No Editing continued
Here's my favorite Brown-Ranger story:
As told by Ranger, so be suitably skeptical. Jane Siegler, who
worked with us at Waste, also ran a horse riding operation in
She had a pigeon problem -- the little feathered critters were shitting
on her dressage students at the indoor riding facility. Ranger knew how
to solve that problem. He assembled his best shot gunning friends -- I
was not invited -- to await the bastards outside the facility as they
came to roost one afternoon. Somehow, Bill Brown was included. The
gunners blasted away with mixed success. Brown, meanwhile, had taken up
his station in the loft, where he neatly dispatched the refugees with a
tennis racket as they escaped the barrage and entered their haven with
an unsuspecting sneer at Ranger and his posse. Problem solved. OK,
Jim Banks
then we really got to know each other at the Waste Management Washington
office. He recruited me to head up Waste's effort to get a permit for
incineration of hazardous waste on ships at sea. It was a tough sell,
to say the least. Our ships were the Vulcanus I and Vulcanus II. We
didn't get the permit, but I managed to stay on and work with Jim at
Waste for 8 years more.
hall broke into a level of volume and profanity that was unusual even
for him. He was on the phone. It went on and on and was so extreme by
my accounting that something really unfortunate must have happened. I
figured that we probably had all been fired, or maybe just me, and Jim
was objecting in his own way. I approached him cautiously at his desk
and listened, expecting the worst. It turned out he was talking to one
of his friends on the Senate staff -- Steve Bell I think -- and had just
been informed that the record-keeping requirements for logs of company
cars had been significantly "enhanced." Jim valued his freedom to load
friends and dogs and just go without worrying about the details. He
figured this was
There are many more stories; more than I can coherently remember. I
moved out of the area, most recently to
each other for a long time. But just early this fall, my wife Mary and
I were in
eating outside. Later we split a bottle of wine. He was in full Range
form. We vowed to see each other more, and when I said that he and Jim
Banks and I we should find something "big" to do together, Jim said:
"Maybe more than one."
A day or two after that, on September 3, Range, Banks and I exchanged
e-mails. Jim had the last word (as usual). His e-mail closed: "My
little family with us old and kids grown. Together again! Hope we can
put something together. Here and in Philly.....jim."
I was thinking of calling when I learned he was gone. But he cannot be
forgotten, by so many of us.
Bill Brown
When Jimmy first started fishing the
One of those comical fishing times occurred shortly after we had teamed up. I’ll omit the colorful language used in an effort to keep this story short. The
A
John Ince here, Annie's brother.
Last summer Jim invited my parents and me and my family to visit Flyway for a week with Anni and her boys. Though the weather was poor we got in a day on the river, Jim,
Quite a day. Quite a man.
The rented Suburban was loaded with my two eighty something parents, three teens, my youngest sister, Ann and Jim and me. We were pulling out of Jim’s ranch in Craig, the fourth rainy day in a row, the
The gravel crunched and the wheels spun as we pulled out on to the soapy, slippery
To this point
These two great fishermen, on their home waters have one goal today, to put Annie’s brother on some fish. I have the front spot on the drift boat, Pete’s in the middle, rowing, consulting but mostly directing the rookie on where to place the fly. “If you put the fly where Pete tells you, you’ll be on a fish” I’d heard that back in
Pete had rigged my seven weight with two nymphs on 3X tippet, the bottom one on a dropper about twelve inches below the top and a fluorescent indicator about six feet up the tippet. He’d put the boat just upstream of an eddy that brought the strong current back upstream. There was some foam and little sticks and grass showing a good clear line and that’s where Pete wanted me to put the fly. A decent roll cast put it close and within a second the orange indicator made a tiny dip, “NOW!” shouted Pete and I pulled back sharp, sending each fly to wrap itself like spaghetti around a fork on the cottonwood branches behind me. “Good trigger” was all Pete had to say which disappointed me a little since he was known for cussing out his clients for the slightest miscue. I didn’t want any special treatment. I rescued my flies, one of my true talents, and we resumed fishing, my heart beating a little harder and determination making me grit my teeth.
Another roll cast in the next eddy and a good hard smack put me into the strongest fresh water fish I’ve felt on a fly rod. The line in my hand ran out fast and I was just ready to get on the reel. Jim and Pete were both shouting “give him line, give him line” The nice three pound rainbow jumped ten yards from the drift boat and broke off. Reeling in a limp line is never a good feeling and this time, accompanied by Jim’sadly shaking head and Pete’s muttered, “asshole” it came in so, so slowly and so, so empty. A mostly hidden smile made me understand I was being tag teamed and Pete tied on two more flies. I was watching the knot carefully this time. Pete put us in eddy after eddy. We usually waited our turn for a guided drift boat to finish a run before we even started it. Pete wasn’t worried about the previous boat spoiling the water. They didn’t know where the fish were. I did notice that each boat that could, was carefully eyeing ours, Pete’s boat being recognized and his wizardry spied upon at every opportunity. I finally landed my first
Working an eddy close to the bank, Jim on his cell phone, suddenly says to Pete, “Did you see that?”
“That’s the second time” Pete answered. We continued nymphing. “There he is again Godammit” Even I could see now. Jim and Pete were completely transfixed on a fairly regular slurping on the surface about fifty yards down stream. Jim stopped fishing and looked at Pete. “I think we can get him” The strategy session began with the approach which required pulling out into the main current, drifting down about a hundred yards and pulling hard against the full current till we could beach the boat down stream of the rising fish. That done, Jim tied on a good sized dry fly. We were all standing on the gravel bank and that single, determined trout was still rising about every 30 seconds, slurping something off the surface about thirty yards out. The bank of the river was covered with brush. A submerged barbed wire fence showed where the water should have been about fifteen feet from the current high level. The water was deep and strong. You wouldn’t want to lose your footing here. You’d be coming out way down stream if you did. Like clock work the trout kept coming up. Each rise was somewhere within a fifty yard long seam that must have held just what that trout was hungry for. Jim worked his way into the water. It was quickly past his waist as he inched out beyond the barbed wire. The trout rose again, this time way out of casting range, too far upstream. “Guess he’s gone now” said Pete. Jim just kept inching his way out a little further the current making a gurgling sound on his waders and forming a V behind him. The fish rose again, this time straight out and Jim started casting. Jim’s cast was hard and fast. The line did not loop gracefully behind but shot back and forth with power, his rod making a sharp whiffling sound through the air, easily making the distance nearly a third of the way across the Missouri River. The fly touched the water and the fish rose about fifteen yards upstream. Jim cast again to the new spot and let the fly drift. The fish rose again about fifteen yards downstream. Jim cast again but this time kept the fly in the air with false casts till the trout showed. “There he is” whispered Pete. Jim had seen it and set the fly down about a foot downstream of the circle, still visible on the water. There was no doubt that the fish would hit and it did, so innocently, so certain that this fat fly, gently touching down was just another gift from god. The trout’s greedy slurp was met with a resounding strike from Jim and Jim’s rod bent hard as the huge rainbow leapt into the air. I’d only seen steelhead this large and marveled that Jim and Pete could have this resource at their back door. “I can’t believe it” I said to Pete as Jim fought the fish “that was perfect!”
“Oh he’s a top gun all right. This is what it’s all about here”
Jim had the fish on for about ten minutes then released it in the shallows. It was the only rising fish of the day, the only fish worth going after for these two fishermen. It made their day of fishing worth while and turned mine into a deeper understanding of the levels of trout fishing. Like any pursuit, there are beginners, journeymen and then there are those who have made it an art, who understand the ebb and flow of the entire world that surrounds their passion and have mastered a small part of it. To witness the art has shown me a higher bar to reach for and a reason to pursue it.
Drifting back down to our take out point at Craig, there was a sudden screeching overhead. Just over our heads, not fifty feet above was an osprey with a fat, 14 inch fish in its talons. The fish was still writhing, hoping to escape its certain fate. A bald eagle had just descended on the osprey and an aerial dogfight ensued right over out heads, wings were beating each other and screeching was coming from both of the huge birds matched nearly equally in size but with the eagle having a clear advantage since it’s talons were free. Suddenly, seemingly from nowhere, the osprey’s mate charged onto the scene diving between the two fighting raptors. Now, out numbered, the eagle beat a retreat soaring away into the
“You don’t see that every day” said Jim
“No you don’t” said Pete, then after a long pause, “I don’t know what all the fuss was about. It was just a white fish”
It's funny how there are some things that just never dim in your memory, no matter how long they reside there. I reckon that for everyone who knew
I had never met Jim before Senator Baker and Jim Cannon hired me to work as his deputy in the summer of 1982, so I imagined we might both be a little tense when we were first introduced. I became somewhat more so when the first thing he said to me was, "So, you're from
I learned so much from you, Jim. Mostly, (except for the whiskey and the cussing) it was all stuff that I probably should have learned in kindergarten, but you made it all real in life: share with others and do unto them as you would have them do; learn to stand up for what's right, and learn to stand up for yourself, but if the two should ever conflict, go with the first; play fair and clean up your own mess; try to take a nap every day and live a balanced life; watch out for traffic and stick together. It was all pretty simple, but your application of those basic tenets in the rarified atmosphere of the US Senate enabled you to chart a course that left those of us who knew you then in considerable awe.
And you were always so danged human...I remember one time when I had worked some issue in a manner that approached the sideline, and you picked up on it and let me have it with both barrels. It wasn't the fire in your language, but my own sense of having run afoul of our code that caused me to drop my head; that and the tears that welled in my eyes. And then you were quiet, and that made it worse so that I really started to weep. And then, after a few more seconds, you said, "Oh hell, Jamie, I cry all the time." And then you did. I guess it was a pretty good thing nobody walked into the office just then.
After my first daughter was born, you assured me that I would be OK with girls even though I had grown up, like you, in a family of four boys. You were right, Boss. When our string of daughters culminated in the arrival of twin girls almost ten years later, you told me I would survive that too. You were right again, Boss. And you were always among the first to reach out to offer comfort during my times of loss. A friend in need....It didn't matter if it had been six weeks or six months...That's just something that people should do for each other, much less good friends...Help people when they are hurting.
And then there was all the hunting and fishing and dogs and scenery and weather, and all the wonderful people and good lasting friends I met because of you. I can't even begin to catalogue all those years of experiences. Whether waterfowling on the Eastern Shore or shooting doves in Davidsonville, or wade fishing for smallmouths and catfish in the Potomac, or fishing mackerel schools off headboats out on Delaware Bay or chasing pheasants and partridge in Wyoming, or any of the rest of it, you made me grasp all that was within an easy reach. It was that part about a balanced life...I'm so happy we finally managed to pull together that quail hunt at the Palomas Ranch in South Texas last year, because I sure owed you.
I still do. Because in these past eight days you have reminded me of another of those things that I probably first learned in kindergarten but fail to remember as a fundamental truth, and that is that all of God's creatures will die in time. I'm sorry for all of us that it came so soon for you. As I sat there in the falling snow at Fletcher's yesterday among all your friends and family, I was really touched by your spirit and the outpouring of admiration and affection that your passing has brought. And I was genuinely inspired because I couldn't imagine that many of us will leave anything even remotely approaching the legacy that you crafted, Jim. It's a hell of a testament...Your life's work and your friendships and your outsized personality all are going to keep you around this Earth for a long, long time to come.
But, of course, you are already gone. Still, I will always listen for your voice on the wind over tall grass when I am working dogs in a field...and I know it will whisper, "Get ready!"
God's peace, my friend.
Jamie Baker
I've been thinking about you since we heard of your illness in October and wondering when you would return to keep us lined out at the Valles Caldera Trust here in
Stephen Henry, Chair Valles Caldera Trust
I met Jim in
felt like an old friend, like I had known him my whole life. Maybe
it was his roots in
for TRCP, or maybe as simple as we both liked fiddle music. He loved
the outdoors: fishing, hunting, spending precious days in the field
and on the water with his friends. Jim and I will meet again someday
and I'll play the fiddle for him and he'll smile and pat his foot and
talk about how things used to be. I will once again be reminded that
the qualities we love in friends, integrity, caring for others, and
passion for life was the code that Jim lived by.
I will remember him fondly,
Click here to read "In tribute to Jim"