Little Guy

Purple Shore Crab

While hiking on the coast in Olympic National Park I saw this Purple Shore Crab. He was a little guy but he sure was pissed about me shoving my camera in his face.

In the Clouds

 I shot this in Glacier Park last year. We were standing in a cloud on a mountainside around 7,000' and there was just enough break in the clouds that I saw some mountaintops peeking out from the other side of this huge valley. It was pretty epic. Actually, it was magical.

Hello Again

Me enjoying a Seven Devils sunset

I feel like I've been in hibernation. Tucked away in a cave somewhere sleeping the season away. In my case it was the whole year I slept away. Hiking be damned. Writing be damned. Life be damned. If I wrote a book about this year I might call it: "The Year I Nearly Drowned In A Sea of My Own Self Pity."

Wow, I can't believe 2011 is almost over. The year I was supposed to hike the Appalachian Trail. The year I suffered three serious injuries back-to-back-to-back that completely derailed my AT dreams. I can't help but feeling like I missed the boat. Like I missed my chance. Instead of taking the trip of a lifetime I took two ambulance rides to the ER...

Didn't I tell you after my back fiasco I got into a freak accident with an exercise band and temporarily blinded myself? It was brutal to say the least. The band stretched to it's limit broke free of the door jam and in a millisecond hit me in the face directly in both of my open eyes. The lights went out and I dropped to my knees in the most excruciating pain I've ever experienced. Seriously, this pain made my back feel like a sore muscle. I literally writhed in agony on the floor sobbing like a baby for 10 minutes straight. When the panic left  and I was still blind I realized I needed help... I searched for my phone by feel in the blackness. Gliding my hands over my bed, the chair, and finally the table where I found it. I voice dialed my Grandmother who called 911. It took nearly two days to get some of my sight back, and my first vision test I scored something like 20/500.

All injuries aside, I feel great coming into 2012. All my traditional aches and pains seem to have subsided and my new ones are healed up. I feel like hiking. I feel like writing.

It's a shame The Northwest Men's Magazine didn't last. I only wrote one story for it, and it turned out to be about the only thing I wrote all year long. I'm leaving that in the rearview mirror now and wondering where I can go next. I think a good start will be my blog.

2011 was a short hiking season for me. I didn't get anywhere near accomplishing the goals I set forth at the end of last year. So 2012 has to be the year I make up for that. No, I can't do the AT, my moment has passed (for now), the stars aren't aligned.



As inactive as I was in 2011 I still had a chance to hike the entire Seven Devils loop trail in the Hell's Canyon wilderness. We spent 5 days and 4 nights and logged about 50 miles total. I had an amazing time. The scenery was the best I'd seen yet, and apart from the worst mosquito swarms I'd ever seen, it was a perfect trip. It's always hard for me to go back. I remember my last day out there and all I could think was that I wish I could just keep going...

The King of Badger Lake

Fly fishing for me has always conjured a certain image in my mind...

Of a mystical Montana river winding purposely through an old pine forest. Swarms of insects fill the air, whirling about in a frenzy just above the waters surface. A lone man stands knee deep in water near the bank, and unlike most men of our age, he seems to belong. His earth-toned clothes and full brimmed hat match the shade of the evergreens, and compliment the deep orange bark of the huge Ponderosas. He holds a rod in his hand that he rhythmically whips back-and-forth, sending a line soaring gracefully through the sky, like a leaf on the wind, over his head and out to to his front, and back again...

If that sounded eerily like the movie “A River Runs Through It” it's because that's what I'm describing. Brad Pitt as Paul Maclean, fly fishing Montana's famed Blackfoot River in one of the classic guy movies of all time. It also happened to be my only concept of fly fishing.

Fly fishing on Badger Lake

So you can imagine my confusion after I was invited by the President of the Spokane Fly Fishers, Mike Berube, to go fly fishing on a lake, and from a boat. It wasn't quite what I had pictured in the minds eye, and being a total rookie I didn't have any gear. Again I was reminded of “A River Runs Through It”. The scene where the story telling brother-in-law shows up late for fly fishing, drunk with a can of worms.

Not that I was planning on showing up drunk with a can of worms, but I didn't want to be that guy. You know, the guy with no gear, who doesn't know what he's doing, who the others have to babysit. Luckily Mike was nice enough to supply most of what I needed: pontoon boat, flippers, life vest, rods and reels, flies, and a “crash course” in the art of fly fishing. 

It was a beautiful day on Badger Lake. A few clouds drifted lazily through an otherwise clear blue sky, and a slight breeze blew over the calm lake. Mike started me off with an Olive Willy fly and a sinking line. Still too shy to attempt a cast I was sure would make me look like a buffoon, I dropped the fly in front of my boat and released more line as I paddled across the water.

Not much action on the water. No fish jumping. I passed (and almost crashed into) several anglers from the club. “ Any luck?” I would say. “Had one on, but he got away” they would reply. It would be a reoccurring theme.

An hour went by and no bites, and as the sun crept toward the western horizon the lake was quiet except the sound of chatting fly fisherman. The Spokane Fly Fishers take trips together like this frequently. Throughout the year they fish some of the hot spots the region has to offer, like Badger Lake, Williams, St Joe River, Clark Fork, and even the mythological Blackfoot. With about 300 members they seem like a tight group. They talked about flies and lines, and fondly reminisced about fishing trips past. They asked politely about the wife and kids. They admired the beautiful day and were thankful for the sunshine. They wondered where the fish were...

That's when I heard it. A huge splash behind my boat, so loud that it startled me awake from my contemplative state. I turned around to see a large bird of prey lift off from the waters surface. It was big. A wingspan of four feet easy. It beat its powerful wings and climbed back to the sky, where it circled once and landed on top of the tallest tree on the lake shore. It sat there like a king on a throne, head turning from side-to-side, surveying his domain.

The King of Badger Lake

We watched the Osprey throughout the afternoon, circling the lake and diving in on unsuspecting trout. A dozen times it hit the water at high speed, sometimes coming up with a fish, and sometimes not. “At least someone is catching fish” I thought. Then it occurred to me. If the Osprey is catching fish then they must be at the surface.

I switched to my other rod set up with a strike indicator and a Bloodworm to fish near the surface. My pathetic cast landed only a few feet from the boat, and as I was paddling my feet to put some distance between me and the fly, a fish hit. I pulled up on the rod and a magnificent trout sprang from the water, the sun glistening off rainbow colored scales. Heart racing I reeled and jerked the rod. The fish fought like hell, repeatedly leaping into the air in a desperate attempt to break free. For a brief moment I felt like the old man in Hemingway's “The Old Man and the Sea”. I'm not that old, Badger Lake isn't exactly the sea, and a small rainbow trout isn’t exactly a marlin, but that’s how I felt. As I drew the fish ever closer to the boat I could hear Mike hollering, “Hold on Mike, I'm coming,” but before he could reach me with the net, my marlin spit the hook and disappeared.

I blew it. My moment of glory undone by my clumsy handling of the unfamiliar rod and reel, and a tenacious fish. As the sun faded and the temperature dropped, the action on the lake picked up. Trout who seemingly lay dormant throughout the day suddenly sprang into action, and everywhere I turned they were jumping. I would like to tell you that this is when the slaying started, but that was not the case. There was only one trout slayer on the lake that day. He wasn't fly fishing, or trolling a spinner, or sinking a worm from a lawn chair on the shore. He was spying fish from the treetops and diving from the sky like a bolt of lightning from heaven.

In the parking lot at the end of the day, a few of the fly fishers were chatting over cold beers. The talk was of why the fish weren't biting. Someone theorized about a full moon and a mix of low and high pressure systems. “The osprey did alright,” I said. The general consensus was that he caught at least five. I thanked Mike and shook hands all around. Alone with my thoughts on the drive home, I kept coming back to the Osprey. He gave us all a fishing lesson today. He was the King of Badger Lake

Badger Lake

Northwest Men's Journal

For anyone who is interested.

The Spokane Men's Journal has gone regional and changed thier name to Northwest Men's Magazine. Not only will it serve Spokane, but Portland, Seattle, and Boise as well. Because of this expansion the launch date was pushed back to July. I have an article and several photo's in already, and plan on writing at least one more piece for the magazine this month so I should have two story's and about a half dozen photos in the first issue. Anyways, if you wan't to follow along and check out the magazine and my work and stuff then you can go to the page and subscribe. Right now it's free but I think eventually they are going to charge... So yeah, I think that's it.

http://www.northwestmensmagazine.com/

Lessons learned.. From Johnny Cash

A young cowboy named Billy Joe


grew restless on the farm


A boy filled with wonderlust


who really meant no harm


He changed his clothes and shined his boots


and combed his dark hair down


And his mother cried as he walked out


Don't take your guns to town, son


leave your guns at home, Bill


don't take your guns to town






He laughed and kissed his mom and said


you're Billy Joe's a man


I can shoot as quick and straight


as anybody can


But, I wouldn't shoot without a cause


I'd gun nobody down


But she cried again as he rode away


Don't take your guns to town, son


leave your guns at home, Bill


don't take your guns to town.






He sang a song as on he rode


his guns hung at his hips


he rode into a cattle town


a smile upon his lips


He stopped and walked into a bar


and laid his money down


but his mother's words echoed again


don't take your guns to town, son


leave your guns at home, Bill


don't take your guns to town.






He drank his first strong liquor


then to calm his shaking hand


and tried to tell himself at last


he had become a man


a dusty cowpoke at his


began to laugh him down


and he heard again his mother's words


don't take your guns to town, son


leave your guns at home, Bill


don't take your guns to town.






Filled with rage then Billy Joe


reached for his gun to draw


but the stranger drew his gun and fired


before he even saw


As Billy Joe fell to the floor


the crowd all gathered round


and wondered at his final words


don't take your guns to town, son


leave your guns at home, Bill


don't take your guns to town."

The most important things

"The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them -- words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out. But it's more than that, isn't it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a tellar but for want of an understanding ear."

— Stephen King