peetso

I've got the sharksin version and really love fishing it . . . except that it coils like a bastard . . . tons of memory, especially in cold conditions.

"Springtime comes and the leaves are back on the trees again Snipers are harder to see my friends Weeding out the weekends Summer comes and gravity undoes you You're happy because of the lovely way the sunshine bends Hiding from your close friends Weeding out the weekends" Sometimes "its good to just get out" isn't so much a cliche, as it is an understatement.

Matthiessen, Marquez, . . . now Mowat. If you're one of my favourite authors, your last name starts with an 'M', and it's the year 2014 . . . chances are you're going to die.

If you have to ask the question . . . you probably already know the answer.

Absolutely. Its where I'd rather see my tax dollars going as well. Hope it didn't come across as though I was advocating for dry dams/berms

I've had friends and family affected by the flood as well . . . but lets not let one tragedy turn into an even bigger one.

the fly yes.

Pike Food. Amateur hour at the vise. Hoping to get out at least a few more times, before it all goes solid. 14 or so inches, articulated and tied on 4/0 Partridge Predator hooks. Big, flashy, swims well and pushes plenty of water.

this hurts

Does anyone have any info on who to email/mail/phone/contact about my extreme opposition to any and all dams proposed on the Highwood River? This is something that cannot be allowed to happen.

If this happens I will go full George Hayduke.

Beautiful fish right there.

My hands were numb and my core trembled, as I stood at the edge of the Peace River. Slogging up the muddy banks, casting streamers and searching for willing fish. Thinking that I should’ve worn a toque and warmer clothes. Just yesterday we sat outside drinking a pint in the sunshine, formulating plans, just in shirtsleeves and thinking that the indian summer might last forever. Today however, the threat of snow hung heavy in the air. “This north wind can *#^$ right off” I turned downstream to see Chauncey walking towards me, carrying beer, cursing the wind and reading my mind. With the dog laid up and grouse on hold, the plan was to hit the big river for walleye. The river doesn’t really clear up during the summer. First muddied by spring runoff, then early summer rains, then dam releases, it stays that way for most of the year. By fall however, the river is clear enough to fish properly and this time of year the walleye fishing can be phenomenal. Today, however had been a bust. A late start, forgotten equipment, a lack of provisions, a bitter wind and walleye that would follow tight to the bank but never eat. So we sat on the bank, drinking spiced ales, ruminating on winters passed and trying to find excuses to stay out, instead of cowering back to the heat of the truck. I drank the last of my beer, clipped off the current fly and tied on a big articulated red and yellow streamer, hoping to salvage something. Three casts and the line came tight. And by the singing of the reel, it was quite obviously not a walleye. And as I sat crouched, watching the pike swim off, Chauncey had already packed up the gear and was headed downstream to the truck. He called over his shoulder “Well, that’s a good place to end it. The heaters singing its song to the unacclimatized.” I smiled in agreement.

these pics are absolutely phenomenal. Really dig the hawk.

See. Calling people on their shullbit is good for the soul. And should never ever be frowned upon.