FRIENDS BEARING (DEAD) GIFTS

I have this problem.

    As a “monetarily-challenged” undergraduate who sees no option but to lead a lifestyle tempted by fly rods, flies, fish, and travel; whose desk has seen more flies come to life than words written; and whose mind chronically comes to rest on a trout stream (if ever it can be truly captured and imposed on an academic task), I have, like so many before me, come to travel the “resourceful” road. For fuel for tying the flies that keep me in business, I have excitedly scavenged in chicken coops and turkey dust bowls, perused the trash cans of bird-cleaning sheds, spent way too much time examining the subtleties of nail polish, claimed parts of long-expired furred and feathered animals for my own, and gazed at grizzly hackles woven into my female classmates’ hair with jealousy and contempt. Though there are no official testaments to my sanity, similarly outlying actions observed within a member of another species might easily be interpreted as rabies-induced confusion.

Photo by Matt Reilly.

    Likewise, anyone who cruises the drug store’s cosmetic aisle in mud- and fish slime-stiffened garb seeking inspiration on a late-summer night, who derives addictive, blissful, supremely-fulfilling wonder through the process of engineering combinations of animal parts, fixating them on a hook, and feeding them to fish, is both someone generally too far gone by societal standards, and someone of the type I call friend.

    The consequences of my own affliction I’ve long come to terms with. However, it still hurts me to see the characters of those who care for me compromised by my addiction.

    Fellow anglers commonly come to rest their eyes on my dorm room’s thread collection, prompting the inquiry, “You sew?” After scaring them by countering that I “sew dreams of fish,” should they remain interested in my obsessive art, I lay before them the reality of it. Sparing them the empty promise of saving money, I detail fly tying as the other half of fly fishing, more fun and versatile than fishing store-bought flies, an inventive haunting of my favored streambeds in my absence. If they remain unfazed, I welcome them to a new world, and they come to terms by doing.

    Then, seeing my preoccupation with this activity, there are those friends and family members who do not tie flies, but wish to come to terms by giving. Faced with a massively diversified lexicon of materials lists, they arrive at the (altogether not untrue) conclusion that anything can be used to tie flies. This conclusion has led to their generous deliverance of clumps of human hair, synthetic stuffing from various household items, mounds of cat and dog fur, vacuum cleaner lint, plastic wrappings, packing foams, drink mix containers, and dead birds—and my subsequent reflection upon what this says about me as an individual.

    One particular afternoon, I received a call from a friend from home, as I was away at school. She had just found a dead (for quite a while) woodpecker—a northern flicker—with beautiful feathers. Did I want it for fly tying?

    I knew from similar past offerings from others that the fine breast feathers from a male flicker make wonderful wet fly hackles. I further reflected on the apparent gullibility of the species, as I had been offered more flickers than any other federally-protected bird. Nevertheless, conforming to societal norms, I respectfully declined.

    A few days later, I returned the call. Screw “societal norms,” free hackle in bulk is hard to come by and I bet a day’s worth of meal swipes at the café that a “Flicker and Yellow” would make for a damn fine fly on the South Holston. I’ll take it. I apologized for dragging her into this pursuit, and said goodbye, assuming I’d collect the goods upon returning home.

    To avoid unnecessary incrimination, I’ll avoid mentioning the means of transference. For, much to my surprise, the end of the week found me suspiciously weighing a Christmas-wrapped shirt box, markedly light as a feather.

    A wake of World Wildlife Fund wrapping paper and festively colored tissue paper is all there is to account for the creation of a handful of Flicker and Yellows waiting to be swung in “Browntown,” thanks to friends bearing (dead) gifts.□

*Originally published in The Rural Virginian, rewritten from Hatch Magazine

OUTDOORSMEN MAKE GOOD DRIVERS

It was about this time of year, a few fall seasons ago, while doing my best to exemplify proper driving technique on my way home from school with a certain woman harboring no reservations for calling me out, that I was graciously reminded through the storm of previously-kempt hair whipping in the wind from the open windows that trees, in fact, grow in people’s yards—not in the road—and that I should avert my gaze—stat.  

The logic I readily offered, that foliage is of primary concern while driving in the fall (Just ask Yankee magazine), as it’s fleeting while cars will drive the road the year-round and pavement remains the same dull gray in all seasons, was accepted and dismissed with the same look, which I’d rather not describe.  It was obviously lost on her, as the windows went up immediately.

    Over my many years of driving experience, I’ve come to understand one key principle.  Driving is equal parts vehicle operation and observation.  Outdoorsmen, I believe, know this best; and for us it is a vital concept.

    Whichever outdoor activity that’s on your mind, it pays to be observant; for scouting is central to success in any such endeavor, and a practice to be taken seriously.

    Enter, the 20^th Century invention of motor vehicles, and driving.

    During no other daily activity does one cover as much ground as when driving.  Simply by driving to Charlottesville from my Fluvanna County home, I cover roughly 25 miles of good deer and squirrel habitat, and cross several streams that I believe to hold fish.  For the same reason that mail carriers often know the location and patterns of deer and other game along vehicle travel corridors, outdoorsmen who pay their dues being observant drivers may enjoy more success in the field, if not on the road.

    VDOT was obviously in on this strategy, as our roads typically traverse beautiful country, follow closely to rivers, and are bordered by fields that seem to be deer magnets.  Interpreting the clues that these sly, state-agency outdoorsmen embedded in the creation of roadways will help simplify the scouting process further.

    Often times, the more treacherous the road, the more valuable it is as a scouting route, as hilly country typically outshines flat in the eyes of outdoorspeople—holding more streams; bigger, tougher game; and more pleasurable hiking.

    Deer crossing signs are largely misidentified by the non-sporting public as warnings, though sportsmen know the truth.  In effect, these signs are state-imposed ratings of the quality of the peripheral habitat; and the more signs present, the more you should pay attention to your surroundings.  The frequency with which deer actually inhabit the road is far lower than that with which they inhabit the marginal land; but should one venture into the road mistakenly and collide with your vehicle, you will have tremendous insight into the physical characteristics of the local herd.

    A high-mountain road that follows the course of a stream is as blatant a sign as they come.  Often nicknamed “fire roads,” these paths were originally created as tools for emergency teams to quickly reach remote streams and assess their fishability with respect to water volume and clarity, simply by peering out the window.  Should a forest fire break out in the surrounding hills, emergency respondents were close by and ready for action, just as quickly as they could break down their rods.  These tools can and should be utilized by the fishing public, who need not interrupt their fishing efforts in the event of a forest fire.

    When traveling and scouting such roads, mainstream driving instruction that advocates for keeping your gaze fixed 20-30 seconds ahead on the route of travel is a common pet peeve of mine.  This practice rarely provides insight into the local outdoor opportunities, and serves no other effective purpose, save for avoiding accidents.

    I find my 1:2 rule much more suitable.  In a three-second loop, focus your attention on the road ahead for one second, adjusting course and speed, and locating potential hazards.  Use the following two seconds to assess your surroundings, whether a field, woodlot, or stream.  Then repeat.  As a ratio, should you need more time for vehicular operation, the rule allows you to simply double that time and devote it to observation.  For example:  If you should need four seconds to effectively operate your vehicle, designate eight to scouting.  This ensures adequate safety and maximum information gathering.

    Good driving is a skill that comes naturally to most outdoorspeople, but that often gains criticism from the non-sporting public.  For more successful days afield, keep your eyes open and focused on your surroundings, drive a car with good safety ratings, and have your local ambulance service on speed dial.

*Originally published in the Rural Virginian