Gravity

I followed Rich from his house to the put in. Staring at the raft in the back of his truck reminded me of last year's trip. It had been my first float in the freshwater scene. He and Matt had coached me up during the day as I threw albie flies and Baby Poets at bass, browns and rainbows. I've fished up and down the east coast and the islands and thought that some of those days would never be bested. I was wrong. At the end of that day, exhausted from catching a ton of fish and laughing endlessly like schoolboys, we agreed to make it an annual event.

Over the winter this year's group trip got postponed until later this summer. More on that after it happens. Rich and I had talked about fishing for stripers here on my water this spring but after reading all the information and listening to the "industry experts" leading up to Amendment 7 of the Striped Bass Management Plan, we both, individually, decided to cut back on fishing for stripes this year. For both of us it was a personal decision based on our own observations and history on the water, not meant to incite debate or seek comment.

So, instead we headed to one of his favorite pieces of water. We dropped the boat, shuttled his truck to the take-out and grabbed a coffee and one pound cream cheese muffins on the way back. Stepping into the raft last year was like stepping back in time. It was the same on this trip. Back to my childhood on those days when I was free to leave the house early in the morning on my bike. A green stick shift three-speed Schwinn with motorcycle handlebars and a banana seat with a backrest. A fishing rod tied to the backrest with bailing twine, my grandfathers' army knapsack with a water canteen, peanut butter and cucumber sandwich, Buck knife and a book of matches, I was set for the day. I roamed the lakes, ponds and streams around North Norway in search of adventure until it was time to be home for dinner, keeping track of time by the position of the sun in the sky (yes, that's how we did it in the 70's). Pure freedom.

Being in the boat of one of the best fly tiers in the industry and author of Catching Shadows: Tying Flies for the Toughest Fish and Strategies for Fishing Them, you might assume I'd be fishing his flies. No way, man. I was rigged with one of my favorite albie patterns just like last year. Rich looked at it and said, "Throw it." A few casts into the float and the bass were on it. And then a rainbow. And then more bass.

Photo: Rich Strolis

And so it went for hours, with Rich on the sticks calling out shots at pockets, cuts in the banks and ledges. I skipped the fly in under some overhanging branches and got hit hard. We both saw the take and knew it might be the bass of the day. It would have been for sure, but it popped off just as I wrangled it boatside to the net. Disappointing for a second but we had both watched the whole thing happen. That was enough. 

Photo: Rich Strolis

By noon my arm was spent. I wasn't going to say anything about needing a break. We had both been dealing with elbow and wrist tendonitis and he had a shoulder issue to boot. I knew even after rowing for five hours into the wind he wasn't going to say anything about needing a break. So, I kept casting. Finally, after a few half-assed spaghetti casts and long pauses in between he told me to take a break and we stopped for lunch. While we ate, I asked questions about the bugs in the river and their lifespans and all the stuff I've seen in books and articles but never read. He started flipping rocks over to show me what was going on underwater and how to "read" the bug activity to know what and how to fish a particular stretch of water. More things to add to my "more things to learn list."

While I finished my Strolis River Sandwich he got out a rod and started casting. We joke at times about being born a hundred years too late and that about the only place we feel at ease is as far away from people as we can get on some piece of water just fishing. For the sake of just fishing. After listening to his talk on egg, larva, pupa and adult stages of aquatic bugs and then watching him at work in water that surely runs through his veins as it does the riverbed, I know that he's found his place.

We got back in the raft and continued on. I switched over to a Baby Poet and kept racking up bass. All sizes. It didn't matter. While we drifted along Rich talked about the possibility of a spinner hatch going off at dusk close to the take-out. It would mean staying out until dark, but it might be worth it. This is something I've never fished so I was in. Until then there were more bass to catch.

Photo: Rich Strolis

Late in the afternoon we happened upon a bald eagle. It flew off downriver and joined another one high up in the pines. Rich dropped anchor and we sat there for close to thirty minutes watching them. Two grown men sitting silently in the middle of a river in awe of these two remarkable birds.

It was about then Rich started seeing spinners start to hatch. We picked up the pace and got to the section of river he had had talked about as the sun was sinking in the trees. He rigged a rod with a dry fly, made a few casts to show me the basics and then had me make a few practice casts. In golf it would be the short game. In baseball it would be small ball. All finesse and strategy, a little different than what I'm used to, but I figured what I lacked in experience I could make up for with enthusiasm.

We sat and watched the spinners rising off the water. Every so often there would be a small delicate ripple underneath them. Rich made a few casts in the area of these ripples and picked off a beautiful brown. He handed me the rod and talked me through where and when to cast. After several casts I finally made a somewhat suitable presentation, mended the line and was on, just long enough to know I was on before I was off. More experience, less enthusiasm. Apparently, there's this thing called a trout set. I've heard about it, never used it. Now it's on my list. 

I handed the rod back and told him to have at it. He made some ridiculously long accurate casts and brought to the boat the largest brown trout I've ever seen up close and personal. It was an amazing thing to watch. 

Darkness fell and we floated the rest of the way to the take-out. I was a little skeptical about getting the raft up the bank to the truck, but the winch made short work of it. I collected our gear, set it to the side of the truck and stepped back into the river for one last look. I thought about that old green bike.

In a world that seems increasingly smaller and troubled as each day passes, there are still places here that feel like a different planet. Places where the heartbeat of the sights and sounds and the pulse of a river can transport you to another time. Places that pull on you to return to the more you think about them.

It is a special kind of gravity.

From the field

31 July 2022   

hay bales and whiskey

It was the summer of 1992 and a day much like today. It was hot, humid and the breeze pushing the hot air around only made it worse. Growing up on the farm, my family joked that we always picked the hottest week of the year to hay the upper fields. On the years that we did two cuttings, we seemed to also pick the second hottest week of the year. Despite the conditions, when that last bale went into the barn, well that's a feeling you wouldn't understand unless you lived on a farm.

It was a Friday. I was heading back to Burlington after working a case in the Northeast Kingdom. I kept looking at my watch and plotting my course to get to back to the city in time for happy hour at Esox. Around three o'clock it dawned on me that I wasn't really sure where I was. I had a general idea, so I kept heading south looking for the next main road to turn right on. I knew if I kept following the sun, I would eventually end up somewhere familiar.

I kept driving but no crossroads appeared. I finally came upon a farm on my left. It was iconic Vermont. A white two-story farmhouse, big red barn, tractor-shed and a farmer's garden planted out back. Across the road were large hay fields that had just been cut. The smell of dried hay carried with dust and chaff rolled in the window with the wind. I passed the lower end of the fields and saw an older gentleman throwing hay bales onto the back of a flatbed trailer being hauled behind an old F-150. An older woman who I assumed was his wife suddenly jumped out of the cab, truck still in gear, ran up to clear a bale or two to the side and then got back in. Then she would stop while he stacked what he had just thrown on. I laughed a little because that's how my dad and I did it for years. And how I learned to drive.

I passed by them and pulled over thinking I probably should ask for directions. I looked back at them in the mirror and saw the old man give his wife the hand signal to stop and then he sat down on the bale at his feet. Memory lane came knocking and I recalled riding home from a jobsite in dad's truck one hot afternoon when we passed a neighbor's farm with hay down in the field. Thunderstorms were approaching and he pulled into the field and said, "Let's give them a hand." 

I looked down the road to the south and saw thunderheads building. Then I looked back at the old couple in the mirror and for an instant saw my dad's face. So, I turned the truck around and pulled up behind the hay trailer. I got out and walked up to them. Me with long hair, camo BDU pants, a Metallica t-shirt and an earring. The old man stood up and asked if he could help me. I said, "No sir, I'm here to help you."

He introduced himself as Ed, his wife as Mary and handed me a bottle of water. I sipped the water as we agreed Mary would drive, Ed would stack on the trailer, and I'd throw bales. As Mary got back in the truck, I pulled a bag of Levi Garrett out of a pocket and packed a chew. Ed looked down from the trailer and asked if I could spare some. I threw him the bag. He packed one, threw the bag down and said, "Don't tell mother." I laughed, gave him the nod and started throwing bales. 

It didn't take long to fill the trailer. Ed looked at the gray clouds approaching from the south and then at the forty or so bales left in the field. It was obvious he wasn't going to ask me to stay and load another trailer so I told him between their truck and mine we could probably get the rest of it pretty quick. And we did. We got back to the barn, stacked the hay from the trucks in the loft and then got the trailer into the barn just as the thunder started and rain began to fall.

"We'll leave that right there. I like to have something to feed out if I need it. Appreciate your help. Can I buy you a beer?"

Before I could answer he ducked into the tractor shed and came back with two bottles of ice-cold Miller High Life. We stood in the door of the barn watching the storm blow through and talked about my life growing up on the farm, deer hunting and his sons. Two years apart in age, the oldest was a JAG lawyer in the Marine Corps, the youngest a helicopter crew chief in the Navy.

"Those two couldn't wait to get away from here, said no way in hell they were gonna be farmers." 

"Take it from me, Ed, every farm kid says that. I did. But I go back every chance I get."

"Yeah, yeah, they do too. When they can. The youngest thinks he'll come back after his twenty is up in six years, the oldest will probably stay in as long as he can."

Mary appeared on the porch and waved Ed over. He came back and said, "Mother's got supper in the oven, it'll be about a half hour if you can stay."

I looked at my watch and decided Esox could wait and accepted the invitation.

"Good. You like to fish?" I said yes. He went back into the tractor shed and came out with an old Zebco set up and a fly rod. "Which one you want?" I pointed to the Zebco and he told me to follow him. 

We walked past the barn and through the cows in the pasture a short distance to a pond about the size of a hockey rink. A small, almost dried up stream fed into the north end and another flowed out the south. A split rail fence, falling down in places, encircled the pond. I said, "It looks like a hockey rink."

Ed laughed and said, "Close, just shy of regulation size but we watched a lot of hockey games out here when the boys were growing up. It's spring fed out there in the middle. We got bass, crappie, pumpkinseed, bluegill, the boys used to catch fish in some of the other ponds and lakes around and then bring 'em back and put them in here."

Mary caught up to us carrying an old wire milk bottle carrier with three Mason jars of brown liquid and what looked like a knitting bag. We walked through a gate near the inlet where there was a wooden platform with a small dock jutting off it into the pond. On the platform were two Adirondack chairs and a small table. She handed us each a Mason jar, took one herself and raised it in a toast.

"To old farmers and new friends."

We clinked glasses and I took a sip. After throwing hay bales in the heat and dust it was one of the best things I had ever tasted. She saw the look on my face and said, "Jack Daniels, ginger beer and a splash of our maple syrup." Then she sat down and started knitting. Or crocheting. I don't know the difference. Turned out this was their Friday night ritual. 

Ed stripped out line and started casting off the dock. While he did so he told me about the flies he tied, showed me what looked like something between a dragon fly and a grasshopper. Then he showed me his fly box lined with a few dozen small insect looking flies. I had no idea what I was looking at. At the time I had zero interest in fly fishing. I look back now and realize I missed a great opportunity to learn something.

Ed caught a few fish while we talked. I made a few casts on the Zebco but caught nothing. And then Mary said it was time for supper. Meatloaf, roasted potatoes, summer squash and a cucumber tomato salad. Dessert was a sponge cake with a buttery lemon sauce. The best meal I'd had since the last time I was home. We finished with a cup of coffee. Sanka, out of the jar. 

I helped Mary with the dishes and then bid my farewell. Ed tried to slip me a twenty. I told him we were square and handed it back to him with the bag of Levi Garrett when Mary wasn't looking. I shook his hand, hugged Mary and got into my truck just as the last of the sun slid down behind the trees. I looked in the mirror as I stopped at the end of the driveway. They were standing in front of the barn waving. I looked twice because for a split second I saw that old barn in North Norway.

I got back out on the road and noticed a paper bag on the truck seat beside me. I opened it. Two meatloaf sandwiches. Still warm. I decided missing happy hour at Esox was probably a good thing and opened one of the sandwiches. A short time later I found a right turn and in about ten minutes knew exactly where I was. I remember laughing and almost choking on the last of the sandwich because I'd never really been lost at all. Just in a different place.

I thought of this old story tonight as I stepped out on the dock and caught a few fish in the pond. I don't know whatever happened to Ed and Mary. I'm sure they've since passed. I hope that their sons returned to the farm. And I hope they throw flies on that pond and sip one of their mother's cocktails on Friday nights.

Littles Pond

22 July 2022

Turnstiles

I went out to the pond tonight to make a few casts. I've been sidelined from time on the water and on the vise while I deal with some issues in my elbow and forearm. It's been interesting these past few weeks. I've filled the time I would normally spend walking the mud with a nine weight or spinning at the vise with things I used to do or that I had forgotten to do. Part of all that has included going back through these old posts and notebooks tucked away here and there with scribbled notes and obscure thoughts. There's also been time for silent introspection.

But I can only take myself seriously for so long, so after I shut the woodshop down, I grabbed the six weight and made a cast. It didn't hurt as much as I thought it might, but enough that I wrote off the idea of learning to play the guitar or the piano anytime soon. The pond in the setting sun was beautiful and quiet so I stood and stared at it. Some would say I pondered. I wondered for a moment if the arm will ever be the same, if this might well be it. I saw the reflection of my face in the water and two words I had just re-read in one of those battered notebooks answered my question.

I remember the exact moment I wrote them down. It was years ago, on the way into a job meeting at one of the office towers downtown. It was one of those buildings with the fancy marble street level lobby and glass front with multiple revolving doors. The day was much like today: clear, bright and hot. Nobody in Boston wanted to be at work. I checked in at the front desk and was told my contact was still at lunch and running late. I sat in a leather chair and waited. I watched people pass the front windows. Some were obviously taking their time to get wherever they were going. Most were clearly intent on getting to their destination as fast as possible and seemed to be agitated navigating around the slower moving ones. In those few minutes I realized I had become one of those people. I took a deep breath, got up and told the receptionist I was going to have to reschedule. I walked outside, bought a four-dollar coffee in a twelve-ounce cup and sat down on a bench in a postage-stamp sized greenspace. People continued whizzing by while I put on my dark glasses and wrote down two words.

Outside within.

I didn't know what it meant at the time, just one of thousands of fleeting thoughts I've written down over the years. I still don't know exactly what it means, but the idea is still as clear tonight as the day I wrote it down.

Somewhere in my childhood I saw an old lion in a zoo. He was sitting on his haunches in the shade of a bush just staring at all of us staring at him. There was a lioness in the background with two younger lions pacing back and forth. I recall locking eyes with the old lion through the fencing and the glass of the enclosure. It may have been a split second or a full minute, but I wondered at the time if in his mind, through his own memories or in genetic memories passed down, he was somewhere in the grasslands of Africa. Wherever his mind was, it was beyond the confines of the walls around him. I've seen that look a lot in my lifetime, including in the mirror. I always think of that lion.

I've seen it in the face of my best friend as we talk about our lives and our families. I've heard it in his voice when we talk about what we do and what we've done. We have ongoing discussions about not being part of the herd, about taking care of our own the way we were raised to in a world that we were not raised in. Change is inevitable, and in most cases is a good thing, but there's still a lot of good in what got us all to this point in time. Reconciling old with new and vice versa, well that's a discussion I'm not having here. It's a personal thing. Or it should be. And it is for him. He does it far up, or down, one of the many rivers he fishes by himself. Unplugged and disconnected for a few hours, it's his savanna.

I've seen it in the eyes and heard it in the voice of the pride and joy of my life. Six months ago, at the age of twenty-one, she made an audible and changed the course she was on. She came to me and said things were not working for her, presented a plan and asked me what I thought about it. After we talked about everything, I said it was a good plan and I supported her. Then she went out and executed it on her own, in a new place among new people, with a re-lit brightness in her eyes and self-built confidence in her voice. I'm doubly proud because up until now I've held the family record for jumping off the moving bus and figuring things out after I landed, carrying the old and forging the new.

So, in the falling light tonight, I switched the fly rod to my left hand. It's going to take some time.

Hold my beer.

I'm stepping through the turnstile.

Outside within.

Littles Pond

13 July 2022