Creepy, In a Good Way

The plan was to knock around The Big Easy for a few days. Wander the Garden District, the French Quarter, and maybe a bayou or on the outskirts of town. Eat and drink too much. Listen to some good local blues and jazz. Take lots of pictures. It was a good plan. Hell, it was a great plan.

Mother Nature laughs at my planning.

Shortly after we arrived, unseasonal rains dumped eight-to-ten inches on NOLA in a short few hours, flooding The Bowl and many other low-lying areas within the city. Clubs along the Quarter found waters coming over their steps and seeping into the venues. Travel around town was a disaster, where you could drive at all. It wasn’t pretty. And then it kept raining.

This mess left us to while away a large chunk of our time in the hotel, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. We stayed at The Columns, a gorgeous old turn-of-the-century boutique boarding house, now twenty-guestroom hotel, that offered a dark, mysterious charm. And by mysterious, I mean creepy.

Creepy in a good way.

Adding to the creep factor, for much of our stay we were the only guests in the place. Quiet dark halls. Empty staircases. Rows of closed doors. Were one to be effected by such things, there was some serious malevolence brewing.

Did anyone see The Shining?

But we loved the place. While Mary napped or read in the room (number 25), I happily puttered around the haunting hallways and climbed up and down the incredible spiraling staircase to capture a few images, fully expecting to get back home to find soft spectral streaks in the photos. Ghosts of old New Orleans, peeking through.

They were most certainly there, visible or not.

End of the Line

Overseas Highway

Jewfish Creek, Lake Surprise, Key Largo, Tavernier Creek, Islamorada, Plantation Key, Snake Creek, Windley Key, Whale Harbor Channel, Upper Matecumbe Key, Tea Table, Indian Key Channel, Lignumvitae, Lower Matecumbe Key, Craig Key, Channel #5, Long Key, Fiesta Key, Conch Key, Toms Harbor Cut, Duck Key, Grassy Key, Marathon, Vaca Cut, Pigeon Key

Seven Mile Bridge

Little Duck Key, Ohio-Missouri Channel, Ohio-Bahia Honda Channel, Scout Key, Spanish Harbor Channel, Big Pine Key, No Name Key, North Pine Channel, South Pine Channel, Little Torch Key, Torch Key Channel, Big Torch Key, Torch Ramrod Channel, Ramrod Key, Niles Channel, Summerland Key, Kemp Channel, Cudjoe Key, Bow Channel, Sugarloaf Key, Park Channel, North Harris Channel, Harris Gap Channel, Lower Sugarloaf Key, Harris Channel, Lower Sugarloaf Channel, Saddle Bunch #2, Saddle Bunch #3, Saddle Bunch #4, Saddle Bunch #5, Shark Channel, Shark Key, Big Coppitt Key, Rockland Channel, East Rockland Key, Boca Chica Key, Boca Chica Channel, Cow Key Channel

Key West

The End of the Line

Moist with Plenty of Bark

Brandon wanted barbecue and he wanted it at Rudy's. He got no argument from me. We started south.

But the bottom dropped out and our weather apps flashed red, warning that between us and the Brownsville BBQ joint swirled an active tornado cell. As the rain lashed the YJ's loose ragtop, we pulled off the road and weighed our options. South Texas drivers handle rainy conditions like North Carolinians handle snow, Brandon relayed. Poorly. That sobering thought (along with visions of prairie twisters, made more plausible by the Jeep's fast-flapping fabric) turned us back towards the Queen Isabella Causeway and South Padre. Our caution overrode our appetites, but just barely.

I don't understand the near-religious warfare that exists between eastern and western barbecue followers. It's like fighting over the difference between bananas and doorknobs. I love me some good ol'e Dixieland vinegar-based pulled pork Q, but I'm all over that red Texas brisket when I can be. What's to argue?

Rudy's was out so we found a fallback. Lady and the Pit took care of us just fine, although Brandon had his concerns until we were sure that the smoker was out back. Good brisket and better sausage. The sides were a bit sweet (Who sugars their collard greens, anyway?) but they suited me just fine. And while the storm raged outside we had only to soak up the sweet tea and diet Doctor Pepper refills until it passed.

And we happily let that take a while.

Finding My Texas

Four days in McAllen. Might as well have been Cleveland.

Airport to hotel on the shuttle. Hotel to convention center by air-conditioned bus. Return and repeat. Views of the city through dark safety glass. Interior courtyard and square meeting rooms. Southern climes masked by thermostats set to “Icebox.”

I longed for the Lone Star vibe.

So as the meetings came to a close it felt good to get in the rental and go. To head east out of town toward the Gulf. But I wasn’t in Texas even then. Seventy miles-an-hour on Interstate 2. San Juan, Weslaco, Mercedes. Southwestern labels, but indistinguishable from anywhere else with their end-to-end Home Depots, Burger Kings, and La Quintas. The ubiquitous acres of Wal-Mart. Only the occasional HEB gave a clue.

So I tried to shake my case of the “wherevers” by turning on the radio. Satellite XM, Outlaw Country, seemed a good place to start. But it was country as generic as the asphalt I traveled. Corporate cowboys, polished and precise despite the clodhopper drawls. Sterile. I was looking for roots, dirt and all.

I-2 dumped east into Texas 83 and I switched to FM. Began to feel the southwest sun and attitude creep into my bones. Strip mall sprawl gave way to cattle land, manicured six lanes to concrete divided four, and meticulously mastered rock to something more earthy. Something more don’t-give-a-damn. Digital perfection acquiesced to analog authenticity. Big stage to front porch. A grittier sound on a grittier track.

But I wasn’t there yet.

I escaped the expressways onto State Road 100. Shook off the highway and found my two lane. Rolled down the windows and punched up AM. Sagebrush and mesquite flew by never-ending. Fruit stands, flat land and big sky with a soundtrack of scratchy mariachis. The soft background hiss of carrier wave, like tires on pavement, lent texture and life to squeezebox and guitar. White vinyl noise swaddled voices in cotton as if they’d been packed away for generations like precious artifacts. Canciónes that crossed cultures and borders and time.

I understood little of what was sung as I drove, but that didn't matter. Enough of the words were transcendent. Señorita. Bonita. Cerveza.

I’d finally found my Texas.

First Light

The plan was to pack up the gear and have the truck ready to roll the evening before, allowing me to stumble from bed and into the driver’s seat with a minimum of fuss and delay. But our neighbors from the lower ridge dropped by and a pleasant afternoon visit turned into an impromptu dinner, which then morphed into a late night shooting-the-breeze and solving-the-world’s-problems session out on the screened porch. Fine friends, good food, and regular refills tend to precipitate such things around here.

So, instead of an early departure, I awoke the next morning, fuzzy-headed, unprepared, and went about gathering the waders, rods, and piles of paraphernalia that follow me to trout waters. The task, and the fuzz, put me on the road an hour later than I had hoped.

Okay. Maybe closer to two.

On those days that I head west, into the Appalachians, I normally get away before the sun makes an appearance. Day trips that require a three or four hour drive, each way, demand a wee-hour start so the crossing of the bridge downstream of the house is typically done in darkness. It turns out, that’s been a blessing.

For what I saw this particular morning as the sun rose out of my truck bed made me question why I was leaving. I won’t try to describe it. I don’t have the skills.

Let's simply say that the old axiom “Don’t leave fish to find fish” seemed to apply to streams as well and I considered turning around, putting the pickup back in the driveway, and strolling down to wade my home waters. And while there’s no trout there, I felt certain I could coax a sluggish largemouth from the cool Piedmont flow. To be sure, I’d find no prettier surroundings to the west.

But I was already on the road and the trout stuff was packed. It seemed foolish, at that point, to return. In truth, it might have been foolish to have packed it in the first place. I spent the day wondering.

Wondering, and vowing that, next time, I'd be sure to be long gone before first light.

Under U.P. Skies

Deepest thanks to my buddy Jason for a couple of fine days on Michigan waters. We didn't scratch the surface of the incredible range of fishing opportunities that the state has to offer so, as Ah-nold once said, "Ah'll be bock."

Haunted By Waters

Flying down the gauntlets of corn

Subie fire through Indiana heat

Sketch monsters lie in wait in the weeds

But we race on, haunted by waters

Dead smells waft from upstream haunts

Stories of cadavers found

Not so sure that we wish to know

But we wade on, haunted by waters

Mormon kings that pushed their luck

Burnt-tailed snakes, ash, then alive

Two-o’clock traffic in one light towns

Oddities, all, but we’re haunted by waters

Chartreuse craft, smallies tough as nails

Unzipped through pitbull fight and Hoosier spunk

Goddam a barbless hook

Disappointed, but still haunted by waters

A perfect day on heartland flow

Summer’s end in the best of company

And the Heart’s ink says it all

I am haunted by waters

Deep appreciation to my buddy Dave for taking a day to show me his Indiana home waters. Do yourself a favor and check out the hugely entertaining photography, music, flies, and general alt joie de vivre at his blog, Pile Cast.

And a nod, of course, to Norman Maclean's A River Runs Through It for the title and thread that pulls this all together, neatly tattooed, in case you didn't notice, on Dave's left bicep.

Top Ten Baja Travel Tips - #6 and #5

Tip #6: Bring your vise.

It doesn't matter how much homework you do, how many people you ask before you go, or how many flies you tie and bring along, you won't have what the fish want. I promise. The guide will ask to see your fly box, take one look, and grimace. No bueno. And, unless you are chasing bonefish, the chances are pretty slim that he'll have a box of his own. We fly fishermen are few and far between in his world, especially in the salty scheme of things, so be ready to be self-sustaining. Be ready to adapt.

That first day you'll struggle, limited to throwing what's "close" and hoping to surprise your guide (who'll probably be wondering why these foolish fly fisherman handicap themselves the way that they do - a truly legitimate question). And while you won't choose to avail yourself of his usual fare of spin-casting lures or live bait, you should ask to see them. Perhaps even snap a picture. Then, go back to the room, pull out your vise, and get to work making fluffier imitations.

Tomorrow's another day. And you'll be ready.

Gratuitous Technical Tip: If you're fishing surf, save the space and leave the bucktail at home. It doesn't hold up for shit in the salt.

Tip #5: Bring plenty of gear. Plenty.

Take tip #6 a step farther. You have a fifty-pound limit on that duffel, so scrimp on the Hawaiian shirts and throw in another couple of rods and reels. What's important, after all?

Luggage side note: The quote of the trip comes from the shapely young lovely who, when asked if she needed assistance with placing her carry-on in the overhead bin on the flight to Cabo, smiled ever so sweetly and replied, "Oh, no, thank you. It's light. There's only, like, twenty bikinis in it."

A collective masculine groan echoed throughout the southbound 737.

So much for continuity. Where was I? Ah, yes. Gear.

If the roosters aren't running, be able to set the 9wt aside and pull out a 7 and have some fun with ladyfish around the pier. Ditch the light surf intermediate if the jack are AWOL and stick on a 375g and do battle with small groupers and sea bass in the rocks. And if all else fails, spool up a floater and pitch it in the general direction of the poolside bar.

Whatever's biting.

I think it's appropriate here to extend a quick THANKS to the good folks at Redington for the loan of a pair of Link fly rods and Rise II reels and to RIO Products for their Tropical Outbound Short fly lines. I truly wish I could say that we tested them to their limits, but that's fishing. I was warned that the Baja surf can be tough on equipment but the gear took the abuse, including my fair share of inept surfcasting, and came through splendidly.

If you like 'em fast and need to do some heavy lifting, the 9wt Link's definitely worth your consideration.

Top Ten Baja Travel Tips - #8 and #7

Tip #8: Stray from the beaten path.

Resorts are nice, but immerse yourself in the destination. By all means, stay safe, but get away from the visitors’ venues as often as you can. See what the place you are visiting is really like. Learn how the regional fare is, not just how the hotel interprets it for your tender tourist tastes. Find a local hangout, return a few times, and foster a friendship with the proprietor. You’ll learn more from him about where to go and what to do than from any concierge. He might even tell you his favorite fishing spots.

And, as you get out and about, do your best to present a friendly face, not just an American dollar. Above all else, show respect. Be a good ambassador for your homeland.

Lord knows we can use it.

Tip #7: Learn the language. At the very least, give an effort.

Speaking of showing respect, I can think of no better way than to put in some time to learn enough of a destination's language to get around. Possessing a three-year-old's vocabulary is better than projecting a "What? You don't speak my language?" attitude, especially if you're following Tip #8.

And know more than just your standard "fish, beer, bathroom, pharmacy" progression, even if that's all you typically use at home.

In truth, plenty of folks you will encounter may speak a modicum of English (and some probably more than they let on) but you should neither expect nor demand it. You'll get more consideration and better info if you try to use the native tongue. If they then switch the conversation to English, most likely to save their own sensibilities from your destruction of the dialect, you can smile and say Gracias.

And while those cute little translation apps may come in handy when deciphering a menu, an application for a fishing license, or the Prohibido sign that the frowning policía is pointing to over your head, it's pretty much useless in a regular conversation. Siri has enough trouble with English.

And you look silly talking into your hand.

They are, however, pretty useful in cleaning up your potty mouth.

Top Ten Baja Travel Tips - #10 and #9

I'm no world traveler, much less a seasoned "destination fisherman." Kickin' around North Carolina has generally been challenging enough and a two-tank-trip is about as far-flung as it got. But lately, it seems, I've fallen in with a fast crowd.

Lookin' straight at you, Mr. Hunt.

Being a travel rookie, I've made my share of rookie mistakes. I tend to learn lessons the hard way (as if there was any other process for doing so) and it seems a shame not to share these lessons with other aspiring adventurers. So this week I present the top ten travel tips gleaned from my recent Baja sojourn. Don't get too excited, though. They're pretty basic and most of you fly rod toting globetrotters will chuckle at my naivety. But a laugh is a laugh so, for your entertainment and/or enlightenment, here goes:

Tip #10: Air travel sucks, so enjoy it.

There was once a time when flying was fun. Back when the boarding gates were filled with happy families saying hello or goodbye to their traveling loved ones, when TSA didn't learn more about you during their ten-second body and luggage scan than your spouse knows after fifteen years of wedded bliss, and when people chatted with their fellow travelers about where they were going and what they were doing instead of silently bowing their heads in insular worship to their iGods. Flights weren't booked tighter than a four-man game of Twister, and, more often than not, there was no one sitting in B or E unless they were on their honeymoon. People dressed up nice when flying the friendly skies, yet didn't worry if there were holes in their socks.

And there was food.

Those days are gone. Accept it and find a way to enjoy the ride. Don't sweat the indignities. Make eye contact. Smile and get on with it.

But don't smile too much. You'll look suspicious. Two words. Cavity search.

Tip #9: Understand your currency

Yeah, we need to talk money. And I don't mean "how much," though that's pretty important too. I'm talkin' about currency. What should your money look like? If you're staying in the Sates, it's a moot point. Dollars are dollars (or plastic) throughout the good ol'e USA. But what about when you leave the country? You'd think the answer was simple, but, of course, it's not.

Mexico. Pesos, right? Seems obvious.

So when arriving in the San Jose Cabo airport I went straight to the currency exchange and converted the majority of my dollars to the local stuff. 12.1-to-1, the current exchange rate is, but I got 9.8. And I needed to convert twenty more dollars than I had planned to get that. One-fifth of my walk-around money, gone, with nothing to show for it.

I then got a ride to the resort (a whole 'nother story) and asked the driver how much I owed him. Forty dollars. Excuse me? Forty dollars. Ummm... How much is that in pesos? He didn't know, but eventually pulled out his cell phone and did the math. You can bet he didn't use 9.8.

And for most of the week, having pesos was unnecessary, and usually a complication. At the resort(s) the menus were in American and the bartender knew only piña colada, seven dollars. We did our best to use the pesos where we could so to save ourselves another twenty percent bite on the way home.

Check before you go. If you know exactly what you'll be dealing with before going in, you'll save yourself a lot of grief. And maybe more than a few pesos.

But don't put all your bets on the almighty dollar. Even if you know that your destination deals well in American currency, be sure you have some of the local stuff. For, when you find yourself off the beaten track (and you should!), sometimes the right coinage opens some mighty important doors.

La Comunidad de Pescadores

I clear customs with a minimum of fuss, though, por supuesto, of course, I’m “randomly selected” for a more thorough checkout. But the inspección de a mano of my camera gear and big rolling duffle is quick, efficient, and performed with good humor; more than I can say for the preceding thirty-six hours of air travel hell. What’s an extra five minutes when you’re already a day late?

Ultimately deemed harmless enough to be allowed to enter the country, I pass through the cool blue departure lounge, undecided as to whether the pervasive low rumble is my duffle’s resonation on the smooth tile floor or the internal reverberation of accumulated stress brought on by the litany of bad timing, disruptive weather, and missed flights. Reaching no definitive conclusion, I exit the chamber via the huge, sea-green-tinted glass doors, stepping into the brilliant Baja afternoon…

…and into the melee.

The party has started for my fellow travelers. Most are on their way south, to Cabo San Lucas, and the makeshift welcome bar that is set up immediately outside of the airport exit is doing a brisk and noisy business. My brief customs delay has given my compadres a head start on the festivities. Viva las vacaciones!

But my focus is beyond the bar, though the temptation to linger is overwhelming. I am heading the other direction, north, an hour or so, towards Los Barriles, and I’m uncertain as to how I’m going to get there. I skip the cerveza, for the moment, and look ahead, towards the road, into an even more chaotic scene.

Beyond the party I enter a gauntlet of energetic Hispanic gentlemen, most in their thirties and forties, all waving, all smiling, all holding aloft placards of a dizzying array. Taxi services. Hotel shuttles. Other indecipherable options. And interspersed among them are signs with surnames; some beautifully lettered on whiteboard, most hastily scribbled on rough notepaper. Robinson. Meyer. The Dortmund Wedding.

None say Sepelak.

Someone’s dropped la pelota.

To be fair, I was supposed to be here yesterday and the digital connection to my ultimate destination is problematic in the best of times, let alone while grabbing iPhone-sized snippets of bandwidth between hastily rearranged flight plans. Forget voice connections. It’s increasingly clear that I’m on my own from this point forward. At least I'm in the right country.

I look to the crowd of gentlemen and they sense my desperation.

Amigo! You need a ride? Come with me. Vamos. I take you!

I have no doubt the last to be true.

Not yet willing to surrender myself to the horde, I step back into the lounge to gather my wits. A final attempt to contact my hosts ends predictably, without connection, and the irony of being able to call home, two-thousand miles away, yet unable to reach a mere ninety clicks up the coastline is not lost on me. As my frustration begins to give way to despair, I spy a lifeline; a spark of travel magic. There, three rows from the door, poking above the crowd of seated, napping, texting, multi-cultured passengers is a welcome signpost.

Twenty feet away, pointed towards the ceiling, is a well-traveled, well-worn, green Sage rod case.

As I approach, the man sitting next to the case, clad in quick-dry Columbia and camel-hued Keens, looks up, meets my gaze, and smiles, perhaps noticing my dusty rod tube as well. Greg, he says. Greg, from Eugene, Oregon, and extends his hand. He, too, is headed north and has a van and driver outside, awaiting the imminent arrival of his fishing partner. Would I like to share the ride?

Sí. Eres muy amable.

Dennis arrives and we depart.

Driving north we don’t talk politics or religion or finances. Instead we speak of home waters, favored brews, and the incredible women who love us enough to tolerate our far-flung obsession. But most of all, we talk fishing. From the great Northwest to the Bahamian flats to the tip of South America, we talk fishing. Where we’ve been and what we’ve seen. We laugh like old friends who’ve shared these experiences and, in many ways, we are. We are fishermen and fly fishermen to boot. Pescadores de la Mosca.

The trip passes quickly. The driver drops Greg and Dennis at the hacienda of a friend, overlooking the Sea of Cortez, and then carries me another fifteen minutes across the dusty terrain to Buenavista. The ride is pleasant and I arrive in considerably better spirits than when I had departed. A brief stop at the Mini Super Chayito for a cold Pacifico certainly helped, but, in the end, I have survived to fish another day, saved by my brothers of the water.

Sustained, once again, by La Comunidad de Pescadores.

Now, here's where this wonderful community can assist once again. You see, I lost Greg's business card during the week. One too many Pacifico, I suppose. Please help me pass my heartfelt thanks along to my bretheren, from North Carolina to Oregon.

Gracias, mi amigos! Mayo nuestros caminos se cruza otra vez. Pronto.

The Photo Bin - August 2012

It seems as though I spent the entire month of August on the road. Visits to family in New Jersey, Indiana, Illinois and a fair amount of traipsing about the Southeast piled the miles up on the Ridgeline – and on me.

It’s appropriate, then, that this belated August Photo Bin was shot from the driver’s seat as I wandered the early morning back roads of Wisconsin, escaping to a little Driftless trout water. A few of the images may seem abstract but, in truth, they are exactly as I see things at O-dark-thirty in the morning. Just a bit on the dreamy side.

As anxious as I was to get to the stream, I was almost sad when the drive ended. Chasing Len and the rising sun through the misty hills and fog filled valleys, past shrouded grain silos and down dark, dusty country roads, stirred my soul and awakened me to a new day.

But it sure felt good to get out of that driver's seat once we arrived.