Weird Things on the River

Discussion in 'Fly Fishing Forum' started by Coach Duff, Oct 2, 2006.

  1. Hey Coach - Any conversation about good ol' Rainier and those commercials also deserves mention of the bike ("Raaaaaaaaaa-neeeeeeeeeer-beeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrr!") which started it all; plus the adventures of our own Bill The Beer Man & Rick The Peanut Man. I remember lots of home games seeing those two work the aisles at the coliseum and king dome...the fact that they were real guys...brillian ad campaigns...

    The sales pitch from a master: Bill the Beerman.
    Where's Ruppert Jones when ya need him?
  3. Yeah I miss that big ole Rainer sign when I come into town and the Oly sign on the brewery in Olympia. I wonder if there is anywhere you could still see those old ads?
  4. Fellas, go to the site Windtickler posted and click on the Mickey Rooney commericial. The adventurer with Mickey mentioned is Boone Kirkman. He was a local heavyweight boxer and kind of a cult hero. My aunt Carol used to date him. His face was so flat he could bite a wall. I think he took more than he gave. Anyways Fred that is the commericial I was talking about. Those were fun times. Coach
  5. My Aunt Works For Stein Distributing And She Could Get Me The Running Rainier Bottle Costume (i Dont Know What It Is Really Called). I Was Thinking About Wearing That For Halloween.

  6. What's it gonna take for me to get one of those? PM me baby! Coach
  7. Coach,
    If You Are Wanting The Rainier Outfit, You Have To Know A Beer Distributor. I Think There Is A Branch Of Stein Up That Way Maybe. Give Them A Call And Try To Pull Some Strings.

  8. So a couple of buddies and I are fishing Pinks like 15 years ago using pink crazy charlie patterns. He's in fast deep water fishing with an indicator and killing them when this guy and his wife float down pull over and start fishing below us. We all look at each other and shake our heads. Two of us have to stop my one buddy who is known to have a temper from yelling at the guy. They're like 30 feet away in a 300 yard run with no one in sight. I say "He's there with his wife don't make a scene". They fish for some time without touching a fish while we have a fish on at all times. My buddies leader breaks off at the indicator and proceeds to float down to the guy below us. I see the guy cast feverishly and he hooks the indicator and reels it in. He then inspects the fly and leader. He friggin then ties it on and starts to fish with my buddies rig. My buddy sees this and starts down to kick the guys ass. I being a nice kinda guy says hey man let it go the guys wife is here. I guess I'm old fashioned but I did not think it would be cool to kick a guys ass and use bad language in front his wife. We calm my buddy down until the guys pretty middle aged wife comes over and says calmly " Boy you guys are doing just great do you mind if I ask what your using ?" That was it my buddy looses it and yells "Why don't you go ask that M****r F*****G C**k S****R over there he can tell ya" Well lets just say her eyes got huge and she stormed off told her husband and in 30 seconds they jumped in the boat and floated away !!! HMMM I gues it worked !!
  9. The Very Cruelest Thing

    I don’t think of myself as a cruel person. Maybe when I was younger I did some cruel things. You know mostly saying the most painful thing at the best time to hurt the one you love the most. I tried to get over that. Of course, it’s easy to be kind once they leave and you’re alone. Anyway, I thought I was past all that, but recently I did the very cruelest thing.
    I was up on the Tumult in BC, a river I’d been going to for years. It was one of my favorite stretches, a long slick with a riffle that in one step steepened up and became whitewater. First day here, 20 years ago, I casted, took a step and nearly got swept away into that. Never quite seen anything like it.
    I was taking my time rigging up, since I’ve never seen any other fisherman up there, when this old guy walks down with a pint, a cigarette, and a fly rod and stands downstream of me. I narrowed up my eyes some, giving him my Clint Eastwood eye, and see he’s hammered. One of those old guys that could really hold his liquor, but his eyes were real glassy.
    He took a puff, took a swig, and finally deemed to take a notice of me, but didn’t say anything. We were practically shoulder to shoulder and I was taking the notion he might just be in my way. That’s when I looked down and saw the rod in his hand, a custom Winston.
    “Crump?” I said.
    “Rod say’s your name is Joses Crump.”
    He looked down like he’d never read it. “Ah, nup. Musta been the guy givit to me. Years ago, don’t remember.”
    “I have a friend named Joses Crump. Real unique name, dontcha think? Lost a rod just like that in Alaska. Funny thing, that one had his name on it, too.”
    “Well, this rod ain’t lost, so it ain’t it.”
    “Real cold f*cker took it, too. Stole our boat in the middle of the night on the Pingo and our island flooded.” I looked him in the eye. “That was a long night I tell you. Tide coming in, wind coming up.”
    “You sound real stupid,” he said, and flicked his cigarette into the river. “Flatlanders like you should be bear food, had my way.”
    “Didn’t plan on getting our raft stolen, that’s for sure. You’re in my way old man if we’re fishing, and really in my way if we’re just trading insults.”
    He was looking at the river and quiet real long. I thought he might’ve forgotten me.
    “Got the diabetes. And the liver disease. They said they were gonna take my leg. Then they found this ‘spot’ on the X-ray.”
    He looked back at me. “I got me a full load on, and I’m going to wade out there and fish my way through the whitewater one last time, you know what I mean?”
    “Be a shame to lose that nice rod. Why don’t you take mine?” I asked him polite as if I had a mouthful of pie?
    “This’n’s my rod, had it a long time, why would I want to give it away now?”
    We stared at each other for a while, high plains driftboaters. Way I figured it, I had a lot more time than him.
    “You gonna watch or what?”
    “I hate low-holers,” I said, then spit on the ground between us turned around and went back to my Dodge. I stowed my rod and gear methodically and kicked it down the road, keeping an eye out for bears. Did a nasty job on a Subaru once hitting a bear up here, though I don’t think the bear noticed much. I went down the road a piece and pulled over. Then I ambled back down to the river. Sure enough, here came that bastard floating towards me in his waders and plaid shirt. I fished him out by the belt and dragged him up onto the rocks. Then I laid him on his left side, and just like I learned in scouts, envisioned a point on my toe and kicked him hard right where the ribs come together at the diaphragm. Well not quite like scouts, but him and I weren’t going to start kissing now. He started puking water on the second kick, but I hit him one more for good measure.
    I left him there on the rocks and waded around for the rod, but never found it. I didn’t look too hard. I figured it was tainted. I mostly wanted it because I thought giving it back to Joses would make a good story.
    I picked him up and tossed him over my shoulder and was quite surprised at how light he was. I wasn’t very kind when I dumped him into the bed of the truck, either. Then I took my NASCAR tie down straps, you know the ones in the bin by the checkout that ratchet down, the ones you would never buy if you knew it took an engineering degree to work them? Anyway, I cinched one across his chest and cranked him down, imagining squeezing that spot and busting it into little tiny pieces to float loose in his blood and find new and numerous homes.
    I guess sometimes you can get so mad about something it festers and becomes part of your brain. Forgotten in their like a piece of sand in a pearl until something lets it out. I probably got rooms full of those monsters, up there, but this particular one manifested itself in the back of my truck and I wasn’t about to let it go.
    I headed back for the Coquihalla, skipping the little towns along the way. I wanted a major city for this. I took him almost to Vancouver, keeping to the speed limit and letting the fall breeze dry him out real good. When I saw one of those big blue “H” signs I got off the freeway and drove to the hospital.
    I unstrapped him, fished around for his wallet and put it in my jacket, remembering this funny story a friend told me once. This guy from the North Country, a real hard drinker, gets hitched. Well, he gets so drunk at the reception he passes out. When he finally gets home, there’s his best man a goin’ at it with his wife. He runs into the room and shouts “Olaf! Olaf! Stop it! You’re so damn drunk, you think you’re me.”
    Man he was shivering some, but cold as death or dead, it didn’t make much difference to me by then. I took him into the emergency room and admitted him as Joses Crump. Told that really pretty nurse and young doctor that he had this kind of breakdown, insisting he was me, then fell in the river. I tried to look real sad as I looked at my feet then said “You know, ‘cuz of the drinking and all.” Then I filled out some paperwork very carefully using the information on his license for my own.
    The nurse was batting these big blue eyes at me, calling me a hero, and I felt a soft spot growing in me I haven’t felt since I lost my dog, but I make it a rule never to lie to a woman until I know her for a while, so I left.
    You see, the Canadians, that last vestige of civilization above our borders, have this real good health care. There’s no way in hell they are going to let some poor, insane old man just die forgotten. No sir, they are going to prod him and poke him and test him and drain his blood and refill it. They are going to take more transparencies than a Disney cartoon. They are going to keep him alive and miserable just as long as they can.
    As I was driving the Coqu, I thought back to that night on that island, with all of our gear floating in a sad little pile and the water up to our knees, shivering in wet clothes. I was thinking what a stone cold bastard would do this kind of thing and how we knew we were going to bug out when the tide came up, but just never thought somebody would motor up and steal that raft. It started to rain and I turned on the wipers. Yep, that was a real cruel night. A real cruel night.
  10. And I thought you were a cynical smartass! Seriously, that slowed everything down in my house for me, with three little ones going bannanas. I didn't hear a thing but my thoughts for a few precious minutes. Thanks alot Tickler. Those were masterful strokes on the canvas. I am gonna put that on the wall by the tying bench. Tight lines Coach:beer2:
  11. Tickler,

    That's some good writing. Wow!
  12. You pulled me in on that one Thanks.
  13. On a climbing trip up in Banff we got snookered by sour weather, so we put away the ropes and ice axes, pulled out the rods, put on our slickers, and hiked into a little section of the Bow, figuring we could at least salvage the travel time with some fishing. This was back when climbing was more important to me than fishing.....

    The pullout had a couple big trucks and a beater van with local license plates and fishing stickers. Must be the local honey stretch, we thought, so we stealthed down to the water to check it out.

    Sure enough, 50 yards downstream of where we came outta the woods, there were two women throwin' flies from the bank. As we fished downstream, it became obvious that the women were having a pretty good time, hooping and hollering, and tossing empty beer cans into a nearby pile of dead soldiers, but not really fishing worth a damn.

    As we got closer, we realized that they weren't women at all, but men with blond wigs, make-up, and women's clothing.

    They were either too drunk or too oblivious to notice us, and we figured they were just freaks and we didn't want to intrude on their scene, so we slid back into the woods to avoid them and go farther downstream. But my buddy and me looked at each other, raised our eyebrows, and both silently thought "What the f@&*#??".

    Vectoring back toward the river, we heard more yelling and commotion. When we hit the riparian line, we saw 6 more men dressed in drag, thrashing around on the shore of the river, talking shit, staggering, drinking, rough housing, and yes, even doing a reasonable imitation of fishing. But their imitation of females was really scary, smeared mascara/lipstick, big fake wigs, hippy miniskirts over hairy legs, the whole nine yards!

    Curiosity won out over common sense and caution, and so we walked down and made ourselves acquainted. It was a bachelor party thing, and we ended up getting good info on the local fishing, but not before getting dragged back to their camp and persuaded to drink large amounts of alcohol. Luckily we got to keep wearing our original clothes and avoid the lipstick and make-up application. We did, at some point, put ratty wigs on, as evidenced photographically, but I don't really remember that part.......

    As jacked-up as the whole thing was, it turned out to be a pretty good time, but it was like Twilight Zone before we tumbled to the truth of the shenanigans.

    And no, I'm not going to post those photos..........
  14. Yeah, I am, and I kinda thought that would re-inforce it, not the other way around. BTW if you really printed it, I edited it this morning.
  15. Sorry, this is progressing into a deer-accident post, so i'll throw this in the mix. I bought a motorcycle this summer to save on gas, since I was working 10 miles from home and then teaching classes at a local college about 20 additional miles away. The thought occured to me that it might be a good way to hit some of my favorite trout streams, just buy a 4-piece rod and pack my waders in my saddle bags. That thought died about 3 weeks ago when I ran into a buddy of mine who was limping down the hall. He rides bikes too so I immediately asked him if he laid his bike down. According to him, he was riding home to Goldendale at about 8 at night when he saw a flash of brown and his world came to a furry stop. Apparently a deer tried to jump over his motorcycle while he was doing about 65 (my friend, not the deer). It made it over the bike, but clipped him cleanly off. He got about 1/2 way through the deer before it crosschecked him to the pavement, where he slid about 50 feet to a stop. He was OK, he got up squeeged the deer guts off of his visor with his glove, found his bike several hundred yards up the road and drove home. At any rate it put an end to my visions of hitting the evening hatch up in the mountains via motorcycle.
  16. The Screaming -

    Quite a while ago, like the eighties.

    Took a few days off work to fish. The tag end of spring, working into summer, on the Breitenbush river. Which used to have awesome natives - don't know about the present.

    Went solo, packed in to a nice spot on the river, set up backpacker's camp, went fishing. Good fishing, good food, good company. This occasionally happens when you say "fuckit" and run solo.

    So about the third day in I'm working the river - the Breitenbush is pretty narrow - and this 9' rubber raft comes floating around the corner, with gear and oars in it, empty. So what to do? I capture the raft and drag it onshore, and I'm looking at it and it has a full set of gear in it. Creepy.

    Small feelings of dread start to wander in. Where are the people? And if they are hurt or drowned what the hell do I do? So I'm standing there - fishing has been lost - wondering what to do about the empty raft.

    Then the screaming begins. Upriver. Female. Yeep. Oh shit.

    So I go hell for leather upriver, afraid for the worst, around a basalt cliff corner about 75 yards upstream, and there.........

    is, are, a couple - yup, a man and a woman - no wierdness there - buck naked and you know the rest. They seemed to be having a whole lotta fun, minus the fact that they were obviously unaware of the downriver raft with all their gear.

    Needless to say I retreated as fast as I advanced, gave the raft another yank up on the bank,

    and went back to fishing, considerably downriver.

    And that's the beginning and end of it.

  17. Otter - Thanks for returning my boat like that...never even knew it was missing till just now!
  18. Now that's the kind of 'primitive' I think we can all understand, even if it's only a distant memory or wishful thinking!

    Sex in the woods, on the river, or next to a campfire under a full moon....

    It's like the way food tastes better out there, it's just....better.

    Make love, not war. :thumb: :thumb:

    And dammit, that ain't weird! (unless it's a couple (or trio) of tweaker drag queens, than yeah, that's weird)
  19. This is not necessarily wierd but pretty funny.
    My husband and I headed off to the Salmon Festival at Nimbus hatchery on the American River in Sacramento today because we thought we may need to work the TU booth. It turned out that we didn't, so we just wondered around to see what there was. Funny thing is we saw three guys that had parked themselves right across the river from the hatchery to fish. (Strike one. Closed area). Seems that they were also right across from the DFG booth where about 6 officers could clearly seem them. (Strike two) If that wasn't bad enough, when they were approach by DFG wardens it turned out that they all had arrest warrants out on them. (Strike 3 your out) Who said the wardens weren't getting the bad guys/salmon snaggers. :rofl:

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