Spare me all your kind-hearted emails pointing out all the typos in this post. I am exhausted, I am uninspired by reality, and my heart (and brain) are still somewhere in Live Oak Florida dancing under the fullish moon and Spanish moss. We spent the weekend camping and grooving to the music at Springfest. Those of you who have been with me for a spell may recall our inaugural trip to Springfest two years ago. Frankly it was such a stellar trip in ‘08, we weren’t sure we could recreate the magic.

We were wrong. In fact, we topped it. If you don’t feel like tripping over my clumsy long-winded writing, feel free to scroll down and enjoy the tunes and pics in the montage. If you want to stick with me here I will try and cover the highlights.

Like the camping. Beautiful weather, 80’s and sunshine all day, chilly at night in the 40’s with a bright full moon and tall trees dripping in moss. Perfection. We camped with good friends from Mobile and upon arrival immediately befriended the crew from Tampa who were camping next to us. Great new friends! We merged camps and cocktails and snacks and laughed around the fire for hours on end.

At our very first show I saw a groovy festie dude twirling a stick and dancing in a sarong and that’s when it hit me: Manskirts are perfectly acceptable hotness at Springfest. I really cooed and charmed and cajoled and begged the Professor to rock the manskirt this weekend. Denied. (Although I do think he was considering it at one point. I saw his vehement resistance starting to crack.) Basically all the guys in our crew said they would only do it if so-and-so did it…but only one of the four guys in our group stepped up to the manskirt plate. Granted he is Colombian and has long dark hair and the accent to match the manskirt, but nonetheless, special kudos go to Antonio for embracing the manskirt sarong – or as he calls it, the Manwrong. Manwrong…but oh so right.

The music was off the charts. We saw Dread Clampitt, The Mosier Brothers, Jonathan Edwards, The Belleville Outfit, Robert Earl Keen, Scythian, Donna The Buffalo, Jim Lauderdale, Ruthie Foster and Leftover Salmon. Whew! Did I miss anyone?

Liner Notes:

The Mosier Brothers – loved them

The Belleville Outfit – the find of the festival. They were all the talk at the merch table. They are from right here in Austin and have a conncetion with Warren Hood of the Waybacks.

Robert Earl Keen – seen him dozen times and he never disappoints. Played all the songs I needed, flashing his trademark grin all the while. REK delivered.

Scythian – What can I say about Scythian. Two years ago someone on the Drake site encouraged us to go see Scythian. We didn’t get the magic. But they have developed legions of fans in the past two years. I somehow got involved in Scythian sticker distribution (good looking sticker for a boat or a cooler by the way) and we decided we should give Scythian another chance. When we wandered up they were covering “I Just Died In Your Arms Tonight” by Cutting Crew. The Professor and I remain non-Scythian fans. Which is too bad because we have hundreds of Scythian stickers pouring out of every pocket of every backpack.

Donna The Buffalo – Herd Of Em?  Love love love. I think we are officially becoming part of The Herd. We saw a couple of their shows during the weekend and loved them all. Especially the night show where I had a major hoop dancing breakthrough. I have been practicing my hoop dancing off & on for two years – ever since last Springfest. Despite my efforts, I wasn’t getting any better. But we met a hoop maker who helped me find the right size hoop (and explained to the Professor in detail how to make me one for me) and I could do it! I was a hooping fool! We were both so enthralled by my hooping breakthrough and the hoop-making instructions that we didn’t notice that the guy had a trout on his hat until we got home and saw the pictures. On what planet would we miss that? Apparently hooping to Donna The Buffalo.

Jim Lauderdale – Knock me over with a feather this guy can rock the Manuel western wear. As you may recall I was so star struck when I met Lauderdale face-to-face two years ago that I literally couldn’t speak. Vindication! I raced to the meet-n-greet after his show and words actually came out of my mouth and we had our picture taken together. His afternoon show was a real treat because we were joined by a couple from Tallahassee, Jeff & Leah, that the Professor is friends with. I actually met Jeff briefly last summer fishing the Missouri in Montana…fun to reconnect, meet his wife Leah, and enjoy music together. Look forward to more tunes and good times with these new friends.

Ruthie Foster – Sister’s got pipes. Period, paragraph. She blew the proverbial roof off the alfresca joint. And great hooping music. I heart Ruthie Foster. And everyone did as well.

Leftover Salmon – Let’s face it, millions of dirtbags can’t be wrong. Initially I wasn’t blown away by the few songs on my ipod but seeing them at midnight, with the tiki torches, the balloons bouncing around, the stick dancers, the live version was divine. We had a ball.

Of course the fun didn’t end with the last act each nite. On Friday night we laughed so hard around the campfire and found ourselves still awake at 2am. So we ventured across the field to the fabled Drum Circle. Not only did we go to the drum circle, somehow half our crew ended up participating in the drum circle. Let’s just say, even though the Professor wouldn’t don the manskirt, his stock went up with his bongo skills.

The second night we skipped the drum circle because we found this uber hip tent, trimmed in Christmas lights and marked with Bill Monroe and Vassar shrines. It was the Quartermoon Band tent and they kicked in around 3am in the campgrounds, picking and grinning and jamming with anyone and everyone. I requested “Rollin In My Sweet Babys Arms” and found myself in the round singing a round. Crazy fun.

Needless to say transition from Springfest to real life is a harsh one. I don’t think Little Chick will appreciate me hoop dancing in the carpool line in front of all her friends. So I am going to watch my own montage again, and drift off to images of mandolins and Spanish moss and tiki torches and banjoes and moonlight and campfire laughter…Springfest.

Time to get back in the canoe. With less than five months to train for the Texas Water Safari, I am definitely starting to feel the pressure. I’m gathering up all my cold weather fishing gear/clothing to resume paddle training this week. I’m not going to look like a professional paddler, that’s for certain, but I can’t justify spending an extra buck on fancy paddling clothes if I can make my fishing gear work. We shall see.

I may not be an expert paddler, but there’s one thing I know something of, and that’s music. And rivers. So in an effort to get my corpulent yuletide fanny off the couch and back on the treadmill, I’ve created a whopper of a playlist with great songs about RIVERS.

I have to imagine a few of you could chime in on this topic. So tell me, my huckleberry friend, what is your favorite river song?

In the meantime, enjoy the flow of these selections…

It started in the Bahamas a few years ago. At the end of the final day of our trip, Stevie said, “Last cast now, this it it.” So I started casting away while crooning the Donna Summer melody ‘Last Dance’ — although I substituted my own lyrics, “Last Ca-ast…this is my last cast for a fi-i-ish. Last Cast…Last Cast…”

My dad raised an eyebrow and shook his head, Stevie tried not to smile while poling for the last fish and my mom worked her Sudoku without looking up. The bonefish dismissed me as well.

No matter, I’ve taken the technique stateside. Turns out fish, friends and family ignore me just the same in freshwater as they do in salt. Last shot of the day on the Missouri and I bust out the Donna Summer tune. I simply can’t hold it in! Little Chick will be hot and hungry and bored and acapella I promise her to a disco beat, “Last cast…this is my last cast of the da-a-ay.”

Last cast, last dance, last waltz — what fly fisherman doesn’t love a good Hail Mary? Perhaps that explains my recent lapse in judgment in taking Little Chick downtown last Friday evening, the night before Halloween, to 6th Street among the drunken costumed rabblerousers and the panhandling homeless just so we could see the Michael Jackson movie ‘This Is It’. Hey, what can I say? Whether it’s fishing, disco, rock or pop, I have a soft spot for a swan song.

Which is why I have some really big news…

Unless you have spent most of this calendar year hiding under a rock like a molting nymph, you are probably aware that the Drake Fly Fishing Film Tour of 2009 was wildly successful, hitting more cities than ever with topnotch films. But what you may not know is that you have one more chance to see these incredible films before the 2010 tour begins. Last Dance Texas…

Tailwaters Fly Fishing in Dallas, TX is hosting one last stop on the 2009 Drake FFFT:

Fly Fishing Film Tour 2009 at Tailwaters

Nov 11th, doors open at 7 pm

Dallas Texas

The films are superb and of course look amazing on the big screen. Plus, the guys at Tailwaters do a great job and always throw a fine party so don’t tarry…buy your tickets now! Remember what happened last time I told you to get your tickets? Sell out. Big time. So you might as well trust me this go round and get your tickets pronto! Click ticket to buy online.

1. Sunrise Flyshop, Melrose Montana

I first crossed paths with the guys at Sunrise last May in Virginia City. I was on the girls fishing trip and we ventured off the ranch one evening for dinner at Banditos and a little entertainment at the Virginia City Follies. During intermission our not-so-subtle group of nine caused quite a ruckus trying to get a group picture. Some very nice guys ventured over and offered to take it for us.

As he clicked away, I shouted out, “Are you a fishing guide?” He was just so at home with the fancy camera I knew right away he must be a fishing guide – guides are always the best photographers. Sure enough not only guide, but a partner in Sunrise Flyshop.

We have since been in & out of Sunrise several times – it’s a great shop. And not just because they are so close to the Melrose Bar. Those guys are on the water relentlessly and have excellent intel about what’s happening with hatches and fish at any given moment and they are eager to share information every time we go in for shuttles and bugs.

2. Sunrise Chicken Biscuits in Chapel Hill, NC

Let’s just say in college after a rare night (ahem) of being overserved my roommates and I would skip all of our classes and hunker down all day playing Hearts and eating chicken biscuits from Sunrise. It was inevitably an intricate negotiation process as to who would make the trip out into the world and get the grub, often bartering clothes, future rides to class and of course blackmail from the night before. But it was always worth it. Hands down the best chicken biscuit on the planet. I don’t know how they can produce so many biscuits – so well – from such a teeny little kitchen.

3. Sunrise…

Well I would say the Craneflies at sunrise on the Beaverhead over Labor Day this year but we never made it to the river in time to catch that hatch. We heard about it every where we went, apparently it was stellar. But since we merely have that lingering and punishing should-a-been there, and since it is almost sunrise here and I have to catch an early flight, I am going to have to go with the delightful Norah Jones song “Sunrise”. I am off to the keys for a few days but in the meantime, enjoy some tunes and share a good sunrise story with us…

Did you know that on August 19th in 1692 five people were hanged in the Salem Witch trials? A harsh punishment for innocent people who were no doubt not actually witches. For the record, while I like Sinatra’s version of the song, I do not believe in witchcraft.

But what about the opposite situation? What sort of consequence exists for those who falsely claim to be witches? What puritanical capital punishment have we got for those nutjobs?

You see, about seven years ago I was run over by a crazy old Witch in a parking lot. And by Witch I don’t mean Bitch, I mean Witch. I was walking through the parking lot, carrying Little Chick — who at the time was just a Baby Chick — when this elderly broad with a lead foot sped through the parking lot and mowed us down.

She was not at all remorseful, in fact grouchy and defensive. While we waited for the ambulance she handed us her card which read “Reverend Mother.”

A nun? I was run over by a nun? Needless to say my friends got a huge kick out of this symbolic twist.

Little Chick and I were both miraculously okay despite the chaos of it all. After several scary hours in the emergency room, it was confirmed Little Chick suffered only a concussion and scraped finger. I had a hairline fracture on my foot, bruises all over my left side, and two herniated discs in my lower back.

A few weeks later we contacted the Evil Reverend Mother to discuss her insurance information which wasn’t syncing up properly. A strange conversation ensued whereby she explained that she was not actually a “nun” but more like a Witch Priestess who performed exorcisms. For money.

Allllllllrighty then.

I swear this sort of thing only happens to me.

Long story short I have suffered with back problems since this incident. Why couldn’t she drive a broom instead of a four-door sedan? I succumbed and had surgery about five years ago, and until this summer, my back has done fairly well. But one pesky move on the Beaverhead this past July 4^th changed that. We were wrapping up a great float at a super primitive takeout where the boat practically dangles off the trailer while you are wenching it up. I tried to help push it up, but instead pushed a disk onto a nerve in my back.

It’s driving me nuts. And I am about to start training for the water safari! This is unacceptable pain and I know the oral steroid pack will fix it pronto. But my damn surgeon won’t call in the prescription without a doctor’s visit and an MRI. Ugh!! I don’t have the time or money for that. This may or may not shock you but the FLY FISH CHICK healthcare plan isn’t really all that great. In fact spine issues are pre-existing and not covered at all.

I just need the little steroid pack. I don’t want pain pills, I’m not looking for narcotics for heaven’s sake. I just want the damn steroid pack and I don’t want to spend four hours and $800 to have a superstar surgeon tell me I need another surgery — but he will let me try a steroid pack if I really think I need it. Of course I need it, and I will stop at nothing until I get it. I am widening the net. Surgeons, homeopathic healers, general practitioners, OBGyns, witchdoctors, warlocks. I don’t care if it’s the Surgeon General or an utter Quack, someone is going to help me get this magic potion fast and cheap. If I have to conjure up a spell on the Internet, bid for it on ebay, or knock over a CVS, I will get the drug for my back.

Fire up the broomstick. I am on the hunt.

More like Tombstone Pizza and Frog’s Fanny, but hey, I like to weave in a good Charlie Robison lyric when it suits….and this is certainly one of those times. Rolling Stone has been calling. My lawyers are all tied up in slander suits with the tabloids. Paparazzi are hiding in the alley and culling through my trash. It’s been a whirwind.

It all started with a simple trip to the Blackfoot with my mother & Little Chick. While we were there, we met the film crew from Hook TV’s Adventure Guides. Next thing you know I was shanghaied, thrown into their van, whisked back over to the Missouri where I spent the day bantering & fishing with my friends from Headhunters Flyshop while the crew from Adventure Guides filmed us.

Here I am at the Blackfoot with Tim, who is a camera guru, talented director, and all around great guy from Bend Oregon. His company Far From Earth Films is highly legitimate, but I am still always wary of a van. Vans=Creepy. Nevertheless I hopped right in and off we went…

Here I am with my old friend Mark Raisler, aka Squeaky Oar Lock, getting ready for hair & makeup. We had some downtime before filming began so we are busy crafting a joint blogpost which is posted here on the Headhunters site.

For the record, When SOL was interviewing me for the joint post I never heard question #23. I would have actually picked bb cap instead of visor. Hand down. I don’t think I pull off the visor look quite as well as SOL. He definitely has the glow of Hollywood in this shot, don’t you think?

We fished. They filmed. It was a fun evening on the water.

Old friends, new friends, big rainbows, new experience. It was fun. I hear the host John Dietsch and crew members Tim and Ben went on to film my friend Steve over at McCoy Spring Creeks. They are hitting all the hotspots!

And now I am on the road, back in Austin tomorrow where I will have time to get you up to speed on all sorts of dishy topics, including:

• our trip to the Blackfoot and the North Fork Crossing Lodge
• Little Chick’s trout
• Texas Water Safari

Until then, enjoy some good music from Charlie Robison. Catch you on the flipside…

Don’t fret if things are a little quiet in here over the next few days. I am running away — but not for long, I promise. I’m headed to Montana for a GIRLS fishing trip, and I am so excited! Eight chicks fishing and hanging out for an entire week….I am quite literally, tickled pink.

My bags are packed and I’ve got my special ladies’ fishing gloves in my carry-on. Wouldn’t want to lose these babies:

I know. Words escape me too. I’d sooner show up on the river in over-the-elbow white kid opera gloves, a tiara & a ballgown than I would ever don those pink plastic things.

At any rate….while I’m away in MT huddled up in the hen house, I thought you might enjoy some good chick music. So I’ve pulled together a sampling of my favorite lady crooners to keep you company while I’m gone. Hope everyone has a good week and I will catch you on the flipside.

I’m serving up something a little different today on FFC: a Guest Blogger. My former boss, Mark McKinnon, is a celebrity political strategist, a creative juggernaut, uber-athlete, a warrior in the battle against cancer, a writer for The Daily Beast, and all-around cool cat. Oh yeah, and he used to be a songwriter for Kris Kristofferson. No shit.

Here’s a 1976 picture courtesy of DannyEveritt.com showing Danny Everitt, Robert Scott, and McKinnon on the far right:

I was extraordinarily lucky to work for McKinnon. It’s been a few years since I fled that big tall office job, but I am still blessed to have Mark and his wife as dear friends. Dear enough that I was able to browbeat lure them out on a Wednesday night to the Drake Film Tour here in Austin. A cursory Google of McKinnon will indicate how busy this man is and what a coup it was that he & his wife picked the FFFT as mid-week date night!

A few days after the film show Mark sent me this essay on his experiences learning to fly fish. So spit out your gum and sit up straight boys & girls. We have a real writer visiting the class today…..

The Angler — by Mark McKinnon

Unlike all of you who read flyfishchick, I was born without the fishing chromosome.

Growing up, I tried fishing. But, I could go out for hours with my fishing buddies and they’d easily catch the limit, while I would always, always, come up blanked. I went where they went, I cast like they cast (well sort of), and I used flies that they tied for me. But zippo.  Nada.

I did catch a fish once. My wife, Annie, and I went to visit my grandfather who lived on a bay in Virginia. With nothing else to do one day, we took out his boat (of a rowing nature, I can’t handle motorized vehicles either). And on our way out, my grandfather stuck a rod in the boat.  So, feeling obliged, I cast the sucker in the water. I’m not sure it even had a fly or bait.  And then I just left the rod in the boat unattended. An hour or so later, the dumbest and blindest fish in the history of the bay swam directly into the hook.

After great panic and fanfare, I reeled the thing into the boat. But, having no knowledge of what do at this point, we were baffled and crouched in fear of getting flop cut to death. So, having no other clue and certain we were facing serious bodily harm, I grabbed an oar and beat the sucker to death. Nearly capsizing and drowning us.

Flash forward many years later. I got lucky enough to land a fabulous cabin in Blue River, Colorado.  It is an idyllic spot.  At the end of a dirt road with nothing behind us but National Forest. And the Blue River runs right  through our back meadow.  Yes, a river literally runs through it.

And so, I fantasized, wouldn’t it so “mountain guy” if I could just stroll off my porch and fly fish on my own piece of terra firma? But, damn it, I was reminded. No fishing chromosome.

Alas, I decided to fight my genetic history. I hired a guide and went fly fishing. He showed me the basics (which I promptly forgot). And he found a great spot where catching trout is easier than catching a cold in a crowded 747. Hell, I didn’t know the difference between white fish and trout.  I just knew there was something flopping around on my hook.

Confidence bolstered, I bought some gear. But, the old doubts returned, and I left everything in the garage for six months.

Finally, I thought, screw it.  A man can’t have a place on the Blue River and not fish it. It’s a sin against nature and manhood.  So, humility and expectations firmly in place, I pulled out the gear.  And kid you not, tied a fly to my line with a square knot.  And then added a dropper to the fly with another square knot (patent pending).

I cruised out the back door to Opah’s Pond (OK, so I broke the law and stacked a few rocks to pool some water).  Cast and waited.

About ten seconds. And, bam, I hooked a trout.

I was so excited and shocked that I literally fell over. And, then after a classic drawn-out man-versus-fish struggle with a four-inch Brookie, I landed him.  Well, flopped him onto the shore. 

And then in the next half hour caught five more trout, some actually breaking average penis length.

I had become a real man. Overcome my disability and family heritage.

And I was, metaphor intended, hooked.

Now there is nothing I love more than tying my silly knots and casting into my little section of the Blue.

And close to about half the time, I snag something, often a fish.

So, for all your hopeless, hapless friends and cousins who are similarly fishing afflicted, tell them hope floats.

My mother loves to fish the Purple Haze pattern, she absolutely loves it. And she should, she seems to catch a hell of a lot of fish with that fly! Last summer we parked on a school of rising fish and she pulled them out one right after the next with that bug.

That said, I’m not here to talk about the Purple Haze that my mother used to catch this fish.

I’m not talking about this cool piece of fish art by Montana painter Bern Sundell, titled “Purple Haze”.

And no, I’m not talking about Jimi Hendrix’s signature song.

Henceforth, whenever I use the term Purple Haze, it will be in fond and deferential reference to the glorious, sparkly experience of seeing Loretta Lynn live in concert.

I know, I know. This makes two non-fishing posts in a row. But if Loretta can rhyme the words ‘hard’ and ‘tired’ in a song, I can mix a little music in with my fishing stories.

(By the way, anyone know which song I’m talking about?)

Okay so I pulled a little fly pattern bait & switch on you. But as you know, I’ve been on a quest to see Loretta for quite awhile now. This was huge. The Professor and I left Mobile Friday afternoon, headed for Pensacola with plenty of time to grab some dinner before the show. Unfortunately some standstill traffic on I-10 wasn’t in our plan. The Professor – whom we will rename My Hero – wheeled off the interstate in the blink of an eye as if he were being chased by some smokeys, and he serpentined around some backroads to get us back on track.

Once in Pensacola we parked and walked around looking for food. Hour-and-a-half wait at the first place. No good. That other place looked crowded too. Next place on our list was too far, we were running out of time. We flagged down some friendly, foodie looking folks and asked for a super-fast, super-close option.

Perfect. Off we went, just passed the Saenger Theater toward a nearby grill. But as we rounded the corner, The Professor stopped me dead in my tracks and pointed: It was Loretta’s bus.

There it was in all its full, regal purple glory. Purple Haze. I mean there wasn’t a shade of lavender missing from this thing. Believe me, I know. I stalked it thoroughly waiting for a glance of the woman herself. I have a vivid picture of her little country lamp in the window with a ditzy old Victorian shade. There was a white cat with black spots prowling around inside there.

And a bodyguard on the outside who was giving me the evil eye for getting too close to the bus.

The Professor was convinced I could talk my way onto the bus and meet her, but I wasn’t feeling it. And I didn’t want to miss the chance to see her walk out on stage. So with a fast meal behind us, we scurried into the Saenger and our seats just in time.

Words cannot describe how amazing she was. First of all, the purple theme continued in her sparkling, over-the-top, formal gown that just about seared a violet hole in my retina. It was sweet country perfection.

Her song list was spot on, churning out one classic hit after the next. She gave me pretty much every song I needed to hear, and then some. The Professor didn’t say anything, but I think he must have been impressed that I knew all the lyrics to almost every song she threw at me. I sang right along with her, and in my mind I sounded pretty good, but for some reason the gentleman next to me switched seats.

Truthfully, I was blown away at how good she sounded! Sister’s still got pipes. She hit high notes, big notes, and some key changes that gave me goose bumps.

And she’s funny. Her banter with the audience and with her band was sharp and hysterical. She was seated for much of the show so she’d just quip over her shoulders, “Just play somethin’ boys and I’ll try to figure it out.” Or, “It’d help if I knew what song yall were playin!” But most of the time she kicked off each song by flipping her head toward the band and waving her mic, “Take it away boys…”

And the accent. Oh! That country girl from Butcher Holler hasn’t lost one ounce of twang. It was to die for. I’m going to start saying aint and dadgum more often. She just makes it sound so dern good.

She finished with her signature song Coal Miner’s Daughter and that’s when I started to cry. I was completely overcome. I just couldn’t believe she was right there in front of me. Right there singing all these songs I’ve been listening to my whole life.

I am so grateful to the Professor for making this happen. I also want to extend a huge Thank You to all the Professor’s friends & family in Mobile who had to listen to me talk about the Loretta concert ad nauseum all weekend.

What can I say? I was in a Purple Haze. I felt like I could take the stage at the Opry, tour the honkytonks with Patsy, knock out some duets with Conway, win a country-girl catfight, bake a cherry pie with Crisco, and rock that lavender sequin gown. Scuse me while I kiss the sky!

I’ll have a fishing report for you tomorrow. But in the meantime, I pulled together a little taste of the songs she played last Friday. Take it away boys…