Red Legged Devils

I'm starting a new scratching post, focused on birds and pups. Don't worry it's just as unreadable as this bullshit.

http://redleggeddevils.blogspot.com/

Ramblings 1

 I've been in love with the same three things for most of my adult life: a tall blue eyed blonde who stole my heart, a cold beer at the end of any activity, and solitude.

Good old solitude.

It's not as misanthropic in origin as I often lead myself to believe. I mean, I'm blogging about these solitary experiences for fucks sake. I think these solitary activities subconsciously speak for a part of our culture that's been losing its way for a long time - That wild roaming beast that surveyed the land with reverence and a sense of entitled humbleness has become that indoor cat always pressing against the street side window, shitting in a box and eating out of a box of shit.

You soft, soft beasts. Male grooming salons, tanning beds, hand sanitizer, sneaker hoarders, a fear of the dirty. You poor bastards.

I don't do these things for you. I do them because I fear becoming like you. A soft and tired puppy.

I wish I could only eat meat I've harvested myself.
Have you ever hunted, killed, and eaten a creature? Have you ever fed people you love with sore feet and a dirty shotgun? I love the feeling. It never gets old.
Sometimes you rely on your friends for dinner.
Hasenpfeffer, anyone? (thanks Jay)

It's not for everybody. But if we had to draw straws after the apocalypse I'd make sure to become the hunter.

Get Shorty

Being 6'5" is a mixed blessing. I know all the short people reading this will guffaw at the audacity of such a statement, but it's true. 

Sure I can reach for things on the top shelf at the store without asking for help, but then I become everyones personal ladder (I'm looking at you old ladies in the motorized carts, drive a scissor lift already). I have to buy any bike frame I come across that fits me, because they come up about as often as Criss Angel has a non-douche moment. I'm sure I'd be an awesome point guard but I'm only talented from the waist down - which is a stretch to say the least (no pun intended) and I think basketball is the least manly sport in the universe. 

I'm getting ahead of myself. (no pun intended)

I relish the feeling of being small. Insignificant. Scanty. Paltry. Perhaps this stems from my stature, perhaps it stems from constant ego checking. Probably a little bit of both. I love it when someone taller than myself walks into the room. I feel exempt from the freak perch. I love it when a small man pulls up next to me in his lifted truck while I sit on my bicycle seat, because we all get to laugh at him together.

I can't say why I've always been drawn to the mountains. I can't leave them and I have tried. When I was 19 I became deeply depressed while living in Texas and ended up driving 100 miles an hour to Reno while blasting At The Drive In, smoking joints and pounding Red Bulls. Partly because of a girl, mostly because I was sick of feeling like a lightning rod in the lowlands.

Nevada has more mountain ranges than any other state. It's why I live here. It's like being coddled by the most jealous and evil bitches you can imagine. 

Here is an account of a multi-day mountain bike trip my dear friend Jesse and I had in one of these mountain ranges. 

The feelings begin. Inadequacy in its infancy.

Things weren't looking so good in town.

Winner, Safe Driver Award 2005 - Insurance Bureau of Canada

Gollum plies his craft.

Behold, a pale trout by the hands of Dog.

One ring to rule them all.

Ready to roll out..

Such a nice day..

... Such a nice trail... 

Then we crossed the creek 20 times.

Then we kept climbing into the snow...

Malibu Barbi Water Cage Fail..

Up and Up..

Higher and Higher..

Up the gut..

Cross training begins.

This tree is a narcissist.

Where's Waldo? - Trail Finding Addition

Found my new hood ornament.

This is what bikes were built for, right?

The summit.

The Crest.

Jesse is terrified of Snow Vipers.

Feeling small is a wondrous drug..

Golgotha

Listen.

We got out of the high mountains, and ended up in Hell Canyon. Let the frustration begin.. 

(INSERT PICTURE WHERE WE SHOULD HAVE BROUGHT A MACHETE)

One of the 4 miles of rideable singletrack in the first 17 miles.

Here kitty kitty!! 

Wishing I wore shin guards, waiting for my father to tell me to suck it up.

Escape! We made it out of Hell Canyon.

We got a mile of nice farm road...

.. Then it turned into 6 mph slog fest up the next pass.

Poo-Doo

Grinding.

Endless.

Let the lasers be blue.

Satisfaction is a long downhill at the end of the day.

Tired faces among weary juniper and mountain mahogany.

It's getting dark

In the morning, Glorious Nevada skies, while the lonely roads escape beneath us. 

Humbling.

Endearing.

Pioneer Palace. 

Behold, the Thunder Horse hath found the River Jordan.

And her sins were many.

Ron the Baptist erased our sins and quenched our thirst among the chukar and cottonwoods, brook trout standing out of place in a pool meant for false hopes and dammed with ambition.

Soon after we made it back to the truck....

... and were very soon reintroduced to reality, where I once again felt being tall is a gift.

For more, please check out Jesse's take on things over Here. He actually takes the time to edit his pictures and he actually thinks about what he's saying before he opens his mouth, so I'm sure it will be loads more fun than this.