Roadkill

I’m home. I’m tired. I’m roadkill.

No. Not just roadkill. I’m south Texas salt flats roadkill. Sun-baked, mud-caked, wind-blown, sand-in-every-orifice, plastered-to-the-pavement, buzzard bait roadkill. My duffle (and probably my hide) smells like the back of the truck where the flats boots have been left to ferment each night. It ain’t pretty.

And I’m good with that.

So let me grab a nap and then I’ll catch you up. I’m no storyteller so I’ll simply give you some snippets, some images, some vignettes of our redfish excursion - the essence rather than the substance. The details are unimportant. It’s the impressions that come home with me, not the timeline.

It’s the moment that sticks.

Sticks like boots in the tidal mud. Sticks like red brisket to the pit of my stomach.

Sticks like roadkill to the steaming Texas pavement.

Touchdown in San Antonio

The tarmac touchdown in San Antonio was a bit heavy but it was "wheels down" so I guess I can't complain. When the captain blessed the resumption of electronic activity, I joined the chorus of cell phone startup chimes and found waiting the following text from my fishing buddy Chris who, along with Todd, was to be arriving an hour later from Salt Lake to begin our quest for Texas redfish.

Just a heads up… you may be driving this afternoon. Hope you’re not snuggled up to some floozy of a flight attendant and getting free drinks. We’ve already done that… so… have your driver’s license handy.

Followed shortly by:

Good news. The next is a dry flight! We’ll see you in a bit.

That SA landing might be just the beginning of the bumps.

Stick around for the ride. This could get interesting.


Note: I have no idea how he could make such a speculation regarding my deportment with the fine Southwest flight staff. No doubt it was just the bloody Mary(s) talking.

Another Note: Follow Chris' perspective on the trip at Eat More Brook Trout. But don't believe a word he says.

The Photo Bin - April 2012

I know, it's only been a couple of weeks since my last "monthly" photo bin. But the rest of April looks to be rather full (more on that in a minute) so I thought I'd sneak this month's edition in early. Besides, there's always an odd image, or three, floating around here to share.

Spring raced through here at a breakneck pace, as though Ma Nature wished to be done with it and move straight to summer with no more than a howdy-do. The trees went from bare to lush, seemingly overnight, but I did manage to shoot the emerging mottle of greens, posed against a crisp Carolina sky - a wisp of the moon for added interest.

And Wilderness Dog Sammy's always good for a cameo. He's been doing reasonably well of late, despite his age and arthritis. We finally seem to have found a decent balance between un-medicated joint pain and drug-induced stupor - a balance which makes for a livelier and more active little guy as well as happier dog owners. Here he's taking an Easter stroll in the yard of our friends' lake house, lookin' for the big dogs.

Finally, in preparation for that "rather full" rest of April, referred to earlier, I've spent a few evenings at the vice, tying a couple of Bugger Barns full of clousers and sliders that I hope will appeal to some South Padre redfish.

Yes, Texas, here I come. You'll be hearing more of that in the days to come.

Consider yourself warned.

Oh, and a spot of Maudite and the Allman Brothers channel on Pandora make the flies fly by nicely.

So, to steal my buddy Tom's post-closing convention, see you on the Gulf.

It's a Boy, And a Girl, And ...

Quintuplets

Bring It, Spin Boy

Yeah, it's your lake, your boat, your domain. 

But let's go. Let's see who's got it this fine Easter weekend. 

My fly rod against your spinning tackle. 

Best fish wins.

Oh crap! Nice start.

But I finish well enough to be in the arguement.

And there are some things we can agree on.

So we call it a draw and enjoy our time together on the lake.
That's how it should be.

Thanks, my friend, for putting up with my fly fishing fetish.
You're a good man...

...for a spin boy.


Admonishment: Do not imbibe and boat. Bad. Bad. Imbibe and enjoy the view from the dock. Good.

Crappie Art

Or is it crappy art?
If so, it would be
crappy crappie art.
Assuming, of course,
that it's art at all
and not just plain
...
Well, you know.

Stream Weaver: Living Art with Rod and Reed

I'm an author.

Do you have any idea how odd, and exhilarating, that statement feels? After eighteen months of ripping and tearing with editors, publishers, and my own personal demons, it’s finally a reality and I can spill the beans. I’m an author.

But that statement does not come without a price. To make the admission, I must now make another. I’m also a basket weaver.

While that might raise a few eyebrows, you should not be surprised. Fly fishing and basket weaving fit like reel in reel seat. Bamboo rod and natural weaving materials come from the same soil – the same earthy center – and their employment elicits the same emotional satisfactions.


They are a perfect compliment to a simple and creative existence – both the active and passive expressions of our connection to our natural surroundings and loftier ideals. Each is rhythmic. Each is subtle. Each is all-encompassing if we allow ourselves to be enveloped within the rudimentary, repetitive motions. The practices are elementary, but each carries within it profound implications that can reach deep into our souls and our lives, if we let them.

That's what Stream Weaver: Living Art with Rod and Reed is all about. The book is a series of essays and images that celebrate the intersection of stream and studio and natural living, some of which you might recognize from previous posts here on Mike’s Gone Fishin’, most of which are new views of life lived deep in the Carolina woods.

To my great surprise, the concept has resonated with everyone who has touched the project, from my new good friend Bob Clauser (who has a secret connection to the woven art, one that I won’t reveal here but that you will learn in his surprising Introduction), to Jeffery Long-Berger (who, honestly, could give a shit about fly fishing but is a weaving god and writes a darn good Forward), to the publisher, Natural Presses, who will print the book on 100% natural kudzu and wisteria fibers and who’s owner, Kevin Smallie, is a member of the 20/20 club – coaxing a 22 inch brown on a #20 BWO from the South Holston last November.

So here’s the pitch. We’re going straight to paperback (fly fisherman and basket weavers are both notoriously frugal, except when it comes to their “gear”), but Kevin thinks we can pre-produce a number of first edition hardbacks for special distribution - coffee table books, if you will - and is ramping up a short-run production process for them. These will be available, before the general publication of the paperback, to family and friends. You, dear readers, having put up with me here for more than three years now, are considered friends.

To sweeten the deal, the first ten pre-orders will also receive a very special gift. I started basket weaving shortly after I started fly fishing because I wanted a creel. I couldn’t bring myself to pay the crazy prices I encountered for them and, with a forest full of natural fibers sitting just outside my door, decided to weave one myself – and was hooked on the craft.

So the first ten friends will get one of my handmade creels. Be forewarned, however, that, as a strict catch and release fisherman, I will lash its top permanently closed so that it cannot be used to actually store fish. But it will definitely look “classic” on your hip. Or on your coffee table. Next to the book.

But here’s where reading Mike’s Gone Fishin’ finally pays off. If, when ordering, you type in the secret regular-reader’s code, you‘ll also receive your choice of a wide-brimmed faux Tilley hat, completing your classic look, or a genuine T.F.M. Comrade baseball cap, for those a bit more hip.

To pre-order your hardback edition of Stream Weaver: Living Art with Rod and Reed, a one-of-a-kind handmade creel by the author (I still get goose bumps when I type that word), and the hat of your choosing (all for a mere $29.99 - credit cards and PayPal happily accepted), go to The Outdoorsman's Bookshelf and type “April Fools” into the special offers box.

I’ll be glad that you did.

The Photo Bin - March 2012

Sometimes you get more than you want expect and this month's bin posting is one of those times. While rummaging through March's photo catalog, looking for the usual trio of misfit pics, a half-dozen emerged as candidates. How to choose? Not surprisingly, given my high degree of self control and uncanny ability to made the hard decisions, I show them all.

Sorry. You're getting a double dose this month.

The image above is a peek into Ned's thread-and-wire box, taken at one of our Monday beer ties. Fun colors and interesting lighting. Always a good combination.

A shot of my favorite girls and Wilderness Dog Sammy, taken during our granddaughter's joyful extended visit. Charlotte and Mary walked the woods, baked bread, visited the neighbor's livestock, and had an all-round jolly old time. Here, they return down the driveway from one of their adventures - Charlotte examining something small that caught her vivid imagination. She did that a lot.

And here is where they were probably coming from - from down the gravel road that leads to civilization - a road I am less and less inclined to travel unless there's a fish or two at the end. As you can see, spring is moving fast, filling the oaks and poplars, maples and sourwoods, providing a crisp green background on which to display the dogwood blossoms. The evening sky ain't bad either.

The girls also spent some time in the "back yard" - a bit of southern exposure perfectly proportioned for our hold on the ridge line and the collection of passive solar energy. It's also just right for a little square-foot gardening - with accommodation, of course, for the local deer population. Yes, I had a little fun with Lightroom.

As you have seen already, I was fascinated with the mists this month. The weather said "spring" with it's mild mornings and early fogs but the woods continued to whisper "winter". The combination of soft air and stark trees provided a dreamy environment, accentuated by the wisps of evergreen and ruddy buds, waiting to explode into color.

To close, an emotional image. Freeman embraced this motto. Live Free. We wear these bands to honor him and to remind ourselves to appreciate each day without reservation. He did. We miss him terribly.

Thank you for your indulgence.

The Beer Tie

We tie a few flies
And tilt a few ryes
And tell a few lies
Though not always, you see, in that order

And it occurs to me
That there’s more hair see
On the table than on the north border

But what better way
Than to finish the day
At the vise/vice (take your pick) with good friends

Another pitcher, boys?

Morning Mists

We wake to another misty morning. Formless wisps soften our surroundings and it's difficult to be sure that the fog is real and not the retreating borders of dreamland. I sit up in bed, rub my eyes, and look out to the south, peering into the treetops as the ravine falls below. Ivory dogwood lace accents the gray canopy but it will all be a riot of green quite soon.

I rise, and shuffle down the hall, sit at my desk, and stare through the east-facing window, towards the rising sun, wondering who'll be bouncing around the woodpiles this early. Today, it's only the mists.

Woodpile peaceful, I swivel my chair to the north and check the hazy ridge for the herd - the whitetails - but the does are off hiding their newborn fawns and the bucks have disappeared to wherever it is that bucks disappear to. Actually, I should look more closely into the tall grasses. The Bambies are probably nestled there. For now, though, all's quiet above.

But it's early. And it's lovely. And it's home, here, in the quiet morning mists.

I wonder what I should have for breakfast.