Busy around here. Crimony.

Penny and her Wallowa Resources friends just held their annual Watershed Festival this week, which was ultra-groovy. Fishing pond for the kids, local beef burgers, Paul and Todd making birdhouses for the kids. All manner of education and fun and even little reusable shopping bags which I meant to use at the store today but forgot it, hanging on the nail next to the door where I wouldn't forget it. Sorry Penny.

Morgan and I head out in the early wee a.m. hours for six days of weed duty on the Grande Ronde. Here's a nice smalltown incident for you . . . but first I must say that it's been a rough year for flyrods. I broke the tip off mine, then did a temporary fix by duct taping a beer tab on the end . . . soda tab, is what I meant. Yes, definitely soda. So I got that fixed, then it developed another crack and has to be shipped in for replacement.

Then I borrow Morgan's rod, get hung up and try to yank the nymph free and c-rrrr-aaaaa-ccc-kkkkk. It breaks. He seemed pretty amused by that. What a guy.

So I've got two flyrods to repair.

But here's the cool part. I stop at the Joseph Fly Shop today to get some foamulators for the stone fly hatch that's getting ridiculous on the Grande Ronde, and mention my flyrod woes to the owner, Rob Lamb, and he says, well, I'll loan you one until you get yours fixed. I had another loaner lined up, but it was more of a steelhead rod and would be like fishing with a telephone pole, so thanks, Rob.

The take-home message in that last paragraph is that the fishing is kicking into gear. Water is settling and our fish man, Tom, reports Ponzi scheme-like results, without the downside. And the stone flies are thick. Thick, I tell you.

Here's a photo of Sam on his private trip last week. He floated by Morgan and I as we were hard at work. Other picture is Morgan near an oldgrowth stand of scotch thistle. As you can see, they're over his head, so they must be a good three, three-and-a-half feet tall.

One of the guys on the weed spraying crew I was floating with on the Grande Ronde last week found a message in a bottle. An honest-to-God rolled up piece of paper stuck in a bottle, then flung in the river.

I don't care who you are, it's hard not to be interested in what's on that scroll of paper somebody took the time and trouble to send into the world by tossing it on the water.

But first, a word on weed spraying via raft. The idea is to get where you can't otherwise. We target riverbanks where no vehicle or ATV will get you, unless you're talking helicopter. So we float down, hit the bank and the weed warriors take off wearing their backpack sprayers, on the hunt for leafy spurge, dalmation toadflax, knapweed, and some others I can't recall the names of. All on the Most Wanted list for noxious weeds. They had a spare backpack one day, so I helped out as best I could, though I was most tempted to spray the obnoxious weeds I'm familiar with, rather than the noxious ones I don't have quite the history with. The weeds that raise my ire are poison ivy, those beggar's lice plants with the velcro nubs designed in Hell, and stinging nettles.

After a couple days on the river with the spray crew, it dawned on me that they look just like the Ghostbusters. Four guys carrying backpacks with hoses and wands, heading out to do battle with a nuisance that isn't supposed to be there. These guys earn their money. Aside from being around the chemicals, there are rattlesnakes out in force, plenty of ticks, poison ivy and sundry other small nuisances. They seemed to feel sorry for me when they'd come back to the boat and I would be sitting in the shade, sipping lemonade and reading a good book. I can see where they'd think I might be bored, and they nicely offered to see about getting another sprayer so I'd have something to do to pass the time. Awfully nice of them. And then they'd compare notes on how many rattlesnakes had almost bit them, how many ticks they'd found trying to burrow into their skin, and I'd glance at my icy cold bottle of lemonade and adjust my chair in the shade and try to nicely explain that I appreciated their concern for my boredom, but not to worry themselves. Somehow I'd manage.

I did pry myself out of the shade now and then to hike down the river and scout for landing spots. I found a fair amount of flotsam on those walks. Or jetsom. I can never remember which is which. Let's just call it trash. An inner tube, styrofoam blocks, a lady's compact with makeup and a mirror in it. Some plastic toys. And lots of footwear. For some reason lots of shoes in the river, washed up on the bank. A flipflop. A little girl's plastic sandal. The rubber sole to a boot. Some others. But nothing like the message in a bottle.

I'm looking at it right here. It's a clear plastic bottle, blue screw-on cap. Inside is an orange piece of paper, half of it faded, making some of the writing illegible. It was written by a young girl. Her name's at the top but I'm going with the confidentiality clause for messages in bottles. It reads like this:

My 4 Wishes

1. World Peace.

2. (Something-something) best friend forever.

3. My cat (something-something).

4. (Something-something-something).

So really I can only make out the first wish, and it's a good one, young lady.

I had plenty of time to think this over, sitting there in the raft while the other guys were off spraying. And I thought, good for her, wishing for world peace. Too bad that's not in the cards.

Before I left for that river trip, I was reading the news filled with North Korea rattling nuclear sabers, Iran and Iraq and the Holocaust museum shooting and a shocking list of unmentionable doings in Portland in the past week. It was anything but peaceful and a quick look at the headlines now, or any time, really, would seem to suggest that, no, we can't all get along.

But why not. That's rhetorical, because you and I both know why not. Politics. Money. Religious differences. Racial differences. Ad hominum infinitum et cetera carborundum and so on.

But still. Why not.

I don't want to be the one to explain to a youngster why leading off her list of wishes with world peace is silly, since it ain't never going to happen. And that's when I came up with an idea that might get us to the point where it's not so silly.

It's one of those notions that makes me think I must have heard it before, it seems so obvious. So I'm putting a disclaimer on it right now: I may have seen this on a bumper sticker, or heard it in song lyrics. Quite possible. Matter of fact, I hope it's not original, but I can't trace it if so.

Here's my proposal. Before any war is declared, we have to clear it first with a bunch of kids. The presidents, congresses, generals and prime ministers of the world draw up their invasion plans, but in order for any conflict to get the green light, the situation has to first be presented to a kindergarten class in their country, and if you can convince that group of kids that the alleged bad guy deserves a "time out," then OK. Otherwise, work out your differences.

It's naive, I know. But like I said, I had a lot of time to think down there on the river and these are the kind of things you end up with. I'm not really kidding, though. Years ago I worked as a substitute teacher in a kindergarten class in a very rough neighborhood, and those kids were still full of innocence and a good, solid sense of right and wrong. Maybe our world leaders need a schedule that includes more snack time with juice and crackers, followed by a nap.

So there's my plan for world peace. Kids as mediators. An advisory board of kindergartners. I've heard of youth leadership conferences and the like, with young adults getting involved. But it may be time for the United Nations to include and consult younger kids to help sort out our differences. If we're going to get along, that may be our best shot.

Then that wish on the message in the bottle might not be so far-fetched.

That's the kind of thinking you get with a whole afternoon of sitting on a riverbank. Maybe I should ask for a weed sprayer so I don't have that much time on my hands.

Winding Waters Central was a hive of activity today.

Morgan, Samuel and Mini Baird were packing out for a Snake River sojourn. Taking veterinarians through Hells Canyon for a working seminar in the wilds. I was on the same trip last year, though we did it on the Salmon. Animal dentistry was the focus last year. The unique aspect for me was the addition on the gearboat of a movie screen and portable generator, to run the powerpoint presentations. Definitely not used to seeing a lit-up screen tucked into the trees along some remote stretch of river miles from the nearest plugin. But I will tell you honest and for true, if I'm going to sit through a powerpoint presentation and had my choice of venues, I'd take a riverbank over the conference room of a Red Lion any day. And I've sat through presentations in a Red Lion conference room, so I've done my research, pal.

My attorney says I should disclaimer that.

Dear Red Lion: I didn't mean it like that. Why you gotta be like that? I'd rather sit in your conference room than other conference rooms . . . all I was saying was I'd take the riverbank given the choice.

Moving on.

I'll be on the Grand Ronde, protecting Wallowa County from the scourge of noxious weeds. Starting at Wildcat Bridge, six miles upstream from the town of Troy, we'll float down to otherwise inaccessible locales, then the weed sprayers pour off my craft and tell them weeds what-for with the business end of a backpack sprayer.

Hard to say how many miles we'll cover, as that depends on how noxious the weeds are, I guess. So I'm taking my bike along in the raft to shorten the gap between us and getting the shuttle rig.

Muchas gracias to Dave Flynn, who signed off on me squatting on his property down there. That'll cut down on drive time and I've got a wall tent to set up down there near the confluence of the Wenaha and Grand Ronde rivers. Wall tent, cot, disco ball, french press for coffee in the morning. It's going to be rough, rough duty.

And Paul's heading out for a Grand Ronde trip later this week, so lots of boats in the water. Dental hygiene for all creatures great and small in Hells. A dose of something-icide for plants that aren't supposed to be there in the Grand Ronde canyon.

Until next time, keep your bowline taut and your pelican case latched.

I can't wear a shirt to bed anymore if I want to be a man. Learned that over the weekend.

I was visiting my family in Vancouver a couple days back and my dad got out his raft to pump it up and get ready for a float trip next week.

Jacob and Joe, my eight and six-year old nephews, crawled in the empty boat and played in there for hours, covering a lot of miles without ever leaving the yard.

It's a privilege to witness young imaginations firing on all cylinders like that, before the creative engine slows down after learning you're not supposed to think up your own worlds anymore. Grownups buy movie tickets for that instead, or watch sitcoms. Paying somebody to furnish our make believe for us.

Jacob and Joe turned the raft into a warship, but I never heard any gun noises so I don't know what manner of cruise that warship was on. Maybe diplomatic relations or an escort of some sort. I didn't want to interrupt and don't have a very high security clearance anyway, so was afraid to ask.

Whatever oceans they were on, they were at it so long they started standing watches.
I don't know where they learned that maritime practice, but Jacob took the first watch while little Joe got some Z's.

My dad walked by the warship and suggested Joe put his shirt back on, since it wasn't all that warm out and he was bound to get cold, laying in the bottom of a rubber raft like that.

"Grandpa, I'm a man," Joe explained. "And men don't sleep with their shirts on."

Grandpa was also corrected on this being a warship, not a raft, and that's all the time they had for chit chat, since Joe needed to get back to sleep, as his watch was coming up and he needed to relieve his brother.

I've seen other rafts turn into warships before, during heated waterfights on our Snake River, Salmon and Grand Ronde trips. Five gallon buckets turn into the big guns for close-in battle, with the super soakers for long-range artillery. Things really pick up once the raiding parties start, boarding other boats to steal buckets and water guns from the enemy. And these were no six and eight-year olds. I'm talking about adults. You know who you are, you pirates.

That's really what we're up to on the river, I'd say. Playing. I went into one of my favorite outdoor stores while I was in Portland, crammed with gear, rafting supplies, army surplus and all manner of awesome stuff. I wandered around being excited just like my nephews do in Toy-R-Us. Ten more minutes in there and I would have been inside one of their display rafts, making gun noises pretending to be in a warship.

I do think my nephews are onto something with standing watches. I can't wait to tell Patrick, my gearboat apprentice, about our new system. I think I'll give him the daylight watch, so he can see better. I'll take the after dinner to right before breakfast shift.

True, all the real work of setting up camp and cooking dinner will happen during his watch, but ... waaaaait a minute ... I just realized this is the same system Morgan's had me on for years. He must have nephews.

I used to be a mediocre fisherman. Well, those days are over. Last week I witnessed a brilliant technique that improves your fishing success instantly, dramatically and easily. It’s so simple. No fooling around with learning new casting methods or studying fish behavior and boring feeding patterns. The secret shortcut to better fishing is … are you ready? The metric system. And I must say, it’s good to finally find a use for that thing.

I discovered the wonderful world of metric fishing thanks to the Enterprise High School class of 2009. I was along on their senior trip through Hells Canyon last week, rowing one of the cargo rafts. We had some big water, since Idaho Power was leaving the gates cracked pretty wide back at the dam.

We camped the second night at Salt Creek after a full day of running the big rapids. River guide Sam Macke baited the sturgeon rig with a trout and dropped that offering out in the eddy. Mike Baird grilled burgers and tubesteaks for dinner and we were having a grand time when the tip of the sturgeon rod started bouncing, then line pulled from the spool. Fish on.

I went down to look when they landed the sturgeon. A nice one. I eyeballed the length and figured we were looking at a six-footer here. If you haven’t seen a sturgeon up close, imagine a swimming dinosaur with armored plates down the spine. They’re odd creatures, for sure.

There were two exchange students among the graduating seniors, Giacomo from Italy and Esteban from Ecuador. We walked back up to camp after the sturgeon was released and I was standing there for a discussion on how big the fish was. “Two meters,” is what I heard Giacomo say. Esteban was consulted and agreed. Two meters. According to the conversion table I just consulted on the inside flap of an old Pee-Chee folder, that works out to just over six and a half feet.

Now jump forward to several days later at my house in Enterprise. Sam, the guy who caught the sturgeon, was explaining to some friends how the senior float trip went. Great, by all accounts, except for some holdups as the kids and chaperones were on their way back to the dam after waving goodbye to the Winding Waters River Expeditions crew at the Pittsburgh Landing boat ramp.

The group was riding back upriver in a chartered jetboat, but a mechanical problem caused a delay and another jetboat company was called to bring another boat. The second jetboat had something go haywire, so a third boat was called in from the bullpen. Highly unusual, and this third jetboat was considerably smaller, requiring two trips to shuttle everyone and their gear back to the dam.

The second wave of students and chaperones got on the road for home a long while since eating lunch, so I’m told that they pulled in at the Hells Canyon Inn in Oxbow, which was closed. After knocking on the door and explaining the situation, the owners fed these weary travelers and then refused payment, saying the kids had been through a long day and dinner was on the house.

So there we are out in front of my house and Sam begins to describe the sturgeon he caught, and I distinctly hear him say, “nine-footer.” I politely inquired what topic he had shifted to so abruptly, since it obviously wasn’t that sturgeon anymore.

He asked how big I thought it was. With truth shining in my eyes, I replied, “six.”
“No,” Sam disagreed. And I should mention here that truth was also shining in his eyes. I can vouch for Sam as one of the most truthy persons I know. “Those exchange students,” Sam explained, “said it was three meters. Nine feet.”

And that’s when I realized the exponential beauty of fishing with the metric system. By altering just one digit, you gain so much more. By slightly bumping two into three, the same fish grows by three feet in that same instant. Marvelous. All fish have a tendency to grow by inches between the catching of them and the telling about it, but using meters just streamlines the process and I finally see how terribly useful this metric system can be. Until now it just cluttered up my toolbox with sockets I never used.

I remember when I could only cast my flyrod about forty feet. Now I’m casting flies upward of a tenth of a furlong, or well over a decameter. I don’t even know how far that is in cubits. There’s no end to the utility of this system. A two-pound fish that took a little while to land sounds infinitely better weighed in bushels and landed in something under a fortnight. Not to mention my new flyrod, which I couldn’t afford until seeing how cheap it is in shekels.