"March," by James Wright

 

A bear under the snow

Turns over to yawn.

It's been a long, hard rest.

Once, as she lay asleep, her cubs fell

Out of her hair,

And she did not know them.

It's hard to breathe

In a tight grave:

So she roars,

And the roof breaks.

Dark rivers and leaves

Pour down.

When the wind opens its doors

In its own good time,

The cubs follow that relaxed and beautiful woman

Outside to the unfamiliar cities

Of moss.

"March" by James Wright, from Above the River: The Collected Poems.

Wesleyan University Press, 1992.

A Spring Problem

I know some of you living in the Midwest and East are having Summer now. Good on you. We're still having Spring. That means, so far, a few beautiful days in the sixties, and lots of cool, wet days. This past week we began with a snow storm and then had several days of drenching rain interspersed with a couple of brilliantly clear nights. (We're having another one of those tonight. I went out earlier and saw a satellite pass over Mars.)

Saturday was one of the cool, wet days. It was 37 degrees by the town temperature sign when the soccer game began, and it was a chilly affair. Our team battled to a 3-3 tie. Isaiah didn't play.

The whole time I was thinking about the river. By the time I got there the temperature had risen a little and the misty rain had quit.

I had been picturing a long afternoon of pulling fish out of crystal clear water, but I'm not clueless. I was also wondering, somewhere in the back of my mind, whether all the rain had had any effect on the river.

It had.

It had come up just slightly, but it was very murky. There's a saying: "If you wade in and can't see your feet, go home." Well, like the hatching midges, I had business to attend to. I stayed.

I worked the Bridge Run over pretty thoroughly. I did change my play list and went with the four brightest flies I had on me: pink, hot pink, holographic pink, and white.

This was the last one I tied on. But it didn't work, either. I hadn't gone home, but the fish apparently had. ("If you swim out and can't see your tail....")

Still, I was outside, and I was fishing. The best thing of all, though, is that rising, murky water is a Spring problem, not a Winter one. And it will be gone in a lot less time than the ice was. I'm happy with that.

Making Up for Missed Opportunities

Isaiah and the High School soccer team had their first games last Tuesday, three schools in a round robin tournament. It was a beautiful day, but windy and cold. They have another game Saturday morning at 11. It's supposed to be windy and cold--and rainy.

This has been one of those weeks when something I had to do or somewhere I had to be cropped up every day. I was at the first game last Tuesday. Isaiah didn't play. I had to leave for a meeting and missed the second game. Isaiah played. So tomorrow I'll be at the game hoping to make up for that missed opportunity to see him play.

The truck will be all loaded up, and as soon as the game is over I'll make up for the fishing opportunities I also had to miss this week. On the way home from the soccer game I'll stop off at the river. Who knows when I'll get home.

I went through my streamer box tonight and put together a play list for tomorrow. Old flies, newer flies, neglected flies, Steelhead flies, Trout flies, flies that just looked fishy to me.

Saturday should be a good day. At least I'll try to make the most of every opportunity.

One of My Favorite Photos of All Time

And I didn't even take it. This is from Joel over at A Year on the Fly. He is still making superb art, especially of trout, and he also posted a photo of a very nice bass in this same post. But this photo immediately appealed to me.

Joel is an artist, and this photo displays what I think is wonderful composition and form. The swirling lines, the balance, and the complementary shapes are immediately pleasing to the eye. But that's not the main reason I like it so much.

Jay, who is "a bit of a herpetologist," commented on this photo and identified the shells as being from Eastern Mud Turtles. He also suggested, being that they were empty and found side by side, that Joel had found a feeding station of a Raccoon. Joel thought a Great Blue Heron he had seen nearby could have had something to do with the fact that the shells were vacant.

That begins to get at what I really like about this photo. The shells, resting on the organic detritus of a damp stream bank, are beautiful in themselves. More than that, they are evocative--of the life they once contained, and the ways of nature that left them here empty. But the crowning touch, the genius of this photo, is that they are juxtaposed with the rod and reel and line. I never would have thought of that. We expect--we're trained--to see a fish lying there where the forlorn turtle shells are. The shells surprise us, perhaps confuse us for a moment, and we're drawn in to look more closely and think more deeply.

You can go a lot of directions from there. Please, let your mind wander. But here, simply, is what it says to me:  When we pick up that rod and reel and head out into the natural world, we are connecting with, "catching" with all our senses and faculties, infinitely more than just fish. The rod and reel is not just a tool, it's a totem.

Not to get carried away, but I find it fascinating that in the cosmology of many ancient cultures the turtle played a key role in the origin of the earth or the universe. In fact, the turtle supports the world, or the entire universe, on its back; is the fundamental ground of being.

The Iroquois, for example, told the story of the Great Turtle:

The heavens were around for a lot longer than the Earth, according to a creation myth told by the Iroquois people of North America. One of the heavenly inhabitants, the Great Spirit, punished his daughter for becoming pregnant by throwing her through a hole formed when he ripped up a giant tree. To keep her from perishing, though, he ordered the Great Turtle to dive down into the water, bring up some mud and wait for the daughter to land on its back. When she landed, she gathered up the mud and created the Earth as an island carried on the Great Turtle's back.

And this is an image that comes from Hindu cosmology.

 

                  

Coincidence? Maybe. Maybe not. What is it about turtles?

The bottom line is, I really like this photo. It says to me, much more than a photo of a fish, "That's why I fish!" Thanks, Joel.

"Looking at the Sky," by Anne Porter

 

I never will have time

I never will have time enough

To say

How beautiful it is

The way the moon

Floats in the air

As easily

And lightly as a bird

Although she is a world

Made all of stone.

I never will have time enough

To praise

The way the stars

Hang glittering in the dark

Of steepest heaven

Their dewy sparks

Their brimming drops of light

So fresh so clear

That when you look at them

It quenches thirst.

"Looking at the Sky" by Anne Porter, from Living Things: Collected Poems.

© Zoland Books, 2006. 

Brook Trout

I'm thinking of Brook Trout these days. I've been inspired by Brk Trt over at Small Stream Reflections. He fishes some beautiful little streams and regularly posts photos of gorgeous Brookies.

There is a little lake near Trout Lake (there's a string of four lakes in that valley) that is stocked with Brook Trout each Spring. I plan to be there soon after the season opens. Later, so I've been told, one can catch nice Brookies in the outlet stream that cuts through the pines and willows below the lake.

I went to that lake a few years ago, and I remember I caught some Brook Trout, but after an extensive search of my photos I was unable to find any Brook Trout. It may have been so long ago I was still fishing without a camera. So, if you would be so kind, Brk Trt, I'd like to use one of your photos to go along with this poem. Thanks.

 

Speckled Trout

by Ron Rash

Water-flesh gleamed like mica:

orange fins, red flankspots, a char

shy as ginseng, found only

in spring-flow gaps, the thin clear

of faraway creeks no map

could name. My cousin showed me

those hidden places. I loved

how we found them, the way we

followed no trail, just stream-sound

tangled in rhododendron,

to where slow water opened

a hole to slip a line in,

and lift as from a well bright

shadows of another world,

held in my hand, their color

already starting to fade.

Stars and Planets

I went out tonight to find the sky crystal clear. The stars and planets were brilliant. Venus and Jupiter, dazzling in the western sky, are nearing their closest conjunction in years. Saturn moves low across the southern sky, and Mars rises in the east and glows like an ember amidst the glittering host.

Orion was striding right over our house, but I couldn't find a suitable stand for the camera to get a full shot.

Then there was the Big Dipper, the first constellation I became aware of as a child. It still holds a fascination for me, so big and so omnipresent. So rich in lore and fable. So comforting somehow.

I learned something about the Big Dipper that I had never known before, thanks to EarthSky.

 

If you look at the star Mizar in the Big Dipper’s handle, do you see just one star or two? An ancient eye test for those wishing to join the Roman army involved spotting Alcor next to it. If you passed, you got a job as an archer. If you failed, you had to serve in another capacity … perhaps as a cook?

I looked tonight, and I could see Alcor. But that was with the aid of my specs, so I would have had to be content to serve Caesar in some less glamorous role than archer. Perhaps provider of fish.

But here's the kicker. The famous double star of Mizar and Alcor are actually six stars. Now that's an eye test. Read about it here.

Never Mind

Spring Will Be Slightly Delayed

The storm continues. This is as of 12:50 AM PDT. Here, the snow turned into rain. The temperature, which had been in the 40's, started dropping, and I had some concerns about freezing. But now it has climbed back up into the 40's. Meanwhile, the rain continues....

Be Glad You Are Not a Small, Furry Rodent

I have a friend who sends me all kinds of those emails that make the rounds. One out of a hundred is worth its bandwidth. This is one of those. This is a super slow motion video of an Eagle Owl. Be glad you are not a small, furry rodent.

Watch it HERE.

Spring Snow

Spring sky fades away

Robin huddles on wet branch

Passing dream of snow

SPRING, in Three Acts

ACT ONE

I get up an hour earlier than usual: the Time Change. I go outside; it's on the warm side of cool, has been for twenty-four hours. I walk toward the truck and am stopped in my tracks by a visitation: winged forms dance above the pasture in the morning light. I hear their song: "Fear not, we bring you tidings of great joy...!" Swallows. Violet Green Swallows. They have brought the first green into the valley. They rise higher and higher and pass overhead. My gaze rises with them.

I drive, and think of the host so far: Redwingeds, Robins, and, more recently, Killdeer, filling the days and nights with their restless flight and cries; Meadowlarks burbling like brooks; a Phoebe shyly flitting into the shed to see if there is a vacancy among the nest-friendly lighting fixtures.

My route takes me past Bass Lake, and I stop. The ice has retreated to each of the far ends. Many waterbirds dot the open water in the middle. I try to sneak up on them, but they rush off with a great ruckus.

I zoom in on the Trumpeters along the far shoreline; later, in editing, I spy the Canada Geese high in the cheap seats behind them.

The road home takes me along the river. There are no Eagles on the great ramshackle nest high atop a pine tree. But on down the road I see one on a favorite perch. As I move quietly toward it another Eagle lumbers around the bend hauling a big fish. It holds the fish in one foot, and the fish swings back and forth, its sides catching the light.

That Eagle keeps going. I get some shots of the first Eagle until it lifts off to get its share of lunch.

I head on home to do the same.

ACT TWO

In early afternoon the first thunderstorm of the year rolls through. We sit and watch the rain and sleet pepper the deck, and listen to the grumble of thunder.

After one long, low peal of thunder my son asks, "Does this mean winter is over?" I remember a poem by Mark Van Doren.

Spring Thunder

Listen. The wind is still,

And far away in the night--

See! The uplands fill

With a running light.

Open the doors. It is warm;

And where the sky was clear--

Look! The head of a storm

That marches here!

Come under the trembling hedge--

Fast, although you fumble.

There! Did you hear the edge

of winter crumble?

ACT THREE

I have been anticipating some time on the river Monday to celebrate the longer days. I check the weather report.

Monday: Snow. High near 32. South wind between 10 and 18 mph, with gusts as high as 21 mph. Chance of precipitation is 100%. New snow accumulation of 4 to 8 inches possible.

Monday Night: Snow. Low around 27. South wind between 10 and 13 mph becoming calm. Winds could gust as high as 20 mph. Chance of precipitation is 90%. New snow accumulation of 2 to 4 inches possible.

I still see the green flash of the Swallows. I still hear their joyous song.

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.