Alex Landeen

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Perspective

August 31, 2016 by Alex Landeen 3 Comments

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Kevin raises the outboard then lifts the oars and slides the blades into the water. I stand and straighten my shirt, turning to look at him. “Periscope up?” he asks, and I nod and slide under his right arm and pick my way into the back of the boat and onto the polling platform.

I like being up here. I like the advantageous perspective, how the glare runs just a little farther away toward the horizon like a pretty girl hiking up her skirt, just a little higher, just for me.

It reminds me of a scene in a movie called The Mothman Prophecies. Richard Gere is a reporter who is drawn to a small town in West Virginia to investigate some supernatural-ness. He learns of these strange beings known to some as Mothmen (it is unknown if there are Mothwomen), who, for unknown reasons, meddle occasionally in the realm of man by abstractly prophesying future events (usually bad) and generally creeping people out.

There is one scene in particular where Gere is talking to a writer who has published stories about these creatures. Gere asks the man how he can explain the fact that these creatures made predictions which later came true. He asks how it can be explained what they seem to know. Are they God? The author points to a tall building, and to a person hanging from a platform on the side, cleaning windows. He says, “if there was a car crash ten blocks away, that window cleaner could probably see it. That doesn’t mean that he is God, or even smarter than we are, but from where he’s sitting he can see a little farther down the road.”

When I stand on this polling platform I feel like that window cleaner, and it takes me back to my middle school days when I had a friend named Dane. He had a big tree in his backyard which we once climbed all the way to the top and I was able to see across the alley and neighbors to the next street where my house was. I had never seen the house from that angle. It looked strange and gave me a funny feeling like this was not actually my house, but one that looked like it, and if I were to stay up here enough I might see a kid that looked like me on a bike that looked like mine return home to parents that looked like my parents and to a dinner similar to what I would later find on my own plate. I felt like a multi-dimensional-tree climbing voyeur.

Whoever first said, “it’s all a matter of perspective” probably climbed trees as a child.

Cameron stands in the front of the boat and I look past him at sand and rocks and trees and water. I see a fish straight out in front of the boat, right where he is looking, but he doesn’t see it yet. In this moment I am the only person on the planet that knows that this fish exists. It is a secret, between me and the earth and it feels good, powerful. But like any good secret it wants to be told and soon Cameron is casting and from up high I watch the line lay out in the afternoon sun and wait for it to come tight. Because I am up next and as much as I like being on the polling platform, the casting deck is really where it’s at.

Filed Under: Fly Fishing, Photography Tagged With: beaverbash2016

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

The Beav Prev – Day One

June 25, 2016 by Alex Landeen Leave a Comment

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“I don’t have the words. I’m too tired,” I said, leaning back in my seat with a sigh. Dave Grossman stood over my shoulder.

“You want me to guest post it? I have a lot of interesting things to say,” he said through a moonshine smile. “My one rule is you can’t read it before it goes up.”

Maybe tomorrow, Dave. Maybe tomorrow.

Dave and I killed it today. Seriously. A thing of legends. Tomorrow is suppose to be windy. Whatever. Doesn’t matter.

Killed it.

-Alex who only had a little white lightening from the ball jar tonight.

Filed Under: Fly Fishing, Photography Tagged With: beaverbash2016

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