Celebrate the Wins

If you fish flies and surf the web, you might have noticed a lot of recent focus on protecting our public lands. Buster’s done a bit of mouthing off about it too, and we know it’s easy to let the bastardos get you all down in the chops.

So pick your ass up, get your Muir on, and celebrate the addition of 400 acres to Yosemite’s western boundary.

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Ackerson Meadow was part of John Muir’s original plan for Yosemite

via Luke Hunt, Ph.D. for American Rivers:

Through this addition to Yosemite National Park, Ackerson Creek – which flows through the property before flowing into the Wild and Scenic South Fork of the Tuolumne River and the greater San Joaquin River – will have its water quality protected from threats for years to come.

Aw hellz yeah!

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Mikey Two-Shoes and His Groove

Buster has some cool pals. You can find Agua Fria Alchemy in the blogroll.

Free the Collect!

“On the lower end, two fair-sized streams drained the interior. One rose from a series of springs that poured forth from hillocks around today’s 20th Street and Fifth Avenue. The Saponickan band living there called it Ishpetenga. It flowed southwest into the Hudson near the mouth of another trout stream. This one had its origins in a deep, fair-sized pond where Worth and Centre streets now cross. It flowed northwesterly, almost in a straight line, and became the course for today’s Canal Street. The pond was known as The Collect. The Dutch name for this trout pond was derived from one of its beaches, which they which they called Kalk Hoek – Chalk Point or Chalk Hook. It was given the name because the early Dutch settlers came here to collect the shells of freshwater mussels, which were ground and added to the mortar used to build their homes. When the English took over management of Manhattan in 1664 they assumed many of the Dutch words already in use for geographic features. Their inelegant pronunciation of Dutch turned the monosyllabic word “Kalk” (or “Chalk”) into the dissylable “Kal-leck”- hence, “Collect.” The pond’s name had nothing to do with collecting water in the area, as some writers have suggested, although it did have two small feeder streams. For decades, in the 1600s and 1700s, it was the source of drinking water for all of lower Manhattan’s residents. The Collect and its associated streams contained brook trout as late as 1740.”

– from Brook Trout by Nick Karas

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…and a shovel and a fly rod!

Sanctuary!

A long cold hinterland winter here in Freestonia doesn’t mean that the fishing stops entirely, but it does slow down, and that means increased exposure to the noisemakers. You know, the ones that force-feed us the narrative of our lives, that thin clammy broth of postures and judgements and cheap shiny plastic crap that we can’t live without. The noise comes from the tubes, the mailbox and the halls of power in 30-second sound bytes and bumper sticker platitudes, telling us what’s important, what should be dismissed with scorn, conveying our targets for rage and humor. Even the goddam Olympic Games, something that’s supposed to celebrate the hard work of dedicated amateurs, shows up shrinkwrapped in disposable computer-animated bubble packaging that’s obviously been designed and focus-grouped years in advance, complete with instant blowdried celebrity hero toys ready for tomorrow’s water cooler worship. Collect ‘em all, $14.99.

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Fully Articulated Flying Tomato

(Haha see, Shaun stowed away on Tuesday’s delivery and stocked all this sk8punk stuff in the dead of night, because he’s a subversive nutty scamp®. What can we do? On sale now.)

The noise is the anthem of the Transnational Lizard People, who purely through the power of cash have erased the importance of place, allegiance to country, recognition of borders, and necessity of breathing, eating, drinking and being of this place where we plant our feet. They recognize no law, no neighbor, no change of season or migration. They experience no hunger or sickness or fear. No disaster matters, except as an opportunity to pad those numbers. Their decisions and actions bear no consequence, aside from possibly being hauled before a Congress of their own creatures for an afternoon show trial, let’s get it over with so we can all go get drinks. With any luck they’ll soon have cash-powered spacecraft so they can all lift off and blast each other with beams of numbers that used to represent something of worth, and be free of the bothersome bounds of the human experience. Man, we’re all such a nuisance.

But here’s the thing: we’re not all where we’re supposed to be, fretting over today’s manufactured outrage on one side of an aisle or another, shaking our heads about who’s fucking whom and oh how could he do such a thing? Sometimes we very deliberately dash out of the pasture and do things that the handlers never counted on. See, there are no blue lines on their demographic maps. They can’t conceive of a shade of green in winter-dormant cedar and water that’s deeper than the one in their veins. Eventually we’ll probably be rounded up and put down for the greater good of the herd, but we likely won’t hear them coming.

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You say something?