Characters Can't Compete With Little Joe

Reprinted from the column Outdoors with Paul Bruun, September 2003, appearing in the Jackson Hole News and Guide.

My introduction to the Allen family came on a chilly March afternoon at Rancho Buena Vista along Baja's East Cape, when Leonard "Boots" Allen stepped off his fishing cruiser. A sudden weight shift moved the waiting dinghy, and Boots splashed into the Sea of Cortez. The subsequent bellowing and sputtering antics delighted both the Mexican boateros and other fishermen. At dinner that evening, Boots demanded that I visit him and his family in Jackson.

"I've got two boys your age who absolutely love to fish and hunt. You will love 'em," Boots admitted. His wife, Gail, agreed.

That September I complied, arriving at Fort Jackson to join Joe and Dick and their wives, Joey and Annis, on a two-raft float trip on the Snake between Wilson and South Park. Everything the elder Allens claimed about the skills and enthusiasm of their sons was true. That was a memorable day in 1969. Little did I realize that in 1973 I would accept a newspaper job in Jackson and ultimately begin writing columns and magazine articles about Joe's fly creations and serve on the Town Council with Dick.

Thursday evening I learned that Joe Allen departed our mortal surroundings almost exactly 35 years from the time we first met. Joe turned 60 in July. He was in poor health and had suffered from a number of physical afflictions that began long ago when an automobile accident left his back badly injured. Despite many problems, Joe delighted hundreds of friends with his talents. Joe Allen never met a stranger, always proudly introducing himself as "Little Joe from Jackson Hole."

It is difficult to pick an area in which Joe excelled most. He was truly masterful as a storyteller, an ability obviously inherited from Boots and then finely tuned. Yet he could be equally cantankerous and protective of his fishing techniques and territories. Overall, I always admired his keen observation skills and creativity with numerous outdoor venues.

No matter where or when Joe and I met, he always had an amusing anecdote. One of my favorites surrounded a Heart Lake trip when Boots used to take an old Jeep in there and set up a fishing camp. Early one morning, Joe was wandering around the camp and spotted a young black bear perched in a tree. For fun, Joe popped the bear with a pebble from his slingshot.

"That bear lit out of that tree for the ground and came after me at 60 miles an hour," Joe chuckled. "I took off and ran right through the middle of camp campfire and all the bear hot on my tail. I jumped into our boat that was sitting on the bank and paddled out. That bear came right into the water but fortunately, finally it lost interest and left!" If you knew Joe, it's easy to picture this scene.

Every time I'm in the Deadman's Bar area I think about Joe's scheme to take a canoe for a winter float down the Snake to Wilson. He embarked on this over-snow launching episode either near the Snake River Overlook or down through the Deadman's Trail. Wherever it was, he got the canoe going like a luge racer and after clanging into plenty of trees and rocks, it finally went crashing down to the river. Joe recalled that day of fishing wasn't worth the terrible beating the operator, canoe and all the gear took!

Speaking of winter reminds me of Joe's disciplined hours behind his Thompson "A" fly-tying vise and the hundreds of thousands of dry flies he and his family produced to stock the Fort Jackson bins. During the winter of 1980-81, with a 15,000-fly order schedule, Joe made a tiny slipup that happily placed him squarely and forever in the fly fishing history books.

After days of tying his familiar and favored Humpy patterns, Joe switched to wrapping the venerable Joe's Hopper, a fly requiring a longer-shanked hook. Despite the size 8 Mustad hopper hook in the vise, Joe's fingers made another Humpy. When the fly was complete, he noticed half a hook remained! Rather than cut the fly apart and tie the planned hopper, Joe decided to add a second Humpy in the remaining hook space. Thus Joe Allen's Double Humpy was born.

Cutthroats eagerly approved of Joe's big fuzzy creation as he had clients float it into brush piles and log jams along the Snake that summer. Joe had stopped to fish the "Telegraph Pool" and hailed me to the bank. "Try this fly I made by accident last winter. It's really working. Be sure to fish it so tight to the brush that it leaves a trail of sawdust."

Soon just about everyone jumped on the "Double Humpy" bandwagon. In addition to his own stock and custom orders, Joe was even filling fly compartments for Jack Dennis and other local shops. Double Humpies began appearing internationally.

Just for fun, check out Joe's creation on the Internet. You'll discover foreign-language Web sites with the only two recognizable words being "Double Humpy."

Now it's time to say, "So long, Joe. I'll see you when I see you. Until then I want you to know, as your son's guide friend Hunter Ford says,

'There will never, ever be a Double Humpy tied the right way again.'"

(Thanks to Margaret Mills of Jackson Hole, WY for sending this along to the Flyline.)