bikes, fish, and freedom

Parting Shot

2012-02-05T10:55:00.000-08:00

Hope you had a great bird season. Here's to the next one.

I have this near my desk to keep my mind in the right place.

From Guns and Ammo, December 1970

Gene Hills "Parting Shot" column.

Sing me the old songs.

Tell me the stories of times gone by.

I want to spend an evening or so with you to

hear about your dogs.

I want to see your guns.

I want to read your favorite books.

I want to warm my hands in front of your

fire and try your pipe tobacco and taste

your whisky.

I want to see the old brown pictures you've

always saved.

The pictures of the stern-faced men wearing

hip boots and brown overalls with rusty

wool caps pulled down over their eyes.

The pictures of men who wore neckties and

soft flannel shirts and breeches and leggings

standing by braces of stiff-necked,

rib-sprung pointers with the quail wagons

behind them.

I want to see yourself in a blue work shirt

buttoned at the neck, with your kitchen

haircut and your .22 and that big-eyed pup.

Do you remember all the names?

Tell me them.

Talk to me about the horses.

Talk to me about the dogs.

And the L.C. Smith, the Parker, the Baker,

the Lefever and the Ansley H. Fox.

Tell me about the cold and the wind and the

sea and the river and the kettle pond.

Fill my mind with pictures of your prairies,

your swamps, your sedge fields, your

mountains and your endless plains.

Tell me too, about the times you didn't shoot

for some sweet secret reason of your own.

I want to hear the stories about Charley and

Jimmy and Ed.

Could they build a fire?

Did they get lost?

Could they track?

Make me laugh with the stories about the day

Irv never got a shot and old Belle brought

him a quail, still warm, she'd found and

put in his hand.

Let me hold the puppy on my lap.

Let me scratch the old dogs belly while she

warms her backside by the fire.

Fill my glass again and pass me the wooden

bowl with the apples in it.

Talk to me about the bee tree cutting.

Tell me how deep the ice pond was.

Show me how you call ducks.

Tell me how you make a rabbit stew.

Who was the best shot you ever saw?

Who always got his buck?

What's your favorite excuse of all the ones

you've heard?

Why is it, do you suppose, that men have

stopped telling lies the way they used to do?

Take me with you to the places with the names

I like.

Take me to the Superstition Mountains

where the white wing and mourning doves

come in flights like feathered clouds.

Take me along the gentle curvings of the

Tombigbee.

Show me the big horn sheep that feed above the

Prophet River.

And the elk along the bank of the Yellowstone.

And the Badlands bear picking berries.

And the woodcock flighting to the Merrimack.

And the wild turkey in the Dismal Swamp.

Time does not exist where these things never change.

Listen... don't you hear the same quail call

and the mallard stutters as the men in the

faded brown pictures?

Sing me the old songs.

Tell me the stories of times gone by.

Exploration

2012-01-19T10:26:00.000-08:00

Your most trusted chukar buddy mumbled about it over a few pints of Icky. Saw a good grip of birds on his failed muley trip this fall. His reminiscent mind still fixated on blowing a prime shot on a wall hanger. More pints consumed. Plans hatched. Leave work early on Friday. Truck loaded. Dogs spazzed - they always know, sometimes before you do.

The long drives to the unknown reaches of the basin are always filled with great conversation - catching up, calling out, giving shit, taking shit, and usually an all around social health check up on your best friends. Found out one of mine is getting married. Poor bastard.

Camp is a mild affair. No wall tent, just the back of the truck with a damn good bag and a heavy tarp.

First light allows you the first sizing up. Those hills stare back and never blink.

Glassing the hills in October will not prepare you for climbing them in January. Lots of vertical. Lots of dog carrying. Should have brought climbing shoes. We're both young men in great shape, but this country has a way of humbling anyone.

After a few slices of humble pie, we were satisfied in our curiosity.

It's a fine itch to scratch.

Sofie is also a window licker.

Home means Nevada.

2012-01-01T17:04:00.000-08:00

The Great Basin has a hold on me. I'm proud to enjoy its desolate bounty.

Stage 3: The Thrill Of It All

2011-12-05T20:00:00.001-08:00

I've been home for a week, feeling naked starting over again from scratch. The basic ingredients of this minimalist cake being a few pieces of baggage packed a few months ago in an irreverent daze; comprising of all my worldly material values and which are now stacked haphazardly in an otherwise empty bedroom. We all sacrifice, we all accept the things we deem worthy of such acts in our own way.

I had an absolutely wonderful time doing this. 3,000 miles of things I won't forget, things I'll dwell upon, and none of it wasted on an empty heart. I gave it my all and then some, and gave it hell till the end.

No, I didn't make it to Argentina. Am I upset? Am I nauseous? Am I going to disappear for a few months in isolated depression over this again?

No.

I worked out my demons, for lack of a better term, and they are kept in their places: Always in the corners of my eyes till they can't be ignored any longer. They're tired, but far from dead, my eyes far from shifting.

I believe the paradigm has shifted for me. I'd hope that in my relentless evaluations and self-discoveries and growth rings and wrinkles over the past 5 years that the values I'd hold today would be far different than what was apparent when I hatched this scheme at 23.

A lot of travel and minimalistic living is self-discovery. I discovered, recovered, and buried more things in 2 months than I have in years. Deprive yourself of nothing but what you need and you will find everything that you don't.

One of the things I noticed is this:
Touring on the road has become a bore to me. The dangers faced on a rural highway are much in the same vein as those faced in a suburban white girls lonely bedroom. I am not a fan of the populous, of civilization, order, contact. These things prove themselves time and again as reliable undercurrents. I felt gently pulled away from the things I find comfort in, like solitude, self-reliance, and uncertainty. Undoubtedly you will find these things on the highway, just in a much more mild dose.

Any further adventures will be on a much different scale and flavor, and I hope you will join along.

I guess you can call it the roots of a progression. In any case, I am glad for it.

Here are some more pictures from the journey, enjoy.

Ran over this poor bastard. Only creepy crawly I got a good shot of on the mainland, all the rest of them run too fast. He was about tea-cup size, his Olympic sprinter buddies were salad plate size.

Shade is awesome.

This dog was eating scraps out of a burning trash fire, some flames in its mouth. How far would you go for a meal?

First dorado on a fly. Yeah, I gripped and grinned, but who wouldn't after ten beers in the tropic sun and an ocean fish who ripped your trout rod to the edges of hell?

Captain Victor's tip. A bucket full o' bonito.

Three seconds after hook-set, and I'm deep into backing town.

These guys are insanely powerful. Bringing a 10wt next time.

Captain Victor has some photog skills. He probably had a Marlboro Red in each hand as well.

Best beach camp sunrise ever.

Best beach camp sunrise ever part 2.

Fished here for an hour. Then I saw natives doing some crazy ceremony upstream.

Hurricane damage. This tree was HUGE. That is a house on the right.

Stage 2: Tijuana to Puerto Vallarta

2011-11-16T08:11:00.001-08:00

DISCLAIMER: This post is mainly photos for now, more verbiage later.. Mexican Internet Çafe´s have unusable keyboards. I could be here all day.

Baja is trying to kill you.

You´ll climb and descend some of the scariest roads you can imagine, with trucks whizzing by and shoulders that drop off into certain messy ends.

It´s really not that bad. People in Mexico are extremely friendly - offering you encouragement and honks, food and water, and always a place to stay.

I met Brian in Ensenada. We rode through Baja together, and from Mazatlan to Puerto Vallarta.

Cooking dinner hidden in a wash near a weird town.

Camped near Catavina in a valley full of Cirio trees, saguaro, and amazing giant granite boulders.

Giant Saguaro

Catavina

This lil´buddy flew into the breakfast joint in Catavina, I helped him find his way out.

It´s a big place.

Not much here but your thoughts.

Only shade for a couple hundred kilometers. It was awesome.

The long flat road from Guerro Negro.

Extinct volcano chain in the clouds.

Jungle Jim has a brother in Mexico!

Chris Costas secret bar in Loreto.

Bahia de Concepcion

Robin and I having a tan line contest.

Bike Train! Brian, Abe, Robin!

So many roadside shrines and crosses in Mexico, always keeping you on your toes.

Brian found some sweet ass shoes..

But they fit Robin way better. They were Cortez´s long lost magic shoes.

Beauty of a sunrise.

Abe and Robin were packing surf boards, they rode from Tahoe to Oregon and down the coast through Baja. Studs.

Abes sweet pride wheel.

More of that beauty of a sunrise.

Carlos was all about helping us, we camped at his farm.

Carlos showing Abe where the surf´s at.

Brian and I made it to La Paz!

The dirty ferry we were on for nearly 20 hours. Got sick from some food while on there, not super fun.

The moon and the Sea of Cortez

The mainland is green, lush, hot, and humid. This guy was mobbing with his sugar cane.

Machaca = Breakfast of champions.

The ole fashioned way.

Tepic is beautiful.

Jungle on the way down to Puerto Vallarta.

Here are some random iPhone photos !

Stage 1: California

2011-10-25T12:52:00.000-07:00

Big Sur

PCH near Half Moon Bay

Above the clouds at the top of Big Sur

Big Sur.

I'm sitting in my cousins apartment in San Diego, attempting to reflect on the past two weeks, but I'm distracted. The landscapers go about the edges between concrete and non-native grasses, the man across the way has the television on Fox news and it's so loud I can hear the words on the ticker at the bottom of the screen, the neighbors eye me and my appearance is a bit too disheveled for their tastes. The perception of reality is a funny thing, at best.

I have resumed my life's ambition (thus far) to cycle to the End of the Earth in Tierra Del Fuego, Argentina. I left from my parents house in Sattley, California where I plunged over the Sierras on a long, rain soaked October 10th. To be back on the road is a relief I still don't have words for, so a satisfied smile will need to suffice. I have been agonizing and driving myself mad since July 3, 2010, when I had a freak fall from my bike and was forced to face reality and come home after only a few days. That wound is slowly closing, yet still nagging as to not forget how easy it can all disappear.
It feels more comfortable living this way again with every pedal stroke south.

I am not 23 anymore. I always used to laugh when the doctors told me skateboarding and snowboarding would catch up to me later in life. I have discovered ibuprofen is your friend and that I need to move a little slower with a loaded bike. Not that it's a bad thing, it's good to be forced to slow down and enjoy what's around you a bit more thoroughly.

To tell you the truth, the past two weeks through California have felt more like a vacation than an adventure so far. The adventure highlights include a three legged half tailed raccoon who was trying to pull a candy bar from my pillow, having to ride about 10 miles down the I-5 because it's safer than not wearing a helmet on a military base, riding through South Central LA and Compton in a full spandex roadie kit, and bombing down the Yuba pass in a sleet storm.

I have had the pleasure of visiting with so many old friends, and making a lot of new ones along the way.

My old buddy Joe just moved home from Hawaii, and he was nice enough to ride with me from Yuba Pass to Downieville on the first day. Yes, it was very wet. Joe is the most stoked human on Earth at any given time. Thankfully, he has put this energy into positive things.

Sean and Nick were rad enough to let me hang out in San Francisco at their pad. An insane DIY warehouse that is eye opening to say the least. Used to live/Pal around with these crazies in Southern California. Good dudes!

Ben and Elissa took me in in Santa Cruz. Their back porch has the best ocean view ever. They are by far, the best WarmShowers people I've ever encountered. They are my kind of people, through and through. Someday I will aspire to their outdoor coupleness. Yeah, I just made that word up. Ben's bluegrass band is awesome, check them out at http://thebluetailflies.com/?section=home

Matt is one of my bestfriends of all time. It was awesome seeing him and his fiance Molly in Monterey. They have two cat children, and somebodies face got ripped soon after this shot.

Matt and Lawnmower cat checking out his roadside purchase.

Steven and Mia. Steve is another one of those great friends that no matter how long you've been apart, you always are on the same page. I spent a few days with him in Silver Lake.

I some how didn't get any pictures of Mike and Erica, probably because they film EVERY THING YOU DO, but I had a great time with them, I got to watch For Thousands Of Miles for the first time, and we also got to go shoot the final shot of the film near Point Magu. Thanks for the glucosamine.

Sometimes you gotta take the tracks.

Elephant seals.

Bike Maintenance.

Things are about to become very real. 22.3 miles to the south of where I sit is the border of the United States and Mexico. I'm spending a few days in San Diego just to make sure I have everything that I need before I plunge over the border.
I am excited, to say the least, that this imaginary line that has been looming in the back of my mind is about to manifest itself in forms I have no control over, in foreign tongues and customs familiar and distant all the same time.
Vacation's over. Put your head down, grind it out, and smile.

Welp, Here We Go.

2011-10-09T20:29:00.000-07:00

Round 2. I've dreamed about redemption for my most epic life fail since it happened in Alaska 15 months ago. My bike is packed, my head is spinning, my body is about to get worked into Greek status once again.

Let's get out of Dodge. You're more than welcome to follow along with me, right here on this blog.

I'm gonna try to keep the rubber side down this time.

Some good words to fit my mood.

"And this ain't no place for the weary kind
This ain't no place to lose your mind
This ain't no place to fall behind
Pick up your crazy heart and give it one more try."

Stay tuned..

Yeah, I'm Gonna Miss A Good One..

2011-10-09T19:39:00.000-07:00

Possibly the best one in my short career. It looked like a Hitchcock film out there. Nevada is in for it this year. Go to the spots you recognize on the photos at the hunting conglomerates Glory Walls. Tomorrow it's rubber to the road. See you next year, you tasty bitches.

Spoiled! Or, Why Dogs are Djods: Reason #233

2011-10-05T16:42:00.000-07:00

She's in there, hyper-actively searching, fixing my mistake, on my behalf.

Because I'm not swimming through brush so thick even the dog has to exhale to get through it to find the bird that I stupidly dropped there.
Thanks Rosie. I owe you another one.
The grouse are on to you, noisy breather.

I am spoiled as hell to be able to walk out the back door of my folks house and run into 3 different kinds of wild upland birds in less than an hour, as well as all the waterfowl, deer, and all of it is centered on a fantastic brown trout stream.

Check every bush, twice.

My backyard since I was born.

I am spoiled.

Goodbye, Truckee.

2011-10-05T12:35:00.000-07:00

I love the Truckee.

I learned to fly fish here, and mastered the art of avoiding people on its sometimes crowded banks. I met one of my best friends in the world fishing it, the dude above. I had no wading boots at the time, just trodding along on a snowy New Years Eve in some Vans skate shoes I had in the back of my truck when I ran into this dude. We hit it off and he sold me some cheap ass boots at the shop a few days later. I also stuck my first fish on a dry fly I had tied myself that day, a fly that I just realized is still stuck in the visor of my truck - which I sold two days ago.
It was a good last day on the water with the Gil. We didn't bring down the house, but we did have a great time and came up with another series of inside jokes that only get more hilarious as we get balder, fat, and increasingly ugly.

See you in April, ye ole beast. Keep the runoff away for at least a day so I can get tugs.

This Is It.

2011-09-30T09:35:00.000-07:00

I've kept it under wraps for months and months. I didn't tell a god damn soul until 2 months ago. I don't think I could deal with another failure like Alaska last year. That still stings more than you can know.

I'm jumping on my bike and pedaling south, either to the end of the world in Tierra Del Fuego or until I run out of money, whichever suits me.

Last day of work today.
First day of homelessness.

I am sticking around till the 10th - The 8th is the first day of chukar in Nevada, and the first Sharks game of the regular season is that night. Birds and hockey.

I need to be humbled. I need to get away from this town. I need to get out of the first world.
Too many complainers, too many complacent people dragging me down.

It's hard for most people to understand why you would want to get rid of nearly all of your possessions and ride a bicycle alone for months at a time.

That's fine. Hopefully I can explain a bit of the why the next few months.

First leg - Reno to San Diego.

Keep your ears open.

Rocking for Mounties.

2011-09-11T13:29:00.000-07:00

The grass was Jurassic Park sized. Saw 4 raptors. And a triceratops.

You can kick every chunk of manzanita, or you can hire some hyper dogs.

First tacos of the year.

It was a good start to the season.

Thanks Djod!

2011-09-05T17:32:00.000-07:00

For holiday weekends and hell raising.

For both Joe and Coach falling in the river at the exact same time on opposite banks. (Snipers are always the excuse.)

For the golden stones deciding to hatch in August/September this year and the crack like response from the troots.

For Joe's father and his thick South African accent (which in a quiet room is, at best, barely decipherable) and his incessant need to tell you every detail of what he's doing two riffles down over the roar of mid-river - "Eh, Lar-ree! Goableshaunts and piss coff tanquas! Ahahahah ehh?!!"

Sure thing, Mr. Bentel.

Catching an all dry fly grand slam on the Truckee.

Hooking a cutthroat on the bait chuckin' leader loop sticking 3 inches out of his mouth.

And a special "You're an asshole, a real big one." to the guy typing away on his smart phone for over an hour whilest his young son struggled to figure out what fishing was all about.

A good few days on the water. Bird season (the first one I care about) is in 4 days. See you and your dog in the hills.

Bummer, Snake.

2011-08-30T17:46:00.000-07:00

Idaho falls victim to itself.

Via the Spokesman-Review.

Option Paralysis, Creeping Thoughts, and a Shotgun.

2011-08-29T19:11:00.000-07:00

I've been suffering from option paralysis lately.

I also believe time's not your friend.

Dog days, stagnation, microcosmic attention span, dirty office job, the need to prolong the lengthening of tooth.

I guess what I'm trying to get at is this: I'm really fucking glad I get to go shoot quail with my dog in 12 days.

Ron Popeil is slapping himself right now...

2011-07-30T13:46:00.000-07:00

"Stupid, STUPID, stupid Ron.. I know I shoulda used the Pocket Fisherman money to research a post-mortem game bird taser... God damit."

I'm not going to go on a tirade on the merits of purist hunting, but I will say this:

This shit needs to stop. Seriously.

I do welcome the hunting industry's awesome marketing contingent. This commercial makes me laugh to no end.

You really are the Man.

2011-07-29T23:41:00.000-07:00

And there was a gnashing of teeth, and many wept. You will need to crank the volume on this one. And tuck that tenkara rod into the regions spoiled.

I have a love/hate relationship with this man. That being said, after a terrible bout of luck for anybody, (especially an extremely active person) he's now not making excuses and taking longbow shots at whitetails from the ground out of a wheelchair. Mad props to you Mr. Barta. Stick to those guns by using wizard weapons, ridiculous notions that make more sense as I age, ridiculous notions that are just ridiculous, and never, EVER change that god damn theme song.

On the Present and the Desires of Memory

2011-07-22T16:21:00.000-07:00

A pull towards fishing, singletrack, birds, breasts. The moon always sipping these thoughts from you on the back porch. Fishing with your brothers when as far as you're concerned nobody else is on the same earth. Rolling against fast packed berms in high country wildflower fields while this years first coveys burst clear for the brush below. Your dog gaining your trust in matters of scent and location of things desirous to the both of you. Nibbling at ears that have been pierced since she would call boys "gross" and feeling her face squirm against your stubble.

These things trouble me.

A good sit is required to silently discuss any memory of catching them while they matter most.
They always matter most to me when I'm with them. If you could have all of them at once, your heart and head would split clean in four and you would never be able to use them properly again. Don't dote in the past. Don't proselytize to the uninitiated for the sake of their future and yours. Don't ask questions. Don't look up to that moon or mumble aloud, there are no answers in those places. That giant raccoon that just ran across the top of the back fence has as many answers as you do.

You cannot best yourself by attempting to remain younger than you are at heart.

All I know is the following: I love tall blondes with blue eyes who talk back when needed. Game birds who hold till the smartest second, not the last. Fish that don't need to be grip and grinned. Bike rides so painful they make you wish you were dead before they're over. The look in my dogs eyes when she drops a bird in my hand.
And the fact I use this place as a sounding board to commit to a false memory all the simple things that have come to define the excitement in my voice.

Jude's First Casting Lesson

2011-07-18T23:30:00.000-07:00

I never want to see another grip and grin for the rest of my life.

Randoms of the Summer thus Far.

2011-07-08T19:06:00.000-07:00

Coach ate some mud.

Game Face.

Post Game Face

Trout Treats at Fanny Bridge. Frowned upon by hippy tourists.

Don't go to the dentist, eat dirts instead.

Summoning William Dance.

Team Jorts post-winning the Lake Tahoe 8 Hour.

Jesse D Reeves Winning

Jesse D Reeves Losing, almost severely.

Summoning the Cherokee Falls Bandits.

Fuck you winter.

Fuck you Crank Brothers. Winner, World's Shittiest Pedal! After just two rides!

Back Side of the Sierra Buttes, which happen to be my power source, from the top of Halls Ranch.

Mid-ride Crisis

Too many cooks in the kitchen.

Fish bites back.

RAAM!!!

2011-06-14T21:54:00.000-07:00

You wanna go on a lil' ride tomorrow? How about riding across the country from Oceanside, California to Annapolis, Maryland. Let's make it a race, shall we? And let's say you're going to do it by yourself (plus support crew to hand you snacks and fresh chamois creme), sleeping less than an hour a day, spending 23 hours a day in the saddle, for no more than 12 days because if you take longer than that to ride 3000 miles sea to shining sea IT DOESN'T FUCKING COUNT. Welcome to RAAM, The Race Across America.
This is the toughest bike race on Earth. The Tour De France crowd can't hold a candle to this. The only two I can think of that compare are Iditabike (yes, the Iditarod Trail, on bikes, in the winter) and the Great Divide Mountain Bike Race down the spine of the Rockies. But RAAM's pace, its mental and physical torture are unmatched by anything on Earth. I'm not stating this as a matter of opinion, experience, or arrogance. This race makes you insane. The proof is in the pudding. Solo Men start tomorrow, so pay attention. It will blow your mind. ---- > RAAM WILL KILL YOU.
Here's a teaser from Bicycle Dreams.
Gets weird at 1:50.

Three Eyes

2011-06-08T20:05:00.000-07:00

I think Sophie found the long lost matching eye.

French Bass and Fly!

2011-06-06T20:37:00.000-07:00

"Il attrape des poissons syrah et de boissons."

Gotta love Coach. First time fishing a popper on the fly yesterday, in a downpour, with a bottle of syrah. And he battles this lil' beauty. Congrats house sharing man.

Goodbye, Spatchanko.

2011-06-06T20:04:00.000-07:00

Spatchanko and I have had quite the relationship over the years. So much so I don't remember much of it. Mainly some broken objects scattered around town with the occasional random piece of property magically sitting in my living room when I come around in the morning. The cover-tuck shame at first light waking up next to Night Beasts I would have never given the nod to. Money gone from my wallet, a lot of it in fact. Meeting the same people multiple times. Remembering nothing.
It's a damn curse to be charming and persuasive. But that's not me.

I'm pretty damn sick of Spatchanko.

So I'm cutting him off. No booze for 60 days. August 5.

Today happens to be the 4th anniversary of my bike ride across the country. That also took 60 days.
The more I've thought about it, I haven't felt very challenged since August 5, 2007.
So here's to Sober Sixty Summer.
Why broadcast this to you all? I need some accountability and there's no greater motivator then the "You can't, you won't." crowd. So bring it on.
And if you see a few pics of booze and fishing, biking and such on this blog before August 5 - They ain't mine.

Day Ruiner

2011-06-05T20:07:00.000-07:00

Way to almost mess the whole day up. Rookie. Take note that he not only jumped the fence with the open cooler on his back, he also sprayed that "Fancy Brown Ale" everywhere.

Beards vs. Buff

2011-05-31T21:39:00.000-07:00

The closest compromise between the Beard and the Buff.

Man has grown soft in the past few Millennia. He's gone from spearing mammoths and battling sabre-tooth thunder cats for the rites to eat and survive in an ice age Hellfest to gently shooing his wife's inbred designer house cat from the organic Tofurkey leftovers lying on his Swedish table set in a gated community condo, 24 hour security patrol of course.
Evolution, progression, change, call it what you will. It's our world. We own it and some of you even accept it and all of us embrace it in our own strange ways. We don't really have a choice with most things thrown at us at T3 speeds these days. Embrace or Die.
One thing I will never embrace is the Buff. You know, The BUFF.

I'm Here for the free coffee and bass jigs. I also just robbed a Subway.

The uncapped multi-functional Swiss Army scarf that's taken the Fly Bro world by storm. It's a hat, a beanie, a scarf, a neck condom, an iPhone app, a chuff rag, and an all around invaluable tool for the Utilitarian head dress fanatic.
What ever happened to protecting your face and neck with a beard? I know some of you were born soulless and/or female* and are incapable of growing a beard. I know a beard won't cover your head and if you're like me and losing the hair battle daily, covering that thinning scalp forest takes more precedent with each outing (TANGENT - I do look forward to rocking an intense combover on a windy day in the future, the not as far as I wish future). So Buff chalk one up for your bald spot coverage, but you will never replace a sweet ass hat. Face "protection" is the battle here. So with out further adieu, The Beard vs. The Buff Showdown.

Buy him a drink or he'll make a scepter from your skull plates.

Bars - Beard - Instant Cred. Anywhere, everywhere. You put time into that mouth and neck helmet. We all know it. We'll just buy you a shot of whiskey at the bar and when you look our way and nod just once we can safely assume you just got out of the backwoods from your latest successful trapping season. We assume you put down a good mule 'cause it was slowing you down' and possibly ran naked with wolves because you were raised by them. We won't mention your likeness on that moose shed scepter, but we can all imagine the story behind it, and how he got you out of that avalanche in Grizzly Gulch back in '09.
Buff - You walk in with that broken condom on your neck. Girls laugh. Bartenders are baffled. The French laugh. The rednecks start conspiring, leering, and one of them slips a few quarters in the jukebox to conjure some David Allan Coe. You may not be walking out of here.
ADVANTAGE: BEARD

No shit. Who else?

Women - You think that suave and silly Buff protected baby face is going to swoop up all the ladies? Think again. You may get a few of the cookie cutter lame dames to check out your fishing rig with the spare Buff on the headrest and your Simms sungloves on the dash, but then she'll wonder if you need to be wiped every morning before she gives you your Snack Pack. When she's looking to step it up, she's calling for the Bearded. The beard is a Keeping It Real Filter. If she's a real woman, she's going to get at the real man. She's going to go see your shitty rust covered truck with a gun rack and mud from states she doesn't know the location of. She's going to see the way you don't give two shits. She will fall in love with you. But that's a mistake on her part. Beards are too damn tough for love.
ADVANTAGE: BEARD

WINNER: BEARD

Neither of these devices will help you fish, hunt, or ride bikes in an increased awesome manner, style points to the side of course. So Bars and Women are the categories. And the Beard won. I know some of you Nudests (Buff fanatics) will write me about being uptight and a hater. So now I present the practical sides to the Buff.


Ultra helpful if you're caught fishing carp in the bad part of the LA River.

Pretending you have a real bandana.

Mimicking an old hag from Kazakhstan. And updating your MySpace profile with it. Cause you still use MySpace.


Did I not mention - MAKING YOUR OWN TERRORIST VIDEOS!! (Beards also perform this function, and are far less cowardly.)


From the Runway to Burning Man, nothing can beat the versatility of the Buff. She also shoots skeet. He also loves Saved By The Bell.


Now sold in a convenient combo kit with ...

I'll probably be rocking one when the last of my head hair forest clear-cuts itself.

Or when I meet her...

*Asterisk

The Holy Dirty Revival

2011-04-20T16:59:00.000-07:00

About damn time winter. Back to Church, singing the praises of the Holy Dirt Revival.

Jebus, I missed you guys - singletrack, dusty burning lungs, mud caked water bottle mouth pieces, brush thrashed shins, ghostly knuckles, bloody limbs, broken parts, hyper-focus animalistic survival mode at high speed down the rock gardens.

It's the most tired you'll ever see a hunting dog. Chasing you feverishly on descents, running down all the quail in the brush ahead of you as you climb. A good dog always knows just what to do, like late season Seal Slides.

Nothing like a flat in an ultra creepy and secluded spot to speculate the intentions of the groups hidden serial murderer.

It's good to be out sweating, bleeding, and burning in the Dirty Cathedral.

When all things blow..

2011-04-06T10:42:00.000-07:00

Things get weird. Muddy turbines and whirlpools spinning above the base of willows at rivers edge. Dust Bowl Revival. Bloody Mary's. Bass still frozen. Carp water brown. Cheladas.

Scatterguns. Unlucky rabbit down range. Stuffed Animals. Dried up old unlucky bunny. Decimation of old cop target.

Making the best of things = Good day with your best friend.

Carp slough garbage wiper.

The Offseason

2011-03-17T09:17:00.000-07:00

Hiking with the dog and empty handed. Don't even want to see a bird. Withdrawals.
I wish fishing still had seasons. Guess that's why I love creeks in California so much.
The offseason is the only imposed form of self control that I can abide.
Second Saturday of October.
7 months is a long time.

Big Rock Candy Mountain 2011 Edition

2011-01-26T19:04:00.000-08:00

Ever been at the point your fridge looks like your conscience and your wallet at the same time? The following tips are approved by the Big Rock Candy Mountain 2011 Committee.

Step 1) Dig out that stuff sack with all your unused bike travel food from the past year. Pick out an awesome one you were saving for magical occasions like this. Cook water on hot.

Step 2) Add one freezer burned chukar breast.

Step 3) Substitute water for beer, ketchup (catsup) and rooster power for veggies.

Step 4) Enjoy!

Don't take this too seriously.

2011-01-18T21:07:00.000-08:00

Short sleeve shirts, January, and chukar don't seem to fit together. It seems like one of those dreams you have that even deep in slumber you know it's not quite right. Azure sky, mud and snow at about 50/50, good friends, better dogs, and the dose of reality: Next to no birds.

Perfect conditions for the average human activity usually mean the opposite to the game we pursue. You don't see birds sunning themselves midday on top of cliffs, strutting their stuff for the ladies and saying "Goddam Roy! What a beee-u-ti-ful day, eh?" At least not during scattergun season. Fishing on sunny days in the winter can provide some bent rods, but that's because fish in ice choked waters have a bit more appreciation for the sun than even we do. But you don't take these things to mind when you slap those boots on and take to the field. Optimism is a cheap, sexy whore. Realism is about the chase, climbing the mountain with an open mind and a light heart, because it's worth it. Don't take this seriously. We're running around with shotguns on steep and rocky mountain slopes where we don't belong, looking for a fucking bird that's only gifts are surviving here because it is exactly where it belongs.

Sometimes you get lucky, dumb lucky. And sometimes meeting everyone back at the trucks with the only pair of stiff legs poking out of your game bag with the best poker face you can pull is worth every muddy, sliding step.

Excuse the poor camera jerk shadow.

Tournado

2011-01-17T20:53:00.000-08:00

Muddy Buddy

I get that itch sometimes to go on a long, tortuous bike ride for no damn reason other than I need to kick the shit out of myself. To wake from the cloudy sleep and comforts that afford my very few luxuries any weight. On Thursday I was at work for about two hours, and two things happened. 1) There really wasn't a whole lot to keep me busy. 2) I had a wild hair up there and burning the demons out with a ride into a warmish winter storm front seemed like the best plan of action. I hate getting restless and I'm lucky to have a "temp" job that allows me to bail when my ADHD hits 5th gear. I may have just bought Top Ramen for the rest of the month, but it's well worth it. I don't only get to exercise those demons I don't want around, I get to revive the ones that only bike tours, death rides and brutal races can birth. There's a solitude in the saddle, a mental state that snaps on once you've settled in for 5 or more hours of steady cranking. Masochism is a theme here. There's a level of consciousness you can't explain to those who haven't pushed themselves to the breaking point. We don't talk about it, but we see it in others. It's definitely one of those things.

Sunbeams between the snow fronts.

I rode about 75 miles from Sparks to my parents home in California. Some in the dirt, most on the pavement, a little in the snow. I spent the last hour in the dark with out food or water in the tank, legs shaking as I pictured the cold beer my dad would hand me in a few minutes. In the gloaming I could make out the landmarks dear to me as a kid, the sun's last lights dropping like a night light from the high clouds and fog. My head was clear, my ass was handed to me. I smiled with the dirt in my teeth and laughed and coughed all at once. This is what it's all about. That and riding up the lowest pass in the Sierra's with a Lucha Libre mask on.

Headwinds, I still damn thee.

Summer Mountain Quail Recon; or A Mid-Winter's Singletrack Pining

2011-01-10T16:59:00.000-08:00

Best mountain quail scouting combo known to man, minus the rube playing with the spoke nipples and zip ties.

In late August the high country singletrack comes into its own. Most of the places we ride don't have guide book confirmation, so they aren't perma-muddied by 10,000 tires or the boots of le gapers. The snow and mud have subsided so it's not a slog fest, and it's not so dusty you look like a character from Dune. The beautiful blooms are just past their peak in the meadows and even if it's 90 degrees in the valley below, it's almost 70 way up here and it's gonna stay that way all day. We play on the crest because it's like another planet, and a damn good one until deer season opens. Oh yeah, and the trails we like to ride happen to be frequented by the most frustrating of upland birds - the mounty. They love the head high manzanita, the raspy altitudes, and the thick trees that we wind through. I see their tracks darting out of the springs during the midday water breaks, I see them run through the clear-cuts in the late evenings, and I count them in the mornings when Rosie busts them at the first ravine. Rosie runs full speed, dangerously close to my front wheel, which has resulted in both of us cursing and bloodied in the past. But with a smart dog it only takes once or twice to get with the program. I consider these rides as multi-sport multi-tasking: 1- We are mountain biking, and it's fucking awesome. 2- We're getting in better shape for chukar season. 3- We're scouting for the second Saturday in September, when the scattergun season for mountys returns, as well as getting the dog's head back in the game.

We'll ride for miles and if we cross a covey, I stop and try to snap Rosie into hunting mode. It doesn't take much as she's always in it, but her being young she doesn't always remember how to do things properly. If we cross paths with the quail early on in the ride, she may break commands and go straight for them. All I can do is watch them fly through the thick massive old growth with my lungs too empty to scream more than once or twice.

I get the upper hand at the end of long rides. She's a bit more wore down and tends to listen to the guy with the treats and water a little more intently.

I know it's the peak of chukar and all right now, but the reason I digress to pre-season masturbation is because, like anything with a prime season, I miss riding balls out on high country singletrack. I got the itch, and I can't scratch it for 6 more months. At least I can still shoot the birds right now instead of just flushing 'em. I guess the grass is always greener.

Prep Time

2011-01-06T19:04:00.000-08:00

Cleaning out the barrels with a tin of gun oil that's older than I am sitting on my coffee table. How many missions has this handed down tin relic helped in prepping? How many tiny drops have secured the confidence and actions of my brother, father, and our friends? It doesn't take much, it's the good stuff. Boxing up the empties from last time, still lingering in the pockets of thick canvas along with puffs of down and a top knot. The dog likes the top knot. It goes on her nose while she's sleeping.
Maps spread, the Google Machine doing the satellite checking. New grounds. Unproven, but in those rendered images lay the hope of this old friend crew. The promising signs of good chukar sticking out to each of us: cheat grass, rocky ridges, and some sage.
Filling the water jugs at the last minute so they don't freeze so quickly. Grabbing wood from the neighbor's oak he dropped in the fall. He may or may not be pleased about this, depends on if he's got a wood stove and knows how to use it. Booze money thrown into the pot. Dogs loaded up, attempts are made to feed them well but they're too excited to eat. One stop at the last supermarket before the desert melts from Reno. Sturdy smiles hidden on the inside, we're damn lucky for this.

Sometimes..

2010-12-24T22:21:00.000-08:00

Sometimes you descend to the feet of the mountains you just busted hump upon for the better part of the Sun's Fun Run and you have nothing to show for it, save a few crushed Pabst Light cans where the birds should be. Then the dog gets stoked, but not birdy, it gets Wabbity. You and your hunting pal share an agreeing glance and start busting brush on the valley floor. "It's for the dog, she needs some gratification after a day like today.." is what we'll both spout in different forms over the fire, knowing damn well we needed ours. In Nevada, you can shoot jackrabbits all day long. But one is enough, and after deciding a rabbit crossing our bitter paths at that restless hour was anything but lucky, we left it's feet for the coyotes.

Sometimes your dog is knocking it out of the fucking park. She's on every bird, she's not losing her cool and running them out of deer rifle range. You just sit back, keep reloading, and she keeps handing the birds to you. It doesn't seem fair. It doesn't seem legal. It's art. She loves it, every second of it. The ecstasy on her face is more pure and intense than any of us two leggers will ever know, will ever see again. This is what she was bred for, what she was trained for, what her true purpose is. If only we could find that combination of fate and predestined purpose more often in our race, the assholes would go extinct and the entire world would be elevated to a population of Jordans, Woods, Shaun Whites, and Cormac McCarthys. These dogs are living precision machines, and we can only marvel at them and what they do. We can only feel lucky for having a relationship with such intense, passionate beasts.

Sometimes at camp you find yourself in some surprising and almost unseasonal weather. December my ass, who needs a tent? The whiskey lubes up the tales and the chili cans get rotated out to cool. The stars shine intensely in the center of nowhere, opening the truck door and dome light blindness sobers the magic for an instant. The day was typical chukar, a few thousand hard fought vertical feet bring us to post-chili-dog-coma syndrome and the whiskey is starting to go mute. Bed rolls produced and it's a summer affair - Warm, no tent to hide the stars, and dry. An hour later we were too stunned to set up our tents when the monsoon arrived, so we scrambled to the unexplored mine shaft 100 yards below the truck. It was wide enough to sleep shoulder to shoulder with our heads at the entrance; the interior being occupied by several large fecal producing rodents and the entrance being the most level, but not quite level. The dog jumping off of us every 5 minutes to get the rodents, to keep us awake. Rain stops, I leave Jesse in the cave and try my luck outside. Finally start to doze off. Monsoon returns, it was just the eye sucka!! AHAHAHAHAHA!!! Pissed. Tired. Still not setting up my tent. Passenger seat of the truck with Moby Dick for entertainment and Jimmy Breeze to knock the sleep in to me. The outcome was predictable: I watched the sun come up and nearly polished a bottle of Beam and read about 100 pages of outdated whaling.

Sometimes it's always worth it.

Boarderlands

2010-11-25T20:38:00.000-08:00

South side of the mountain was blasted dry, save for the drifts that like to hide under the slipstream of bushes capable of holding their shape in such places. The sign was pressed on those high altitude icebergs, their scant puzzle pieces all pointing to the top of the mountain. The dogs knew it. Tails whirling and my imagination seeing a helicopter dog take flight caught me off guard when John's dog busted two mounties that broke to my far left and were out of range before I could swear. It was John's dog and side, why the hell didn't he get a shot off? They were mounties anyway, and we wanted some chukar first. I think that the mounties are a hell of a lot harder to hunt, which should equate to fun for those of us in the business of what I imagine outsiders to call "Big investment, Small gain" outdoor activities, but they don't have the flavor and size. And Chukar is a far stranger word than Quail. CHUKAR. We busted the rocks and snowy peak until we left empty handed. Fool's Gold sign in every drift, perhaps put there by wizards to keep us pumped all day. Getting skunked hunting isn't getting skunked, it's going for a hike with your best friend, and your hunting buddy.

Mullet to Gullet

2010-10-04T23:49:00.000-07:00

Throwing most birds in the freezer for the big Mexican Wild Dirty Bird Fest. But this one had to simmer in garlic and red wine with some pepper.

Yeah

2010-09-28T17:54:00.000-07:00

I use trapped air techno on a switch rod. The ladies like the extra reach, and some of the fellas too. Cry blaspheme!

Of rockstars and dirtnaps.

2010-09-28T03:12:00.000-07:00

Perhaps it's better to have your video camera in yer hand than your rod these days, especially if you're into celebrity sex tapes and fishing. Saw some dudes floating through d-town Reno the other day with both, hollering like it was the 2nd Coming and casting to cast only if they were looking through the viewfinder first.
Makes me a bit sad.
The rockstar mentality killed off snowboarding for me, nothing personal or righteous in the realm of the self, but wholly from the fact that the faith of such a lifestyle was placed on cred and style and not for the reason you started hiking up the hill in Sorel's with icey fingers to hit a shitty kicker you built with your buddies.

Sure I like to shoot some video and take shots of the hogs I get lucky enough to hold, but it's not the reason I stay up tying flies and get 4 hours of sleep and jump in with the boys early on hung-around as Doc Holliday.

I know that there are guys who've been around this longer than I've been alive, and I'm sure they've got opinions too. I'm not going to say I'm trendy because I'm an alcoholic outdoorsman that enjoys the self-wrought struggle I bring to my table that so many before me that I've admired have done.
I'm not exempt from these claims, nor am I dependent upon them.

There's a fickle pencil stroke between choice and circumstance, and absolution can only come from one of these.

Elevating your passion into an egocentric frame grants the theft of your fire, and nobody is gonna save it except for you and your breath.

Shoot your videos, make your money shots, but remember why you do the things you do.

Bear Scouting

2010-08-23T22:00:00.000-07:00

Stank Guy

Coach and Mandela Joe and I had a romp up and down Yuba pass on the dirt machines. Fishing was out because Hurricane Hugo's ghost child decided to haunt the valley below and give us the rad blow back hair on the climb.

665 Newtons per fathom

Bears walk on the moon, 1942

Spooked a mama and her cub and on their way up the steeps she broke a huge dead-fall like it was Nancy Kerrigan's knee.

Make a dirt rainbow.

You really missed out, shoulda been here yesterday.

Waitin' for the Wind.

2010-08-20T20:08:00.000-07:00

Recycled some cogs, shifter cables, a wheel, some chains, and a horse.
Welcome to the 501 House.

Shred of Ages

2010-08-16T20:07:00.000-07:00

Got the new bitch today. She screams like it's murder every time, but I still keep relaxed, pumping away. She's nimble as a gazelle. But I do need to soften it up a bit in the front. Put some padding in there for my hands, maybe a new ass too. FIZIK? Fuck that. Went and shredded some Peavine singletrack for a few hours, went down, laughed, climbed, almost puked, bombed past some padded (fat) DH wussies,

crashed, jumped, sprinted home with a smile.
I love the dirt and getting dirty more than Madonna in "A League of Their Own".

SLIDE DEVIL WOMAN! There's no crying in baseball.
Let's. Go.

Bob Roll is the Man.

2010-08-09T17:37:00.000-07:00

I'm back. Out of a long period of drinking too much, dabbling too much, not doing anything productive outside failing at my dream trip. I've finally pulled my head out, I'm getting back in shape, getting mentally stronger and not stranger, I'm feeling good, taking control again, and ready to kick some ass. To better sum it up, From the opening page of the SSWC 2009 magazine (BEST RACE EVVVVVVERRRR, Single Speed Worlds Durango will NEVER be topped!) Ladies and Gents, I give you Bob Roll.

"Leather Jackets and Ghetto Blasters"

Knowledge is not always Power,
Sometimes knowledge is pain
Reconciliation with a love that
can't happen/with a love for a
life that will never come
to pass is the day you lose,
Loss and abandonment is what
love and life give until the end
of our days.
I spent all my Tour de France money
on faithless women, leather jackets
and ghetto blasters - the rest
I just squandered.
But to love the squalor
is the key to the kingdom.
Although I wasted my money and
can no longer afford derailleurs,
I still love to ride - so it
will be single speeds until the day
I die.
BOBSTACK LIGHTNING

The Stump

2010-04-26T22:27:00.000-07:00

I dream of a world with no churches.
No walls, books or scribes.
Logic is not a deity, the words have been written before there were such things.
The verses came from sparrows, rolling currents, glaciers, redwoods, bats, meadows, and yawning bears.
When I was 6 my friend and I saw an old gray stump in the nook of the canyon and we believed it to be a wolf staring at us.
We ran home and stared across the meadow with binoculars shaking in tiny hands.
The weathered message of a time before anybody we knew was born, was still there.
Breathing, calling.
I've seen hawks stand on it. It still hasn't moved in 20 years.

I guess you're always right!

2010-04-03T03:45:00.000-07:00

Instead of resounding the tasks of an ill labor brought forth in taste,
I will ratify the sweating waters bulbous and forked tongued.
Our gifts were sultry and nothing ever came of them.

May the steps slithered below that empty brow bring you near.
Antiquated because nothing fits or is sought for use precluded by those harmonious swells of your chest.
And we never speak like this,
God has you, you part the encompassed, and all you are is radiant.

Old Dusties

2010-02-25T14:05:00.000-08:00

I'd rather ride along the Furnace Creek at Old Dusties. The scenery is fine and nothings going to compromise my good times and nobody has any qualms to exact any tolls on the things that I see fit. Because I chose them before I set foot here and now they are permanent fixtures in a place I can't leave and nobody makes it back from permanence, locked in perseveration.
You can see Jesus looking down from a veiled pane under foot but his eyes are closed bowing to the Master of Ceremony.
The creek spoke in it's murmurs, and washed over the rocks in the finite time.
By the time they were gone I was still there, walking, riding, and giving no quarter to those above, below, and alongside me in the land of no clocks.

Or the latter.

2010-01-06T21:08:00.000-08:00

In the damp canyon we huddled about bent at our haunches with the mist clinging to nothing and hanging about us. Fire twinkled under eyes drunk with anticipation and tongues pushed chaw across the horseshoe of lower lips, we'd been here before. The river ran behind us and I could hit it with a good stone if I tried, it was the color of slate and after the crest hours prior it left the remnants of branches and riff strewn in exile lapping at the tips with the swirl of the eddies and the pulse that all rivers show near their edges. The moon was bright but indifferent between the vapors filling the lower canyon. No one spoke in the fire trance, no one looked at the bottle as it were passed about like a communion to us, this place, this moment. We share everything in these moments, and the things we keep to ourselves ride out sooner than we'd like.
The morning would be there, and the sun would burn through the blanket of mist. The boats would launch and we'd be casting and battling wits with something that has a brain 1000 times less than us but knows this river 2000 times more. The rolling tongues and riffles would give spin to eddies and backwaters, the seams pealing off the boulders in the current would spin sand dunes under the surface to mask the down stream side of it's creator. The steelhead would take the hook in it's maw and run for a place most of us have never felt, a line of confusion and self preservation between us in the form of nylon and plastic and capping one side is fear and survival and the other is foolish pride.
We'll share a moment and part ways.
The boat will reach the take out and we'll part ways again, and the things we keep to ourselves will come out once more, and no one will hear them.

Coogan

2009-10-27T02:06:00.000-07:00

Two years ago tonight, one of my best friends was murdered for no reason, bumping into a chump at a Halloween party. He taught me how to snowboard, we learned to surf together, ollie together, and we caused enough fun and trouble to be locked up for life.
Charles Coogan Kelly, I miss you more than ever. We'll ride together soon.

Jealousy

2009-10-25T23:39:00.000-07:00

I came upon a sleeping buck
He dove across the sage and scrub
and nothing bound him to his bed
The bed I served to roust him from
the earth held no ties and
the dog chased him
his freedom chased me
my spirit scraping knees on the scrub
nothing I could do but watch
and the sky made no remarks
the bounds were enough to drown most men
And I was a steamship looking down on them.

2009-10-24T01:48:00.000-07:00

I fell in love with rivers, of their very nature and what they have taught me. I fell in love with their truth, their sincerity, and their unforgiving fortitude. If you've stood in one as much as I have, you'll feel the same.

There are those times..

2009-10-23T11:03:00.000-07:00

when you find something you weren't looking for, and these are things that complement your beliefs, shrink your world, and make you slightly closer to that dangerous feeling of contentment.

Via Buster, I discovered this last night.

Drinking Song, by Jim Harrison

I want to die in the saddle. An enemy of civilization.
I want to walk around in the woods, fish and drink.
I'm going to be a child about it and I can't help it,
I was born this way and it makes me very happy to fish and drink.

I left when it was still dark and walked on the path to the river,
the Yellow Dog, where I spent the day fishing and drinking.

After she left me and I quit my job and wept for a year and all
my poems were born dead, I decided I would only fish and drink.

Water will never leave earth and whiskey is good for the brain.

What else am I supposed to do in these last days but fish and drink?

In the river was a trout and I was on the bank, my heart in my chest,
clouds above, she was in NY forever and I, fishing and drinking.

Blasting Birds is always Fun.

2009-10-17T22:59:00.000-07:00

Beer, Bird, Dinner, Dog, My old youth 20 Gauge, and a fall day that was T-shirt weather.
Rosie scores her first bird that she didn't chew up, and I got a measly morsel.
That bitch is getting bacon wrapped and shallot shoved as soon as I blast a few more.
Dove, Quail, and Chuckar Feast coming soon. You bring the beer, I'll shove some birds in yer face.

Where the Wild Things Are

2009-10-16T16:46:00.000-07:00

The Job Interview handshake grip.

I even donated about a dozen newly tied micro-mays to the river at one point today.
I guess we're even.

I busted this guys party up. Sorry if I CB'd you you ole bastard.
I still need to go blast a deer this fall. My freezer is empty.

Today it was good to get the fuck out of dodge and spend some alone time with my mistress.

The Projects

2009-10-08T10:15:00.000-07:00

Lenny called me up and invited me up to "The Project". This place was restored by a prestigious fish school. I'll leave it at that.
It's on private land, and Lenny married into the family.
There are some monsters in here, I had a healthy brown hit my streamer nearly right in front of me. My old buddy Grayson had a brown on in the 25+ range in the summer.
But today it was the average 14 to 16 inch wild rainbows who were hammering our streamers. All streamers, all day. That's the best way to fish in my book. Dry flies are fun, but when these wild bows tackle your #4, you get to go for a ride.
first blood

average fish

Lenny and his lobster.

Man

2009-08-24T20:02:00.000-07:00

I'm glad I got a summer with this one, now she's wearing my shirt in AK catching char.

That's one you don't catch and release. Maybe it's time I move to AK.

Dog Days

2009-08-23T22:57:00.000-07:00

Biking - single speed climbing 2500+ on the nastiest shit you can find with Brett Rodela. Feeling pretty manly after gritting this ride out.

Fishing - Picked Mikey up at the airport and partied and fished for a couple days. Well more party than fish. The lone bass we got in a few hours poaching the Tahoe Keys.

Girls - Staying away from them for the first time in ages.

More to come soon.
Anti-Bass Tourney
Helloween
Expedition to Endure
Single Speed World Championships

Got a lot on my plate and no money. Perfect.

P.O.A.C.H. Part One

2009-07-30T20:29:00.000-07:00

Yep oh yep.
This the first of many.
Went to do a short recon scope of this little beauty.

Locked deep away in the gated communities and sheltered lives of those that control the world around us.
Put on a nicer-ish shirt and talked to my buddy who works at the golf course.
He's got a computer that tells him where all the carts are, marshalls and dickheads.
He called me today to let me know the coast was clear from 4 pm on.
I walked down not expecting much, with 3 flies and a 7wt., and the temperature being near or over 100 for the last month.
3rd cast=
A small largemouth. In 100 degree heat.

Even had the maintenance guy snap this shot, after he snuck up on me and I thought it was mission over.

My buddy says that one is small. Yes I agree. He also said that there are some twice that size. I hope he's telling the truth.

More to come as the summer rolls on.

29 inch wheels, what you got on that rap game?

2009-07-30T13:17:00.000-07:00

Yeah, let's get ready for SSWC!
Thanks Noah Silverman, this is the raddest beast ever.

HELLOWEEN RACE

2009-07-25T10:09:00.000-07:00

I'm throwing this race here in Reno.

It's gonna be like a super-cylocross-alleycat.

You're gonna puke.

Gilligan

2009-07-21T22:37:00.000-07:00

Is the world's laziest man.

Dude's a fine fly tosser, one of my best friends, and even catches some retarded trout.

Sample of some of our drifts and stupid road trips.

Thanks man.

You've been the best teacher I've ever had, and you've taught me so goddamn much about this life we live through our passion, I'm forever in debt to you for showing me what this is really all about.

Cheers to you, Mr. Beckman.

Koper

2009-07-20T14:16:00.001-07:00

Scott Koper is like the little brother I never wanted. Second time carper, first time winner.
Not bad for a dirty Reno backwater.

Carp even gave him a mud pie face with a smack of it's tale in the shit mud.

You can bag on carp all you want, but when the river is 70 degrees, I'd rather go tangle with a few double digit garbage loving beasts than go stand in the river pulling in discolored trout that are gonna die because of the heat wave.

Kayla's First fish on a fly.

2009-07-19T18:33:00.000-07:00

Man oh man look at that smile!

The Truth.

2009-07-18T09:26:00.000-07:00

Puck Febble. This is the real deal.

All you should peep This.

Do you want this to happen to the last great salmon run on Earth?
Fuck No!

Check out savebristolbay.org, and Trout Unlimited Alaska to get more info and get involved.

The Holy Grail

2009-07-15T08:27:00.000-07:00

And from Florida to the California Delta, many tears were shed, much gnashing of teeth, and the Pride of the Bible Belt has been destroyed.

Japan is always leading us into the future.

And than there was One.

2009-07-10T19:24:00.000-07:00

The Truckee River Drainage used to be home to the largest cutthroat trout in the world.
When John C. Fremont first came to Pyramid Lake, the terminus of the Truckee, his starving men feasted on Lahontan Cutthroat trout given to them by the Paiutes. He remarked that they looked like Columbia River Salmon, "from two to four feet in length" and because of their size, he even originally named the river "The Salmon Trout River."

I'd love to be on the river 160 years ago with a 10 wt. Chinook stick throwing God knows what at the Lahontans lurking in there.

Due to a combination of overfishing, habitat loss, introduced species, pollution, the construction of Derby Dam, and several other factors, the Lahontan's that used to thrive in the hundreds of streams and lakes in it's 1,940 miles of stream flow drainage are now limited to two small areas. Aside from the hatchery planted Lahontan's in the Truckee in Nevada and obviously Pyramid Lake, there are two areas with a wild self-sustaining population. One is Independence Lake, which drains into Independence Creek, the Little Truckee, and the Truckee. These fish are battling for their survival against non-native rainbows, browns, and brook trout.
The other section where you can find wild populations of native Cutts is the Upper Truckee River, which is more of a tiny creek flowing just over the north ridge of Carson Pass, and it gains water and momentum as it descends into Lake Tahoe. Years of management and restoration have removed the Brook trout that were taking over the Upper Truckee in Meiss Meadow, and now that meadow is a miracle.
A few short miles of trusting, hungry, beautiful native fish doing there thing in a stream that evolved them. It's really a beautiful fucking thing.

Kayla and I headed up there to camp and fish. We stayed at Showers Lake, and shared some Beam and watched the Cutts rise to mosquito emergers. I was throwing a 26 and it was too big. Fuck that. We had an awesome night camping under a full moon at the lake.

My boy Matty Hargrave met us on the stream the next morning and we walked through the freezing water and willow tunnels all day.
All I could think about when I was cradling these 6-10 inch fish was Fremont eating their 40 lb ancestors, and how lucky I am to even have this last stand, this last best place. I hope I can take my kids there someday and they can enjoy nature as it was intended.

Know your Heritage.

2009-07-08T22:43:00.001-07:00

My brother, sisters, and cousins on the Dotta side @ Grandma's Memorial in 2007.
Damn I've lost some weight.

I was born and raised a half-hour north of Truckee in the Sierra Valley. My family, Dotta, was one of the first European families to settle there, along with several other families from the Ticino canton of Switzerland, including the Martinetti's, Roberti's, Fillipini's, Vanetti's, Madalena's, and Genasci's. Before us, the Maidu and Washoe Indians hunted and fished in the Valley. I'm 4th generation in the Valley, and I'm proud to say I know the routes my Great Grandparents took from Switzerland, only to cross paths in Vinton, and create my lineage.
My Great Grandfather, Lodovico Dotta, a native of Ticino, took a ship across the Atlantic to Panama and road a donkey across the Isthmus of Panama in the early days of the Gold Rush. He took a steam ship to San Francisco and worked in a dairy, saving his money to open up a supply store for the Gold Rushers. He made a killing, and made his way to Sierra Valley. I can't imagine what California looked like in his day, millions of salmon and steelhead making their way up river next to him as he ascended the Sierra Nevada range.
He bought a large piece of land that encompassed most of the north eastern Sierra Valley, and included the land that's flooded by Frenchman's Reservoir.
He owned and operated the train station in Vinton as well as operating a large dairy ranch, which still remains today.
My Great Grandmother, Claudina Dotta, boarded passage from France after leaving Ticino.
She was in the bowels of the ship as a Third Class Passenger. Disease was ramapant, and by the hand of God she was plucked from the belly of the ship by a First Class family, whose nanny had died on the voyage. She assumed her duties and went through Ellis Island with the family. They stayed in Chicago for a short time, and than headed to San Francisco. En route, the train stopped in Vinton. She met my GG and fell in love. She stayed there with him and had seven children, my beloved grandmother Thelma being the youngest. She stayed and went to school at the old Vinton School house until graduation, which than was the Eighth Grade. She loved the ranch life and stayed there helping the family. She fell in love with the Standard Oil gas truck driver, my grandfather Stormy Weathers. They moved, she, reluctantly till her dying day, to Loyalton. They had three children, Jim, Robert, and my mother, Barbara. Stormy died when my mom was 3. My grandmother was a tough SOB. She drove school bus for years, worked for the Forest Service, as well as on the ranch, and put the three kids into a better life. My mom even had her own horse when she was a girl.
My father's family came from Lithuania. They settled in Illinois and my namesake, my grandfather Lawrence, and my grandmother Winnifred, moved to Sierra Valley in the mid 1950's. My mom and pop went to school together and were married in 1973 in Sierra City. My sister Micah came first, my brother Seth next, than Andrea, and finally me in 1983. My parents are still together and hold on to one of the most naturally stunning properties in the Valley, overlooking the Turner Ranch just below the intersection of highways 89 and 49 a mile north of Sattley. I grew up there, fishing my own creek, Turner Creek, for browns, rainbows and brookies, hunting quail, biking, and loving my Huck Finn childhood. I still do the same things today, as I haven't managed to move past my childhood at the age of 25.

I say these things out of pride. I speak of this history because it is my lineage.
I speak mainly out of fear.

The new age is upon us, I can't wave to half the people I see because I don't know them. The outsiders are slowly weeding out the old families, the lumber industry is dead, and the farming industry is on it's way out as I type.

I feel like I have the last fingers on this heritage, the last bit of sinew that binds me with my ancestors and their ways. All of my friends, save the Martinetti boys, have long abandoned the Valley, leaving a void of native sons that cannot be replaced.
I don't blame them, prosperity lies elsewhere.

But my fear lies in the future of my children.

Will they have the opportunities I did growing up? Hopping fences on the neighbor's ranch to sneak up on some giant browns that don't look like they fit in the tiny creeks? Will they be able to spend summers roaming free in the fields and forests, climbing the mountains that I did and still do? Will they live in a place where you don't lock your doors, where the biggest crimes are committed far away from our consciousness?

I speak of these things in fear. In fear that we are headed down the wrong path, and virtues and natural instincts are set aside in the name of progress and greed.

This is why I want to protect the last, best places.

So what about you?

KG is the Man.

2009-07-08T18:15:00.000-07:00

Dude catches some gnarly fish.

Makin your bench time count.

2009-07-07T19:24:00.000-07:00

My clients raped me boxes this weekend. I went through about 40+ flies in 2 days. I should be tying up caddis pupas, stonefly nymphs, PMD nymphs, and some hoppers.
But I tied 2 dozen comparaduns, with gray adams bodies and zelon tails cause I can't find any of my goddamm microfibbet shit. They're an experiment, since the Adam's has always been one of my favorite dry flies. 2 dozen is a bit overboard, but I can always give them to somebody.
It was between that and tying up some Zoo Cougars in orange. I didn't have any orange mallard flank.
I can't tell the difference between my chest hair and the deer hair, next time it's shirt's on or no scalping.

I went carping yesterday with Scotty JR, and we had a few takes and both boned the sets. At least I was still drunk from a night of cops, fireworks, illegal boxing, drinking too much and running barefoot hopping fences because of a combination of two of the things above.

I tied up some of Mr. P's Carp Carrots, and had some good looks and 2 takes. I've found that the carps in Reno love orange flies as well.

Mr. P's recipe is excellent.

Tomorrow it's streamer chuck time on a little farm stream with some hung ass browns and bows.

Born on the 4th of July, like Christ the Phoenix.

2009-07-04T19:24:00.000-07:00

"Today is a day for Americans."
Fuck it.
I'm over the constant rattle of cold hands shaking shaded by the chins of a bowed pate, deliberating the inevitable cost of our lack of virtue, the reluctant kiss of a tyrant crown.
The silent nods signaling defeat in a battle never induced because of fear, self loathing, and a mirrored image that never has given back what was portrayed.
These are times for men, for the inclined and disadvantaged to strike out and lash back for all that was wrongly given and taken, a burning of the social treatise that has confined us to the bidding of the monetary masters and play writes of our own meager means. This redundant social contract holds only the weight of our own labors, the toils of our fathers, and the blood that separates ours from theirs.
That blood, the blood that binds us, is spat upon and given no quarter.
What will it take to turn the tides again? Among us the spilling of it, and our ideal of a true freedom, as we stare upon the crimson pool made up of us and them, than we can see a true reflection of our worth.
Less talk and more action.

Gilligan took the words outta my mouth.. and file this under the FREEDOM SECTION.

2009-07-01T23:00:00.000-07:00

I just chatted with an ex-girlfriend.
We're still friends, she's a great girl, but there were irreconcilable differences. Example A:
Tonight she invited me to go to the crowded, disgusting, tourist filled, loud, blood pressure boiling, couldn't-pay-me-to-go-there-ever-on-a-summer-weekend Donner Lake on the 4th of fucking July for a party at her house, in the thick of said douche shenanigans..
My 4th is already planned, with my ideas of great times.
My whole family is going to a reunion(YES!) and I'm staying at my parents house with my dog, drinking whiskey and fishing my own creek with my dog. I will see 0 People. I will unplug the phone. I will shoot a shotgun naked off my back lawn. I will answer to no one. I want to stay as far away from Donner Lake as the Great PWNER and reason will allow.
It's simple:
I hate crowds, festivals, giant concerts, rallies, large gatherings, anything where I feel like I can't escape at anytime into oblivion. I hate being controlled on any level, and I hate the dip shits that come up to Tahoe, even though they sign my checks.
You gotta be bitter for something, if you disagree you're a fucking liar.
Why am I the grumpy ass?

I just want my Pabst in peace. A few shots of Jack.
I just want to speak no words except what I think my lab Rosie needs to hear, and cast dry flies to wild browns and a few carp here on the ranch.
I absolutely love freedom. Personal freedom. Freedom from the mechanical hands that justify orgies of control and confinement in the name of Freedom.
Nobody is going to keep me down, or tell me what to do. This is not entirely selfish, but it's 99 percent selfish. Live with resolve, die without regret.
I made up my mind a long time ago.
And every day my mind drifts deeper into a house in Alaska, with a float plane parked out front and my beard back to it's full glory.
Self isolationism.
I only have one qualm. I do like to be social. I do love my friends. I like girls.
You just have to find the right girl...

Drake Hunt 09

2009-06-29T17:15:00.000-07:00

That little tailwater that gets pounded all day by Gapers and Barneys with San Juans and 22's holds it's cards well. You don't see many if any, but THEY know they're their. I'm throwing an 8 green drake with a PMDizzle dropper. And I'm picking them up like lint in a bellybutton while poor ole' Barn' is dead drifting chocolate WD-40's and a pink san juan with no loving bends in his Helios. Awwww, corporate fly guys with smiles and a good time. These two lil guys liked the PMDizzle so much they decided to strike a pose.

I can't frame this banana dick.

Some Girls have Pompadours

2009-06-29T16:07:00.000-07:00

Some girls have all the luck. Future Page Six Chick.

Streamer Day

2009-06-25T20:09:00.000-07:00

Tied streamers for 7 hours today.
I am pathetic. This is the equivalent to doing steroids all day to try out for the NFL.
part of the chaos captured during a taco/pbr break.
Kelly Galloup is the shit.

Kit Carson didn't have shit on this.

2009-06-25T19:52:00.000-07:00

Drifted the East Carson with Dave Lass and Mikey Wier and his girly Megan.
2 days of dope blisters, nice fishes, and a beautiful wild canyon that has no people, roads, or trash in it(for the most part).
We get to the bottom and Dave, now known as Barney, left the keys to his truck in Mikey's truck, which is at the put in. Dude was bummed, and he got a speeding ticket along with a one fish day. Poor Barney.

Here's Barney Blastin' Crayfish Bombs.

The fucking Navy.

Mmmmm, I love rubber legs too! We should get married.

Sire! I wish to bestow upon you this trute! Thank you, Your Majesty!
Barney the Squire

LeRoy Brown Jr. and some asshole who talks shit on Barney in a blog.

This trip was supernaturally awesome.
good people, good times.

A client's question..

2009-06-19T16:38:00.001-07:00

I had a client today that said "I Googled your name and I like your Sixteen Thousand Miles project and I saw your Vimeo page."
I say "Oh thanks man!"

Than I remember the content, like this...

and this...

Rednecking Like I Am One. from Larry McKurtis on Vimeo.

I gotta edit some shit.
This is not to mention the videos on there where I'm fucking wasted as shit and talking about my 16 Thousand miles bike trip.
I love being a professional.

No wonder the three didn't tip me.
He's the one that death gripped a big rainbow till it came unbuttoned.

Hehehehe

2009-06-17T12:49:00.001-07:00

Suck it trout boys.

2009-06-16T16:54:00.000-07:00

The Fringe

Today I fished a tiny creek alone. No crowds, but it IS Barney season here. This is the kind of creek that, once it's turned to the ON setting in mid-June, stays ON till closing day. It's tiny, as I already said. You can sprint and jump across all but the widest parts. Once the Great PWNER turns the switch to ON, the fish are not very particular, this isn't the San Juan or some other notable tailwater with dainty ass trout. It's more about what type of fly you want to present. Today it was streamers. Small to medium. We're talking 10's(yes, 10's you 2+ chucking steelhead hipsters) down to a 6, which is respectable on most streams. And this stream doesn't see very many people. There's a trail from the dam that goes about 350 yards and merges into the face of a cliff. Trail ends here, weekend warriors, unless you get some Stallone up in yah, and I seriously doubt the fat fucks above-on-high at the GREAT LAKE have the strength, unless there were a bag of pork rinds and a TV with NASCAR blaring Fail Earnmart's Greatest Blowments at the top. I did see two city types, or Gapers, Barneys, we call them, as I was casting into the Big Cheater Pot, the first pool below the dam. One of the McDonald's Victimized teens blurting "Oh hey, there's some big fishes in there, we caught some this big the other day!" He stretched out his flabbing arms and by my account, he must have caught a chinook on the east side of the Sierras. His shirt was from a summer camp down the way, and I figured that the Xbox was banned for a week so he could go get some "exercise and fresh air" by his disappointed parents. God am I a meeaaaan sum bitch.
It just so happens that this creek runs as a tailwater from a lake that's got quite a rep as a trout trophy breeder. It's world famous. It's been on the damn TV on a bunch of channels ranging from buff faced news anchor channels to the Voice of the Public. This time of year, there are so many people chucking hardware, tar and feathers, trawlin', life guarding worms, floatin' playdon't, swimming their adorable dogs, etc, that you can't find a piece to yourself. No solitude, just tourist attitude. The fish up above are all planted, a real hardy strain of rainbow that get the job done. But they are Farmer's Fish. Not the way the Great PWNER intended. I would take a wild fish half the size of a dull big dumb planter any day.
This border that's hidden in plain site, this fringe of societal blinders and the free world, between my creek and the masses, is just my sort of lurking ground. Everyone sees it, yet it fails to register. Those that know try and keep it that way. When I asked the local fly shop guy about the access, as it had been many years since I fished it, his response was "You can, but we don't talk much about it, you understand?"
"Duly, and with all respect sir."
The fringes, the beautiful edges, the light and the dark, the deep and shallow, the dirty city streets in Reno and my beloved Truckee River running under them, I am drawn to the edges. Not really in that extreme SNAP INTO A SLIM JIM way, but more accurately the edge of acceptance, in social realms, behaviors, actions.
I live in a basement on the edge of downtown Reno, between the revitalized and up and coming neighborhoods of the California St. hood and the Wells Ave. Barrio. I love that I can go a block to the east and get a homemade burrito from a cart and go two blocks west and have some gourmet vegan food (although I don't really eat anything without meat, it's delicious stuff). I live in a house full of Straight Edge kids. No drugs, booze, smoking. I don't smoke, but I got a micro bar and a beer fridge in my room. And a home base to tie flies and write bullshit like this is right next to the damn things. At least I got 4 sober drivers whenever I need it. Fuck Yellowcab.
I can't take the city for more than a day, so I usually run back home to Sattley. It's a half hour north of Truckee, California and an hour from my house in Reno. The sign reads “Population 60” but it’s more about 20 or so. And we live out in the suburbs of this great modern metropolis. A mile out of town in a quiet valley with a private creek running through it. Just Ma and Pa and my dog(who you saw above in the creek on a fish scaring mission).
I love the edges of normalcy, I love to wear rediculous clothes and say odd things to strangers. It’s not a question of sanity, it’s a disregard for it.
Trout love the edges too. Hell, most fish love the edges. The seams, the drop off of the riffle to pool, the shade lines of trees, the pocket water, the barrier reef meeting the sea, the collision of two different currents, the mangrove roots and the open swamps.
Contrasts.
These clashes make life interesting, I’d be dead by now if I couldn’t appreciate them. And most fish would be too if they didn’t naturally gravitate to these places. The rainbow of diversity doesn’t excite me nearly as much as chucking two streamer rigs with trailing hooks through the crowded kayak park downtown. Or going out and dancing at a hip bar till 4 AM with dainty hot girls and rolling out of bed 2 hours later to go fish the backcountry alone and dirty for a few days. I need to balance myself.
Self medicate.
This creek, as I said, is not massive. Nor does it breed massive trout, though occasionally there has to be a hog in the brotherhood of 20” in some of those deeper pools. It is rugged, it is beautiful.

I realized at the start I hadn't put on my wading sandles, the Keen style strap up ones, but had kept on my flip flops. Mistake. One broke and when they were wet I was sliding and falling all over. So I took them both and shoved them into my vest.
Barefoot is best on a beach but I felt some man-cred-pride swell up inside me, Hiking over squirrel devoured pine cone scales and over jagged rocks. Lucky I wasn't at the GREAT LAKE, walking in broken glass and treble hooks still dripping Playdon't.
I was alone in a tiny canyon that could hide a man for a long time, sustinance abounds and so do hiding places. Ishi came to mind, walking through the briars and bushes on Battle Creek or pacing the upper reaches of Deer Creek, pulling out huge salmon and steelhead with his bare hands. He was hidden and yet so close to everything that was Modern and meaning to do him harm because he was different and didn’t fit into their mold. I know that his situation and mine aren't nearly the same, but when you spend your entire life avoiding society's idea of normal you kinda feel like there's a target on your back.
I kept fishing and walking back upstream towards the dam. I couldn’t remember a time when I felt so secure about a sense of belonging. As I turned the corner and saw the dam, a strange feeling came over me, one I’ve had many times before. I saw myself as an outsider looking in, in the shadow of the dam in the late afternoon, watching the loaded over the top RV’s towing boats across it, and seeing the smooth concrete and rusted metal structure at the bottom controlling the creeks flow. The dam is earthen, with large rocks and boulders, dirt that’s been packed and placed precisely to create a lake and cover a valley.
“I don’t belong up there.” was all I could think to myself. But without this dam, there wouldn’t be a tailwater. There wouldn’t be a creek to my own because it would most likely dry out in the drought years, and more people would pay attention to it because the GREAT LAKE wouldn’t be there. This dam is what created my sanctuary. This dam didn’t only block off the water, but it blocked off all the people who aren’t like me. The ones who can do without solitude and adventure, exploration and discovery of the world, the self. The force fed masses, who go to the GREAT LAKE on it’s reputation alone, who have worn down the paths of Safety and Tradition into ruts exposing my greatest fears which force me to walk on the sides.
Contrasts. Edges. Fringes.
The best of both worlds.

Carp

2009-06-16T16:42:00.000-07:00

Carp 1

Carp 2

Carp 3

God I love these bastards of the backing. That first run is so explosive it makes me think that they are possessed by demons. But I won't tell the Great PWNER because I want them to fight like that.
This was a good day, especially for the spawning season.

Album of the Year

2009-06-16T00:46:00.000-07:00

I never say those words.
But my Great PWNER, these guys hit it again, and by God, I can't deny them, by Ceiling Cat's grace we're all here and listening to this without love....
Please, check it out, read the lyrics as you go, and by I'm Not Saying IT, open your old punk roots and drink deeply. Believe what you must, but as far as I'm concerned, I like 85% of it. I'm sorry boys I'm not veganarchist..

Propagandhi - Supporting Caste

The Slump

2009-06-04T16:01:00.000-07:00

I wrote this for a magazine, and toned it down considerably, to the point I don't like it, and I deleted the OG version. So here's the ass clown bastard child.

The Slump

It starts with a few bad outings. Your buddy has nailed 5 and you’re tying on “Ole Reliable” just to maybe try and save some face, and maybe to not have to buy the beers at the end of the day. Your casts are on point, your drifts are solid, and your flies are the same as the guy smiling at you upstream, who, coincidentally, used to be your friend. The day’s over, and not a thing. A day like this happens occasionally.

But when you’re not getting any love on the end of that tippet for a few successive outings, you’re in a slump. If it goes on long enough, you begin to question a lot of things in your fishing life.
“Are my flies good enough?”
“Is my tippet thin enough? Cause my hair is.”
“Why the hell am I freezing in this damn river/lake/ocean all day? I could be fishing for chicks at the bar with a warm roof and a cold beer.”
The next stage is even more bizarre. You start questioning all sorts of things outside your fishing life.
“Did I tip the bartender enough? Hell, did I even pay him?”
“Did I forget her birthday again?”
“I knew I should have told the tax agent the truth .”
Sometimes your slump extends out of your fishing life. I was in a slump, and in the middle of it, I lost my girlfriend, my health, and part of my sanity, amoung other things, all in three days. But when it rains, it pours, and when it pours you’re gonna grit your teeth and deal with it. Man up suckers.
Perhaps the most public part of all is that sometimes your closest fishing buddies notice it too, and if they’re like any of my fishing partners, they’re gonna rip you apart like wolves.
“Maybe you should throw a worm on there, some Power Bait too.”
“Maybe you should try a new sport, like knitting.”

It can keep you up all hours. It can drive you insane. If you fish almost daily, your habits can become quite strange during an extended slump. Tying flies till 4 AM with Art Bell on the AM radio. Seining the water for hours and taking close up shots of anything that moves. Blowing off work because you know the fish WILL be eating @ 2:18.

Hell, you could always lie your way out of it, but those who know you best will see right through it and if they really are your friends, they’ll call you out on it too. Plus lying only serves to add to your slump time.

There are a couple different types of slumps. One is the “No Fish” slump, which is exactly how it sounds. It usually doesn’t last longer than a few days, and it’s not as much of a pain as the other types. Also known as the Skunkfest.
There’s the “Few and Far Between” aka “Beautiful Girls in Tahoe” slump. This is usually in the coldest part of the winter when the fish need to be smacked in the face to eat. But these fish are almost always descent.
Perhaps the one that drives me all most insane is the “Quality/Where the hell are the descent size fish in my life?” slump. This is the one that brings on the insanity. Sometimes you can go a few weeks with out hooking a quality toad.

You can go through the motions, but you’re going to just have to except the simple fact that friend/guide John Roberts told me once: “When you got it you got it, when you don’t you don’t.”

The day you forget all about it, and approach the water with confidence, is usually the day it breaks. People who don’t fly fish probably don’t understand the need for confidence in a sport that seems to be about “luck”. It is “fishing” after all.
But having confidence in your abilities, your flies, your water, and most of all yourself, will win you more fish than any prayer of desperation mumbled from broken lips ever will.

I know some of you are saying “That never happens to me.” But don’t lie to yourself, it happens to all of us, and lying will only serve to add to your next slump sentence.