dissed by the mormons; or, big sky, big fish, and renda ruins the subaru...

i had been west three times, before this trip. once to tucson, back in
'73, to visit a colleague of mine who had originally come to the old north
state to save his client and rescue about a hundred grand in, um, somewhat
shady funds. that's a long story, not to be told herein. at any rate, i
aided in the successful reaquisition of the cash, and was rewarded, *inter
alia*, with a trip out to arizona. it was in the fall, a time of crisp
mornings and beautifully clear days in the sonoran desert. i was young and
foolish, and bought a cowboy hat and boots. still have the boots.
next time was a grotesque, gonzoid wallow in the northwestern corner of
montana, just a few miles from the intersection of british columbia and
idaho. me, krazy konrad, my cousin dash riprock hedrick, and james mcdonald
roberts. again, long story short: the trip was advertised as a combo trout
fishing/grouse hunting bonanza, at an orvis approved lodge. the reality
was, there warn't a decent fish to be spooked within thirty miles of the
lodge; but the grouse hunting was sick, with pamlico jim rolling them on the
ground, in the air, and everywhere in between, and the cook doing delicious
work, in the kitchen, and elsewhere. but, that's another story, for another
time, as well. we called her "dallas alice". i don't believe she was a
mormon. if she was before, she wasn't after being...changed...
the real deal about western fishing was finally reavealed to me when my
eldest son, ash, took me to his friend's condo in dillon, colorado, near the
blue river, in 1992. it was a really fine fishery, and one that was
relatively easy for me to understand. it was sorta like snowbird creek, but
about three times as wide, and twice as deep, in places. still, there were
big rocks, and plunge pools, and definable runs, and slicks, and eddys, all
of which could be waded, with some caution. little trude caddis and
reasonable stealth were all a man needed to catch enormous trout.
thus, to the instant event, energized by the hope of seeing a pretty
place in the company of a bright and pretty woman, and sharing some time
astream, and otherwise, with some entertaining fellow travelers. and i will
be damned if all those possibilities weren't realized. the country through
which the madison river runs must be the heart of montana: a gorgeous
panoply of long running plains almost smothered in sagebrush, and hills like
green elephants (thank you, papa), protected on all sides by sometimes
frightening rocky sentinels, splashed with the remnants of snowfalls that
might have fallen when my daddy was a child.
the first thing one notices about this water (the madison, i mean) is
its strength. according to local information, the river was running at a
moderate level. sure. let me put it this way: if i had essayed a casting
position in the center of the river flow across from the slide inn, our
residence, at 10am, i would be having lunch in ennis, some thirty miles
downstream. you fish the braids, the shorelines, the eddys--in short, the
edges of this water.
but, when you catch a fish, it is thick, long, and strong. my smallest
catch was a 12" brown, and my largest in excess of 19". ok, i didn't really
*catch* the big rainbow. i was sneaking up the little slough against the
bank just downstream of our cabins, when i noticed a bathtub sized
depression against the left bank. i lobbed the giant salmon fly to the head
of the tiny run, and before it floated two feet, the damn pool exploded. i
hit the big *******, and he headed diagonally upstream, through water that
was no more than a few inches deep. he looked just like one of those world
class hydroplanes, without the budweiser paint scheme: enormous wake,
skimming the surface, white water churning from his backside. me and my 5x
didn't have a chance. about twenty yards upstream he ran into some rocks
and snapped the tippet. i walked up to the little pool and watched as he
thrashed his head back and forth, in panic, trying to rid his body of the
alien needle. i reckon i could have fallen on him, and claimed a victory;
but it would have been embarrassing, having to tell the story to jeffie, and
joe, and guy, and jr, and the other boys at the campground.
which leads me to another tale, and one that has little relationship to
the singular act of fishing for trout; still, it is closely connected to the
roffian experience, as an ensemble.
word had gotten out that i had brought a guitar. a guitar and a
campground have been a combination that has promised an excellent
opportunity for cameraderie, east or west, north or south, since stings have
been plucked, and voices raised in song. so, i showed up at the campground
after dinner on wednesday, ready to rock and roll. i suppose it was 10pm or
so when the ...concert... began. i had run through about five or six
numbers, forgetting the words of only a couple songs (one of which i wrote
myself) when warren's lady ran up to me with the news that suppressions
ranging from arrest to extermination would follow if i failed to immediately
cease and desist my playing and singing. i was stunned. most of my, ahem,
"professional" career was engaged in a desperate effort to be heard above
the caterwauling that was emitted from places like "clarence's bar and
grill" in chapel hill, nc, circa 1968. such a training ground produces a
voice and guitar attack that can only be described as, well, "aggressive".
as it turned out, the source of the complaint was one of the guardians
of a group of mormon cheerleaders that were staying at the campground. i
was told that they compensated for my violation of their purity by reciting,
en masse, the next morning, the pledge of allegiance. all is well that ends
well, i reckon.
meanwhile, renda macrae speight, my lovely lady, was travelling to the
outermost limits of the kingdom in our snappy little subaru legacy rentacar.
in the five days she occupied the vehicle, 1500 miles were traversed. the
poor little thing, orignally navy blue, could have passed for a stone in the
desert, when at rest outside our cabin. but the images she collected in her
sturdy steed are varied and of high quality. not a digital in sight.
an independant woman is a thing of beauty.

thanks to all the roffian boys and girls for a wonderful few days. and
special thanks to steven, who reinforced my belief that reality is a far
better place than roff.

oh, yeah, i almost forgot: **** you, choc.

yfitons
wayno

Wayne Harrison wrote:

as it turned out, the source of the complaint was one of the guardians
of a group of mormon cheerleaders that were staying at the campground.

What were you singing? Verses to Barnacle Bill the Sailor? Damn, I wish
I'd seen that. :-)

I did, however, witness Kerosene Joe's near self-immolation from a safe
distance. If it had been a typical spring, we'd all be in jail AND in
the news, if we'd survived the conflagration, that is.

--
Cut "to the chase" for my email address.

Wayne Harrison wrote:

thus, to the instant event, energized by the hope of seeing a pretty
place in the company of a bright and pretty woman, and sharing some time
astream, and otherwise, with some entertaining fellow travelers. and i will
be damned if all those possibilities weren't realized. the country through
which the madison river runs must be the heart of montana: a gorgeous
panoply of long running plains almost smothered in sagebrush, and hills like
green elephants (thank you, papa), protected on all sides by sometimes
frightening rocky sentinels, splashed with the remnants of snowfalls that
might have fallen when my daddy was a child.

yfitons
wayno

That was really damn cool. Thank YOU, mfitons.

STeve

Damn you Wayno. Now I wish I had put a rod on the old German motorcycle
and headed that way.I sure do miss fishing the Jellystone area I have
not been there since the Western Clave in 2001. That's way too long. I
have never hit the stonefly hatch. Thanks for a great report.

Big Dale

Wayne Harrison wrote:
snip
i was sneaking up the
little slough against the bank just downstream of our cabins, when i
noticed a bathtub sized depression against the left bank. i lobbed
the giant salmon fly to the head of the tiny run, and before it
floated two feet, the damn pool exploded. i hit the big *******, and
he headed diagonally upstream, through water that was no more than a
few inches deep. he looked just like one of those world class
hydroplanes, without the budweiser paint scheme: enormous wake,
skimming the surface, white water churning from his backside.

I've been to the Western Clave in my mind several times and that's just
the way I pictured it.

Ode to the Amish Girls not withstanding, it sounds like a great time was
had by all. Great to hear.
--
TL,
Tim
(BTW, could you recall some of the lyrics for us? I'd guess there's a
bit more to this story than just bad singing. ;-) )
------------------------
http://css.sbcma.com/timj

Wayne Harrison wrote:
i had been west three times, before this trip.
very nice TR snipped

Well told, an enjoyable piece of prose. (For a Tar Heel ;-).

oh, yeah, i almost forgot: **** you, choc.

Plagiarist.

--
Ken Fortenberry

thanks to all the roffian boys and girls for a wonderful few days. and
special thanks to steven, who reinforced my belief that reality is a far
better place than roff.


yfitons
wayno


And thanks to you for a wonderful TR. Very enjoyable reading.


Dan

word had gotten out that i had brought a guitar. a guitar and a
campground have been a combination that has promised an excellent
opportunity for cameraderie, east or west, north or south, since stings
have been plucked, and voices raised in song. so, i showed up at the
campground after dinner on wednesday, ready to rock and roll.

Caught in all its glory on ABPF. The fuzzyness is due to the smoke rising
from the fingertips as Wayno serenades the vestigal virgins.


--
Frank Reid
Reverse email to reply

"Wayne Harrison" wrote in message

snipped, some freaking spectacularly evocative writing

Thanks, wayno!! I live for trip reports such as this one....
Tom

"Thomas Littleton" wrote in message
news:kxgDe.9528$YD3.261@trndny03...

"Wayne Harrison" wrote in message

snipped, some freaking spectacularly evocative writing

Thanks, wayno!! I live for trip reports such as this one....
Tom

Why am I reading this crap?