Fishing with Fat Jack #4

It was snowing lightly as we prepared to start back down the mountain to the coral. Fat Jack was standing there with fish tails sticking out of his jacket all over the place. There were tails in every pocket and hole. He must have had 30 fish stuffed in it.

I had just arrived back at the stable and was getting ready to dismount when I heard a loud “Wahoo” coming from behind me back up the trail. Loren decided to make a grand entrance and he, on his horse ominously named “Ricochet,” came screaming down the trail, around the trees and into the area just outside of the coral.

Loren was trying to get his horse to clear the fence, tugging on his reigns and really whooping it up when his saddle started slipping. Somehow his “cinch” had worked itself loose. Centrifugal force took over and he began sliding down and to the outside just like a bull rider. His horse wasn’t quite sure what was going on and I don’t know who was more scared, Ricochet or Loren.

Ricochet made the turn but Loren ran head first in to a 4 ft high snow bank. The collision tore Loren right out of the saddle and there was a huge spray of snow flying all over the place.

At first I was sure Loren was deeply and horribly injured. I launched myself out of the saddle and started running to see if I could help. He seemed truly dazed and disoriented. We got him to sit up and lean back on the snow pile and started to see if he could identify how many fingers we held up in front of him. It took a while but finally he said “three” and that was the right number.

I think it was Fat Jack who thought to look after Ricochet. John and I were focused on Loren. After a few minutes when it was evident that Loren was OK except for his pride, John nicknamed him “Crash” and we all had a good laugh.

The trip down the mountain was uneventful except for the bumping and bottoming out in the ruts, dips and cavernous troughs we had to drive through. We still had to hold our hands on the ceiling to ensure that no cranial damage was done to our bodies. Fat Jack did not know how to drive slowly. It was full throttle all the way.

It was dark when we arrived back in Hyattville and there was a greeting party waiting for us. They didn’t look too pleased either, except for Buford, Jacks dog. The first thing Fat Jack did when we got home was greet Buford and start tossing all those trout to him. He just chucked ‘em in the air and Buford caught them and swallowed them whole. Here we thought Fat Jack wanted them for dinner and what he really wanted them for was dog food.

One of the old guys who was waiting for us started yelling, “What in the Hell are you doing with my truck!” Fat Jack just grinned that same grin he gave us when he peaked around the corner when the door caved in on the old ladies having tea earlier that morning. We new there was going to be more interesting events coming.

Fishing with Fat Jack #3

Unbeknownst to us, Fat Jack had taken us to a horse camp high up in Wyoming’s Wind River Range. All the way up the mountain, Jack kept telling us we would get a opportunity to see his “little pink poodle.” It sounded so strange that we all dismissed it as just a little tale and really gave it no mind. Finally, the Suburban slid to a stop. Jack had slammed on the breaks and tried to see how long a skid mark he could leave. We piled out of the SUV as fast as we could. I think John even exited through the window! It had been a long ride slipping and sliding our way up the mountain. At times we had to brace ourselves with hand and arms against the roof to keep our butts anywhere near the seat. I think one or two of us even kissed the ground when we got out.

Jack had fetched 5 horses and we were in the process of saddling up when I asked if there was a bathroom around. I thought it would be nice to take care of business before we left. He pointed me to a trail and said the outhouse was only a few yards up the trail. “Oh, and by the way say hi to my “little pink poodle” he said. I thought “not that again.”

He was right. It was only 20 yards or so to the outhouse and I was desperate. I was really glad not to have to use a bush for cover. It wasn’t bad as outhouses go and I’ve used worse. It really beat just a hole in the ground. Also, outhouses don’t stink much when the outside temp is in the low 30’s. It’s just the cold seat that stings a little.

Here we are miles from anything civilized – a two-hour ride in a 4-wheel drive vehicle just to get here. I opened the door with the half moon cutout in it and there it was! The seat was padded with soft, light pink furry foam and on the seat cover was a Pink Poodle. It was very artfully painted on the lid once you opened it up. What a sight and what a joy to have soft furry foam instead of hard cold plastic.

Jack had us mount up on the horses once he had them saddled and off we went. We used the fifth horse as a pack horse and loaded all our fishing gear on a pack saddle. After a two hour ride we arrived at our destination, a small stream high up in the mountains.

It only took a few minutes in the icy air for us to get geared up to go fishing. Jack was really snickering under his breath at us getting all decked out in the “right” fishing attire. HE was wearing this old thread bear jacket that looked a little like it had seen it’s last life years ago. It had holes were the stuffing was peaking out, strings hanging at the cuffs and neck and it kind of smelled like, well, I’m not sure what it smelled like. It just sort of stank.

We had to break the ice on the stream in a lot of places to get room to fish. It was loaded with brook trout. Jack told us to just throw the fish up on the snow bank and he would come back later and pick them up. He said he wanted to take them home.

We fished for 4-5 hours and caught literally hundreds of 7-10 inch brook trout. The snow banks of the stream were littered with them.

Jack finally caught up with me and what a sight. He had fish tails sticking out of every hole and pocket in the jacket. They weren’t in bags or paper, he had just stuffed them in head first anywhere he could put them. It looked like he had added 100 pounds to his already ample 300 plus pounds.

He had followed behind us and kept the fish he wanted and tossed the others back in the stream. I was skeptical that we had not killed any fish until I saw him toss one back that had been on the bank for 15 or so minutes. It slowly just swam off. Amazing!

Jack challenged us to try “fishing naked” and I was sure that he was crazy. Then he explained that what he meant was to fish with a hook only. Sure enough it worked. A red hook worked better than a gold one and gold was better than bronze. But we caught fish on all three colors. Again, I was amazed.

It was time to head back to camp. We had an uneventful trip back but on arrival Loren earned a new nickname.

Fishing with Fat Jack - #2

After the buzzing of startled old ladies died down Fat Jack came out from his hiding place and was met right in the middle of the café by Connie (Mrs. Jack). She put a stop to everything and demanded to know what was going on.

John stepped forward and introduced us as “Sven, Ollie and Otto” complete with Scandinavian accent. He continued to tell her that we were contracted to install the new door as payment in kind for Fat Jack to take us fishing. This didn’t set well with Mrs. Jack and, of course, Fat Jack was sheepishly just letting it all happen. Connie and Jack made their way back into the kitchen where there was some discussion that we were not privy to.

Soon Jack emerged with a smile and some lipstick on his cheek. To this day we do not know what Jack said to Connie but we certainly are thankful!

John and I found some old weather beaten wood in the passage way between the two buildings that served as a “garage” of sorts. We took and ripped them I the old saw to make some trim pieces for fancying up the hole we had just cut.

After about 40 minutes John, err Sven, and I had the door hung. Ollie (Loren) just stood back and gave directions to which Sven and I paid no attention.

Just as we finished cleaning up Fat Jack came back. “All ready to go?” he asked. “Ready” we all exclaimed. And off we went.

Fat Jack took us up into the Wind River Range of mountains. We traveled for about 2 hours up this bumpy, rutted and weather warn dirt road.

We stop at a stream on the way up to fish and Fat Jack handed us some flies to use. They were #10’s or #8’s! Some of the biggest damn flies I have ever tied on my line. We kind of laughed at him and he seemed puzzled at first then he figured out why we were laughing. We were used to fishing with those “little dinks” from California as he called them.

We did catch fish on those huge flies.

There was snow on the ground and the air temperature was in the upper 20’s. Ice was forming in the guides of our rods almost as soon as we cast out. We were constantly dunking our equipment in the water to release the ice.

All I heard was “AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH SHIT! And then a big SPLASH!

Loren had slipped on an iced over rock and had gone in over his head in this really cold, freezing water. When I got to him he was really hurting and COLD!

We found a hunters camp that was not being used and stated a fire in the stove. Loren had to get out of his wet clothing fast and get warmed up. Both John and I shed some clothing and gave it to Loren to wear.

We decided it was time to continue our adventure and piled back into the Suburban. After a little more bumping and being tossed back and forth we arrived at what we thought was our destination. Jack said for us to hole up here for a few minutes and he would be back. Sure enough, in about 20 minutes here he came with 5 horses in tow!

Fishing with Fat Jack - Installment #1

On one of my many fly fishing trips to Wyoming, my buddies and I happened to land ourselves in Hyattville, WY. It is not what you would call a big city, maybe not even a city. It is perhaps two blocks long and one block wide. There is a post office, a church, a school, 2 or 3 drinking establishments and a couple of civic buildings.

It was a cool, crisp October morning. The only place in town that was open was a small café and saloon across the street from the elementary school. The name on its shingle was “Fat Jack's”.

A slight breeze was blowing and there was the feeling that snow was about to fall. An old barn door, falling off its hinges and held open a bit with a 2x4 greeted us. There was the sound of a sawzall and a poorly tuned radio spewing mostly static and some hard to make out country music coming from inside. A cat skittered off the street into the old barn and my buddies and I followed.

We were looking for somebody who could give us direction on where we might go fishing. I'm not sure that we should have ever asked.

Inside was a very large man cutting a hole in the wall with the sawzall and next to him was this really big old hound dog. The man seemed a little annoyed at our appearance but stopped working to see what we wanted.

We introduced ourselves, “Hi, I’m Loren and this is John and Michael.” We told him that we were from out-of-state. I am sure that there was not a need for the "out-of-state" comment as we were standing there in what my wife likes to call our "spandex" fishing undergarments.

I thought the guy was going to choke to death as he tried to clear his throat enough to get out the words, “Howdy, what ya’ll fellas want?”

We quickly asked if he knew where we might go fishing. “Hey, now that seems like a right fine thing to do on a day like to day, with the snow ‘n all. Hmmm, my names Fat Jack and I own this here place.”

“Ain’t no one around that can take ya’ll that I know, jus look around, the town’s almost boarded up, sep’n us and the Hitch’n Post down the street. Besides, I got a git this door hung ta’day or the Misses is gon’a tan my hide.”

John said, “You go ask your wife and we will make sure the door is hung.”

“Huh?” said Fat Jack. “Yeah,” said John, “we’ll hang the door for you.” And, off he went to negotiate with the Misses.

All we heard was voices getting louder and louder. Soon the rattle and banging of pans from the kitchen drowned out the voices and the hound dog moved across the room.

It wasn’t long and Fat Jack was back. He was sweating a little and looked a little nervous. “If ya’ll are sure ya’ll can hang that door ya better git to it!” He said.

John grabbed the sawzall and started to finish cutting where Fat Jack had left off. He just pushed the blade all the way through cutting both sides of the wall at the same time. Before long the cut-out was loose and it fell away from us into the room on the other side.

“What the …” screamed a startled elderly woman. The local Women’s Club’s Tuesday morning meeting was in progress at Fat Jacks Café. We were face to face with 10 very startled old lady’s gazing at us through a cloud of drywall dust and sawdust.

Fat Jack neglected to pass on some very vital important information. His head poked around the corner and he had a smile that went from ear to ear.

Fish Naked - A Definition

Well...I guess it is time to get you all up to date on what "Fish Naked" really means. This really is for J.R.'s benefit, however, I am sure many of your havn't got a clue either.

The term "fish naked" refers to fishing with only a bare hook! No bait, feathers or other incumberances. I have caught fish this way but only in extream circumstances.

This will sound like a TRUE fish story but it truly is true.

My buddies, John and Loren, and I found our selves in Hyattville, Wyoming one fine September morning. We stopped at Fat Jacks Saloon and Diner to find directions on where to go fishing. We meet the proprieter, Fat Jack, and commenced on what turned out to be one of the finest adventures I have ever had. I will tell it in length one day.

Fat Jack stole a vehicle, battery and who knows what else from one of his friend in town. He took us fishing high up in the Wind River Range of Wyoming. We took a two-hour drive in a 4-wheel drive SUV (with a stolen battery) up a dirt road.

We went about 15 miles up this horrible, rutted and rained out road and stopped at a horse camp. It seemed strange that we circled the camp more than once before we entered but I didn't figure out what we were about to do until after we arrived back at the Saloon that evening. We later found out that the horses were not Jacks at all. Guess that made us "rustlers."

It was snowing and the wind was blowing something awful. We road on horse back for about 2 hours winding our way even further up the canyon. When we arrived at our destination there was this small stream with completely covered by ice all the way across. We broke through the ice with a log and our feet. The stream was chalk full of 6-8" Brookie Trout.

Between the three of us, we must have caught 60-70 fish. We just through them up on the snow bank to retrieve on the way back down stream. We picked through the fish on the way back and even after 30 minutes the ones we tossed back still were alive and swam away. Their metabolism had slowed down almost to a stand still I guess.

Well, back the the fishing naked...

These brook trout were so hungry and litterly went after any fly we tried, whether it was a nymph or dry, that John challanged me to catch one using just a hook. Well, I gave it a try and wouldn't you know it, I caught a fish. Then he had to try it and it worked for him also.

What da ya think, J.R.?

There is lots more to this story and one day I will finish telling it. It includes some gambling, dice, a guy named "Slim," a few farmers, Fat Jack, three city slickers and Mr. Jim.