Drake Hunt 09

That little tailwater that gets pounded all day by Gapers and Barneys with San Juans and 22's holds it's cards well. You don't see many if any, but THEY know they're their. I'm throwing an 8 green drake with a PMDizzle dropper. And I'm picking them up like lint in a bellybutton while poor ole' Barn' is dead drifting chocolate WD-40's and a pink san juan with no loving bends in his Helios. Awwww, corporate fly guys with smiles and a good time. These two lil guys liked the PMDizzle so much they decided to strike a pose.




I can't frame this banana dick.

Some Girls have Pompadours

Some girls have all the luck. Future Page Six Chick.

Streamer Day

Tied streamers for 7 hours today.
I am pathetic. This is the equivalent to doing steroids all day to try out for the NFL.
part of the chaos captured during a taco/pbr break.
Kelly Galloup is the shit.

Kit Carson didn't have shit on this.

Drifted the East Carson with Dave Lass and Mikey Wier and his girly Megan.
2 days of dope blisters, nice fishes, and a beautiful wild canyon that has no people, roads, or trash in it(for the most part).
We get to the bottom and Dave, now known as Barney, left the keys to his truck in Mikey's truck, which is at the put in. Dude was bummed, and he got a speeding ticket along with a one fish day. Poor Barney.


Here's Barney Blastin' Crayfish Bombs.


The fucking Navy.

Mmmmm, I love rubber legs too! We should get married.


Sire! I wish to bestow upon you this trute! Thank you, Your Majesty!
Barney the Squire


LeRoy Brown Jr. and some asshole who talks shit on Barney in a blog.


This trip was supernaturally awesome.
good people, good times.

A client's question..

I had a client today that said "I Googled your name and I like your Sixteen Thousand Miles project and I saw your Vimeo page."
I say "Oh thanks man!"

Than I remember the content, like this...

and this...

Rednecking Like I Am One. from Larry McKurtis on Vimeo.


I gotta edit some shit.
This is not to mention the videos on there where I'm fucking wasted as shit and talking about my 16 Thousand miles bike trip.
I love being a professional.

No wonder the three didn't tip me.
He's the one that death gripped a big rainbow till it came unbuttoned.

Hehehehe

Suck it trout boys.

The Fringe

Today I fished a tiny creek alone. No crowds, but it IS Barney season here. This is the kind of creek that, once it's turned to the ON setting in mid-June, stays ON till closing day. It's tiny, as I already said. You can sprint and jump across all but the widest parts. Once the Great PWNER turns the switch to ON, the fish are not very particular, this isn't the San Juan or some other notable tailwater with dainty ass trout. It's more about what type of fly you want to present. Today it was streamers. Small to medium. We're talking 10's(yes, 10's you 2+ chucking steelhead hipsters) down to a 6, which is respectable on most streams. And this stream doesn't see very many people. There's a trail from the dam that goes about 350 yards and merges into the face of a cliff. Trail ends here, weekend warriors, unless you get some Stallone up in yah, and I seriously doubt the fat fucks above-on-high at the GREAT LAKE have the strength, unless there were a bag of pork rinds and a TV with NASCAR blaring Fail Earnmart's Greatest Blowments at the top. I did see two city types, or Gapers, Barneys, we call them, as I was casting into the Big Cheater Pot, the first pool below the dam. One of the McDonald's Victimized teens blurting "Oh hey, there's some big fishes in there, we caught some this big the other day!" He stretched out his flabbing arms and by my account, he must have caught a chinook on the east side of the Sierras. His shirt was from a summer camp down the way, and I figured that the Xbox was banned for a week so he could go get some "exercise and fresh air" by his disappointed parents. God am I a meeaaaan sum bitch.
It just so happens that this creek runs as a tailwater from a lake that's got quite a rep as a trout trophy breeder. It's world famous. It's been on the damn TV on a bunch of channels ranging from buff faced news anchor channels to the Voice of the Public. This time of year, there are so many people chucking hardware, tar and feathers, trawlin', life guarding worms, floatin' playdon't, swimming their adorable dogs, etc, that you can't find a piece to yourself. No solitude, just tourist attitude. The fish up above are all planted, a real hardy strain of rainbow that get the job done. But they are Farmer's Fish. Not the way the Great PWNER intended. I would take a wild fish half the size of a dull big dumb planter any day.
This border that's hidden in plain site, this fringe of societal blinders and the free world, between my creek and the masses, is just my sort of lurking ground. Everyone sees it, yet it fails to register. Those that know try and keep it that way. When I asked the local fly shop guy about the access, as it had been many years since I fished it, his response was "You can, but we don't talk much about it, you understand?"
"Duly, and with all respect sir."
The fringes, the beautiful edges, the light and the dark, the deep and shallow, the dirty city streets in Reno and my beloved Truckee River running under them, I am drawn to the edges. Not really in that extreme SNAP INTO A SLIM JIM way, but more accurately the edge of acceptance, in social realms, behaviors, actions.
I live in a basement on the edge of downtown Reno, between the revitalized and up and coming neighborhoods of the California St. hood and the Wells Ave. Barrio. I love that I can go a block to the east and get a homemade burrito from a cart and go two blocks west and have some gourmet vegan food (although I don't really eat anything without meat, it's delicious stuff). I live in a house full of Straight Edge kids. No drugs, booze, smoking. I don't smoke, but I got a micro bar and a beer fridge in my room. And a home base to tie flies and write bullshit like this is right next to the damn things. At least I got 4 sober drivers whenever I need it. Fuck Yellowcab.
I can't take the city for more than a day, so I usually run back home to Sattley. It's a half hour north of Truckee, California and an hour from my house in Reno. The sign reads “Population 60” but it’s more about 20 or so. And we live out in the suburbs of this great modern metropolis. A mile out of town in a quiet valley with a private creek running through it. Just Ma and Pa and my dog(who you saw above in the creek on a fish scaring mission).
I love the edges of normalcy, I love to wear rediculous clothes and say odd things to strangers. It’s not a question of sanity, it’s a disregard for it.
Trout love the edges too. Hell, most fish love the edges. The seams, the drop off of the riffle to pool, the shade lines of trees, the pocket water, the barrier reef meeting the sea, the collision of two different currents, the mangrove roots and the open swamps.
Contrasts.
These clashes make life interesting, I’d be dead by now if I couldn’t appreciate them. And most fish would be too if they didn’t naturally gravitate to these places. The rainbow of diversity doesn’t excite me nearly as much as chucking two streamer rigs with trailing hooks through the crowded kayak park downtown. Or going out and dancing at a hip bar till 4 AM with dainty hot girls and rolling out of bed 2 hours later to go fish the backcountry alone and dirty for a few days. I need to balance myself.
Self medicate.
This creek, as I said, is not massive. Nor does it breed massive trout, though occasionally there has to be a hog in the brotherhood of 20” in some of those deeper pools. It is rugged, it is beautiful.

I realized at the start I hadn't put on my wading sandles, the Keen style strap up ones, but had kept on my flip flops. Mistake. One broke and when they were wet I was sliding and falling all over. So I took them both and shoved them into my vest.
Barefoot is best on a beach but I felt some man-cred-pride swell up inside me, Hiking over squirrel devoured pine cone scales and over jagged rocks. Lucky I wasn't at the GREAT LAKE, walking in broken glass and treble hooks still dripping Playdon't.
I was alone in a tiny canyon that could hide a man for a long time, sustinance abounds and so do hiding places. Ishi came to mind, walking through the briars and bushes on Battle Creek or pacing the upper reaches of Deer Creek, pulling out huge salmon and steelhead with his bare hands. He was hidden and yet so close to everything that was Modern and meaning to do him harm because he was different and didn’t fit into their mold. I know that his situation and mine aren't nearly the same, but when you spend your entire life avoiding society's idea of normal you kinda feel like there's a target on your back.
I kept fishing and walking back upstream towards the dam. I couldn’t remember a time when I felt so secure about a sense of belonging. As I turned the corner and saw the dam, a strange feeling came over me, one I’ve had many times before. I saw myself as an outsider looking in, in the shadow of the dam in the late afternoon, watching the loaded over the top RV’s towing boats across it, and seeing the smooth concrete and rusted metal structure at the bottom controlling the creeks flow. The dam is earthen, with large rocks and boulders, dirt that’s been packed and placed precisely to create a lake and cover a valley.
“I don’t belong up there.” was all I could think to myself. But without this dam, there wouldn’t be a tailwater. There wouldn’t be a creek to my own because it would most likely dry out in the drought years, and more people would pay attention to it because the GREAT LAKE wouldn’t be there. This dam is what created my sanctuary. This dam didn’t only block off the water, but it blocked off all the people who aren’t like me. The ones who can do without solitude and adventure, exploration and discovery of the world, the self. The force fed masses, who go to the GREAT LAKE on it’s reputation alone, who have worn down the paths of Safety and Tradition into ruts exposing my greatest fears which force me to walk on the sides.
Contrasts. Edges. Fringes.
The best of both worlds.

Carp

Carp 1


Carp 2


Carp 3


God I love these bastards of the backing. That first run is so explosive it makes me think that they are possessed by demons. But I won't tell the Great PWNER because I want them to fight like that.
This was a good day, especially for the spawning season.

Album of the Year

I never say those words.
But my Great PWNER, these guys hit it again, and by God, I can't deny them, by Ceiling Cat's grace we're all here and listening to this without love....
Please, check it out, read the lyrics as you go, and by I'm Not Saying IT, open your old punk roots and drink deeply. Believe what you must, but as far as I'm concerned, I like 85% of it. I'm sorry boys I'm not veganarchist..

Propagandhi - Supporting Caste

The Slump

I wrote this for a magazine, and toned it down considerably, to the point I don't like it, and I deleted the OG version. So here's the ass clown bastard child.


The Slump

It starts with a few bad outings. Your buddy has nailed 5 and you’re tying on “Ole Reliable” just to maybe try and save some face, and maybe to not have to buy the beers at the end of the day. Your casts are on point, your drifts are solid, and your flies are the same as the guy smiling at you upstream, who, coincidentally, used to be your friend. The day’s over, and not a thing. A day like this happens occasionally.

But when you’re not getting any love on the end of that tippet for a few successive outings, you’re in a slump. If it goes on long enough, you begin to question a lot of things in your fishing life.
“Are my flies good enough?”
“Is my tippet thin enough? Cause my hair is.”
“Why the hell am I freezing in this damn river/lake/ocean all day? I could be fishing for chicks at the bar with a warm roof and a cold beer.”
The next stage is even more bizarre. You start questioning all sorts of things outside your fishing life.
“Did I tip the bartender enough? Hell, did I even pay him?”
“Did I forget her birthday again?”
“I knew I should have told the tax agent the truth .”
Sometimes your slump extends out of your fishing life. I was in a slump, and in the middle of it, I lost my girlfriend, my health, and part of my sanity, amoung other things, all in three days. But when it rains, it pours, and when it pours you’re gonna grit your teeth and deal with it. Man up suckers.
Perhaps the most public part of all is that sometimes your closest fishing buddies notice it too, and if they’re like any of my fishing partners, they’re gonna rip you apart like wolves.
“Maybe you should throw a worm on there, some Power Bait too.”
“Maybe you should try a new sport, like knitting.”

It can keep you up all hours. It can drive you insane. If you fish almost daily, your habits can become quite strange during an extended slump. Tying flies till 4 AM with Art Bell on the AM radio. Seining the water for hours and taking close up shots of anything that moves. Blowing off work because you know the fish WILL be eating @ 2:18.

Hell, you could always lie your way out of it, but those who know you best will see right through it and if they really are your friends, they’ll call you out on it too. Plus lying only serves to add to your slump time.

There are a couple different types of slumps. One is the “No Fish” slump, which is exactly how it sounds. It usually doesn’t last longer than a few days, and it’s not as much of a pain as the other types. Also known as the Skunkfest.
There’s the “Few and Far Between” aka “Beautiful Girls in Tahoe” slump. This is usually in the coldest part of the winter when the fish need to be smacked in the face to eat. But these fish are almost always descent.
Perhaps the one that drives me all most insane is the “Quality/Where the hell are the descent size fish in my life?” slump. This is the one that brings on the insanity. Sometimes you can go a few weeks with out hooking a quality toad.

You can go through the motions, but you’re going to just have to except the simple fact that friend/guide John Roberts told me once: “When you got it you got it, when you don’t you don’t.”

The day you forget all about it, and approach the water with confidence, is usually the day it breaks. People who don’t fly fish probably don’t understand the need for confidence in a sport that seems to be about “luck”. It is “fishing” after all.
But having confidence in your abilities, your flies, your water, and most of all yourself, will win you more fish than any prayer of desperation mumbled from broken lips ever will.

I know some of you are saying “That never happens to me.” But don’t lie to yourself, it happens to all of us, and lying will only serve to add to your next slump sentence.