Gurgle gurgle, toil and turgle

Good Friday to you, citizens.

There is much to love here: chartreuse stuff, a soundtrack not unlike what plays in my head whilst tying and fishing #24 tricos in gin clear water, sweet Squier bass, fugly folded over foam strip aesthetic, hot warmwater action (warm hotwater action?), a nice plain dark gray t-shirt, tying table in practice space, split screen program. Let’s all enjoy.

The Thing

There’s freedom in the obliteration of 21st century wifi ego by a system of water: the utter loss of self duing a blizzard hatch or while working down your favorite run as the film goes quicksilver at the magic hour. The endless thudding heartbeats it takes to bring a good fish to hand. The gravityless grace-state of drift. But eventually the bugs stop, the pod is put down or the pool goes flat, daylight fails. You spool up and go home, back to regular life, back to Babylon (with maybe a vanilla malt in the intermezzo if you earned it). It’s temporary at best, and it’s also the point of entry for all the painful “fly fishing is an addiction, man” rhetoric because we keep seeking those moments in the resonant void.

As both Siddartha Gautama and Kris Kristofferson teach us, true freedom is only arrived at through non-attachment. But where does that ultimately leave a down-and-across dude?

There is no non-attachment for these punters. There is slack and there is mending and there is sink, but always a physical connection to the unseen, a stick to poke into the guessed-at and unknowable. Galileo’s telescope or a turn of the webby ahead of some silk to find what we desire and confirm what we suspect. Ahab’s harpoon or the sleechy sculpin muppet meat pushing water at the end of some chop-shop CCT, from hell’s heart I cast at thee.

I suggest we deal with it, friends. We’re on the wheel, Nirvana is from Seattle, and maybe we will be reincarnated as an osprey or a Burkheimer.

What’s up, slate winged hotties?

Oh, hey ladies! Don’t tell me I missed the mating flight … let me just get out of this shuck and then it is on. I’m going to rock your oviduct for the rest of your life, girl. Or 23 hours, whichever comes first. Shit! I’m stuck in this … hey! Don’t fly away! I’m just … twitching here … but I am totally gonna get all up on your cercii! Damn surface film. Well, I’m sure missing that subvaria orgy is the worst thing that will happen to me this afternoon …

Why does everything taste like IPA?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Guest post: an opinion upon a wet tye

From time to time, Just Nice Be Out is pleased to be able to offer its readership extended commentary from notable writers in the fields of fly fishing and innuendo.

I was told I had to shorten the title from the original draft, which was “In Which I Endeavor to Offer an Humble Opinion Upon a Particular Wet Tye, for Purposes of Edification and Discussion of my Fellow Flye-Anglers.”

Bon soir, compatriots in the Angling Arts, it is I, Sir Nigel New-Page. I beg a moment to shew you the Frewts borne upon the Tree of my evening’s labor (the wood was quite bent under their weight!).

I apologise to you most profusely for the blurry qualities inescapable when working in Daguerrotype (as evidenced by the date of the Broadside upon which mine tyes are at rest).

Here we have a full one-quarter of the jury referenced by Izaak (spiritual Father of all trouters, carpers, and squeezers of Milch-maids) ready to trye and hang a brace of our riparian quarry.

If the Brown & Brown tied by the proprietor of this Web-Log is the Messerschmitt 262 of early season wet fly Mid-western spring creek trout-angling, then it surely follows that the Partridge & Green is the Focke-Wolfe 190.

About the contributor
Sir Nigel New-Page is a sporting country gentleman from English antiquity currently residing in Wisconsin. This is his first post for Just Nice Be Out.

P to the G

Earlier in the evening I was on an urgent errand, listening to music out of keeping for a man of my age out shopping for 4 month Manchego and gluten-free waffles and the biggest piece of chocolate cake. Then I came home and got out the vise for the first time in 2012.

Oh, hello ass-end of winter. I can’t help but notice you don’t have any snow cover around here and you’ve left our locals what I can only assume is gin clear and spooky. And what’s up, early inland trout season in Wisconsin. Do you know about green Pearsall’s Gossamer Silk and whatnot? Well then let’s get down and across like a boss. Wait, what’s that you say, McClelland’s Highland? Peat reek? Say hey.

OG soft hackle hustla. Rooster necks up, partridges down. Gimme my fuckin shit … right now.

2011