Friday, July 14, 2017

Wednesday, June 21, 2017

Solstice Blues

Inducing decay
to induce waiting
for a future yield
so it goes with Shiitake hope............

A storm damaged red oak seemed the perfect size for the try, the attempt, the next thing, project, whatever.  It's top had been completely snapped off about twenty five feet from the ground.  Still alive, it may have made it, these oaks being tough tough dudes.  No match however, for the Stihl with its newly filed chain racing through it like a hot knife through a cold block of lard. Really ?  Well, at any rate, short work was made of the young oak. Zip Zop

Nine sticks between four and six inches will get the the drill hole inocculation method of spawn transplantation.
There I said it again
One more time
it's a good word

Already we tilt back toward Autumn
What will be, a year hence
Shiitake hope

Tuesday, May 30, 2017

Arboreal shellfish

Both the fishing and the weather have been pretty poor
But a few oysters are in the forest.

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 a ubiquitous woolly bugger" says I
"Well, seems a proper cropper then" says Brooks
and a 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.