The River Tay, Scotland, Aug 21 2010
After last night’s gig up in the highlands one of the staff at the joint we were staying got a little too deep into the scotch resulting in, so we heard, an offense to some ancient clan, the muttering of disagreeable oaths and inevitably, a bit of a dust up. The Royal Order of thee Hee-lund Coppers were summoned, tears of regret were spilled and some punter was hauled off to the clink. Amidst all that donnybrook sleep was tough to come by so I took a wee doze on the drive down to Crail, on the SE coast. To get to Crail, you gotta drive right through St. Andrew’s, which is where a lot of serious golf is performed. You can tell it’s a golf town by the incredible numbers of “slacks” people wear in combo with those those tasteful shirts golfers are so fond of. St. Andrew’s is “quaint” and “charming” and, just to make sure one is aware that it is also “historic” and “Scottish”, they like to spell the word golf “gowf”. Yeah, that’s fooking hilarious, Alisdair!
I woke up about halfway to the gig, outside the town of Pitlochry, just as we were crossing over a big, fishy looking river. Generally there are no signs in Scotland telling you where the fuck you are, where the fuck you are going or how long it’s gonna take you to get there, but for some reason there was a sign and that sign said, “Hey, Fuck You Thee, Here’s The River Tay And You Ain’t Fishing It.” Shit.
To make an already shitty situation even shittier, just as we were crossing the bridge there was a dude stepping into the drink with a spey rod locked and loaded. We, of course, drove right on by. God. Fucking. Dammit. As they are fond of saying over here, I was gutted.
I bribed our driver with a cold, half-eaten chunk of Steak and Ale pie that I had been saving for my lunch and we were able to pull over about 20 minutes later. We pulled into a sorta high-end subdivision and I jumped out of the car, ran down a dog-shitty path, found the river and took a pic.  If, like me, you’ve never fished the Tay before, you might be a bit surprised to find that it’s one huge fucking river. The bit I saw — which I now believe was pretty cost to the Firth (estuary) of Tay — really didn’t have any discernible features other than it’s bigness, and to tell ya the truth, it looked a lot better up by the bridge where the dude with the spey was about to battle the constant — and I mean constant — 40 mph winds.
I got a magazine-thing called “Fish in Scotland” from the Scottish tourist board the other day. The word on the Tay is that, “It is one of the best Salmon rivers in the United Kingdom, and therefore the world.” I had a chuckle and thought, “yeah… sure” But who the fuck knows. It didn’t believe it because I am incredibly bitter and to accept that a river I crossed without fishing may, indeed, be one of the finest salmon rivers in the world is simply too close to self-flagellation. I am in enough pain.
In all honesty, the Tay really could be one of the finest rivers in the world. It could totally suck. Don’t ask me. I didn’t fish it the goddam thing.
We drove away and after a while we passed over the River Earn. I only got a quick glace and really have nothing to report about this sweet little river for alas,  there are only so many rivers that I can’t fish in a day.

Dean Ween on fishing and why making albums is a drag these days.

Money quote:

“The guys that work on these partyboats, they’re out working one trip in the afternoon, and then they’re a commercial scallop fisherman at night. They know everything. They know the tuna grounds, they know how to bottom-fish, they know how to drag for scallops. It’s intense. And it is a generational thing. Some salty ass guys. (laughs) Those are the people you want to listen to.”

A good retort to corporate spin is in the eye of the sockeye. Or Something. Go to Headwaters to see the large version.

Dorbach Burn, Scotland, Aug 21, 2010
Just for the record, “Burn” in Scots-talk means “creek”, but remember that “burn” is pronounced “bahh-err-ne. It’s sorta like in the American west how the word “creek” is pronounced “crick”. See, despite all our differences, we have a few things in common — such as the stubborn refusal of anglers to speak in anything resembling a language that non-fishing pedestrians can understand. In Scotland, this inside baseball shit is compounded by the fact that Scottish is in no way close to the American that I’ve been speaking and listening to for the entirety of my years. Two different languages and never the twain shall meet. Fer’inst: in certain bars — uh, pubs — in Glasgow, the preferred greeting to yr pals is something along the lines of, “Ay, wood ye git ay lood ay dees coonts!” So there’s that.

The Scottish highlands remind me of parts of Wyoming in that both are jammed full of lovely bits of contented, meandering nothingness — although in Scotland the backdrop is without the crushing heft of huge mountains — tho the Scots get a bit fiesty if you refer to their hills as just that — hills. Some advice: Let it slide. If they wanna call their hills mountains, fuck it. Let them. You don’t wanna start haggling over minor shit with a Scotsman as THEY WILL NEVER FUCKING LET IT GO! The other night, right before the gig, this punter comes up to me and says, “Ay… ye know wha laddie?
I dunno, what?
“In Sco-lund, we invented coont-ra music, man.”
Rilly?
“Aye… ’tis troo.”
Read more »

The Fucking Spey, Scotland, Aug. 20, 2010

Driving up from last night’s gig in Glasgow up to Kinloss (it’s up in the Scottish Hee-linds near Elgin) I didn’t fish the Spey. Too bad, because from the motorway, at least, it’s a swell looking river with soft green banks, a gentle gurgling gait and bits of ruined castle strewn all over its banks.

To make not fishing the Spey all the more painful,  the A95 travels along the river offering infuriating peeks every coupla miles — like when you’re driving in Montana along I-90 and are forced to gaze upon the Clark Fork every 45 seconds. My traveling companions, of course, do not give a fuck that the Spey is one of the “Big Four” Scottish fly fishing rivers. They do not care that the Spey is home to its own goddam style of fishing. They do not care that there is even a style of fishing rod called a (goddam) spey rod. I attempt to impress upon them the — you know — gravity of the situation:
“Ya know how regular fly rods are like 9 feet long?”
Silence.
“Well Spey rods are super massive, maybe like up to 16 or 17 fucking feet long.”
Silence.
“And they shoot lasers and… other stuff.”
Nada.
It had been raining buckets since we’d left Glasgow and as the Spey gradually opened up into it’s Spey-like size and shape, the goddam sun came out,  exploding the dew on the grass and tossing a spray of diamonds over the surface of the famous river like some bullshit magazine story. I felt sick. We drove right on by.

We drove right on by a few distillareies (Cardhu, Dahlwhinnie) and we did not stop to even glance at the Fucking Spey. It was infuriating, it was frustrating and I consoled myself, as always, by thinking that given a day or two, my own gear and the right flies, I could really do some damage on the Fucking Spey and show these highland hillbillies what’s what.

I’ve cultivated the ability to be really goddam obnoxious in a very short time — it’s like my “nuclear option”. I threatened destruction and finally convinced Rod, the driver, to stop for all of 45 seconds while I snapped a perfectly annoying shot of a perfect bridge over a perfect bend stood sentry by a perfect little fishing shed on the Fucking Spey. Another UK river I didn’t fucking fish.

Snapped a pic of Capt. K in action, pullin’ down trees on the local.

Winner (as determined by tarot reading, drunken darts, and/or falling entrails) gets not one but TWO old-styley BWTF stickers.

Have at it, fisha.

Thursday afternoon at my office.

NOW OPEN: the Buster Wants To Fish store at Zazzle.com! W00T! Let the world know what you want, or failing that, at least let em wonder.

Ever since we built this monkey house we’ve wanted to offer Buster shirts, but the conversation always seemed to wander off into the bushes. Doing it ourselves was a cool thought, but there’s a cash outlay to consider and then handling, etc, all of which gets in the way of fishing, dammit. So what the hell, we’re going to try Zazzle and see how it goes. Cafepress was a bit cheaper, but one of the things I gathered while reading a BAZILLION GODDAM OPINIONS JEEBUS KILL ME NOW about these on-demand services was that Cafepress had some quality control issues, so we’re going with a slightly higher cost for a service with a rep for better quality.

*Aside: there’s a freaky subculture of t-shirt geeks out there, writing impassioned reviews and carrying on at great lengths about printing processes. After a while I glazed over like when the bamboo nuts get to testifying about tapers, and then I gave up. Just google t-shirt reviews, I dare you.

Here’s the thing: assuming of course that you’re willing to drop 20-some clams on a (admittedly sweet ass) shirt, we’re depending on you, our faithful and beloved guinea piglets, to tell us if the print or garment quality disappoints. Design changes are quick and easy, so feel free to suggest them too, but if Zazzle is the wrong choice then we want to know it, and fast. If they step up, we’ve got more design ideas to roll out (probably the coolest thing about these services is the ability to quickly offer new designs). We’ll announce new designs here when they happen. Maybe we’ll also occasionally retire some designs too, so you could end up with some sort of collector’s item of dubious value, which should not sound at all strange to fly fisherfolk. Cool, ja?

Yeah we know, the shirts are a bit pricey after tax and shipping.  Sorry, that’s just how it is. Buster’s not getting rich on this (or anything else, for that matter). I ordered my black tee today, so I’m drinking cheaper beer for a week or two.

We’re starting simple. Right now there’s just a couple of designs, and one color per shirt style. The only reason they aren’t all black is because the ladies’ styles aren’t currently available in black. Which is wrong. Anyway, we can make more colors available if you want, just holler. Also, there’s a sweet bumper sticker.

No, the graffiti design doesn’t have the Buster URL on it, because we think it says all it needs to say. Let em google it if they’re so inclined.

The hoodie is STUPID expensive, but it looks great from here. We wants it, precious.

CUIDADO, CHIQUITAS! The ladies’ shirts run small, according to Zazzle, and should be ordered two sizes up. No, we don’t get it either.

Also also, we want to see photos of you in your Buster gear (well, no guys in spaghetti straps, por favor). Preferably in some interesting locale, maybe also reading Gaper’s book. Because we know that Buster has the best looking and most intelligent readers in Blogtopia. It’s true.

“When people ask what my best work is, it’s the bus. I thought you ought to be living your art, rather than stepping back and describing it.”

- Ken Kesey

Sunny and 75° is a pretty bitchin’ forecast, unless you live around a bunch of glaciers.

The lack of rain in the last week or so has shriveled up the muskeg flows into mere trickles, shadows of their former selves. A few of the smaller ones look like urban footpaths now, except for the flyblown humpy carcasses and the lack of little blue bags covering the omnipresent piles of bear poo.

The glacial systems, mostly larger rivers with a network of little feeders, are in total shock. Spewing out meltwater like brown blood, most of those aren’t gonna be fishable for WEEKS.

Damn.

While driving through the rainless rainforest one day - in shorts and a wife-beater tee - I had a song from a decade or so ago pop into my head, and I’ll be damned if I can get rid of it. Hopefully, the forecast of rain will bring some change to the brain radio and I can forget about burning a pig on an old mattress.

I wonder if jayj has holes dug all over his backyard…

With a permanent summer internship here at Buster, paid in tepid Schmidt Lights, the original Primos de los Matador, prolly the 8th or 15th Buster contributor and the Hodag of the Northwest, we’re mega-proud to announce the addition of R. Horatio Nailknot to the (dis)respected staff of Buster substance abusers.

Recognize the mug? Bet you do. Moneygrip got to third at least once with your sister and he’s locking it down on your mom right now with smoovetalking mad baritone logics, all like: “Hey sweet pancakes, maybe it’s about time we floured up that taco.” Yr. momma’s all 17 and bouncy again.Damn.

Welcome Horatio, and dogspeed. Don’t disappoint us by succeeding.

The bobber swims in circles for at least five seconds and I scream “SET!” a minimum of eighty times. Eventually, he finds it in his heart to sweep that big ol’ fly pole upwards and stretch that silly plastic line. There is twitching and headshaking. Long deliberate runs circle around the pool and I stifle the whisper that is pinballing in my brain “bigfuckingbrowntrout”. Saying such a thing out loud while staring hard at tense monofilament slicing green ether will automatically turn whatever is on the other end into an asshooked whitefish; such is the evil nature of river alchemy.

“He’s pullin on me pretty good”

“Just keep that line tight”

He doesn’t.

“Larry go git yer camera out I wanna get a picture of this fish”

He turns his attention away from the task at hand to call to his partner in the front of the boat. The line goes completely flaccid as the fish swims towards us. I dig the right oar as hard as I can, spin the ass end of the boat into the current and get his rod bent again.

“Keep the line tight!”

Shit. Ass. Whore.

You can’t call for the camera while the fish is still swimming, you might as well cut the line with your pocketknife. I hope it is the white-dog. It can’t be, not with those oil-rig headshakes. It has to be, any decent trout would have easily spit that barbless hook by now. We have to land this fish. We’re never going to land this fish.

“You seen him yet Larry? I ain’t seen nothing yet, kinda fights like a croaker”

His attention is once again severed from the fish, the first we’ve actually hooked all day,  and again the line goes utterly slack as it swim slowly and deliberately toward us.

Another violent oar-dig and Larry almost goes Greg Louganis over the side as he’s  snapping pictures of water hiding unseen scales and fins and, shit what is this anyway. Please, please don’t let this be a snagged sucker. There’s no way this is a trout.

“TIGHT LINE!”

I am all nerves and coiled spring. I am osprey staring into the green. We are gaining ground and I can see the bobber again. Was that a flash? Another run, shorter this time, he’s about done. Is that him, am I imagining it or can I actually…

“It’s a toad!”

Confirmation. No green back, no translucent fins, no pig snout. Solid brown trout hooked in the mouth.

“Don’t bring your fly line… the plastic line… into the rod tip.”

“Huh?”

It’s too late. The yellow balloon is now jammed into the top guide. The fish has come to the bow and his head is on the way up, I’ve got one shot. I am a pneumatic piston. Just as I fire the net toward the slab of gold, he throws his head out into the current and parts the line. Instead of a shower of water and an empty bag, which is what I’m expecting, the fish is in the net. I have won the lottery, I have dipnetted a 20+ inch brownie, we have absolutely no right to have caught it. It doesn’t hit the 2 foot mark like I expect but weighs in close to 5 pounds.

“Is this good?”

It’s his first day holding a fly rod, his first day on a Montana stream. They are on a family vacation to Yellowstone from Florida and decided to get a half-day guided trip. This is the first trout he’s ever caught. After that fish all we can manage to land is a 5 inch rainbow. At the end of the day, they’re disappointed. I suppose it all depends on your definition of good.

Make it a good one

OPEN THREAD! PILE ON!

Abbey on NBC from Eric Temple on Vimeo.

After G_Smolt’s thoroughly tasteless post advocating bead bouncing with a bamboo stick, we felt it was time to get back on track, appeal to our literate readers and pull this place out of the gutter.

But then, well, we got distracted.

Capr fishing explained:

Finally, a tying video without all the heavy breathing, instructional jibber-jabber and UV lamplight! And better keep that Scott dude away from your sister: he’s got fast hands, man.

Sealed drag reel? - Check.

Plastic line? - MmHmm.

Fluorocarbon? - Yup.

Gussied up 8mm bead?  - You betcha.

Bamboo rod? - Why the hell not?

Props to the Fine Bastard what made her, goofy lumps and all.

Glista’s just too good at this.

“The world was new each day for God so made it daily.” - Cormac McCarthy, The Crossing

There’s been a dearth of good news from the world lately. On the micro level, people are still fishing, still traveling, still finding maps and mazes through the latter bewilderment. The big picture has been basically shit though. BP fucked the Gulf royally, unemployment is at a 60 year high, the national political scene looks like Room 8 of the local high school where the deliquents, incompetents and developmentally challenged are warehoused for 4 years and “not getting worse” is considered “getting better”.

Maybe that is why, while reading through this morning’s news, the latest entry in the Times Editorial Notebook caught my attention.  

“A couple of weeks ago, I walked along a spring creek in the upper Madison Valley, just south of the town of Ennis, Mont. As my guide, Jeff Laszlo, explained, the creek is one of the unnamed tributaries of the Madison River, fed by innumerable springs along the valley’s rich bottomland. The creek meanders for miles before it reaches the Madison, gaining water, providing spawning grounds for fish and invaluable wetland habitat for birds. I looked on in disbelief, because the section we were hiking — nearly eight miles of cold, clear waters — did not exist before 2005.

Or rather, it existed until 1951, when Jeff Laszlo’s grandfather dewatered this section of land by digging canals to draw the water along the edge of one of the alluvial benches that define the Madison Valley. His purpose was to move water to other sections of his ranch and to improve the grazing. In the narrow agricultural logic of the time, his ditches made a certain economic sense. And if it seems strange that his grandson would undo all that work 60-some years later, Laszlo notes that he is simply obeying a different economic logic — one that considers increased biodiversity to be one of the ranch’s most important assets.”

Granted, restoration on the spring creek was done to start a pay to play fishing operation on the ranch, but this is not the Beaver. Instead of privateering a public waterway, Jeff Laszlo restored what had once been obliterated. It feels good to read about 8 miles or so of trout stream being added and not destroyed. We need more of this.