Bannock.

Malcolm Kinkead’s eyes throbbed in their orbits as he stared at the ceiling. A sliver slipped through heavy curtains and lit the yellow wall. He remembered walking an overgrazed woodlot with his father some ten years back thick with coneflowers and sneezeweed “See how they make your eyes flicker?” his father asked. The shower was running. His phone was buzzing on the nightstand. He could smell coffee.

“Well hey,” Jake Stafford’s voice offered on the other end. “Did I wake you? I forgot about the time change until you picked up.”

“No worries,” Malcolm replied.

“Just wanted to let you know I made it back to Dallas.”

“Good. That’s good,” Malcolm said drowsily. “No major incidents? Missing luggage, drunken brawls?”

Jake chuckled. “No, none of those. Got drunk in Denver. Friend picked me up in Dallas, hung out by the pool all afternoon. Fooled around with some nurse.”

“Well good, good. That’s good.” Malcolm said.

“Is Kane with you? Or did his plane already leave?”

“Neither,” Malcolm said. “We found a bar last night,” he continued, standing up and ambling over to the dresser, pouring oily black coffee into a white styrofoam cup, tasting it before tearing the corner off a paper packet and dumping its contents inside. “Shut it down. He wandered off with some folks, some after party. I was drunk and pooped and didn’t want to blow the hotel room we’d already paid for, you know. I suppose I should call him, see whether he was mugged.”

Jake was chuckling on the other end. “Sounds like him.”

“He’s a big boy, I suppose. Surely he can take see to his own affairs.”

“Who knows?” Jake offered. “Honestly, I’m ready to go back.”

“I’m still out here,” Malcolm offered.

“I have a job.”

Malcolm sat at the corner of his bed, finishing the coffee. “That makes one of us.”

Jake paused. “What happened?”

“Funding ran out,” Malcolm replied.

“They didn’t let you know?!” Jake asked.

“Not until yesterday,” Malcolm said. “I called them after dropping you guys off. after dropping you guys off.” He didn’t want to talk about it. He was still angry.

“So what are you going to do?”

“Stay out here until the money runs out,” Malcolm said. “See if I can’t polish this turd.”

He left the girl in the shower figuring she was supposed to clean the room anyway and decided walking the six blocks to the diner the clerk recommended would do him good.

“I’ll have coffee,” he said after examining the menu. “And an apple juice. And The Stinky,” he said, grinning.

“Do you know what’s in The Stinky?” she asked.

Malcolm shook his head.

“It’s and omelette with liver and onions.”

“Oh.” He thought about it. “I don’t want The Stinky,” he said aloud.

He ordered eggs and sausage and a side of biscuits and gravy and doctored the whole thing heavily with hot sauce. He thought about calling Kane. He thought about calling Kinsey Chapman. He did neither, instead running to the car for an atlas and poring over his route.

Two hours later he was following a bony river winding tortuously through a broad valley laid out with neat blocks of alfalfa and sugar beets split by tongues of low, rocky hills. He passed two or three accesses and thought about exploring, but Kinsey had shared a secret and Malcolm was curious. He found the burned-out collection of trailers Kinsey had told him about. He bounced through BLM land and gaunt black cows towards the mountains. He parked four miles up the road, hiking up and around the most treacherous part of the canyon to the meadow Kinsey had described at its head.

Kinsey had called them mongrels, the bastard hybrids of cutthroats and rainbows and golden trout stocked haphazardly by miners, by lumbermen, by feds between the turn of the last century and the mid 70s. The state wanted it poisoned out and planted with native cutthroat, the place was probably only fished a dozen times a year but enough people made a stink about pioneer living and protecting western heritage the project had been put on the back burner.

Malcolm could see rings spreading across the surface as he ate a sandwich and drank a beer. He fastened a long-neglected Irresistible to his tippet, it had been in his father’s box a decade or more and its bend was blistered with rust. It didn’t matter. He finished his beer and stood, walking upstream and crouching in the grass as he paid out line and dropped the fly ahead of an overhanging willow on the opposite bank. He watched the single fluid motion of the fish rising and eating and returning to its lair. He set the hook.

It was a pretty fish with orange sides and purple parr marks flecked with dark spots, Malcolm couldn’t tell what it was and it didn’t matter, anyways. He cracked another beer and walked upstream, losing the fly after two more fish and tying on a House and Lot. There was a bull moose in the willows, Malcolm saw him raise his head and the big palmate antlers still covered in velvet. He caught more fish, nothing big but all pretty, even two little grayling as he drifted caddis along a cutbank.

By mid afternoon the clouds were turning solid, dark, their undersides roiling and looking like clusters of grapes. Malcolm wondered whether it would blow over, whether it was smarter to head down now or wait it out. He thought about the tracks on the trail and in the mud along the river. He found a sandy place under a dwarfed pine and opened another beer, watching. He watched the trees bend and the grass and the willows ripple through the meadow he could feel the cold air streaming out of them. He could go home, he thought. Get another gig. Another degree. He could teach. His sister says they always need male role models with science skills. He could call Kinsey, throw himself at his mercy, although he wasn’t sure it had been a sincere offer or an off-the-cuff remark. He’d never guided and he’d never rowed, although he had played shop rat all through high school and that must count for something. Hail knocked against the bole of the pine, icy shards dropped down the back of his shirt. Lightning pealed overhead. He clipped his line and reeled in as it started to rain.

A Return.

 

 

” If fishing were simply a matter of catching fish, I would’ve given it up long ago”

I can get behind that.

It’s been a busy couple months on my end- winding up projects, writing manuscripts.  The last time I was out I didn’t bother bringing along a camera- caught a pile of rock bass and a couple little smallmouth, in case you were wondering.  Found half a bag of chanterelles, too- not a bad way of spending a Sunday afternoon.  At any rate…

NEW BILLS.

Many fish and game outfits (perhaps most) are funded largely through the appropriations of state legislators and direct sales of hunting and fishing licenses, augmented by federal disbursements of funds through the Dingell-Johnson Act and others.  The Feds also kick in funds for protection and management of threatened and endangered species.  But rare and imperiled species which aren’t federally listed and can’t be eaten often suffer from a dearth of investment in everything from basic biological research, analysis of human threats, or implementation of conservation and management measures.

The late John Dingell’s wife Debbie, a Michigan Democrat, has joined forces with Alaska Republican Don Young to introduce a  bipartisan bill allocating $1.3 billion to recovering rare and imperiled species in every state and territory, using funds generated from extractive industries (gas, minerals, logging and others) occurring on public lands.  To date it’s been introduced to the House and referred to the Republican dominated  Committee on Natural Resources.

 

THE UNDERGROUND STIRS.

Years ago I stumbled upon The Trout Underground as I stole wifi from the Livingston Public Library during a three-week fishing binge across Montana and Wyoming.  Its long been an inspiration for my own writing endeavors, despite having been mothballed in late 2014.  About a week ago owner Tom Chandler breathed life back into the place, announcing a new partnership with Yobi Adventures, an up and coming blog-magazine-how-to-destination travel agency chimera.  I’m looking forward to seeing the outcome.

 

 

Wednesday Dump.

TU & RepYourWaters Partner for Stream Conservation.

I never got into trucker hats, though I appreciate that SigEp bros have the same taste in headgear as my 93 year old grandfather while he’s cutting hay.  But water’s important whether you’re the nation’s leading NGO protecting coldwater resources or your business model is selling overpriced beanies with product specs including Awesome to yuppies who don’t know better.   RepYourWaters donates substantial sums to regional and national conservation projects, and they’ve recently teamed up with Trout Unlimited’s Embrace-A-Stream program, which has given away something like $4.6 million in grants since 1975 to protect and enhance streams for anglers and salmonids.  This year’s projects include opening nearly 100 miles of Vermont streams to migratory fish, and restoring steelhead to Millerton Creek along the California coast.

 

NY Solution to Fish Kills:  Kill the Fish.

You can’t make this stuff up.  From the A-P:

ALBANY, N.Y. (AP) — New York conservation authorities say they are trying to limit any potential large-scale fish kill in the Peconic River on Long Island this summer.

The Department of Environmental Conservation says one way is to increase the commercial harvest of menhaden, also called bunker, to reduce the number that might perish in a die-off.

That’s intended to improve survival of remaining fish and use the catch as bait rather than having to dispose of carcasses on the shoreline.

According to the DEC, the Peconic has a history of fish kills, often resulting in more than 1 million dead fish. The area also exhibits poor water quality with increased nitrogen levels.

Also, predatory fish can herd large quantities of menhaden into small water bodies like the Peconic, where they can asphyxiate.

Monday Dump.

HEADS UP.

image courtesy milehigh25.com

Colorado’s a diverse space, from the high prairies in the east through the Rockies and on to the deserts of the western slope.  Although trout are the main draw for anglers, the state boasts numerous sportfish opportunities for warm and coolwater species including pike, smallmouth bass, and carp.  The Mile High 25 project intends to highlight some of those more obscure targets, and with $2500 in cash prizes, how can one go wrong?

SAGE ON THE WATER TOUR HITS 10 WESTERN STREAMS.

Maybe it’s just a prolonged infomercial about how great Sage products are, but maybe it’ll be fun.  Right?  Learn more here.

THE CUTTHROAT SQUEEZE.

Cool new telemetry research out of Idaho demonstrates native Westslope Cutthroat populations squeezed from the top and bottom of the watershed by high water temperatures caused by land use, reservoir discharges, and agricultural diversions.  The result?  A 50 mile cutthroat stream may really only have 30 miles of adequate thermal habitat during the summer.  Compound that with threats from non-native species, overexploitation, and other human disturbances and it’s all the more reason to think about the impacts anglers have during the warm season.

Wednesday Dump.

 

I’M GOING TO FIND THE TROUT THAT ATE MY FRIEND AND DESTROY IT.

Meet Yogi.

photo courtesy tu.org

 

Yogi’s job is plumbing the depths of Yellowstone Lake in search of the places non-native lake trout hang out and breed.  The species was introduced a couple decades back, and both compete with and eat the native Yellowstone cutthroat and the co-occurring longnose dace.  Lake trout don’t fill the same ecological roles of native species, either- unlike native cutthroat they don’t move up tributary spawning streams in spring, which means they’re not an available food source for the ecosystem’s predators such as grizzlies, otters, eagles and ospreys.  NPS biologists and others have instituted control measures within the lake, and the hope is this submersible will enable managers to better target those efforts.

 

JUST IN TIME FOR FLOATING SEASON.

The Fiberglass Manifesto’s making available these swanky coozies for your warm-season outdoor adventures- order ’em here.

MUSKIE RESULTS.

The take-home message?  Big fish in mid-TN.

LIGHT READING.

Both Southern Culture on the Fly ( smallmouth & stripers, south Florida snook, sheepshead love and other goodies) and This is Fly (golden dorado, triggerfish, alpine brookies, the art of Josh Desmit (? I can’t read my own handwriting this early in the morning without coffee), and the Little Truckee) dropped their most recent issues over the pats couple of days.  Enjoy.

 

 

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