The folks over at Recycled Fish are doing something pretty cool for the holidays. Each day for the next month you have a chance to bid and win a ‘tackle box’ full of goodies from numerous sponsors, including Onos Sunglasses and Fishhound. Each auction benefits a different non-profit, and each auction runs for 3 days. In fact, today’s auction benefits Sportsman’s Alliance for Alaska.

Tonight at 8pm ET, 6pm MT the Recycled Fish Holiday Tackle Box Auction benefiting the cause goes live! When you win this auction, Bristol Bay wins too!

Here’s your chance to get a good holiday gift early while also supporting great organizations!

Check out the auctions by clicking here

If you haven’t seen what The Greenbacks from Colorado Trout Unlimited are doing lately, you might want to start paying attention. Not only have they held succesful movie showings and BBQs while promoting the health and sustainability of rivers, they’ve set an example of how to engage with youth and young adults to promote the future of Trout Unlimited members. I’m happy to be a part of this, and have recently lauched a new contest on Facebook with help from Simms.

Check out the links and participate in this new photo competition:

For a little fun and helping with cleaning your local river, we wanted to issue a challenge to everyone who finds and remove trash while fishing or just hiking. Just like our page and contribute!

Thanks to Simms, we’re giving away a brand new Simms Headwaters Waist Pack (along with some other goodies) to the best photos of trash you pulled out of a stream. What’s the craziest, nastiest thing you’ve come across while fishing/hiki…ng and taken to a nearby trash bin? Take a photo, post it here on this event page, and the one with the most “Likes” at the end of September will win this new waist pack.

For example, I once pulled a lawn chair out of a river and took it to the local shop who let me throw it in their dumpster – should have got a picture of it.

Please don’t do anything stupid to get yourself hurt in this process. High flows or dangerous objects can be harmful – use good judgment.

Please post all pictures on this event page to make sure everyone can see them. “Like” the photos you think are the best – Thanks! Ready? GO!

I pick this crap up and put in my Monomaster every time:

Costa announced last week that they were launching a new advertising campaign with fish sculptures made entirely out of their sunglasses. While I’ve been in this business for a while, I’ve never seen anything like this. From the official press release:

A mix of lenses, hinges, frame arms, nose pads, side shields and retainer cord segments from hundreds of Costa sunglasses went into building the mounted fish sculptures , currently on display in full-page, four-color ads in publications like Garden & Gun, Texas Monthly, Sport Fishing and Bassmaster.

Each fish was built using the sunglass lens color and frame technology necessary to catch that particular species.  The blue marlin model glows with dozens of Costa’s 580™ blue mirror lenses as scales and silver and black frame arms as fins.  Side shields and retainer cords add realistic detail to the billfish body.

Green mirror lenses, nose pads and hinges work together to create a life like bass fish form.  For the tarpon’s scales, more than 150 Costa 580™ silver mirror and gray lenses were used.  The fish also features frame arms to shape the fins and mouth, with a Costa ‘C’ logo accentuating its eye.

The company also announced that these sculptures will be donated to fishing and outdoor advocacy groups later this year.

Take a look at the following video on how these were developed:

A very creative and interesting concept – my only question is where are the salmon?

Bravo Costa – can’t wait to see where these end up.

While I’ve known Bryan for nearly 10 years now, I can say he is one of the most talented storytellers in the business. I can’t point you to his blog because he doesn’t have one (yet), but he did agree to write a little account of what happened while him and the Okie (me) went on a horrid hunt. The true story…

The Great Snakehead Hunt

“Prepare the canoe. I’ve had a vision.” The voice of the Okie spoke in a hushed
whisper, his tone bordering on frantic.
“Vision? You mean a goddamn dream? It’s 3:30 in the morning,” I replied, my
bleary eyes slowly registering the numbers on the clock radio.
“There’s no time to worry about that. How can you think of sleep when a horde of
those vicious bastards could be marching up the hill at this very moment?”
My imagination humored the suggestion, picturing a wave of predatory fish
solemnly trudging out of the pond in a Flying V formation, using their fins as feet.
Moonlight glinted off their teeth as their eyes fixed upon a horizon soon to be soaked in
blood. The lead fish carried a flag bearing the image of a middle finger pointed skyward.
“Fine. Get you ass up here then, and be sure to pack the cooler full of tallboys.”

Since the initial discovery of a supposed Snakehead fish in a pond on my father’s
ranch five years ago, the Okie had been obsessed with its capture. The first sighting had
been fleeting and rather dubious in nature. Sitting on his front porch one day, my father
gestured down to the pond: “Saw a walkin’ fish down there on the banks last night. Was
wigglin’ back and forth just like he was a snake. Short body like a fish though. Just
movin’ its way up the bank, moonlight catching its dorsal fin just so. Mean lookin’ little
guy.”
Veracity of the sighting be damned, the information galvanized me to action.
After all, this could be the vaunted Snakehead, an invasive predator heretofore only
found on the East coast of North America and Asia. The only way Fishzilla could have
migrated to a remote pond in Colorado was via a hand-carried bucket or some sort of
vengeful airdrop, but these seemed like inconsequential details at the time. As a result,
a booze-fueled hunt was quickly organized. However, despite the thorough efforts of
the Okie and the other bold outdoorsmen and women in attendance, we came up empty
handed. The following days were quiet, and as the slow march of months and years
progressed, it began to appear as if my old man’s story of the Snakehead had been told
directly out of his ass. Five years later, the great Snakehead Scare had all but vanished.
Until that fateful pre-dawn call.

Eleven hours later, the Okie arrived at my father’s ranch with a cooler full of beer
in tow. He yawned mightily. “Ah, man – I gotta stop having these damn visions. Wreaks
havoc on my sleep schedule.” After lightening the weight of the cooler slightly, we
headed down to the pond, where the canoe and a small fishing net awaited. Although the
Okie is an accomplished, world-traveling angler, I noticed that he hadn’t brought a rod.
“So are we just going to brain the thing with an oar as he comes abreast of the
canoe?”
“No, bro – the vision I had called for hand-to-hand combat – or at least something
close to it. Don’t you have a boat net or something? These things won’t take flies.”
“It appears you’ve buttered your bread, Okie. Get in the damn canoe.”
After he clambered in, I launched the boat with a mighty shove, almost forgetting
to jump in myself. Ugly as the process was, the small pond was calm, and the canoe
steadied itself forgivingly in the murky waters.

The afternoon had turned out to be one of those that Colorado is famous for – the sky blue enough to defy belief. The sunlight
cooperated as well, penetrating the surface of the pond enough to allow about a few feet
of visibility beneath the surface. Of course, this would benefit the trained eye of the Okie
much more than myself, a casual lake fisherman. Thus, I was happy to sit in the back of
the canoe, acting as “guide”, paddling slowly in the general direction he pointed.
The pond seemed dead of activity at first. Not much time had passed, however,
until the Okie detected a presence that wasn’t entirely fishlike.
“JESUS CHRIST, DID YOU SEE THAT THING?” He emitted in a type of yell-
whisper hybrid only expressed by those in a heightened and parallel state of excitement
and caution. No, I admitted, I hadn’t. I had been concentrating on reaching the bottom of
a PBR as the canoe drifted across the center of the pond.
“It had tentacles coming off of its head! It looked like the friggin’ Predator!”
Immediately my gaze shifted to the woods surrounding the pond, scanning the
Aspen trees for a blurry figure that would signal our ill-fated, violent end.
“Serious man, about six inches long…There’s more over the right side!”
Slowly, my novice eye took in what he was seeing. A group of three swam close
to the surface, tentacles flowing from their flat heads and cutting through the water as
they moved. My own sense of disbelief caught up with me. Just what in the hell were
they? Mud puppies? Worse yet, the notorious Snakehead?
“If these are Snakeheads, prepare yourself to nuke this goddamn pond,” the Okie
answered my queries without my even asking.

Quietly, we trolled the lake, spotting numerous Predator-style fish on either side
of us. Committed to his vision, the Okie extended the net over the right side, dipping it
beneath the surface in anticipation of a catch. Occasionally, he would lurch violently to
the side, snapping the empty net out of the water and over his head.
“They spook easily. It’s going to take some persistence,” he said over his
shoulder. I continued to paddle, being careful not to touch the sides of the boat with the
oar. The unsuccessful net fishing continued for another 15 minutes until he unexpectedly
hit pay dirt. After pulling the net up slowly, we saw the small, writhing figure of our
target, caught within the twine at the bottom of the net.
“That’s it! Look at the tentacles on him! And he’s got a set of legs as well!”
Thinking he had just landed a pond monster, the Okie made sure to hold the net away
from his body as I quickly paddled us back to shore. Once we had landed, I ran up the
hill to get a bucket that we could preserve the Snakehead in for further examination. We
were absolutely giddy with anticipation, positive that we had captured a beast that hadn’t
yet been found west of the Mississippi. Once our creature was in the bucket, we inspected
him closely, using tweezers and a stick to gain a clearer view. A red stripe running down
the back. Four legs. Tentacles. This was clearly a vicious, primordial monster to be
reckoned with. For some reason, the creature’s passive demeanor, puppy dog eyes and
happy-go-lucky grin failed to register with us. Obviously, we had trapped the wild Rocky
Mountain Snakehead.

After a victorious cell phone video was recorded, we confidently strode back
down to the pond to capture more of the bastards. This was a monumental day to be
sure, and it could only be tarnished by a lack of evidence. We launched the canoe once
more, the Okie poised with the net like a modern Ahab.

After several more close calls with the net, we were so locked into the hunt that we failed to hear my girlfriend return
to the cabin in her Toyota Camry. A year into medical school, she was less given to
obsession with legend and more prone to biological fact. So it was that her proclamation
from the porch sounded so jarring, ripping us from our boyish fantasy world of trapping a
dangerous mystical seabeast in the wild.

“Why do you idiots have an aquatic-stage salamander in a bucket?”
The Okie turned, the crazed joy suddenly draining from his face.
“Uh…That’s a Snakehead!?” I yelled. “There must be thousands of them in here.
Careful though, that thing is more monster than fish!”
A moment passed as she stood on the porch silently, looking down at the bucket,
and then at us. She shook her head slowly, and disappeared into the cabin. The canoe
drifted silently. From the ridge, a distant crow called. The Okie let the net dip limply
down into the water. As they often do, the vision had surpassed reality.

Not too long ago, I realized a lot of the writers I read online are story-tellers. While I may, here and there, post tales of trips, experiences, or other random crap, I really like reading sites that tell creative stories. That’s why I’ve invited a few folks to guest post on my site this week. Stay tuned.

Owl Jones is a funny, positive voice out there right now. Not only is he very active in writing, he hosts a radio show, and does a few viral videos. Read the interesting ‘true’ stories he sent me – Thanks Owl!

The Smell of Worm Dirt…

A few nights ago, while I was sitting at small fire built in our backyard fire pit, I remembered something that I hadn’t thought about in a long time. The smell of the dirt in a bait bucket. A little blue container of the most flimsy plastic you’ve ever seen,  it’s lid pierced with tiny holes in a somewhat sloppy, circular shape. That cheap container held our success or our failures on nearly every fishing trip we ever took. Dad would hook up the old aluminum V-hull to the truck and I’d be assigned the job of checking the lights before we pulled off.

” Right!?”

” YEAH!”

“Left!?”

“YEAH!”

“Both!?”

“BOTH!?”

” Oh, sorry – YEAH, they’re both on! I saw a frog over in the bushes and it…”

” Get in the truck son! The fish are waiting on us!”

That old Chevy with it’s vinyl seats and roll-up windows had a distinct smell to it that I can still remember to this day. Dad’s cigarette’s, the faint hint of automotive grease, the manly smell of a half-used bar of Lava soap and as soon as we’d stopped off at the bait shop, the earthy smell of “worm dirt.” When I happen to smell it somewhere today I can’t help but let a silly, child-like grin ease across my middle-aged face. Did I ever imagine that I’d remember that smell forever? Did I dream that some 35 years later I’d be as insanely obsessed with fishing as I am ? When I’m 80 years old,will I still remember that smell? The truck? My Dad?

It’s so easy to get caught up in making money, acquiring material things, trying to climb the innumerable ladders that may or may not lead us to success or fame. How easily we find ourselves lost in this hectic and often crippling rat-race that human life has become.  We often go years, and sometimes our whole lives without realizing that the future isn’t always going to be what we want it to be, nor what we imagined it would be when we were young and full of dreams. It takes guts to realize that the past can not and should not be measured by how many deadlines we met or how many raises we were given. That kind of life is a hollow existence and should be avoided at all costs.

Am I sure? Pretty sure. I’ve always thought that if we are so lucky to have some final thoughts about our lives before we leave this world, the last thing we’d care to remember is that mid-level promotion we got when we were 43. Or the bright red muscle-car we bought during the first year of our extended mid-life crisis.

Maybe I’m just nuts? I want to remember none of those things. What I want to remember is the sound and fury of a football-sized largemouth pulling line from my three weight, the sound of a raven overhead, of the sight of a brook trout rising to take the biggest, ugliest fly in my box. Or even the smell of dirt….

Worm dirt, if you don’t mind.

~Owl

Sorry Owl, this is my favorite photo