Minivan
04-07-2005, 03:18 AM
In Utah we can essentially fish most rivers, streams and lakes year around, so we miss the anticipation, excitement and ultimate disappointment of a traditional season opener. Other states, such as Idaho, still have a general season opener and we can get a flavor of opening day hype by going up there for the opener on Henry’s Lake or Henry’s Fork if we truly want to.
On April 1st a very good Stillwater in northern Nevada opened for the season. So a buddy and I hit the road on March 31st to be on this lake at first light on the season opener.
We stayed in Elko en route the night before to get in a little gaming, Basque food and adult entertainment prior to the big opening day. After some incredible Basque food at the Star we headed over to the Horseshoe Club for some topless action. About the third or possibly fourth dancer (stripper) of the night was an incredibly young, thin and supple tenderoni named Shasta or Shannon or something like that? Anyway she was obviously the big hit and favorite with the local miners, construction workers, drunks, perverts, rancher/cowboy/horse types. Not only was this chick a knockout to look at, but she had a sense of timing too, which is important in casting as well as striptease. During the warm up song they just sort of go through the motions before the main event or removal of the final layer. For her grand finale Shasta/Shannon chose a Tom Petty song. You know the one that goes “let’s get to the point, let’s roll another….” Well she had it timed just right so when “let’s get to the point” was being sung she would remove her top in perfect sync with the words in the song. That is timing and talent.
My buddy and I should have known the next day could only go downhill after such an incredible season opener eve. After procuring our licenses to fish on the Reservation we hit the lake at roughly 8:30 a.m. Right off the bat I had a sick sense the fishing was going to be below average. The water was off color, the sky was dark and overcast and a nagging breeze was already kicking up. Sure enough after about two hours of fishing it was obvious the fish were off the bite and the action was about as soft as Shasta/Shannon’s breasts. By noon the nagging breeze had turned up a knot or two and it was getting hard to properly retrieve the fly or even hold a position in our pontoon boats. And the fishing was mediocre at best. Maybe every half hour or forty five minutes we would get a fluke short strike or a fish. Around 2:00 I pretty much had enough. My buddy rowed in as well and we got out of the hammer like wind and just sat in my truck, ate our lunch and stared out the window. With nothing on the radio to listen to and no real fishing success stories to talk about, my buddy broke out a few recent fly fishing magazines and mail order catalogs from his duffel bag. Normally I don’t read or subscribe to fishing magazines, but in this case I had no choice. Since I only have an 8th grade education and the remedial reading skills of a 13 year old, I tend to look at the pictures and advertisements more than actually reading the articles.
I guess somewhere in the last five years or so I didn’t realize fly fishing had become an Xtreme sport. Sort of like cage fighting, base jumping or rock climbing. If you look at and read the advertisements in Fly Fisherman magazine or the Orvis catalog it appears a fly fisherman’s life is in danger on every outing. Look at this month’s Sage advertisement. Here you have some rogue Xtreme fly fisherman talking to himself, via an intense inner monologue. It appears from the advertisement this guy may not make it back to his truck alive!! He is pushing the envelope and living on the edge of danger, one last cast, one last fish before night falls in. He questions in his mind if he can even find his way out and if he can find his vehicle because he is so obsessed with catching one last 13” fish before total darkness! Then you have the trout bum in the Rio fly line ads. This stud apparently lives in an Airstream trailer and survives on a diet of canned spaghetti!! The advertisements go on and on. The message being fly fishermen are a sick and driven breed that is willing to risk their life just to catch a fish. Even the cover on the spring 2005 Vol. 3A Orvis catalog cover shows two fly fishermen walking precariously over a rain soaked and slick boulder field trying to get to a remote river. A Patagonia ad shows a woman fly fisherman in obvious peril, clutching on for dear life as she holds a box of flies in her clenched teeth!!!
Then it hit me. I am a wimp and I’m not a true fly fisherman. I sat there feeling the gale force wind gently rock my truck back and forth. If I was like the trout bum in the Rio ads I would be out there on the lake bobbing up and down like a cork until I was overcome with motion sickness. Then I would kick in to shore on rubbery legs and glassy eyes and puke all over my waders. Then I would wash them off in the cold lake and kick back out there and keep fishing. Then the Rio ads would say “fly floatant-caked t-shirts and beer-stained fishing hats and vomit-stained waders”. But I’m a damn wimp. The whole time I was in my truck taking refuge from the cold and gale force winds I wasn’t thinking about sleeping in an Airstream trailer or opening up a can of spaghetti. I was thinking about getting bloated on Basque food, and sleeping in a warm bed. And I was thinking quite a bit about Shasta’s breasts….
On April 1st a very good Stillwater in northern Nevada opened for the season. So a buddy and I hit the road on March 31st to be on this lake at first light on the season opener.
We stayed in Elko en route the night before to get in a little gaming, Basque food and adult entertainment prior to the big opening day. After some incredible Basque food at the Star we headed over to the Horseshoe Club for some topless action. About the third or possibly fourth dancer (stripper) of the night was an incredibly young, thin and supple tenderoni named Shasta or Shannon or something like that? Anyway she was obviously the big hit and favorite with the local miners, construction workers, drunks, perverts, rancher/cowboy/horse types. Not only was this chick a knockout to look at, but she had a sense of timing too, which is important in casting as well as striptease. During the warm up song they just sort of go through the motions before the main event or removal of the final layer. For her grand finale Shasta/Shannon chose a Tom Petty song. You know the one that goes “let’s get to the point, let’s roll another….” Well she had it timed just right so when “let’s get to the point” was being sung she would remove her top in perfect sync with the words in the song. That is timing and talent.
My buddy and I should have known the next day could only go downhill after such an incredible season opener eve. After procuring our licenses to fish on the Reservation we hit the lake at roughly 8:30 a.m. Right off the bat I had a sick sense the fishing was going to be below average. The water was off color, the sky was dark and overcast and a nagging breeze was already kicking up. Sure enough after about two hours of fishing it was obvious the fish were off the bite and the action was about as soft as Shasta/Shannon’s breasts. By noon the nagging breeze had turned up a knot or two and it was getting hard to properly retrieve the fly or even hold a position in our pontoon boats. And the fishing was mediocre at best. Maybe every half hour or forty five minutes we would get a fluke short strike or a fish. Around 2:00 I pretty much had enough. My buddy rowed in as well and we got out of the hammer like wind and just sat in my truck, ate our lunch and stared out the window. With nothing on the radio to listen to and no real fishing success stories to talk about, my buddy broke out a few recent fly fishing magazines and mail order catalogs from his duffel bag. Normally I don’t read or subscribe to fishing magazines, but in this case I had no choice. Since I only have an 8th grade education and the remedial reading skills of a 13 year old, I tend to look at the pictures and advertisements more than actually reading the articles.
I guess somewhere in the last five years or so I didn’t realize fly fishing had become an Xtreme sport. Sort of like cage fighting, base jumping or rock climbing. If you look at and read the advertisements in Fly Fisherman magazine or the Orvis catalog it appears a fly fisherman’s life is in danger on every outing. Look at this month’s Sage advertisement. Here you have some rogue Xtreme fly fisherman talking to himself, via an intense inner monologue. It appears from the advertisement this guy may not make it back to his truck alive!! He is pushing the envelope and living on the edge of danger, one last cast, one last fish before night falls in. He questions in his mind if he can even find his way out and if he can find his vehicle because he is so obsessed with catching one last 13” fish before total darkness! Then you have the trout bum in the Rio fly line ads. This stud apparently lives in an Airstream trailer and survives on a diet of canned spaghetti!! The advertisements go on and on. The message being fly fishermen are a sick and driven breed that is willing to risk their life just to catch a fish. Even the cover on the spring 2005 Vol. 3A Orvis catalog cover shows two fly fishermen walking precariously over a rain soaked and slick boulder field trying to get to a remote river. A Patagonia ad shows a woman fly fisherman in obvious peril, clutching on for dear life as she holds a box of flies in her clenched teeth!!!
Then it hit me. I am a wimp and I’m not a true fly fisherman. I sat there feeling the gale force wind gently rock my truck back and forth. If I was like the trout bum in the Rio ads I would be out there on the lake bobbing up and down like a cork until I was overcome with motion sickness. Then I would kick in to shore on rubbery legs and glassy eyes and puke all over my waders. Then I would wash them off in the cold lake and kick back out there and keep fishing. Then the Rio ads would say “fly floatant-caked t-shirts and beer-stained fishing hats and vomit-stained waders”. But I’m a damn wimp. The whole time I was in my truck taking refuge from the cold and gale force winds I wasn’t thinking about sleeping in an Airstream trailer or opening up a can of spaghetti. I was thinking about getting bloated on Basque food, and sleeping in a warm bed. And I was thinking quite a bit about Shasta’s breasts….