The Water Swatters

New Awesomeness has Arrived

2007-11-04T10:31:00.000-06:00

The Waterswatters are pleased to announce we've teamed up with Ass Hooked Whitey, Fly Times, Voluntary Beatdown and a few other folks to bring you the best in fly fishing typing. Imagine the combined power of the Pac Nor'west, the South, the Nor'East, country and western, honky and tonk, spey and singlehand, smartass and serious and you get

Buster Wants to Fish

HUZZAH! HUZZAH!

2007-10-17T21:27:00.000-05:00

We recieved our orders at dawn, gathered our possibles, struck the canvas, checked our charges, and are on the march. The pipes and drums are playing Garry Owen, although I couldn't find that on Youtube, so here's some drunk Cav soldiers in Korea rocking out to Garry Owen, the 7th. First. Out Front. 'Cause soon you will be treated to a whole new level of awesomeness.

Disco Midge

2007-10-10T22:23:00.001-05:00

It could be a bead head....

Hallelujah

2007-10-10T21:18:00.000-05:00

Went fishing up on the [So Redacted you couldn't get the location out by waterboarding] and lucked into a few of these guys . Fished a borrowed boo stick (sweet) and dries. In celebration of this I leave you with Van the Man

Lucero

2007-10-08T23:40:00.001-05:00

Yep. Git it on.

Latest Triploid Hits the Newstands

2007-10-05T21:13:00.000-05:00

Ego Deflation Monthly, click for full sized laughs

Yessir!

2007-09-30T17:04:00.001-05:00

Red Gold by Feltsoul Media

2007-09-25T23:15:00.000-05:00

Cause some places are too good for us to fuck up

Learn More Here and Here SON!

Downhill

2007-09-23T15:22:00.000-05:00

Fishing [name redacted] Creek is a lot of fun. Good chance for a slam, zero to small crowds, and a beatiful place to camp and fish. Another cool thing is you hike up going in and down going out. The way it should be.

There, There

2007-09-20T19:17:00.000-05:00

Hi Sweet Things

I know your kinda pissed at me for packing you up and moving you out here to the Sonoran desert. I know you miss your old haunts in Florida, chasing bluegill and bass, reds and snook. I see those looks you give me now, knowing I haven't gotten you wet in months. That thing with the hiking boots every weekend, naw babies, I'm doin that for us. You see, I'm out looking for water; I know you think you're being neglected for the hiking gear, but really I'm doin that for you. You'll see, someday soon I'll pick you up in my hands, fit you together all tight and straight like and you'll see. You'll see, cause when I said that I love you, I meant that I loved you forever and I'm goin keep on lovin you

Old arse smooth

2007-09-19T23:59:00.000-05:00

We like to slow roll it.

Workhorse

2007-09-18T21:32:00.000-05:00

This is Big Cat's blue-collar-style drifter. We like. Check out the "Snap On" seat. Yarp!

Blue Mountain - Bloody 98 @ Proud Larry's

2007-09-17T22:10:00.001-05:00

Yessir.

30"

2007-09-16T21:49:00.000-05:00

That's what I'm guessing this bruiser would tape at. I watched him for about twenty minutes.

Mooching trout part deux

2007-09-16T21:36:00.001-05:00

More footage with a shot of me wading boots.

Symbiotic Trout?

2007-09-12T20:03:00.001-05:00

Fished in Tennessee all last week. Had a blast. This was taken by a Pentax Optio on [name redacted] River. The trout were feeding on all sorts of goodness I was kicking up. First there was one, then two, then thirty....pretty cool schiatt.

Driving Blood Meridian, Part 2

2007-09-02T19:45:00.000-05:00

Crossing the high mesas in the days to follow they began to come upon burned-out pits in the ground where the Indians had cooked mescal and they rode through strange forests of maguey- the aloe or century plant- with immense flowering stalks that rose forty feet into the desert air.

(Aloes, French Joe Canyon, Whetstone Mountains, Arizona)

Glanton would not turn back. His calculations concerning the enemy included every duplicity. He spoke of ambushes. Even he in all his pride could not have believed that a company of nineteen men had evacuated an area of ten thousand square miles of every living human.

(Transmountain Expressway, looking down into Texas, Mexico and New Mexico, El Paso, Texas)

Two days later when the scouts returned in the afternoon and reported finding the Apache villages abandoned…They dismounted and moved among the shelters…the hovel doors were waist high and faced the east and few of the shelters were tall enough to be stood in.

(Apache wicciup, Apache Pass, Arizona)

Two mornings later the Delawares returned from their dawn reconnaissance and reported the Gilenos camped along the shore of a shallow lake…They saw to their arms, drawing charges from their pieces and reloading them…The party was crouched in a stand of willow half a mile from the fires of the enemy…Glanton addressed them. We got an hour, maybe more. When we ride in it’s every man to his own. Don’t leave a dog alive if you can help it…Don’t waste powder and ball on anything that cant shoot back…the riders put rowels to their mounts and lined out for the camp behind the dogs with their clubs whirling and the dogs howling in a tableau of some hellish hunt, the partisans nineteen in number bearing down upon the encampment where there lay sleeping upward of a thousand souls…Within that first minute the slaughter had become general. Women were screaming and naked children and one old man tottered forth waving a pair of white pantaloons. The horsemen moved among them and slew them with clubs or knives…The dead lay awash in the shallows of the lake…They moved among the dead harvesting the long black locks with their knives and leaving their victims rawskulled and strange in their bloody cauls.

(Seasonal Lake, near Wilcox, Arizona)

One evening almost within sight of the town of El Paso they looked off toward the north…They camped that night at the Hueco Tanks…Two nights later bivouacked in a pass in the mountains they could see the distant lights of the city below them. (Looking down on El Paso from the Transmountain Expressway, the only pass through the Franklin Mountains)

They entered the city haggard and filthy and reeking with the blood of the citizenry for whose protection they had contracted. The scalps of the slain villagers were strung from the windows of the governor’s house and the partisans were paid out of the all but exhausted coffers…Within a week of quitting the city there would be a price of eight thousand pesos posted for Glanton’s head. They rode out on the north road as would parties bound for El Paso but before they were even quite out of sight of the city they had turned their tragic mounts to the west and they rode infatuate and half fond toward the red demise of that day, toward the evening lands and the distant pandemonium of the sun.

(Sunset, Deming, New Mexico)

They found the lost scouts hanging head downward from the limbs of a fire blacked palo verde tree. They were skewered through the cords of their heels with sharpened shuttles of green wood and they hung grey and naked above the dead ashes of the coals where they’d been roasted until their heads had charred and the brains bubbled in the skulls and steam sang from their noseholes. Their tongues were drawn out and held with sharpened sticks thrust through them and they had been docked of their ears and their torsos were sliced open with flints until the entrails hung down on their chests…Among their barbarous hosts they had met with neither favor nor discrimination but had suffered and died impartially.

(Palo Verde Tree, AZ90, Arizona)

They rode that night through the mission of San Xavier Del Bac, the church solemn and stark in the starlight.

(San Xavier del Bac Mission, Tucson, Arizona)

He set the horse’s face north toward the stone mountains running thinly under the edge of the sky and he rode the stars down and the sun up. It was no country he had ever seen and there was no track to follow into those mountains and there was no track out. Yet in the deepest fastness of those rocks he met with men who seemed unable to abide the silence of the world.

(Whetstone Mountains, Arizona)

He first saw them laboring over the plain in the dusk among flowering ocotillo…They were led by a pitero piping a reed and then n procession a clanging of tambourines and matracas and men naked to the waist in black capes and hoods who flailed themselves with whips of braided yucca and men who bore on their naked backs great loads of cholla…and a hooded man in a white robe who bore a heavy wooden cross on his shoulders…This troubled sect traversed slowly the ground under the bluff where the watcher stood

(Whetstone Mountains, Arizona)

Then he saw the pilgrims. They were scattered about below him in a stone coulee dead in their blood. He took down his rifle and squatted and listened…The company of penitents lay hacked and butchered among the tones in every attitude. Many lay about the fallen cross and some were mutilated and some were without heads. Perhaps they’d gathered under the cross for shelter but the hole into which it had been set and the cairn of rocks about its base showed how it had been pushed over and how the hooded alter-christ had been cut down and disemboweled who now lay with the scraps of rope by which he had been bound still tied about his wrists and ankles

(Looking down at the bottom of French Joe Canyon, Arizona)

Driving Blood Meridian, Part 1

2007-08-20T17:54:00.000-05:00

We're fans of Cormac McCarthy 'round here, no suprise as he is a Southern Gent (raised in Knoxville) and now resident of the Southwest and as I was consulting the road map for my move from Florida to Arizona, I realized I would be cutting across some serious McCarthy territory, so I started taking photos along the way that seemed straight out of Blood Meridian, and a few places that I knew the Glanton Gang had moved through and some other places that just seemed to fit.

At fourteen he runs away. He will not see again the freezing kitchenhouse in the predawn dark. The firewood, the washpots. He wanders west as far as Memphis, a solitary migrant upon that flat and pastoral landscape. Blacks in the fields, lank and stooped, their fingers spider like among the bolls of cotton. A shadowed agony in the garden. Against the sun’s declining figures moving in the slower dusk across a paper skyline. A lone dark husbandman pursuing mule and harrow down the rainblown bottomland toward night.

(Farm fields, West Florida, HWY 301)

He works in a sawmill, he works in a diphtheria pesthouse. He takes as pay from a farmer an aged mule and aback this animal in the spring of the year eighteen and forty nine he rides up through the latter day republic of Fredonia into the town of Nacogdoches.

(Off I10, West of San Antonio, Texas)

They set forth in a crimson dawn where sky and earth closed in a razorous plane. Out there dark little archipelagos of sand and scrub…By late afternoon riders were visible to the bare eye…What do you make of that, Captain? I make it a pack of heathen stock thieves is what I make it…They don’t seemed concerned do they…We may see a little sport here before the day is out…Already you could see through the dust on the ponies’ hides the painted chevrons and the hands and rising suns and birds and fish of every device like the shade of old work through sizing on a canvas and now too you could hear above the pounding of the unshod hooves the piping of the quena, flutes made from human bones, and some among the company had begun to saw back on their mounts and some to mill in confusion when up from the offside of those ponies rose a fabled horde of mounted lancers and archers…A legion of horribles, hundreds in number, half naked or clad in costumes attic or biblical or wardrobed out of a fevered dream with the skins of animals and silk finery and pieces of uniform still tracked with the blood of prior owners, coats of slain dragoons, frogged and braided cavalry jackets, one in a stovepipe hat and one with an umbrella and one in white stockings and a bloodstained wedding veil and some in headgear of cranefeathers or rawhide helmets that bore the horns of bull or buffalo and one in a pigeon tailed coat worn backwards and otherwise naked and one in the armor of a Spanish Conquistador, the breastplate and pauldrons deeply dented with old blows of mace or saber done in another country by men whose bones were dust and many with their braids spliced up with the hair of other beasts until they trailed upon the ground…and all the horsemen’s faces gaudy and grotesque with daubings like a company of mounted clowns, death hilarious, all howling in a barbarous tongue and riding down upon them like a horde from a hell more horrible yet than the brimstone land of Christian reckoning, screeching and yammering and clothed in smoke like those vaporous beings in regions beyond right knowing where the eye wanders and the lip jerks and drools.

Oh my god, said the sergeant.

(South Texas Desert, near Van Horn, Texas)

They rode through marl and terracotta and rifts of copper shale and they rode through a wooden swag and out upon a promontory overlooking a bleak and barren caldera where lay the abandoned ruins of Santa Rita del Cobre.

(FT Bowie, Apache Pass, Arizona)

Glanton pounded on the door with his rawhide covered club like a traveler at an inn…The echo of his knocking clapped about the stark and riven walls of rock and returned. The men sat their horses. Glanton gave the door a kick. Come out if you’re white, he called.

(FT Bowie, Apache Pass, Arizona)

Glanton and the Judge looked at the squatters and the squatters looked at the floor. Some of the roof beams were half down into the room and the floor was filled with mud and rubble. Into these ruinous works the morning sun now slanted and Glanton could see crouched in a corner a Mexican or half breed boy maybe twelve years old… Who’s this child? said the Judge. They shrugged and looked away. Glanton spat and shook his head.

(FT Bowie, Apache Pass, Arizona)

It grew cold in the night and it blew stormy with wind and rain…The men on watch entered the room and stood steaming before the fire…Someone had reported the Judge naked atop the walls, immense and pale in the revelations of lightning, striding the perimeter up there and declaiming in the old epic mode…In the meantime someone had found the boy. He was laying facedown naked in one of the cubicles. Scattered about on the clay were great numbers of old bones. As if he like others before him had stumbled upon a place where something inimical lived.

(FT Bowie, Apache Pass, Arizona)

The Judge, said Tobin…I seen him before, said the Kid. In Nacogdoches. Tobin smiled. Every man in the company claims to have encountered that sooty souled rascal in some other place. We come down off the Little Colorado we didn’t have a pound of powder in the company. Pound. We’d not a dram hardly. There he set on a rock in the middle of the greatest desert you’d ever want to see. We were thirty eight men when we left Chihuahua City and we were fourteen when the Judge found us…Glanton just studied him…They’ve a secret commerce. Some terrible covenant…but if being naked of arms in that wilderness and half of all Apacheria in pursuit worried him at all he kept it to himself entire…The Judge had been up all night…Watchin the bats…Two men deserted in the night and that made us down to twelve and the Judge thirteen. I gave him my best study, the Judge…He appeared to be a lunatic and then not. Glanton I always knew was mad…We led the horses in the dark…When we reached the cave some of the men thought that he meant for us to hide there…But it was the nitre…We filled our wallets and panniers and our mochilas with the cave dirt.

(Cave, French Joe Canyon, Whetstone Mountains, Arizona)

The Judge. We left him at a high pass, a little Clearwater creek. Him and one of the Delaware’s. He told us to circle the mountain and to return to that place in forty eight hours. We unloaded all the containers onto the ground.

(Freshwater Spring, Apache Pass, Arizona)

The next day on the far side of the mountain we encountered the two lads that had deserted us. Hanging upside down in a tree. They’d been skinned and I can tell ye it does very little for a man’s appearance. But if the savages had not guessed it already, now they knew for sure. That we’d none of us any powder.

(Oak tree, Apache Pass, Arizona)

But in those two days the Judge leached out the guano with creekwater and woodash…He got up when he seen us and went to the willows and come back with a pair of wallets and in one was about eight pounds of pure crystal saltpeter and in the other about three pounds of fine alder charcoal…he pointed to that stark and solitary mountain…He was first to the rim of the cone…Then he set down and he begun to scale at the rock with his knife…It was brimstone…most pure flowers of sulphur…went to a cupped place in the rock and dumped out the charcoal and the nitre and stirred them about with his hand and poured the sulphur in…Captain Glanton, he says. Come charge that swivelbore of yours and let’s see what manner of things we have here…The foremost of the savages was not more than a furlong on the slope…then the Judge, he steps up to the rim and he had with him a good white linen shirt…and he waved it to the redskins and he called down to them in Spanish All dead save me he called. Have mercy on me. Todos muertos…God it set them yappin on the slope like dogs…Gentlemen. That was all he said. He had the pistols stuck in his belt at the back and he drew them one in each hand and he is as either handed as a spider…and he commenced to kill Indians. We needed no second invitation. God it was a butchery.

Western Commerical Zoning

2007-08-15T11:21:00.001-05:00

Speaks for itself, mostly

Kitchen 8/11-8/12

2007-08-14T23:22:00.000-05:00

Check out the granite countertops

Damn Beavers!

2007-08-08T21:38:00.000-05:00

This is a pic from a relative's farm in South central Tennessee. It used to be deep, cold (almost cold enough for trout), and purty as hell. It's a shadow of it's former self.

[name redacted] Creek

2007-08-07T21:26:00.000-05:00

Fished a spring fed creek with the Walker County Boys. It was good to get the boots wet, been awhile. It's really too hot to fish down here right now. It's best to be off the water by 10:00 in the AM (It was 84 degrees at 7:00AM this morning on my way to work). Heading to the Appalachians this weekend to fish and beat the heat. Can't wait.

Tight cast

2007-08-04T22:08:00.001-05:00

Almost

2007-08-04T21:37:00.000-05:00

Cazador almost got that beauty of a spotted bass to the boat. Almost. Would have easily been the fish of the day. Notice the pocket pulled out and reversed.....not for amateurs. He's not always unlucky, he did boat Mrs. Cazador. Also...I'm not a fan of the visor, but that Jameson Inn visor does bring it.

Editors note: You might need sunglasses to view this pic due to Cazador's Malibu-like tan

There's a bass in there

2007-08-02T21:21:00.000-05:00

I think we're back

2007-08-02T21:08:00.000-05:00

Dog Day Edition
Things are starting to settle down and looks like we may have time to resume internet fishing. Winter in the South is here.....it was 97 degrees (Fahrenheit to you non-USA'rs) with 97% humidity. Brew-tall. Throw in severe drought and it has sucked donkey balls, royally. Thee Dog Days are upon us.

To our three readers, thanks for sticking around.

Thanks for Leaving the Door Unlocked

2007-07-24T17:25:00.000-05:00

Well, I am starting to settle into the new digs out in the Sonora. I left the Florida Sprawl behind for a town of 1,700 people 22 miles south of I-10 with just about nothing between the town and the highway, check it son. My dirt merchants, Moose and Fiona, have learned the subtle joys of chasing jackrabbits through the yard. Down AZ90 aways is the metropolis of Sierra Vista, around 17,000 people, with enough conveniences you don't go ape shit from just hanging out at the Circle K. Local fauna include the aforementioned jackrabbits, western diamond backs, black widows, javelina, bobcat, mule deer, whitetails, black bear and mountain lion. Accordingly, I am doing some "hardware" procurement for trips into the Huachuca's, Whetstone and Dragoon Mountains.

It's good to move now and then, it wakes you up from your nap and I'll have more later and should be occupying my usual spot at the fire once I get a dial up connection at the house.

Cheers
Ulysses

Things we like - Pt 6

2007-07-04T12:17:00.001-05:00

drag the river, turned up very loud. Add Maker's Mark, sunset, and camp chair. Repeat often.

Roughian Country

2007-07-04T11:40:00.000-05:00

Roughian [ruff-eee-an] adjective

1. Not played on "country" radio

2. Gritty, real, with pain

3. Usually involving booze and guns

4. See also Chris Knight and Drag the River

Been listening to Chris Knight's Trailer Tapes. Raw and beautiful. This is Knight at his best. Also picked up Drag the River's entire collection from Suburban Home Records. Been wearing 'em out. Just pure heart driven country with heavy doses of pedal steel. We highly recommend picking their stuff up. Especially now that they have disbanded.

Cool dog sun field pic

2007-06-25T22:44:00.000-05:00

Dogs rule. Cats don't.

Garrrrrrrrrr

2007-06-25T22:21:00.000-05:00

Check out the hit (albeit slight damage) this little spotted bass took this past Sunday. My buddy, Walker County Sam, was reeling this little fellar in when one of the many [name redacted] River gar attacked. See, Walker County Sam grew up fishing water around Pensacola surrounded by Bull Sharks. He squealed like a little schoolgirl when that gar attacked.

Sorry to our four readers for the lack of posting lately. I haven't been fishing much since we are in like a 130 year old record drought. Ulysses is picking up his life and family and moving to the desert of Arizona from Boca Del Vista, FL. Godspeed to them. I've got a few pics on the camera I just unloaded from the last few trips. They'll be up this week.

Things we like - Pt 5

2007-06-13T21:05:00.000-05:00

Waverly, AL (and other badass small towns). Pop 225. Yellowhammer restaurant. Standard Deluxe print shop and High Corner Co-Op. Guitar picking on the front porch. Badass little creeks and ponds that go unnoticed. 280 Boogie. Places that have character. No "planned" anything, except maybe an afternoon game of horseshoes and beer drinking. Life slows down, conversations flow, dogs play, and life is good in these little towns. These places are few and far between nowadays, but I predict a comeback someday. Oh, and the fishing in the surrounding farm ponds......puhleeze. Sign me up.

Just Messin Around

2007-06-08T21:30:00.000-05:00

James Dolan stood loading barbed wire into the truck bed. He looked around his holding briefly between stacking coils, as he had for years on end. He retreated into the low slung barn and returned with his tools. He opened the passenger door and carefully laid the hand tools on seat. The smoothed handle hammer was laid down first, followed by the parallel jaw wire cutters, a box of wire staples. He laid his leather gloves on the dash and closed the door. He walked around the back of the truck, inspecting the wire and closing the gate before turning for the driver’s door. He reached for the door handle and noticed the dust trailing into the air along the ranch road.

The black Suburban ghosted into view through the heat and turned a last time towards his home. He noticed the road tires that skidded on the washboard and closer, the white and blue government tag. He spat a thin stream of tobacco into the dust. The truck slowed to a stop and three men opened the doors and exited.

“Mr Dolan?” said the man who exited from the passenger side smoothing his tie.
“That would be me.”
“We’re from Washington and we’d like to discuss an important matter with you”
“I told your BLM agent that my cattle haven’t been grazing on that Fed land”
“It’s not regarding that”
“Well then what?”
“We’d like to buy your ranch”
“You’d what?”
“We want to buy your ranch sir. In fact, we plan to acquire most of the surrounding private lands”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s for matters of national security we cannot disclose, but we are willing to pay you a fair, some would say excellent price for it”
“What price would that be?”
“Here’s the Treasury voucher for our offer”

Dolan looked at the number on the page and then at the men standing in front of him. The driver and the second passenger were alternately looking at him and examining the land falling away from the house, their gaze extending over miles of grass to the rise of the mountains beyond. He looked back at the paper. The ranch had been in his family since before the Lincoln County War and not since the final tract had been purchased had there been a lien, mortgage or single piece sold off. Drought had taken its toll and he had lost money the last few years. His wife discussed moving east to Las Cruces more frequently than before.

His own gaze fell on the mountains. He remembered following old game trails around the base, riding his father’s horse, followed by other children on their fathers’ horses, at times when the ranch work was light enough to allow them to be children. He remembered his father’s mother, a hardened woman who came west across Texas in a wagon drawn by oxen before marrying his grandfather. She always warned the children to stay away from the mountains, her fears of Chiricahua Apaches not faded by time. They went anyways.
He remembered being fourteen and accompanying his father up into the mountains. Something had been marauding calves and a nearby rancher reported seeing a bear that had slunk down from the mountain before the winter set in. His father and the other ranchers had discussed what to do and he saw his father pull from the closet a long wooden case. Inside was a Winchester 1886 .45-70 rifle. It had a Sharps tang sight. When they met the other men in the early morning light, most were armed similarly with large bore rifles that hadn’t been fired since Villa’s raids. They found one dead calf that first day and a set of wolf tracks leading away. Four days later, they corned the wolf high in a box draw. His father handed him the rifle.

“Mr Dolan, we are extending this offer as a courtesy. If you refuse we will exercise eminent domain, and I can assure you that the amount you receive through that process will be significantly lower than that voucher is worth”
“Well”
“We can leave the paperwork here with you overnight and can discuss this again in the morning. As I said before, we will be soliciting your neighbors as well.”

He looked down at the amount again.

“I can live with this”

Dream Ticket 2008. The Water Swatters endorse....

2007-05-29T21:14:00.000-05:00

We hope they decide to run again. We need 'em. Bad.

Neglected

2007-05-21T21:19:00.000-05:00

I know, I know. I've been ignoring you ol' girl. No rain in weeks has really put a strain on our relationship, hasn't it? Placed a call today to the river. She'll be releasing 3000 cfs this weekend. Sound good? Me too, I can't wait. We'll probably slide over a few rocks. Might get a little bumpy. I might have to row my ass off without much current. I hope we catch a schiattload of bass too, maybe even a gar or two. That reminds me, I must go. Don't get mad, just need to twist up some flies for this coming weekend. Talk to you soon.

Bunny Gotcha's Now in Redfish Models

2007-05-20T18:35:00.001-05:00

Top Fly

Hook: Mustad 34007 #4

Thread: white flat waxed nylon

Eye: lead dumbell

Body: gold sparkle braid, overwrapped with 20lb mono

wing: chincilla zonker rabbit strip

Bottom Fly

Hook: Mustad 34007 #4

Thread: Danville Brown 6/0

Eye: lead dumbell

Body: copper sparkle braid, overwrapped with 20lb mono

wing: brown grizzly zonker rabbit strip

Scud Mountain Boys

2007-05-20T17:39:00.000-05:00

I was going through my music collection in preparation to sell on ebay, Daddy needs a new 6 weight. I stopped and perused the liner notes from Scud Mtn's "Massachussetts". I remembered them being fishermen. It has a thank you section and then:

"Scud Mt. Boys use Maxima tippets and Metz hackle exclusively"

I think that kicks ass.

1500 hits later.... A Beer Hug & Some Bream Bugs

2007-05-06T19:15:00.000-05:00

I told Ulysses that I would put up a prize when we reached 1500 visitors. Well, we're there. WT & Management over at Flytimes did something similar, so we're copying. 10th person to comment in this post gets a kickarse beer hugger and six R.L.D. bream flies. I bought some of these beer huggers from Standard Deluxe, check 'em out. I twisted up these shoddily tied flies and they will catch the hell out of bass and panfish. You can only comment twice and not consecutively. And no Ulysses, you're not eligible.

Things We Like Pt 4

2007-05-06T16:14:00.000-05:00

Waylon

The Cure for Wot Ailes Ye

2007-05-06T14:44:00.000-05:00

Old Ulysses hasn't been quite up to snuff lately and whilst consulting with Atticus, he prescribed ( 7 years at an SEC school makes you a doctor, right?) fishing, massive amounts of fishing. I haven't been able to get out on the water for a bit now and so I was up early and didn't even consult the tides; I had to go.

I drove out to [Name Redacted] for a typical spring Sunday lots-o-crowds, but I knew a little turn off away from the beaten path. Only one old Ford was parked at the end of the trail and I rigged up.

It was green grass and high tides on [Name Redacted], but a metric shatload of bait and the water was ever the right height at the mangroves. I tied on a Cooks Creek Critter and started working the 'groves. First cast was a bit rusty, landed one right in the branches and had to wade up and get 'er out.

I worked the cuts and holes up this shoreline for a few hours, perfecting the cast and getting the fly to land in the cuts, and sometimes the branches. Mullet were everywhere, and not just Old Duane; it was heartening to see the lower Bay come back after a severe red tide two summers ago that took out a lot of life down here.

After a few hundred casts, it became apparent that Messrs Snook and Redfish had gone elsewhere, so I practiced snap sight casting at mullet moving up the grass line. I headed back to the truck, hopeful to break out the shooting head and work some Jedi skills at the Pass.

The Pass is a spot where you can find poon beach side (read that however you want to). Basically, on an outgoing tide, you swing big crab and baitfish patterns through the pass, hoping to drift one pass the nose, eyes and gaping maw of Mr Silver King. Last summer I spooked three 60 pounders, laid up 5 feet from me in 3 feet of water. I tried to make a ninja short side cast to them, but I turned my right foot ever so slightly and splashed a bit, sending them out to the Gulf.

I drove up to the Pass, knowing it would be packed, knowing I would have to traverse about a mile of family beach before getting to the outlet. What I didn't know was that I'd have to drive around for 15 minutes looking for a parking spot. I was about to park on the grass when the local rock station kicked off the Crue's "Doctor Feelgood". Feeling better and realizing there would also be about 200 Sea-Doos and jet-ski's either beached, anchored or ripping around the pass, I saddled up and left.

Atticus, the script worked

[name redacted] River, NC

2007-05-06T11:02:00.000-05:00

Went with my brother and some friends last week to fish/hike/camp. Took the dogs also. Weather was perfect. Fellowship was perfect. This is what life should be like....biggest decisions I made that weekend was whether to fish upstream or downstream and what to cook for dinner.

My buddy, Cazador, working a pool like a bbq'd rib

Fish on

I love wild fish.

Things we like - Part 3

2007-05-02T00:36:00.001-05:00

Cary Hudson. All-time-great....dude is a dirt road sport.

http://www.caryhudson.com

Battle Royal

2007-04-30T20:39:00.000-05:00

Wonder of Wonders: Florida Legislature Outlaws Lying

2007-04-28T10:32:00.000-05:00

http://www.sptimes.com/2007/04/27/State/Legislators_take_a_st.shtml

Things have gotten downright bizarre here in Florida; first the SFWMD turned the tap off the Everglades, and now the FLorida Legislature has passed a bill to , get this, "requires that lawmakers, their staff and lobbyists take an oath whenever they go before a House or Senate committee, and it subjects them to felony perjury charges if they lie."

The kicker is that it took 15 minutes of vigorous debate before the vote and three Senators voted nay.

One is Senator Gary Siplin of Orlando, a convicted felon (grand theft).
One is Senator Mandy Dawson of FT Lauderdale, who plead out to perscription drug fraud.
The final musketeer is Sen Al Lawson who declared "This is the biggest conspiracy that I have ever seen," he said. "Why would you suggest a member is not telling the truth? Sen. Villalobos is trying to hold us up to the same standards as lobbyists."

I have to go fishing now

Things we like - Part 2

2007-04-26T22:07:00.000-05:00

Old barns and buildings. Especially if a farm pond or creek is nearby. There's something so very comfortin' as the sun risin' or settin' on one of these symbols of the past.

Note: yes, I did train my dog to pretend he was a cow for the pic. I didn't, however, train him to eat goose schiatt later that day.

Suburban Subversion

2007-04-20T04:55:00.000-05:00

There are few joys to be found when living in a brand new subdivision. Instead of the organic home grown feel of an established neighborhood, one is left with the gnawing sense that a Disneyland Imagineer decided to design a neighborhood that would be glistening, new, and as inviting as Wonderbread. One of the upsides to the Development is that the builders know people like to live near water and so they are usually centered on a pond or have them scattered throughout the neighborhood.

In addition to the ponds, the builders are also keen to institute the extra-legal Homeowners Association and the rules that the Association enforces, usually everything from paint color, dog breeds allowed and, most important to me, if fishing is allowed in the ponds. Usually it isn’t, but that has never held me back. The key to good subdivision fishing is never let The Man keep you down. God didn’t grant you two legs and two arms solely to squander their use keeping grass at the prescribed height of 1-3/8 inches. Go out and subvert conformity with a 3 weight.

I usually start the day in the truck, cruising the side roads and thoroughfares of the suburbs looking for water. Retention ponds, creeks, drainage canals are my targets. I tend to pack light for these trips- fly box, water bottle, rod and reel. You may need to get out of Dodge with a quickness and running in waders and a vest is never easy or fast. Old running shoes that the dog has used for a teething ring are my preferred footwear. Most of these ponds have healthy bluegill populations and the occasional bucket mouth, so having box upon box of flies just isn’t necessary. This is pared down, ultra-light fishing with a handful of poppers, otherwise known as Alabama Dry Flies, wooly buggers and some streamers. Delicate tippets aren’t necessary and some level 10lb Stren works just fine, no matter what the purist may say.

Subdivision fishing is many things, but one thing it isn’t is wake up at 3 am type fishing. It’s a leisurely pursuit, best undertaken on a lazy Sunday after a few cups coffee and a nooner with the wife. I’ll usually rig up at home, keep the 4 piece in two sections for fast assembly and have a popper tied on before I get to the pond. I’ll pull up to the pond, take a pull from the traveler mug and reconnect the rod sections before heading down to the water’s edge.

As far as access goes, I wouldn’t trespass, heavens no. However, I feel no compunction about slipping through the backyard of an unoccupied home or using the easement from a playground to get down to the water. I like to take a nice amble because there is no rush and to scout out any crazies in their backyards. If a guy is cutting his grass with scissors, rest assured, he will call the cops if he sees you before you see him. Once the way is clear, I’ll walk the bank, looking for bluegills flashing in the tea stained water, or look for some fish attracting reeds that have grown up. If there are bluegills around, you will know it within about 5 casts because they are not shy and are voracious predators that their size belies.

I can think of few fish as fun as bluegill. Brookies are sublime, steelhead glorious and tarpon are sadistic in the beating they give, but no fish approaches pure joy as much as a bluegill. I challenge anyone to watch a sub-pound gill crash a popper and not smile, laugh or whoop. For the headhunter, a half hour of bluegill chasing on a pond will bring as many strikes as a day on a trout stream or a lifetime chasing steelhead on the ‘Chutes. Plus they are quite tasty grilled in foil with lemon, butter and rosemary.

In fact, catching gills can be so effortless at times, that true excitement comes from an HOA member chasing you off. Usually it begins with an SUV loaded with car seats parked on the road with a rather high-strung middle aged woman behind the wheel, watching you. Her name is invariably Victoria, Diane or Stephanie. She will proceed to dismount the Suburban or H2 like a Paladin of old, dressed in her uniform of Banana Republic khakis and black shirt. She will approach you with trepidation, as if you are the personification of a barbarian at the gate, one who dares violate the sanctified rules of the HOA. She will politely, yet firmly inform you that fishing isn’t allowed in this community, insurance liability and all, and she will kindly ask you to leave. I like to feign surprise, an “Oh, really? I had no idea” while leaning on the “No Fishing” sign. The assumption is then made that I am a poor illiterate and she begins to speak loudly and slowly so that I can understand. I then give a tip of the hat and walk up to the truck and start for the next pond.

The true fun is when her husband gets out of his BMW yelling and running at you. I can think of no better fountain of youth than running from an angry middle manager, because at that moment I am 14 and have been caught while pool hopping on a summer night. In an adrenaline filled, laughing glee I break like a whitetail for the vehicle and speed away, adrenaline pumping, laughing and grinning that an act so simple and innocent as fishing for bluegill on a pond made a responsible pillar of the community become completely unhinged.

Tommy Boy

2007-04-17T21:45:00.000-05:00

The turkeys didn't cooperate last weekend. We couldn't get the toms to move, they wanted room service. There's two weeks left. Maybe they'll be super horny next weekend. I loves me some turkey hunting.

Things we like - Part 1

2007-04-12T00:25:00.000-05:00

Grapico. I grew up on the stuff. Think a cross between your favorite cough sryup as a kid and a Jolt cola. I would recommend only drinking 8-12 oz., the stuff is just so damn sweet. But yes, it still kicks it.

Vinny

2007-04-12T00:00:00.000-05:00

Ulyssess and I will be busy over the next week or two getting a charity auction blog operational.

Please be sure to visit http://v-bay.blogspot.com/.

We are going to put up for auction fishing gear, flies, and other fishing goodness from a ton of people. The reason? We're( not just Ulysses and myself, like 50 cool as hayull folks) doing this to raise money to help a buddy of ours, Brian Warden, give the best care possible to his son. See his son, Vinny, has a extremely rare neurological disorder called Canavan Disease. The money raised will go directly to Brian's family or to help find a cure. Please be sure to stop by in the next couple of weeks and bid on some items. If you're interested in donating for the auction, please feel free to contact Ulyssess or myself.

See also: http://www.vincentshope.org/

Bringin' it to a close

2007-04-06T22:09:00.000-05:00

Take a Nip

2007-04-06T18:08:00.000-05:00

Being that it's International Fish Camp Week and all, we here at The Water Swatters feel like no fish camp, campfire, or vest/chestpack should be without a FLASK. The FLASK has been around for a long time, like eleventy billion years. It's simple. It's beautiful. And it serves a purpose. Nothing warms the soul like passing around a FLASK when it's 19 degrees out(that Fahrenheit to our readers) and the fire just ain't cutting it.

Got this baby in Russia some 14 years ago. Will hold a handle of booze. Gave it to my brother where it probably sits in his home, neglected. May have to get this one back.

I prefer to fill mine with a bourbon, preferably Maker's. I had a few friends send me pictures of their FLASKS. We analyzed and think they communicate a lot about their owners. Let's have a look...

Survey Says....I like to drink and hike. No need for that extra three ounces of weight in the old pack.

Survey Says.....I mean bidness. Very serious and committed. We like.

Survey Says.....A very happy drunk. You want to get tanked? Hang out with this guy.

Survey Says....Have you seen my Orvis dogbed catalog? It was right beside the Pottery Barn catalog?

Props for Tito's Vodka

http://www.titos-vodka.com/

Survey Says...we'd fish with this guy.

Survey says.....and these two also.

Survey says.....pass the thermos Gramps.

Green Jackets

2007-04-05T18:26:00.000-05:00

We all go through phases. I've had two golf phases. One was when I was a teenager and all my buddies played golf to get out of the house and sip on barley pops. It was what we did for about two years along with working as "cart boys" at two courses. The other was when I was fresh out of drinking school(college) and my coworkers and I would go play after work and weekends. Then I joined a club for almost a year. Just damn....

Ike's Pond at Augusta National.....popping bug CENTRAL

Fishing never left my life during those dark phases. You could say it saved me. I found myself gazing at creeks and ponds while playing, wondering if the fishin' was any good. I would sometimes lose it, forget I was playing against a little white ball, and my foursome would yell urging me to continue. I've stared at water at the TPC Sawgrass, a US Open, a few PGA and Old Codger PGA events, and several Masters.

If CBS hasn't reminded you enough, it's Masters week. I hold a soft spot in my heart for this tournament because of it's Southern roots. It's a beautiful, surreal place. I've often wondered how good the fishing is on 16 or does Rae's Creek hold copious amounts of long-eared sunfish. I have heard the ponds around the Par 3 course are incredible. It's really the only golf I will watch all year. I can remember standing outside the clubhouse watching members and guests sipping Mint Juleps behind the ropes and wanting so desperately to join them. Conversations about small cap funds, timeshares on yachts, and the problems of trying to hire good help surely must echo this very day amongst the live oaks. Count me out. I would rather talk to folks at the boat ramp or flyshop. Conversations would consist of water release schedules for the local tailwater, if the bass are on bed, and where to get a boat anchor fabricated. I'm not bitter or jealous....I just see things with clarity now.

Is that a bass?

Sunday will be Easter. It will also hosts the final round of The Masters and the champion will don a green sport coat. I plan on watching the final round while I sip on a few barley pops with some buddies of mine. But before all that happens, I will get up real early and head to the river in hopes of hooking a stripe bass or two. That's when I feel closest to The Maker. I'll talk to him, tell him how much I appreciate the very thing I'll be waist deep in....the forecast calls for unseasonably cool weather....high of 57 and a low 38, so it looks like I'll be wearing my fishing jacket that day. Which happens to be green.

End Times are Near: Florida Government Grows a Backbone

2007-04-04T18:53:00.000-05:00

http://cbs4.com/topstories/local_story_094102545.html

In a state where government regulators leap with such dexterity between incestuous sheets into the arms of waiting Developers, the South Florida Water Management Agency actually turned the faucet off and declared the Everglades off limits as a water source for new development in Miami-Dade, Broward and Monroe Counties. What's next in my fair state- unbotched elections? sensible growth management? a halt on developing a vulnerable coast line? mass transit? The sky is the limit for common sense apparently.

In a related story, Developers around the state have fired their bagmen for apparently not making prompt deliveries to Tallahassee and the Hispanic Builder's Association of Miami have declared Charlie Crist (Gov-R) a Castro Agent and demanded that Old Jeb be put back in office.

Southern Steel?

2007-04-03T22:27:00.000-05:00

It's spring. Azaleas are blooming round these parts. This also means Southern steelhead are running. Steelhead? In the Deep South? Whaaa? We got em....stripe, hybrid, and white bass. They run up the creeks and rivers(we ain't got no tribs down here, boy) this time of year so they can get their freak on. I heard it was on last week. 20+ days were common. I went to [insert Indian named creek here] after work. Skunkage. Saw a few but I might have missed the run. I'll go back Thursday and probably Sunday morning. Turkeys will get my attention Saturday. I always wondered why so many folks get skunked steelheadin'. Anyway, it was good to be on the trib today.

Capr Camp Cook Confidential

2007-04-02T18:28:00.000-05:00

Being that this is Fish Camp Week and word has it that Fly Times is the “go to” fish camp cook in the West Seattle area. We've heard apocryphal tales coming out of the PNW for a while now, and then something reached the cabin that was glorious and righteous. Fly Times had created the bacon wrapped cinnamon roll. We flew a correspondent out to get the Old Timey Story.

1. How did this stroke of genius come up? It happened in camp on the Big Blackfoot. I was walking one way with tray of cinnamon rolls and my buddy Chet was walking the other way with a slab of bacon. We accidentally ran into each other and my cinnamon rolls got mixed up with his slab of bacon. "You got cinnamon rolls on my bacon!" "You got bacon on my cinnamon rolls!" That's when the light bulb went on. I thought to myself, "what if I warm up these cinnamon rolls on the griddle in a quarter inch or so of bacon grease?" So that's what I did. What if indeed, those were the best cinnamon roles ever?

2. Are they supermarket cinnamon rolls, bakery or homemade by Mrs. Fly Times? I use supermarket cinnamon rolls though I suppose any sort of cinnamon roll would work with the bacon grease masking any sort of imperfection in the roll.

3. What kind of griddle do you prefer? For the last few years I was using a Teflon coated aluminum griddle that fits on the top of my Weber Gas Go-Anywhere Portable Grill. Now I use a stainless steel griddle because that Teflon crap never lasts very long and it gives you cancer or something.

4. Real Bacon or Canadian? Thick sliced pepper bacon which I make from scratch. It's old family recipe, you take some slices of thick sliced bacon and put lots of pepper on 'em.

5. Does the topping go on over the roll or over the bacon? It seems that you've been misinformed; it's like chicken fried steak except that it’s a bacon fried cinnamon roll, there's no bacon on the roll.

6. What’s next at the campsite for WT? What other glorious ideas are stirring? Something with Krusteaz biscuit mix and a can of sweetened condensed milk. First you put a can of sweetened condensed milk into a simmering pot of water and boil it for 2 or 3 hours. Then you cook up some biscuits on the griddle. After the can of milk has cooled for a little while you punch some holes in it and pour the contents on your biscuits. What you gonna get is camp pastries covered in camp Dulce de leche. Old timey campy goodness! –

9 Random Questions

1. Coleman 2 Burner Stove? Century 2 burner stove, flame length is more adjustable than the Coleman.

2. Carp? Carp season around here starts in June and goes to September when the trout fishing gets good again. I like to fish for capr on the flats, standing in ankle deep water and casting carp that are tailing in knee deep water. Around here we call 'em carp, capr, basalt bonefish, desert drum, and Greater Inland Golden Northwest Tarpon.

3. Camp Chairs? Camp Chair for sure, I like the kind that collapses sorta like an accordion and has a cup holder. It's gotta have a built in cup holder to put your beer in. I hope that they invent one with two cup holders someday; I'd invest money in the company that gets the two cup holder camp chair to market first. Two is better than one.

4. PBR or Coors? PBR, Coors is like rednecked hippies, we should have left them both in the 70's
5. Gold Bond, essential or extra? Zeasorb AF, Gold Bond is more of a Southern thing like headache powders and cutting the light on or off. You'll find three other strictures in my camp kitchen; Pepto, Ibuprofen and benedryl.

6. Cookie Monster Jacket? No Cookie Monster Jacket for me but Trouthole has 3 or 4 of them. He used to be a lounge singer in Reno and Patagonia's got an outlet store there.

7. Is Trouthole from this planet? Trouthole is from this planet, he's a Polach.

(editor- we had to send Trouthole 50 lbs of kielbasa, as a royalty, for using his name )

8. KOA- Good deal or one step below a trailer park? KOA is a bad deal most of the time. It's good to pull in there and take a shower when you’re between camps but other than that I stay away from the KOA's.

9. Drunken raccoons? Drunken Raccoons? I missed that one. We do have hungry coyotes around here though, they love chicken bones. Thanks dudes; that was a good time.

Hey, who’s hungry?

Exclusive- The Smithhammer Interview

2007-04-01T18:20:00.000-05:00

We contacted the wily and elusive Smithhammer of Drake fame (or infamy) for his thoughts on fish camps. A very cold passenger pidgeon landed at the Water Swatter camp and dropped off the transcript:

1. In your opinion, what makes a good fish camp? Proximity to water. More fish than people. Public campgrounds can be nice, but my favorite fish camps are up some hardly -used forest service road where you pull off on some little spur that heads down to the water and no one else around. Free camping is always a bonus.

2. If you had to choose between base camping, going vehicle supported, or backpacking in which would you prefer?
Backpacking in. Getting to more remote water that requires hiking is always sweeter.

3. Is good food/ a good cook key or is it dependent on the fishing? i.e. can good food make up for getting skunked or can good fishing make up for onion and peanut butter snadwhiches?
I dig cooking and eating well in the outdoors. Probably even more so than when I'm at home. But I'll never turn my nose up at snadwich artistry.

4. KOA- Decent digs or one step below a trailer court?
That'd be door #2, Bob.

5. What's your favorite fish camp libation?
Bourbon. In fact, Evan Williams Vintage 10 year, thank you very much.

6. In a related question, what's your favorite fish camp hangover cure?
Coffee and fishing, in that order. And if you're near a real Mexican restaurant, a big steaming bowl of menudo with all the fixin's.

10 Random Questions
1. Yakima Roof Box? Essential. Great loft with a view.
2. What's an acceptable amount of abuse for a rental 4x4? Any and all.
3. The Spring Ridge Club or The Peoples' Trout? Das People, Komrade.
4. Artistic Anodized? Uhh, sure.
5. Winter time Peterborough? Tying lots of flies, walking my Kat and dog. Drinking maybe a wee too much
6. Hotspotting or going fishing on a rumor? Hotspotting should be met with hot lead, tar and feathers. Do yer own homework, son.
7. Red Shirt or earth tones? Earth tones, baby. And camo face paint.
8. Bio Diesel or Ethanol? Bio. Ethanol is a sham foisted on us my corn agri-business and the petroleum industry to keep us consuming just as much, but feeling ignorantly eco-groovy about it.
9. Tent or hut - I'll take whatever I can get.
10. Drunken Raccoons? As long as they bring their own.

That as they say is a wrap.

Announcing Fish Camp Week

2007-04-01T16:05:00.000-05:00

We're kicking off fish camp week round here. And while we're pulling together our exclusive interviews, we're interested in what makes a good fish camp, so what the hey, open thread in the comments.

P.S. The Spring Ridge Club or any Donny Beaver enterprise does not count as a fish camp. And we'd like to thank Befuddled for the photo

Bluegills

2007-03-28T21:01:00.000-05:00

They are the center of a fisherman's universe. Or very close to it. They always welcome you back after you've been off romancing with some beautiful Brookies or some sexy mama bonefish. They never disappoint either.

Winter '05

2007-03-22T18:55:00.000-05:00

Winter is the harshest season, even in the South, and I’m staring down the barrel of it now. It’s mid-August and the fishing is dead from the heat, and we’ll have a short season before the first cold front pushes down and sends the fish deep into residential canals or into offshore waters, if not into warmer climes further south to the equator. We’ll be left here, looking to the West, waiting for spring.
I’ll be shuffling through the house, completing the list of chores put off through the spring and fall, or finishing yard work that the summer’s heat made potentially deadly. I’ll wander in and out of the garage, trying to come up with some reasonable facsimile of angling, whether tying flies, the angler’s substitute for fishing, or the really desperate acts of organizing fly boxes by species, or should it be water type, or maybe season; either way it is a long time to go. I can find meaningful work to do that fishing turned into “not enough time for that”, tying leaders, rod and reel maintenance or wader patching. Either way, I hope that this winter will not be as dark as last.
I had come home from my typical January Saturday, playing the role of the guy who hangs out with the owners of the local fly shop, the guy you see in there, whom you’re not quite sure if he works there or not because he seems to know where everything is and is there every time you are, but he never actually helps a customer. That night I received an email that shattered the last ten years of my life with a fury.
It was from an old girlfriend, but not just an old girlfriend, the girlfriend; the one you met freshman year, the Lit major who read Yeats aloud in the dark of a dorm room, while you lay under the blankets watching snow fall against the window, praying that the distance from Hartford to Boston wasn’t too far when summer came. We had a passionate affair that year, kids playing at being adults, and I came close to proposing to her over that long summer, when the trip down to the mailbox and a hand addressed envelope from Boston meant a good day. I remember her smiling when I showed her the first fly rod I bought and how she wasn’t bored when we’d take a trip over to the Farmington River when she visited Connecticut.
The affair continued through the next fall, but then I ended it for no good reason at all, namely there wasn’t one. She cried that night, sitting on a stonewall near her dorm, and I regretted seeing those tears for years after. We saw each other sporadically until graduation-passing each other on campus, at bars, she was always pleasant. The last time I saw her was at graduation, I was a newly minted lieutenant, and she was a Lit Major with no certain future; she smiled and wished me luck.
All that came back in an instant 10 years later. She was now married with a couple of kids, still living in Boston. My reply was a stream of consciousness mess, a purge of ten years of war, divorce, exile to Florida in the face of a violent ex-wife, and a life that had somehow come out alright in the end. I tried to go to sleep that night, but the memories of a past gone by gave me no reprieve. Her last sentence rolled around my thoughts, haunting me like a shadow in the dark “Even when you tried not to be, you were always good to me”. Around two I left the bed and walked to the front of my house and looked out the window, while my dogs slept oblivious. I pulled back the curtain, and looked at the streetlight, it was snowing in Florida. My wife came up behind me and asked why I was up and what was bothering me. I pointed out the snow falling softly and melting as it touched the ground and softly answered “the fishing is going to hell for a while”.

Good Art for the Living Room

2007-03-16T22:39:00.000-05:00

Just convincing the Mrs is the hard part

http://www.rodcrossman.com/

Florida, I've been looking for you, you're gettin harder and harder to find

2007-03-16T22:22:00.000-05:00

Badass Rental Fishing Machines

2007-03-16T22:15:00.000-05:00

The yellow Subaru Baja. Plastic interior, every surface becomes a cutting board. Plenty of cup holders. Comes in a screaming "look at ME" yellow that should be easy to find after leaving the river well after dark. Corners like it's on rails, good for the amatuer rally car driver in all of us. Since the inside is plastic, you can clean it out with a garden hose, or just kick the empties out in the rental return parking lot.

Welcome....

2007-03-16T17:35:00.000-05:00

We'll do mostly fishing related things here at The Water Swatters....throw some music, southern culture in there as well. We'll see how it goes.