I Will Catch Wilbur Before Christmas

I Will Catch Wilbur Before Christmas - Part I
Flyfishing Stories by Bob Lawless

Sulking mainly, stewing a little, sitting in my war room, I was planning how to catch this monster brown trout living near Casper, Wyo. in the North Platte River before Xmas. His name is Wilbur.
I hate this fish because he made a complete fool of me during my last assault on "Salmo Truta." He tossed me out into the river, ruined my gear, snapped my rod, broke my line, and embarassed me in front of the members. He also ate the tip off of my right social finger, ruining my sex life. These are heavy tolles he took. And I will still catch and release him, but I will slap his face.
I have time here only to write of my trip to Wyoming.
I got to the airport about 4 hours ahead of my flight in order to be a good American. I just made the flight!
First, I was searched and then beaten. Why I got the beating I don't know. I did mention to a soldier that his boots could use a little more polish. But this was honest criticism. And so they beat me.
Like I say, I don't know why.
Then I had to pass through security and I had forgotten to remove my .380 auto from my underwear. I was third in line and I was totally panicked. I knew there would be another beating and this time I would know why. I had to come up with something quick.
I thought about just running for the toilet or something but I noticed that one of the soldiers was eying me, sort of llike I was a freak or something. I was wearing my fishing vest.
Oleander, my parrot, cussed him out and Smolt, my pet pocket dog, pissed on his sleeve. I knew now that there might be trouble ahead.
I pulled out a cigar and asked the private if he had a light.
He said he was going to give me a light allright and he began to fix his bayonet to his rifle.
Now his officer came up, a young lieutenant. Being an old military man, I took my propeller beanie off and snapped to attention. I could not salute becauuse my hand held my beanie over my heart. He hissed at me,"Get that damn beanie off of your heart and stop the propeller immediately." I complied; the propeller tore the scab off of my social finger. With the blood that spurted, they seemed satisfied and went for doughnuts. Apparently the police had taught them this.
Now I was second in line and I was really starting to sweat. My gun would surely rust. I saw a baggage cart coming and I thought about jumping in it but then I saw it was marked for Tokyo and I knew that was the wrong way to Wyoming. Now I'm next.
She stared levely at me and said, "You, are you the shultz who pissed on the private?" I said it was my dog, not me.
She looked at the dog and rang the alarm. What? What? What's the matter with my dog?
I was hustled away and beaten again.
But they put me on the plane and I had to sit next to an obvious terrorist. What river slimes.
But he was friendly enough and he talked about his days as boy in Saudi Arabia and then he mentioned he would blow the plane up after it landed and took off from Casper. I thanked him and asked if he would like a bite off of my baloney and anchovy sanwich. Said he could not hang with the pork. Little did he know that there is no pork in baloney. In fact, there is no animal matter at all; it's mainly made of weeds, vegetables, and horse fat. But he would have none of it. The flight was otherwise uneventful and I landed in Wyo.,only minutes from Wilbur. And then I..to be con't

I Will Catch Wilbur Before Christmas - Part II

A brief synopsis is in order. I had set out to catch Wilbur, a leviathan of a trout, a trout who had made a fool of me, thrown me in the river, nearly killing me, broke up a lot of my stuff, and had damaged my social finger such that my sex life was ruined. So I decided to fly to Wyoming and catch this damn fish which I would still release, but only after slapping his face.
I was badly ruffed up at the airport, receiving several beatings, but I managed to board the plane, somehow I had escaped security and my .380 as well as my backup .44 mag. and ,of course, my rather ordinary vest gear: hatchet, saw, knives, parrot and dog, etc. that regular flyfishers carry with them at all times; all this was allowed on through.
There was this terrorist that I was forced to sit next to and I tried to poison him with an anchovy and baloney sandwich which had one side laden with arsenic, fly head cement and some lead wire. I took a bite out of the good side and offered him a bite from the other. Unfortunately, he would have none of it because of the pork in the baloney.
Silly man, there is no pork in baloney. But we digress..
When I got off (there is no tunnel in Casper, just a ladder that leads to the tarmac), I noticed this huge mob running toward the plane. "My gawd," I said, "they're after me again!" It must be the incident which I described in "The Upside Down Reverse Cast" (see this post elsewhere).
Get a load of this: there were FBI, CIA, ATF, SS(not the nazis, but the secret service), units from the Army, Navy, Marines, Coast Guard,Air Force(flying over head, full of smart bombs) and various local and state officials such as the Casper County Sheriff's Office, including the sheriff himself, the Wyoming State Police, the Wyoming Bureau of Invistigation (WBI), the Casper City Police with Chief and various swat teams too numerous to mention, including ruffians, armed with bats, who had no official status but were just along for kicks and, finally, the BSA and the GSA ( that little fat girl was out in front).
I didn't notice that the terrorist had deplaned with me. The liar said he was going on to Washington, D.C., but, no, he was right behind me.
Well, though it was a hell of a fight, we were captured. Actually, in truth, only the terrorist fought. Me, I tried to protect my eyes, my armpits, my abalones and elephant, as well as my bass. But I didn't have enough hands, particularly since my social finger was in shambles.
I awoke under hot lights in a windowless room and someone had attached an electrode to my elephant. Stupidly, I asked what that was
for and immediately I got zapped. I groaned loudly to indicate that I understood, and then thousands of question were posed. About me, Oleander and Smolt(I told them to keep my pets out of this and instantly I got a another jolt). Who was Wilbur, the sandwich, the boyhood of the terrorist( I didn't know a thing here and so I got lots of jolts for lying).
Long story short, they let me go. According to the police,the terroist, unfortunately, was killed while descending from the plane; he had apparently struck his head on the tarmac, falling off the ladder. But, I thought he was walking behind me? But then, what do I know, I'm just an old man.
Now I had to rent a car and close in on Wilbur. His hours were numbered. My body would heal. His face would be slapped.
Next post, the car rental and even some about Wilbur.

I Will Catch Wilbur Before Christmas - Part III

So here I am, the author, the hero, the veteran flyfisher, the abused,
the fool, the beaten one, the victim, and the revengeful person. Oh, indeed I am. I will get revenge!
If I get that Wilbur, there will be black gnat to pay! I'm talking slapped faces here, where brown turns to red. When I finish with dearest Wilbur, he will look like a rainbow, not a German brown.
And now I must rent a car, but when I learn what Avis wants, I nearly collapse; Oleander and Smolt become bruised during my fall to the floor.
So I go to this special rental place near an auto dismantler and I ask for a junker like they have at Kodiak Island. I get this old '48 Plymouth or Chevy or maybe a Cadillac (I can't tell because it is so beat up)for practically nothing per day. "If it breaks down," the guy tells me, "forget about it. It ain't worth no trouble. Just leave it." Man, such a deal!
Now I'm off to the river but this guy waves me down and explains he is the junior high basketball coach and would I like a pick up game.
Yeah, I told him and after the game(he won)I had broke my little toe but I had blackened his eyes.
Near the bucket, I had jumped up high, making myself small, and when I came down I made myself huge, all elbows and feet. So he has his eyes dotted and I got a right angle toe. He sets this for me (I screamed when he did it and Smolt went to work on my tears). Oleander gave him a what for. And we beat it out of there because the cops had been called again.
When I got to the bridge, I noticed there was no oil pressure and I stopped to check the level. The dip stick was gone! So I had to use the tip section of my fly rod and I got a reading of one guide in back of the tip top. I figured this was enough and went on.
Only a mile to go to the hole when I smelled smoke and saw flames in the back seat. Fortunately for me, the car maxed out at only 18mph and I was thinking about rolling out onto the pavement, but first I threw out my pets, my rod and reel, my vest and other stuff and jammed on the brakes. There was no petal! It was on the floor- only a hole where the brake should be! I thought about ramming it into "park," but it wouldn't shift period.
So I bailed out and was badly bruised. The toe on my other foot was now also broken.
I had to walk, broken toes, frozen feet and all. The temperature was dangerously low for a human being, and the wind was howling like only Wyoming can do. It began to snow. Hard, pelting, gritty shit that stung like the Missouri. It was not the best of fly fishing conditions. But quit--NEVER!!
I couldn't see Wilbur but I knew he was there, sulking, ready to beat someone up.
I have always longed to join the 20-20 club, a secret fly fishing society. They have no meetings, no president, no dues, no cards. They only have their honor. To belong, you must bring a trout to hand that is longer than 20" and you must catch it on a fly of size 20 or smaller. Thus, the 20-20 Club. I have dreamed for years of becoming a member before I die and maybe now was my chance.
I tied on a number 20 callibaetis emerger because I think, but I'm not sure, the fly must also be a dry fly.
A tiny dimple and I struck hard but felt nothing. I tried to cast again but I noticed a distinct "snapping" when I back casted. I checked the fly and all that remained was the ring of the hook. The shank, the gape, the point, the birds and beavers were all gone. I muttered and Oleander let Wilbur have it.
Now I put on a Western Bee that I think I've had since childhood and was maybe the first fly I had ever tied. I was so proud to tie two diffent pieces of chenille at the same time and when I showed it to my buddies, we all agreed it would be a killer. But I don't think I ever caught anything on it though I soaked it for years. If they ever have a rotten fly contest, I think I can win it with the Western Bee.
So know just a short cast. The fly hits first. The leader rolls over beautifully. A perfect cast! No wonder I'm so damn good!
But then an ugly kype appears (Wilbur) and drifts cagely behind the fly for a moment and then WHAM!, he's got it! He's off and running. I try to get the slack at my feet off the ground and straightened out but NO. a big fat, half hitch snares the first guide. Ping..Ping..Ping...ETC. All my guides are torn off! All I have is the reel and smoke is pouring out of it. I dare not touch it but
I must because I only have a few feet left before I am spooled. So I try to brake him and my index finger gets broken and my soical finger is hanging by a thread.
OK, Wilbur, you've got me now. But I'll be back. Yes, I'll be back.
You're not bigger than me. Remember that little fact, sweet buddy.
I'm bigger than you!
And I'm coming back to slap your face!