A clear view I don't want

Our family is blessed to live on the French Broad river in East Tennessee.  The land, roughly 30 acres, is primarily wooded and is a high ridge that meanders down to the water.  Oak, Elm, Maple, Poplar, Dogwood, Cedar, Pine...thick and old stand in every direction.  Sometimes during times of severe weather during the spring and summer you can hear some of the tired old branches crashing through the canopy.  These trees have been here a long time.

The property is what remains of hundreds of acres.  The rest given to family members who in turn sold it, but the land our family still clings to holds the homeplace and the most significant portion of the estate.  The house is old, some portions of it are actually as old or older than the state in which is resides.  The whole place is simply amazing.

But now, for reasons which are not mine to judge, the trees are coming down.  All of them.  So far the ugly machines have cleared roughly two acres, leaving the resemblance of a war zone in their path.  My Father-in Law has seen a need to remove the forest in its entirety, and though it absolutely kills me, it is his choice to clear cut.  The recent financial woes of out nation have created some hard choices in families all across our country, and it is within this current situation that our family has been faced with a very difficult choice.

Now, I am looking at a huge stand of timber.  By summers end, I will have a clear view of the Smokies, a clear view of the river, but those scenic vistas are being brought and bought with a price I would rather avoid.  Sad.  Just sad.

We have an abundance of wildlife on the place that will be moving on to better locations.  I doubt that by next fall I will be able to step out into my front yard in the misty morning to see multitudes of deer or wild turkey standing along the edge of the yard.  I hate to think about what my children will miss seeing or doing because the blessing of the trees will be gone.

To be certain, the trees will indeed return.  But neither I nor my children will see anything as wonderful as what we have now.

I come home from the office and can hear these growling machines on the other end of the property and it is like hearing some evil beast moving like a juggernaut.  I imagine myself being a member of Ed Abby's Monkey Wench Gang and disrupting the plans as I shout HEYDUKE LIVES!!!! But in reality, this is my Father-in-Laws land, his choice, his need.  So I will mourn the loss, and look to a clear view, imagining what once was.

42 days

There is within the realm of possibility a chance to fish in the not so distant future.  Six weeks.  Roughly forty-two more days until I can string up my rod and get away.  I so want to disappear.  To vanish into a foggy stand of trees only to emerge on the other side to find moving water...fish gently dimpling the surface for as far as I can see.  I want that initial chill as the water receives my boots.  The smells of fishy water and forest decay.  The distant silhouette of another angler looking down at the minuscule fly he has in his hand.

To wade into water up to my knees looking underneath the surface film for good spots to land my next step.  The judgement of distance as I try and gauge when I have gone out far enough to begin, and then the still time when the stream recovers from my intrusion.  Muddy ghosts of what seconds ago were my footsteps billow and twist, expanding downstream.

The sounds of cattle as they moan and complain for no apparent reason echo through the field across from me.  The grass is tall and leaning over from the weight of dew that clings to its top.  Eventually a tractor will fire up somewhere beyond this field and the cattle will go mute as they dissect the direction and intent of the driver.

I will cast close.  No more than fifteen feet between me and the fly. Then twenty. Twenty-five. The distance dictated by success, or lack thereof.  My mends will feel awkward at first, and will most likely be overdone. The fly will lift from the water with each flick of my wrist until I relearn the feel.  Only then will the drift be in search of perfection.

Perhaps there will be a take.  With swiftness and a hope for control I will lift the rod and set the hook.  Barbless.  I will feel the quiver of the fish transfer to the dirty cork in my hand.  How many times have I felt this? It never gets old.  I will pull the line in with my left hand, not needing to put the fish on the reel.  Circles of floating line will gather around my thighs. Large drops of water will fall from the guides, catching small specks of the emerging sun as they return to the river.

The fish, a brown trout, will struggle to escape.  Saving his most elusive tactics for the last moment, he will race round my legs until my hand settles under him.  I will remove the hook without drawing the fish from the water.  He rests in my hand for a moment before vanishing with a flick of his tail.  I watch the direction he has taken and try to follow his leaving till the glare of the water swallows him whole.

Back and forth. Back and forth.  The line will once again extend.  I will repeat the process.  Always assessing.  Always correcting.  The zen of the art form is not unnoticed by me, nor is the fact that creation has been opened to me again.

I say "Thank you Lord".  No one hears, and perhaps if they did, they wouldn't fully understand. 

These are the moments of cleansing.  When all is made right and is at rest.  These are the times when I am sure beyond any reasonable doubt in my mind, that there is indeed a God.  There is indeed light in the darkest of times.  There is a place, a haven, which brings out the boy in me.  I am not old, but am growing older, and I will finish my time in that place, returning to a family that will receive me.  Accept me.  My children will ask what I saw, what I caught.  I will spin the most elaborate tale.  My Jill will look on.  Our eyes will meet.  Everything will be as it should be.

Annie Dillard, John Gierach and me

There are books, and then there are BOOKS.  Some volumes of text seem laborious in their attempt at telling a story or conveying a though or theory, while others open you to a realm within the imagination and the spirit that are sooo real.  I am quite prudish at times when it comes to books, an perhaps I pass judgement with a swiftness that removes the opportunity to give the writer a chance.  For me, as a reader, if I do not get that "feeling" after one or two pages, I seldom will allow myself to endure the pages that remain.

Last night, while cleaning out some space upstairs, I picked up A Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard.  Hypnosis ensued, and I found myself sitting at the kitchen table way past my bedtime reading page after page.  She is one of a handful of writers who inadvertently created what I consider a masterpiece.  If you have not read this book, and have a profound love of nature, then you are doing yourself a great disservice.

I pulled myself away after fifty or so pages.  It was well after one in the morning and I am the rooster in my house who is expected to get the kids up for school at six; a task that is encumbered with difficulty as it is without compounding it with little rest.  So, I shut the house down.  Starting with locking the back door and turning off the kitchen light, I moved soft and catlike through the upstairs creating darkness behind me as I traveled past the kids and into our bedroom.  It was there, as I undressed while pondering the book I had laid down, that I saw my copy of Trout Bum by John Gierach resting on my night stand.

Settling in under the covers, warmed by my Jill who had been there for hours, I picked up Trout Bum and just opened it and started reading.  This is another one of those books that no matter where you open it you are going to find good writing.  Two in the morning and I put it down to try and settle into my rest.

As I lay there in the dark, Jill breathing deep and slow beside me, I thought of these two writers.  Not of them as individuals, nor of their particular subject matter, but of them as writers.  What transpires within the mind to get works like these flowing?  I suppose if questioned on this, both would give a nonchalant answer, that in itself would create more questions.  And also, how can I ever possibly hope to reach such a lofty level of excellence?

Just like hiking in to some remote trout stream or lofty vista within the Smokies...you start climbing.  You imagine as you travel about what the end of the journey will be, but each time is different in its own way.  Moments appear and disappear never to be repeated.  Therein is the joy of the journey and the subtext of everything that makes it to the page.

Sitting here now, I am mulling over a myriad of ideas, making plans, outlining in my mind.  Soon I will be well enough to engage in the glory of nature, do some fishing, find my muse, and write.  Perhaps one of these journeys will hold the key to that magical story that will propel me to the next mountain top.  Perhaps.

Photo by jermz

Serendipitous Drift

The number of bloggers out there is astounding.  Folks who have created their own little nitch.  Some are good, some not so much, and some are just a pleasure to read.  These way above average blogs, as I see them, are not rife with giveaways and pilfered links from other web sites.  They stand alone on the merit of exceptional writing supported by photos that enhance the text.  The way I look at writing is that it should read with rhythm, it should take you to that place or engage you in that thought. These are the traits (in my estimation) of excellence.


One particular blog that I have enjoyed so much is Mysteries Internal.  The writing is just incredible.  It is constructed in a manner that escapes contrivances, is honest to a fault, and opens the reader up to a sense of place.  These may sound like an easy group to convey, but they are not, yet Erin Block pull it off time and time again.  You should do yourself a favor and visit her blog.
http://mysteriesinternal.blogspot.com/


Now- the story continues.

I am also one of those horrid slaves to Facebook.  It was within that evil empire of social domination that I became friends with Erin.  Then, through a short back and forth conversation...we realized the we read each others blogs.

The thought occured to me... How many of my Facebook friends are actually bloggers that I read?  I think I am going to search this out....

Here is a list of some other blogs that I recommend-

http://www.sippingemergers.com/
http://tiffanyselephants.blogspot.com/
http://www.fontinalisrising.com/
http://sarahsthoughtsandpictures.blogspot.com/

Not all these are about fly fishing, but the writing is great in all.

Have a most excellent weekend friends wherever your adventures may take you.