Drifting Whims: 10.05

Night two: the next set of notes. They have come in sets of three so far. Front and back for three pages on Legal lined paper. I have been carrying these around for almost 10 years now. They are in somewhat of a timeline, but you can definitely tell one days writing to the next. I have some of the best penmanship of any man. But most of the time I am just frantically scribbling thoughts because they are coming faster than I can write. These pages have been from place to place with me for more than ten years. Some were written while sitting in the back seat on the way to fish for something. Some entries were written in a notebook while pretending to take notes in a class. Some were written on pocket-sized notebooks… most of those have the “solid, curled edge” from getting wet at some point. Often, these smaller ones are harder to put into context… they are such quick ramblings. I will include them no matter how random they might be. This is for my wife and children so that they may better understand me. My children already think I am pretty cool so the least I can do is try to show them how someone ends up as cool as me,

and maybe they too can make life more of an adventure than most people.
ASIDE:There is some dry humor in that last sentence, and the many that follow this one.

I am not going to change the grammar in these notes, but I may throw in a few stars during those bleak transgressions when the only descriptors I could come up with happen to be offensive to me now. I am not going to change my run-on sentences, or dangling half-sentences. I knew my grammar was wrong. The irony is that most of the writing was done during my three years at Oregon State as an English/writing major. But sometimes I just needed to get the thought down on the paper. I may run across lists, at times, of ideas that still may need to be explored. Who knows what I was really thinking back then? However, some of it might be useful.

Well here I am, almost to the top of Ranger Rock again. Yesterday on my way back down the canyon to greet the Frei’s, I lost my mind (among other things) at this very spot on the steep slope.
I was descending the canyon in a downward lateral run along the striated shelves that occur as the slope settles. Some become worn and somewhat wider than others as game and cattle traverse the canyon walls. I bounded down these trails, hopping from one down to another if the opportunity lent itself. I was full of that “mountain high” energy one often gets from sitting atop a cliffrock that shakes with the wind of an incoming thunderstorm. Almost a maniacal run that begs for, at least, a twisted ankle, if not a torn ACL. The rustling and jingling of my fannypack combined with the clomp of my boots was more noise than any self-righteous, solitary, nature-lover would ever think to make. I’m sure Emerson, Thoreau and even the rational ol’ Johnny Muir were turning in their graves with every clomp of my boots. I hopped from rock to rock to grass to rock again, stopping suddenly on a rock large enough for a landing pad. I figured I better put my shirt back on as I came into view of the campground. It was a little over an quarter-of-a-mile away but all you have to do is look up to see some shirtless freak with wild hair and dirty blue jeans running wildly down the barren canyon wall. The campers didn’t need that.

Here is a tell tale sign of who I am. I wrote “an quarter-of-a-mile”. I will bet your college fund (I haven’t started it yet) that I paused when I was originally scribbling that down. I was about to say “an eighth-of-a-mile” but I stopped and really wanted to make sure I didn’t embellish it because I will probably take you there and I don’t want to over estimate the truth when my intent is to teach you something about me as well as yourself; embellishing (even fishing stories) doesn’t get you anywhere in this world. When I really looked at it, as I was writing it back then, it seemed safe to say that the distance I ran was more like a quarter of a mile.
Knowing the spot and feeling that I am a better judge of distance, I will say that it is at least a mile to the top of Ranger Rock to Tout Creek campground.

I turned my fanny pack around to pull out the shirt when I noticed the small pocket in front was completely unzipped, and completely empty.
What was there when I started out my crazy run was this “Skilcraft” Fine pen that wrote in blue ink and fit my nubbly hands real well. A great pen. No doubt, one of my favorite kinds. The real kicker, however, was a Clip-Kat key ring made by the makers of Kat-Straps. The straps that hold your glasses on. Well the key ring is actually two in one. Two rings are bound together by braided nylon and a heavy-duty interlocking clip joint. They’re great. One half I use for personal keys- my truck, my house, lock boxes, etc. The other half has a plastic caribeaner- type clip for a belt loop or such. Well my truck keys are safely locked in the trailer down in the campground. But the key to that trailer was somewhere in the last 1500 yards of steppe canyon trails that I had haphazardly been bounding over.

Okay so I spelled Karabiner wrong, or carabiner. But now that I read this I wonder if the area surrounding the Deschutes canyon is actually considered “steppe”. My final years of schooling were in biological sciences at Portland State, which is by far my favorite of all the educational institutions I stopped by in my “4-in-9” years of schooling. I just felt like I learned so much more there. I was “a number” so it forced me to stand out in the area of grades and it took a little work. The professors would rarely know anything about me.
Linfield was the exact opposite. With only about 400 students in my junior class, even a guy like me could pass accounting. The teacher liked motorcycles and served in the Vietnam War so we had a lot in common. No, I was never in war, but I have a tremendous amount of respect and gratitude for anyone who has served to protect freedoms. Wartime or peacetime, here or abroad, right or wrong. Because I know they didn’t make the initial decisions… they were just there to do their job. I am always drawn to talk to people who have served, just to get under their skin and find their motivation. If they were there to help people I can tell right away and it says a ton to me about their character.
I think I am the only Sprague who hasn’t served in an “Armed Force”- outside of walking a field for pheasant. Every one of the other Sprague men was in a major war. My Grandpa Orville, served during General Macarthur's reign. When asked about the war he just said he “was a cook” and didn’t see any action. It is a shame that I learned more about him on the day of his funeral than I did in a dozen summers in Nebraska with him.
He was buried at the Veteran’s cemetery. The 21-gun salute, “On behalf of a grateful nation…”, and the folding of the flag was completely powerful and made me feel like our nation really noticed his life and service and the loss of a well-liked man. Even though my dad was alive, I received the flag from the commander-dude in the ceremony. (I really don’t know what his rank was and I am not trying to make this ceremony sound like a huge deal for our nation, I am just trying to give you my perspective. He could have been a commander just by the way he carried himself.) When the guy handed me the flag he leaned over and looked me in the eyes and said, softly and powerfully, “your grandpa was a real soldier”. After I returned home I studied his discharge papers and looked up some of the places he had been and medals and honors received. There was about 6 or 8 of each. Midway stands out, as well as a bronze star and some medal of bravery. But it did say that he was enlisted as a cook and discharged as one. Man, he was a cool guy. I don’t know if I have ever looked up to anyone in my family as much as him. He, somehow, crammed so much character into his few, barely active, “activities”. In the years I knew him, he had three places he would sit- his dinette table the brick ledge on teh proch and this one chair closest to the TV; three things to ingest- black coffee cigarette smoke, and snack foods; and the only time he was standing was to water his lawn by hand while a cigarette dangled out of his jowls. I miss him greatly but at least my wife got to meet him. Briefly.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Along with that trailer key, were keys to wareyards in three surrounding counties, half a dozen ranger stations all over the Deschutes, a couple other BLM resident trailers and depot houses, a key for BLM offices and guard stations, the ’96 Ford (which was our rafting truck), and the big red Dodge that Todd and I share between Mecca and Trout Creek. (We have two cars between us but we both favor the Dodge and kinda wish there were two of these old Dodge pickups.
It was sometime in midafternoon when I realized the void in my pack. I tried retracing my steps and leaps. Once in a while I would recognize a rock that I hit or a burnt stick I passed, but other than random markers I really had no clue where I had been. By the time early evening rolled around I was in a daze randomly looking at the base of a sage bush or sifting through clumps of grass with my boot sole.
I wasn’t worried about the BLM: I may get some sort of scorn but things happen & keys could be replaced. It’s not like they would fall into the hands of criminals. Even if they did it wouldn’t be easy to figure out what locks they went to, around Central Oregon. I knew in my heart they could be found so I just kept on searching, back and forth, trail after trail. Retracing my steps seemed to become easier. “But is it familiar because I was searching for my trail and searched through here?” Everything looked familiar. Everything looked the same. Hour after hour I didn’t become pessimistic in the least. It actually was fun trying to track myself. I started at the very beginning of my run where I crossed a downed fenceline and tried to run it again in the most logical way I would have run it to get to where I stopped to put my shirt on. Things began to look more and more familiar and I knew that now all I needed was a miracle of sorts. The nylon braid, in grey, tan dark brown and white, that held the dull black clip wasn’t even going to stand out in the dry grasses and dirt.
I whole-heartedly spoke out loud to the Creator of the River for some sort of Divine intervention. I talked out loud, but I forget what I really said. I began to question the events of the world and who was in charge of the cosmos, coincidental occurrences, and Clip-Kat keys. In my mind I started to say a sentence or two of prayer in the routine manner I was accustomed to as a child. But quickly stopped myself. Not because I wish to disobey and demean the faith that my family believes in. That isn’t the case at all.
It was great that the phrase or prayer or whatever you want to call it was a reflex on my part. Although, I personally can’t apply what they believe to my life because I just don’t know if they are right or wrong. It became an insurance man. I turned to him when I needed help finding my keys or something, which made me a

lukewarm believer and I couldn’t live my life like that. So I talked from my heart to the Creator of the River, whoever he/she may be. The river gets life from the watershed of the mountains and the mountains wring life from the clouds, and the clouds pull moisture from the oceans. The river gives me life and whatever made that system gets my praise. I thank it daily and worship it with a scepter made from graphite.

That is the end of those three wrinkly pages. As I transcribe this story I am trying to remember whether I found them or not. I know I have one half of that key ring in the garage jammed in my perfectly-organized and labeled, pull-out bins of screws, molly’s, extra Christmas bulbs, weird little useless transistors, etc. etc. But the half that is in there doesn’t have the clip part on it. I glanced at the next set of pages. And from the start it seems like it is going to be the stuff I had written just before bounding down the hill with my pack open. This had to be about the first week or so. Hopefully the thinking and writing is a bit clearer because this transcribing is taking forever and this is only my second night of doing it.

The river seems so small from this view. Today is the first time I have ever observed a river from the top of its canyon walls. The Deschutes seems so slow from up here. The driftboats barely move in time. The Deschutes, not a torrent of a river compared to many but no sleeper from the boatman’s perspective. Its few technical rapids have claimed many boats, and at least a dozen lives, in recent history.
River. An amazing metaphor of life that has not been overlooked in centuries of prose. So much water moving so consistently. Where does it really come from? What keeps generating such a flow of energy. It boggles my mind. I’ve learned so much from River, about life and myself in general.
As I look over the vast meandering miles of River from the top of this volcanic rock atoll amidst the endless expanse of grasses and fields I realize my view of River has been so minuscule. I can see about five of the nine miles of heavily trodden footpath that follows the Deschutes from Mecca to Trout Creek. I know the path well. Never have I seen it from this angle. Although I am adept at casting a flyrod, I could not pinpoint the rises from this distance some 700 ft above the bank.

I will admit that in that last sentence, I am probably alluding to the fact that no one has made a 700 ft fly line yet and I am silently using that as my excuse for why I haven’t fished from that altitude.

“if they had a rod and line big enough, I could make the cast” is what I think I was trying to say.

To the North and downstream I can see Trout Creek Campground and recognize almost every tree that lines the bank towards me along the trail. A significant seam in the river barley breaks the rivers glass from this height. I spent the better part of yesterday focusing on three large redsides under the tree that marks the break in the flow. Accidentally I focused on about 5 square yards of water, presenting at least a dozen flies to those occasional rises, never hooking one of the trio. I lost all of my best patterns to that tree and most of my patience to a lack of character control.

In the original journal I had discussed fly-fishing gear from rod to line to fly and explained them all in terms of one’s character- connection to a fish alongside a relationship with someone else. The rod represented “forgiveness” and with out it the relationship between the fish and the fisherman would break rather quickly. Each knot in the line is a point of weakness – from line to butt section, to leader, to tippet and especially the knot that holds the fly itself. We all have weaknesses in our character. One must take precautions and expend great effort to manage these weaknesses or they will definitely break under the pressure of connection with others. Some people obviously have more knots.
For the most part, I hand tie my own leaders instead of buying tapered leaders from the store. My character has at least a half a dozen points of weakness, but if I spend the necessary time it takes to deal with them, then connections are rarely lost.

I told myself I would spend today at the tying vise replacing my fly assortment. I woke up this morning, and upon smelling myself, opted for a drive into town and a “real” shower at the Busy Bee truck stop. Tonight I would have two different parties of guests over for some fishing, and although we will need the flies I don’t know them well enough to display my savage odor comfortably.

I think this was the day that one of my professors said she was coming out to visit me, as well as a group of my friends from Corvallis. Not a good combination really. The professor was cool but the intentions of the two groups regarding how to spend time would have clashed. She was making a three-hour drive to see Trout Creek because I wrote about the place in one of her classes. Actually, Craig Lesley wrote about it in The Sky Fisherman and we studied what he wrote. Of course I interpreted his book, The Sky Fisherman, differently than every one else in my little huddle of pompous acolytes that signed up for her Literature class. I had already begun my job for the summer and made arrangements to attend class on Monday and Wednesday only, since I worked Thursday through Sunday. She had worked in Mammoth or white bear or someplace and talked about portaging her canoe a lot and stuff in Minnesota where she went to school so it seemed we had a fair amount in common. However, when she pulled up I remember how I instantly realized that she didn’t drive out to see a campground. And I remember how uncomfortable I was the whole time because of it. Of course that could have had a lot to do with my feelings for her. I still wanted to be able to take classes from her. She really understood literature and she liked my writing.
Well, looking back on it I would like to think that she liked my writing because it was good, but maybe she only drove out because I was the single masculine student in any of her classes. All right, I will admit that my writing might have had no bearing on our relationship outside of class whatsoever. Whether she was attracted to my mind or my body first I will never know. All I know is that my buddies were showing up in a few hours and this chick couldn’t be around for that. Some could, but not this one- I liked her too much.

Even from this height I can still hear the hush of the river far below. It’s the same “sh-Shshshssh” that puts me to sleep each night at Trout Creek. The distance between the river and I is so unnatural. This location is almost dizzying. My boots are resting half-a-foot from the edge of the rock outcrop, which drops some seventy feet straight down to a pile of huge black-gray rocks, some shaped like, perfectly carved octagonal pillars. I peer over the edge and almost get a sickening feeling as gusty winds kick up and I feel the cracked basalt rock sway ever so slightly. It’s probably just my own mind. I know that, for the next few hours at least, this rock isn’t going to shard off. But I’m sitting on its progress and it’s evident by the piles below us. Nevertheless I have seated myself back a foot or two now, and redone the rubber band that holds my hair back. In doing so, I look up just as a turkey vulture glides over my head not twenty feet away and circles me. His head stays focused on me as if to say “what are you doing up here? You don’t really belong”. He tilted his wings and the wind swept him across the river before I could let him know I agreed with him. But what’s ironic is that I don’t believe I should be fishing at this moment, either. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a day off and felt like that.
The expanse between that bird and the ground right now is amazing and he acts like it’s no big deal. He hasn’t lost any altitude so I don’t believe he is hunting. I bet he is doing it just because he can. Effortless flight. In an instant he’s so far away I can’t see him for the other side of the canyon. Down in the campground, there is a new trailer parked by the Ranger Station. I think it’s the new camp hosts that we’re expecting today. I’m supposed to go help them settle in but I’m in no hurry to leave this rock and my view of the world. Yeah, this rock is moving with the wind but not really enough… yeah, I’m going to move back a couple more feet.
I just caught eyes with a rock-chuck about 15 ft behind me on a rock similar to mine. He’s laid his belly flat on the warm ledge and I’m sure he is not as uneasy as I am. I think he’s a rock-chuck. I’ve never seen one before but heard a great deal of talk about them in the sporting goods stores I have worked in, especially in Boise. It was a big summer thing to go out and shoot them. The way he looks is almost regal. About a foot and a half long, dark brown body, way oversized for its head. A rusty red neck and shoulder collar like the fluff of Santa’s jacket that he’s nestled his head upon as he sits upon his warm throne overlooking his empire, the Deschutes. I looked up and he’s gone. Without moving my eyes scan the rock crevasses and then notice two big turkey vultures circling close above us. I guess he isn’t supreme ruler after all. They glide away and I figure I better do the same. I think I’ll make my way along the ridge and drop down just above the campground following the foot trail. The newness of this altitude above the river I want to hold on to as long as I can today. Most certainly I will return, but not that often.
* * * * * * * * * * *

Harvesting of irregular or fluctuating resources is subject to a ratchet effect: during relatively stable periods, harvesting rates tend to stabilize at positions predicted by steady-state bioeconomic theory. Such levels are often excessive. Then a sequence of good years encourages additional investment in vessels or processing capacity. When conditions return to normal or below normal, the industry appeals to the government for help; often, substantial investments and many jobs are at stake. The governmental response typically is direct or indirect subsidies. These may be thought of initially as temporary, but their effect is to encourage overharvesting. The ratchet effect is caused by the lack of inhibitions on investments during good periods, but strong pressure not to disinvest during poor periods. The long-term outcome is a heavily subsidized industry that overharvests the resource.

-Donald Ludwig, Ray Hilborn, Carl Walters. Science 260:17, 36 92 April 1993)

This excerpt is just a random, reprinted handout I received in some Science class at PSU. The title is missing the first few letters of the first word but it reads like this, "…ainty, Resource Exploitation, and Conservation: Lessons from History“.
I drew a big box around that one paragraph and starred the last sentence. I am glad I held onto it. It’s good to be reminded of the "ratchet effect".
I just got our tax returns back and it basically doubled our savings. So we feel pretty flush right now. It is perfect timing since the drift boat business is just about to need another surge of capital from the Sprague’s nest egg. Of all the places one wouldn't expect to find a great drift boat seat bench, I found the ultimate one way out in the Midwest, through Cabela’s. I have always figured that they really didn’t have the goods to fill my specialty sports needs. It just so happens they have the most unbelievable boat seat I have ever seen for a bench in a driftboat.

This seat alone retails for $400.00 that is already half of what the big glass boat maker pays to have a complete boat made. Competition regarding my boat sales to thiers is really just a loose term as far as I am concerned. They own the market by selling over 300 boats per year. I don’t want to take their market away from them, I just want to build a few really high end boats for people who know what they are doing and know what they want, and therefore know what they are missing by going with the mass-produced drifters. Those are my customers.
Anyway, I have a custom trailer being made next week, and I am finalizing the paperwork on purchasing on account through Cabela’s. But when I feel flush I also feel the need to look for opportunities to throw it around. I am not real sure why I bought a 1971 Suzuki TS 185 Enduro last week for $160 but I better ratchet that thing the heck out of the garage before it sucks the life out of my pocket book. At least it was a good deal, and I could turn it for a bit more.

A little creek you could spit across
Well me and Jimmy each took one more toss
So our spinners glide in the evening air
People always said „there ain’t no fish in there“
Well, grown-ups they ain’t always right.

I have about 3 pages dedicated to writing the lyrics out from one of Greg Brown’s songs. I remember the night I sat down to do this. I was looking after the Mecca Flats campground while Todd was away one weekend. He had a nice newer trailer. My old Wilderness from the 70’s was pretty “disco” compared to this one. The federal government takes care of their things; there are tons of rules for every action and item and process and job, etc. I bet they had an ordinance about what wasn’t allowed to make the grueling journey down the miles of gravel road to the Trout Creek Campground. Anyway, my trailer was in a much better place but Todd’s rig had a real nice stereo. I sat there rewinding the tape player back and playing it forth to get all the lyrics to this song.
Yeah this was in the mid 90’s when one could have a tape deck and consider it really nice. I don’t know what I would do with out my iPod. I am even kicking around the idea of wiring every drift boat I sell with a small deep-cycle battery, an amp and two really nice midsized speakers, just so I can sell every boat with an iPod mini and a submersible case from H2OAudio. You could go swimming with your iPod and still have fully functioning control of the mini while you are doing a frog kick on the bottom of the pool. Even the earphones that come with it are fully submersible.
I broached the “musical drifter” about two weeks ago to two fishing buddies from church. One of them I knew would be a hard sell. He is the kind of guy that really looks the part of „fly-fisherman“. He has the funky, wide-brimmed, modern-cowboy-hat-thing. All of his clothes are always olive or tan or something like that. And, of course he drinks only the popular micro-brews. He is real nice but I probably wouldn’t have hung out with him outside of the church or river. I wanted to get his opinion even though I knew what it was going to be. His first reaction was based on how all the other guys on the river would be pissed.
As if I am going to go blasting my music down the canyon as I wave to some guy standing in the Clubhouse Hole. I would keep it low while we were drifting. However, if the mood strikes somewhere in a three-day drift in early fall, I might need to rock a bit. Certainly at night it will be necessary, sleeping on that rad bench seat in the boat and having a nice plastic cup of wine and a playlist with every thing from Radiohead to Johnny Cash, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club to Brahms. I mean, really, why not?

Eliot: „Peter Fisher..“
Pete: „Elwad“
E:“What’s up, brother? You sound tired.“
P: „Why’s that?“
E:“I could hear you stretch and yawn when you answered the phone“
P: „I’m relaxing on the deck watching a beautiful sunset.“
E:“I’m glad you take the time to watch sunsets, that’s all I need to hear to know you aren’t losing yourself in work.“
P:“Yeah I’m looking over my lawn I put in & sitting on my deck I just finished and I am so thankful for what I have. Just when I think things can’t get better for us we get a raise. That goes to show the rewards are great when you put in the extra work.
E:“Well, that is definitely good news.“
P:“Yeah, we’ve got our house and yard, which isn’t anything extravagant. We’re living within our means and pretty soon I’ll be able to do what you’re doing. How’s the fishing?“
E:“Excellent. I mean I am living on the Deschutes. The only thing needed to make this heaven is get rid of everybody else.“
P:“Do you fish every day?“
E:“Yeah, pretty much. But I only fish the last few hours of evening mostly. No matter what you‘re doing it can burn you out if it is to the extreme.“
P:“You catching any fatties?“
E:“Last night I finally got one of the big dogs to take. I’ve been fishing these few „arbuckles“ that roll on the outside seam of „George’s Hole“. But they see flies everyday all year so they’re pretty wise. But like you said, ‚hard work pays off‘. Yeah, hard work. I’m serious, every few days I’ve got to strain some water and really focus on what they want. If my caddis emerger or PMD isn’t perfect they won’t take it. For the most part it’s the drift, not the pattern so much, on the Deschutes. But these couple fish are different.“
P:“How big are you talking?“
E:“Well I didn’t land him, he came unbuttoned, but he’s well over a two-foot redside.“
P:“Are you liking your job?“
E:“yeah, but I’m going back to school.“

A little creek you could spit across
Well me and Jimmy each took one more toss
So our spinners ride in the evening air
People always said „there ain’t no fish in there“

I lived a while without you
darned near half my life
I no longer see our unborn children run to you my unwed wife
But yesterday I had a vision
beneath the tree where we once talked
Of an old couple burning their love letters
So their children won’t be shocked.

All my friends are getting older
So I guess I must be too
Without their loving kindness
I don’t know what I’d do
The wine bottle’s half empty
The money is all spent
We’re a cross between our parents
and hippies in a tent

Love calls like the wild birds
It’s another day.
A spring wind blew my list of
Things to do… away

In a mucked up lovely river,
I cast my little fly.
I look at that river and smell it
and it makes me wanna cry.
Oh to clean our dirty planet,
now there's a noble wish,
and I'm puttin my shoulder to the wheel
'cause I wanna catch some fish.

Children go to sleep now--
you know it's gettin' late.
I know you don't like to miss nothin'
and school ain't that great.
Oh, I'll dance with you when you're happy,
and hold you when you're sad,
and hope you know how glad I am,
just to be you're Dad.

Darlin' it's been a hard go
but I think we'll be okay.
I know I say that all the time
like everything else I say.
Oh, I've been gone so often,
but every time I miss you,
and I don't really know nothin',
Except I like to kiss you.

A little creek you could spit across
Jimmy and me each took one more toss
our spinners bright in the evening air
People always said, there ain't no fish in there
Well grownups they ain't always right
Jimmy and me walked home slow that night
right down Main Street in our P.F. Fliers
with two 5 lb. bass making grown men liars

I'm goin away,
'cause I gotta busted heart.
I'm leavin' today,
if my TravelAll will start.
And I reckon where I'm headed,
I might need me different clothes--
way up in Michigan,
where the Laughing River flows.

I jut ran across my to do list for my first driftboat. I got it for 350 dollars and I never realized it but I did a lot to get that thing even halfway decent and it still wasn’t perfect. It was a massive, 18’5” ft, wooden, Rogue style boat with a heavy fiberglass overlay. It was a barge, a battle tank. I remember when I let Scott row through “Windy Flat”. There is nothing in the river for miles and he manages to smack it into the only rock in sight. I had calmly mentioned something to him when I saw that we were going to hit it. But I knew the boat could take it and there was never a better time than now to teach him to always be paying attention. We hit that thing so hard we could have needed a chiropractor. I laughed it off, and it really was no big deal. The boat that I have in my garage now is made out of the most advanced materials and lay-up techniques around, I will probably throttle the first person to scratch it.
Well, I should probably call it a night. The next paper in the stack is another handout titled “Endpoints and thresholds in Ecotoxicology”. Right now I am wondering why I saved this piece because it surely doesn’t sound that interesting.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Endpoints that are measured are adversely affecting human health – adversely effecting ecosystems (more on this class).

I have a class hand-out with the above sentence scribbled in it on the 'Results' page of a study concerning the hazardous effects of certain pesticides. I am noting that the indicators of adverse effects are only in terms of what happens to humans. Never mind the adverse effects on something else in a particular ecosystem. In this ssame class I read about DDT killing all the fish-eating bird population around some big lake in Wisconsin in the 70’s or something. What a trigger that was. I really can’t remember the state that it was finally noticed in, or actually the decade. (You see, if I wanted to sound smart in my writing to you I would google it and in about 2 minutes … instead I just tell things the way I remember and as long as it gets the point across that’s all I am worried about. And sometimes the real point is that I am just not that smart.)
Anyway, the chemicals of the pesticides in this one study were tested and found to not be harmful to fish (since they all knew it was going to wash to the river, they tested fish). What they didn’t realize is that, although the "health" of the fish was "acceptable", the small fish acted like a filter filter for the river and carried extremely high concentrations of the poly-phosphates (or whatever it was that was bad). The birds that then ate the (non)toxic fish were also unaffected by the extremely high amount of the "whatever" compound. But, actually, the effect was to the following generations of those birds off-spring. The high level of the compound in the test sample adult weakened the eggshells of its offspring, and that messed up the development of the hatchlings and future generations of the bird.

It’s a heck of a deal how easy it is for kids to get messed up because the parents choose to ingest something- be it too much alcohol, or DDT.
Well I saved that whole handout for that one last sentence. I wonder if it was worth it.

There are two more handouts along with this one: Sounding Out Science, and Aqueous Solubilities of Polycyclic Aromatic Hydrocarbons. Neither have notes in them that allude to something I wanted to say to my children. I think I just kept these packets to make them think I always took those kinds of classes.
There is one more handout: Pacific Salmon at the Crossroads: Stocks at Risk from California, Oregon, Idaho, and Washington. It is probably a halfway interesting handout. There are no notes so I probably kept it for its literary value.
...Yes, anadromous fish stocks have declined but pieces of science like this (aka-media) are always skewed one way or the other just a bit. This is also true about anything else a person may write or say. I guess it is called perspective. My perspective is that the fish that are left are the smartest fish; because the fish that don’t have the brain and good instincts are all dead… their strain is the first to go. So that means I have to work even harder to catch the fish that are left.
The next handout was the one I was talking about earlier with the predaceous bird study and DDD (actually not DDT). The study took place in Clear Lake, California, 1964. So I was off a bit, but my point still stands- be aware of what you are bringing upon yourself because it will definitely make a difference in one way or another to your future generations.

Hiesenberg to Einstein: “Al, you don’t understand the problem. Knowledge depends upon your point of view because it is derived from the questions you ask, and if you ask no questions you learn nothing.”

What did Rougherty mean by that? A:There is no such thing as a privileged position anywhere in the cosmos.

Abraham’s Sojourn- Not Mine or Yours
Abraham is asked to sacrifice Isaac. What does it mean? A:Complete Obedience. Is God supposed to do that to us simple humans?

Real Test: Will we be seduced by our rationality? Leap of Faith does not mean you have to turn your back on science, history, or your own rationality.

I hope I will never be asked to turn my back on my children for a leap of faith like Abraham’s. I am not sure what my thoughts were when I wrote this. It was probably much different than they are today. This is what college is for, to force you to think for yourself, and, for many of us, for the first time. But what ends up happening most often in the first half of higher education is that one absorbs and regurgitates what the professor says, however the student is believing that they are thinking for themselves. Hopefully, sometime during the last half of college this student will realize that many professing teachers have such limited specialized knowledge that their take on things in the broad scope of the world carry very little weight since they have to mesh with a thousand different variables- and this is when the mind really expands. Then, and only then, is the student asked to think on their own. This is what makes college so valuable, educationally speaking.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *
I just iChatted my cousin at Stanford. She has a full ride scholarship for gymnastics and I am sure her GPA is still above a 3.8; I wouldn’t be surprised if she had a 4.0. (And they say the middle child has a harder time in life.) Well she is a middle child. Her older sister has both a softball and academic scholarship to UC Davis and she majors in Biology, and is leaning towards Pre-Med as I last heard. Her younger brother is all boy- as far as one can get anyways, in the heart of the Bay Area. He only lacks the kind of knowledge that comes from actually witnessing your friend take a whiz on an electric fence, like those of us who grew up in Nebraska have.
I have been trying to talk him into applying to Portland State, but I think the distance from his parents makes his decision difficult. He also has a high school girl friend. Both of these things make me sad because of what he will likely miss out on if his decisions are based on these major criteria. But everyone has thier own path in life, which is what makes us different, I guess. If my children don’t want to go too far from home because they like me so much, then I guess there are worse problems to deal with.
The next piece of paper is just a sticky note referencing books I should read. I hesitate to put them in here because I haven’t read them, yet. They could be complete garbage for all I know.

Karen Armstrong- A history of God
Borg, Marcus- The God we never knew
Julian Jaynes- “The rise of consciousness and the breakdown of the bicameral mind.”
Plato- Symposium

5:30 Movie- As good as it gets
Obsessive Compulsive parallel
“Legends of the Fall” Three Part Man

I am not sure what the obsessive compulsive “parallel” is referring to. It seems like a comparison but I am not sure what I am comparing it to. The “three part man” in Legend of the Fall is particularly obvious to me, however.
The ultimate man that one should strive to be consists of three parts in relatively equal strength. There, of course, is Pitt: representing the manly side of a man- attractive, powerful, mysterious, brave, reclusive, and full of adventure. Then there is the eldest brother, who went on to a career in politics because he represents the mind of a man. His knowledge and ability with “the sale”, referring to both people and business, gives him the attraction of the bread-winner. He can be called “Security” as far as his mate is concerned. And then there is the heart of a man represented by the youngest brother. He can’t do anything with out the others, except love. He loved his country so much that he was going to war for it. That was the only action he carried out. Of course he found a woman, but he couldn’t keep her. His piano-accompanied solos and poetry recitals will grab a woman’s attention but they are easily distracted by “adventure” and manly sexuality. Security is what keeps them around. And, I guess it is the fear of God that keeps them loyal.

There was one major reason that I wrote down regarding how a man like me can stay so involved in a movie such as As Good As It Gets.

I was waiting for Jack to get real pissed and go into brutal psycho. It kept me on the edge, waiting the entire movie,

The rest are random notes that I debated whether I should, or could, expound on.

Cleaned Flies, ==>Bils, organize for them.
“Take out loan- get denied, so I can get a loan”

This basically sums up my thoughts concerning how I was going to pay for college. I am so glad my kids won’t have to even think about it. My two girls are so beautiful and smart that we won’t have to worry about college. Given their own time they would make it big in their athletic/modeling/singing/acting/elected official/writing careers. I am just trying to do get them started early so I can do some financial planning for their college tuition, and a couple weddings- possibly in the same summer. (In pragmatic reality, I would rather have their weddings in the same summer. Every one could research all their stuff together and I may get some bulk discounts with the different vendors. And, since it will be chaos anyway, I would like to reduce the amount of time I am away from the river.) There is no doubt that I plan to “gravy-train” them for all their potential- Earl Woods got to, I’ll just be a bit more laid back about it. When you walk in my home the shrine will be all about their “firsts”; not an Oscar on the shelf, but the picture of the high school play they were in.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The following note was written on a tattered manila envelope that is flush to the gills with what seems to be mostly old letters and cards and stuff. I think I see some journaled pages in there as well but we won’t get to that yet.

Eliot & Chance,
Thank you so much for everything- food, shelter, and security☺. Anyway, we really appreciate everything you have done. It has been a wonderful time here at The Big Breast LodgeΦ. You two are wonderful hosts. It’s been great seeing you + hopefully we will see you soon! Our new number is 1-97#-5#7-1##3. Chris sends his love + I love you too! It’s really been great!
Love, Lori Jo + Christian
P.S. Come by or call soon! Please keep an eye out for the ^(one of a kind) Jack Daniel’s Lighter!

Boy, she really loved that lighter… and us and everything. Chris was the other bartender at my last job in Corvallis and we happened to live about 3 houses away from each other, coincidentally. They were straight-up, 90’s era hippies. They even looked like Jesus and Mary as far as the white man’s grade-school type Bible depicts them- if you can imagine Jesus in a tie-dye sarong on occasion.
I remember the Saturday morning that they showed up at my door in the Tetons. I was in a complete daze when they rousted me out of bed to get the door. But there they stood with huge grins. It took me about 5 minutes to realize that I was in Wyoming and I was seeing friends from 900 miles away standing at my door on a random Tuesday morning. It seemed like it was 7 am, but now I am not real sure. They stayed for about 3 days and I took them up to “Whiskey-and” Lake. (I am changing the name for the sake of this writing. It is a special place and I will only take my friends and family there personally.) They had never fished with a fly rod until I took them here- and now they are ruined. This lake is small but deep, it seems more like a tree-lined, gravel pit. But every fish I have seen in that lake was over 18” and the average is probably 24, and it makes me wonder where the juveniles go (but I don’t ponder too long on it). There is a sign before you get to the lake that says “ATTENTION FISHERMAN: TROPHY WATERS ALL FISH OVER 24” MUST BE RELEASED.” After our weekend I told them not to bother picking up a fly rod ever again. I’ll bet they still have no idea how truly amazing that kind of fishing was. But that doesn’t really matter. I just told them that they can never to that lake unless I am with them. (I sure do try to take ownership of everything, don’t I? I just now realized that. Journaling like this is really good for one’s own growth, especially if you actually go back and relive it a bit every ten or fifteen years.) The fact is that they probably wouldn’t find it. Getting to the place is half of the battle, even if you can read a map.
Toby and Chance tried once to make it to that lake the summer after my time in the Tetons. Just a little bit of moisture makes the 20-odd miles of clay road almost impassable in a dozen spots. They ended up camping at their truck and having to pull it out the next day, or something like that; we’ll have to have Toby fill in the details sometime. During my 9 months I only went up to that lake maybe three times- once on my own and twice with guests from out of town. It was almost too easy to catch these monsters. Again, too much of a good thing can burn a guy like me out. I fly fish because it is a challenge. Anyone can throw on a worm and sit somewhere and get lucky with a record breaker. That would be fun for me for that day, but when I catch one on a fly- especially something I tied myself, and using a rod I have built, the memories last… well… forever, so far.
* * * * * * * * * * *

Language- “The higher up you go in a certain career you will find that there will be some linguistic rules that will be followed, whether the rules are congruent with a textbook or not. Even a certain accent will be passed on for promotion throughout a career.
I came from Indiana, and I learned very quickly that you don’t say ya’ll and you don’t draw anything out whatsoever. You know I moved here in high school and the last thing you want is people laughing at you.”
-I never experienced that coming from Nebraska. In high school I wore cowboy boots, even a hat once in a while, I wore blue jeans + whatnot when every other kid had polo shirts and whatever “in” logo on their clothes. I had some of that stuff, but I didn’t ever go out of my way to pick it out. At the same time I didn’t go out of my way to look like a “shit-kicker”. I just liked boots and jeans and a button up shirt so that’s what I wore. In fact as I sit here in a college classroom I’m wearing some Skecher’s- black, thick-soled boots, decent jeans, actually from Gap since they are cheaper than Levi’s, and button up Docker’s shirt from Mervyn’s I bought for $15.
But I don’t believe there has ever been a time when I was speaking with a Midwest accent. I started spending time back there when I was four, but the way they speak never sounded okay to me. Later in my junior years I realized that the language never sounded right because oftentimes the content was dead wrong. The ignorance in much of the speech that I heard was shown in racial or sexist joking, and sometimes seriousness. It was at this time that I was “seeing”, in that Jr. High way, a young girl who was Thai back home in Oregon. It was that summer when the ignorance of that side of the family became too much for me to handle. You show me an audible ignorance every time jokes are made involving racism or sexism and it is exactly the reason I have stopped visiting.

This excerpt was written during some writing class at Oregon State. It was encouraged by my teacher’s lecture on the variations of English around our Nation. I look at it now and it sounds like I just called the whoel state of Nebraska racists and bigots. I know that was not my intention. I was venting my frustration with the members of my family and some of their friends. Though, I am not accusing them of having inferior intelligence, I am making note of how easy it is to say derogatory statements about people whom you never meet. I don’t know if there is a person of Native African heritage in the town of North Platte. And probably the only Asians the town ever saw were those who were brought over to work on the railroad line in the late 1800’s and removed shortly after completion. The next group of Asians to come to town were basically slave laborers who picked sugar beets and other major crops before technology replaced them with machinery.
For fun I just went to the North Platte Chamber of Commerce and looked at the restaurants registered with them. There were only three listings even though the town probably has at least 50 places to eat. I am sure there is a Chinese food joint there, but I would not be surprised if it was called “Don’s House of Kung Pao”. North Platte is a great little town, but it is very sheltered. I am sure that some members of my family are going to read this and they are going to think that I am judging them for their closed minded ways of thinking. They are right. What is even more ironic though, is that I make some of those jokes every now and then, but it is only when it is so obvious that I can’t actually be serious. I especially have a tendency to make sexist remarks to a few women at work, for instance if I am out of coffee and they walk by my desk. But it isn’t in front of others so it can only be construed as humor for the benefit of the two of us, and it is only after I know they can understand my sarcasm. I am sure I can still be fired for it if they wanted to, but I just let them know I have dirt on them and that way we can all laugh it off and lighten the atmosphere of a dry office in the technology industry.

Is there always a choice in life- ALWAYS- even if you’re at rock bottom and won’t allow your pride to back down and receive a hand up (or out, however you choose to look at it). Even then you can rob a bank or mug someone.

PASSIVE RESISTANCE- Ghandi says “lay on the tracks” and the trains stop. I wonder what history would have been changed had the Jews laid on the tracks in Hitler’s Germany. Probably not much- the trains would have been on time. Passive resistance is not always a guarantor of success. What an unbeleivably horrid event in history. It is absolutely unfathomable for me to comprehend how a nation could go about decimating a people because of the family they were born into. And when I bring it down to a one-on-one scenario between a soldier and a civilian, I have even less understanding of how one person could treat another like that.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Each, thinking a key, confirms a prison
-T.S. Eliot
Like I said before, these are random writings. I am looking through a half-legal spiral notebook. Its dark blue cover is severely tattered at the edges, and something spilled on it. At the bottom of every page is verying heights and intensity of light blue watermarks that kind of creep up the side of each page as well.. That must be where they got the term. Even though I can still read the words in blue ink, the light blue lines that they sit on seem to be made of the same stuff that makes watercolor paints. Each one travels forthrightly across the page and ends in a sea of blue from the water spilled on it. It looks like a map of a lake’s shoreline. Actually, it is so detailed that it seems more “continental”- like a globe. Maybe that is just a premonition for how much impact my written ramblings are going to have.
This blue notebook alone might have more writing in it than any other. It is what I used for several Literature/Writing classes when that was my major at Oregon State. I am not going to transcribe my scribblings about every book I had to read… most of them were not that great which made me begin to believe that, as in most pursuits in life, politics and connections are what is going to ultimately take a person worldwide in writing. Let us take a look at David James Duncan, have you ever heard of him? Even though he has award-winning writing, you probably haven’t. He writes a book every decade, and you might see his name pop up in an environmental magazine once in a while. He wrote The River Why, easily one of the best fictional stories ever put to ink, next to his other The Brothers K. The first using fishing as the medium to tell and the other uses baseball. The River Why is much shorter so that is why I recommend it for people as early as middle school. But it will never get there because eit makes you think outside of the box too much in a positive way. We have to keep Catcher in the Rye in the system just in case someone in class is struggling like Holden and feel like they can finally be understood. It is a great novel as well, but there are better pieces out there that show both the good and the bad and define ways to choose the good.
* * * * * * * * * * *
It was tough to get started tonight. There is my best kept notebook in front of me. Most of it is comprised of notes from actual classes. I am going to keep those to a minimum, but where should I start. Of course it was important at the time, but now not so much. There are a few interesting tangents amongst them. I would bet though that it wasn’t during class that they were taken. It seems like stuff I would have written while watching TV or something- interesting morsels of life that I didn’t want to forget.

FRED HAMPTON – BLACK PANTHERS – police fired over a thousand rounds into him + his sleeping girlfriend. Claiming he fired on them, a newspaper photo showed a cop pointing @ a hole in the wall of where Fred had fired. Investigated (years) later he said it was a knothole in the wood paneling.

After ditching her on Saturday (she was waiting for Scott and I at the coffee shop) I lied to her about my traumatic weekend.
“Well, after I know you are okay with your situation, I’ll come back and let you know you owe me Big Time” (Shit happens: told her story of Chad Brown)
Our friend, Chad did get into a horrible crash one weekend. He drifted lanes late at night on the way up to the mountain to ski. He landed head on into probably only one of a dozen cars on 200 miles of highway at that hour. He had the cruise on at a bit above 55 and the opposing force was probably doing the same, except it was an Tractor Trailer or some sort of very large panel Van at the least. It took his F-350 four door and tested every crumple zone. Chad ended up in the hospital. He is all right, but it changed most of us forever. Now, if I am tired, I pull over and sleep. It is not a tough decision. Since then I have become the king of late night driving, though. Several solo trips to the dreaded Bay area, numerous trips from Jackson to Portland (weddings, chicken pox, etc. made me leave that perfect summer destination a few days apiece), When I lived in Corvallis, I tended bar and I would be so “amped” after closing that the most productive thing to do was drive us to the river- we were going fishing the next day anyway. We would catch a few hours before sunrise and wake up in the best spot in the state at the time. Most of the time this was my roommate, Al. Easily the best fishing partner I have ever had. If there was one guy that had most of his own gear and flies and knew what he was doing it was he. However, once in a while he would ask my opinion, only enough to let me feel good about myself as oine who might know more, but not too much that I got overzealous. He is the craziest, toughest, guy I know, as well as the kindest most sensitive heart of anyone I have ever met. He is a mixed bag and most people hardly know what to expect. I know to expect nothing and he always exceeds my expectations. I remember my wedding, everyone was really stressed out about him, and he was the last guy we hadn’t heard from. He even missed the rehearsal and stuff. But there he was ready to go at the wedding, and man, he was Johnny-on-the-spot whenever (he thought) I needed another Jack and Coke at the reception. Maybe it is because I expect so little from him, and therefore he has the ability to over-achieve, but I really consider him to be one of my best friends of all time regardless. He will always have a place to stay in my house.
Here is an unbelievably embarrassing conversation between Scott and I at OSU on the way to class. What is most embarrassing is that I wrote it down. But as I transcribe, I figure the editor can remove it if she wants. It is in there because I said everything besides notes on actual books will go in. You need to read the books yourselves and then make your own opinions on them. We can discuss if you’d like, but I am not going to give you the “Sprague’s-Notes” on things that you need to read yourself. What I promise to give is honet, accurate portraits of myself and my friends discussing things like…, ,oh I don’t know,… the best place on campus to sit and meditate for a bit.

“Oh, I found the best sh!**er on campus,” he continued. “Whenever I’m walking through campus and feel the need I carefully map out my route and predetermine the best place to stop.”
“Where is it?”
“Oh I don’t know,” – HIGHER PITCH VOICE teasing me as if I might not really be able to handle the knowledge he was about to divulge.
“You’ve got to tell me.”
“okay. You know the Liberal Arts building? You go upstairs and all the way to the other end. There’s four stalls- use the one that is closest to the sink and kinda hard to get in. It’s near the Women’s Studies area. No guy is ever up there.”
“Oh, nice.”
“I’ve used the one downstairs and it’s a little old-school + musty, but I am talking about traffic. The seat is always up so you know no one had been in there yet. Never use the first floor crappers, always the second- never the third floor either.”
“Oh yeah? Why is that?” just to see more madness behind his methods.
“Other people think like that and go straight to the top floor thinking they are smart- they are. But the real geniuses crap on 2.-Dumbassses on 1. Smart people on three, but brilliant people use two.” He smirked as if he had just spoken a key to success in life but also knowing that this little bit of information about the way the world works really doesn’t give you anything but another simple pleasure knowing that you have figured out a small system within this complex environment.

Lawyer==> “prudence”-“method”
What would you rather have on a referral from someone? Wouldn’t we rather be creative, imaginative and, if we are lucky, have the ability to conquer obstacles.
2 walls, one white, one black. Which do you want as your office? To Melville they are both blank walls.

Well, that was harkening back to Herman Melville’s drama, Bartleby- anyone with an office job should be asked to read it just as a precursor to employment. It would push people to reach beyond their comfort zone and accomplish their real goals in life. I am not saying that there is something wrong with having the goal of working in an office doing some random thing at a desk. I am talking about the others who think there is something else they were born for, but neither person is better or worse. You may feel that you are to take a job in an office, working for yourself or someone else, selling something or fixing something, or inputting data of some kind. That is great. But if your heart says go down some other road then you have to do it. If it doesn’t work out the first time then regroup and give it another go later. Then, if you must, try again a few years after that. The key is to never stop listening to your inmost desires. It may well be after you retire from that office job that you finally bust through (or just get the key) to the door of the room that your heart has been telling you to enter. The most important thing is to know where you eventually need to finish and embrace the good people you run across along the way.
* * * * * * * * * *
So it has been a few days since I have been able to write. In order to find the right font for the driftboat company’s letterhead I imported about 1000 foints from a burned copy from a friend at work. Anyway, with duplicates and old outdated fonts and such, it took a while to filter through them all and get Microisoft Word to work again on my Apple G5… interestingly it is the only program that had trouble dealing with the fonts. Even adobe photoshop handled all of them perfectly well, and it’s not even a word processing program. This is the kind of evidence that leads me to believe that Bill Gates just lucked out and in reality his company still isn’t that adept at actually writing software and it definitely hasn’t figured out how to make their copy of the Apple operating system from 1984, called Windows, and make it work.
Anyway, the real point of starting out tonight straight from the heart instead of from the old notebooks is ironic. As I have stated earlier, the reason for writing this stuff is so that my children will always have a piece of me in case I get taken away from them. I started the journal stuff ten years ago with this in mind. I actually started compiling it into the computer about 5 weeks ago when we found out we were pregnant with our third. This newest baby inspired me to get it done, but today we found out that things aren’t right with him. There was no heartbeat at the routine check-up. The doctors say the conclusion is concrete and that there is no way they can be wrong. I always believe that anything can happen- and stranger things have even in my lifetime. But at the same time I can comfort my wife, as well as myself, pretty swiftly by reminding us that Nature has a way of knowing when things aren’t right. We weren’t trying to get pregnant by any means.
Regan was just 9 months old when we weaned her from needing Lisa to feed. My wife was heading out for the annual trip to France with the middle-schoolers and we knew it should be done before the trip. Anyway, against all odds, we conceived this baby about 11 weeks ago. Today we learned that he has died about a week ago. So here I sit wondering what to do with the writing- wondering if I can put it off. I am now questioning myself. Do I have the ability to finish the daunting task contained in the pages at my feet? And where is the point to all of this? Is there an overlying theme? How about an underlying one?
Maybe, the theme for my writing can be summed up by the Tao Te Ching, by Lao-Tzu:
“A good traveler has no fixed plans and is not intent upon arriving.”

I have always been a good traveler according to Lao-Tzu. Obviously our little zygote was a chip off the old block- not real intent upon arriving. I would have liked him to; even though it started out as the most unplanned event in my life to date.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

“Oh I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain
I’ve seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I’ve seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I’d see you one more time again”
-James Taylor
It has been a week since I have written anything. It can be two things that have kept me away from writing to you. The first problem is that I came to a weird part in the journals. It is going to be tough for you to read it. The content isn’t much but its inference is rough as I look back and remember. Do I want to type it out and relive some of it? Not really. My life is good now because I choose focus on the good and much more easily forgive the past now. If I write it out I will just have to conjure up those feelings again and it really isn’t that fun for me. It has been a week since we found out about losing a pregnancy. A stir of emotions have gone through our home these past few days. Upon finding out we were pregnant with a surprise third I finally became fired up enough to start this compilation of thoughts into a solid form instead of making my kids read through dozens of scribbled ramblings if they ever so desired. I want to make myself known fully by my children, mistakes and all, so that they may not have to choose a wrong path in life. I don’t feel like I got to know my father until I was in my twenties. I caught glimpses that I realize now, were often out of context and always overshadowed by hear-say from other members of extended family. If, for some reason I am taken away from my children I want them to have access to who I was, and who I am. So, whatever my motives and through whatever hindrances, I will push on through this because my heart tells me to. My heart tells me to do quite a few things. Even though some have made things more difficult in the long run I am glad I listened to my heart and went on so many adventures. I am more pleased to being following through with this one.
Outside of becoming so financially free that I can choose to fish everyday and spend time with my family, there are two things my heart has been telling me to do for the last ten years straight. One is to write this book- which, in essence, I have been all along. The other is called FinChasers, and it has three independent and, at the same time, dependant parts. The first is happening now with driftboats. The best fiberglass driftboats in the world are being produced with the FinChasers emblem on them. The next piece of the plan is a fly shop-public house-coffee shop-fishing peripherals distribution center with the FinChasers emblem on it as well. And of course it will act as the driftboat headquarters. It will be a place to hang out, the way the best fly shops ultimately end up becoming, but this one will make money from it’s covert food and drink. Only the people who have been there before will know what is behind the counter for them. I still haven’t figured out how to hide the smell of my Gyro shop, leg-o-lamb on a spit. And finally, when those two ventures are operating well, I will invest time and money to produce the first-ever, entertaining fishing show. That is correct, I believe it can actually be done. More poignantly, I feel it needs to be given to the World. I am appalled at the amount of airtime, man-power and money is being thrown away right now to these half-hour yawners. (And don’t get me started on the numerous broadcasts of the “strong-man” competition circuit). Who wants to watch two guys fish? I envision a program, which, by offering so many angles, a viewer doesn’t even have to be interested in fishing for it to warrant their attention. However, the show, of course, is titled FinChasers. Think of a variety show hosted by a few guys that together encompass a cross David Letterman and Larry King. Interesting guests of media, entertainment, politics, etc would be given the opportunity to be as honest as they would like in a relaxed setting. Whether the guests are learning to fish or seasoned veterans, it makes no difference since the fishing is just something that is happening in the background half of the time. I had this vision starting in 1994 which was several years before the first Survivor treatment had been written. Even though tape would be rolling at every second of every day, the guests would have a clear understanding that nothing gets aired that isn’t specifically consented to by them. Even with the massive editing I think there could be real glimpses of people’s greatness accompanied by their failures that would make them more real and inspire viewers. In the same respect our sponsors would have actual footage of their products being utilized in memorable ways. If all viewers knew I couldn’t be “purchased”, they would gain trust in the things they see me using. If cameras are rolling and I stop at a Chevron or Texaco for gas who knows what kind of event could be caught on tape. Brand loyalty could be attained without making a mockery of our sponsors. There will be no “staged” video shot of anyone telling people to use only this brand of line, or anything else, but it will come up in normal conversation. I don’t think there are too many of us out there that could make this work. I will start it and gladly pass the baton to others... besides, I am already writing off all of my fishing expenses from the other two parts of the FinChasers enterprise. In turn, it will become the first fishing show to ever turn a profit for its investors- with a worker as well as allow a few guys to fish as much as they care to and write it off on their taxes.

However, I have two other beautiful daughters and this is as much for them as it was for this last baby. Now that the idea is lost for the time being it gives me a reason to procrastinate a bit.

Well here I am about 3 weeks from last writing. I just dropped off the boat trailer and had some thoughts about how things are going to be for this company.

We aren’t doing things by the book. In fact it almost feels like we are going against everything that safe businesses are applauded for. Potential customers will want to know the price of these boats. Well being the best in the world they aren’t cheap. But the real kicker is that each one is better than the one before. So the price may go up as each boat is built. So instead of trying to hook people by telling them some outrageously low number for the “base model” I am just going to say that the best boat in the world costs 13,000 dollars, or whatever it is. But give the customer the option of removing things to make it affordable and not exactly the coolest boat in the world. So I give them the highest price I can think of and they can bring the price down to what suits them. It’s totally asinine from a marketing perspective, but at least its honest.
My boat isn’t for every body. You don’t have to be a rock star to want, or afford, the boat I make. But the person who buys a FinChasers boat is a rare person nonetheless. I am not selling to everybody and I don’t need to chase my customer down and convince him to buy a boat from us. They will find the company after countless hours of browsing the web and looking at boat launches- they know what they want in their boat and they can’t find it from anyone else. And when they finally come across our company elation soon follows and they realize that they aren’t alone- that someone else also felt there could be more than what the mass drifting population settles with.

Well it has been quite a while since I have sat down to write you. So much has happened. We went to a family reunion- my side. Painful, it is. That is Yoda-talk. I told a few that I want to do the Grand Canyon with the boat I build and they looked at me as if I am silly. It reallt is no matter, those that think that way can stay in their double-wide trailers. My mother, and a few other readers will definitely be upsetr about the comment in the last sentence- but I don’t really give a rats butt-hole. If the “shoe fits, wear it.” My motto has always been “if you don’t like the way the shoe fits, kick the s#!t out of it.”

Thanks

To yellowtail- although my wife didn’t like it (she was pregnant for that part, anyway)
Especially Crane Lake Cabernet, and the Chrondog.
The lidded woody, filtered water from my fridge- “the good water”.
Air, Brahms, The Velvet Underground, Chemical Brothers and a KINK Lights out CD.
Thick Socks and Champion Sweat pants.
(what the frick was his name) who left a really warm, corduroy jacket in my wife’s closet after a date…Scott Twardowski. (They dated before my wife and I remet, of course).

To Toby for always believing in “the Show”.
To Al, for understanding my writing.
To Scott, for always having a good take on life.
To Chance, for wanting to know how to fly-fish and taking only a few years to completely give yourself to it and become the Master. (I always feel like Obi-Wan to his Darth Vader, now.)
To Baehler for giving me my first dose of positive feedback on this project. You are a solid brother in Christ, I know laughter because of you.
To my wife for loving me despite the addictions – fly-fishing, staying up late, every other seasonal hobby that takes me away from our family, etc., patches, etc.- thanks for not letting me get away with addictions. But more importantly, for being the best partner I could ask for- the Yin of my Yang- (no hidden meaning… really), and for making some beautiful children.
To Prentice for giving me a stable job and paying me more than I was worth even though I felt like I was worth more. You loved the family entity and understood my respect for it.
- Thanks to everyone at the Bott who put up with my interestingly-sour demeanor as I handled your problems… and especially Reynolds for always taking the time to answer every computer question I have ever had.
Thanks to Steve Jobs for furthering a company that intuitively goes against the grain to build machines that are far superior- even if the “big brother” world doesn’t recognize it. I would be lost without my iPod.
Thanks to my Bro-in-law, Brent. You gave me fuel for writing.
To Douglas Adams for writing in a way that revolutionized literature- Rest in peace, Brit-Bro. You are my “Beatles”.
To Justin and Carol, for accepting me, at least, because your daughter does. You love her so much that I will never know how you really feel about me… and I am thankful. You are an amazing couple and have modeled well for us. I hope my children like me as much as yours like you.
To Richard Sprague- you were a thousand miles away yet you were able to make at least one decision to keep my life on track. “The Distinguished Gentleman” at the Firing Line, I will admire you for the way you carry yourself… forever.
Grandpa, I don’t know if I will ever see you again, and it makes me sad, more than you will ever know.

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Oct 30, 2005

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Night Two