Still on Post

Ten minutes ago. Thanks, Tetoncam.

Pilgrimage

This is the time of year I feel drawn to make pilgrimages to the nascent lakes. I come with nothing but my need. I come to fill an empty space inside me with images of the possible. I come to encounter the immanent. 

This is the lake that will open on April 1.

First, though I haven't laid eyes on it in months, it is still there.

Second, others have come as well. There is already life there. The great flowering has begun.

Third, Winter is letting go its grip, the locks are opening, the chains are falling away.

Fourth, the lifeblood is flowing, spreading, opening.

Finally, I have come to be ready.

Peregrine Redux

In a recent post I wrote about the Peregrine Falcon I saw here a couple of years ago. I was able to get a photo of it then, a photo I subsequently lost when a virus destroyed my hard drive. Well, I went back to my old blog and found the photo. Unfortunately, the quality of this recycled photo is poor. But you can still see that the quality of the bird is superb, from the confident tilt of its tail to the dashing mustache. Good to see it again.

On a related note, it turns out Erin Block is also a fan of Peregrines. (Please check out her wonderful blog, Mysteries Internal.) She commented on my post that when she was a child she would watch a webcam of a pair of Peregrines that would nest on the Nebraska State Capitol building. She says there was always a "name the chicks" contest.

That got me thinking. How about Slasher? Or Death from Above? Or Brain Eater?

I doubt I would have won the contest.

Blood Knot Magazine: The Black Issue

This thing just keeps getting better and better. Something to offend--and delight--everyone in this issue. Check it out HERE.

Peregrine Alert

While I was at the river on Monday I saw a falcon flying some distance away. It was too far away for a definite identification, but three things made me immediately think Peregrine: its relatively large size, the sharp contrast between its dark back and light breast, and the speed and trajectory of its flight. We have Prairie Falcons and Kestrels (commonly known as Sparrow Hawks) around here. The Kestrel is much smaller. The Prairie Falcon is almost as large as a Peregrine, but, as the bird book says, is of a "paler, sandy color," like a "faded Peregrine." Both those birds have a flitting flight, and will often glide, or, in the case of the Kestrel, hover. The Peregrine flies, again according to the bird book, with "quick, rowing wing beats," and it seldom if ever glides. Normal flight has been clocked at 30 to 40 miles an hour, while level flight in pursuit of prey can reach 50 to 60 miles an hour.

I love Peregrines. I have been birding seriously for almost forty years, but it took me a long time to finally see one. Long ago I would go with friends to a State park on the Illinois shore of Lake Michigan to watch the migration of raptors. We never saw a Peregrine, but we often found ducks lying dead with only their brains eaten out. I was informed by a more experienced friend that such selective predation was a hallmark of the Peregrine. Looking at the beak in this photo, I can see how a Peregrine could make short work of a duck brain. The upper mandible has a tooth which fits into a notch in the lower mandible. One of its functions is to be inserted into the neck of a prey bird, where, with a twist, it can sever the spinal cord.

I almost saw a Peregrine once at Hawk Mountain, that phenomenal ridge in Pennsylvania where raptors by the thousands are funneled in by the Appalachians and pour over the ridge just a few feet overhead. I had been watching Ospreys and Redtails, hundreds of Broadwinged Hawks, and many other raptors, form great kettles out over the valley, then peel off and make the crossing. Just as I had to leave and had started the climb down to the trail a woman cried out, "Peregrine!" By the time I had climbed back up it was gone.

Later, in a mid-sized city in Indiana, I saw a Peregrine high over a traffic-choked street. The city had established a nesting pair on the roof of one of its highest buildings. I was happy that this pair had nested successfully, as others had done in cities across the country, in a widespread program to rebuild the population after it had been ravaged by farm and industrial chemicals. But I still wanted to see a wild Peregrine.

"The Peregrine is adapted to the pursuit and killing of birds in flight." So writes J. A. Baker, in Peregrine. They can stoop, or dive, at a hundred miles an hour in that deadly pursuit. Baker goes on:

"Killing is simple once the peregrine has the advantage of his prey. Small, light birds are seized in his outstretched foot; larger, heavier birds are stooped at from above, at any angle between ten and ninety degrees, and are often struck to the ground.....
The peregrine swoops down towards his prey. As he descends, his legs are extended forward till the feet are underneath his breast. The toes are clenched, with the long hind toe projecting below the three front ones, which are bent up out of the way. He passes close to the bird, almost touching it with his body, and still moving very fast. His extended hind toe (or toes--sometimes one, sometimes both) gashes into the back or breast of the bird, like a knife. At the moment of impact, the hawk raises his wings above his back. If the prey is cleanly hit--and it is usually hit hard or missed altogether--it dies at once, either from shock or from the perforation of a vital organ. A peregrine weighs from one and a half to two and a half pounds; such a weight, falling from a hundred feet, will kill all but the largest birds. Shelduck, pheasants, or great black-backed gulls, usually succumb to a stoop of five hundred feet or more. Sometimes the prey is seized and then released, so that it tumbles to the ground, stunned but still alive; or it may be clutched and carried off to a suitable feeding place. The hawk breaks its neck with his bill, either while he is carrying it, or immediately when he alights....
Some soaring peregrines deliberately stoop with the sun behind them. They do it too frequently for it to be merely a matter of chance."

Those who have seen it have remarked on the explosion of feathers when a Peregrine hits its prey.

Two years ago at this time of year I was outside when I saw a dark shape drop like a bomb into a covey of quail in our yard. The covey exploded in flight, and the hawk, which had missed, flew on into the pasture and landed. I was able to approach close enough to identify it. It was a Peregrine. A wild Peregrine. It looked at me calmly as it preened itself, then launched into flight and was quickly gone.

I saw it from a distance a few times after that. I thought then there might have been a pair nesting on the rugged rock face that fronts us just across the road. I still like to think that. And I like to think that they might be there again.

Time to be watching.

(Photos by Steve Wolfe, posted on The Cornell Lab of Ornithology.)

I'm Glad I Went to the River on Monday

No, we didn't have a sudden snowfall. This photo is from Fly Fishing in Yellowstone National Park. They did get another big dump of snow there. But on Tuesday here the temperature got stuck at 40, and a strong wind was howling out of the North, and it felt like Winter again. The sky was deep blue, though, and when I turned my back to the wind and lifted my face to the sun I could feel its warmth.

I don't think I'll have to wait very long for another Spring-like day for my next river trip.

One Day at a Time

We're taking it one day at a time around here. Monday was the second day in a row that broke the 60 degree barrier. Maybe we'll have some more, maybe not. No one here assumes we're in the clear yet. But in the meantime we're making the most of it.

I made the most of it by hitting the river again. What a difference a few days make. Last week it was steely and cold. This week it was sunny and mild. Last week I was chilled within an hour. This week it took me all afternoon to finally feel chilled. Last week I lost two trout. This week I finally landed one.

I started right in on the Bridge Run, and in the course of the afternoon I thoroughly covered the water all the way down to that dark shadow on the right bank.

But I caught the trout within the first fifteen minutes. It was hanging out near the downed tree that was such a pain in the ass until it shifted over against the bank. The trout came out hard and fast and nailed the fly just as it was shifting into high gear on its swing. I got it to hand out in mid-channel but couldn't get a photo-op grip on it, so I waded in for the photo shoot.

It was a strong, beautiful fish--and one a long time coming--so I think it deserves three photos.

And the fly deserves a little attention, too. It was the Royal Coachman Bucktail I tied up last month. It's always a kick to see a fly you tied, and really liked, in the jaws of a good fish.

That was fun. Nice to have the tree providing cover for fish and plenty of room now to go after them.

From there it was about getting serious (do I look serious?) and covering the water--with nothing to lose.

I figured I might catch another trout or two, but I was also intent on finding out if a Steelhead or two was lurking in the tail of the run.

I didn't find them, if they were there. I switched to a Stonefly nymph and fished it with and without the sink tip, but there was nothing. I did dredge up a lot of sticks and branches, though.

After fishing out the run I walked back up the well-worn fisherman's trail to the bridge.

I took a quick break under the bridge, then went out and took another pass through the head of the run.

I got some teasing bumps in mid-riffle, so worked it over carefully, then reeled in some line and started over on that section. I finally hooked another trout on a fast strip, but it came off before I could see it.

That's when I sensed a difference in how I was feeling and fishing. I felt the grip of that old familiar friend of the fly fisherman: obsession. I was getting cold, it was getting dark, I had already caught a nice fish, it was time to go--but I didn't want to quit. You know how it goes: just one more cast...OK, now just one more cast...

That's another sign of Spring, in my book.

So I went right back after that fish again...and promptly snagged and had to break off the Stonefly. OK, I can take a hint. I waded out, packed up, and headed home.

I get it. This was one day. There will be other days. Yes, we'll take it one day at a time. Blah, blah, blah...

Vicariousness

My Mainer brother John was recently able to escape the raw weather of that state and bask for awhile in the heat and light of Long Island in the Bahamas. It was a Twenty-fifth Anniversary trip--congratulations are in order for that impressive accomplishment--and it says a lot for the strength of that marriage that John was able to fish while they were there.

So, for your vicarious pleasure, here is John's quick report and photos. And a hope that all of us can get to such a sunbaked flat someday.

some shots from recent trip. didn't take nearly enough. didn't actually catch enough. couldn't see the damn fish at all. its like trying to catch a big sipping HF rainbow without actually being able to see where it is. no, more to the left; no not far enough... but fun. and yes, the fly in the vise is also the one in the mouth. cool.

A Milestone

We broke 60 degrees today. That's a welcome milestone on this journey to Spring. I couldn't make it to the river, but I have plans in place for tomorrow. It will be cooler, they say, but still over 50. That makes me feel like stirring around; we'll see how the fish feel.

"For the Trout," by Greg Keeler

I       Cutthroat You were here first. I can see why in the way the rivers don't rob you of what the streams gave. The dim rosettes on your sides live behind your spots in another time as if Lewis and Clark were still planning to meet near water and would never stop. And the thin orange slashes on your throat will always be proof. No matter how the world may crowd toward the hybrid of loss they will be there. Your gill covers burn crimson toward purple as you flaunt the purity of the West spilling east from the divide and a world lost in you.

II           Brook You live hard, in the backwater and eddies where your flesh turns like coal into diamond and you burn orange up the flare of your fins for your own reason The tracks stunning your back into dark marble are where we would go in sleep if dream were water. Since it's not we rely on you to show us the way east. When you find size in still waters, four pounds draped over a purist's hand, it leaves no choice: Plato was wrong. All of the West was wrong. This living shadow burns, has weight.

III            Brown You have come a long way -- and stayed. Still you seem willing to put up with us When we take your water away, slow it down, turn it warm, your jaw gets more determined with each fall spawning -- and you grow. We call you brown and your red spots defy us, floating on brown glowing gold turning purple or turquoise when you flop on the grass. Your teeth turn inward sharp down your throat so nothing you catch can escape you.

IV          Rainbow Running against the line you are the promise. Where the brown dives, you leap. And there in the sun, above the circle of your entrance into this world, you let us know for one instant what you know. And there is nothing in the color of sun through water that could spell promise so clearly. On shore your colors go quickest of all. Unless we lose you now we will lose you always.

SPRING FLY FISHING CALENDAR

MARCH 11 -- Daylight Saving Time begins.

APRIL 1 -- This lake opens.

APRIL 28 -- This lake opens. 

"March," by David Budbill

Rain-glaze on snow. Mud and ice and snow.
Coyotes feed themselves on gaunt dreams of spring. Then
what comes slowly suddenly he sees.

Light hovers longer in the southern sky.
Brooks uncover themselves. Alders redden.
Grosbeaks' beaks turn green. Chickadee finds the song
he lost last November, and blue jay abandons
argument and gluttony. He cranes his neck,
bobs his mitered head; he bounces on a naked branch
crying: Spring!
But, like all winter's keepers
he speaks his dream before
he sees the fact.
Did you hear a phoebe?
And he out again and walking on the earth,
in the air, in the sun, ankle deep in mud.

"March" by David Budbill, from Judevine. © Chelsea Green Publishing Company, 1999.