Dreaming in Black and White

In what tends to be a black and white time of the year, these photos have been especially evocative to me of a season and its trout that I sorely miss.

River Report: I Get Lucky

I headed straight to The Glide on this drab afternoon, thinking about those tugs last Friday. I had been thinking about them frequently over the weekend. I stayed with the same fly, but this time I added a sink tip.

At about the same place I had gotten those tugs, I hooked up. Same fish? I think it's a good bet.

The fish took as I started to strip in after the dangle. It pulled, but it didn't fight at first. I was expecting a Whitefish until that first big swirl when I saw that flash of red that lit up the day.

It wasn't big, but it acquitted itself well, making long lunging runs as it did its best to get to the other side of the river.

I took another pass through The Glide, but that was it for today.

But, boy, it sure felt good.

Remember the Past: Crazy Horse

Overlooking Little Big Horn Battlefield. 2011

On this date in 1877, Lakota Sioux warrior Crazy Horse fought his last battle against the United States Army, half a year after the Battle of Little Big Horn in June 1876. The battle took place at Wolf Mountain in Montana against General Miles' army; Crazy Horse and his band had engaged the army throughout the fall and winter. By January, they were weakened and hungry. In May, Crazy Horse led his remaining people to Fort Robinson and formally surrendered. (From The Writer's Almanac.)

Portrait of Chief Crazy HorseThe Strange Man of the Oglala

---

"I thought of things that had happened the last days, seasons and summers.  I began to see that all things were strung together like beads of a necklace, one after another, from this day back and this day forward they went on forever, the hunt, the warpath, the teaching by Hump and my father and the wounding of Conquering Bear.

I thought of other beads:  The songs of my mother as we laughed together when I was a child, the songs I sang to Little Mouse as I brushed away the mosquitoes and gnats from her face as she lay in her cradleboard.  And how I told her stories until she fell to sleep.  I saw the face of Little Mouse as she is now, with her long eyelashes flickering up and down over her smiling, bright black eyes.  It was as if I had returned to mother earth from another world and she wanted to hold me to her bosom and whisper in my ear."

                                                                                            -Crazy Horse-

---

"There was never a photograph taken or a likeness made from first hand witness of Crazy Horse," so said Mari Sandoz in the biography, Crazy Horse, the Strange Man of the Oglala.

Her book was published in 1942.  At the time there was little reason to doubt her words.  From eyewitness descriptions, we know that Crazy Horse was five feet, eight inches tall, lithe and sinewy, with a lean face and a thin, sharp nose.  His countenance was of quiet dignity, but morose, dogged, tenacious and melancholy.  It was said that he always wore a white buckskin shirt and dark blue leggins, with two feathers hanging loose in his hair and his long braids wrapped in beaver fur almost the color of his hair.

He was known throughout his life as "the light-skinned warrior,"  In his youth he was called "Curly" for his light, loose hair, the "color of a young prairie chick."  In The Killing of Chief Crazy Horse (1976, A.H. Clark Co. of Glendale, California) is a reproduction of an alleged portrait of Crazy Horse.  The book was a collaborative effort of Robert A. Clark of Spokane, Washington, and Carroll Friswold.  The portrait was first published by J.W. Vaughn in With Crook at the Rosebud (Stackpole, 1956).

There is a striking correlation between the eyewitness description of Crazy Horse and the man in the portrait.  The original portrait is a quarter tintype, 2.5 x 3.5 inches (one of four images on a tintype plate) taken in the summer of 1877 at Fort Robinson in Crazy Horse's 35th, and last, year.  Its first owner was  Baptiste (Little Bat) Garnier.  When Little Bat was murdered in 1900, the tintype went to his wife, a cousin of Crazy Horse.  After her death, it went to her daughter, Ellen Howard, from whom Fred Hackett acquired it.  Hackett and Vaught published it in 1956.  Later, Friswold obtained the tintype from Hackett with a letter from Ellen Howard attesting to the authenticity of the tintype.

The image shown here was taken directly from the tintype, which was scanned at high resolution and retouched to remove chips and scratches without changing content by Scott Burgan or Sheridan, Wyoming.

---

LOOKING AT THE TINTYPE

Tintypes are positive prints and are laterally reversed when viewed directly (as one sees oneself in a mirror). In the linked enlargement the image has been laterally flipped to present it in the more familiar orientation.

The Face Wound
There are those that claim this tintype is not of Crazy Horse on the basis that there is no obvious scar on the face of the subject. It is known that No Water shot Crazy Horse in the face because his wife, Black Buffalo Robe Woman, rode off with Crazy Horse.

Far too much has been made of this scar on the assumption that it disfigured the face of Crazy Horse. This is not a valid argument. In a letter to Will G. Robinson (Secretary of the South Dakota State Historical Society) on October 19, 1947; Mari Sandoz, in response his inquiry, stated that the revolver used by No Water to shoot Crazy Horse was a small caliber that could be hidden in the palm of the hand. He borrowed it from Bad Heart Bull and, unbeknownst to No Water, the powder charge was about a half load, to save precious gunpowder. It had been loaded to hunt rabbits and other small animals. The bullet made a small wound near the left nostril, traveled along the upper jawbone above the roots of the teeth and exited out the cheek.

In time this left a slight ridge and, according to eye witnesses, "...giving that side of Crazy Horse's face a slightly haughty cast---striking, considering the mildness and gentleness of his face." Here we need to inspect the picture carefully. Consideration should be given to the age of the wound. (The picture was taken in 1877, over ten years after the shooting.) In the picture it can be seen that the left cheek is more distinct than the right with the skin whitened from an old scar from below the left nostril to the corner of the mouth. It can best be described that his face has "a slightly haughty cast," as stated in Sandoz's letter.

Noteworthy Considerations
A Pose of Peace: Photographs of Indians of the time show them in full battle dress, wearing a fierce look and holding their favorite weapon, a rifle, axe or knife. Not so in this picture, the subject is uniquely without a weapon of any sort and is holding a peace pipe and its tamp with a clutch of Red Willow branches in his left hand. To the Lakota the left hand holds spiritual values since it is closest to the heart. (When greeting a good friend they shake with the left hand.) The Lakota used the bark of the Red Willow (not tobacco) in the ceremonial smoke of a peace council.

A Chief's Blanket: He is holding a blanket over his left arm that is carefully draped for maximum presentation, the border resting on the floor. At the time of his surrender Crazy Horse's most prized possession was a red blanket, a chief's blanket. In agreeing to have his picture taken he would make sure that his blanket would be properly presented in the photograph. Mari Sandoz stated that Crazy Horse carried his red blanket folded over his arm as he walked (unwittingly) to the guardhouse, where he was bayoneted by Private Gentles.

Earrings: are common among the Lakota and each person had their own style, but most consisted of open rings or long chains, the person in the picture has short, shell earrings, consistent with those known to be worn by Crazy Horse as an outgrowth of his vision.

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PROVENANCE

Little Bat was a good and trusted friend of Crazy Horse. It appears that Little Bat persuaded Crazy Horse to have his picture taken with the assurance that it would be kept secret while Crazy Horse still lived. Crazy Horse wasn't afraid of the "shadow catcher," as stated by many writers. He was fully aware of how cameras worked; he just didn't want his picture shown about. He had a lot of enemies, Indian and White, and anonymity was his best protection.

Through the dedicated efforts of Peter Abiuso, an amateur historical sleuth, the original tintype and Howard's letter were found in the effects of Carroll Friswold's estate. They were sold at auction by Butterfield Auctions of Los Angeles, California in December 2000 and later acquired by the Custer Battlefield Museum at Crow Agency, Montana where they are now available for public viewing.

Guardhouse at Fort Robinson where Crazy Horse was killed.

September, 1877

"The Snowshoe Hare," by Mary Oliver

The fox

is so quiet—

he moves like a red rain—

even when his

shoulders tense and then

snuggle down for an instant

against the ground

and the perfect

gate of his teeth

slams shut

there is nothing

you can hear

but the cold creek moving

over the dark pebbles

and across the field

and into the rest of the world—

and even when you find

in the morning

the feathery

scuffs of fur

of the vanished

snowshoe hare

tangled

on the pale spires

of the broken flowers

of the lost summer—

fluttering a little

but only

like the lapping threads

of the wind itself—

there is still

nothing that you can hear

but the cold creek moving

over the old pebbles

and across the field and into

another year.

"The Snowshoe Hare" by Mary Oliver, from New & Selected Poems. © Beacon Press, 1992. 

You Do It, I Do It, Bears Do It...Wolves Do It?

Photos taken at Brooks Falls on the Brooks River above Naknek Lake in the Katmai National Monument, Alaska. (Via email; photos unattributed.)

River Report: Just a Kiss

"Just a kiss." My dating days are long past, but I seem to remember hearing those words more than once. A kiss is nice, but I was always hoping for more.

As I was perusing blogs on Friday, I found the "Top Five Tips to Increase Winter Steelhead Success," posted by Zach over on the Idylwilde Marinated in Awesomeness Blog:

1.  Go fishing more!

2.  Try to spend more time on the river fishing and less time reading about winter steelhead on the internet!

3.  Fish flies that you can effectively cast consistently all day long. If the fly is not landing in “the zone” on every cast, odds of catching FEWER winter steelhead increase dramatically.

4.  Keep your fly in the water as much as possible. Happens naturally when you go fishing more often.

5.  Stop reading this blog and go fishing!

So I stopped reading and went. I lost a fly long-lining the Bridge Run, then slogged upstream to The Glide. I covered it slowly and thoroughly as evening deepened into dusk.

Down at the end I got a kiss. Just a kiss. Something picked up the fly and gave it three or four tugs. Good tugs, Steelheady tugs. Then let go.

Hoping for more, I went right back. And again, and again. I worked that section over, making each cast count, varying the speed and depth of the fly as much as I could. Doing everything I could to get something more. But that was all I got. Just a kiss.

Maybe I'll get to Second Base on the next date. Or, who knows? I might get lucky.

OSPREY

Take a deep breath before you watch this. It will still leave you breathless.

Getting Through the Winter: Bibliotherapy

I feel all at loose ends. This is the time, deep into winter, holidays over, that I really miss the cleansing and renewal that come with fishing on a regular basis. The river has been iced up pretty good for the last few weeks, though a recent warm spell has opened things up. On my way to work today I saw two guys in a boat working a run. So there's a chance I could get there soon and see what's up. (Word on the street is that there isn't much up at the moment.)

I also have this idea that I could hop in the truck some morning and run down to Rocky Ford Creek, a spring creek open all year. I've caught some very nice fish out of there, but it has been three years at least since the last time I plied those waters. It has strong appeal right now. I appreciate fishing a river right in my own back yard, but, then again--it's in my own back yard. Rocky Ford would be a day away out in the middle of nowhere--and the Rainbows are there, and they're big.

I just have to find that window of opportunity. It seems harder to do in the winter when regular fishing trips aren't built into the weekly routine.

Meanwhile, there are distractions and vicarious experience. For me, at this time of year, that means books. Yesterday the boys and I crossed the pass to Spokane. On the way back we stopped at a little surplus/thrift store in Chewelah. It's one of those fun places that has all kinds of military surplus stuff (some great packs that I didn't get), old fishing rods and reels (no fly rods or reels yesterday), used knives of every description, and everything else under the sun. Including books.

I was disappointed at first, but then I found this lying flat on the shelf under a couple of other books.

I don't own any books by Schwiebert, so, at a buck and a half, I couldn't pass it up. This is the first of a series of paperbacks designed to make the material in Trout, his three-volume magnus opus, more accessible to the masses. I started it today, and for a big man who wore funny hats and knew everything there is to know about trout and fishing for trout, he is a surprisingly lyrical writer.

Ernest Schwiebert on the Henry's Fork during a blizzard hatch of caddis, 197?.

From Spring Creeks, by Mike Lawson.

This is the second paragraph of the first chapter, The Ancient Art of the Wet Fly:

          "The wet-fly was common on the Michigan rivers in those days. It was the method for teaching a boy about trout, and it is still perhaps the best manner in which to start fly fishing. It was my introduction to trout water and trout problems. There were strangely peaceful tree-frog summers in those first years of the Second World War, with twilight whippoorwills and swamp-peepers. Those summers were spent on the beautiful, smooth-flowing rivers of lower Michigan, thousands of miles from the fighting. Both their swift gravel-bottom riffles, and the shy trout lying in their tangled deadfalls, first taught me about the wet-fly method."

Makes me want to tie up some wets to take to Rocky Ford.

I'm going to enjoy reading this book, and I expect I'll learn a thing or two. And each time I can open its pages it will be an armchair trip into the world of trout and trout fishing. (Don't worry, I'll fit it in with my reading of Moby Dick--and Larry McMurtry's Lonesome Dove trilogy, and a few books from Patrick O'Bryan's Aubrey/Maturin series.)

That will keep me going between fishing trips and until the long winter finally breaks into a peaceful tree-frog summer.

Step Into the Stream

If you haven't found this already, here's a heads up for 

a new site from Darren MacEachern bringing a streamer a day throughout the year. They have been amazing so far.

Check it out here: Streamers365.

Happy Birthday, Herman

Today is the birthday of Herman Melville, author of the 822-page whaling epic Moby-Dick; or, The Whale. Though born into a well-to-do merchant's family in New York City, Melville was restless. He loved the sea, and as soon as he was old enough he sailed across the Atlantic as a cabin boy. When he was 21, his wanderlust still not satisfied, he took a berth on the Acushnet, a whaling ship bound for the South Seas. It was on that voyage that he learned the finer points of whaling, and first heard the tales of a legendary white whale, of extraordinary size and cunning, that had never been captured, and that had sent many good ships and men to the bottom of the sea.

When he returned to the States, he married and settled on a farm in Massachusetts. It was there he began to write. He published several books about his adventures in the South Seas, and these were generally well-received. He also began work on Moby-Dick.

Moby-Dick was published in 1851, to mixed reviews. Critics, perhaps expecting another "travel book,"  didn't seem to know what to do with a densely detailed, deeply philosophical, and daringly experimental masterpiece. The initial American printing of 3,000 copies was never sold out in his lifetime, and he made a total of $556.37 from the book.

Critical opinion turned against him, and later works were savaged. One reviewer in the New York Day Book, in a piece headlined "Herman Melville Crazy," wrote:   "A critical friend, who read Melville's last book, 'Ambiguities," between two steamboat accidents, told us that it appeared to be composed of the ravings and reveries of a madman. We were somewhat startled at the remark, but still more at learning, a few days after, that Melville was really supposed to be deranged, and that his friends were taking measures to place him under treatment. We hope one of the earliest precautions will be to keep him stringently secluded from pen and ink."

Melville continued to write, pursuing the white whale of his art, but, unable to make a living as a writer, he also took a job as a customs inspector in New York City.

At his death in 1891 at age 72, Melville had no idea that he would later be considered one of the first modernist writers and one of the great American authors. Nor did he know that Moby-Dick; or, The Whale would come to be considered by many the Great American Novel.

Maybe you've read it. If you haven't, I recommend it. I haven't dipped into it for years, since my days as an undergraduate English Major. But this seems to be a good time of year to spend some time with one of the greatest fishing epics of all time.

At its heart, it's a rip-roaring adventure yarn. Still, it's not easy to wade through; but flyfishers with miles of wading under their belts already know that sometimes the best fishing requires the most rigorous and risky wading. It's deep in spots, and there are eddies and backwaters that seem to suck you down; but there are the swift-flowing sections and deep pools where you can expect a sudden pull of recognition, and a long and satisfying struggle to land a deeper understanding of life and self.

At the least, if you fish you need to know Captain Ahab. It's the obsession of Ahab that drives the book. He lost a leg to the White Whale, and is now maniacal in his obsession to wreak revenge on the devil fish. He ends up hanging by his neck from the rope of his own harpoon embedded in the great whale, and Moby Dick sounds, dragging him to his death in the green depths. (After which Moby comes back up and destroys the whaling ship, the Pequod, and every member of the crew except one, Ishmael, who survives--by floating on a coffin--to tell the story.)

Of Ahab's obsession, Melville writes: "The White Whale swam before him as the monomaniac incarnation of all those malicious agencies which some deep men feel eating in them, till they are left living on with half a heart and half a lung. That intangible malignity which has been from the beginning; to whose dominion even the modern Christians ascribe one-half of the worlds; which the ancient Ophites of the east reverenced in their statue devil; -- Ahab did not fall down and worship it like them; but deliriously transferring its idea to the abhorred white whale, he pitted himself, all mutilated, against it. All that most maddens and torments; all that stirs up the lees of things; all truth with malice in it; all that cracks the sinews and cakes the brain; all the subtle demonisms of life and thought; all evil, to crazy Ahab, were visibly personified, and made practically assailable in Moby Dick. He piled upon the whale's white hump the sum of all the general rage and hate felt by his whole race from Adam down; and then, as if his chest had been a mortar, he burst his hot heart's shell upon it."

—Moby-Dick, Ch. 41

I wouldn't say I'm as obsessed as Ahab. You probably aren't either. But this may yet be a cautionary tale for fanatical fly fishers. I feel a stirring inside when I read: "...all those malicious agencies which some deep men feel eating in them..." I could name a few of those agencies, I think, and the Agencies that seem to embody those agencies. I strongly suspect that one of the reasons I fish is to get away from those agencies.

But maybe we all need to do a little soul-searching. There may be a fine line between the simple pleasure we get from fooling a trout and that darker feeling that we need to catch fish in order to be fulfilled in some way. When the lake or stream ceases to be a refuge from the battle with malicious agencies, and instead becomes the battleground, we have crossed the line.

It's possible that some of the trends in our sport--headhunting, where one seeks out the biggest or "meanest" adversary to vanquish; or fantasy fishing, where one pays a steep fee to catch big fish in an artificially managed environment whether you have any skill, or experience, or appreciation at all--are signs that Old Ahab still lives in the hearts of men.

It's when the fish we seek become to us something other than what they are, when we project onto them something that comes out of our own brokenness, or emptiness, or hubris, or monomania, that Ahab has his revenge.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Thanks for being a part of this blog in 2011.

Here's wishing you all the best in 2012.

What I Got for Christmas

I remember when one of the first assignments we were given in school after Christmas vacation was to write a theme on what we got for Christmas. I haven't done that for awhile, but in the spirit of Ralphie in Christmas Story, writing the masterpiece on what he wanted for Christmas (a Red Ryder BB Gun), here's my theme.

WHAT I GOT FOR CHRISTMAS

     I didn't get a lot of cool things, like some people I know, because we are "saving" our "money" for more "important things" like banks and credit card companies and gas and food, and because we have teenagers.

     But what I did get was pretty cool anyway. Like this travel mug from my Sister-in-law who still lives in Chicago. She knows I like coffee--a lot--and she also knows that I still like the Chicago Bears (that's a football team) even though I've managed to break some other bad habits I picked up in Chicago.

     One of the coolest presents was a new camera that I've been wanting and asking and begging for for a long, long time, even though it wasn't a present that was under the tree and I got to open it on Christmas. Instead I got to pick it out online and then wait for it to come in a delivery truck, and I had to make sure the dog wouldn't find it before I did because he likes to EAT PACKAGES. But I got it before he did, and it's really cool.

     I also like fly fishing--a lot--but I didn't get anything like a new rod, or new waders, or new stuff for when I tie flies, or anything like that because people know by now that I like to pick out my own stuff and they always get me stuff that they think I would like but I really don't. But this camera is like a fly fishing present because I will take it with me all the time and take pictures of lakes and rivers and birds and trout and lots of really cool stuff. So I'm really happy.

     And it's also like a present for my boys, too, because they like to watch videos of themselves playing sports, or maybe fishing sometimes, and this takes REALLY COOL videos. So they're happy, too, but not as happy as me.

     Then I got one more present that I didn't have to order or unwrap, but it was a really cool surprise, and like something someone just sent me because they knew I would like it a lot, and I did. I was walking out to the woodshed to get some wood on Christmas night and an owl flew up RIGHT OVER MY HEAD. It was dark, but there was some light from the house so I could see the wings and the shape. It almost stopped right over me, so I could see it real good, then it flew away. But then it came back and flew over again, and then it did it again. And the whole time it was really quiet outside and even though it was flapping its wings I DID'NT HEAR ANYTHING. That's one of the really cool things about owls, they can fly in the dark without making any noise with their wings at all.

     That was really cool. I didn't have my new camera, or my old one, so I looked this picture up online. But that's what I saw, except not so bright. That was a really cool present, or like a present. 

     So that's what I got for Christmas and even though it's not as much as some people I know might have got, or like the people on TV who get cars for Christmas, I thought what I got was really cool.

The Tetons: Year in Review

Who knew there was a Grand Tetons Year in Review? But here it is, thanks to Tetoncam, over 20,000 images of the Grand Tetons on one page, fully zoomable and scrollable:

CLICK HERE

If you love the Tetons like I do, you'll have yourself a little fun.

Still Need to Get Away?

Take a trip via the The Patagonia Journal. Some nice stuff.

"After Solstice," by Jim Yaussy Albright

After solstice, winter days just beginning to stretch
longer.
A frozen lake under overcast skies. The invisible sun
pours light through the clouds. They gleam.
Beneath the ice and thin layer of snow
light seems to beam from lustrous depths. The lake is
luminous.
The world shines. Two small figures,
dark against the glow,
skim over the ice, arms swinging.
They're skating, skating on
light.

"Father's Voice," by William Stafford

"No need to get home early;
the car can see in the dark."
       He wanted me to be rich
       the only way we could,
       easy with what we had.

And always that was his gift,
given for me ever since,
       easy gift, a wind
       that keeps on blowing for flowers
       or birds wherever I look.

World, I am your slow guest,
one of the common things
       that move in the sun and have
       close, reliable friends
       in the earth, in the air, in the rock.

"Father's Voice" by William Stafford, from Allegiances. © Harper & Row, 1970.