Friday, May 19, 2017

First spear



I have been lucky enough to be outdoors a fair amount this spring, and have dined on two occasions on the early wild greens. Ramps, sting nettles and fiddleheads all boiled together in the pot. Fish or venison on the side. But now this evening, back from the walk a bout with the dogs, this one lone scepter of asparagus caught my attention. The light waning.........
Of course I ate it right there.

Tuesday, May 16, 2017

Proper Cropper

Brooks and Fife were working the bullrushes with minnows and bobbers
I was flinging a wooly bugger with tri-colours
It was early in the season and the cold water had not touched fifty
the fly caught three and lost two
they caught two combined
"What do you call that fly?" Brooks inquired
"It's just the ubiquitous wooly bugger" says I
"Well, seems a proper cropper then" says Brooks
and so it is that another unnamed fly gets a name..................

Wednesday, April 5, 2017

Rust and Bliss


There remained only an hour of daylight once we were afloat. Biceps and abdominal muscles both felt the remembered stresses of the paddling that seemed oh, so long ago. I dug deep and stroked hard, going for speed and that feeling of quiet flight. To what portent will the new season bring? Panfish and bass, trout and pike? Perhaps some things exotic. I worked up some sweat before taking a pause. Then let out a roar into the sky.

Arriving after a brief cool down at the cattail fringed shallow bay, the fly casting began anew.  Too anxious and freshly wired from the exuberance of the paddling, the first cast was a piled mess - due mostly I suppose to line and leader memory. And rust. The second cast produced an immediate hookup, a fairly large swirl, and then a quick unpinning. Three more cast to the same spot produced three missed takes. Then nothing. Spooked.

So, out of the bay and down the shore a bit we go, my little craft and I, flushing a pair of mallards lurking in the bullrushes. Past a beaver lodge and green water lilly leaves already emerging from the mud, striving up toward the sun. Past the red-winged blackbirds and their raspy trills, staking their claims for breeding rights. And the early frog cackles of the riparian edge. The urgency of springtime.

I cast the shoreline pockets here and there working out the old rhythm. It's never far away. Turning back toward the little bay, I paused at its mouth as a few ripples indicated more fish. Missing another three takes before finally getting a solid hook up, I marveled at the quickness of the grab and rejection that is the hallmark of these early cold water fish. Far too soon it was too dim to fish.

So I paddled around into the dark.


Thursday, March 30, 2017

Black Ice

This is the end of it
This is the stuff that you yearn after for months
composed now of millions of shattered shafts
fused together like a massive honeycomb
but unglued daily by the increasing infrared waves
squeaky and bowing under foolish weight
This is the stuff that will kill you
there is but a day or two left 
this is the beginning of the next thing


  Bring it............