The Photo Bin - January 2012

Gray days. This month's bin is muted, dressed in drab, but deeply lovely none the less. Dark days have a majesty all their own, eliciting both a hazy, ethereal focus on what is visible and a visceral, instinctual perception of what is not - what is beyond the pale, misty veil.

These shots were all taken from the doorways of our shrouded home, looking outward for answers, finding few. Finding instead a muted, subdued world, deprived of a primary color.

The sun will return, we know, but for the moment it's easy to wrap snugly within the fog and savor the chill for what it means.

Savor that we feel so deeply.

These Woods

What know these woods of our passings?
How could we think they should care?

We’ve done little to deserve their compassion

We've defiled them
Scarred them
Pushed them far from our lives

They should have no use for us

But as I stumble along
Head bowed below bare branches
Gathering tinder for this week’s fires

Fires to warm our now somber home
Fires to pierce the desperate chill in our hearts

These woods comfort me
Embrace me
Soothe me with calm, gentle silence
Wrap me in their blessed endlessness

For man is animal
Like fox and deer and bear
Despite our attempts to deny it
Despite our claim to be more
Man is animal

And these woods embrace all of their innocents
Even the wayward ones

They celebrate our birth with their spring
Energize our life with their summer
Acknowledge our maturity with their fall
And mourn our return to the roots with their winter

And winter is here
Winter is here

So together we mourn a return to the roots
Together
These woods
and I

Friends, I promise that I will not continue to burden you with my sorrow. I simply wish to express a deep gratitude for the wave of thoughts and prayers that has washed over us these past several days. Support such as this holds us up and for that kindness we thank you.

The verse above just wanted to come along.

Shattered

1977

I apologize, now, for my upcoming absence from these pages. A day. A week. A month. How long I do not know. For at my feet lie the fragments of my dear Mary’s heart, shattered this week when her first born, my eldest stepson, unexpectedly lay down his head, never to lift it again.

I must now steel myself and begin to tenderly pick up each raw shard. To do what I can to help put each precious piece back in its place. But the truth of the matter is that when her heart burst, a large piece was flung far, far away. Thrown to a place from which I will never be able to retrieve it. So, even with the finest of workmanship and puzzle-perfect placement, there will always be a hole that cannot be filled.

I know this for I have such a hole.

So forgive my absence while I try to do for my Mary what she so lovingly did for me, ten years ago, when my youngest lay down his head. When it was my heart lying in fragments at her feet.

Shattered.

We'll forever miss you, son

The Rise and the Fall

Morning on the Elk

After a balmy, practically tropical, New Years Day, the temperatures here in the Olde North State took a nose-dive, falling through “seasonal” and into the down right arctic. The dip chilled our Appalachian streams to frigid levels and drove their finned denizens into a deep lethargy, if not absolute catatonia.

Mid-week was not the time to be on the water.

So we looked towards a late week rebound in the thermal conditions - and a day on the Elk River - figuring that trout would also snap back, pop off the bottom like jack-in-a-boxes at the quick warm-up, hungry after their brief hibernation, ready to be caught.

We should have known better.



For along with the mid-week winter temperatures came snow covered steamsides and ice encrusted waterways. We were greeted with a classic winter tableau – a pristine white riparian corridor scored with an orchestration of soothing white noise. Winter fishing is a treat for the senses.

Dressing Warm

The submerged stream thermometer registered a frigid thirty-six as the sun struggled towards the treetops, but the day was forecast to clear and temperatures were projected into the lower fifties. It would take a while, though, so we gamely nymphed small and deep, hoping to get lucky and place a stone or midge on some trout’s nose – the only way we were to entice a strike. And, in the crystal clear, frigid morning waters, we managed our first few fish of this new year – wild browns and ‘bows. But we wanted, we needed, it to warm up.

Watch what you ask for. You might just get it.

2012's First Fish

By mid-morning, the struggling sun finally shook its solstictic shackles and began to warm our faces and the woods around us. It also warmed snow and ice. The temperature mercifully rose, but, to our surprise, so did the stream. Crystalline flow turned into the slate blue/grey of the melt, obscuring footing and limiting underwater visibility to near nothingness. Despite the warming air, the already chilled waterway assumed a glacial feel. Our day on the Elk was done.

Abandoned Power

Sure. You western fisherman are saying, “Well, duh!” But us southern boys know little of snow and even less of real winter. What do we know of The Melt? Who knew that rising air temperatures might mean falling liquid ones? Yes, you did. Yes, we’re slow.

Pretty, but too big for the day.

But, my Rock Mountain friend, did you get to fish yesterday?

A Day So Nice That It Sucked

It was an absolutely beautiful day and I feel cheated. I’d been dreading the plunge for weeks. Tried not to think about it last night. It was supposed to be miserable, painful, hard. It wasn’t. It needed to hurt. It didn’t.

I’m conflicted. I’m pissed. I’m relieved. I’m wet.

This year’s New Year's Day neighborhood traditional polar plunge, our fourth high noon splash-in-the-pond, was ruined by the weather. I know that, as you read this, many of you are watching the snow pile up. I envy you. Here, the official record keeper of our yearly madness noted 63-degree air, 50-degree pond water temperature. Downright balmy. Awful.

Boo Hoo, you say? Sue me. It's not my fault you live there.

But I figure that if you are going to do something crazy, let it be really crazy. Let it be sleeting and 28 degrees and require ice clearing before the plunge. Then you have something to talk about. Then you’ve certified your insanity. But no. Blue skies, a gentle breeze, shirtsleeve weather. You get no credit for going in on days like today. Folly wasted.

And to add insult to injury, this year we had a fire. Two, actually. Ceremonial, I suggested.

But half-naked, full submersion in 50-degree water is no picnic – I’m usually wearing waders for these kinds of dips - so our dive into the pond was not for everyone.  Just the committed. Or those that need to be. And those ceremonial fires gathered the faithful, as fires often do, and kept us lunatics from bolting for the showers immediately after the dunking. The innard-warming libations, left over from last night, didn’t hurt either. Hair of the dog.

Actually, truth be told, it was really the good company that held us together. Birds of a feather shiver together.

But still. 63!? Give me a break. Where’s winter? Next year… Just wait.

I hope that it sucks then too.

Better Light

Have a good time and catch lots of fish.

Oh, we’ll have a good time, but if we catch anything I’ll be damned surprised.

A man out walking one night came upon another on his hands and knees under a street light. 

“What are you doing?” the walker asked. “I’m looking for my watch” came the reply. 

 “Let me help. Where did you drop it?” 

 “I dropped it over in that field.” 

 “Over there? Then why on earth are you looking for it here?” 

 “Because the light’s better, stupid.”

The last outing of 2011. An afternoon spent on the local reservoir with my poker buddy, Dan. I don’t fish lakes much, even though this one is but four miles from the house. Too much water. Too many places for fish to hide. Oh, and no boat. Give me a stream to wade, thank you very much. But his Sea Pro needed to stretch its legs and we had a fine Carolina day to give it its desire – and ours.

Dan’s thoughts were to do some jigging. Find some deep channels – 40, maybe 45 feet of water – and drop some weight in and wait to see if anything wanders by. It is, after all, winter.

But, for a fly fisherman, sitting and watching a jig is torture, even with a beer at your elbow. You want to do something. Fortunately, Dan’s a high-energy guy as well so we cruised the points – I pitching a white and grey clouser on a 350 grain sinking line with my 8wt and he throwing a spinning rod and small gold spoon.

Catch anything? Of course not. The fish were all sitting deep, in the channels, hunkered down for winter. Waiting for jigs. We had no chance fishing the points.

But the light was better.

Did you catch anything?
'Fraid not.
Did you have fun?

Absolutely.

My Life's an Open Bookshelf - Part One

There's something about the approach of a new year that sets a man to thinking - sets him to looking back over the year past and forward to the year ahead - to where he's been and where he's going. And to put each of them into proper perspective, past and future, he need also assess where, and what, he is today. It's not always an easy thing to do. Fortunately, this year I have my bookshelves.

You can lean a lot about someone by looking at the contents of their bookshelves. And it’s not just the book titles, though they are important clues, but it’s the mementos and pieces that a person chooses to place in constant sight that bear the inklings of identity. And my inklings are fresh. Our new abode is appointed with a space I can call my own – a man cave, if you will, though I dislike the term – and its pair of bookshelves - more display space than library - are newly populated. They're still neat. What do their contents reflect?

Indulge me.

The stuff on top takes me back. The Fender acoustic was given to me many years ago by my then best friend, now my wife, and still my best friend. I'd put the axe down years before but always admired the instrument, and she knew it. The gift awakened my interest and confirmed how much she understood me. Scary.

The photo, of course, is of Mr. Jimi and is particularly relevant in that it was captured on April 11th, 1969 at Dorton Arena in Raleigh, NC. Relevant, you see, because I could have taken it. I was that close. Fourteen years old, first rock concert, third row, stage right, blown away. Nothing like starting at the top. The print was a Christmas gift from my stepsons who share my love of music and, despite his being years before their time, also appreciate the Voodoo Child. How could they not?

The top shelves are "display" shelving and the right holds a vintage Time-Life Series book on the camera. It seems to me that there's a bit of obtuse circular logic about pictures of cameras, but that's for another time. The book's images are fascinating and its photographic advice - though predating the digital revolution and in-camera metering by decades - is what separates the point-and-shooters from real photographers. Just because the camera's smart, it doesn't mean you should let it do all the thinking. 

The plaque is a new acquisition - a memento from this year's high school squad. You'd have to look close, but the next-to-the-bottom-line reads 2011 NC 4A State Champions. 

'nough said.

On the other side is some very special literature. Calvin and Hobbes. The pages are dogeared from hours spent sharing with my two young sons, some thirty years ago. There are cartoons in these books that, even today, make me laugh 'till I cry and there are memories saturating the faded pages that make me cry 'till I laugh. In Calvin I saw each of my boys and in Hobbs I saw myself. Still do. No one has captured the raw energy and creativity of a young manchild any better.

Well, I see that getting through these bookshelves is going to take a while. So, with your permission, I'll stop here and return to it in future posts. One must do something during the cold winter months. I hope you don't mind the glimpse into what makes Mike tick.

And before I return, take a look at the bookshelves of your life. Appreciate what you find. Decide what they say about you - where you've been, where you're going, what you are. 

Let that self knowledge lead you into a Happy New Year.

The Photo Bin - December 2011

We traveled, this past week, to Mary's roots in the heartland of Indiana. Five gray days, outside, but full of warmth and joy indoors with the moms and dads and brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews and cousins and grands of every sort. It's what the holidays are all about.

But for all the merriment inside, my lens was drawn across the wintry fields to the small tableau of structures, visible off our front porch. Farm living, beautifully framed by a majestic stand of hardwoods. Dusky sunset, morning mists, or winter snow - it was a captivating scene in its stark serenity.

As the holidays take you across the country for family, across town for friends, or across the kitchen for another 'nog, may your travels be safe, your heart be light, and the stream of your life be filled with fat and happy trout.

Happy holidays.

The Backcountry Journal

If you've yet to discover The Backcountry Journal, I have a tasty holiday treat for you. Ben Smith from the fine blog Arizona Wanderings has created a superb new web outpost featuring original pieces from some of the most interesting and talented folks in the outdoor blogging realm. It's quickly become a must read for me.


And, in a stunning lapse of Ben's editorial judgement, I have been asked to contribute. I'm thrilled to see my short work, The Fine Line, appearing in todays's journal.

"There’s a fine line between adventure and madness. I’ve tiptoed it more times than I’d care to admit, never more so than in the gorge. The gorge, you see, invites you to the edge."

Stop by and read the whole piece as well as all of the fine offerings that precede it. Then, be sure to bookmark The Backcountry Journal for what will surely be your go-to spot for many terrific future outdoor literary and photographic offerings.

Thanks Ben!

'Twas the Week Before... Yes, Johnny?

Gather 'round boys and girls, it's time for the reading of that beloved Mike's Gone Fishin' Christmas classic, 'Twas the Week Before Christmas. Grab a candy cane, get comfortable, and I hope you enjoy it.

'Twas the week before Christmas and down on the Haw
Not a fish was arisin', the weather was raw.
The water was frigid and brisk was the air,
Too chilly for fishing, but I didn’t care.