next morning in a spot you both know there's not a chance in the world the second pass is gonna give one up. Ed, Mugs, and the armorcoating of east Oregon cockleburr. write about Alaska and how it feels. or T-mos' first western steelhead and the explosion of elated obscenities that flew outta his mouth and over Doug Fir and Spruce hillsides when she was briefly tailed. your friend lee, who won't even fish with a hook anymore. your retarded lab Bacon, puking all over you and your sleeping bag not one but two nights running and how despite this, you still maintain she's the World's Finest Steelhead Dog and how she's got a sixth sense about what runs are holding fish on a given day (fuck boys, she does. can't hunt for shit but she knows fish.)

guess it's a hell of a lot better than ritalin.

see, for a few of us, steelhead fishing never was about the magazine horseshit hype. it's never gonna be about some editor greenlighting a trout fisherman's one week trip to a $5,000 a week lodge in BC for the "sea-run rainbow trout" experience of a lifetime.

this is life. besides, i know of no winter steelheader who regards these fish as just trout. there's more soul involved.

and there are many of us out there, but you won't find us easily.

for us, this was and continues to be about the characters; the ones of our dirtball friends, the ones of the rivers we endeavor to understand and those genetically unique fish who ascend these rivers on their own terms. it's a lifestyle you live in capacities, with a respect for timing's necessity. a thing that'll take a guy and drive him toward the most difficult means of pursuit, then one of foolish moral highground, then slap him silly, tell him to get over himself and drive him to gear just because he can't help but knowing what's down there. it's about relationships with the river, friends and and society in general, trying to maintain a balance when you just wanna say fuck all and spin outta control into some mess that'll only leave you wishing for something else. it's about the pain of waiting through a perfectly good summer for the cold, wet, solitary misery of January, completely exiting society in march and april and then knowing what the end of May's always gonna bring. punting hatchery fish to the bank but seldom touching the wild ones. freely admitting you'd quit fishing for steelhead if that meant your unborn kid would get a chance to experience this magic for even a season. the rain, the mist, cedar smoke camp fires the cold and the little learned things we've all sewn together in a collective secret known only the trusted few.

at it's core, it's about the soul of it all.

and being able to lie while looking directly into someone's eyes. that's the most essential skill of a steelheader proper. you didn't think for once any of the locations disclosed were even remotely true, did you?

anyway, so i hope you maybe got a little of all that mojo. winter steelhead. swung flies. that was and will always will be the drug, the thrill, the juice, mojo, ju-ju, the last bastard subculture in fishing. as the Cap'n would say: the fish are a bonus, but not the point. at least, until you find something equally fascinating.

some guy named Rodrick Haig-Brown said it well, i thought:

"I am a flyfisherman, he told himself, and chinooks are no fly fisherman's fish. Steelhead are fly fisherman's fish and they should be more interesting—they have longer freshwater life, a chance of recovery after spawning and or returning to the rivers not once but two or three or even four times. But we love the chinooks."

fuckin' a, old guy. fuckin' a.

sometimes, to make culture, you gotta give away the art for free,

-bacon_to_fry, 1.8.08

fact:

"...I do use featherweight spoons occasionally on my DH rods. With the appropriate line and casting technique they can be cast quite well..."

-well-thought out shit written by Ed Ward.

more killer quotes that evidence (some) steelheaders who gravitate toward the tightline grab are far more fascinated with fish and just fishing than what the flyfishing status quo happens to deem "morally acceptable".

morally what? are we getting all churchy and shit?

great shit ed, and i truly hope i'm not taking any of this out of context:

"...as long as it is done so in an area where there are no restrictions as to type of equipment use, and no claims are made as to it being actual flyfishing, what's the problem?"

"Back when I first started using a flyrod, during the times of angling writers such as Joe Brooks and Ted Trueblood, it was not unusual to see articles about "flyfishing" that espoused the use of worms, minnows, or actual nymphs seined from the bottom of a stream, as bait on a flyrod during seasons or stream conditions when artificial flies had too low of odds for catching fish. Or, in the case of bass, using pork rinds, or flies with spinners on a flyrod. At that time, I don't recall seeing any huge rants on the "morality" of such tactics, but rather these things were looked upon as just another way to be able to employ and have fun with fly gear when conditions dictated the use of flies to be unfruitful."

badass money quote:

"So, what I'm inferring here is that the "catching of a fish on a FLY" is not necessarily the "end all" purpose or goal for all flyanglers, that for some of us the approach that is dictated by the tackle being used is also a large part of the attraction. Thus, for some of us, there are no qualms about "blurring the lines", or stepping outside the box when it comes to using fly gear."

the full meal deal can be found here.

full-on velcro explosions, purists.

central WA, early winter, 1.6.08

ain't never had much use for smarts an' all 'cause rationalization's pretty much the death of any spontaneity worth calling useful, so when the meteorologynocolgist on the weather channel called for a snowed-in pass up central WA coast-way, me and the Double R bucked up and knew we were gonna wake up tasting last night's Rainier, loaded up a live DBT set (Back Porch, Tracy's House 3/27/2004) on the F250 philco and chase ass after some snow angels. we found 'em, sorta.

got pretty shitty up there, actually. the wet, slippery snow like the stuff that falls in late may back in wisconsin. i fuckin' hate that wet stuff. no class, that snow. hatchery snow, we'll call it.

rolled it northwest at a blazing 20 mph most of the way and that was a good thing, 'cause we were both pretty hung down like winter steelhead season done proper and the 1000 snowflakes flying at the window looked a lot like 2000 and a bottle of advil. fuck, these 4:30 starts we been doing since early september are getting mighty old, i'm officially saying. it's winter steelhead season now and while me and the Dirty T don't get up early for winters, the Double R's a diabolical animal of the laserest proportion. he's pissed if there's even a glint of light at the put-in. he will break trees.

got down to el senor rodrigo's and loaded the turd cannon up with a breakfast burrito 'cause a man needs proper nourishment: po'tatas, pork sausage, extra cheese, green chili's and double salsa. the kind of thing that'll blast the porcelain off the bait shop shitter, and it did. twice. got out and checked the Tiff at the bait guy's when we stopped for fresh maxima and discovered we'd been hauling some interlopers:



put in about first light and no one was ahead of us, so we figured we're prolly the coolest motherfuckers on earth. or the stupidest. 'bout 2' of vis on this one, a foot and 2.3476" more than i'da liked. rowing some new gull oars huckmama got the Tiff for christmas and wanted to see how they felt, so we plugged a run right at the boatramp to get the feel of stuff and see if they felt any better that the gotdamn 4-ton sawyers we'd been torturing ourself with all salmon season, then pulled it over and swung flies at the first good piece.

the coast goes this way; very little great swinging water but a helluva lotta good gear water, so me and the double R decided to stop trying to force shit like we all used to and fish the proper technique for the given piece. seemed logical. hella fun, too. gotta say, tho, when you do find good pieces to swing a fly over, it's fucking epic. big spruce, slate blue water, the fly coming slow down and across bigass ledges, the whole sinister business. tits on a ritz, as my little brother used to say while huffing 4-foot tubes of Matanuskan Thunderfuck.

the day went on like this, with someone starting a run with light tip, then the other following with a heavier tip and a bit of weight, then pretty much me going back through with unholy heavy tips and giant weight on the fly, then double r coming back through with a drift rod and a corky and me finishing with a float. best part was, neither of us had to do the beta male dance and argue about the ethics of the techniques, whether it's "proper" or all that other virgin horseshit. we went over the water on our terms, starting high in the water column and progressing deeper into maggotry. we laughed our asses off and fact is, the cadence came pretty naturally. can't say how fun it was just to be messing around through runs we'd fished a hundred times.

guess you could say it felt like just fishing again. and we fished all gotdam day, through snow squalls, rain, 2 minutes of sun and another 36 snow squalls. kicked ass.

freely admit, you can't target kings anymore, but i was pulling little steelhead plugs into some fairly king-like water and sorta hoping maybe a fresh one would blast it, but we got nothing there. prolly a good goodbye to the most enjoyable season in recent memory, despite the poor returns.

had two good drive-bys, one from king and one from a steelhead, prolly, but they didn't stick. ended the day swinging a fine piece of water to no avail, then decided to run a gooey bob though it with a veil of yarn over the top. it's this maggoty oly pen/nushagak rig my buddy Big Joe Schmitt showed me back when he was working up that way. you sorta backbounce and drift fish it under a free-sliding float, super-ultra full-maggot crusteage. can't really explain it, tho. it's the shit only Alaskan guides think of.

anyway, the float went under 'cause the shit Big Joe teaches you pretty much works all the time when there's even half a fish around, and we set up on the fish late 'cause we really have no idea what we're doing with that weird-ass gear and get a roll, tailslap and then the fuck you.

sorta hoping working our balls clear off like this woulda got us on fish, but it's a week or two early on this one. and besides, this time last year we were under 40 feet of flood and not fishing at all, so i guess things are pretty ok.

these are the things you tell yourself when you're a winter steelheader, at least.

you always tell yourself fucked up shit to quell the obvious: you got the fucking skunk.

hmm.

calling for a highwater year, they say. 15 and dropping, but you gotta pick your spots and learn to hide.

lots of pressure on the locals now that 3 of the 5 other good choices are compromised. slides in the headwater tribs is what the old boys is whispering over coffee, eggs and blue cigarette smoke off the sawbar.

words say it ain't logging, but their eyes say it different.

our sweet little bits of honey up central WA way are a touch too far for an afternoon session.

good bridges out, logjams where oars can't avoid.

good people all up in each other's shit for bad reasons upon fool reasons.

fuck. it's winter season, finally. time to get out the maps and revisit old road crossings.

thing is, prolly should should go swing some flies and let the water sort it out, but sorta outta bound solos in the mt. hood neck of the woods are more my style these days.

shit's quieter up there. in my head, and elsewhere too.

Year's end fish.

got a sweet deal worked out with the Double R, see, one wherein i trade him prawns and bad hair days, these sorta-intrudery things and other trashy abominations that come outta the vice for driftboat storage space. apparently, those flies we've been dumping his way work. good on ya, double R:



given we've been privy to 15+" powder dumps on both mt. hood and bachelor, there's been precious little fishing for us as of late. stains, while we love us the steelheads, there's this gotdamn obvious logic we can't ignore:

15+" of the sick early January powder > early hatchery steelhead. just sayin'.

gotdamn fibbers.

so that esoteric, say guhbye to the salmons, last wraps shit?

um, me and the Ed and the Double R lied. couple a times, actually. won't bore y'all with a greatest hits comp, just two decent ones.

RSquared doing what a man's gotta:


ed's bright buck just three days away from the baby haysoos' alleged birthday:



been swinging flies some too. touching some, but precious little and after pretty much a superkillerfun year of march to december salmon, we gotta say those steelhead, for whom we've got a whole bunch a love, seem so, well, uh, um, little:

Last Wraps: WA Coast, 12.10.07

pretty sure we're gonna call this salmon season done before the salmon call it done for us. it's good way to go out, i figure.

gotta say, i had a super killer time learning the gear game this fall and was finally excited about things again. must've been a bit burnt out or something. anyway, pretty gotdam happy to say the new boat never blanked once and bear in mind, i had no good clue what in the fuck i was doing out there. still don't.

coolest part was, i fished parts of rivers i'da normally rowed through, paid attention to spots i never really gave more than a passing look to cause they wouldn't fit my definition of suitable fly water and above all, i learned i don't have a single fly fisherman friend who doesn't get crazy happy when you get them in the front of your boat and announce that today, they're gonna fish gear at 30+ pound salmon. thanks, fellas, for enduring and enjoying my maggoty experiments.

pretty telling actually, and i'da have been more worried if actually catching a shitpile of fish was something they didn't enjoy.

see one day, about the time T-14 came out and a lot of guys started fishing it a lot, i was talking to a guy, raving about how great it was to be able to get down super fast (by that era's comparison), get tight line grabs in a few more spots than the "typical" water and how it's opened up the whole game to new ideas. genuinely stoked, i was.

the guy, who'd never fished the stuff, only really fished heads of riffle water traveling lanes with a singlehander and thought winter steelhead were an act of god was real quick to shoot back: What? Well! Do you guys really gotta choke the fish with that heavy sinktip?

odd thing was, he was a lot more angry in general than i on the river. wonder why.

same goes for some folks who saw us getting fish on that foam bass popper. they said the fly was unethical, despite the fact that it was a fucking skater. jesus. we were having a blast. fish were still coming to skaters, the grabs were just as good, it's just that it happened a few more times that normal this way. not one for numbers, but i tend to look at it in terms of super fun and goodness: like, if you could get laid five times in a day on your terms instead of once, wouldn't you?

apparently a lot of "fly" fisherman wouldn't, which is a whole 'nother conversation.

guess i've come to see it the same way with the fly vs. gear thing this year. don't know how to say it, so i'm just gonna say it: at it's core, from where i sit on my low-ass fool perch, much of the general flyfishing attitude reminds me of those Jesus freaks intent on embarrassing themselves into believing evolution was a myth. sure, great, have your weird, blind religion. good for you. i really don't care.

but, like when the God Squad shows up my doorstep trying to tell me global warming doesn't exist, god was a man, gay folks are going to burn in hell and if i give enough money to the church and never, ever question anything, i'll buy my way into heaven, i tend to glaze over and write that nutjob way off. just like a purist flyfisherman, they're forcing their shit on someone who's not asking for it. that's my personal line.

fact is, pretty soon it won't even be cool for these guys bto catch a fish at all.

i can just see that one coming: "Oh, you got one? on a skater? You landed it? Dude, that's so lame.

ok. enough of my low horse, cause i really don't give a shit about it enough these days.

in better news, we're feeling damn refreshed and at the head of a new season. got to get out with ed, dirty t and the cap'n in the big boat for the first gang-bang of swinging flies yesterday. felt so good to be picking apart the old runs after a low water summer. swinging the fly, throwing shit each other's way and just going steelhead fishing again. no one got a single pull and that was fine by us. the day was done on our terms, as all fishing oughta be done. looking forward to more of that in the coming months.

Lastly, the salmon of the year, most likely. still chrome bright and full of sea-lice. Even gave me a huge badass, giant tailslap on the surface right after he was hooked. must've been his way of saying Later on, you maggoty, afflicted novice and we'll be seeing your fool ass next fall.

yep. i guarantee they will, 'cause there is always much to learn.:

The Local, 11.7.07

checked the gauges late last night and woke up super early thinking it could be a hit or miss day, had some good news at work so i busted out a little early and hit up my early season of a rivergirl. always goes like this on the early winters; i get all premature about stuff and blow my load early looking for a couple of winter fish before all the side drifters start boondogging the fuck outta the water.

how it goes.

took a longer hike upriver to a little corner flat that fishes well only in higher water trying to ignore how gotdam muddy the river sorta was. no matter, we get 'em at this level some. put your time in and if the cosmos aligns, we get 'em real good.

yeah, i know, higher and out, but it;s on its way in and you gotta try when the itch needs scratchin':


i was fishing a bigass orange prawn tube off this weird little lead shot dropper rig leader me and the dirty T came up with one night after getting wound tight on Bushmills and bitching about losing weighted flies on shallow insides, despite knowing that's where the fish are. the rig swings good in the inside rock, cause you can really feel bottom and fish the fly super shallow by just raising and lowering your rod tip a little. pretty close to gear fishing. backbouncing through the swing's end, really. i dig it 'cause it's maggoty and we roll the maggot, critter style with laser pride.

came through the slowest little perfectly fishy part of the run and shit got a bit tight, then squirrly. way down on the inside. thought i had a light pull, so i put it out there and the same thing happened. pretty sure it was a fish, cause i made about 10 more casts and a bunch of weird stack mends trying to see if i could hang it on bottom or a twig or something, but never found a thing.

that whatthefuck? feeling is steelheader for potential best i can figure, so you half-convince yourself that was one to the fly in a shitty high out river, start talking to the dog like a deranged crazy fool and get positively stoked. had to have been. it got tight and squirrly twice, pretty much in the same spot.

walked out, drove down to another piece and found some other idiot suiting up and intent on wading ankle deep in cocoa, too. said he was from colorado or something but he sure seemed like an oregonian to me. the fucker was juiced to fish a chocolate river, for gjod's sake.

no matter. he didn't know his way around, but he seemed ok and his dog was cool, so bacon and i took him into a spot that involved a gnarly wade in front of a few big sweepers and tightened your turd cutter up a little. sacrifice for the glory, fellas. always.

real decent guy, which is always a pleasure. said his name was tom somethingoranother. said he published a fishing magazine or porno rag or something, but i couldn't really hear 'cause the dog and i were pretty stoked about the piece we were walking into at this level, blazing toward the river through the oregon grapevines and neither this guy or i really wanted to talk work anyway. like i said, dude was a decent guy.

good dogs forever kick ass and these two are fine specimens. that tom guy's dog trask and bacon, rippin' up the sticks:


being a real benevolent, generous, proper motherfucker and all, i had him go through first, then i followed. no grabs for either of us and that was too damn bad. the inside tailout was feeling damn greasy. genuinely wish i coulda put the dude on a fish, but at the end of the day i think both of us were happy to be on the water and damn glad each other didn't suck.

The Old Man and the River

Ma and Pa out Orygun way from the Wisconsin Hinterlands, so the Double R and i thought it proper to show the old man the difference between a creepy-ass, Great Lakes boot faux-king and a real ocean-brighter proper.

Pa, the man's always been fishy, found three and they were all chrome as it comes.

Super badass to row my dad down the river for the day and the fishing was good enough that the conversation didn't turn to politics and we didn't have to kill each other.

Proud of your whup-ass, pop, and thanks for joining us Double R:

the local, 11.28.07

hot damn, it's officially winter steelhead season.

more later. celebratory beers are being downed with reckless abandon and we can't type while double fisting it.

Addendum (four days late):

we been stuck searching for high ground out coast way. nasty, nasty floods down there, fellas, all the way from newport to washington locales unknown so bear with me as i try and recount the beginning of steelhead season as it happened for our loser asses...

had two hours before mom and pop flew in, so the World's Finest Steelheading Dog and i went to look in on the local and saw she was in prime shape. not expecting much, we conferred briefly and decided to do laps in one pretty well-known run that seems to change buckets every year.

Hey! it's the legendary, now-old schooly 8136 way the fuck outta summer retirement!:




no grabs on the first pass with a bright orange Bad Hair Day prawn tied in the style of the the D-Pin/#17's inspiration, so we switched up to a black and blue crafty fur intruderish tube and made a second lap.

a sole guide boat came through and gave me plenty of space (thanks, josh. that's all class, man.) and just as we were getting close to admitting cold defeat, the Hardy barked once, followed by silence.

as always, we don't geek on a pull, 'cause we're professional about our gotdam dealings and whatnot. just froze our shit up and waited. a second or three later, the salmon II started barking nuts crazy Eeee. Eeeee. Eeeeeeeeeeeeee and a pretty decent chromer shown her bright self out in the grease right before slamming it in hyperdrive and making way toward the tailout. hadn't heard that sound in a very long time.

me and the dog, we're a little rusty and prolly shoulda stood our ground on that one, but we followed her low into the run and slugged it out with the numero uno best thing about a Northwest winter (save for 15" powder dumps). she tired some eventually, and we led her bankside, but noticed all the new(er) sunken willows at our feet like a fuckin' maze or something.

not good.

had the sinktip in our hand we were trying to lead the fish head-up through the snags into shallow water where we could pop the fly out (she was about a 10-11 lb. wild hen and we didn't wanna touch her if we didn't have to) when she freaked and i dropped the leader. fish tied herself up on said willows and popped 12 lb. ultragreen.

damnit. sorta disappointed it came down like that and we left a hook in her scissors, but sometimes, seeing's just fine. we were way laser stoked to get a winter in November.

took a look into the tailout and saw two fish rolling, so we started rifling through the box looking for another black and blue tube. we had none. not a one. prolly need to start tying some, duh. gots me some incentive now.

all i could come up with was a black-in-the-front, chartreuse-in-the-ass, sorta ostrichy intruder tube we had leftover from the Kanektok this summer. figuring what the hell it's getting dark, we threaded it on, crimped the barb of the B10S stinger, snugged it all tight and worked our head and Miracle Braid back out to proper distance.

came through the first bucket to no avail and started to relax finally, making decent casts again and shaking the shit out. i was a mess from that first fish of the year. happy as fuck, really, but those first few casts afterward we're ooogly.

came through the grease on a deeper broadside and got waylayed again in the gut of the run, buried the rod low, then to the bank. always, proper but this was into a log that wasn't moving. but then it started moving. away from me. slowly, like it didn't care fuck all.

the skies were getting real dark, so we screwed down on that one and honestly couldn't do shit with it. fish just sat out there, hardly throbbing, and doing whatever, going wherever.

she started heading toward the deep tailout and i followed right into the gotdam willow snags 'cause i had no option, thinking i'd had fish like this before in AK and they never end up being steelhead. i know the score, and i knew this one wasn't coming to hand, too. sucks when you know that, but we just wanted to see if our suspicions were right. this shit doesn't happen to me but once every three or ten seasons.

the thing had me in faster water, the head of the next run, up to my stomach with the rod butt pointed at it. shit fellas, i giving it everything i had and could feel flyline binding against itself under the weight. not good, had it close enough to momentarily turn the head and saw a mid-to-high 20's dusky king with my fly stuck cleanly in its scissors. super badass, but she took one look at my handsomeness, turned tail and parted the leader 'cause the line was bound up so tight under itself. nothing i could do but get positively stoked and think about calling the Dirty T with the news while downing that celebratory beer. just how it tends to roll in the Beatdown circle.

gotdam, fools, the re-Beatdown started just like that. one winter steelhead to the bank and busted off on a sunk willow, and my first swung fly chinook from that river unlanded, too. such a killer start to the season.

all that being stupidly said, it looks like the season's back and with it, the Beatdown is officially back open for bidness. about fuckin' time, cause while we learned to love us the fall salmon gear game lots, swinging flies at mad pissed chromers makes us feel like we just came home. feels like we're ourselves again.

PS: F509, yep, the Airflo Compact Skagits are still laser badass. 660 grains on the 8136 sings deep into the cork, all bottom hand butter.

meat:

= +/- 7,000 words:

And so it begins.

took a good long look at the gauge predictions around the homestead waters and i'm officially calling what i've been waiting to even remotely think for a way-too-long fucking time, y'all:

the good days are near.

looks like these might be the first rains that could possibly blow out all the locals clear from the ocean to the desert. i say could, 'cause you never know what that bitch Ol' Ma Nature's gonna huck your way. heard of 3 or 4 winters already being caught on the normal early rivers, but it's these first good douchings that get my head moving.

never a lock, but it could, because it might. and that's good enough for the Beatdown faction to start smiling again.

while it's seldom, neverever officially winter steelhead season until a fella sacks it up in the rain, gets out there in double layers of polypro and socks with his hood up, shoulders assuming the all-too-familiar, i'm-freezing-my-ass-off forward hunch which will turn to abject back pain come mid-february, loops on 12 feet of type 8, swings the fly with the soul, belief and conviction, doesn't geek on that initial laser grab of the season and then tails his first wonderfully beautiful rocketjammer of a winter. even the dog seems less cagey. those tubers and rafters of summer disappear, cold temps send the summer run fishers back inside, the high flows (somewhat unfortunately) wash away the summer's trash and the rivers belong to us winter steelheaders again.

that's the moment, friends. all we need. kneeling there in the rain on a half-out slow inside, rod chucked into the bushes behind you, one freakily shaking hand on the tail looking down at the big piece of perfect with you can't believing your season's finally back.

you breathe a little different after that. those Rainier Talls taste a little better than they did last week. obsessive hope comes back into play and you start feeling a little more like yourself after 4 or 5 months of moping around in the sun. it's like you're a kid again. man, it's like ol' Ma Nature cranked your eyes back open with forks.

so yeah, yeah, yeah, it's little early yet, but from these first rains on begins the madness. tying tables gets positively gnarly with fox tails and marabou and that little stash of rhea you're too cheap to use proper. little chunks of cut tubes litter the floor and the dog's dragging flecks of chopped angel hair and amherst all over the house.

it's when red phone start ringings with stupid ideas on how to float something that's not very floatable (and year after year, you never end up doing it), you start running into the same good fellas whom you truly respect as steelheaders who, just the same as you, have been in virtual hibernation since last april, your old boys start endlessly discussing what's blown, what's changed and theorizing on when it'll start fishing again, someone (usually the cap'n, if time's any mistress) calls and says he got one out of a newly developed stupid jedi pocket you only wondered about once and the days of wet-finger, cold-ball, toe-funk pain and doubt in trade for seven or eight minutes of pure, unadulterated wonder, glory and holy-fuck-that-shit-just-went-down continue.

with my crew, these first few checking-shit-out trips of the season are best done in solitude. everyone understands this. just you and the dog, wandering around a few miles of old haunts with a pocket fulla ideas, newly tied intruders and leeches and weird new stuff you came up with when you and T were drunk at the vice back in July. you gotta do this. it's about checking in with the ol' locales, making sure you're still allowed.

"hey, old friend, been awhile."

except you just think it, but this time, you really, really mean it. fuck, you mean it bigtime.

i always seem to end up at some out-of-the-way piece that's been good to me and prolly three other dudes i'll never meet who prolly also think of it as their little private spot, too. hoping the old little tiny depression that used to give it up on a day when they're moving is still there despite all that water rolling around the rocks you can hear under that water, crashing and thundering downstream like they always seem to do. hell, she might be with child again, ready to squeeze out a perfect, early ocean fish again. never know until you see. not so oddly, it doesn't matter the first few are normally hatchery rats, you're just glad to shake hands after a long summer of wishing.

it's the boys and my finest hour, fellas, if there ever was gonna be one. probably a time when a few of you get their mojo woke the fuck up, too. 'cause after a summer of constant evaporation, we wait all year for these rains to return what they've taken in both flow and mojo and soul. pretty sure they love givin'g it all back.

to us, that's what steelheading's about. the wait. the pain. the people and the confirmation you got it right that day when you get a diabolical pull that makes your cruddy-ass, boat-rashed click-and-shit reel start sawing out over laughing riffles and badass Doug Fir mist. just takes a little water, a lot less clarity, that first pull and for some reason, everything's clear again.

you remember why.

Mmmmmm.

Flows didn't come up like we and the boys was hoping, so we stopped forcing some shit that wasn't gonna happen, ditched the bigass swung flies, rocked the fool tidewater show and there was blood. a fucking shit ton of blood.

Update on the horseshit happening in NorCal

lifted from the Trout Underground and hella worth lending a hand. i humbly ask you to read this and act on it, soldiers.

it only takes about two minutes to send the emails and the damage you can do to corrupt, shortsighted motherfuckers intent on robbing you of your river access and local communities an essential sustainbale source of income is well worth that two minutes.

mines, clearcuts, whatever else on your public lands, it's all bullshit resource extraction that only helps a few private companies get rich on your dime and it needs to stop, friends. we all know this:

as per TC:

In the ongoing battle with the Siskiyou County Commision in California, where said “commision” has a few board members led by uber harpy Marcia Armstrong that are tryng to usurp Federal and State law and declare the county’s rivers non-navigable, and thereby kick the anglers off and hand over the natural resources to suction dredge mining, clear cutting and overgrazing of cattle on public land.

If you’re kicking back right now and saying “I’ll never fish there, why should I get involved”, remember, our legal system is based on English Common Law, so precedent carries a lot of weight. If they can pull it off in Siskiyou County, trust me, your County Board might try this too.

Time to issue that collective “Fuck That” and here’s how we do it and it’ll take you about 2 minutes. Copy and Paste courtesey of TC over at The Trout Underground cause he wrote it better than I could.

————————————

You’re simply going to email three of the supervisors and also “cc” the county clerk (and copy Chandler).

Why the clerk? To make sure these emails become part of the official record, which may not have happened to your earlier emails. (How’s that make you feel?)

* Michael Kobseff (mkobseff@co.siskiyou.ca.us)
* Bill Overman (bandm@nctv.com)
* LaVada Erickson (erickson5031@sbcglobal.net)
* Colleen Setzer, County Clerk (csetzer@co.siskiyou.ca.us)
* Trout Underground (tom.chandler@gmail.com)

Here’s What We Need to Say

We’re going to stick to the basics. No need to clutter your e-mail with anything beyond your name and the issues that matter. If you’ve only got 45 seconds, then simply cut and paste my bullet points, add your name and a closing line, and mail away.

If you’ve got a couple minutes, rewrite my stuff so the supervisors can’t devalue your effort by calling it a “form letter campaign.”

Still, what counts here is volume. If we can send the fisher-friendly supervisor into that meeting room with 100 emails — if we can jam the Supervisor’s packets with a triple-digit outpouring of “the public is watching you” — we might be able to turn this thing.

Don’t use abusive or accusatory language (two of the names on the list above are our friends). One supervisor’s been whining about the small number of nasty emails (the same guy who cryptically accuses Trout Underground e-mail writers of being “misinformed” — and repeatedly characterized your public input as “bizarre and irrational”).

Maybe.

Here are the bullet points:

* The Proposed Natural Resources Plan and Committee damages Siskiyou County’s sustainable, renewable tourist economy. Fishermen won’t come here, even if just the Scott and Shasta Rivers are declared non-navigable (though the plan clearly includes “all” rivers in the county). When half the County’s tourist-related businesses start suffering, what will the Board of Supervisors do?
* The Proposed Natural Resources Plan and Committee Ordinance avoids public comment. Modoc County invested eight months writing their plan, and held a half-dozen public meetings. Siskiyou County’s draft policy document shuns public input, and was apparently written by one person — who somehow retains the “right” to accept or decline public comment. How is that good public process?
* The Proposed Natural Resources Plan practically guarantees expensive, wasteful legal challenges. Despite one supervisor’s protestations to the contrary, a half hour of research makes it clear the Scott, Shasta, Upper Sacramento and McCloud Rivers qualify as “navigable” under Federal and State definitions. It’s also clear that all rivers not designated non-navigable are to be considered navigable (not vice versa). Why are we essentially asking for lawsuits — which the county will lose?
* Any suggestions the navigability of rivers “was frozen at statehood” ignores the Fall River decision (and others), where attempts to impede public access to navigable rivers were thrown back by lawsuits.

The only whining they get to do comes after they’ve lost their attempt to run you off “their” rivers.

——————————–

Time to clear those throats boyos, but don’t act like Turretes Tommy and don’t fret too much about all the enviro stuff I’m writing, I’ll go back to acting like a short buser tomorrow.

Wherein we set a few things straight.

The Beatdown is not an exclusive flyfishing thing. Never was, never will be. Don't ask it to be, because done proper, it can't be.

It's about unabashed, balls out, curious nature of steelheading and the places that lifestyle will lead your head when you let it all marinate and get to you.

Trout and tweed flyfishing culture's seemed to have set up these ghey little rules and cadences you're supposed to fall in line with and frankly, we don't like trout fishing. or the culture. or rules. it all seems so pindick small and petty. rules only apply to those who fear breaking them.

A severe majority of the time we do our steelheading with a swung fly, but we're not so stuck on ourselves to limit that.

Swung fly, pretty much because years and years of this Beatdown's taught us we love the grab more than any other take. Most of that time, with a deep sunk fly because hatchery rats won't always come to a floating line. though, we like floating lines some because they're sorta cool in a different way. And skaters are badass.

That is, when we're not salmon fishing with whatever the river dictates we oughta be fishing that day.

We firmly believe nymphing with an indicator or without is fool stupid and selfish, because it ties up a run and doesn't allow other fishermen their shot. Above all, it gives the resting wild fish little choice, especially when water temps are over 65°. thus, we don't fish nymphs and never fished a jig even for fun, just to see, when there's wild summer steelhead even remotely close. hell, we rarely fish a jig in winter when it's clearly among the most successful presentations on the planet. again, because we'd gladly trade numbers for one punk rock grab.

yet still, once or twice a winter, we hike up forgotten little creeks too small to swing a fly and pink-worm waylay on 20some odd hatchery fish a day because it's super fun and having fun is really fun when you've been getting you figs kicked in every other day swinging flies. sometimes, we bring a few tadpollys and stand in the riffle above a pool and back them down off the reel 'cause we were up late one night and wondered if that'd work, too. what's more, it's an excuse to look around at parts of the river we normally don't see. and we learn stuff too. practical stuff.

While associates of the Beatdown now fall into all camps, one glaring thing is obvious: Every gotdam one of them are or were fine flyfishermen who got a start with gear and moved onto swinging flies.

Most, like Dirty T, now only will swing flies. he's made his choice. guys like the Cap'n would just rather fish a swung fly now, yet he's got a pile of gear rods, he's not afraid to use them on rare occasions and happens to be the finest drift fisherman you might ever meet. it's how these dudes got to be so damn good at steelheading in the first place.

A few, after enough years of the down and across to make most steelheaders shut their mout's and listen up to fellas with a ton of experience and a willingness to share it, don't much anymore. that's their choice, and we don't think any less of them for doing shit their way.

All that said, we feel no need to grasp at the flyfishermen identity because it divides camps into unproductive banter when we could all be focused tackling fisheries issues from a united front and making fishing in general better; paying attention to and preventing habitat loss, water quality issues, burning down hatcheries, healing the estuaries and drinking beer around a bigass fire.

And we can't stand your smarmy i'm-better-than-you bullshit. it wont make you a better fisherman. only more fishing will.

hope that sets the few of you Nazi's intent on putting us in some definitive camp straight. we're not flyfishermen, so don't peg us as one. we're steelheaders who happen to prefer a swung fly but will fish other techniques once in awhile because we're gotdam fascinated by these fish. trying to use your varied, vague definitions of purism or elitism to bolster your ego is your own, unique boredom and we hope that gets you to where you feel you need to be. maybe then you'll just go fishing.

us, we don't care. we just like being out there on our terms.

those terms dictate swinging flies pretty much 98% of the year, as we're staunch traditionalists in presentation who believe these fish show their true badass nature when the fly's swimming broadside on a tight line and they come to it aggressively and kick the everlovin' fuck outta you.


all clear now?

Oregon Measure 49 passes.

fuck yeah.

now there's at least some sort of guarantee that good, green Oregon won't end up looking like that overcrowded, hellhole, steelhead nymph fisherman suburbia that is California*.





*apologies to NorCal for your unfortunate inclusion in the state of California. We both know you shoulda been Jefferson. Or even better, South Oregon. now, if only your steelheaders had the balls to fish a proper down and across...

Comin' up correct:

while PETA seems intent on recruiting new little minds they can eventually strap bombs to (thanks, k), close personal associates of the Beatdown Faction are way out there left of the fray and still showing their boys what it takes to be a real man.

that would be a continuation of the hunter/gatherer ethos and a commitment to pure, wild food.

props, Cap'n and on a fly no less. you know, if i only had a 6 hp. merc for the Tiff...

Wherein we prove that similar shit sinks to the same level:

well stains, we been known to hang out in the back of the parking lot with a Rainier Tall in one hand and our girl's left asscheek in the other, and in doing so, met up with a crew of other outlanders whose hands hold same. we're gonna make some words over that a way for awhile, so have a look sometime, eh?

dig it at busterwantstofish.com

and seeing how this fall's becoming a tirade of salmon fishing with both gear and flies, however, we prolly won't begin our full-barrel assault until winter steelhead season rolls back around and we start hucking big fake pork again full time.

hope you flyfishermen narrow-minded enough to still hold that need for a sacred elitist identity can handle it, 'cause we're having the time of our lives out there attached however to 30 lb. missles and lovin every second of it.

nope, the preceding 13 minutes of sheer heavy water asswhup weren't fun at all:

Do never test.

all we're saying is shit's about to get real maggoty and grotesque around the Beatdown Worldwide Wholesale Fish Processing Center for the Mixed Martial Arts if the fall kings aren't in the mood to eat flies.

and they aren't very often, so you prolly can guess where i'm headed with this.

after a shitpile of years pretty much spent focused on swung-or-stripped suffering and defiance for ultimate glory, this time, that whole ethos has worn my ass a little chapped and thin and bored and we're going well prepared with heavy artillery.

gotta admit, there's clarity inside a good beatdown skunk such as the one that new used Salmon I's bad, bad puppy blood mojo laid upon my ass a few too many weeks back and you get to wicked soulsearcher places when you let that shit sink in enough times over the years and just let go of it all.

so thank you flyfishing for giving me clarity and a thumping K16.

this gear shit will likely be stupid fun for a bit and above all, a far less than serious experiment. thinking it'll prolly be like heroin, except the average dude can kick gear fishing.

then again, it's heroin. you never really know.

and fuck you Cap'n:

Gone fishin'.

they're here, girls. and we're outta here soon, girls.

Upper Sac, Scott, McCloud and Shasta Public River Access threatened (and that's bullshit)

'round the Beatdown, we don't have a whole lotta love for the tweedy little trout culture thing, but we've got a whole lot more hate for bureaucratic horseshit, especially when it only benefits a select few rich fuckers and steps on an angler's river access rights.

such is the case in the controversy going on in North California.

essentially, a single Siskiyou County Supervisor, whom we'll call Marcia "Only done it on my back" Armstrong stands between literally thousands of anglers, their right to wade a river within the navigable limits and the respectable amount of sustainable income they bring to a somewhat depressed economic region.

seems easy, right?

wrong, when Supervisor Armstrong's in the back pocket of ranchers, agriculture, timber, mining interests and dead set on implementing their shadily titled UNSUSTAINABLE Natural Resources "plan". emphasis on "resources" here, gents, when our commonwealth resources means dollars in the pockets of private industry.

we also admire when the media takes up a cause some might deem controversial despite the outright truths uncovered. such is the case at the Trout Underground and issues of river access set national precedent sometimes, so give the old man over there his due, buck the fuck up, get your read on and act, soldiers:

Chandler does the homework so you don't have to:

R.I.P.: ed's westy

thought this thing's better days predated me, its evidentaly sale season all around the Beatdown Faction and the Ed's '76 westy just flown itself the fuck away tonight. the Ed said it took him all the way from seattle to cabo, fishin', surfin' and lovin' all the live long way and i'm pretty sure this piece of corn-ass yellow even graced the Drake pages once. above all, it had green seats. green fucking seats.

you gotta dig that in a real gotdam ironic way.

Bullshit things that happen when you sell a perfectly good whitewater boat:

1. You feel super old and codgery, knowing you just kissed away your ride into the shit most pussies won't run and thus, the lonely canyon waters only fished by you and your renegade band of retards.

2. You start looking for a new used drift boat to aptly play the tidewater salmon game proper (read: one that takes a 5 hp. outboard and houses a portable hibachi for impromptu meat grilling) and drive to the hellhole that is Chehalis, Washington, where said "good deal" comes attached to three holes in the right chine they forgot to tell you about 234 miles and a tank and half of 3.29/gallon biodiesel ago.

3. You get seven calls from people you know en route who've heard you sold your beloved little poacher cataraft, congratulating you on knocking your wife up and being smart enough to give up the whitewater thing for a few years.

4. You spend far too much time explaining the wife is not preggo, but selling the raft pretty much is the fishermen's equivalent of "nesting." they chastize you repeatedly for using the term nesting.

5. Fie. The seller's remorse sets in, but there's little you can do about it besides head for the solace of cold, pure Rainier Talls and make the long drive home to tell the understanding wife that your afternon of no work and even less fishing was all for naught.

fuck boys, gonna miss this little kittycat, so do me the solid of hoisting a 16 oz. Vitamin R to her and praying the Northwest doesn't have a low water year, will ya? 'cause i'm sick and tired of swinging flies in low water through runs devoid of fish and know well enough that another year of shit flows is just gonna force me to get really good at pulling plugs.

gonna miss you, little 'un:

THE Sandy river, finally free after 100 years.

while it's an obvious PR move on PGE's behalf, the kinder, gentler Beatdown's not giving one iota 'cause this amazing metro river's finally free as my balls in sweatpants and that makes a whole lotta people 'round these parts happy.

be sure you watch this one all the way to the end to see the difference. again, we're living in an era of river reclamation fools, and that's pretty gotdam special no matter who you are.

The Sandy gets her free on.

Elam takes on Detroit!!!

yeah, biodiesel's not fishing related exactly, until you consider this:

any of you folks thinking about buying or running a bigass truck to haul your bigass boats and bigass dogs and bigass amounts of gear and beer and shotguns and dead animal dinners and other red-blooded American cool shit (read: the people who actually need large engines, as opposed to suburban soccer moms driving SUV's with Support our Troops stickers) might wanna consider the best option available.

specifically clean-burning, renewable biodiesel. it's not like you've gotta do anything to a diesel engine to run the stuff and given it takes more fossil fuels to produce ethanol that it actually saves, biodiesel's far and away the best option out there.

one look at the latest per barrel costs of oil, around $88 (the highest ever), petro's gonna go through the roof and straight into a gang rape of your budget in about 3 to 4 weeks, which sucks 'cause the fishing's just about to get good and that means you're gonna be driving.

biodiesel on the other hand, will remain at fixed price and competitive to that of petrodiesel because your fuel economy actually goes up. we're getting 18-20 mpg in an F250. it's better for your engine, too, so you pay a lot less toward the mechanic's posh swimming pool in the long run. fact.

all that, without supporting the war and that monkey fucker of president's regime of profiteering off the American middle class. biodiesel's made from soybean and canola; the stuff supports our domestic farms and the farmers we grew up with, something we at the Beatdown are wholehearted believers in. we like our fellow countrymen.

in the following article, close friend of the Beatdown and Kanektok vet, the illustrious Rob Elam, tears into Ford for voiding the warranties on Powerstroke diesels, calling Ford's tactics illegal, opeing the dialogue for a win should it ever be challenged int he courts and all told, pretty much bitch slapping the Ford Spokespuss for not doing his homework.

-the beatdown, off the biodiesel soapbox for now.

dig what happens when smart people argue with the dumb ones:

http://seattleweekly.com/2007-10-17/news/when-it-comes-to-biodiesel-how-pure-is-too-pure.php

interpretive dance is ghey.

performance art, slightly less so. maybe.

see, if you laid me out on my back during lunch hour in Pioneer Square right now and told me a halfway decently offensive joke, i'd bubble at least 59084365 gallons of snot outta my nose. straight outta the two snotpipes. 10 feet in the air. like a fountain.

a human snot fountain tribute to the rain coming back.

fuck, fellas, we're sick as a cat lover and the weekend's only two days away.

Five words for a rainy day in Portland:

Trader Joe's Minestrone Soup. Hot.

Things I'm pretty sure of, post fourteen

i'm pretty sure it's absolutely fucking hilarious that the Northern California Festival of Fly Fishing's keynote speaker is Bob Clouser.

not to take anything away from that smallmouth magnet; he's a great fisherman, great guy, and damn innovative tyer, but you'd think the Festival's limp-wristed tweedhumpers woulda wanted a guy who tied an actual fly, not a repurposed bucktail jig.

just sayin'.

The SoulRoller Gravel Roadside Dryfly Festival, recap.

i know, jockies of the stout graphites, much time has passed since our crew of 7 homeless retards graced camp on that gotdam perfect skater river in Northern California. Or Central Washington. Or West Who-da-ho? Or maybe BC but prolly Southeast Alaska. matters not.

for my lack of tall-tales, well, i don't know what. been busy waxing snowboards, hanging out on the river and scratchin' the World's Laziest Steelheadin Dog behind the ears. you know how it is.



guess the beauty of this one, as with any proper steelhead trip came down to three badass factors:

1. there were seven damn good sticks in camp, all of which were close friends of the Beatdown, yet many of whom had never met or fished together. seeing these dudes meld like old friends was refreshing compared to a few camps we've been in where most everyone acted like they were hot shit while we just shat the hell up and nippled up to the whisky bottle. these fuckers ARE hot shit, so they needn't act the part, and i feel lucky that i got to share a river with 'em all. you dudes reek. sometimes, of soul.

2. we had all agreed prior, pretty much without words, to fish with nothin' but conviction: dry fucking flies skating and waking proper.

3. we hadn't had a good steelhead camp since last winter and that's just not fucking plausible, nor should it be excused.

like i said, good sticks, who'd never met. gonna be a pretty damn good chance to do some real research, let the river dictate her mood and see how bitchy she was gonna be this time.



this is the way all good steelhead rivers go. they're like hot chicks sitting alone at the back of the tavern; gorgeous and you're a man who's not afraid to try and get you some, but often they'll let you buy 'em a few drinks, let you think you're gonna get 'em nekkid and then slide out the door with your wallet while you're in the bathroom pissing.

friday at noon saw me picking the 17th Allman Brother and his hair up at PDX Int'nl and rolling soul towards camp. Various phone calls en route let us know the posse had been mobilzed, en masse. the mojo was building.

we got there with enough light to secure a prime camp, then the 17th and i headed up to see if we couldn't pop his trip's cherry. only got in a few pieces before nightfall, but i did get to watch from a high bank and see a fish ghost a hitched purple muddler and then go down. spirits, both metaphysical and alcohol-related, were high.

#17 was rolling proper loops and grooving large on his defiant return to this river, which he hadn't waded into in some 14 years. been too long, friend:



nightfall on friday eve made for a quick parking lot rendezvous, then the processional to camp. super ruled. within 10 minutes, stoves and grill were up, fire lit thanks to the Cap'n wicked power saw skills, coolers out, sleeping bags rolled out in the trucks, smoked salmon and steelhead were shared, Double R busted out fresh salmon cavier and gin and tonics to anyone in need, and we all started hitting the whisky. bullshit got loud, as did the laughter. as it should forever always be.

felt genuinely lucky to look around a hot fire and see all the normal diabolicals of my steelheading year in one spot: Dirty Tina, The Cap'n, T-Mos, Ed, IllWill, Double R and the #17. the amount of knowledge, soul, raw mojo nut grease and buzz around the fire was badass. stories, flies and theory were shared equally. as it's supposed to be among like-minded, confirmed big-fish junkies.

#17, ducking alders and threading the needle over the bucket in the Jedi grease from the tough side:



the next few mornings arrived far too early, but we were all up with bright eyes, full of hope and never enough caffiene. seemed like camp was broken in seven minutes each morning, trucks roaring up and down to locales unknown. it went on like this for days, and i actually remember rolling alone one afternoon and could barely keep my eyes open. we'd been at it for 14 hours a day, many days in a row and truth be told, we were all feeling the squeeze of a trip gone fishless.

there was gear attrition, too, something we're not all that used to. me, MysticL and the #17 were doing the pocketwater shuffle on the day two, skating flies in an out of little forgotten corners, etc. and as i lifted into a snakeroll (pretty damn gently, i might add, as it's a shooting head cast i find little use for) and went into the forward stroke, my sweet little 8110 folded in two. just snapped. with about 380 grains on the head. #17 was as shocked as i. i don't cast fast. truth be told, i'm lazy as all hell. i roll it sloooooooooow.

ran back to the truck and grabbed up a 6126 and a new used salmon I i acquired about two months back. this reel, it's a funny one. i started fishing it about 15 trips ago and since touching the thing, me and the brown dog have gone from a few fish a night to one pull. one effing pulll. this trip was no exception. with the 8110 and a little 509, we were getting those steelhead up to the fly, but as soon as we switched to salmon I, nada. fished another rod with 3500D and hooked a fish on the third cast.

it's like the salmon I is cursed, no doubt the reason a friend unloaded it. scrambling up and down the scree en route to the next pool, not 30 minutes after i snapped a rod, a boulder gave way, as did i, and fell with all my weight landing right on the gotdam spool. one hours of fishing. a busted rod and a hardy so badly dented it wouldn't turn. i shoulda tied two cats' tails together and chiucked them off a bridge on the way in, then drank puppy blood while stabbing an indicator fisherman in the fuck or somethin. anything to excise this demon.

all of this naturally led to the cramp. that feeling when you need to get a wet hand on that one symbiotic fish that'd make it all worth it. and that's sorta bullshit, really, but it i believe it does exist in each of us.

the cap'n likes to say, "the fish are a bonus." and to some extent, that's true. but hope, she's a real bitch sometimes.

now, bear in mind, this is a crew of badass winter steelheaders who know their way around a deep sunk fly and an insanely heavy sinktip program, and thus, know how to get it done when the chips are down. tough fishing is an accepted reality for our winters, so when we're on a summer river with aggressive steelhead and the chance to raise fish in the purest of manners presents itself, you saddle up, hitch the fly and hold out hope.

like i said, hope's a fuckin' bitch.

as is dictating to the river how you want a fish to come to the fly. but that's conviction.

well, four days in and our stalwart dedication to a skated fly wasn't really paying off, yet everyone in camp was getting them up enough times in a day to believe the next would pin itself. again, we've got hope. they'd boil. roll. head to tail rising. some would toilet bowl flush the fuckin dry flies and we'd drop our rods back proper, but only one of ed's had stuck and that one was too crafty with her jumping to tail. all told, seven good sticks were getting the collective Beatdown.

perfect, man, it was a perfect display of dedication and soul. none of us are purists, but we do like us some tradition once in awhile, i s'pose. as we've said before, purists sleep with their taints clenched and avoid women. these dudes hit skins.

the caveat: when you get a camp of seven good sticks together and start getting a collective kick to your figs, someone's gonna go all loco haywire. we all were thinking the same and some mighta fished a run with a tip to see (i did, and got a huge grab the third cast that didn't pin 'cause my Bad Hair Day was wrapped) then went back to floating lines, but one dude broke the code and sunk his fly for a day and a half. that dude got paid and laid to the tune of four steelhead tailed. that fucker.

see, unbenounced to us IllWill had enough of these tentative rises and after 5 trips on this river this summer alone that netted prolly 6 or 8 fish to a dry that didn't stick, the river cracked him and he went maggoty. balls-out, crittery, full-on maggoty. none of us could blame him, though he's still a maggot for doing it. proof that when they're whispering on your skater, they want a deep sunk fly in the mouth:







in camp the final night, we were polishing off what was left of the whisky and beer and got around to quantifying the immensity of the asskicking this beautiful river was doling out. now, the Beatdown Crew's not and never will be ones to count fish for the sheer basis of ego, but none of us could deny the amount of fish our camp brought to the fly in pretty damn tough conditions was commendable, given the springers were spawning (and that whacks the steelhead out some), the water temps were less then optimal for dryfly fishing and pressure was moderate.

MysticL, the action man with the action plan and the dude still rolls worldy soul without a point on his hook:



the tally, best we could tally with a three whisky buzz going and not much in the way of food was 32 fish to the fly, 26 of which came to skated dries. four landed on a sinktip with two more unbuttoned. and those were the takes we did see. not bad for four and a half days on a river none of us fish much, gents.

the last morning, camp had dwindled to three gypsies left, and as me, #17 and IllWill made our way outta the valley, #17 s turned to us with a big-ass shit eating grin and said the obvious:

"Well, we fished it best we could, fuckers, and that motherfucker wasn't nothing nice to us neither."

damn right D. as this game should be. this isn't limp-wristed trout fishing. this isn't donkeypuncher, Dirty Sanchez indicator nymphing and precious metal doesn't come to the surface easy.

yet still, this is collective respect for the elusive, badass fish that fuel, shape, and keep our gnarly-ass, fucked up little subculture knitted so tightly together. and above all, that's what'll keep us coming back to a camp of good dudes, good food, and good mojo.

same time, same camp next year, fools. bet.

somethin in the works

and it reeks of collective conspiracy.

we been lax on the postings and some, pretty much 'cause we been getting us in some scatterbrain-when-we-can fishing and then hunting for the last of the late season chantrelles. fools, all that fresh air's just got us beat tired and wood-tick happy.

apologies for the lack of indicator and tweed trout pussy smacktalk but as always know: me and the boys are still laughing at you and your little limp-wrists.

in better news, there's something very sinister, somewhat diabolical and all told, pretty crittery in the works. more on that in the coming month, but you humps might like it. should be a fun way to write through the long winter Beatdown.

waiting for winter steelhead and our regularly scheduled wednesday/thursday night snowboarding to begin,

the handsome fuckers at the Beatdown.

Damn fine rod for sale (for a single hander)

the esteemed Cap'n has regretfully announced a parting with the San Francisco Winston he's been hiding away to foot the bill for a certain "extended" stay on a faraway river. just how it goes with the Beatdown Faction. you sacrifice for the glory.

we gotta say, while we've no huge love for a single hander (or cane, for that matter), we got to cast this one and it was gotdam sweet. better than a lot of other junk-ass bamboo that passes for a high dollar rod these days.

i repeat, we got to cast it once.

once.

from there, back in the rod sock. bastard really babied this one. truth is, he's only fished it six times since he had it refinished. thought we'd put it up here first in the case that any of you nutjobs want a rod this killer.

in his words:

None like it. Built in SF by Merrick I believe. Might be older than that. Upgraded by Glen Brackett in ‘97. Glen replaced the original bakolite (soybean plastic) reel seat with a beautiful down locking modern hardwood one, replaced the old grip with new cork and sanded it into a nice full Wells, rewrapped and finished the entire rod. I've fished it maybe 6 times since. It's perfect... These are $2500 new. I don’t believe there’s another one out there like it.

8’6” casts an 8 weight perfectly. Wonderful action. Great summer steelhead dryline skater rod.

think he's looking for around $1800 for the whole deal, about $700 less than their true value (best he could find). anyone interested, email the beatdown at the address in the right column and i'll put you in touch with my peoples.

cap'n, you owe six Rainier Talls for brokering said deal. and you gotta drnk them with me. on the tailgate. on a certain winter river.

dig the thing:

things I'm pretty sure of, post thirteen

i'm pretty sure the 16+ lb. wild doe Kerry Burkheimer just called to report landing on a skater last night is the biggest, baddest assed dry fly fish i know of tailed in the West Cascades this year.

gotdam Kerry: you're a gotdam fishy mofo. no one rolls the mojo like the Burkie. fact.

Soul was rolled.

The Diabolical 17th Allman Brother hucking proper enough in this greazy tailout to make me use capital letters:



our maggoty camp of seven have returned from the Soulroller Gravel Roadside Skater Festival and we are tired. just tired. many fish were risen to dry flies, but well, um, more about that later.



(above photo of camp courtesy of the Cap'n.)




You're looking dead in the hairy eyeball at the impressive amount of capilene fuzz i winched outta my belly button after five days without a shower. that's like the size of a quarter and a badass amount of funk, humps.

again, more soon.