Wednesday, December 19, 2012
A Christmas Fire: The Queen
Heads Up: This is the second piece of a four part holiday tale. If you haven't already, I'd recommend that you read Part One here. But then, don't let me tell you what to do.
Nate had been a fisherman since before he could remember. Dad had a small cane pole ready for him the day he could sit upright and for his fifth birthday he'd received a shiny new Shakespeare Wonderod. The fiberglass beauty became Nate’s constant companion and together they’d fished every trickle in the county. The Wonderod was shortened a few inches, courtesy of a tumble in Archers Pass when he was seven, but Dad had replaced the tip guide, making it as good as new. Nate reckoned he’d use it forever. That changed the day he found himself in Widow Harper’s tool shed.
Labels:
A Christmas Fire,
Fiction
Monday, December 17, 2012
A Christmas Fire: The Burning
It looks odd hanging there above the graceful works of fly rod royalty. Above the rich caramel-hued Granger Register. Above the stunning blonde HL Leonard Catskill. Above works of bamboo art, though their soiled cork grips suggest they are more than just pretty things. Whatever their utility, they are lovely to look at. Yet there it sits, elevated to the place of honor. The place of significance. It can only be that it has a story.
It was two days 'till Christmas and colder than a teacher’s tit. At least that’s what Johnny Culver said in the coatroom, making Nate and all of the other 5th graders giggle hysterically and check over their shoulders to be sure Miss Anderson wasn’t within earshot. Nate’s little brother, Timmy, heard it too and laughed the loudest, though it was certain that he didn’t get the joke. But that lack of understanding didn't stop him from repeating it later in the lunchroom and earning Johnny another trip to Principle Dan’s office. Third time this week and it was only Tuesday. Nate wondered if such things were tracked. If so, Johnny was surely on school record pace. As Miss Anderson dragged him down the hallway, Johnny glared back and pointed his stubby finger at Timmy. Everyone knew what that meant. And while Nate felt powerless to stop it, he was inclined to look the other way when it happened.
Labels:
A Christmas Fire,
Fiction
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
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
A digital peek
And a Photoshop tweak
Or two
Monday, December 3, 2012
Fish Fry
So I’m wanderin’ through the local big box toy store (no, it's not one of my usual haunts, but with Christmas approaching grandfathers 'R' asked to do such things) and my trout senses start tingling. When you spend enough time straining to spot the shadowy shapes of submerged salmonids it becomes instinctive and subconscious, even when you're off the stream. Once a fly fisherman…
Anyway, my radar says there’s fish close by. I freeze in my tracks, get low, and silently survey the rows of colorful shelves while nearby shoppers move nervously towards the exits. I can't pick out the target and kick myself for not having my polarized glasses. But wait. Yes. There. Between the remote control monster trucks and the Wreck-it Ralph action figures. I see it. The Fish Fry.
I'm stunned. Random reactions run rampant through my cerebral cortex.
That’s SO wrong! Or is it?
It does introduce kids to fishing… maybe… but not catch and release.
A cut brown, brown ‘bo, rain brown, cutty rain brown? Hank would know.
Kid. That trout's only 7 inches! Did you check your local wildlife regs before you fried it?
Let me get this straight. A kit to play outdoors, indoors?
You can “Camp out in your room” when you turn fourteen, Junior. And then stay there 'till college.
“Cookin' at the campsite” Hey! That’s MY shtick!
And then there’s…
No fire. I'm bummed. Doubly so when I realize that the pass-around flask of Jack isn't included either.
We'll fix that at the next stop.
Done 'R' I shopping.
Labels:
Silliness
Thursday, November 29, 2012
The Photo Bin - November 2012
I've gotten away, recently, from what I had envisioned my photo bins to be - a handful of images that find their way out of the camera during the month that have no particular post or story to associate with, but that somehow whisper "share me." They need not be technically strong (and given my photography skills, they usually aren't) but they do provide a little glimpse into what's going on around my world. Random remembrances, if you will.
So this month I get back to that concept with a half-dozen shots, starting with the colorful autumn image above from a day on the Elk River. Scenes like this are why I love fishing small trout streams in the fall. I've missed more than one gentle take while gazing at the breathtaking surroundings.
I've recently discussed my love of obscure images. It's true that many are intentional efforts to capture something unique, but quite often they begin as happy accidents - shots taken with incorrect settings or inadvertent trips of the shutter. The image above is the latter. I like the circular motion of this Smith River scene, light and leaves and water in a twirl, and it brings to mind that slow motion moment when the footing goes south and a thorough dunking is eminent.
All too familiar with that one.
Not much explanation needed here. It's the grandson's first sparkler experience and he's not looking quite sure about these things. But, as it should be with little boys (and, by extension, their grandpas as well), it doesn't take long before...
... the sparks fly.
Sometimes, though, a quiet play in the sand is just fine.
Finally, a nod to my favorite fishing buddy, though I have to admit he's a fair-weather angler. On the dark, cloudy days he fails to show and leaves me on my own. The wuss.
But I like having him around because he never outfishes me, he doesn't talk a blue streak, and he shrugs off my regular misteps. He'll occasionally spook a fish, but that's more my fault than his. He stays close but we've never crossed lines. He understands me.
Few do.
Labels:
Friends,
Photo Bins,
Pictures
Monday, November 26, 2012
Fishin' Light
I regularly see guys on the trout stream who look like they’re moving in, who appear to have been tossed out of the house for going fishing one time too many, kicked to the curb with their worldly belongings, luggage and all, and they've toted everything to the water.
Backpacks that could attack Everest. Chest packs they can barely reach around, much less fish around. Fanny packs that would take a whole lot more fanny than mine to keep suspended. I shake my head.
But then, I’m a minimalist. I travel light, think light, fish light. I want less to carry, less to lose, less to hang fly line on. I don’t need four boxes with every trout pattern in six sizes and three colors. I don’t want five kinds of indicators, a ten-tall tippet stack, or gadgets and widgets and zingers out the whazoo. All that stuff just confuses me. Not that it takes too much to confuse me, mind you.
I just try to keep it stupid simple. I have enough complexity in my life without dragging it out to the stream with me. I fish because it gives me uncomplicated, quality time, so I do it with uncomplicated, quality stuff.
I load up my SmithFly 2X pouch with a 4x6 C&F box of flies, 5X and 6X tippet, a few spare leaders, some Gink and some Frog Fanny, a bit of wool, and a little shot. Maybe a Clif bar or two. Hang the hemos and the nippers and I’m good to go.
Fishin' light, unencumbered, leaving the luggage at home...
...and trying not to go fishing one time too many.
Labels:
Gear
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
The Price
Folks fish for lots of reasons. For escape. For sustenance. For sport. For companionship. For communion. We fished because the transition from 65 to 55 on NC421, approaching Boone from the east, is easily missed and enthusiastically enforced.
Troy had a ticket to fix.
My phone rang on Friday. “Hi. Whatcha doin’?” When Troy calls and asks this question, I generally skip the formalities and jump right to “Where, when, and what weight rod?”
“Watauga County. Monday. Chase some small stream trout. But we have to make a stop.” And the sad story from his last fishing trip west tumbled out. So, since he had to go pay the radar-wielding piper anyway, why not make something good come of it? Sandwich the unpleasantness between a morning on the Elk and an afternoon on the Watauga. Ease the pain.
Now, I make it a habit of avoiding courthouses (and we’ll just leave it at that for the time being) but I figured a close encounter with the seat of authority was a fair price to pay for a day on trout water.
“I’m in…” I responded, as I usually do.
“… but, while you pay the fine, I’m stayin’ in the truck.”
Monday, November 12, 2012
Out of Focus
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| All Hallows' Eve on the Bridge |
If you’ve been hanging around here for a while, you have come to realize that I have a penchant for obscure, out-of-focus images. They fascinate me.
Now, it could very well be that it’s a self-delusion mechanism, a way to rationalize the fact that I suck as a photographer, a way to excuse my shaky work, but I find a certain dreamy reality-warp in handheld shots taken in impossibly dim conditions. In their soft indistinction, they come closer to my perception of the shadowy scenes in front of my lens than any crystal-clear photo could ever hope to.
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| Moonrise Downriver |
So these three shots are exactly how I remember this past Halloween on the old Bynum Bridge; an eight-hundred-foot, county bridge spanning my home Haw River, built in 1922 and closed to vehicular traffic since the turn of the century, replaced by the big, sterile four-lane 15-501 just a quarter-mile upstream. Each All Hallows' Eve, the Bynum span, now just a footpath, is decorated, end-to-end, along both railings, with jack-o-lanterns carved by the residents of the county; carvings of all kinds, created with every level of skill, and depicting an amazing variety of expression and perspective. Hundreds of orange globes enjoyed by hordes of folks, many in ghoulish garb, strolling the dark remote bridge, cooing over the creepy creations, and breathing deeply the aroma of lit candles, roasting pumpkin flesh, and rich river mist.
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| Upstream to the New Highway Bridge |
It's a time and a place delightfully out of focus. And here, my friends, are the images to prove it.
Friday, November 9, 2012
The Dry/Dropper Double
A brace of browns on a single cast.
The dry/dropper double.
More fish in one drift than this river has been known to surrender in an entire day.
At least to me.
Orange-bodied Madam X attractor on top.
Bead-head pheasant tail on bottom.
Both, apparently, looked good enough to eat.
Negotiating two trout at a time is “interesting”
and the first few moments, when you don’t know exactly what you’re dealing with,
downright weird.
Glad that one didn’t zig when the other zagged.
I’m not sure that the 6X between them
(or, more to the point, my scrungy knots)
could have taken it.
Not particularly big guys,
but do a ten-incher and an eight-incher, taken together, equal an eighteen?
Let’s pretend that they do.
The dry/dropper double.
More fish in one drift than this river has been known to surrender in an entire day.
At least to me.
Orange-bodied Madam X attractor on top.
Bead-head pheasant tail on bottom.
Both, apparently, looked good enough to eat.
Negotiating two trout at a time is “interesting”
and the first few moments, when you don’t know exactly what you’re dealing with,
downright weird.
Glad that one didn’t zig when the other zagged.
I’m not sure that the 6X between them
(or, more to the point, my scrungy knots)
could have taken it.
Not particularly big guys,
but do a ten-incher and an eight-incher, taken together, equal an eighteen?
Let’s pretend that they do.
Labels:
Silliness,
Smith River,
Trout
Friday, November 2, 2012
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
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
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