Fly Fish Chick

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…

Ta-da-da-duh! It is with great fanfare that I announce some very exciting news. I have caught my first redfish. And for my next performance….I proceeded to catch a few more after that!

After the film show wrapped up last week, a group of us traveled down to Port Aransas to chase after redfish and soak up the scene on the Texas coast. We wade fished on the first day and saw plenty of tailing fish. I had a little trouble getting in position to make casts some of the time, but it was so cool to see so many schools of fish, and I did hook up eventually.

The Professor drove all the way from Alabama, Miles Nolte flew in from Montana, and Tosh was the ultimate Host of the Coast.

On the second day of fishing, I kayaked with Tosh and he put me on several schools of tailing fish. Conditions were tough with clouds, wind and higher water, but we were undeterred. It was an absolute blast fishing from the kayak.

On our last night we met up up with the rest of the group where we laughed, drank and ate copious amounts of food, including grilled sausage and chicken, deep fried zucchini, fried jalapenos, fried trout, and some potato concoction that sorta blew my mind it was so good.

It was a big time down in Port Aransas. I can’t wait to go back. I am fairly obsessed with redfish at the moment and keep seeing those tails every time I close my eyes. For more pictures and some good tunes by Texas musician Phil Pritchett, enjoy this little slideshow I’ve whipped together.

Make video montages at www.OneTrueMedia.com

I had this brilliant idea to roam around Austin with a video camera during South By Southwest, putting up FFFT posters while trying to catch a music celeb who might give us a little video testimonial to help promote the show.

I thought I could film them saying something like, “When SXSW wraps up, pretty much the only thing I will have to live for is the Fly Fishing Film Tour. Thank heavens a brilliant group of people had the foresight to bring the show to Austin. It’s coming Wednesday April 22, and I wouldn’t miss it for the world. In fact, where’s my iphone? I want to buy my ticket right now!”

I know it’s hard to believe, but even a solid, air-tight plan such as this was actually derailed at the mere mention of a boatride and deep-fried delicacies.

I am, in fact, afraid to report that I was lured away from my assignment. Admittedly, my resolve had already been weakened since my previous attempt at securing a celebrity endorsement was a complete bust. (Let’s just say the Governor is not returning my phone calls. What’s up with that, anyway?)

So instead of beating the street and hanging up posters all over town, I spent Saturday cruising around Lake Austin and indulging in beer, a burger, and all sorts of fried food at Ski Shores. Nothing inspires complete and utter procrastination like a gorgeous TX Hill Country day and a little red basket of stuffed jalapeño poppers.

I simply couldn’t resist. Good call though, wouldn’t you say?

Make video montages at www.OneTrueMedia.com

“The yellow-haired lady was buried at sunset;
The stranger went free, of course.
For you can’t hang a man for killin’ a woman,
Who’s tryin’ to steal your horse.”

– Red Headed Stranger

Most of the time Willie Nelson is sharing the stage with someone who’s picking the steel-guitar, but it seems this Willie Nelson gets picked to find the steel-head.

Wally Adams, a trout and steelhead guide, has developed a line of steelhead flies named for musicians. Good ones, too. Of course this fly, titled ‘Willie Nelson’ for obvious reasons, caught my attention.

It got me thinking. If the red-headed stranger would shoot a woman for trying to steal his horse, wonder what he would do if you killed a steelhead? 

I know, I know. I’m late to the game on this whole heated discussion. How about we just listen to a little Willie instead?

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.

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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.