June 5th, 1976. Teton county, eastern Idaho. The dam on the Teton River failed, sending a wall of water 15 feet high and 7-8 miles wide, downstream.

11 people were killed.

Thousands of homes and businesses were destroyed.

Estimates of the damage were well over $1 billion (in 1976 $).

During construction, Trout Unlimited teamed up with other concerned groups and filed an injunction to get construction on the dam suspended, citing inadequate environmental analysis. The judge threw the injunction out, and construction continued.

One of the points raised by the coalition was insufficient examination of the porous rock on site. The porous nature of the rock that the dam was built on was noted as a key reason for the dam’s failure.

The dam failed before it had entirely filled. It continues to be the worst failure in the history of the Bureau of Reclamation.

Fast forward to today. The State of Idaho has recently granted $800,000 to research new water containment options in the upper Snake region, including considering rebuilding the Teton Dam.

The Teton River is home to a struggling population of native Yellowstone cutthroat. There are other, safer and less impactful options to address eastern Idaho’s water needs.

She won’t make the jump to light speed but the SloughVette is plenty fast.  Stealthy too.

This one’s pal saw the fly first but she jumped on it, leaving him in a puff of mud.

Come to Daddy.

Right in the kissa!

from Paul D

send yours to salty@busterwantstofish.com

Buster likes this story from Rogue Angel Loretta Rose Wylie.

“This is what the fuck happens when yew outfish yer dad on FATHERS DAY! And you win three dollars from yer daddy for playin’ buck buck buck.”

You ever had your teeth kicked in by your favorite local flow time and time again? Or the lake keeps kicking your ass no matter what you fish with and what time of day? Or the Gulf keeps producing rough seas, terrible weather, and you have to turn around and head back home limping? Watch the right boot, son. Anytime the above starts happening I usually curl up into a ball for an hour and then hit one of several farm ponds that are within 15 minutes drive from the casa. And I know what will happen. A-U-T-omatic. There’s one pond in particular that I call on, frequently. She always answers the phone and gives it up shortly. I don’t call any buddies and invite them along. I quietly get in the truck and mosey on down to her place….kinda looking around as I get out of the car. A couple casts in I start catching fish it seems like on every cast. I almost feel guilty about it, but hey, a fella’s gotta get his every now and then.

Farm ponds have an inner beauty that draws you to them. You remember every little positive feature about them. My favorite pond has a little footbridge for the livestock. The bass will bivouac on the rocks late in the day right beside and underneath that bridge. Then there’s that big rock you can stand on, from the far bank, that gives you a great cast either side of it down the bank. It’s absolutely perfectly for a slow retrieve with a popper or stealth bomber. Then you can cast a weighted bugger down by the damn and hookup time and time again. Like I said, you know what’s coming, and you still love it anyway.

You wouldn’t want to fish farm ponds all year long and nothing else. You want a little challenge. You want the chase, the unknown. You give the big girl a call when the well runs dry and you’re in a slump. She’s there for you and she asks nothing in return, except maybe a visit a little more frequently.

“A mining company was given the go-ahead by the Supreme Court on Monday to dump waste from an Alaskan gold mine into a nearby 23-acre lake, although the material will kill all of the lake’s fish.The court said that the federal government acted legally in declaring the waste left after metals are extracted from the ore as “fill material” allowing a federal permit without meeting more stringent requirements from the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency under the Clean Water Act.”

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“I look forward to spending the next 100 years trying to fix this legislation,” said California Republican Brian Bilbray.

“This is the biggest job killing bill that’s ever been on the floor of the House of Representatives. Right here, this bill,” said House Minority Leader John Boehner. “And I don’t think that’s what the American people want.”

Donning reading glasses, Boehner then delayed the roll call vote by reading page-by-page through a 300-page managers’ amendment Democrats added at around 3 a.m. on Friday. Boehner seemed to relish the hour-long stunt, picking out the bill’s most obscure language and then pontificating about what it might – or might not – mean. Republicans laughed along with him and roared with applause when he was done.”

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“Well, you might say, who cares? If cap-and-trade succeeds, won’t we all be saved from the catastrophe of global warming? Maybe - but cap-and-trade, as envisioned by Goldman, is really just a carbon tax so that private interests collect the revenues. Instead of simply imposing a fixed government levy on carbon pollution and forcing unclean energy producers to pay for the mess they make, cap-and-trade will allow a small tribe of greedy-as-hell Wall Street swine to turn yet another commodities market into a private tax-collection scheme. This is worse than the bailout: It allows the bank to seize taxpayer money before it’s even collected.”

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“They achieve this using the same playbook over and over again. The formula is relatively simple: Goldman positions itself in the middle of a speculative bubble, selling investments they know are crap. Then they hoover up vast sums from the middle and lower floors of society with the aid of a crippled and corrupt state that allows it to rewrite the rules in exchange for the relative pennies the bank throws at political patronage. Finally, when it all goes bust, leaving millions of ordinary citizens broke and starving, they begin the entire process over again, riding in to rescue us all by lending us back our own money at interest, selling themselves as men above greed, just a bunch of really smart guys keeping the wheels greased. They’ve been pulling this same stunt over and over since the 1920s - and now they’re preparing to do it again, creating what may be the biggest and most audacious bubble yet.If you want to understand how we got into this financial crisis, you have to first understand where all the money went - and in order to understand that, you need to understand what Goldman has already gotten away with. It is a history exactly five bubbles long - including last year’s strange and seemingly inexplicable spike in the price of oil. There were a lot of losers in each of those bubbles, and in the bailout that followed. But Goldman wasn’t one of them. IF AMERICA IS NOW CIRCLING THE DRAIN, GOLDMAN SACHS HAS FOUND A WAY TO BE THAT DRAIN.”
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We are living in a complete farce.

Maybe we should blow the dust off this old tract:

Perhaps the sentiments contained in the following pages, are not YET sufficiently fashionable to procure them general favour; a long habit of not thinking a thing WRONG, gives it a superficial appearance of being RIGHT, and raises at first a formidable outcry in defense of custom. But the tumult soon subsides. Time makes more converts than reason. As a long and violent abuse of power, is generally the Means of calling the right of it in question (and in Matters too which might never have been thought of, had not the Sufferers been aggravated into the inquiry) and as the King of England hath undertaken in his OWN RIGHT, to support the Parliament in what he calls THEIRS, and as the good people of this country are grievously oppressed by the combination, they have an undoubted privilege to inquire into the pretensions of both, and equally to reject the usurpation of either. In the following sheets, the author hath studiously avoided every thing which is personal among ourselves. Compliments as well as censure to individuals make no part thereof. The wise, and the worthy, need not the triumph of a pamphlet; and those whose sentiments are injudicious, or unfriendly, will cease of themselves unless too much pains are bestowed upon their conversion. The cause of America is in a great measure the cause of all mankind. Many circumstances hath, and will arise, which are not local, but universal, and through which the principles of all Lovers of Mankind are affected, and in the Event of which, their Affections are interested. The laying a Country desolate with Fire and Sword, declaring War against the natural rights of all Mankind, and extirpating the Defenders thereof from the Face of the Earth, is the Concern of every Man to whom Nature hath given the Power of feeling; of which Class, regardless of Party Censure, is the AUTHOR.

http://www.ushistory.org/PAINE/commonsense/sense1.htm

“…I’ve come to realize that we love and venerate salmonids because they supposedly possess the traits that we’d like to ascribe to our own beings; sleekness, nobility, smarts, discernment and beauty. But the largemouth bass, with its pugnacity and straightforwardness, its big mouth, its lack of discrimination at the dinner table and the resultant bulge at the waist, just might be a more honest reflection…”

- Monte Burke, excerpted from his essay, “Bass Fishermen” in the Spring/Summer ‘09 issue of The Drake, now available at finer literary establishments. Git some.

from Brian M

send yours to salty@busterwantstofish.com

Freely admit we’re none-too-big on schilling for the man, but in this case that man’s holding the keys to a badass week of the above. On the house, in trade for your email address.

On the menu: Big kings on the swing. Or silvers on poppers, or giant rainbows on mice, dollies, grayling or chum and there’s not much we wouldn’t do for any of that hot, sexy action. Seriously, folks. Seven days and six nights of fully guided fishing at Alaska West with all the food you can eat. All you gotta do is get yourself to Quinhagak, AK (which you can do for free, as well, with 32,500 Alaska Airline miles) and tip your guides well (which you cannot do for free unless you are a female).

Figured seven days of permafrost permawood might be something you junkies would be into, so scoot your eyes on over to Deneki’s blogsite, concede your email address in trade for their weekly newsletter (which is a pretty badass read anyway) and you’ll be entered into a drawing for a free, laser awesome week so laser awesome you’ll think of an even better word to describe it than laser awesome.

From the skilled hands of long-time Buster compadre Jay H. comes one of the stylier ways to get to the river we’ve laid eyes on:

The box measures 40″ x 20″ x 10″, all aluminum frame/rack, bed is marine grade ply, sides are mahogany, w/3 coats of varnish, 16″ wheels. According to Jay, the whole rig weighs 24lbs. soaking wet, will carry 40lbs. with ease and parking isn’t much of a problem.

Complete wiff rod tubes, which can hold up to 3 rods each:

Extra points for the Buster sticker on the back. Well done, sir.

Down goes the Yellowstone Club, and the NY Times is there to write a fawning, bizzaro obituary both for the club and its nut case owners. A case of just desserts for the ultra rich? Jealous vengence? A morality play set upon the gates of Yellowstone? A warning to other knuckleheads attempting to do the same thing in other, much less desirable settings (Yes, I’m looking at you, Red’s Fly Shop/Canyon River Ranch)? Whatever you may wish to call it, please do enjoy the wreckage, anglers!

“Some homes had private elevators, wine cellars, movie theaters and spas, and one spec house — called the River Runs Through It home — featured an all-glass passageway to the guest quarters with a heated river flowing beneath it. For a while, the club had $1,000-a-head New Year’s Eve bashes, a sommelier and concierge service.”

In my boat, being on the sticks means carrying a multitude of responsibilities. Aside from safely piloting the boat downstream, you are also expected to hold position off those banks, backrow hard in the money water, keep her nice and straight so Billy in the back can chuck his eight inch streamer under the willows without putting a size four Gamakatsu stinger in your noggin and ensure that all adult beverages are cold and fresh. Everyone else in the boat is fishing, We have our hands full. In fact, during the late spring/early summer melee of dyed bunnies swimming and four inch orange exoskeletons flying, the guys in the leglocks are barely allowed time to guzzle malted goodness between casts, much less pause to dig through coolers piled with aluminum corpses so, deal with it. Keep your head down, the cooler’s getting light, the buzzes are getting heavy and the hooks aren’t getting any smaller. Pull hard, you have to get over to that far bank to hit those flooded bushes, where you know piggy brown is busy mowing down her smaller brethren and…wait, that’s a salmonfly. Hand me the six weight with the floating line. No the six weight, it’s under the nine and on top of the four. Hurry the fuck up, I just saw a serious take next to those bushes.

Get back on the sticks dude, slow this beast down, I need to make a cast up in there. Remember, the only thing separating me from you is two fish landed, the faster you get me in position to make those casts, the sooner you’ll be up here.

Don’t know if it’s the lack of sleep, the non-lack of brown liquids or the sinister, ass-whupping fish, but it’s getting diabolically stupid up here really, as evidenced by the Hickmanimal’s Blast-off Lambata seen above and the footrace between Dirty T and I that happened roughly around 1 a.m. last night and looked a lot more like a foot stumble. Just what happens when you unleash some boys and let them play on a camp bar fulla laughter.

Beautiful animal, it’s become; everything starting to run together. Hooligan all over the shallow insides, kings and a few chum just outside the hooly traveling lanes. Lines muddied between guides and just plain friends you really don’t mind spending a day with and us insisting the guides bring a rod each day. Wouldn’t have it any other way, really.

Knew I was deep in the AK West funkaholica yesterday afternoon, eyes heavy between swings and pretty sure I fell asleep until my arm got ripped off by yet another bright chinook. Black and blue’s been best, with pink and orange a close second. Blue and chatruese, too. And pink, but make sure you’ve got black and chartreuse. That’s about all you really need to worry about up this way. If sure you’ve got your colors and they swim sexy, the rest has a way of working things out so long as you scream Blast-off evertime you get lit the fuck up. That’s the mojo word, and you can never have enough of that greasy goodness.

More later. Dinnertime and I’m beatdown tired, but something tells me I’ll end up in waders staring into a bright neverending sun shortly after my guts are stuffed silly with vittles, swinging a fly and blasting the hell way the mother eff off.

A guy once told me kings don’t eat flies. That guy was dumb:

Huckmama, babydoll sweet girl, I hope you’re hungry ’cause there’s quite a few of these headed into the backyard smoker in a few days:

We were somewhere around Ashton on the edge of the lower Henry’s Fork when the drugs began to take hold. Drugs, in this case, being obscene amounts of high-octane caffeine as an antidote to yesterday’s profusion of cheap beer, the rapid intake of which started immediately following breakfast and which still seems to linger in our systems like the occasional engine pinging you get from budget gasoline. I remember saying something like, “I feel like that hippie behind the counter back in Jackson dosed my burrito; maybe you should drive…”

Day 5 of a bender – a blur of stumbling in the rain down barely existent trails to obscure sections of otherwise famous rivers, of long days in driftboats, a bass tournament, convenience store sausage and egg breakfasts, smelly gear, smellier dogs and even smellier humans, of fishing as the reason for the expenditure of every bit of energy and cash we could muster. There was a brief moment in the haze of day 4 when my toes dangled over the greasy precipice of truly seeing this thing through till it ran into the ground, however long and wherever that might take me (even if it meant Utah…), and damn the reasons for turning back. And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us and the sky was full of what looked like huge bats, which turned out to be stoneflies, all swooping and screeching and diving around the truck, which was going about a hundred miles an hour with the pedal to the metal through a rainstorm toward Last Chance….

from Paul M.

Been a full two years since I laid greazy eyes on the Ktok or man Jim Palmersheim, and I gotta say, it was a pretty fitting start to the trip when he damn near parked the boat on upper Ziggy Bar pointing out all the spots he’s seen the kings rolling in the last few days.  Two there, one there, five here and so it went, as did the drool spilling south down my chin, onto my wading jacket, into the wind and all over Dirty T’s sunglasses. The fish, mosquitos and Covich Brothers, clearly showing en masse and way gotdamn early, the latter at peak stink already. Normally, it’s June 13th before it goes off balls deep. This year, blubbers showed on the 10th. Holding fish. Wide, fatass chromers still wearing a hella good amount of sea-lice party attire. Such a good news when kicking off the rolling badassness that is North Pacific Kanektok King Parade on AK West’s first week.

The next morning’s badassness, notsomuch, and it’s all Andrew’s fault. We’ll get to that.

Like a band of four hormonal 9th graders looking to pop the load, the Hickmanimal, Dirty T the Pokey Puppy, BioRob Elaminator and I arrive to find the Ktok at its perfect diabolical green, water up and insides soooo super soft, kings even rolling behind our tents in Flag Channel and we’re squirrely as all hell. No amount of brown liquor was gonna quell our massive swell, and when a kid’s gotta get himself into some waders, a kid gets wadered up, grabs a 12’ 5wt. and goes out and pummels rainbows in the backchannel until 1 a.m. Just how it had to go down. Something wholly surreal about swinging a fly at midnight with sunglasses on.

Got somewhat deep into the brown last night post-backchannel session but actually, despite Dirty T’s intermittent throat music, woke up for 7:00 breakfast at 6 with killer awesome breath. Had the collective morning king wood mega, and it needed to get blown so we all started lining rods for the day’s Chinook greeting way early and you can imagine how the rest of camp loved hearing a Hardy bark them awake while threading the guides. That’s pretty much when the Devil-incarnate Bennett drives the knife in and screws it sideways on to this miscreant quadrangle of awesome: “No, no, no, no. You boys are off the Ktok, today. Got something else planned for you. We need you to work today.” Took me at least 20 minutes to swab little Nuk Nuk’s salty tears.

“A-Rock soul session, kids. Load up your light two-handers and be at the Creaseliner by 7:45.”

This guy actually was making us go trout fishing. On some flow called the Arolik. Swinging mouse patterns, smolts and sculpins. For gagger trout that haven’t eaten a whole helluva lot in the last four months. And there was gonna be no one to talk to, or no house or no McDonald’s or Home Depot and we were gonna be the only ones there. All day. And it had only been fished once this year. Andrew, what kinda dick are you?.

Mmmm. Morrish Mouse:

Dirty T’s rocks yet another on a egg sucking tube sculpin. This one got a little aggressive with it. Or maybe T did.

Elaminator sculps it down:

Hickmanimal with the 190840357960 A-Rock bow of his life:

Last, best and badassest of all, Garret Sullivan gets shit done proper with a 20+ lb bright king on a BellyDancer sculpin and an a 12′ 2″ Echo 5wt.

Kings tomorrow. And the next day. And, well, for the next three after that. Life is rough in the bush. Real rough. Tell mama I won’t be coming home.