You’d figure a fellow nice enough to bring a bottle would get treated better, but not knowing I was getting paid for the excursion – I just took him to the semi-crappy spots.
If I’d known there would be beef jerky, cigars, and real coffee – I’d have carried him through the discarded Pampers and medical waste. I might’ve run down to the Christmas tree lot, scored a couple fir trees, and stuck them near his backcast hoping he’d think it was the tall pines of the Sierra’s…
Instead, he got an invitation to the “Four Lane” club; itself a rarified and heady experience – with membership limited to those who’ve caught a fish larger than four inches while fishing from the center divider of a four lane freeway.
… but, it hardly compares to the “care package” I got.
SMJ’s reward for upgrading our stash of coffee beans and cigars was four miles of gravel bed, questionable company, and a meager helping of unwilling fish.
Fishing isn’t fair, but exotic foodstuffs requires justice, dammit.
Two pounds of Peet’s French roast proves Singlebarbed can be bought – and cheaply. No fancy Orvis endorsements necessary, no need for rods or flies bearing our stamp, we’ll stand in line with Bank of America, Morgan Stanley, AIG, and GM, and take ours off the top.
Thanks for the wonderful gifts, SMJ – sorry the fishing was so poor…
As I recall, he has a certain fondness for poison oak. There is still the chance that you introduced him to the local variety. Gratz to SMJ on the club membership. No doubt Jean-Paul will now share his story of pulling 4 inches of trout from 3 inches of snow.
In the guiding world, apparently you get what you pay for. For a couple pounds of that there expensive city coffee, you should have at least taken him to the glowing part of the river, where the fish have too many fins and lots of pulling power.
Thanks, SMJ. You’ve just raised the bar for the rest of us who wish to be guided by the fly fishing Zen master of the Little Stinking.
Now we will be expected to pay handsomely just to experience miles of gravel bed drudgery enroute to green pools of semi-stagnant, toxic-laden, mutated fish bearing waters.
I guess from now on Singlebarbed will insist that I now wash and crack his nuts beforehand.
He does so like his walnuts.
My outing with Singlebarbed this past holiday weekend was one I’ll not soon forget.
Upon my arrival, we loaded our gear into his truck and headed out. He drove us down a gravel road, both sides of which were decorated with bullet riddled “No Trespassing” signs, and parked when we could go no further. After putting on our waders, we climbed through the barbed wire fence and headed down to the creek. When we were within fifty yards of the water I discovered how “The Little Stinking” got its name, but after fifteen minutes or so I became accustomed to the stench. There was also quite a bit of gunfire going on in the distance, but I managed to tune that out as well.
He took me to the first pool and said, “There’s a nice little bass that lives in that Maytag. Try and get you’re your fly right in front of the agitator and see if you can get him to come out.” Soon after I stated casting I saw a fish rise, and then another, and I was about to ask if I should tie on a dry fly when he said, “You might want to come sit over here.” He was resting on the bumper of an old rusted-out Buick, smoking a cigar.
“But the fish are starting to rise,” I said.
Without turning around he replied “Them splashes ain’t fish. See those guys up on the bluff with the deer rifle?”
I took a seat next to him on the bumper, and after a half hour or so we made our way down to a small pool located directly under Interstate 5. “The southbound guardrail is out, so you might want to fish under the northbound side. “ I took his advice without question, but the thought of one of the big rigs thundering above us hurtling down into the creek bed didn’t help my concentration. I spent the rest of the day looking over my shoulder and putting down what few fish we happened to come across.
Thankful for having survived the experience, I gave him some groceries that had been rolling around behind the seat of my truck for the past two weeks and never touched the brake till I was well out of the county. That night I slept like a man pardoned, but this morning I woke and discovered clumps of hair all over my pillow case, and I’m now covered with an unusual rash.
Now I know why the Little Stinking is featured along with the Shebele and the Tigris in “Fifty Places to Die While Fishing.”
There were no corpses and the big rig contained steer manure, what more do you want?
All the guys that fish there get the rash, just swab it with acetone and lemon juice. You’ll be able to wear clothing by Wednesday…
no snow to speak here of here yet, but if you give me until mid January, I could tell the tale of pulling a 15″ trout through 12″ of ice.