My wife took the kid to work with her to leave me some peace and quiet so I could study. I was working on an advanced degree and no one had told me how tough that Masters stuff was. I needed all the study time I could get. They left out the door at 11:30, at 11:40 I had the pontoon boat in the venerable fishing car, along with a selection of rods and new flies to try out.
Got to the lake by noon. There was a bit of a wind picking up but not too bad, about 10 to 15 knots. I filled one bladder on the pontoon boat and while starting to fill the other, the wonderful, new car-battery-powered inflator crapped out. No worries Mate, I had a small hand pump for just such emergencies.
Unfortunately, I forgot the old trick of "try it at home first stupid." Pump, pump, pump.. gasp, gasp, gasp. It was like powering the QEII with a Briggs and Stratton.
After trying to beg a few shots of pure O2 from the paramedics having a picnic there (no dice), I was ready for another attempt. But first, I tried to convince them that I could fill the thing up with all that extra oxygen on the ambulance. Again, a big no.
As an analyst, I sat back and surveyed the situation, ran a Franklin T and chucked the whole damn thing back into the wagon. I would just fish from the bank.
This unnamed lake contained some state record size smallies that were stocked in there the previous year. I'd caught 4 in the 1 to 3 lb range earlier in the week in the shallows with a crawfish pattern. The water was very low and all the shore structure was revealed. I went to a point and climbed out on to an old, 3-foot-diameter cement culvert pipe to see if I could spot any fish in the shallows. I did see some movement about 20 feet away but couldn't tell if it was bass, carp or drum.
I cast to the spot with an unweighted size 14 nymph and stepped back. As I checked my footing I heard a muffled crack that I also felt through my feet. My movement must have broken loose the pipe from its position (it was just there as fill cement) and I immediately started an ESPN quality log rolling demonstration. The pipe started to spin down the side of the point and the water was coming up fast. With about 6 inches of pipe left above the water it finally stopped. Outdoor Games, here I come! I decided discretion was the better part of valor and attempted to vacate my post. I was thankful that I'd been wearing my new water shoes as opposed to my old clodhoppers. Gave me a much better feel as that monster rolled under me. I stepped off the pipe and the rock I stepped on rocked under my foot and I dropped straight down, straddling that culvert pipe like a bull rider.
Since I was wearing shorts, I immediately discovered what cement can do to the inside of your thighs. I also killed a ground squirrel when that disk went shooting out of my spine. I did find out that bone is actually harder than cement, because my tailbone imbedded itself in that culvert like a well placed piton.
By this time, the paramedic picnic crew was starting over to check on the old fart nailed to the pipe like a congressman on pork. I waved them away and stood up smiling. Well, at least I thought it was a smile, but probably looked more like the grimace of a rabid baboon. I finally got to my feet and moved to more secure ground.
During this whole thing, I still had my line in the water and noticed that it was moving of its own volition. I had a fish on the line and a fight on my hands. It wasn't moving that fast so I figure it was a drum.
I got the fish on the reel and fought it in. Turned out to be about a 14 inch catfish.
I got him up by my feet and reached into my vest for the pliers. At this instant, the little S.O.B. flipped over and spiked me in the ankle.
Gosh, I'm glad I was wearing my new water shoes as opposed to my old clodhoppers. My old clodhoppers would have stopped that little @$#%^& and allowed me to stomp it into fish meal. As it was, I reached down and unhooked the wretch and flipped him back in the water.
Again, the analyst in me took over and I sat back (well stood back, as sitting was out of the question), and surveyed the situation. Less than 15 minutes at the lake, my boat half inflated, compressor needs Viagra, hamburger meat for thighs, tailbone snapped with the Berlin Wall stuck to my butt, S shape of spine reversed, festering wound in ankle, one fish caught.
Then again, one cast, one fish. Makes the day a success in my book.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Seven Steps To Successful Fly Tying
Take it one step at a time. Like me, I tried to do fly fishing on the cheap. I love the sport but, due to the nature of military service (ya think I was in it for the money?) I couldn't afford all those nice things right off the bat, so I've been slowly building up (read terminal gear whore after many years).
Tying flies. I decided to learn to tie flies 'cause it had to be cheaper than buying those little bitty things. If you get the urge to tie flies to save yourself some money, here is my foolproof 7 step plan to tying flies:
Step 1: Find a nice comfortable seat at a table. Put something like plexiglass over a 2x2 foot area of the table to protect it from damage. Do not use a clamp vise on your dining room table. The spouse will find the damage, trust me.
Step 2: Get something to keep yourself organized. I use an old ashtray (don't smoke anymore) to keep small things in 'cause it has nice little indents in the sides to keep all my tools from rolling around.
Step 3: Reach into your bag and get the duct tape that you keep handy for those fishing emergencies.
Step 4: Have some one (you trust) tie you to the chair using the duct tape. Ensure that all is secure and a piece goes over your mouth.
Step 5: Have that person (you really trust) reach into you back pocket, take out your wallet and burn all the money in there in the ashtray.
Step 6: Send the person off to the ATM to max out your cards. Please make sure he has your PIN numbers before he ties you up.
Step 7: Have your buddy burn all the money from the ATM in the ashtray while screaming "Fly tying, Bad!" over and over again. Voila! You're done!
This simple 7 step plan will save you the time that you'll spend hanging out in petting zoos trying to trim that yak, stopping for road kill collection of a charcoal black ground squirrel and expounding ad nauseum on how unfair the penalty for importing polar bear pelts is to a true fly tying artist. I won't even go into the prices that people pay for a chicken skin. Or the problems that can occur when an improperly stored road kill has its own "hatch" (never, my God, never mention maggots to my wife). Burning your money in one swell foop is also cheaper in the long run. It gets it out of your system quickly and is good for your neighborhood fly merchant.
The Reid Seven-Step-Method is available as a book on tape.
Tying flies. I decided to learn to tie flies 'cause it had to be cheaper than buying those little bitty things. If you get the urge to tie flies to save yourself some money, here is my foolproof 7 step plan to tying flies:
Step 1: Find a nice comfortable seat at a table. Put something like plexiglass over a 2x2 foot area of the table to protect it from damage. Do not use a clamp vise on your dining room table. The spouse will find the damage, trust me.
Step 2: Get something to keep yourself organized. I use an old ashtray (don't smoke anymore) to keep small things in 'cause it has nice little indents in the sides to keep all my tools from rolling around.
Step 3: Reach into your bag and get the duct tape that you keep handy for those fishing emergencies.
Step 4: Have some one (you trust) tie you to the chair using the duct tape. Ensure that all is secure and a piece goes over your mouth.
Step 5: Have that person (you really trust) reach into you back pocket, take out your wallet and burn all the money in there in the ashtray.
Step 6: Send the person off to the ATM to max out your cards. Please make sure he has your PIN numbers before he ties you up.
Step 7: Have your buddy burn all the money from the ATM in the ashtray while screaming "Fly tying, Bad!" over and over again. Voila! You're done!
This simple 7 step plan will save you the time that you'll spend hanging out in petting zoos trying to trim that yak, stopping for road kill collection of a charcoal black ground squirrel and expounding ad nauseum on how unfair the penalty for importing polar bear pelts is to a true fly tying artist. I won't even go into the prices that people pay for a chicken skin. Or the problems that can occur when an improperly stored road kill has its own "hatch" (never, my God, never mention maggots to my wife). Burning your money in one swell foop is also cheaper in the long run. It gets it out of your system quickly and is good for your neighborhood fly merchant.
The Reid Seven-Step-Method is available as a book on tape.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Twelve Days of Christmas for Fly Tyers
By Mike Connor
On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me A partridge in a pear tree.
On the second day of Christmas, my true love sent to me two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the third day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, Two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Five lovely snipe, Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Six Golden plover, Five lovely snipe, Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Seven squirrel bodies, Six Golden plover, Five lovely snipe, Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Eight hare´s ears, Seven squirrel bodies, Six Golden plover, Five lovely snipe, Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the ninth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Nine perfect moleskins, Eight hare´s ears, Seven squirrel bodies, Six Golden plover, Five lovely snipe, Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Ten Brahma capes, Nine perfect moleskins, Eight hare´s ears, Seven squirrel bodies, Six Golden plover, Five lovely snipe, Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Eleven prepared pheasants, Ten Brahma capes, Nine perfect moleskins, Eight hare´s ears, Seven squirrel bodies, Six Golden plover, Five lovely snipe, Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Twelve Tawny owls, Eleven prepared pheasants, Ten Brahma capes, Nine perfect moleskins, Eight hare´s ears, Seven squirrel bodies, Six Golden plover, Five lovely snipe, Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me A partridge in a pear tree.
On the second day of Christmas, my true love sent to me two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the third day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, Two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Five lovely snipe, Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Six Golden plover, Five lovely snipe, Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Seven squirrel bodies, Six Golden plover, Five lovely snipe, Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Eight hare´s ears, Seven squirrel bodies, Six Golden plover, Five lovely snipe, Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the ninth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Nine perfect moleskins, Eight hare´s ears, Seven squirrel bodies, Six Golden plover, Five lovely snipe, Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Ten Brahma capes, Nine perfect moleskins, Eight hare´s ears, Seven squirrel bodies, Six Golden plover, Five lovely snipe, Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Eleven prepared pheasants, Ten Brahma capes, Nine perfect moleskins, Eight hare´s ears, Seven squirrel bodies, Six Golden plover, Five lovely snipe, Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Twelve Tawny owls, Eleven prepared pheasants, Ten Brahma capes, Nine perfect moleskins, Eight hare´s ears, Seven squirrel bodies, Six Golden plover, Five lovely snipe, Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Full Combat Shopping, Part 2
On my trip to beautiful Montana, I have my tying kit with me, but after fishing all day and rehydrating all evening, I'm too tired to tie. So, in standard male shopping mode (get to the store, purchase, leave), we pull into West Yellowstone. I need to buy some flies, get a Yellowstone license and info on Slough Creek in the Park.
We hit the fourth shop on the main street of town. We figure that you don't want to go to the first place you see, as they are there to grab the truly desperate. So by going to the 4th place, we'll have weeded out the places catering to the wanna-be fly fisherman. Hmm, that brewpub is up the street a bit. Maybe we'll go there after we get the stuff we need. This should only take 5 minutes.
My fishing buds and I line up at the counter to get our licenses. There's a fan blowing from the back corner of the store. A nice... cool...breezeARRRGH! I can smell it! It's... It's FEATHER PHEROMONES!
A shudder runs through my body starting at my wallet. I.. must.. resist...I...am...in... mall...uh, male shopping mode. Leave the store NOW! But I can't...A little switch has been flipped in my brain. My fishing buddies have seen this before and start screaming "INTERVENTION!" But it's no use. Jekyll and Hyde, Kent and Superman, Parker and Spiderman. They've all gone through it. I change. I am Fly Mall Shopper Man!
I shake off their restraining hands as I'm inexorably drawn to the back and sides of the store. Bins and bins of flies greet my eyes. Size 16 extended body grey drakes, tungsten cone head laced Autumn Splendors, even hair wing PMD emergers.
My fingers act on their own, pick up a gross of little plastic cups and proceed to fill them. Size 20 bead head pheasant tails embed themselves under my nails. I ignore the pain and follow the scent trail. There it is, the fan. It sits in front of the hackle display, seductively oscillating, calling my name "Frrraaaaannk, Frrraaaaannk, Frrraaaaannk" in a susurrating whisper. And next to the fan, the mother load. The discount bins. Oh, you evil fiends!
My bleeding mitts paw through the bins. 10 packs of chenille for 5 bucks, pink raffia for scuds, peach baskets full of half-priced hackle. Bwahahahahahahah!!!!
There is more. I move down the wall, grab two empty peach baskets and start pushing full skeins of variegated chenille into them. Suddenly, I now have two fly shop clerks as personal shoppers. They recognize the signs. Two others are restraining my buddies by explaining the Yellowstone fishing regs in extreme detail. A fifth keeps pointing the fan at me.
I turn the corner and confront a confused 6-year-old. He looks in my baskets. I can tell he wants my stuff. "Mine, Mine, all mine!" I gurgle as I get to the selection of plastic nymph body forms. I clear the rack. The small child follows. I run to the checkout counter, trampling the young man in my haste. I must put my scent on the items and mark my territory. Ah, time for the plastic.
The clerk swipes my card as 4 registers ring my purchases. I grab my loot, license and run. I have the scent now, it pours from the other shops. I run across the street and am struck by a chevy with Florida plates pulling a 5th wheeler. The bumper wraps around my thigh. I'm unaffected. I am Fly Mall Shopper Man!
In the next shop, the story is the same. The first shop has sent out the alert. I'm greeted at the door by the whole staff. Oval stickers with river names, a gourd with trout painted on it, a wading staff that doubles as a whiskey flask. I move on.
Ah, there's the microbrewery. Time to rehydrate. This also affords the local constabulary time to put up road blocks for all the streets I'll cross and get the parade permit for my growing troop of bearers.
I hit the streets again and find the specialty shop that sells custom dyed hackle, caribou, pine squirrel, even whole beaver pelts. As a bonus, they've cornered the market on Zelon. But no longer, its all mine. More peach baskets, the plastic begins to smoke. Time to go, time to rehydrate. Again and again, shop to shop.
Three hours later, the final shop, more flies. And then, there they are. My personal Holy Grail of Fly Fishing. Light falls on them through the skylight. It's a religious moment. I approach, touch, fondle... A bin full of, dare I say it, size 8 Kauffman's golden stone nymphs with Madam X-style rubber legs and custom angora/silk/Angelina fibre dubbed bodies (hook barbs pre-crimped). The credit card bursts into flame from the friction. My day is done.
(WARNING: This is a work of fiction. It is a federal offense in most states and a hanging offense in Montana to attempt to explain the Yellowstone fishing regulations to another person. Do not attempt this at home.)
We hit the fourth shop on the main street of town. We figure that you don't want to go to the first place you see, as they are there to grab the truly desperate. So by going to the 4th place, we'll have weeded out the places catering to the wanna-be fly fisherman. Hmm, that brewpub is up the street a bit. Maybe we'll go there after we get the stuff we need. This should only take 5 minutes.
My fishing buds and I line up at the counter to get our licenses. There's a fan blowing from the back corner of the store. A nice... cool...breezeARRRGH! I can smell it! It's... It's FEATHER PHEROMONES!
A shudder runs through my body starting at my wallet. I.. must.. resist...I...am...in... mall...uh, male shopping mode. Leave the store NOW! But I can't...A little switch has been flipped in my brain. My fishing buddies have seen this before and start screaming "INTERVENTION!" But it's no use. Jekyll and Hyde, Kent and Superman, Parker and Spiderman. They've all gone through it. I change. I am Fly Mall Shopper Man!
I shake off their restraining hands as I'm inexorably drawn to the back and sides of the store. Bins and bins of flies greet my eyes. Size 16 extended body grey drakes, tungsten cone head laced Autumn Splendors, even hair wing PMD emergers.
My fingers act on their own, pick up a gross of little plastic cups and proceed to fill them. Size 20 bead head pheasant tails embed themselves under my nails. I ignore the pain and follow the scent trail. There it is, the fan. It sits in front of the hackle display, seductively oscillating, calling my name "Frrraaaaannk, Frrraaaaannk, Frrraaaaannk" in a susurrating whisper. And next to the fan, the mother load. The discount bins. Oh, you evil fiends!
My bleeding mitts paw through the bins. 10 packs of chenille for 5 bucks, pink raffia for scuds, peach baskets full of half-priced hackle. Bwahahahahahahah!!!!
There is more. I move down the wall, grab two empty peach baskets and start pushing full skeins of variegated chenille into them. Suddenly, I now have two fly shop clerks as personal shoppers. They recognize the signs. Two others are restraining my buddies by explaining the Yellowstone fishing regs in extreme detail. A fifth keeps pointing the fan at me.
I turn the corner and confront a confused 6-year-old. He looks in my baskets. I can tell he wants my stuff. "Mine, Mine, all mine!" I gurgle as I get to the selection of plastic nymph body forms. I clear the rack. The small child follows. I run to the checkout counter, trampling the young man in my haste. I must put my scent on the items and mark my territory. Ah, time for the plastic.
The clerk swipes my card as 4 registers ring my purchases. I grab my loot, license and run. I have the scent now, it pours from the other shops. I run across the street and am struck by a chevy with Florida plates pulling a 5th wheeler. The bumper wraps around my thigh. I'm unaffected. I am Fly Mall Shopper Man!
In the next shop, the story is the same. The first shop has sent out the alert. I'm greeted at the door by the whole staff. Oval stickers with river names, a gourd with trout painted on it, a wading staff that doubles as a whiskey flask. I move on.
Ah, there's the microbrewery. Time to rehydrate. This also affords the local constabulary time to put up road blocks for all the streets I'll cross and get the parade permit for my growing troop of bearers.
I hit the streets again and find the specialty shop that sells custom dyed hackle, caribou, pine squirrel, even whole beaver pelts. As a bonus, they've cornered the market on Zelon. But no longer, its all mine. More peach baskets, the plastic begins to smoke. Time to go, time to rehydrate. Again and again, shop to shop.
Three hours later, the final shop, more flies. And then, there they are. My personal Holy Grail of Fly Fishing. Light falls on them through the skylight. It's a religious moment. I approach, touch, fondle... A bin full of, dare I say it, size 8 Kauffman's golden stone nymphs with Madam X-style rubber legs and custom angora/silk/Angelina fibre dubbed bodies (hook barbs pre-crimped). The credit card bursts into flame from the friction. My day is done.
(WARNING: This is a work of fiction. It is a federal offense in most states and a hanging offense in Montana to attempt to explain the Yellowstone fishing regulations to another person. Do not attempt this at home.)
Full Combat Shopping, Part 1
Okay, I'll admit it; I'm your basic male shopper. I need a pair of pants, I pull into the mall, go directly into the one store that I know sells the ones I like, grab a pair off the rack in my size, buy them and walk out. Done. That's the way it should be.
Sometimes, I'm unable to walk directly into the store that I want and I'm forced to "walk the mall." Okay, eyes forward, ignore the cell phone salesmen, no I don't want rain gutter covers, no, my non-existent jewelry is clean enough, thank you very much. Get to the store, purchase, leave.
Well, in all honesty, sometimes the window displays do pique my interest. "We have Tank Bras!" Hmmm, I guess it would be nice to keep the bugs off the front of your M1 Abrams. I hold firm and keep walking. But sometimes, once in a great while, I'll get hooked.
On my recent trip to Montana, I only spent more than 20 minutes of my time in three towns (hey, it's a FISHING trip), Bozeman, Ennis and West Yellowstone. Let's throw out Bozeman 'cause I only used it as my point of entry and exit.
Note to self: check on validity of the TSA (Trout Safety Administration). These guys stopped me in the parking lot at the airport in Bozeman and went through my fly boxes searching for and confiscating any flies on which I'd not yet crimped down the barbs. They also took away my extra set of waders because of possible zebra mussel infestation. They looked official, so I guess it's for my own good. I did happen to see "Senior Inspector Mike Smith, TSA" the next day enjoying himself in a drift boat.
Makes my heart glad to know that even government employees can get a free day off to go fish, though I don't know how they afford it on their salaries.
Okay, where were we? Oh, yeh, we've chucked out Bozeman from this oh so scientific survey and that leaves us Ennis and Yellowstone. According to the sign entering Ennis, the population is 660 folks and 1,100,000 trout. Ennis has two major fly shops. West Yellowstone, according to US census information, has 1,650 permanent residents. It also has five major fly shops (hmm, all centered on a microbrewery).
A quick bit of math leads us to the conclusion that the mandatory ratio of residents to fly shops in Montana is 330 to 1. This holds true for both Ennis and West Yellowstone, so probably works throughout the state. As a comparison, within the city limits of Baltimore, there is one, count 'em, one fly shop for a population of 651,154 deprived souls. It's just not fair! Time for a full Senate investigation.
There is even one fly shop half way between Ennis and Quake Lake, in the middle of nowhere, that has more flies in one place than any other store I've ever been to, bar none. Mmmm, flies... Oops, sorry, drifted off for a minute.
As a final note, there are also fly shops in most of your lodges along the Madison, some of which are very good. This is a good thing. Lucky for me, at one of these lodges, I was even able to find some size 8 Kauffman's golden stone nymphs with Madam X-style rubber legs and custom angora/silk/Angelina fibre dubbed bodies that looked exactly like the ones that had been confiscated in Bozeman. Figure the odds (I knew they couldn't be mine as, on close inspection, I found that the tyer had crimped the barbs). They also sold used waders. Great shop.
Sometimes, I'm unable to walk directly into the store that I want and I'm forced to "walk the mall." Okay, eyes forward, ignore the cell phone salesmen, no I don't want rain gutter covers, no, my non-existent jewelry is clean enough, thank you very much. Get to the store, purchase, leave.
Well, in all honesty, sometimes the window displays do pique my interest. "We have Tank Bras!" Hmmm, I guess it would be nice to keep the bugs off the front of your M1 Abrams. I hold firm and keep walking. But sometimes, once in a great while, I'll get hooked.
On my recent trip to Montana, I only spent more than 20 minutes of my time in three towns (hey, it's a FISHING trip), Bozeman, Ennis and West Yellowstone. Let's throw out Bozeman 'cause I only used it as my point of entry and exit.
Note to self: check on validity of the TSA (Trout Safety Administration). These guys stopped me in the parking lot at the airport in Bozeman and went through my fly boxes searching for and confiscating any flies on which I'd not yet crimped down the barbs. They also took away my extra set of waders because of possible zebra mussel infestation. They looked official, so I guess it's for my own good. I did happen to see "Senior Inspector Mike Smith, TSA" the next day enjoying himself in a drift boat.
Makes my heart glad to know that even government employees can get a free day off to go fish, though I don't know how they afford it on their salaries.
Okay, where were we? Oh, yeh, we've chucked out Bozeman from this oh so scientific survey and that leaves us Ennis and Yellowstone. According to the sign entering Ennis, the population is 660 folks and 1,100,000 trout. Ennis has two major fly shops. West Yellowstone, according to US census information, has 1,650 permanent residents. It also has five major fly shops (hmm, all centered on a microbrewery).
A quick bit of math leads us to the conclusion that the mandatory ratio of residents to fly shops in Montana is 330 to 1. This holds true for both Ennis and West Yellowstone, so probably works throughout the state. As a comparison, within the city limits of Baltimore, there is one, count 'em, one fly shop for a population of 651,154 deprived souls. It's just not fair! Time for a full Senate investigation.
There is even one fly shop half way between Ennis and Quake Lake, in the middle of nowhere, that has more flies in one place than any other store I've ever been to, bar none. Mmmm, flies... Oops, sorry, drifted off for a minute.
As a final note, there are also fly shops in most of your lodges along the Madison, some of which are very good. This is a good thing. Lucky for me, at one of these lodges, I was even able to find some size 8 Kauffman's golden stone nymphs with Madam X-style rubber legs and custom angora/silk/Angelina fibre dubbed bodies that looked exactly like the ones that had been confiscated in Bozeman. Figure the odds (I knew they couldn't be mine as, on close inspection, I found that the tyer had crimped the barbs). They also sold used waders. Great shop.
Scientific Study Reveals Hypnotizing Feather Effect
A recent study has indicated that chicken feathers give off certain pheromones that can actually hypnotize men and women, causing them to purchase ungodly amounts of fluff at outrageous prices.
When stored in large quantities in enclosed spaces, the pheromones (from the feathers) cause memory loss and induce the nesting syndrome (similar to the one squirrels have before the onset of winter, i.e. storing food), therefore perpetuating their species. This "nesting" leads to very large agglomerations of feathers. It is posited that the pheromones may come from a symbiotic bacteria and these agglomerations serve to gather large quantities of bacteria together where they breed and further affect the afflicted with memory loss.
Additionally, anechoic chamber tests have also revealed that these feathers emit a very high-pitched sound, heard only by a select few breed of men and women known as "fly tyers." One researcher commented "It's like some ungodly siren song. I was almost lured in myself until I saw the price tag. I could have spent 85 dollars on a chicken neck and not gotten enough meat for lunch."
When recorded and played backwards on an LP, the sounds are heard as chants "buy me, cut me, whip me, tie me!" In order to overcome the so-called "feeding frenzy effect" that these feathers cause, one must wear a full, military-grade gas mask when entering a storage facility and use ear plugs to avoid being pulled into their grip.
Studies have also indicated that aliens have inhabited the earth, helping to spread the effect that these feathers have on the human population. They are called FLY SHOP CLERKS. They can sometimes be heard babbling in their own language, using words like isonychia and meniscus.
One surprising find in this study is the affect on the integrity of those affected. It was found that these same pheromones cause a pathological need to secret these feather purchases away when taken home (or at least blend them into the existing stash), and when asked by a significant other if the feathers are new, the reply is "I've had them for a while."
When stored in large quantities in enclosed spaces, the pheromones (from the feathers) cause memory loss and induce the nesting syndrome (similar to the one squirrels have before the onset of winter, i.e. storing food), therefore perpetuating their species. This "nesting" leads to very large agglomerations of feathers. It is posited that the pheromones may come from a symbiotic bacteria and these agglomerations serve to gather large quantities of bacteria together where they breed and further affect the afflicted with memory loss.
Additionally, anechoic chamber tests have also revealed that these feathers emit a very high-pitched sound, heard only by a select few breed of men and women known as "fly tyers." One researcher commented "It's like some ungodly siren song. I was almost lured in myself until I saw the price tag. I could have spent 85 dollars on a chicken neck and not gotten enough meat for lunch."
When recorded and played backwards on an LP, the sounds are heard as chants "buy me, cut me, whip me, tie me!" In order to overcome the so-called "feeding frenzy effect" that these feathers cause, one must wear a full, military-grade gas mask when entering a storage facility and use ear plugs to avoid being pulled into their grip.
Studies have also indicated that aliens have inhabited the earth, helping to spread the effect that these feathers have on the human population. They are called FLY SHOP CLERKS. They can sometimes be heard babbling in their own language, using words like isonychia and meniscus.
One surprising find in this study is the affect on the integrity of those affected. It was found that these same pheromones cause a pathological need to secret these feather purchases away when taken home (or at least blend them into the existing stash), and when asked by a significant other if the feathers are new, the reply is "I've had them for a while."
Felonious Flymphs
(With apologies to Johnny Carson and Jack Webb.)
"Excuse me officer, I need your help."
"What's the problem, sir?"
"I've been fleeced."
"Fleeced? "
"Yes, some one stole my flymphs."
"You were fleeced of your flymphs? What are flymphs?"
"Fly fishing flies."
"You were fleeced of your fly fishing flymph flies."
"That's right, and they were my favorites."
"Where were these flymphs?"
"Flat on the floor of my Fleetwood.
"Okay. You were fleeced of your favorite fly fishing flymph flies that were flat the floor of your Fleetwood. Is that correct?"
"Yes."
"Do you have any idea on who may have fleeced you of your favorite fly fishing flymph flies that were on the floor of your Fleetwood?"
"Floyd Fleming."
"Figures. Do you know where Floyd Fleming is?"
"He flew home to Flat Key, Florida."
"Do you know what Floyd Fleming, who lives in Flat Key Florida, does for a living?
"Yes, he works for the whaling fleet cutting blubber from whales. He's the fleet flenser."
"Let me summarize. Fleet-flenser Floyd Fleming fleeced you of your favorite fly fishing flymph flies that were on the floor of your Fleetwood and flew home to Flat Key, Florida."
"That's correct. One more thing."
"Yes."
If I ever catch fleet-flenser Floyd Fleming who fleeced me of my favorite fly fishing flymph flies that were on the floor of my Fleetwood and flew home to Flat Key, Florida..."
"Yes?"
"I gonna flay him."
"Excuse me officer, I need your help."
"What's the problem, sir?"
"I've been fleeced."
"Fleeced? "
"Yes, some one stole my flymphs."
"You were fleeced of your flymphs? What are flymphs?"
"Fly fishing flies."
"You were fleeced of your fly fishing flymph flies."
"That's right, and they were my favorites."
"Where were these flymphs?"
"Flat on the floor of my Fleetwood.
"Okay. You were fleeced of your favorite fly fishing flymph flies that were flat the floor of your Fleetwood. Is that correct?"
"Yes."
"Do you have any idea on who may have fleeced you of your favorite fly fishing flymph flies that were on the floor of your Fleetwood?"
"Floyd Fleming."
"Figures. Do you know where Floyd Fleming is?"
"He flew home to Flat Key, Florida."
"Do you know what Floyd Fleming, who lives in Flat Key Florida, does for a living?
"Yes, he works for the whaling fleet cutting blubber from whales. He's the fleet flenser."
"Let me summarize. Fleet-flenser Floyd Fleming fleeced you of your favorite fly fishing flymph flies that were on the floor of your Fleetwood and flew home to Flat Key, Florida."
"That's correct. One more thing."
"Yes."
If I ever catch fleet-flenser Floyd Fleming who fleeced me of my favorite fly fishing flymph flies that were on the floor of my Fleetwood and flew home to Flat Key, Florida..."
"Yes?"
"I gonna flay him."
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