happiness

After returning from a trip to Montana about 5 years or so ago, I decided to make a change in my life. I was going to quit smoking and run to keep my mind off the oral fixation of having a cigarette. To be honest, I had my doubts after watching my dad and three siblings try and fail, time and again. Was it heredity? Was there something that ran in our family and predisposed me to need legal crack? I was hoping that I simply would not be able to do it but alas, I made the decision to never smoke again. I remember thinking 'Really, that's it?'. I also remember crying. Finally I told myself what I think a lot of people who quit nicotine tell themselves to stay sane; 'No worries, there will be an occasion. Hell, buy a pack on your deathbed and smoke all 20. What difference will it make?'. 5 or so years later I know I'll never have another smoke and these days I'm good with that, not a big deal. Although I do dream of smoking once in awhile. Any ideas Maggie?
About that same time I got my first dog. She was a round ball of cottony fur with long ears and an endlessly wagging tail. Name: Rider...The best dog. I know everyone says that about their dog regardless of whether it uses the carpet as it's toilet or methodically removes the cork handle from a fly rod, but she is. Since that day that I quit smoking I have continued to enjoy running, and Rider has been with me on practically every run I've taken; 12 miles on the shingle mill trail, the run along the airstrip, 18 miles through the Jordan Valley in the rain (After which we split a pizza). Today we ran three regular, albeit enjoyable miles and to her it was truly wonderful. The first time I took her running she looked glad to be outside. Today, she looked like the happiest soul on earth. I really think she may have been. No matter if she has to keep stopping to bite the snow out of her paws or whether I make her stay close when cars drive by. She still has that smile on her muzzle and bright eyes that look ahead as if this is the first day that they have seen the world. True happiness. You can learn from a dog. Thanks Rider, best dog.

haiku

Blue sky above
Snow falling from branches
In the December wind

A few thoughts during 4 days of marking red pine
I wish I saw Jimmy more often. Miles is amazing. That's a beautiful white pine. I wish I was better at keeping track of birthdays. How does my dad remain so patient? Random thoughts about things that I can't make sense of. What makes a terrible song stick in your head? I had snowshoes on this time a year ago. That's the first pine marten I've seen in quite awhile. I dreamt about that steelhead again last night. Rider probably would have gotten sprayed by that skunk. Days are getting shorter, 31 until they begin to lengthen again. need to find a camera that catches the same light that the human eye does. Was this a farm before it was planted to red pine 67 years ago. Thirsty. Great jam. How's danimal doing? I tied those blue wing olives 1 day late. Thanks for thinking of me sweetheart. Thought of a picture of Polly. Thoughts of a concert-new years 95. Wish I had the recipe for time. I'll try not to worry as much. Thanks mom. Need to take this call. His life will be wonderful Molly. Thanks jimmer. How are the boys doing? How are you feeling Maggie? Is it snowing in Utah? Whose decision was it to spare this tree in the early 1900's? 141 years old. Thoughts spent trying to remember that poster from gradeschool of all the US presidents. Johnson or grant was president. I see orange marks. Thoughts of 4 days ago. Remembering a trip to see the sequoias with Jimmy, specifically the Ulysses grant grove. Everyone should see those trees. Last tree. How did that crook form. Ice? Wind? Branch breaking? Leave it.

tires making contact with the road

After a long day, and a long month for that matter, we're finally leaving. I've mentioned our plans to several people over the last few days and have gotten a similar response; 'that's a long drive'. My response, 'looking forward to it'. The road, scenery, conversation and silence, beauty, simplicity.

light before the dawn

I was anticipating the following day so in a way, I suspected that sleep would be abbreviated at best. There I was, lying in bed, awake. The clock read 5:12. I remember thinking why I liked that time of day. There is a mysterious hue through the half open window, I suppose it seems this way because I rarely see those hours since leaving college. It is also the time that, if its going to be calm it will be then. The best wind on land is light wind. Calm, no wind, stimuli to the ear. Birds awaken and start calling for company, squirrels begin figuring out how they can get the lid off of the seed can, and leaves on the ground make minute twitches for some weird reason. The light increases at such a slow, measured crawl that changes are hardly noticed. If you were so inclined you could take a very careful observation of the color outside and then close your eyes and wait several minutes - maybe ponder the nights dreams, even fall back asleep. After opening them back up again you may see a light that is a shade or two brighter. Very discrete shadows might have also formed but that would be about it. Still, no wind. Almost no sound. The light within the house is practically nonexistent, more of a lesser degree of darkness than light. Nevertheless, eyes inevitably adjust and outlines become crisp shades of blue and gray. A red shirt hangs on the door and even this is a blue-gray red. My special lady and I are leaving to canoe in about 3 hours so I wake up and read under a lamp for awhile about the chosen river, identifying a few landmarks, making sure I know where were getting out, etc. Nowadays if I'm up at this hour I tend to think about how exhausted I'll be at the end of the day. So I decide to make one last ditch attempt at sleep. Lying in bed I notice that it looks different outside (the light has changed).

Fishing during the week, watching day turn to night.

As winter releases it's grip and the frosts of late spring subside, northern michigan enters a period of time that is not quite summer and a bit beyond spring. Technically, if going by our calendar, it is summer but the inconsistency of warmth and the need to be 'dressed appropriately' cause many to wonder if this really isn't another season, a vernal segue if you will. The days are long, the evenings relatively warm and the nights more dark and alive than at any other time of the year. Aside from the masses of mosquitoes, black flies, deer flies and noseeums, it's a fine time.

This fine time of year brings about an overwhelming urge for me to head to the river and find a stretch unoccupied. This is attainable in May but as the midpoint of June arrives, it becomes increasingly difficult (as it seems the urge has hit not only me, but every other person who ties a fly to a thin line and stands in a river waving a stick). That is unless you are willing to get out of work, head home to get a few things done, take off for the river, fish and then head home for a few hours of sleep-on a weekday. Even the lengths of river that are easily accessed from a bridge crossing are usually vacant and fishing is more often than not, amazing.

I forget time as I step into rivers with the sun in my eyes. It's ironic as this is the one point of day when time passing is the most physical to me-I can see the sun moving lower and the temperature changing. Everything is calm and relatively silent except for the sounds that should be there. As night gains time, the movement of the sun creates stretching shadows and mellow lighting as shades of orange, yellow, purple and blue begin to appear overhead. Eventually the direct sun can no longer be seen, any wind has turned into but a breeze and rings begin to appear on the surface of the water. Some rings are formed in calm water, starting as a dimple and growing to a series of circles. The current carries these circles downstream and they continue to spread until they are barely discernible. I try to focus on where the rings originated but often follow them instead. Thus begins the focusing portion of the night... Trying to figure out what a fish is eating can be a mystery at times. They feed as if they would eat anything and then you float a fly over them and nothing happens. As soon as the fly has made it's way downstream the trout begins to feed again. I usually make a few casts to see if any part of my fly is attractive to these fish more often than not, they are selective and want nothing to do with it. I once read about an entomologist that tried to quantify a trouts IQ and came up with 6, using the same scale that humans do. Many a time I have wondered if this is a conservative value. Quickly the fly is changed and I commence casting. This may happen several times and eventually I'll revert to my original offering but one size smaller, typically this one size is a length of 2mm. The fly floats over the same spot as before however this time, for whatever the reason, a circle is formed and my line is tightened. After a minute or two I hold in my hand a native brook trout with it's mottled green back, red and white fins and spots of red and blue with faint yellow circles around them. I sometimes look for someone to show this fish to but of course no one is there. I wish I could explain better the beauty of this fish but I can't. After letting it go I realize that day has turned to evening and now night is upon me. So I head for home and the comforts of my spot in bed, next to my wife. Probably the only other place that I would rather be on a weekday.

I've fly-fished for many years and have become more obsessed with it as the years have passed. I'm thankful for that. Through life you pick up many hobbies and enjoyments and it seems as though we continue those that truly stimulate our minds and that we love doing. My dad used to take my sister and I fishing when I was pretty young. He would suit up and head off into the night while we held down a few of the holes close to the car. As night progressed we would observe the forementioned circles forming on the water and hear the gulp of hungry trout. My dad would eventually return, tell a few stories and we would head for home. Eventually he gave me a fly rod and taught me the basics of casting. From there, as they say, the rest is in the past. Each time I fish I remember my dad walking down a narrow trail to some forgotten stretch of river, a mysterious, spooky and beautiful place. I think in a way that I enjoy fishing with flies so much because of these memories.