MI Ender

Kevin worked the oars, making slight adjustments.  A white-fuel Coleman sat in a small wooden box at my feet and hissed warmth at my hands. The sun had made a break for it, had come pretty close to getting free but the clouds had caught him and now celebrated with a confetti party of snowflakes that drifted down at slight angles. I watched them fall on the back of my hand as I poured coffee from a thermos into a green plastic cup. When I turned and asked Kevin if he had had any sugar and he told me it was below freezing and we were on a river, in Michigan, in March, for fun, and I should grow a dick. I sipped my unsweetened beverage in silence and tried my best to follow his advice.

Michigan in March is still how I remember it: Cold and hard, desaturated and a little dirty around the edges but strong willed and with a guarded warmth that you feel most while laughing in a drift boat or smiling down the bar, lifting beers and surrounded by people you don't really know but could easily be confused for old friends.

Steve Martinez opened his house to me and made me feel at home and for that I am thankful. He stood in rubber boots and pushed wood into his outdoor furnace, answering all my cold-weather ignorant questions about wood furnaces, central boilers, and heat exchangers. A snowless path ran from the burner to the house where the water lines are buried. Earlier that day he had eased his boat to a log jam and picked a half-dozen bobbers from among the fishing flotsam while we talked about the TV show Hoarders.

I feel that the PM has been nothing but fair to me, but Kevin said after spending two weeks in March on the river, one last year, and one this year, I should have had at least one double-digit day. I don't feel slighted, though. Steelhead were caught and I believe I must be building fish karma for some future adventure, which will surely be otherworldly in its epicness.

On the last day Kevin pushed us toward the sunset and we talked about sled dogs. "The only reason you can stop those dogs," he said, "is because they believe you can stop them." I think some people live like sled dogs. Don't live like sled dogs.

-Alex who won't take whoa for an answer and is also apologetic for the lameness of that pun.

I am never sorry I brought slippers.

MI Notes, P3

Felt soles are bad in snow. Nobody told me. It is good that I am graceful like a dancer.

It seems I have, for the most part, shuffled off my sickness-induced infirmity. I believe the continued frolicking in sub-freezing temperatures has caused some symptoms to linger longer than normal, however. My nose-blows are record breaking. A buff makes an excellent extended-use snot rag. My toes are often in a state of panic while outside.

Saw a living possum eating a dead possum on top of the trash can at the Wahalla take-out. Kevin said that possums live pretty hard lives and when they die they usually have broken bones and frost bite injuries. They move very slow. I have been a little empathetic lately, but am getting better and I think soon I will be able to get back to a standard level of sympathy for such critter.

Steelhead were caught yesterday.

-Alex bobber-ninja.

State of a Fat Guy

I sit at this computer like a loaded gun with no target. Emotion without thought.  I need an adventure, I think. I need fresh substance. Fiction for the sake of fiction is fine but I need a spark, something real, some little piece like the grain of sand at the end of the movie The Never Ending Story. With that one little grain Bastian was able to rebuild the entirety of Fantastica. Shit, I just want to write about fishing.

But before I can begin, there is something else that I need to get out of the way. Something many of you already know, but I will not feel right until officially brought to light here.  I am almost afraid to say it, and that's silly because I know it was never about being overweight. Not really, anyways. Was it?

It was about an attitude. An unconventional viewpoint about a sport that seemed somewhat participant-pigeonholed. It was not about ignoring the rules as much as denying their existence. Being silly. Spouting nonsense. Living and fishing and wrapping things in bacon and kicking ass all over the place. And it is still about that.

But over the last year and a half I have, on purpose, lost a little more than one hundred pounds and have been told I no longer have the required mass to be classified as a fat guy. (At least by standard American society standards, I suppose)

What does this mean?

This year I am going to turn 30, and I am happy to say that now more than ever I feel I have the capacity to kick record amounts of ass. Which is pretty cool.

People ask me what I am going to do in regards to this site, being that I apparently don't seem to fit the criteria any longer. I think this is simultaneously silly and a good question. It's not like I am some skinny fucker now, all bones and floppy skin. I still exist in the orange slice of fatness which falls above the recommended numbers on the doctor's height vs. weight chart, I still wrap things in bacon, drink beer, go outside with fly rods in search of stories-which I will be doing more than ever this coming year. Is that enough? Have I now somehow excluded myself and fall outside some imaginary guidelines apparently set by my former self? Like the height ruler at the end of the line for the roller coaster, but a horizontal version?-you must be this fat to post-and I step up to the ticket taker sticking out my gut as far as I can, hoping I will make the cut and be allowed on the ride while at the same time working to remove that same access-granting feature? That is some silly shit.

It's not like if April Vokey decided that she had had enough with being a woman and decided to have a sex change and become a dude... She probably couldn't keep writing at FlyGal, right? That would be weird. Probably drive the hits through the roof, though. Anyways I hope you can see my point through the mental image of Ms. Vokey with man-parts. Sorry for that. Yup, really sorry. You can stop thinking about it now. Seriously. Stop.

But really, what now? I don't know.

I think the real question is do I want to continue here? I know I don't want to stop writing and sharing photography. I do know that. Maybe it is time to step up both games. Maybe it is time to start pushing for some more published work. Quality not quantity. Maybe I should quit worrying about it and stop being such a pussy. I have never been good at change.

Matt Dunn Photo

I am going back to Michigan on Sunday. Getting picked up from Grand Rapids by Mr. Mortensen. Going to go think about things and wiggle my man-parts in the Pere Marquette with Kevin Morlock for a week, try not to be too cold, maybe catch a steelhead on the swing if I am lucky.

I have an excitement about this trip, an expectation of some good thing on the horizon that I am moving toward but can't quite see yet. Like holding a grain of sand that contains the potential of the world. I do wish that Matt Dunn was still in Michigan, though. Maybe we could have tracked down those dirty cake-fibbers and brought them to moist, chocolaty justice. Could have happened.

-Alex who will always be living large in some form.

BLISSS

I will be here. You should be, too:

Barothy Lodge Retreat & Indigo Guide Service Present:

Barothy Lodge/Indigo Spring Steelhead School 2013 (BLISS)

Thursday, March 14th -Sunday, March 17th Price: $780

The event will include three nights lodging, two half days of guided fishing, two half days of in class workshops, meals and a few things to take home. A deposit will be required to reserve your spot with the remainder due at check in.

Everyone will have their own bed but rooms will be shared. Accommodations can be made in advance for buddies or couples that want to share a room or anyone that may wants to upgrade to a private room. Tap water and coffee are available but anything more is BYOB. There will be two people per guide, though just like the rooms, we can accommodate friends, couples or upgrade to have your own guide, just let us know in advance. You can also opt out of the guided or workshop portion and do your own thing, we can adjust price depending.

Workshops:    Options and Rigging, Streamers, Fly Tying and Outdoor Photography.

Agenda:          Thursday -- Guests will arrive throughout the afternoon and evening. A host will be on hand through the evening (within reason) to get everyone settled. We’ll have some snacks but your on your own for dinner.

Friday and Saturday -- We’ll provide coffee and a grab and go breakfast (cereal, roles, breakfast bars and fruit) and then hit the water early for a morning guided float. Guides will serve a hot grilled lunch on the water. A bit of time to get reorganized after fishing and then spend the rest of the afternoon in workshops. Dinner will follow with informal fly tying with one of the guides each evening.

Sunday -- Time to head home though everyone has the option of reserving another half or full day on the water.

Guides and workshop instructors will include: Guide Kevin Morlock, Guide Steve Martinez, Guide Walt Grau and Photographer and Writer Alex Landeen (coming all the way from Tucson Arizona).

The event will be completely hands on and personal, offering all the guests the ability to ask unlimited questions and pursue topics that interest them most. Please contact Barothy Lodge for any questions or to reserve your space. With several people signed-up before we’ve even officially announced the event, spaces are likely to go fast. 

Barothy Lodge
Peggy Anderson, General Manager
(877) 898-2340
barothylodge@carrinter.net
www.barothylodge.com

Indigo Guide Service
www.indigoguideservice.com
www.thirdcoastfly.com

 -Alex who knows you want to come hang out. 

WelcomF Cake

Her last words rang in my mind over and over. Like a mystic chant. Like the answer to a prayer as their car sped away.

Here you don’t think about the fact that you haven’t showered this week when you are walking to the bar in the dark with a drink in your hand. You don’t think about time. Only light and dark. Only rain and shine. Only high and low. Is the water in the woods? It looks like it is coming down, yeah? Not really.

Dirty water travels at the speed of inevitability.

The wind was cold all day. The sun seemed to struggle and apologize through the clouds. Twenty-eight when the sun came up. Twenty-eight when the hot dogs huddled for warmth on the small bank-side propane grill. Twenty-eight when the ice cubes chilled the last sip of whiskey in your mouth. Twenty-eight when you set the hook on nothing in particular and wanted to look around and ask someone “why?” but nobody respects a petulant angler so you try hard and keep your mouth shut.

Out in the street the middle-aged women in the silver SUV had asked questions about fishing but we knew what they were really after; It takes a special brand of gal to brake for sweet hot stinky rubber-legged man-meat on the side of the road.

 “We will have cake,” they had said as the car sped away. And something about a birthday party at Bud’s bar… and cake. I remember clearly the part about cake.

It was like a weight lifted. We will have cake. A burden alleviated. We will have cake. Feeling down? We will have cake. Work hard for little to show for it? We will have cake. Empty inside? Fill it with cake.

Steelhead are like the promise of cake by strangers on the side of the road.

We fished and were men in Michigan: Men with bad habits and fly rods and low-fill beers and bacon and Frosted Mini Spooners; Men with strong coffee and stronger wills and a need for water like a shot of whiskey when wet boots are shed on kitchen linoleum; Men who are still and will always be confused about the proper use of the colon and semicolon. Men as real as it gets.

Life in Michigan has a strong nose, with powerful mouth feel and notes of blood and dirt and salt, a sweetness that can sometimes finish bitterly as it slides down your throat and becomes a little more of who you will be when you die. To the refined pallet it is the most delicious nourishment of all.

We walked to the bar that night. We hunted the flavor combinations of our existence under sodium-vapor lamps and past rusty cars to the place called Bud’s. There was no cake. No cake. But it didn't matter for our hearts were full and we dined on friendship and PBR and were lifted by the beauty of things and cohesion and stuff and other happy horseshit and whatever. But seriously, you shouldn’t lie about cake.

-Alex who forgives but never forgets - ladies without cake - but did find some steel:

Read more, actual reportage from The Smythster.

Purdy pictures:


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no time.

I have no time. No time to tell you about the awesomeness that was. No time to tell you about the awesomeness that will be. Just no time.

Let me relax. Let me sit on the couch and watch DVR things. Let me climb into bed without thinking about time. Please.

Not gonna happen, bro. Suck it up and get your shit re-packed, bro. Get back on the road. Hows the shoulder? Hows the finger? Doesn't matter. Don't be a pussy.

No rest for the fishy.

Matt Dunn took this photo and the coolness is undeniable.

-Alex who will be late to the PM post party due to large amounts of extra awesomeness, but promises not to disappoint when the time comes.