The Traveler: Day One and Two

Hot K recently graced the greater Tailout, and, as he is a member of the midwest pro-staff, it was only proper and right to show the man an officially badass time. Naturally, this began with a night on the tiles, a cute waitress that K tried unsuccesfully to seduce, a Fugazi playing basement bar, an enlightening visit to the Big Willamette, and a ride home that was payed for exclusively in gold coins.

Then the fun began.














K and I have spent our fair share of rough mornings and late evenings surveying rod tips on Michigan piers, and when Tailout recon hinted at the chance for some plunk style steelhead, the urge couldn't be denied. Now, we know a thing or two about three way swivels, pyramids and big water, but we know very little about police for lease.

You see, kids, HWA Security never patrols Great Lakes pier heads.

What with the terrrrrrists plotting to rape our dogs and beat our wimminz, you never know what kind of fear to look out for. Moslems could be at our gates, commies could be in our schools, hippies could be fishing the Columbia after five pm. The thought of these threats sound like a siren to our men and women in private security uniform, a ringing call to duty in a land beset with criminals. Enter Napolean, and Bob.

"Hey, you boys come up here, and bring the rods."

"You got it"

"There's no fishing after 5. Stop right there"

"My apologies guys, we thought this was open to fishing until dark."

"I'm going to need your fishing licenses and ID. Yeah, all of you. A ranger will contact you in the morning if he feels it's necessary"

"What kind of ranger? State game enforcement, US Fish and Wildlife?"

"Ahhh uh, a Federal Ranger. A federal ranger. Yeah, he'll call you."

I don't know if it was the black hat with "SECURITY" in puff letters across the front, the remarkably dim gaze, or the lack of lucid conversational skill, but Napolean was starting to show his hand. I got out a pen and paper

"OK, so you've got our info and we'll be on our way, but could I have your names first."

Silence. Until a low grunt passed napoleans throat, and a word.

"Why?"

"Because I always ask for identification in these situations."

"Wwell we don't have to give it to you."

"You mean you legally don't have to provide us with your name?"

"Nno, not really."

Not really?

Now, there's a point where one in our situation realizes that even if you wanted to fight it on prinicipal and you're pretty damned sure you'd make it good, the man in the suit still has you tight by the gonads. So the Tailout took the high road to a beer and a good story and we just let it be. But somewhere theres a federal ranger with our names, and Napolean is still a dirty son of a bitch.

Dear o' the track,

On account of the mind bending power slam perpetrated on me by NU ghostfish, I'll be returning an altered angler.

Hit the nuggets.

-NRK

Have you seen the Klick' lately? How about the Hood?

No, and I've been single for months, but I'm fixing to play around with the D' before long.

Tailout personnel are currently tying things up in the west in preparation for tying things on in the east. At 12oo hours, the Master Craftsman himself reported to Tailout's R&D lab with a full recon report on the Gorge fisheries, the state of the third world, proper cola flavoring, OPEC, missing fly boxes, scandi line rear tapers, PNAC conspiracy theories, and the oft unheralded benefits of 3/0 mustads. I was able to pay attention just long enough to learn that today's intended destination was awash in untold amounts of glacial silt. Fuck.

No matter, Indestructatruck's navigation systems will be reprogrammed, the proper gear will be requisitioned, and some sexy little flies will be swung.

Olive Wooly Buggers and Blue Fly Lines: A Discourse On Proper Rations, Gear, Clothing, Transport and Technique

Tied it, bagged it, looped it, lined it, patched it, found it, used it, timed it.

Packed it, weighed it, spliced it, tailed it, spun it, winged it, flashed it, nailed it.

Brewed it, made it, bought it, iced it, strung it, threw it, grooved it, liked it.

Rode it, found it, set it, dosed it, woke up swung the fly and rose it.

On account of the cork dust...

Dear Sirs o' the Track,

On account of the cork dust, I won't be making it to the previously discussed pig roasting, hamster neutering and string bean throwing festival scheduled for 19-27 July, the year of our lord 2008. Allow me to offer my most synthetic apologies, which I've enclosed in this letter in the form of two pubic hairs, six shards of what was once a tapered carbon fibre tube, one used hankie, several thousand morel mushroom spores, five PBR tallboy tabs, and a poorly tied Blue Charm.

In lieu of your exceptionally exasperating events, my attentions will turn instead to a higher power and a lower latitude. Know that I couldn't want you any less, and as my automobile turns south and my leader turns over and my bottle turns upside down and a 'head turns on my skunk, I won't stop for a moment to turn my mind off and remember what I'm missing.

Adieu.

-NRK

New Year

Tailout headquarters are occupied once again after an extended fact finding, beer drinking and fish catching mission to the motherland. I certainly love the woods and water of Michigan with a passion born of lily pads on the lakeshore, whitetail deer, cedar swamps, fox tracks in the snow and late evening popper trips for bluegill, but it's awfully nice to be back in the Northwest. I won't pretend that winter steelhead season doesn't have something to do with the joyful nature of my return.

When in Rome you do as the Romans do, and when in Michigan I get down and dirty with flat bottom boats, four wheel drive trucks, pac boots, and hot'n'tots. Fuck yes.

14 inches of fresh snow on the ramp? Grab your oars and salt, and work for it.

Nice work on the big ass brown, Karl. It was a beautiful fish. Guess where it came from, kids? Yup, the tailout.