What do Steve the Hippie, The Grownup’s River, heavy snowfall, and Caddis Carborona have in common? They’re all steps on the road to landing the Devilfish–or trying to, at least.
Feed Your Fish Head
Words: Chris Santella
“Steve lived in a house with 50 other hippies on Haste Street, just west of the Cal Berkeley campus. It was a hippie house all right, with more bare shingles than paint, and overstuffed couches with sickly green upholstery (was it moss?) overflowing from the house to the weedy front yard. Wind chimes and macramé hangings in the shape of owls were nailed to the porch, and scratchy rock music, mostly the Grateful Dead, floated out of the open windows all day and night, mixing with the night-blooming jasmine, incense and other smoky smells. A lot of the hippies went naked, as the climate in Berkeley was hospitable to such an undertaking. There were three rules to live by in the house, Steve told me once: no school, no job, and you had to smoke dope. Everybody was on the dole, but with 50 people to pay the rent on a rent-controlled house, there was still plenty left over for jug wine and organic rice and beans, which is all the hippies ever consumed.”
Words: Bruce Hill
“I find it hard to write about the Skeena. Why all the attention? Is the river really more important than the smaller creeks, overlooked bluegill ponds, or turbid perch and pickerel lakes of our childhood? The thousands of little home waters around the world that we’ve casually polluted, diverted, or paved over?”
Words: Claire Chouinard
“For a 29-year old Southern California girl, I am a decent fly fisherman. However, that isn’t saying much. In comparison, my brother is a Pisces. He doesn’t need to breathe air and enjoys life in the blind spot of giant, white seabass. Not to be outdone, my dad has taken up fishing with an old Japanese tenkara rod with no reel. He tells me that if a fish “spools” him, the plan is to just throw the whole rig in and chase it downstream. So I’d say I’m no fisherman at all.”
A Recipe for Caddis Carbonara
Words: Dylan Tomine
“Ten miles up the old railroad grade it occurs to me I am not a mountain biker. I know this because my overloaded, top-heavy backpack is pushing my neck forward at a ridiculous angle and every other part of my body feels like it’s going to explode. That I’m bucking a 30-knot headwind, 100-degree heat, and an empty water bottle only add to the enjoyment. I’m pretty sure the borrowed bike, clearly designed for a 7-year-old girl, isn’t helping any, either. My vocabulary has been reduced to a constant stream of four-letter words; not that it matters, as the rest of the gang is miles ahead, probably fishing already.”
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