That Reminds Me of a Story...

We caught fish.
More than that,
We made stories.

Stories that we’ve told over and over.
Stories that make us laugh with every telling.
Stories we will continue to tell, over and over,
As long as we’re here to tell them.
Stories that will keep you with us forever,
Now that you’re gone.

Some true.
Some with a kernel of truth.
Some we’ve made true in the telling.
It’s hard to remember which are which any more,
As if it really mattered.

We gathered together tonight and told them again.
Set aside the vises, the hooks and the feathers,
And, instead, tipped a glass or two.
Told the stories one more time.
Laughed with you as if you were here,
When, in truth, you were.
In the stories.

It may have started with fish,
But not a single tale tells of the catch.
They tell of falling overboard,
Of getting shit-faced,
Of putting our foot in our mouths at the worst of times.
They tell of broken rods, bent transoms, and anchors tossed overboard unattached.
Too many are poop or fart stories, I'm embarrassed to say.
Funny at six and at sixty. Boys will always be boys.
They make us laugh at our ourselves and we deserve it.
No one is spared,
For they are our stories,
Yours and ours.

Yes, we caught fish.
More than that,
Much more than that,
We made stories.

Shorelines

I am captivated by tree-lined shores

Sharp-edged delineations between water and sky

Where the world turns upside down

Where the heavens are reflected, shimmering

Where existences mingle and take on alternate affection

Interleaved edges of reality, air and liquid

Fluid, each, in their own etherial ways.

Here, Saskatchewan.

Note: On most browsers you may click on the images for a better look.

The Dance

We dance with the winds. Play cat-and-mouse with thunderheads. Skip over the salt that swirls in the erratic patterns of spooked bonefish. We circle, circle, circle, to outflank the looming cataclysms, to hide behind keys, to sneak around stray sheets of showers in search of hidden blue skies, to simply get out of the blow that comes impossibly from all sides at once.

Tides shift in minutes, ignoring their lunar influence. Instead are herded like livestock, driven mercilessly by tempestuous phantoms, whipped to a bellowing froth. Stampeded across the mangroves.

Flats empty, then fill, then empty again. Whitecaps in eight inches of brine. Now five. Need to run but no depth to get it on plane. Rumble out slowly, painfully, the grey wall closing in behind. Find a depression and spin the skiff hard, pirouette, slingshot to speed. Escape. Run for the next tack, too stubborn to give in, too hard-headed to go home. The waltz goes on.

Boreas. Zephyrus. Eurus. Notus. They toy with us. No. That’s flattering. They couldn't care less of us as they romp amongst themselves for control of the empyrean. We’re collateral. Insignificant. The Marles are theirs.

But in between the skirmishes we find tails, waving in the chop like crisp silver flags. The bones don’t care about the firmament. It's just air and they have no interest in it. Noses down, not up. Get a fly to them, they eat. And they run. In defiance of it all we laugh and we celebrate our own small conquests, lesser gods that we are.

The winds note this hubris and we dance once again.

this blue moon

this limbo, this midnight, this blue moon

dark as Death at the edges
quiet as the grave but for the sweep of a paddle through still waters
and the soothing wash that trails a sixteen-foot Old Town under pull

when it's my Time, I forgo the ash,
lie it gently at my feet,
and slide silently towards the light

the spark manifests, full-faced, above the eastern tree line,

illuminating this liquid rent in the forest with bright monochrome

black and white, dark and light, somehow both

soundless to the center, in flight o'er the stars that shine beneath me,

waters as deep as the Milky Way reflected, the Universe above and below

I glide to a stop between worlds

here to sit
here to stay
here to spend my Forever in this stark transplendency

but I am mistaken, it's not my Time

as much as I might wish it to be

my immutable Forever's not yet mine

for there's one on the shore that awaits me

a love that keeps me afloat

so I must scatter the stars with my stroke, once again, and return

but not right away

a minute, an hour, an eternity I'll pause 

to savor

this limbo, this midnight, this blue moon

North and South

We rumble north, encased in our glass and our plastic and our steel
They travel south, clad only in feather and down

We crawl our concrete, gouged crudely into the earth to suit our desires
They ride the winds, following the invisible compass of generations

We tote our possessions as we have an insatiable need to acquire
They carry nothing; they need nothing, but each other

We motor, metered by mile and schedule and manifest
They soar, for the sun said the second was right

We go north, we are Lords of the planet, and we can
They go south, they are Impulse, and they must

North, we have conquered the season
South, they know only to embrace it

Oh, how we need to turn back

The Field

Withered stalks, golden and brittle
Rattle restlessly in the autumn breeze
Like skittering beetles or mice in the walls
Soft spectral voices on incessant breaths
Whisper to the recesses of my conceit
“We’re here”

What hides from the light in the deepest of rows?
What watches at night from the edge?
What waits for me, waits for me, to come see for myself?
To come be a part of the field

I’ll know soon enough for the harvest approaches
The ears hang low in their submission to time
And what waits in the rows doesn’t vex me as much
As it did when the sun rode high

So I’ll listen to the rattles, the beetles and mice
Pay heed to the voices on whispering winds
And fear not the edge where the darkness invites me
To come be a part of the field

Alone on the Road Headed Home

Hours to sift through the memories
Like photos in boxes

Faded as old Kodachrome, dogeared

Images too precious, too painful, to be examined in public

Waves of warm melancholy, serene and familiar

To accompany the night

No need to explain the laughter

No reason to speak to the tears

Just let them flow, interchangeably

And drive

Or hours to put the boxes away
Set all thought aside for the ride

Retreat from the memories, surrender

And merely follow the highway

Focused only on white lines and the orderly flow of traffic

Shut off but for the occasional shadow

Or courteous flash of running lights

Sparse encounters, forgettable

But just enough to break the hypnosis of turn signals

And the soothing monotony of mile markers

Like Snow

Suppose we did our work

like the snow, quietly, quietly,

leaving nothing out.

Wendell Berry - Like Snow

Cold Nights To Come

It came downstream quietly
Slipped in unnoticed from the north
Veiled in cool, gentle rain
Obscured in blankets of mist
Cloaked in the white noise of rolling waters, rustling winds, and distant rumbles

As I fished, it took me by surprise

In truth, it was not unexpected
But its arrival was stunning just the same
On muted owl’s wings, in silent descent
Claimed its prey
The scrap of summer that lingered too long

The transition occurred between casts

It painted the river with a deep golden stain
Saturated and heavy in dew and dim light
Dampened slick rocks to obsidian black
Against which mats of maple, hickory and sourwood coalesced
Fluid colors on liquid surface
A vivid mosaic floor of leafy tile, substantial only to the eye
That rippled hypnotically as I waded near

While the banks softly burst into flame

Tonight the stove holds its first blaze of the season
Row covers will drape o’r the garden’s remains
And mothballs and cedar will tickle our noses
As we burrow down deep under long-stored patch quilts
To dream about cold nights to come

For, today, Fall quietly arrived on the Haw

Haunted By Waters

Flying down the gauntlets of corn

Subie fire through Indiana heat

Sketch monsters lie in wait in the weeds

But we race on, haunted by waters

Dead smells waft from upstream haunts

Stories of cadavers found

Not so sure that we wish to know

But we wade on, haunted by waters

Mormon kings that pushed their luck

Burnt-tailed snakes, ash, then alive

Two-o’clock traffic in one light towns

Oddities, all, but we’re haunted by waters

Chartreuse craft, smallies tough as nails

Unzipped through pitbull fight and Hoosier spunk

Goddam a barbless hook

Disappointed, but still haunted by waters

A perfect day on heartland flow

Summer’s end in the best of company

And the Heart’s ink says it all

I am haunted by waters

Deep appreciation to my buddy Dave for taking a day to show me his Indiana home waters. Do yourself a favor and check out the hugely entertaining photography, music, flies, and general alt joie de vivre at his blog, Pile Cast.

And a nod, of course, to Norman Maclean's A River Runs Through It for the title and thread that pulls this all together, neatly tattooed, in case you didn't notice, on Dave's left bicep.

Playin' Possum

I'm often asked how I fill up my day
now that I’ve retired
Never quite sure what to say

Perhaps I should write a series of posts
that tries to explain
and call it
Silly Shit That Mike Does

Today
for example
instead of splitting wood
as planned
I played cat-and-mouse with a baby possum
in and around the woodpile

Maybe some other things too
I forget

But distracted
I was
from what was meant to be done
and it really didn't matter

I simply played possum
'til tomorrow

Smack

The first mosquito:

come here, and I will kill thee,

holy though thou art.

Wendell Berry - And I Beg Your Pardon

Stone Cold Like Fingers and Toes

Slate green, liquid jade
Stone cold like fingers and toes

The lake above turning over
Winter’s breath chilling surface waters
Frigid shallows dance with warm depths
If “warm” could be used to describe ice cubes

The cold choreography of thermoclines

Top and bottom tango, pirouette
Spinning dull mossy ribbons into the tailwaters below
Swirls like tattered felt in fluid breeze
Gathering in pea soup eddies
Chilled to the taste of the dead

You don’t catch fish in this, they say
So, in sheer desperation, Señor Worm
(Admit it. You have some)
San Juan fire in alpine chill
Equatorial red in glacial green
Faded Christmas colors

Two small browns find their way to the net
They chase more for the heat than to eat, I suppose
But who could blame them?

Not I

For as the day wears on
Sky reflects water reflects mood
And I leave to find some heat of my own

Stone cold like fingers and toes

Thanks, here, to my buddy Darrin for an afternoon on his chilly home waters, for his photo of an old man chasing trout, and for the conversations that inspired this bit of verse.

Rings of Salmon

A full moon rises veiled in winter's arboreal lace
Through thin high clouds, rings of salmon
Swim streams of light to the celestial spawn

Marking Time

They’re finally gone, the dark numerals on my watch
Faded to gray nothingness as the lithium's given up the ghost
They’ve been slipping away for a while now
Five years is pretty good for a battery
I guess

But the face is now blank
Like the faces of many when I tell them why I do this
Drive hours alone in the darkness to wade a cold stream
Coming home with nothing more than I left with
Or so it would seem, to them

I go on without the dead timepiece

I ditch the GPS as well, driving timeless into the wee dark hours
Not tracking the incremental changes in my ETA
Not agonizing over a minute lost or fist-pumping one gained
Like it mattered
Suction cup smudges on the windshield, the only evidence of this folly
The road doesn’t care
I just drive and get there when I get there

It’s my first outing of the year
But that’s as artificial as the numbers now absent from my wrist
So I put it from my mind
It’s just another trip, like a hundred others past
And, with good fortune, a hundred to come

With no watch, time on the water is marked differently
Measured in the arc of the sun, the shift of shadows, the drift of clouds
The growl of my stomach and the steady depletion in the contents of a silver flask
Time is reflected in the next run, the next pool, the next seam

The temporal flow slows with the lingering of trout released at my feet
Accelerates as they gather their wits and dart away, free once again
Fluctuates in the ebb and flow of energy, in a yawn, in cold fingers and toes
Tracks true in the movement of cast, the precise tic-tock of ten and two
Meticulously marked by metronomic muscle memory

Without the hour, I’m done when I feel like being done
Not when I plan to be done
Perhaps earlier, perhaps later
Predicated instead on alarms set in knees, back, and shoulders
All trumped by the desire to be here
To be here every moment I can

But, in the end, I’m chased from the place by the setting sun
Back onto the road for home, once again in darkness
For time does move on, no matter how marked
I don't need a mechanism to feel it

I’ll get another watch, soon enough
Deference to man’s metered imposition is unavoidable, sad to say
But after today I’ll look at it differently, the new one

If I look at it at all.

Strip Trees

I'm tantalized by trees

This time of year

Disrobing to appreciative eyes

Standing stark against Carolina skies

The patterns of branches

Against breathtaking expanses

Light or dark

Inspire me to stretch the limits

In their depiction

I sincerely hope that they don't mind
A digital peek
And a Photoshop tweak
Or two

Subtlety

You can have your blazing reds
Your canary yellows
Your tangerine oranges

Keep your hillsides of gaudy riot
Those brilliant shows of doomed defiance to the coming chill

Give me autumn's subtle shades
Its lingering green nod to summer past
Laced with mottled acquiescence to dreary days ahead

Give me peaceful transition
Substance, not flash
With just a hint of color
To keep it fun

That's all I need of Fall
And, in truth, of 'most everything else

Too Early

Alarm's set 3:45 ugly.

Eyes open at 2:28. Happens on fishing days.
Try to close them. Just another hour.
Barred owl screams. Dog barks.
Not to be.

Slip quietly from bed. Feel through the house. Bathroom. Dress.
Granola bar. Liquid breakfast.
Packet-plus-milk. Not the hair of the barking dog.
But it’s tempting.

Kill time. Reread yesterday’s mail. Browse the fishin’ web.
Look for watch.
Try to wake up. Try to guess what's forgotten.
Try not to trip over the dog.
Just try.

Mount up. 4:15.
Next hour’s a blur.
I-85.
Tunnel of light.
Highway hypnosis.

Exit 202. Oxford. Wal-Mart parking lot. 5:25.
Five minutes to spare.

Outparcel Bojangles.
Chicken biscuit quiets the still noisy stomach.
Should've given it the hair.
That would teach it.

Bill arrives. 5:45.
Ken right behind.
Bo’s for them too.
Convoy the final few miles.

Self-pay at launch gate.
Numbered envelope. Tear-off rearview mirror tag. Slip cash into the box.
$4 fee. Have only a ten spot. Ken has two fives.
Borrow one. Both overpay.

Bill stuffs his envelope.
Quarters, dimes, nickels.
Predictable results.

Skiff skips into a rising sun.
Bill navigates.
Ken nods. Dreams of landlocked stripers.

Perhaps they’re back.

Full moon.
Cool weather.
Falling barometer.
Storm front arriving tonight.

Perhaps they’re back.

Here to find out.
Look for the birds. Search the coves. Fish the bridge.
8wt. 350 grain. 15lb floro.
Big-ass clousers.

Roll. Haul. Shoot.
Let it drop. Count to ten. Next time fifteen.
Twenty.
Get it down. Snap-strip it home. Pray for the bump.

Perhaps they’re back.

But no. They're not. Not yet.
It's too early.

Home by noon for a proper nap.

Bring It

Is that all you got? Really? You can’t rain any harder than that?
Bring it, motherfucker.

BRING IT!

Bravado. Irony. Jinx. Stupidity. Reverse logic. Whatever. Soaked to the skin. Soaked to the bone.
Water pours from the brims of our hats like wedding veils. Drowned rat nuptials.
Betrothed to the tug. For better or for worse.
What the hell.
I do.

BRING IT!

Hit a clear stretch. Fish it hard. The murk arrives. Move higher. Get above the mud. Not for long.
Move higher. Closer to the sodden clouds. No. Deeper into them.
Do it again. And again. And again. And.

Just one more pool. One more stretch and we’ll call it a day. Get out of this shit. Get dry.
But damn it looks good up there. Back to the truck after that. One more pool.
Where’s the road? Doesn’t matter. Look at that next run.
Can't get no wetter.
One more pool.

Shiver. Cast. Laugh. Rinse. Repeat.
Shake your fist at the sky.

BRING IT!

And it does.

My thanks to fellow rat Alex Landeen of Fat Guy Fly Fishing for stopping by while visiting friends in the area. The remnants of Hurricane Isaac blew out the local water so we headed west to find some foothills smallmouths, not quite sure what to expect. We should have known.

Okay. We knew. But we went anyway.

Escape

Subtle
A flash of deep-running green
The faintest of ripples
My popper
Quietly evaporated

More trout sip than bass strike

Had I been off woolgathering
Drifting somewhere else with my thoughts
As I often do while fishing these waters
I’d have missed it

It wouldn’t have been the first time
Nor would it have been the last
But I didn't

A hard strip
A lift of the rod tip
Again
Subtle no longer

A cartwheel
A tailwalk
A slashing run downstream
A headshake

One last, desperate leap for freedom
Off

Hard, brave work
Rewarded by a slip of the hook
A long-line release
Untouched return to safe, comfortable depths

My popper
Quietly revaporated

Good for you, Mr. Bass
Good for you