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Fish We’ve Yet to Catch

September 22, 2018Stay Wild

Livingston Manor Fly Fishing Club

Story by Madeline Weinfield // @madolionw
Photos by Peter Crosby // @pbcrosby

It’s raining quite hard among the wild lilac bushes and incessantly growing Japanese Knotweed of Livingston Manor Fly Fishing Club, but a dozen or so of us are trekking along the Willowemoc River clad in the club’s set of Stutterheim raincoats, looking for medicinal herbs and other wonders of the property.

This is a sort of summer camp for adults—a self-selecting group of mostly city residents who are seeking adventure, escape, and fly fishing in the Catskill Mountains. At breakfast—an exuberant spread of Swedish-style essentials—most of the weekend’s 17 guests have already conquered a good part of what they came here to do. More active before 9 am than most adults are in an entire weekend, some have gone running or fly fishing, stopped at the farmers’ market, or baked in the wood-fired sauna on the river. All this despite the previous night’s meal—fire roasted mountain trout and root vegetables with copious amounts of Catskill Brewery beer, wine, and the summer’s first rosé, served on the riverfront under the stars. Even in the morning, everything is still coated in a magic that seems to have sprung from this air.

But behind the facade of this perfectly curated adventure in the woods, is the ardent effort of the owners, Mikael Larsson, Tom Roberts and Anna Åberg, friends transplanted from NYC by way of Britain and Sweden, who’ve poured their wilderness and aesthetic passion and know-how into Livingston Manor Fly Fishing Club, which is in its first full season this summer. The intoxication of their dream hangs over the five acre wooded and river-front property. Based on the old-school fly fishing clubs historically ubiquitous in this part of the Catskills, LMFFC is their realization of that tradition but with a modern edge. Despite being far from the old guard of a predominantly male fishing club, LMFFC retains an air of exclusivity in that their weekend spots disappear within days of opening.

The skill level varies with some weekenders already adept in the art and physics of fly fishing, while others are tying their first fly. The majority of guests are couples, but a pair of brothers, a set of friends, and a life-wise solo traveling woman round it off. Together we have the feeling that we’ve all met before—a feeling that intensifies with the hours, and in the evening with drinks around the campfire. We’re encouraged to unplug, to wander, sleep, relax, and connect. For the most part cellphones are left behind, out of charge and out of range.

Most of what one could want is here—home-cooked meals by incredibly talented friend and trained-chef up for the weekend, Georgina Morante-Galicia, campfires, a hammock, a canoe, and even a tipi with a disco ball. The weekend is peppered with friends and Catskill veterans—a yoga instructor who teaches us in a meadow, a fly fishing instructor with the patience of a saint, a conservationist who has been living off the grid since the ‘80s, and a naturalist who picks leaves of trees and implores us to taste.

Tom and Anna have an almost child-like beauty and they float around the property visibly radiant in their creation. This is a dream fulfilled. After years in the city with the novelty of urban weekends wearing away, they came to the Catskills seeking a greater connection to the outdoors. What they’ve created—originally intended for their own weekend use—has blossomed organically and rustically to near perfection.

A self-taught fly fisherman, Tom is now as involved in the sport as any fishing veteran. “To be a good fly fisherman,” he tells me, “you have to understand the dynamics of the river.” He fixes the line of someone knee-deep in the river. Lights hang in the trees. In the distance logs are added to the fire that fuels the sauna. How lucky they are to live and breathe this. How lucky they are to stay.

The rest of us pack our bags, say our goodbyes, and start the drive back to the city. At night we’ll dream of all the fish we’ve yet to catch.

Learn More // livingstonmanorflyfishingclub.com

Fresh Pants

August 30, 2018Stay Wild

Our friends at Outerknown have just released some fresh new pants. The S.E.A. (Social Environmental Accountability) JEANS are made in the cleanest denim factory in the world. These jeans are so clean that even a wild bunch of North Shore Lifeguards were caught wearing them.

If you care about clean water and sustainable goods made well you should probably pick up some S.E.A. Jeans over here >>>

Read more about Outerknown goods in our upcoming Water Issue!

New Orleans Exploration Society

August 22, 2018Stay Wild

Creative Explorers

Story by
Justin “Scrappers” Morrison // @scrappers

Photos by
Sera Lindsey // @portablesera
Gabrielle Steib // @honeysighs
Alex Smith // @blvxmth

Old Mardi Gras beads
hang heavy
from tree branches
like faded fruit

There was a moment when jazz was born.

At the bottom of the food chain.

Some folks hit bottom and they bounce.

The bounce turned heads and heads are still spinning.

There was a moment when jazz was discovered. The scene is in a George Schmidt oil painting hanging a couple blocks from the Ace Hotel. Past the parking lot paved with broken clam shells, brick dust, and secrets.

MC Brown died on the sidewalk in front of that painting. Drank himself to death in a cardboard box. He was the last to go before this skid row neighborhood was gently gentrified. The painter wants to mix MC’s ashes in with the cement of the new sidewalk and install a plaque: “MC Brown slept it off here.” The kind old lady sitting in the tiny market next door inherited the ashes. MC is in a purple velvet bag on the table. We went and paid our respects. She said he was a good egg and gave us boiled eggs for free. Long live southern hospitality.

It’s punk to be nice

Sera and I met Gabby and Alex poolside on the Ace roof. Gabby plays maracas, but not as well as her grandmother. She played a video to prove it. Alex works at a scrap yard and knows the value of the metal parts of his camera. Sera’s hair gulps up the humidity like a thirsty dog. Her shin blossoms into a tan. I peel an orange that drove from California to Oregon and flew all the way to Louisiana in my backpack. We are the adventure we seek.

I hear New Orleans is the only American city that saved its original town. If you’re really silent and sincere, you can see it between the jubilee of neon signs: Jello Shots, Po Boys, Barely Legal, Voodoux, and other desires. The sidewalk is cracked and ugly in ways only a skater could love. We walk in the road lit by car tail lights bouncing to a curbside brass band.

Bourbon Street smells like someone barfed in a full baby diaper. It’s a weird dream; I don’t want to tell you about it. It’s a turtle without a shell. It creeps me out, but I have to see it. I have to feel myself in this place to know it better.

Who Dat?
A challenge.

I hear the future of New Orleans is Houston. Nah, it’s Alex, Gabby, and other locals who roll with the creative culture of this town. Drunken Texan tourists come to consume. They speak loud but have nothing to say. Chinua the DJ mixing juguetón beats in the Ace lobby has something to say. Freda, Defend New Orleans, Seaworthy, and the other shops next door have something to say. Slow Down. Loosen Up. Be Nice or Leave.

Gabby took us to Norma’s for South American sweets and Williams Plum St. icy snowballs instead of gumbo, crawfish, and oysters. Alex took us to see the neutral ground. We stood on the track. Right in the middle. Snowballs melting down our throats. Waiting for the streetcar. We aren’t here to ride it. It’s too wild to ride. We just want to admire its jingle-jangle swagger.

A dove flies by with a broken eggshell in its beak.

A baby gator sunbathes in the city park pond.

A strand of old Mardi Gras beads falls from a tree and bounces in the gutter.

I am a non-local standing on my tippy toes, looking over the shoulders of locals, howling for the brass band to never stop playing.

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This adventure was maDe with help from our friends at Nau clothing and Ace Hotel

nau.com // acehotel.com

The Spirit of Oaxaca

August 22, 2018Stay Wild

Meet the Maestros of Mezcal

Story & Photos by Liz Devine // lizdevine.com

Until recently, I was just a girl wandering through life thinking mezcal was some smoky liquor — the jury was still out on if I even liked mezcal. Two trips to Oaxaca and nine palenques (distilleries) later, I can tell you that mezcal production is something so unique and special to Mexico that all I want to do is spread the good word.

Mezcal is made from agave, the same plant tequila is made from. Tequila can only be made from one type of agave — the blue agave — but mezcal can be made from any species of agave that has fermentable sugars. So when you taste mezcal, be sure to ask what agave plant you are tasting. It’s like when you taste wine, you are essentially sampling the grape variety. Tasting mezcal is very similar, and each agave has its own distinct flavor.

Agave is an amazing plant. Depending on the species, it can take anywhere from seven to 25 years to mature. Yes, I said 25 years (that would be the tepeztate species).

The tradition of making mezcal started with farmers. Even though the demand has increased since then, most producers have not industrialized their process. This means it still requires a lot of man and animal power to produce.

The center of the agave is called the “piña.” This is the part of the plant that is cooked and then later distilled. I saw agave piñas so big it took four full grown men to carry one.

The agave are cooked in the ground in a giant earth oven. First they heat rocks over a fire until they are glowing red and then start loading the oven. It’s then covered with dirt and the piñas continue to bake for nearly a week.

After they’re cooked, it’s time to mill the piñas. The most common way is with a giant stone wheel called a “tahona,” which is powered by a horse, cow, or donkey. The other method is to pound the piñas into the ground by hand with what looks like a Flintstones club.

After the piñas are milled, everything is moved to a tank where water is added and the fermentation occurs over three or so days.

Next, you distill (this is a story for another day) and then enjoy — “a besos!” This is short for “Mezcal se toma a besos,” which translates to “You kiss the mezcal, savor it slowly.” Sometimes the pour is very generous and sometimes there are 15 different types of mezcal to try. In four days of touring multiple palenques, two of those days had questionable endings. Like scream-singing “Africa” by Toto in the back of a van or hanging my head out the window like a dog for an hour drive back to the city. What can I say — it’s rude to refuse the maestros (distillers) if they offer you mezcal.

Even though my Spanish is horrible, the pride and love these maestros have for their spirit easily translates, as well as the joy they take in sharing it. When you walk away from a mezcal palenque, you feel like you’ve met family who have welcomed you into their home and shared something with you that is truly dear to them. If you go to Oaxaca, do yourself a favor and don’t just go to a bar and taste mezcal. Go experience it.