And the Goo did leadeth him

into one more season.

For best results use in a poorly ventilated space.

Hey look, a unicorn!

Upward Towards Whatever

I think I can feel something coming. There seems to be an anticipatory nature to my thoughts and movements. Over the last year I have seen a sea-change, but where the roles of form and substance were reversed; the physical transformed while the substance for the most part remained the same. But I can't help but marvel, usually within the company of alcohol, at the significant impact the littlest things can have on ones outlook as well as the clarity of the mind's eye regarding the future. An eavesdropped conversation, a photograph, a sunrise that would have been better shared, or a sunset that would have been better alone. But all of this working towards what? Of that, dear friend, I seem to be unsure and it feels like most important part of all.

2013 was as important of a year as any, but it seems, looking back, as if it were more of a landing within a staircase; a step but also a means of changing directions or navigating obstacles, held to the previous and next by the risers of the obligatory New Year's Celebrations, and being just as mysterious and necessary as any of the others in its role leading us upward towards whatever.

While these steps can be counted, with defined edges, the lives held within are imprecise, unfixed, runny.

Sarah Connor said there is no fate but what we make for ourselves, and I think sometimes it is easy to forget while being carried by the current of our lives that we have the ability to swim within that current, to change our position within that flow. Albeit sometimes the slightest repositioning can feel like an impossibility due to the perceived strength necessary to achieve the movement, which is usually just our bullshit fears getting in the way of progress. Remember that. (Also, always remember to stretch before strenuous life repositioning )

We consists of being born, doing lots of in-the-long-run seemingly meaningless things, then dying. Piece of cake. So tonight, as we lift our collective feet to the next step on the stairway of physical existence let us say a toast and be happy, because tomorrow you will have a headache and none of this shit will matter.

-Alex, stroking towards greatness.

What the hell?

Never in Theatres!

Yes.

Merry Christmas.

Lists and maps and picked guide brains in full 4-color glory, oh my!

In the introduction to this book, Lefty Kreh begins by saying, "Tailwaters are the salvation of fly fishing." It would stand to reason, then, that if you feel the need to be saved, and you would like to know where to go, have a detailed and labeled map of the area, and have a local guide tell you what to use and how for maximum fishyness, then this handsome 272-page, full color softcover is what you are looking for.

Divided by region, each tailwater (actual number is 56! yay!) has a great map and the write-up is the work of a local guide, so you can be sure that the knowledge is sound. (Although I know attaining true G14-Classified Super Secret guide insight still entails multiple 30-packs and a sustained proven trust level higher than the standard boat fare, and even then if they are true to their craft you will only get a partial idea, and that is just the way it goes and the way it should be.) Each chapter also includes "contact information for local fly shops, outfitters, and lodges, along with suggested best bars, restaurants, hotels, campgrounds, and emergency medical services." But seriously- the maps...bacon-savers.

The Gunns are good people. I am always treated like family when I stay at their lodge up at the Ferry. This, truly, is a very nice book with lots of good knowledge that can be used on all waters, really. It would look damn good on a coffee table, too. I was given a copy in exchange for talking about it here, but I think we have known each other long enough for you to understand that I would never lead you astray for personal gain. Probably. I think. Either way, if you buy this book and feel like anything I have said here is bullshit, drop me a line and we can talk about how you need a hobby.

-A

Cue the lightning bolt

And he did speaketh unto his peoples, "read thyself these words, for they are total awesome sauce."

Pulp Fly: Volume Three

Introduction by Michael Gracie
with
Erin Block
Alex Landeen
Pete McDonald
Miles Nolte
Tom Reed
Tom Sadler
Bruce Smithhammer
April Vokey
Bob White
Steve Zakur
Jay Zimmerman
aka
Awesome Sauce


Available on:

Amazon Kindle
Apple iPad
B&N Nook
Kobo Reader
Android device (via the Kindle App for Android or the Kobo Reading App)
Mac computer (via iTunes + iBooks App, the Kindle App for Mac, or the Kobo Reading App)
Windows computer (via the Kindle App for PC or the Kobo Reading App)

Get it.

-Saucier Alex de'Awesome

#Ahoy

#wouldn'tfightherforthebow
#thingsIwoulddowiththatpadel
#linestraighteningpriorities
#placesIwouldratherbe

#Alexwhoiscoldrightnow

For Luzzie: Smoke on the Water.

Eating and sleeping are the only activities that should be allowed to interrupt a man's enjoyment of his cigar.
-Mark Twain.

The subject: Trinidad Habana Reserve Siglo VI

Initial inspection proved this to be a handsome cigar. The wrap was smooth and head/cap were finished nicely, which lead to a neat cut. The initial draw was pleasurable and smooth, and the pre-light flavors were earthy, with hints of something sweet, almost cake-like.

It lit very easily, and needed no touching up. The earthy tones remained accompanied by a nutty undertone. Maybe almonds? (Maybe Hazelnut?-If I may be so bold.) The draw remained smooth and the taste, while hovering in the light to medium range, was soothing as the Cubano wrapper was sweet in the mouth.

As the cigar burnt down into the second third, the nut flavors began to recede as the taste became a little more spicy as the smoke thickened. I thought I might have picked up something in the citrus range, maybe a little grapefruit, but it was fleeting.

The burn was vain: near perfect, showing an excessively high opinion of itself as it wound down into the final third and the spice and pepper intensified along with the heat and quantity of smoke. I would say that this is generally my least favorite part of any cigar, and in this case I found myself wanting the medium light flavors from the beginning, but fearing that my pallet had now passed the point where I could appreciate those flavors again even if given the chance. 

At the end as it reached points of strength exceeding my level of appreciation, I gave the remaining nub a mariners death- drowning the fire in the cool mountain lake before stuffing the ashy remnant into my trash bag.

Sitting squarely in the $7 dollar range, I think they are a good deal, and a nice smoke if you are like me and enjoy a hassle-free smoke with rich flavors but like to remain on the lighter side of things. My father said it reminded him of a Fuente 858. I wouldn't know anything about that.

I would recommend it accompanied by JD Single Barrel out of a plastic flask.

The End.

Thanks to Luzzie at Neptune Cigars for providing the nicotine buzz.

-Alex

Recent places: Lees Ferry/Marble Canyon "Float That Shit" ep.2 - Defying Death.

The tire blew. The tread, which had apparently spent the last couple hundred miles slowly detaching itself from the cap piles, belts, and carcass, slammed like a gunshot as it bent the bumper and dented the fender before flying to rest somewhere in the road; most likely to be tossed aside by a passing highway patrolman where it would live with its previously shorn brethren dotting the sides of Interstate 17.

We were thrown from the right lane across the passing lane and onto the sloped rock shoulder of the median. Marvin held the drift as the bed of the truck lost traction, sliding out to the left and down the hill at near 70mph. I tensed, gripping the armrest. Marvin, both hands on the wheel keeping the truck half on and half off the blacktop, said, "hold on" as polished steel front bumper ate a shoulder marker; its gray metal body and small white square reflective head disappearing under the truck with a thunk.

We lived a lifetime in that moment. The heavy rumble of the ruined tire, rocks pounding, thrown away and up into the undercarrage: chaos which seemed a stark contrast to the clear bright beauty of the morning seen through the windshield. In moments like this they say that your life flashes before your eyes. I cannot say that was the case in this instance. In fact, I am a little embarrassed and slightly concerned to tell you that the only thought that I can clearly remember thinking as we walked that gravitational and frictional tightrope was "this is going to make us late for fishing."

The tires still in contact with the pavement caught and the vehicle straightened out with a wobbly snap. Marvin steered the truck back across the lanes to the right shoulder and brought us to a stop where we surveyed the damage and swapped the tire with the spare in a rush; partly still twitchy as the last adrenaline was processed from out bodies, and partly because the backhaul up Marble Canyon left at 2:30, and our soft time cushion was diminishing by the minute. The job done, and with a quick still-alive-high-five, we continued out journey north with slightly raised levels of appreciation for just about everything. I ate the remainder of my subway sandwich as we talked loudly. It was abnormally delicious.

Discount tire in Flagstaf spit us out just in time to make it to the boat ramp at Lees Ferry as the CRD guide boats were loading people for backhaul. All was well and good.

Here are photos.

I can't be certain, but I think this may be Marvin retelling the tire story. Also, notice Marvin is wearing a had in this photo, which shortly after this image was taken blew off and sank, making him resort to wearing my spare buff the rest of the weekend. 

No hat.

People look cooler touching fish while wearing hats. Just sayin.

mmm tilt-shifty.

Buffalo wings at Vermillion Cliffs Lodge, after days of eating dehydrated food, are awe inspiring. 

-Alex who likes a little excitement now and again.

a slight bitch and a preview of things to come v-8.2

I must have done something wrong like thanking the incorrect deity post trophy-fish netting or running over some old gypsy woman or something because this feel like some brand of voodoo.

First it was the the week-long PM steelhead trip where the first day I began an apocalyptic sinus head-fuck cold/flu/snot-fest that kept me in bed and out of the drift boat for the first few days.

Now it was strep throat for the San Diego shark trip; fever, body aches, headache, prescription antibiotics, the whole shebang.

And if that isn't silly enough, two years ago when I had a day scheduled with Conway Bowman (the guide we had for this trip) who at the last minute had to pass the trip to Dave Trimble because he was sick with, get this, strep throat.

Seriously. I havn't had strep since I was like 8, and now it shows up on the day before a trip with a guy who had to bail because of it two years ago?

Two out of state trips this year, two sicknesses that could not have been planned better for maximum shittyness. Yeah. Voodoo.

But you know what? Fuck it. In Michigan I stuck steelhead and yesterday Makos felt the cold steel so eat a dick, illness. You have to do better than that to keep my fly out of the water, you bastard.

There is GoPro footage to edit, and I am going to bed so hard right now but I will leave you with this little tasty screenshot.

Enjoy.

Spoiler alert: That fly is in trouble.

-Alex who will probably be enjoying soft foods for a few more days.

Thoughts, renderings, and Pulp Fly: Vol. 2 in the multiverse

As the modern age pushes another little bundle of joyful ones and zeros out into the electronic existence, I sit thinking of Morgan Freeman. In the multiverse, and its set of infinite possible universes that together "comprise everything that exists and can exist: the entirety of space, time, matter, and energy as well as the physical laws and constants that describe them," these things which you see before you do exist, physically, somewhere:

Tasty

In one reality humans consume information in a literal sense, and someone soon will be taking a nice big cold swig of extra pulpy Vol. 2, basking in the refreshing deliciousness of fresh fly fishing content. While they wipe some tasty prose from their chin with the back of their once sun-beaten forearm they stare out an office window and thank their deity for the shared experience of others.

---

A few realities away a child sits on a old pine bench on the porch of a cabin. He holds in his little hands a weathered book, he opens the cover and flips through a few chapters, letting the thick, rough edged pages fall between his fingers. His discarded waders and boots piled near his feet, which swing enthusiastically above the wooden deck.

An old man appears at the screen door holding a mixing bowl with sweet smelling , unknown contents.

The child looks up through the door. "You wrote this, grandpa?"

"No, just a part of it."

"Well, I bet it is the best part," the child replies and continues flipping through the old pages.

The old man smiles through the dusty screen as the sun pokes its orange fingers through the last remaining gaps in the tall trees that line the high mountain lake.

What Pulp Fly: Vol. 2 would look like existing physically

---

So finally we end with our own occasionally boring yet magnificently awesome reality, where right now the crack (or cracked out) editorial staff of Pulp Fly is working around the clock to bring you, valued reader, the newest, freshest, most bestest yet Pulp Fly yet: Volume Two, of which I am grateful to be a part:

This is what Pulp Fly: Vol. 2 looks like in our (and your) reality

As updates become available I will give them to you. For now, just try not to melt your brain thinking of all the awesomeness existing elsewhere, and focus more on the awesomeness existing here.

-Alex who may have shirked some semi-important duties while in the throws of graphic creation.

casting for fun

Conditions on the way to the lake: On Fire.

Conditions on the lake itself: Decidedly not on fire.  

This is what mid summer bass skunkage looks like while the chomper drops a load of milfoil.

The most action all day came when the angler seen above lost an expensive bait rig overboard and went in head first after it. He said it felt like something pulled it out his hands... I would like to believe him, and I think I will just for sanity's sake.

2013 Bass - 1, Alex - 0

#suckitfish

-Alex gonna-take-my-shirt-off-just-long-enough-to-get-some-color-then-burn-my-winter-white-ass-self-to-shit Landeen

Getting around to it.

I know... I am tired of hearing about and I got your emails. It has been over a week and I am still suffering from PASD, (Post Altitude Stress Disorder), which is common for me upon returning from the mountains however it seems that this is a worse case than usual. 

I take showers.

I drive in traffic.

I don't smell like fish and dirt and bacon and there are no wine/beer/whisky stains on my pants.

Fucked up, I know.

So bare with me as I slowly get my shit back together.

-Alex the guy with the shit which is apart.

Ferry Stuffs no.3 - Grill Pro Tip: Fire Placement.

Build the fire in your Weber to one side. This allows you to move your grill subjects around from direct to indirect heat, or hold done items to the side while you take care of other grilling. Use the addition of the top to "bake" when needed.

These T-Bones are just taking a little rest before dinner. Since the fire is still pretty hot, rest them bone-side toward the heat.

Tenderloins, marked over the heat then moved, finish up as the asparagus grill.

-Alex who wants to help you deliver the delicious.

Ferry Stuffs no.2 - those awesome carabiners.

Use them on your battle belts or waste packs while on the water to temporarily hold important things while you play with fishes, take photos, open beers, light things, do tai chi, or whatever it is you need both hands to accomplish. 

They are awesome and make you look cool and efficient and hardcore.

-Alex who who always wants to help.

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.

Abbreviated

"Hey! Did you know that there is a special in-store screening of IF4 coming to a Cabela's near you? You should totally check it out! There will even be cheddar-flavored popcorn!"

"Wow, that is awesome! I live in Shitstainville and nothing cool in the fly fishing industry ever comes close to my stupid town but there is a Cabela's like two hours from my house, so I would totally go check that out! How much is it to get in?"

"It is totally free, bro! Even the cheddar popcorn!"

"Holy Shit! Wait, don't you  have to pay to get into the actual show?"

"Totally, bro."

"So why is this one free?"

"Oh, well, it's an abbreviated version of the actual festival and it's complementary."

"Oh, okay, so like, what will they be showing?"

"All of the films, bro! Just the abbreviated versions."

"What does that mean?"

"Well, they are she short versions."

"Like what, the trailers?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"You mean like the ones on the IF4 Vimeo site?"

"Yeah, dude, but this is totally better cause they will play like one right after another!"

"Where will they be showing the trailers, on a big screen in the store or something?"

"Nah, dude, it's like a laptop and projector in a meeting room stuffed way in the back corner of the store. So like you just walk in and ask three employees where the IF4 screening is, because the first two will most likely have no idea what you are talking about, then find the meeting rooms, get your delicious free cheddar-flavored popcorn, sit down and wait for some Cabela's employee to walk in and press play on the laptop and enjoy, bro!"

"So wait, let me make sure I understand: all they are playing is the teaser-trailers that have been running around the internet for months?"

"Yeah."

"Anybody going to be there?"

"Ah, hell yeah, bro! I mean, there is totally going to be at least a couple people there, probably, not even including the Cabela's girl who presses play on the laptop!

"..."

"Did I mention the cheddar popcorn? That shit is tasty, bro."

Ben Smith w/cheddar popcorn, bro.

-Alex who is still in reeling in awe and wonder and totally understands why organizing these "screenings" at Cabela's was not a complete waste of time.

life like noodles

He had packed it like a cigarette smoked to the filter and the zipper made a hot noise as it closed like night around day.

SSSSSZZZZZZHHHHHHHHHHHNNAP!

The duffel hit the floor at his feet. A disturbed dust bunny made a break for the safety under the box spring but settled for a discarded leather slipper. He coughed like an afterthought and walked to the kitchen.

He stared at the other packed stuff on table and scratched at the stubble on his cheek. His fingernail found a little scab and he thought absentmindedly about the important things he was probably forgetting.

He picked the scab and examined it closely in the buzzing, greenish light.

He rarely forgot things but when he did he had a tendency to make it something spectacularly important.

He flicked the scab to the carpet and turned to the refrigerator. The door sucked open and the interior was illuminated in yellow long enough to show him again that there was still no sustenance contained within before he closed the door again.

Something tickled his cheek and wiped at it. There was a little blood smear on the back of his hand. He licked it and grunted in agreement and tasted plastic.

He stepped over a wet spot and moved to the sink and squeezed some dish soap into his palm as the hot water struggled through the old copper in the walls.

He tried to scrape what looked like an old noodle from the edge and only succeeded in bending his thumbnail back painfully. He put his hands under the water and flung them away from the lava-hot flow with a yelp.

He bit his knuckle and tasted soap as the space heater hummed on the counter drying his freshly washed hat.

Out the window a light breeze gently pushed the mosquitoes in wobbly circles in the shadows of the carport.

He looked upon the defiant noodlet with contempt.

The hours before a trip were always the longest hours of his life.

-Alex who has long hours, too.

Coulda Been a Contender

Walt Redman called that fucker in, and the son of a bitch just about jumped into the truck. He stood about twenty yards from us, grunting and snorting, bloodshot eyes, covered in piss.

He had just been talking to her from down in the valley. Then he heard some other asshole bugling up here with her and he came to see about that. She was here somewhere; that pretty little cow elk that he had heard talking all slutty.

He got to the top of the hill and stopped.

What the hell is this? He stared, still quivering with desire. Who are these bastards? Two big metal bastards and three two-legged bastards standing up here all alone in the early morning light.

He stomped the ground and turned slightly, grunting. Something ain’t right, he knew now. The wind shifted and he caught the scent and turned his big head bolted down the hill, pussy be damned this shit smelled dangerous and he got out of here.

That was Tuesday. Elk season stated Friday. That randy kid wasn’t going to be tricked a second time. No sir.

Friday morning we hit the call, waved, and said hello from 425 yards as he turned and walked away, knowingly. That was the end of that.

I will become a better elk hunter. Yes. I will.



-Alex who will never be okay with 2am as a "get up" time.

man skillz

Zach "Daddy" Fralc got skill.

-Alex who understands when the skunk is on, men can resort to desperate measures.