Cascading Rainbows

About the Book

Cascading Rainbows, Hot Sex at Tree Island, Spud Noggin, Virgin Sturgeon, Sea Urchins in My Bathtub, Zurqui Zombies, Liquor Up Front Poker in the Rear, Scorpion Moon, Ratz and Flying Kinderfish are but a few of the eccentric titles heading each chapter of this alluring collection of humourous short stories. Not just a bunch of fish tales, more an illumination of incidents within and around going fishing. Such as...

"Oh great, I thought. Here I am, about to float through the valley of the shadow of death in an inflatable pontoon boat, with froggy little native boys lurking about with pointy poison sticks. I must say, my enthusiasm for drifting the river deflated slightly at the thought of playing pincushion or by having the air let out of my floats."

Or the likes of...

"Human pyrogenesis is an awesome natural spectacle, or so I have been told. I have never witnessed this phenomenon first hand, but have come close to it when I have unintentionally lighted myself on fire... Twice.

The first time it happened was when I went to light the kid's Halloween jack-o'-lantern. I quite absentmindedly stroked the wooden safety match forward along the abrasive strip on the side of the matchbox. As I did so, a minuscule flaming shard of sulfur flew off from the match tip on a spiraling rearward trajectory, which ended up touching down in my lap. Normally an event of this kind goes largely unnoticed as no damage accrues. However, this particular time I was wearing my new cotton/polyester blend terry cloth robe. It took a mere microsecond to ignite the fine fuzz covering the unwashed fabric. I gawked in disbelief as a ring of clear-blue flame spread upward toward my chest. The same way a flame follows gasoline fumes along the ground around a wet bonfire pile liberally doused with that liquid fuel, though in a slow motion kind of way. No real harm done, though, as I was able to suppress the conflagration by beating on my chest, while hollering in my best Tarzan imitation."

Enjoy!

About the Author

Dusty Miller is really an irascible curmudgeon at heart. You will see those traits surface within some of these tales. Mostly though, the author's wit and humour outshines any hint of rancor. Dusty Miller is the nom de plume taken on by Rory Glennie, the author of these and other fly-fishing tales. Dusty Miller is also the moniker of a great old-time British salmon fly. That the author and a fly pattern share the same name may be more than coincidence. It may simple be providence after the two first crossed lines years ago.

At age 10, Rory's earliest fly patterns were comprised of moulted budgerigar feathers, scraps of tinfoil, and trimmings of his own hair, all bound to a fishhook with Grandmother's scarlet buttonhole twist. They were killers for the diminutive white bass residing in the Grand River of Southern Ontario. A store bought "Dusty Miller" inspired those early specimens.

Forty years later, casting caricatures of baitfish fashioned from fluorescent-dyed polar bear hair, slender ribbons of flashy Mylar, and Bead Chain eyes proved attractive to giant tarpon haunting the tropical jungle rivers in Costa Rica.

His specks of fluff have also tickled grayling in Snowdonia, North Wales, buoyant Deer Hair Caddisflies have risen cutthroats in Wyoming's Snake River, and Purple Woolly Buggers hooked salmon on Washington's Chico Creek. Nearly a half-century of being a fly-fisher and ghillie has spawned a string of amusing narratives. You may indeed have been in similar situations.

Rory claims he would fish in a bathtub if there was the remotest chance that he might catch something. Meanwhile, local rivers, lakes, beaver bonds and saltwater beaches occupy his time until the next adventure lures him away; however, he finds that coastal B.C. offers such great home waters he is hesitant to leave.