I took Aggie out to the Atalaya trail near St. John’s college this afternoon. The trail is a seven mile loop, although we only hiked a couple miles in before turning back due to a lack of daylight.
I was waiting for the snow to melt before heading into the foothills, but the snow was stubborn and I was impatient.
Sangre De Cristo
Another long absence, another post trying to explain myself. For the past couple of months I’ve been almost totally preoccupied with applying for an internship at Outside Magazine – a publication I’ve long respected and admired. Several weeks ago, I found out I got the internship. The weeks since have been filled with hunting for apartments, trying to figure out my vehicle situation, wrapping things up at the Beacon and a hell of a lot of other things, it seems. A week from today, I start the drive to Santa Fe, New Mexico (with the dog and cat in tow).
If I find the time, I’ll try to throw the occasional link to a good Outside story or maybe put up some photos of some national monument or another. I’ve never been to the West and so it will probably take me a good while to soak it in and probably even longer to learn to cope with the sheer beauty of living near mountains.
If anyone has any suggestions for places to go, trips to make, food to eat, etc. pass them along. And if you make your way to Santa Fe, the first drink is on me.
Possible explanations for the 1-month absence from the ARMCHAIR.
• My eight-year-old computer is starting to die. The increasingly messy web pages don’t load so quickly, my Gmail is in a constant frozen state and sometimes I click on items and nothing happens. I don’t think I’m going to replace it, because I don’t think I really need to. So if you rely on the ARMCHAIR for winter reading, get yourself a library card and join me in reading everything you can by John McPhee. Now subscribe to Wired, Nat’l. Geographic, Outside, the Atlantic, Esquire and the Economist. If you’re still bored, buy a Wii.
• I was on vacation last week. I headed up north to the Clam River, where I managed to get in a succesful morning of fishing before walking around the woods with a shotgun in my hands, looking unsuccesfully for Grouse.
• I’ve been doing a lot of walking – going so far as to found a movement I call Walkism. The basic tenet of Walkism is: There is nothing in life so perfect as a nice walk with a beautiful dog and a beautiful woman (or man) next to you. A couple things, however, can help facilitate a good walk:
- Giant breakfasts. Omelets, egg sandwiches, pancakes, bacon, sausage, toast with jam, coffee, cereal, milk, canadian bacon, hash browns, orange juice, corned beef hash, assorted fruits, american fries and french toast go a long ways towards making a person feel prepared for the day.
- Always take reading material into the bathroom. Suggested books: Orvis Guide to Fly Fishing, House at Pooh Corner.
The other day, I did something stupid. I made an argument that Bob Dylan was not as important as everyone makes him out to be. I made this argument to my dear friend, Rob Kenagy – one of the biggest Dylan fans out there.
To sum up my argument, I said Dylan’s lyrics weren’t insightful. Specifically, I said that even Dick Nixon could see that “the times they are a-changin’”. I tried to make the argument that musically, Bob Dylan wasn’t doing anything new. In Dylan’s Chronicles, he tries to convince readers that he did something akin to what Bill Evans and Miles Davis did with Kind of Blue.
Of course, I think that’s pure bullshit and I made the argument that after Kind of Blue, it’s hard to see anything as equally groundbreaking (a point that Kenagy rips apart, but I stand by in terms of music theory).
What follows is Kenagy’s passionate, and sometimes brilliant, defense of Dylan’s place and importance in the music world.
What did Bob Dylan contribute to music? Well, musically he took a giant dump on chumps from Peter, Paul, and Mary to Manfred Mann.
If you asked Bob Dylan if he thought Nixon knew the times were changing, of course he would agree. He would agree that Castro knew, Cronkite knew, RFK knew, Martin Luther King, Jr. knew. The difference is that Dylan was smart enough to write it thoughtfully, sing it soulfully, abandon it recklessly, pick up an electric guitar confidently, and write the greatest american pop song ever – “Like a Rolling Stone.” Dylan was the first “serious” pop musician.
No way was he responding to Kind of Blue. Nor the Beatles, or the Stones. None of these guys were responding to jazz until the late 60’s. Everyone was responding to Buddy Holly, Elvis, etc. Kind of Blue is an amazing album, please don’t hear me wrong, but you’re comparing art forms/albums/different styles of music simply because they’re popular. It’s like saying Wilco is trying to catch up with Public Enemy’s It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back. It’s just not the case. I’m sure Dylan dug jazz, but he didn’t strap on an electric guitar and play major seventh chords. He strapped on an electric guitar cause he still had more to say, and those little folk songs weren’t cutting it.
With that singular snare shot at the beginning of “Like a Rolling Stone,” he changed Top 40 Radio forever. Now it was up to the Beach Boys, the Beatles, the Stones, Marvin Gaye – all the pop power houses of the 60’s – to get serious. “I Want to Hold Your Hand,” and “California Girls,” just wouldn’t cut it anymore. Go look at Top 40 Charts from 1965 – when Dylan walked into the bar, the whole place was full of sock hoppin’, teenie-boppin’, poodle-skirt rockin’, milkshake-mustached bubble gum poppin’ “rock’n'roll”. If I can convince you of nothing else (which is probably the case), Dylan’s responsible for showing everyone how to be genuine. Without Dylan, I’ll argue, there would be no Rubber Soul.
I could suggest a bundle of albums (Blood on the Tracks is essential), tracks (“Watching the River Flow”), and interviews (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Pn9-B7GbRQ), but it’s probably a moot point. He didn’t write the fourth symphony. He didn’t create a new genre of music (not really, anyways). But he said: hold it. Pop music can be serious. It should be serious. It’s GOING to be serious.
By and large, it still is.
When we first reached the river, the bottom was pure sand. We kept walking. The current picked up as we walked north, but didn’t reach the depths we hoped for. So we walked.
Following the bank of the White River within the Manistee National Forest is not easy. Thickets abound. Grass, thistle and wildflowers grow shoulder high. Fallen trees pushed us out of sight from the river, following a deer path into the woods. When the path looked obstructed, we decided to cross the river.
A fallen cedar stradled the river, its roots buried in the bank on our side, the broken top of the tree resting on the other. McClusky went first, Kenagy followed, the only problem being a three-inch limb pointed straight up to the sky. Kenagy held the limb at chest-height to swing wide. It snapped. He fell. Ten minutes later, we were no closer to good fishing water.
Trout fishing in late July is no easy thing. We did not want to handicap ourselves by fishing bad water. We turned around and walked thirty minutes back to the vehicle. At 9:00 p.m., we found good water.
I had fished the spot two weekends ago by chance. I was driving home after searching Cushman Creek for a good fishing spot and finding none. I decided to do some hiking instead. Twenty minutes into the forest, I heard water. I walked downhill and found a stumbled upon The Spot. I spent half an hour casting dry flies to no particular fish and went home, happy to have found a clear enough place to overhead cast.
When the three of us returned, we pushed further downstream. The sun was setting, but the tree tops devoured any sunlight before it reached the water. We found our hole at 9:30. McClusky dropped his line in while Kenagy and I walked upstream. A minute later, he hit. “I got one.” A minute after, Kenagy followed. “I got one!”For the next half hour, nibbles and stolen bait were almost constant – as were snags in our line from fishing over the same water.
By 10:00 p.m. we couldn’t see our hands. And we still had to walk upstream, cross the river and hike back to the car. We left my house at 6:40 p.m. and returned at 11:00. Our lines were in the water for just over half an hour. Our reward was one 11” Rainbow, one under-sized Rainbow (released), one sucker fish (released) and dozens of bites.
Kenagy and McClusky returned to Holland while I went to bed. I tried to sleep, but had trouble. I kept thinking of my cast, the places to hit when I came back the next day (joined by McClusky and Kenagy). When I did finally sleep, my dreams were filled with Browns, Brooks and Rainbows waiting in the deep for a streamer or nymph to come tumbling over the river bed.
