Posts tagged: wally the wonderdog

I’m Still Fly Fishing — And Starting To Write About It Just A Little Bit

November 12, 2012, by Tom Chandler 16 comments

It wasn’t until after one of the kids suffered a public meltdown at the Shasta Big Springs Ranch’s “Watch the salmon return to spawn” event that I developed an inkling why salmon die after they spawn.

It’s not just a biological imperative. It’s a pretty damned good idea.

Sadly, Little M’s been out of sorts since Wally the Wonderdog passed away, and it turns out so have I.

Watching the salmon spawn at Shasta Big Springs. Turns out they’re smarter than we thought…

I fished a couple times and caught fish in what I’d suggest were Quality Fishing Experiences, but I never felt like writing about the trips. It was fly fishing and it was good, but around the house and on the stream I keep seeing Wally the Wonderdog out of the corner of my eye, as if he still existed in the periphery of my vision.

People who lose limbs sometimes suffer from what’s called phantom pain; their brain reports sensations from a limb that isn’t there, and while scientists aren’t sure why, you probably don’t have to look past your nearest dog owner for an explanation.

Still, life continues, and I’m starting work on a review of the Sage Circa 8’9″ 3wt fly rod — a review which includes a daring comparison to the much-loved Sage 389LL and even the Orvis Helios 2 8’4″ 2wt.

To steal from the degrading reality TV shows dotting the airwaves, the review will be “more shocking than The Real Housewives of Atlanta*.”

Proof I’ve been doing more fishing than writing…

In the meantime, I’m ramping up the work again and doing all the things responsible adult homeowners do when winter’s grip starts to tighten, so while I’m feeling the urge to write a little, other things beckon.

Still, see you behind they keyboard (a bit more), Tom Chandler.

(*Not true)

Like Captain Ahab, But Without The Sparkling Personality…

July 17, 2012, by Tom Chandler 13 comments

On my last fishing trip I apparently jammed my right ankle pretty good, but it’s taken a while to realize just how badly.

That’s one of the downsides of becoming a geezer; things move so slowly that an injury a younger me would have noticed the next day takes 2-3 days to fully manifest. (Turns out I also groan more than I did when I was younger.)

So in what I’ll suggest is a Kodak moment that will never, ever find its way onto the Internet, I’m writing with my right leg up on the corner of the desk, a feat of writing-related contortion so powerful I should rightly receive the Pulitzer just for making the attempt. (That it hasn’t happened suggests they don’t fully appreciate my talents either.)

Sadly, I’m not the only hobbler in the house.

Spoil The Wonderdog

Wally the Wonderdog has become my buddy in gimpiness, and unfortunately, his problems are less temporary than mine.

His anti-seizure medication dopes him up, slows him down and also plays havoc with his liver. I didn’t like the seizures, but it’s possible I like this even less.

We’re giving him something to support his liver, but that goodness is being washed away by the more-frequent doses of Novox (an anti-inflammatory) that are needed to fight his increasing gimpiness, but which are also hard on the liver.

Things have reached the point where the L&T and I broke down and bought one of those giant therapeutic foam dog beds from Orvis, and as promised, the damn thing is more comfortable than my own bed.

In fact, it’s not clear why we’re wrestling with cribs and beds for the kids; Little M liked Wally’s bed enough that she tried to steal it, so as far as the kids are concerned, why not throw one of these in each corner and call it good? (Seriously.)

Of course, all this takes place as backdrop against the integration of M2 (Mihret) into the family alongside Little M (Meski). That’s an unpretty process involving jealousy, infighting, verbal taunts, the denial of reality, and childish temper tantrums (sorta like the US House of Representatives, but with sippy cups), and it’s illustrated an interesting point.

You want your kids to be happy, but it’s clear they need to learn about entitlement, greed, whining and getting along with others. And you’re willing to teach them those lessons by saying “no” to another toy/book/iPad/car.

The Wonderdog, by contrast, has already learned every lesson he needs to, and he’s so goofy that nothing I buy him will ever change him (except for the better).

Which basically means at this stage of his life, I’m willing to buy him anything if it makes him happier. Like a therapeutic foam dog bed.

Pets fill an odd niche in our lives, though it’s a little startling to realize they sometimes occupy a privileged niche higher than your own.

See you hobbling, Tom Chandler.

Have You Hugged Your Dog Today? (or, I Love My Four-Legged Competitive Advantage)

June 1, 2012, by Tom Chandler 11 comments

I’ve long believed dogs are probably better human beings than many of the human beings I know, but now we learn that some scientists believe our furry, four-legged friends made it possible for modern humans (some of us qualify) to outcompete Neanderthals:

One of the classic conundrums in paleoanthropology is why Neandertals went extinct while modern humans survived in the same habitat at the same time. (The phrase “modern humans,” in this context, refers to humans who were anatomically—if not behaviorally—indistinguishable from ourselves.) The two species overlapped in Europe and the Middle East between 45,000 and 35,000 years ago; at the end of that period, Neanderthals were in steep decline and modern humans were thriving. What happened?

For a scientific paper, it’s actually pretty riveting reading.

Is he the reason we're not all hairy and smelly and stupid?

Originally man was thought to have domesticated dogs after the disappearance of the Neanderthals, but evidence now suggests we were in the process of domesticating them far earlier — and that they helped domesticate us in the process, offering up a couple of advantages (like our ability to discern where someone is looking).

In any case, I’m off to give Wally the Wonderdog an extra treat. Without him, it’s possible I wouldn’t possess the intelligence to type this, instead staring uncomprehendingly at the reflection of my sloping forehead on the monitor.

Zog not pleased with thought.

See you on all fours, Tom Chandler.

The Update From Underground/Man Cave World Headquarters

May 6, 2012, by Tom Chandler 8 comments

My apologies.

For most of the last week I’ve been playing the role of single dad, and because that wasn’t quite challenging enough, I decided to also come down with a bad cold.

Apparently, this parenting thing is like Olympic diving; it really only becomes newsworthy when you add significantly to the degree of difficulty.

It doesn’t matter much; small stream fly fishermen in my neck of the woods wait breathlessly for opening day, and then we wait approximately another month for the waters — which rose just prior to the opener — to fall back to fishable levels.

Can you spot the holding water? Me neither...

So after we were finally free to do so, the increasingly gimpy Wonderdog and I took a nice up-and-down hike along one of my favorite little waters just yesterday, and though I brought along a fly rod, it never escaped its tube.

Wally the Wonderdog looking in vain for trout

The Big Bugs

Last week Little M and I created our own little adventure on Hedge Creek, which flows into the Upper Sacramento just below Mossbrae Falls. I introduced her to the big black stoneflies (she didn’t think they were cuddly in the least), and because she’s 3.5 years old, didn’t really understand when I tried to explain why fly fishermen love the things to death.

Perspective clearly remains the province of the holder, though I can say she got excited when — in the first decent pool of the creek above the Upper Sac — we spotted a pretty good sized trout.

I’m never sure how trout move up upcreek through the jumble of rocks, mini-waterfalls and deadfall that define Hedge Creek’s confluence with the river (that alien perspective thing again), but they clearly do.

Oddly, it reminded me of another Upper Sac tributary I wanted to fish but haven’t.

Maybe this is the year.

The Work Thang

The upcoming week qualifies as a “better get it done/written/submitted” week for Tom The Working Guy, who last week made lame excuses involving kids and colds and didn’t exactly peg the productivity meter.

I’m working on two pieces for the Underground (also two for my writing blog), but what you’re seeing right now is the fly fishing blog of a very busy writer who isn’t fly fishing much at all due to high waters.

Thus, the silence is explained.

On Tuesday I should be surveying Hat Creek with several of the men who originally helped restore it in the 1970s (CalTrout’s founders), and after that happens, you can expect at least a picture or two headed your way.

Hat Creek has once again fallen on hard times, yet it’s nice to know that (once again), someone’s got a plan for putting it back together.

The Snowman Melteth

From our second story family room, I can see both Mt. Eddy and the ridges surrounding it (Mt. Shasta is out the opposite window, but screened by trees).

The snow that is feeding the runoff that is putting my little streams out of reach is disappearing quickly, especially if you squint a little and don’t look at the northern exposures when you’re driving south on I5.

The weather has been cool and the Upper Sac has fallen below 2000 cfs, though (finally) 70+ degree temperatures are back and the white stuff will disappear more quickly.

Meanwhile, I’m crediting myself with a certain level of cunning by combining small stream reconnaissance trips with dog walking and child care duties.

I’m a crafty one, no doubt. Crafty enough to not make any bold predictions about this year’s runoff, though evidence suggests things will get better sooner rather than later.

See you on the little rivers, Tom Chandler

Wally the Wonderdog: Clearly A Leg Man

January 10, 2012, by Tom Chandler 5 comments

On today’s walk, the always-up-for-something-stinky Underdog found a deer’s leg in the forest. He’s one proud, happy dude (being as the smell would gag a hyena with a head cold).

When The Wonderdog Stumbles

December 19, 2011, by Tom Chandler 27 comments

It’s common for people to say their dog is another member of the family, but like most relationships, it’s far more complex than four words can encompass.

Nobody in your family is ever *always* thrilled to do whatever the hell it is you’re doing, and I can’t remember the last time anyone practically wet themselves over the simple fact I came home.

Except, of course, for Wally the Wonderdog.

So when your wife runs into the family room at 6:13 a.m. and tells you Wally is having a seizure, I didn’t finish typing the sentence before I went to see what the hell’s going on.

Wally the Wonderdog during more restful times

I found him standing stiffly and staring out the sliding glass door — before he turned and growled at me. Which meant something was wrong.

Then he went attack-dog berserk and actually charged me, and for a split-second I wondered if I was going to feed him a forearm to keep him away from the vital bits.

Yeah. Something’s really wrong.

And as quickly as he’d become a mad dog the switch was thrown and he was back to Wally — tongue hanging out, tailing wagging like I just fed him a hamburger, happier than ever to see me.

The Intertubes suggest the seizure left him disoriented and probably blind for a while, and I don’t believe he would have bitten me, but, you know.

Damn.

The veterinarian said it sounded like classic adult-onset epilepsy — apparently a not-uncommon condition in dogs.

A little research ties canine epilepsy to everything from diet to brain tumors, and it’s disconcerting that the vet simply gave us phenobarbital (a sedative used to control seizures) without really exploring the other possibilities.

Which the L&T and I are doing now.

The Wonderdog has always been the family tank; an indestructible, goofy presence who managed to fall off a mountain, get hit by a truck and avoid euthanasia by an hour.

In our universe, he’s a constant, like gravity or the speed of light.

When he stumbles, you can feel the earth rumble beneath your feet.

See you researching things, Tom Chandler

Fall In Summer (or, Welcome To Burger… aiyeeee!)

August 13, 2011, by Tom Chandler 14 comments

By midday on Friday, no useful work was getting done, though it seemed that some useful goofing off could still be accomplished, so I loaded the Wonderdog into the truck and headed for my friendly, neighborhood small stream.

The fish were cooperative, but the wading boots were slick (turns out the Patagonia Rock Grip boots don’t “grip” all that well on dry rock either; it’s back to the glue-esque Riverwalkers), and the inevitable fall was approximately four feet — mostly onto my left hip.

The camera is downstairs and I’m upstairs and there aren’t enough aspirin to get me to make the trip this morning, so expect pictures later this weekend.

But I can still type, and fans of Wally the Wonderdog will no doubt find this edifying…

Welcome to Burger King can I hel…. aiiyeeeeee!

Stiffening up by the minute — and with a wet, tired Wally the Wonderdog sprawled across the passenger seat like a disgruntled pasha — I was too hungry to wait a couple hours for dinner, and in what has become a once-a-year event, the Wonderdog and I curved the straight line home through the local Burger King drive-through window.

The Wonderdog perked up immediately at the smell of all those frying hamburgers, but I didn’t think to roll up the window when I unclipped and turned to the back seat to find my wallet.

Houston, we have a problem.

In an attempt to gain doggie heaven (the Burger King kitchen), the Wonderdog launched himself over the center console and into my lap — actually getting his front paws outside the door and his head through the drive-through window.

I grabbed a couple handfuls of Wonderblubber and started pulling back, and before he could wriggle all the way into the kitchen, the friendly, smiling Burger King employee returned to find a drooling dog with a tongue the size of a necktie waiting for her.

Fortunately, she didn’t scream. (She yelped a little and recoiled.)

After a few electric moments, I got most of him hauled back into the truck (enough to get his nose out of the drive-thru window at least), the no-longer-smiling employee handed over the food, and I drove away, the Wonderdog keeping his nose glued to the bag until he got his half of the Whopper.

When did I become a player in a dog-driven reality TV show (and where are my residuals)?

See you at the medicine cabinet, Tom Chandler.

Wally the Wonderdog: It’s a Dog’s Life

August 1, 2011, by Tom Chandler 12 comments

While we were gone, the house-sitter took Wally for two long hikes each and every day, and because Wally didn’t appear quite excited by his dry dog food, the sitter also heated up organic chicken broth and poured it over Wally’s kibble.

There was even talk of periodic massages for his sore paws.

After nine days of abject suffering, the Wonderdog rests...

As a result, the dog we returned to is noticeably skinnier and happier than the dog we left, prompting me to think that next time, I’ll send Wally to Maine (where there is much pie and steak, most of it wearing butter), while I stay behind to enjoy twice-daily hikes, heated food, massages and utter lack of air travel.

See you pondering the dog’s life, Tom Chandler.

The Small Stream Fly Fisherman Finds High Water, Trout

July 18, 2011, by Tom Chandler 18 comments

It’s become absolutely critical that I forget something essential on each fly fishing trip, and this time the axe fell on the Pentax Optio camera loaned to me by Singlebarbed after mine found its way into the hands of an airline employee.

Technically, I get half points for remembering the camera, but I’d mistakenly slid a 16MB SD card into the slot, which was good for exactly one photograph, yet wouldn’t let me delete anything.

(In my youth, a move like that would have qualified for a “Way to go, Einstein.”)

So while the small stream was muy beautiful (in a small, prehistoric-looking canyon sort of way); and many colorful trout were caught; and I intended to shoot stunning streamside photos of the Orvis 8′ Superfine Touch I’m reviewing… all you’re going to see is this clunker (burned-out highlights and all):

Wally the Wonderdog searching for trout to retrieve

My Casio Commander cell phone was in the truck, so I retrieved it and learned just how poorly suited its camera is to the Split-Second World of Outdoor Photography.

So instead of colorful photographs, I’m going to paint bright, colorful pictures with words, as in:

The stream was like really, really beautiful. Like awesome, you know?
The trout were small but they were really, really beautiful. Like major-league sick/phat/awesome, you know?
There were wildflowers that were really, really pretty in many awesome shapes and sizes.

There. Your minds are probably reeling under that onslaught of vivid imagery. The rest of your day will seem gray and lifeless by comparison, but that’s normal.

You’ll be fine in the morning.

The Gritty Details

I checked last year’s posts an discovered I fished this same area a month earlier — and the water was lower last year.

In other words — due to the high snowpack and cold spring — we really are running a good month behind last year.

Fortunately, the trout seem healthy, and they were perfectly willing to eat a dry.

I caught many of them.

I wanted to kiss all of them.

And I lost the biggest of them (true story).

It was like running across a great friend from your college days (assuming your college days were decades ago), and discovering you picked up exactly where you left off, no hiccups or false starts.

So while the drifts were not easy (they almost never are on a small stream), the fish were wild, the stalking mine-emptying, the exertion innervating, and the sense of gratitude (on the part of the fly fisherman) was an almost palpable thing.

It’s good to be back. Good to see you, old friend.

The Gritty Gear Details

I thought I’d finished my review of the 8′ 4wt Orvis Superfine Touch, but realized it needed a test on a truly small stream — one where getting more than a foot of fly line past the guides qualifies as an ambitious cast.

How did it work? Look for the review this week.

Since I’m in testing mode, I also dragged out the Patagonia Sun Hoody, which once again performed admirably (no buttons, pockets, Velcro or anything else to snag fly line).

I’d love to parade the fly I fished as the end product of a lot of painstaking trial and error, but this was a small stream filled with fish hungry for both spring and a meal, so they ate all three patterns equally enthusiastically.

Wally the Wonderdog was his usual self; staring hard at the water in a vain attempt to spot trout, and then attempting to retrieve them once I did hook one (which was probably a lot less often once he dove into the water, which happened about half the time).

When he wasn’t chasing trout, he was dashing from tree to boulder to bush in the hopes of finding something dead to eat/roll in, tail wagging hard, tongue lolling to the left (he lost his left canine when he fell down a mountain).

He’s older than he used to be (we all are), so after he basically hovered off the ground for a couple hours, he collapsed in the back seat of the Bronco and was asleep before I got the fly rod taken apart.

Live hard, sleep well, lick your privates.

Sounds like a recipe for life.

See you on a small stream, Tom Chandler.

Why I Don’t Let Wally The Wonderdog Talk to Reporters (or, Define Fly Fishing In 10 Seconds or Less…)

April 7, 2011, by Tom Chandler 25 comments

How Do You Sell A Sport You Can’t Define?

Earlier this week, a reporter called to write an article about the Trout Underground, and just as the conversation started, Wally the Wonderdog wandered slowly past my office window — holding a stiffly frozen, snow-encrusted squirrel in his mouth.

I considered telling the reporter about the squirrel-cicle, but then realized it really wasn’t that believable; the kind of thing a guy would make up to impress a reporter.

Moments like this force me to realize that much of the Underground’s universe — especially the bits concerning Wally the Wonderdog — simply aren’t fit for print.

Or maybe they’re just not readily explainable.

And that was only the start of the interview. It wasn’t long before he asked the inevitable, grind-my-brain-to-halt question:

“What is the Trout Underground?”

And, like every other time I’ve been asked, I had no answer — at least nothing that glibly approaches a sound bite (outside of the ill-advised “I’m simply oversharing my mental illness”).

Part of the problem lies with the sport itself; beyond the gear used (and that’s up for grabs these days), fly fishing is pretty hard to define.

Even Gierach — who writes far more gooder than I — refuses to be cornered:

â€œFly-fishing is solitary, contemplative, misanthropic, scientific in some hands, poetic in others, and laced with conflicting aesthetic considerations. It’s not even clear if catching fish is actually the point.â€

It gets worse.

A quick survey of the Internet suggests catching fish actually is the point fly fishing, but for some (an awful lot, actually), it clearly isn’t.

Others accumulate fly fishing gear and clearly think that’s the point, while others embrace minimalism as the One True Path to Heaven.

For others, it’s all about being miserable, and reminding everyone just how tough they are to withstand the suffering, or…

You get the picture.

Recruiting new people to the sport has never proved all that easy, with some quick to point to things like the high cost of equipment (ever compared the cost of a fly rod & reel to a bass boat?), the notorious stuffiness of the sport’s practitioners, surly fly shop employees, the fussiness (and shrinking habitat) of trout, the technical demands of casting, etc.

Here’s a thought; maybe it has nothing to do with any of the above.

Maybe it’s hard to sell a sport that you can’t really define.

Unlike tournament bass fishing (or golf, or whatever), fly fishing’s goals are a little unclear, and for some of us, they shift over the course of a day.

Which is a long-winded way of making myself feel better about an inability to clearly define the blog I’ve been writing for better than 720,000 words, especially after the reporter asked me to pick a couple of highlights (posts) from the prior year.

I ended up picking three posts that felt like they represented the blog, then realized that one was definitely not about fly fishing, and two that were about fly fishing kinda dealt with it in the periphery (OK, they were all about Little M, though fly fishing featured heavily in this one and here).

A sport with shifting goals? Blogs with no visible point? An writer’s inability to summarize 720,000 words of his own work?

Frankly, it’s enough to make me want to wander off and find a beer.

Maybe watch Wally the Wonderdog eat his squirrel-cicle.

Right now, that makes perfect sense.

See you outside, Tom Chandler.