Whole Fishin: "Getting started"

"Here’s a tidbit most fisherman won’t admit to you or anyone else, a fishing pole is just a fishing pole.


Who cares where it came from or that it cost more than last year’s snow tires?      

 Like snow tires a pole has but one job, helping you catching fish.


If you have a rod or you’re on the way to purchase one, please keep this in mind.


As for accessories, you need but three things to start.  A package of swivels, some clear casting bubbles (these come in various sizes, I recommend the middle ones) and of course a packaged assortment of flies.


Now it starts getting fun.


When you reach your chosen body of water, sit down and just look around at everything. Beautiful isn’t it?
  
Push the button or open the bail on your reel and feed the line through the guides on your rod. Pull enough line out that it reaches a foot or so past your reel.....Dang, I forgot to mention snagging the finger nail clippers out of the bathroom.


Snip the line off that extra foot from the rod tip and hold on to it; I put the end between my lips so I know where it is.


 Grab a casting bubble and notice that the stopper is bigger on one end than the other.  Feed the line through the bubble big side down. Now pick up one of the swivels, pull the line through the end that looks like a safety pin. 

Next time will talk knotology and casting..."


 Carpe Diem ladies, and stay to the light."

hnealglanville@gmail.com

'Whole Fishin’…Ladies style': "No such thing as an ugly fly"

"To prove tying an ugly fly is impossible, try this experiment.

Put a small chunk of OO steel wool in your pocket and a short length of dark colored shoelace split into two pieces.

On any body of water, take one piece of shoelace and slide either end up or a little past the eyelet of a bare hook, after you’ve already tied off on your leader.

Please note I never say “tippet”.

The conversations I’ve had in the past with any catchable fish has taught me that the fly is being moved along by it’s friend “the leader” not it’s third cousin Timmy ‘tippet’.

When you’ve got the shoelace in place, follow the shape of the hook with the remaining lace and poke the hook through where it touches.

You have now tied the “H. Neal Leech”.  Sure, there was no actual tying and if you’d feel better tying your shoes off to something, we don’t care.

On flat water let this tasty morsel drift with the water for a fifteen count, then start swimming it back VERY slowly, with long pauses in-between.

On flowing water, stay back from the bank and fish the inside pools first.  Slowly working the leech out and you in, very softly.

 Well crud-on-a-stick.   I forgot the steel wool.  Eh…..next week….

 CARPE DIEM LADIES and stay to the light."
hnealglanville@gmail.com

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'Whole Fishin'....Ladies Style': "Size matters"

"And now a word from our sponsors, oops, don’t have one.

Remember to buy from your local blogger and a great gift for your kids and ladies is a fly-fishing lesson. 

Anywhere, anytime. 


hnealglanville@gmail.com   (check out my new blog page)

We’re still working flies, girls. The way your fly tracks on any body of water is not only important in catching a fish, but also in the size of the little devil.

OK, ladies, this tidbit is not for opposing spouses.

How deep your fly “works” the water and their depths are directly related to the third cousin of your aunt’s second husband’s brother in Walsenburg.

The deeper it goes, the bigger the fish.

Each time you peg your fly out there, watch it and ask yourself if it's having fun in the water.  Is it leaning to one side or another or maybe it just looks, eh, you know....ugly.

If the answer is yes to either case,  pinch your fly “between thumb and forefinger.” 

Now, without regard to the pain and suffering you’re about to cause; cut, shave or burn the hairy junk off its belly and that collar thing.  How's that for ladies speak?

Peg it out there again.  See the difference?

A tip to the fly:

Tying flies should be a concentrated plunge into finger painting and the misuse of scissors.  You cannot tie a bad fly.

A teeny tiny fly is pretty, but those big dog nasty ones… wait for it…… wait……catch big fish!

Whiner One: “She won’t let me go fishing”

Whiner Two: "He won’t let me go fishing"

Carpe Diem ladies and stay to the light. "

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“The Interior Loop”

"Being paid to hunt, fish and ski while raising your kids, though a gift from the parenting big dog, was at times beyond worry.

When away on pack trips we always tried to leave at least one wrangler at the lodge to feed and move horses from pasture to pasture.  The kids would often saddle up and help with each move.

Such was not the case the afternoon one of the Hanson brothers decided he and the head waitress could manage by themselves.

As if by pixie magic 65 head of horses and mules disappeared as they ‘lunched’ on a borrowed blanket.

Everyone left at the lodge saddled up and started searching for the wayward equines.

Everyone that is, but the all knowing, all seeing, triple alpha female known as the boss’s wife.

Her time was spent guessing which wild goose chase the remaining staff should head out on next.

Horses, though not the smartest creatures walking about are fairly predictable in their home territory. After all, why run over hill and dale when an unused pasture is a mere quarter-mile away and just over a small knob from the lodge?

For two long days those poor kids searched, each time further from the lodge.

Panic was setting in, all the guides were due back and our biggest trip of the summer was coming up.

Somebody called from town and said horses had been spotted on the Fall Creek Trail.

The triple alpha female was now a raving lunatic with cheerleader hair.  Nobody was doing anything right, and so by gosh she’d do it herself.  Not being quite “fit” enough to ride two or three hours through rough country, she decided she’d fly over the area and then send in the ‘troops.’

Between Rock Springs and Jackson Hole there was but one pilot that had flown our side of the Wind River Range.

A half-crazed veteran that the alpha female had spoken poorly of several years before.

Not thinking of her past comments, she called the airport.

I spoke with the pilot, my newest hero, a week later at the Corral Bar.

“Everything went pretty good” he said.   “She had this map out, showing me where these horses were.   I said OK and we took off.”  “As I banked away from the airport she shoved the map over my shoulder.” He started to giggle.  “She’d marked some spot with her eye color stuff, yelling that’s where her horses were. I gave her thumbs up just as we flew over the Stouts roof on Freeman Reservoir and dropped down to three feet off the lake surface.

She started screaming then, but I couldn’t really hear what she was saying with all the engine noise”.

I bought him another drink.

“I brought the plane up on its wing tip and pointed down where she should look and that’s when she started throwing up. About half way up the canyon I leveled out and she stopped bringing her breakfast up. I hadn’t seen any horses, so I figured she hadn’t.  I pulled back on the stick and gave her (the plane) full throttle.  Went into an interior loop and flew upside down through that notch behind Soda Lake.”

“I think after we touched down she remembered me” he concluded, “but if not, it’s enough that I did.”

Tim Brewer found the horses as he was bringing his trip back in. The dudes thought it was fun rounding them up and driving them home."

 Hey, you be careful out there and stay to the light.

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"Life Lessons In a Bucket"

"As a teen, my beloved Aunt Ruthie took me under her wing with the hope she could save me from myself and the rest of the world.

I wasn’t a bad kid by any stretch of the imagination, I just saw things differently than most kids and was constant about my search for answers to things I may or may not have had a reason for.

Various adults thought this a tragic miscarriage of parenting and my two brothers thought it a crime against boyhood that I could ski all winter and appear to be goofing off all summer.

Granted, I was a member of various ski teams and did spend considerable time fishing and goofing off, but I was also being homeschooled by Ruthie and her various friends from Westminster College and the University of Utah.

You could think of it as the Mormon version of Auntie Mame, less the dry Martinis.

My brain became a vacuum, questioning everything, which often brought “I told you so” when I questioned adults aloud.

That still happens quite often, I’m happy to say, though now I’m thought eccentric and too old to know what I’m talking about.

Of all the things I learned from Ruthie and her bundle of friends, the most important came from my grandmother, who’d stopped by with Grandpa for a visit after church.

Our discussion had been about life in general and the responsibilities of mankind for its direction.

Grandma asked if she could say something, and the room fell quiet.

“When we’re born to this world” she said, “we’re each given a bucket for our troubles or things we don’t wish to deal with. As we grow older and think ourselves smarter than the bucket, we pile more into it, never worrying how full or heavy it’s getting. We just drag it along with us, promising to take care of it tomorrow.

Somewhere along the way, you meet somebody you’re going to spend the rest of your life with, and they too have a bucket that must be carried and you somehow decide you can fill your bucket with their stuff and away you go.

“But as time passes, you both realize your bucket is overflowing with the crud of adulthood and you begin to wonder if you shouldn’t pass the bucket back to its owner and just give up.

“Of course, when you quit, you must sort back through the bucket and figure, since you’ve both added to it over the years, whose crud is whose. It’s then you realize that your bucket is yours alone and you must deal with it as your free will dictates. If you wish to help someone with their bucket, help them by not carrying their load, but by making it lighter. In doing so, mankind will seek its direction and accept its own responsibilities.”

We’ve all seen this in simple acts of kindness, or admitting out loud that a fair portion of our lives are a credit to the kindness of others.

In denying kindness you’re throwing another pile of crud into your bucket."

Hey, you be careful out there and stay to the light.
(All rights reserved)

"Makin' history on Butler Hill"

"My brothers and I were obsessed with speed.

We rebuilt every bike we were ever given and some that were “borrowed”, we simply used for pieces and parts.

We went so far as going through our fathers'  books on aeronautical engineering, learning about lift, drag and vortexes.

 

Once we even “borrowed" our step-sisters bike, secured a frame around the rear wheel and attached a wing to her banana seat.

Memory fails me if the wing was for lift, or downward pressure to keep us stable during our idea to set the land speed record down Butler Hill.

In any case, after several test runs on smaller hills, we were ready for the big day.

Now, as brothers will do, a slight case of fisticuffs broke out as to who was going to be the “Banana Wing” pilot.

 I won that privilege, though Scott the jack rabbit, became co-pilot when we realized the wing was a little floppy in the center.

So he became the butt that held the wing down.

Kris, the toughest kid in all of Butler, Utah history, was given the honor of riding the bike down our road to the top of Butler Hill.

As we walked the mile or so to the top of the hill, Kris announced to all that appeared that his older brother was going to fly down Butler Hill and make history.

I must mention here that no one had ever ridden a bike up the hill non-stop.

But more importantly, no one had ever gone off the top, straight down without their brakes, either coaster or lever under constant pressure.

As I steadied the bike so our wing-holder-downer could swing aboard; I looked at our two escape points, in case an error in our judgment should occur and pushed off.

We started gathering speed much faster than we planned, but I still kept my foot off the brake even as we flew by the first escape route.

I could feel my cheeks starting to flap in the wind just as Scott, (the butt that held the wing down) wrapped both his arms around me screaming “we’re all going to die.”

At that point he decided, even though are cheeks were flapping like socks on the clothes line, he was getting off.

I pointed the bike to the front yard of our second escape route and started applying the rear coaster brake.

My plan had been to cut across the driveway and power slide the bike to a stop on their front lawn.

I hadn't planned on missing the driveway.  And instead, flew over their two foot rock wall, where the wing the butt was holding down, did its job.  Offering us a twenty or thirty foot glide across the yard before crashing into the freshly mowed weed patch.

When I came to, I was covered with tumbleweed thorns and weed rash. Scott was ten or so feet away in just about the same condition, but rolled into the fetal position. 

It took a while, but the two of us came to our senses and started to pick up what was left of our step-sisters bike.

“You flew, you guys really flew!” Kris said running into the yard gathering parts as he came. 

“You almost killed me” Scott said over and over.

“Yea but look how far you flew!” Kris laughed, each time Scott whined.

If there’s a moral to this story it’s probably that coaster brakes don’t work when your airborne."

Hey, you be careful out there.  And stay to the light.
(All rights reserved)

'The Great Green Apple Raid'

"While wiggling my way down to a fishin’ hole I needed to skirt some private property.

Somehow, the leg of my jeans got hung up on the middle row of barbed wire. I started laughing thinking of the look Jane would give me, when I suddenly remembered Grandma holding my baby brother Kris’s jeans the afternoon of the great green apple raid.

It started out as most summers, three brothers enjoying each second of free time.

Fishing, exploring old haunts and searching out new ones. Every so often we’d sneaky-Pete into Mr.Oniki’s orchard and help ourselves to each fruit as it ripened on the tree.  Cherries, apricots, red apples and our ‘bestest’ favorite green apples. It was almost a ritual, guessing when each would ripen. Belly aches and diarrhea were common when we guessed wrong, but heck it was summer and that was supposed to happen. 

Anyway, as life would have it, grandma’s sister’s daughter’s daughter came for a late summers visit.

I won’t try to explain the effect a black haired girl from Ogden, Utah had on three teenage boys.  Especially Kris, as he was and is the Errol Flynn of the three of us and all it took for that dark haired girl to do was giggle about how good a green apple would taste.

Kris tugged on his bill-cap, got that smile goin’ and we knew where we were headed the next morning.

Mr. Oniki was a good and fair man, and often gave fruit away to anybody that asked.  For those that didn’t, nothing was spared.  He often chased kids with his tractor, waving an old 410 shot gun like it was a Samurai Sword, swearing he’d shoot the next kid he caught in his orchard.

As Scott and I got ready to head out, Kris was busy kickin dirt with the toe of his boot, whispering who knows what in that dark haired girl's ear.

“Come on Kris”, Scott whined. “Uncle Blaine’s going to town later and I want to go.”  We all knew Uncle Blaine wouldn’t take Scott any where but that dark haired girl didn’t, she just giggled pushing Kris away, “hurry back” she said. “I’ll be waiting”. 

As we squeezed through Mr. Oniki’s fence, Kris pulled a flour sack from inside his shirt and headed straight for the green apples. 

“Do we need that many?” Scott asked.

“Nope,” Kris laughed.  “But I’m taking that dark haired girl out to Bucks pasture and don’t want to run out.” 

We both started teasing Kris as we filled the flour sack with his treasure.

None of us heard Mr. Oniki’s pick-up truck till it was too late.

Scott heard the door shut and took off like a rocket.  Didn’t yell anything till he was across the fence. “Oniki” was all he yelled as his “jackrabbit” head bobbed out of sight.

Kris and I took off at the same time, nose to nose till the fence, “The sack!” Kris yelled. “I dropped the sack.”

As I cleared the fence Kris stopped and headed straight back for that sack of apples. He snagged the bag in his left arm just as Mr. Oniki pulled that shotgun from the rack.

“Run, Kris, run!” I screamed. “He’s going to shoot!”

Kris tossed the bag over just before he jumped the fence.  “Made it” and he laughed as he landed.

He grabbed his butt as I heard the shotgun. “Damn,” Kris giggled. “He shot me.”

We made it home, me carrying the apples, Kris carrying eleven chunks of rock salt in his “buttocks.”

It was one of those times Grandpa laughed at our stupidity and Grandma fretted over trying to patch Kris’s jeans. I’m not sure, but I’m pretty positive that dark haired girl from Ogden, Utah  might have helped with the horse salve on Kris’s injury.

 Yup, there I was enjoying a green apple with salt, when I said to myself “Self” I said (cause that’s what I call myself when I’m talking to myself), “Dark haired women will do it every time.”

Thank you for your time.
(All rights reserved)

'Singin' a Hero's Song'

"We all have heroes, but mine are far different than most, given they've spent their lives in the gray area.

Now, the gray area isn't in your version of the good or the bad society has to offer - it's the place you pick where free will and the need to live that way are your responsibility, and you accept that fact.

One such person who has lived that way for the past 40 odd years is my baby brother, Gerald Kris Glanville, the toughest kid in all of Butler, Utah history and holder of the number two spot on my list of heroes.

As kids, he would lead the way into any battle, return the bloodiest, and yet never held a hard grudge for a foe.

He and my brother, Scott the jackrabbit, once ran flat out over five miles to save the life of our friend, Frankie Platt, who had fallen into a gravel pit and broke bones we didn't know the human body had.

I'd like to say we spent the summer with Frankie while he  healed, but it was mostly Kris.

He read the same comic books over and over, helped Frankie scratch the unreachable spots inside his body cast with a bent hanger, and made pre-teen passes at Frank's sister, Debbie.

One summer while practicing our golf swings, Scott caught Kris with a seven iron across the eye, which later became the scar any member of the French Foreign Legion would've eaten sand for.

To this day, if a lady asks him about it, he'll scuff his feet a bit, drop his head a little to the left and build a story on the spot.

Is he fibbing?  Sure, but as Kris has said many times, "How can you tell anybody the truth about this scar? It deserves a better story than my brother has a girlie backswing."

Thinking he should follow in my footsteps, Kris joined the Army and served twice in Vietnam.

On one combat mission, Kris had to choose between a life sentence in Leavenworth for disobeying a direct order, or the lives of the men under his command.  They all came home.

As pretend adults and bearers of the crud of adulthood, Kris and I have spread Glanville mayhem over six, and if you count California, seven states, enjoying each minute without a hint of regret, always waiting for the next adventure, always hoping the getaway works and the adventure is ours and ours alone.

My beloved hero's body may be gone today, but his legend will live for all the tomorrows to come."

Hey, you be careful out there and Kris, stay to the light.
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'Grandpa's stories come to life'

"As a young man, I would listen to the stories my grandfather and his brother, Blaine, would tell.

It didn't matter how many times they'd been told, or how "tall" they might have been; my two brothers and I would absorb each word and dream of the day we could attempt each story and make the adventure ours.

One such adventure involved Grandpa, Uncle Blaine, a horse called Red and a bar on Saturday night.

As the story went, Grandpa and Uncle Blaine had been to a dance in Heber, Utah, and were riding horse back through Park City, Utah, on their way home. As they passed by one of the many saloons along Main Street, Grandpa suggested they stop "just up the hill" for a drink or two before going home.

Uncle Blaine made some off-color remarks about the bar Grandpa wanted to stop at and then said, "I wouldn't ride your horse through that hole."

Grandpa pulled his horse up, stepped down, tipped his hat, and said, "Blaine, your pants ain't long enough, and you can't pull your hat down far enough to ride through that bar."

That's pretty much all it took for Uncle Blaine to swing atop Grandpa's horse and head for the open door of the bar.

"Girls screamed, men jumped over the bar and tried to climb out the windows."

Each time Uncle Blaine told his part of the story, he'd claim, "That red horse stayed pretty steady till those damn miners started waving their hats and grabbin' for the horse."

Grandpa always would laugh and say, "Blaine, that red horse started buckin' the minute he smelled that black-haired girl from Ogden and didn't quit till we were halfway up the hill trying out our getaway."

Uncle Blaine would smile.

"You might be right, Mode, but that black-haired girl from Ogden did swoon as I rode by tipping my hat."

Grandpa always smiled back.

"That's a fact, Blaine; she did swoon, but that red horse always had a way with black-haired girls."

They'd both laugh and start talking about something else.

Each time I'd hear that story, my imagination would find me atop that horse bursting out of the bar headed for home, a dark-haired girl swooning as I tipped my hat galloping away." 

A story of our own

"As life would have it, my brothers and I were laying in the backyard one summer telling Grandpa's stories.

Scott, the middle brother, started telling Grandpa's version of the Park City story. When he reached the part about short pants, he rolled over to Kris (the youngest and most fearless kid in all of Butler, Utah, history).

"Your pants are way too short, Kris, and besides, you'd be a scaredy cat to ride my horse in that bar."

"Would not," Kris said.

"Scaredy cat, scaredy cat," Scott chanted.

"H-E-double-toothpicks," Kris said, staring at a passing cloud. "I'll ride Buck through the Cotton Bottom Bar if Grandma won't find out."

"Would not," Scott said and laughed.

"Go get Buck," Kris said.

There we stood, three Mormon boys, whose total bar experience involved looking through the rear window of a car while driving by one.

"Grandpa didn't say anything about cars and trucks parked out front," I said, "and look, the front door is closed."

"Let's go home," Scott said. "Buck can't open doors and will."

Yup, lady luck, or maybe her evil, red-haired sister, sent that Fisher Beer truck from around the back of the Cotton Bottom Bar. "Come on, Kris will ride through the back door and come out the front." I said.

"But the front door is closed," Scott whined.

"Not if you pull it open," I said. "Let's top Uncle Blaine and Grandpa."

Kris laughed and swung atop Buck. He pointed straight at Scott and commanded, "When you hear me yell, open that door wide so me and Buck can make it out."

"What about the ..." Scott started.

"Hold the damn door!" Kris commanded again.

Strange how little things stay in your memory, the feelings that were sweeping over me as I grabbed the handle of the backdoor and pulled.

At that instant, I would have given anything to trade places with my baby brother. But it was his ride, and I would have missed that smile as he pulled on the bill of his ballcap, kicked Buck, and yelled, "Let 'er go:"

Buck made a little hop and was in the bar.

Kris yelled again, "Open the door, Scott!"

I panicked and let go of the oversized screen door and ran for the front.

Kris swears Buck was, "doin' good till that screen door slammed shut."

When I got to the front, Scott had already broken the record for the hundred-yard dash and was workin' on a four-minute mile.

"Refrigerated Air," the sign on the door said. I pulled on that worn handle at the same time a customer was pushing his way out.

There was my little brother, atop the coolest horse in the whole wide world, headed straight for me.

Between Kris's hysterical laughter, Buck's snorting and spinning, and somebody yelling something about something, Kris and Buck made their way out the front.

"See ya at the house!" Kris yelled as Buck jumped by.

I started to run just as Kris pulled Buck to a stop, spun back towards the now-infamous Cotton Bottom Bar, waved his ballcap to the patrons gathering in the parking lot, and yelled, "Thank you!"

Then, looking back toward me, that smile still on his face, he gave Buck one last kick and headed for home." 

What a summer

"As the summer passed with the occasional rumor about drunks, horses, the Cotton Bottom Bar, and Deputy Sheriff Wilkerson looking for the culprits, we boys would do odd jobs for aunts, uncles, Grandma and Grandpa.

Sometimes as we worked, Kris would tell me what happened inside the bar. We'd smile at each other and laugh for hours. Even though we couldn't tell anybody what we'd done, we knew, and that made the adventure ours and ours alone.

At the end of that summer, my brothers and I, along with two worthless cousins, gathered at Grandpa's to get paid for our summer's work.

Aug. 19, 1960-something, three boys stood in front of their grandfather's workbench, waiting for the summer's riches. Each one of us was daydreaming about wasting it on stuff that didn't matter; we just wanted to waste it on something.

"Well, boys, lets see what I've got here," Grandpa said, thumbing through a pile of paper.

No records were ever kept, no wage was ever decided on, and we were given what Grandpa thought was fair.

Looking back, it always was too much, but that was Grandpa's way.

"For Scott, I've got $6 and whatever change is in my pocket."

Scott held out his hand, took the money, said "thank you" and was gone.

Grandpa smiled.

"Quite the jackrabbit, isn't he?"

Kris and I glanced at each other, then looked at Grandpa.

"As I figure it," Grandpa said, "this summer and most of next will just about cover your bill at the Cotton Bottom Bar. Sound fair?"

"Yes, sir!" we said in unison.

We spent the next hour or so telling our story and listening to Grandpa's.

"Well, men," Grandpa said as we started back to the house, "it seems we both had the same problem in the end."

"We did?" Kris asked proudly.

"Sure," Grandpa said. "Neither one of our getaways worked out."

In the company of our hero, the laughter started again." 

Until next time

"Thinking about my heroes, there I was, surrounded on all sides, when I said to myself, "Self," I said (because that is what I call myself when I talk to myself), "that's just one more thing stripped from our children: an honest, everyday hero."

'Hey, you be careful out there.  And stay to the light.'
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