Fly Fish Chick

Okay, so we only saw two out of three on the river over Memorial Day. It was a straight-up, knock-it-back, hill country honkytonk holiday weekend. The trout were likely hunkered down low, shuddering in fear and mocking us all as we devolved into my favorite variety of the human species, The Hillbillius Redneckus.

Joke is on those snooty trout because it was a hell of a good time.

Make video montages at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Willie Nelson is 75 years old today. I hope he gets his economic stimulus check right on his birthday, and he spends the government’s money on __________.

Oh, I don’t know. What do you think he should spend it on?

Happy Birthday Willie.

This post doesn’t have a lick to do with fishing, but I thought I’d throw it in the mix nonetheless…

If you’ve been following along, you know I recently launched WWLD 08. Also known as my own personal What Would Loretta Do Live Music Tour of the Texas Hill Country.

Friday night I went to see Marc Broussard at Antone’s. Now if you’re out of the loop on this one, Marc Broussard is a New Orleans bayou rocker with talent to spare. To look at him he’s your average-looking white kid, but close your eyes and he’s an oldschool Stax-style soul singer with Delta demons clipping at his heels. He had the joint jumping Friday night.

Loved his new song Must Be the Water and he looks like he was having so much fun when he played Where You Are and other hits from the Carencro album. Truthfully he and his band looked like they were having a blast up there, and the mood was infectious. At one point he eased off one tune into something odd and familiar.

What was it? I listened a second longer. Really? Are you kidding me…For real? Is he playing…..

The Bird???? By Prince?

Oh, that’s right. You heard me… Wawk!! Hallelujah! Whoa-oa-oa-oa. Whoa-oa-oa-oa.

It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that one. I’ve never seen Antone’s so crowded and Marc Broussard had the whole hot sweaty crowd doing a-not-so-brand-new-dance. And it’s called The Bird. Just as he had the entire mob squawkin’ & rockin’ he launched back into his own tunes. It was classic.

His signature song, Home is the epitome of hard-driving swampwater-rocknroll with a splash of voodoo-funk. Go download it off his Carencro album — I dare you not to like it. We all waited, desperately wanting to hear it. Then again dreading the start of it, knowing full-well it would be his last song of the night.

He kicked into Led Zeppelin, “You need schoolin’, Baby I’m not foolin…” and the crowd went nuts. Then quickly switched to ACDC Back In Black. Got everyone more in a frenzy. And then took it on Home to finish the night. It was spectacular.

**********************************

Then on Saturday it was the first ever Lonestar Jam with two stages of Texas bands all day long. It was a nice little festival smack dab in the middle of Austin, I liked it. Easy to navigate. Mostly college kids and youngsters trying to gnaw off their Under 21 wristbands. Actually, someone did ask me if I went to UT, which completely made me laugh. And lest that go to my head… I promptly ran into two of the college girls who look after Little Chick, and they called kept calling me “ma’am.”

I really only wanted to see Cross Canadian Ragweed and happened to arrive just as they took the stage. They were sublime, rocked as always. I will admit I’ve been a little slower than usual to fall in love with their latest album Mission California. But I’m totally there now. Fun to hear I Believe and Cry Lonely and In Oklahoma.

All-in-all my live music weekend was everything I’d hoped for. I’m going to fly high on my moments with Marc Broussard and CCR just a tad longer, and then it’s time to switch gears. After all, it’s WWLD 08 and the beat goes on…

We went to Yellowstone a few years ago and Little Chick was determined to be the very first one to spot a buffalo. Armed with some fancy Zeiss binoculars she kept a keen watch…

A good reminder that sometimes what you’re looking for is closer than you realize.

I love this picture and keep it in a frame on my desk because it makes me laugh out loud every single day. But despite the fact that I type away with my nose right under it for hours at a time, ironically, the lesson was recently lost on me.

About six weeks ago I was in a flyshop and saw the new Patagonia Sun Shade shirt. And I wanted it. Unfortunately they only had the men’s so I launched into the usual drill of looking for the women’s version online. It didn’t take long to find it at several online retailers.

I don’t know what weird hoodoo was at play with me and this damn shirt, but I literally ordered it three separate times from three separate online retailers. Each time they took my order and each time they came with some quirky problem. Sorry, it’s actually out of stock. Sorry we forgot to process your order, do you still want it. Sorry, we don’t actually carry it in that color.

Getting the damn Patagonia Sun Shade Shirt has become a bit of an obsession.

Yesterday I had some time to kill so I wandered down the way to Sportsman’s Finest. After all my online research and calling around, I walk right into my local flyshop and there’s the damn shirt. Why didn’t I just start there? They had plenty of sizes and colors to choose from. Mens and womens alike.

Sometimes what you want is closer than you realize.

To some degree this theme continued as day turned into evening and evening turned into a late night on the town. I went to a swanky artsy fundraiser last night but dashed from there to The Saxon Pub to see Seth Walker play. I needed a dose of blues music and a bit of boogie.

Now you may recall from my post on Springfest, Seth Walker was a highlight of the whole Florida weekend. You may also recall I get very shy around musicians.

So last night I sashay up to the Saxon Pub in my party clothes and lo and behold…there was Seth Walker hanging out on the sidewalk. Ooh la la! I acted like a bumbling fool but I did muster the nerve to fawn all over him and tell him all about traveling to Florida to see him play and how great he was.

He could not have been kinder. But he did laugh and say, “You went all the way to Florida to hear me and you haven’t ever heard me play here?”

Yeah yeah, Seth. I know.

Sometimes what you need is closer than you realize.

I am a woman of limited interests. Other than my daughter, my family and close friends, I really only love two things: fishing and honkytonk music.

Now I adore all kinds of music – soul, blues, rock, jazz, Sinatra Sinatra Sinatra, bluegrass, gospel, disco, hiphop. But I cut my teeth on good old honkytonk music and it holds the hotspot in my heart to this very day.

I grew up singing Willie, Waylon, Ernest Tubb, Hank Thompson, Guy Clark, Faron Young, Webb Pierce, Patsy Cline, and Loretta Lynn. Oh, Loretta Lynn!

I’ll spare you my impassioned monologue on why Loretta Lynn is the greatest female artist of all time. I have a fuzzy memory of boring Charlie Robison and his entire band one night in Little Rock Arkansas as we drank til dawn and I pontificated about how Loretta “broke down barriers” and “wrote her own songs” and “put out avant garde lyrics for her time”. Blah blah blah. I was brilliant in my own mind. In retrospect, I doubt that’s where Charlie’s band thought the night was going after diligently plying me with liquor til 6am. Oops.

But what can I say, I just love Loretta Lynn. One time I went on a blind date with a guy who, over appetizers, managed to reveal that he couldn’t stand fly fishing and despised Loretta Lynn.

What?

I suppose everyone is welcome to their own opinion. But….what? I tried as gracefully as possible to decline subsequent invitations but finally just had to lay it on the line. I simply couldn’t go on a second date with someone who hates fly fishing and Loretta Lynn.

It’s been a longtime dream of mine to see Loretta perform. I’ve been trying for the past few years but it just never works out. I was going to see her in Biloxi. Even tried to make it to Pennsylvania last year. But something always comes up. So just recently I decided to check in on her tour schedule, and lo and behold…

Loretta Lynn is playing in Austin June 13th!

Right when I will be fishing in Montana!

Ah! Now obviously I do not pass up any chances to fish. Especially in Montana. But it does sting just a little that she’s coming here while I’m gone.

Hmm, what would Loretta do? I mustered my very best kick-this-thing-in-the-ass-keep-on-keepin-on Loretta attitude and decided it is my duty to see as much live music as possible before I take off for Montana. It may not be Loretta, but there is a lot of honkytonkin’ to choose from in Austin. Here’s my wish list:

4/19 Seth Walker

4/25 Marc Broussard

4/26 Lonestar Jam with Cross Canadian Ragweed/Cory Morrow/Kevin Fowler

4/27 Allison Moorer and Steve Earle

4/30 Will Hoge – and we all know I [heart] Will Hoge

5/6 Guy Clark/Joe Ely/John Hiatt/Lyle Lovett

5/12 Dale Watson

5/16 Reckless Kelly

5/17 The Derailers

5/21 Charlie Robison

5/22 Junior Brown

5/24 Cross Canadian Ragweed

Whew darlin, what do you think? Can I see it all? Probably not. Realistically, I’ll be lucky if I can shake my tired tail feathers to half these shows. But I’m sure as hell going to make a decent run at it! So by the time I get to Montana I will have my fill of live music and I will be ready to fish my little heart out.

And if you happen to be floating on The Smith River on June 13^th and hear someone belting out a little Fist City or Don’t Come Home A Drinkin’ With Lovin On Your Mind, well that’ll just be me. Throwing streamers and doing my best Loretta.

Last spring I went bonefishing in Exuma Bahamas and we had a big big time. Lots of fish. Some pretty big fish. We had one day on the water that was just out of sight, one bonefish right after the next. Toward the end of this gluttonous day, each time someone caught another, our guide Steve would sing out, “Momma told me there’d be days like this!”

I spent about six months looking at the pictures from that trip, smiling and singing that song in my mind. Somewhere around November or December I actually downloaded it onto my ipod, stopped looking at last year’s pictures, and starting daydreaming about this year’s trip.

No question, last year was going to be tough to beat. Really tough. But hot damn! You know what…I think we did it.

I spent last week in Exuma with my parents and some really close family friends — we laughed for a solid week. And our good friend Bonefish Stevie is still like a heat-seeking missile when it comes to finding those bonefish.

Seven days of sunny skies, salty breezes, friendly tides…bonefish and Kalik.

Uh yeah, what Steve said.

Make video montages at www.OneTrueMedia.com

My eyes are just now coming into focus and my motor skills starting to click back into action. I’ve just returned from a trippy little trip to Florida for ‘Springfest’ – a three day music festival held at The Spirit of the Suwannee campgrounds.

I suppose the best way to describe the music at Springfest is folksy, jammin’ bluegrass. But like a newly branded and re-launched Oldsmobile, this is not your father’s bluegrass. These musicians rocked the sap from the trees and rattled the fillings in your teeth.

Hot Buttered Rum earned their title leaving me feeling giddy and full like I’d had a big country breakfast and too many hot toddies. They were adorable and had the crowd hoppin’. The Infamous Stringdusters were a great afternoon toe-tapping show. And you could feel the energy shift when David Grisman came out. The fun got serious with this living legend. He took his mandolin to war (friendly fire of course) with a teenage mandolin prodigy and together they made some magic.

We saw Donna The Buffalo the first afternoon, but we were wilting in the sun a bit, and truth be told we were more consumed with rating the dancing hippie girls and their hula hoops. I am so getting a hula hoop. I don’t care how long it takes I am going to learn to dance with a hula hoop. Check back with me, I may have to set up a unique website just to chart my progress.

But we saw Donna The Buffalo the next night and loved them. The crowd was lit-up and the musicians really delivered. It’s always a good time when the accordions and the washboards come out to play.

Of course I came to the festival with my natural draw toward Texas and Tennesee tunes, and my bands represented well. I’ve been listening to Guy Clark since I was about five years old but have never seen him play. So it was damn cool to hear him croon Texas 1947 and LA Freeway right before my very own eyes.

Jim Lauderdale wins my Hillbilly Sex Symbol award for the festival. He had this kind of 70s-style pompadour hair, royal blue tuxedo pants, and the cuffs on his shirt were open – not rolled up mind you – just the pearl snaps were undone and the sleeves hanging loose at his wrists. Ooh la la.

Oh yeah, and his music was great.

I saw him by the merchandise table that night, and he totally busted me ogling him. He came my way and I probably could have shared a little repartee, but I got shy, panicked like a schoolgirl, and turned the other way.

Amy LaVere was out of sight. She’s a pocket sized little beauty who plays the standup bass and bounces between a super-sweet baby voice and belting out southern-fried ballads with the power of Ethel Merman. Boys’ hearts fluttered her way, while I was dreamy for her guitar player.

Now Seth Walker plays his fresh style of electric blues in my Austin neighborhood on a weekly basis. But after two airplane rides and five-hours in the car, I felt so incredibly lucky to see him in this setting. A rustic, woodsy amphitheater surrounded by tall live oaks that were covered in Spanish moss.

There was so much Spanish moss dripping from the trees that everything began to look like a Salvador Dali painting. (Admittedly, the exorbitant volumes of Sweetwater beer may have played a hand in this.) I love Spanish moss, and it was a badass backdrop for all this delicious music. I’ve always said I could never be a spy because if caught, all they’d have to do is dangle some Spanish moss in front of me and I’d sing like a drunk dizzy bird.

Speaking of being a drunk dizzy bird…I know we loved loved loved Railroad Earth, but I can’t tell you why. They played late on Friday and that show is a bit hazy.

Of course the music was sublime, but it was the people that made the trip so special for me. Lounging around our campfire, we laughed at our own recycled stories until our cheeks hurt. And out among the crowds, tie-dyed hospitality was everywhere. It was all peace love & brotherhood. Everyone was warm and open and just so grateful to be there.

As we followed the breadcrumbs back to our tents each night, we made a point of walking up to visit random campsites – you know just to introduce ourselves, check out their fire, see what bands they’d enjoyed. In the real world our drunken pop-ins might not have been well received, but in this hippie utopia we were greeted with genuine enthusiasm — and quite often a beer.

It was a magical weekend and I can honestly say that the Spirit of the Suwannee is highly contagious. I just hope they never find a cure.

Make video montages at www.OneTrueMedia.com

“…Well I may be gone, I won’t be long

I’ll be bringing back the melody

And all the rhythm that I find…”

(from TO LIVE IS TO FLY written by Texas legend Townes Van Zandt)

One final post before this bird has to fly away. I’ll try to come back with some nice, heartwarming stories that’ll class the joint up a bit. In the meantime, yall just try to behave yourselves, OK?

But if you don’t, I want all the scoop and every juicy detail just as soon as I return!

Catch you on the flipside.

Since the moment my daughter, Little Chick, picked up a flyrod, she has received no shortage of instruction, advice and input. Diligently she would practice with her Orvis 4-wt seven-foot rod. And finally last year one tip brought everything into focus for her: Lift your rod like you’re bringing a telephone up to your ear, hold it there long enough to say, “Hello, how are you doing?” and then set it back down.

All of a sudden her casting was looking good!

Unfortunately the fish on The Missouri refused to reward her stick-to-it-iv-ness and all-around positive attitude. Here and there she managed to sit in my lap and “land” a few trout that one of us had hooked for her. But her own fish…that still eluded her.

This past July we traipsed over to the Blackfoot for a few days. My mother and I had a pretty good feeling that this was going to be Little Chick’s moment of glory. But we didn’t dare say so to anyone other than ourselves. And even then, only in a hushed whisper.

Besides Little Chick was in heaven anyway. She’d been trying for so long I think she thought casting was fishing – and she was perfectly delighted to do just that. But after lunch on our first day on the Blackfoot, she put a short cast off the front of the raft in some fast water and CHOMP! A fish came right down on it.

We all started screaming “HIT IT! HIT IT! HIT IT!” as if she had a world-record tarpon strike her line.

But Little Chick didn’t move a muscle.

Immediately we started laying on the speech that we’ve all given ourselves a million times…how it’s all about the “take”…getting them to eat it is the most difficult part…congratulations are definitely still in order.

But Little Chick didn’t seem excited at all. In fact she looked upset. I leaned in for a little tete-a-tete because she had a question she was too embarrassed to ask out loud. “Mommy,” she asked with tears swelling in her eyes. “What does ‘HIT IT’ mean?”

Oh, shit.

Of all the instruction, tips, and advice she’d received over the years…we forgot one fairly critical nugget. So once again we were falling over ourselves trying to offer instruction.

Day Two on the Blackfoot was sublime. I was having my own troutfest in the front of the boat because no one else wanted to fish. I couldn’t get Little Chick back in the game. But eventually I got on this crazy, ridiculous bank with lots of grabby little fish. And I noticed her taking notice.

Little Chick loves rummaging through a fly box. So we bribed her with a trip through the hopper section – her favorite. And we cut her a deal. If she fished this bank, she could pick any bug in the box and then keep it.

Needless to say she picked a pink and purple hopper that looked like it should have the BARBIE logo printed on it.

Well, with the Barbie Hopper she got a take on her first cast. We screamed HIT IT, and this time she did, but didn’t manage to set the hook. Nevertheless she was intrigued. Her posture straightened and she tuned us out. Little Chick was on a mission.

She had two more misses but you could see she was really into it. And finally it happened! Fourth time was a charm. She made a perfect cast and BOOM. Fish chomped down on it, and we didn’t even have to say HIT IT. She saw it eat and she set the hook, all on her own. The biggest little trout in history.

So this is a fishing story that’s really more of a love story. I have never seen Little Chick so happy. Christmas morning, birthdays, even the time she lost her first tooth…this surpassed them all. Little Chick fell madly in love with her fish and I was the proudest mommy on the planet.

It was a happy day on the Blackfoot.

 happy valentine’s day sweet baby girl…

Last week Buster Wants To Fish and Way Upstream both wrote posts about a recent study that reveals Americans are spending less and less time participating in outdoor activities such as fishing, camping and hiking. Needless to say this news strikes a sad chord.

Now since I was an English major who managed to get through four years of college without reading any books cover-to-cover, I chose not to click-through and read about the actual study. I trust these bloggers so I’m just going to adopt their take on the findings. And both posts agree that we all have a vital role in exposing our children to the outdoors as well as the concept of conservation. Not just to improve our scores on the next study, but because (as we all know) it will make them better, happier people.

I’m lucky that my Little Chick loves to do anything al fresca — fishing, camping, horseback riding, rafting – so that makes it easy to get her out and about. But there’s always room for more. Given the results of the study I wondered what else I could be doing with her…for her. What else can I do to seal her natural love for the outdoors so it doesn’t start to seep away over time.

I started thinking about what my parents did with me when I was a kid, and almost immediately my mind was traveling down memory lane. Because our family vacations were always outdoor vacations.

We lived in Texas and used to roadtrip to Colorado every summer in my dad’s burnt orange Bronco. Usually we’d sleep in a matching orange tent, but sometimes we’d splurge on a campy cabin. My dad had a collapsible combination spinning-reel-flyrod that often delivered dinner. We’d fish and hike and pan for gold. And no one would confuse one of our picnics with one of those fancy spreads in Martha Stewart Living.

But this was living. These trips were fueled by good Texas outlaw songs — all of which live on my ipod and in my soul to this very day. One of the albums I associate with these Colorado vacations is Willie Nelson’s ‘The Troublemaker’ — ironically a collection of gospel songs. Listening to Willie Nelson sing gospel is like giving a dog his pill all wrapped-up in a slice of cheese. It tastes so good going down, that you don’t mind doing something that’s actually good for you.

With our windows rolled down and the Rocky Mountains as our unwavering audience, we’d barrel down life’s highway singing loudly (and badly) to Willie’s versions of Uncloudy Day, and Will The Circle Be Unbroken and Sweet Bye & Bye.

I don’t have scientific proof that these vacations directly influenced my love for the outdoors, but I do have wonderful memories and some hysterical family photos that prove we had a hell-of-a-good time. Mea culpa for this self-indulgent post, but I had a ball seeing these pictures again, so I had to share a few of them here.

A big THANK YOU to Buster Wants to Fish and Way Upstream for reading about that study so I didn’t have to. Many thanks for triggering some dusty memories that are over three-decades old.

And just like my parents did with me, I’m going to teach my daughter that in order to appreciate the true beauty of an uncloudy day, you have to be outside.

A picnic just isn’t a picnic without the tangy zip of Miracle Whip and Marlboro Reds.

I really don’t know what to say about the socks. But you have to appreciate my bold combination of stripes & tye-dye.

Trout. It’s What’s For Dinner.

(Don’t worry, we’re all catch-and-release these days.)

My parents don’t seem into this family portrait quite like I am.

I was just a Fly Fish Chicklette, ready for my rafting adventure…and apparently some construction work.

Colorado. Speaks for itself.

Did I mention we lived in Texas and listened to a lot of Willie?