You Say You Want A Revolution

Here's the thing about college. It has always been the same. It never changes. New majors may appear, new teaching methods may develop, generation after generation will pass through the golden arches built by the founding fathers of whatever university you may attend but to the core it will always be the same. Although the education system in this country is not ideal, the educational process found in most universities is idealistic. This is a place for thinkers, yet to be doers, but ready to step out into the world--maybe not today, but certainly tomorrow. 

Thinkers in centralized locations like universities think and because of their close vicinity with other thinkers they often think together. This is where the common theme of college throughout time and space comes to a head.

What I am trying to say is invariably college students discuss. And in this particular case, they discuss politics. And in this way we are cliche.

How cliche is it for college students to discuss politics? Um. As cliche as any Hugh Grant romcom or Vin Diesel action flick. So cliche.

So here I am today talking to my friend Pamela about politics. Talking the state of America, specifically. She is a good source of information and honestly a good sound board for my own ideas.  The thing I like Pamela that she doesn't do pleasantries. We can jump into an involved discussion without so much as a "how're you?".

I really couldn't recount to you all that we talked about but it was in depth. What began as a conversation about what we did over the summer turned into have you heard about wall street? I had not, but I got some info on it from Pamela. Then that turned into what's happening with the American government and what's happening to two party democracy. That evolved into comparing contemporary issues with historic revolutions.

The problem with talking about politics is it's really easy. It's so easy to have an opinion. Action is the hard part. I don't think of myself as an activist. Pamela might, she certainly has activist tendencies. But for me. If I'm recruiting for anything it's probably for an open mic. I believe in the power of movements but I have trouble in getting behind them personally.

I'm a radically moderate individual. That means I fiercely believe no one should fiercely believe in anything. And I'm an individual which means I think my ideas are too unique to box up and ship prepackaged to the nearest picket line. Ideas are complex-- they can't be written on one poster. 

I'm not even sure they can be written on one blog, but I'm trying.

I also have conflicting ideas. Pamela is older than I am, maybe she knows better what she believes. I don't know but it doesn't feel right imposing belief systems on people when I don't know what even I'll believe tomorrow. I have questions for the world. I still need clarification. It would be unwise to assume this will be the mind set I will have the rest of my life.

Pamela and I talked a lot in theoretical terms. Lot's of ifs. I have theories about why the world works the way it does, politically and otherwise, and I talked about them. Causes of the current status of the world, conditions for change historically, etc. All theories and none of them tested.

Oh college. Everyday you amaze me. Even the expected things are exceptional.

Road Trips

My mother and I, for reasons too logistically complex to explain here, decided the wisest course of action in getting me to Seattle this year would be to road trip there. We packed my mother’s Rav-4 full with boxes, suitcases and road trip food and headed north. We left on Sunday morning and arrived today. Two nights and three days. Not bad. Not good.

It is my belief that it is a very all-American thing to do, a road trip. In this case I am not all-American. I don’t really like road trips. I know everyone’s all hippy-dippy, bumper-sticker-slogan, I-have-a-guru-who-tells-me-crazy-shit-to-make-me-feel-better-about-my-wayward-life but “Life is about the journey not the destination” is a crap sentiment. It is. It just plain is. If I’m going to Seattle I don’t want it to take three days. I wanna goddamn be there inmediatamente, por favor. Especially when everyone I know in Seattle keeps texting me about when I’m gunna be there already, and everyone in back home is all sad I left. I either wanna be in Seattle or I wanna be in my home town. None of this transitiony-limbo crap.

Road trips are hard. I just don’t like them. I wouldn’t say I don’t like traveling but I don’t like traveling… For example… I like traveling to Mexico to sit on a beach in a foreign land where mocha men can serve me cold drinks with brightly colored umbrellas in them. I just don’t like traveling to Mexico on a BART train to get to the airplane, an airplane to get to a cab, and finally a cab to the hotel. It’s the moving around that I don’t like. And well that’s kinda the point of a road trip…

I like being here and there. I like point A and point B, it’s the route from one to the other I could skip. That’s why it is my firm belief that I teleportation should be every inventor’s first priorities. Beam me up, Scotty.

Art and Wine: The Perfect Goodbye

My last summer day in California was spent at my favorite event in my home town. The art and wine festival in this San Francisco suburb is, I think, rather average. Paintings and sculptures and boutique-style wall art and smelly candles and soaps and jewelry and generally pretty things with big price tags and small practical use. Even if they are extremely aesthetically pleasing. And of course wine. And food. Which is of course greasy, over-priced, small-portioned, and oh so delicious.

It is, as I have said, an average Art and Wine Festival. So why is it my favorite weekend of the year? Why do I drop everything for it, even schedule when I am leaving for school around it?

Because it represents my home town in essence. Beautifully. This is the weekend where all the people I see everyday, who I grew up with, who I shop at the grocery store next to, who cut me in line at Peet's coffee, who raised the kids I used to play soccer with, who were the leaders of my Girl Scout Troop (okay,I never made it passed Brownies), who carpooled with me to elementary school, who are everyone I've ever known to any extent all coming together for one weekend. It is a huge congregation of peers, parents, teachers, bosses, co-workers, friends, and acquaintances. And they are all uncensored. They drink their wine, they buy their art, they walk their dogs, they scold their kids, they hold hands with their hubbies.

Everyone is themselves. You can recognize them a mile away: The sporty soccer moms with their lulu lemon yoga pants dragging their kids, still in cleats from this mornings game, around with a blue-tooth in. The posh moms looking for a new pair of earrings, or set of wine glasses, who leave their kids to hang on the arms of their husbands who wander around dazed by price tags and lulled by the beer they hold slackly in their hands. The old, retired people who walk methodically up and down the aisles, waving to middle-aged people they knew when they were kids and forgetting that they are not grade-schoolers anymore. The young couples with the infants who have just moved into the neighborhood who grapple with the stroller and the wine glasses, and end up grumpy by the end of the day, not used to the heat, the booze, or the crying baby. The folks who are my parents age, whose kids have all left for school and yet are still bragging about all their child's accomplishments, which I know, knowing the kids, are excessive exaggerations. And the kids. Middle school and high school students selling water bottles to fund school events and sports teams. The younger ones, leaping at any opportunity to stray from their parents, to sit on the curb with a mom-funded shave-ice and giggle over the newly discovered freedom. The older ones, lackadaisical as they slump around in hoodies, pretending it isn't 85 degrees outside-- the perfect display of an Indian Summer. They roam in packs, flooding aisles with no money for food or art, and not yet old enough for wine. They come because that's what you do. You go to the Art and Wine festival. At least I did when I was their age, which admittedly was a very short while ago.

There are few kids my age. For the most part school has started for my peers. It is about to start for me after all. I am hyper-aware of this. Parents of my peers who wave me down to chat ask me when I'm leaving. Some, those who know me less well, I can tell are timid to bring up the subject. Presumably, their kids started a month ago, like most not on the quarter system. They attempt to ask neutral questions like "So what are you up to this fall?" or "So are you going to school at this point?" And I have to pretend not to notice their worried and/or confused expressions about whether I, being the rebel they have imagined, have poo-pooed formal education altogether. I answer like I assume they know everything about me with, "The U-Dub doesn't start until the end of the month but I'm leaving tomorrow". The knot between their brows untangles as they smile and are reassured that my hometown is still churning out winners.

I am there in the morning with my man and his dog and goddamn does that dog attract people of all shapes and sizes from practically a 50 mile radius. Dogs are everywhere at the Art and Wine festival. But this dog is top of the line cute. I mean he was turning cop-security people into melty puddles of puppy-loving goo. But as for me, well, I was focused on another cute boy altogether-- feeling myself turning into a melty puddle of man-loving goo.

In the afternoon I got a second wind and I came back with my folks for Art and Wine part two. My mom shopped for a cutting board after destroying our last one while my dad and I were in the back country. My dad bought raffle tickets for a canoe (cuz he didn't get his fill...). And I bought wall art for my dorm room. It was all around a very successful second round.

Walking back to the car I got my last tastes of this community. Pre-teen bros on BMX bikes with Beiber hair riding around the streets like squeaky-clean hooligans, preppy high school girls with whore make-up and too straight streaky hair gliding from booth to booth with a vapid unawareness of what they are looking at, parents chasing toddlers with wispy hair meticulously rubber-banded in an undignified tuft on the top of their heads, retirees' with their callused, arthritis-stricken hands clasped as they stroll with wine glasses tipping precariously in their other hands, moms with blackberries and jogging outfits, dads with blue-tooths and loafers, the usual suspects, all who I love. Not because I recognize every face or know all about their lives, but because they represent all I am leaving behind. A sort of oddly unique yet poshly cliche community of people all here, downtown, looking at art and drinking wine.

This is my perfect goodbye. Now I am road-tripping up to Seattle, back to school, with my dear mother. It is day two and we are now in Portland. Last night we were in Ashland. And tomorrow, well, we can talk about that when we get there.

Canoe-Palooza Part Eight

I realize that the number of posts have now exceeded the days in which I actually spent canoeing. It is day six, the last evening, and I still feel there is so much left unsaid. The portages—I have not even begun to talk about them. The water—which I promised posts ago I would elaborate on. The bugs, the campsites, the wind, the rain (minimal but not non-existent)… They all seem vital and I want to flesh them out the best I can now. Time is fleeting and what I have to say, catches at my throat. “Quickly!” I say to my brain, “before I leave and forget it all.” But my brain says, “Hush, slow down or you will deprive yourself of valuable processing time. You want insight, not observation.” In the presence of all this I find endless inspiration.

On water: The water is black here. It would be a mistake to call this blue water. If a plane flew by from above (which is not often) it would not be cool blue pools of water they looked down upon. Big, black and with the potential to be ominous. From afar they might look more akin to gigantic tar pits than lakes. So many lakes, for so many miles, so sprawling and with such uneven shores you almost wouldn’t be surprised if it all ended up to be one big lake and lots of islands, instead of the other way around. The water is not dirty, not polluted or anything like that. Just..black. Just black with no bottom. Deep until infinity. My dad tells me it is because of the peat in the lake but my imagination has not processed that. Black like infinite space. Even five feet below the surface things are swallowed by the darkness. The darkness. Full of mystery. Full of despair. These lakes have the shining black surfaces of crow’s eyes. Like hot black lava, like molten black glass. Solid-looking until the paddle breaks the surface. Not impermeable but seemingly so. Not infallible but with that unmistakable façade.

On portages: Now that I have broached the subject I find myself with not much to say. Simply put, they are what you do when you reach the end of a lake and have a bit of land between you and the next lake. You must then take yourself, your backpack, your food, AND your canoe on land and plop it back into the water on the other side. Sometimes there can be one or two portages in a day and sometimes as many as seven or eight. And some are as short as a few feet and some are as long as a quarter of a mile. And always it takes a coupla trips to get everything on the other side. It can be a nice break from the monotony of paddling but it can also be fairly strenuous.

On bugs: None exceptionally bitey although the first night they took some chunks outta me. Mostly, they provide a harmonic hum to the already melodic environs of the Minnesota back country.

On campsites: This is what I have learned about campsites. They are just like houses—they come in all different styles and sizes and inevitably you find one that suits you. I also know that you are not particularly picky after a long day of paddling.

On wind: While canoeing it is always consistently in your face, providing a nice cool breeze but still making the task of paddling more difficult nonetheless. “Feather your canoe” my grandfather shouts at me from the other canoe (even when, on the odd chance, it isn’t windy). The wind. A curious thing, the wind. A meteorologically explainable but psychologically mysterious phenomena. Weather patterns have always intrigued me. I think they intrigue human beings in general. Myths about certain seasonal changes or what have you, by now all explained away by science still hold influence in certain societies. Phrases as well. “Whichever way the wind blows”—a phrase too often thrown about by people who have not had to fight against it for hours in a canoe, wet and tired and cold and yet still sweating from the effort. Whichever way the wind blows could treacherously be into a rock; causing a hole in our fragile Kevlar canoe; into a fallen log, causing us to capsize, our belongings tossed into the black depths of the lake; away from our destination. Following whichever way the wind blows can be a dangerous game while canoeing. It could be that is the case with living as well.

On rain: Oh Seattle, you are a wet and rainy gem. The Emerald city, you lovely, rainy wonderland. Nowhere, in no situation, at anytime, anywhere but with you will I ever again complain about the rain. I know, you glorious, rain-soaked metropolis—seemingly small praise. But oh how it is so, undoubtedly, undeniably true. Day one and day four were wet and I did not even flinch. A tad cold perhaps (it is Minnesota) but the rain was anything but unbearable. As we departed on day one, someone said this is our impression of Seattle. Oh, if only they could measure up to your spectacular wetness. If you were a vagina, oh how I would fuck you. But alas, you are not. You are a city and I must endure you as a place of residence. You are not a wet slut, you are a slippery sidewalk, a drippy awning, a never quite dry pair of socks. All weather is good weather when compared to you.

In conclusion: Well folks, as I have timed it this last canoe post comes just in time. Try as I might, I cannot in fact write it all down. Every minute, every experience. So much is left to say and maybe in the future I will write more, but now is not the time. Tomorrow I leave for Seattle again. Time for a new page in my ever filling book of life. To dwell on something past will not make time slow. It ticks on and I must step in time or be left in the dust by my own quickly-paced life. Tomorrow’s post will be a goodbye to canoe-palooza along with some other things.

Canoe-Palooza Part Seven

I was in a canoe paddling with my dad when I noticed smoke on the horizon. I saw it first. Then, breathing deeply, searching with my nose, I smelled it. Softly rich like dissipating cigar smoke. Like city smog it clouds the details of the horizon until the trees blur together into a vague dark rim around the lake we are paddling on—like a ring around a bathtub. A forest fire—my mind flickers to the new saplings only four years old—now consumed.

My mind is engulfed with thoughts but in my hands is a canoe paddle not a pen and paper. I need my pen and paper, god dammit, before the flames of thought licking the insides of my brain—flashing from one synaptic branch to another—spreading fast like the fire I could smell. I need to write before the ideas disappear like the smoke—fogging—blurring. Shore is here and I jump forth to grab my notebook, abandoning my father to pull the canoe up to shore by himself.

Smoke wafts into the campsite from afar. I cannot see flames but I don’t expect to. This is not a close fire. To see the smoke before smelling it—that means something. A loon croons—possibly smelling the smoke as well. I imagine it recognizing the pale grey as a death shroud. The smoke fills his lungs and he cries out, siren-like, the alarm. Another loon calls back. As we sit in camp, discussing the happenings rather matter-of-factly, we hear a plane overhead and know help is on its way. If only I could tell that to the loon.

Update from my dad’s facebook: I learned that over 100,000 acres have burned east of Ely and southwest of where we were and almost all entry points to the BWCA have been closed. No damage to the area we were in this year, but it sounds like it completely wiped out the area we were in a few years ago.

Canoe-Palooza Part Six

Philosophy of Fish Gutting

I have now watched my father fillet three fish at this point. Two he caught, and one of mine. The process is slow although I suspect it is because he is simply unskilled. He confirms this, but is unembarrassed by the fact. He gets the job done.

The process is both brutal and systematic. It is certainly not malicious but I still cringe at points, though morbid curiosity forbids me to look away completely. Startled by the thud of the fish’s head hitting a rock jolts me, and I can’t help but exclaim. It kills the fish in one quick pound on the ground but it still stings. The knife pierces the flesh at last and scarlet tears fall from the fish’s ivory belly, mourning its death with trickles of its own blood.

After the initial blood slides down the fat body and drips from the tail, the guts are removed. In a maneuver that seems complicated but is too fast and involved for me to see the details, the insides of the fish are suddenly not on the inside of the fish. On inspection, my dad notes that it is a female as he unceremoniously pulls out a hand-full of red eggs from what I had previously referred to as an “it”. She, as I now understood it, was an expecting mother.

Suddenly, a thought wormed to the center of my thoughts. It this how God does it? Assuming for a moment he exists—and I for one have no idea—no proof from personal experience suggesting either his presence or lack thereof (although this is a whole other thought process for a whole other day). Is this the method under which God operates? As a hungry fisherman, reeling in victims for above, taking them and scooping them up with his heavenly fishing net? Only later realizing the details of the life he has just taken; gutting not them, but the lives of the ones who loved them. How many expecting mothers has God taken away? Countless, undoubtedly. I have, of course, not killed countless fish mothers. Even saying fish mothers seems ridiculous, although it is not false. Does it put me in the same category? The same category as God? Hmm…perhaps false. Perhaps too assuming. But I cannot help to lament the fish that could’ve hatched from those eggs—if only because they would never grow to into catchable sized fish for me to vanquish.

The guts—eggs included must now be discarded. Flung back haphazardly, the intestines catch on a branch, hanging unapologetically from a tree. Accidental, I know, but the gesture seems to add insult to injury. Or death, in this case.

Canoe-Palooza Part Five

Yes, you do have to endure another blog post about my canoe trip. I had a lot of time in which to write. As always I will say if you are just joining us now, you may want to start at the beginning so you get the full story of my expedition through the great outdoors.

This one is about camping. The actual tent, sleeping bag, camp fire, etc experience. It takes stamina. It takes stamina to do everything outdoors style. Stamina to sleep in the cold, on the lumpy forest floor. Stamina to eat everything boiled, canned, dried our otherwise packaged. Stamina to bathe in near arctic water temperatures with no soap and a very small hand towel that as hard as you try is never quite dry by the time you need to bathe again. Stamina to pee in the woods where you pray the whole time a mosquito or a spider or a chipmunk or a snake won’t take this opportunity to bite your exposed-ness while you struggle to find a log that won’t leave splinters in your ass. I don’t know, maybe that’s too much information, but anyone who has experienced the glories of backpacking can hardly deny it. Not that I’m complaining but you have to come prepared. I mean physically prepared, yes, but ultimately mentally prepared. It takes more than a fair amount of psychological stamina to camp. I’d like to think I have that.

Camping with my family takes a certain strain of psychological stamina. We are quirky. We have unique communication skills. We basically squabble like bickering chipmunks, getting out ideas out at once until all our muddled brains arrive at some cohesive conclusion. It’s organized chaos but as far as I can tell it hasn’t failed us yet. To the third party obsever it might seem like the blind leading the blind, but I’d like to think happily so.

Essentially, camping is just like living normally. At least on paper. Theoretically there is in fact very little difference. And for some people, there may be no difference in reality—oh! A squirrel just nearly attacked me!—ehem—but for me I can make the distinction.

Maybe all of you reading this are expert campers and backpackers and canoers. If that is the case than maybe you find the details of it uninteresting. Well…then…I really don’t know what to tell you other than maybe the next post will be more to your liking. If, however, you still decide to continue reading, you may find I have some interesting, if not particularly peculiar observations about life in a campsite.

Morning starts at dawn and I suppose always does although I am not often enough awake then to vouch for it. My grandfather is up then, like an old fox—silent and thin, he sits in the frail morning light. What does he think about in those pale morning hours with no one’s company to distract him from his own mind? Sharp as a tack, always, and one to speak his mind unfailingly, I can’t help but ponder what he does with those thoughts with no one to share them with in these brisk mornings.

My father gets up next, like a bear, big and clumsy, but endearing. Like a teddy bear come to life, he stumbles out of the tent, read for hibernation to be over. Next my aunt shifts, like a nervous rabbit, unsure if she really wants to get out of her warm bed, but sure she’ll enjoy herself (and any coffee there might be) outside of the tent.

I am not to be disturbed. 7 o’clock, maybe 7:30 and I do not stir. I do not wish to stir. The sly old fox, my grandfather, tries to lure my out with taunts and teases, my papa bear’s hearty laugh a roar of approval. I am a little snake. I do not wish to be out in the unconvincing low morning light. It is warm in my sleeping bag, my crevice, and cold outside. Why would I volunteer to throw myself into the briskness so unceremoniously? Leave me be until it is warm enough for me to bask on a sunny rock.

The fox does not subside his remarks and now the gleeful bear joins in, always chipper in the freshness of a new day. I slither out of the tent, slitty-eyed and sip on some coffee until the sun is high enough to warm my back. As warmth returns to my body, I begin to perk up, ready for the day.

We canoe all morning and stop for lunch. We divide things fairly, making sure to keep track so we have enough for the rest of the trip. Then we canoe for a few more hours until about mid-afternoon. Finding out new campsite can be difficult if there are several choices or if we don’t know exactly where we (or they) are. But after much deliberation we always find the best one.

Afternoons are quiet, lots of reading or swimming (if we can stand it) or writing (for me). Not a lot of conversation happens until libation time (also known as cocktail hours for normal people). We are opinionated people, sure, and talkative when appropriate. But we are quiet folk, and out here is quiet country and we like the slow ecstasy of the quietude.

Then libation time. We sit in front of the campsites best look out and drink a small crystal light infused cocktail. Gin for my father and I, vodka for my aunt, and whiskey for my grandfather. We sit and sip and pop peanuts and pistachios and conversation ebbs and flows.

Grandpa has ideas—lots of ideas—opinions about the world:
1. Pessimistic attitudes about society and the grievous state our food industry is in ever since he started reading Omnivore’s Dilemma. I keep telling him to keep reading because it gets more optimistic but he’s stubborn and once he has formed his opinion he doubts he will ever change it. If you haven’t read it, you should—and trust me and not my grandfather that it is not a totally hopeless look on the way the food industry.
2. Personal preferences regarding things like commercial television—specifically, “what’s that comedian’s name? Seinfeld.” He says his favorite character is Elaine, and goes on an all out backhanded compliment spree, ending with a firm “not that I’ve got the hots for her”. I can’t help bursting into laughter at this—thinking of my grandfather watching Seinfeld and laughing at Elaine’s mannerisms.
3. And of course his observations on the surrounding environs—numerous comments said between great sighs and “Oh boys”. One choice comment I jotted down was, “Got, isn’t this spectacular? We are sitting on the ground, around a fire…bullshitting”. And that’s what camping is. So simply put. And in the most delightful way. It doesn’t need the frills of a resort or hotel or day spa. You can sit around and enjoy yourself just by… bullshitting.

After libation time is dinner which is either fish or something freeze dried and brought back to life via a pot of boiling water. After that is tea and cookies and then more sitting or talking or reading or writing. Then old sly fox goes to his tent and papa bear and auntie rabbit and I tread, tired but happy, to our own.

Canoe-Palooza Part Four

Welcome folks, to part four in what has becomes my epic tale of the canoe trip I went on recently. EPIC TALE PEOPLE. That means ya can’t jump in half way, so go read from the beginning and the rest of you diligent readers go on ahead. There will be a test and I expect all of you to ace it.

This post I dedicate to the art form known by most as fishing. You make be familiar with it. You may also be interested to know that I participated in the age old method of subsistence. I do not fish often and in my memory I never fished will. In fact, in my memory I have never actually caught a fish. Sure, as a kid camper I probably caught a little minnow-type-guppy but:
1. I have no definite recollection of it.
2. It was probably really my dad who did all the real fishing and I just kind of had the impression of fishing.
3. The story of how I caught fish on my canoe trip would be less thrilling without the added bonus of it being the first ever living fish I’ve ever caught.

So… I CAUGHT MY FIRST EVER BONAFIDE FISH!

I know. I am as surprised as you! What a plot twist, how unexpected, who could have guessed?!

Even more impressively, on my first day of fishing I not only caught my first, but my second, third, fourth, fifth, AND sixth! ALL IN ONE DAY. I don’t want to sound cocky but I think I may be the best fisher in the western world. Probably the whole world. Perhaps the universe—assuming there are fish on other planets and that (semi)intelligent life (if they are not indeed those very fish) fish for them. And I am the best. I mean, Gordon Fisherman status. That’s saying something, people. To go from none, nothing, nil, never, ever in my life to six in one day—dayum people, stand up and applaud for that.

The first one was small—caught me by surprise actually. After all, I was not expecting to turn my fish catching rate around after 19 years of miserable statistical evidence of my fish like failures. Now I got excited. Much shrieking and a few pictures (damn straight) later and my first fish was on his way back to his fishy life. Too small to keep, however .

My second was immediately after the first. I mean immediately. And he was…small. He was bigger than my first. But…still small. We were too far from camp (a good several hours away in fact) to drag to back with us. But that was okay. I could care less if we ate it. I just wanted to catch more. This is when I realized.

I LOVE FISHING.

I learned after a good long span of time casting line after line with no more bites that I in fact did not like fishing. I like catching. It was only enjoyable to throw a small rubber lobster into the water over and over again if a slimy green flopping fish was attached to the end.

Then I hit another hot spot and three more very small fish were added to the list of fish I had defeated. Then, nothing again. Stupid, fucking fish. C’mon, bite you bastards.

After this I realized something else. Fishing is like gambling. And not the flashy Vegas kind with the bright lights and ultra-white teeth grinning at you while you rake in the chips underneath blinking signs advertising all day happy hour and all night dancing girls. No, this is the seedy gin joint kind where a skinny one-eyed man they call “Mr. Steve” deals the cards with a shaky hand and the overweight in-keep stares puffy-eyed at you as you order a drink that upon tasting is nothing recognizable as any libation you’ve ever had. Nothing is fair and though you don’t throw down bets haphazardly at first, the minimal if not nonexistent pay off pushes you to cast willy-nilly at any opportunity to play the game. Every time you say, “last bet, one last bet” Mr. Steve laughs and deals again. Again you lose and again you say, “last bet, one last bet” until you are desperately scraping together the last of your wits and the last of your dough and when you lose for the last time you are in need of another libation—regardless of its poor quality. You toss it back quickly—cringing at the taste—and for now it eases the pain. You stumble from the grimy bar empty handed, your collar disheveled, your mind bewildered, thinking “never again” but knowing that tomorrow you’ll be back for more.

That’s what fishing is like.

Sometimes, even with the best casts, the fish don’t bite. Ultimately you cast umpteen times more than you catch. And the majority of the time when you do catch something they are too small. It’s not like other tasks where if you work hard, are diligent, and generally have good intentions it will pay off. Sometimes the goddamn fish out fish you.

Then something miraculous happens. Or at least it happened to me. You do something with no hope of success—or in my case you do something stupid and it works out. This is the story of fish number six.

We had settled in our camp already and I, now hooked (pun very intended) on fishing, went down to the bank for one last ditch effort. Maybe if I caught a big one, we could have it for dinner. I grabbed my poll and cast it forward, not really paying attention. My lure hit the water as usual with a soft plop but a moment later I heard another larger splash and I looked to the water to see a large, long, thin something hit the water—maybe a branch I had unknowingly hooked when I swung the poll back. I looked up and immediately realized what I had done. The top half of my poll had come off and was now accompanying my lure in the lake. This all of course happened in a matter of seconds. Startled, I called to my dad for help. In a very hands off sort of parenting way he told me just to reel it in and take care of it myself. So I did. I reeled until I the top half of the pole in front of me. There was a goddamn, genuine, fucking fish attached to it. I reeled the poll, lure, and dumb fish in and realized the impossibility of what just happened. The fish, unfortunately, was too small to keep but the story of it was what was really amazing.
I think to wrap these very extensive chronicles of my fishing expertise I will add a quote my aunt said to me: “If we run outta food we just gotta send you out with half a rod.”

Canoe-Palooza Part Three

Here we are again, the third installment of my very own canoeing escapades. I said this last time and I’ll say it again, if you are just joining us, it may behoove you to start from the beginning.

Now that you’ve all caught up…Sorry we had a struggler. Now that you’ve ALL caught up I’d like to talk about the actual canoeing part of the trip—I mean paddling and boats and water and such.

On paddling: It is a simple concept. Long stick, flat end, in water. So, we have established the simplicity of the task at hand. That being said—easier said than done. The strenuousness of paddling the greater part of the day is to remain unmeasured. The first day you start off all happy go lucky and naively gung-ho—and let me tell you from personal experience, that first night you pain for it in back pain. I hobbled—HOBBLED—around the campsite. Complete vertical standing was out of the question and walking was sort of a think only done for getting out of the tent for food and returning to the tent for more sleeping.

Day two is better. You know to pace yourself and by supper you mostly feel creaky in your shoulders. Day three is a piece of cake—it involves pure, (mostly) painless exhaustion brought on by new found enthusiasm fostered by day two’s modesty. I will have to keep you posted on day four, five, six, and seven, being that I am writing this on the eve of three.

Paddling is very conducive to thinking. That is why, I believe, I have so much to share about my experiences. All the shoulder movement has got the cogs turning and I must cognitively process my experiences through words on a (web) page. You just think. You paddle and you look and you enjoy and you chat and you think. Sometimes you think so deeply about so many things that the quality of your paddling declines and your father who is in the canoe with you must tell you to paddle harder. But this doesn’t happen very often—only on very intense thinking occasions. Other times when nothing particularly riveting comes to mind to think about you can just think about paddling; down into the water, up out of the water. Sometimes it is windy or there are precarious rocks or whatever and then you most think very hard about paddling.

On boats: Surprisingly fragile although seemingly hardy. Bulkier than you’d like but lighter than you’d expect. As of yet, not much to report on boats. More on portaging another time.

On water: extensive thoughts on water. Mayhaps an entire installment required to extrapolate upon the plethora of water induced musings. What a pretentious sentences, I think I’ll keep it anyway.

Canoe-Palooza Part Two

Welcome back to the tales of my latest (and first) canoe trip. If you didn’t read the first installment (below) I ask—nay implore—you to read it. It may frame present and future readings better. I had just gotten to the paddling part last time and I will continue it presently. Or… maybe not so presently. I will get to it eventually but something else presses my consciousness more urgently then witticisms about canoes.

The surrounding is astonishing to me. Perhaps it is because I am of the west coast forest variety of red woods and ferns (with a pinch of moss thrown in for some flavor). The trees here are, well, I don’t actually know what they are—but they are different. The trees are various, the bushes abundant, the pine trees relatively minimal, and the ferns not to be found! Apparently in 2007 there was a forest fire. I say apparently because although burn areas are obvious, the growth that is coming in is remarkable.

Where it is worse, there are great grey skeletons—great grey giants—like monuments to the kings that once ruled the forest. Their carcasses lay scattered on the shores of the lakes, their limbs reaching—stretching—for the water, as if as they were dying they had some hope that the water would save them from incineration—once more ditch effort to find salvation. Those further up the banks—those who could not dip their last burning branches into the cold lake water—those still standing reach their arms to the heavens. Why? they must have asked as the fire spread near where they stood. Why? they must have cried as the first flames flicked their ankles. WHY? they must have shrieked as their trunks and branches were engulfed. And finally a mild why they must have gasped as the choked of their own smoldering remains. And all the while—throughout all the whys—they throw their arms up to beg God to save them. Not to burn. Not this hellish end. They could not fight their doom but they must not have gone down quietly.

Within the time of the forest’s ashy demise and the present, young trees have sprouted like green phoenixes from the ashes they were born. They thrive on their ancestor’s remains, feeding on the black memories of a now forgotten fate. But what are memories that have not—cannot—be remembered. Ashes, soot, dead smoke blown away by the unabating wind. The young ones do not know—although perhaps they have an inkling—of their own, identical fate. Such is the fate of all forests, sadly enough. All giants fall. All kings fall. It is hard for such young saplings to understand death. But the fire always comes. The gates of hell are always opened and its gaping mouth is hungry for new kindling.

Canoe-Palooza Part One

I have only just now realized that I left for vacation, leaving you for almost 2 weeks in the wake of my last post. I apologize for that, especially given the all but joyous subject matter of the preceding blog post. The only way I think I may be forgiven is with a more upbeat and hopefully pithy account of my latest experiences.

First, some basic facts of my whereabouts of the last 10ish days:
1. What: Canoe/ backpacking trip
2. Where: Minnesota
3. With whom: My father, aunt, and grandfather
4. Why: Tradition**
**More on this later

Now that the scene is set, let me start to fill in the details.

Every year for approximately the last decade some part of my father's family has taken a canoe trip to the Canadian boundary waters in Minnesota. They paddle around for about a week fishing and camping and singing kumbaya by the fire (okay, that last part isn't true, this isn't girl scouts). Until this year, all that meant was that my dad missed back-to-school-night (not that I cared, but those are the facts of the case). This year, with UW not starting until late September, and honestly, nothing better to do, I decided to accept my father's invitation and thus finally join yet another family tradition(**).

In the weeks preceding our embarkation, there was the usual languid preparation. My father vaguely directed me in how to pack and my mother, in a very mother-like-fashion proceded to drop money on me. Not that I'm complaining. We tore through REI with an intensity not seen in this day and age (literally, on the day we shopped no one of the age of 19 was buying anything at REI). Then, one day while I was going on a walk with my folks, my mother broached a subject I had been waiting for ever since I first agreed to go on the trip, many moons ago now. "There comes a time in every woman's life..." she said with a sort of wise austerity in her tone; "...when one must get their first pair of Birkenstocks. Ah yes, it was true, when Birkenstocks are involved, at least in this family, you know it is no laughing matter. My father nodded in somber agreement and I looked with wonderment to the heavens-- had my time really come?

Well... ANYWAY-- skipping any more of the drama of preparation we finally disembarked for Minnesota.

It became clear early on that nothing happened on this trip that wasn't a tradition** (here it comes). Everything-- and I do mean everything-- is a tradition. The first coupla days are spent trekking from the Minneapolis airport to the boundary waters, stopping to visit a relative (some sort of cousin who is almost disturbingly like the rest of my father's family even with the extreme distance and the once a year encounters with the lot of us).

Once we get to the canoeing part of the trip things get ever more exciting. I am currently writing this long hand in a journal I brought along and I do indeed intend on transcribing this all on the interwebs for your reading pleasure. It is the second the second day of paddling, but I think for the first installment this will do. Tomorrow will be part two.