Tuesday, February 14, 2017
Today is a day of hearts. Frilly paper ones, professing undying Hallmark devotion. Floral ones, by the dozen, care of Cupid’s weary delivery boys. Culinary ones, consumed in a collective conflagration of candlelit tableaus. But the only heart that I am concerned with today is that which beats in her breast, for, as you read this, I am probably sitting in a surgical waiting room while she’s being prepped for a cardiac catheterization. Waiting. Worrying. My own heart, hurting.
She works harder than I do. At everything. Not because she has to, but because it's who she is. She's a wonder. But lately, as she’s busied herself about, she’s been feeling some discomfort that a stress test has determined to be probable arterial blockage. Given her family history, it’s no surprise, but it’s stunning just the same. I was supposed to be on a plane for Abaco this week, but the doctor’s pointed use of the phrase “without delay” changed all that. I sit here instead, no regrets, happy that we've gotten out in front of this and scared all the same. February 14th has new meaning.
So there's no elaborate cards, or flowers, or romantic dinners this particular day of hearts. It's become quite simple.
The only heart that I want is hers.
Monday, January 30, 2017
I had the great pleasure, the other day, of having lunch with the man who was a great resource and influence for me as I got back into fly fishing, some 20 years ago, and who later encouraged me to begin writing about it. It had been too long since we'd last gotten together and I was thrilled to see him doing well. As we parted, he called me over to his car and handed me this well-loved Pflueger 1492. There's no telling how many trout it had connected with over the years, but, knowing him, a lot.
The next day he sent me a link to a webpage that showed the history and progression of these Medalists, challenging me to identifying its age. It's just like him to not simply give me something, but to also make me reach, to teach me something with it; a gift more valuable than the reel itself. I owe the man more than he'll ever know, as do many who he's mentored over the years, fly fishing and otherwise. We should all have such positive role models in our lives.
And, Frank, it's a 1959. Thank you...
... for everything.
Wednesday, January 25, 2017
Hello. Remember me? I used to post around here every now and then.
Lots of excuses for my absence, none good. The holidays, not fishing enough, the distraction of guitars and travel and winter colds. Piddly stuff. But, in truth, the slowdown has been long-running. Were it not for these photo bins, the blog would be barren. Funny, as photography is far from my strong point. It's a source for talking points, however, so it seems as good a way as any to get started again.
The holidays raced by, and crawled at the same time. We spent the better part of two weeks on the road, north, starting with a family gathering in what I affectionately call the frozen tundra, Mary's sister's house in Indiana. It was a grey and frigid visit, this time, in stark contrast to our visit of just a couple of months earlier.
Luckily, whatever the weather, it's always warmed from inside by family in abundance.
From Indiana it was on to Chicago for the week before Christmas. I am fascinated by the city this time of year. Downtown is alight like a Christmas tree, though the dark expanses in the highrises show just how many folks escape to the 'burbs or places elsewhere (warm?) for the holidays.
Thankfully, the blues dives keep hoppin'. Cheery watering holes, made more so by the festivity of the season. If you've gotta have the blues at Christmas, here's the place to have them.
After spending time with family, my favorite thing during these holiday visits is to sneak out after the grandkids have gone off to bed and wander the residential streets of Old Town, particularly on Christmas Eve. Like the highrises, the normally parked-up streets are empty as folks have escaped the city, and the quiet, semi-dark avenues are a delight to walk along. A different experience for this southern country boy.
So there you have it. I'm back on the board again, post-wise, but there's plenty of catching up to do. Hell, it's almost time for another bin. We'll see if I can't do better than that in the coming weeks.
But then, you knew that.
What is a Photo Bin?
Thursday, December 15, 2016
This month's photo bin is a bit of a departure, although, given the slippery nature of these things, it's difficult to define exactly what it's departing from. Doesn’t matter. Truth is, a significant piece of my past came to an end last month and I’m feeling a bit melancholy about it. The bin seems as good a place as any to pout.
To a large degree, I grew up in the place. Not your typical incubator, a bowling alley, but it was mine from the age of eleven. I spent my happy time there, every Saturday morning, in junior bowling league. We learned to compete. We learned to be good teammates. We learned that kicking the ball return was bad form. We learned to be ready when it was our turn. We learned that throwing harder wasn’t necessarily better. We learned to make adjustments in increments - five boards on the approach, three at the arrows – both a lesson in geometry and a life strategy, though on occasion you had to scrap it all and let it rip from deep inside. We learned to cope with winning and to handle losing, perhaps our most important lessons.
When I could drive, I began to bowl in the adult leagues and I learned the same lessons all over again, but in different contexts. I scrubbed my first fender in the underground parking lot. I went to the university across the street while participating in leagues three nights a week and working three others, tucked behind the pinsetters, fixing ball returns, clearing 180s and deck jams, re-spotting foul-fallen pins and pretending to study my calculus in between calls.
I got my only A, those first three disastrous semesters, in a PE bowling class. I called the instructor's bluff on the first day and picked off, cleanly, a ten pin, then a seven, and upon re-rack buried a strike. He penciled the grade in and that was that; the highlight of my academic career.
I left the university, for a while, but not the lanes. I met my first serious girlfriend there. I met my first wife. My boys slept soundly in their portable bassinettes to the lullabies of crashing pins and ran the concourse as soon as they were mobile. We just let them go, knowing that they were safe and that growing up there was good.
I threw a 300, August 10th, 1987 (it says so on my ring), back when a 300 meant something. Only the second in the house’s then thirty-year history. Back before the days of perfect urethane surfaces, blocked oil patterns, and space age bowling balls. Old school lacquered wooden lanes and beastly Brunswick machines built by the Otis Elevator Company. Back when anyone over the age of five put three fingers in the ball. I threw it on lanes 11 and 12, a pair that I’d never really cared for. To this day, nearly thirty years later, I can account for every moment from the eighth strike on.
The place was my haven for thirty years, but life changes and I let it slip away for other things. In truth, lots from that time has slipped away, I’m afraid. But I’ve always known it was there. Now it’s not.
Progress is a beast that preys on the old and the weak. An ancient alley, wood and old iron, ultimately gives way to our society’s insatiable need to consume. There’ll soon be a new, sterile Target for the college kids to buy their “stuff” in place of that touchstone for a number of generations.
The doors closed on November 28th. I went back one last time, the day before. Business had ceased, but the place was filled with folks, like me, coming back to remember. Most milled around the approaches, the lanes, the concourse. I snuck into the back, behind the machines, and sat for a while…
…feeling right at home at Western Lanes, once again.
|Thanks, Mary, for this shot.|
What is a Photo Bin?
Wednesday, November 23, 2016
Her advance posters, displayed brilliantly up here on the ridge, were full of promise. The golds and oranges of her oak, maple, and sourwood vestments were adorned with dogwood red and holly green accents. Her wardrobe, exotic. And with the forecast calling for cloudless skies, it seemed the perfect time to wander down the hill to the river, to the big top, to gawk like a schoolboy as the beauty passed through.
There's one born every minute.
Along the river, Old Man Winter and his carnies had already started sweeping the debris of Autumn into the dust bin. Her costume, so full of paint on the ridge, stood threadbare in the river's basin, a pallet of tarnished gild. And the forecasted clear sky, that promise of stunning blue backdrops, was obscured by the pungent haze of wildfire smoke, carried the hundreds of miles from the western Carolinas and east Tennessee to settle into the cool trough of riverbed. I was late to the carnival.
But my disappointment quickly vanished as I opened my eyes to the awkward, tired beauty of it all. The closing stage of Autumn's striptease, that sideshow moment just before it all comes off. That final tired, smokey pause before all is revealed, the dingy curtain drops, and the crowd disperses into the night.
Fall's circus, as quickly as it had arrived, was on its way out of town once again.
Thursday, November 17, 2016
Time moves at a breakneck pace these days. Weeks pass in a blink, months in a heartbeat. Years flow by like rivers swollen with frigid spring thaw. And by all accounts our sense of time's passing only accelerates as we gets older. Age, it seems, is anxious.
All this to say that it feels like last month's Photo Bin was posted only yesterday.
But Autumn's arrived, as evidenced by the Haw River's bright banks and thinning overhangs. The next week or so should be spectacular. But that's for the next bin, I expect. For now, the shot above, taken the final day of October, will hint to what's to come.
Part of why it seems only yesterday that the last bin was offered is that there hasn't been much else posted here. For that you have my apologies. I've been trying to wrap my head around why I've slowed down here on the blog, why my scribblings have been few and far between, and am beginning to believe that a large part is my diversion into other pursuits. Mary commented this morning at the time I've invested in my guitars, now joined by this shiny new Gretsch. They're as bad as fly rods, I fear. 4wt and 8wt. Single coil and humbucker. Reels and lines like amplifiers and strings. Fly fishing and music. It's easy to fall hard.
I'm not the only one noticing this change in timing. The past month we've been graced by a multitude of lizards, out catching the last of this year's warmth. They've been everywhere. Tiny anolis scamper around the garden and the larger ones lounge in the deck plants. Eastern fence lizards fill the woodpile as I begin to deplete it. We have to take care as we go in and out so as not to invite all manner of lizardry into the house. (Okay, lizardry's not really a word, but I like it.) What I haven't seen lately are the sleek five-lined skinks. Guess I'll have to ask my naturalist friends about that.
Perhaps the most telling sign of the passing of the year is the arrival of the holidays. To me that means Halloween. Living where we do, we no longer get trick-or-treaters (and for that I am sorry), but we do have the opportunity to visit the Bynum Bridge which, on every All Hallow's Eve, is lined end-to-end with a rich array of carved pumpkins. Simple to intricate, there's a little of everything, and the air is rich with the smells of burning candles, hot pumpkin flesh, and the sweet, damp musk rising from the Haw.
I guess that will do for this month. I'll see you again, it will seem, in a couple of days with another.
What is a Photo Bin?
Wednesday, November 9, 2016
I don’t begrudge my fishing partners’ success when I’m struggling. Poor fisherman that I am, it happens most of the time. And I tend to not fish with folks who'd begrudge me mine in the rare event that I get a leg up on them. But I think that, after my seventh or eighth unanswered pike, Steve was getting a bit pissed.
Due to a snafu in weight planning, we were forced to leave a significant portion (actually, most) of our duffels and gear on the runway at the final outpost airport. We grabbed what was truly important for the day, our rods and some rainwear, and lifted off for the backcountry with assurances that the rest would be retrieved later that evening. Always uncertain about TSA’s disposition towards big, gnarly fishhooks, I'd buried my streamer boxes deep within my checked bag and didn’t relish the idea of throwing everything out on the hardpack to find them. Steve grabbed one of his more accessible boxes and assured me that he had us covered for the day.
After the final hop and a few moments for introductions at the lodge (without our luggage, there was nothing much else to accomplish) we jumped into the Crestliners and went in search of our first spring Northerns. As advertised, Steve had grabbed a well-stocked Bugger Barn and, after he took the first dig into it (selecting a shallow-running chartreuse streamer), I picked out a lengthy red-and-white Dahlberg diver, snapped in onto my wire pike leader and let it fly.
I'd chosen wisely.
The pike were all over the Dahlberg's action, that push of water and three-inch shimmering dive, and red-and-white turned out to be the color of the week. I was whackin' them, straight away. But Steve’s chartreuse just wasn’t cutting it and, after watching me boat a handful of toothy critters, he went back to the box only to find nothing like the fly I was throwing. I’d grabbed an anomaly from that particular box. A one-of-a-kind.
So he shrugged and started trying everything else, but nothing worked like mine. Each successive delve into the barn was accompanied with louder grumbling and an escalation in expletives. Of course, between fish, I offered to switch flies with him, but, ever stubborn, Steve grumpily declined. After a while, it got a bit tense so I returned to my casting and tried not to whoop too loudly as yet another pike crushed the Dalhberg. At the end of the day, the deerhair was in ragged tatters but the pike kept coming after it. Steve’s flies remained in mint condition.
Dinner was quiet that evening, until our abandoned gear finally arrived. Steve tore into it like pike on a red-and-white Dalhberg, digging out his other fly boxes and loading up all of the shallow runners he could find for the next day. And he wouldn’t take back the shredded deerhair that I’d plucked from his kit, the only fly I'd used all day. His pride, I suppose, would not allow it.
I guess that I should have felt bad about the whole thing, kicking his ass like that with his own fly. But, in the end, he fished circles around me - around all of us - for the rest of the week. He dialed it in and brought more to the boat than even the guides thought possible. Red-and-white, chartreuse, blue. He caught pike on them all. He was a monster. I like to think that I motivated him that first day.
As for me, I fished that poor Dahlberg until it was unidentifiable, no more than a limp red-and-white string, finally losing it in the jaws of a beast of a Northern when my leader failed, three days after our arrival and my fateful selection. It broke my heart to see it go. That fly was destined for permanent display when it got back home. Red-and-white remained my colors for the week, but nothing caught fish like that first diver.
And besides, it was Steve’s, making it all that much sweeter.
Monday, November 7, 2016
The best thing about Autumn is Summer. Indian Summer, that is. Shorts weather in November. Blue skies and brilliant sun riding high over a freshwater flood plane filled to just the right level. All it took was a short drag of the kayaks down a winding wooded trail to a notch in the cattails and we had the day to ourselves.
It doesn't get much better.
Fat bucketmouths, white crappie, redbreasted sunfish, striped raccoon perch. All that in twenty minutes from a postage stamp-sized hole we've dubbed "The Aquarium." An eight-foot-deep divot in the middle of acres of skinny water. A southern swamp blue hole.
So here's big thanks going out to my buddy Chris for joining me on a day, and in a place, just too good to keep to myself. With some luck, this Indian Summer will hang on just a little bit longer and we'll do it again soon.
Thursday, October 13, 2016
The Photo Bin series hit the jackpot in September. Not from a quality perspective, mind you, but from a quantity perspective as the camera got out a lot as I took on the Orvis 20 Days in September challenge. To date, I've shared one shot an outing, as you've seen in my previous quartet of posts, but there were a fair amount of interesting images beyond that. Here then, are a few.
Above, an abstract of the first signs of Fall, taken as I bushwhacked along the western edge of our neighborhood pond.
"I feel so relaxed here." - Marc Payne
Sometimes you just have to set up a slow drift, sit on a rock, and close your eyes to soak it all in. Then hope that the fish don't interrupt you. Dodging hurricanes, I escaped for a perfect visit to western NC waters, the Davidson River, with a good friend. Marc's and my fishing habits are diametrically opposed. I am a hit and run fisherman, constantly moving up/downstream. Marc can sit over a run for hours, patient drift after patient drift. He's able to narrow his focus, push everything out of his brain but the moment, and be perfectly content within it. I admire that in him.
But I'm still on the move.
A look down the power lines. An old fishing haunt I hadn't visited in years. A skunk. Now I remember why it's been years.
September wasn't all fishing. Soccer season was in full swing, though "full swing" is a relative term, especially considering 8:00am games. Too early for old men to be playing kid's games.
And after such weekends, everything needs to dry out. Me included.
A bit more abstract. I've enjoyed capturing reflections while on the water. Odd, centerline compositions, but fun. Here, crooked shapes found while kayaking in local backwater floodplains.
I finished the 20 Days challenge, quite literally, at the end of the road. Old highway 64 disappeared into Lake Jordan Reservoir some fifty years ago...
...but still exists if you know where to look. Two lanes of blacktop fading into the woods, but kept alive by the boots of fishermen
Despite the dire warning (and the possibility of a crap soundtrack), I found the bass near Chicken Bridge both numerous and willing, though a bit on the small side. Let that be a lesson to you, hip-hoppers.
What, exactly, that lesson might be I'll leave to you to decide.
So September turned into a fun month with the camera, from foggy sunrise to brilliant sunsets. Just right for the Photo Bin. Hope you enjoyed the images.
What is a Photo Bin?
Thursday, October 6, 2016
Day 16 of 20 Days in September. Took a stroll through The Rock Garden, a few miles downstream of my usual haunts. The fishing's usually suspect but it's a rock-hopping paradise. A big kid's playground. Sometimes you go just because it's fun.
On the homestretch for my twenty days. Hoped to add a little saltwater action to the mix during this final run but the previous week's weather stirred things up pretty badly down east. The prime flood tides were thoroughly negated by the dirty conditions so we pushed our plans into this second week of October. Right into hurricane Matthew. We can't catch a break.
So I kept it close to home and mixed it up a bit more.
Day 17 of 20 Days in September. We danced around one another for more than an hour; he understandably uncertain about me and I unwilling to scare away the first fishing companion I've had in a couple of weeks. Here he poses on the Saxapahaw spillway.
Day 18 of 20 Days in September. Was supposed to be floating a downeast flood tide today, looking for tailers, but the conditions said otherwise. So, instead, stayed close to home and dragged the kayak back to those Lake Jordan flood plains. Fascinating waterscape.
Day 19 of 20 Days in September. I mailed one in today. Simply wandered down the hill to the neighborhood pond for an hour and pitched poppers to bluegill. Didn't stress over an image. Didn't chase the hawg in the back corner. Every day out doesn't have to be epic. A lesson worth learning.
Day 20 of 20 Days in September. Seems appropriate to finish the challenge down old Hwy 64, two lanes of ancient blacktop that disappeared into the waters in the late 60s as the reservoir filled. That part of roadway that held higher ground is still quietly melting into the surrounding woods after fifty years. Quite literally, it's the end of the road for this 20 Days in September.
Here's a huge thanks to Orvis for putting on this 20 day event. It put me back on local waters that I haven't fished in years and pushed me to places I've been eyeing forever. It challenged me to look for opportunities as I traveled with family. It stretched my fishing. It stretched my photography. It, simply put, was a blast. Hope it was for you too, whether you got your 20 in or not.
Couldn't end it any better than that.
Note: To see all of these 20 Days posts, look here. Thanks!