Yeah

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.

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

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.

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

Shred of Ages

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.

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

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!

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

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.

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.