"Dulce Et Decorum Est," by Wilfred Owen, 1893-1918

"Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori." --from an ode by Horace

("It is sweet and proper to die for your country.") 

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! - An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime. -
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, -
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

A Lesson Learned

The full moon holds sway over the earth, and strange things happen. The dog barks incessantly at everything that moves in the luminescent landscape. And Isaiah convinces me to go to the midnight release of the latest Oblivion game.

It's pre-ordered; he paid in full with his own money. All he needs is an adult to pick it up for him because of the M rating. Two friends come along with Isaiah; they meet another friend there. The two will be staying overnight with us. No school tomorrow! The plan is to play the new game until they drop from exhaustion. Life is good.

The store is crowded but not jam-packed. There are plenty of people there who don't need a parent along.

The game plays on monitors around the store. The boys stand in front of one, but none of them want to risk looking foolish. They avoid the controller. Someone older comes over and takes the controller and marches into the mountains with a big sword and a left hand capable of shooting fire at enemies.

The boys watch, and anticipate; this will be so good!

Our turn comes. I flash my ID. No good. The computer says Kim, not Jim. Yeah, that's my wife; she's home fast asleep. But I'm here. No, it has to be Kim. It's a liability issue. We can only release it to Kim. Yeah, but look: same address, same last name.... No. So, you got a release form I could sign? Anything? Nope.

We leave. Gameless. At first Isaiah is angry at me. Then at Kim. Then, as the truck speeds down the highway through the moonlight, he begins making disparaging comments about all the "adult nerds" who didn't have anything better to do with their lives than play video games. Starting tonight ahead of him. Finally his anger focuses: it's Gamestop and their stupid rules.

So now Isaiah is angry at giant corporations who put their bottom line ahead of the little guy they say they're serving.

So the trip wasn't a complete waste of time.

Read This

Singlebarbed gets to the heart of something that has been nagging at me for a long while. Sure we're all disgusted, but why the hell aren't more of us doing something about it?

Calendar

There are calendars printed on paper stock that you hang on your wall. Then there are calendars that stand majestically in the distance recording--minute by minute, day by day--every nuanced change of the passing year on their stony face.

I have neglected to photograph this calendar for awhile, to my detriment. But I have checked it every day. I don't look for a number. I seek the more important distinctions of the day: how the sky and earth, the light and shadows, are configured in this present moment, and what that says about the season of the year, the season of my life, and the season of the cosmos.

This calendar tells me inerrantly that time passes. But it also tells me undoubtedly that change is but a fleeting shadow on the face of the infinite.

June 13, 2011

November 8, 2011

"Into the Woods," by David Budbill

Long-johns top and bottom, heavy socks, flannel shirt, overalls,
steel-toed work boots, sweater, canvas coat, toque, mittens: on.

Out past grape arbor and garden shed, into the woods.
Sun just coming through the trees. There really is such a thing

as Homer's rosy-fingered dawn. And here it is, this morning.
Down hill, across brook, up hill, and into the stand of white pine

and red maple where I'm cutting firewood. Open up workbox,
take out chain saw, gas, bar oil, kneel down, gas up saw, add

bar oil to the reservoir, stand up, mittens off, strap on and buckle
chaps from waist to toe, hard hat helmet: on. Ear protectors: down,

face screen: down, push in compression release, pull out choke,
pull on starter cord, once, twice, go. Stall. Pull out choke, pull on

starter cord, once, twice, go. Push in choke. Mittens: back on.
Cloud of two-cycle exhaust smoke wafting into the morning air

and I, looking like a medieval Japanese warrior, wade through
blue smoke, knee-deep snow, revving the chain saw as I go,

headed for that doomed, unknowing maple tree.

"Into the Winter Woods" by David Budbill, from Happy Life. © Copper Canyon Press, 2011.

Grand: The Ronde

Grand: Steel in the Oregon Outback from Outside Bend Productions on Vimeo.

Remembering Nathaniel

I debated whether to share this on the blog. For many of us, fishing is an escape from the harsher realities of life, and that goes for the time we spend checking out fishing blogs. But sometimes the hard truths won't be denied. That's when we realize the deeper significance of fishing: it helps us get through the harsher realities of life.

This is Nathaniel. He was Jeremiah's friend. Last week he took his own life. He was 15 years old.

He was a gawky kid, unpopular, often bullied; his Dad had died a few years ago, and he was dealing with an unstable home life. I was proud that Jeremiah went against popular opinion and became his friend. Nathaniel came to our house several times for long weekends.

Last June he went with us to the Bass lake. He and Jeremiah had a plan: they were going to catch Bluegill and use them as bait for the monster Catfish rumored to be prowling the warm depths. They never caught a Catfish, but they had a good time trying.

Jeremiah is doing OK. He's working to make sense of it all. I suggested he might feel angry at Nathaniel for doing this. He said, "It never occurred to me to be angry at Nathaniel. I'm angry at his decision." I think Jeremiah knows more than I do what Nathaniel had to cope with, and is working to make sense of all of that as much as of what Nathaniel did.

That's something all of us should be working at, for all the kids out there still living on the edge.

Of course, I wish I had been able to do or say something that would have made the difference. It's what we do. But we did what we did, and he did what he did. That's the truth of it.

But there's another truth. For a long afternoon and evening he was at the lake with us, safe, happy, and having fun. Maybe it was a brief escape for him. Maybe it helped get him through a little longer. I don't know.

What I do know is that it was one of those "perfect moments on the water and in life" that I want this blog to be about. I wish it could have made a difference. But then again, I believe it did.

"I Want My Money!!"

OK, this has nothing to do with fly fishing. Except maybe that the best fishing trips, when you aren't by yourself, are the ones where you laugh the most. Or maybe that the worst ones include some guy who's exactly like Pearl. You decide.

The Landlord from Will Ferrell      

It's River Time

October in Styria from Michal Potoczek on Vimeo.

Trout Lake Report: So Long, Lake--For Now

All things run their course, and so the long lake season, begun in the time of shoots and buds, comes to its end in the time of fruit and seeds.

A rancher on horseback was bringing his cattle down from the high country, a Fall ritual as old as the first time ranchers came into these mountains.

The tamaracks were yellow ghosts in the forest, preparing to drop their needles until the next growing season.

The lake shimmered under a pale sun and a fitful breeze out of the south. The sun was but a shadow of its former self, and the breeze a thin version of the warm, sweet, south winds of summer.

I launched the faithful float tube for the last time this year. I paddled out into the channel; to my left: the north end, and memories; to my right: the south end, and memories. All around me: one more memory to make.

I had a nymph and indicator on in case trout were tailing again, reaping the harvest of lowering lake levels and withering weeds.

There were no tailing fish this time, but a trout came up near me with a splashy rise, and when I dropped the nymph into its window it took hungrily.

I had a swirl at the indicator on one of my retrieves, so I succumbed to the inevitable and tied on a stimulator.

I worked my way down the shoreline, inducing a few swirls but no takes. But once again, as I have so many times before--and as I will so many times again--I was fishing.

I had slipped far down the shoreline when the south breeze fluttered and died. Fish began to rise and it seemed that things were going my way. All treat on this Halloween day.

Then the pines began to moan up on the mountainside, a breeze picked up and swirled round and round, and suddenly a strong wind came roaring down out of the north and hit like an avalanche. The lake had one more trick up its sleeve.

I gave up searching for fish along the shoreline and began the long, hard paddle against the wind back toward the channel and the truck. I was dragging the stimulator behind me, and two small fish, holding the promise of seasons to come, refused to let it pass.

I reached sheltered water, dried out the stimulator, and went back to working the shoreline. One last time: the stimulator rides high on the dark water, making little ripples as I strip, pause, strip. Then the water boils under it and it disappears in the center of a rapidly expanding ring. I raise the rod and the vibrancy of another life, wild and free, shoots up my arm and into my soul. One last time, and the last trout of the season.

It was a good time for an ending. So for the last time this season I packed up the truck.

And for the last time this season I climbed the ridge out of the high valley.

And so, like all things, the season has run its course. But even as it comes to an end it is sowing the seeds of the next season.

So long, lake--for now.

Before It's Too Late

The sun rose over a misty Columbia River early this morning as I was on my way to Wenatchee for the day.

It was a beautiful day, and would have been a good day to be at the lake, but once again this week other things called for my time and attention. Important things, things that also define my life. Just not fishing things.

Tomorrow, too, will be busy; no trip to the lake then.

So it's down to Monday, the last day of the season at the lake. I just checked on one more possible conflict and found that I'm good to go. I plan to be there early, before it's too late.

"Sometimes, I Am Startled Out of Myself," by Barbara Crooker

like this morning, when the wild geese came squawking,
flapping their rusty hinges, and something about their trek
across the sky made me think about my life, the places
of brokenness, the places of sorrow, the places where grief
has strung me out to dry. And then the geese come calling,
the leader falling back when tired, another taking her place.
Hope is borne on wings. Look at the trees. They turn to gold
for a brief while, then lose it all each November.
Through the cold months, they stand, take the worst
weather has to offer. And still, they put out shy green leaves
come April, come May. The geese glide over the cornfields,
land on the pond with its sedges and reeds.
You do not have to be wise. Even a goose knows how to find
shelter, where the corn still lies in the stubble and dried stalks.
All we do is pass through here, the best way we can.
They stitch up the sky, and it is whole again.

"Sometimes, I Am Startled Out of Myself," by Barbara Crooker, fromRadiance. © Word Press, 2005.

Trout Lake Report: Decidedly Octoberish

Just a few more real time adventures at the lake. Today was beautiful but chilly, especially, as is always the way, after the sun dipped behind the mountain. It was along this stretch just after I launched that I saw something I haven't seen since my first trip to this lake oh so many years ago.

There were a few fish tailing, working the weed beds, out and back, heads down and tails waggling in the sunlight. One of those tails was big, too. I had tied a Muddler on, expecting business as usual, and dropped it on their heads and stripped it over them several times, but I don't think they even noticed it. By the time I had tied a nymph on they were gone.

So I went back to a Muddler and worked my way leisurely along the weed beds picking up a fish or two here and there. The ones that were looking up.

Then the smoke began. Something bigger than a campfire was burning near the north end of the lake, and the northerly breeze was drifting the smoke over the south end. I wondered about my truck, and had a flash of me having to spend a frigid night in the lake in the float tube while a forest fire raged down the valley. But it wasn't too long before the smoke subsided.

It gave things a decidedly Octoberish look while it lasted. Reminded me of leaf burning when I was a kid.

The breeze drifted away with the smoke and a few fish began rising lazily to midges and the odd little Caddis fly.

I tied on an emerger and paddled around and caught a couple more fish. The water is definitely colder, and there is nothing sluggish about these fish now, even the little ones. They fight hard and never quit fighting, and they're out of my hand with a splash as soon as I get them back in the water.

As the shadows climbed the ridge the rises became fewer and farther between, so I tied on a Stimulator and drifted it behind me.

Nothing doing there, so I tried it with a black Muddler. Still nothing doing. By then my feet were about the same temperature as the trout, and I was losing the feeling in my thumbs. So I paddled in.

Later, when I took the tube out of the truck to put it in the shed, it wasn't wet, as it usually is; it was covered with a thin layer of ice, and the net was frozen to the seat.

Decidedly Octoberish.

Scarlet Sentinel

Our Fall colors are more muted than eastern hardwood forests and groves. I confess I miss the maples at this time of year, especially the vibrant reds.

So, like others in this neck of the woods, I love this tree. It stands high on a hill and can be seen for miles, a brilliant scarlet sentinel of Fall.

Trout Lake Report: Real Time

Time passes, and another season is winding down. On windy days like this one I get the sense that the wind itself is blowing everything away. But one thing stays the same, whether at the beginning of the season or the end: the hunger for real time experience. Real time: the real thing, right now.

That was today. The lake is different, the colors are different, than they were in May or August. But they're different than they were yesterday, if we only had the ability to see it. So we carve out time from our busy lives to get on the water whenever we can. It may be a day, or just a few hours or even minutes. But when we're there, in the moment, none of that matters. It's not August, or October; it's simply now.

That's where the trout live, I believe. It may be the most important thing they give us, the opportunity to enter into their timeless existence. If just for a moment.... Yes, they may feel the urgency now to feed in preparation for the approaching cold. But that's a biological imperative, instinctive behavior that has nothing to do with any sense of the passage of time. It's simply what now requires. And they do what now requires, no matter the time of the season.


So today I fished, with no sense of desperation at the dwindling of the season. Soon I won't be on the lake anymore, not until next Spring. But today I was there.


So I played with my Boatman, and got a few bumps and pulls, but no hookup. By then I was at this shoreline where the Stimulator had worked its magic on the last trip, so I tied it on again and began casting it into the pocket water between the weed beds and the shoreline.

It worked its magic again. First this hefty Rainbow.

Then this big-shouldered Brown.

On down the weed beds this smaller Rainbow risked a quick take, in spite of its recent brush with death. That was then, this is now; and now is the time to eat. 

When the weed beds ran out I paddled out into the open lake dragging the Stimulator behind me.

There were fish there, too, like these. Not so big, but just as much in the moment.

So what is a "season" anyway? There was only today, and there will be other days, all of them the real thing, right now.