EVERY DOG HAS HIS DAY

        As the sun threatened to deliver morning, we abandoned the house in silence, save for a shrill whistle and the rhythmic clinking of a field collar.  

Its owner, Tucker, a sprightly, peppery English setter, rode the truck’s back bench-seat well.  Curled in a ball of muscular fur and tradition, his position was suggestive of the hardiness and sophistication that often characterize upland hunting and its participants.  I diverted my gaze, trying not to focus on his being more than was necessary.

        The sun was smothered by the clouds and fog, presenting the day in a melancholy haze.  A half-hour drive landed us on the brushy banks of the James River, at a boat landing in the Hardware River Wildlife Management Area.  The parking lot was empty, and with reason.  Woodcock had long since abandoned the tangled successional growth of the riverbottom, squirrel and deer season had withered, and February’s biting personality had fishermen frightened from the banks of the meandering river.  For the season, the secrets of the James seemed secure under a sheet of thick fog.

        Tucker glided out of the back door tenderly; and Dad corralled him to adjust his collar and behold his soft, stringy ears.  Few words were spoken before the morning commenced with a beep from Tucker’s collar and our shotgun-toting footsteps crunching upon cut corn.

        The weather on such days is enough to draw my thoughts inward and leaden my tongue in meditation; but there was something more spiritual at play.  We followed our four-legged guide closely, observing him peruse cover, rather than observing the cover he perused.  A rabbit dashed from cover.  Tucker ignored it from good training.  We took little note, our reflexes jaded by thought.

        The communal element to bird hunting was as clouded as the sun; as Dad looked forward to Tucker for conversation.  I understood.  In past years, the two had enjoyed much together.  From cool Minnesotan nights to fast-paced grouse shooting in the snow-blanketed forests of the upper-Midwest and Virginia highlands, their relationship was one of mutual dependency.  Second only to their common love for grouse and woodcock, Tuck’s affinity for crisp northern nights and his preoccupation with filching laps of scotch from his Master’s unattended glass mortared a friendship only strengthened over years in the field.

        Of course, the memories I perceived pouring from my father’s pensive eyes were imparted to me only as stories.  My relationship with Tucker was different.  He was introduced to our family just months before I; and we shared a common age.  It was he who provided much of my early transportation, dragging me about the wood floors of our Fluvanna home by the stocking feet of my pajamas and hauling my saucer sled over fresh coats of powder by a leash fashioned as a harness.  I hunted over him—rather, pointed over him, with my training cap shotgun—as a young boy; but most memorable was his playful, omnipresent attitude that established him as a childhood friend and lifelong companion.

        We entered the fourth in a chain of linked, riparian corn fields when we made the decision to turn back.  Our halt lit the flame under the hooves of a 12-point buck bedded on the field’s edge.  The first solid words of the morning were uttered in reflexive excitement.

        The shadow that had loomed over us soon returned.  Our hunt was half over.

        Tucker’s attention was diverted to the tangled riverbank, where, after nosing about, he uncovered a magnificently large turtle shell.  I dusted it off and found it a place in my pack.

        It was New Year’s Day the last time Tucker yielded me a prize of his own industry—a chukar taken on the wing from a game preserve in Southside Virginia.  That was a different hunt, one filled with camaraderie and joy.  Tucker zig-zagged cover unrestrained, ears bouncing loosely in the sun, feet treading deftly, on track to a bedded bird.  At dusk, we collected our party and turned back.  Tucker plodded exhaustedly in the lead, but caught our immediate attention when he froze mid-step, convulsing briefly.  His movements that followed were a series of drunken, left-handed arcs.  A nervous silence ensued.

        As we approached the truck by the river, the clouds seemed to lift.  Conversation colored our packing and unloading as a statement of burdensome acceptance.  With the setting of the sun yet another grouse season would expire in the mountains.  But we were not hunting for grouse.  In fact, there is no grouse season this far east.  We were hunting for a memory.  All three in attendance recognized that the brain tumor that was steadily revealing itself in our beloved companion with every soulful step would make this season a concluding one, and this hunt, a last chapter—an epilogue worth writing and cherishing, forever.

Originally published in the Rural Virginian

HOOVER'S TROUT

Many people have a favorite president.  I won’t say I do.

I have a love-hate relationship with Herbert Hoover.  Stock market crash aside, Hoover shared my love of the magnificent brook trout of the Blue Ridge Mountains.  However, this led to an exposé that made the Rapidan River, where Hoover built his cabin in 1929, one of the most popular trout streams in Virginia.  And for that, following a recent trip to the mountains, I pondered what the river might yield today if it weren’t for the press the president earned it.

        A light rain fell in the night.  Just like the day before, partly-sunny skies were forecast; but the sky forecast something different—heavy clouds, fog, and drizzle—typical November.  Under this cover, my brother and I loaded the truck with waders, rods, and daypacks, and headed north towards the Blue Ridge Mountains.

                               

Photo by Matt Reilly

        After hiking a few miles through rugged country, we slipped down through an aged laurel thicket, over rocks and deadfalls. 

        The river was in good condition, running full, thanks to recent rain.

        Water in the mid-50s, and overcast, drizzly weather had me searching for my favorite nymph pattern—the CK nymph.  I found the smallest, buggiest imitation, with stray hackle fibers and a meager body, and tied it on. 

        With this weapon ready for action, I did my best to assume the role of a predator.  On hands and knees, I edged towards a sizeable boulder overlooking the tail of a promising pool.  The first cast landed somewhat sloppily in the current rushing past a smaller, undercut boulder.  Nothing.  I sent a second cast, more refined and floating, to the deep channel in the middle of the pool where the current began to relax. 

        My fly line hesitated in the current for a split second, and a raised rod tip excited a brilliantly-colored brook trout, maybe five inches long, and lifted him from the slick water.

        My reaction was fast, and my body warmed with the excitement of my first brook trout in several months of absence from the water.  I netted the fish, and admired his spawning colors—the white-banded fins bordered with black, the fiery belly, the red and blue bulls-eyes on his flanks, the marbled green back that makes him invisible from above.

        After releasing the fish, I moved on until I came upon a pool worthy of careful prospecting.  Water fell heavy into the head of the pool, as it was split in two by a sturdy boulder.  The water carved a two-foot deep pocket there, and ran out into the tail, after wrapping around an undercut rock submerged in the current.  I got into position.

        “There has to be a fish on that rock,” I thought.

        But as I was taught, I placed my first casts carefully in the tail of the pool, to avoid lining any cruising fish with the colorful fly line.  After meticulous picking, I focused on the rock that tugged at my attention.  Four casts, five, six, seven—nothing.  After several casts, the current gripped the line as it hovered over the rock, dragging my nymph into the undercut ledge.

        An underwater flash jolted the line!  My rod tip rose with my arm high into the air; and I sprung from my hiding place behind a log as war ravaged. 

Photo by Matt Reilly

        I wiped my hands on my wader-covered thighs to moisten my hands, and guided the fish into them.  He went 11 inches, easy—11 and a half—almost 12 inches.  It was then, holding a veteran of the mountain stream, that I thought of Hoover, and those that enjoyed such bounty before I was here to do so myself. 

        It’s a foreign concept to many outside the world of fly fishing, to consider the gaunt brook trout of these small streams to be worth the energy, briar cuts, and twisted ankles they demand.  They’re precious gems in small, discreet packages; and it’s a testament to their allure that the most powerful man in America, living in relative proximity to the Adirondack trout streams, the wilderness streams of West Virginia, the spring creeks of Pennsylvania, and the steelhead of Lake Erie tributaries, chose a seemingly insignificant being in Appalachian Virginia to be his host in his home away from home. 

        After several brief seconds, I slipped the fish back into his icy domain.  He left my hand with a flick of his tail, as stately and as bold as the river tumbling down the mountain.  The spirit of such a fish cannot be tamed, not by the President of the United States, nor any that came after him; but its existence can be threatened, and I can rest easy knowing that the popularity of the Rapidan River has bred respect for its native trout.□

Originally published in the Rural Virginian

A FIRST DEER

Conversing with classmates in middle school, hunting was defined by “treestands,” “30/06s,” and “deer.”  My background was different.  I learned to shoot with a 20-gauge, behind a dog with a nose for birds and a Dad with an aim for them.

The author with his first deer.  Photo by Chris Reilly

        It wasn’t until my family settled in Fluvanna County that deer and I became acquainted.  We purchased property in a developing subdivision, where the woods impressed on me the aura of the “big woods” of Maine that I’d mused over in Field and Stream, if only for my size.

        Dad had long-since split from traditional deer hunting.  Maybe it was my birth, and the convenience that bird hunting afforded for the infant-toting parent.  Whatever the reason, we lacked roots in the sport, and hunted from the ground, against goliath oaks in the woods of the subdividing property.  A 12-guage—a carry-over from pheasant hunting—full-choked and loaded with buck-shot was the weapon of choice.  We saw deer on several occasions, a bobcat once; but none ever came close.  Still, when the sun receded behind the black curtain of pines on a distant ridgeline, the shadows that emerged were enough to suggest a mystery worth coming back to solve.

        Two years later, Dad promised to take me to a friend’s local farm.  There were 40-acres, lots of deer, clover fields, and a tripod stand; and we were invited to hunt.  I was allowed any deer I had a chance at.  It would be my first; and the friend was more than willing to chip in.

        Five hours into the third Saturday in November, my alarm clock barked, and I was up, open-eyed, adrenaline fighting off drowsiness.  Backpack, clothes, food, hat…license—everything was where it was piled the night before, under my tireless, opening-day eyes.

        We braked for deer crossing secondary roads for almost an hour before slowing, turning, bouncing, and parking.  Backlit three-pronged pine crowns were my only perception of place.  I was sweating slightly from the heat in the car and the layers on my body, which were promptly misted with a metallic-smelling liquid.  I was given the padded case of Dad’s Ruger .243 and a cartridge to load.

        “Watch the safety.”

        Away from the truck, we marched through the new moon sky, through tall grass, me in the rear, stumbling, head down.  We were swallowed by trees, but the sky opened up again, and my hands were touched by a cold ladder.  At the top was a cylindrical dome.

        Following directions, I unloaded, climbed to the top, and reported when I was seated.  Dad took a seat in the brush below.  Only one seat sat up top.

        Communication ended for several hours, while the sun peeked out from under the horizon, birds came alive, a breeze lit, and rabbits and chipmunks zig-zagged the lush field of clover that emerged below my perch.

        When my eyes had consumed all of the literature engraved on the barrel, scope, stock, and butt of the rifle, I pointed its lens to the field edges, simulating shots in my head.

        I found new reading material in the tags of the canvas covering when two brown figures emerged at the field edge.  I stuck my head out the side window, angled to the ground.

        “Two does…over there!”

        Dad nodded in approval.

        I slipped the barrel out the window as practiced.  I settled the scope on the lead deer, my heart ricocheting about my rib cage, breath spewing out in gusts.  With confidence, as much as I could bear, I squeezed the trigger.  The deer rolled, and the other bounded away. 

        Relief swept in, and suddenly it was very cold.  The rifle’s barrel rattled in my hand against the frame of the stand.  I had to wait several minutes for my knees to regain the strength needed to descend the ladder.

        On the ground I got a proud high-five, and the indispensable “watch your safety.”  We took a walk towards the animal, down a lane of clover.  It was further than it seemed from the stand—maybe 80 yards. 

        We had another round of high fives, after making sure the deer, now realized to be carrying small bony buttons atop his head, was totally expired.  But the congratulations didn’t last long.  We had work to do—I had work to do.

        The pride felt at having taken my first deer was not completely different from other firsts, but not without a certain feeling of remorse.  It’s a mind-expanding experience, when such a large animal is taken for your own sustenance, one filled with a sense of control and participation in the greater scheme of life, and the understanding that death is a significant part of it.  It’s a mature endowment of practical sufficiency, a rite of passage—one that I will never forget.□

Originally published in the Rural Virginian

                   

WHY PETA HATES WILDLIFE

    When People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) relocated their headquarters to Norfolk, Virginia in 1996, well over a million Virginians considered themselves hunters and anglers; and both parties were aware of the other’s agenda.  

It is the hunter’s and the angler’s sport, after all, that PETA works so diligently to abolish, under the premise that these sportsmen do not need to pursue such “violent” recreation “for subsistence.”  It may be so, but it is difficult still to look at the well-organized group of such sportsmen, and at the thriving populations of both game and non-game wildlife, without doubting PETA’s anti-sportsman philosophy, which, in fact, is currently the most dangerous and irresponsible threat to our wildlife resources.

    Sportsmen of Virginia, and, likewise, the game populations of Virginia, owe their contentment to one overarching governmental branch.  The Virginia Department of Game and Inland Fisheries (VDGIF), founded in 1916, is the Old Dominion’s vanguard agency concerned with the health of native species, as well as their habitats.  It is the VDGIF that sportsmen in Virginia count on for the continuation of their sports.

    To this end, it is the sportsmen that fund almost half of the VDGIF’s over $57 million annual budget through license sales, which is implemented through habitat, wildlife, fisheries, and public land management across the state, directly benefitting wildlife.  Despite this agenda, PETA continues to oppose the sports that provide the backbone for the state’s strongest, federally-funded, conservation-minded department because of the activities it endorses. 

    But take for example the white-tailed deer, which had nearly been extirpated in Virginia by 1900.  Colonists, unrestricted by game laws, overharvested the animal that was so plentiful in the New World.  Modern hunting was not the cause of this near-extinction, but unregulated hunting.  By 1940, 24 years following the VDGIF’s establishment, Virginia’s deer population was increasing exponentially.  How would deer populations measure today without the restorative habitat management and restrictive game laws implemented by the Department?  Chances are, they wouldn’t around to be counted.

    History has repeated itself, in the instance of the plains buffalo, the great auk, the Tasmanian tiger, and the woolly mammoth, proving that the morality and fire within human peoples in significant numbers, native peoples included, are incapable of hunting fur and meat species stewardly, and will decimate populations left unchecked.  Thus, a regulatory body is necessary to protect species of value to humans from disappearing altogether from the Earth.

    But what about non-game species—the eastern hellbender, bald eagle, or rattlesnake?  They too, PETA claims, matter, as significant elements in maintaining adequate biodiversity in local—and, in some cases, foreign—ecosystems.  Vultures, for instance, though largely unappreciated, play the important role of decomposition and nutrient cycling.  They also serve as locator beacons for other scavengers—foxes, coyotes, eagles—who aid in the process, and laterally contribute to the control of disease originating from decaying carcasses.  In the interest of these disregarded decomposers, the VDGIF invests well over $500,000 and 6,000 hours of time annually.  Without decomposers like vultures, ecosystems would collapse, and undernourished lands would become the norm.

    The enthusiasm PETA places on climate change should warrant some appreciation of this safeguarding of biological niches.  Another initiative within the Department seeks to eradicate the non-native competitors of native bivalve species, which, as filter feeders, do their job to buffer water pollution.  Without these custodial wetland species, contaminated waters would quickly destroy our planet’s most sensitive ecosystems and the immensely rich population of the world’s fauna that they support, moreover compromising the filters of the air.  

    Why then, if sportsmen, and the VDGIF that they support more than the federal government itself, input such programs and funds to protect and keep healthy all species of wildlife, conserve their habitats, educate the public on living with and respecting them, and employ conservation officers in order to monitor illegal activity and prosecute criminals detracting from the well-being of our ecosystems, does PETA so radically and heartily oppose hunting and fishing?

    PETA’s struggle is one not uncommon in the world.  The conflicting ideals of eradicating animal suffering and preserving nature and our planet clash at the human level.  Without the activities of sportsmen, agencies such as the VDGIF would not be able to operate.  As a result, anarchy would rule in the woods and on our waters, non-natives would continue to immigrate into our native habitats unnoticed, and the nature of an overzealous people would once again prove that humans take what they want with reckless abandon.  The large-scale disruption of biodiversity, and the land devastation, pollution, and water contamination that would follow, are the primary ingredients for cataclysmic climate change, which would critically endanger the indigenous.  To deny governmental groups sponsored by sportsmen funding by prohibiting the recreational activities that provide them funding is to accept such a reality.

Originally published in the Rural Virginian

SECRET FLY BROKE GEORGE PERRY'S RECORD "MULTIPLE TIMES"

    Here's a groundbreaking article from investigative reporter Scott Bowen.  His reporting is in-depth, informative, and even still manages to send an effective message.  To read, click HERE.  Enjoy.

MEN OF FAITH CATCH MORE FISH

    Every fisherman knows someone who is blindly affectionate of one particular lure, some more logical than others.  

I have met a man who fishes buzzbaits chronically, even in the winter, and has luck with it.  The secret here is not revolutionary or life-altering, but fundamental.  Like religion, confidence lures are powerful only through the faith put into them, which translates to more time in the water, and, naturally, more fish out of it.  This confidence gives men of faith a mental edge, and more success.

    As a young and impressionable victim of the fishing industry, in the beginning of my years fishing solo, the majority of my fishing took place on my grandparents’ dock on a 36-acre lake filled with sunken timber and the traditional southern mix of largemouth bass, sunfish, and crappie.

    

    At that time, I was particularly fond of the cool, fishy-looking lures with lots of hooks, especially the ones with the big noses.  I never landed any of Old Creek Lake’s monster bass, because my gear could never budge them from their home rooted on the lake-bottom; but they always had a soft spot for those lures, and their strikes were halting and fierce.

    I had them patterned pretty well, too.  They “related” to particular features of the shoreline, and were homebodies that never really moved much, except for when the water level rose or fell they would move deeper or shallower, respectively.

    My luck fishing that lake was the reason for my early devotion to trebled lures.  Plus, I’m pretty sure I was the only eight-year-old habitually laying down tens for $7 crankbaits in the local tackle shop following trips to the grandparents’—which must have looked pretty cool.

    Later, Chris McCotter, a local guide, introduced me to a cool little lure called a swimbait.  It too looked like a fish, but lacked the tactical appeal lent by many sinister hooks.  However, what the lure lacked in pointiness it made up for in fish.

    I began catching fish of all species with the lure, and it became one of my go-to's.  Even in the woody lakes, though I still couldn’t handle the unyielding bottom-dwelling monsters, I began catching fish and saving money.

    Now, somewhat informed, and a devoted crazy to the sport of fishing, Berkley’s Rippleshad is a staple in my tackle box.  In introducing my brother to fishing, I forced him to purchase a few packs under my self-proclaimed truth that they were good “all-around” plastics.

    He fished the lure on occasion, but never with much luck.  He was a non-believer, and my job was to convert him.

    On a recent fishing trip together, at a familiar farm pond, I tied on a Rippleshad initially, casually throwing around pet names like “pearl gold” and “fish crack” in order to start a bit of a friendly competition.  I was fighting for my beloved.

    This is one bet that you make confidently, but go into with a severe sense of struggle and desire not to fail.  Fishing bets are among the most painful to lose, not because they make you go bankrupt or give up a finger, but because you will never ever hear the end of it.

Phillip with his first pickerel.
Photo by Matt Reilly

    My first cast was short-struck, and a second with a slower retrieve produced the first fish—a small 10-inch bass.

    Several more fish came, many pickerel, a few crappie, but mostly bass.  My brother was falling behind.

Eventually I won.  My friendly opponent switched permanently to my side and took to examining my retrieve.  I was happy to help.

    With this, he began catching fish, including his first pickerel.  Soon he was snagging the monsters rooted in their dwellings, and likewise depleting my supply.

    As dusk dawned, we were making our last casts.  My tackle box’s Rippleshad population was suffering a mortality event at the hands of my brother when I hooked one of the monsters—but this time, I could move it!

First 8-pounder of 2013!
Photo by Phillip Morone

    A long tense fight followed, as a powerful fish rolled and jumped at the surface.  Finally, with shaking hands, I landed a thumb in the mouth of the year’s first eight-pound largemouth.

    Needless to say, my fish- crazed brother was a man of strong faith by then.  Later that night, I received a call asking for my opinion on colors—he ordered six bags from Berkely.

    A confidence lure becomes a strength only in practice.  One fish caught will make the lure a more appealing tool on later trips, and every additional fish serves as a refinement to your technique—a constructive critic.  Everyone’s will be different, so this spring, fish your confidence lure, and send pictures of your success!   

Originally published in the Rural Virginian

The Homecoming

My life as a fly fisherman began at the tender age of two.  Not yet had I begun to master the art of swinging delicate flies to hungry trout; but it’s safe to say I was on my way.  In the prime of my impressionable life, I accompanied my father to the boulder-strewn gorges in the Blue Ridge foothills, and it was there that my fly fishing education began.  I learned of the serenity and balance that surround trout streams and the nearby woods.  The essence of the art that is fly fishing, I learned, cannot be measured in fish caught, but in memories created and thoughts provoked.  The fly rod is but an earthly tool that gives tangible life to that essence and philosophy; and the trout, a heavenly touch that can only be comprehended through grace.

Mother Nature had ignited a spark that lay on the back burner, flaring up with opportunity.  In the summer of my ninth year, my enlightened father shared with me his knowledge of the fine art of fly tying.  That mass of feathers and furs fueled my fire into a raging flame.  I can distinctly remember the chills I sustained as I eagerly watched him spin a length of grizzly hackle onto the body of a CK Nymph—just as his mentor had shown him.

From that point on, fly tying was my security blanket when absent from the river; and I tied viciously.  Every imitation was embellished as an offering to the universe, in trusted return for a story and a trout.

My efforts paid off one day as the summer heat waned on into autumn.  After a day of tying an improvised Sulfur variation of the Elk Hair Caddis, my father and I loaded up the truck and made the long drive to the Conway River. 

An hour and a half later I was reacquainting myself with the scenery of the mountain.  We walked an old fire road, paved over with cobblestone from a recent flood, little more than a mile downstream—our eyes focused intently, sizing up the pools we would soon fish.  Just a quarter mile into our light-hearted hike along the river, the darting shadow of an ancient Brown brought both our feet and speech to a halt—it was going to be a good day.

My first chance at a fish came in what I considered to be a classic pool.  With fifteen feet of line, I placed a sharp cast to slack water separating two small waterfalls at the head of the pool.  My self-fashioned Sulfur landed sloppily; nevertheless, my fly was in place.  I followed the crème colored fly for a few long seconds with anticipation.  My first reaction was a second slow, but my quarry was forgiving, and I managed to hold on for several brief seconds before breaking the fragile tippet.

I motioned to my father at the tail of the next pool that I needed the fly box.  With a flick of his wrist, he air mailed the small, translucent box to me, which proceeded to hit the rocks and crack open, scattering size 14 dry flies across the rocky bar—initiating a humorous blame game we play to this day.

We fished on in tapering anticipation until we reached the last pool.  My father trudged up the steep, weathered hillside to the truck, leaving the last pool for me.  It was a long pool—shallow too—but the hillside dabbled young roots in the water on the steeper bank; and I knew this was my best bet for a fish in the fading mountain light.  Stripping off a few feet of fly line, my arm swayed, and a twenty foot cast unrolled, falling on plane to rest on what I hoped was a hungry trout’s dinner plate.  The fly was sipped down smoothly, and a short battle ensued.  Hoisting the brilliantly colored, native Brook Trout from the cool water, I hollered to my father, and we admired the five-inch fish for as long as we deemed safe.

As I gazed into the glorious oranges and greens of that young fish, I recognized it as a cornerstone in my life.  That night, I learned fly fishing is about homecomings and renewing old memories; it’s about a first native fish—a trout on a self-tied fly.  To this day, those five inches of fish serve as my foundation as an angler, and mean more to me than any fish ever will.

A North Woods Haunting (Revised)--An Essay

    

    When the northern sky begins to gray, early on a summer morning in the North East Kingdom, everything is still.  The moments before the sun comes up are serene and quiet, no human presence is inherent—they are the ones that make me appreciate where my feet stand.  When the sun peeks over the horizon, hundreds of  lakes and ponds shine in the midst of dark conifers and ferns, like mint coins tossed to Earth from heaven by God.  At that moment, you might look up to the mountains surrounding you and the streams that separate them, then back again at the water lapping against the monumental boulder where you sit and wonder what mysteries the water holds.  What mysteries are possible here outweigh the ones that aren’t; for these are not merely bowls of water, but abstract worlds carved by prehistoric glaciers, and any contact with one of the aged inhabitants of these submerged worlds is a purely magical experience.

    To think back, the first image that comes to mind when questioning the contents and goings-on of a mountain lake occurred on a summer fishing trip on a large pond in close proximity to my grandparent’s cabin.  The pond is stocked yearly in the spring with fingerling Rainbow Trout from the hatchery at the foot of the mountain, and is quite popular in the height of summer with swimmers and boaters.  Fed by a small brook in the south end, and (had the mountain not been cut away to build the road) several strong springs in the north, it is not a wilderness pond by any means; nevertheless, it is natural.  On a cool morning in the spring one could watch small native Brookies beat even the strongest hatchery Rainbows to an unlucky surface-dwelling insect.

    On the day I remember most clearly though, the frantically feeding fish had given up their vigils at the mouth of the brook for the summer, and turned to pursue aquatic food sources in the deeper, more oxygenated layers of the pond—giving way to the scrappy Smallmouth and Yellow Perch that dominate the shallows in the warmer months.  My younger brother and I had been working all morning for a tree that was in a terrible pinch between a young birch and an ancient oak.  Our grandfather, who was running the operation, was recruited by our grandmother to pick Blueberries in a nearby field after the determined tree had made its point that it was not coming down.  The grandparents were busy, meaning I had some down time.  What else was I going to do than fish?

    The conversation before going fishing was routine.

    “Wanna go to the pond?” I’d ask hopefully.

    “Which pond?”  Connor would reply, hoping for a change of scenery; for he doesn’t find fishing as entertaining as I.

    “The pond.”  I would say, slightly annoyed at the fact that he hadn’t caught on yet.

    Reluctantly, and seemingly disappointed, he would exhale, “Sure.”

    Ten minutes later, I would be paddling the canoe south to a stretch of wood-littered bank that we would fish for smallmouth.  We were always successful; it seemed to me I had the body of water figured out.  The swimmers at the fishing access, and Bayliners zipping up and down the length of the pond demystified it, as if I could firmly grasp everything it had to offer.  Paddling the canoe put me in a philosophical state, and the things that traversed my mind now escape me.

    After thoroughly fishing the length of the pond, we settled in the sunny, southern bay, where the rippling water spilled over a naturally sandy beach, and the pond came to a hard halt.  The water in the bay was skinny, not more than three feet deep at the most, and it was here that I boated most of the day’s bass.

    It was midday when the sun had tired me, I looked at my brother and he too seemed lazy.  The bay was the end of the line, and we would usually, as we did then, return after reaching it.  Like always, I paddled the canoe towards the opposite bank, the one we didn’t fish, and paddled the length of it back to our launching point.  This trip was one of routine, and like always, I leaned my rod against the canoe, angled back to give trolling a shot on the way back.

    The two of us paddled back in silence, my brother in the bow slowly digging his paddle into the dark lake water, and me doing the same, submerged in deep thought, coming out of my trance periodically to devote my attention to my rod tip, pulsing slowly as the lure crept through the depths of the pond.  When the silence was broken, it was by my querying brother, wondering if “fish [swam] out in the middle of the lake.”  The tail end of his sentence was brought to a halt by the sound of my reel slamming into the thwart of the canoe with extreme force.

    We both focused our attention on the rod, for the lure must have been caught on something, and we needed to retrieve it.  I set my paddle down with care in the hull of the aluminum craft, still trying to preserve some serenity and not wishing to spoil it further, and picked up the rod.

    Within a second of touching cork I was aware of what was happening.  The rod tip throbbed, powerfully, and the canoe reversed it’s course in the water to follow the mystery fish that I was tied into.  For several minutes, but what seemed like the rest of the afternoon, I held onto the rod as if it was made of thin glass and the weight of the fish was going to shatter it any second.  All the while the fish was under water, images of what I thought I knew to inhabit the pond swam through my head—none fit the monstrous profile.

    When the line began to slice upwards through the water column, I knew we were going to get a glimpse of a magnificent creature, and I looked on as if I was about to see something I knew I wasn’t worthy enough to lay eyes on.  A full thirty yards of line had risen out of the water, and a pale, green log broke the surface and exited in a glorious leap, exploding from the surface like a buoy being released at the bottom of the pond.  Now knowing what I was dealing with, I humbled myself, and prepared to boat a colossal Brook Trout.  I shuffled my feet in the canoe, to make room for the fish.

    Leaning over the side of the canoe, I stared into the depths of an unknown world, one that I previously believed to have understood.  My eyes searched for an outline, just a glimpse of a fish.  I was gaining line quickly, and my opposition was getting weaker.  In the dark, black water, I was excited by a quick flash of a green cheek plate.  It dove, and it was gone.  My limp rod and expressionless face were all I had to tell the tale.

    

    Mysterious are the waters of the north.  That day I was humbled by an ancient, native fish, one that had survived by way of nature.  To think that a fish that would have stretched three feet made its way to the world it still dominates by way of a feeder stream I couldn’t wet my ankles in is almost as difficult as swallowing the complexity and depth of the interconnected watersheds these fish thrive on.  Many claim to understand these waters though, and I might be one of them to some degree.  To really capture the essence of that water which wets your toes, you must gaze from your perch on the boulder, out across the water, take in the sound of bellowing loons and the cool, night breeze flowing over the lake that laps at your feet, and when your eyes finally rest on the mountain at the foot of the lake, that water on your toes will hold new meaning.  I believe a Montana gentleman said it best, “I am haunted by waters.” 

The Life and Struggles of The White-Tailed Deer

    The sky is dark. The airy woods of a poplar swamp are still, and the tree crowns above remain tangled in silence. The crisp chill that hangs in the black air is beginning to make the sun seem like a blessing not to return after expiring an age ago behind the impenetrable wall of pine that surrounds the swamp. Frost seals the soft ground with its ice crystals, keeping any and all warmth out, and the cold, threatening mountain air that seems to be hovering just above the treetops is yet another indication that the sun may indeed remain set. The silence is deafening, and the conscious, seemingly empty world seems to begin and end at your earlobes, but now and then a faint rustle brings the silence to life, and gives real depth to the eerie setting.
    On the east side of the swamp, the sky turns gray. The three-pronged silhouettes of mature white pine crowns begin to appear, giving the restless inhabitants of the brushy swamp the reassuring knowledge that the circle of life will once again rise. The thick enclosure still prevents any light from penetrating to the swamp—but that doesn’t matter. The patient souls that slept here tonight are restless, dawn is approaching, and they have existed on stored plant forage and the final remaining carbs leeched from withering acorns for a full half day. The rustles grow in volume and number as a hardy family rises from their warm beds of leaves, slip their adept hooves between hardened leaves to the frozen ground, and shake the frost from their warm, gray backs. By some thin stroke of luck, dawn comes, and finds a herd of young White-Tails on their way to feed for the morning.

    The last doe disappears into the shadows of the barricade of pines and the swamp again seems empty, but after several moments there is movement in the heart of the swamp. Behind a maze of vines and bushes, on solid ground, with moss and decaying pine needles as bedding, a stocky, solitary buck lies in the nook of a fallen spruce tree and its root mass. The hefty animal, who is up in his years, is planted firmly in his warm bed, eyes wide, as if determined to never leave his position. Emotionally and physically calloused, this is purely meditation, for his way of life has made him who he is, has kept him alive, and made him a veteran of the fall. Today is a very important day in every deer’s year, but particularly his, for he is the most sought after animal in his neck of the woods. Today is the opening day of deer season in the north woods.

    The buck knows from experience that today the hunters will be thick in his woods, for opening day is the most popular day afield for most. He knows there will be a large number of deer taken from his woods this morning, for a new moon makes them particularly easy to read, and he concludes that delaying his movements would be beneficial. Hunger pulls at him, tensing his muscles, any other deer would give in, but giving in to desire hasn’t kept him alive for this long.
    Several Red Squirrels emerge from the pine stand surrounding the swampy heart of the woods when the sun acquires height, and they play carelessly, always keeping their distance from the bedded buck—never challenging his position as king of the woods. Head held high, the cold sun embraces his gleaming, white antlers.

    After the sun has been up for several hours, a slight breeze begins to filter through the woods, and the buck rises from his bed cautiously. Hunger plays with his mind, and he dismisses some caution, knowing that he must satisfy his hunger to be as alert as possible. Like an opening day ritual, he lumbers off into the breeze, through a brushy draw cut by a trickle through the pines, head held high, in the direction of a small patch of grass irrigated by a flowing brook in the open woods that has always yielded late forage.
    Following the trickle, the buck shows a humble personality. Like an old man, whose youth and muscle is gone, his headgear has decreased in size over the recent years, but his wisdom is unparalleled, and he is confident in his ability. Several times squirrels or fisher put him on alert, but he doesn’t dwell on these kinds of interruptions, and he quickly resumes his steady pace.

    Traveling downhill now, numerous fallen pines crisscross his path like a giant’s wooden fence. Easily, or with seemingly little energy, he lifts himself over the obstacles with his spring loaded back legs capable of propelling him over nine feet in the air. His beauty increases with every moment, as he meets obstacles with hundreds of years of evolved physical tools, and conquers them with a single, flowing, controlled movement.
    As the pines begin to thin, so do the brown needles that layer the soft ground, and the thick, white pines give way to an open grove of hemlocks and loblolly pines. A mountain brook, swelling with the accumulation of a hard rain, makes its presence known over the static of the breeze. 

    The wise old buck remains hidden inside the shadow of the pines, surveying the ground he’s about to tread on. He’s been surprised here before, and is always careful when entering, because the setting is much more revealing than that of the pine margin. With his nose in the air, the gentle breeze flows through his nostrils with ease, giving him confidence in his knowledge of the contents of the woods ahead of him. He presses on.
    Off in the distance, a pack of Gray Wolves initiate a gathering call, putting the wary buck on edge. Several deer have been taken from the herd recently by wolves, aside from the countless fawns taken in the spring, and they are becoming more proficient at their jobs with every meal. This being the case, the logical action would be to bed down and wait for the dogs to leave the area—but there are certain risks involved:  hunger is already playing a part in his decisions, but to be caught by the brook amongst a pack of hungry wolves would mean certain death, but going without food for now would surely mean starvation in the event of a sudden winter storm. The northern buck maintains his proximity to the thick pines, and beds by a patch of laurel bushes, munching on starchy green leaves to take the edge off of his hunger until he feels safe once more.
 
    After wearing out a couple of laurel branches, thick clouds had covered the high sun, spreading gray light throughout the woods. The buck has forgotten about the wolves, and redirects his attention to his main food source. Moving more quickly now, he aims himself towards the crest of the ridge, and the hollow where he will feed.
    Upon reaching the crest of the hollow, the big, northern buck is satisfied with its contents. The breeze holds no sign of human, and the squirrels rummaging through the crunchy leaves of the forest floor seem content and at ease—he loses no time in descending into the creek bottom. Eyeing a beaver, playing in his stillwater creation, cautiously, and with careful footing, the buck crosses a beaver dam, making his way to the edge habitat of a beaver field.
    Feeding, or grazing, often brings out a false sense of security in all deer, and the northern buck that is feeding alone in an overgrown beaver field knows it. He checks his back frequently for any signs of a difference in his woods—he knows what they are.
    After several minutes of grazing broom sedge and other assorted grasses, the cautious veteran of the fall woods notices the silent retreat of the tree squirrels to their safe dens in the lofty hardwoods. He eyes the sky, which looks as if it could begin spitting precipitation down through the dormant arms of the hardwoods at any moment, but that’s not what they fear. At that very moment he could make out a steady noise originating on the upward slope on the opposite side of the thick field—wolves.
    With straw still hanging from his flat teeth, the three hundred pound tank lunges from his foot prints in the soft mud, clears most of the beaver dam in one long, bounding stride, landing roughly on the sticks just inside of the bank, and shuffles up the steep wall of the hollow with speed rivaling a racehorse. The open woods of hemlock put forth no obstacles, and should be easy traveling for the buck, but a large splinter just below his dewclaw, acquired from the busy beaver’s woody creation, is hindering his movement, and must be removed.
    The northerner is still glowing from his spectacular escapade up the hill, when he converges with yet another danger. A surprised, wool laden hunter stands motionless in the open woods, caught by surprise by the fleeing buck quartering towards him on his way out of the woods on an unsuccessful day’s hunting. The sheer magnificence of the loping deer stuns the astonished hunter for several seconds, fixing his eyes on the oblivious animal, and tugging at his rough, gray chin, but he quickly snaps from his daze, and raises his weathered, wood-stocked rifle.
    The buck raises his head to scan his surroundings just in time to catch the movement of the old mountain man switching off his safety. More vulnerable than ever, the old buck can’t react to this very real threat, giving the hunter a perfect opportunity to take him. With a resounding crack of his rifle, the weathered hunter sends a .270 mm. bullet, shattering the confused buck’s left knee cap.
    The splinter doesn’t matter anymore, and the overwhelming rush of adrenaline sends the crippled buck on a mad dash for his life towards the safety of the thick pine woods, and the excited hunter fumbling for his bolt and another load. Halfway to apparent safety, the handicapped buck realizes his chances of survival are slim, but he presses on with seven years of luck and determination to drive him to safety.
    Inside the pine margin, the buck limps to the closest piece of decent cover available—a small draw cluttered with laurel bushes and pine and gum saplings. The hunter, now on his toes, enters the shadows smoothly, wielding his weapon vertically, close to his chest, scanning the area with utmost confidence. The crisscrossing pine poles, stripped whole of their bark by reoccurring frosts, break up the outline of the concealed buck’s head gear, and pine needles blanketing the ground engulf his bulky, weak body, quivering with fear and shock. Light already dim from the cloud cover is fading from the woods, and the impenetrable canopy of the pines smother the hunters straining eyes, forcing him to retreat—the deer is safe.
    Several seconds passed, as the frightened buck’s breaths grew increasingly deeper, and the hunter’s soft footsteps faded into the silence of the north woods. A shot rang out, followed by the unmistakable racket of deer wheezing in retreat, and the downfall of another. Another animal would wear the deer hunter’s tag this day.

    Again, noise associated with the hunter faded, and the remaining group from which one unfortunate deer was taken, moved on to their precious swamp to spend the night in safety. Just moments before all hints of light were sucked from the sky, and dusk was no more, icy flakes began to filter through the covering of pine boughs. As the snowflakes fought their way to the forest floor, pattering like they do off of the semi-permeable pine needles, the motionless buck begins acquiring an icy blanket, and prepares himself for another long night in the cold and unforgiving north woods.
    He survived that day. He managed to muddle by one more day, but that was an unfortunate start to a short deer season in an unforgiving setting, one which would have to improve to ensure survival. It’s even quite possible that he would make it through to spring, if the winter snow and hunger doesn’t suck the life from him first. All of these compiled experiences with the many obstacles that oppose the White-Tailed Deer condition them to the country they inhabit, educating them with every encounter, making them the most desired big game animal in North America.

Born Too Late

                A few times in an angler’s life, one stumbles upon a gem—seemingly unspoiled and genuine—and when an unforgettable day’s fishing is coupled with this discovery, a deeper, personal relationship is formed with the water.  Its mystical qualities enable one to deflect life’s bullets instead of dodging them, ready to turn to the earth for sustenance, and leave behind what is unnecessary, in order to do what you feel you were born to do.  You’re left feeling empowered, peaceful and humbled.  This is who you are—you are a different person standing within Creation.  This rush soon runs out, when the river carries you back through the portal to your modern life full of violence and political correctness, and can be easily written off as adrenaline.  The feeling that ensues is one of longing and remorse; longing for a simpler time that wasn't complicated by modern culture, when the people made their living from the earth and went back to it when they were done.

                One such setting that holds this meaning to me is a dynamic river in Vermont’s north country.  This historic river called “The Clyde,” flows out of a pond in the northeast corner of the state, and flows lazily, meandering through the forests and ponds of the Northeast Kingdom, exploring the land in the broad river valley as if it likes what it sees and wants to stay.  After running through five ponds, and over two dams, the water finally makes its way to a vast lake with a name meaning “big water.”

                It is from this large, glacial lake that the largest salmon run on the east coast once began.  In the early nineteenth century, three times a year, Landlocked Salmon reaching twenty pounds or more would make runs upstream to feed on the eggs of suckers, who also ran the river, and to begin a new life cycle.  Walleye would also accompany the salmon on their runs in equal or greater numbers.  Dams constructed later, throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, soon blocked the annual movement of spawning fish.  Before long, sport fishing and salmon tournaments stripped the river of its greatest quality.

                In the days when the salmon still ran, after traveling fifteen miles against the mild current of their home river, the river’s resistance would ease; finding depth in a broad valley, and the scenery would change from that of a north woods salmon river, to that of a riverine bog.  It is this stretch that I too have a personal connection to.

Today, it is on this stretch that the passerby loses sight of roads, houses, plowed fields, and all other hints of human existence except for the ancient riverside cabins that can be found in the shadows of the birch trees on the banks of the river.  Completely in place, they are part of the river, one with the river as part of the long-standing equation that was the salmon run; but without the salmon they are vacant, only because of the very humans that once occupied them.  That passerby is me.

It was our last day in the place I call my home, and the last day for my father, my brother, and I to fish together.  We had several options, but after weighing them, we finally discounted a few local ponds and made the safe decision to paddle the beautiful Clyde—where we knew we could catch fish.  Full of energy and excitement, we poured out the front door on a mission.  After loading the aluminum canoe full of paddles, fishing rods and gear, and food, I assisted my father in sliding it into the covered bed of my grandfather’s Dodge pickup.  My father and brother would occupy the canoe.  So as they piled into the front seats of the truck, I stuffed my yellow kayak and paddle into the bed, and slid into the front seat as the ignition started and the green truck carried the three of us down the driveway.

Rolling down the mountain, I began thinking of my own personal quest and the challenges that awaited me on the river.  Naturally, I’d utilize this outing for both fishing and photography, and being alone in a kayak on a flowing river presents some issues.  These issues will need to be resolved if I want to protect my fish-catching reputation and keep up with my father and brother in the canoe—but I digress.

The red-orange fields backed by dark conifers and bold mountains reaching through the low-laying clouds remind me that my real objective for the afternoon is to have fun and enjoy my surroundings before setting off for home in the morning.  My first glimpse of flowing water reminds me of the sizable Brookie I landed on my last trip to the Clyde.

Something about the three of us being in the car together tosses weighty topics out the open window.  My father either begins singing, “making Neil Young look good,” or cracking cheesy jokes to entertain himself and I, like he’s been doing since he started taking me along squirrel hunting or trout fishing in the mountains of western Virginia when I was just old enough to walk.  My brother, relatively new to the events that take place in the truck, tries to make sense of it all, and tries to introduce more “sophisticated” topics.  One of these days, he will learn.

After arriving at our put-in the boats were launched with no hesitation.  The sky was cloudy, and the midday sun’s intensity was beginning to ease with the slightest breeze.  I was now on my own, and the fish would surely be feeding.

When the river finds width, I beach the stern of my craft on the pickerel weed covered, southern bank.  Sitting, straddling the kayak in shallow water, with no sign of human life in sight, ankle deep in water, and boating fish after strong fish, it’s hard to envision a time when this bounty of Yellow Perch would have meant so little.  Visions instilled in me by sporting stories written a hundred years back and further come to mind.  Rivers thick with fish; birds so plentiful, with their songs so diverse as to give you a headache; but no humans—these visions taunt me from the safety of my imagination.

I realize that settings such as these now offer a simulation of the world that exists in my imagination.  When light is shone on modern culture, the shallow shadow falls on the natural world, veiled and cheated by society.

With river water cooling my ankles, I myself feel cheated.  Staring out across the water and marsh grass, to the foot of the river’s mountain, I can’t help thinking about our precarious position.  The term “untouched wilderness” now comes with a side of disappointment, with the knowledge that these words are indeed just an empty promise.  Perhaps a more accurate term is “less touched wilderness.”

Off again, exploring the rich river.  As predicted I’m feeling empowered, yet humble.  The sun is setting, and I’m a mile from my put-in, but my mind is at ease.  The water of the Clyde River, now swirling below me, makes clear to me my mission.  The need to keep what is, to bring the world back where it came from, now fills me like the river water that saturates my pores.