Posts tagged: wally the wonderdog

Fevers, Vets & Antibiotics – An Unhappy Post About the Wonderdog

July 19, 2010, by Tom Chandler 46 comments

Tuesday AM UPDATE: The Wonderdog – despite spending yesterday getting pumped full of antibiotics so powerful he set off our smoke detectors – did no better last night, so it’s back to the vet this morning. Hard to see the formerly tank-like, enthusiastically goofy Wonderdog barely able to life his head, but we’re hoping for better news today…

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On Friday, Wally the Wonderdog had the time of his life with Little M and I (when he’s outdoors with us, he pretty much always has the time of his life).

Saturday morning he went running with the L&T, cooled himself with a swim in the backyard pond, and began his afternoon “work” period, which to the unappreciative eye looks a lot like laying around and sleeping.

Unfortunately, by Saturday evening, it was clear somewhat wasn’t quite right.

He was lethargic, shivering a little and panting. A call to former vet-tech Myrna (of “Wayne & Myrna”) suggested a gastro-intestinal problem, which isn’t exactly rare for Wonderdog.

He tends to scarf up roadkill, discarded deer parts – pretty much whatever the rest of the animal kingdom has left behind for reasons of taste and sophistication.

Still, it was worrying.

Living in a rural area offers a lot of benefits, but after-hours/Sunday emergency vet care isn’t one of them.

In fact, the local animal hospital answering machine offers up an after-hours emergency number, but also says if your “emergency” call isn’t returned in five minutes, you should probably abandon all hope.

In a half-dozen tries over the years, the emergency number has worked exactly once.

That’s why – when I got up at 3:00 am Sunday morning (yes, I like to worry) to check on the Wonderdog – and found him shaking hard and barely responsive, there wasn’t much to do except hang with him until morning.

That’s when the L&T shoveled him into the car and headed for Redding, while I stayed and distracted Little M, who pretty much pegged the “Old Yeller” meter by wandering around the now-empty house and calling for her Partner in Crime.

In Redding, a clearly distracted vet first diagnosed Salmon Fever – a disease acquired by eating raw salmon, trouts, etc.

Since Wally ate the brown trout that fell from the sky, I haven’t seen the Wonderdog eat anything fishy, but he’s always on the river with me or at the lake with the L&T, and he’s perfectly capable of snarfing down a dead trout before either one of us notices.

The vet then oddly reversed herself (they didn’t find what they were looking for in a stool sample, despite the fact they wouldn’t early in the disease), and instead of the really expensive, massively powerful course of antibiotics, shot him full of a “normal” antibiotic, injected enough saline solution under his skin to make him look like a camel, and sent him home.

Due to the high fever (105 degrees) and other indicators, they diagnosed “some kind of infection.”

Gee. I never would have guessed.

“If he doesn’t show marked improvement,” she said. “Bring him back.”

This morning, he’s no better. In fact, I checked him at 2:30 am (that worry thing again), and it was clear he’s worse.

The L&T and I are beside ourselves.

In a few minutes, the L&T is taking the Wonderdog to a local vet, where we hope to get some answers before this all snowballs out of control, which – judging by the notoriously tough Wonderdog’s unwillingness to even raise his head – is well underway.

The Training Hike, and Dog is My Copilot…

May 29, 2010, by Tom Chandler 10 comments

Working under the assumption that dragging a 20 pound pack up a big hill demands a little preparation – like dragging a 25 pound pack up a smaller hill – today seemed like a good time for a training hike.

Fortunately, a 25 pound training deadweight – in the form of an always-happy-to-be-in-the-outdoors Little M – sat right by the door.

At this point, she’s as excited as the Wonderdog to take a hike (and the Wonderdog gets very excited).

The only real sticking point is the Kelty Base Camp backpack Little M rides in (like royalty).

Riding the torture rack: Queen M

Simply put, it’s a torture rack for dear old dad.

Years ago – after an agonizing weekend – I renounced uncomfortable packs, deciding life’s too short to spend it hunched over and whimpering.

Sadly, the universe is patient, and sometimes – when it senses you’re no longer watching – circles around behind you and whacks you on the back of the head.

Or in this case, the back of my back.

I’ve never actually worn a less comfortable pack.

It’s painful enough that I remind myself I’m “building character” as I trudge along, Little M babbling away happily at every new thing (and at this point, it’s all new to her).

There is some truth to the idea that kids keep you young (though there have been plenty of late nights when a statement like that would have earned you a glare, if not a beating [a sort of weak, tired, slow-motion beating]).

Sheer, unadulterated joy is an infectious thing, even when it’s accompanied by sheer, unadulterated back pain.

Dog Days

Marring today’s fantasy image of a guy, his kid, the goofiest dog you can imagine and pristine wilderness is… the dog.

The normally tank-like Wally the Wonderdog is limping around the house on three legs, and we’re not 100% sure why.

Yesterday he ran with the L&T, and last night he gimped up.

We’re both hoping it’s a simple strain, though the Wonderdog’s history may just be catching up to him.

After all, he’s fallen off a mountain, been hit by a truck, was sucked through a rapids, and at 7+ years old (we’re guessing), that kind of thing can come back to haunt you.

Hopefully – with the help of a few baby aspirins – the Wonderdog will be back up to speed.

For now, the battle is getting out of the house without his knowing; he doesn’t tolerate someone having fun without him, and he insists on going – even if he has to do so on three legs.

For example, the L&T just left for a run, and he’s sitting a couple feet away, glaring at me.

And in truth, we’ll miss him on today’s hike. The Wonderdog is a comforting presence when you’re warmed up and striding loosely through the woods – especially when you’re feeling top heavy because of the kid strapped to your back.

He’s an early warning system for all the wild critters I’m happy to see at a distance, and he’s astonishingly protective of Little M when she’s out of the pack and wandering around.

In a couple instances, he’s straddled the trail, blocking her path when he figured she was plenty far enough away from her parents (which isn’t very far).

It’s behavior he manifested in pre-kid times when I hiked too far ahead of the L&T; you suddenly find him at your feet, slowing your progress and generally getting in the way, and it’s easy to get cranky about it until you realize the L&T’s about to drift back out of sight.

That’s the essential paradox of Wally the Wonderdog: Dumber than a sack of hammers, but smarter than his owners.

Today I hike, and tomorrow I fish; Older Bro is heading up, and we’ve got an appointment with a small stream somewhere in this county.

See you on the river, Tom Chandler.

The Underground Fly Fishes, The Wonderdog Gets Cranky, And Orvis Gets Grippy

March 29, 2010, by Tom Chandler 2 comments

While Ian Rutter and David Knapp score heavy on dry flies in the Smokies, the Upper Sacramento – as is normal for this time of year – is running a bit high, a bit cold, and yes – a bit slow.

It’s realities like this that make me want to airmail a rattlesnake to those smug, self-satisfied bastards induce me to follow the exploits of those fine fly fishermen, and eventually the voices disappear, and I enjoy a walk on the river anyway.

Sure, it's ugly and I used it because I'm lazy, but it worked.

This time, I hiked far enough to both tire the Wonderdog and find two fish willing to eat a streamer which I selected after an involved, thoughtful, and highly technical process (it was at the top of the streamer box and I was too lazy to dig out the black woolly bugger).

Despite my Mad Fishing Report Skillz, even I can’t exactly play this one out as thrilling, edge-of-your-seat stuff.

I saw two bugs (an olive and what may have been a March Brown), no rising fish, and – despite rumors of Skwallas on shop doors – never even tied on a dry.

Instead – taking advantage of a technique I stole from some other fly fisherman developed entirely on my own – I did hook two fish.

Astonishing.

Essentially, in high water situations, the trout often hang in the soft water near the edge of the river.

Using a streamer, you can cover a lot of ground from the edge of the river by casting into the faster water, giving the line slack (so the streamer sinks), and then controlling the swing of the streamer into the bank.

From one spot, you can cover a lot of bank, and it offers a pretty controlled swing into cut banks, rocks, buckets – places trout love to hide.

One smallish trout ate my streamer, I never got a proper hook set, and I got him as far as my feet before he slipped the hook. Given the water temps, I was actually pretty happy about that (at least my hands were).

The second trout was bigger and just as skilled at throwing the hook; I basically farmed him after two jumps.

I’d guess him at 14″ (an excellent length for a trout I didn’t land).

Wally the Wonderdog apparently agreed he was a fine fish – at least based on the pissed-off look he gave me only seconds after the trout threw the hook:

Man's Best Friend? Not when you farm *his* trout...

This is because the Wonderdog – seeing me hooked up while on the high bank above – used his tiny brain to draw a straight line from him to me and crashed right through a willow thicket I’d have said was impenetrable.

All to get a nose into the action.

That I denied him that opportunity apparently was not lost on the fish-obsessed, tank-like canine.

It appears that some fishing buddies are more forgiving than others.

A Question of Balance

Today I test-drove a new pair of studded rubber soles – the latest from Orvis.

I think they have something here.

Orvis' new studded rubber sole grips nicely - but don't wear it on wooden floors...

Their four-pronged metal stud design is aggressive, and grips extremely well.

That’s good; I forgot my wading staff and the river was high, and the two add up to all sorts of difficulties if you’re walking on what amounts to a rocky ice rink.

Like Simms, Orvis is using the Vibram “sticky” rubber sole, which doesn’t seem nearly as sticky as the Patagonia rubber, so studs are needed for tough wading jobs.

I wandered around a *lot* on what I’ll call “snotty cobble” (fly fishermen know what I’m talking about, though a non-fisherman would have some questions).

The new Orvis design features what appear to be cutting edges, and while I got a better grip than a miser has on a dollar, I wouldn’t suggest wearing these on your wooden floors or in your drift boat (at least one sans mats).

In the interest of keeping the Undergrounders upright (and out of the doghouse), I’m working up a post on different metal stud designs for the next day or two – the logical extension of last year’s wading boot test.

More to come on rubber use, studs, and other oddly related (and easily misunderstood) topics soon.

See you wearing boots, Tom Chandler.

The Four Things You Can Do When You Can’t Really Go Fly Fishing

January 13, 2010, by Tom Chandler 12 comments

With the Underground holding a “get out of jail” card for Wednesday’s BWO hatch, you knew it had to happen.

Even when you can't fly fish, you go fly fishing.

It’s rained steadily the last few days – a warm rain that doesn’t pile up in your yard as fluffy white stuff, but runs right downhill to the river.

Flows on the Upper Sacramento are over 7000 cfs, and it’s clear the flows won’t be so much BWO-friendly as BWO-MIA.

Yes, California needs the water, but in my Underground-centric way of viewing the world, I don’t see why the storm couldn’t have waited until Thursday. (See how simple living with me must be?)

Thing is, I need the fishing.

Brain Vacation

Work is going hard.

The ideas are small and uninteresting. The words uninspired. The sentences flat. The brain is stuffed with wool.

Simply put, it’s time to get the hell out, BWOs or not.

And dammit, we’re tool users – we’ve got opposable thumbs and the ability to use them. We’re hardy and adaptable beings – survivors of the highest order (take that, Neanderthals).

I’ve got a 6wt Orvis Hydros fly rod to test (a replacement for the 6wt ZeroGravity I broke in Montana), and a Wonderdog that hasn’t seen the outside of the house in a couple days.

We’re going to walk along a part of the river that will likely be far too high to fly fish, and while I might try the rod on for size, if I don’t make a cast – or catch a trout – it’s still going to be fine.

In simple terms, it’s not a fly fishing trip; it’s an excursion in the interest of both canine and human mental health.

It’s either living with lowered expectations on the river, or one of the three following barely fly fishing related activities:

I re-read how-to articles from current fly fishing magazines (so I won’t have to read them again next year).
I organize my fly boxes according to color, size, and fashionability (The Martha Stewart Treatment).
I start making crank calls to leading fly fishing manufacturers (“My breathable waders have bad breath – how do you suggest I cure that?” [trust me - this one really slays the guys at Simms]).

As you can see, the situation is dire. The Wonderdog is staring at me as I write this. And the time is now.

See you on the river, Tom Chandler.

Snow Falling on Wally: Why Everything Looks Shiny & New at the Trout Underground

November 20, 2009, by Tom Chandler 9 comments

The snow’s falling at Trout Underground/Man Cave World Headquarters, and while the fluffy white stuff will bring curses in February, today it makes everything look shiny, clean and new.

Even the Trout Underground/Man Cave’s Hydro Testing Facility loses its greenish, slimy appearance under the influence of the fluffy white stuff:

: Everything looks better after the first snowfall…

Needless to say, today would be the perfect day to chase BWO hatches on the river, though I’m sidelined with domestic chores (at least steam cleaning a carpet involves a power tool).

I hate missing a snowy day on the water; even if you don’t see a bug or catch a trout, it’s heartbreakingly beautiful (that shiny clean thing again).

And yes, you very often do catch trout, typically on #20 BWO dries or emergers, which – for a Modern Traditionalist Intemperate Dry Fly Partisan – is pretty close to heaven on a stick (a big stick).

Tomorrow, however, may be a different story. Should the planets align and I find myself on the river, you’ll hear it second.

Meanwhile, the Underground’s not deaf to the pleas of the Wally the Wonderdog partisans, who have seen neither hide nor hair of the Magnificent Sausage Beast for some time. Consider this a Wally Snow Day. (He certainly has; he runs around in the stuff like it was money, chasing the falling snowflakes to the ground.)

: The Wonderdog loves the snow, but then, he doesn’t have to plow it…

See you at the Winter Wonderland, Tom Chandler.

When Getting Lost Means Ending Up Somewhere You Didn’t Plan to Be, But Should Have Fished Years Ago

August 24, 2009, by Tom Chandler 16 comments

Fly fishing trips rarely go as planned, and if they did, there’d probably be little point in going.

After all, if every time you made a cast where you thought you’d find a fish – and it turns out you were always right – fly fishing would take on the patina of predictability that spells doom for anyone with half a mind.

At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

You always spot the trout's shadow, not the trout.

On Saturday I got an early start, figuring I’d lure the Wonderdog into the truck, drive to a nearby ridgeline trail, and hike the 3.5 miles into a pair of lakes.

It’s been hot up here (high 90s) and while I didn’t think the fly fishing would be stellar, there was always the chance for a Brook trout or two.

And yes, the hike alone would be worth the price of admission (which largely involved getting out of bed and leaving home); it winds along a the top of a ridge, delivering alternating views of two different (and stunning) watersheds.

Plans, however, have a way of unraveling right in front of you, and this one met its end at the hands of “Road Closed” signs on the canyon drive.

Oops.

The Road Closes, The Mind Fails

Chalk this one up to my aging memory banks, which stored the fact that the road might be closed, but apparently didn’t grasp the reality of the situation.

Clearly, If I was a computer, I’d be headed for the scrapyard already.

Still, when life zigs, you zag back.

Which is my clever way of saying I took a dirt side road, heading for a lake that was only a series of interconnected, largely unmarked dirt roads away.

In my fevered mind , this is what passed for a good plan, and yes, you can see the problems looming already (I couldn’t go home again; I was banished until later that evening due to a “no guyz allowed” party).

After all, I hadn’t been to this lake in years, and yes, I’d gotten lost the last time I tried to find it.

Which is pretty much what happened here.

Finally – many miles on a deteriorating road later – I recognized the error, but was loathe to drive 11 more rutted-dirt-road miles to the lake.

This, Undergrounders, was not working out the way I’d planned.

The Last Gasp Exploration

So you’re sitting in a truck with a dog that is really not interested in bouncing along any more dusty roads, and you look over the steep embankment to your left, and you realize you’re looking at a stream you’ve never fished or even looked at because – where it enters another small stream you have fished – it looks pretty small.

Hmmm.

"I'd like a table with a view, please."

This might be the start of the uplifting portion of the story, where our gritty hero – through perseverance and and an almost puritanical force of will – turns the tables on the day’s setbacks, triumphing over impossible odds and catching many trout from an undiscovered small stream.

In other words, a morality play with the proper Hollywood ending.

And I was just setting my chiseled Hollywood Action Hero jaw to do all that when I discovered I’d brought a reel with a 3wt floating line to match the 6wt rod I was planning to throw at the lake.

Oh.

Experts say disasters are typically the result of a long chain of occurrences, and a careful examination of most failed fly fishing trips suggests that’s true.

Still, at some point, you just say “the hell with it” and chuck the fly gear back in the truck.

After all, you can cast a 3wt line with a 6wt rod that’s already way too long and strong for a tiny stream, but at this point, it would have simply served as a constant reminder of one more screwup on my part.

Instead, I grabbed my pack – complete with lunch and and ziplock bag of Wally the Wonderdog fuel – and headed up the small stream where it spiraled away from the road.

A good 45 minutes of bushwhacking later, the Wonderdog and I sat down for lunch at surprisingly sunny stretch, complete with its own table-sized stump.

I fired up the Underground’s used-too-rarely backpacking stove and heated up lunch (Jaipur vegetables and strong, spicy tea) while the Wonderdog cooled off in a bathtub-sized pool.

Later, he spotted a trout in that same pool, and chased it – in hilarious Wonderdog slow motion – up through a run.

The Wonderdog moving at the Speed of Wally - which isn't nearly enough to catch a trout

If a slow-motion trout chase by a determined, stubborn-as-hell dimwitted Lab/Basset mix doesn’t lighten your mood, then maybe you’ve got bigger problems than a busted fishing trip (hint: by “you” I mean “me”).

And yes, it was reviving to do anything besides sit in a hot, dusty truck, growing more frustrated with every rocky jolt to the suspension.

Perhaps the Hollywood endings pop up more often than I thought.

As Our Hero Rides Into the Sunset

It’s easy to become a little jaded about the place you live – even when it’s a place where others come to spend their vacations.

The occasional exploration of a tiny stream that holds more water than expected (in stretches) should probably be mandatory, and I realized I’d be coming back with a smaller, lighter fly rod (with fly line to match), and we’d see how many of the trout I’d spotted would eat a dry fly.

I’ll bet a lot of them.

This look unfishable to you? Me neither. I'll be back.

It reminded me there’s yet another small stream I’ve been threatening to explore – a place I’d skied into higher up in the drainage when winter flows were very low, but that farther down – in a remote canyon – another trib joins it, and that I hadn’t yet tried it out.

In essence, I may end up with two more pieces of small water to fish less than 30 minutes from the house.

What a stroke of luck.

See you on the undiscovered small streams, Tom Chandler

Our Days-Old Fly Fishing Report (or, Good Fly Fishing vs Great Fly Fishing)

June 6, 2009, by Tom Chandler 9 comments

It’s rare that I run a fishing report 2.5 days after the fact (usually I just give up and move on). Given that the fishing conditions are of interest to a portion of the Underground’s tiny sizable International audience, I’m putting in the extra hours. Don’t say I never did anything for you.

The by-now standard TU fish portrait.

Wednesday afternoon, I went fly fishing. Wally the Wonderdog – eyeing the waders and fly rods as they came out of the Man Cave – wormed his way out a barely-open sliding door, and took up residence right in front of the truck’s driver’s side door.

Point to the Wonderdog.

Heading to the river in the Brown Bomber (my centuries-old Bronco, which has deteriorated to the point the Wonderdog’s muddy paws actually improve the interior), I figured the fishing would be good.

And potentially great.

Every once in a while, you hit the Upper Sacramento when all the big fish are looking for the big dry fly, and while that happens only a couple years every decade, we fly fishermen basically live in an Statistically Unreal Parallel Universe of our Own Making.

You know: the fly fishing was drop-dead great five times out of 300 trips, so odds are it’ll be that way tonight.

At least that’s how the inner conversation goes.

Even if the fishing's only good, the wildflowers are out

The reality?

I had fun, but few big trout. Right now, we’re experiencing the kind of fly fishing where – if you really bear down and you have some game – you will tap into a few of the Upper Sac’s bigger trout.

Or you can tie on a big dry, shove the drooling family pet into the truck, and just fish along the river, enjoying the challenge of making good drifts.

If you’d done that Wednesday night, you’d have experienced double-digit numbers of trout eating your dry fly, with the biggest being only 12″ or so. That’s a good evening by almost any standard, but one or two big fish short of “notable.”

The Wonderdog, however, suffers from no such size issues, and every trout is to be celebrated (and sniffed, and potentially eaten).

In fact – ever since the episode where Wally lunched on a brown trout that apparently fell from the sky – I’ve learned a net is an essential part of any fly fishing trip that includes the Official Sausage-Shaped Mascot of the Trout Underground.

In one gripping action sequence, where I was slowly fishing my way up a run to the sole working trout, Wally the Wonderdog saw the splashy rises, and – grasping the fact that I might want to catch that trout – sprinted up the opposite bank, perched on a rock, and then dove into the river after the next rise.

He did not catch the trout.

Neither did I.

Only a second before his Leap Into The River

After his attempt to retrieve a trout. He doesn't seem sorry.

The Facts

Because I was tired and basically craved the big dry fly experience, I hauled out my 8′ Raine Upper Sac Special – a rod similar in action to my beloved 8′ Phillipsons, though just a bit stronger (this is the first, solid-built version – not the same as the hollowbuilts currently being built).

Because I live in the same statistically unreal parallel universe my readers do, I was hoping to land a couple of 14″-17″ Upper Sac rainbows, and wanted a rod capable of making it more “interesting” for the trout than it did for me.

The often-empty parking lot was overrun with cars (including someone in a black Ford Focus rental who parked me into a corner), though that was related to yet another train derailment, this one just above Cantara Loop.

Alert Underground Reader A.M. said the machine used to un-derail the train cars woke him up later that night, and while nothing was spilled into the river, it’s an excellent reminder the Upper Sacramento lives with something of a sword hanging over its head.

The Fishing Forecast

With two days of on-and-off rain falling between Wednesday and now, the Upper Sac’s flows have swelled a bit, though not beyond the fishable range.

Reports from others are somewhat spotty; a couple guides said the fishing was generally good, though not always easy.

One tattered rumor suggests a lucky local stumbled onto a very brief Green Drake hatch, though on this river that usually means fishing working the emerger instead of the dry (hint: bring your Green Drake cripples, just in case).

Shucks on an Upper Sac rock. Interesting...

Simply put, it’s not a bad time to be fly fishing the Upper Sacramento.

See you on the river, Tom Chandler

p.s. – On Friday, I fished the year’s first alpine meadow stream. Report coming Sunday (though no pictures – I forgot my camera)

To Live In a Place Where The Brown Trout Fall From the Sky

April 27, 2009, by Tom Chandler 41 comments

It’s not as if Brown Trout fall from the sky and onto Trout Underground/Man Cave World Headquarters every day, but – after a significant investigative news effort – the Underground’s Crack Investigative Reporting Team has concluded it happens at least once in a while.

Really.

And no, I am not making this up (this time).

Wally The Really Wonderdog

Every Undergrounder knows Wally the Wonderdog is a special beast, but I didn’t realize how special until he handily outfished many of California’s fly fishermen on opening weekend, and did so while miles away from the nearest trout water.

Get ready.

Early Sunday afternoon, I was in TU’s back yard, and heard crunching noises. Wet, crunching noises.

Wally the Wonderdog and the Brown Trout That Came From Outer Space

Wally the Wonderdog and the Brown Trout From Outer Space

There was the Wonderdog – chewing on a foot-long… brown trout? Really??

No way.

Yes.

Way.

At this point you rub your eyes a couple times. And then look again.

And wonder if this isn’t some odd dream, and soon you’ll be standing naked in front of your high school English class writing “I will not come to class naked” 100 times on the blackboard (not that I’ve ever had that dream, mind you).

After several fully clothed seconds, I realized I was awake. And that I needed photographic evidence of the First Dog-Caught Brown Trout in My Trout-Less Backyard Ever, and that the evidence itself was disappearing fast.

Wally the Wonderdog and his fast-disappearing brown trout

At that moment – in a fit of liturgical plagiarism – I decided to call this the first Immaculate Ingestion.

(It’s fast thinking like this that’s rocketed us to the top of the fly fishing blogosphere.)

It’s Raining Trout, and We Ask the Tough Questions

Where did the relatively fresh brown trout come from?

My neighbors don’t fish, so Wally didn’t steal an un-cleaned brown trout from one of them.

And no, he didn’t make the 12 mile round-trip to the lake, catch an apparently stupid brown trout in his jaws, then carry it home either.

After a few minutes, the answer became clear.

The brown trout had fallen from the sky.

CSI Shasta

The Trout Underground isn’t like those lazy news blogs, which would simply Photoshop the Wonderdog & trout into a picture of Paris Hilton and call it solved.

No, at the Underground we investigate random trout appearances in dry, trout-less areas. We consider it our civic duty (and suggest our exceptional level of civic-mindedness should excuse us from jury duty).

In this case, my clearly Pulitzer-ready work consisted of five minutes crafting lucrative headlines for the Weekly World News – until the real solution occurred:

Barring serious evidence of alien brown trout abductions in other regions, I’m going with the “Osprey Dropped its Dinner” theory – an assumption bolstered by the existence of an osprey nest 1.5 miles to the southeast.

The Osprey Nest in Question

Draw a line from the Osprey nest to the hatchery in Mount Shasta (The Osprey Cafeteria), and you’ll neatly intersect our otherwise trout-free property.

So yes, the Underground Investigative Reporting Division now suspects…Â fowl play.

Where the Trout Fall Like Rain

It’s stories like these that make fly fishing journalism worthwhile, because they allow us to say the following:

Eat your hearts out, Undergrounders: In addition to living near some pretty decent fly fishing, it’s now scientifically proven the Trout Underground/Man Cave is situated in a part of the world so perfect, brown trout periodically fall from the skies like rain.

See you in the backyard (with a net), Tom Chandler.

Snowing the Day Before The Trout Season Opener? Coincidence? Not On Your Life.

April 24, 2009, by Tom Chandler 5 comments

Two days ago the temperatures reached record (baking) highs, and while I sighted in a .22 rifle at a nearby range, the midday sun toasted me like beer-battered bluegill fillet.

I wondered where spring had gone – and why it had lasted exactly 1.5 days. This morning, I’m wondering why winter won’t go away. It’s 33 degrees, and yes, that’s snow falling (lots more has fallen since I took the picture).

For some reason, I think the trout season is almost here.

For some reason, I think trout season is almost here.

Some might simply chalk this up to the vagaries of weather. At the Trout Underground, we know better.

We join with our Black Helicopter brethren in calling for the Illuminati (or the UN, or the Democrats, or the Republicans, or Nestle, or the WTO, or the Trilateral Commission or…) to turn off their damn weather machines and let things return to normal.

You see, while the world’s investigative journalists putter about with stories of torture, crime, corruption and Lindsay Lohan, the Trout Underground has uncovered incontrovertible evidence of the Biggest Conspiracy Ever Reported on the Internet, and it turns out this damnable weather is simply one aspect of a larger, more sinister plan.

Frankly, I’ll be happy to get this one out in public. I have a feeling I’m being watched; even Wally the Wonderdog’s been eyeing me strangely (TU Question of the Day: Wally the Wonderdog – dumb lab mix, or beautifully disguised Agent of Darkness? You decide:)

wallymug

Once the world’s major news gathering organizations realize the enormity of what we’re reporting, they’ll hang their inverted pyramid-shaped heads in investigative reporting shame.

And finally, I’ll be safe.

Here’s the scoop: Evidence proves our economic system has fallen into the tight, sweaty grasp of a small group of rich, influential, warmwater-and-marxism loving Brownli

Snow Falling on Wally (or, Suffering, Beauty, and Next Summer’s Fly Fishing)

March 3, 2009, by Tom Chandler 8 comments

Skiing uphill might be the mother of all aerobic sports; you’re chuffing along (typically at altitude) and because you’re relying on both your legs and arms – and not suffering the pounding of running – your legs fatigue slowly, making it entirely possible you’ll throw up long before your legs force you to stop.

Snow Falling on Wally

And yes, XC-skiing is like fly fishing (remember, everything’s like fly fishing); you’re deeply immersed in something requiring focus. The world recedes a little, and with luck all your daily hassles disappear into the rhythm of whatever it is you’re doing (skiing or casting or maybe throwing up).

Still – and despite all the stories we tell – fly fishing doesn’t involve much real suffering, but anyone from the upper midwest/upstate New York will tell you suffering’s an essential component of living and being (though they’d never use those words).

It’s common knowledge that residents of the frozen states who move to Florida eventually lose their ability to appreciate beauty, the sad and inevitable result of denying themselves the suffering of winter (which pretty much explains why xc-skiers know how to appreciate the heck out of beauty).

And yes, if a fly fisherman doesn’t suffer at least a little in the winter, you’ll suffer a lot once the backcountry lakes and streams open up and you’re dragging your larded, non-beauty-appreciating butt up some mountainside.

Because I want to fish a few backcountry spots this year – and the Upper Sac’s seriously blown out – I skied up an unplowed road this afternoon, putting in a good three miles uphill, Wally the Wonderdog trotting alongside (at least during those rare moments when he wasn’t trying to crash me by getting in front and stopping).

At this point, Wally the Wonderdog has been snoring away on the couch pretty much all evening (don’t tell the L&T), no doubt dreaming of crashing me again tomorrow, though a couple late client meetings render that unlikely. Still, he lives in hope.

See you sprawled on the snow, Tom Chandler.

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