Voluntary Beatdown

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

2008-01-08T21:22:00.002-08:00

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:

2008-01-07T13:31:00.000-08:00

"...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

2008-01-06T20:15:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-01-03T09:59:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-01-02T09:29:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-12-25T21:40:00.000-08:00

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

2007-12-10T08:39:00.000-08:00

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

2007-12-06T20:11:00.000-08:00

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

2007-12-02T08:56:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-28T18:51:00.000-08:00

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:

2007-11-19T07:53:00.001-08:00

= +/- 7,000 words:

And so it begins.

2007-11-15T12:41:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-11-12T12:54:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-09T20:13:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-11-07T12:52:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-11-07T08:30:00.000-08:00

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:

2007-11-05T12:06:00.000-08:00

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:

2007-11-05T11:24:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-10-31T22:38:00.001-07:00

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'.

2007-10-31T12:20:00.000-07:00

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)

2007-10-30T13:00:00.000-07:00

'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

2007-10-25T22:47:00.000-07:00

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:

2007-10-25T18:18:00.000-07:00

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.

2007-10-25T09:28:00.000-07:00

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!!!

2007-10-18T09:01:00.000-07:00

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.

2007-10-18T08:55:00.001-07:00

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:

2007-10-17T12:30:00.001-07:00

Trader Joe's Minestrone Soup. Hot.

Things I'm pretty sure of, post fourteen

2007-10-16T11:43:00.000-07:00

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.

2007-10-15T16:21:00.001-07:00

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

2007-10-15T11:23:00.000-07:00

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)

2007-10-11T14:55:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-11T10:49:00.001-07:00

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.

2007-10-10T10:08:00.001-07:00

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.

things I'm pretty sure of, post twelve

2007-10-04T12:05:00.000-07:00

i'm pretty sure five days of the XXlocationundisclosedXX SoulRoller Gravel Roadside Festival kicks off in 23 hours and 55 minutes.

hang the tarps, light the fire and make open-ended promises of return to the womenfolk, 'cause this one's been a long time coming for us all.

got Elk Tortellini soup loaded, DBT searing on the Philco, an asspocket of whisky, a few Poptober Caddis protoypes and the temporary freedom of steelhead camp's about break the fuck loose.

as it should be.

groundswat, center middle.

2007-10-03T23:29:00.001-07:00

pretty sure Green, Alternative is shaping up to be the first hardcore, super badass honest, way north minnesota grouse hunter recount anyone's ever written and it's refreshing to see a fella who loves him some meat hunting, some fishing and some solid sustainable livin'.

having fished with this fool a time or seven, i can also say the stain's positively stanky with fish, too. handed me my ass a time or six. then again, that's par for the course with all you Two Harbors Christensen brother hockey fuckers. i'd beat your asses outta sheer jealousy if you weren't three times as big as me.

gotdam, k, you make a fella miss fall in the Hinterlands.

dig on the elder at:http://greenalt.blogspot.com/

New Airflo Compact Skagits are laser boss.

2007-10-02T12:59:00.001-07:00

while we've never been shy about giving props to gear that actually works, we gotta say, after being privy to the prototype lines for about 6 months now and fishing them from Oregon to west Alaska, these fuckers absolutely rip shit up. rockets, they are.

they will make you handsome, bet.

we have it on good word they're finally commercially available, and their tapers (yes! actual tapers in a skagit head!) are ultra-killer on rods from 11' to 13'6". we've yet to put them through their paces on sticks shorter and longer (pretty much, cause we don't own anything shorter or longer). they're the sunkline answer for these switch rods everyone's talking about.

we dig the 450 on our 8110 Z-axis much, the 630 on our old 8136 and burkie 8139.

what we groove on is the efficiency of the casting stroke. your hands really don't gotta leave your sides and it takes so little effort to jack a tip and a huge fly further than necessary, it's just buttery good goodness and you get to spend your day steering around a shooting head instead of trying to figure out how the hell to get that head out there.

what's more, we fish coastal Jedi water A LOT and we can have our assholes tickling the alders with nary a need for a big D-loop with these lines. best said, these are super sweet for the closest quarter arena rock and roll. they get shit done, efficiently. pretty damn fun on big, open water for giant casts too, though it helps if you open your stroke and leave about 2-3' of shooting line hangover out of your rod tip. takes some getting used to, but you've got it in you, soulroller.

lines shouldn't need cutting, 'cause they're pretty short and blow away the 3 to 3.5 times the rod length theory. things even come in 30 grain increments so anal bastards like the VBD crew can microneedle our grain loads and get things perfect. damn fine idea, these lines, timmy and dirty T.

rumor has it, Jeff Hickstain actually liked the prototype heads so much, he waited until i left Alaska West, then risked life, limb and a 16 foot jet sled dragging an anchor through the S-Turn root wad on which i lost a head, grabbed the line and ran his covetous ass back to the weatherport, laughing like the little schoolgirl he is.

Note, Tim: you shoulda called them Skagitos, tho. skagit + poquito. like, little skagits. everyone, do the VBD a favor and just call them Skagitos anyway, huh? that oughta tweak Rajeff's nipples a little.

10 models are available and the heavier the line the longer they get, the color is flourescent deep lime green, same color as Miracle Braid, so you can actually see and track your head as it rocks that little J through the swing. the rear loop is blackened (metallica! fuck yeah!) so you can see where the head ends and running line begins. so boss:

420 grains- 23' total length
450- 23'
480-24'
510-24'
540-25'
570-25'
600-26'
630-26'
660-27'
720-27'

SW WA, yesterday

2007-09-30T10:32:00.001-07:00

me and the Ed floated for 12 hours yesterday, and you bet your sorry ass 7 or 8 rivermiles made for some sweet rock shampoo death. truth be told, the depths i had to go to get me a fish weren't pretty.

ed stayed pure. sorta. long story there that took him about a half mile downriver in a dead sprint and a fish that exited three pools. the heavy breathing reminded us both that we're no longer sprinters.

props to ed for the photographic evidence...

ed's first silver (of the year):

leather boot:

gear:

(yeah, yeah, yeah, magggoty as all hell and we hadn't fished a jig in about 9 months, but after the heavy beatdown of recent days, you do what you gotta do to scratch one out on these crusty summers. besides, it was only employed in one really fishy run after both ed and i went through with swung flies and we've made it clear the Beatdown faction are foremostedly dudes who love us some anadramous fishing with a very strong bias toward the swung fly [and being ultra-handsome], we're NOT and never to be-called flyfishermen 'cause they're more akin to trout pansies who need an identity covered in tweed, so go fuck on your purist self and roll your 20-sided dungeon and dragons dice alone...)

anyway, this rare shot of a hatchery fish still alive is for you, EZ, cause i know the nightmare black and red's what you'da gone to, too:

the hearse:

stuff i'm pretty sure trout flyfishermen masterwhack about. i dunno about all that bait stuff, but any river critter's pretty cool:

steelheader chicks whup ass. bet.

2007-09-28T14:44:00.000-07:00

ok 'tards, badass steelheader chicks are out there and you humps best keep your shit tight and loops tighter, 'cause this one can huck line and fish a slow J proper, and you never know when these sorta ladies might be around laughing at your poor line control and geek-ass premature hooksetting.

The illustrious Kat-O, hoisting a fine Dean fish less than 20 minutes after she got her ass into camp. Word has it, she destroyed that week—no small feat considering her Pop's and his Raz Suit were also there and he's among the fishiest dudes we've ever run across. must run in the family or somethin.

sweet fish, Kat-O. dammit if this doesn't turn the VBD green with envies and what nots. even green than that Dean water.

so Dirty T says last night:

2007-09-28T09:08:00.000-07:00

the Dirty T-nis calls and thanks me for the organic pork sausage i left him last weekend while fishing out Gorge way and i get to asking him why he's so stoked about some gotdamn ground pork.

asking was apparently a bad idea:

"Dude, that stuff's super good for a quick breakfast and I been eating it all week. say, J-Dog, you know when you take a shit and you look at the turd and you can see where one meal ends and the other begins?..."

sweet christ T. i had no idea you had that level of offensiveness in you.

on another shitty note, we been doing exactly 0 fishing in the evenings as of late, given the sun goes away now around 7:04 p.m. starting to get into that shit-ass nexus of no super great afterwork fishing until December.

me and the ed, floating tomorrow in SW WA. next weekend marks the 17th Allman Brother's arrival and ushers in the beginnings of the SoulRoller Gravel Roadside Festival. locale; undisclosed. see you humps there. and don't forget the fuckin whisky.

red gold

2007-09-24T12:07:00.000-07:00

applause, respects and admiration for FeltSoul doing the Red Gold project, a film that manages to find the crossroads of art, commerce and common-sense conservation, educating a portion of the angling and non-angling public on the abject greed and unquestionably poor judgement of Northern Dynasty mining's desire to mine the Bristol Bay rivers headwaters for temporary profit.

corporations like Northern Dynasty who believe speculation is a viable choice, in such a culturally important, sustainably managed region, in this day and age, are simply and embarrassingly, a modern dinosaur. the VBD defies you to prove the benefits outweigh the risk.

Said proposed mine threatens the Mulchatna/ Nushagak River drainage and the Newhalen / Kvichak River drainage, two giant systems that dump into Bristol Bay. it's quite possibly the most current widescale example of resource extraction's selfishness and commitment to profiteering on a commonwealth resource by preying on the emotions and sentiment of native peoples. in fact, the argurments for and against exactly parallel those of Wisconsin's Crandon Mine controversy at the Wolf River's headwaters in the mid-1990's.

the Beatdown considers ourselves damn lucky to be living in a time when young bucks like FeltSoul are stepping the fuck up with targeted social art, wisely backed by the fishing industry and with a smart eye on the interest of the general public. what they've done is important. damn important.

as we've said before, this is the new environmentalism and it's not just another excuse to listen to the Dead, date chicks with hairy armpits and live in trees. above all, it balances conservation with new media and sound, sustainable business practice. best part is, this groundswell for a smarter understanding of big business' effects is not going away. it's the true, pro-American way as corporations try and take away our children's permanent futures by putting the temporary greed of shareholder value before the greater societal good. in a time of corporate PR smear campaigns and fearmongering, independent education and action is an extremely difficult commitment, something worth defending and all told, that doesn't seem so fucking patchouli hippie after all.

the new environmentalism is DIY punk rock:

getting inside the private system, studying it, seeing the biases for what they really are and being smart enough to know when to pull out your Krylon cans and paint it for what it really is.

bravo to the FeltSoul fellas, you fools get first pass in any steelhead run i'm on (provided you're not fishing titbaby indicators). in a time when they could have gotten some industry cash to make another stupid fucking promotion of their guide service, they went to AK, asked some tough, smart, obvious questions, put it out there on film for the viewer to judge and did their part.

these two should be regarded as heroes in the most American sense of the word. they damn sure are around the Beatdown HQ.

see the trailer here, peoples. dwell. discuss. defend:

http://www.feltsoulmedia.com/RedGold_Trailer.mov

bad choices.

2007-09-24T10:45:00.000-07:00

me and the dirty T headed deep into the gorge one day this weekend and got our asses handed back to our asses. i, fishing dry flies and the T following with a large deep sunk abomination. at least we got sufficiently drunk to ease the pain and then watched lani waller videos until neither of us could see. "steelie!"

i'm in the midst of a pretty extensive ass kicking as of late. starting to grind on us big, humps. thought it was gonna come around last week, but nope. never happened.

ed, on the other hand, opted for a SW WA river and kicked the absolute fuck outta them. like, a three times over miss october sorta ass kicking.

ed, clearly the wiser, made a far better decision. fuck guy. save a few for the rest of us, eh?:

Intruder in the Big Bend Pool!

2007-09-21T11:44:00.001-07:00

beatdown correspondent BEK got this amazing shot of a fawn waking itself through the Big Bend Pool while chillin' with the MysticL at the Airstream Stonghold last week. badfuckingass, if we do say so ourselves. check out the scattering steelhead. i wonder if MysticL observed them rising to the fawn...

and on a related note, a happy brithday to MysticL's pup Sis, who just turned 17. great friggin dog, she is.

see you soon, MysticL and Sis...

things I'm pretty sure of, post eleven

2007-09-20T23:10:00.000-07:00

i'm pretty sure this fool-ass thing's about to be renamed voluntary ok, or voluntary C +. maybe voluntary satisfactory and if shit really was as bad as the beatdown's been as of late, voluntary squawfish.

'cause that's where we're at. we landed exacly two squawfish on a swung fly last night and while we tried to tell ourselves it was was fine and good to bring a native Northwestern species to hand, we pretty much couldn't escape the glaring reality that weren't fishing for squawfish, dammit.

ug. i told huckmama i was done fishing for the year until i get the itchy boner feeling that there's winters in the local and they wanna shake my hand.

i am 12.6% sure i will stick to this mandate.

As if the Baby Boomers' culture of laziness and general malaise haven't fucked this fine nation up enough:

2007-09-20T09:42:00.000-07:00

The Forest Service is actually considering closing down or potentially worse yet, farming out the maintainence of smaller campgrounds to concessionaires (nintendo and candy and Geritol and Wal-Mart in the woods for all!) and focusing its services on "boutique" campgrounds with, no shit: "yurts, showers, RV hookups -- who knows, maybe even Wi-Fi someday -- to better compete with other attractions of a high-tech age."

compete? since when does a commonwealth resource need to be run by the rules of business? in fact, don't we go to the wilds to escape these pillars of capitalism and simplify the fuck out?

a reminder: this is the gotdamn Forest Service. this is not the State Park system.

money quote "Although some campers may prefer few frills, officials suspect primitive facilities may be less attractive to electronically connected teenagers and baby boomers who prefer the comfort of RVs."

what really tightens up our figsack is the fact that it's yet another obvious example of the baby boomer generation's obsession with abject laziness, path-of-least-resistance parenting, Me, Me, Me-centric horseshit and absolutely no thought to the legacy they're leaving the demon spawn fellas my age might eventually produce. what will future generations see and feel when they're marched into the woods only to find a parking lot full of suburbia on wheels, generators gulping middle-class death, powering the very elements and machines and intrusions we come to the woods hoping to elude?

fuck the baby boomers. yep, i said it. your utopian patchouli Woodstock 60's are now a Botox Plastic 2007 that reeks of fossil fuel, waistband excess and apatheic deceit. you must quietly hate who you've become.

camping is not and does not and should not be akin to howard fucking johnson's: more generators in the wilds of Mt. Hood! more stuff into which we can pour our beloved, unlimited supply of gas! leafblower scattergun i-ain't-changing-for-no-one.

guess the Forest "Service"'s answer to the litter, generator hum rampant partying and the boomers' turning their backs on true forest problems is, um, more RV's full of head-in-the-dirt baby boomers. aligning with a generation that's proven itself to be among the most apathetic yet will prove itself, ultimately, to be a huge, embarrasing mistake.

"hey, it's good for the economy."
.
this, instead of trash facilities, increased law/game enforcement, forest education and wilderness protections. fucking brilliant.

full Boregonian article here: http://www.oregonlive.com/news/oregonian/index.ssf?/base/news/1190258728155510.xml&coll=7

SW WA, last night

2007-09-18T09:14:00.000-07:00

fools: the beatdown's been lax on the anger and triumph as of late, and it's not because we've been outta the river loop. quite to the contrary, in fact. we been on the river most every other night, rolling solo with the brown dog, and with Double R, the Ed and IllWill.

none of which have been all too productive in the harvest department. this is unfortunate.

we do believe there's something to be said for those silvers pushing the steelhead outta prime lies. same goes for the spring chinook. shit always gets weird for a week or two, then settles back in and the fishin gets normal again. we've never been able to figure out how to combat this. gotta be a wayaround it, just gonna take some thinking is all. s'pose we could head upriver some, above where the hatchery silvers take a right turn, but for some reason we don't like fishing up that way. fish in a barrell, maybe. don't know why, 'cause we've got spots up there we know for a fact are holding 50+ steelhead right now, but we always seem to pick around on the lower river. think we've convinced ourselves the fish are fresher and i'm pretty sure i'm holding out for the first winter steelhead of the year. got a 14 lb wild girl three november 12ths ago and it positively made my month.

no fish to hand last night, but it was encouraging to hear a willin' one light up a new used salmon I we were recently bequeathed. old boot gave me two out going turns of the reel and being that i don't wait in these old summers, i jacked the rod low and to the side only to feel the telltale headshake and then nothing. had another whisper in the tailout, as well. damn good sign things are coming back to normal. double R said when he came through the same run about a half hour after, he had a fish light him up briefly in the same spot. a third pass yielded nothing. must've been the same fish, but you never can tell.

man, we can't wait until the winter chromers show, the summer run fishermen to go into hibernation and it gets positively lonely out there in the rain. prolly a fisherman's antisocial tendencies and all, but there's something to be said for a lonely winter beadown that we dig supreme.

poignant, eh?

2007-09-17T14:34:00.001-07:00

PDX premier:

2007-09-17T10:53:00.001-07:00

this just in from the good peoples at eNRG Kayaking...:

** Premiere of new film! **

Catch the Portland premiere of American Whitewater's new short film about the Sandy
River! Hear why the removal of Marmot Dam is important for the river,
the community, and the region as a whole. Get the latest on other dam
removal efforts. And, have the chance to win great raffle prizes!

Date: Thurs, Sept 20

Time: Join us for drinks at 6:30 pm, Program starts at 7:00 pm

Where: Lucky Lab (1945 NW Quimby, Portland, OR 97209)

Who: American Rivers and American Whitewater

Questions? Contact Amy Kober, American Rivers, 206-213-0330 x23 or Tom
O'Keefe, American Whitewater, 425-417-9012

Better than old boot summers...

2007-09-17T08:50:00.001-07:00

no fishin for us this weekend, 'cause we and our crew of bandits were up around 3500 feet, crawling around for the better part of 5 miles and uncovering shit.

81 chanties, yesterday alone. gonna be a good week of eatin round the Beatdown HQ.

just sayin'.

2007-09-14T09:55:00.000-07:00

no pulls in 5 evenings. the beatdown isn't supposed to start this early in the year, and on cruddy summer runs, no less. it's enought to make a guy drive two hours east just to prove to himself that black and purple still works. when you start doubting that, you know you're getting the beatdown mindfuck, meng. it's brutal.

pretty fucking obvious the silvers showing up affects the steelhead bite. ever since those damn salmon came 'round: nothing. nada. zip. boilers everywhere, no takers. it's like they push the steelhead off their holding lies or something.

or maybe huckmama held a seance and excised the mojo outta that lucky AK West hat i thought she burned. ever since we got it back, we've been eating the dick sandwich out there. like i said, it's enough to make a fella question everything from fly colors to locations to whether their lucky hat's been sapped of it's A- #1 fishiness.

it's time to buckle the fuck down, fellas. i needs me a grab.

this is unbelievably radical.

2007-09-13T21:22:00.001-07:00

i honestly hope every single fool who's foolish enough to come to this website spends two minutes watching how way laser radical American Whitewater's time-lapse video of the sandy river's marmot dam being removed is and then instead of dwelling on obvious bad shit wrong with our rivers, sit and think of how insanely cool it is that we're living in an era of river reclaimation.

there have been three dam removals on oregon rivers in 2007. you have to respect, fiercely love and admire that.

this is your Beatdown ray of rosey fucking sunshine for today:

http://www.marmotdam.com/video6_files/tl_teardown_video.html

hmmmm.

2007-09-13T12:59:00.000-07:00

goddamn, we've got a VBD army out there and didn't even know it.

a dude, calls himself "The Ringleader" apparently reads this fool stupid website and sleuthed out some very interesting shit. sent me an email last night and laid out the evidence. thanks a ton Mr. Ringleader or whoever you are for keeping shit on the up and up.

so, it goes:

the fly in the middle is called the Buck Rogers, a pattern we and at least 45 other nerds "invented" about 5 years ago when it seemed like everyone was playing with foam skaters.

the fly above is called the Spey Skater PFD, a fly now being sold as "the ultimate steelhead skater," by folks of questionable repute out east of here. ultimate, huh? well, we and the 45 other nerds sincerely thank you for the compliment but, having fished this thing on and off for the past five years now, we can honestly say it's really not that great of a fly. fact is, a moose turd's way better.

now, the simple fact that these people were pretty much five years behind the ball and sorta claimed an established pattern as their own by renaming it isn't what we find interesting. we're leaders, prophets and visionaries here at the Beatdown, it's just what happens when you're super awesome, really handsome, double jointed and know karate. lesser talents try to jack your shit and make it their own. as the old adage goes, we're flattered, really. this does not bother us.

what gets us is this:

when some fly shop guy who lacks the soul they used to have takes a fly that's been around for half a decade and passes it off as their own by giving it such a ghey-ass name.

Buck Rogers, now that shit's a tight concept. we're pretty sure it's so tight, it needs KY.

The Spey Skater PFD, that's like, so ghey it needs KY. people: work harder.

holy overcast.

2007-09-13T12:14:00.000-07:00

dammit if it isn't fishy as hell out there today.

fat chicks of the Northwest, it's your lucky day!

2007-09-12T13:13:00.000-07:00

we have it on good word the AK West boys have returned to the lower 48 and this means there's gonna be an influx of Alaskan guides from there and other camps out looking for Northwest poonanny.

gjod help the womenfolks.

were i a single chick who values her chastity, i'd avoid any bar in Southeast Portland or West Seattle for at least a week. these dudes have flush wallets, new haircuts and they've not seen much in the way of a lady for four months. no opportunity will be overlooked and some big girls are gonna get tagged, for sure.

Lock up your ladies, fools. these are serious creasehunters we're talking about..

ug.

2007-09-12T12:49:00.001-07:00

sick of this heat, sick of this sun, sick of no rain and getting marginally half-sick of these summer runs. would late summer and fall just get over it and be done already?

jesus, humps, we woke up with a raging hard-on for winter steelhead season two days ago and i'm afraid we're looking at a sustained boner of over three months before we get to let our load go.

dammit, i can't wait till the first girls of winter come 'round again.

The Bad Hair Day

2007-09-11T10:00:00.000-07:00

the 17th Allman Brother D-Pin's onto somethin here, mega. fished these 100% synthetic, craft fur and angelhair critters for smallmouth back in North Wisconsin this summer and they had a fat profile, tons of movement and a lotta transulcency. easy to cast, shitpile of hot slut shimmyshake that made the big girls want it in the mouth. we love us some of that action.

been tying them on Frodin tubes with setback stingers and getting fish on 'em out here in purples, reds, blacks, etc., but the 17th Allman Brother, he ties 'em even better. diggit above and below for proof.

D-Pin calls the thing the Bad Hair Day, but i still say he shoulda called it Frehley's Comet, 'cause the gray and silver ones we were fishing (in the upper right above) look like Ace's head after a night of axe-handling and getting tons of BJ's from fine groupie chicks like your sister.

dammit, i'd love to huck this fucker on a shooting head at some hot tidewater salmon. perhaps this is in order :

Finishing Lox

2007-09-11T09:52:00.001-07:00

fact: that sweet girl of yours will groove even heavier on that gravadlax you're slaving over if you run it through the smoker. just 10 minutes, right after it comes outta the brine. gives it that light woody flavor and i know for a fact she used to love her some wood. least, back in the day she did. just sayin.

been rolling the anklebone jedi program abunch lately, hiking into the wayback to shake those two little middle-aged FUCKWADS that seem to be following me and the dog around (what the fuck kinda losers are you two? and why the hell were you making out with each other under that fir tree last night? glad i didn't happen to see the reacharound Cleveland Steamer action, 'cause i know it was next...), seeing about some low water spots to plan further deathtember attacks, but i'm not gonna lie: i been getting my ass handed to me in the last three trips. nary a pull from the steelhead we'd been kicking the shit outta, silvers rolling everywhere. wonder if that's got something to do with it. lotta casting, precious little else. we're starting to get downright ornery. or ONry, as they say in North Oregon.

Things I'm pretty sure of, post ten

2007-09-08T12:57:00.000-07:00

i'm pretty sure if you wore a pro-choice t-shirt to any street fair in Portland, you could get laid by at least 243 chicks.

fall.

2007-09-08T10:20:00.000-07:00

just for a look around, me and the bacon drove the local last night for the first time in many, and like it always goes; clockwork and all, Jets to Brazil's Autumn Walker came across the iPod and dammit if i couldn't resist stopping at that old country store, buying a 24 ouncer of Hamms and hanging out on the tailgate watching leaves fall over the low water.

apparently, i get downright sentimental about winter season's onset. a fucking titbaby, i was.

hot shits! it's deathtember.

2007-09-06T21:42:00.000-07:00

yeah, yeah, yeah, i know it's not the prettiest of the exalted species, but it's a hatchery fish that cut well and you know we feel a giant responsibility to slice and dice the hatchery fish...

dammit if and there isn't something sexy as all getouttasouthwestwashington about the ones who love it in the mouth. on the surface, no less.

little girl garwocked my shit tight and proper tonight. and anyone who says it can't be done on the surface somewhat consistently in the west cascades..., i'm pretty sure they just don't know the secret handshake or when to just commit to a technique and believe in it. see we're nothing special on a river and all and i been shaking hands plentylike. that's, as Dirty Tina would say, "more fucked up than a soup sandwich. "

i mean, look at that fish. that's a gross-ass, damn-near-darky-boot fish, yet it still had enough snot to wail a dryfly. we got no love for a hatchery puke, but you gotta repect that.

word is, the t-hole and jayj got on a stash somewhere and it's so good, they park in a gay trucker pickup spot parking lot to hide their rigs, then hitch with gay truckers to the river. yep, heard it's that good.

this is science, dammit. hard, fast science.

2007-09-06T11:30:00.000-07:00

Dirty Tina finally got off his ass and mailed the Beatdown HQ in some photographia of one of the many sweet little labor daze chromers from our scientific analysis in the Idahoan Jetpack lab.

little girl, but dammit she's a mirror. we caressed this one only briefly, and yes, we had to smear the fly until further quantitative study and evaluation's been completed. a round table summit is in order, gentlemen:

back at work.

2007-09-05T21:49:00.001-07:00

we got word of a freshet push up north columbia way, so me, the bacondog and double R went out and rolled soul on a choice SW WA rio this fine eve. never seem to get enough time with the double r. good fella, that one.

fished some water i hadn't been on in two years and it was good to see the sweet girl ain't changed too much. the fish were where the fish used to be, all good. even saw those motherfucker silvers rolling, so they've officially come home from finishing school. welcome back, kids.

r-squared beached and promptly put the rock shampoo on this here lil bright steelhead at the night's end, and us, well, we fucked one away in the shallows right at the start of the night. had it on for a good three runs and a few confirmed nuclear missle launches, but as it goes, she popped off right in front of us. such is the life.

stains, we're lucky here in the Northwest. real lucky. i used to go fish largemouth after school when we was a tyke. then river smallmouth, then muskies. loved it all. now, steelhead.

makes a man feel like George Jefferson or something. we moving the fuck on up, yo.

but seriously.

2007-09-05T11:50:00.000-07:00

you flyfisherwussies were once the counterculture, the weird ones,the rogues, pissin' in the public pools. at what point did you become spoon-fed, magazine-theory loving, hero/geriatric worshiping, little head nodder bitches fiercely intent on following someone else's rulebooks? do you fear someone might give you an F on your science fair project? are you afraid you might not fit in at the cool kids' lunch table? were you picked last for kickball?

Further proof that alleged gayness is good for the Northwest.

2007-09-05T10:31:00.001-07:00

who said alleged alternative sexual lifestyles and loving you some cock repeatedly slapped against your forehead can't bring about positive change for endangered species, wilderness areas and a sustainable quality of life in today's complex world?

an excerpt from today's Boregonian:

"In the Senate, (alleged Republican homosexual Senator Larry) Craig has been known as a legislative tactician who fought to increase timber harvests, limit fish protection and block several wilderness proposals.

"It will be a big loss," said Tim Wigley, who frequently represents timber clients as the head of the Washington, D.C., office of Pac/West Communications, a Wilsonville-based consulting firm. "I certainly hope that Senator Smith . . . will be stepping up and playing a larger role on the issues of forestry."

Environmentalists who have long tangled with Craig say they are not sure anyone will bring his clout and expertise to these issues.

"If I was the industry, I would be very nervous," said Steve Pedery of Oregon Wild. "He was one of the last of the unreformed timber guys."

Craig recently blocked an Idaho wilderness proposal pushed through the House by a fellow Idaho Republican, Rep. Mike Simpson. He also bottled up a bill to protect the headwaters of the Snake River in Wyoming.

Recently, Craig inserted language in an Interior Department bill that seeks to prevent a federal judge in Portland from requiring tougher salmon protection measures on the upper Snake River.

"Since Slade Gorton (of Washington) left the Senate six or seven years ago, Larry Craig has been the most consistent and most effective anti-salmon legislator in the Senate, and nobody else has even come close," said Pat Ford, executive director of the Save Our Wild Salmon Coalition."

ain't sleepin'.

2007-09-04T20:54:00.000-07:00

all i'm sayin is that me and T, we stumbled upon some crazy-ass, kill ralphie shit out east, but not the east you're thinking and we been rocking solid proper with an ass-flask of the no-fuckin'-ways.

took some minutes to come up for air, i guess. covert ninja recon in the big boat, big dog in tow. T manhandling the 150 merc like the man manhandles the ladies. deft. smooth. with conviction and no fear of the throttle.

huckmama, she came clean about the camo AK West hat, and seems it wasn't burned, just "resting". thing's been put back into circulation and dammit if it doesn't continually rock the mojo.

rolling out way east way, vulcan jedi mind-meld was what i gave the T. filled him in to the tune of six free Retarded Kids on the drive. the fucker knew it was coming, he'd been reading between my shielded lines. like i said, wax minds melding toward memory. T's the science behind this operation and it was all about labor daze in the jetpack lab.

T: "Exploratory technique through known buckets."

Us: "Asa Lama Lakem, My Brother."

partners in crimes was what we both needed. witnesses, conspirators. motherfuckers who could hold their tongues and their whiskeys.

s'pose i'd been playin with theories, relativities and so on and so forths etcetera squared. burning the history books backward with switch kickflipped varials over white gas flame. never seen steelhead rage a surface fly like this one. motherfuckers ain't nothin' nice neither.

the 17th Allman Brother, he'd be proud.

don't ask, don't tell. no time for love, doctor jones.

"today, JDog, some of the rules went away. pretty sure this means the whole game just fucking changed."

oh, fuck yeah it did T, 'cause i finally fished that river like i'd have skated it.

27.

2007-09-02T23:07:00.000-07:00

was the number of songs DBT played in Portland the night we was sittin' ourself on that wood bench just out front the mess tent of AK West. the one overlooking the back channel the socks would come up. kings, they'd be further out mostly. in the main channel, just left of where the sun would try and set. the diesel generator'd cut off just about 8, and camp would go quiet and real serene. least, for camp and all.

me and waylon and some dude from Colorado; wide-eyed. stupid fun. 10 years old and on summer break. beat up and tired, 'cause shit was getting good. drinking whiskey, talking shit. pretty cool, 'cause DBT sounds like the south and stuff. Me, Waylon, some dude from Colorado, the bugs, the surrealocity of it all, a gravelbar heaven gurgleburbling, a pile of whiskey and sleep eye, we sounded sorta like west AK did that night.

i think about that place every damn day.

this show woulda only been slightly less cool. damn.

Date: 2007-07-05
Venue: Wonder Ballroom
City: Portland
State/Country: OR
1. Bulldozers and Dirt
2. Where The Devil Don't Stay
3. Puttin' People On The Moon
4. One Of These Days
5. Heathens
6. Gravity's Gone
7. Daddy Needs A Drink
8. Checkout Time In Vegas
9. Goode's Field Road
10. A Ghost To Most
11. Tales Facing Up
12. Marry Me
13. Sink Hole
14. Women Without Whiskey
15. Dead, Drunk, and Naked
16. Guitar Man Upstairs
17. Ronnie and Neil
18. Shut Up and Get On The Plane
19. Angels and Fuselage
20. A World Of Hurt
21. Self Destructive Zone
22. 18 Wheels Of Love
23. Zip City
24. Let There Be Rock
25. Buttholeville
26. State Trooper
27. Buttholeville (reprise)

fuck, i suck.

2007-08-31T21:34:00.000-07:00

third evening soul roller trip out this week for the fat dog and i, and despite us not giving two shits about numbers, the numero 0 really starts to grind on our whole psyche. the fish aren't even rolling around out there anymore and i fuckin' know there's fish in that damn river. water temps even came down some. pulled out all the stops, secret handshakes and backroom access' to odd spots on the river, to no avail.

it's like the winter beatdown, but in summer. and that's double nutpuncher beatdown 'cause hatchery summers are not to be taken seriously.

on a way laser cool better note, checkout these big-ass, wild, lake superior coaster brook trout the T-mos and E Daddy railed back on the Nipigon last week. 20" and 21.5", on the swung fly. rarely do you see the words 20" and brook trout in the same sentence. those boys smell like $50 cologne, even better whisky and can't be touched even by your hot sister who's known to spread that sweet honeypot stuff around...

damn fine job, stains, and on the loop sculpin Dirty T stole from me, no less:

We are eating the shit sandwich.

2007-08-31T11:11:00.000-07:00

We've been lax on the posting as of late, pretty much because we've been rollin' up SW WA way the last 3 of 4 nights and whereas we were hooking and losing and landing some fish in weeks prior, now we can't even get the goddamned hooking part right.

it's beating us down real bad, humps.

gotta be this freaky barometer, but probably the fact the hucklemama hated my lucky camo Alaska West hat so much she burned it while i was sleeping, 'cause she said she couldn't stand being married to someone who didn't care whether or not they looked like a redneck.

i thought it was hilarious, and in truth, it did a fine job in repelling all these SE Portland hippies. anyway, that damn AK West hat had laser mojo and we were on fire for awhile in it. now it's back to the old standby Airflo lid, which gets on wicked mojo fire come winter season winter, but brings me precious little luck on these damn Washington summers.

Open post to Idaho Senator Larry Craig

2007-08-28T10:42:00.000-07:00

Dear Senator Craig,

While we at the Beatdown have heard all the allegations about how you love you a ton of dirty public toilet cock and all, and I think I speak for the three other people who read this as well, we just gotta clear your alleged cock-smelling air by saying, despite your thirst for ball sweat, we don't hold it at all against you.

we do, however, completely oppose, question and condemn the way you've continually censored hard scientific facts that point solid evidence toward the Snake River dams' responsiblity for dwindling anadramous fish migrations and to this day, are trying to shut down continued research on upstream migrations of what's left of our Endangered Columbia River Salmon and Steelhead that might hamper your special interest paychecks recieved from various Idaho Hydropower interests intent on putting their profits over countless species' facing near-extinction.

Thus, we totally won't condemn you for allegedly being pretty much another one of the many closeted Republican homosexual congressmen out there. We can't, because we truly don't find a thing morally wrong with your apparent love of cocks being slapped repeatedly across your forehead as you beg for more like the submissive little bitch you've proven yourself to be. If a lust for big, giant, huge dicksin your every orifice (including your ears) are your thing, they're your thing.

Personally, we prefer our wife and steelhead fishing, but who are we to judge?

We just think you're a (sore) ass because you're corrupt and killing an integral part of the Northwest's identity and culture, not because you love you some giant, throbbing tube sausage. Lying to yourself, on the other hand, worries us and makes us wonder what else you might be lying about.

We're sure those thwarted sexual advances you made on the undercover officer in that Minneapolis airport bathroom were no different that the awkward man-to-man advances you might have probably routinely made in many a rural Idaho truckstop, rest stop or bear bar. Guess things are just a little different in the big city, and like ex-Republican Rep. Mark Foley before you who also stood for those "family values" your party speaks so highly of, you just got caught up in some sort of crazy homosexual, hairy-nuts-on-the-chin-lovin', skin-slappin', man-action frenzy or something and you lost all judgement about where you were getting those nuts slapped on your chin at. I mean, our gay friends tell us lots of people go to airport bathrooms for gay sex, but that doesn't mean the cops are gonna just let it happen! even if you might be a gay Republican hypocrite Senator and all!

we honestly wouldn't know and what you put in your ass behind a closed, open-air airport restroom door veiled only by your roller bag is totally your way super gay business. we don't want to get in the way of anybody's freakydeaky, much less the gay freakydeaky you likely might have going.

again, WE REPEAT: Senator Larry Craig, we have no problem if you're happy living your life as a closeted gay man who loves anonymous gay sex with other gay men in gay airport restroom stalls gayley, we just hope the hiding from your gayness, which you've been allegedly doing since the early 1980's, doesn't become such an immountably gay task that your quest for multiple gaydicks wiped across your alleged gay eyebrows turns into a career distraction, because the rest of Northwest cherishes our history, identity and pride in the anadramous fish you seem so intent on killing off.

Senator, we still wouldn't like you even if you were honest about the gayability you were apparently arrested for just after noon (so you're day gay!) on June 11th in Minneapolis International Airport, because we think you're a corrupt, selfish, misguided, money-driven, motherfucker in the pockets of special interest groups.

Not that we had any previous care which way your pecker swung and all, but since your "alleged" thirst for gulping baby gravy by the gay gallon's now put your sexual orientation in the public eye, we'd really admire your honesty if you were to aknowledge how much you love the idea of being gangbanged by several gay men of various ethic descent and just come out with it.

Senator, uh, for lack of a better word, be a man.

as it stands now you're looking a lot like a guy who loves him some sweaty man-balls peppered all over his face but doesn't have to balls to admit you love balls.

And that means you could be lying to yourself. we're as against people lying to themselves as we are against trout fisherman nymphing for steelhead and you were against supporting the gay rights of your (allegedly) gay fellow man.

Worse yet, as a politician who's somewhat responsible for the fate of ENDANGERED Idaho Salmon and Steelhead, it makes us question the integrity of your word on that and thus, we can't help but wonder if you're representing the best interests of the American People you've been elected to serve. and that's totally ghey.

sincerely, and may your soap be dropped often within close proximity of the tall, dark Latino stanger named Raoul you (allegedly might) fantasize about,

The Beatdown Faction.

there is seriously no way.

2007-08-27T07:49:00.001-07:00

you wouldn't believe the shit that literally went down right in front of mine own two unbelieving eyes last night on the river, even if i were to tell you after you'd gotten yourself neck deep into a bottle of bush mills.

seriously.

the books never told you this shit was possible. the magazines or those fountains of velcro on the flyfishing/man-to-man dating websites, either. it's like you can actually think of some really stupid weird stuff, go out and do it, and it works. really well. like right there in front of you, on the surface and shit.

we're fucking stoked as hell right now.

fact:

2007-08-24T13:05:00.001-07:00

i know you're a dirt cheap motherfucker and all and we can't fault you for drinking cheap beer in order to conserve dough for the gas to the river. or reusing hacked up heavy and long flyline experiments gone awry for lighter shorter experiments on shorter sticks you hope don't go awry too. or aquasealing every goddamn seam you have so it lasts way longer. or still wearing shit ass cotton hoodies cause that other fly industry gear would be like paying a lot of cash to make yourself look like a robot trout pussy who actually believe in things like "fly fishing clothing" or worse yet, "performance fishing gear" because like yuppies riding Harleys, they need to buy the "lifestyle" and "identity". or tying huge abominations from craft store sale bin material scores and then seeing how many weird ways you can get a steelhead to eat it, but for shit's sake man, don't skimp on really, really good fuckin' sticky-ass hooks. or fresh maxima.

Death returns to VBD Worldwide Headquarters and Wholesale Fish Processing Center for the Mixed Martial Arts.

2007-08-23T22:09:00.000-07:00

dammit if it didn't feel good to get back on the horse up SW WA way, fools. the Bacondog went swimmin, i did not and we finally stuck one of those little light biter brats by jumping the metaphysical gun with a sick itchy trigger finger. got it on a really ugly craft fur abomination that came outta the vise one night when it was prolly not a good idea to keep manhandling Vitamin R anymore but we did anyway. that kind of fly, and this one was wicked stupid ugly for a few reasons. this fish was not, nor was the evening or the insane amount of blackberries me and the bacon managed to down. that dog can actually eat blackberries off the vine. food slut, she. kicks ass.

missed your fool ass ed, but we got word you were smoking the silvers and rockfish somewhere saltier. shitchyeah. looks like deathtember came a bit earlier for all, no?

damn, it's gonna be a good fall, and before friends, associates, and the VBD campus knows it, the rain and green and the moss and smell of cedar and pullin on double socks over two layers and the first good flood comes and the seeing how shit's changed starts and central washington coast rings the red phone and someone leaves you a message with the words Winter Camp in it and the whiskey gets packed and the kicksack badasseage of winter beatdown season's back and you realize you were a lot warmer 4 months ago and all becomes right with this fool world and we feel less like killin and more like lovin.

Quote of the year...

2007-08-23T15:08:00.000-07:00

...comes from the hilarious fucker over at Mostly Right, Usually in regards to shitty bar swill:

"you know that sweet, sweet smell of dive bar tap lines that haven't been cleaned since nancy reagan had two boobs? well, i am sickly addicted to it.:

anyone who can liken shit beer to nancy reagan's sweaty mams in a single sentence wins big in the VBD's Turf Club race book.

props for that prose, and we are adding Mostly Right Usually to its rightful place on the the sidebar over there without even asking because that's how we do over here at the Beatdown. we take. we're takers, fuckyouverymuch.

i'm going fishing now for the third time in three days and hopefully will get one of those little shitstain grabbers to stick long enough for yours truly to gillrake the brat and get sweet huckmama some fresh dinner.

we will be going ed-free, because ed's like a married guy and doesn't fish no mo', despite the fact he won't even be married for 3 days.

RED PHONE'S RINGING ED. PICK UP THE RED PHONE.

NEW minus the bear record, out yesterday.

2007-08-22T14:20:00.000-07:00

planet of ice, the new minus the bear record, came out yesterday and it's gonna be a fine piece of night driving music while we make our way home from SW WA multiple times a week now that Deathtember, Deathtober and Deathtember hatchery seasons are upon us. flat out, we stock the larder fulla steelhead this time of the year cause the WA hatchery brats are there, they're easy pickens if you know the secret handshake and they gotta hold the VBD stronghold's smoked fish and gravadlax stash clear through late January when we see the first reliable fishing here on our laocals.

we've recieved a copy way back when for our perusal and endorsement and gotta say we still dig the band's wicked timing and tempo changes, and yeah, yeah, yeah, it's math rock pop and they're way fucking popular and all now, but hell, it's nice to finally see seattle put out a decent record for a change (ok, we'll concede you the Blue Scholars first EP), cause SE Portland 97214 ZIP code alone's been kicking the everlovin' piss outta the emerald city music swill since Courtney Hole's wife went and suckled the end of that shotgun.

dig the thing at: http://planetofice.com/

nurturing the rage.

2007-08-22T09:47:00.000-07:00

on a car ferry back from Orcas Island yesterday, we turned and found ourself looking straight in the eyes of a dude we knew, and being that we try and keep to ourselves for the most part, we were pretty shocked and all. pretty cool, tho. you never know who you're gonna run into sometimes. or where.

anyway, guy was in camp with me in Alaska this summer. super high-roller type. all wallet, little skill, no mojo and definitely soul deficient. the more and bigger type. always sat at the head of the dinner table. with a few minions around sucking his ass. had all the gear the flyshop/internet dorks told him to get, but couldn't understand why the guide and camp fishbum's gear cast better. that sorta feller. big tipper, i'm sure. big hassle, i'm surer.

he spent a fair bit of time chasing the guides around, asking all sorts of questions and trying to bro down to their level, but more as an intro into conversation so he could tell stories about how awesome these awesome places these guides will prolly never fish (unless they're guiding it) were.

i was on the Camp Bar one night chopping a line that felt a foot or so too long, and the guy came up. asked me to help him work out his cast one evening and, despite both finding him annoying from the get-go and needing to get my line dialed for the next day's fishing, figured i could learn something from anybody, took a pull off my whiskey and went with it. prolly spent a good two hours with the dude, 'cause all the cash in the world ain't gonna cure a shitty loop without some practice and what not. had him backing off his top hand by the evening's end, making smooth transitions all the way around the casting arc, hucking the D high into the loop, aiting for it all and actually got him thinking about what the rod tip was doing, as opposed to just chopping at the water and blaming the guide for shitty fishing.

or shitty catching, as it were.

the fella thanked me up and down and for a moment, actually showed some genuine humility. never felt like the dude owed me anything. hell, i was actually happy to help.

anyway, we were reading on the deck of that car ferry, minding our own business when i looked up to see this guy staring at me. undoubtedly looking at me. i recognized him, and being that i'm not some dickjob who'd act as if i'd never met him, got up and started to walk toward him, if only to exchange momentary pleasantries and be on my way.

dude saw me get up and i saw his eyes shift, almost like he was now looking right through me in attempts to make me vanish. then, he immediately looked away. went so far as to turn and stare off at the water as i began to walk up.

always wanted to believe fishin was something that sorta levelled things out in a primevil, hunter-gatherer way, where societal stature didn't matter and made guys just guys but then remember thinking "yeah, fuck, that's right. the rules. the rich guy and the fishbum thing. so this is how it's gonna be. this is how it's always gonna be."

8.16.07: insult to injury.

2007-08-16T21:50:00.000-07:00

had some bidness up SW WA way and figured we'd make a night of it, so as if it weren't enough to lose a super hot little hatchery missile tonight on the third jump, we did another lap in a sweet little run and got a pretty solid teaser grab we figured must've hummered on the purple leech, then dropped it and dropped back further into the run.

we usually feel pretty confident in this spot that we'll get'r back eventually when this happens, though we'll typically hit the fish hard on the slightest second sniff cause we know the next grab can be pretty tentative with these hatchery pukes most times, so we were prepared to cross the everlivin' eyes of that little future gillraked when nothing came back. i mean nothing. thought fuck, man, that sorta sucks more than the fact we're fishing hatchery fish in a river that used to have a killer wild summer run.

seriously.

worked our way well down into the tailout of this piece when we got another little shit sniffer and not wanting to miss this one, too, jammed the rod low and to the bank only to see a brown little turd come rocketing outta the water. now, we've never ass-hooked a whitey like our friends in West Seattle have become quite proficient at doing—hell we neverever ass-hooked a steelhead on a floating line and unweighted fly but we were there when IllWill laid pipe into the shitmaker of a nice steelhead once and he and i are still pretty confused how that happened—but i can say for certain this was the first time we eye-hooked a sucker in a five-foot deep choppy run on only 12 feet of type III and a swinging fly.

check this bullshit out:

and once you forget the atrocity and insult that is losing a steelhead only to eye hook a sucker, answer us this:

why do steelhead come to a bigass string leech like it's a dinnerbell, but only hook themselves long enough for us to land about 50% of the time? sweet christ, the number of fish we've risen over the years to these leeches that don't end up sticking is driving the Cap'n, me and the Dirty T batshit loony. i mean, fish seem to love 'em, just not long enough to stay pinned.

and don't gimme no hook spiel either, cause you've got no idea how many boxes of hooks we've obtained looking for that answer. even weird stuff. gjod help us.

discuss:

2007-08-16T10:42:00.000-07:00

"I've lived at the very end of what must have been a wonderful country."

-Merle Haggard, 70 years old.

Don't talk shit about Total!

2007-08-16T09:09:00.000-07:00

we'll admit to watching Tourette's Guy once and half-laughing at the accident happening, and then half-wondering if this dude was for real.

matters not anymore, as it seems the Tourette's Guy has gone the way of the buffalo. rest in peace, fella.

we offer the following up as a means of understanding what the Dirty T, the CAp'n and myself often sound like in winter camp when none of us have touched a fish days and all the beer's gone, we've got no dry socks left, we can't get the fire lit and things are getting real, real ooogly:

p-town ed said:

2007-08-15T09:38:00.000-07:00

"if the rat hits the lever enough times, the rat eventually gets his cheese."

that shit has stuck with me since the moment i heard it.

we have returned from a certain slice of liquid heaven, our fistful of skaters dwindled, our faith in summer run steelheading renewed, our balls are solid and life is good.

wherein we attempt to describe the ultimate greasyness of 9 impromptu hours with the sagest mofo EVER.

2007-08-14T19:37:00.000-07:00

ok, stains, this here's likely gonna be a pretty long self-indulgent story about something, some river i don't feel the need to name (and the three people who read this will easily recognize) and likely somewhat about this killer soul-roller dude we were so shit-shocked impressed by the aura of, consider his presence a gift and man for whom we hold nothing but giant respect, so i'm warning you in advance.

sometimes you gotta get the words down before real life goes and robs you of the alphabet.

apologies if it gets indulgent or nonsensical or fool stupid esoteric, but we've been up for four days straight at 4 a.m., fishin' all day and way well into the evenings because the river was so damn cool after we stopped, breathed for a bit and grooved out on it and we couldn't help but keep skating and skating our fly 'cause of some shit we were gifted, we're covered in poison oak and i'm on a 3.5 hour gas station caffeine buzz that's got ulcer written all over it. pretty sure there comes a time in a steelheader's life when this shit's gotta stop. the aforementioned time is certainly not fucking right now, as we're neck deep in a full-on anadramous stoke we thought wasn't possible with summer runs anymore.

fuck guy. as usual, were we ever wrong.

this hook has no point, but calling it pointless would be the understatement of the millennium, for certain. more on that in a hot shit bit.

and so the story goes...

me and the huckmama filled up the Angus with two tanks of sweet, sweet biodiesel and pointer 'er toward this one river i've been avoiding like syphilis for a lot of reasons, the least of reasons begins with the VBD faction's propensity for addictions and the last ends with our love of the additions our propensity fosters.

flat out, we've made a concerted effort to not wanna know about a few things. this, tarpon and thai stick fall into said category. this, however, was business. seriously, meetings, handshakes, everything, so we bucked our better judgement, headed a certain direction and found ourselves nearly driving off the road as Angus made her way upriver.

this place was as unreal as i'd ever seen.

we get there to a beautifully complex river; gorgeous, storied, loaded with potential everywhere we looked, yet without our dudes. and that's fun most opf the time, but admittedly, not the way we always thought our first step at this sweetheart would go down.

felt bad for the huckmama, as she had to endure my huge cluelessness and i'll admit, pissy intimidation. coincidentally, the Cap'n was just leaving as we got in but hadn't fished much, and where i'd really grooved on getting into water alone in the past, really found myself wishing the Dirty T was coming for this one. he and i had explored a shitpile of rivers together, fed each other's stoke heavily which kept the mojometer up and i guess i felt like we'd always be there hatching the plan together, whiskey spilling over the fire that night, curiosity rousting us the next sunrise. not so. felt like the mojo wasn't with me, in a place that seeped, oozed and bubbled mojo for damn near everyone i'd ever heard of that waded its ledges.

went out the first evening into a nice piece of water that looked greasy and rose a fish to a skater that didn't stick, but it really never feel right for some reason. can't explain why. this feeling of not belonging was compounded by a pretty restless night given the amount of irish whiskey.

next morning, on the advice of a 4 a.m. alarm, we made our way casually up to some famous pool. when a shadow saw us approaching, i remember seeing this shadow dude literally sprint to get into the pool's head first. figuring it was our shit luck, we turned and headed down toward the next pool, but as we came out of the trees (first, i'll add), another shadow saw us do that and ran ahead to "claim" their spot. fuck guy, this again. it was the like Maupin stretch of the D, all over and we don't go fishing to race people to water or wade in and bitch a dude out these days. it's just fishing.

this, stains, is why i often hate fishing summer runs as much as i detest trout fishing. the pace can be so anti-soul and anti-relaxed it just half-bums us out and half makes us sorry for the folks who measure a day by the number of steelhead they (hope to) touch. they're not bluegill, people. numbers aren't the point and as the Cap'n says: "The fish are a bonus."

know that. meditate on it between swings.

hence, on the most storied of waters, in the most surreal of places, we said fuck it, turned tail, skated a fly through a piece of marginal water without a shred of conviction, felt no soul of love for the water, then reeled up at 5:45 a.m. and woke huckmama for a hike. like i said, the pace of summer run fishing just bums me out. it's bullshit when people get greedy. i wonder how many folks take that into consideration.

the hike was pretty sweet, even though it's hiking and hiking seems to lack purpose for me and all when it doesn't end at the head of a greasy-ass piece of steelhead water. just how it goes. so, to this point, i'm chosing to hike on a river i've dreamed about skating flies in since i was about 13. something is definitely the worry. it's plain wrong.

after, i suggested we go check out this spot the fish pull into when the trib they spawn in gets too hot. anyone who's ever been to this river or read a fool stupid flyfishing rag knows about this pool. these steelhead just sit, podded up below a coldwater trib and vulnerable, waiting for the fall rains to raise the creek and allow easier passage. historically, it's been a Native's smorgasboard and later, a shitbag Poacher's dream.

until roughly 12 years ago, when a man i'll call MysticL came to watch over that pool and bless these fish with a way and care and a fierce, studied protection that cannot be described in words. we'd never met this man prior to yesterday, and we can say for certain we will also never forget this friend, either.

we were so transfixed by the tranquility of the place, we must've sat there for five hours, most of the time in silence with the cool vibe of the MysticL, watching the fish react to various other people's arrival and departures, seeing them at ease and then, stressed and somewhat aggressive. absolutely surreal, it was, like good drugs but way better for a million reasons. a fir needle would blow across the pool and eight of the 260-some fish would charge it. a twig would drop and the entire pod would bolt and sulk. millions of other subtleties happened and the fish would react. the shit was better than HBO. we learned more about steelhead behavior in five hours that one might gain in a lifetime, should they not pay attention. i could've spent years watching these fish. thankfully, there's someone like MysticL who's actually has.

after a few hours, MysticL and i got to talking some, and agreeing there's no absolutes in steelhead fishing, dissecting philosophies, dispelling myths, eating our share of gravadlax, having a lot of laughs, a lot of who-the-fuck-knows and ending with one, well-hell-yeah, i'll-pick-you-up-tomorrow-at-6.

in the meantime, i can say without question there has been no soul who's ever instilled this kind of odd, unexpected confidence in our fishing like the conversation i shared with MysticL. i'm positively sure doesn't know this. matters not. this was a gift. the fella's seen and done and felt and dwelled upon enough steelheading, he's actually made the decision to cut the point off his hook, content with a rise, a headshake and nothing more, which, of course, is everything. said the cutting of the hook point's actually liberated his fishing, making it more of a soul exploration of the river and less about actually touching the fish. said it's made him slow down, fish secondary and tertiary pools he'd have overlooked and cultivate the true essence of steelhead fishing and respect for the river, NOT just the fish, the likes of which we all need to find within ourselves.

this fella was Bhudda and Jedi, all at the some time.

coolest part, he was open to learning about others' approach to the river and, as people would come and go from visiting the pool, would never crush anyones' enthusiasm by the things he's felt he'd learned. said that wouldn't be right; forcing his theories on someone else, as he wasn't arrogant enough to believe he had all the answers and couldn't learn something from anyone. i think a lot of fucking fly fishermen i've met should think hard about that. you don't know everything. fuck, guy. you don't know much.

we only hope to gain this sorta soul. MysticL, a sincere thanks and genuine admiration

what he said about the river that gave us a stoke had nothing to do with a specific spot or secret fly or secret stupid anything. it was flat-out, one-third common sense, one-third authentic, automatic mystic and one third just-fish-the-fucking-fly-and-they-will-come—the real message of which was some personal shit that only matters only to us, but i literally felt like someone mainlined me some wicked mojo karma. like, inspiring shit, fellas, the kind of stuff a lotta people might not get if they were trying to justify their ego by telling a guy how big of a fish they once caught instead of listening, but subtle stuff that was meant to be learned if the ear was cocked correctly. i've honestly never had a person make things come together like this, and after telling MysticL about that the next day, he had no idea what in the hell he said to cause my stoke. that make me love the dude even more.

thus, we went from a man without a country, on a river more pockety and small and complex than what i was accustomed to, to a stain with a firm belief that i was gonna march through whatever water i could find, fish the fly as best as the river would tell me to, soak it up and maybe see some cool shit go down. the only thing MysticL asked of me was that, should things go well, i put my rod down after two fish. fuck, what? i'd have been happy to raise two on a river we'd never laid eyes upon, much less release two. way giant huge soul, and something we actually believe in, should wild fish be around.

huckmama dropped me off at a sunny 3 p.m. somewhere i thought looked right, i looped a skater onto the end of tim's new compact scandi heads and went out with that little 8110 Z-Axis and just grooved on the way it fished. swam the thing through some named pools and a few that weren't, figured out the way the currents and eddies affected the swing and had what could be the most esoteric summer run fishing i've had in 6 years. nothing mattered but being there, inside the moment where the loop would anchor, the cast would go out, the mend would be made in the air and the fly would be fishing immediately as it touched the water, rocking that waking V across ledges, boulders and cobble. pretty goddamned surreal when fish rose confidently to the fly, some of which pinned themselves and lit our new little 509 the fuck up. excellent fights, quick, slug-out close-in battles that were over as fast as they should be. we have nary a shot, as huckleberry was gone and we were on foot, and besides they were too important to lay on the bank for some fucked up ego shot. wild summers that absolutely garwock a fast-moving skater are a rare gift.

dig how can you not wake a fly over water like this?

picked MysticL up this a.m early, and we headed to the river to see about some pools he'd been wanting to get on. felt as if it were a distinct honor to fish behind the fella, and that's saying a lot from a guy who bucks tradition pretty hard.

MysticL stepping through one of the many unnamed fine pools on the lower river:

got to his trailer about 6 and idled the truck, waiting. the MysticL was already in waders. he gave Sis a scratch behind the ears, and greeted us with a grin, asking how yesterday afternoon had been. not very prepared to say much to a dude who skates flies with no hook point, all i could muster was something to the effect of, "um, well i only fished for three hours. came off the river around 6."

he looked at me cross, and asked why in the fuck i hadn't fished longer and if i was feeling OK, to where i smiled, "yeah, great. better than ever. besides man, you made me promise to put my rod down after two fish."

sometimes a headshake is both a huge, humbling compliment and silent, physical proof of someone being proud to call you a dirty, lucky bastard.

MysticL: we cannot wait to share gravadlax, theories and sponge up your mojo again soon. we thank you for the gift. this was the most fun we've had on a summer river in far longer than appropriate.

Clack Cleanup, Sept. 9th.

2007-08-10T16:08:00.000-07:00

We've never fished this river cause it's just too damn pretty to wade into and proceed to destroy and rule in like some sorta goretex-laden overlords, but we do dig on picking up beer cans from all the Gresham, Eagle Tweak, and Crackamas meth heads.

maybe you oughta join us?

free party after ward with music and food. and hot kayaker chicks, so remember to slam a Tall-Boy in the parking lot and maybe you'll work up the sack to talk to chicks this smokin hot?

click on this to enlarge and it'll make the reading easier. hope to see some of you there.

Things I'm pretty sure of, post nine

2007-08-09T15:57:00.000-07:00

i'm pretty sure we're now the only supermega, way-laser bad-ass steelhead blog to have their own cock-out rawk logo.

Things I'm pretty sure of, post eight

2007-08-08T09:27:00.000-07:00

i'm pretty sure the only thing better than getting a new, used reel with some good mojo on it is hearing that thing start up for the first time.

pretty sure it's also silly cool and stupid when you're not paying a shit of attention as the fly comes though the meat of the swing and that same reel that sounded cool on the startup is now backspooling and there's a giant birdsnest around the arbor as the steelhead that's cartwheeling 50 feet in front of you's laughing because it knows you're not gonna get it AND the reel under control fast enough to make this a fair fight.

felt good to swing a fly and get that little 8110 dialed in last night. just me, the dog, and an unnamed SW WA river no one cares about anymore.

soul time, fuckers. it's key, and you'd be wise to go get you some, too.

beatdown paradox for today: the unethical skater:

2007-08-07T09:24:00.000-07:00

at one time or another, you've prolly been bored enough to read some fool fishing website (you're here, fella...) and, in specific, the bulletin boards. we've all attempted to sit through the pain of these fishing forums/pits of dispair where people post a question or something, and then four hundred geriatric armchair internet jockey experts chime in with the latest rumors based on no fact and all heresay. i'll admit to being guilty of reading that shit a few times, clinging to my beer and hoping sweet, sweet death would relieve me from the idiocy and flat-out half truths and really not believing some of the virgin shit these dudes and their misiformation like to spew. it was like watching a compound fracture happen. you didn't want to, you knew the outcome wasn't gonna be good, but it was so gross you couldn't look away.

the entire insanity of it all became way clear to me the one time i actually put a person together with their moniker. this guy, i knew him in th real world and dude was velcro-shoe all the way. guy who could type shit about anything that had to do with reels, lines, rods, worldly anadramous destinations, name drop "famous" fishing celebrities, the whole nine. guy had every line the day it came out, all the in vogue new rods, everything, but i never once saw him on any of the rivers he claimed to be fishing. kinda creepy. i once heard he honestly claimed making 120 foot casts on the gaspe from the front of a canoe and that really shocked the turd outta me, cause when i knew that dude not so long ago he couldn't cast 40 feet with a tailwind and i gotta have my doubts some shit clicked and he became an elderly overnight superman jammer.

anyway, more than anything he and his minions loved to debate about what was ethical with steelheading. now bear in mind these dudes seldom fish much and if they did, it was for summer runs. they loved to think the stupid things mattered, trying to define everything instead of letting shit be and being down with the vague beauty of it all, trying out new stuff and making the game their own. guess they really rodded off on making steelhead fishing more difficult than it really is, most likely because they just sucked at it and needed something to blame or something.

we make that observation freely admitting we suck at steelhead fishing as much as the next guy, as well, but whereas some dudes need to find an excuse for when the skunk saddles up and drop kicks your balls, we're more into finding an excuse to go fishing again so we can understand a little more about why we keep getting kicked in the sack.

thus, i direct you to two sage, key, completely true pieces of guide advice i tend to groove on when the dungeon and dragon masters start dorking off about the ethics of 5 or 3 wraps of tinsel on a size 3 wet, exactly and i mean EXACTLY how much distance is acceptable between wading anglers (if you have to ask, you too fucking close, buttslammer) and whether foam can be used on a steelhead fly (true story, there's a famous steelheading dude with a famous bigass beard who might live out east of here and he used to talk tons of shit about us tying foam back skaters with stinger hooks about 5 years back, and now, guess who's got their name on a—you guessed it—a foam bug with a, yep, gasp!, stinger hook. the solace being that fact that this fly tips over sideways and pretty much doesn't skate the way a skater's supposed to skate. so much for product testing, i guess.) without having the gjods of dirty capilene crucify your ass:

Dirty T: "people act like a steelhead eating your fly is an act of god. uh, well, it's not. because they're sorta stupid if you consider that no bug actually looks like a size 3 rick's revenge."

and the Cap'n eloquent prose: "Dude, they're so stupid a lot of times, they'll eat a dog turd on a rope."

Cap'n's comment sparked something the other night, so i aim to find out. how stupid of a fly will they eat, how unethical can i make it and can an skater even be unethical?

we think yes, according to most people's definitions. hence, i believe i've tied the most unethical skater ever, and the four people out there who know me also know that's the kind of punk rock shit that makes me proud of my balls. now, we've caught summer runs on a floating line and bare hook wrapped with silver tinsel just to see if it'd work, but and after tying this thing, i started wondering, "Jesus, that's so stupid, it's not even right."

so, insofar as the grand heirarchy of skater ethics, here's where we're at (apologies for my shit camera work):

old school and still cool, the venerable size 4 moose turd, eau natural (save for four sprigs of blue mylar) we still roll this one lots if we must fish summer runs cause it's a great old fly that gets it done. good as a comeback in small sizes, as well, but it gets waterlogged to easily and you gotta hitch it halfway down the run:

the semi ethical foam back October Caddis Buck Rogers. Still got moose for the wings and tail, but a lip of foam that won't stop skating, rides real shallow in the film, bobs and weaves, and needs no hitch. this fly was our first foray into velcro-shoe killer territory quite a few years back and like most every fly tied in the last 20 years, we're sure we weren't the first to tie it so save yourself the trouble of sending me a scathing email, nerd:

the most unethically perfect skater we might ever tie, and by no means do we think we're the first to stoop to such lowly measures. it took 4 minutes total, uses all synthetics, both foam AND a bunch of Zap-a-Gap, has more hook gap clearance than any of the other two, will never sink, needs no hitch and will skate, sputter and pop better than a retarded kid who just shotgunned a two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew and is now watching his first porno.

the only thing this fly is missing might be smelly jelly, an egg snell and some borax.

you cannot imagine how proud we are, how much we look forward to fishing camp water on the North Umpqua with it and all told, how much we honestly believe this things gonna throw down:

pretty sure Dirty T would approve just for its out and out blue-collar inventiveness, but he prolly wouldn't be caught dead fishing it unless i could guarantee no one would see him. then, he'd freely admit a fly of this design will destroy and then promptly go destroy with it.

the Cap'n, on the other hand, is somewhat mired in tradition and we're pretty sure he was downright pissed off and disgusted when i showed him this.

both made me feel extra special about my new pet skaterpopper. we will be testing it this weekend and shall report back.

how to sell some shit and get respect for unloading it proper.

2007-08-06T22:48:00.001-07:00

conduct your business with a touch, people. that's all we're saying.

the deal goes like this. we've got a bad thing for used click and pawl reels so we've gotten a few from dudes and i gotta say, there's usually a cool surprise involved from these cats. 'bout as close as we're gonna get to meeting a lot of steelheaders, considering the ones we'd like are also the same ones who'd have no problem exiting a secret tailout and running into the trees if your boat came came around the corners. it's how we'd do it.

few years back, an old hardy salmon 2 came with a couple packs of seal hidden in the packing materials. a bougle IV came from europe with a few photos of this dude's home water and it taught my untraveled ass that serbia's fucking insanely gorgeous and packed with bigass fish. all of which made those reels even cooler, cause you get a piece of the person that fished the thing with 'em. it's something that makes sorta cool sense. we've sent away rods with flies jammed in the cork, and one time, with smoked steelhead from the last fish that rod caught vacuum-packed inside the box. that's the touch, fellas. it's super key, in a really cool way.

tonight, we opened up a box with this one from a mid-valley jammer:

yeah, it's a plain old serviceable old sage 509, but the guy was a dirt steelheader enough to loop a killer little sparse GP onto the backing. that, like some of the other stuff we've gotten, makes the shit so much fishier. so much greasier and real. in a lame-ass time when steelheader lore been disappearing faster than a bottle of Bush Mills 10 in winter camp, these are damn cool, sorta old-school touches that makes me honestly believe this badass steelhead culture might not be someday lost to indicator steelhead fishermen who love to make out with their sisters because it's just easy action.

your indicators, and your making out with your sisters, is creepy, dude. real creepy.

anyway, props to steve for the reel and the fly. take note, stains. discuss. consider. employ.

We had to go all the way to Washington to find us some badass Amherst.

2007-08-06T22:04:00.000-07:00

one of the suckest of suckass parts about tying your own flies most times is getting good materials. like, really, really good shit. sure, most shops nowadays have somethin to cure whatever ails you, but a lot of times the shit just sucks in the quality control department. makes us wonder if some shop owners even tie winter steelhead flies. especially the ones with a shop at 121st and halsey.

case in point: marabou blood quills. who stocks that shit? the hackles are way too webby, the quill too fat to wrap and a million other stupid matty-ass things i won't go into at the moment. i guess if you aim to attract super hardcore woolly bugger tyers those blood quills might make you famous, but for the rest of us, you're a just fucking giant disappointment and now we're shaking our head at you and questioning your masculinity.

admission: we're the fuckwad at the fly shop (when we actually go to a fly shop) going through packages of materials and looking at shit all one-eyed and creepy. this is especially true when buying marabou, rhea, and moose hair for skaters.

thus, we've been hankering for an apt amherst pheasant source for a while now. like those blood quills, we see a lot of shitty amherst, so we usually pass on it but we finally found some good, custom-dyed shit we can't wait to bunch tie on a fat fucking winter fly, jack it out there, and hold the hell on.

dig, Tina:

Beatdown friends, Alaskan whiskey-swilling partners, the esteemed discoverer of the Kanektok's legendary Chum Bucket, and a shop owner who does actually tie his own damn fine-lookin and behavin flies, "Waylon" Clark Jennings (fact: i'm the only smartass who can call him that without him going all loco ninja on your ass, so please don't crack wise and ruin my good thing...) up at Puget Sound Fly Co.'s been insisting he's got the Amherst shizzle and apparently, Christmas came early for the Beatdown faction.

we got the above care package today and we're way super pumped. check that shit out: it's taken the dye wonderfully, it's in great shape and above all, the fibers are long enough to do with them what your evil self pleases (pictured here for proportional consideration next to a grain scale, and if you don't know what a grain scale is, leave. just leave.). a lot of the Amherst we see is really marginal and this stuff is damn stout. bunch tie that stuff as a collar over a giant marabou and ostrich winter tube or shank and you've got yourself something, bucksnort. looks badass.

Waylon says he's got a ton of colors for all you winter steelhead and chinook sluts, but we can't remember 'em all so check him out at http://www.pugetsoundflyco.com/. he'll mail you the stuff super quick, shipping's like two bucks and this stuff will make even a tired fly like mine look like it's on the way to lose its virginity at the junior prom. just don't call him waylon. that fella will go wild on your ass if you do.

Seattle Area Fools: getcher cameras out.

2007-08-06T16:31:00.000-07:00

ok, being that we don't leave north oregon unless it's winter, some of you dudes need to send us some shots of the pink and silver carnage that's apparently started going down three days ago, deal?

pink porn. never thought i'd be asking for that...

The Cap'n weighs in on the ubiquitous Driftboat Stank

2007-08-06T11:49:00.000-07:00

we're apparently all literary fucking sunshine over at the Beatdown these days. maybe it's because we haven't, sadly, unforgiveably, swung a fly on the big rivers for more than three weeks now (as opposed to winter steelhead season and our noticeable absence from the world. summer, as our sweet lady has deemed it, is Huckmama Season.). it's driving us batshit crazy, we're getting both twitchy and that asshole gene's rearing its head again, so we're gonna change all that.

looks like clouds are returning to our armpit of the world Wednesday and being that a care package from the sinisters up at the Rajeff Compound might have changed our shooting head futures up some for that new 8110 (EZ: 450 grains? 500?) we're gonna go give those summer brats some swinging balls hell with a type III and a purple leech...

in even better news, some interesting, all-too-real fiction from the legendary Cap'n, and before some rogue nancy bastard gets all up in arms 'cause the Cap'n actually mentions the words "bait" and "egg scum", let me remind you that:

a. it's fiction. fake.

b. here at the VBD, we love us some anadramous fishing, any and all. while 98.5% of the time it's with a swung fly, fer shits and giggles we'll fish gear and sometimes gobs of eggs under bobber for tidewater salmon or a whole dead shad for sturgeon or your lady's little ankebiter shit-ass tea poodle for fall muskies because we think that shit's hilarious and, much like a Clint Eastwood film, somtimes we just want to witness some ass kicking without the complexities of having to think so damn hard.

if you've got a problem, that's your problem. and it prolly means you don't fish enough. besides, the Cap'n could put your sorry ass loop to shame with his eyes closed:

The Cap'n on Driftboats

Driftboats. If you’re like me, it’s a mosquito breeding ground, left in the driveway, plugs in place, loaded to the bench seats with scum covered rain water, $600 ash oars afloat and warping, last month’s bait rotting in a closed cooler, floating on its side….No wonder it’s the wife who sees no use for this craft. It’s my fault if I fail to prove to her that, “Yes dear, I do use that boat. No, even if I sell it, I’ll just buy another one in a couple years. No I don’t use it every weekend, but I’ve always had a drift boat and besides, it’s paid for. What’s it costing us?”

Nothing; except your place in the neighborhood inner circle. The closest neighbors complain about the smell. Those across the street, the ones with two toddlers, fear the day one of their rug rats climb aboard and drown in the swill. Your wife pleads with you but the thought of sticking your arm down into that green scum is just plain gross. And besides, the wife really doesn’t want you releasing that putrid wash of larva loaded, egg scum laced liquid onto the drive way. It will drain directly into the Rhododendrons next to the house and stink till September. No, she wants you to move it first then pull the plugs. You’re way beyond the point of return and reason.

Last year was a close call. During the drought of June enough water evaporated from the boat that you were able to reach the plugs with only a mid arm contamination. You avoided the “Just sell the damn thing” speech by the hair on your knuckles. Oh, right, those hairs dissolved the moment you pulled your hand from the goo. And that line, the fat green ring around the inside of the boat will never come off. “The halo of good fortune” is what you call it when your friends ask, “What’s with this stain?” Besides, you’re never gonna sell it so what’s the big deal about a little stain circling the entire inside of your fishing craft?

Just tip the boat you’re thinking, drop it so it’s level, resting on the tongue. Well, the way you release the boat and store it after a trip leaves it resting partially on the trailer, held by the strap. Full of water in this position means you can’t move the boat. If you crank the winch, you’ll tear the strap cause you forgot to replace it when the stitching started to pop two years ago. It’s barely holding the load now. If the strap parts, the trailer will shoot forward, catching you about head high right in the chops, and the boat will rock to a rest square in the middle of the drive way.

But this may be your only option. Once the strap parts, you’ll have an excuse for another trip to Fisherman’s Marine. That is if you can talk through a fat lip and two broken teeth. “Honey, I neeba tooba go toob pishermans and fi another strabb ffer the voat”
But now you’ll be able to reach the plugs without risk of catching a life threatening water borne pathogen, and while the boat drains, you’ll be shopping for that new strap, right? And when you return with a new winch strap and $100 of fishing gear, your wife will only be half pissed. At least you tried to take care of the stinking boat and besides, that smell under the porch should be gone in a couple months.

She tells you with a red face that if you took up fly fishing, “at least the damn thing wouldn’t stink!” She has a point, and did she say what you thought she said. Was that permission to start buying more gear? Did she really mean I wish you’d go out and buy a whole quiver of fly rods so that damn boat won’t stink like an open sewer every spring? Yes, I think that’s what she meant, and being the gear guy you are, you start thinking about whether a 5 weight is a better trout rod than a 6 and should you consider trying out that thing called spey casting. Two hands would be better than one. Need new rod. Must start looking. Time for some research. Better go to a fly shop. Yes, I’m sure that is what she meant! I’m glad I didn’t sell the damn boat.

Hark, Motherfuckers! Breaking News: The Roseburg Inbreeder Mafia Loses!

2007-08-06T11:15:00.001-07:00

The North Umpqua will return to no kill regualtions during the 2008 winter season, therein protecting one of Oregon's most prized treasures.

in their words:

Effective Jan. 1, 2008, anglers will no longer be able to keep wild winter steelhead on the Umpqua River. The Commission considered several proposals to eliminate the harvest of wild steelhead and voted to make the fishery catch-and-release only for wild winter steelhead in the mainstem and North Fork Umpqua River. Previously, regulations allowed the harvest of one wild steelhead per day and five per year.

Bad news for the 'BurgBillies: you're gonna have to go somewhere else to find your fried adipose chips. perhaps, up our collective asses?

why anyone would have fought to kill wild steelhead, even IF the "wise" ODFW says the river can "handle" it, is shortsighted to say the least. that's like killin' a baby angel or something, just because no one was looking.

this is 'cause for celebration, lads. next task: Burn the hatcheries in the name of northwest patriotism, BURN!

Holy Lawn Ornament!

2007-08-02T14:53:00.000-07:00

The Cap'n done went and hammertacked his recordbook East Oregon Elk mount right to his deck!

and that says to us he's downright in-sane and nothing nice, neither!

Rollin' Soul with the Legendary Dmotherfuggin'-Pin

2007-08-01T14:13:00.000-07:00

the 17th Allman Brother hard at work, bein' cool, smellin' finer and more than able to cast a full Bass Bug taper lefty, crossbody and backward while chewing bubble gum.

this is just a ride upriver on one of our old haunts, which prolly means nothing to most. means everything to me.

dammit, the North Hinterlands rock the mad soul.

BP Oil: Now killing Lake Michigan

2007-08-01T09:51:00.000-07:00

lifted from thee most excellent ass-hooked whitey blog found over there ------>

...and yet another reason to consider going biodiesel and knowing where that biodiesel came from. these Big Oil fucks are killing our middle-class America, people.

From the Chicago Sun Times:

BP has spent millions promoting itself as the greenest oil giant. But soon, the company plans to start dumping 1,600 pounds of ammonia and nearly 2½ tons of contaminated sludge each and every day into Lake Michigan from its refinery in Whiting, Ind., a mile from where 11 cities get their drinking water.

BP says its discharge is 99.9 percent water. But this merely dilutes the truth about what all those total tons of pollution will do to our lake. Ammonia is toxic to fish, frogs and other amphibians, and it can cause oxygen-gobbling algae blooms that smother aquatic life. Toxic metals in the sludge -- which likely include mercury -- will accumulate in the tissues of fish and anything (or anyone) eating them.

The company, which posted more than $6 billion in profits last quarter alone, could easily eliminate the hazardous discharges. But BP told Indiana regulators that it didn't have space to install the treatment equipment. And nobody from the state, it seems, wants to press them for an alternative solution.

Last week, the U.S. House of Representatives voted 327-26 to pass a bipartisan resolution led by Illinois Democrat Rahm Emanuel and Michigan Republican Vernon Ehlers condemning the Indiana permit. Mayors in Illinois, Wisconsin and Michigan are up in arms. Gov. Blagojevich is considering legal action. And Sen. Richard Durbin and others say lawmakers may go after BP's air pollution permits if all else fails.

Despite the swelling avalanche of protest, neither BP nor the state of Indiana seems to be getting the message. Indiana Gov. Mitch Daniels -- a former top official in the Bush administration -- has ramped up his support for the company plan.

WANTED.

2007-07-31T16:40:00.000-07:00

if any of the three people who read this happen to have a used-but-serviceable hardy marquis salmon 1 or a sage 509 they could handle parting with, we're all ears and would be forever indebted to your service. we have cash, at the ready.

if so, email the Voluntary Beatdown International Headquarters and Wholesale Fish Processing Center for the Mixed Martial Arts at the address on the upper right corner.

we thank you kindly.

This i know.

2007-07-30T11:37:00.000-07:00

you can take the boy outta wisconsin, but you can't take the love of a north wisconsin or michigan or minnesota, smallmouth popper-bank surface garwocking outta the boy.

it was hella good to go home and hear the bloop of a surface bug over a still, evening smallmouth river. that shit's borderline spiritual for the VBD faction.

even better'n when that bug was garwocked by insanely hot smallmout's and me and D-pin were laughing uncontrollably about everything and nothing all at the same time.

no big fish this trip, but that's just fine, 'cause even a 16" smallmouth from the hinterland north scraps better'n a 25" trout. a few that ate:

Gravadlax (or Scandinavian lox, the making of which just might just get some of you virgins laid)

2007-07-30T09:29:00.000-07:00

used to be, lots of "fly" fishermen we'd meet while giving the rock shampoo to an invasive species (i.e. hatchery steelhead) would get all squirrely about whacking fish and start to sob uncontrollably before curling up in the fetal position and murmuring muh-muh repeatedly. we never understood this catch-and-release-everything fad/movement against the whacking of a hatchery brat, as it's the biologically correct thing to do if you give two shits about wild fish.

moreover, they taste good.

so to those fellas too weak to harnass the power of their satchel and do the right thing for our rivers:

dudes, be a man.

what we do get, however, is the fact that fine chicks like eating fish. alot. smoked, grilled, roasted over the campfire, blended with cream cheese and capers, it really doesn't matter. most chicks love them some fish, yet most chicks don't get themselves a lot of fish. in fact, the finer and hotter the chick is, the less fish she's prolly gotten herself. this is a highly researched scientific fact, people. (tho, like all science, it does have its exceptions)

that's where you, your hunter-gatherer evolutionary instinct and your ulterior motives come in, soldier.

this we're totally positive about: hot chicks go batshit crazy for lox. and lox, purchased at the store, gets damn expensive. now, given the Puget Sound is gearing up for record pink salmon runs, Sound coho numbers seem good, we Oregon stains are surrounded by summer steelhead rivers fulla hatchery fish and the Great Lakes guys just gotta do sonething to make those oily-ass frankenfish even taste remotely like a salmon or steelhead, it's time you learned how to make you some lox for that sweet girl who puts up with your fool fishing shit. do this as a means of saying thanks, scumball.

what happens to your hunter-gatherer bad self after that is up to you and we don't wanna know anything about it.

dig:

Gravadlax (basically, a mellower version of storebought lox. and not made with farm-raised, color-added atlantic salmon piles of shit)

2 matching fillets of salmon or steelhead (smaller winter steelhead or chinook jacks work really well. half the recipe for one fillet, etc.)

1. lb of brown sugar
7 oz. Kosher Salt
4 tblsp. fresh cracked black pepper
1 cup of fresh dill, chopped fine

Juice from one fresh squeezed lemon
1 oz. brandy or bourbon

lay fish out on a cutting board and use a needlenose to pull the pinbones your sweet girl would normally need to reach into her craw to remove, then mix lemon and brandy. baste fillets with the juice.

mix the sugar, salt, pepper and dill, and put aside. grab a lasagna pan and a gallon-sized freezer bag (you'll prolly need to cut the fillets in half to fit them in the baggie you'd normally use FO' YO TEEF should you and the entire Wisconsin Badger hockey team, circa 1989, should ever share the ice. long story there.)

rub the dry mixture into the fillets as best you can, then apply a 1/4" thick coat of mix to the flesh as best you can. lay one fillet into the freezer bag skin side down, then sandwich the next on top, skin side up. this gets sorta messy, but if you use enough dry mix, it'll get done fine.

seal the freezer bag, and try to get all the air out. place in lasagna pan, and weight the whole mess with a book. put a stone atop that to make it even heavier. place in fridge for 4 days, turning every 12 hours. it should milk out with the salt removing water from the fillets.

that's it. the salt cures the fish and cooks it through, but the flesh stays amazingly tender, which your lady will love (given your lack of tenderness and sensitivity) in ways your sick mind won't be able to imagine.

after 4 days, remove from baggie and scrape whatever mix is left from the fillets. quickly wash off the fillets with water and slice very thin. present said fruits of your hunter-gatherer badass self to your lady either with crackers or atop a bagel slathered with cream cheese and capers.

if you are a single fella, bring said Gravadlax to a party and humbly make certain the single ladies know you made it and have said lox around often.

you can expect to entertain offers of commitment-free rendezvous' that night with possible menage a trois action, followed by several booty/fish calls in subsequent weeks. you've now set yourself up nicely, good with both a flyrod, killing and preparing game, and winning the admiration and respect of the ladies in an old school manner that does not involve dressing like a fucking pansy metrosexual, spending excessive amounts of cash to impress or manicuring your testosterone-free fingernails.

they will respect you for your hunter-gatherer machismo and instinctually flock to you, encourage further fishing endeavors, swoon in your presence, brag to their girlfriends over wine about what a real man you are and buy you cases of beer and musk cologne.

which you will wear liberally.

just make certain to never, even let said cologne turn you into a fast dancer. the occasional slow dance to set up the evening, maybe. a beer-fueled brief two-step to willie nelson in a gritty-ass rural bar, perhaps, but fast dancing to lionel ritchie's dancin' on the ceiling or carribean queen by billy ocean will only rob you of the respect you've worked so hard to achieve.

congratulations, young student, you are now a real man and your lady will finally treat you as such.

Blitzkrieg! Blitzkrieg!

2007-07-29T21:37:00.000-07:00

if 176,000 firecrackers could speak ingles, they all be screaming SLAYER brew city style during this sweet fucking bout of gigantic laser awesomnality*. be sure you witness this shit go completely off about 1:30some seconds in:

*thanks for that shit, con. made my day.

We have recieved official communication from the powers that be.

2007-07-26T07:53:00.000-07:00

and having cast the Cap'n's unmarked prototype last winter and Cook's production 8129 on the Ktok, we've got a semi-chub knowing it will become a production rod available for the likes of mere mortals like us...

in the late night telegraphs of the hipswiveler EZ, himself:

8129-4 Z Axis Spey- 12’9” for a #8 line. This rod is spot on with a Skagit 600 (no cheater) with sink tips or the brand new AFS 8/9 Floating from Rio. Available approximately 9/1/07.

5126-4 Z Axis Spey- 12’6” for a #5 line. Line match is a WindCutter 4/5. AFS 5/6. Skagit 300. Available front half of October.
Limited Edition Z Axis Green 2500 Series Reels. Sage is manufacturing 1400 reels across the 4 sizes. The 2580 goes particularly well with Sage Z Axis Switch Rods.

can't wait to get our greedy hands on the 8129 Z-Axis. that might replace our ol' school 8136 or maybe, but prolly not, the Burkie 8139 as our primary winter stick. fact is, the ass end was even beefy enough to whup up on those Ktok kings, but the tip was soft like we dig and cast somewhat lighter heads really well. as opposed to a lot of 8's, the thing was light as hell, too. should make a really fine shooting head rod...

Great Lakes Carpin', round two...

2007-07-26T07:38:00.000-07:00

winds have calmed and come in from the south, water's warmed in certain flats locales known only to the VBD faction and fuck guy, we're wailing on carps, accompanied by hot chick hollywood starlets who fly fish for carp wearing art directed outfits involving pink skirts, no less.

livin's good, fools, real good. as oppsed to the deepwater slaughter, they're coming real close in now, 2 feet of water. finally got on them after running the better part of three entire bays and mutiple flats. well worth the lookin, fellas.

tomorrow: East Central UP smallmouth with the D-Pin. big smallmouth. on poppers. gonna be a long, weird drive tonight.

sincerely,

-your friends at the VBD, who smell like $15 cologne, lienie's original and a north wisconsin summer.

Hot! Sexy! Orgiastic Carp Action!

2007-07-24T09:37:00.000-07:00

fools, we've got a thing for big fish of any race, religion or creed worse than the entire Green Bay Packers' offensive line's got a thing for fat white chicks, so the VBD faction is currently holed up in the far eastern Great Lakes region, sucking down Lienenkugel longnecks by the score and within close striking distance of several of the world's choicest trumpetmouth locales. this is dirty, dirty, drag-screaming recon work we're doing, revisiting the ol' limestone flats of our youth, but we assure, it's for the good of our country.

achievements of merit: as of today, we have eaten four dinners of fried perch, 3 lbs of cheese curds and life is way fucking laser good for everything except our colon.

a typical nearshore flat, going from 1' to 6', reef's interspersed. this one stretched for about a mile in either direction, and is about a mile wide. muy stank potential:

in truth, the weather's hellacious for the carpin'. water temps are low, around 68° to 70°, and that's no good. 75° and up is prime and makes the carps get slutty with a fella. low temps mean the feeders are few and far between and we're seeing lots of cruisers, which are tough to turn. can be done, tho, and always, always must be tried. huckmama and i anchored up yesterday and did the waiting game. found a few cruisers coming through on the strong winds, but only turned one. shitty, shitty. lost an anchor, too.

swells are about 2' to 3' out there and winds keeps switching from the south to east, blowing out all the warm water from the inside bays, and with them, the pods of 2000+ tailers we used to take unreal advantage of, and it's forced us out, onto the deep edges looking for singles and doubles in 4 to 6 feet of h2o, or as the legendary 17th Allman Brother D-PIN puts it:

"if anything, dude, this is gonna be a deepwater slaughter of the utmost regard. sinister fishing, man."

he's been right.

hooked up with the legend unexpectedly the other day, wherein we headed of to secret offshore reef locales known only to he, i, billy broken rod and a select few others. we spent a lotta time out here in the old days, knowing when the winds are up and the temps are down, these were the places the carps showed their golden beauty first.

it's paid off some, having sorta turned upwards of 15 or 20 briefly, but getting good shots at prolly only 6 or 8 fish in such deep water. think the day we went, our boat went 2 for 5. or something, but that's some tough carpin. who cares, really, cause we're doing it the old schoool way, fishing out of a poled skiff in as what D would call, "team carpin' man. total communication, all golden soul."

as per usual, we agree.

D's boat, the Heron, outfitted with the only known 18 foot graphite push pole in the midwest:

quick carnage shots, and nothing on the huge scale, but decent carps, no less.

18er taken from the front platform in insane winds:

D's 22 lbr, tasken from a deep bowl as the carps were travelling along the flats edge. this one had him groanin':

winds are calming as we type, and we think tomorrow might be the day...

Dirty T's Bestest, Fastest Breakfast Ever.

2007-07-18T10:39:00.000-07:00

and with lycophenes to offset your nasty awesome chewing tobacco habit, to boot.

so we've always admired the stalwart Dirty T's no-time-in-the-morning-cause-i'm-a-bigshot-steelhead-guide's ingenuity when it comes to on-the-fly dining, but this breakfast idea's over the top and the man needs to be given proper credit. just ate me one and dammit it it wasn't hot shizzle. good mojo, too, as it won't push a premature turd on you like sugary cereal will.

it is however, missing bacon, so it get's an A-, though it's an A, nonetheless.

The Guides Choice, 2007 rendition.

(1) Everything bagel, split and toasted.

(1) slice of either Baby Swiss or Provelone placed on that hot bagel. this can be microwaved for gooey goodness. a real steelheader breaks rank and adds two slices of cheese, as well.

(1) roma tomato, sliced and fashioned atop that mess for maximum coverage. it may be awhile before your next meal, fool.

Salt and pepper to taste, with an empahsis on salt.

Sprinkle fresh basil if you've got it, or just dried basil if you gots no time. the basil is key.

let cool a bit, lest you dive in and brand the sides of your cake-hole mout' with hot cheese. which wouldn't be the worst way to burn yourself, all things considered, but it would make you look like the Joker and the Joker's fucking weak in the grand order of superheros.

bon appe-tit, stains.

the legendary hinterlands buglelips.

2007-07-16T21:49:00.000-07:00

we shall be returning to the Lake Michigan carp flats of our youth in a few short days, armed with grandma's 12' snow rake handle for a ghetto push pole like always, and rolling soul in a 1974 12' Sears deep-v with a 6-horse evinrude, reigning error upon any and all tailers facing upwind with their noses down.

we say error, because we don't rock a single hander all smoove like we used to. our casting will be like 8th grade dry humping for awhile:

icky, fairly painful, but somehow, someway it'll get the job done.

can't wait to go home and fish with the D-Pin. in order to gain insane mojo and warmth for winter steelhead season, we will be shaving his head and weaving a scarf.

the legendary, always soul-rollin', 17th allman brother and handsome south milwaukee swashbuckler D-Pin here with an itty bitty flats fish from last weekend.

D—i know you can do better than this. i've seen it. where's that one shot from like six years ago? you know the one.

moonlight bay trumpetfaces, we'll see you soon, and a word of advice: avoid the olive critterbuggers that look like an easy crayfish, but aren't.