tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42250150408163439702024-03-10T20:22:58.023-07:00Backwater FlatsBackwater Flatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11475601981925905945noreply@blogger.comBlogger91125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4225015040816343970.post-83129892863162189792023-11-22T21:15:00.000-08:002023-11-27T10:29:03.659-08:00Traces<p>I finished my coffee and looked at my watch. 0930. I had
just driven up to my dad’s farm in Maine. The farm and most of the acreage
would be going on the market in short order and the cattle fence needed to come
down. The last time I was there, he had mumbled something close to, “I might
need some help with a few things when the time comes.” I laughed to myself because
I knew he wouldn’t ask. That’s just his way. But my sister let me know a few
days after the last of his cows were trucked off that he was going to start
taking fence down. Two phone calls later he and I settled on a day to do it.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">0931. My plan was to be done by sundown. I got up from the
kitchen table and said, “I’ll get my boots on, let’s go do this.” I looked at
his face and knew he was struggling. This was the last time he would be taking
fence down. It’s an annual event. One that he’s done every fall, other than a
few years he didn’t have cattle, since 1955. Give or take sixty years, that’s a
shitload of fence posts and God knows how many miles of wire. I had missed the
fence going up in the spring. There was no way I was going to miss this day.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We started at the gate by the barn, working our way behind
the garage out to the road. I reeled the wire on the top line, unwrapping it
from the plastic insulators as I went. Dad followed me with the bottom line. Cattle
fence now is braided poly-wire, a lot easier and less painful than the galvanized
steel wire we used on our farm back in the day. And fiberglass posts, well they’re
a lot easier to wrestle out of the ground than cedar posts. And no wire clips
on ceramic insulators. Drop one of those clips in the grass and not find it, well
you’d think all winter about one of the cows swallowing it in the spring. Suffice
it to say, there were very few clips left behind.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We got out to the road and started the long straight stretch
to the southeast corner. A few sections in I could hear his heavy breathing and
unsure footsteps behind me. I knew he was going to try to keep up with me out
of pride. I started unwrapping the bottom line from the insulator before the
top to make it easier for him and to slow me down. It just sped him up. I
stopped and said let’s take a minute, thinking to myself, “Damn it, George,
slow the fuck down.”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In the two or three minutes we stopped, I replayed a memory
from Christmas night 1986 on the old farm. We had just finished evening chores
and were having a beer. I think there might have been twenty head in the barn
that winter. I was a senior in college and heading back to school in a few days
to begin my last season on the ski team. Years of training had caught up to me
and I was having knee problems. We cracked a second beer, and I told him I wasn’t
sure I’d be able to ski at the same level I had the previous seasons. In true
GW Rice fashion he stared at the cow shit on one of his boots, took a sip of
beer and said, “Well, go as hard as you can, for as long as you can.”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I turned away to start reeling line, but more so he wouldn’t
see the smile on my face. The old man, as always, was the living embodiment of
every piece of advice he’s given me.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3392" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7OBEPGpEcGRC6mYMUd0RixQFn3R15HEtWJmQvLfSw6riH_Qv6sU1VkEJNEtK1AN-LpCZvVQDMxw4LDJsXsg9BJK2AAvJmnTJmza0H9-g8N3ETi5cJn9lXrRM1EKXWquA6E4wF48pT8zYw-B3owv9uIe-aqhA5AxRAvFXEDaQrLKCkG_SGQ9KJZna8Hrg/s320/Traces4.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="285" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo: MR</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p> W</o:p><span style="text-align: left;">e got to the corner, loaded fresh reels and started a
stretch of fence in the wood line. A short way in dry ground turned swampy and
potholed. I stopped after a hundred yards and walked back to him. Prepared for
an argument, I told him I’d reel both lines and suggested he pull fence posts
where we had just come from. To my surprise he agreed and said he’d meet me at
the back corner where these lines stopped. I reeled wire to the corner and went
back to pull the posts and stack them in the field to pick them up later with the
four-wheeler. Some of them were old cedar posts and I wondered if any had been
put in by my grandfather. Some of the insulators had been nailed to trees. I pried
the bright yellow plastic off them with my knife. Walking back to the corner I
could see dad standing there waiting for me. I turned and looked back down the tree
line. There had been some type of fence there for as long as I could remember.
Now there were no traces of it other than the muddy cattle path that had
followed alongside.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4t8X_Du227z4qU2Em7MB1HRTV-rZWM2_t4BcIDcAEo5RO6DlO_a3UjlC3q7rFyVbh_oV-QcaEf1ewZQrIyEfddn17HsMhHgiPEy-0hQghLJWRUYQZ_78evFlEDqpJbBMEak-oe2hicBibNjPHZugNhbu3SOLWgJ0JB76ZgPyZ18m_pWiLP2LdKdY30i4/s960/Traces1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4t8X_Du227z4qU2Em7MB1HRTV-rZWM2_t4BcIDcAEo5RO6DlO_a3UjlC3q7rFyVbh_oV-QcaEf1ewZQrIyEfddn17HsMhHgiPEy-0hQghLJWRUYQZ_78evFlEDqpJbBMEak-oe2hicBibNjPHZugNhbu3SOLWgJ0JB76ZgPyZ18m_pWiLP2LdKdY30i4/s320/Traces1.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo: Patty Rice</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">After a short break for lunch we started on the opposite
side of the barn and worked our way along the west side of the farm down to the
brook and out to the backside. When the ground got muddy again, I told him I’d
reel the line, pull the posts and carry them out into the field so he could pick
them up on the four-wheeler. Halfway down the backside, where the ground was swampy
and the mud knee deep in places, I turned around and watched him driving the
four-wheeler through it all picking up the posts I had yet to carry out into
the field. I had to laugh.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkGeEmw0Ei84SHqoRvFMfKXpwE-qvawO9RWr9VtWFD9DNwksx3FFFT06MKn0cZOWHj1fRqVF_3UpinzXrnywSOXtUuiUOkJZL0YJ4WSqDrObXsq1VXB5ehrfKU_PXmu5mrpHCcYdus1-Yw3-ASV2rejwmKc3X4v-JnKN03YDmaDk2Fv5NlmBgB06k-sWQ/s320/Traces3.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="240" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo: Patty Rice</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Eventually I made it to the back corner. I piled reels of wire
and fence posts together and sat down to drink a bottle of water he had left
for me. I watched him driving the four-wheeler, trailer loaded with posts in
tow, across the field toward me. I didn’t see the old man who had started out
the day trying to keep up with me. I saw a giant. The strongest man I’ve ever
known.</span></div><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><o:p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCOQgqoKyqAd_20XR8YOgUOLRcYRfi3b-yDMXaN_ILCYNI6Euxk1HQEN6YTRkhyphenhyphenwMr665bcGf-9VeS4N6350rqU1lmzjJwcinu1TDdoxdQx49esTQwpBZezUKgyEq9Apo9baKzr1UeQOVK2R-uxQYdS-efPp6jxaizil5Nlmwg2Gf5e3Tgua3gpuz8-1g/s2732/Traces2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2732" data-original-width="2635" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCOQgqoKyqAd_20XR8YOgUOLRcYRfi3b-yDMXaN_ILCYNI6Euxk1HQEN6YTRkhyphenhyphenwMr665bcGf-9VeS4N6350rqU1lmzjJwcinu1TDdoxdQx49esTQwpBZezUKgyEq9Apo9baKzr1UeQOVK2R-uxQYdS-efPp6jxaizil5Nlmwg2Gf5e3Tgua3gpuz8-1g/s320/Traces2.jpg" width="309" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo: MR</td></tr></tbody></table></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">By 1500 we had the reels of wire stored, the posts piled and
had taken a quick tour of the new house up on the hill by the back corner.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>And then it came time for me to leave.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Well, thanks, Mike, I couldn’t have done it without you.”</p><p class="MsoNormal">I hugged him.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Yeah, you could have, Pop. It just would have taken longer.”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As I got in the truck, I took a long look out over the fields
and the barn. The scene was reminiscent of Frost prose. I remember reading
Lathem’s “Interviews with Robert Frost” many years ago. There was a quote from
Frost that stuck with me.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>“The farm is a base of operations – a stronghold. You can
withdraw into yourself there. Solitude for reflection is an essential
ingredient in self-development. I think a person has to be withdrawn into himself
to gather inspiration so that he is somebody when he comes out again among folks
– when he “comes to market” with himself. He learns that he’s got to be almost
wastefully alone.”</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This farm was where dad grew up. When my grandparents
passed, it fell to him. It’s always been his stronghold. Where he “came to
market.” The farm that he and my mother built, where my sister and I grew up,
was very much the same. I know from conversations with him over the years that in
both places, the time spent tending cattle and the garden, cutting hay and
running fence line – all while operating his construction company - gave him
that solitude for reflection. The work in the barn and the fields provided the
time and a place, alone and on his terms, to sort through the difficulties of
life and the inspiration to do it again and again. To go as hard as he could,
for as long as he could. He’s still going.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The traces of his time on the land will fade as someone else
takes it over. That is inevitable. The good times and the hard times, the work done,
and the lessons learned remain in memories, not only his, but also in those of
my sister and me.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> The Rice Farm, South Paris, ME</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>26 October 2023</o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Backwater Flatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11475601981925905945noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4225015040816343970.post-84812303037970806032023-10-06T04:03:00.000-07:002023-10-06T04:03:36.076-07:00She's From Boston<p>We pushed the pedal boat off the beach and headed out of the
cove. At its opening was an underwater rock field that dropped from two feet to
eight. At the deep edge were several boulders that reached to within a foot of the
surface. These boulders usually held large schools of sunfish and a few bass
early in the morning.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I had been out at sunrise throwing orange squid flies at
pickerel from the canoe. By eight o’clock the bite had shut off. I paddled back
to the dock, grabbed a mask and snorkel, and swam out to the boulders. There was
a couple dozen sunfish and two good sized smallies. When I swam back in, Abby
was up, and I talked her into going out for a few minutes with a worm and
bobber on the spinning rod. I grabbed a cup of coffee and assured her we would
be back in time to run into town for a slice of gas station breakfast pizza.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I pedaled the boat close to the rocks putting the sun behind
us so she could see into the water. She dropped her first cast in between two
of the boulders and we watched the bobber. She missed the first few takes as
the thieving bastard sunfish would peck bits of the worm off the hook. We
rebaited the hook and waited. I sat back sipping coffee watching her face as
she told me things about dolphins, the Red Sox and Taylor Swift. She started to tell me that she thought the Kenny Chesney song, <i>"She's From Boston" </i>was written about her when the bobber disappeared and she one-handed the rod.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“It’s a big one, dad!”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-KUv0UW40UqQlBX5IDkXPhZeGu3ouhswiuNHbouau_C3Mw0ywI_Z06DjrUtcS8SECGifP788WkhdDhxwdUbhVuq0k4ibYVIb2sclGAa8nl0oVbx9iU2yJ7R14MEtVjJyaJZuB3mYumkTkCSAv6XP_-G88toeo9kMbqVLp3Z9wRUc8qkqXS5iE5PuGsQI/s395/Ab%20sunfish.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="395" data-original-width="394" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-KUv0UW40UqQlBX5IDkXPhZeGu3ouhswiuNHbouau_C3Mw0ywI_Z06DjrUtcS8SECGifP788WkhdDhxwdUbhVuq0k4ibYVIb2sclGAa8nl0oVbx9iU2yJ7R14MEtVjJyaJZuB3mYumkTkCSAv6XP_-G88toeo9kMbqVLp3Z9wRUc8qkqXS5iE5PuGsQI/s320/Ab%20sunfish.JPG" width="319" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was. Big in the sense that she brought it in the boat and
popped the hook out with little help from me. Then she pinched another worm on
and went right back at it, picking up the Chesney story right where she left
off. She caught another half dozen before we ran out of worms.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I think of this day frequently, particularly now that Abby is making her life in Vermont. It came to mind again a couple of weeks ago while talking
with someone about flies and fly fishing. After he downloaded his fishing
resume of PB’s and PR’s and showed me the corresponding pictures on his phone, he
asked me what my best day on the water was.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In a split-second the memory roulette wheel raced
through images of big stripers, baby tarpon, tailing reds, bonefish in a foot
of water, gator blues and mangrove snook. The wheel stopped on this day, so I told him the story.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“So, what’d you catch?”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I just smiled and answered, “An unforgettable moment with my
daughter.”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">We did make it to the gas station in time for pizza.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And another tub of worms.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">6 October 2023</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
Thompson Lake, MEBackwater Flatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11475601981925905945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4225015040816343970.post-18460191157606155582023-09-12T19:26:00.004-07:002023-09-15T04:57:51.289-07:00Waterman<p>The rain had just stopped as we left the dock at East
Boothbay and motored up the Damariscotta. The sky above us was gray making the
water a dark black green as the skiff cut into the outgoing tide. Around us the
cormorants worked small bait while the seals corralled pogies. Life on the
river paid us no attention as we passed by. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A short boat ride put us at the foot of a small island in
the middle of the river. Pulling up to a string of oyster floats, Max Ritchie
throttled his Eastern skiff down and edged up next to the gear. Max holds the
lease for Carlisle Island Seafood and farms oysters just off its namesake
island. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWl_mSs62AXeUeBbf--iaXykqpP-VZ7kJUzGstKxM4pSqMY8P3UYeglxs9VVPAcDpIaBWeVYnqX6WGEZBuoDojI6AAWaDJL9L_Ze7sCzu3zr8Na9XPo1K20bzLxOn1Jf6s98qJJDKWihZRj7rRzkEQ4sm4jsJ-Kd95Ukh5ach1uyjodEkO_JtrtzALB-0/s6240/IMG_3868%20-%20Copy.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWl_mSs62AXeUeBbf--iaXykqpP-VZ7kJUzGstKxM4pSqMY8P3UYeglxs9VVPAcDpIaBWeVYnqX6WGEZBuoDojI6AAWaDJL9L_Ze7sCzu3zr8Na9XPo1K20bzLxOn1Jf6s98qJJDKWihZRj7rRzkEQ4sm4jsJ-Kd95Ukh5ach1uyjodEkO_JtrtzALB-0/s320/IMG_3868%20-%20Copy.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Max started his company in 2020 after working his way up
from deckhand to manager in one oyster company and then moving to another to
put his academic degrees to work. With an undergrad degree in Marine Science
and a graduate degree in Marine Biology he had hoped to bring his knowledge of bio
statistics and data modeling to the oyster industry. Eventually he decided to
go out on his own, taking with him the knowledge and experience he had obtained
working for other farms. On his own he figured he could add more of the “science”
he had studied at the University of Maine to the farming process to streamline
it and make it more efficient.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0_F_0NEDsymgzJI7D3Gs6mcMQ7sxZ23ZFmZXUUS6l1WZvkwTjWcIWP4_d53p9du7ojf6IPIxahAErI9r16HcAJxDS2ZL2wbUFX1407hF-Yy9e6yFWdgTXVrmsap5JZHCSlAYpaRJV2qMO_X8v7ugHDPDfQZD5jE5uQ0_ju8IU-JotyU6F7vnIwPlR71c/s6240/IMG_3866%20-%20Copy%20(2).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0_F_0NEDsymgzJI7D3Gs6mcMQ7sxZ23ZFmZXUUS6l1WZvkwTjWcIWP4_d53p9du7ojf6IPIxahAErI9r16HcAJxDS2ZL2wbUFX1407hF-Yy9e6yFWdgTXVrmsap5JZHCSlAYpaRJV2qMO_X8v7ugHDPDfQZD5jE5uQ0_ju8IU-JotyU6F7vnIwPlR71c/s320/IMG_3866%20-%20Copy%20(2).JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p style="text-align: left;"> </o:p><span style="text-align: left;">“Obviously I thought was smarter than everyone. I thought I
knew what needed to happen. It didn’t take long to get humbled. I met people in
farming who know more than I do. They tend to be the people you don’t hear
about. The deeper I got into farming the more of them I met. I have a great
appreciation for those who have been quietly farming and learning as they go. The
most important thing I’ve learned over the last three years is to keep going
back to the basics. Strong gear maintenance and flipping gear on time is the
most crucial part of farming.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">His first “haul” to market in 2021 consisted of just under
2000 pieces (oysters). Not prolific by any means but for a guy just starting
out with limited capital for gear, it was a beginning. He expects his upcoming 2023
“haul” to be somewhere around 5000 pieces. Still not a money maker, he won’t
break even, but he sees the banking of knowledge and experience just as
important as year-end tallies at this point. And he also knows he needs to
triple his gear to get to the money-making side. But that takes more gear which
requires increasing the size of the farm from 400 square feet on a Limited Purpose
Aquaculture lease per line of gear to a Standard Lease of up to 100 acres. This
obviously takes time, money and paperwork.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In the meantime, Max is not “all-in” on oysters. He’s
branched out and now has a few select customers that take mackerel, cod and squid
that he hand-jigs as the season allows from the boat after his daily work at
the oyster farm. They are “bled, gutted and iced within ten minutes of coming
over the gunwale and then delivered to the restaurant within two to four hours
of being caught.” This addition of wild fishing has re-sparked Max’s love of
working the water. His process and limited take advances his ethos that “the
ecosystem should be able to survive what we harvest.”</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">But it’s not all sunny days and rainbows. </span><o:p> </o:p>“There are somedays it drags on me: After a college degree
and a Master’s, I failed on being part of the “usual” career path. I don’t have
a Monday through Friday nine-to-five and the guaranteed paycheck that goes with
it. I think of that every morning as I drive to the boat ramp. I have failed to
conform to the needs of society and the status quo. And then I get on the
water, work the farm and jig up whatever I can…I forget about the idea of failure
for a little while. And when I deliver to my customers, and they tell me they’ll
take whatever I can bring in…I get so excited when I find the one person in ten
who get what I do and are excited about it.”</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpdpG-IRoNIZl4gdTMwFaHKm6NpLr7CZUnRgqJA8PBiKMy6hF1c53E3ctcHiwpEGqIBkPmjQ6Pas501SImr-HFlWVSpDg10a0fAuliPIQtPKJrBCWAfKv41odgDtGdLgcapESxpFmBtNU9GzDxUkKJJyxwJnMs5W_xAGHIb6B2EGvBv82plaibB1GBvCs/s5581/IMG_8580.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4035" data-original-width="5581" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpdpG-IRoNIZl4gdTMwFaHKm6NpLr7CZUnRgqJA8PBiKMy6hF1c53E3ctcHiwpEGqIBkPmjQ6Pas501SImr-HFlWVSpDg10a0fAuliPIQtPKJrBCWAfKv41odgDtGdLgcapESxpFmBtNU9GzDxUkKJJyxwJnMs5W_xAGHIb6B2EGvBv82plaibB1GBvCs/s320/IMG_8580.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">After spending a few hours at the Carlisle Island Seafood
oyster farm and jigging up a few mackerel and cod with Max, I get it. I get all
of it. The thrill of the independence in doing what you want to do and the
idea that you can make it a viable living. And I get the uncertainty of looking
into that abyss in the water that you pour blood, sweat, tears, every second of
your day and every free dollar into. Every damn day.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Hard work. They don’t teach you that in college. You learn
it. From the ground up. In this case, from the river bottom. In the heat of
summer to the frigid cold of winter on the mid-coast of Maine, the work never
ends. If you’re truly devoted to it, it’s not so much work as it’s just what
you do. That mindset, and I can think of dozens of examples, overtime leads to making
a living. In the words of many self-employed people I know, “making a living”
makes a life.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My last question to Max over a beer on his back porch tonight
was, “Would you trade life on the river over one in a cubicle with a salary?”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>“Absolutely not.”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Roger that.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’ve known Max for a lot of years now. He’s married to my
niece, Jen. She is his partner in all things. She comes from tough stock and a
long list of family members who chose hard work as a career. A better partner
does not exist. I wish them the best and hereby call “shotgun” on any mackerel
jigging excursions when Jill and I are on the mid-coast. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe1ppNg-k8mDHAIUZavnRA6W37steYZjvgPuwLqmVVq0r9Rnmh_48FOtibu8dYSw1IPxZaui6axRrIB4tkVx1UJ66_nGEkvivwSRMYJsMLs2VCjH6CZgWmVZKfuvoKQOjl9psfB_dnClMhNzN13OBO7g4N4w_ZbtoEC18Pt6imgOdWFzItsDhJCpatRrg/s6240/680C697F-903A-46E3-99AF-E1DCA8F56FCD.JPEG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe1ppNg-k8mDHAIUZavnRA6W37steYZjvgPuwLqmVVq0r9Rnmh_48FOtibu8dYSw1IPxZaui6axRrIB4tkVx1UJ66_nGEkvivwSRMYJsMLs2VCjH6CZgWmVZKfuvoKQOjl9psfB_dnClMhNzN13OBO7g4N4w_ZbtoEC18Pt6imgOdWFzItsDhJCpatRrg/s320/680C697F-903A-46E3-99AF-E1DCA8F56FCD.JPEG" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <div>For more about Carlisle Island Seafood, visit <a href="https://www.carlisleislandseafood.com/">Carlisle Island Seafood</a><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>10 September 2023</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">East Boothbay, Maine<o:p></o:p></p></div>Backwater Flatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11475601981925905945noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4225015040816343970.post-43762038392307255812023-09-08T19:32:00.002-07:002023-09-08T20:28:38.585-07:00Frost<p class="MsoNormal"><a name="_Hlk145104081">In the morning we’ll finish loading
the truck and head north. It’s not so much a vacation as it is a working road
trip. Year number three, something we look forward to. We’re a week later than
usual. I just could not mentally manage the idea of driving during the Labor
Day weekend traffic, so we put it off.<o:p></o:p></a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk145104081;">I’ve put a few
things off this year. Brush cutting and clearing out the remnants of the
previous owners along the edge of the ranch got put off. A lot of shit got put
off. The older you get, the more compromising you become with projects that
twenty years ago would take two days. Knocking on sixty, well, those things can
drag on for a bit. Compromise. You wrestle with it when you’re younger, embrace
it when you’re older. I have no doubt when I get to the next chapter, I’ll call
it wisdom.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk145104081;">Yard work isn’t all
that’s been put off this year. I decided over the winter to change things up. I
can’t tie flies all night, every night like I used to. I’ve been asked several
times why I don’t fish anymore. Well, here’s the press release, I make a few
casts nearly every day of the year, the world just doesn’t see it. To be
honest, that scene has changed, and I no longer fit in. The game is too fast,
too Hollywood these days. I can see my train coming, I’ve got too many other
earthly things I want to do before it stops at the station. Channels need
changing, pages need turning.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk145104081;">On a trip to New
Hampshire last winter to visit my daughter I made a stop on the way home at The
Frost Place. Robert Frost and his family lived there full time from 1925-1920
and spent nineteen summers on the property. His work has always held a special
place in my heart, his words and prose have always felt like home. Some of his
poetry still feels like it was written for me. So on a clear and cold late
afternoon I sat on the porch and watched the sun fall on the White Mountains. Cold mountain air clears the soul, invigorates the mind, and focuses the eye. I
think my mother said that once. Regardless, ninety minutes of silence on Robert
Frost’s porch looking at the world changes your perspective.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEIIEDwdIijbE-TkwlWafGtKsF5LtyPH1LChunutedROmL5oiD-l2gW9GYdSjGvatiX0L7x3vbX1b6HdlfGmnstWjxN_x822Z_u3wlP2dQMHNDdnKX25gylrdOjfin9jDnCa7BwFIsuKCavql3Fulv-UougN_rH7smFJPj3-U_rBKBBhed_1jFu1kvtj0/s2012/Frost23.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2012" data-original-width="2012" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEIIEDwdIijbE-TkwlWafGtKsF5LtyPH1LChunutedROmL5oiD-l2gW9GYdSjGvatiX0L7x3vbX1b6HdlfGmnstWjxN_x822Z_u3wlP2dQMHNDdnKX25gylrdOjfin9jDnCa7BwFIsuKCavql3Fulv-UougN_rH7smFJPj3-U_rBKBBhed_1jFu1kvtj0/s320/Frost23.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk145104081;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk145104081;">So rather than sit
on that change, tomorrow morning when we get to the end of the driveway and can
turn left or right to go chase the light, I have no idea which way we’ll go. I
only know we’ll go.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk145104081;">When we return,
things here will begin to change. New outposts on the interwebs, a different look and more layers of the proverbial onion. I recently had a conversation with an old
friend at our class reunion about the words and water here at Backwater Flats.
She’s one of the most brilliant people I’ve ever known, so I listened. Deep into conversation
and halfway through a beer she said, “it’s good, do it for you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk145104081;">So, I am.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk145104081;">See you on the road.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk145104081;">And KBK, thank you.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk145104081;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk145104081;">Littles Pond, MA<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk145104081;">8 September 2023</span><o:p></o:p></p>Backwater Flatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11475601981925905945noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4225015040816343970.post-82439343939082578192023-09-03T14:50:00.002-07:002023-09-08T20:26:06.922-07:00'83 after forty<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal">9 June 1983.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">NASA was in final preparations to launch Sally Ride and the
crew of the Challenger into space as Oxford Hills High School launched the
Class of ’83 on our way into the unknown. A gallon of gas was about a buck and
a quarter. We could all drive stick and three-on-the-tree and knew every
backroad in Oxford County. M*A*S*H* had just ended, Cheers had just begun, and
Saturday Night Live was funny. We knew Jack and Diane, Billy Joe and Bobbie Sue
and the Wuppa Gubba and Raputa the Buta. Our lives were orchestrated and choreographed
from the back corner booths of Goodwin’s Dairy and the pay phone out front.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We came from eight towns, transported to different elementary
schools by a fleet of buses that travelled over three thousand miles daily.
Eventually we were brought together at the junior high where, unbeknownst to us
at the time, we began to form as one. Two years later we landed in the halls of
the high school. In the classrooms our teachers taught what we needed to
fulfill graduation requirements while taking us on conversational side trips to
explain how it all fit into daily life. In the gym and on the playing fields
our coaches instilled in us teamwork, perseverance and leadership. In the
hallways and after school our class and club advisors gave us guidance and
encouragement to work with each other, take on projects, solve problems and
make a difference in our school and in our community.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As is the case anytime a large group of teenagers are held
in a pressurized concrete building all day for nine months, there was tension
at times. Social groups, friendships and relationships fractured. New ones were
formed. Somehow, we kept going. In the shadows of all the drama what I remember
the most is our class coming together whenever we needed to despite our
differences. Homecoming skits and competitions, Winter Carnival, Dance Marathon,
Walk-a-thons, parades, football games, field hockey games, cross country meets,
basketball games, wrestling meets, ski meets, baseball games, track meets,
plays and concerts…we all supported each other. And we all supported the Class
of ’83. We were The Vikings.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">All of this flooded my mind while we congregated for our
class photo at our 40<sup>th</sup> Reunion a few weeks ago. As I looked out at the
faces of people I’ve known essentially all my life and talked with some I haven’t
seen since graduation, I realized one thing: the basis of everything I know,
everything I’ve done along the way, all of it originated in those elementary schools,
the junior high and the halls of the high school. What I learned about life and
how to navigate it I learned from the Class of ’83. The good, the bad, the pain,
the bliss, success and failure. We learned it together.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I regret that I did not get a chance to talk to everyone in
attendance. I was amazed at the stories of those I talked with. Every single
one. Our AFS sister and brother, those I’ve known since the first grade, those
I only knew in high school and everyone in between. We’ve done well. Healthcare,
construction and the trades, art, education, business, finance, the military,
law enforcement, technology, communications…we are everywhere. We’ve built our
own businesses, built homes, raised families, gone out into the world and come
back home. Did we make our mark on the world, did we make it better? I think we
have and will continue to do so.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>I've omitted </o:p>names in this. Teachers, coaches, advisors,
classmates – there are just too many, too many stories. Each one is no
less important than the others. To quote Aristotle, “The whole is greater than
the sum of its parts.”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The Class of 1983. We are one.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">To close, I have three thoughts.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">First, Viking Pride is not just a catch phrase.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Second, <i>“Non Carborundum”</i> should be excavated and
read at the next reunion.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And lastly, long live The Hammer!</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Slainte!</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">3 September 2023<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Littles Pond, MA<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Backwater Flatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11475601981925905945noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4225015040816343970.post-46319941378729928452023-07-14T11:35:00.007-07:002023-07-16T19:25:09.384-07:00Blue Lines<p> On the ride into the trailhead Rich pointed out small streams and talked of each one intimately. Some of them were less than shoulder width, some six or seven feet across. Some held just a trickle of water, some looked to be waist deep. All of them held his stories. Boyhood tales of boundless exploration. The intense study in high school years of each stream from the source to the mouth and all the pools and riffles along the trunk. Entomology, seasonal water flow and fly selection through trial and error specific to each stream. Trips to these waters now and how each one has changed. A living history.</p><p>At the heart of each story: native brook trout.</p><p>We parked the truck and geared up for the walk in. Six-foot-six three weight rods, a box of dry flies and water bottles. The hike-in on the trail was easy. As we walked, he told me of following the blue lines of streams on maps in the early years and drawing in the ones that were not shown as he found and explored them. He said by the time he left for college, some of the pages looked like a first-grade art project. We laughed because I had done the same thing in an old copy of the Maine Atlas and Gazzatteer my grandfather had given me.</p><p>About a mile into the woods, we left the trail and descended into a ravine that held one of the most amazing pieces of water I have ever seen. We bottomed out at the foot of a small waterfall cascading into a wide pool of water so clear it takes your breath away. I stopped for a few minutes to absorb everything around me. The birds singing above the sound of the water crashing, the smell of wet moss and damp soil, the touch of cool air rising off the stream to meet the heat of the day rushing down from where we had just been. It had been a long time since I had stood in such a place. I was speechless.</p><p>Rich took the right side of the pool and I, the left. We took turns dropping flies at the base of the waterfall. A few casts in a brookie rose from nowhere and hit Rich's fly. As I watched him release it a thought that would continue to build over the course of the morning crept into my mind: how did these fish get into this stream halfway up a mountain?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha-qeiMHF5Bc5P6p_YiVqNtOivW4B5dfp8kZI4_eUd0wJj3ubq8qpouBCx9BjXBuDF3l7lJqzWvyZy8GgLv7EYSvg8eVbJA9DaYk1xXVwX6baA0P4BSL-QcPBVEnL7rXeTGdqXup7JxH7gx5nDEmBGMbgWYkXop67oyGFKIqP-ApZcXOadoeeoSwgAgAI/s1586/IMG_8270%20(2).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1057" data-original-width="1586" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha-qeiMHF5Bc5P6p_YiVqNtOivW4B5dfp8kZI4_eUd0wJj3ubq8qpouBCx9BjXBuDF3l7lJqzWvyZy8GgLv7EYSvg8eVbJA9DaYk1xXVwX6baA0P4BSL-QcPBVEnL7rXeTGdqXup7JxH7gx5nDEmBGMbgWYkXop67oyGFKIqP-ApZcXOadoeeoSwgAgAI/s320/IMG_8270%20(2).JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Photo: MR</div><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">While he doped his fly, I kept casting and missed a small fish on the set. I made another cast to the right of the waterfall into a shadowy corner in the rock face behind it. I watched the fly float into a small eddy and seemingly stop in the water. Just as it did, a dark form came up from below and inhaled it. It was not small. I panicked for a moment thinking I was going to do something wrong and lose it. I wanted to see this wild creature. I brought it to hand and Rich said that fish was as close to a "trophy" as one could hope for on such a stream. All the hero shot bullshit aside, that question began to build in my head...where do these fish come from and how the hell do they live long enough in this little stream to get that big?</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiny7japAOshT-D0exxO6U3Uya-2Y2cjCZ2Eqwl_wZ0HNWhKGaEX90Ep6eN4XyPFkhenXT2tmegnfQB9NLVeuYplTWgoIpmwU9-Rcbg7-BDMWtFK7kX28XhMqgjheuaA6-aFGAKnPy64kvZ_MHPY6Ov7LII1L3t4senxRkMJ5XSZxheZ1cmvvvoRxd8AYo/s4032/IMG-2661.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiny7japAOshT-D0exxO6U3Uya-2Y2cjCZ2Eqwl_wZ0HNWhKGaEX90Ep6eN4XyPFkhenXT2tmegnfQB9NLVeuYplTWgoIpmwU9-Rcbg7-BDMWtFK7kX28XhMqgjheuaA6-aFGAKnPy64kvZ_MHPY6Ov7LII1L3t4senxRkMJ5XSZxheZ1cmvvvoRxd8AYo/s320/IMG-2661.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Photo: Rich Strolis</div><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">We took turns leapfrogging down the stream waterfall to waterfall and fishing each pool as we went. Some of these pools were large and gravel bottomed, some were literally carved into the rock and the size of a kitchen sink. Each one seemed ancient. Most held a brookie or two.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoDGpjRbxtPBg9y9Z6eFTJda0gYgxnjYCYTje43vsepsYS096mbqfg2HiLDw2ROaxZp6WV9DDdWzyFfre0aOcquvbiyVfBmLHPRgFuo8czDNyvV2pHU_L-nwpyX1DJiU3Fw3c4mp_EY4ov5g9u2cs-S-KCG5loOiFdb93GR5_qMDG8DRW2hYjeF3WLwCc/s4172/IMG_3695%20(2).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4172" data-original-width="2781" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoDGpjRbxtPBg9y9Z6eFTJda0gYgxnjYCYTje43vsepsYS096mbqfg2HiLDw2ROaxZp6WV9DDdWzyFfre0aOcquvbiyVfBmLHPRgFuo8czDNyvV2pHU_L-nwpyX1DJiU3Fw3c4mp_EY4ov5g9u2cs-S-KCG5loOiFdb93GR5_qMDG8DRW2hYjeF3WLwCc/s320/IMG_3695%20(2).JPG" width="213" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Photo: MR</div><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Several times we had to climb up the sides of the ravine through scrub brush to navigate hundreds of yards around deadfall and blowdown. My legs burned, my lungs cried for air, I tasted copper. I felt my age while also feeling like a kid again. The effort put forth to do something, whether it be fishing, climbing a mountain or mowing the lawn, is something that seems to get lost in translation, something that gets left out of the story. Rich and I will remember a few of those fish, the memories of them will fade with time as others come and go. That "day we hiked that ravine" won't be forgotten because getting into that place was the story.</span></p><p>In the last section we fished I set up on a pool while Rich went twenty yards downstream to another. Knowing the morning was coming to an end I just stood and stared into the water. The clouds gave way to the sun and the pool lit up. I could see everything. And in the back corner, just behind and to the side of the whitewater was the outline of a brookie laid up in what was just seconds before a shadow. I made a cast just to the right of it and watched the fish move to the fly and then stop. Two more went unnoticed. On the third, I watched the fish creep up under the fly, almost stand on its tail and sip the fly. It was a beautiful way to end the day.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtzOC5oFhscmbAwaYGR9O2TlPTKHZNRe1bIVZZDDaVRfLj75TNzIE7cKJf9h9K78NL9fvedj-DDV9HVSWPC9rD7BPNSgDreHciUzxF4dZbtg_VLC9H8j4SHC4xbbT3TpDaprCMQ6KX7CjGo07xevJtEuf53Oe8B4wWO5qC8wJkwpzUBSeBWgKlOVO43Io/s3052/IMG-3722.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3052" data-original-width="2408" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtzOC5oFhscmbAwaYGR9O2TlPTKHZNRe1bIVZZDDaVRfLj75TNzIE7cKJf9h9K78NL9fvedj-DDV9HVSWPC9rD7BPNSgDreHciUzxF4dZbtg_VLC9H8j4SHC4xbbT3TpDaprCMQ6KX7CjGo07xevJtEuf53Oe8B4wWO5qC8wJkwpzUBSeBWgKlOVO43Io/s320/IMG-3722.jpg" width="252" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Photo: MR</div><p>We hiked up out of the ravine toward the trail back to the truck. As we slogged our way through the brush, fallen trees and mud I kept running possibilities as to how these fish had made their way up this stream, through waterfalls, some twenty feet in height and found refuge in the pools. By the time we made it back to the trail and I had caught my breath, I had to ask. So, I did. He laughed and said he wondered when I was going to ask that. He had theories but no definitive answer. He left me with, "It's a mystery. Which is why this place is so magical."</p><p>A fitting answer I thought as we passed the waterfall we had started at. Recalling a class called "The Natural History of New England" in college, I remembered the ice over this area at the end of the Pleistocene epoch had melted and receded somewhere between 10,000 and 14,000 years ago. Looking down on it from above I could see the thousands of years the water had carved out of the rock as it passed through the valley below. I wondered if the DNA in the fish we had caught could be dated that far back. Regardless, it was clear to me that this place was now part of my brother's DNA.</p><p>As we drove down the mountain I thought of the morning, the stream cutting through the rock and the native brook trout that have somehow survived in it. Staring in the side mirror I found an answer in the last passage of <i>"The Road"</i> by Cormac McCarthy.</p><p><i>"Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing that could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery."</i></p><p>I hope the blue lines that lead to these places remain a mystery, that the magic survives.</p><p><br /></p><p>Littles Pond</p><p>14 July 2023</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Backwater Flatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11475601981925905945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4225015040816343970.post-13600006151148558292023-06-12T23:34:00.001-07:002023-06-12T23:52:14.534-07:00The Little Things<p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I started writing this on my way to New Hampshire to visit
my daughter a few weeks ago. I left early and joined the Monday morning commute
through Boston with a legal pad on the seat beside me and a tape recorder in
the cup holder. I had no idea what I wanted to write. But I had a theme, more
of a feeling I suppose from an Instagram post she had recently shared with me.
I’ve since lost it and have no idea who to attribute it to, but it read: “Re-introduce
yourself to the things that used to give you joy. Things that used to make you
smile.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>I was headed to mountain trails and alpine air.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>A good place to start.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">While we hiked and sampled the offerings of a few local
breweries I thought of things that give me joy and make me smile that I either
take for granted or simply put off. Things like the smell of the freshly mowed
lawn under the coolness of sunset. A chapter or two of one of those books in
the “unread” stack from the library upstairs over the second cup of morning
coffee. Sitting down at the vise to tie a few flies for my own box. Early
morning kayak trips with the fly rod and camera.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When I got back, I made it a point to stand in the middle of
the lawn after I mowed it. I dusted off a few of those books and had a third
cup of coffee. I even tied a few flies for myself. And this morning, Jill and I
loaded the kayaks in the truck and were on the water just after sunrise.
Cameras charged and a fly rod just in case, we “worked” offsite for the morning.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Mid-morning as we paddled from one area to another, I caught
some nervous water out of the corner of my eye. I stopped and watched. A hundred
feet in front of me I started seeing bait pop out of the water. I stripped line
off the reel, put twenty feet of line behind the boat and paddled closer. Fifty
feet away in about six feet of water all hell broke loose. Striped bass rolling
on the surface, tails slapping, birds hitting the water. I started to smile.
For a second, I thought about trying to get a photo. Hard pass. I made a cast
and overshot the melee by fifteen feet. I stripped the fly (The Poet, of course)
through the middle of the boil. I happened to look down and saw a silver
torpedo coming along the port side. I water-hauled the fly and dropped a back
cast as far as I could with my right hand as I tried to spin the boat with the
paddle in my left.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Line wrapped on the paddle while I tried to close the box my
cameras were in and push it under the bow. I began to laugh. Total shitshow. I
cleared the line and started stripping. I could see the fly. A few strips in I
saw the bass swim past the fly and then make a quick turn back and inhale it.
The dance was on. A few times I thought I was going to break the rod as it
crossed back and forth under the boat. In short order I got it boatside and
released it. I told Jill, if I don’t catch another bass this year, I’ll be alright with that.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2w95igANg3Ktbl6olBScsfudS26-n3bcGQaYuzAS6OBezm6nJTqsO-qgY-A5f1omasgIFBFbHDHUbdPAWUwHtL-35uFF8jH0BokWzJYek1UtvXgGIx1YpSxmsZUcsU1RbT2fJ5jqBxml9Tgm650lZ1OhJC01xbb-gBVgErWfGXu0bmqIhmEbiw7tI/s2412/IMG-2763.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1575" data-original-width="2412" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2w95igANg3Ktbl6olBScsfudS26-n3bcGQaYuzAS6OBezm6nJTqsO-qgY-A5f1omasgIFBFbHDHUbdPAWUwHtL-35uFF8jH0BokWzJYek1UtvXgGIx1YpSxmsZUcsU1RbT2fJ5jqBxml9Tgm650lZ1OhJC01xbb-gBVgErWfGXu0bmqIhmEbiw7tI/s320/IMG-2763.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That was a special fish.</p><p class="MsoNormal">It brought back the joy of fishing.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And maybe, just maybe, a smile. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">From the water</p><p class="MsoNormal">2 June 2023</p><br /><p></p>Backwater Flatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11475601981925905945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4225015040816343970.post-21991589058007885612023-04-20T22:01:00.000-07:002023-04-20T22:01:40.137-07:00Q & A<p> I came in from the woodshop around three, marched into the studio and told Jill we were leaving in thirty minutes for a beer and an early dinner. Other than a few quick side trips, we had been working non-stop for months. A couple of hours sitting at the bar at one of our favorite spots was a needed break. It would also give us a chance to pencil out some details on a project we have in the works. And the Bruins were playing.</p><p>It was a rainy Sunday, and the lot was nearly full. We got lucky and found two seats at the corner of the bar. We ordered beers and started scribbling ideas on napkins and talked about making the time to get the project going in between filling orders in the studio, working on fly orders, yard work and all the other things that needed to be done. Losing momentum, I ordered another beer and excused myself to the men's room.</p><p>As I approached the door, I heard a voice behind me say something about fly fishing. I turned as I held the door and saw a vaguely familiar guy wearing the Patagucci/Costa/Xtratuf uniform complete with a buff. He paused in the doorway as he told me his name and I pretended to already know it. Unfortunately, both urinals were available. I took my place at one and prepared myself for conversation as he stood in front of the sinks looking back and forth between his phone screen and himself in the mirror.</p><p><i>"I heard you quit fly tying."</i></p><p><i>"Nope, still tying. Just not as much."</i></p><p><i>"I didn't see you at the shows this winter."</i></p><p><i>"Nope, didn't go."</i></p><p><i>"You still fishing?"</i></p><p><i>"Yup, quite a bit. A lot of freshwater, actually."</i></p><p><i>"You must fish a lot if you're not tying, huh?"</i></p><p><i>"I've got a few projects going on terra firma that keep me busy, so I don't get as much water time as I used to."</i></p><p>At this point I finished my business and walked over to the sink as he took his place at a urinal. He kept talking.</p><p><i>"Terra Firma, where's that, Chile?"</i></p><p><i>"Um, yeah, technically."</i></p><p><i>"Cool."</i></p><p>I dried my hands with a paper towel and turned to bid him farewell. He was standing there scrolling through his phone with his non-business hand. I had to admire his dexterity.</p><p><i>"I'm on your Instagram page. You don't post much."</i></p><p><i>"Nope."</i></p><p><i>"How come, dude? You must have a lot of fish porn on your phone."</i></p><p><i>"I just fish. I'll see you later, Chief."</i></p><p>I took a step through the door, back toward my beer and anonymity.</p><p><i>"Hey, man, do you still write?"</i></p><p>I smiled.</p><p><i>"I will be."</i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p>From the bar</p><p>21 April 2023</p>Backwater Flatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11475601981925905945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4225015040816343970.post-45306405678862718452022-12-16T22:41:00.003-08:002022-12-17T18:54:37.105-08:00Good Stuff<p>I'll preface this by saying life is short. Do the things you talk about before you cannot, tell the people you love that you love them before you cannot.</p><p><br /></p><p>Some moments you never forget. When Jill and I heard the news, we were just into Friday night Happy Hour in front of a fire. Rich was gone. I dropped the phone, told her the news and was speechless for a long while. </p><p>We had talked at the end of the summer about a visit here in May. The opportunity for early season stripers in skinny water, a side trip to fish for browns and bass with my other buddy Rich, a trip to Fenway and God willing, a trip to Sully's on the way to the Garden to see the Bruins in post season play. I had meant to call at Thanksgiving to catch up and get the ball rolling. I didn't. And now, as hard as I try, I can't recall what was so important I had going on that I didn't make that call.</p><p>He was a big dude. To those of us who knew him, he was a giant, both in presence and stature. When you got to know him, you found that his size and strength were only surpassed by the depth of his heart and infinite devotion to his family and friends. I only spent a few days in the presence of my friend. At my age it seems awkward to refer to someone I had very little personal interaction with as one of my best friends, but he was. Our friendship began on Instagram. Like all good ones, it started over a dog, fly fishing and a shared passion of the Boston Bruins. He read everything I've written here on Backwater Flats and commented either in text or calls on every piece. Whether I thought it was good or poor, he always urged me to keep writing in my voice because "some will get it, some will not but some of us love it."</p><p>I wrote about the beginning of our friendship in 2014 at <i><a href="https://backwaterflats.blogspot.com/2014/10/dog-tales.html" target="_blank">Dog Tales</a></i>. In 2016 I wrote about our family visit to Folly Beach and time spent with Rich and Jeanette at <a href="https://backwaterflats.blogspot.com/2016/06/low-country-chapter-one.html" target="_blank"><i>Low Country: Chapter One</i>.</a> We had talked about additional chapters. I regret now they won't be written.</p><p>Rich, Jeannette, their dogs Tuck and Murphy, and their family were talked about in this house as often as any other family member. When Tuck passed, we spent nearly an hour on the phone laughing, crying and talking about the impact of all the dogs in our lives and how the special ones really alter your life. Facebook check-ins, text messages, Christmas Eve phone calls, random conversations. Family stuff. That's the way I will remember it. And all bonded on one short conversation while he and I were fishing with Tuck in That Place That Shall Not Be Named while we were there for my daughter to visit the University of South Carolina. It became the anchor of our friendship and will remain in place as long as I live. </p><p>He handed me a beer, climbed back up on the poling platform and said, "If Abby comes here for school, there's always a place for her here, we'll watch over her like she's one of our own."</p><p>After that, we ended all our conversations with, "Love you, brother."</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHjL7L2Fh5kH9wFZAefexDPxeUy39gSINrWrSYGayZ7I8Zhm-65o3PiYGYqWOR73qV2K5Qf195VaVerXJw6h2GqrALgSMxZDe4hItO3KOcbQfQAQIpWCE5hISP5wPzivlPByhsX1DxmTukDsvXJAlIKbPPqb6aqOu-TAOq_UHxpBo68J9bQYRVwfWd/s1080/Tuck%20and%20boys.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="626" data-original-width="1080" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHjL7L2Fh5kH9wFZAefexDPxeUy39gSINrWrSYGayZ7I8Zhm-65o3PiYGYqWOR73qV2K5Qf195VaVerXJw6h2GqrALgSMxZDe4hItO3KOcbQfQAQIpWCE5hISP5wPzivlPByhsX1DxmTukDsvXJAlIKbPPqb6aqOu-TAOq_UHxpBo68J9bQYRVwfWd/s320/Tuck%20and%20boys.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Friends like that don't come along often.</span></div><p>Which is why Jill and I, flew down to Charleston to be with Jeanette, family and friends for Rich's Irish Wake. Exactly how he wanted to go out, his people all together telling stories and being together to remember him. I wanted to be there for Jeanette but also to meet two of his friends, Nate and Jeff, who he had introduced me to through social media. There had been talk about me making a trip to South Carolina fish with these guys. It just didn't happen. Jill and I thought under the circumstances, it would mean a lot to Rich for the three of us to meet. I'll say this, Rich chose his friends well. That fishing trip just might happen yet. And I hope to reciprocate with a trip onto my water with them in Rich's stead. </p><p>As I start to write this, we are waiting for our flight back to Boston. My heart is broken but full. For the last two weeks all I've had on my mind is a comment Rich put on one of my blog posts detailing a trip out to Martha's Vineyard to fish the Derby in 2015. He wrote:</p><p>"Life goal: to be included in one of Mike Rice's fishing stories 'cuz they are about fishing and yet so much more. Good stuff, man. Good stuff."</p><p>These words bounced around my head as we all gathered in the living room and his daughter Lauren gave the Irish Toast. Up to that point I had held the tears back. As she spoke, they fell from my eyes. I looked up and saw a print on the wall of Rich and Tuck walking out on a grass flat. I had seen it before. I actually shared a similar moment with both of them. For a second I felt like I was in that image. And then reality hit me, and I realized he was gone, somewhere in the hereafter.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1JQNWpn-Rqj40iREKYbXva3-SI4mTICoOQJMqM23-afMbSH-y6ccntginKHFBNFGJCf9F812cXfxU8b9ggZjxuOG3IG_hWxqTSlSmOjYg42Z_AMhxeVZjHtsr48ej6jvSzFmO8A7QFZZNM1reaiTM_AyzEFczdIHFA0Y9PLsflpI4n4f91hG4W7g7/s4032/RichTuck.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1JQNWpn-Rqj40iREKYbXva3-SI4mTICoOQJMqM23-afMbSH-y6ccntginKHFBNFGJCf9F812cXfxU8b9ggZjxuOG3IG_hWxqTSlSmOjYg42Z_AMhxeVZjHtsr48ej6jvSzFmO8A7QFZZNM1reaiTM_AyzEFczdIHFA0Y9PLsflpI4n4f91hG4W7g7/s320/RichTuck.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p>I cried more.</p><p>Jeanette came across the room and hugged me. I tried to speak but couldn't. She said, "He loved you." There are no better words to describe our friendship. That's the way I'll carry it with me. </p><p>Before we left, I took another look at that print on the wall.</p><p>Rich Walker, I'll say this, thank you for including me and my family in your story. It started out about fishing but ended up being something so much more.</p><p>Good stuff, man. Good stuff.</p><p>Slainte! </p><p>We love you, brother,</p><p>Mike, Jill & Abby</p><p><br /></p><p>4 December 2022</p><p>Littles Pond, MA</p>Backwater Flatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11475601981925905945noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4225015040816343970.post-57160569183651311232022-09-23T20:51:00.001-07:002022-09-24T06:49:14.569-07:00Fire<p> I'm sitting in front of the first fire of the season. The first fire has always held a special place in my heart: the end of summer and the beginning of winter. Fall has never been a season to me, just a jumping off point from one life to another. The transition between water to snow. Those times are past me now. These days it's become a merge down the on-ramp from mowing the lawn to the highway of (in the words of my friend Mike McAuliffe) "goddamn snow management." But still, it's my favorite time of year. The Credit Card Captains have had their boats put up, the flats are empty Monday thru Friday, and the package store isn't quite as busy. It's always been a time to be out there on the water and do what I do in honest silence. A time to get back to where I came from and appreciate where I am now. </p><p>I throw more wood on the fire as my father is upstairs in what Jill and I call the "Lincoln Bedroom." I carried his bag upstairs a few minutes ago and as I got an extra blanket out of the closet was suddenly awash in memories of going back to the farm in college and my twenties when he would do the same for me. Walking down that long hallway from the garage to the kitchen, past my old bedroom, the smell of birch in the woodstove, sunset over the lake, pizza on the table, a beer extended from one hand and a hug from the other. My favorite memory of going home. For those first few minutes, there was nothing else but family. Tonight, Jill and I reciprocated. Drinks on the patio looking out on the pond as the sun dropped behind the pines, pizza in the kitchen and stories and current events from back home in front of the fire. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMtXbDlGdainBM7rqhNVuAiLh06bt9y-USVbpMjd6yzUdpPBnlJHxWdmfN66YHRJ2rZGoOSGYRODOTcZjeqB5juMIg0NB26LOEfgSk3oJU479ML5uChk1qZb0nIDTYML5b3-oAPs8iIZzsC00VbYysLberCgP7nIClSlTp0yBkK4fBbOzG5AC049p9/s4032/Fire%209.23.22.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMtXbDlGdainBM7rqhNVuAiLh06bt9y-USVbpMjd6yzUdpPBnlJHxWdmfN66YHRJ2rZGoOSGYRODOTcZjeqB5juMIg0NB26LOEfgSk3oJU479ML5uChk1qZb0nIDTYML5b3-oAPs8iIZzsC00VbYysLberCgP7nIClSlTp0yBkK4fBbOzG5AC049p9/s320/Fire%209.23.22.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Now I sit here as everyone has retired for the night. Jackson Browne, John Prine, the Allman Brothers and the Eagles on my set list, just like it was when I would sit up on the farm in front of the fire when everyone else went to bed. In those moments I wrestled and reconciled with where I was, where I was going and where I came from. Comfortably grounded by what has always been while anxious about tomorrow, the next step and the unknown ahead. That's what going home should be. </span></p><p>I'm a short distance from turning another year around the sun. I've gone from everything to nothing and back again more times than I care to remember. In all of it there's been a constant source of strength, a light to guide me home. In my house tonight, in front of the woodstove, sitting next to my dad I was awash in that light again. Home.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq2wjnclrUD1_163qN3L1qFwUqflgRAGOyeFyJMCoRItoDn9FUWiPTrXtac0AizYlTK08mb9B0onRnEhgg68vfWJYJw1uHYvTBy4dmrILNCn3Q2XYQ-zhXKXp5Gpv770xrfOgrFmrjub-eugn9PEbJ4NmFDNt9XhF2f3P3K2VMgG2PSGwok2nZJtNn/s4032/GW%209.23.22.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq2wjnclrUD1_163qN3L1qFwUqflgRAGOyeFyJMCoRItoDn9FUWiPTrXtac0AizYlTK08mb9B0onRnEhgg68vfWJYJw1uHYvTBy4dmrILNCn3Q2XYQ-zhXKXp5Gpv770xrfOgrFmrjub-eugn9PEbJ4NmFDNt9XhF2f3P3K2VMgG2PSGwok2nZJtNn/s320/GW%209.23.22.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p>Call your dad. </p><p><br /></p><p>Littles Pond</p><p>23 September 2022 </p><p> </p><p><br /></p>Backwater Flatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11475601981925905945noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4225015040816343970.post-49170377780934832262022-09-16T03:59:00.004-07:002022-09-18T08:02:21.852-07:00Three Rivers<p>The idea for this trip was first talked about just before Christmas last year. Plans and itineraries changed as often as the weather did while winter passed through spring into summer. By the first of July we had set the date for me and Matt to meet up with Rich somewhere in Montana. His plan was to drive out there with his drift boat a week in advance of his wife and daughters travelling out for vacation. Once the girls were headed home, Matt and I would arrive, fish for a few days and then drive back east with him. In the midst of the airlines being FUBAR in early July, Matt and I opted to jump on Amtrak and catch a different view of America. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvfRnMgVv-2jZVfbtozAQDKJQmtzwJE2gT-wrlTgq10PcBbS4r1JqvD7kTsAL21ezhfqq8YQB5tbGJbi3T9hk8vugrhW2iZX1brBihVUVM_3A1-QS2KOUhC4iR1TEHQ5H2V3sxZ8APA1BvrfASw30T8ICZN0Ey2PQfZ9XuY_e_BeQONU6M2xHdee7D/s4032/MT1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2268" data-original-width="4032" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvfRnMgVv-2jZVfbtozAQDKJQmtzwJE2gT-wrlTgq10PcBbS4r1JqvD7kTsAL21ezhfqq8YQB5tbGJbi3T9hk8vugrhW2iZX1brBihVUVM_3A1-QS2KOUhC4iR1TEHQ5H2V3sxZ8APA1BvrfASw30T8ICZN0Ey2PQfZ9XuY_e_BeQONU6M2xHdee7D/s320/MT1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo: Matt Smythe<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">On a rainy Monday night in August, just shy of midnight we boarded the train in Rochester, NY bound for Essex, MT. The train ride is a story in and of itself that I'll file away for some other time. Thirty-two hours later the train stopped in Essex, the conductor ushered us out on to a small concrete platform alongside a dirt road, wished us well and then the train was gone. We threw our gear in the back of Rich's truck and got to the campsite just as darkness fell. </span></p><p>The next morning, we headed into Columbia Falls with plans to fish the North Fork of the Flathead River. We stopped at Lary's Fly and Supply to get what current information we could and pick up some local flies. As I poked around the fly bins, I heard the term "hoot owl" a couple of times in the conversation Rich and Matt were having with the girl working the counter. When we got back in the truck, and as I was obtaining my Montana fishing license on my phone, I asked what I thought was an obvious question.</p><p>"Where's this Hoot Owl River?"</p><p>There was some laughter and then an explanation that it referred to restricted fishing between two in the afternoon and midnight on water with low flow and high-water temperature. Luckily where we were headed was not "under hoot owl." I finished entering my information, hit submit and laughed to myself remembering a line from <i>Driving on the Rim</i> by Thomas McGuane while I waited for my license to appear.</p><p>"Giving freaks a pass is the oldest tradition in Montana."</p><p>It was written in a different context but seemed fitting as we headed out of town. </p><p>The Flathead and the scenery surrounding it took my breath away as we waded upriver. I've felt small out on the ocean and in the mountains here in the northeast, but this was different. It might have been the romanticism of finally being there reconciled with the images I had in my mind from what I've read about Montana. Or it might have been because it really is a big damn sky stretched out over mountain peaks, valleys and flat expanses that words and photographs really cannot fully capture. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij0uS5irrZvnMtAu6tuzyIMD2boPdmkI8whYnP6ClFGw5Esfsc7j0u-2M2GmTkPW4xM5olKWP5s4HLOh2Tz6HtWZFhYWSbPMAW1H8x_7iB-c774hQXcIrhxKoBCx6AcuF40Ygo3YlVSZI_iu2KJ7zxSNREVbVyRmsj-POykr2wWmMFplkJFZLzZGXd/s5921/MT2.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3947" data-original-width="5921" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij0uS5irrZvnMtAu6tuzyIMD2boPdmkI8whYnP6ClFGw5Esfsc7j0u-2M2GmTkPW4xM5olKWP5s4HLOh2Tz6HtWZFhYWSbPMAW1H8x_7iB-c774hQXcIrhxKoBCx6AcuF40Ygo3YlVSZI_iu2KJ7zxSNREVbVyRmsj-POykr2wWmMFplkJFZLzZGXd/s320/MT2.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo: MR</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Rich and Matt both began fishing with dry flies. Being the neophyte of the group, I stripped out line and started bombing small streamers across the river as I would for stripers here at home. Eventually I worked my way up to Rich as he started catching small cutthroat. Across the river, Matt began doing the same. I stood off Rich's shoulder and watched as he explained the process. A few fish later he rigged my rod with a dry fly and gave me pointers as I struggled with this new form of wizardry. He told me to keep at it and wandered downstream a bit. I watched him as he stood frozen staring at a small piece of water on the far bank wondering what he was seeing that I was not. And then he started casting. Short perfect casts, mending line and working the fly with a, for lack of a better description, delicate touch. He's a big dude, one of the physically strongest people I know. Watching him fish dry flies can only be described as a beautiful contradiction in constant motion.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrqSSTZnTURdF7kKif3IUDT0F7kMUr8tCX9z3RPTRDgXLwlTI7_DOymBgHNvIBtAUXNlZI7mp-jRQ08EoQQFdyf8J3VHuG7TH-fBtRSSy7D0lqZfQSLlfKnGRSk1FMq775ApUt9I0B_EF7Xz-9YUlvRWL_BHt39JP91DhBTNTokJcuhfOxCM_ebqCK/s4059/MT3.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2706" data-original-width="4059" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrqSSTZnTURdF7kKif3IUDT0F7kMUr8tCX9z3RPTRDgXLwlTI7_DOymBgHNvIBtAUXNlZI7mp-jRQ08EoQQFdyf8J3VHuG7TH-fBtRSSy7D0lqZfQSLlfKnGRSk1FMq775ApUt9I0B_EF7Xz-9YUlvRWL_BHt39JP91DhBTNTokJcuhfOxCM_ebqCK/s320/MT3.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo: MR</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p style="text-align: left;">We kept moving upriver as the day went on. I kept practicing. Before leaving home, I had made peace with the fact that I most likely would not catch anything on this trip. I saw it as a learning experience, something to build on. At the end of the afternoon my Intro to Trout Fishing class was upgraded as Matt handed me his rod, gave me some instruction and stood with me as I pulled the fly out of the mouth of a dozen cutties. And then something clicked. I set the hook and brought one to hand. Matt sat back with his pipe as he and Rich continued to coach me up and I caught a few more. I'll never forget that first cuttie, on that river, in front of those mountains and under that sky. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHJNLfPTSdjUJEkyt5bteqq2euetVerL4gXN_WPivX1Dao7SQU2uaStGT4VQQerIqa8opMiaeRzI4e7oa0KXK1FgHsnhxaVy4znQmGU3zHUGUjjoV2RGqTxwXfVncFaNtiPAj_wKdNlx_QhSawFY8PDswS0wElTA0l_62rw-u7P0_wdvFZgj3-OZGL/s3071/MT4.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2303" data-original-width="3071" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHJNLfPTSdjUJEkyt5bteqq2euetVerL4gXN_WPivX1Dao7SQU2uaStGT4VQQerIqa8opMiaeRzI4e7oa0KXK1FgHsnhxaVy4znQmGU3zHUGUjjoV2RGqTxwXfVncFaNtiPAj_wKdNlx_QhSawFY8PDswS0wElTA0l_62rw-u7P0_wdvFZgj3-OZGL/s320/MT4.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo: Rich Strolis</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p style="text-align: left;">That evening at camp we discussed where to go next. While I looked through the photo's I had taken during the day, Matt fired up the handheld computer and he and Rich looked at options based on what they had learned at Lary's. By morning coffee, it was decided to head south to the Blackfoot River. Along the way Matt found a place to camp at the junction of the north fork and the main stem of the Blackfoot. We got there mid-afternoon, quickly set up camp, rigged rods and set off up the main stem into a box canyon. </p><p>The boys alternated setting me up on pools, pockets and riffles. Eventually we spread out, Rich fishing above, Matt in the middle and me below. I took a break to get the camera out and watched Matt. Being on this river held great significance for him because of his lineage. We had talked about it on the train. Several years ago, he had written a poem titled<i> "Give Me Trails." </i>I thought of his words as I watched him move up the canyon and a few lines of the poem came to life before me:</p><p>"Give me trails.</p><p>I run solo but I am not alone.</p><p>It's in my blood. My Blackfoot ancestry. I feel them running with me and the hair on my neck and forearms stands on end. I hear them in the wind off the lake and in the song of leafed branches overhead."</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilCkVjpwX-RNjGnE5sNtY_rcJyjsCiSckBTRDn4bHV655EASSOI33MMBf4OeDqVEMQ8y1Nh7s-O_PUxorIQa1ChX1rGeLCx4TkKsnkCDZ_nMybJd16t7gIp5JqlMXzPy6hnrqi4ochYlfdG8b7hhwzeVyfm-DlUW8QeKzk29I6zgK3H1VdY-CI0Hmv/s3745/MT5.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2496" data-original-width="3745" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilCkVjpwX-RNjGnE5sNtY_rcJyjsCiSckBTRDn4bHV655EASSOI33MMBf4OeDqVEMQ8y1Nh7s-O_PUxorIQa1ChX1rGeLCx4TkKsnkCDZ_nMybJd16t7gIp5JqlMXzPy6hnrqi4ochYlfdG8b7hhwzeVyfm-DlUW8QeKzk29I6zgK3H1VdY-CI0Hmv/s320/MT5.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo: MR</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p style="text-align: left;">A few moments later an osprey flew overhead clutching a trout. I'm not saying there was some cosmic meaning to that event, but I will say there was a palpable energy in the air. We all felt it and mentioned it at the same time later that day.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFfdxJqY_ttWX6fgMdJ3pbuCgb3ac9RRAv7zi5QFsBP2gypfMfyBte8kBF75hpMlsY8RvRKHLsXQ6Z-keRJfm1U5koDFLjMd2n5ZYhml2-p0nfwUNLQ4oyx6ZlJaHnY5ROPVpZUA9EvygE84THhjMvXOxwYm0MZh7-ARg_8qI_VgMcfWd2DnJJgN0C/s1668/MT6.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1112" data-original-width="1668" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFfdxJqY_ttWX6fgMdJ3pbuCgb3ac9RRAv7zi5QFsBP2gypfMfyBte8kBF75hpMlsY8RvRKHLsXQ6Z-keRJfm1U5koDFLjMd2n5ZYhml2-p0nfwUNLQ4oyx6ZlJaHnY5ROPVpZUA9EvygE84THhjMvXOxwYm0MZh7-ARg_8qI_VgMcfWd2DnJJgN0C/s320/MT6.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo: MR</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p style="text-align: left;">We continued fishing up through the canyon. I found great joy in one tailout as I pulled the fly out of the mouth of two rainbows. I had studied the water, got myself into position and pieced together what I had learned so far to at least get the fly to a fish. Success in failure.</p><p>I caught up to Rich about the time we heard thunder in the near distance. The forecast had been for rain, a thunderstorm was a surprise. We decided it was time to get out of the river about the same time Matt came from upriver and said, "We oughta get out of the river." We worked our way back down through the box canyon looking for a way up and out. We had seen the canyon driving in so the road to camp had to be close. Matt took point and I brought up the rear trying to keep up without falling in. At the low end of the canyon Matt found a draw leading toward the road. I moved slow, deliberate and winded up it. We're all beat up and broken in places, I've just been around longer and earned a few more beatings. I fear it's starting to show. They waited for me at the top and I saw a momentary look of concern as Rich grabbed on to help me up the last step. Brothers, that's what we've become, not from a bond of blood but one of shared respect and allegiance. And they laugh at my jokes.</p><p>We found the road and got back to camp just as the wind picked up, the rain started and lightning followed. We pulled out the chairs, sat under a canopy of trees and watched the storm over cold beverages. This was the one time, at least for a few hours, during the trip that we weren't moving. </p><p>The next morning Matt got on the board early with a bull trout. This was what we had come for. A guide floating by offered us his net and I was able to net it for Matt. His first bull but more meaningful that it came from the Blackfoot. A moment both of us will remember. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoh657quwvnCbwq-dj_S4hkIqMvsMxec6qGEet0oqjmFqX-EHnLMIqcNJFAITt1g8RExDsPiVwqtIQKloQ7lcsV7UVDGgQzZvo8NUULXlrqtKZ21ez74C6ej60Ldxlho_36pFMRIaTSl_T_y5ng1QZKYv2jiAV5uy927XEMpINinlih8EtS1EVJad8/s6240/MT7.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoh657quwvnCbwq-dj_S4hkIqMvsMxec6qGEet0oqjmFqX-EHnLMIqcNJFAITt1g8RExDsPiVwqtIQKloQ7lcsV7UVDGgQzZvo8NUULXlrqtKZ21ez74C6ej60Ldxlho_36pFMRIaTSl_T_y5ng1QZKYv2jiAV5uy927XEMpINinlih8EtS1EVJad8/s320/MT7.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo: MR</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p style="text-align: left;">We moved up the north fork to catch up with Rich and along the way Matt gave me a lesson in swinging streamers. Cast, mend, raise the rod. Cast, mend, raise the rod. We fished our way past a sandstone cliff. In my mind I could see Butch and Sundance (the Newman-Redford version) crouched on the top looking down saying, "Who are those guys?" Cast, mend, raise the rod. Around the next bend I made a cast in front of a brush pile, mended the line and got bit hard as I raised the rod. Again, success in failure. We continued on for a while but after discussing the low water we decided to return to camp, pack up and head for Wyoming.</p><p>Our last day of fishing was on the Wind River. This was the highlight of the trip for me for the reason that it afforded the opportunity to use everything that Rich and Matt had taught me on my own. We parked the truck in a campground and walked the bank. Right off the bat there were rainbows holding in front of rocks and boulders. Matt worked one with a dry fly for a half hour while Rich and I did the same downstream. Matt eventually caught his, I was pleased with myself for getting mine to move on my fly several times. We waded our way upriver and I switched to swinging one of my own flies, one named after Matt that has caught just about everything in saltwater and freshwater. I really wanted one fish on the fly from the Wind. But only on The Poet. I fished below Rich while Matt went way upstream. Eventually I raised a rainbow on it, saw the fish take the fly, felt it on the line as it turned into the current and then as quickly as it happened it was gone. That was it for me. I hadn't brought it to hand, but it was enough. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTpcH45Tgv-i1XW6SrIMB0uuATm8js6PQWL3V0JyXSwpfM7cRlce0293KwRhJvuga24bgdUKdNhxUWApUs3WEpTwERO3_cqgNnJ9LxFLwN8RwklfTovQexhIF_T0I5cWHGhG1Xuji4kv318o7ZMf_RSVRy26Hvs9U7yUSqCg5pKRdiwPtUUG-GNndL/s4032/MT8.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTpcH45Tgv-i1XW6SrIMB0uuATm8js6PQWL3V0JyXSwpfM7cRlce0293KwRhJvuga24bgdUKdNhxUWApUs3WEpTwERO3_cqgNnJ9LxFLwN8RwklfTovQexhIF_T0I5cWHGhG1Xuji4kv318o7ZMf_RSVRy26Hvs9U7yUSqCg5pKRdiwPtUUG-GNndL/s320/MT8.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo: MR</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p style="text-align: left;">I made up my rod, stepped out of the river and walked up to Rich. He looked at me and said, "I'm done too, let's go have a beer and wait for Matt." We walked back to the truck, broke down the rods, changed into dry gear and were sitting down at a picnic table when Matt caught up to us. We sat and talked about the trip as we looked down the Wind. Since I wasn't driving, I opted for a second beer and walked back to the truck as Matt packed his pipe. On my return I looked at them both staring at the river in silence and was reminded of a passage Norman Maclean wrote in <i>A River Runs Through It:</i></p><p>"It was here, while waiting for my brother, that I started this story, although, of course, at the time I did not know that stories of life are often more like rivers than books. But I knew a story had begun, perhaps long ago near the sound of water."</p><p>Taking my seat at the table I realized this story didn't start in a series of text messages or at a train station in Rochester. It didn't start on the Flathead, the Blackfoot or the Wind. It started long ago in the Pioneer Valley of western Massachusetts, the Finger Lakes region of upstate New York and the western foothills of Maine.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirX9H88j7xSfnSe1kVYTzQ4zj-Lj8hP0OhcsVqLTLp0NqOHkI5ettAwaxx2p1iz3AJPmORKa3zbD1VkuTm8x_ZHFrpD8xqnw0XeZFxqYfOlV3j1rAc8c8E4c_3FoYmeydmCmuwXFEVX-fL8cmoIIjIM5WZKXiS4n5msx-ZYq0ild6prXaUmzk2RtPf/s2903/MT9.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2177" data-original-width="2903" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirX9H88j7xSfnSe1kVYTzQ4zj-Lj8hP0OhcsVqLTLp0NqOHkI5ettAwaxx2p1iz3AJPmORKa3zbD1VkuTm8x_ZHFrpD8xqnw0XeZFxqYfOlV3j1rAc8c8E4c_3FoYmeydmCmuwXFEVX-fL8cmoIIjIM5WZKXiS4n5msx-ZYq0ild6prXaUmzk2RtPf/s320/MT9.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo: random English lady</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p style="text-align: left;">Three lives.</p><p>Three brothers.</p><p>Three rivers.</p><p><br /></p><p>Littles Pond, MA</p><p>16 September 2022</p>Backwater Flatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11475601981925905945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4225015040816343970.post-82938531866352773292022-07-31T00:34:00.006-07:002022-09-21T20:35:51.586-07:00Gravity<p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>Being in the boat of one of the best fly tiers in the industry and author of <i>Catching Shadows: Tying Flies for the Toughest Fish and Strategies for Fishing Them</i>, 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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsJFhrqkRe6X_8HfZx0NA1Ce-DyYIoDgNCtVcU9_izA7dm-ZwKwImraWscdhW5G7fTf7jA9h8O1xr5DebV-dZjZWG52obkcAT-2tiOg4tF-tBISMpRE2mfEmuxV4n7azE9xjCWLwtrQSyebd1doOSHpRiHta0j-iuDZMgkTPCtcztekpwvnTxYtqsq/s1418/Gravity1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1122" data-original-width="1418" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsJFhrqkRe6X_8HfZx0NA1Ce-DyYIoDgNCtVcU9_izA7dm-ZwKwImraWscdhW5G7fTf7jA9h8O1xr5DebV-dZjZWG52obkcAT-2tiOg4tF-tBISMpRE2mfEmuxV4n7azE9xjCWLwtrQSyebd1doOSHpRiHta0j-iuDZMgkTPCtcztekpwvnTxYtqsq/s320/Gravity1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;">Photo: Rich Strolis</p><p>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. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeeqn8SMXOFwx8LYqKg7JjY_AVmgfgpXpIfSobpc-zjPz4M1-N_1Y-ZwarxnronqIdp13MObug5l017StyNY8jK61OiCKwIsCeRShxJWCrF9qAmfjW-dUqPruWfLXGW5fRQu2F73anF0M9UYMVWov_p1yfng6OsDdTgrVG5f5lVNi9XDKNvvbfJjm7/s1549/Gravity2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1549" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeeqn8SMXOFwx8LYqKg7JjY_AVmgfgpXpIfSobpc-zjPz4M1-N_1Y-ZwarxnronqIdp13MObug5l017StyNY8jK61OiCKwIsCeRShxJWCrF9qAmfjW-dUqPruWfLXGW5fRQu2F73anF0M9UYMVWov_p1yfng6OsDdTgrVG5f5lVNi9XDKNvvbfJjm7/s320/Gravity2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;">Photo: Rich Strolis</p><p>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."</p><p>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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR5N5YfT6RpCMmJvgM-EHOqIZw-AROejCMtoqMZ_0Q5sfu004DiwE7vjDmi_wlSQQEPru6Kx1wFXo6T0zEvlrclJzac-hs2PduUeShFj17V2MmaMFSdMXzcUXH3kvdkauTc0Po3Ywa9DD7tnsthAPqg4dWfJJzcVXPWp29jvbLiIp8YWRqoOhrV_lb/s3259/Gravity3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2172" data-original-width="3259" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR5N5YfT6RpCMmJvgM-EHOqIZw-AROejCMtoqMZ_0Q5sfu004DiwE7vjDmi_wlSQQEPru6Kx1wFXo6T0zEvlrclJzac-hs2PduUeShFj17V2MmaMFSdMXzcUXH3kvdkauTc0Po3Ywa9DD7tnsthAPqg4dWfJJzcVXPWp29jvbLiIp8YWRqoOhrV_lb/s320/Gravity3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">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.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuQzA5Sy6SXHm_aAUynPdQGkZm_9uzzV1pvV3QFRszuDlX-W1gZ65pBC6W1FKA73yzRj63f2kxArv6-qFju8UYXu-gstL7vp_GiHYB0DOm2sN_6gwHkhKDv8Klt4DgzMbWNN8OCiso1NqBVZmWAFK923pWhh5MSL3KY8xEUcapLqwKQdLm-KVBwR3q/s2622/Gravity4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1966" data-original-width="2622" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuQzA5Sy6SXHm_aAUynPdQGkZm_9uzzV1pvV3QFRszuDlX-W1gZ65pBC6W1FKA73yzRj63f2kxArv6-qFju8UYXu-gstL7vp_GiHYB0DOm2sN_6gwHkhKDv8Klt4DgzMbWNN8OCiso1NqBVZmWAFK923pWhh5MSL3KY8xEUcapLqwKQdLm-KVBwR3q/s320/Gravity4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;">Photo: Rich Strolis</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7bZIA2CTSQt0hPVwExIroarP59PGbqKNZnnC1wwTu_ZsAqT_N2xRYWfDRkidq03xkVwe2acFBMtYIq95gdO_gcPrz4bYEohPf99ioAybEOXxcLC_UiPCxJJOIWW5T-ApvTgfFmg2XVtzXCC6S5ClU09A-Jx7z5pR0XjtmD3r-JHB76t1hwm3oJ2Zz/s2709/Gravity5.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2171" data-original-width="2709" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7bZIA2CTSQt0hPVwExIroarP59PGbqKNZnnC1wwTu_ZsAqT_N2xRYWfDRkidq03xkVwe2acFBMtYIq95gdO_gcPrz4bYEohPf99ioAybEOXxcLC_UiPCxJJOIWW5T-ApvTgfFmg2XVtzXCC6S5ClU09A-Jx7z5pR0XjtmD3r-JHB76t1hwm3oJ2Zz/s320/Gravity5.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">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.</span></p><p>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.</p><p>It is a special kind of gravity.</p><p><br /></p><p>From the field</p><p>31 July 2022 </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Backwater Flatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11475601981925905945noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4225015040816343970.post-25973604490036731192022-07-21T22:21:00.004-07:002022-07-22T09:46:50.037-07:00hay bales and whiskey<p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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." </p><p>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."</p><p>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. </p><p>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.</p><p>"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?"</p><p>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.</p><p>"Those two couldn't wait to get away from here, said no way in hell they were gonna be farmers." </p><p>"Take it from me, Ed, every farm kid says that. I did. But I go back every chance I get."</p><p>"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."</p><p>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."</p><p>I looked at my watch and decided Esox could wait and accepted the invitation.</p><p>"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. </p><p>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."</p><p>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."</p><p>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.</p><p>"To old farmers and new friends."</p><p>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. </p><p>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.</p><p>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. </p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3OEe0CHR96XoETcR1NyzhhHEKt3-MUV6s9VaVednde3T1GIFeGWzn2mgFHF5E_1tRA6i4rN-De6Dj5TglMNEa2cp2f4LqhzuuN85d9CYC6Qfv29RCOH6rtHProw-xmgwwNIc73BFPlvUw0S8wVOL111af4MQM2DlYVShnH0KKp1-OlboJoz9stTRN/s4032/hay%20bales.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="2847" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3OEe0CHR96XoETcR1NyzhhHEKt3-MUV6s9VaVednde3T1GIFeGWzn2mgFHF5E_1tRA6i4rN-De6Dj5TglMNEa2cp2f4LqhzuuN85d9CYC6Qfv29RCOH6rtHProw-xmgwwNIc73BFPlvUw0S8wVOL111af4MQM2DlYVShnH0KKp1-OlboJoz9stTRN/s320/hay%20bales.jpg" width="226" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p>Littles Pond</p><p>22 July 2022</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Backwater Flatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11475601981925905945noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4225015040816343970.post-26447137838706492772022-07-13T20:42:00.003-07:002022-08-25T23:49:45.946-07:00Turnstiles<p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>Outside within.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>So, in the falling light tonight, I switched the fly rod to my left hand. It's going to take some time.</p><p>Hold my beer.</p><p>I'm stepping through the turnstile.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEtxgxNq9PTCRBqm27dqwfpj00BLfVZ3QD26qQgPUL7PSDNtuac4mLMIuCyg3Ex_NvGao9XWGDsnUx9AyZEsNYaEhxtnZt8882HUgSG4rEzaoDoGiArp8-KpaN8BQfj8DHPNPNdyIHK3MxDm-Zygc-tvtG5-gePlZflzPo_1rnHpWw18YJxY1BXkt5/s3803/Turnstiles%20(2).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3803" data-original-width="2853" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEtxgxNq9PTCRBqm27dqwfpj00BLfVZ3QD26qQgPUL7PSDNtuac4mLMIuCyg3Ex_NvGao9XWGDsnUx9AyZEsNYaEhxtnZt8882HUgSG4rEzaoDoGiArp8-KpaN8BQfj8DHPNPNdyIHK3MxDm-Zygc-tvtG5-gePlZflzPo_1rnHpWw18YJxY1BXkt5/s320/Turnstiles%20(2).jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: left;">Outside within.</p><p><br /></p><p>Littles Pond</p><p>13 July 2022</p><p><br /></p>Backwater Flatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11475601981925905945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4225015040816343970.post-28398776138221373072022-04-14T21:58:00.005-07:002022-07-23T22:52:26.673-07:00Please, don't bite your cork<p>At the start of the 2021 season, I said this year will be great. New job, no more 20 to 30 hour per week commute, work from home...I'm fishing. And it started like that. The problem was the striped bass were few and far between. The fishing Gods on social media posted a plethora of pictures of bountiful stripers on a regular basis, some were obviously of the same fish at different angles and views, I think there were even some wardrobe changes involved. But what I saw on the tube was not what I saw on the water.</p><p> I hit it hard for the first month. Twenty plus years on the same water, more time now to fish, I figured it would be, as the cool kids say, epic. It was not. The movement patterns of inshore stripers here combined with tide, moon, wind, weather and all the things I've watched over the years never materialized. It's been on the decline on for several years but last year left me shaking my head. To the point that by July I just didn't go out. I made a few short excursions just "to see" but I got black and white striped more than I saw silver stripes. By August, I resigned myself to hoping for the fall run. I just didn't fish. I went out in September a few times, picked up a few rats here and there and one fish over 28" but the numbers were not there, and they were not in the places I expected them to be. So I waited.</p><p>My birthday is in early October. It usually coincides with a big push of fish through the river eating anything that gets put in front of them. Over the last 15 or so years I've opted to spend that day or one near it by myself on the water. It usually starts about a cup of coffee after sunrise and ends about a warm can of Bud after sundown. This year started with the coffee but was fueled all day by water and Gatorade because I paddled and walked more miles in the backwater and marsh than I ever have. And I found fewer fish than ever.</p><p>I started out down The Avenue. First light, start of the incoming, usually a lot of small fish. Nothing. Stopped at the Sure Hole, spent longer than I should have. Nothing. Moved around the corner to the Bathtub, even the cormorants were confused. Shot up the Expressway, no signs of fish. A ton of bait in the breakdown lane, no striped bass. Took the exit to the Escape Hatch, usually good for one or two at the interchange over the Big Flat. Nope. Crickets. Ducked into the Small Bathtub, got out of the kayak and walked the edges and spent way too much time there. Still nothing. Took the Back Road up to the Branch. Years ago it was always a sure thing along the edges of the grass. This time, nada. Made it to the Branch and got out to walk the grass around The Bellagio. I got my steps in, practiced casting into the wind but that was it. Screwed out of Bellagio and parked across the river at the Back Door. I've never not caught at least the smaller striper I've ever seen there. Well, this time I caught one almost bigger than the smallest striper I've ever seen. And for like five minutes I thought this could be the turning point. And then it was ten minutes. And then fifteen. After twenty I bailed and headed into the marsh to the Secret Hole, The Big Hole, The Dirty Hole, and lastly the Branch Hole. Bait everywhere, cormorants freebasing sand eels and silversides, no striped bass.</p><p>I paddled out of the Branch about midday, headed for the mouth and picked my way out to the outside. I turned the corner and headed for the Olive Garden. This time of year, slack tide, they used to congregate in the rocks. Even bluefish would be mixed in. Not this year. I fished the Garden, the Outback, Sully's Tavern, the Mudslide, the Rockslide and the entire length of Bluefish Alley. One fish, about 20" came out of the boulder field at the bottom of Rockslide, Almost seven hours in and two fish. Happy Birthday.</p><p>I headed back inside and went upriver on The North to The Place That Shall Remain Nameless. Usually this is a low tide spot, but I was grasping for straws. The top of the mud was starting to show as the water dropped so I got out and walked its edge and made a couple hundred casts. About cast number Two Hundred and Six I went tight. A small shad, not what I expected but I was grateful. Grateful enough to get back in the boat and back to the South. </p><p>I peeled into the Bowl got out of the boat and walked the edge of the Back Corner and the Corner Store. It was getting late, I hoped it was all going to start to happen as it has so many times before. About the time I was ready to call it I got lit up just off the Corner Store. One nice fish on, two following it. I thought I was in. I was wrong. No code had been cracked, no pattern had been figured out, I just spent another hour practicing my cast.</p><p>The sun was getting low, I paddled across the Bowl to Dog Piss Beach. This is where I planned to make my stand. Drink my Birthday Beer, howl at whoever heard me and catch some fish. When I beached the boat and took stock of my perishables, I realized I didn't have my Birthday Bud and no one would hear me if I did howl. But I threw line anyway. Over and over. And then it was one fish. And a few casts later, another. And another. All cookie cutter 20-22" stripes. Four in about 20 minutes. And then crickets. But I kept casting. Into the dark. And then I headed for home. Paddling in the dark I recalled years past of twenty-five or thirty fish days, sometimes upwards of fifty on my birthday sabbatical. The times they are changing.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO9J7VCTGCkqTZ129pwcQlQCmjH4zp-bDudHvoAQa5i9pw1qIF2-gzLUwP1R0a06MCSsKI-YuKPLx-JFtdYuTw3AgH-BIWpviBqcX_dEJugazNWvoFKnnGRoWm6cBE6eyKai4cgpTWm0llitBxWyeWTneMoHQ4G0eDhnQmr9UqmfSEfmgr1qmqQ754/s2908/IMG_2988%20(4).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1939" data-original-width="2908" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO9J7VCTGCkqTZ129pwcQlQCmjH4zp-bDudHvoAQa5i9pw1qIF2-gzLUwP1R0a06MCSsKI-YuKPLx-JFtdYuTw3AgH-BIWpviBqcX_dEJugazNWvoFKnnGRoWm6cBE6eyKai4cgpTWm0llitBxWyeWTneMoHQ4G0eDhnQmr9UqmfSEfmgr1qmqQ754/s320/IMG_2988%20(4).JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p>I'll fish again this year. But it won't be all go no quit big nuts Harry Stamper (obscure Armageddon reference) fishing. The stock in my view, whether you "catch and release" on your own, meat fish or 6 Pack it all day everyday can't sustain it. </p><p>Striped bass are in decline. It cannot be disputed. We've seen it happening since almost the resurgence after the last crash. We've all played a part in it. We've all kicked the can down the road. So, what can be done? We can stop bitching about it on social media. Stop pointing fingers and get behind a management plan. The people who make these "management decisions" need to hear from those concerned with the state of the striped bass stock. Read my words, not the "fishery", but the actual stock.</p><p>The deadline for comments on the Draft Amendment 7 to the Striped Bass Management Plan is today, April 15, 2022. I'm not smart enough to understand all the science, I'm just a fisherman (fisherperson), but the folks at the <a href="https://saltwaterguidesassociation.com/">American Saltwater Guides Association </a>have put a ton of information and avenues for action together at</p><p> <a href="https://linktr.ee/asga?fbclid=IwAR1qStXtdpRBi_V1KurBa6vHlayWDiwOymCKiKS8J_jbHgaDIBHbNPRcb6E">American Saltwater Guides Association | Linktree</a></p><p>and</p><p><a href="https://saltwaterguidesassociation.com/striped-bass-amendment-7-public-comment-guide/?fbclid=IwAR0pgJTDWcPUDK3hOpbVKjfM5e1Y5dpCM0BgrQ56L0tTLq7hwiBfcpkEIlE">Striped Bass Amendment 7: Public Comment Guide - American Saltwater Guides Association</a></p><p>Today is the last day to make your voice heard.</p><p><br /></p><p>And please, in this year's posts, don't bite your cork.</p><p> </p><p>South River, MA</p><p>15 April 2022</p><p><br /></p><p> </p>Backwater Flatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11475601981925905945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4225015040816343970.post-75285529776130280262021-12-15T22:49:00.005-08:002021-12-16T07:26:09.915-08:00One Day in May<p> Miles and separate roads limit shared adventures but not
connection</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A day here a day there building sacred fraternal kinship<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The idea of just one fish binding both together<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This day on the water an escape from social ebb and flow<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Footprints fill from nowhere as lines straighten in the air<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Talk turns to what needs sharing to stabilize each keel<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Respite comes in shared silence staring at the liquid edge<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Broken conversation in between one catch and the next<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Each story different in minutia but familiar in the sum <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Sharing disillusionment with life’s veneer but fascinated by
its grit<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Sorting through lived memories while holding demons at the
gate<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Not seeking resolution just an understanding of old pain<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Alone in silent quicksand of struggle, time and thought <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Unaware of feeling lonely or left behind but sometimes not<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Floating in the company of ghosts contrived outside the
walls <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Or those self-created and held down deep in the mirror fore<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Tangled in the battle between the darkness and the light<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Finding steadfast refuge in the shadows at the edge<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Washed in the wonder of uncertainty between the question and
the answer<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Somewhere between faith and fate selflessly honest in the
quest<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Yearning to bleed on the blank page if only for the self<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Grounded in the knowledge that achievement is often
anonymous<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Apathetic of the limelight and its constructs so many seem
to seek<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Submerged in desperate hunger for the tinder which lights
its flame<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Grasping fledgling embers while they kindle heart and soul<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Finding bits of clear direction in the rising of the smoke<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One sits back in counsel as the conversation grows<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Until there is reversal as the subject matter shifts<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This goes on for hours until both are briefly settled<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">They turn for home in separate footsteps <o:p></o:p></p>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Having found that just one fish</span><div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj2gVAyphRQTfDXSJJ-yUQVnyeXiNR6M48Oj2V9rSphcYBNMf1Hifip54opRpDz1mYB4EPn5xpexVdhendPOAvK-E4ptBJNUwrY4nZpq1bN8tTq6s9PzMzfUW1kpI0pYlUCoMLXGzIKM3FA_quV0znxqeqADvqshsL5pzK1usanwmMBBnEPLPjvivQX=s4030" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2100" data-original-width="4030" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj2gVAyphRQTfDXSJJ-yUQVnyeXiNR6M48Oj2V9rSphcYBNMf1Hifip54opRpDz1mYB4EPn5xpexVdhendPOAvK-E4ptBJNUwrY4nZpq1bN8tTq6s9PzMzfUW1kpI0pYlUCoMLXGzIKM3FA_quV0znxqeqADvqshsL5pzK1usanwmMBBnEPLPjvivQX=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">South River, MA</span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">16 December 2021</span></div></div></div>Backwater Flatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11475601981925905945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4225015040816343970.post-40077440533587756472020-12-26T15:46:00.007-08:002020-12-26T17:53:58.100-08:00Wild Things<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> 2020.</div><p></p><p>It started out great. I had big plans based on the sum of 2019. Long days on old water, road trips to fish with friends on theirs. New stories to get out and make, others to watch and listen to. I had a shelf of empty notebooks and SD cards to fill.</p><p>Then the storm hit. For all of us. People got sick, people died, businesses closed, jobs were lost and our world changed hour by hour. Metaphorical drawbridges were raised in the name of practicality and trepidation. Nearly a year later it continues. Even as Covid-19 vaccines begin to make their way to the masses, the idea that we will ever "return to normal" seems inconceivable. Too much has changed.</p><p>I've been fortunate. I've worked everyday through the pandemic and remained healthy. It's been a struggle and concessions have been made, but the company I work for is still operating. Next week could be different. Everyday begins and ends with the question of what will tomorrow bring.</p><p>I've been lucky. I don't take it for granted. As it was for so many, the economic impact of the pandemic knocked on the door of our home. The company that Jill worked for furloughed most of its employees shortly after the initial lockdown and then soon after closed its doors and was gone. Like most we sat in the kitchen many nights wondering if this might be all that there is. The new normal. The line between hanging on and letting go that was once far out of sight suddenly could be seen outside the window.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnd1oGtO1NUfW9JSz0jD9-1_5cDfurwsUJtXIOWf8Mnp1eeMxeljSWHX6kxh27roQhMrlMXcLcCkXzlAPDBM_krtdv2a55w9QHzPCqyioMt_4d6OAO_eIBxbjI7t1Ph9_D2R80EZZyjQU/s640/WT+1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnd1oGtO1NUfW9JSz0jD9-1_5cDfurwsUJtXIOWf8Mnp1eeMxeljSWHX6kxh27roQhMrlMXcLcCkXzlAPDBM_krtdv2a55w9QHzPCqyioMt_4d6OAO_eIBxbjI7t1Ph9_D2R80EZZyjQU/s320/WT+1.jpg" /></a></p><p>But the human spirit is extraordinarily resilient. Outside that same kitchen window is our shed. The base for <a href="https://jillmasonart.com/" target="_blank"> Jill Mason Art</a>. Up until now, Jill's business was a part-time labor of love built on the dream of some day making it a full time endeavor. With a dismal forecast for returning to her previous career, she wasted no time in getting out there and changing the dream into a reality. Rather than waiting for something to happen, she's worked ten to twelve hour days everyday making it happen.</p><p>Parallel to Jill's story, her friend and former co-worker, Bonnie Frost, chose not to wait for the next career opportunity and started her own business, <a href="https://frostandfound.com/" target="_blank">Frost and Found</a>. In partnership with her landscaper husband, <a href="https://hedgesinclandscape.com/" target="_blank">Chad</a>, Bonnie took her passion for design and applied it to plantings, flowers and antiques to offer custom container plantings, sustainable arrangements and unique gifts for the home, patio and office.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOurePBP9MTRy9fYnX_Nh4v5pgEWHEpFoQTKWKOkFDw3Xlf3uVG5Q56sgg75wTkUmUe8zxvHfTyZ0qGMNvmCYp3oQilYHtfHPipRe60ONhvn5MNpwirudEIde5tDBN24xmF1-J2YIVyGs/s640/WT+3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="463" data-original-width="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOurePBP9MTRy9fYnX_Nh4v5pgEWHEpFoQTKWKOkFDw3Xlf3uVG5Q56sgg75wTkUmUe8zxvHfTyZ0qGMNvmCYp3oQilYHtfHPipRe60ONhvn5MNpwirudEIde5tDBN24xmF1-J2YIVyGs/s320/WT+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">The two of them recently collaborated to host an event, "The Jingle Barn," showcasing their work as well as </span><a href="https://southshorecandles.com/" style="text-align: left;" target="_blank">South Shore Candles</a><span style="text-align: left;"> for holiday shoppers. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh96ku8Ah9MmwvXVBteAXc86m28qR8zUDKwmfjyRBFXfbrQ-bsvdXEp49kLhc5EYXUnf8eVTfBxxH1jfgYlRtcw54lJM8eguXH6Gs8GCTrseLRqI2Hmci68149H69EyKsZdbED-d8SP-3Q/s640/WT+2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh96ku8Ah9MmwvXVBteAXc86m28qR8zUDKwmfjyRBFXfbrQ-bsvdXEp49kLhc5EYXUnf8eVTfBxxH1jfgYlRtcw54lJM8eguXH6Gs8GCTrseLRqI2Hmci68149H69EyKsZdbED-d8SP-3Q/s320/WT+2.jpg" /></a></div><span style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;">They worked on the planning of this for weeks and filled the barn at Bonnie and Chad's farmhouse with wreaths, floral arrangements, framed nautical images, Christmas ornaments and unique decorations. Despite hurricane-like conditions on the first day and cold temperatures on the second, the turnout was incredible, Not only was their work well received, but so to was the idea behind each of their businesses. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-WHLaVqYjQY-_PB6_2s-MJgiXR97KKtyKAM_mYjMso88Lnx4hEeUZHMIT1tJV-0vq3blBvDsS6k3C4qkgxbU1DvJ2EpaAGQavSnFC67gQ06ODICrD5My6WEBy9m8B3Z-wR6zviO5G76I/s640/WT+4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-WHLaVqYjQY-_PB6_2s-MJgiXR97KKtyKAM_mYjMso88Lnx4hEeUZHMIT1tJV-0vq3blBvDsS6k3C4qkgxbU1DvJ2EpaAGQavSnFC67gQ06ODICrD5My6WEBy9m8B3Z-wR6zviO5G76I/s320/WT+4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVNvqFR_llt36exENxDhMRSC7JfjBuSxO4od1GRCrW2RghHy6HrABm-MiDYsXMW-61dl3trSuJCZ7oDRoKszCRyKurKdOQnNhonnCqLAwKfPCmx5Vc9qORb7Guv0ok8Vw72_Peq-J_gSM/s640/WT+5.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVNvqFR_llt36exENxDhMRSC7JfjBuSxO4od1GRCrW2RghHy6HrABm-MiDYsXMW-61dl3trSuJCZ7oDRoKszCRyKurKdOQnNhonnCqLAwKfPCmx5Vc9qORb7Guv0ok8Vw72_Peq-J_gSM/s320/WT+5.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></span><p></p><p>At the end of the first day, as I poured a glass of wine for everyone, I said to the two of them, "I'm proud of you. It takes b*lls to do what you have done." Pardon my word usage, I write in my own voice and if you know me, well, that's how I speak. My point is, in a chaotic world and a down economy, starting a business is a questionable decision at best. And trust me, a lot of people have questioned their judgement. But they did it. And they're rocking it. Not to make a fortune, but to make a life.</p><p>As I've watched Jill and Bonnie leave their previous careers behind and build something new out of drive and determination, I think of those empty notebooks on my shelf. Selfishly I've thought all this time I was missing out on the stories I thought I'd fill them with because of the limitations thrown at us by Covid-19. As I sat down to write this I took a look around at "my people" I thought I'd find stories with and realize that they've been right at it working on and re-writing their own stories through the uncertainty of these times.</p><p>A few years back, in the film, "<a href="https://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=a+deliberate+life+film+vimeo&docid=608056284553151592&mid=73F3CFD34948098FA17D73F3CFD34948098FA17D&view=detail&FORM=VIRE" target="_blank">A Deliberate Life</a>," our friend <a href="https://www.mattsmythe.com/" target="_blank">Matt Smythe</a> made a comment about the chase of choice, chance and change. He said, "It's not going to be easy, but you can't go wrong."</p><p>He's right. And following his own words, in the midst of big life changes, Matt's gone back to his roots and rediscovered his voice and his focus. He's writing again. The good stuff. And continuing to inspire a lot of us.</p><p>My good friend, Rich Strolis, now semi-retired, is going at it full time on the vise at <a href="http://catchingshadows.com/" target="_blank">Catching Shadows</a> cranking out flies while he waits for things to get to a point where he can guide full time. His plans got slapped around by the pandemic but he's adjusted and grinds it every day.</p><p>Nick Santolucito spent almost a year planning his new venture, <a href="https://mdtackle.com/" target="_blank">M&D Outfitters</a>, only to have Covid-19 hit just before he launched the new shop. Like Rich, he adjusted and made it work. Every day. </p><p>My niece's husband, Max Ritchie, worked through the pandemic on his side project, <a href="https://www.instagram.com/carlisleislandoysters/" target="_blank">Carlisle Island Oysters</a>, and brought his first harvest to market just before Christmas.</p><p>The human spirit can be extraordinarily resilient.</p><p>I look at these people and what I've written and I think of my favorite poem, "Self-Pity,' by D.H. Lawrence:</p><p style="text-align: center;">I never saw a wild thing</p><p style="text-align: center;">sorry for itself.</p><p style="text-align: center;">A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough</p><p style="text-align: center;">without ever having felt sorry for itself. </p><p style="text-align: left;">With the year about to end, I'm thankful for all of you who have read the periodic posts here and all who continue to support whatever this place is. I appreciate it. And I wish us all the best in 2021.</p><p style="text-align: left;">And to the wild things,</p><p style="text-align: left;">You make my heart sing.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">South River, MA</p><p style="text-align: left;">26 December 2020</p>Backwater Flatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11475601981925905945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4225015040816343970.post-11777708852651826222020-10-30T15:20:00.003-07:002020-10-31T08:45:04.989-07:00Road Soda<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal">I say I don’t go inland. But sometimes I do. I still had
twenty minutes to go. My usual stop for gas and facilities in New Hampshire on
the way to Maine had been shortened by the closing of the facilities due to
Covid-19 guidelines. I soldiered on confident I could make it without stopping.
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">No dice.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Covid.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Fucking Covid.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The turn off Route 26 to the Poland Spring Campground gave
just enough room to get the truck off the road and enough darkness to hide me
from anyone passing by. I got out of the truck and picked a tree. I sighed a
breath of relief as disaster caused by the extra-large coffee, I had bought
leaving Boston was averted.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Standing in the pines I sensed the Maine in my DNA and remarked
quietly to myself that I most likely still remember every “emergency pull-off” in
Oxford, Androscoggin and Cumberland counties. In the cab of the truck Boz
Scaggs was just breaking into “Lido Shuffle.” I finished my business as Boz
declared “One for the road…” and thought about that for a second. I’ll be
honest, I thought twice about it. Both times it seemed like a good idea so I
grabbed an ice cold can out of the cooler in the back of the truck.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Before I get flamed by the comment police, let me state that
I do not condone, endorse or encourage drinking while driving. It’s poor
judgement and I made a poor choice. But I’m human. And I rationalized with the
Universe that my judgement may have atrophied a bit after enduring the cloud of
leaf smoke (you know what I mean) generously provided by my fellow rush hour
drivers on 93 through Boston and up Route 1.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Choice made, I took a spin around the truck to make sure there
were no lights out and got back in as Boz was finishing his set. I replaced him
with the boys from Van Halen, turned them up to 28 and got back on the road. I
took the first sip of the beer and toasted Eddie and his guitar. Then I toasted
the lore of the road soda and settled back in my seat and memories from long ago
as I drove into my past.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was making this trip to help my dad put nine cords of
firewood in the basement for the winter. Despite what I might have said and
felt about it back then, splitting and stacking firewood on the farm is one of
my fond memories of growing up. Mixed in with those memories are times riding
in dad’s truck after a day on a jobsite, hauling hay, moving cattle or those
trips along the back roads in the woods when I “needed a talking to” or the sacred
“attitude adjustment.” Good day or bad day, these were times that I treasured
because it was just me and my dad. And there might have been a road soda
involved.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Running with The Devil” flooded the cab as I took another
sip. That was one of my “Fight Songs” way back when and my mind returned to one
of those back-road drives in the woods. I don’t recall what cataclysmic event
triggered the ride into the woods, most likely it had to due with my general lack of
ambition when it came to school, work or anything I felt I was being forced to
do. I do remember the outcome because it was one of those life changing
moments. The lecture, like most, was short. I don’t remember the beginning or
the middle, but I remember the finale because dad had tears in his eyes and I
rarely saw him cry.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“You’ll never be smarter than everyone else. Your only
chance is to work harder and longer than everyone and make up the difference by
being stronger.”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And then silence. That was it. My first reaction was to be
pissed at him. Then I was pissed at myself because I knew I had let him down.
But it didn’t take long, after staring into the passenger side mirror the rest
of the way home, for me to understand what he was trying to tell me. It sounded
negative when I first heard it, but it was the best piece of advice I’ve ever
been given. Because I was his son, and he knew me. It changed me. Not
completely and not all at once but things changed. I took those words to heart
and they became my foundation. They propelled me through the rest of high
school, through college and along my twisted career path.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I took another sip and toasted the old man.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I turned off Route 26 towards Oxford Village and wandered
down memory lane again. A few years after that pivotal ride in the woods we
were riding in dad’s truck again, this time after pouring concrete all day at a
foundation job at Robinson’s Mill. I just happened to be driving past the mill at
that moment and stopped for a few minutes to reflect. Dad had given me a lot of
responsibility on that job and I had worked my ass off to bring it in right and
under schedule. While I finished floating the top of the foundation, he had
gone next door to Steve & Deb’s General Store and had come back holding a
paper bag. When I got in the truck, he handed me a beer and said, “You earned
this.” We headed for home and he commended me on the job I had done laying the
job out, setting panels and coordinating all the work with the excavator. And
then he gave me a $2.00 per hour raise.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I drank that beer and stared at myself in the passenger side
mirror again. And then I thanked him, not so much for the raise but for those
words years earlier.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I cranked the boys singing “Humans Being” back up to 28 and
drove the few remaining miles of my journey to my sister’s house. I sat in the
driveway and replayed it while I finished (for those keeping score) the last
half of my beer, grateful for the lore of the road soda and all that goes with
it.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Yeah, this isn’t about fishing or being on the water. It isn’t
about drinking and driving, loud music or the relationship between me and my
dad. It’s about us. It’s about humans being. It’s about working hard and being strong
to live a little better. For each other.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And Covid.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Fucking Covid. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’ll have another Corona, please.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvDiLeVnf21QyJUktGV07-Gtd941VksmsXB9iLjwj7lvBAAgJ2fxqt4DSPxdNkaM411o-nbg9SpIIIN_MLwrxnvfiloT9OaFvVcJ1fqT3aYWiPeM3e4LeXQ9YZaFGdaITfLxO7FJoY9EU/s699/MR+roads.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="699" data-original-width="525" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvDiLeVnf21QyJUktGV07-Gtd941VksmsXB9iLjwj7lvBAAgJ2fxqt4DSPxdNkaM411o-nbg9SpIIIN_MLwrxnvfiloT9OaFvVcJ1fqT3aYWiPeM3e4LeXQ9YZaFGdaITfLxO7FJoY9EU/s320/MR+roads.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Thompson Lake, ME<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">30 October 2020<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Backwater Flatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11475601981925905945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4225015040816343970.post-66345989166027738292020-08-12T15:01:00.005-07:002020-08-13T10:05:20.700-07:00Traditional Gray<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p><a name="_Hlk48146310"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The day began
in the gray magic between dark and light. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></a><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Mornings like this had been the norm for both of us all season but
today was different. Everything was different. The light beginning to creep
into the sky no longer had the “full speed ahead” energy of summer. Instead it
seemed to linger as it spread across the water, softened by the filter of
autumn. The air had changed as well, not a lot, but enough to notice.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Seasons were changing.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">We met at the boat ramp with the
usual handshake and bearhug. Little was said as gear was loaded and the boat
was splashed. The breeze met us as we headed out the inlet carrying a bouquet
of salt, oil fumes and baitfish. Weighing the time against the tide, we agreed
to run in search of bass and blues before heading to “The Spot”. We
found a few bass, but no blues. The tide slacked and everything went quiet. Before
moving on we changed rods and flies. As he finished, I pulled out bacon and egg
sandwiches I had made at 0300 and poured Folgers out of the beat-up Stanley I
have had since college. Talk turned to the reason we had planned this day for
weeks: albies. His clients the day before had been on them. Hard. We hoped for
a repeat performance.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">We motored slowly to “The Spot,” watching
the horizon for birds and any abrupt splashes in our peripheral vision. They
were there. As were three other boats executing the “run and gun” attack plan
on them. We joked about the proverbial old bull and young bull and set up on
the outside of the circus. I took the bow and began casting, watching the water
in front of us for sign. The albies blew up around us and we both got several
shots into what we thought was the zone. This happened several times as we
moved, reset, and waited. Between the two of us, at least one fish should have
made it to the boat. I paused to watch the bait as he continued to cast, curse
and retrieve. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Decision time.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I stripped in my sinking line,
grabbed my other rod with an intermediate line and opened my fly box. I tied on
an off-sized, off-colored fly and began casting. My choice received a chuckle
from the stern. I ignored it. A few casts later, as my drag was singing, I
heard, “You got any more of those?” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">It was a draw for the morning; four
albies each. Not a bad day. The action had disappeared and rather than follow
the fleet we discussed going back for bass. He pawed through my fly box as he finished
the last of the coffee. Holding up a zonker strip Deceiver he had shown me how
to tie years ago, he said, “Tie this on, the twelve weight, I know where we’re
going.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I sat in the bow and went to work as
he pointed the boat northeast. I finished rigging the rod and returned it to
the rod holder. As I took my place beside him, for the first time in all the
years of our friendship, I noticed he looked old. <a name="_Hlk48146557">His
face darkly tanned from another season in the sun and weathered from years on
the water</a>. Hair and mustache, once brown, I think, now a multi shade of
gray. The kind of gray you only see on the coast in the pilings and wood shingled
structures that have withstood the wind and weather and all that the sea can throw
at them. Shoulders, still powerful and square despite carrying not only his own
freight, but that of others. Eyes, still bright and all-seeing but tired around
the edges. Twenty years my senior, I hoped to be half of his sum at his age.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">We ran for nearly an hour and then he
dropped down to trolling speed. He told me to take the wheel as he stepped up
to the bow. “I was here two days ago and found something.” After scanning the
water around us he turned to me with that wild and crazy look that only he possessed
and said one word.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Tuna!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He handed me the twelve weight as we
switched places. It took a while, but he found them. It took just as long for
me, despite his patient coaching, to get over myself and drop the fly in front of
the outside edge of the school. For almost thirty minutes I fought twenty
pounds of muscle. I felt like I had just run a marathon and fought ten rounds,
all at ten thousand feet. My hands were cramped to the point I could barely hold
the fish as he handed it to me. He torpedoed it back into the water and turned
to me with that rabid look in his eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Let’s go get another one!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Okay, you cast, I’ll drive.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“You sure?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Oh, yeah. I’m spent.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He retied the leader as I motored
along looking for the tuna. We caught up to them as bluefin from twenty pounds
to a hundred crashed bait on the surface. I tried to get him in for a close
shot but kept missing it, apologizing each time as he got ready to cast and
then stopped.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“It’s ok, these bastards are smarter
than we are, just drive like we do for blues or albies…same thing.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Eventually I got him on, he hooked
up and I tailed the fish for him. A little bigger than mine and proportionately
more pissed off. True to his way, he spent the next fifteen minutes explaining
his process for approaching bluefin and running me through it at the helm. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">And then he pulled two warm cans of
Miller Genuine from the cooler and we toasted the ocean, life, and each other.
Smiling at me he said, “Buddy,” in that slow, low tone way only he could, “what
a fuckin’ day! Let’s get out of here.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The ride back to the ramp was long.
I stood beside my mentor and replayed the events of the day in mind as I fought
to stay awake despite the rough ride. I kicked myself for not bringing a camera
or thinking to get pictures on his phone. This had been a day for the books, as
they say. I wanted some record of it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">We hauled the boat and agreed to
meet up for dinner. We sat at the bar at Land Ho’ and ate, laughed and lamented
it would be next season before we would see each other again. I brought up the
fact we had not taken any pictures during the day, especially of the tuna. He
laughed and said something about bringing a camera next time.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“You know, the coolest part of the whole
day was that all the fish we caught today were on flies you tied.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Yeah, but most of them you showed
me how to tie.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He finished his whiskey, looked me
square in the eye and said, “That’s the best part. Family tradition.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The day ended as it had begun. A
handshake and a bearhug in the gray magic between dark and light. At a
stoplight I caught my reflection in the rearview as the lights from a passing
car lit up the inside of the truck. My face was darkly tanned from another season
in the sun and a little more weathered from another year on the water. For the
first time, I noticed a gray highlight starting to take root in my temples and in my beard.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPUrrHdmz-Hswt4gBB2ojFbgy3hI_H_tgj0nCSm9p75bC6GSUgWTIuMtvVgMkbYahTUpder7N_VDqy0ZN7vjguQoOAe65CjyNR1TxBT-2W6CVyHRaeaQnBjXp0YnxzDIJm44cIxI7xF80/s2048/Gray.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1535" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPUrrHdmz-Hswt4gBB2ojFbgy3hI_H_tgj0nCSm9p75bC6GSUgWTIuMtvVgMkbYahTUpder7N_VDqy0ZN7vjguQoOAe65CjyNR1TxBT-2W6CVyHRaeaQnBjXp0YnxzDIJm44cIxI7xF80/s640/Gray.jpg" /></a></p>
<p><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">From the abyss, September 2012<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">12 August 2020<o:p></o:p></span></p>Backwater Flatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11475601981925905945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4225015040816343970.post-7753136236969320212020-05-08T12:23:00.000-07:002020-05-08T12:23:33.800-07:00oscillation<br />
I only see him when I’m on the water. Sometimes standing
motionless at the water’s edge or walking deep into the mist that covers the
marsh. Sometimes he is just an outline shrouded in the blazing sun, other times
a blurry halftone image in the water just out of reach in front of me. I have
no idea where he came from, but I have an innate feeling I have been there. I’ve
watched him in the distance for a long time now. But as seasons pass, he draws
closer and I sense a growing familiarity. Long periods of stillness. An indistinguishable
face but with eyes clearly defined. A blank gaze visibly focused on the
distance. Periodic moments of slow, efficient movements. A slight limp to the
left. He often speaks in quiet conversation but to who I can not say. The sound
of his voice becomes more recognizable as these encounters continue, but I have
yet to understand his words. He stares at me with a look that is both confident
and lost as if awaiting my response. I hurl questions across the silence
between us uncertain if they are spoken or just thought. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unable to answer one another we stand in the
struggle somewhere between faithful and fateful listening for some far-off bell
yet to be rung. I turn away for a moment thinking I hear the echo. When I turn back
he is gone. Until the next time. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
From the water.<br />
<br />
8 May 2020<br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Backwater Flatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11475601981925905945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4225015040816343970.post-1691947314559519722019-12-31T13:07:00.001-08:002020-01-06T10:47:44.534-08:00somethng from nothing<br />
Around this time of year, we see and hear words like
happiness and joy tossed around and although I recognize the sentiment in which
they’re used, I wonder if we understand the difference anymore. It reminds me
of a conversation I had with a co-worker a while back while looking at a photo
of a fish that I had caught the previous weekend.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO9WLxJX-s6V2B4H_TP0hrq5Fod0CuFoJKhFCd-z_wvjDDGj87LfWpbqhVIGzsyaZxag-0FnTab_zZtIRmRC8LU6I7_Dn8Or0hMv1wWI3zqAvgDUdlDMqdxaLYcQbCLlxSfeatEB-56OQ/s1600/IMG_2010+%25281%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #0066cc; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1328" data-original-width="1600" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO9WLxJX-s6V2B4H_TP0hrq5Fod0CuFoJKhFCd-z_wvjDDGj87LfWpbqhVIGzsyaZxag-0FnTab_zZtIRmRC8LU6I7_Dn8Or0hMv1wWI3zqAvgDUdlDMqdxaLYcQbCLlxSfeatEB-56OQ/s320/IMG_2010+%25281%2529.jpeg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
A comment was made, more in the form of a question than an
assertion, that I “must find happiness in fly fishing.” I began to respond in
the affirmative and then paused, revising my response to say that I “receive joy”
from the process of fly fishing but that the end result, catch or no catch,
really has nothing to do with it. My co-worker seemed perplexed and asked why I
would spend so much time doing something if I was not concerned with some form of
a” prize” at the end. I dug way back in the memory bank to the psychology and
philosophy classes I took in college and the study sessions we had over cheap
beer. I explained happiness is corporeal, based on an attachment to an expected
reward of doing or receiving something. It usually accompanies a successful
completion of whatever is being done. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Joy
is ethereal, connected more to the spiritual side or reason for doing
something. The joy of doing something, if we’re lucky, is always present regardless
of the outcome.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I know, a little deep. And while it is New Year’s Eve, no, I
have not opened the tequila. Not yet. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I went on to explain the events, the process if you will,
behind the fish in the photograph. I had spent an hour fishing one section of
water along an edge of an oyster bar that dropped off into a deeper channel. There
were fish moving up on to the bar from the channel but were being selective. I
had a few follows but none would commit and take the fly. I had considered
changing the fly but the one I was using is my go-to pattern and I knew
eventually it would get taken. I explained it’s like the twenty-dollar Casio that’s
been on my wrist for almost as long as I can remember. It’s beat to hell, isn’t
fancy and just keeps working. Even when the battery runs out, it’s still
correct twice a day. <br />
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<br />
I kept casting at those fish, watching them follow the fly,
relying on the strong sense of confidence that years of the ebb and flow of
trial and error impart. It is still life’s greatest teacher, earned and then
learned. Eventually one fish followed the fly and turned off it and paused. I water-hauled
the fly and put it back out in front of him off to his left. I knew he was going
to take it before he did. Two strips into the retrieve he turned on it and ate
it. I felt “happy” as the line went tight, but it lasted only for as long as it
took it to release him. I have no immediate recollection of that “happiness”
today. The joy from the process of working those fish, staying with that one
fly, watching the take and then seeing him swim away afterward…I feel that as I
write this today as I do the blood in my veins.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
So, in the final hours of 2019, I bid all a Happy New Year
and hope that in that happiness, whether you fish or not, we all find joy in
2020.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
See you on the other side.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
South River, MA<br />
<br />
31 December 2019<br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Backwater Flatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11475601981925905945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4225015040816343970.post-75698565425374653122019-11-08T16:09:00.000-08:002019-11-11T12:40:34.515-08:00four days from my island<div style="text-align: left;">
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Today began without last night ever ending. Wide awake for most of it, I greeted the orange rumbling of dawn with a second cup of coffee on the front porch. The kitchen thermometer read thirty-seven, a clear sign the season is over but something inside me said, "Wait, not yet." Weighing the idea of beginning the fall clean up against floating the river one last time I walked through the leaves in the backyard and pulled the kayak off the rack. Ten minutes later I was paddling downriver as the sun finally made its way into the sky to my right. The river, empty, quiet and smooth as glass, reflected my thoughts back at me as I went from spot to spot searching for one fish to end the season on. Three hours of wet wading the mud and grass at the lower end of my tolerance of hypothermia. With no sign of any straggling striped bass, I turned and made my way for home making one final stop to throw a Hail Mary at my personal Last Ditch Gulch. There was no gold to be found but after two or three dozen "last cast's" the line went tight and I touched silver stripes one more time.<br />
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Cold and wet but feeling alive and happy, I sat on the sand wrapped around my coffee bottle as the sun finally created some warmth. I watched the light on the water and thought about the season, the people who drifted through it and the world on the dry side of the water's edge I sometimes don't see so clearly. In the here-today-gone-tomorrow, who-am-I-today, swipe left or right instant world, it's easy to overlook the heart of a moment and the soul of those in it. The truth in a personal or shared experience gets edited, filtered and defined by awareness, engagement, conversion and consumer metrics while we get lost in the "climb" with the herd. I find myself retreating from all that more and more, surrounding myself with fewer personae, less "stuff" and replacing screen time with listening to "Peace of Mind" by Boston over and over. Comfortable with where I am, I just don't care if I get left behind. I was recently at a cocktail party where an old acquaintance brought this up. After giving me his review of my personal and business social media pages and activity, he favored me with several suggestions to increase my "market presence" based on what other people in the fly tying / fly fishing world do. Turning away to visit the bar, I responded by paraphrasing Thoreau and asserting that fools stand on their own island of opportunity and look toward another land losing sight of their own existence.</div>
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I sifted these thoughts as I got back in the boat and paddled upriver, carrying my island with me.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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<div style="text-align: left;">
In May I spent a morning in the very spots I fished today with my friend and favorite writer, Matt Smythe. Our friendship is one of those where few words are necessary to share a complex conversation and when it comes to fishing, it's about the act of it, and the place that it occurs. Catch or no catch, it's the passion for the next stretch of water, anticipation of the next cast and the suspense of the retrieve we placidly share. It was a privilege to share that time with him as he got in on some early season striped bass action, the serenity of the day outdone only by his statement to me of, "I see why you're where you're at."<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Matt Smythe</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">Somewhere along the way Jill and I were fishing a piece of grass bank when she walked off on her own and set up on a piece of water I had pointed out earlier in the spring while explaining when and how to fish it. In short order she hooked up and released a striper on her own without saying a word. </span>There has been much written about fishing with your significant other. It may not be for everyone but it works for us. Jill and I both cringe when we introduce the other as "girlfriend" or "boyfriend," at our age it just doesn't sound right so we try to be hip and over-fifty cool by employing the term "life partner" when we can. We've looked at our relationship as a partnership from the beginning so it makes sense. It carries whether we're on the water, chasing an image or building a project on our "island." </div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Jill Mason</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: left;">
In August Jill, Abby and I traveled to Vermont for the annual Fly Fishing Festival at the <a href="https://www.amff.org/">American Museum of Fly Fishing</a>. I had the privilege of tying flies in the Tier's Tent with <a href="https://www.nhflytyer.com/">Scott Biron</a>, <a href="https://www.instagram.com/waterwolf_802/">Greg Brown</a>, <a href="https://www.flyosophycharters.com/">Mark Dysinger</a>, Rhey Plumley, <a href="https://coast-busters.com/">Nick Santolucito</a> and <a href="http://catchingshadows.com/">Rich Strolis</a>. These guys donated their time to help introduce people to fly tying, share some fishing stories and pass on a few tips. Behind the table, from years of friendship and respect for each other's work, we shared ideas and opinions with no lane changes, branding, influencing or pirating maneuvers. It was reaffirming to spend the day with friends, old and new, there for a shared love of the sport and respect of its history that is contained within the walls of the museum and understanding that what we do now is built on what was done by those before us.</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Left to right: Nick Santolucito, Mud Dog, Rich Strolis, Mark Dysinger</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Photo: American Museum of Fly Fishing / Alex Ford</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
The day got away from me. Lost in thought I had paddled farther upriver and out and back more side creeks than I had planned. I turned around and chased the setting sun and this last day of the season along the edges of my island.</div>
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South River, MA</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
2 November 2019</div>
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Backwater Flatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11475601981925905945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4225015040816343970.post-76195672462572844862019-08-15T16:40:00.000-07:002019-08-15T16:40:09.944-07:00avis prede<br />
Behind me I could hear and smell Sunday morning getting
started in the summer rentals along the beach. Voices of families planning the
day echoed over the smell of bacon and toast as the morning dog walkers,
joggers and paddleboarders made their way into the heat and humidity before it
got too uncomfortable. Over the beach an ultralight under a red canopy buzzed back
and forth.<br />
<br />
Across the river in front of me a few schoolies were ambushing
bait where the river proper poured itself into a shallow-bottomed creek. They
were well out of casting range but I had timed it this way hoping that when the
tide turned in a half hour the change in the direction of the river and the
push of water out of that creek would deposit the action directly in front of
me. <br />
<br />
I started blind casting while I waited out the tide, weighing the pros and cons of adding another payment “app” to my
fly business. I had spent the previous morning at the bank dealing with the
pleasantries of one of my accounts being breached. I remember a time when
things of this nature were treated as a major event worthy of investigation and
reprisal. Now it seems they are as trivial as getting an oil change or a
haircut. I guess I’m showing my age, but the idea of putting my financial
information out there in another area of the soulless faceless wireless world
was not something that excited me. Recently, I had conversation with a good
friend and customer about this. He happens to be from an “older school” than I
am but he’s hipper to the “new” ways. He basically told me “you’ve got to adapt
to survive.” Great. More usernames and passwords to remember.<br />
<br />
An osprey appeared from upriver and began circling the mouth
of the creek at about two hundred feet. I’ve become obsessed this summer with
watching two pair of these birds and their fledglings who nest near some of my
favorite spots. Also known as fish hawks, river hawks or sea hawks, they are amazing
to watch and listen to. Like many other species, the osprey was seriously threatened
by the effects of DDT and other pesticides in the mid 1900’s. With the ban of
these pesticides and other chemicals in the early 1970’s, at least here in the
US, the osprey population has rebounded significantly. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The osprey is one species that has adapted to
survive, commonly nesting, brooding and raising fledglings on the edges of and
within waterfront communities, marinas and urban sprawl. Another reminder that
the world continues to get to smaller as society grows larger. I wonder how
much more the planet can adapt to survive humankind. <br />
<br />
I watched the osprey circle above as I listened to the drone
of the ultralight behind us and wondered what the bird thought of it. Has it
accepted and adapted to our intrusion into its airspace or does
it think “…like, WTF?” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ironically a party
barge happened to be passing by while I contemplated the osprey’s thoughts.
There were five children and four adults aboard and all of them, other than the
driver of the boat were staring into their devices and tapping away. I thought
of the contrast between them and the adult osprey I had watched the previous
weekend flying with its two young in and out of their nest and over the marsh
communicating in whistles and chirps, fully immersed in the teaching of self-reliance. Yea. I’m pretty sure the
osprey watches us in disbelief. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
Suddenly the osprey dropped straight down on the schoolies
rolling bait across the river, flared itself to an almost complete stop just
above the water before dropping its talons in the water and coming out with a small
striper. The bird flew back upriver as I stood there humbled, and, honestly, breathless from what I had just experienced. The timing of the cast and the
placement of the fly, particularly when sight fishing a topwater feed, is the difference
between “fishing” and “catching.” At that moment it seemed a small feat to
master in comparison to what the osprey had just pulled off.<br />
<br />
I continued to cast as the tide turned but kept watch for my
osprey friend eager to see a repeat performance. As I had predicted, bait began to stack along the grass edge in front of me and it wasn’t
long before I had a few follows and a short hit. I opted to change to a smaller
fly. The smaller fly didn’t receive any attention, so I went back to the larger
pattern and bit off part of the tail and wing to shorten it. A few casts later the
line went tight and as I stripped a small schoolie to hand I heard the
high-pitched whistle of the osprey as it flew past me. I watched in fascination as it pulled
another fish out from along the bank just downriver from me. I released my fish
as the osprey flew past me close enough that even with my restricted vision, I
thought we made eye contact. For a split second I saw the bird silent and motionless, caught in the balance of its vulnerability to an environment constantly altered and consumed by another species and its innate proficiency at surviving by taking only what it needs from what is available. The silence was broken by an email alert on my phone and I instantly knew the osprey will continue to
adapt and survive long after we’re gone.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Au07SUSGEaOKpWpVgn7JbSgv02vj0SKzzySYJMTP8_QqwwMQrBV-Dy71gCA1MGO48bedC5SBmfGHkUtwyByGe-0oXi8JB6pNEt65EsUV-Q4CcnDws_JnXFlJmYHAZMktoWuUaZgWsbI/s1600/IMG_3609.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Au07SUSGEaOKpWpVgn7JbSgv02vj0SKzzySYJMTP8_QqwwMQrBV-Dy71gCA1MGO48bedC5SBmfGHkUtwyByGe-0oXi8JB6pNEt65EsUV-Q4CcnDws_JnXFlJmYHAZMktoWuUaZgWsbI/s320/IMG_3609.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
One fish was enough. I watched the bird disappear around a bend in the river and headed
for home to learn about Venmo.<br />
<br />
<br />
South River, MA<br />
28 July 2019 <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Backwater Flatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11475601981925905945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4225015040816343970.post-8440402410599040252019-05-15T13:09:00.000-07:002019-05-15T15:09:09.591-07:00A Life Encountered<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The idea for this
collection of obscure thoughts and trivial observations from the mud began
in early 2010. I was in one of those transitional places that life puts us in
and desperate to find something my mind could focus on that didn’t involve
lawyers or money. So I bought a ninety-nine cent notebook at Target and started
putting words in it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It took three years
of thinking about it, reading every fly fishing blog I could find, blind
writing exercises and lots of pages from that notebook being ripped out and thrown
away before finding the courage to hit the publish button the first time.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I found a few surviving
pages from that first notebook this morning filed away in an old folder in the back
of my desk at the office. I had been looking for them since teaching a fly
tying class over the winter and talking about a very simple fly that had been
shown to me by an older gentleman nine years ago. My encounter with him was
brief and random but became part of the underpinning of whatever this thing has
become.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">It was a Friday
night and I had been on a job site in Boston all day. Knowing beforehand that I’d
be coming out of the city late in the day and not wanting to sit in Cape
traffic on Route 3 I had thrown my gear in the truck with the plan of stopping
off in Weymouth and fishing one of my old haunts. It wasn’t until I got there
and reached in the back for my waders that I realized they were still sitting
in the driveway at home. I knew the water was a little too cool to comfortably wet
wade but the sun was still up and the air was warm. So I changed into a pair of
shorts I had remembered, laced the Timberland’s back up, walked into the water
and started casting.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I was a few fish
into the evening when the sun fell from the sky and the air cooled as it met
the water. I started to shiver a little and stood there for a few moments
watching the skyline of downtown Boston start to light up. That’s when I saw
him, off to my right fitted out in hip waders, a flannel shirt and one of those
old caps that train engineers used to wear. I walked out of the water, sat on a
rock where I had left my gear bag and a jacket and tried to warm up as the old
timer hooked up on nearly every cast. He was smoking a cigar as he fished and its
sweet smell washed over me bringing back memories of watching Pudge and Yaz
from the bleacher seats at Fenway.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I was thinking about
heading for home when he looked back, walked out of the water, stopped in front
of me and introduced himself as, “Name’s O’Reilly.”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“You lasted longer
than I thought you would.”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I laughed and said, “Yeah,
I forgot my waders in the driveway this morning. I’m an idiot.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He took a puff off
what was left of the cigar, looked back at the city skyline and said, “Doesn’t
make you an idiot. I forget things every day.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He leaned his rod up
against a boulder and sat down on a rock next to me. There was enough light
left that I could see it was an old Fenwick rigged with a Pflueger. I liked him
immediately. We talked for about twenty minutes…about striped bass in the
seventies, the crash of the population and how it had come back, his twenty
year hitch in the Navy and how much the world had changed in his seventy-four
years. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He pointed to the lights of
Boston with the cigar in his hand.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Life used to be
simple but the world got real complicated, real fast. It all goes too fast, no
one slows down anymore.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I nodded in
agreement and we sat in silence.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Taking the last puff
on his cigar he looked at me and said, “Life is like this cigar, at first you
think it’ll last for a long time, you can see it, feel it, taste it, smell it,
watch it burn to the very end and then linger in the smoke until it disappears.
And then it’s all gone.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He turned away,
looked toward Boston again and quietly said, “I’m in the smoke now.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He sighed, turned
back toward me and reached into his shirt pocket and brought out something
rolled up in aluminum foil. I thought it would be another cigar as he unrolled
the foil but it turned out to be four flies about five inches long. He held one
up, just a simple reverse tied bucktail with some flash in the core, and then
handed them all to me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixQlXMSyDLPVvrFocWIC4cwap_PsBMQTmIRTm5ZPT1KTZ2Yfc7VgXUo-sb9oBEuXcUxGa-9hnQrbvmAhrG17RBoUJGR7LxFlWtDbKnFmKGXdLMjm2rZ0X1gTXbZmiyUKZjchwqSu1CUy8/s1600/ORielly2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixQlXMSyDLPVvrFocWIC4cwap_PsBMQTmIRTm5ZPT1KTZ2Yfc7VgXUo-sb9oBEuXcUxGa-9hnQrbvmAhrG17RBoUJGR7LxFlWtDbKnFmKGXdLMjm2rZ0X1gTXbZmiyUKZjchwqSu1CUy8/s320/ORielly2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He pointed at my rod
and said, “I don’t know what you’re using, but this is the only fly I ever use.
It’s what has worked for me all these years. You take ‘em, kid, I don’t think I’ll
be needing them anymore.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He stood up and
pointed to a man not much older than me standing under the trees behind us and
said, “Guess it’s time to go. That’s my boy, keeping an eye on me like his
mother used to. Used to be I took him to the playground on Friday night, now he
brings me out to play.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I walked back to the
parking lot with them and shook hands with my new friend as his son helped him into
the car. He broke down the rod and as he put it in the trunk he explained his
father had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease and that while the days were
the hardest, his dad seemed to have more clarity in the evening hours so on
good days they would come out to make a few casts. I shook his hand and he
thanked me for spending a few minutes with his dad on what was probably his
last time out fishing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I’ve forgotten the
fish that I caught that night but I’ll never forget Mr. O’Reilly. I fished
those flies he gave me all that season. They caught just as well as other flies
I used but a fish on those flies had more meaning. I still build a few of them every
season and think of him every time I tie one on to the leader.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTELGKnRS5iApuFFGkMvmkR6wKO40Ai43HV6gzjyVbuDbsDbcYJbjcT3tuY6YI4qZfDvYQJXDEOAORUbsVPqqXd3KxyC7IyFGaeqLR6IsHvRyb-xh5w0NgriiyDATtPXUxKuOoLG4O3fk/s1600/ORielly1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTELGKnRS5iApuFFGkMvmkR6wKO40Ai43HV6gzjyVbuDbsDbcYJbjcT3tuY6YI4qZfDvYQJXDEOAORUbsVPqqXd3KxyC7IyFGaeqLR6IsHvRyb-xh5w0NgriiyDATtPXUxKuOoLG4O3fk/s320/ORielly1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The smoke may be
gone but the story lives.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">From the early pages</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">15 May 2019</span></div>
Backwater Flatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11475601981925905945noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4225015040816343970.post-10158631701813174252019-05-03T16:44:00.000-07:002019-05-03T19:14:05.309-07:00Bueller<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I walked to the
water tonight to start the season. I stood in a light rain being driven into my
face and studied the water. I had low expectations. The water temperature was
still a little low, the sky had rained more often than not for what seemed like
weeks leaving the water in front of me the color of iced tea and I had about an
hour left of the incoming tide. Not the most favorable conditions but every
season needs a starting point and all day long I had that gnawing feeling that
if I didn’t go, I’d be missing something.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I paused at the
water’s edge before stepping in and watched the rain drops leave little marks
on the surface before being almost instantly absorbed. Like the rain drops,
this place has absorbed my history. I smiled in the irony. For twenty years I’ve
come to this same spot for the first attempt at “getting on the board.” That
first fish of the season, what we all think about during the off-season. Sometimes
it happens, sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes it matters, sometimes it doesn’t.
It’s the experience that matters, the knowledge gained each time out, history
written by volume of sought experience, not volume of created content.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Out of habit, one
which I’m trying to break, I reached to my jacket pocket to make sure my phone
was there. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the back of my mind an
argument began with the Id demanding that if a fish were to be caught that it be
“photographed and immediately posted”, the Ego proclaiming “it’s just fishing”
and the Super-ego chirping something about buying in and selling my soul.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">It’s just fishing. I
stepped into the water thinking about that as I threw line. In fly fishing we
try to entice a fish, in this case a striped bass, to eat a cluster (sometimes
a Cluster-F.*#) of natural or synthetic materials tied to a sharp piece of
metal that we cast at speeds somewhere around 400 to 600 feet per second into
water that can be moving, in this instance, about 4 miles per hour, on a planet
that rotates on its axis at 1040 miles per hour while circling the sun at just
under 67,000 miles per hour. On top of that, while fishing, we can upload
images of our catches to social media from our phones nearly instantly at
speeds measured by Mbps. I have no idea what that is but it sounds fast. I’m
not smart enough to understand the physics of it all, it just seems clear that
the world is already moving fast before we try to influence it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">As I continued to stare
out at the water and work the rust out of my already marginal casting, I
thought of a notable quote from F. Bueller, the preeminent American philosopher
of the 1980’s:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">“Life moves pretty fast</span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">.</b> If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss
it."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">More looking around.
Less uploading. Copy that, Ferris.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">In the interest of full
disclosure, I did go tight to the first stripe of the season and I did take a
photo of it before I released it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">And I did post (upload)
it as a voice in my head chirped something about buying in and selling out. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">From the water</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">28 April 2019</span></div>
Backwater Flatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11475601981925905945noreply@blogger.com1