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.
Wednesday, August 31, 2016
Wednesday, August 17, 2016
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.
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.
Friday, August 5, 2016
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 2, 2016
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.
- 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.
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