Everyone breathe a collective sigh, bow your heads, and pay respect to our friends down south in California. The situation in CA has become dire as salmon seasons become things of memory. It saddens me because that is how I spent time with my dad, swaying to the swells outside the Golden Gate, mooching and trolling herring and anchovies for a flash of silver and the rip of mono off the salt-crusted reel. I sincerely feel for the folks that survived on recreational fishing, and for the commercial peeps that are probably looking north by northwest for more hallowed grounds. Unfortunately, neither can rely on what was once a bountiful industry nor should either consider the future filled with fish.
Give thanks my friends that we have not met such a circumstance as of yet. But be warned that our future could hold a decision similar should we not properly manage what we do have now.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Saturday, February 21, 2009
The Great Divide
The age old debate of rural vs. urban lifestyle was once again put to print and ponder on SFGate.com this week. Mr. Stienstra eloquently illustrates the division between those who live a 'rural' lifestyle and those who prefer an 'urban' haunt.
Read about it here, and debate within yourself or with those around you.
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2009/02/15/SPAV15SC2J.DTL&type=living
Read about it here, and debate within yourself or with those around you.
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2009/02/15/SPAV15SC2J.DTL&type=living
Monday, February 16, 2009
You Can Learn A Lot From A Monster Truck
I am not into cars. Never really had much of a passion for them. I admire vintage cars for their styling, new cars for their efficiencies and amenities, and trucks for being practical, but they are only a tool for me overall.
Sunday took the family and I to the Monster Jam at the Rose Garden. Not my first choice for an event to visit, but the kids thought it would be fun and the wife gathered a few others to join who had been before. I was surprised they wanted to go back. Hey, the price was right and the kids were anxious. That was enough for me.
The smell of exhaust choked the arena, and it hadn't even started yet. The sound, or insane decibel-bending motor noise, was destroying my ears. The kids were excited. I mean, this was cool dad.
It started with some locals running their elderly, disheveled rides around a makeshift circuit in a whirlwind of 14 second flashes that dizzied the crowd. Hoots and hollers abound as these die hard, gritty men rallied their ancient relics one after another. I must admit, I was impressed. A man from Stayton, Oregon named his ride 'The Cornfield Corvette.' That made my day. He was creative, and crazy! A seasoned, bearded logger, fitting the description of, well, a logger, drove his mid-70's Ford truck to the win on this day. A well deserved win my friends. This guy had heart like you couldn't believe.
The Monster Trucks were driven by real guys. Guys that addressed the fans throughout the event, throwing T-shirts to kids clamoring for them, and thanking the jubilant, choking, deaf crowd whenever they could (good thing I can read lips). They drove their ridiculous rides into vertical suspension, landing on wrecked cars that looked like the guy from Stayton's truck. How in the world a vehicle of that proportion could get that high in the air is beyond me, but it was fun to watch. Yes, I said it, FUN. My wife and I were laughing and cheering for a truck that looked like a dog - think Shag Wagon from Dumb & Dumber on steroids. A lot of steroids. It was ridiculous, frightening, over-the-top mechanized entertainment that actually delivered. But most importantly, the men involved were authentic and at least seemed to care about those who paid admission to see this spectacle of nonsense. I admire them for that. I admire the driver of Grave Digger shaking our kids' hands after he hiked his butt high into the stands (yea, discounted tickets, we're cheap). That is cool, and I have new found respect for the industry overall.
I most likely won't go to this event again. I would prefer to fish in clean air, listening to a stream, hearing the red wing blackbird croon, and not lose my hearing for a day. However, I will always remember my monster truck experience fondly and respect the men and women who perform for the audience. They were true to their craft, and true to their fans...
Sunday took the family and I to the Monster Jam at the Rose Garden. Not my first choice for an event to visit, but the kids thought it would be fun and the wife gathered a few others to join who had been before. I was surprised they wanted to go back. Hey, the price was right and the kids were anxious. That was enough for me.
The smell of exhaust choked the arena, and it hadn't even started yet. The sound, or insane decibel-bending motor noise, was destroying my ears. The kids were excited. I mean, this was cool dad.
It started with some locals running their elderly, disheveled rides around a makeshift circuit in a whirlwind of 14 second flashes that dizzied the crowd. Hoots and hollers abound as these die hard, gritty men rallied their ancient relics one after another. I must admit, I was impressed. A man from Stayton, Oregon named his ride 'The Cornfield Corvette.' That made my day. He was creative, and crazy! A seasoned, bearded logger, fitting the description of, well, a logger, drove his mid-70's Ford truck to the win on this day. A well deserved win my friends. This guy had heart like you couldn't believe.
The Monster Trucks were driven by real guys. Guys that addressed the fans throughout the event, throwing T-shirts to kids clamoring for them, and thanking the jubilant, choking, deaf crowd whenever they could (good thing I can read lips). They drove their ridiculous rides into vertical suspension, landing on wrecked cars that looked like the guy from Stayton's truck. How in the world a vehicle of that proportion could get that high in the air is beyond me, but it was fun to watch. Yes, I said it, FUN. My wife and I were laughing and cheering for a truck that looked like a dog - think Shag Wagon from Dumb & Dumber on steroids. A lot of steroids. It was ridiculous, frightening, over-the-top mechanized entertainment that actually delivered. But most importantly, the men involved were authentic and at least seemed to care about those who paid admission to see this spectacle of nonsense. I admire them for that. I admire the driver of Grave Digger shaking our kids' hands after he hiked his butt high into the stands (yea, discounted tickets, we're cheap). That is cool, and I have new found respect for the industry overall.
I most likely won't go to this event again. I would prefer to fish in clean air, listening to a stream, hearing the red wing blackbird croon, and not lose my hearing for a day. However, I will always remember my monster truck experience fondly and respect the men and women who perform for the audience. They were true to their craft, and true to their fans...
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
NW Sportsman Show
We wish to thank all in attendance for coming by and seeing us last week at the show. As many of you can see, we're still a young company but have grown up a lot since our introduction last year. Many of you commented on how we continue to innovate and fill a needed void in the industry. It was good to hear and validation that we have the right idea!
Some news to speak of:
Rugged Maps are available for the entire US, however, we have focused on the western half of the US (12 states). Some of the data is still being retrieved and such so please be patient on that matter. We will get as many states posted as fast as we can.
Derek Fergus will be heading up some seminars at the Redmond show in March. One not to miss will be his elk calling seminar. Please be sure to schedule that on your trip to the show.
Tuna Bags! Our tuna bags are ready to go. We are currently producing them to order but have some prototypes available at discounted prices if someone wants one! Give us a call!
Outside of that, things are humming along. We should have some news on the long-awaited pack shortly too! Talk to you soon!
Some news to speak of:
Rugged Maps are available for the entire US, however, we have focused on the western half of the US (12 states). Some of the data is still being retrieved and such so please be patient on that matter. We will get as many states posted as fast as we can.
Derek Fergus will be heading up some seminars at the Redmond show in March. One not to miss will be his elk calling seminar. Please be sure to schedule that on your trip to the show.
Tuna Bags! Our tuna bags are ready to go. We are currently producing them to order but have some prototypes available at discounted prices if someone wants one! Give us a call!
Outside of that, things are humming along. We should have some news on the long-awaited pack shortly too! Talk to you soon!
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Strike Indicator on Strike
When I drive through my small town I live in, I find myself looking at the little creek that at this time of year swells heavy with spillage from a small dam upstream. I have heard of a lot of folks fishing the creek when steelhead and salmon are making their way up nearby larger tributaries to the Columbia. Seems these fish will scurry upstream here for some reason only known to them. It is hard to imagine they realize where they are. This creek runs shallow even at high water, but the spawning ground is plenty, and the creek's only real enemy is of course human trash, which I found plenty of today. I am amazed at the filth we create, and what's worse, our deliberate and audacious refusal to clean up after ourselves.
I slid down the incline to get to the water's edge. Blackberries covered the hillside as did some ankle twisters and flood debris from a few weeks ago. The near vertical wall made for a sloppy ride down, with some thorny reminders left behind for me to remove later. I reached the bank and noticed the current moving at a slick pace with a nice foam line drifting the far seam, about 40 feet away. The tree cover makes casting difficult. After a few attempts, I realized I might try another approach. I walked as far upstream as I could, dog in tow, just prior to where the creek splits into multiple channels that I was not willing to risk a jump over. This is when I realized I should have put the waders on back at the truck. Regardless, I reached a fairly open space where I could cast and roll cast further into the stream. I made my first cast and watched my indicator (a bobber folks, a bobber) drift along with a nymph below. My strategy, since there were few places to cast adequately, was to cast, roll cast, roll cast again until I was sufficiently on the outside seam and walked out the entire drift, mending along the way. The drift was about 200 yards long and on the first run I watched the indicator bury itself. With a quick, easy tug I attempted to set the hook. I felt a familiar tremor at the end of the line but it was short lived and away my prey went. Rinse, and repeat.
Back at the truck I met guy going for a bike ride. This has no particular meaning in this entry.
I drove over to a popular run on the Washougal. I had never fished this stretch before, rather I tend to migrate away from crowds. Tucking the fly rod under the back seat, I got the 10' spinning rod out, dressed it out in dropper jig and bead, and proceeded to what I had always heard was a good spot for metal heads. The dog followed closely, stick in mouth, assuming I was there to play fetch. I threw the stick every once in a while just to keep him interested, but I really intended to fish the run without interruption. I paced the run out, drifting my float vertical through about 150 yards of water. I had passed a fly guy on the way down the river bed, exchanging a few pleasantries. He was unsuccessful. So was I.
I drove over to another tail out upstream a bit. A juicy little number where the fish flop when the river is stacked. (OK, I embellished a bit there, but it made for dramatic effect.) Watched my float (Strike Indicator) completely unaffected by anything below it. Get in the truck and drive upstream some more. I make it to the usual hole, a place where in summer I can literally see the few steelhead around swim along the ledge rock in 8 feet of water. Today was the exception. I did see all 8 feet of water though. Floated the jig through a few times before I retreated to my truck to consider moving upstream again.
I went home. The Super Bowl would be on in the neighborhood and the kids would probably like to have dad back at this point. We would finish homework and have a nice dinner my wife made prior to reading before bedtime. That's where I'm at now, wondering when I can go watch my bobber again...
I slid down the incline to get to the water's edge. Blackberries covered the hillside as did some ankle twisters and flood debris from a few weeks ago. The near vertical wall made for a sloppy ride down, with some thorny reminders left behind for me to remove later. I reached the bank and noticed the current moving at a slick pace with a nice foam line drifting the far seam, about 40 feet away. The tree cover makes casting difficult. After a few attempts, I realized I might try another approach. I walked as far upstream as I could, dog in tow, just prior to where the creek splits into multiple channels that I was not willing to risk a jump over. This is when I realized I should have put the waders on back at the truck. Regardless, I reached a fairly open space where I could cast and roll cast further into the stream. I made my first cast and watched my indicator (a bobber folks, a bobber) drift along with a nymph below. My strategy, since there were few places to cast adequately, was to cast, roll cast, roll cast again until I was sufficiently on the outside seam and walked out the entire drift, mending along the way. The drift was about 200 yards long and on the first run I watched the indicator bury itself. With a quick, easy tug I attempted to set the hook. I felt a familiar tremor at the end of the line but it was short lived and away my prey went. Rinse, and repeat.
Back at the truck I met guy going for a bike ride. This has no particular meaning in this entry.
I drove over to a popular run on the Washougal. I had never fished this stretch before, rather I tend to migrate away from crowds. Tucking the fly rod under the back seat, I got the 10' spinning rod out, dressed it out in dropper jig and bead, and proceeded to what I had always heard was a good spot for metal heads. The dog followed closely, stick in mouth, assuming I was there to play fetch. I threw the stick every once in a while just to keep him interested, but I really intended to fish the run without interruption. I paced the run out, drifting my float vertical through about 150 yards of water. I had passed a fly guy on the way down the river bed, exchanging a few pleasantries. He was unsuccessful. So was I.
I drove over to another tail out upstream a bit. A juicy little number where the fish flop when the river is stacked. (OK, I embellished a bit there, but it made for dramatic effect.) Watched my float (Strike Indicator) completely unaffected by anything below it. Get in the truck and drive upstream some more. I make it to the usual hole, a place where in summer I can literally see the few steelhead around swim along the ledge rock in 8 feet of water. Today was the exception. I did see all 8 feet of water though. Floated the jig through a few times before I retreated to my truck to consider moving upstream again.
I went home. The Super Bowl would be on in the neighborhood and the kids would probably like to have dad back at this point. We would finish homework and have a nice dinner my wife made prior to reading before bedtime. That's where I'm at now, wondering when I can go watch my bobber again...
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