a star appeared in the east

this summary is from the nebraska game and parks commission project for the habitat restoration of nine mile creek by jeff blaser.

"Nebraka's surface water resources include over 280,000 acres of standingwater and more than 23,680 miles of flowing water, most of which flow through private lands. The state's flowing waters are divided into thirteen river basins. These river basins are comprised of approximately 2,130 rivers/streams/creeks. Flowing waters provide important and at times critical habitat for terrestrial and aquatic wildlife. All seven of Nebraska's endangered and threatened fish species are associated with flowing waters. Flowing waters also provide a wide range of outdoor recreational opprotunities (fishing, canoeing, sight seeing, etc.) for Nebraskans.

Nebraska Department of Environmental Quality (NDEQ) divides flowing waters into two classifications- Coldwater (Class A and Class B) and Warmwater (Class A and Class B).

Coldwater are waters which provide, a habitat capable of maintaining year-round populations of coldwater biota where temperatures exceed 25 degrees C (77 degrees F). Warmwater are waters where temperatures frequently exceed 25 degrees C.

Class A Coldwater are waters that provide a habitat which supports natural reproduction of a trout population. These waters are also cabable of maintaining year-round populations of a variety of other coldwater fish and associated vertebrate and invertebrate organisms and plants.

Class B Coldwater are waters which provide or could provide seasonal migration of trout, do not support natural reproduction of trout, or may be able to maintain trout year-round if peridically stocked. The NDEQ surface water quality standards identify only 41 CLASS A COLDWATER STREAMS (about 2% of total flowing waters) in the state consisting of 565 streams miles (2.4% of state's total stream miles). This indicates the importance of trying to protect and or enhance the state's Class A Coldwater streams."

appears to be

"It's been a long time comin,
going to be a long time gone..."

crosby, stills and nash

virtual stream

note from fat marty, somewhere in patagonia, on the estancia named alicura,


"...there is a little bit of water between us,
but we fish now in a virtual stream."

lies, smiles, and simple truths

"ain't life sweet and weird and wild and wooley and foolish and cash
poor and rich in experiences and opportunities....
wish i could cash in and travel and fish....visit and revisit the scenes
of some of my crimes, lies, smiles, and simple truths.

someday the wants and warrants will expire in pennsy and
surrounding areas, dubois for example, and then when the lawyers
say it is ok again, i will be at your door......fat tire beer in one hand
and a rod in the other, probably wet with a belly boat around my
waist and trackin in mud and freakin the dogs into a barkin fit, big
straw hat stung all over with stuck flies danglin and spinnin, grinnin
goofy, mud cheeked fore and rear, spitten out kelp, draggin a
stringer o smallies to be cleaned before the flies get any worse,
smellin o deet n stale beer n maybe half out of it on an advil and
tylenol cocktail,

sputterin bout freedom and let's go, whassssss holdin ya up,
awwwwww come on hush up them dogs, get them cats away
from the fish gut pail, we got some fishin n lyin n catchin up"

managing editor to publisher aug. 22, 2002

what are you doing out there?

here's the deal. fat marty jumped the fence. the deed is done. now the plot thickens and the vibes is high out here on the plains. vigilante action, middle of the night, camo faced, hugging the treeline, running through the open fields, dipping into the ditches when the carlights go by, and filling the bottle, and high tailin it out of there.

been about 3 weeks in the planning stages, one deaddrifter dropped out, another wanted to be the one to do the deed, but fat marty knew it was up to him. high noon, time for civil disobedience....

so the upshot is f. m. is drunk tonight on 18 pack o beers all alone in celebrating and cookin chicken and ribs at 10:00 pm completely soused talkin to me on the phone while the ribs burn, blasted, out of his gourd high on fermented wheat and malt.
weird is getting weirder,

now we send off the sample to the lab, can't ever say who did the deed. gotta protect sources and the deed. gonna say we have journalistic immunity to divulge our sources....remember that phrase, may wanna tattoo that on our left thigh for later recitation.....yupster....we have crossed some kinda line here....

been trying to get the government to go out there and do it. they danced all around it and avoid the subject like the plague, and the epa came out and failed to do so....

lots o heat, our sample is gonna be discredited etc. but it will establish something for them to put up or shut up with their own legal samples....we are the baseline till they go scoop their own lil bottle of shit....

this is gonna be another storm on the plains...
so what is a little jump over the fence, scoop up a jug o water, and begone by the light of the moon to me....civil disobedience is my middle name....as henry d. thoreau answered from behind bars to a concord resident who said "henry, what are you doing in there?" well henry stared at him long and hard and answered, "the question is...what are you doing out there?".

thinkin about swans

“...getting as far as we can is the best we can, more than one way home, ain’t no right, ain’t no wrong, you’ll find your own from where you are, from where you’ve gone...”

olddog/newtricks, songs of the new millennium

i was reading a deaddrift inner office memo by the publisher the other night, a long rambling thing about “the cognitive interface” or something. he went on about his newest project using the psychological principles underlying human personality and communication, about this is an attempt at constucting user interfaces that proact (instead of react) and adapt to human needs. interesting reading and i am glad there was no test after for it went on to describe his current work in continuing on the intriguing possibility of a digital, multisensory personality system that would encapsulate the basic graphical, vocal, mental and attitudinal characteristics of a person. he just won’t give up on the “intuitive web” idea either...and this got me sleepy as most office memos do read late at night....

and the image of the swan came back to me. from last fall. from the fishing trip to missouri. there was a low, misty, coolish breeze in about 30 acre quarry; full of water about 60 feet deep, up against the large rock wall dam. just me all alone on the water in the bellyboat with the quarrymen working the big boys toys on the other side, humpin through another quarry day. and me on the other side alone but for a swan. lonely swan. broken wing living there all summer and now the north winds are beginning, living on a spit of land with a few bushes and one overhanging, small cottonwood for shelter. and the winter coming and unable to fly away south with the rest of the group. rare for swans there. he just gave me lots of room and i paddled around and he paddled around. and i caught 12 to 16 in. bass and large bluegills and rockbass irregularly in my trolling goof casting technique. just relaxin with the dam blockin the wind and me in the calm water cruisin and kickin flippers and thinkin about swans and me and losses and so little gains and my worries and my art and my losin and so little winnin. and then i caught a few more on every fly i put on. each did its work, none rejected, just many slams and me watchin the line jump and not reactin, no hurry, no one to judge, just let em bump the fly and jolt my arm. no barbs easy releases. catch em not catchem no difference the jolt from the fly to the hand is enough. tells me they are there, truly there. tells me the flies work fine, just teasin em. too lazy to fight em. only the occassional slam and a surprized self hooked giant bluegill would throb the rod and demand attention in the here and now. then toss it back in and troll paddle up and down the face of the rocks and worry about swans and winter coming and havin a broken wing and so far from home.

minnetonka slumber

"There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.
Fat Marty mumbled as he slept fitfully in the warm Minnesota sun.
We had beached on the leeward side of a little no-name island to do shore
lunch and escape the bucking breakers and the sieve of a boat.
To get Marty ashore was no small task. Someone at the golf resort in Bemidjii
had told him some bear mauling tales and I had to lie to him that bears can’t
swim before he would even get off the boat. And then when I told him to
start a fire while I cleaned lunch, he wouldn’t venture far from the beach to gather firewood.
I returned from cleaning the fish just in time to stop him from pouring gasoline from the
boats reserve can onto the smoldering waterlogged driftwood excuse for a camp fire.
I left Marty sulking in the sun while I rounded up some dry wood farther ashore all the time hoping
I didn’t come across the bear that left his tracks near the beach where I had cleaned the fish.
When I returned Marty was sleeping fitfully propped against sun drenched boulders. Sleeping
the sleep of the gods. I didn’t have the heart to wake him even though he owed me for
disabling my fishing guide.
I got the fire going and as I waited for good coals to develop, I looked at Fat Marty and wondered.
I wondered what was the purpose of his traveling all this way to see me. This man, more comfortable in hand made shoes and custom tailored suits than the wool shirt and yellow rain slicker he now wore, had come a long way to suffer a hangover and serve as an indentured servant to a gonzo walleye guy.
He obviously wasn’t a fisherman, so his story about coming up here for the smallmouths didn’t hold up.
And KD had given him my itinerary so it must be important for us to meet.
But why?
I couldn’t help but believe that this had something to do with that CAFO mess we had gotten ourselves into.
Just as I had the slab bacon and potatoes going and a skillet full of golden brown walleye filets bubbling over the coals, and was about to roust Marty from his reverie, I heard the whine of an over-revved outboard. I squinted at the now calm lake and saw a bright yellow camp boat bearing down on our cozy little camp. As the boat came closer I recognized the tanned leather face beneath a fifty mission crush University of Nebraska ball cap. But without his usual trademark smile, I suspected that bad news was on board the boat being driven by ol’ One Tooth Charlie."

publisher's account of fishing with f. marty may 28. 2001