Black Mountain turns up the reverb, throws in some psychedelia adds a little bit of folk funk country americana, a lot of metal then finally crams a whole arena into their latest album IV.
Soon Writers On The Fly embarks on a whistle stop tour of the Northwest. If you are anywhere near one of these idyllic Cascadian bergs in early November step right up and bend an ear. Come for the words stay for the lies.
It starts with deep pools and log jams in its lower reaches and ends curving through meadows beneath cliff faces hundreds of feet tall; the section of Rock Creek that is being proposed for Wild and Scenic Designation has every type of water you could possibly expect. Rock Creek hosts not only, rainbows, browns, the odd brookie, native cuts and bull trout and whitefish it provides habitat for deer, moose, goats, bears, pikas (meep!), foxes, coyotes, wolves (probably) , various species of pocket gophers, voles and moles, beavers, otters, the occasional wolverine, mountain lions, countless bird species, mayflies, caddisflies, stoneflies and terrestrials. It is an awesome place.
Brexit smexit, We’ve had our independence for 240 years!
Early morning, Seeley Lake, Montana. The sun has touched the lake, but the air is dead still and cooler than the water, and the fog comes off the surface in curtains, hiding some of the Swan Range three miles to the east. And in doing that, it frames the rest. It is the design here, I think, that nothing is taken without compensation, except by men and fires. They leave all the holes.
Originally published in Esquire in 1981, just one year before Dexter and his pal Randall “Tex” Cobb got into that infamous bar fight in Philly, Pete Dexter’s interview with Norman Maclean The Old Man And The River. It’s a sort of nature piece wherein Maclean is observed in his own habitat and is revealed to be a cranky old SOB, insightful and cynical, like everyones grandpa used to be. Good stuff.
You eat fish because fish is free. You eat fish because your daddy likes to go fishing more than anything—except drinking and the needles he shoves into his arms. The tiny white joints he smokes. The powder he snuffs up his nose. He is always happy after fishing. He hums to himself, an upbeat tune. more at The Rumpus
bloodshot and sparsely hackled fully caffeinated on either end of a hangover. musky horny underfucked and overmedicated. puffy dehydrated chapped. eyes like pissholes in the snow. waiting for another hatch counting the fish at bonneville dead drift never blink. generalist of presentation father of forgotten flies husbander of discarded tippet. waiting for the next tug on this sickday or the next.