Tag Archives: Fishing

The Season 2: Fitz Cahill and Bryan Smith Bring Another Round of Great Storytelling and Adventure


These days showcasing one’s adventures requires more than merely a rack of slides and a group of unsuspecting dinner guests. Epic adventures now come in multimedia productions, created by talented videographers, crack writers and talented athletes. I’ve written before about the need for more story in ski films, and the creators of The Season seemed to have read my mind.

The Season, a web television series about five adventure athletes that pushed the limits, is back for round 2, with new athletes, deeper stories and more distant climes. Ingeniously, creators Fitz Cahill, of Dirtbag Diaries and videographer Bryan Smith, are calling it The Season 2. Here’s the lowdown from their website:

An amputee climber sets his sights on becoming whole again by returning to Yosemite to realize a lifelong dream. A conservationist and angler searches for a fabled ghost run of wild steelhead on one of California’s most troubled rivers. One of the world’s best boulderers struggles to balance her career as a boulder with raising her daughter. From a burned forest, a vision of an incredible mountain bike trail emerges from the ashes into reality. In the wake of achieving an unthinkable goal, a ski mountaineer returns to the peak where he first met failure.

Here’s what they’ve dubbed their kick-ass trailer. I have to agree.

ARC’TERYX presents: The Season 2 from Fitz Cahall and Bryan Smith on Vimeo.

Their twelfth episode, featuring Greg Hill, is live. Check it out.

I want to hear from you guys on this. As a writer and adventurer myself, maybe I’m a little too obsessed with the need for more than just eye candy in our stories. But I believe that the stories we tell about our lives actually creates our reality. After a day on the slopes or the river or high on a remote mountain peak, it is the narrative we tell later that reshapes the adventure. If we come home and say the trip sucked–I didn’t make it to the summit, I swam the biggest rapid, the weather made it miserable–then it did. But if we tell the story in a different way, the reality changes as well. The weather socked in, but the views of the peak once the clouds opened up were amazing; we had to turn back before the summit, but the trip was worth it anyway. You get the idea. Our lives are shaped by the stories we tell. That’s why, when I read or watch a story well told, I’m transfixed.

Fishing: an attitude


I just returned from Rivers Inlet, B.C. as the only woman on a guy’s fishing trip.  My husband promised me romance.  He swore there’d be unsurpassed beauty, sunset cruises, even privacy.  He pledged we’d find salmon, lots of salmon–maybe one big enough to quell the brewing desire to “slay the gigantic king”. 

In spite of the fact that our 25 foot aluminum fishing boat does not even have  running water, a heater, or a toilet, I believed him.   Plus, he never mentioned the 3am wake up call to get to the head of the inlet in time for the “bite.”  He never told me we’d be watching out for logs in the pitch black water, me wondering what the hell I got myself into.

And while I can’t say much for the romance part of it–I mean how romantic is twelve pairs of socks just to keep the shivering to a minimum?–I did get some nice pictures. 

This humpback whale breached a few feet away, while we trolled for salmon.  I’ve seen whales many times from Mexico to Alaska, but I’ve never seen such active breaching.  It was incredible.  While I scanned the water through my viewfinder, I was struck with the paradox of preserving a special moment through photography. 

The thing about photography is that you want to catch the moment, to record it and print it (or post it to your FB page).  It becomes something which you can gaze at later; something that you hope will transcend the moment.  But it’s sort of an oxymoron because by merely taking a picture, seeing the whale breach through the viewfinder, you become a little more removed from it. 

Or do you?

I would like to argue that perhaps the camera’s viewfinder adds a new dimension to the moment.  Maybe it deepens the experience, just as thinking about how to post an experience to FB or write about it adds to the event. 

As I held my Nikon D80 in my hand, fingering the shutter button and wrapping the strap several times around my wrist (I was, after all, practically leaning out over the gunwale of a very rocky boat), I watched the black water for any signs of the whale.  It had just done a beautiful tale-up dive a hundred yards away, and I was ready to catch its next rise.  This time, however, it shot out of the air just a few boat-lengths away, and I pressed down the shutter and captured this photograph. 

John hoorayed from the helm.  “Did you get that?”  He asked.  “That was incredible.”  I told him that I got it, but I resisted the urge to press the play button on my digital camera and double-check.  Instead I held the camera away from my face, watching the world through one naked eye, while the other steadied the waterline through the camera’s lens. 

Cameras, blogs, FB updates are all just modern ways to tell a story.  And, after all, haven’t we been telling (and re-telling) stories since Day One?  I believe that stories make the experience.  They become (enhance? replace?) reality.  If, upon returning from this fishing trip, I lament the cold dampness, whine about the longer-than-expected itinerary, complain about having to pee into a bucket on the back deck, then the memory (and the trip) will become a prick in my mind.  It will be a rough sand-papery wedge of reality in between my cheek and gum. 

Instead, if I tell the story a little differently, remembering the beautiful whales, the towering peaks and the not-too-rough seas, it becomes something entirely different in my memory. 

That is the beauty of photography, and also the value of blogging and facebooking and tweeting.  We all need to tell our stories, put a spin on our lives that helps categorize and explain our experiences. 

The frame we choose to hang our memories in can (as The Dude would say) “really bring the room together”.