Alex Landeen

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Archives for July 2016

“I’m going to put it back for the next guy”

July 25, 2016 by Alex Landeen Leave a Comment

“You see what I am looking at?
“Yeah, I see it.”
“Facing left.”
“Yeah.”

The cast hit the water sixty feet from the bow of the boat.

“This is going to be about a seven second countdown.”
“Okay.”

I striped back towards the boat, then stopped.

“There?”
“Yeah, now wait.”

I counted in my head. Kevin counted out loud. We visualized the fly in our heads, moving down at about one foot per second towards the dark spot against blue-white bottom. The count ended.

“Small strip.”

I striped. The line came tight. I strip-set and swung the rod to the right, then striped again to build some pressure. Cameron and Kevin cheered behind me and I couldn’t see them but could feel the arms raised in triumph, fists beating at the sky, a winner’s celebration. But there was a problem. A problem with the pressure… it was constant. No headshake, no run. Sometimes people momentarily snag things and claim fish, but deep down they know. We know. Even for the smallest moments, when there is life at the end of the line, we know. And we know when there is not.

However, I can say without any doubt, that this is the best guided, casted, and hookset stick of my fishing career. It fooled us all. Good on you, fishy stick.

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-Alex who thanks Cameron Mortenson for the photographic documentation.

Filed Under: Fly Fishing, Opinions, Photography

My Bloody Truth

July 18, 2016 by Alex Landeen 2 Comments

landeen_bi_web-8793 I wish I liked tomato juice. I really do. I like tomatoes as much as the next guy, I guess. Thin, deep-red slices on a hot grilled chicken sandwich with green chili and mayonnaise on a warm toasty roll are as necessary as delicious. Fresh from my folks garden with a little salt, pepper, fresh basil, and a dash of balsamic? Shit, yeah. Salsa? Duh. And of course ketchup. Anyone who has ever said “I can’t believe you don’t like tomatoes, do you like ketchup?” is a moron. Ketchup tastes nothing like tomatoes.

I like vodka. I like Worcestershire sauce, Tabasco, celery (I suppose, as much as one can like something that tastes like crunchy stringy nothing), olives, pickled vegetables, and various delicious salted and cured meat products. Goddammit. No drink I have ever experienced begs for extravagant overindulgence than the bloody mary.

We have all seen the garnishy ridiculousness: hamburgers, fried chicken, cocktail shrimp (this one isn’t too bad), brisket (slightly impressive), grilled salmon fillet (what?), sushi, etc. But art is not excess. Art is in the balance of taste, aesthetic, and the functionality of the thing itself. If you can’t take a walk out to the porch with your drink without fear of some catastrophic structural failure, that is a problem. Balance, my son.

That being said, Danny Reed is an artist. Literally. So when I saw him working in the kitchen of the Fisherman’s House during that first bad weather day, I was delighted and also slightly scared. I knew that he was about to create something special, that I would need to partake, and that I wouldn’t enjoy it as much as it deserved. That thought made me sad. Like a colorblind person at a Rothko exhibit, I felt I lacked the ability to really appreciate what the man was doing. I thought I would be shunned. Humiliated. Outcast. Like when you tell the smug, judging, skinny-jeaned hipster bartender that you don’t like IPA’s. But I was wrong.

Partially.

The kitchen was thick with the smell of bacon. I stole a slice of Smoked Beef Snack Stick from the cutting board and popped it in my mouth. I was headed toward the jar of pickled okra when Danny turned and held out my drink. “Here,” he said, thrusting it at me like a medieval armorer handing out implements of war in the face of a fast-moving enemy front. He had thirsty men who needed cocktails, and the quicker that I took my weapon of intoxication, the faster he could arm the next weather-day warrior.

I took the cold pint glass with care, softly, as if it were sharp, dangerous. The red rim was lined thick with old bay and salt. A piece of bacon leaned casually on the rim, crispy and content with itself. Toothpick-speared pickled vegetables and cured meat products clung to the edge behind the bacon looking fearful of sinking beneath the ice into cloudy orange-red liquid. I plucked the brussel sprout off the top of the wooden spear and the pickle relaxed a bit. A long celery stick shot out at an angle adjacent the bacon, crunchy and indignant.

I raised the glass to my nose and breathed deep into an olfactic cacophony: discordant and harsh, but also pleasant and good in a way which I find difficult to put into words, like trying to describe a color.

I put the rim to my lips and closed my eyes. The thick potent liquid poured into my mouth, over and through the spices and danced around my tongue. The velvety cold mix was perfectly balanced. I let out a sigh as the flavors rose like a fire. Those flavors… that taste…

My face contorted and I stifled a gehbleh in my throat as my eyes began to water. I quickly ate a piece of smoked beef stick, a pickled okra, and half the piece of bacon followed by a bottle-shot of vodka for good measure.

Fucking tomato juice.

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—Danny’s BI Bloody—
Grey Goose vodka
McClure’s Bloody Mary Mixer
Worcestershire sauce
Tabasco
Old Bay/Seasoning Salt rim
Okra, pickles, brussle spouts
meat stick, salami, fresh bacon

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Danny Reed can be found online at CrookedCreekHoller.com, and on Instagram @crookedcreekholler

-Alex who thanks Danny for the cocktail and good company.

See all the Beaver Island 2016 Photos

Filed Under: Opinions, Photography Tagged With: beaverbash2016

The Steaming Pixely Pile of Beaver Goodness

July 16, 2016 by Alex Landeen 8 Comments

Photos now, words later.

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The 2016 Crew:
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-Alex who keeps understanding that sometimes you just have to stop thinking and pull the trigger.

Filed Under: Fly Fishing, Photography Tagged With: beaverbash2016

A Good Situation

July 13, 2016 by Alex Landeen 3 Comments

“Goddamn,” Dave said past a cigarette, leaning back in the boat seat. “I just lit this thing.”
The golden fish ran at the white-grey horizon, toward, then away, then toward again the spit-dribble of land that trails away west from Hog island, known as the pigtail. The backing knot ticked out of the guides and I pulled my forearm in tight, easing the pain in my elbow; a traveling injury, as far as I can tell the result of awkwardly wrestling thirty pounds of pelican case around the interior of small aircrafts.

I am getting better at traveling. I still hate packing; picking what goes and what stays. I am and have always been a take-it kind of guy.
Are we going to need this? Well, shit, maybe. Just take it.
I like driving places. Fill the truck, fuck it. What’s an extra hundred pounds of gear if you have the room? Southwest airlines gives you two checked bags for nothing. And you can sit wherever the hell you want. Hey, brother! You were paying attention and checked in early and now you have a boarding number that lets you get that front row seat, or that please-verbally-confirm-that-you-can-and-are-willing-and-able-to-kick-the-goddamn-door-out-if-we-all-need-to-evacuate-this-bitch extra legroom seat. Or the seat next to the cute girl that looks like she might be a destination local. It is always good to know people in places where layovers are common. (Looking at you, Chicago)
But unfortunately Southwest doesn’t offer a flight to Traverse City, so I was downgraded to American. Southwest gets a bad rap, but I can’t follow the logic. As far as I am concerned, Southwest’s “Hey, we all know that this sucks, so let’s just call a spade a spade, suck it up, and get there with as little fuss as possible” attitude is great. (Two bags for nothing!) American’s $25 a bag each way can lick my taint… But sometimes we all have to do a little taint-licking. Such is life.

The carpeted deck was warm on my feet as I shuffled around, dragging the fish into position. Dave stood and flicked some ash into the white-blue water as Austin put the oars away and picked up the net. Dave looked sullen, but in the best way: The way of someone who is excited but doesn’t want to show it. The way men of a certain caliber act in fun situations, that “aww, shucks” kind of pout that if pealed back would reveal a child’s smile.
It didn’t take long for that smile to prevail.
It was a smiling kind of day.
A smiling kind of trip.
A pretty girl told me I should stay on the island and I thought about it longer than I should have.
Don’t threaten me with a good time, lady.

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-Alex who finally got his shit together enough to make a photo edit which will manifest itself here next in the form of a giant pixely dump.

Filed Under: Fly Fishing, Photography Tagged With: beaverbash2016

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