Le Fevrier Fever au Cabine

Fresh back from the high country, where there was much work and no trouts and the local whiskey burns a hole through your guts like Big Sister Rabbit when the Szechuanese are mad at you. Babylon in the mountains is all. I did get a sweet t-shirt though.

Is it the early season yet?

in between times

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rebuilding the squadron before Stand #3, next week. Preparing to take it on the chin, to feed the woodpiles and trees, to stay up late being responsible and wake up early to jack rigs like some kind of zombie punter Roderick Haig-Brown with breathables oozing ale yeast-and-burrito farts. Continue reading

fighter command to punter patrol, over

Second stand of the fall run: staying behind.

The era of wifi has made the role of Fighter Command obsolete, as Punter Patrol can now smear batter grease and Spotted Cow over the NOAA and USGS feeds on their mobile devices of an evening in the ROP watershed. No need to call home. These are different times.

Left to imagine the Dark One, Professor Cheeseburger, and Slint riding their ponies single file to hide their numbers, slopping down hills of red mud, gentlemanly low-holing one another in the fabled, historied pools of our river: Vin Diesel, Washington Generals, Nelson’s Glory Hole, Gay Lamprey.

I believe I will brew some beer.

on Wisconsin

One finds that wade-fishing for the trouts in two of three states in the Driftless lacks a certain squalid je ne sais quoi.

I’ve seen gutted does bungeed to the hoods of old sedans parked in front of the one bar in town on snowy midgeless northeast Iowa November Sundays, and I’ve seen the creepy, last-human-being-in-the-world sadness of abandoned farms along empty spring creeks in Allamakee county on endless solstice evenings, and also the bad manners of grown men packed shoulder to shoulder in 10 yards of river bank trying to floss the same three sorry stocked alien fish at the mouths of North Shore spates in the Minnesota Arrowhead. But for my money nothing can touch ‘sconnie, and here’s what I think it comes down to:

Wisconsin never, ever forgot that it used to be frontier.
Continue reading

Makers 46 tasting notes

A little apres-dark casting practice with Slint. The famed pools of Garbage Can Alley and Utility Shed Hole fuck up d-loops. Merits of 390 vs. 420 are debated in a dark backyard where the results cannot clearly be seen. Fly box show and tell turns all goopy 30-something career and family talk. What happened to us? The answer, dear reader, is bourbon on Sunday.

First stand on the River of Presidents in 6 days, featuring the return of native son the Dark One: stay tuned.