It's just before 5am, so we made good time. Sun still has a while to show itself, but there's plenty of light to see the water. Little dimples on the surface--not what we're after, but still nice to see some activity. The birds are busy already, dipping and feeding and squawking. Should be a good sign, right? Means the fish are biting...
Why are we doing this? Why do we spring out of bed at 3am, brew a pot of coffee, load up the truck and hit the road before there is any hint of daylight? I feel like a kid. The anticipation is stronger than Christmas morning. All the planning & preparation...checking water levels, following the barometer, reading fishing reports. The thousands of dollars that we've invested in this stupid hobby... As far back as I can remember, I've been obsessed with, addicted to, and haunted by angling. I'm not entirely sure I can explain why, either. I could easily fish for the rest of my life. Every day. Seriously. I might get tired of it, but I kind of doubt it. I'd like to find out. I dream at night about pushing off in a drift boat...whether on the sticks or perched at either end ready to shoot line. That feeling of going with the current, covering miles of water, hitting every seam, tailout, and pocket along the way. We gonna have a 50 fish day, or a five fish day? We're catching fish, I do know that. Least we better... Quickly, my thoughts shift to wading knee-deep in warm salt water, stalking a tail. I see you. I see your cloud, your tail...and your friend. Okay, I've one, maybe two shots at this...don't fuck it up. 20 yards maybe? Stupid headwind. Haul, haul, shoot! Oooooh, that wasn't bad! Wasn't bad at all--didn't spook 'em. Strip, strip, boom! Still shifting... There is a single light on a post by the boat launch. It's orange-ish and has a cloud of bugs around it. I'm glad it's here, though, because it's pretty damn dark. Kinda chilly, too. Glad I brought this jacket. I'll back it down--why don't you guide me on that side--it's kind of tough to see. Boat's floating, I'll go park. I love the sight and sound of that empty bass boat trailer being pulled out of the lake, water pouring off, splattering against the blacktop. Wet trailer tracks lead right into our parking stall--first ones here! Fire it up, let's go, man. You get the sandwiches? Good, let's hit it. Idle past the buoy and throttle down! Woo! That'll wake you up! And possibly my favorite... Okay, there's the tailout. Quiet. See anything? Holy shit, they're rising. Look at all the bugs. Look at all the fish! Holy shit. Are they caddis? Of course they are, what else would they be? Size 16? 18, maybe? That looks about right. Hurry up, fingers. Okay, here goes. Nice! Mend, mend. Let 'er go...let 'er go. C'mon! It doesn't get any better than that drift! You kidding me? Shit, that's a nice sized fish rising right there. Nice cast! C'mon, you bastard...c'mon. Yes!!! Every trip is different. Some trips are 10 days, some are 40 minutes. Some days you're catching fish smaller than your hand, some days you're after fish that could eat your dog. Whether I'm blasting down the lake at 80mph to get to that spot first, or pushing back on the current in order to get a few more shots at that pocket, it's the same feeling. It's one part primitive hunter's instincts, one part solitude and connection with nature, with just a dash of competitive spirit, and sprinkled with camaraderie. Better set the alarm for 3am. //re.
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This post originally appeared back in February on my previous blog site, www.earlsblogazine.blogspot.com. Maybe it's the unexplainable satisfaction I get from using an inconvenient, archaic form of entertainment. My nostalgic side appreciating pulling a ridiculously-sized fragile disc out of its paper sheath, blowing off the dust, and carefully laying it on the turntable. The thought that maybe I'm hearing a more sophisticated recording, the way music is meant to be heard. I don't know... What I do know is that I love hearing that crackling sound of the needle connecting to the vinyl in anticipation of that first cut on Side 1. I'm not an "audiophile", or whatever we're calling the record player fanatics. I can appreciate it, people geeking out over vinyl, or sound in general. If you've got to geek out over something, that's fairly legitimate, I suppose. I just have a shitty $40 record player that probably sounds like a bunch of turds to the trained ear, though. So I'm not that into it...yet. But I can see the potential of geeking out over this. My appreciation for crunchy, dirty, sloppy, dumb 70s rock is part of the reason I can dig a vinyl album playing device. Deep down in my simplistic, tube sock-wearing, Ramones and Foghat digging, van with the teardrop window-driving mind, I want to listen to records because they're records and that's how it used to be and it was outstanding. Granted, I'm not that old. My formidable years came a decade later, but I still had a taste of those times at a young age, and like to think that I would have made a fine Dr. Johnny Fever. Another reason vinyl makes me happy is nostalgia. My folks, like most folks I'm assuming, had a record player. On that record player, I heard Reinhardt & Grappelli, Johnny Cash, Simon & Garfunkel, Willie Nelson, Bob Dylan, Linda Ronstadt, Canned Heat, Leon Redbone, Flatt & Scruggs, and a thousand other various artists that enveloped my childhood. My parents certainly deserve kudos for helping shape my broad, yet particular taste and appreciation in music. At any rate, that is surely a contributing factor, if not the main factor, of why I dig records. Another contributing factor: I do not make a secret about my nerdy hobby of collecting old comic books from the 1940s to the 1970s. I'm an incredible fan of the classic pop art--especially the art that dons the comics' covers. The cover art is the main reason I buy an old book, display it in my nerd basement, and stare at it on occasion with a grin. This comic book hobby and appreciation 100% coincides with buying albums. Album cover art is something that we don't get anymore. The cover art, the interior, the liner notes, the back cover, they're all lost in new technology convenience. If I purchase a song on iTunes, I don't get the personality that comes with reading an album cover inside and out. I don't get the connection to the artist and the music. And I don't get that strangely wonderful smell that comes with vintage paper, either. Convenience takes away a lot of the appreciation I gain when listening to an old album. It's the same feeling I get when I find a beautiful old comic with a reasonable price tag. I found it. I didn't just order it online in 30 seconds. KISS Alive sounds much better on a record coming from a dirty flea market with a price tag of $7 than it does downloaded from my phone. Add in the probability that it was purchased and listened to by some kid with shaggy hair in 1975, played time and again--maybe at keg parties when his parents were out of town, good chance he got some over-the-shirt-boob while the album was spinning, and perhaps his parents took the album from him because they deemed it "the devil's music" that encouraged poor decisions and hooliganism. Fast forward 40 years and I own that very record. Fitting. These old albums have stories--at least the good ones do. Drink ring on the album cover? That's character, and adds to the frame-worthiness of the record's art, friends. Make no mistake, I'm no hipster, intent on doing everything the old timey way, with my urban hatchet, mustache wax, man-bun, and satchel full of vinyl. I am just a fan of sitting down in my living room with a glass of Scotch and playing a few records. It may sound like shit to you, but to me it sounds warm and full of character. Just like me. //re.
While prepping for a garage sale the other day, my sister-in-law discovered a cardboard box full of her old cassette tapes. I suppose "old cassette tapes" is redundant. Inside, along with the Graffiti Bridge, 2 Live Crew, and a small smattering of R&B and pop lived Warrant, Kix, Ratt, Whitesnake, LA Guns, and Quiet Riot, as well as some classic kickassery involving a little AC/DC and the Halen. I thought she was pretty cool before she discovered this lost treasure. Now though...now...there's some 80s rock & roll party-time respect. 8RRPTR, for short. The day before that I was taking my little girl to the playground when I happened upon a Michelob Dry bottle coozie. Mich Dry, man. That's some classy shit--especially at the playground. We used to think we were above the common 1991 high school beer drinker when we would throw back a box of Mich Drys. And we were. I left the coozie at the playground. God knows what someone was using it for. Thank you, 1991, for giving us a visit this week. It's nice to know you're still out and about, being fucking cool, making kids these days look like pansies. //re. Yeah, I like Sturgill. Just like every other person out there longing for new music with heart, soul, and talent. I've joined the masses in jockeying for position of "I heard him before he was anyone" and "I knew about him way before his second album". Add Stapleton to that list, too... Yeah, I had heard of him, thanks to Mojo Nixon's afternoon show on satellite radio a few years back. But it was my friend Joel who really got me hooked on him. Thanks, man. Mr. Simpson has a new album out now. And it's different. If your cup of tea is traditional country music, played with generous amounts of influence from Kentucky Bluegrass, Waylon Jennings, and the Fender Telecaster, then listen to his first two albums--there's more than enough to satisfy. If you like those things, but are open to production (in a good way), orchestration (in a good way), and a horn section (yes, in a good way) enveloping a soulful, personal, concept of an album, then listen to A Sailor's Guide to Earth. ASGtE feels like a gamble that definitely paid off for Sturgill. I'm no music critic, although I am critical of music, but the chance that Sturgill took on the overall face of his new album is ballsy enough to earn my accolades, for whatever that's worth. He veered just far enough away from the rekindled tradition of his first two albums to raise eyebrows and make listeners think twice before they decided they liked it or not. But he stayed close enough to his roots to keep most (I'm assuming) fans happy and supportive. If you haven't figured this out already, ASGtE is an album. Meaning it is meant to be listened to as a whole...from the first track to the last. Not for certain songs to be cherry-picked off of iTunes ("In Bloom" can be an exception. And maybe "Call to Arms"...). Random play will fuck up the listening experience, as well. You've been warned. Heart & Soul: check. I hear this album was written for his son, whom he feels guilty for not seeing that often due to the grind of concert touring. So needless to say some tunes pull at your heart strings--but not in an Eric Clapton "Tears From Heaven" sort of way. Each tune makes a little more sense if you know that tidbit of a backstory. Each tune, also, piggybacks off one another fantastically. Strange concept for an album, huh? Another reason that this new album actually feels like it means something to me is, it came out less than a month after the death of Merle Haggard. Merle and Sturgill were friends, which is a damn fine credential in my book. It seems to be a passing of the torch, in a sense. For my ramblings on Merle, you can see what I have to say in my last blog, here. ASGtE still has the feel of Sturgill Simpson. He managed to keep himself in this album--probably more so than any of the three. This album bleeds Sturgill. Just the fact that for his third album he decided to say "fuck it" and do exactly what he wanted to do. Veer off course, ruffle feathers, distance himself even further from "bro country" Nashville... In a tremendous interview from Garden & Gun Magazine with Sturgill and Merle Haggard, Sturgill tells Merle, "I'm not even sure it's a country record, to be honest with you." With Merle replying, "Good. If it’s like what they’re calling country, you don’t want to go near that shit. I can’t say anything good about it. I wish I could." That's just good shit. //re. Six years ago, my wife and I up and went to Montana with little planning. We bought a pop-up camper literally the day before we split, and winged the entire trip with only a rough idea as to where we were headed. En route to Jackson Hole, we powered through the unappealing landscape of Southern Wyoming, anxious to be greeted by Grand Teton. Primitive campsites were where we called home, parking the pop-up and the trusty Pathfinder SUV, while we explored the streets of Jackson Hole, the park of Yellowstone, and the vast landscape of Montana. Along the way, we took a few photos with, at the time, a fancy Nikon camera that we owned. Six years later, our camera has been passed up technically by our telephones, but we were still able to get a few shots that continue to make me happy whenever I see them. Fact of the matter is, when you're in the vicinity of the Tetons, Yellowstone, and Montana, it's really easy to take good pictures. //re
ram·ble
ˈrambəl/ verb
That's what ramble means. In case you were uncertain. Swell double meaning, huh? "Ramble" as in traipsing or wandering with no particular place in mind, as well as babbling in an incoherent way. Fitting, I think. And I'm Earl, if you were wondering. As with any pastime, profession, or passion, you find yourself trying to better your craft. Shifting, evolving, trials and errors. It's that way with fishing...it's that way with barbecuing...it's that way with playing music...and it's that way with writing. If you've followed me and my writing at all, then you know I've had a handful of blogs. The most recent one being Earl's Blogazine, where I dove into subjects that I freaking love. Fishing (typically of the fly variety), delicious meat dishes (typically of the grilled or smoked variety), tunes (typically of the non-pop country, punk rock, or crunchy 70s & 80s rock variety), drinks (Scotch), and travel (typically of the wherever I can afford to go because I'm a father and husband and don't have the time, money, or freedom to just up and split wherever and whenever I feel like it. Variety.) This blog is an extension of my last, focussing on these passions that my existence revolves around. It's just a little fancier. In addition to writing about this stuff, I'll be throwing some pictures up as well. Some very non-techy, fairly mediocre pictures taken with my portable telephone. So here's to a fancy new website-ish looking platform for ramblin'. Thanks for reading. -Earl |
AuthorI am Earl. Archives
May 2024
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