The Photo Bin - October 2015

The camera didn't get much use this month. Life gets in the way, sometimes. But over the last couple of days I've wandered out of the house and snapped a handful of images of the surrounding woods as Autumn begins to creep in. It'll change fast, to be sure, but I always like that early-season moment when sourwood oranges, dogwood reds, and hickory golds begin to emerge against the steadfast and stubborn oak green, lighting up the woods and dappling the forest floor in riotous color.

My favorite time of the year.

Note: Be sure to click on each image, hopefully giving you a larger and better resolved look at the details within.

What is a Photo Bin?

Just Two Casts Away

Excerpts from an Alaskan journal:

TSA Agent, with a straight face, as I entered the security queue with my travel rod case: "You don't have any guns in there, do you?" Really?

The biggest problem with carrying fly fishing gear on a plane is that you have to listen to everyone else's fish stories.

I'm toast, though the sun has not yet set. I've gained four hours, traveling west, and I feel the weight of them. Too long spent in seat 38B.

Far-flung trips seem unreal until I'm in the middle of them. Before departure there's always the questions. Will it really come off? What will it be like? Will I return from it? (Yes, I ask myself that sometimes.) Trips are a slice out of time, completely disconnected from the natural flow of my life, but they always teach me something new about it. Each trip has a lesson, though it often takes a while for it to be recognized.

First fish in Alaska, a robust rainbow, every bit of four inches long. Glad I came all this way. But hey, he jumped!

Black spruce, cottonwood, juniper, birch, scrub willow, alder. Fireweed, caribou moss, crowberries, salmonberries, wild blueberries. The colors of the tundra are scrumptious.

"They taste so good, it's like an angel pissed on your tongue." - Pete, on Tia's peanut butter concoctions

"Too early old, too late wise." - Grandpa Tex, via Pete, on nothing in particular

It's amazing to fish a stream full of brilliant red spawning sockeye, drifting beads through the schools, searching for the big rainbows and char that linger among them and gobble the roe. But the occasional salmon will go cannibal, take the egg, and they're a load to bring home; a guilty pleasure.

Thank God for Gore-Tex.

"You're just two casts away from the biggest trout of your life." - Bradley's mantra

Bent the 8wt all day long with silvers fresh from the salt, still fully loaded for their hundred-mile trek up the river, still bejeweled with sea lice along their broad chrome flanks. Charles said I caught fifty. He might have been right. I stopped counting at three.

Flannel sheets on an Alaskan morning. It's hard to get out of bed.

7wts with sinks, 6wts with floats. Streamers from all angles. My kind of fishing.

Our last day of fishing, done. The rain picked up as we arrived back at the lodge, washing the week clean. I'm ready to head home tomorrow. Hope the weather lets us out.

It did, with some reluctance.

The Photo Bin - September 2015

You should have seen it coming. This month's photo bin could only be outtakes from Alaska for what else am I to do with the hundreds of images that came home with me? I'll go easy on you, though. Just a handful here. Odds and ends. The usual bin fare.

Scott will probably kill me for this, but the first image here from the Royal Coachman Lodge comes from the backyard. Not a glam shot of the lodge or slick advertising piece of scenery, but a view from the guts of the operation. Truth be told, when you're an hour away by float plane from the anything approaching civilization, there's nothing more reassuring than finding a well stocked and thoroughly outfitted workroom, capable of dealing with whatever the wilderness might throw at you.

Polished and comfortable rooms are nice (and the Coachman has that covered, have no worries), but having the right tools is priceless.

A quite different view of the place, nestled comfortably along the Nuyakuk River, taken as we circled before landing on our final day of fishing. I never tired of this vantage point.

An impressive moose skull and rack that adorns the front yard of the lodge, perfectly accentuated by thick morning mists on the Nuyakuk. These particular mists never gave way and kept us grounded the entirety of the day.

But the grounding had a silver lining, relegating us to the boats alone and to traveling a few miles downstream to visit some of the wildest and most beautiful rapids I've experienced. They were accessible this season only because of unusual and extreme low water conditions, providing a special opportunity to fish fast waters and eddies that had been untouched for years.

Fall arrived on the Tikchik during our week's stay, the colors of the tundra changing each and every day. I'm used to my autumnal brilliance arriving in the trees, so it's emergence from the ground was fascinating to see.

How's this for confidence? A sixty-inch tape in Cory's wader pocket. We never stretched it out, but not for lack of trying, and it was a constant reminder of the possibilities.

So, what do the guides do in the evenings? They retire to the barn to compare notes and shake off the day with a wicked game of darts. It's lively competition until the generator shuts down and sends everyone to bed. Some days that happens later than others.

In the absence of high speed internet, you must rely on lower tech for your immediate weather forecasts. A strategically placed stencil on the lodge's glass front door works just fine.

Another shot, here, of one of the out-of-the-way places that makes the lodge tick. The fare that comes out of this kitchen is mighty hard to beat.

And speaking of mighty hard to beat, so is this view off the front deck. Cory and Charles take a few minutes after diner and before the sun slips away for some late evening spey casting tips. Picking up a few grayling and rainbows in the process didn't hurt and the setting was spectacular.

One of the most important lessons I've learned from wife, Mary, is that while the panorama might be inspiring, so too are the little things. Take a moment to look at what's close at hand, to look down, and find the joy and beauty that's within your reach. You don't have to be in Alaska to be exhilarated.

But I must admit, it doesn't hurt.

What is a Photo Bin?

Bob's World

We spoke of many things.

We spoke of aging with vigor and with dignified acceptance of limitations. We spoke of how shadows on the stream are darker than their hosts. We spoke of brown water, both waded in and sipped on. We spoke of creativity and inspiration and the special disposition it takes to be a painter and a writer and a fly fishing guide.

We threw some mean darts.

There were many things that made my Alaskan adventure special, but foremost among them was time spent with my host, the unsinkable Bob White. Mary often wonders at my practice of charging off on far-flung fly fishing jaunts with folks that I’ve never met and I suppose that I understand her concern. But this was a no-brainer. Before I’d ever shaken his hand I felt a connection to the man. I’ve long admired his artwork, been inspired and entertained by his off-season social media quotes of the day, and appreciated a stimulating written correspondence over the past couple of years. I felt that I pretty well knew what I was getting into.

I was not disappointed.

So here’s to my Alaskan friend, guide, roommate, and fellow young pup. It was a pleasure to spend time on the water, in the lodge, and behind your amazing easel. Thanks for the invitation and the time shared in your special corner of the world. In Bob's world.

And I hope that we’ll get to speak of many more things as we travel down the road.

Framed by Wing and Float

We put down on Lake Aleknagik, glided into the beach, and unloaded our gear into the shuttles that would carry us back to Dillingham. The week at the Coachman was done. Our pilot, Steve, became our driver and offhandedly observed...

Now comes the dangerous part of our trip.

Yeah, I replied, statistically speaking we were safer in the air than we are on the road.

Not just that. Look at this van!

Funny that he felt less comfortable in a ten-year-old Dodge than he did in the sixty-year-old de Havilland. Funnier still, I did too.

When I told folks that I was going to Alaska they were understandably envious, but most hesitated when I described our daily routine, predicated on venturing out into the wilderness in small floatplanes. More than a few inquired of my life insurance.

But in his book, Top of the Flood: Halfway Through a Fly Fishing Life, my friend Tosh Brown sums it up nicely:

“I’ve never quite understood why some will readily strap themselves into a 300-ton aluminum firecracker and then balk when offered a ride in a small plane that actually makes aerodynamic sense.”

The argument didn’t sway many.

But it’s their loss for while the fishing was fantastic, the flying was better. We soared over forest and water and tundra and rock. We glided high in bluebird skies and crawled a scant three-hundred feet off the deck under impenetrable white ceilings. We watched from an unparalleled viewpoint as Fall found the Tikchik and painted the Togiak in autumnal brilliance. It was simply breathtaking and I’d have happily lain down my fly rods to ride the winds all day.

I took hundreds of pictures from the air but none do justice to the spectacle. Not a one. But I’ll try to show you, as best as I can, Fall’s arrival in Alaska, framed quite nicely by wing and float.

Thanks, Steve and Tor, for sharing your wings. It was a joy.

If this handful of images isn't enough, feel free to check out another dozen here, including some shots of the horse itself, the lovely de Havilland DHC-2 Beaver.

Note: Click on the images to see them in larger format. It's a step closer to the real thing, I suppose, but still pales...

Nobility

Are you taking pictures of dead fish?

Yes. Yes I am.

I am fascinated by the carnage that litters the Alaskan streamsides and can only imagine what it will look like in a month. The imperative that exists within these fish, to swim hundreds of miles to their birthplaces, to do their thing and then call it a life, amazes me. To see the swimming zombies, spent and deteriorating, flesh falling from their bones, but still fighting the currents to perpetuate their species, humbles me.

Do I have such courage, such commitment, such ragged nobility within me?

Do you?

Mike, you're weird.

Yes. Perhaps I am. But then you probably don't see them as I do.

Or do you?

Goin' Nowhere

Flesh

When enunciated correctly, the word is both deeply erotic and profoundly disturbing. Say it with me.

Flesh

Feel the tingle?

When you get tired of catching fish after fish, drift after drift, grayling after goddam grayling (with the occasional lipsticked dolly tossed in to make it marginally worthwhile); when you get tired of fishing that piece of costume jewelry, that perfectly round trinket, that princess-pink bauble painted with just the right nail polish; when easy fishing degenerates from easy to boring (perhaps thirty minutes, if even that long), your buddy says the ‘f’ word and something dark inside of you moves.

You know what you’re giving up. The numbers, the clockwork tug, the comfort and ease of your trapped air technology. (No Charles, it’s not a fucking “bobber.” It’s a strike indicator! For God’s sake, have some dignity.) You give up that mind-numbing rhythm of mending and catching, mending and catching, mending and catching.

They say that you don’t leave fish to catch fish, but they’re wrong. All fish are not equal. All fishing is not sport.

So you ignore the outside bubble line and focus, instead, on the inside snags; the slow water and blow-downs where rotting corpses gather in underwater creep shows. Phantoms, waving in tatters like carrion sheets on Lucifer’s clothesline. You dead drift (acquiring a whole new perspective on the term) tan stingers that, for all the world, look like soiled shreds of toilet paper flushed down Seward’s folly, but promise their targets the carnage they crave. You dredge the putrid downstream abattoir where the meat eater lies. You pursue the beast that's following its basest of urges, not daintily sipping on priss caviar as it gently flows by. You stalk the savage. You want him at his baddest, his inner zombie full-blown, his depravity manifesting in glorious carnivorous splendor.

He deserves a hook in the face and you’re all about giving him one.

Sure, you’re probably foregoing twenty, thirty, to chase just that one. That cannibal. That monster. And maybe, just maybe, he’d think about taking a bead, but what fun is that?

He wants… you want…

... flesh.

The Duffle

I made it home with no serious hiccups but my big rolling duffle went walkabout. PenAir decided that they needed to lighten the load by a couple-hundred pounds before we lifted off from Dillingham and I won the “left behind” lottery. It’s a sick feeling to be left standing at the luggage conveyor, watching that last sad bag (someone else’s) circle over and over and over again.

Sud'bá, my friend Will would say. My destiny.

After leaving my forwarding info with Baggage Control, I moved on with just my carry-ons, back through security, and settled in at the gate for my next leg. With a couple of hours till liftoff, and my confidence shaken in luggage logistics, I started a list of the contents of the REI duffle. Just in case.

It turned into a challenge, a game, to remember it all. Exercise for this old brain. And since I’ve written it down, I thought I might share it here. Just for grins.

So here's what came back from Alaska:

Simms G3 Waders – Lived in them. Friggin’ bulletproof.
Simms Guide Jacket – See above
Simms G4 Boots – See above
Redington Sonicdry Wading Pants – Seriously Comfy. Wear them whenever I can. Didn't.
Simms Vapor Boots – See above.
Patagonia Stormfront Roll Top Pack – Best piece of new gear of the trip. Stuff stayed dry.
SmithFly Digi-Pouch – Kept the SLR handy and dry
SmithFly 3X Pouch - Catch-all for small gear. Solid.
Simms Guide Vest – Didn’t use this trip. Guides had it under control.
Folstaf Wading Staff – I don’t leave home without it
Socks (REI, Wigwam, Swiftwick, Simms) – MUST have fresh socks. Carried a wad!
Quick-dry underwear (REI, Patagonia) – Absolutely critical
Boxers (Old Navy) – Comfort around the lodge and when sleeping
REI Midweight Baselayer Pants – Because it’s good to be warm
Select Soccer Warmup Pants – See above
REI Light Poly Baselayer Shirt – See above
Redington SonicDry Baselayer Shirt – See above
UnderArmour ColdGear Baselayer Shirt – See above
Simms Merino Wool Light Sweater – See above
Northface Windwall Fleece Jacket – See above
Allsport Heavy Fleece Pullover – My son’s. A very special warmth, and a tear or two.
Orvis Fingerless Fleece Gloves – Keeping the digits warm
Manzella Light Gloves – See above
Fleece-lined Stocking Hat – Keeping the ears warm
Columbia PFG Quick Dry Pants – Because I generally don’t travel/fish in anything else
REI Sahara Shirt – See above
Levi’s 527 Jeans – For kicking around the lodge
Howler Brothers Longsleeve Loggerhead Shirt – See above
Fiberglass Manifesto Retro Fly Longsleeve Shirt – Sleep shirt. Best logo in the industry.
Tilley Hat – Old school. In case of sun. It could happen.
Nylon Belt – No sagging allowed
Bathroom Kit – Travel necessity
Fireball Cinnamon Whisky (2 bottles) – See above

Those were the things I remembered and wrote down. I’m proud to say that I only failed to recall three items:

Book – Corman McCarthy’s Blood Meridian
Sony Digital Voice Recorder – You can’t always write shit down
Nestle Hot Chocolate Packages – Good with a little Fireball in it

Not bad for an old man with mush for memory. But I must admit, as long as it took me to decide what to take, and to pack it, I should have been able to recall it all. And though the list is long (and I carried more than a few “splurge” items), I stayed under my fifty-pound limit. Given my penchant for over packing, that’s pretty amazing.

So. What’s in YOUR bag?


Note: It all worked out in the end. No need to haggle over the list of items. The duffle made it's way home, a day later. Just long enough to insure that everything inside smelled plenty ripe.

Another note: Of course, I carried-on my fishing gear. You can take my clothes and leave them where you will, but the fly rods are coming with me. Maybe I’ll post the contents of that carry-on too, if anyone happens to be interested.

The Rookie

It sucks being the rookie.

The abuse. The practical jokes. The shit jobs.

And it’s worse when you’ve been the rookie for six years.

That’s right. Six years.

So let’s give a little extra viz to the “new” guy,

The guy at the bottom of the seniority totem pole,

The guy looking up.

He damn well deserves it.

Note: That Tyler’s been "the rookie" for six years now speaks volumes about the guide staff at the Royal Coachman. Top notch. Experienced. And treated well by the lodge, it would appear, thus the low (actually NO) turnover. It’s a darn good crew and I thoroughly enjoyed fishing with each and every one of them. Even the new guy.