Wednesday, July 28, 2021

Outsiders - Part 2


Note: Be sure to read Part 1 first or this conclusion won't make a whole lot of sense. It may not anyway but I'm afraid that's just the risk you take when reading anything in this blog. Thanks

Carter met Kyle, the first time, while chasing down a glitch in the drone deployment module of TaoZon’s two-hour-delivery system. The code was fairly straightforward but the storage and network bandwidth that it was consuming seemed excessive. Digging around the user interface, he found a back door to an old processor, an obsolete code repository, that was supposed to be idle but that showed a slow, steady ripple of activity. Carter had discovered URTH.


URTH, Carter figured out, was a hacked xchat partition that was being unwittingly hosted in TaoZon’s hardware, providing a dark web resource for fanatic environmental political discourse and doomsday angst. Open discussion of the environment had long been banned but had found quiet, illicit pockets here and there around the net. Dubbed URTH by its participants, the User’s Road To Hell, it was a bootleg outpost frequented by outsiders and the most radically pessimistic. Carter’s first instinct was to expose the hack but, just before making the call, two words in the storage dump caught his eye. Fly fishing. Further digging uncovered an obscure little thread where a handful of outsiders claimed to still be practicing the arcane sporting practice. Carter, remembering Grandpa, tumbled down the rabbit hole and landed on Kyle. The hack went unreported.


Kyle slowed the skiff once again and pulled a folded printout from inside the center console. It was a scan of a decades-old map of the city that he twisted this way and that, trying to align it with what little he could see ahead of them. Real maps were archaic, but necessary. The skiff’s navigation system had been rendered useless ten years earlier when all GPS transmissions were encrypted for exclusive use by government, military, and TaoZonapplications, ostensibly to take the teeth out of the plethora of cheap targeting apps that had enabled every two-bit militia or lone whack job with a drone to make their statement with a bang. In truth, the satellite feeds were getting a bit flakey anyway, what with the steadily increasing electrical disturbances and not-so-sporadic dense atmospheric activity. Cell coverage in the complexes satisfied the rank and file so the loss of satellite positioning had received little notice. Except, of course, on URTH.


It was in URTH, that the rumors of mass species migrations had begun. Whispers of immense refugee schools following the shifting thermoclines, being pushed by storm-stirred currents and driven by pollution cells the size of states. Third-hand scavy stories of seas thick with desperate life, escaping steadily north. Outsider fairy tales. Real info from what remained of Florida and the far southern seaboard was hard to come by. The snowbirds, and most everyone else, had returned permanently north, repopulating the Iron Belt, revitalizing the Cleveland and Detroit complexes, filling the bubbles. But for more than a year now Carter and Kyle had been digging. Carter covertly diverted TaoZon supercomputer cycles. Kyle provided meteorological models and data that could only have been obtained from behind industrial strength government firewalls, prompting Carter to suspect that this skill set was the root of his wealth. Together they chased every whisper, scrutinized each sketchy report, plotted each smidgen of gossip. They were obsessed.


Grandpa had been obsessed too. Carter remembered him talking with great excitement of fishing in the islands, back when the islands were habitable. Most of them were gone or scoured to featureless atolls by the non-stop storm traffic blasting along the South Atlantic hurricane express lane. Grandpa lived to see it happen and it broke his heart. Carter slid his hand into his coverall’s pocket and fingered the Bahamian ten-cent piece that Grandpa had given him, a talisman he didn’t completely understand but that he kept as precious, usually hidden deep in his sleeping pad. Hard currency was outlawed and only acknowledged on the blackest of markets. Cash and crime were synonymous. Despite the fact that its provenance no longer existed, the dime could put Carter in some deep legal shit. Just the same, he’d risked carrying it today, hoping that it would bring them good luck.


Kyle grunted with satisfaction, returned the printout to the console, and slowly pushed the skiff forward. Carter knew what he was looking for. Just north of what had previously been downtown there was a rise in the topography, labeled on the old map as Forest Hills. The “hills” now formed a shallow flat and was cleared on three sides by the sites of a submerged golf course, a shopping mall, and a mixed-use park. A hundred acres of elevated expanse overlooking the old skyline, now shin deep in brine and scoured clean by hurricane traffic. The sun was straight overhead when Carter tied off the bow on the rusting leg of a child’s swing set, a tortured piece of pipe rising out of the shallow waters. Kyle pulled the fishing gear out from under the gunnels.


A mix of old and new. Rods. Reels. Fly line.  Museum pieces and precise magnetic resonance replications, identical to the originals except printed in materials more suited to the elevated saltwater acidification. And flies. Extinct crab and shrimp patterns made with real feathers. Real feathers. For the hundredth time, Carter wondered where Kyle had acquired this arcane and expensive gear but he swallowed the question. They checked their knots one last time and the two settled in, Kyle sitting high on the poling platform and Carter, cross-legged, on the front deck, an antique (or a replica, it was hard to tell them apart) across his lap. They waited.


Grandpa had always said that the most boring thing about fishing was the act itself. He believed that it was everything else surrounding the endeavor that made it interesting. It was the people and the places and the deep, submissive appreciation of the natural world that resonated within the true fisherman. Angling was just an excuse. That had been easy for Grandpa to say.  He’d done it in the good times. He didn’t have to carry an AK or booby-trap his truck. No sneaking around the dark corners of the web to find others that shared his passions. The rain didn’t raise blisters and he could wade, unprotected, in most waters. Maybe even drink some. And he didn’t have to bury himself in denseweave, endure E50 boosters, or turn his skin yellow to avoid the sun that now beat unmercifully down on Carter as he sat on the sizzling deck. It was brutal being a fisherman; an outsider. The old man hadn’t a clue. Grandpa’s “everything else” pretty well sucked these days.


Hours, they waited. Carter, half asleep, adjusted his sun shielding one more time, fearing his nose was probably toast, and he heard Kyle muttering from the platform as he tweaked the parameters of the model on a pad that had also been hidden in the console. It was no use. They should have known it was all fantasy, that there was no truth any longer. Just another pile of “Moscow” on the net. The info trolls would have a good laugh if they could see them, sitting outside the submerged city, over the last high ground, frying like eggs. Crazy-ass, stupid outsiders.


Carter was pulled from his misery as a brisk breeze kicked up, a welcome relief from the stifling heat, and he looked up from the deck to see the shadow of a cloud sliding across the surface of the water, coming in their direction. Beyond that, another. Storm moving in, he realized, and checked the horizon to see how much trouble they were in. Getting caught in the open like this could get deadly ugly and he wasn’t certain that the electric outboard had the guts to outrun the squall. Storms didn’t need names to kill you. To his surprise he saw only piercing blue. Not a cloud in the sky.


Carter stood and checked the water again. A third shadow appeared and then a blotch that began to spread across the horizon. He heard Kyle gasp from the platform as the first shadow reached the far edge of the flat, poured onto it, segmented, and swirled about in exquisite, syncopated patterns. Crisp silver tails began to appear in the chop. The fly rods were forgotten as Carter stared at the miracle and began to understand what Grandpa had been trying to tell him.


The bonefish had arrived in Wilmington.

Note: This doesn't have to happen. Or maybe it does, at this point. I don't know. But for my grandson Carter's sake, and for the sake of all humanity, we need to wake up. Now.




Tuesday, July 27, 2021

Outsiders - Part 1


Carter tucked the denseweave up under his goggles to be sure that the bridge of his nose was covered. The sun was a mean one. It had been since the Christmas Bloom, twelve years past.

 They’d launched the skiff from the scavenger swarm’s makeshift boat ramp, just shy of mile marker 408 where Interstate 40 slips into the mid-Atlantic, and headed towards the city. Carter hadn’t felt entirely comfortable leaving the truck and trailer so close to the operation, but Kyle had assured him that his new security system would blow the whole rig sky high if anyone messed with it. The bright orange Mutual Destruct logo and legal disclaimers were clearly visible on both sides of the pickup and the heavy charges, enough to scorch a fifty-yard blast pattern, were plain to see in the bed. Even the scavies weren’t crazy enough to fuck with that. At least that was the theory.


It felt good to get out on the water. After being cooped up in the RDU TaoZon Corp distribution complex for months, Carter had jumped at Kyle’s insistence that they get out today. Some time on the deck of the 2 Little 2 Late was just what he needed. The forty-eight hours on, twenty-four off shifts spent coding and monitoring the byzantine pick/pack/ship algorithms were killing him. His eyes felt permanently crossed from staring at computer screens and his nerves jangled from the company-supplied stay-sharp pharmaceuticals. The hiss of the wake and the soft purr of the electric outboard were the perfect antidotes to Carter’s shack nasties. That’s what Grandpa had called them, shack nasties. Back when the shack nasties weren’t just part of everyday life.


It was Grandpa who had introduced him to fly fishing, though Carter hadn’t taken to it right away. He’d grown up more familiar with the bustle of Chicago Metro, hard on Lake Michigan, and the comforting, womb-like squeeze of the urban complex around him. The steady heartbeat of humanity. But that pulse had developed a disturbing arrhythmia and when the TaoZon gig took him further south, against the flow of the general population, he’d gone in search of the steadier beat that the old man had once tried to reveal to him. It hadn’t been easy to find. 


Kyle put the skiff on plane and they skipped along the submerged highway bed, leaving it only to avoid the occasional elevated overpass or scavy barge. The scavengers were busily moving up and down the corridor between their base near the boat ramp and the USS North Carolina, currently lying on its side near the Castle Hayne exit. The battleship had been lifted from its memorial park moorings as the icecaps collapsed, then was pushed inshore, capsized, and beached by Hurricane Yvette a few years afterwards. It was now a colossal deteriorating hornet’s nest, mottled gray, swarming with scavy activity, resonating with the hive hiss of acetylene torches and the pounding of hammers and compressors. They gave it a wide berth. Just the same, Kyle reached up under the gunnels and loosened the wraps on the hundred-round Akmatic that hung with the 8wts. The gun was illegal, though everyone had one. It would be a pea-shooter compared to the firepower that the scavies had tucked away but Kyle would go down swinging, if it came to that. The hive paid them no notice.


Once clear of the battleship, Kyle killed the motor and scanned the southern horizon, his bare arms and face glistening with sweat and salt spray. Carter envied that exposure. Carter was covered from head to toe in his denseweave. Today’s UV would have fried him. Most days’ would. Even with the shielding, he’d still need an E50 booster when he got back to the complex. He’d have exceeded his fifty hours of exposure. His hand moved unconsciously to the injection site on his hip. E50s hurt like hell, but lengthened the odds against melanoma. For most it took years to accumulate fifty hours out from under the bubble. Many never did. This would be Carter’s second in nine months.


But Kyle didn’t have to worry about layering, tracking his hours, or the discomfort of the E50s. Kyle had real money and had undergone the permanent, single-dose skin cancer vaccine, a treatment stumbled upon during the development of non-surgical face-lifting techniques. The inadvertent intersection of modern medicine’s two major research initiatives, cancer and cosmetics. Kyle could handle most outside exposure as long as he kept his eyes protected. The downside of the one-time treatment was that his skin now bore a permanent jaundiced yellow shade, like an old, deep bruise, his lips almost purple. That morbid pallor set him apart from everyone else, branding him instantly an outsider. Kyle didn’t care. When you have real money you don’t have to.


Carter had never asked Kyle where his bankroll came from. Resources like Kyle’s usually came with some level of dubiety and knowledge bore liability. Legality and morality were slippery concepts and the serious profits were realized where their footing was least certain. Carter steered clear. A day on a casting platform was more valuable than satisfying his curiosity. Grandpa once said something about the close examination of gift horses. But then Grandpa had said a great many things during those lazy summers on the homestead, most of which made little sense at the time to young Carter. And even the lessons Carter had grasped were inapplicable these days. The Bloom had changed everything.


Christmas Eve, Carter’s senior year at Tech, as if a switch had been flipped, Greenland’s permafrost gave way to the warming environment and the tundra exploded with color. Flowers unseen for millennia blossomed wild and fragrant, exotic grasses grew at phenomenal rates, and ancient insects emerged to buzz and crawl around the new Eden. The Church announced it a Christian miracle and proclaimed it proof that God still existed. Sanctuaries filled. But by New Years Day it became clear that the miracle was not the work of any benevolent deity. All warm-blooded life in the region – fox, reindeer, polar bear, man – began to hemorrhage and die, torn apart by the prehistoric pathogens that had also been dormant deep in the frost. Borders were closed. No one went in. No one came out.


But the real surprise was the plume of chlorofluorocarbons that had either been trapped during the previous century’s excess or mysteriously cold-brewed from an unknown natural recipe. Environmental science, long pushed into the shadows and now resembling autopsy more than research, had no ready answers as the gas went straight to the ozone and began poking holes in the earth’s UV shield. No one knew exactly how or why the CFCs had accumulated but it was begrudgingly acknowledged that what comes out of Pandora’s climate box often defies explanation. Untreated long-term sun exposure became deadly and the gossamer shields, thin as soap bubbles, began going up, floating high above main population centers.


Kyle found what he was looking for, though there wasn’t much to see. A few scattered cell towers, long-stripped clean of their electronics by the scavies, poked their tops above the dark swells and a half-dozen islands of discarded plastics floated here and there. He re-keyed the outboard and swung to starboard, leaving the interstate’s channel and heading toward the heart of the city. He grinned. Carter did too, though it wasn’t apparent through his sun protection. If the stories were true.... 

Note: This piece was written just shy of three years ago and published on Hatch Magazine as an entry to the Conservation Hawks Media Challenge, a writing contest focused on the ongoing climate change issues. Things ain't getting any better so I thought I'd resurrect it here as a reminder (as if, given what's going on these days, a reminder is really needed).

Many thanks, again, to the uber-talented Jake Keeler for the sketch gracing this piece. See a second, and the rest of the story, here tomorrow.

Monday, July 12, 2021


Shivering, hunched down into scant layers that aren’t getting the job done, it occurs to me that it’s been over a year since I’ve been cold. Not chilled-so-I-think-I’ll-get-a-sweatshirt-from-the-closet cold, but teeth-rattling, bone-aching, finger-numbing cold. First-run-in-the-morning cold. Beneath the discomfort, the sensation is glorious.


As Mary and I each have some years under our belts and skeletons in our medical closet that could make infection life-threatening, we’ve isolated ourselves quite drastically this past year-and-a-half, our world shrunk to the twenty wooded acres surrounding the house with an every-other-week run to the grocery (arriving, of course, at 6:00am as the doors are opened, in hopes of empty aisles). We’ve ZOOMed with our neighbors for social interaction. We’ve withdrawn. You may think us foolish, but so be it. 


That bubble, the place into which we’d taken shelter, has been climate-controlled; the thermostat sliding between 70 and 76, depending on the season. Those early-morning grocery runs preceded by remotely started truck-warming. Walks in the woods taken appropriately dressed or deferred during extremes. Our thermal conditions have been as regulated as our human interactions. We’ve remained comfortable in uncomfortable times.


But comfort has costs, inertia the worst of them. Despite vaccination, our return to the world has been slow. It’s been too easy to hold on to the routine, well-established during this past pandemic, and to look for reasons to maintain it. We’ve lived, and lived well, but in the comfort zone of reduced scale and scope; the temperature, consistent and even.


So now, as I skip across this lake, five states away from my bubble, as I huddle deep into my Gore-Tex for the first time in too long, I remember how much it can hurt. How cold can coalesce into a single, sharp point of focus, driving deep into your being and obliterating everything else with a numbing pain.


Pain that means I’m alive again.

Wednesday, January 27, 2021

The Kid

I watched through the drizzle as the small herd edged closer to our bird feeders and to Mary’s beloved forsythia. They’re a bold bunch here, not terribly afraid of my shouting or waving, but wary enough to walk away should I physically infringe too far into their personal deer space. Already low on sunflower and with the forsythia’s early blooms looking tasty, I resigned myself to another soggy intercession and reached for my muck boots.
But before I could slide into the galoshes, the herd, as one, lifted their heads and peered into the woods just outside of my view, around the corner of the house. There was no tension in their posture, as might be caused by a coyote or stray dog, but, instead, a wary interest. I, too, paused to see what played out. But several minutes passed with the herd’s distraction unwavering, so, tired of waiting, I walked through the house to an east-facing window to see what was holding their attention. It was The Kid.
I’ve spotted The Kid a handful of times as he’s limped through the woods, his malformed right foreleg hanging loosely as he forages. He’s a young spike buck with either a birth defect or an early injury that’s arrested his peg’s development, leaving it several inches shorter than its counterpart and with questionable sturdiness. I’ve seen him attempt to use it for support but once, while bending low to root in the leaves for food, and it wasn’t pretty.
As he approached, the herd (a collection of does and yearlings) began to move slowly away, in time with his awkward advance. They wanted nothing to do with him. As to whether their rejection was due to his gender or his disability, I cannot say, but I anthropomorphized it as both. He’s always alone.
I love observing the wildlife here, but it’s the unfortunates that really take my heart. Last summer it was a house finch whose limited flight was painful to watch, day in and day out. Like The Kid, the bird was perpetually shunned. I think that’s what affects me most deeply here of late. More than their imperfection, their isolation. Life’s hard enough when one can’t fly well or is hobbled profoundly, but to be left an outlier for it is cruel and beyond my understanding. It’s one of nature’s brutal truths, I can’t deny, survival of the fittest, but it’s difficult to swallow. I feel their loneliness.  
As the herd melted back into the woods and The Kid continued towards the house, I slid the muck boots back under the desk. I wouldn’t be chasing him away as I would have the others, even if he eyed the forsythia. And after some thought I stood by the window, quietly, where he could see me, hoping he might get used to my presence; that he might have some company, odd as that seems. At my appearance he paused and considered my intrusion for a moment, then resumed his clumsy march to the feeders, scattering the mourning doves as he arrived. 

Monday, June 8, 2020

The House Finch

I’ve grown attached to the little guy, a regular at the feeder for the past month or so. You might wonder how I can tell this particular house finch from the swarms of others that come and go from this station, but he’s not hard to pick out. There’s something not right with him.

At first glance I thought him a fledgling, small, just out of the nest and not entirely into his wings. But as he’s come and gone over the ensuing weeks his movement has never improved. There’s no glide in his flight. He struggles to stay in the air, moving in short, frenetic bursts, forward and upward a foot or two, falling back half of it, and repeating until he slowly works his way to his next uncertain perch. More butterfly than bird. I walk faster than he can fly. But he gets there, usually. It’s not clear whether his impairment is physical or neurological but staying airborne seems terribly hard work and it breaks my heart to watch. For him, it’s supposed to be effortless.

He must roost close by, somewhere at the edge of the woods that surround our house, for he’s clearly incapable of long distances. And he’s always alone as the other finches shun him, even chase him away from the feeder which is hard to watch. Surprisingly, he’s not intimidated by the bigger birds – the doves, the cardinals, the woodpeckers of various sizes - that come and go as he sits at his meal. He’s even tolerant of my presence as he's the last to flee when I approach to replenish the seed. He takes to the air only when I get within arm’s length. I interpret this as courage, but it may be that flight is so difficult that, despite the fear, he avoids it until there’s no other option. I suppose there’s a fine line between the two, if one at all.

He seems happy enough, though, sitting for long stretches at the limitless flow of safflower. He’s a sympathetic little fellow and for him I’m careful to keep the hopper full. I worry that he won’t be around for long.

At first, I assumed that my attachment was purely compassionate, that I felt sorry for this poor little creature and his handicap. But as these difficult Covid weeks have passed, I’ve come to realize that there’s more to it than that; that we’re birds of a feather, this finch and I. My flight, like his, is impaired; my range also limited by circumstance. We now both stay close to our feeders, leaving them only when absolutely necessary, invoking that odd mix of courage and fear. We are each removed from our breed. And, at the end of the day, I’m concerned for both of our futures.

Poor little house finch. I wonder if he dreams of soaring. I know that I do.

Tuesday, June 25, 2019

The Elephant

No one will look at the elephant. No one will speak of it though it sits just outside the front window of the Dalwhinnie, all gray and dank and dour, staring in at us as we gather for breakfast. Heads down in our eggs, our coffee, our phones, we try to ignore it, knowing full well that every man around the table knows that it’s out there and that knowledge is killing us. There’s talk, but it’s small. Inconsequential. A mouse next to the brooding beast that drips outside the glass. Even the eye contact among us is fleeting, lest the elephant be reflected in our glance for others to see.

We know what the elephant wants. It wants our submission. It wants our surrender. It wants to come in and sit down on us, to crush us under its massive flanks, to envelope us in its forlornness, its despair, its gray void. It wants to take away our Beaver Island fishing day.

Kevin says that there’s one thing worse than missing a day on the Lake Michigan carp flats due to the weather and that’s dying in his boat. At our core we know this, but we are slow to give in to the inevitability. The longer we can ignore the creature just outside the window the longer the carnival can go on. So we each pretend that the elephant’s not there and wait for someone else to break the glass. We sit, the six of us, and hold our breaths, knowing that eventually the beast will get what it wants but not wishing to be the first to give it the satisfaction.

In the end it’s done for us. A passing local casually asks “You guys going fishing in this stuff?” and with that the great gray pachyderm waltzes in the thrown open door on twenty-knot winds, jumps up on the table, and does a pirouette on the paper napkin dispenser. We all look up, first at the local, then at the elephant, and Steve dispatches them both with a short, annoyed “No.” The tension is released like a midway balloon at the end of the water shoot game and the elephant disappears before it can get a proper gloat on.

We breathe again, and start thinking about tomorrow and the next act.

Wednesday, March 13, 2019

Fragments: Actual Fishing

Contrary to the run of play around here, this is a fishing blog. I suppose that a Fragments from the water should be included. Stay wet, my friends.

Q: So, Kevin, what makes a good carp flat?
A: Carp
Beaver Island, MI, June 2015

They were rising like porpoises in the Pipeline. Big, fat Elk River cutthroats. To what we weren’t sure but the first red-assed ant we floated through there got hammered so the game was on. Now, there’s no way there’d be ants riding that torrent, but the red-asses looked enough like something else to work so we went with it. - Elk River, BC, June 2014

“Technical.” “Presentation.” Scary words after four days of fat, stupid cutthroats on hoppers. - Missouri River, MT, June 2014

First fish in Alaska, a robust four-inch rainbow. Outstanding. - Agulapak River, AK, August 2015

An hour flight to the coast, slightly upstream, looking like tidal marshes of North Carolina but for the mountains on the near horizon. Nicked silvers as they came into the fresh water, sea lice still attached and bright as a new dime. Hooked up on my second strip and all hell broke loose. Flexed the Scott all day long. James said fifity fish. He might be right, though I stopped counting at three. - Bristol Bay, AK, August 2015

I couldn’t set a hook to save my life. A fish needed to be suicidal, impale himself on the fly for me to stay buttoned. Thankfully, cutthroat can be like that sometimes. - Caribou-Targhee National Forest, ID, August 2018

When you’re a rookie on the flats it’s hard to discern between not being able to see fish and there not being fish to see. - Long Island, Bahamas, June 2013

Grayling in numbers, a few rainbows, colored up silvers, a sockeye, and a lake trout. A variety on flesh and bead. Should have gone to the strike indicator earlier but James insisted on calling it a bobber and I couldn’t bring myself to it. - Wood-Tikchik State Park, AK, Sept 2015

Monday, March 11, 2019

Fragments: Alaskan Airspace

The journal entries from my Fall 2015 adventure in Alaska are rife with references to flying. They deserve a Fragments of their own. In chronological order:

As comforting as it is to have your gear with you, carrying on a rod case has its downfalls. You have to listen to everyone’s fishing stories at each gate.

7:30am - Sitting on the tarmac at RDU. “We have a minor maintenance item. Shouldn’t take too long.” Yeah, we’ll see. Visions of missed connections dance through my brain. I knew the day had started too well, skating through TSA as I did. Like catching a fish on the first cast.
7:35am – Rolling again. Just the gods tugging at my ragged edges. They do that when I fly.

I’m toast, though the sun has not yet set. I’ve gained four hours as I’ve flown to the west and I feel the weight of them.

Tantalizing peaks as we fly from Anchorage to Dillingham and seat 5F is a window. Unfortunately, it looks straight into the engine cowling of our SAAB 340. Shit. I get a good, brief view as we bank hard to the north but I don’t have the camera ready. As it turns out, the mountains are just getting started. But so are the clouds. There’s no winning.

There’s talk of the president’s arrival at the small Alaskan airstrip in Dillingham. Big news. Concerns about folks who live in the bush not knowing about the visit and trying to fly their small aircraft in for supplies. No radios, no warning. What to do? Escort with F15s? Shoot them down? It’s a worry.

Flying has been a bit of a nightmare for me. My Baja debacle two years ago (mostly of my own doing) got that ball rolling. Commercial flying is no fun anymore. At the mercy of the airlines. Delays, packed planes, tight connections or long layovers. Flying the Beavers gets rid of all that. Delays are elemental, quite literally; understood and more easily tolerated, and the flying is at levels that let you appreciate the world. Closer to the real.

I've been here but two days and I’d happily put down the fly rods and just soar for the rest of the week. Black spruce, juniper, birch, scrub willow, alder, fireweed, caribou moss, salmon and crowberries. The Autumn tundra is stunning when viewed from a De Havilland.

After flying back through iffy weather in the tiny puddlejumper, we prepare to load into the ground transportation for our return to the Dillingham airstrip and our departure for home.
Now comes the dangerous part of the trip.”
Statistically speaking?
Yeah, but not just that. Look at this VAN.
I see his point.

Thursday, March 7, 2019

Fragments: On the Road

More of the Fragments series. Miscellaneous excerpts from my journals. Today, realizations that fishing travel is not without it's challenges.

3:30am. Alarm rings. Seems like I just closed my eyes. Probably did. But we need to hit the road north for our early flight out of San Antonio. Where’s your ruby slippers when you fucking need them? - South Padre Island, TX, April 2012

Four guys standing in front of the airport at 2am. Piles of gear. Crammed into a cab for the Days Inn at the truck stop. Crashed hard. Hotel at the intersection of interstate and industry. Woke to the sound of diesels. Shuttle back to the airport for our rentals, less than four hours after our arrival. Toasted already and we've just gotten started. - Missoula, MT, August 2014

The ferry is a roller coaster. Attendants running back and forth with crisp white barf bags, both empty and full. The Polish couple behind us is playing Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” on their cell phone. We all hope to God that she’s right. - Culebra, Puerto Rico, March 2015

Flew out of Raleigh at dawn. By 1:00 I'm nicking drum off the pier while waiting for the others to arrive. Buzzed on Kaliks by 4:00. Damn fine start for the week. - Abaco, Bahamas, February 2016

Destination fishing is not all sun and hookups. If you can’t find a way to enjoy yourself with your mates or the locale on a crap day, save your money and stay home. - Dulac, LA, January 2018

Hitting the wall on day seven. The roomy SUV that comfortably held the four of us has shrunk to clown car proportions. But I’ve been here before and know that it’s just something I have to push through. An inevitable part of the road trip cycle. So I grit my teeth and try not to lose it. Hang on tightly to my last nerve. By day eight it’s all good again and will stay that way. But, on day seven, I seriously hate my fishing partners - Location and time withheld to save a few friendships

Kilometers, not miles. Goddamn I always forget. - Fernie, BC, August 2014

Monday, March 4, 2019

Fragments: Self Awareness

More of the Fragments series. When reading back through old travel journals I regularly stumble onto things that shine a light into the dusty dark corners of my "self." Here's a handful that do just that, whether I like it or not.

The truth is too precious to be beaten to death for such trivial narratives. I might forget some things or the facts might not quite fit the point, so, for expediency, I’ll just make them up. But don’t worry. They’ll be true enough. - McAllen, TX, May 2014

What do you do?” I’m never sure how to answer that. I’m retired? I fish? I write, though not professionally or seriously? The real answer is probably “I do nothing” but that’s harsh, both as a response and a confession. - Anchorage, AL, August 2015

Destination fishing trips only seem real while I’m in them. Not before. Not after. They’re a slice out of time, completely disconnected from the bulk of my life, but they teach me a bit about my life. Each trip seems to have a lesson. What lesson will this one bring? - Dillingham, AL, August 2015

Saturday night sick. Too many Kaliks, too much fried conch, a splash (or three) of Kahlua on ice. It all didn’t mix. Sat hugging the toilet thinking “What if I die here?” I seem to have that thought often on these trips, though seldom for this reason. - Abaco, Bahamas, February 2016

Headed out for Box Canyon. Snowing. Wet, nasty snow. Two weeks ago I was in the Bahamas, standing on the bow of a skiff under brilliant blues skies and warm, tropical breezes. At home, today, it’s 85. What the hell am I doing here? I know where I belong. And where I don’t. - Last Chance, Idaho, April 2017

I’ve decided that I’m not a particularly entertaining fishing partner. An observer rather than a participant, if that makes any sense. - Beaver Island, MI, June 2017

My father was the next thing to a hermit but on rare occasions he loved to be out. To visit. He was the life of the party but often in ways he did not intend or recognize. He was a one-off but did it with great enthusiasm. I suspect that I’m more like him than I'd care to admit. - Pittsboro, NC, date unknown

Lesson #3: Pack duct tape. I always break something. - Craig, MT, April 2017

Note: My thanks go out to my big brother, Chris Hunt, for the image at the top of this post, taken as we kicked around in the light surf off the back porch of the house we rented just outside of Nassau back in 2013. In truth, I have much, much more to thank him for than that. Get back on your feet soon, bud. There's more fishin' to be done.