Dear Mountain Gods, River Spirits and the Greater General Universe: Please make Facebook glitch today, or maybe just explode. Please let me lose my Instagram password. Make some irrelevant tweeting political pundit say… Continue reading
If what makes a trip special isn’t bacon, what is it?
Most stories – they bury themselves in the sand. They drift lazily up and down eddy lines. They climb into cracks in the sandstone, limestone and schist. They poke into a driftwood pile and settle in for the winter. Feelings wander up side canyons and don’t come back. Heart-words sit on debris fans and decide not to leave.
I want to open myself up to whatever that water moving downhill needs me to know. That river doesn’t need me to try to tell it stories (I’m SO FUN and SOCIAL! I’m a RIVER GUIDE! I’ve GOT THIS) and my ears are a little more open than they’ve ever been before.
If I explored like a dog, I would bump and tumble into my friends as we found the ridge line. I’d chew on their ears and make sure they knew how happy I was to have them there.
It’s autumn, the perfect season to fall into some awkward yoga! Literally, we’re falling over. With yoga happiness.
Airports tend to be everything an outdoorsy kid hates: crowds, lines, grumpy baristas, an entirely artificial environment, people with 9-5 jobs, powersuits. The only redeeming factor of an airport, BARS, is reduced to only a fleeting IPA dream when you realize you could buy a six pack at home for the price of a single airport brew.
I looked at these two people, standing under that wooden arch, that I look up to as boatman, that I respect as teachers, and whom I love as friends. Okay, I tried to look because I was crying pretty good and also had my sunglasses on – and I saw not only the love between them but also the mess.
In overview – this rod is smoother at presenting dry flies than melted margarine left in a hot car in August.