how they roll in Finland

After receiving my little goodie bag  Mr. Graham sent me a few photos... and this was the least disturbing of the bunch. Go figure.

The "tramp stamp" placement is a winner, but for future reference to those sending me sticker photos, lets have a little less man-butt, and maybe a little more chick-butt.

Just sayin'.

you probably don't want to look at this (again)

(If you are Orvis brass, you probably are here to look at this.)

As we here at FGFF know, Kyle is a monkey. If you covered yourself epoxy and rolled in all the leftover clippings from Singlebarb's whole career as a fly tier you would probably be close, in density at least. Then he showed up with another bottle of Nair....

I decided not to take an 'after' photo, because Kyle just looks like a five-foot-ten-inch tattooed infant. It's kinda creepy.

I took part in this event for scientific purposes only, a bit of morbid curiosity pushing my hands into the protective gloves. After it was all said and done, Kyle disappeared for a half-hour and upon his return in response to my raised eyebrow all he said was "they are very smooth." Gross.

This is my serious face.

The woosh was followed by a sloppy slap as the frog disappeared into the green cottage-cheese lumps. Lead wrap, 3-dollars-worth of deer hair with a side of rabbit: It was like throwing a wet shoe.

From “nine-o-clock” to “three-o-clock” across the top of the bubbly goo, unevenly-spaced trails converged and I was the center point. Bass are down there; I know they are down there. I have seen them eating, swimming around; a weed wiggling here and a splash there. Not nearly as active as last week, but this week I brought a bazooka to a knife fight, and I left the “messing around” at home.

I take up some slack and give a little tug. The wind apparently has something very important to show me on the other side of the lake, but I stick my fins deeper into the mud and tighten the chin strap on my hat.

There is a little disturbance out in front as the frog shows itself and crawls to the top of the muck. I give a second little tug and it hops back toward me. There is a little shiny puddle of open water showing and a little voice tells me that is where he wants to go. Tug, wait. Tug, wait. Tug, wait, as the frog drags another spoke of the wheel in which I am the hub.

Almost there, right on the edge and clean he sits ready to take a little dip. One more tug and he plops into the openness: Exposed and alone, his hind legs flair out as his little rubber front legs dangle limply, at the mercy of the wind under a painfully blue sky.

My eyes are stare daggers at the water as my fingers tense and settle around the rod waiting for the action. There is wind but I can’t feel it. I think there is something crawling on my face but I don’t care. Time slows and the frog sits and I wait for the explosion. I am sure it will come. It has to come because there must be a fish there; hungry and mad and stupid and powerful. I sit and wait.

But there is no fish. Not this time, and I “tug, wait” the frog back to my feet and repeat. This is the sine-wave-excitement of walking frogs across September weed beds.

-Alex who feels upon reflection that fishing and not catching fish is suspiciously similar to messing around, no matter how serious you act.

FGFF in the Wall Street Journal.

Brownlining got a little journalistic recognition today on the front page of the Wall Street Journal.

FGFF's own Kyle Deneen, Tom Teasdale, TU, JPL, Michael Gracie and Kieth Barton got some love in Justin Schecks article revolving around these large fish who live in that dirty, dirty water.

Here, the fish are big. The strikes are frequent. And other anglers are kept at bay by the occasional bobbing diaper.

After driving 2 hours to fish with these guys, Kyle's linguistic eloquence was reduced to "I wanted to fish for carp." Good job dude, keeping it simple. Just kidding, you know I love you Kyle. If you watch the video, you can see him in the background as he is the only person I know with orange waders.



Anyways, I think this kicks super loads of ass for Brownlining in general, and all those mentioned. Especially us, because you can't deny the kick-ass.

Very Nice!

Going back to Arivaca, all out of bubblegum.

Arivaca is a bass lake, and a very dirty girl. Aaron and I were there a couple weeks ago during the algae bloom and didn't do too well. Monday we are going back, and we're all out of bubblegum.

You probably don't want to know what this is.

New plan: Pound bank with Enrico Bluegill on sinking line, tip in the water, slow strip. Repeat.

In the past, Arivaca has been known to leave me with nothing but an empty 6-pack and funny smell, but I think its about time time to show this bitch who wears the waders around here.

Got that nasty stomach flu? Time for some wet wading.

I was lying in bed this morning, and I knew there was something wrong. There was a quiet whisper in the nether regions of trouble, the air thick with anticipation of revolution. But I was still tired, half asleep, and didn’t heed the warning.

I felt a fart brewing and in my sleepdrunk state I rolled over, gambled a 50/50, and lost. The day has gone downhill from there.

I don’t have a laptop, and every second I stay out of the bathroom the danger grows. I am mainlining pepto, and snorting tums in an attempt to remain free from the water closet clutches just long enough to finish this thought.

I wish I lived near a river.

-Alex who's bedside hydration unit is working overtime.

Gross? Or Good?

So I found out by accident, If you eat "Nathan's Hot Dogs" with wheat bread, mayo, and Tapatio hot sauce, with a bag of sun chips, let it sit for about an hour or two, then drink a shit ton of Diet Coke, your burps taste like IBC Root Beer! Kinda gross, I know, but I love IBC Root Beer.

Its my new past time!

But if you don't want to try all the unhealthy food (you hippie) then just drink IBC Root Beer and your burps will taste the same.

So can anyone else mimic beverage tastes through food? Please share with us.


-Kyle