Luxuries

From Webster's:

luxury, noun (lux·u·ry \ˈlək-sh(ə-)rē, -zh(ə-)rē): a condition or situation of great comfort, ease, or wealth; something that is expensive and not necessary; something that is helpful or welcome and is not usually or always available.

People have varying degrees of how we measure luxury. Much of the world views things like refrigeration and ice as luxurious. Some things are indisputably luxuries, like a high-end Italian sports car, a boutique Swiss watch with several complications, a hundred foot sail yacht, or a bottle of single malt whiskey older than I am.

Most of us here in the great United States of America, and indeed the Western world, are fortunate enough in that we view running (and hot) water, electricity, refrigeration, a reliable automobile, paved roads, etc as essential items, meaning we take them for granted. I sure as hell do, anyway. Not that I'm not thankful, it's just that I am by most standards fairly spoiled. I say this with only self awareness, not with guilt or as an apology.

It occurs to me, however, that we in the western US have a luxury that is extremely uncommon in the world, and that is our wealth of lands and waters, both public and private.

Public land is an interesting one and only loosely fits the definition of luxury, for though it is instantly and freely accessed by those who live in the area, it remains nonetheless practically inaccessible even to most residents of this country, at least without great expense. In other words, we here in the wild west take it somewhat for granted, even though most of us do greatly appreciate how lucky we are. I won't get into it too much right now, but please do some research about the pending sale of many federal and state lands across the western United States, and help fight back with organizations like Backcountry Hunters and Anglers.

That said, private land and private water is truly luxurious beyond words. The ability to strictly control your human interactions, the ability to hunt or fish without even considering running into another human, the choice of genuine solitude - these are the options granted when you have your own private space. This evening, I hooked a brown trout the size of my torso, and beached a couple of smaller ones. After that, I changed into pjs, switched out a couple parts in my Glock 20, and walked literally out the front door to test it for function with the suppressor (for elk hunting, of course). Obviously, it's not all fun and games up here, as the maintenance and upkeep are a part-time job at the very least - fortunately, it's a fairly simple thing to barter fishing access and whiskey for fence building labor (thanks again guys!).

Again, everyone has their own standard of luxury. The insanely wealthy view things like a house in the French Riviera as a necessity, while the truly destitute view a fresh, hot meal as a luxury. I am neither. To me, the true definition of luxury is that of the privacy granted by having one's own space, and it is a luxury that I am fortunate enough to have at the crank of the starter in my truck.

Time for bed. Tomorrow morning will consist of hauling huge brown trout out on big, ugly streamers, followed by a day of [over]building a barbed wire fence to keep the neighbor's horses from crapping all over our trout stream.

Side note, can it be November 9th yet? I am completely over the wild political shitstorm. Luckily, I take some solace (a quantum?) in knowing that we are fucked either way.

Cheers!

Letter from a disappointed veteran

Hello, world.

Tomorrow is the fifteenth anniversary of the attacks on New York and DC.

The VA sucks.

That's all I have to say.

Life, continued.

It is approaching midnight on a Wednesday evening, and I am in my favorite chair in my office. On the table to my right are a glass containing several ounces of inexpensive but delicious VSOP Cognac, a bowl of caramel-something-something gelato, and a possibly chambered, definitely cocked Springfield 1911. Hans is curled up near the door, asleep but vaguely alert for would-be gelato thieves. Tomorrow is a day off.

My days off are invariably busier than my most infuriating days on, and tomorrow is no exception; it begins at 0700 with a pot of coffee and a trip to the outdoor archery range to finalize my zero and double check that there is no fuckery afoot with my Mathews compound. Bow season for elk began statewide last weekend. It begins for me at around 1400 Friday and continues until either I shoot one or the actual season ends, whichever comes first. Regardless, I am excited to be wandering around the woods in camouflage and looking for wapiti. I literally cannot remember the last time I went archery hunting for elk.

Life otherwise has been something of a roller coaster lately. School is doing a pretty good job of keeping me distracted from the important shit, for better or worse. The perpetual fluctuation of my tolerance for human stupidity is currently at the lowest of tides - I nearly lost it the other day on an inexplicably uncooperative lab partner of mine who simply insisted on making my life difficult for no reason. Honestly, I'm willing to tolerate incompetence to an extent if the person is somewhat nice, or even just reasonable, but to be just rabidly incompetent, and then be a fucking twat about it, is a flip-shittable offense.

I've been riding the absolute hell out of the crotch rocket lately, and definitely am getting a lot more comfortable at high velocities and shallow angles, perhaps to an unreasonable extent - I haven't felt my pulse climb in awhile, and I've been going pretty fucking hard. No real comment about that. She's getting a few upgrades here in the coming weeks so I'll try to put up a few pictures. Long term, the CBR has impressed the crap out of me in general. I barely drive anything else if the weather is even approaching acceptable for being on the bike.

Well, as often happens when I write these things, I find myself hitting an energy wall. It seems that putting words into text significantly relaxes me... what an odd phenomenon. Will report back when there's another dead elk in the freezer or I have something more important to say, whichever comes first. Adios.

Some things about wilderness areas

For those of you who aren't familiar with this concept (east coast, southern states, I'm looking at you), a wilderness area is a section of a National Forest that is so designated to preserve its inherent natural beauty and remoteness, insofar as to prohibit anything motorized or mechanical - including bicycles and, inexplicably, hang gliders (I swear). This essentially limits travel to foot or horseback. While I have some issue with regulations disallowing mountain bikes in the name of wilderness preservation on a cattle lease (yes, many acres of wilderness area are rangeland), that is neither here nor there. My primary complaint about these areas is, predictably, the public. Here's how not to be an asshole in a wilderness area:

Don't be fucking loud after it gets dark. Have a good time, drink your drinks, but let the rest of us enjoy our evenings without having to listen to you shout "Jim? JIM! Jim... JIM" across the night sky. Jim's either ignoring you or is feeding the local bear population with his still-warm essential organs; either way, shut your stupid face before I put rotting fish carcasses inside your tent as bear bait.

Don't be fucking loud before it gets light. There is nothing quite as infuriating as waking up miles from civilization with half a whiskey hangover and overwhelming soreness from the toes up (because you're way more out of shape than you should be, you asshole), only to listen to some bro idiotically yelling about how he's going to destroy a mountain and high-fiving his idiot friends. Get in line dipshit, no one thinks you're cool. While you're at it, fuck the fuck off, leave my state, and eat marmot shit.

Don't be fucking loud. Ever.

Fucking clean up after yourself.

Keep your dog on a fucking leash. Everybody thinks their dog is super cool and well-behaved, including me. Guess what? If your dog is in an unknown area around a variety of sights, smells, sounds, and people it hasn't seen before, your "perfectly trained" dog is not going to do what you think it will. If holding a leash is too much for you, put the remote control for the little bastard's electronic collar in your hand and do it that way, but maintain control. I love dogs, and I'm pretty good at reading them, but honestly (speaking as the owner of a 95 lb Doberman) it can be hard to tell if your retriever is running up to me barking his little blonde head off because he sees me as a threat or because he wants me to pet him. I can assure you that this places you and your dog in significantly more danger than it does me.

Be fucking friendly. Seriously, all you need is a simple "How's it going? Good, thanks, have a good walk" to not come across as an antisocial dickbag. Yes, I realize the irony of me chirping about friendliness. It doesn't have to be genuine. Just do what adults do and pretend you actually give a shit about someone other than yourself for a few seconds, then move on with your life.

Practice some fucking trail manners. This is a rant of its own and will have to wait for another evening.

Anyway, this is solid advice. Learn it, love it, live it. I'm off to North Park in the morning to fuck shit up for my last hurrah of summer. Happy National Airborne Day, you leg-ass bitches.

What your favorite Fort Collins bar says about you (part 2)

By popular demand, here are a few more of these. This list is by no means complete or even necessarily accurate. If you are offended, lighten up, Francis.

Social (guy): You legitimately think steampunk is cool. You are a founding member of a men's social club somehow relating to facial hair, the point of which seems to be to get as many compliments from other men as possible. You only drink obscure gin cocktails that were popular in the 1920s, and are not afraid to pay thirteen dollars apiece even though you "still make them better at home." If you are not this person, you are a well-dressed man in your mid thirties and are there with a good-looking woman who is somewhat your junior.

Social (girl): You are a good-looking woman out with a well-dressed man that is somewhat your senior. Alternatively, you are out with seven of your Tri Delt sisters spending dad's money to get shithoused on gin drinks... I don't know, I think there's lavender in it?

The Mayor: If you are here on a Friday afternoon, it's just for the free pretzels. (You can lie to yourself - but I see through your bullshit.) Otherwise, you love to be completely dumbfounded by a century of taps with beers from no fewer than seven breweries you've never heard of. You enjoy the bartender's confirmation that the beer you are about to order is, in fact, "one of his favorites," no matter which one you pick. Your turn-ons in a bar include the calming atmosphere of a walk-in cooler and hearing the same four Pink Floyd songs each time you visit.

Avogadro's: You probably need to bathe more frequently. Your free-range hellspawn have names that might have been picked by Frank Zappa, who is coincidentally your "spirit guide" (whatever the fuck that means). You may, at this very moment, be tripping balls... yes, I'll tell that chair to stop melting. You're welcome.

Crown Pub: You don't like anything outside of your comfort zone. Much like Social's facial hair enthusiast, you have no qualms spending north of ten dollars on a simple (though delicious) martini. You find solace in food, liquor, and dim lighting.

Black Bottle: You are here at least twice a week, because you are a member. Yes, a member. At a bar. Reevaluate. Aside from that, you enjoy getting lunch and an acceptable beer with a somewhat funny, vaguely vulgar or politically incorrect name for less than you can get a Big Mac meal for (this part is accurate). Upon seeing you enter, the bartender has already poured your beer and evaluated whether you're eating or just day drinking, when your last haircut was, and asked you how your (dog/kid/empty life) is.

All for now. Beer time.

Things I've learned from fly fishing

Fly fishing is unique among outdoor activities in that it is as much an art as it is a science; proper technique blends with entomology and aquatic biology, and successful fishing demands mastery of all three - or at least competency. Something about the fusion of art, science, and relaxation creates a somewhat educational environment at times, if you are willing to listen. Here's a few tips I've picked up that can also be relevant in other walks of life.

- Try the most obvious solution first. If you're kicking up grasshoppers every five feet, throw a hopper pattern. If you see fish chasing stuff up from the bottom, throw whatever emergers typically produce in that area. If the rock you turn over gives you a size 24 zebra midge, maybe that will work...

- That said, don't be afraid to switch it up and get weird. When the obvious answers aren't producing shit, sometimes an off-the-wall approach will work. I've caught big browns on dry fly patterns in March and on mouse patterns in broad daylight, rainbows on streamers in August, and pike on nymphs.

- Give 'em a second chance. You should always be throwing at least a double rig, if not a triple. As a corollary, your strike indicator might as well have a hook in it, so I tend to use a high visibility foam-bodied dry. I cannot count the number of times I've seen fish hit an indicator instead of the fly.

- Don't allow yourself to get frustrated. From guide to total novice, we all have our bad days. Regardless of what profession you are in, nobody is perfect all the time... and sometimes, even the best of us just plain suck. If you find yourself struggling to throw a long leader, getting windknots, losing flies on willows - stop and take a minute. I speak from experience when I say that all you're going to accomplish is further angering yourself.

- Ignore distractions. 90% of the strikes I've missed have been while I was distracted by something of no importance. Focus.

- Presentation is at least 75% of the game. If you can even remotely match what they're taking, a perfect presentation of a similar pattern will often put a bend in your rod. Disregard this if you are fishing a high pressure tailwater.

- A beer and a river nap are the equivalent of a reset button. Occasionally, when everything is slow, you just have to sit on the bank, watch your friends fish, knock back a beer, and rack out in full gear. If you do this correctly, you will wake up with no fucking idea of where you area and/or how you got there.

- Patience is not always rewarded. Doing the wrong thing repeatedly will consistently provide unsatisfactory results. If your current approach isn't working, fix that shit. Change flies, change retrieves, change depths, change something, for the love of god.

I could continue, but sleep beckons. Be well.

What your favorite Fort Collins bar says about you

Most of you in my area are familiar with the Fort Collins downtown and/or campus west scene. Here is my interpretation of what your favorite area bar says about you, as a person. (Side note, take this lightly - most of my favorite spots are on here too. If you can't laugh at yourself, then fuck you.)

Coopersmith's: You will drink literally any beer labeled as "craft" and don't mind throwing up for an hour the next morning. For the sake of being different, you will drink a chili beer with a straight face and repeatedly claim that "no, man, this is really good, you gotta try this."

Lucky Joe's: You think that drinking a Car Bomb makes you Irish, and that the guy singing and playing solo acoustic guitar covers of everything from the Beatles to modern pop is edgy, funny, and talented. You also enjoy poorly designed restaurants and having to fight a motherfucker to get a drink.

Tony's (guy): You enjoy steroid use, hair gel, and casual date rape, in addition to Tapout apparel and overuse of the word "bro." It's always the right time for a Jaeger bomb, bro. You have seen every episode of Jersey Shore.

Tony's (girl): You enjoy free drinks even if they taste a little funny, and are still upset with your dad because the BMW he bought you for your high school graduation was the previous year's model. You have a long-term boyfriend, but you break up every two weeks so you can both have an excuse to sleep with other people.

Surfside: You have twelve piercings above the neck and are really into the punk/metal band playing tonight - they're really about to break out onto the scene, man. Your hair color changes each week, but all your clothing is black. You hate every other bar because people give you weird looks. Fuck those squares.

Yeti: You really like pregaming for Rec Room.

Rec Room: You enjoy standing in line for up to an hour, even if wearing the minimum amount of clothing required by law in a sideways snowstorm. If you're a girl, your purse is full of shooters and condoms; if you're a guy the bartender "always hooks you up" because you're "boys." Losing a shoe because it stuck to the dance floor is a biweekly occurrence. You only listen to Top 40.

Bondi: You got kicked out of Rec Room, or they said your sister's ID didn't look like you, plus that bitch friend of yours kept calling you by your real name RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE BOUNCER. I know, right? So fucked up. Whatever, lets go drink Long Islands and dance on the bar.

The Rio: You honestly think that starting out the night with three or four margaritas made with tequila and/or straight grain alcohol is a good idea. You enjoy seeing everyone you went to high school with on a weekly basis, even though you never really got along.

Road 34: You have a "man bun" and ride a "fixie." You may or may not be taking a break from riding said "fixie" to "catch them all." You dress like a lumberjack, but couldn't start a chainsaw if your life depended on it. You also are atrocious at pool.

Sundance (guy): You grew up in Littleton, but you still say "y'all" every other sentence. Your square-toe Ariats (or Justins) are only worn to pop country music shows. You have at some point, either knowingly or unknowingly, taken an underage girl home from here.

Sundance (girl): You and your two to four friends spent three hours making sure your nearly identical outfits didn't match. Your poor, overworked cutoff shorts are trying and failing to contain your ass. You love Jesus, but hate your dad. You won't go home with any guy who has tires smaller than 35" on his dad's lifted truck.

I could go on, but it's 2 am and I ostensibly have shit to do tomorrow.

Bike Review: 2006 Honda CBR1000RR 'Fireblade'

As many of you know, I completely lost my sanity several weeks ago (the exact timeframe is up for debate, but let's call it that) and bought a proper sport bike - a 2006 Honda CBR1000RR in this case, known to the rest of the English-speaking world as the Fireblade. I think I prefer its foreign moniker to its rather vacuum-cleaner like (sorry Clarkson) official designation, so that is how I shall henceforth refer to it.

The specific Fireblade in question was purchased used from the second owner with 7,800 miles showing on the clock, newish Michelin tires, a full carbon fiber Yoshimura exhaust, and a Power Commander 3. Condition is excellent - the only visible flaws are from an apparent zero-speed drop on the left side; I'm guessing the kickstand wasn't quite secured and it became a victim of gravity. You wouldn't see the scars if you weren't looking for them. Black is the color, and it is fucking sexy. I've previously claimed that I would never buy another black vehicle after the 'vette unless the price was really right, and this purchase did not break that promise. As usual, my inner cheap bastard was pretty pleased.

2006 was a great year for the Fireblade. The motor remained more or less unchanged from the previous model year, producing an advertised 172 bhp from a displacement of 0.999 liters. That motor, however, was pushed forward and down to make the bike less of a wheelie monster, while the front wheel was brought in and coupled with Honda's all-new electronic steering damper (HESD) to make it more controllable. It is unburdened by ABS, traction control, linked brakes, and other bullshit.

Riding this monster for the first time was an interesting experience for this relative newcomer to the street bike game. I've only been riding on the street for a little over a year, with a few more years on dirt bikes previously. I have been driving fast shit since I was a kid, though, so dealing with horsepower is not an unfamiliar feeling for me. Nonetheless, the fact remains that what is realistically more like 180 hp through almost exactly 600 lbs, including the rider, is something that could accurately be described as "life changing." At low RPM it feels exactly like a Honda: quiet, unassuming, efficient. Around 4 grand, it wakes up. Throttle response becomes extremely delicate, gears become more or less irrelevant around town, an angry growl emanates from the single out-the-back exhaust. Past that, things get scary. The powerband is shockingly linear for such a tiny, high revving 4 banger, and with a redline of 12,200 RPM, you need to be on your game. Firmly planting your ass in the seat and squeezing your thighs around the tank is a good way to prepare for the complete madness that ensues when ripping through the admittedly notchy 6-speed gearbox. Staying tucked will keep the front wheel mostly on the ground even at full throttle and high revs; throttle letoff is recommended between gears as "speed shifting" tends to create an interesting angle between your line of sight and the horizon, particularly between 1-2. Second gear will bring you to 111 mph with the front tire 1-2" above the road surface, third is in the vicinity of 130. I've not yet gotten braver than that.

Rideability is shockingly good for such a purpose-built sport bike. I purchased a Sargent seat as a nod to my damaged lower back, and it has made quite a difference. Overall, comfort is pretty impressive - after an hour or two in the saddle my spine doesn't cry out in pain, my generally shitty knees aren't complaining, my ass isn't completely numb, and my balls aren't in my stomach. Low-speed maneuvering is interesting, as the Fireblade's low center of gravity means you have to fucking lean if you want it to turn. This is not an issue at higher speeds, although I often find myself leaning off of the bike through the twisties to really get it low. It's a bit big to be truly good on the twisty mountain roads we find around here, although it can be done. It is quite evident that this beast was built to conquer more open road courses; she just begs for big, high speed sweepers one after another, with a couple good straightaways in there for good measure.

Overall, I could not be happier with the '06 Fireblade. I am absolutely certain that you cannot get a higher performance vehicle for the price - if you can, I will happily buy you a beer.

All for now, gotta sleep so I can ride tomorrow. Stay vertical, my friends.

Summer Chaos

It's 5:00 PM here at the Wind Knot Ranch in North Park, Colorado, and it is (predictably) so buggy that willfully being outdoors borders on masochistic. Even with 100% DEET on, the mosquitoes are too thick to comfortably walk around with the dog. Ever seen a Doberman literally beg you for bug repellent before? I haven't yet been brave enough to venture down to the creek, so obviously fishing is out until the morning.

I'm not one to be bored, however. There is always ammo to be loaded, flies to be tied, guns to clean and beer to drink. Having just returned from 5 weeks at geological field camp for CSU, it has also become abundantly clear that my field sketching abilities are severely lacking, so I brought a sketch pad and some pencils in the hopes of improving them. I suspect I will need a few more of these Stone IPAs before that happens.

Speaking of field camp, I must say that it was an overall valuable and mostly enjoyable experience that I'm glad has reached its conclusion. My group of ~35 spent a week each camped south of Taos and west of Questa, NM, followed by 3 weeks lodged in Silverton, CO, which is famous for its scenery, 4-wheeling, touristy nature, mining, and very little else. I'll spare you the boring geological details, but our courses covered what is scientifically known as "a lot of different shit." I learned a lot, made several new friends, and became (perhaps uncomfortably) closer with my existing friends from what we affectionately refer to as geosquad.

I had the pleasure of driving my personal truck throughout field camp, which is something I acquired in February of this year. It's something of a franken-Ford - a 2008 F250 King Ranch with a 2010 6.4L Powerstroke Diesel and trans. Mods include a 71mm main turbo from Elite Diesel, Banks full dual exhaust (with big mufflers, thank God), Mini Maxx tuner, a 4" lift from Top Gun Customs featuring Fox dual-cylinder shocks, a Road Armor front end with excessively awesome lighting, color-matched Line-X everything, 35s on stock 20" wheels, and a bunch of other shit I'm probably forgetting. Anyway, it's pretty badass, and I paid about 70 grand less than it would cost to build the thing. Since the driveline is sitting at about 65k miles right now, I will be driving this beast for a long time to come. Power delivery on race tune is 650 whp and > 1400 wheel torque, and it runs in the mid 12s at Bandimere Speedway.

Over the course of field camp, I convinced myself that I needed a new street bike - something bigger, faster, and more comfortable than my '03 SV650. The original intended purpose of this new machine was to take extended rides and/or road trips with my brother and his Yamaha FZ1, which is a pretty upright sport touring bike, for those of you who aren't moto geeks. What I ended up with is a super clean, low-mile, 2006 Honda CBR1000RR, which is essentially a balls-to-the-wall 1000cc race bike. Whoops. Couldn't pass the deal up though, and I'm slowly converting it to a more comfort-oriented ride with a Sargent seat, 2" dropped pegs, Puig double-bubble windscreen, a luggage mount to replace the worthless rear seat, etc. I shall put the "sport" in "sport touring," to be sure. I will not comment on the CBR's speed and handling other than to say that it is on an entirely different level from anything else I've ever ridden or driven.

North Park is somewhat on fire at the moment, with the Beaver Creek Fire having consumed approximately 14,000 acres since its ignition by natural causes in the northwestern corner of the county. It is approximately 5% contained at the moment, according to today's Jackson County Star. The current approach seems to be to save what structures they can, and otherwise let it burn, which is a strategy I strongly support - the USFS' 100% fire suppression policy over the last 3/4 century or so has led to the accumulation of an absurd amount of downed timber and an overall unhealthy forest, according to people who know these things (I study rocks, not ecosystems). While it will be temporarily devastating, the long-term consequences of a large-scale forest fire in the area will inevitably be beneficial.

That said, it is going to suck for awhile.

Not much else to report, really. I've become kind of an Instagram post whore lately, so check me out @flyfishnaked if you do such things.

Later!