tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39185144187579338992024-03-05T08:58:39.335-06:00The Classical AnglerFly-Fishing stories and Essays by Erik Helm.
Erik Helmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00727530868264488710noreply@blogger.comBlogger311125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918514418757933899.post-85461574149259801472022-09-01T15:50:00.002-05:002022-09-25T22:17:48.655-05:00Awakening<p> </p><h1>Awakening</h1>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<h2>Copyright 2022 Erik F. Helm</h2>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> (Author's note: A true story as imagined, and told from a different perspective: that of the rod itself. The history was itself dreamed and imagined, and who knows who owned the rod in its 100 years, or where it accompanied the man to the rivers. The Italian looking man is Joe Balestrieri, who restored the rod from a lonely tomato-stake, and yours truly had the joy of a re-birth or awakening in a stream never fished before in a setting beyond beauty.)<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7YsjZIbDCWDq0S0happKXLP9fiHVWIAvrWfFKTa6TE0bkBq8sZ2Q0z06kTLFf8RN6wgAnv89_bbxYYgwHuSRw7AvGHGImtC2WKhLvM7xahxSLo3s-v3qyPS_Wv0KeT3jV6MD28OEP-rsM0iSb0RMy1K7JVCR9XJRLPJCL3hl-KzNqzHDgfqBaCoMX/s2048/031622a%20001.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7YsjZIbDCWDq0S0happKXLP9fiHVWIAvrWfFKTa6TE0bkBq8sZ2Q0z06kTLFf8RN6wgAnv89_bbxYYgwHuSRw7AvGHGImtC2WKhLvM7xahxSLo3s-v3qyPS_Wv0KeT3jV6MD28OEP-rsM0iSb0RMy1K7JVCR9XJRLPJCL3hl-KzNqzHDgfqBaCoMX/w400-h300/031622a%20001.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The rod restored... with period reels and flies</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><i><br /></i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The rod was born in a large brick room by being split,
beveled, and glued into something new. The creator had a beard and whistled to
himself. He wrapped the rod with red silk thread and gave it a shiny finish
with a brush. The rod remembered the before-time only vaguely: like a pre-natal
memory of swaying in the wind with his brothers and sisters in some far-away
place.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The creator finished the rod with pieces of cork and a metal
handle stamped: ‘H.L. Leonard, Leonard and Mills Company, Makers.’ A newspaper
folded nearby proclaimed, “Calvin Coolidge elected President!”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The rod was carefully nestled into a cloth bag with sections
for each of its three pieces, and set on a shelf under a sign that read
‘Finished Fly-Rods.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The six strips of tonkin cane carefully assembled now had a
name and a purpose, its colorful silk wraps, snake guides, and metal ferrules
all coming together to bend again in a different but similar way: the hand of
man directing the process, but the rod flexing to its own rhythm and dance in
pursuit of a trout. The rod did not know what a ‘fly’ nor a ‘trout’ was, but it
could dream…</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The rod was taken out of its case and bag and placed in a
display in a large open room crowded with curious other items. Through the tall
windows, the rod could see that the street outside was full of noise and
motion. Then the rod waited patiently to be chosen, and dreamed of things it
knew not about.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The man came at noon on a Saturday. He smoked a cigar and
wore a brown felt fedora hat. He examined a few other rods before picking up
the rod. He closed one eye and sighted along the sections, then placed the rod
together and wiggled it. Finally, he gave the varnish a little sniff, produced
a small handkerchief from his jacket pocket, gave the rod a gentle caress, and
said, “I’ll take this one!”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The rod learned to dance in the man’s hand, to roll a silk
line through the air with graceful curves, and to bend and play a trout. The
trout were speckled things that lived in beautiful places where there were
rivers and mountains and valleys. The man and the rod made many memories
together; paths wandered, rivers waded and crossed, and fish brought to hand.
After each time the new memory was made, the man took out his handkerchief and
carefully but lovingly wiped down the rod. The rod felt needed, and in that
need, that symbiosis of man and rod, of trout and river, the rod felt alive.
The rod and man were partners. The man’s hands staining the cork, his very
fingerprints burned in like the memories. The rod smelled of varnish and fish,
and it was happy.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One crisp fall day when the leaves were turning to fire, the
man took the rod up the narrow stairs in the house he lived in, and placed it
against the wall of the attic space. The rod heard the man’s footsteps slowly
creaking as he descended.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The rod waited patiently for the man to come back, but the
weeks and months passed by with only the cracking of the attic woodwork, the
whispers of mice, and the sound of the wind to keep him company. It became cold
in the attic and then warm again as the seasons passed, but the man did not
come. The rod, in its protective bag became covered with dust. Its varnish
began to crack and it became weary and tired with waiting.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The rod, lonely now, drifted off to sleep.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In the world outside the attic, bombs dropped somewhere far
away, countries were born and died, nations cried, and still the rod slept:
jets and rockets soared, hair grew long, then short again, protests came and
went, and still the rod slept: man visited the moon, split the atom, art became
abstract, babies were born, novels written, presidents assassinated, old men
passed, and so did time, and still the man did not come… and the rod slept.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The rod awoke from its slumbers and dreams to the sounds of
voices and boxes being moved and banged about. It was bleary and confused. A
hand grasped its cloth bag, and the rod heard once again the creaking of the
stairs as it bobbed and descended. It was placed on a large table with other
things that were covered in dust. A man took the rod out of the bag and began
to blind it with bright flashes of light while talking: “Number 247, fish
pole,” he said. The rod thought this man looked a bit like his friend of the
memories, but was younger, had no hat, smelled funny, and wore odd clothing.
The rod looked at himself on the table. His skin was old and wrinkled, his silk
wraps hung in tatters, and mice had chewed at his cork handle. However, his
bamboo core was straight and true, his memories as present and intact as his
loneliness.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The rod briefly slept again before it became aware of great
motions. It was in some sort of container, and was being jostled and turned.
Sounds of clicking, whirring, beeping were finally concluded by footsteps and
the sound of a doorbell.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A different man said, “Come in! Put that tube on the table,
but keep all the bills!”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">An Italian looking man with graying hair took the rod out of
its bag, his movements precise and quick. “Who are you? The Italian man
whispered to himself, and “What have you seen in the last 100 years?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Sniffing the bag, the Italian looking man wrinkled up his
nose, and placed it in the trash. The rod was worried now. What would happen?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As if the Italian looking man could interpret cane thoughts,
he chuckled out loud, “Don’t worry old boy, you are in good hands now!”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The Italian looking man put the rod together and bent it
one-way and then another. One of the ferrules fell off in the process, but the
Italian looking man smiled all the same at the trueness of the bamboo.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The rod was placed into a cool bath of funny-smelling
liquid. When it emerged, it was naked again. Gone were the wrinkles of age. The
Italian looking man removed some of the frayed silk wraps, poked here, and
fussed there, glued on another ferrule, and gave it a new baby’s skin of clear
varnish.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When dry, the rod was assembled, and a reel was attached to
the handle. The Italian looking man strung a silk line through its guides, and
in a large grassy yard, the rod remembered how to dance again. The Italian
looking man smiled once again.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Then the rod was placed in a new cloth bag and set in the
corner where it waited and worried about sleep and wrinkles and time and men.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Then, one evening, guests came over to the Italian looking
man’s house. There was loud talk and laughter. The rod was placed on a wooden
table along with newly made bamboo rods. The Italian looking man was excited as
he capered here and there, explaining this and expounding on that. Another man
was examining the table of rods. He smelled like scotch, while the Italian
looking man smelled like wine. The rod, despite its new skin was the geriatric
at the table. The other rods had clean cork grips, while the rod still had
traces of the memory-man’s hands on its cork.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Then a funny thing happened. The new man assembled the rod
and wiggled it. He smiled and stated, “Nobody will ever understand this old
girl. I’ll take her!”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">On a fine sunny spring day the rod was assembled again in a
place filled with green hills and valleys. The new man cast the rod and raised
his eyebrows. The rod learned the new cadence of the man, and the man grew to
understand the rod. A slower tempo, graceful and reflective was agreed to. The
rod learned a few new dancing moves as well. The new man taught it to curve in
circles, gently shooting line straight to the target.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The rod was returned to its new bag after the new man took
out a cloth from his pocket, and gently polished it. It rested quietly for the
time being.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The next time the rod emerged from its shroud it was in a
different setting. Mountain peaks surrounded a meadow full of sage and
wildflowers. The sky was the clearest blue, the air crisp, and the few clouds
so close above that the rod felt that it could touch them.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The new man took a reel out of a leather case. The reel was
as old as the rod, and fitted perfectly to the handle. The reel had a patina
too, and its own memories from long ago.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The new man carried the reel down the slope to a small
stream with water so clear that the rocks shimmered through it. The wildflowers
lined the bank in pinks, blues, purples, and yellows of every shape. Birds
dipped over the water as the new man tied on a dry fly to a gossamer tippet. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic24G65qhTOV9d_duoEUFHjBAjlIjKfB-zycu2RIrbcoDySNXuJrjlrJZQ_y6jk3jQf8BxSYtLzOQMbwNSXhd8-hhn4SA6imQF1iovm4kTc1uZZWFb2QVsulzUU7_YSPeQi4PKhXtIWb_Xr2sQM101fMWAEOzw7SHdc10DtkuLpCqE5Rcnm9Kg3CFf/s2048/073122%20031.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic24G65qhTOV9d_duoEUFHjBAjlIjKfB-zycu2RIrbcoDySNXuJrjlrJZQ_y6jk3jQf8BxSYtLzOQMbwNSXhd8-hhn4SA6imQF1iovm4kTc1uZZWFb2QVsulzUU7_YSPeQi4PKhXtIWb_Xr2sQM101fMWAEOzw7SHdc10DtkuLpCqE5Rcnm9Kg3CFf/w400-h300/073122%20031.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Then time elongated as the new man, the rod and the water
became one in a harmony of stillness. All eyes and instruments tuned and
waiting for the baton to strike the downbeat, and the concerto to begin. Slowly
a mayfly ascended the scale, only to descend it again. A caddis took up the
refrain and elegantly brought it to a quivering and tantalizing riffle. The rod
bent back and forth, the line gliding out in hovering loops as the fly gained
speed and then settled gently at the end of the fast water.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A jolt shot through the rod like electricity, and it was
raised sharply as a trout engulfed the fly. The trout was born in the
mountains. It was as young as the rod was old, and its spots and red slash
mimicked the vibrancy of the wildflowers. As the fish was released, it looked
at the rod, and their eyes locked. A gentle breeze moved the wildflowers. Time
met, contracted, and expanded and circled back again. The young were old, and
the old young again. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The fish swam back to its home. The fly danced again through
the thin air, and the rod was very happy.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv32UE4bQeBuKfF9y8o6aZwJTcykyI16chT0828uRIx3Y3qCCLkoNmDmPqguJBcO0PEvhAtUFfRxaUzTN_O8hyjkqL-ymWnBeaGi738PHCfGenI6PS9GPml2fgH8q5Qz4MulgGA0pp_Xqk9EYNdFAmlDCfc3wYaH3LmtwBZHD4Jg__SuS_rNgvmnDl/s2048/073122%20041.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv32UE4bQeBuKfF9y8o6aZwJTcykyI16chT0828uRIx3Y3qCCLkoNmDmPqguJBcO0PEvhAtUFfRxaUzTN_O8hyjkqL-ymWnBeaGi738PHCfGenI6PS9GPml2fgH8q5Qz4MulgGA0pp_Xqk9EYNdFAmlDCfc3wYaH3LmtwBZHD4Jg__SuS_rNgvmnDl/w400-h300/073122%20041.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp8IJHrCV1uNDBP5JIS4LWONrmdYaLTG0sCvqEaKflJ5MUqqFO91avaoReO9Gqb-rgBs5DUo_5j1crlOPd7B7nn2aGMXL6Vxu_xlIGDUuUybogXZw7DxUZLREvpr2yTj-wWUyyIl-ifRUCUJ4maPfQ4_WtdYeuD2jfd2BySt0udNTYZP-U4FWliErv/s2048/073122%20038.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp8IJHrCV1uNDBP5JIS4LWONrmdYaLTG0sCvqEaKflJ5MUqqFO91avaoReO9Gqb-rgBs5DUo_5j1crlOPd7B7nn2aGMXL6Vxu_xlIGDUuUybogXZw7DxUZLREvpr2yTj-wWUyyIl-ifRUCUJ4maPfQ4_WtdYeuD2jfd2BySt0udNTYZP-U4FWliErv/w400-h300/073122%20038.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Finis</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><br /></p>Erik Helmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00727530868264488710noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918514418757933899.post-15939146243960448192021-05-16T17:44:00.000-05:002021-05-16T17:44:02.536-05:00Oh Deer!<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>Oh Deer!<o:p></o:p></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglup12h9UohvoNllImmPFhnxFy3K9Nymw9uSCq8GJ7cc2su7-xWMKyPSOeDlk7qwoIM0JL0DZOgekntSxlu89LISciILXFUItsZTD1GBMpc6dxA70H5nR2_1R9Hw4kj-auPay2wZE3zqM/s2048/112320+144.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglup12h9UohvoNllImmPFhnxFy3K9Nymw9uSCq8GJ7cc2su7-xWMKyPSOeDlk7qwoIM0JL0DZOgekntSxlu89LISciILXFUItsZTD1GBMpc6dxA70H5nR2_1R9Hw4kj-auPay2wZE3zqM/w400-h300/112320+144.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Last evening I was sitting hunkered down with a glass of
wine in our Wisconsin winter where the wind chill and cold had the house
creaking and popping. I was perusing a book on ancient art. Specifically I was
looking at cave paintings. It is a signal sociological point that in our human
evolution our first attempts at art and collective memory through expression
inevitably have to do with hunting. So important was it in ritual and meaning,
that across cultures and continents our early ancestors were consistent in
their capture of hunting; it was rooted deeply in our early dark psyche.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In the scene before me, groups of ochre figures armed with
bows and spears were surrounding several abstract beasties and closing in for
the kill. The beasties could have been sheep-cows, deer-horses or even
mastodon- pigs: (our early human friends were just getting started in art, so
much like my early attempts with crayons, the horses were as likely to have six
legs as four.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Down in the lower corner of the cave wall there was a lone
figure. He was facing the wrong way: the hunt was behind him. He also carried a
spear that was obviously crooked. Instantly I recognized him as a distant
relative of mine. I knew his genes had made it intact all these millennia to
guide my hunting: for strange things do happen when Erik goes forth into the
woods and fields with a gun.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It is not that I am a bad hunter, rather that circumstances
seem to dictate that if I am hunting deer, all I see are squirrels, and vice
versa. Take one early morning watching dawn slowly manifest while sitting in
the woods at the top of a hill in the frost. It was just legal shooting time
when a squirrel popped out of a hole in an oak tree. It paused to stare at me
and flick its tail a few times, and then hopped into a branch of the dead tree
I was sitting against. A minute later, the damn squirrel deliberately dropped
an acorn on my head, and started laughing in squirrel language. Of course, I
was hunting deer that day, so shooting the joker with a 7mm Mauser was quite
out of the question.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That brings us to opening day of the 2020 deer season. It
might be enough just to state for the record that it was indeed the year 2020.
That should suffice. Corona virus, riots, protests, crazy politics, social
distancing, etc.: a world turned upside down. I should have just stayed home…
but that would have made no memories or stories like my little ochre
stick-figure friend: facing the wrong way with a crooked spear.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘Robin a’ Bobbin bent his bow…</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He shot at a pigeon and killed a crow…</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He shot at another and killed his own Mother…</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Did Robin a Bobbin, who bent his bow…”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Anyway…</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was dawn with a hard frost: a perfect day to hunt deer.
The sun was not up yet, and the darkness carried a chill lit by a near full
moon. I had a beautiful sporterized Mauser from the Second World War mad by a
master craftsman in Germany. It had been an idle member of my late father’s
collection. He may never have shot it. I mounted a scope on it, hand crafted a
leather sling for it, and sighted it in. It was as ready to hunt as I was. On
my back was a canvas and leather pack containing knives and gutting kit, a
thermos of hot tea, and my lunch.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It took me a full three hours by my watch to hunt the steep
switchback path up the wooded hill. I took five steps, and stood listening and
watching… then repeat and repeat. This is still-hunting, and the only way I
would want to hunt game: putting in effort and being involved in the hunt. I
would rather stay home than sit in a heated condo-blind and blast away at deer
innocently trying to eat fallen corn in a field.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I got to the top of the hill at last. The whole topography
here consisted of a maze of trails interspersed with apple trees and brambles.
One can’t go slow enough. I hunted for an hour or so, until the sun and lack of
sleep the night before combined to make me drowsy. I decided to take a wee nap
and eat my lunch, thinking that in the middle of the day under clear blue skies
and high sun, nothing would be moving.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I picked a tiny deer trail between the main paths through
the scrub, leaned my rifle against a bush, laid down next to my pack, and
pulled my hat over my eyes after taking off my glasses. I was blissfully warm
and sleepy.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As I lay in a state of half-sleep, I heard a noise off to my
left getting closer and moving fast. Out of one sleepy half opened eye I saw a
coyote run past not fifteen feet away. That was interesting I thought… and a
wee bit too close. I pulled down my hat again and continued my nap. After a few
minutes, the brush around me started to make odd sounds. Dry leaves quivered
and twitched, and squeaking was heard: the ground was alive with voles moving
under the leaf litter. As long as I remained motionless, the voles frolicked
all around me, and even under me. I finally fell asleep again…</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Remember… I was lying on a tiny deer-crossing route…</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I awoke slowly as the vole sounds seemed to change direction
and stealthily creep foreword toward my head. What the hell? I blinked my eyes
open and reached for my glasses. The second I moved something snorted, and
hoofs stomped the ground now going away from me. It took a few seconds to sit
up and untangle my glasses and hat, but it was obvious what had just happened.
A small doe had crept through the brush on the little trail, and had paused
curious or confused a few feet from where I lay. Since I was on my back and not
moving, I was not a threat… until I did move.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Well… now I was awake! I thought perhaps if deer were going
to almost step on me in the middle of the day, I might just actually want to
get my shit in order and do some hunting. I ate my sandwich, had a cup of tea,
and gathered my rifle and pack together.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When hunting a challenging piece of land like this, one
never knows what may be around the next corner, and it is important to be
completely silent and stealthy. The only sound I made was the absence of sound
as I crept forward. I was in a narrow straight-away path bordered by the wooded
hill on the right when from around a corner fifty yards away, a large dog like
creature emerged, looked at me once, and turned around and disappeared back
where it had come from. “What the hell?” I thought to myself as I heard its
footsteps crunching through the woods. I slowly crept up to the corner, and now
had that funny feeling of being watched. A face peeked out from behind a tree
to my right. It had blue eyes and gray fur and looked like a husky. It had
doubled back on itself and surprised me. I was lucky to see the wolf at all
before it simply vanished silently.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In my part of Wisconsin, we have no wolf packs, so I was
puzzled. Wolf it was for sure, for no coyotes around here get as big as an
Alsatian, or have gray fur and blue eyes. This must have been a lone wolf. My
hunt was getting stranger and stranger.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I decided to follow the path of the wolf to see if I could
pick up any prints in the frosted woods. I took three steps toward the tree
where the wolf had peeked out at me when behind me and to the right, a bedded
deer exploded, stomping and crashing away. It had stayed put while the wolf
passed it, but dumb humans wearing goofy hunting clothes was just too much. I
looked down at my old woolen red and black check pants and realized that with
my matching wool mackinaw and stormy kromer hat and gun I made a pretty good
likeness of Elmer Fudd. I certainly felt like him that day. I might as well be
in a zoo for all the wildlife that befuddled me.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Exiting the woods, I followed the path around the perimeter
of the top of the hill. It led to a wide straightaway swooping first down and
then up to a ridge in the distance; it was bordered by more scrub and small
apple trees. The sun was now directly overhead as once again I let down my
guard, and stood at the bottom of the path right out in the open like an idiot.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I squinted into the distance to the top of the opening in
front of me. Something sort of materialized in my vision around a hundred yards
away. It had antlers or sticks on top, and some sort of face, and was floating
like a hallucination above some scrub. Stupidly I just stared at it confused.
It had no body and no definite form. Briefly, it occurred to me that it looked
like a head of a huge buck, or the top of an archery target.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I raised the rifle and looked through the scope. Yup! It was
the head of a buck… or a strange illusion, for it still had not moved a hair
and seemed to have no body. I have been fooled a thousand times by this kind of
thing. I see a small lump of burl that looks exactly like a squirrel against a
tree in the distance… and most of the time it turns out to be just a hunk of
burl: the rest of the time it is a squirrel sitting motionless.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I dropped the rifle down a few feet and looked at it with
naked eyes. It was then that it moved and ran off giving me no shot, its body
materializing from behind the brush that hid it, its antlers held high, head
back and proud. It was literally the largest buck I had ever seen. Now I really
felt like Elmer Fudd. I had been fooled! In my defense, blasting away at
something near a ridge top where I had no idea what lay beyond, and was
uncertain of my target as well, would also have been foolhardy, but nonetheless
I felt the fool.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When I got to where the buck was standing, I found a bed
hollowed out of thick brush and having only a single entrance. At the very top
of the wigwam he hollowed out was a spot for him to stick out his head. From
the high vantage point of the ridge top, he could survey his domain. Nearby
were massive scrapes and rubs. He was the alpha male of the hill. I was the
zeta male.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I had a few hours left to hunt, so with the vision of that
disembodied head of the buck floating in my brain, I worked the rest of the
hilltop.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As silent as one can be, there is a moment where like at a
symphony concert during a beautiful quiet passage one suddenly feels a cough
coming on. No matter how one tries to put it out of mind, hold one’s breath, or
make goofy faces and contort one’s throat, it just gets worse. As I approached
a bend in the path with exceptionally thick scrub and briars, and full of deer
tracks coming and going to and fro, it got too much.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Kaloff!!!” I
coughed forth.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The scrub to the left of me exploded as two does leapt to
their feet and went sailing through the air. One went away from me, while the
other one leapt nearly over my head. I just stood there wondering what the hell
had just happened as they disappeared with crashing and crunching down the
sides of the hill. I never even thought of raising my gun.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">By this time, I figured my best strategy was probably to
unload the rifle, and picking a likely spot to hold deer, simply throw the
Mauser into the bushes. I might have an equal chance of hitting something. What
I actually did was conclude the hunt a bit before closing time and make my way
back down the hill.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I should have hunted my way down. Instead, I walked down,
figuring that since I had carefully hunted my way up, and saw nothing, that the
path and hillside would be busted for me, and hold no deer.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Halfway down the entire hillside above me just detonated
with does. At least twenty deer had moved slowly off the top and resumed
bedding down behind fallen trees on the side of the hill. I had made another
cardinal error. All I saw were white flags bouncing through the woods.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As I got back to my car, there was a large doe leaning on
the hood. She was looking at me with a sneer, and I swear to you, seemed to
smoking a cigarette. She sauntered off stage left. I think she was trying to
tell me something…</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If I ever do manage to find a nice cave to do a little
sketching in and leave a memory, it might just be a stick figure hunter bending
over while a stylized deer with antlers sniffs at the hunter’s butt.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In a thousand years, culturally, it should have some
significance!</p>Erik Helmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00727530868264488710noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918514418757933899.post-42911855606645034342021-03-15T19:18:00.002-05:002021-03-15T19:18:52.401-05:00Of Trout and Eggs<p> </p><h1>Of Trout and Eggs</h1>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Copyright 2021 Erik Helm</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCXuezhGDQ-Z_f_g4T0RJ0vJv5b3wwZH_Urdr6c-8pIveasBs7hWKyAjm3Gyxk347CRc6WUpLhmNi4BFvdipVGlSJCALvzUgua_b34TZaxgblPE590u-uD4leRQd3eEeHcafHPNwLV7ck/s2048/IMG_2445.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCXuezhGDQ-Z_f_g4T0RJ0vJv5b3wwZH_Urdr6c-8pIveasBs7hWKyAjm3Gyxk347CRc6WUpLhmNi4BFvdipVGlSJCALvzUgua_b34TZaxgblPE590u-uD4leRQd3eEeHcafHPNwLV7ck/w400-h300/IMG_2445.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">George was a peculiar fellow. I had known him for over
fifteen years, and in all that time, I had never known him to keep a trout. He
was a strict catch ‘em and let ‘em go oddity. He professed that he had an aversion
to eating fish, but that aversion certainly did not extend to the actual
fishing itself. Therefore, it was odd when I came upon him one early morning
setting up his rod and gear at our favorite trout haunt, that he was carrying a
creel. I greeted him, and not mentioning the wicker basket slung over his
shoulder, asked if he wanted company. He nodded and we made small talk about
the weather, our families, and the prospects for the morning fishing.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">George mentioned that he was due back home by 2 p.m. sharp
to perform some domestic chores or ‘honey-dos’. Although he never really spoke
about it, I knew that he was rather hen-pecked by his wife. One time George
even referred to her as “She who must be obeyed.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was decided that I would go upstream and fish the dry
fly, while he would fish his way downstream with the wet fly. It was a
desultory sort of day on the river; not much was hatching, and few trout showed
themselves to the fly. After a few hours, and catching just three small browns,
I gave up and decided to pick raspberries instead. I stowed the fishing gear in
the car, and retrieved an empty coffee tin.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There were always good pickings along the river in July.
After an hour, I had filled the tin with fresh berries, and was covered with
stains and scratches from the brambles. I scrambled down the slope and spotted
George downstream playing a fish. I decided to sit on a rock and just take in
the scenery.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">George was a very good fisherman, and his chosen method
today of presenting a brace of wet flies down into the deeper pools behind the
riffles was paying off. His rod seemed perpetually in action, bent to the
strain of wild trout. He landed fish after fish and released them. The curious
thing was that each fish was subjected to a small tape measure before being
released, and that George, always a calm and almost reclusive person, seemed to
be growing more and more agitated. Instead of gently releasing the trout, he
began throwing the fish overhand while he talked to himself.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After watching him catch at least twenty more fish, I
whistled to him and pointed to my watch. He nodded and came stomping up the
river towards me. It was just before one o’clock, and that would allow us just
enough time to grab an ice-cold coke at the Ma and Pa gas station and general
store at the highway junction.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Well?” I asked… “Let’s see what is in that creel of yours!”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">George gave me a very effective sneer as an answer, and
broke down his rod, placing it into its protective tube, and into the trunk of
his Oldsmobile.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Ignoring the sneer, I opened the creel to discover nothing
but some fresh wet grass at the bottom.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Practicing for senility, George?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He sighed. “Look, don’t give me any razzing, I am in enough
trouble as it is.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“What?” I exclaimed. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He turned to me and said: “Don’t tell anyone…”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Marsha had poached trout at her tennis club last year, and
she got a liking for them.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“She loves two trout
with her eggs for breakfast from time to time, so… well, here I am.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Alright, that explains a bit, but then why did you release
all the trout you caught?” “Are you trying to put her on a diet?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“No… but… look… it is the silliest thing; the trout she was
served at the club were pond raised and pellet fed, and they were all the same
size… exactly eleven inches long.” “Marsha doesn’t mind me fishing once a week,
but the single condition is that I bring home a brace of eleven inch trout each
time.” “I caught every size fish today except eleven inches, so I am in a royal
tub of hot water.” “Say, you didn’t happen to get any that size?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I shook my head. “No, I just got a few dinks and this tin of
raspberries.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Alright…” George said, “I guess I will have to think up
some excuse or another.” “Maybe she will buy some yarn about my having broken
my rod…”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Yea, that could work, except that your rod is not broken…”
“She surely would notice that!”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I hadn’t thought of that… but I will have to come up with
something nevertheless.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I left him to ponder his story on the drive back to the
highway. Arriving at the little ramshackle store, we both gassed up our cars,
and went in to get a coke.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Old Mr. Jansky was behind the counter, looking like part of
the debris surrounding him. The smell of frying onions greeted us even before
his smile.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Hi boys! How’s the fishin?” he asked rhetorically.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Two cokes!” I answered.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He opened the big red and white cooler behind the counter
and produced two bottles covered with ice. I paid. The way I figured it, George
was already behind the eight ball, so this one was on me.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The shop door opened and a tiny bell tinkled. It was a young
boy, perhaps twelve years old. He carried a long worm pole, a Folgers coffee
tin strung to his belt, and a wicker creel. We made way for him at the counter,
and took long swallows of ice-cold coke. The boy asked how much for a coke and
hamburger. Old Jansky told him “That would be fifty cents.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The boy rooted around in his dungarees and produced a
quarter and three pennies. He had enough for either the burger or a coke but
not both. I winked at George. The wink was intended to convey that we should
make up the difference… the only kind thing to do. Instead, George asked the
kid what was in the basket.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I got two green trout!” He proclaimed proudly.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Green trout?…” George asked out loud. “Never heard of no
green trout.” “Can I see ‘em?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The young man opened the basket, and lying on an old wet
newspaper at the bottom were two very fat chubs. “See…? Green trout!”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Then George did an unexpected thing. He took out his tape
measure and found that both of the chubs were exactly eleven inches.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Don’t even think of it George!” I cried.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Why not?” “The way I figure it, with the heads and tails
cut off, stuffed with onion and basil, and baked in butter, Marsha may never
know the difference!” “Worst case scenario, she chokes or gags on them and then
stops nagging me to bring back fish every time I go out!”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Say, kid… what are planning on doing with those ‘Green
trout’?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The boy answered that he thought he might feed them to the
cat.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">George said he had a better idea… “How about I trade you a
coke and a hamburger for those two fish?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The boy nodded happily, and George paid Jansky the fifty
cents, taking possession of the fish in turn and wrapping them in the
newspaper. He winked at me as we finished our cokes.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Good luck old boy!” I teased.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Thanks bud… I might need it.” “I just hope she never
notices the difference!”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We parted ways, and it was several weeks before I ran into
him again.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was fishing our local stream close to the springs at the
top end, because the water was too warm at the bottom to hold trout. The day
was 90 degrees in the shade. I had done pretty well on a Professor wet fly, and
had killed three nice ten-inch trout for dinner. That was enough for me.
Driving downstream, I observed a car parked along the bank of the lower part of
the river. Nobody every fished there this late in the year, except worm dunkers
after panfish and bass. Then I hit the breaks. It was George’s car, and below
the little farm bridge, I saw his hat showing above the brush and grass. He was
fishing. I parked the car, got out and walked to the bridge to watch. He was
deep in the pool casting and swinging his wet flies. I yelled to him.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He looked up with a shocked and guilty expression, and
stomped up the bank to meet me.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Teaching worms to swim?” I quipped.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“No, you wise-ass, it might occur to you that I am actually
fishing.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Yea, that is obvious, but why down here in the warm water?”
“I caught some beauties upstream!” “There are no trout down here.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“That is why I am here.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“O.K… now I am puzzled,” I said.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">George got out a cigarette and lit it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I didn’t know you smoked?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I don’t… but sometimes it helps calm my nerves.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“And… your nerves need calming because…?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Remember the ‘Green trout’?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Yea?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“The whole scheme backfired badly.” “Marsha loved the
chubs.” “She said that they were the best trout she had ever eaten!”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Oops!” I responded.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Oops is right… She wanted to know where I got them, and why
they were better than the ones I had been bringing home up till then.” “I made
the mistake of telling her they were ‘Green trout’.” ”She directed me on the
spot that from now on, I was to bring her nothing but these new fish.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“So that is why you are down here playing in the muddy
water!”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“You know… you might do better using bait!”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Oh go soak your head!” was his reply, as he walked back
down to the bridge pool to try to catch his two identical eleven-inch minnows.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A couple of weeks later I was grocery shopping when I came
across a special on smoked chub. An idea came to me, and I bought one. I put it
in the oven on low heat for four hours and then let it hang from the rafters
for another week until it was as hard as shoe-leather. I mounted it on a piece
of driftwood, and using a marker, wrote this inscription: ‘World record Green Trout’
‘Caught by George Marky’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I sent it to him in the mail almost three months ago, but I
have not heard from him since.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I don’t think he was very amused…</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>Erik Helmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00727530868264488710noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918514418757933899.post-25856294640233598892021-03-02T11:09:00.001-06:002021-05-15T15:24:49.281-05:00Zion Creek<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Copyright 2021 Erik Helm</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisxksV9eYjFdyPwlau-2lB83eXzYnkCMS0DDprwKpjyeMK_5N98oM458fqNBV6c9eUynNAD_IGScOIlbBypzh3y2DBwz-J_h_FXhAEKGNERpUpeJ2GVVJuWYSHDRQStFyDkpaW8PuCppU/s2048/043016a+005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisxksV9eYjFdyPwlau-2lB83eXzYnkCMS0DDprwKpjyeMK_5N98oM458fqNBV6c9eUynNAD_IGScOIlbBypzh3y2DBwz-J_h_FXhAEKGNERpUpeJ2GVVJuWYSHDRQStFyDkpaW8PuCppU/w400-h300/043016a+005.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<h1>Part One: Gateway to Zion</h1>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The river was born in the mountains and flowed from north to
south down the valley it had created for eons. It was a trout river, best
fished in spring, and the man now standing on the bank watching and listening
to it had fished it all his life. Every year it was a ritual beginning in April
and ending in June, when the water became too warm for trout, and they migrated
up the tributaries like the West Branch, which dumped into the main river across
from where he was now standing. This tributary was clean, clear, and cold
throughout the year.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The West Branch, or Zion Creek (as it was commonly known),
was private water owned by an exclusive club with a set limit to membership.
How long the club had existed he didn’t know, but his Grandfather had talked of
it often, describing with a wry smile his youthful attempts to poach it at
night and his hide and seek game with the club bailiffs. Standing there today,
he reflected that he had never had the opportunity to fish it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">All that would change today, as he had been invited by
Charles, a business acquaintance he knew slightly and had done a good turn for,
to fish it for the morning. Charles had been a member of the club for some
time, and held the position of Sergeant at Arms, which translated to keeper of
the books and history. Each club member was allowed only two guests per year,
so this invite was very special.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He met his host at the stone bridge that spanned the main
branch and led up Zion Creek to its headwaters. As they drove in Charles’s car,
he rolled down the window to let the fresh smell of pines and spring water fill
his senses. Charles made small talk on the way, but his guest’s attention was
on the scenic beauty before him. Zion Creek was a picture postcard of a
trout-stream. It meandered over gravel, accelerated in riffles, sounded forth
with cascading plunge-pools, curved and curved back again upon itself, and
twinkled with a thousand reflections of the early morning sun.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Charles parked the car in a gravel lot in front of a
splendid rustic log-cabin lodge house; above the front porch hung an ancient
weathered wooden sign reading ‘Zion Creek’. They set up their rods and
fly-tackle and walked down a set of old wooden stairs that led from the lodge
to the stream.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A few mayflies were flitting above the riffles as his host
led the way on a streamside path further up the river. He noticed that every
hundred yards or so there was a well-maintained hand-carved sign naming the
pools and runs. After a short hike, Charles stopped and pointed to the water.
“I am going to start you here, it is called ‘Isaac’s Bend’.” “Work your way
upstream for the next mile or so, and I will meet you around noon.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“The Hendricksons should get going around ten, and remember
to pinch your barbs down.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Oh, and have fun!” he added with a wave. His host
disappeared up the path through the conifers, rod tip appearing now and again
to mark his passage.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The water named ‘Isaac’s Bend’ was a long gravel bar curving
from left to right and had to be at least two hundred yards long. As he
squinted through the youthful sunlight to see what insects were on the menu for
the morning’s angling, a mayfly landed on his cheek. He caught it gently in
cupped hand and peered at it inquisitively. It was a mottled dun, most likely a
Hendrickson, but a size larger than he usually saw on the main branch. As he
rooted through his fly-boxes to find the appropriate pattern, he heard a
splash, and then another, and another. Trout were beginning to feed all around
him. Locating the right fly, he dressed it, tied it on his leader, paused a
moment to take it all in, and targeting a spreading ring in the water before
him, sent his dainty offering forth to tempt a trout.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The fly had barely settled on the water when a hungry brook
trout happily sucked it in, and shot downstream past his legs causing the line
to fly off the reel with a pleasant protesting staccato. Landing it, he was
dazzled by its colors. Bright white accents lined the fins, while sky blue
spots punctuated with fiery red centers lit its sides like nature’s fireworks.
The trout was fat and healthy, and ice cold to the touch. He released it gently
into the clear mirror of water at his feet, and watched it gently settle to the
bottom and slowly swim off.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Drying his fly, he looked out over the bend of river ahead
and hummed a passage of Schubert’s ‘Trout’ quintet. The water was alive with
mayflies dancing in the air and floating on the water, and trout were feeding
everywhere in the current. He was in awe.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Time slowed for him as he progressed up the bend to the
riffle at the top. He must have caught and released a dozen fish over a foot
long, and equally as many smaller ones. Behind a large boulder in the fast
water, he saw a swirl and a large nose poked out to eat a bug. He paused a
moment to let the fish settle, and placed his fly against the rock. It hovered
a moment in the eddy and then seductively twitched as the current caught it.
For the trout behind the rock, it was too much. It smacked the fly with audible
delight and when hooked, bored into the current.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Seated on the bank, he reflected that he had never seen such
a strong fish. Only fifteen inches, it used its weight well, shooting into the
air and clearing the boulder in a single leap, then reversing itself and using
the current to its advantage, torpedoed its way across the river. He had all he
could do to land the thing: reel backlashed, line tangled around his legs, and
the leader on the edge of parting. They say brook trout can’t jump. Nobody told
this one; he must have never have received the telegram.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He savored the moment as he sat, feet in the cool water,
gently drinking it all in. Zion Creek was something to be cherished in the
ingrained memory he now captured; a canvas of sound and light, of movement and
smell, of fish and eternity. He heard his name being called, and turning his
eyes away from the final aquatic ballet before him saw that Charles was
standing and smiling at him.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Well,” Charles laughed, “You didn’t get far at all!” “A
mile of river in front of you and four hours later you only made it to the top
of ‘Isaac’s Bend’.” “How was the fishing?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Sometimes a simple smile can paint a thousand paintings, or
write a hundred poems. His smile was one out of time; back to his youth, a grin
wide with honesty and delight at simply being alive. Four hours had passed in a
moment in a special place. He felt renewed.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Zion Creek had its many rituals. They made their way back to
the lodge for a glass of wine, and to fill out the guest book and fishing log.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The interior of the lodge was decorated with old photographs
of the river and club members. Copper daguerreotypes mixed with faded black and
white photos. The logbook was a ponderous affair. Bound in leather and a foot
thick, it began in 1891 and was filled with flowing script. Quill pens slowly
gave way to ball-points as he flipped through the pages recording the deeds and
catches of anglers adorning the photos on the walls; members who were long
pushing up daisies. It was a book out of time; a window into the past. He
turned to the most recent page, and carefully entered his name, his fish, and
the words “This is truly Zion.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Charles seated him in front of the fireplace at one of the
long tables, the wood now worn and stained with smoke, and rang a little bell.
An older gentleman appeared as if by magic and shimmered over to the table. He
held a bottle of red wine, two glasses and a tray with bowls of hot lentil soup
with greens. Charles explained that this was all part of the ritual, codified
over the years and simplified to an essence.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“It was old Isaac who set the menu many years ago,” Charles
said while pouring the wine. “He was the gentleman that gave his name to the
beat of river you just fished.” “By all report and reputation a modest and
jolly man, roundly built and short, he was one of the oldest members.” “After
the soup, we can look at the old photo albums.” “He is in there, of course.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The soup was delicious, and the wine intoxicating but sweet.
He wondered to himself if Isaac himself had chosen it. It was a rich Semitic
deeply colored and pungent vintage, dark purple in color.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">His host went up to a large bookcase and pulled down a few
albums. They showed the construction of the lodge, the members standing around supervising
sporting coats and ties, top hats and derbies perched jauntily on their heads.
Page after page showcased happy anglers, and dates and notes were written on
the photos themselves in white ink.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As he drank the wine and slowly drank in the history, he
turned to a page that had a set of large panoramic photos of the stream taken
from the lodge. The first was dated 1921 and entitled ‘West Branch.’ The second
dated from 1938 and had the caption ‘Zion Creek.’ Studying them in detail, he
noted that in the former photo, he could spot Isaac’s Bend, the Willow Pool,
and two other landmarks. Indeed the creek today looked exactly the same as it
had in 1921. The second later photo he could not recognize. It looked similar
in shape and size, obviously taken from the same vantage point, but clearly a
very different river. He noted to Charles his confusion, and his host replied
that some stream work and improvements had been done in between the photo
dates.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Now he was puzzled. He speculated out loud that the photos
seemed backwards. The very river he fished today was identical to the older
photo, while the newer one must have shown the original stream before the club
did improvements.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“No…” Charles said with a wry smile, “That is the correct
sequence.” “We have an hour before we need to get going, so you might like a
little mystery untangled…”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<h1>Part Two: Prometheus and the finger of God</h1>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Charles poured another glass of wine and leaned forward,
elbows resting on the old wood table, and began.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“ The West Branch always
had good fishing, and the members contributed dues that allowed the club to
hire several ‘Water-Keepers’.” It was their job to stock the stream when it
needed it, remove any bass or pike that swam in her, remove silt, and keep the
banks clear.” “Sometime in the mid-1930s we hired a new keeper named Smith.”
“He had a background as an engineer, and also was a keen fisherman.” “It was
Smith that started the program of improvements to the stream starting at the
confluence, and working year by year up the river.” “Some of the ideas were
quite new, at least to us.” “He used logs to shore up the banks and prevent
silt from accumulating, and with his helpers manually shifted rock in the river
to aid flow, always being sensitive to the river itself.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“The work started to pay off with fish numbers increasing,
and insect life visibly rebounding, while the stream retained its essential
character.” “Members of the club noticed the improvements in the fishing as
well.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“In 1937 the president of the club was a man named Franklin…
I can’t recall his first name.” “He was from the city, and owned a large
excavating company.” “He floated the idea of increasing the stream work to
Smith, and then to the executive committee.” “His idea was that in one or two
years we could reap the benefits of a re-structured river by industrial methods
based on Smith’s new ideas.” “He sweetened the pie by offering, at his own
expense, to provide not only the equipment, but the labor as well.” “The
committee took a vote, the idea passed, and the planning started.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“That was when the simple ideas of tweaking things along the
river in a sort of symbiosis with its character began to expand.” “As ideas
were put forward and discussed about each section and beat, more and more
opinions and suggestions were explored.” In the ‘Willow Pool’ for example,
instead of the S-curve that existed naturally, plans called for the river to be
shifted from its bed and made straighter and deeper.” “Other pools and sections
were less invasive, but some were more so.” “I think the idea kind of morphed
into a sort of “Let’s create the ideal trout stream” project.” “Some members
thought aloud that we already had the ideal trout stream.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“The work was begun in the summer of 1937 and due to the
efficiency of the heavy equipment, progressed rapidly… a bit too rapidly for
some.” “Old Isaac was watching the work from a streamside bench with several
others when he made a prophetic remark.” “He said: “You guys are trying create
your own Zion!”” “Knowing Isaac, he probably had a tumbler of wine in one hand,
and a cigar in the other.” “Isaac was always one for a quip delivered with a
laugh and a plume of smoke.” “His little remark stuck, and in his honor, the
club decided to rename itself.” “That is the origin of the name Zion Creek.”
“Whether he intended it that way or not, Isaac’s quip proved later to have some
prophetic foresight.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“By 1938 the work was complete, and a new trail was
constructed.” “Some of the now familiar stretches received new names such as
‘Gordon’s Pool’, or ‘Smith’s Riffle’, based on those members that had designed
the work.” “That spring, some members remarked that they thought that the
fishing was better, while others reflected that it wasn’t better, just
different.” “Some pieces fished the wet-fly better, and others now were better
dry-fly water.” “The new sign was carved for the lodge, and the West Branch
officially changed to Zion Creek.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Old Isaac never lived to fish it that spring.” “He died of
a heart attack.” Charles turned the pages of the photo album until he found
what he was looking for.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Here is a picture of the old man,” he said, turning the
album around. Isaac was photographed sitting on the bank with his fly rod on
his knees and winking at the cameraman. In his right hand were both a cigar,
and a glass. His hair was bushy and wild, his beard large, and both were white
as cotton. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“From the stories told and repeated through the years around
the fireplace, Isaac was a fine angler, one of the first in the water when a
gathering was held, but after catching a few trout, he would take down his rod
and sit on the bank watching the other fishermen.” “He had a zest for the good
life.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“In the spring of 1940 a tropical storm moved up the coast,
and collided with a nor’easter.” It rained for three days solid.” “The bridge
was washed out, and no members could get anywhere close to the club waters for
over a week.” “In all, something like eleven inches of rain fell over the
mountains.” “When the floodwaters retreated and a group of us managed to man-handle
a boat to the confluence and cross the bank, the debris was everywhere.” “It
took another two weeks to remove enough of it to get to the lodge.” “The
building was intact, but the sign dangled by one end, and all the placards
naming the pools were washed away.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“The creek was still there, of course, and the fish too.”
“After all, they had survived there before man ever cast a line on the water,
and had seen worse flooding.” “It was something else entirely that amazed us
all, and led us to place a bronze plaque in Isaac’s honor on the old oak tree
overlooking his bend… for his bend was back… and not only that, but every
single major change we made to the river was simple washed away.” “The flood
had turned back time on us, before our eyes flowed the old West Branch, exact
in every detail.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Nature, or God, or time, if you will, had erased our
arrogance.” “Thinking about it later, we reflected that the river had formed
the valley itself, and it had a million years to do so.” “Every bend and nuance
had been part of creation and the power of nature, our puny and misguided human
attempts at making it what we thought it should be only lasted a year or so.”
“The river had a reason, a design, a purpose to it that we never perceived.”
“In trying to improve upon a divine or natural perfection, we had built our
temple of Zion, only to watch it come tumbling down before the finger of God.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“The membership decided to keep the name ‘Zion’, but to
restore all the names of the beats or pools to their original names.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“That reminds me… After Isaac passed, the club voted not to
open his seat up to a new member.” “Members are here for life, and the club
always had totaled fifty.” “Now it consists of 49.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“ Now you know,” Charles finished with a grin.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Yes, now I know…” “It reminds me of the parable of
Prometheus in its varying versions…” “Man attempts to play God…”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He raised his glass in a toast. “Here is to Isaac!”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The last of the sweet wine was delicious. It was a bounty of
nature, and not an attempt to turn nature into a bounty, and a fitting last sip
in a little parable in a valley called ‘Zion Creek’…</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>Erik Helmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00727530868264488710noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918514418757933899.post-37723801458795292242021-01-26T17:31:00.002-06:002021-01-26T17:32:19.378-06:00The problem with modern trout flies… or 30 pieces of ‘flair’.<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTQK0XvOClsOQNhKSIHgV0kKcmOItHw1uCPUwUwFtTe5RK9YmIvU7AsqI5uh_0B8Y0SRH8Xoe0DZbHXnWLf_3B-ZMq6f8bcoG9hFoxvIbAIkQoVOsPvDhUss3h04jQCvc84RnO20SdU84/s2048/modern+dry+flies+001.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTQK0XvOClsOQNhKSIHgV0kKcmOItHw1uCPUwUwFtTe5RK9YmIvU7AsqI5uh_0B8Y0SRH8Xoe0DZbHXnWLf_3B-ZMq6f8bcoG9hFoxvIbAIkQoVOsPvDhUss3h04jQCvc84RnO20SdU84/w400-h300/modern+dry+flies+001.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two mayflies?</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After having presented a talk on fly fishing for
spring-creek trout to a gathering of anglers, one of the sports purloined me
afterwards to show me his fly-box. Upon opening it, fireworks seemed to
explode. Lined up neatly like a collection of miniature happy-meal toys were a
phalanx of kaleidoscopic colors and shapes. Rubber legs and foam sticking out
in all directions dominated the creations, and many were topped with wigs of
poly-yarn. There was not a single subtle natural-looking pattern to be found.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“This is my dry-fly box,” he proclaimed, “What do you
think?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I remarked that I thought they needed more ‘cow-bell’.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If these were trout flies, they seemed to be sporting
clown-suits topped by a sombrero.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What happened to the sparsely dressed flies that actually
resembled the insects that trout saw on a daily basis and ate: the flies of
Gordon and Flick et al? Why all these gaudy over-dressed cartoon-like
hallucinations?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Well, they are popular after all… and popularity owes
nothing to lasting legacy, function or form. Popularity is just that: popular
because popularity begets popularity. Monkey see and monkey do, if you will.
After all Milli-Vanilli was popular once, and… well… who?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For the last century of American dry-fly development,
anglers and fly-tiers concentrated on matching the prevalent bugs on the water
with sparsely dressed flies. These patterns relied on just a few materials to
allow the fly to ride on the surface of the water, often balanced on tail and
hackle: what the English referred to as ‘Well-cocked’. Fly-dressers knew
through experimentation that a sparse fly floated longer and allowed the trout
to see the profile and color properly. They trapped air better, and the materials
were less apt to soak up water as quickly as over-dressed patterns. We seem to
have forgotten that recently.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Many of today’s most popular trout patterns look like a
contest was held; the winner to be the tier who crammed the most crap on the
hook, and a bonus prize awarded if the resulting creation looked like something
Timothy Leary might have seen after licking a few too many, ahem, postage
stamps back in Haight-Ashbury. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Let’s start with the rubber legs. No pattern worthy of good
standing in a bin at a fly-shop can do without them. Shrug them aside and be
relegated to the also-rans in the discount bin. The problem is not only that
actual trout-stream insects don’t have rubber legs, but also that rubber legs
tend to sink the fly. Therefore…</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Foam… lots of foam. This is both ‘cool’, and helps
counteract the diving effect of the rubber legs. If one sheet of foam is good,
then multiple sheets are better, especially in wild colors. Top the foam with a
biggish plume of poly-yarn for visibility just in case legally blind friends
might miss your new creation on the water, and you have a nice big top-heavy
blob that flips on its side after landing, and resembles trout insects as much
as a McDonald’s hamburger.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Adding 30 pieces of flair helps too. Why fish a lowly
blue-winged olive consisting of a tail, a dubbed body, three turns of hackle
and a split duck wing, when you can fish one with krystal flash and doll eyes.
So much cooler that! Value enters the picture as well. If our bland olive
mayfly and the new krystal flash extravaganza tied in reverse on a jig hook and
sporting rubber-legs are both two-bucks… well, one is just getting so much more
for their money! Chotchkie’s was right: flair sells! Despite the fact that any
trout worthy of their name run from the restaurant screaming rather than eat
the damn food… er… flair.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I remember my father explaining to me once upon a time a’
browsing the lure section of a sporting goods store, that “Most lures are made
to lure fishermen, not fish”. I think the ‘lure’ of form over function he was
explaining might prove apt today. A good question might be asked: “How many
Willy Wonka flies does a trout have to eat to grow to a foot long?” The answer
being zero, for trout don’t eat Willy Wonka flies.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“They eat mine!” a true believer and rubber leg cult member
proclaims. Yes… but those fish might wish to apply for Darwin awards, and get
removed from the gene pool before they pass on bad habits. Seriously though, as
a trout guide I see anglers every week on the water throwing this month’s
popular millennial IPA fly and catching a few fish. However, their success is
masking their lack of success: they don’t know the fish they are missing by not
using sparse and realistic patterns that match the food in the stream. Yes,
these new flies sometimes have a tendency to lure Bullwinkle out of his cave to
investigate what the hell that thing is and take a swipe at it, but then
extrapolating a success to equate a box filled with only Chernobyl mutations is
a bit of a stretch. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Why this trend came to be in fly-fishing is a matter for
endless philosophical discussion, but it happened rather quickly. It took
roughly ten years for ‘Match the hatch’ to be replaced with ‘Attractors’. Funny
it never happened in a sport like duck hunting. To this day wielders of the
shotty-gun in the cold wastes of the duck blind still place decoys out in the
water that look like ducks to a duck. I have never observed anyone inflating a
parti-colored beach ball and setting it a sail on the pond in hopes that a duck
or three might be tempted to gather and socialize with it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If a duck did come down to the beach ball, I would shoot it
to remove it from the gene-pool, which might be the best solution for many of
today’s over-dressed gaudy monstrosities masquerading as trout flies.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>Erik Helmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00727530868264488710noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918514418757933899.post-7047019778677600352020-09-12T20:55:00.000-05:002020-09-12T20:55:27.371-05:00Blue-collar rods and guns<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1KNotXBewewzy_tCjbGIfgHlxXcWM23FKpqrB_tRbac8xXMds-4axzbeoHKhjrPgj2UWg6F8fKq2ZwX0fZtyBoggA0Kxmj542glAvb-KMuqpKa7j0RXRaX9kut5tXQ-J1dVjSMmplNLU/s2048/20190111_142001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="469" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1KNotXBewewzy_tCjbGIfgHlxXcWM23FKpqrB_tRbac8xXMds-4axzbeoHKhjrPgj2UWg6F8fKq2ZwX0fZtyBoggA0Kxmj542glAvb-KMuqpKa7j0RXRaX9kut5tXQ-J1dVjSMmplNLU/w625-h469/20190111_142001.jpg" width="625" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stevens 311 from the 1970s reborn<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><h1><br /></h1>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Copyright 2020 Erik Helm</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<h2>A concept of value…</h2>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">At a gun show last year I lingered at a table where a vendor
had on display and for sale a large collection of vintage hunting rifles and
shotguns, and also a nice selection of old split bamboo fly rods. As I fingered
the rods and a shotgun or two, mentally putting a monetary value to each item
often much below the asking price, I found myself in a familiar quandary; what
is value? Is it only measured in currency… or do sentiment, historic place, or
even cultural and social importance give something value?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As I unscrewed an old aluminum rod tube and found a well
used, and slightly bent three- piece Montague fly-rod with decayed varnish, I
could hear an echo of the inevitable response as to value given by those
experts and collectors who make it their business to let down the finder or
inheritor with the words: ‘Barrel rod,’ ‘Wall-hanger,’ or ‘Only sentimental
value.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">At face value, those clinically sober collectors are right.
These outdoor tools carry very little monetary value since they were
manufactured in the thousands. However, when it comes to a place in history or
even sentiment these rods and guns mark a place on the American timeline that
is much larger than just nostalgia; they accompanied multiple generations of
Americans on their hunting and fishing adventures. They got used, scratched,
dropped, bent, unbent, repaired with string, rusted, modified, covered with
blood, fell out of boats and trucks, and made the American outdoor experience
from roughly the 1920s through the 1980s what it was because they were durable
and affordable. I call that value.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I juxtapose this with those beautiful hand made masterpieces
in firearms and fly-rods that are avidly collected. The Garrison’s, Payne’s, or
Gillum’s of fly rods… the Purdey or Holland and Holland double guns that are
taken out from under their glass sarcophagus once a year to cast a fly or fire
a shot, and then carefully polished and returned to their conservatory. They
hold monetary value for sure as well as place in that they represent the very
pinnacle of perfection of the hand-craftsman’s art, but they never went trough
a briar patch or saw the bottom of a wet canoe…</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>American sporting
traditions were more raw than, for sake of comparison, British hunting and
fishing. Americans got muddy, scratched, and wet. They hunted through swamps
full of bugs and fished big brawling rivers. They were self-reliant. The folks
who used these blue-collar guns and rods never saw a groomed trout-stream or
shot from the butts on a driven hunt where the poorer townspeople banged the
pots and pans to move the birds for their ‘betters’. Their chosen tools had to
survive those swamps and wild forests.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<h1><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Back in the day… from Town to Country.<o:p></o:p></span></h1>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In the American heartland state of Wisconsin, specifically
the city of Milwaukee where I spent my childhood, there were factories
everywhere. Entire neighborhoods grew up around them. Streetcar and later bus
routes were laid down with the necessity of conveying workers back and forth.
Small businesses emerged crouched in the great shadows cast by the factories,
and one could discover in each factory neighborhood, perhaps sandwiched between
a tavern and a newsstand or tobacco shop, a full-service sporting goods store.
The nearest to our neighborhood was M&M Sporting Goods, which lay on a side
street in the wake of the massive AMC auto plant on Capitol drive. My father
took me there several times beginning when I was so young that I had to raise
myself on toes and knuckles to peer at the displays at eye level. They had
everything for the sportsman… as long as it didn’t insult a working man’s
pocketbook. The less expensive fiberglass and cane fly rods were in a barrel.
The guns were stacked behind the counter, and any common item such as
ammunition, worms, pocketknives, etc. were placed at waist height on display
tables in the center and near the door for convenience. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Come around Thursdays or Fridays a few minutes after the
shift-end whistle sounded at the factory, the place filled with eager faces
dreaming of the outdoors and a weekend getaway with the boys. The workers
surged forth like they were released from a prison to get their rods and guns
and supplies. Their tools of choice had common names: Stevens, Savage, Marlin,
Harrington and Richardson, Ivers Johnson, and lower end Winchesters or
Remingtons. On the fishing side were cane and glass rods by Garcia,
Shakespeare, Union Hardware, Montague, Horrocks and Ibbotson, and rods made by
companies like these for the trade market, (often with the retailer’s name on
them.) These guns and rods were made and assembled in factories by mirror
images of the workers who now bought them for the field and stream. They smoked
the same cigars, and drank the same beer.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A couple of hours later when the dust settled, and the
throngs of hunters and fishermen were well on their way to the woods and
waters, the proprietors of the sporting goods store would begin the cleanup
process. I expect over 80% of business was transacted in those several hours
near the weekend. The rest of the week was just preparation.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In the malaise of the 1980s when the factories shuttered and
rusted, the nearby sporting goods stores shared the same fate. Packards and
Buicks no longer carried their cargo of outdoor enthusiasts northward for the
weekend. My father pointed the vacant stores out like so many ghosts as we
drove through Milwaukee’s industrial corridors. Empty storefronts staring
blankly now with their signs and names fading: Viking, Flintrop, Spheeris,
Casanova, Burghardt, and M&M. Pieces of America, and our sporting history
where dreams were gently simmered and made.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Rural America was more durable in that respect, for the same
sporting goods stores greeted us as we drove the family wagon up north in search
of adventure and rest throughout the 1970s and 80s. They had been there for
generations, and many are still there today, in the same spot, run by the
founder’s grandkids, and selling the same goods to the sons and grandsons of
their very first customers. Rural Americans still shared their hunting and
fishing traditions with their sons and daughters, and still do today.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mom was born in a
small town in central Wisconsin with a population of less than two thousand.
When we visited, Dad and I and the men and boys sometimes found ourselves
rather in the way when a flurry of bread baking and cleaning was undertaken. We
did what generations of temporarily outcast members of the male sex did: we
went to the local hardware-general-sporting goods store. A role often fulfilled
by a single establishment in any small town in rural America. One thing was
similar to the working class stores in the city: the goods that were sold had
to offer both a high value for dollar spent, but also good functionality and
above all durability.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A workingman or farmer only had enough disposable income to
afford or justify a few well-chosen tools for the outdoors. These had to
perform multiple duties…</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Ever wonder why many of the old bamboo fly rods are a wee
bit crooked? They didn’t start off that way. It may have happened through poor
care and storage, but often it happened doing dual duty. Old Elmer, the farmer
who also worked at the grain store part time had one fishing rod. It had a
little stamped tin reel with a button that controlled the drag selection. The
button had two settings: on and off. The rod could be used to cast a fly or
chuck a worm or minnow, or with the reel drag turned off, it could be used to
troll in a rowboat or canoe. It wasn’t a trout rod, it was a ‘Fishing pole.’
The bend in it might have come when old Elmer was trolling a chub and hooked a
Musky that featured in a tale that grew taller each time it was told over a
beer at the local tavern. The rod caught panfish that helped feed the family,
cast plugs to bass, and placed a McGinty fly deep into a dark hole on the
tannic river where the big trout lived.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When Elmer got back to his battered pickup, he placed the
rod in the back next to the shotgun that always resided there. That gun was
most likely a rusty pump or a side-by-side double. They defined the term
“Twenty dollar gun.” They had a couple of features in common…</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Any gun sold to a working class stiff or a farmer had better
work, and work well and as hard as he did. It better hit what it is aimed at.
If it didn’t, the new owners would be likely to show up back in the store where
they purchased it wearing a frown and a dangerous look in the eye. Ornament and
fancy hand-work had to take a back seat to durability as well. The duty list of
the average blue-collar American shotgun might include in a given season:
hunting grouse and duck, warning off the neighbor’s dog, shooting coyotes and
foxes raiding the hens, eliminating feral cats, providing meat for the table,
training the young’un in gun safety and responsibility, accompanying a farmer
on his tractor, or even providing self-defense for his family. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For many Americans, the thanksgiving turkey did not come
from the supermarket, it came from the woods, and that fish fry originated in a
warm Saturday spent on a lake in a rowboat. Game was earned, not bought. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The theme of useful frugality is woven into this history
because it was necessary. It also became part of our native culture and psyche.
</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My parents generation and all the uncles, grandparents and
family relations and acquaintances had not come through America’s Great
Depression unscathed or unmarked. The fear that someday everything you worked
hard for might disappear, and that every household possession from the sewing
machine to the shotgun and fishing rod had better be taken care of and valued
was very real. Families rarely owned anything that did not see regular use,
even the good china for Sunday dinner.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This frugality became a matter of pride: a sort of
workingman’s ethos. Dignity was found in dirty fingernails and sweat. The
memories of the Depression infected or affected the sons and daughters of
Hoover and Roosevelt. Nothing was thrown away, and tin band-aid containers in
the bathroom medicine cabinet or the kitchen contained rusty nuts and bolts,
buttons, bread twist-ties, and collections of safety pins squirreled away, and
only found when their grandsons and daughters dissolved their homesteads. They
also found these old rifles, shotguns, and fishing rods, even after the
tradition died; they had no clue of their family value, or how to use them
anymore.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This is why, even if our farmer or factory man had a
windfall miracle and could purchase the finest guns and rods available, or even
knew there were higher-end choices than the local store offered, they still
would shy away. For one thing, it would offend their sensibilities. It also
might cause Grandma to break said high-end firearm or fly-rod over Grandpa’s
head. The main reason would be that they would not wish to put on airs or get
snubbed by the boys hanging out at the cracker barrel. “Who does he think he
is?” Keeping up appearances is as necessary in the field as it is in the
parlor.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<h2>Pride of Ownership</h2>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Yes, durability is one reason that these pieces of American
sporting history can be enjoyed today handed down through the family or found
as bargains at second-hand stores, but the stronger reason is that they were
cherished.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Back at the gun show, I fondled an old Sears single-shot 12
gauge. Talk about no frills. This thing had a black painted finish to the
receiver, a simple barrel, and a stock made from some awful wood. The barrel
was polished like a mirror. Despite being 70 or 80 years old, it had no rust
anywhere. It also had several repairs carefully done. Not by a gunsmith mind
you, but by the owner or owners who repaired a split forearm with wooden pegs
and glue so that you almost couldn’t see the repair, and who had also fashioned
a new butt-plate out of leather. This gun was loved and cared for. Along with a
fishing rod, it may have supplied food for the table when it might otherwise be
unaffordable or unavailable. The labor of the factory worker built these, and
they came back to serve the laborer and farmer. Born of sweat-equity, their
usefulness outlived their users because they were so very important to
subsistence, recreation, and dreams.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<h2>Marks of honor </h2>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Some of the shotguns that I caressed that day at the gun
show were full of scratches, dents, spots of rust, and dings. Those were the
marks of memories made in the outdoors, memories etched forever in the tool
that got well used. The fly-rods had cork handles full of dirt with the finger
and hand imprints of the owner who dared to dream of hunting and fishing before
somewhere in the 1980s Dads got too busy or just forgot to pass on to their
sons the traditions so dear to generations of men and boys.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So now, several generations removed, the grandchildren,
digging in the attic or basement, find Grandpa’s old rusty Stevens 311 shotgun,
or his crooked Montague fly-rod, and seeking it’s value, are told it is nearly
worthless.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A beg to disagree. They are testament to a place in time in
America that defined our thrift, our sense of adventure, our manufacturing
ingenuity, and our freedom.</p>
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<p class="MsoNormal">They contain memories more precious than gold.</p>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>Erik Helmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00727530868264488710noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918514418757933899.post-52736778560702797852020-04-28T16:53:00.000-05:002020-04-28T20:09:06.666-05:00Matching the hatch on the River Styx<br />
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Is Matching the hatch dead?<br />
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Coffee and Internet forums often lead to pondering, and so, this morning I pondered a response to one reader who mused, “Does anyone still fish a Blue-Wing Olive and match the hatch? Like, why would you want to do that? So lame…”<br />
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It was a bit of a jaw-dropper and a slap… like drawing a mustache on the Mona Lisa.<br />
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In the history and lore of the sport of fly-fishing for trout, nothing is woven through the fabric defining the shape of this wonderful pastime more than the insects and their imitations of fur, feather and dainty hook used to fool the fish.<br />
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From the early records in Macedonia, to the written descriptions of flies in the Middle Ages by Benedictine Prioress Berners, through Schweibert, Flick, the color plates in Bergman, and on to Swisher and Richards, an integral part of the game was figuring out what the trout wanted to eat and when, what the bugs looked like, and tying and fishing imitations of those specific bugs. It was and should remain as big a part of the trip to the stream as the rod, reel, and line.<br />
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It also was a part of the sport that dripped of art and refinement. Matching the hatch took time and observation and brought us closer to nature. Those that expanded the myopic view of bugs to the greater world of seasons, weather, and the natural world found patterns, reflections and ties to Solunar tables, and cycles of blooming wildflowers. When the trout-lilies first opened their white bonnet of delicate petals, it was time to look for the black caddis hatch, and the arrival of red-wing blackbirds might point to early stoneflies.<br />
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Peering under rocks to find both mayfly larvae, and possibly the deeper meanings of life is recorded in the writings and musings of great authors whose tongues dripped the honey on bound pages that we have savored for a century or more.<br />
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So, what happened out there on the river in recent years while I, and many others were watching the clouds and listening to the water-music?<br />
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I have a 1998 Orvis catalog in front of me with battered pages. In the fly section are all the names we have become familiar with: March Brown, Hendrickson, Blue-wing Olive, Pale Morning Dun, Pheasant-Tail Nymph, Sulpher, Stimulator, etc. Even the ‘New’ flies for that year bearing the names of their creators had the type of insect they represented in their nomenclature.<br />
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Fast-forward to a catalog from 2020, and we see oddly names flies with gaudy colors that look like an acid-trip at the vise. These new ‘Attractor’ flies are now all the rage. They are the cool new IPA of the moment. They bear names conjured up after a few too many IPAs as well: Dirty Hippy, Hippy Stomper, Fat Bastard, Cow Dung, Shag Nasty…<br />
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How can the lowly Blue-Wing Olive compete with this? It has no pink rubber legs, no cool name, and no tactical jig hook. It isn’t even made of foam. Dude, only ‘Boomers’ would use that! So, at the fly-shop poor little Blue-Wing Oliver is an orphan again, sitting in the bin with the other foundlings and cast-offs: a whole orphanage of forgotten flies. Dickens would be proud. We can almost hear them singing for a bit of water-time… or gruel. Unloved, these classic flies imitating the insects of our trout streams have been eclipsed by the new hipsters on the block.<br />
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“But what about innovation?” I can hear the question already… One angler once told me that “Today we have better flies.” I replied that, instead, we have ‘New’ flies, but that something was missing as well: the art and beauty of simplicity.<br />
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As time passes, what we all took for granted as iconic of an era, of a genre, of part of us and our identities becomes overshadowed and eclipsed by something ‘New’. Innovation is a good thing. If not for innovation, we would be fishing with solid wood rods, canvas and rubber waders, horsehair lines, and using only wet-flies. However, when icons of a sport such as the classic flies of trout-streams that match the hatching insect are nearly entirely replaced by modern attractor flies, something is missing. A huge hole in the soul of the sport has opened.<br />
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Several weeks ago, I fished my home waters here in the Driftless area of Wisconsin. I was on a section of a river I know intimately. I was faced with failure, and it was a glorious experience. “What?” the reader might ask; “How is failure glorious?”<br />
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The answer is that I learned something, and nothing feeds and incites learning like getting your proverbial butt handed to you.<br />
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Fish were rising and taking on the surface everywhere. It was windy, and I couldn’t see any insects. Whatever the bugs were, they were small. I guessed and tied on a midge. I even had several midges land on my hand, so I felt affirmed. Every trout in the riffle and pool either ignored my fly, or gave an ‘Interested but not having any’ refusal look. I stubbornly kept on casting and trying, and having no luck, moved on the next bend above. No dice here either, so I switched the fly to a smaller midge with a lower profile and more pronounced black body. After a half an hour, and nothing to show, a single fat brown trout ate the midge, ran toward his bank-side abode, and the hook popped out. Fish: 34…. Angler: 0<br />
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See, but now I had the fly that worked… even if it were only once. Thus, I kept up appearances and doggedly soldiered on, failing all the way up the river, and never touching another fish.<br />
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Time to do a little snooping.<br />
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I spent several minutes looking about the rocks on shore for a clue. Up to this point, I had been as hapless as Inspector Clouseau. I finally turned over a large piece of bark to find the bottom crawling with tiny black stoneflies. I had never encountered this specific insect before on the stream I was fishing. Then I sat on the bank and pondered the situation. It was sunny and windy. The early black stoneflies I was seeing were not laying eggs, they were mating on the bank, so they were not fluttering and diving on the surface of the water. Instead, they were at the crawling stage. The fish were picking them off in the surface film as they made their way to the side of the river. No wonder I couldn’t see anything.<br />
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My midge had a black body of the correct shape and size, but it had a white wing. The stoneflies were solidly cloaked in gray and black. The trout wanted caviar, and I was offering them Oreo cookies.<br />
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I dug in my copious fly boxes and found some flies I had tied years before to imitate the even smaller black stoneflies of winter often observed crawling on the snow. One of them was a bit large, tied on a size 20 hook. I tied it on, and on the first cast and presentation, the biggest boy in the pool confidently rose and ate my fly. The rest of the day will be one of memories and dream images.<br />
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This experience is special because of how challenging it was, and because of the spectacular failure, regrouping and study, the eventual clue, having the right fly tied in hand, and the final joy of success.<br />
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Or, I could have tied on a purple size 12 upside down bath salt special with spotted yellow reggae legs and just remained clueless. Heck, I might have even caught a fish or three! Trout can sometimes be that dumb. After all, they have no hands to investigate anything, just eyes and a mouth, and the new flies are better! Sometimes they actually are…<br />
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Until they aren’t.<br />
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I was guiding a client a couple of years ago, and he wanted to use his own flies. Despite my advice, he tied on a red foam thing with blue rubber legs. He proceeded to catch three tiny brook trout. These poor skinny little fish would have hit anything. Finally, I clipped off his fly, and told him to trust me, even if he didn’t believe me about the micro caddis flies that hatched early that morning and were crawling on the bank side vegetation. Suffice it to say that he was a happy angler at the end of the day.<br />
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Sometimes nature herself can be cool too in a subtle way without the gaudy pink rubber legs or goofy names. There are things that are happening all around us that we cannot perceive if we are not listening or curious, and are instead using the fly and the fish as props in a stunt. The bugs and the fish may be more important than we are on the river.<br />
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In the end, those of us that are snickered at for being ‘Old-School’, actually have an advantage. If we have an open mind, and admit that the new attractor flies have a place in our box along-side those somber and boring bits of fur and feather, we can adapt to everything. That is innovation without the eclipse. Then, when the trout are drunk enough to hit on that foam blonde at the bar that their friends tell them not to, we can be prepared!<br />
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Instead of the angler I recently encountered who only uses one fly for trout all year. He calls it the ‘Dead Lawyer’.<br />
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Which leads me to speculate out loud…<br />
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When we grow old and tired and gray, and pass from this world; when we pay the ferryman Charon to take us to the other side of the River Styx, will we be the last generation to grace those hallowed and fateful waters with a simple Blue-Wing Olive?<br />
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<br />Erik Helmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00727530868264488710noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918514418757933899.post-3542893614419200662020-03-02T15:39:00.000-06:002020-03-02T17:21:40.809-06:00De-cluttering Fly-fishing and the Tenkara factor<br />
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I was poking about in a fly shop the other day when I
overheard an interesting and thought-provoking conversation. An angler had
arrived for the weekend and was going to hit the local spring creeks for trout.
He mentioned that he was going to fly-fish that Friday afternoon and evening,
but that for the rest of the weekend, he was going to fish Tenkara style,
because as he put it, it was “So much more fun and simpler than traditional fly
fishing.”</div>
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For those that are not familiar with Tenkara, it is a
Japanese style of fishing using a fixed line and a telescoping rod averaging
around 10-14 feet in length without a reel of any kind. First developed for
Japan’s mountainous and high-gradient streams, it jumped the Pacific and has
been adopted in America with an often-evangelical fervor.</div>
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My line of questioning (to myself) was why would Tenkara
seem so much more essential than fly-fishing? After all, fly-fishing has always
prided itself on its inherent simplicity and connection to nature and water.
Just a rod, reel, line, leader and a fly… Was it really simply the reel that
set the two-styles apart… or was there more to it? An angler with a fly-rod can
do anything a Tenkara angler can do, but isn’t limited to casting range by the
fixed line. The two systems have more in common than not, just being two
similar means to deliver a hook tied with fur and feather to a fool a fish. So
why the preference? </div>
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The angler answered the question himself shortly as he
purchased a bunch of depleted uranium ‘jig fly’ nymphs, and a package of
plastic bobbers for his afternoon and evening of ‘Traditional fly-fishing’.</div>
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Well, there it was. The answer was right in front of me.</div>
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By rigging that heavy fly and a bulky ‘bobber’ strike-indicator
on his leader, he had inadvertently destroyed the rhythm and grace of casting a
fly rod. Instead of the beautiful loops of line arcing out over the water like
a ballet to delicately present a fly, he had turned his fly- fishing outfit
into a ‘flop and lob’ rig; effective to be sure, but not graceful. Was that
simplicity and grace, that Zen essence of purity missing from his fly-fishing
driving his enjoyment and preference of Tenkara? I think it might.</div>
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For many hundreds of years, fly-fishing was concerned with
casting an un-weighted or lightly weighted fly on the end of a delicate leader.
Weight consisted of a few wraps of copper wire or later lead wire on a nymph.
That was all the angler needed to get down to the level of the trout. The late
Lee Wulff may have put it best when he quipped, “Trout deserve the sanctuary of
deep water.” </div>
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Time and innovation marches on, and the desire to make the
fly-rod do what bait-casters and spinning rods would allow led to changes
which would revolutionize the sport. No longer would high-gradient
bottom-dwelling trout be safe from the fly-angler. Enter heavily weighted
nymphs and the increasingly large, wind-resistant ‘bobbers’ necessary to
suspend them at depth. This changed casting as well. High-stick nymphing and the
‘flop and lob’ cast were seen more and more on the streams of the world. Many
anglers today know no other way to cast or deliver a fly. They are wedded to
the heavily weighted bead-head nymph and the bobber.</div>
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So why is this bad? Well, no other form defines fly-fishing
more than the art of casting. It is simple, and beautiful to watch and perform.
By placing that much weight on the end of the line, and using ‘bobber’ style
indicators, the entire dynamic is thrown off. The problem occurs with an
interruption of the smooth flow of the unfurling fly-line by hinges and
shock-points caused by the clutter attached to the leader. We are making our
fly-rod do things that it never was intended to do: thus the lack of grace and
the chucking, chunking and lobbing. We cluttered it up. We tried to turn a
ballet into a break-dance and ended up with a tangled tango. Then a new thing
comes along offering exactly what we had before we adulterated the dance, and
we waltz with the Tenkara rod…. back to that ‘Zen’ essence that we miss through
our own clutter. How ironic…</div>
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Now I don’t have anything against Tenkara. I think it is a
fun and simple way to fish. However, I think it may be time to re-examine and
de-clutter our fly-fishing if Tenkara is now offering us something which we
already had before we goofed it up.</div>
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Which leads us to the new fad sweeping the world, the
Japanese-inspired ‘Minimalist’ movement of de-cluttering and its popular guru
Marie Kondo.</div>
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‘Minimalism’ is the concept of removing all the things
distracting and non-essential in our lives and possessions to effectively
create a modern version of the simplicity of a Japanese room. (Think tatami
mat, futon, and a simple table.) Taken to extremes, as everything is these
days, it often sees the eager acolyte throwing away all their books and
mementos, and leaves them in an empty room seated on an austere wooden
Scandinavian design chair in their underwear staring at a blank wall… but I
digress. Camus would be proud.</div>
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Minimalizing or de-cluttering our fly-fishing might mean
questioning things: “Do I really need everything I carry with me?” “Is all this
junk attached to my leader really necessary?” “Do I actually use the dozens of
gadgets stuffed into every nook and cranny in my pack or vest?” or even “Is
this actually fly-fishing?”</div>
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Or is it all about the numbers of fish caught…?</div>
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Of course, I am not recommending that fly-anglers go down to
the river and make their own fly-rod from a willow branch and weave their line
from horse-hair, that might be way too Marie Kondo. However, the more
junk-in-the-trunk we eliminate and the more clutter we remove from our line and
leader, the more we might get back to the simplicity and grace, the beauty and
finesse that led us to take up fly-fishing in the first place. It doesn’t mean
we need to give up nymphing… ( I already hear the grumbling). Instead it might
just mean toning it down a bit… replacing that bobber with a piece of yarn,
using lightly weighted flies, and learning or re-learning to cast.</div>
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That might be a very good thing in the long run… especially
if it cuts down on those impromptu emergency room trips where your buddy hits
himself in the back of the head with his three-fly depleted uranium jig-fly
setup and the bobber hangs down off his ear… Sure cuts into the fishing time.</div>
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Tenkara anyone? ;)</div>
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<br />Erik Helmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00727530868264488710noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918514418757933899.post-89530225675266723292020-02-10T14:17:00.000-06:002020-02-10T14:17:46.038-06:00The Stuff of Confusion<br />
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Copyright 2020 Erik Helm</div>
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The other day I was reading an article in a fly-fishing
magazine that was proclaiming how much easier it was to get started in the
sport today than it was in the past. The argument as stated could be paraphrased
as: ‘Today we have better and more availability of gear choices, and
information is easier to come by.’</div>
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I found myself laughing a bit at this, for truth be told, a
case can be made that it is both easier and yet more difficult to begin in this
fine sport due to exactly the same reasons stated. Follow me as I explore this
a bit… </div>
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<b>Stuff:<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Back when I took up the sport there were admittedly less
gear choices available…. a lot less choices. In some ways, this worked in our
favor, since we had fewer decisions to make, and spent more time fishing. I
asked a number of the finest anglers I know about their path into the sport,
and the answers all shared common themes. We went to a fly-shop to purchase a
setup, were gifted basic equipment, or assembled the necessary gear ad-hoc
after much research. Since we were beginners, and there were fewer choices
available, we were less confused about our gear. We simply had what we had. One
of us had a double taper line and a Shakespeare Wonder Rod, another of us had a
new graphite rod and a weight-forward line and we all thought he was the king
of the river. Then we went fishing.</div>
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My initial setup was an eight-weight rod that I purchased as
a blank and hand-built into a finished rod. I still have it. That rod served me
for steelhead and bass in my local river for three years before I purchased a
five-weight for smaller quarry. For those initial three years, it was my only
rod. A lack of financial means when on one’s own after college did lead to a
rather necessary frugal approach, but I never felt lacking. Instead, I went
fishing… sometimes up to five times a week. The other stories were the same.
One friend had his mother sew pockets onto his old hunting vest, turning it
into a fishing vest. Another friend used an old candy tin as his first fly-box,
and still has it somewhere.</div>
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Not to seem like one of those dour “Back in my day” types,
but the reality of it was that the choices we had were easier to make because
the market was smaller, and more simplified.</div>
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For example:</div>
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To carry our gear into the river we had a choice between an
assortment of vests or possibly a canvas stream bag. Today we have chest packs,
myriad sling packs, fanny packs, hip packs, backpacks, packs that transform and
convert, packs that attach to other packs to form modular ‘Tactical gear
storage solutions,’ and everything in between. I saw an angler recently on our
local spring creeks who was so top-heavy and over-loaded with packs and storage
solutions that he was having trouble walking on the bank. The variety of
choices is an improvement, but not if it hampers our actual fishing.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For fly rods back in the day, we had several large
manufacturers out there like Orvis, Fenwick, Garcia, and the first Sage rods as
well. Here we had what we thought were a myriad amount of choices; more than
enough for our needs depending on our budget. They were easy to understand as
well. Marketing was less sophisticated, and seemingly tried to simplify the
process of selection instead of confuse us. Today we have dozens of major
manufacturers marketing rods with odd but trendy names. Some rod companies
claim they make and sell over 150 different rods, each for some ethereal but
very narrow purpose. Given their similarity to each other, the beginner can
hardly tell the difference. Add in online companies not represented in
reputable fly-shops who mass-market rods made in China at cut-rate prices, and
it becomes apparent that any on-line forum with a classified section has a
massive amount of gear for sale with the description “Cast twice,” or “Fished
once.” </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Confusion leads to an unending cycle of buying and selling
in the quest for an illusory magic bean. Less time is spent fishing, and more
time spent on gear acquisitions and unending debate and questions. Arguing with
fellow anglers about which sling-pack is cooler or better may have replaced the
time we used to spend absorbing the lore of the sport through literature or by
getting our proverbial feet wet.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The ultimate complication and confusion poster-child may be
fly-line.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the past we did have choices between a number of brands
and categories: double-taper, weight-forward, floating, full-sinking, sink tip
and specialty lines such as saltwater, bass, and shooting heads. That would
make up around 90% of lines available at the time. A new line needed to
purchased when the old one wore out, or when a new type of fish or fishing
necessitated a different line. The labels were rather easy to read and
differentiate as well. For example, Cortland had a package labeled ‘444 Fly-Rod
Line: WF Floating.’ It doesn’t get much simpler that that. Garcia had their
Kingfisher line, and Orvis sold their own ‘Flyline.’ What was lacking then
versus today is the hyped-up marketing which has turned the entire fly-line
industry into a specialized marketing engine designed to get one to not only
purchase the ‘New’ thing because it is better than the ‘Old’ thing from the
same manufacturer that you bought last year and fished with once, but to get
the average angler to have a fly line for every river, day of the week, or
lunar cycle. No wonder new and even experienced anglers are confused.</div>
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A quick browse through catalogues and websites shows us both
the diversity and the confusing over-abundance of lines marketed today.</div>
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Here are just a few random examples:</div>
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<br /></div>
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‘Hi-Performance Fly-line’ (vs. what… like Low performance
fly-line?)</div>
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<br /></div>
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‘Pro’ fly-line (Apparently for professionals… not amateurs,
which explains its $98 price.)</div>
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<br /></div>
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‘Frequency’ fly-line (Does it vibrate differently by
weight?)</div>
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<br /></div>
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‘In-Touch’ (vs. what… out-of touch?)</div>
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‘Nymph Taper’ (Because we need a different fly-line every
time we switch from a dry-fly to a nymph, even though thousands of us have been
using a standard taper WF floating line for both applications for years…)</div>
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<br /></div>
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‘Euro Nymph’ (Take your choice: either a line allowing
competition angling with multiple nymph rigs, or a ‘Sprockets’ like line that
comes with electronic techno-pop music and allows the user to wear skinny black
turtleneck shirts while fishing…)</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘MaxCatch’ (Now I understand why I never catch my limit
every day… I guess I was using a MinCatch line all these years…)</div>
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<br /></div>
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‘Fairplay’ (I just want to find an ‘Unfair Play’ line… That
sounds so much better to me…)</div>
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<br /></div>
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‘Clearwater’ (Apparently only to be used when no rain or
runoff starts to dirty the water…)</div>
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<br /></div>
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‘Precise Finesse’ (A must-buy for those of us currently
using an ‘Imprecise Clod-Hopper’ line…)</div>
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<br /></div>
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‘Creek’ fly-line (What about a river… or a brook… If we call
it a ‘Crik’ do we need a different line or a jar of moonshine?)</div>
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<br /></div>
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‘World Class’ ( Perhaps not the best for anglers traveling
to 3<sup>rd</sup> world nations for fishing adventure…)</div>
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<br /></div>
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‘Cheeky’ line (Reminds me of a quip I uttered at an
attractive blonde back in college that earned me a kick in the shins…)</div>
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<br /></div>
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‘Technical Trout’ (Apparently all this time I have been
fishing to ‘Non-technical’ trout…explains a lot.)</div>
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<br /></div>
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‘Amplitude’ (Must be similar to ‘Frequency’, but this one
vibrates at the maximum frequency… wonder if it can be programmed to play
distortion guitar?)</div>
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<br /></div>
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The reader gets the point… so enough already.</div>
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<br /></div>
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All humor aside, tapers do matter in a fly-line, and one
does need different lines for different applications, but this has gotten
downright silly.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Worst of all are shooting heads, especially those designed
for Skagit-style casting and involving separate heads and running lines. When
this started out, we had a choice of two or three brands of heads and running
lines to match together. Within several years of the industry seeing the
benefit of floating and sinking heads and running-lines sold separately,
everything exploded. The most common question on online forums (see next
section on information) was “Which running line should I pair with a given
head?”</div>
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I know anglers today that actually carry with them on the
river something like twenty different head and running line combinations. They
must spend the entire fishing day farting around with their lines…</div>
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<br /></div>
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So what do I have against innovation and choices? Nothing. <u>I
just miss the clarity and simplicity that fly-fishing is supposed to be.</u></div>
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It also insults my intelligence… Since I spent fifteen years
inside the industry at independent fly-shops as well as corporate giants, I can
tell you a little secret… Ready for it?</div>
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<br /></div>
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The confusion is deliberate.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Marketing performs its job when it makes us want things, or
desire to replace things we already own with a ‘newer’ or ‘better’ model. It
does this by appealing to both our baser instincts, as well as to our desire to
‘Keep up to date.’ ‘New’ equals good, and anything you have that is old (ie:
not current) is bad, or outdated… and how many of us want to be accused of
being outdated?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, this only goes so far. By saturation-bombing our
different choices and making things unduly complicated, (you need a specialty
rod to fish for Small-mouth Bass, not the standard 9 foot 6,7, or 8 wt., or if
you are casting streamers from a boat then you need a rod specific to the
purpose with a proprietary fly line to match and a separate running line and
special nano-friction backing,) the industry maximizes its dollars per angler,
and in a limited market, that is a desirable outcome for the corporations.
Never-mind that one in five anglers will give up fly-fishing because it finally
seems to get so complicated, an outcome the article cited at the outset claimed
was the opposite.</div>
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In some ways, it benefits some of us older and wiser coots.
We no longer need to pay full-price anymore or buy anything new since the
biggest market for fly tackle in all of history sits before us in the guise of
things purchased and now for sale second-hand with little use at all…</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I just feel sorry for many of the new anglers that never had
the chance to see what the world of fly-fishing was like when we had a chance
to go to the river without so much confusing stuff.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>Information overload:<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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The second part of the claim is that there is more
information available today. That is something that I don’t think any angler
would argue with.</div>
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<br /></div>
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However, it is the source, and medium of the information
that can cause problems and resulting chaos and confusion.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Many of us took up the sport in the P.I. epoch…
(Pre-Internet)</div>
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Because we actually read books and magazine articles that
were written by experts and professionals, we were steered in straighter
pathways than today. Read a copy of Bergman’s Trout, Schwiebert, Atherton, or
other authors that explained the nuances and broke down the mysteries and
necromancy of fishing with a fly in chapters rich with information and expert
advice, and one was primed with knowledge before questions arose. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Then the internet came along, and to our happy surprise, we
discovered like-minded anglers of all experience levels sharing information on
various websites and online forums. The world opened and good solid information
flowed back and forth over the modems of the pescadors. Bytes were exchanged
for more bites. I was there as one of the first users of the new technology and
access to the libraries of wisdom out there…</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Everything changed within ten years. I stopped even
accessing the forums I used to avidly participate in because as time passed,
and new anglers came online, the same questions badly framed and poorly asked
again and again overwhelmed and eclipsed the solid information shared and
traded.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What’s the best five weight rod?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What grain head should I use when the water flow increases
by 3 feet per second and my fly-rod is green in color?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Which sling-pack is the coolest?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was a sign of the times… Then came social media, and the
whole world of information overload and confusion reached critical-mass and
detonated leaving mere fragments of typing left to fall like a fog over the
unread books.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I joined a few social media forums in the past year to see
how the questions were asked and answered: it caused laughter and cynicism in
the same moment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Many of the answers were contradictory or self-serving. Even
thoughtful responses to questions or inquiries only lasted a day or so, and
then someone asked the same question again, getting a different answer.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Then the inherent problem occurred to me.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not only were the internet and social media venues not
durable as far as a source of information such as a book, it was that by
attempting to crowd-source the answers that the questioner ran afoul.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The person answering the query could be a knowledgeable
angler with vast experiences, an open mind, and with good critical-thinking
skills… or it could be some dude who caught a fish and now thinks he is a
guide. The answers could come from independent sources unbiased as to brand, or
from somebody with a brand entanglement such as the ubiquitous ‘Brand
Ambassadors,’ or ‘Pro-Staff.’ Believe it or not, some companies actually pay
people to provide gear advice on social media forums. It goes without saying
that the answers are not unbiased, and the employing company’s brand is
recommended each and every time. The worst thing is that the beginner, without
a foundation of knowledge, can’t tell a good answer from a bad, inaccurate, or
misleading one.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do an experiment. Join a social media forum on fly-fishing
and ask a ‘newby’ type question. Save the good, the bad, and the ugly answers
you get. Now wait a week and ask the same question again, perhaps in a
different way. Note the answers, and compare them with one another.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I bet my oldest and stinkiest fishing hat that you will
shake your head.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That is what new anglers are facing if they don’t get their
gear from a reliable flyshop after asking appropriate questions and doing a bit
of homework, and staying away from the noise of confusion. If not, they might
become one of the competitors in a fly-fishing team competition recently held.
Two of the anglers spent twenty minutes arguing about whose fly-rod was better.
Then one broke his rod while the other one dropped his tactical modular gear
storage system into the river.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My advice to the thousands of anglers I have taught to cast
and fish a fly has always been this:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Simplicity.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Go to a flyshop. Get a matching rod, line and reel, a few
leaders and a box of flies and go fishing for God’s sake. Put in your time.
Stay off the internet and don’t look at any ads. Less information in the
short-term will benefit you in the long run. Learn to walk first in your diaper
stage before you get all tangled up in the underwear of too much confusion and
stuff, and end up placing your new outfit into the closet along with all the
other abandoned dreams…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />Erik Helmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00727530868264488710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918514418757933899.post-53006154536948734482020-01-25T15:56:00.000-06:002020-01-25T18:25:57.993-06:00Some Pheasants<br />
<h1>
</h1>
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Copyright 2020 Erik Helm</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir7mKuSQxXGkitNyEfQg-SM2uvMduAK0P1ZsayV8zvh7LG7YJIhEXFdtPwvtsTeLaDYNomi1eN8OK1EEoNSZ1Y2AJF3OqVMCFDwuREqQpLhBLZZBdnTigsiA_4zGnMo06zkl9wffpr2AY/s1600/20190111_142001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir7mKuSQxXGkitNyEfQg-SM2uvMduAK0P1ZsayV8zvh7LG7YJIhEXFdtPwvtsTeLaDYNomi1eN8OK1EEoNSZ1Y2AJF3OqVMCFDwuREqQpLhBLZZBdnTigsiA_4zGnMo06zkl9wffpr2AY/s400/20190111_142001.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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John Phillipson motioned to the waiter at the Fox and Hounds
to pour the wine first for his guest. He had chosen the vintage carefully to
accompany the lunch he was giving for his young employee Ed, who had been a key
team member in the successful conclusion of a major project for his firm. Ed
was a software engineer of rare talent. Slim and dark haired with thick
glasses, Ed was someone one would pass on the street and not remember seeing,
even if the street were otherwise empty. He had worked long hours for the past
six months and even took work home with him to his small bachelor’s house. John
thought perhaps Ed had worked a bit too hard at times. He needed to get out in
the sun more, thus the lunch at his favorite restaurant, and further
invitations to participate in activities that would take Ed away from his
screen and keyboard.</div>
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What made John rather unique, he thought to himself, was
that he got to know each and every one of his 92 employees on a personal level.
Like a good general, he reasoned, a good manager and CEO should know his assets
and how best to keep them active, happy, and even more… know what drove them in
life. That last question was one that eluded him with Ed. He couldn’t believe
that Ed’s work was his only reward or joy.</div>
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“What should I order?” asked Ed, who habitually had a brown
bag lunch of a sandwich and a piece of fruit at his desk while he worked.</div>
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“I recommend the pheasant’” Phillipson replied. “I have it
every time it is on offering, and it is very fresh and well prepared. They
serve it with asparagus, wild rice, and a nice herb white-sauce.”</div>
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It was agreed, and John toasted Ed’s health, and after the
wine was sampled, began to inquire about any hobbies that his valued employee
might engage in. After some sundry talk about toy trains and stamps, John asked
Ed if he had ever hunted pheasants.</div>
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“No, but I do love pheasants,” Ed exclaimed with some
passion as the plates arrived with the delicately presented breasts of that
most desirable of birds steaming and framed like a work of art with the rice
and vegetables.</div>
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<br /></div>
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After the feast was consumed, and the coffee was served,
John brought up the subject again. </div>
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<br /></div>
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“I would like to invite you to my home for a little pheasant
hunt if you are willing… I have over 60 acres of scrub fields bordered by thin
wooded copses that are full of pheasants. A couple of years ago my accountant
suggested the idea of reducing our taxes by raising game on our land, so we
stocked 25 pheasants and bought several chickens and even a pet goat. The
chickens lay a few fresh eggs, and the goat… well, the goat just is a goat, but
the pheasants multiplied like rabbits. There must be over a hundred cocks and
hens, and I rarely get time to hunt them any more, but now that the project is
over and a success, I suggest we take the time this Saturday for a few hours
and do some nice upland wing shooting.”</div>
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Ed mentioned that back before grad school he was a keen trap
shooter, but that his shotgun was back with his parents in Connecticut.</div>
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“No worries,” John assured him. “I have a little Spanish
side by side 20 bore you can borrow, a spare game bag for you, plenty of shells
I got from a little ma and pa sporting goods store that was closing, and
anything else you need. Just come as you are, so to speak, and wear some tough
pants and a jacket that will stand up to moving through brush, and also a stout
pair of hiking boots or something on that order. We will hunt together, and
then Ellen, Mrs. Phillipson, who you will meet, will do her magic to the birds.
You also will meet my English Cocker Abby, the best bird dog I ever owned.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Do you enjoy a fine Scotch, by the way?” John enquired with
one raised eyebrow.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ed agreed he did indeed enjoy a fine malt, and would be
delighted to enjoy this adventure offered so kindly to him. The time was fixed
at 1 o’clock Saturday the next.</div>
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Sometimes fate turns and weaves its lines through the
stories of our lives beginning with a little incident. The ‘incident’ in this
case was that in un-boxing a fine 12 year old bottle of Speyside Scotch, Mr.
Phillipson accidentally dropped it. The tinkling of broken glass and following
invective brought Abby to investigate, and the poor dog trod on a bit of glass,
cutting her front left paw. There was no other bottle of scotch in the house,
and with Ed due to arrive in fifteen minutes, a change of plans was in order.
Brandy would follow the hunt, which would now have to be conducted without the
dog. More difficult for certain, and lacking in that essential quality of hunting
over a champion bird dog who knows more about bird hunting than the hunters
ever will, but not impossible he reasoned. The sheer quantity of birds on his
land would allow the hunt to continue even without a dog. They would just have
to do it ‘old-fashioned style,’ each of them zigzagging and flushing their own
birds. He hurried to sweep up the glass as his wife placed a bandage over
Abby’s thankfully very slight injury.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ed was prompt, and Phillipson, upon opening the front door,
was greeted by a unique sight. Ed had on a pair of old rubber galoshes complete
with metal buckles. For a coat, his guest was sporting a dilapidated khaki barn
coat obviously several sizes too big for him, and smelling faintly of
mothballs. This outfit was crowned by an eager smile and delivered forward with
a warm handshake. John wondered, just a fleeting thought in the back of his
mind, if Ed’s hunting attire had come from a short visit to a local thrift
store. But then, he recalled, Ed did say he loved his pheasants. Maybe he had
no outdoor gear, since Ed seemed to be always working owlishly at his computer,
or maybe he had his old hunting kit stored at his parent’s house along with his
shotgun. Well, today he would show him a bit of the outdoor life anyway.
Perhaps if Ed enjoyed it, Phillipson speculated, he could gift him with some
briar pants, a game vest, and even a nice bird gun as an end of year bonus. He
was worth it after all… all those long hours…</div>
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John ushered his guest into a little sun room located off the
foyer that he playfully referred to as his ‘Safari room.’ He seated Ed in a
nice leather chair, and took down a canvas gun case from a nook between shelves
filled with outdoor books. He unzipped the case, and revealed the soft warmth
of a hand-rubbed and oiled walnut stock, and case patterned side plates of the
Spanish double. He broke the gun and handed it to Ed.</div>
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“This little girl needs to sound off a little. She hits
exactly as you point her. You don’t need to lead too far with pheasants, and I
think a box each of high-brass number 5s should do us fine today.” Ed was
cradling the gun as if it would break or bite him, but Phillipson soon
reassured him, and closing the action on empty chambers, executed a few snappy
swings. Ed said the drop and length of pull were perfect. John was impressed.
His associate knew a few things about guns. This would be a fine hunt, with the
slight clouds, little wind, and a half-inch of powdery snow fallen in the
pre-dawn darkness.</div>
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They began on the edge of a small corn-stand abutting the drive.
Each side of the drive was a field, and on the edge of each field were the wood
copses. </div>
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“Pheasants, like most game are creatures of edges,” John
explained to Ed. “Edges and Cover. We will split the sides between us and work
the edges of the field and wood. Cover everything in between. Pheasants can be
runners instead of flyers, and you want to kick them up into flight. Try not to
shoot runners, that can lead to accidents.”</div>
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“Good hunting!” he added. “We will meet back here in two
hours, so take a look at your watch… I have it half past the hour.”</div>
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Ed nodded and smiled, his action broken and cradled expertly
in his right arm, and his galoshes clicking and galoshing as he walked.</div>
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John turned and strode into the shoulder high grass and
weeds, beginning the process of covering ground and every likely lie a bird
might favor. After 10 minutes or so, he kicked up his first cock out a sort of
snow-covered wigwam of brush. The bird flew straight up and angled right. John
swung from behind and touched off the right barrel of his Fox 16 bore. The
pheasant dropped in a shower of feathers. It was easy to locate due to the snow
cover. It also helped that John had hit it with a headshot, so it never had a
chance to run, hide, and slowly die hidden from prying eyes.</div>
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Five minutes later John found his second bird. A hen, this
crafty gal ran straight away from him and then flew low and flat. He aimed the
fowling gun and fired the left barrel, giving the hen a shot-string of
full-choke 5s and bringing her down dead. As he retrieved the bird, he wondered
at the lack of shooting from Ed’s side of the field. That morning he had spread
a large bag of feed around on that side of the drive, and if the past were any
experience, the birds would be on the feast pretty quickly. He did want Ed to
have a successful and fun day today.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The third bird John flushed required both barrels to bring
it down, and as he was searching for it where it fell near the edge of wood, he
heard the joyful sound of a distant report followed by a second muffled ‘boom.’
Ed must have found a bird! The day would be a success if Ed could shoot one
tenth as well as could write code… but then there were those galoshes… really,
what was he thinking? Ed really needed to get out more often.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The next hour saw no more birds located by John, while on
Ed’s side of the woods sounded like a slightly excited English shooting party
on a driven hunt. No more than ten minutes elapsed between further exclamations
from Ed’s shotgun. He must have found the mother-load thought John.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The time came to make his way back to the rendezvous, and as
Phillipson approached the little corn stand, a final pheasant flushed and flew
left and high. John’s shot was on the mark, and the fourth bird fell fifty
yards off as Ed appeared out of the field. John pointed to the bird, and
motioned Ed to place it in his game bag, as he was much closer. Ed’s bag, John
was very pleased to note, was sagging heavily and very full. The pheasant was
added to the bag and the tail feathers stuck jauntily out as Ed smiled.</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Well, how did it go?” John asked with a wink.</div>
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<br /></div>
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“I had the best time ever!” Ed exclaimed with flushed
cheeks. “Some of the pheasants flew kind of strange, and one just sat there,
and then there was one that perched in a tree, but I only missed a few shots! I
even hit a double…”</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Pheasants can be like that sometimes,” John explained as
they walked back to the barn to breast-out the birds. “Predictability is not a
pheasant’s strong suit.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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Phillipson had a bench at waist-height covered with plastic
sheeting and a tin garbage container ready to accept the offal. He reached in
his back game pouch and placed his three pheasants on the table. Ed opened the
strap and turned out the contents of his bag next to it.</div>
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<br /></div>
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There are moments that time seems to move rather slowly. At
this very moment, it crawled in slow motion. The contents of the bag that
tumbled out onto the table included in order:</div>
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<br /></div>
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One cock pheasant (The one that Phillipson dispatched)</div>
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A large woodpecker.</div>
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One pigeon</div>
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Two grackles</div>
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A starling</div>
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One female cardinal</div>
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And wearing a rather stupefied expression, as if to say “Now
what the hell?” a very dead member of the small Phillipson stock of chickens.</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Well, what do you think?” Ed proudly exclaimed.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The words almost formed in John’s mouth, but both because he
caught himself in time, and due to the fact that his jaw was hanging open, only
a sort of strangling gurgle made itself heard. He finally closed his mouth,
straightened to his full six feet and with his back rigid, and his hand
extended, turned to Ed, shook his hand, and exclaimed, “Good shooting!”</div>
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<br /></div>
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As he lined up the birds for dressing and stropped his
knife, he reflected that it would not pay to even mention or explain to Ed what
he had done, nor to inquire if Ed indeed had ever actually seen a pheasant
before, and if he had or had not, what the heck he was thinking…</div>
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His knife hovered carefully over the little starling.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Ellen (Mrs. Phillipson) was presented a tray of ‘Pheasant
breasts’ in the kitchen with a whisper from John. She arched her eyebrows in
reply, and John placed his forefinger to his lips and winked.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Seated in the ‘Safari room’ after being introduced the
smiling and lovely Mrs. Phillipson, Ed was offered a large snifter-glass of
amber liquid. John proposed a toast, but Ed insisted in presenting a tribute
instead. “To my first hunt and your excellent hospitality,” he proclaimed.</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Excellent Scotch,” he added on the subject of the brandy.
The best I have ever tasted.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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Both Mr. And Mrs. Phillipson agreed with some shared
reflections after dinner was over and Ed had left for home with grateful
thanks; these were that the woodpecker was surprisingly delicate and tasty,
that Ed had obviously thought of a ‘Pheasant’ as some sort of food he had been
served once or twice that formerly had wings and flew a bit now and then, and
that above all…. That Ed <u>REALLY</u> needed to get out more…</div>
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<br />Erik Helmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00727530868264488710noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918514418757933899.post-3976854551676481852019-10-06T18:06:00.001-05:002019-10-14T18:07:23.886-05:00The Perfect Taper<br />
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The Perfect Taper</div>
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<br /></div>
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A thought experiment</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir6tJkzFn3Set2sftiuGRzztWWpFIMRGrvhCvmLLRuPP2Dc9G4kk5R6iwwZnSNxXPKZkA250AX6v9zw0_69du5Tr_Dyi1UWJty74FrKTLHoKE5pW-kC97HLguxAwYxczID8-Gs7vziXBE/s1600/031515a+008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir6tJkzFn3Set2sftiuGRzztWWpFIMRGrvhCvmLLRuPP2Dc9G4kk5R6iwwZnSNxXPKZkA250AX6v9zw0_69du5Tr_Dyi1UWJty74FrKTLHoKE5pW-kC97HLguxAwYxczID8-Gs7vziXBE/s400/031515a+008.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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I just returned from a gathering of bamboo fly rod makers
where I cast dozens of wonderful handcrafted rods, gave casting demonstrations,
and participated in a nice panel discussion.</div>
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After these events, it is not unusual for me to go on a
philosophical or thought journey as to what I learned or observed with no end
in mind, and with enough twists and turns or detours in the path as there are
synaptic junctions in my brain. This often results in a headache, and aspirin
might be in order, or a visit to a psychiatrist.</div>
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<br /></div>
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In this case my reflections centered on the design of tapers
for bamboo rods. Some discussions of the legendary rod builder Everett
Garrison, a structural engineer who used an engineering and mathematical approach
to try to achieve a chimeral concept of the perfect taper in a fly rod were
juxtaposed in my mind with the final product on the rod racks outside. Each rod
was different, and each was made by a different builder. No rod had the same
aesthetics.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Would it even be possible to build the perfect fly rod, and
what is perfection exactly?</div>
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What is measurable, and what cannot or should not be
measured?</div>
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Where do engineering, art, craft, nature’s material, and
casting meet or cross paths?</div>
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Can perfection be measured?</div>
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Where does the human element come in?</div>
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<br /></div>
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So many questions to explore… so enjoy this little thought
experiment with me…</div>
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<br /></div>
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Lets imagine that there is an engineer working for years in
his attic on the perfect mathematical model for taper design. One day he
finally finishes testing and proofing all the math, and designs a computer
program to reflect it. One simply enters the variables of rod length, line
weight, number of sections, ferrule measurement, etc. into the program, hits
the calculate button, and gets the results. Scrolling through the report
schematics we now have calculated stresses, deflection numbers, measured
diameters at intervals for planing, load calculations, and all the other myriad
elements of structural engineering design right there at our fingertips. Charts
and graphs display the performance of the rod too, so that we can visually see
the calculation’s resulting perfection.</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Excellent,” mutters our engineer, and begins the long
process of splitting the cane, and putting it through all his machines to
bevel, taper, bind, heat-treat and transform the natural bamboo into a blank
ready for hand finishing. Numbers guided the machines through their process,
the cane being ground and shaved to the mathematically perfect model, while the
human hand moved the pieces between the machines.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Finally, the guides were wrapped on, the varnish applied and
let to dry, and eventually the rod was finished. It gleamed with perfection.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Our engineer took the rod out on his front lawn, attached a
reel, strung up the rod, poured himself a half a glass of wine to celebrate the
perfect rod, pulled out thirty feet of line, and with a grin… made the
inaugural cast.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Alas, the puzzled and quizzical look on his face did not
derive from the poor quality of the wine he sipped. Instead, it sprung from the
rather unspectacular performance of the rod. He had expected bells to go off,
epiphanies to form, and a piercing light to part the fogs and miasmas of past
fly rod designs, but what he just experienced was rather anticlimactic.</div>
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<br /></div>
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He cast the rod for an hour, testing the flex with short and
long casts and trying to get a feeling for what the rod was doing. It seemed to
do everything moderately well…. but not</div>
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spectacularly. It had no real clunky spots or faults but
also no real shining performance attributes. It was just sort of… fly-roddy in
a non-descript mediocre way.</div>
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<br /></div>
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He went back inside and spent the rest of the week checking
his engineering math and computer program, and finding no errors at all,
re-entered the variable data, getting the same result.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Then he took the rod to his local fly-fishing club, and
asked the members to cast it and provide their feedback. The following is a
faithful recording of the often reluctant but mostly honest commentary:</div>
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“Beautiful to look at, but it doesn’t sing to me.”</div>
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“A little fast and slow at the same time.”</div>
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“A nice rod if you like Wonderbread…”</div>
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“It does everything right, but yet something is wrong…”</div>
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“It seems to have no real personality…”</div>
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“Reminds me of a punch we made at my frat house in college.
We each added different ingredients and liquors until there were over 20
substances in that bowl. It got us drunk, but it tasted like gasoline.”</div>
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And finally… “I don’t get it…”</div>
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So what went wrong?</div>
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Well, from a pure engineering standpoint, nothing did. The
measurements were perfect. It was what could not be measured by engineering and
math, the myriad variables, the human element, the creative process, the lack
of art and involvement, the clinically dry and romantically sterile approach that
doomed the rod to failure.</div>
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<br /></div>
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What if he had succeeded? Where would we go from there? Is
there life after perfection? Would perfection eliminate personality and
diversity? Would uniqueness die under the dissecting table of science? I would
ask him if I could, but I have never met science on the river. If I did ask
science how he felt today, he would probably answer, “Rather methodical, thank
you!”</div>
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<br /></div>
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Imagine a world where every fly rod was the same. It might
make a good horror movie. It could be called ‘Perfection’ because only in the
fantasy world of movies could perfection even exist.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Perfection is a human concept. It cannot and does not exist
in nature. There is no perfect tree, perfect flower, perfect raindrop, or
perfect human. Every object and individual is different in some way, shape, or
form. So is bamboo. It is not a manufactured substance that can be predicted.
It is a natural grass that is effected by the wind, moisture, rain, where it
grows, when it is cut, and how it is stored. One could say that every culm of
raw bamboo has character traits and personality. Now those are human
attributes, but perhaps the human was missing in our perfect fly rod
experiment. Humans can interpret, apply abstract concepts and even imbibe a
fine crafted object with a little of their personality. Mathematics cannot.
That’s not to say that mathematics and engineering should not be a part of the
design, indeed they are necessary and vital, but with a human there to provide
a touch of well… humanity and personality to the process. Machines do not
create, humans do. Machines perform tasks and duplications. Human thought put
them there.</div>
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<br /></div>
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And… of course… a machine will not be casting the finished
bamboo fly rod, a human will.</div>
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Each of us has a different casting stroke, a different
approach to casting a fly rod, and a different level of proficiency. There is
no perfect cast as there is no perfect fly rod taper. Even our mood effects the
cast… the mortgage is due… that was a beautiful sunrise… these trout are so
frustrating… I better hurry because I only have an hour to fish… Gosh, I feel
so relaxed…</div>
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Another variable that math and engineering can’t take into
consideration is that as individuals with personalities, we each have
preferences; likes and dislikes. One person’s concept of what he or she wants
in a fly rod will contrast and differ with another angler. As the saying goes,
one man’s meat is another man’s poison. That variety is the very spice of life.</div>
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If we did in effect achieve some sort of ‘perfection’ that
would appeal to everyone’s differences, wouldn’t we instead have to first
eliminate those differences first in the person and then in the product? We
have been there already, it was the dystopia of soviet era manufacturing which
gave everyone the same cars that barely drove, the same clothing in a shade of
gray, and housing reminiscent of industrial chicken farms.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Diversity comes from craft, from a lack of common approach,
from ideas born and followed without being ironed to perfection. Wrinkles might
just be a good thing.</div>
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The rods I cast that day all had different tapers. They all
did something different. I loved the quirks.</div>
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<br /></div>
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One thing a pure engineering and math approach cannot do is
add variations on purpose or by accident to a human design or purpose. If we
did achieve one ‘perfect taper’, and had ten different rod builders build ten
rods off the same taper, all ten would be different. That is because we are not
machines… yet. That cyber A.I. nightmare is around the corner, and until it
arrives, we are still in charge of the creative process.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Engineers may be searching for perfection, but on the other
side of the fence, artists are working toward failure. Huh? Well, artists
unlike mathematical models understand that in an aesthetic sense as well as in
the properties of individual objects or creations, perfection is not just
immeasurable, it also can’t exist. By working toward failure, the individual
artist and craftsperson is always pushing the envelope by asking, “Why not this
or that?”</div>
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“What would staggered ferrules do here?… Why do rods all
have to be a common length?… What would happen if I did this?… What if I
hollow-built the butt section?… etc.</div>
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These experiments not only give us diversity, but also often
end up in failure. Failure fosters learning. Failure is also fearful. It takes
an intact and secure ego to admit and even celebrate failure in the process of
creative design.</div>
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<br /></div>
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In our ‘engineering only’ design-process, from start to
finish there is little room for deviations.</div>
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These deviations are a human element of the artist. A
painter for example has a blank canvas. He or she has a concept in mind and
goes about capturing that concept as a painting which can evolve as it is being
created. Many artists, craftspersons, writers, and composers will tell you that
some of their best work evolved to deviate from the original intent. A bamboo
rod maker that feels the material in their hands rather than pushing it only
through machines may be in tune to the raw material. In other words, the bamboo
might be in charge to some extent, of the evolution of the taper. It may be
able to tell us what needs planing or shaving here and there. This might be
more in keeping with crafting a fine casting fishing instrument out of a
natural substance instead of conquering it or forcing our will on it with a
pure mathematical model.</div>
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This is how all artist-quality musical instruments are
crafted. There is an intensive process that involves adaptation in the horn or
violin to achieve a unique and rich sound. That could be comparable to the vibrations
in bamboo listened to by the rod crafter and interpreted into a fine casting
instrument. One can’t really listen very well when machines are making noise.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Which brings us back to the very beginning and Mr. Garrison.
Now before you poor readers of this philosophic detour off the deep end send me
letters excoriating me for some sort of heresy against this fine rod-builder,
let me say that Garrison made a great cane rod; one of the finest out there,
and even if the search for the ‘perfect-taper’ may be illusory, we should still
search for it. For in that search, the conversation continues. The language of
that conversation being perhaps a bit more wine-enhanced and romanticized
rather than mathematical… The ‘perfect-taper’ awaits… if we close our eyes we
almost touch it.</div>
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<br />Erik Helmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00727530868264488710noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918514418757933899.post-44758037815624970572019-10-01T15:19:00.000-05:002019-10-01T15:19:29.563-05:00Parental Advice
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Or… the road to perdition is paved with Wooly-Buggers…</div>
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Jr. Trout (proper family name Jr. Brown esq.) was a tad late
arriving under the bank in the family domicile in time for his evening meal. As
he nosed through the silt and rocks to munch vittles of fresh-water shrimp
appetizer and awaited the main course of Hendrickson nymphs, his Grandpa eyed
him suspiciously.</div>
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“Boy, you have been hanging out with those brook trout again
haven’t you? Now don’t lie to me.”</div>
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Jr. kind of wiggled his fins in a guilty manner and looked
askance at the old man. His grandpa was the oldest of the Brown clan in this
part of the stream under the shade trees. He had scars on his back from
disagreements with herons, and his fins were a bit worn with age. He was no longer
the biggest fish in the pool, but he was the wisest, and all the extended Brown
family looked to him for sage guidance.</div>
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“Sorry Grandpa, but it is hard to stay away ‘cause they are
my friends. They even taught me a new game called ‘chase the tail’ today!”</div>
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“Son…” the old man began slowly with a frown, “I have told
you before that those darn fish are no good for you. They are Yankees, and like
Yankees, they hang around in gangs and get up to no good. Look at them there in
the middle of the water just swimming around like they don’t have a care in the
world. If they had any self-respect they would be in the shade being quiet, not
doing acrobatics and water-polo where any darned otter or even uncle Fritz
could make a meal of them.”</div>
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“Why do you call them ‘Yankees’ Grandpa?” Junior asked
carefully.</div>
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“Because they are American Trout, boy! See their colors?
Like the American flag; all gaudy in their red, white, and blue.”</div>
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“Catholics too I would bet, and just as catholic in their
tastes… they don’t give a damn what they eat for heaven’s sake.”</div>
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“And we are Germans, right Grandpa?”</div>
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“Germans, Protestants, and gentleman too,” the wise one
said, swelling up with pride and showing off his spots. “Just look at our
colors… Like the German flag, gold, red, and black… quiet colors, respectful
colors.” Like gentlemen, we Browns are not frivolous. We don’t play games, we
shy away from bright places and street-corners, and we absolutely don’t eat
wooly-buggers.”</div>
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“What’s a wooly-bugger Grandpa,” came the inevitable
question.</div>
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“Well now, take a seat by this here rock, and I will tell
you. Don’t tell your Mother or Father or they will get sore at me again for
frightening you, but I think any Brown in this family should know a few things
before they go out into the next pool. Served me well for years, even if I
learned the hard way myself by making the mistakes I keep scolding you about.”</div>
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The old trout rested back on his little pile of gravel, and
taking a caddis case from his pocket, began slowly chewing it as he always did
when he was telling a story.</div>
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“You had a cousin named McSpotty once upon a time. Lot older
than you. He was a distant cousin too from some island, on your Grandma’s
side,” he recollected with a frown or a wink… it was often hard to tell the
difference.</div>
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"This young trout got his name from the amount of spots on
his side… all black and few red. He was wont to fraternize with those brookies,
and even to tipple a bit of brackish water even at his young age. You couldn’t
tell him anything or get any sense to stick in his noggin no matter how often
we tried. He was always chasing the ladies, even the American gals that hung
out in shallow water and had bad reputations. He went to worship on Sunday, but
we never could find him for scripture during the week.”</div>
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“Well, McSpotty started to get a taste for exotic foods. I
always blame those brookies for corrupting him, but he never would have come to
trouble if he ate plain fare like us Continental Browns. He began to chase
worms and leap at dragonflies like a hoodlum. He left home after a bit, and
preferred the company of his new friends on the wrong side of the rocks.”</div>
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“One day there was a big commotion and splashing in the
water. After a bit, some of your relations and me swam over from the bank to
investigate. Your Cousin was nowhere to be seen. Story has it that there was
something in the water that the Americans were chasing, but McSpotty got there
first. From there it was hearsay. Some of those fish claimed that a giant hand
came down from the sky and just scooped him up. Others said that he exploded
all by himself. Anyway, he was never seen again. One old gal, the matriarch of
the clan, by the name of Char or something like that, finally said that he had
eaten a wooly bugger. None of us knew what that was at the time.”</div>
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“You can imagine that it put us off our food for a spell,
and even the frisky fingerlings stayed close to home for the next week. Rumors
as to what a ‘wooly-bugger’ was began to run their course among the youngsters,
and even the old-timers began to tell stories.”</div>
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“Some said it was a ghost that appeared when the sun was
high and the sand was shifting, others speculated that it was bigger than a
beaver or a muskrat and only ate trout who missed church or lied to their
parents. My own uncle Günter thought that they came with the rains, and lulled
their prey to sleep with a song before they ate them.”</div>
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“Did you ever see a wooly-bugger yourself Grandpa?” Jr.
asked with a shiver of his dorsal fin.</div>
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“I did see one once, not close-up like, but in the distance
and in murky water. It was big and black and ugly, yet enticing. I felt my will
tried as it shimmered and wiggled like one of those belly-dancers I read about
once in my Pa’s magazines. I still shudder at that memory. Funny thing was,
even with all my teaching and learning, my discipline faltered for a fraction
of a second. I started to swim over to it when it just disappeared out of the
water. Don’t know what I would have done if it hadn’t have off and left. I
might not be here now.”</div>
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That story made a bit of an impression on our young lad. For
a month, he did all his schoolwork, and never swam in the shallows. However, as
all boys are fickle, there came one day when his family was all out on some
errand or another, and he swam over to find out what the brookies were up to.</div>
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At supper that evening, he claimed he had no appetite, and
begged off his caddis soufflé. His Grandpa got suspicious.</div>
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“What’s that scar doing on your jaw there son? Have you been
rubbing your nose on mussel shells again?”</div>
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“Mrrn…” was all Jr. could answer.</div>
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“Speak up boy, and come closer. Is that a hole in your
mouth? You are getting a likkin if you got any body piercings. You know how we
feel about that….”</div>
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“Well, speak up…”</div>
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“Mi mink mi mate a mooly mugger,” Jr. confessed with tears.</div>
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“No kidding. You don’t seem to have disappeared, so maybe it
taught you a lesson. What did it look like?”</div>
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Jr. flexed his jaw a few times, shook himself, stood on his
head, blew some water through his gills, and feeling a touch better, answered
his Grandpa.</div>
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“Mit was morrible! First it looked big and black and ugly,
then after I ate it, it tasted like hurting and changed to the hugest, most
ugly thing I ever saw. It had a big floppy head and its fins were really long
and pale. One of them had a long pole as big as this whole stream in it. I
thought I was a goner for sure, but somehow I escaped!”</div>
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Grandpa stared long and hard at the boy…</div>
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“Now, seeing that you survived, how’s about telling me what
you learned…”</div>
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“Hanging out with brookies leads to eatin wooly-buggers, and
the road to perdition is lined with wooly-buggers!”</div>
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“Let that be a lesson to you son,” said the old trout. “Now
come and finish your caddis, its getting cold.”</div>
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So…take a lesson from poor Jr. Brown. Stay away from those
vagabond brookies. Keep out of the shallows. Eat your tiny bugs, and whatever
you do, if you fly-fish, don’t have that extra glass of wine with dinner while
looking out the window at the rains and flooded streams, it only leads to
fables and parables… or wooly-buggers…</div>
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Erik Helmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00727530868264488710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918514418757933899.post-5892153141849579112019-05-08T16:12:00.000-05:002019-05-09T13:04:56.459-05:00Why do the Trout Jump?<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij8jsqC4Bf7PykLvA4S62c8KSU2ViXr8IpIFTqAnCRyGK9y5zECkUUgOfU5jq1QY_aVBEv2_I_4XHS5qc6N2MrvFV7CIePPT_rXsqWjMX5ZqWogYBy9et4dgcq0DIpO4tUrvdsXlSLwz8/s1600/nastursiums.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="493" data-original-width="519" height="378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij8jsqC4Bf7PykLvA4S62c8KSU2ViXr8IpIFTqAnCRyGK9y5zECkUUgOfU5jq1QY_aVBEv2_I_4XHS5qc6N2MrvFV7CIePPT_rXsqWjMX5ZqWogYBy9et4dgcq0DIpO4tUrvdsXlSLwz8/s400/nastursiums.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nasturtiums, a painting by my mother.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Seamus lay on his side by the banks of the stream and took
in the fullness of the May morning. Wildflowers were poking out their heads
from amongst the grass and unfurling their colors. The valley was full of the
yellow sun, and the resplendent green that only a spring day can bring; not
quite green… a sort of yellow green… a youthful green, an infant green, a green
of freshness. It gave him a feeling of innocence.</div>
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He was watching a long slow pool on the river shaded by a
willow tree. Although he could not locate a single mayfly on or over the water,
the trout were jumping into the air and performing summersaults in the air
before slipping headfirst back into their freshet realm. He had never seen
anything like it before. By twos and threes, the fish leapt into the air as if
wishing to taste the surface world’s greening. A warbler provided a woodwind
accompaniment from his perch amongst the bursting buds of the willow.</div>
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Seamus watched the trout for a few minutes, and pondered the
ballet before him. In his hand was his father’s cherished H.L. Leonard bamboo
fly rod. He turned his attention from his puzzle on the water to the handle of
the rod. The cork was stained with long use. He could discern the imprint of
his father’s thumb at the top end of the cork. He placed his thumb into the
impression and closed his eyes, his ears still attuned to the splashes of the
fish.</div>
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“Why do the trout jump?” </div>
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He thought about his father for a few minutes as the sun
warmed his face pleasantly. What would he have said? He conjured a scene from
his childhood in the old man’s study, a place of quiet and learning; a place of
science and precision. His father stood looking at a book he had carefully
taken out of the shelves buttressing the room, and easing down his glasses over
his nose, was busy lecturing Seamus on the natural world. The question never
was asked except in his imagination, but he knew the process of the answer
would take him through anatomy, weather and barometric pressure, and angler’s
streamside observations carefully recorded and now called into the courtroom to
answer the question. Another book would be opened and another passage read, the
author’s name preceding the quote, along with the date and the page number.
Seamus would be expected to listen attentively as the case was made. His father
was a lawyer, and the study in their large house in Dublin. Patrick McDermott
esq. believed in science and logic, and it served him well in the courts. He
would apply the same thorough analysis to this mystery of the trout. There
would be a reason in the end. No mystery… but an uncovering of motive and
resulting behavior. The fish would be subjected to the psychology of the
individual and the group, and there would be a solution. The book would then be
shut.</div>
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What that solution was, eluded Seamus’ daydreams for now, as
ethereal as the memory of his father’s voice, and the smoke from his pipe as
the vision dissolved in his head. He opened his eyes to the brightness of a
flowering dandelion awash in bold impressionist brushstrokes of yellow and
hints of orange; his mother’s favorite flower.</div>
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Mary McDermott loved God’s world and his works. She once
told a young Seamus, (awash in stains from crawling through the grass and
garden in the front lawn of their Dublin home), that “Dandelions were God’s
paintbrushes.” He could see in his mind’s eye the ochre streaks on his boy’s
pants held up with suspenders. He had felt that the stains were something bad;
something he would be punished for, and had looked on his mother through tears
of questioning guilt.</div>
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Whatever his mother said to him that day, and every other
day she encouraged him or explained something, the focus would be God. Mary’s
world was one of faithful contentment. There was a reason and a will behind
every breath, every leaf that fell, every bird that sang, every bruise, and
bloody knee; that of the Lord and his plan. We could not question with anger
the stubbed toes of life, nor curse the road’s turns when they turned away from
us, for man was the center of a plan in God’s garden, and there was a reason
for everything; one that would include stories and fairy-tales and passages
from the Bible as she combed his hair or mended his torn shirt. What the answer
would be in the end would be sweet and simple, but remain a defined mystery.
Her smile and the sense of comfort in that mystery was in complete contrast to
his father’s academic approach, yet love and security warmed the young Seamus.</div>
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Mary would have said that the trout jump because it is God’s
will. There would be a profound rightness and peace in her answer.</div>
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As Seamus’ eyes opened upon the banks of the stream, his
left hand brushed against a tiny wildflower opening its purple petals to stare
up at him. Purple was his little sister Rose’s favorite color, despite her
name. She always wore a purple ribbon in her long strawberry-blonde hair as she
followed him through his daily adventures. She was his favorite, and he was
hers. She was as happy as he was inquisitive, his dark curly hair and brows
contrasting with her round apple dimples and tiny white teeth. He made up
stories for her full of knights and ladies, castles among the garden and frog
princes at the edge of the little pond bordered with primrose. She listened and
smiled… and always laughed.</div>
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He had visited her in her house in County Claire, married
now and with a daughter and son of her own. The children taking them back to
their youth in Dublin with their antics, and reminding them of stories they
shared over a wine made with those dandelions of youth and crisp as their memories.
Her smile and innocent exuberance had never changed. They had instead just
grown larger with age and beauty.</div>
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Seamus recalled the day when he (ten years old and feeling
ten feet tall and full of imagined manhood) had in response to a question posed
by Rose as to why a lark, perching in a lilac bush was singing. He was doing
his best to embody his father, and the answer was scientific and clinical;
something about mating and territory. His voice filled with importance.</div>
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Rose had laughed and threw a handful of grass into his hair.
She replied “No, silly! He is singing because he is happy!”</div>
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He opened his eyes. The trout were still jumping. Where
science and religion only began to illuminate and uncover the beauty of a
simple answer, innocence prevailed. She was right… the trout jumped because
they were happy!</div>
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He was happy too, he thought aloud, as he bit off the fly at
the end of his leader, never having wet a line that morning, but instead
gathered wildflowers in his wicker creel for a love somewhere that awaited that
perfect innocence he now felt.</div>
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Erik Helmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00727530868264488710noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918514418757933899.post-9403314960537564152019-03-30T20:04:00.002-05:002019-03-30T20:04:42.326-05:00Fly-Casting ShenanigansA repost from a vignette written years ago... Enjoy! one fine romp through fly-casting and why most everyone won't ever practice.<br />
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<strong>Water Putting</strong></div>
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I was walking in the park the other day, as I am known to do
from time to time, day-dreaming of trout rising and the possible relationship
between squirrel behavior and the plots of Verdi’s Operas (there isn’t any),
when I stopped before the little par-3 golf course, and specifically, before
the putting green. There stood a group of guys and gals wearing acceptable golf
attire and endlessly practicing their putting.</div>
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That gave me an inspiration, and after concluding my walk
with more useless speculation as to why overweight middle-aged men are
irresistibly attracted to loud farting motorbikes, I ambled back to the car,
where in the trunk sat a nifty glass fly rod and a reel complete with line and
an old leader. “Putt away you St. Andrew’s dreamers,” I thought aloud to
myself, “I will join you on the Itchen…er… Itchy Grass River,” as I swatted a
mosquito on my ankle.</div>
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I placed three trout (twigs rather of the birch or char
variety) at different distances and conjured the spirit of Charles Ritz as I
played with rhythms and thumb pressure and timing, and the fly (a piece of a
nearby convenient gum-wrapper) landed as close as I could make it to the
targets. I had done this for half an hour, and was getting ready to leave, when
a guy walking his dog asked me the dreaded question... “Are you catching
anything?” “Just practicing for senility” I quipped, causing him to tighten the
leash on rover a bit and curl an eyebrow as he walked just a fraction faster
and changed directions to take him and his canine companion away from me all
the quicker.</div>
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I had become “That Guy.” You know the one or the type. The
guy with the long beard who plays the bagpipes near the kite-flying area: the
idiot dressed up as a mime who stands dead-still outside a shop window posed as
a mannequin for hours: or one of those train-spotters who everybody fears will
start talking to them about trains.</div>
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Yet, as I pondered in that park, fly-anglers should do this.
They should be seen on ponds and rivers practicing with the long rod; line making
graceful loops so that their time on the river is filled more with reflection
and less with frustration. Yet, I am the only person I have ever seen doing
this. That might be due to too much time at the tying vise or the fact that my
glasses might need updating, but I don’t think so.</div>
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Years ago it was common in any park with a lagoon or pond to
house a casting club. England and France had them in spades and so did America,
especially during the Great Depression and into the 1950s where they were a family
outing and a cheap source of recreation. The great fly-casters were formed
here, especially in organizations such as the Casting Club of Paris, or the
Golden Gate Angling and Casting Club in San Francisco. The Golden Gate club
still exists, but most of the local groups sedately casting away in local parks
and sipping beers on weekends withered away as their members died off and
younger generations never went out doors or suffered from maladies such as
Digital Flu, or Too Busy Disorder.</div>
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Awhile back, another avid fly-fisherman and I seriously
discussed starting a casting club. We would meet, it was postulated, at a local
park on the river, and each caster would bring a rod and a bottle of wine and
some cheese. Cigars would be welcome. It was to be a fraternal men’s group. A
place where lies could accompany clarets, plumes of smoke, and loops of line.
The idea of each bringing fine cane, glass, and graphite rods to share and try
out reached a snag when a local doctor, who considers himself a great fly-angler
was handed a rod by me to try out and immediately began major malpractice on
it. Yea, that’s what I needed. “Sorry about the rod Erik… it just seemed to
break mysteriously.”</div>
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I imagined who would show up at the group. Ten people at
first and a fine time would be had by all, and then seven and finally four… two
being tournament casters sporting 19 foot graphite lances and shooting heads
and competing against each other (and the rest of us who couldn’t give a shit).
The other guy would be some codger with a crooked Orvis Battenkill or Wright
McGill who never fished and drank all our wine. The final two would my friend
and I who would become more and more aware that Oscar Wilde’s famous quote that
“I would never be a member of a club that would have my likes as a member”
might apply here. Even if it worked out, I mused, it might just turn into an
elongated casting lesson for free, which is part of my day-job anyway. I still
might try to organize a club like this, but am aware that it might become the
world’s most misanthropic and lonely men’s club.</div>
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I thought back to the 12 years or so that I had taught for
local clubs and organizations at their annual casting clinics and picnic.
Inevitably as the picnic progressed, more and more people wandered into the
open fields and knolls to cast their fly-rods, but as I began the formal
tutorial, I would be left with only the true beginners, as the rest of the
established club members would rise in unison like a pod of German Browns to
the scent of cooking bratwurst and foamy hops and retire back to the riffle of
the picnic tables, leaving me to do whatever it is that an instructor does with
20 new casters.</div>
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Don’t get me wrong, I like teaching beginners the best. Wide
eyes and good listening skills result in good casters and less bad habits,
unlike the guys in the clubs who would demonstrate the same fatal flaws I tried
to break them of for the past ten years to no avail.</div>
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When I did manage to cast with one of the regular members,
they always offered the same caveat or excuse. “I am not a really good caster,”
they would proclaim, and then slink away to ensure that their handicap would
not be rectified anytime soon. I was puzzled. Then one of the older and wiser
fellas told me that “They didn’t want to look bad, and were embarrassed by
their casting.” Aha… and how silly. Then why was I there to teach a casting
class, if the majority of casters were too shy to learn? Was fishing a game of
lies? Were those tales told at club meetings where the 50 foot cast using 6X
tippet and a size 22 midge hooked a 20” brown trout best absorbed after a
martini so dry it confounded the senses? Should Old Rusty’s tale include
instead a foul hooked chub with a botched roll-cast and a size 10 Adams? I took
a sip of scotch and feared to tread there for obvious reasons.</div>
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Yes, we don’t want to make fools out of ourselves. Perhaps
that is why fly-fishing is a solitary sport. Our tales and treasured literature
sees us tangling our line around gorse-bushes, inventing new choice invectives,
splashing our line on the water and scaring away all the fish, and finally
catching the smallest fish in the river once our dry-fly accidentally sank. We
look around sheepishly and see if anyone noticed, and straighten up a bit when
we find ourselves all alone. Nobody saw us thank dog… now back to hooking bank
side brush or festooning trees with little ornaments.</div>
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Contrast that to the golf course. Here stand parties of
golfers progressing forward on the links, all in open view. Here your foibles
are in full-view to all. Slice that drive and hit your Boss’s elderly crippled
mother in the noggin and you might want to take a look at that Peace Corps
brochure. Botch that 15 foot putt ten times for a quadruple Humphrey Bogie and
your face will be so red that you could take the place of the flag on hole #
19, that being the clubhouse after your sixth gin and whoopee. So golfers are
far more serious than fly fishermen? Either that or they are more sensitive to
embarrassment. For anglers are serious about their sport too. Yet they would
rather be eaten by zombies than spend ten minutes twice a week in the back-yard
solving their problems.</div>
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I remember the moment I began practicing in earnest and
became a better caster as a result. It was during a fly-fishing event I was
working at a local shop. One of the reps, a tournament caster took an 8-weight
rod and threw the line into the backing with grace and little effort. He then
offered me the rod, but I begged off saying that my arm hurt. Rather it was my
ego that suffered contusions that day, for I had strength, but no grace, and
poor timing at best. The next day found me at the park, fly-rod in hand. I have
a nearly perfect forward cast today, but a back cast that several master
casting instructors still puzzle over, frowning and wondering why it works at
all. I continue to learn on the water and on the grass. Some day I will be a
caster worthy of the river, but for now, there are still situations on the
water that confound me, and if fly-fishing isn’t a game of problem-solving and
challenges, then I will hang up my rod and my pen and horror of horrors… take
up golf.</div>
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As I tell new fly anglers, “Nothing you can do will improve
your fly-fishing fun and fulfillment more that learning to cast proficiently.”
Not necessarily far, but at 30 feet. Pick-up and lay-down, roll, steeple,
side-arm, reach, etc.</div>
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So if you hook your friend in the ear on your errant
back-cast, the ensuing verbal conflagration might serve you well in remembering
not to drop your rod tip or break your wrist. It also might serve as a reminder
that you might want to join me at my lonely post as ‘That strange guy standing
in the park and fishing in his mind’. The putting green awaits, and practice
makes perfect… or perhaps less of a quadruple Bogy on the stream. But then you
might have to bring a new tape-measure to the river with you to measure your
success rather than the extent of the stretch of truth told over a 12 year old…
err..<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>6 year old, err… 6 month old
scotch. Errr… cheap bourbon.</div>
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See you on the velvet green!</div>
Erik Helmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00727530868264488710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918514418757933899.post-31754120238986576192019-03-21T18:26:00.000-05:002019-03-21T18:27:06.120-05:00An old fly fisher's club gets renewed<br />
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The Rejuvenation (copyright Erik Helm 2009) reposted for your enjoyment... Top ten vote getter!</div>
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Author's note: Ever go to a fishing club meeting? So many of them seem like an excuse to get away from the wife and eat and drink and tell lies to the same old farts that have gathered together for so many stale years.... well... here is one club that never saw what was coming!</div>
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As Richard listened to the speaker from the Fish and
Wildlife Department address the room on the subject of PH levels in area
streams, he slowly looked around at his fellow club members. Al had melted into
his chair, his pipe intermittently disgorging a cloud of smoke. Henry’s head
was slowly nodding forward as sleep took his eyes and brain. Cuthbert was
picking at his fingernails as always, and Ed was attempting to show he was
paying attention by hitting himself between the eyes repeatedly with the eraser
on his pencil.</div>
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This brought to Richard’s mind the same problem that had
been bugging him for the past six months. The fly-fishing club had become
stale. Boredom plagued the members. Richard had attempted to encourage new
subjects from speakers, had pushed a membership drive in order to infuse new
blood, and tried to interest the members in outings to new places, all to no
avail. The club seemed to be happy with the status quo, however sleepy it was.
Ennui.</div>
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Thinking back on the last several meetings and outings,
Richard sighed as he recalled Al’s fly-tying seminar. Al was a good tyer,
Richard had to admit, but for some reason, Al limited his fishing to three
patterns: a pheasant tail-nymph, an elk-hair caddis, and an Adams. He tied them
all perfectly, but that is all he tied. Richard had wondered more than once if
his constraint in fishing the three patterns had anything to do with the fact
that those flies were the only patterns Al had ever learned to tie. He also
seemed to recall that at the last tying seminar the club held only three months
ago, Al had demonstrated the same three flies.</div>
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Then there were Henry’s outings. Usually around half a dozen
of the club’s members would take part in a group fishing day on a local stream.
This April it had been Muskrat Creek. It was always Muskrat Creek for trout, or
Custer Park Pond for bass. The members would begin arriving late in the
morning, put in a desultory few hours of fishing, and then retire to a local
watering hole where Al would tell them about his three flies, or Peter would
talk about the time he almost met Jack Hemingway.</div>
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The outings had originally been intended as mentoring
sessions for newer anglers. However, since there had been few new members in
the last seven or eight years, the fishing days became more of a day to get
away from the wife for a few hours. What few new members there had been mostly
faded away within a few meetings, and never returned.</div>
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Therefore, as president, that was Richard’s dilemma: how to
infuse new energy into the somnambulant angling club.</div>
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Last meeting he had booked a local guide who had a slide
show on fishing for Atlantic striped bass from shore. One of the club members,
Richard could not remember exactly which one, had followed up the presentation
by asking the guide how the tactics he described might be applied on Custer
Park Pond. Richard had cringed in embarrassment. </div>
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The speaker from the Fish and Wildlife Department had
finished and departed, and the lights had been turned back up. Chuck, the club
secretary and treasurer, was yawning and wiping sleep from his eyes as he began
the formal part of the meeting: reading the minutes and taking care of new
business, of which there usually was very little indeed.</div>
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She walked in carrying an old canvas rod bag in her left
hand, her scent and legs preceding her.</div>
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The silence was so complete that Richard could hear Al’s
pipe clatter to the floor.</div>
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“Hi!” she said with a sweet smile revealing a set of perfect
teeth and full lips. “Is this the Peterborough Anglers Club?”</div>
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It was in the way she said it. There was no hint of shyness,
just clarity and confidence. Her name was Ann, and she was spending her summer
with an Aunt before returning to Boston to complete her master’s degree.</div>
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She was six feet of Boston Brahmin breeding and curves,
topped off by long wavy red hair and green eyes. Her purple skirt flowed as she
moved to find a chair and settle in. The green cable-knit sweater she wore
complemented her perfectly.</div>
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Ann was looking to find some fly-fishing nearby, and had
brought her grandfather’s seven-foot Payne bamboo rod with her for the summer.
She told the club that she fished the Catskill region from time to time, but
had not been on a stream for the past three months. Was there any chance of
trout fishing nearby?</div>
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Richard sat in his car at the pullout of Muskrat Creek and
watched with a wry smile as the club fished. It was seven a.m., and fully two
dozen members were in the creek by now, following Ann slowly through the
riffles. Henry seemed to have lost his limp, and left his wading staff back in
his car. Cuthbert had a new hat, and was wearing it at a jaunty angle. Chuck
had broken out his Bogdan reel, something he said he would never do. Richard
grinned as he heard Al explaining to a member how to tie a Quill-Gordon as they
walked down to the stream. </div>
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Even Stash, the oldest member in his late seventies, had a
spring in his step, and had finally managed to stop dropping his rod-tip as he
cast.</div>
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Richard shook his head in laughter as he reflected on all
his attempts to rejuvenate the club, only to have the answer walk right through
the door in the form of a feminine fountain of youth.</div>
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The next three months sure would be fun, he thought aloud as
he pulled on his better pair of waders.</div>
Erik Helmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00727530868264488710noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918514418757933899.post-77102976931617516992019-03-10T16:44:00.004-05:002019-04-02T13:22:48.692-05:00Strong Drink Take Ye... Not...<br />
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Copyright 2019 Erik Helm: Short Story, Fiction, Humor</div>
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</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2ZOufsyT_5kukYnXo3_YfniacSaLPol7OVAp9Q6qoBxN-QZDluwDIrTM_8mErb3szuYPxpWRATZjrm8vINIZqoMKJ8K1TH-dRHkU7ajoVBx__dTaV2F-bFdCsKUvtPYgZ-4Cn00un5N4/s1600/shine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2ZOufsyT_5kukYnXo3_YfniacSaLPol7OVAp9Q6qoBxN-QZDluwDIrTM_8mErb3szuYPxpWRATZjrm8vINIZqoMKJ8K1TH-dRHkU7ajoVBx__dTaV2F-bFdCsKUvtPYgZ-4Cn00un5N4/s400/shine.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh thou sinner!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The sermon</span></h1>
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The parishioners to the Lutheran church in the town of
Brule’ Wisconsin were a grim lot that Sunday when that memorable day happened.
The motley congregation filed in silently, and sat with bloodshot eyes and
sweating foreheads upon the notoriously uncomfortable pews that wobbled as one
sat down, and creaked when one moved. Old Toivo’s hair had been combed and
scrubbed, but was already coming astray with his twitching. The Paulson family,
all 14 of them, were in the front with the patriarch, Linus Paulson trying to
busy himself with the missal, his hands shaking from a wee too much brandy
consumed at the Saturday festivities the evening before. </div>
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As the Pastor, Fr. Larsson panned his vision over the
assembling devout; he reflected that today’s sermon was overdue. He blinked his
rheumy eyes and nodded with a smile to Leena, the oldest of the worshipers,
covered from head to toe in black lace. There were moans and coughs coming from
the back, where the less pious and roughest sinners and recalcitrants of the
area were packed together and fidgeting. Funny, Fr. Larsson thought to himself,
how they always pack to the front and to the back, and leave the middle like an
empty purgatory inhabited only by a few ghostly figures. Yes, they all were
suffering the after-effects of potent potables. He could even smell them from
the pulpit. So be it. The lord moves in mysterious ways.</div>
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Fr. Larsson looked at his watch, and then at his trembling
hands. “Never again!” he mumbled under his breath, as he thought back to the
bridge, and the birth of today’s sermon.</div>
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There was a conspicuous silence as the congregation followed
Fr. Larsson out of the clapboard church, and shook his hand with a greeting and
forced smile. As the parishioners broke into family groups and retired home to
Sunday dinner or to Michael's tavern, the later a little guiltily, the questions
were murmured, “What had made him do it?” After all Fr. Larsson was as fond of
his spirits as he was of the holy variety. Didn’t he come every evening to
Michael’s for a wee drop of something medicinal already smelling if he had
gotten into the sacramental wine? Didn’t he toast them and their families, and
even perhaps before leaving, sometimes even buy a round? Sure, didn’t he carry
in his jacket pocket a bottle with no label half-filled with some sort of
medicine against the cold fitted with a cork stopper? What had filled him with
such brimstone and gall as he railed against alcohol and sputtered and spat the
words from Proverbs and Ephesians at them? Was it hypocrisy now… or was it…?
The thought of a repentant temperance-pastor and crusader gave them all a bit
of a thirst, and the talk turned to what was to be done… if anything… or would
it all just blow over in time?</div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Of delirium tremens and canoes</span></h1>
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Ralph and Jake arranged their gear in the canoe carefully in
order to prevent an imbalance. Duffle bags, picnic basket, cooler, and their
fly tackle were strapped down as the sun rose over the birches and fir trees
surrounding Stone’s Bridge landing. The two intrepid adventurers from the
cities would be taking their first spring fishing trip down the Brule’ River
for trout, and the May weather was perfect. Almost too perfect, Ralph thought
to himself while glancing at the robin’s egg blue of the sky and the already
warm morning sun. Perfect weather for a canoe trip, even if the fishing might
suffer a bit.</div>
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There were a few splashes downstream against the weed beds
as the trout showed themselves hungry and in pursuit of the mayfly nymphs that
were climbing the waving fronds and hatching into little sailboats upon the
glassy water. They launched the canoe after rigging up their fly-rods and
pushed off, each taking turns at the paddle as the other cast to likely spots.
The smooth flow carried them downstream slowly, and everything seemed to be in
a nice rhythm that morning with the birds singing and swooping over the water,
the splashes of trout, the whisper of fly-line making loops through the air,
and the gentle hissing of the Brule’ as it wound its way sedately down toward
Lake Superior.</div>
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Each angler began catching a few brook trout, and an
occasional brown trout on the flies supplied at a local hardware store, and
tied in a back room by a character called ‘Feather Betty,’ who also served the
town as a sign-painter and local gossip. The trout sure liked her flies. They
switched off on the paddle a few more times before rounding a bend and deciding
to break the lemonade bottles out of the cooler. The May morning had blossomed
into one of those rare spring days when the heat of the sun finally breaks
through the wet of March and April and the foggy and cold memories of winter to
release the denizens of the north woods from their many months of slumber. God
it felt good!</div>
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Ralph handed a cold bottle of lemonade to Jake and they both
drank deeply and dreamily. After the first mile or so of river, and six nice
fat trout in the cooler wrapped in an old towel, they were casting lazily now,
and more interested in just enjoying the spring day. A pileated woodpecker flew
across the river and a kingfisher chattered, a young doe poked her head through
a stand of cedars and drank from the river, and Jake spotted an otter
slithering along the edges of the water. They began to get a hunger up for the
cold fried chicken and summer-sausage and cheese sandwiches sitting in the
wicker basket, but the only place to beach the canoe was up ahead a mile or so
on a little sandy shore which offered a rustic public landing. No worries
though, as the two anglers let the canoe float with the current, only keeping
it straight by an occasional gentle stroke of the wooden paddles. Ralph even
took off his shirt, and Jake let his bare feet dangle over the side to tickle
his toes in the liquid mirror of the Brule’</div>
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Our two heroes were having a beer after lunch when Jake
looked downstream and spotted an ominous dark cloud on the horizon. It is well
known in those parts that Lake Superior, that greatest of the Great Lakes, with
surface temperatures even on a sunny warm May afternoon under 40 degrees, is
more than capable of making its own weather. Mariners more experienced with
wizened eyes and calloused hands will head to a safe port rather than tempt
fate with this inland ocean when the swells and clouds gather. Unfortunately
when on a river…</div>
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“Hey Ralph,” Jake gesticulated with a shaky index finger,
“Looky there!” </div>
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They stared at the advancing dark mass as the wind began to
pick up, and came to the swift conclusion that they had better get the heck out
of dodge as fast as the boat would take them. “How far is the takeout,” Ralph
asked as Jake folded the river map. “About two miles… but river miles mind you,
and there are a few rapids and ledges ahead of us.”</div>
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The two quickly packed up the picnic basket and cooler and
pushed off downstream, this time with both men at the paddles, and using big
strokes.</div>
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The front hit them and knocked them back upstream and toward
the left bank after just half a mile was covered. The wind howled and the sun
was suddenly shrouded from view. The temperature dropped by 30 degrees in a
minute. They both knew they were in trouble.</div>
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As the front passed overhead, the winds died down just
enough to allow the now worried friends to make progress down river. The
trouble was that it was difficult to keep the canoe oriented properly. If it
tacked just a little it caught the upstream wind and turned sideways. They
began to fight every bend in the river when it started to rain.</div>
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Ralph asked Jake to hand him the green duffle bag. It
contained his spare clothes and a sweater and rain jacket. He also told Jake
that he had better put on his slicker as well.</div>
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“I didn’t bring one…” Jake said with slumped shoulders. “It
was so nice out that I never thought to bring anything else but jeans and a
shirt.”</div>
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“We can share,” Ralph countered, shaking his head. “I have a
spare poncho in the duffle.”</div>
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Jake continued his furious paddling, propelling the canoe
forward through some tricky ledges and fallen cedars. There was the sound of a
zipper opening followed by a lingering silence behind him.</div>
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“Shit.”</div>
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“What… what does that mean…?”</div>
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“It means, my dear intrepid partner, that I grabbed the
wrong duffle bag.” “The one with the sweaters, socks, and rain gear is back in
the trunk of the car.”</div>
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“Umm… okay… so riddle me this… what is in that duffle?”</div>
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Jake turned away for a moment and twisted to look back as
Ralph produced a large blob of colorful cloth.</div>
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“My kids costumes for the school play,” he explained,
holding up what looked to be several clown outfits.</div>
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“What play?” Jake asked haltingly.</div>
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“Snow white and the Seven Dwarves,” was the reply.</div>
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“And…”</div>
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“And, we have here Dopey and Grumpy.” “My wife sewed them
out of wool and felt, so at least they will be warm.”</div>
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“I’ll take Grumpy,” Jake stated. “At least it fits my mood.”</div>
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They back-paddled into a little eddy against the bank, and
dropping the little coffee-can filled with cement that served as an anchor,
quickly donned the too-small costumes. Jake looked at Ralph and started
laughing, realizing that he had to be a mirror image in his Dwarf-suit. A huge gray
fake beard that was integrated into his tall felt stocking cap hid Ralph’s
face. Built into the side were huge fake ears. His arms stuck out from the
costume from the elbow down.</div>
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“What?” Ralph asked with a smile.</div>
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“You look like… I don’t even know how to describe it!”</div>
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“You too, but even if we look like clowns, nobody will ever
see us, and we are sort of warmer…”</div>
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They pulled the anchor and continued downstream, the drizzle
soaking the costumes.</div>
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Before twenty minutes passed, Jake pulled the canoe over again,
steering towards shore.</div>
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“What’s up?” Ralph asked.</div>
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“My hands… I can’t feel my hands anymore… they’re freezing.”
“Hold up a bit, I have an idea!”</div>
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Jake rummaged around under the costume and triumphantly
produced a small mason jar filled with a clear liquid.</div>
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“What’s that?”</div>
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“Moonshine!” “I bought it from an old Scot in the parking
lot of the gas station.”</div>
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“You’re not going to start drinking?” Ralph queried in
alarm.</div>
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“No, this is pure alcohol.” “We can burn it in one of the
tin cups with a little cloth to act as a wick.”</div>
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Well, as ideas went, it might have been a desperate one, but
it worked. Jake tore off and twisted a piece of his costume cuff and placed it
into the tin cup, covered it with the moonshine, took a sip for good luck, and
using his Zippo lighter, touched it off.</div>
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“I don’t see any flame…” Ralph commented as Jake rubbed his
hands over the cup.</div>
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“It’s alcohol, the flame is invisible.” Jake replied, as
both of them began to heat their hands over the impromptu fire.</div>
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They left the cup to burn out by itself on the center
cushion, and shoved off downstream, their hands now toasty-warm. They had the
bridge in sight as they rounded a bend in the river. The takeout was a couple
of hundred yards past the old bridge. They would make it after all. That is
when Ralph, in the rear seat, began coughing. Jake turned to look just as the
old seat cushion, made of foam rubber and vinyl burst into flames and spewed
black smoke that enveloped the canoe. The tin cup had toppled over and spread
the burning alcohol. They began beating at it with their paddles, trying to put
out the fire, and causing the now out of control canoe to spin in circles.</div>
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Fr. Larsson stood in a melancholy mood against the rail of
the old bridge and took a swig from the nearly half-empty bottle of the best
the still in Iron River could produce. He flavored it with crushed juniper
berries from the bushes growing in front of the sacristy. One thing was nagging
at him, and he came here to clear his head. He had no sermon ready for this
Sunday’s high mass. It was bothering him, and so he was drinking and watching
the river flow, letting his thoughts float away… looking for inspiration.</div>
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From under the bridge came a sound of swearing and banging,
and the smell of burning brimstone. Emerging directly below him, Fr. Larsson,
to his horror, imagined he saw what looked to be four clown-devils shouting at
him and dancing around in a large fire that floated on the river. He closed one
eye… now it was two clown-devils. He smelled the burning, and heard the
incantations of the devils as they shouted. “Jesus!… Holy Christ!… Damn!"
chanted the figures as they spun downstream slowly and out of sight.</div>
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Fr. Larsson took a long swig from the bottle and splashed
some across his brow. He then made the sign of the cross, and heaved the bottle
far into the river. Whatever he had seen, it couldn’t be real… or could it?
Whatever the truth of that vision was that he saw on the river that day, one
thing could be sure… if it was caused by the shakes… the D.T.s or by temptation,
he would not touch a drop ever again! He crossed himself again, and wobbling
back toward town, began to get an idea for a sermon after all. “By God, I’ll
give ‘em hell, I will!” he shouted to a confused grouse perched above him in a
tree. “By God I will!”</div>
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Sunday evening saw a certain lack of jocularity in the
patrons of Michael’s tavern. The jukebox wasn’t playing, and the dice-cups were
all alone at the end of the bar, silent. Silent too were the usual suspects
seated at the bar and at the few tables, nursing small tap beers and looking
sorry for themselves.</div>
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The door opened and the pastor stood there blinking. He
walked slowly forward, his hands behind his back, acknowledging the silent nods
with a tip of his head. He sat down slowly at the bar.</div>
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By now every eye was half-downcast in a sort of shame, but
half-trained on Fr. Larsson, waiting for what might transpire. The silence
lasted a full minute.</div>
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“What the devil are all you starin at? Haven’t you ever seen
a repentant man before? Fr. Larsson bellowed.</div>
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<em><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Get everyone what
they want, and make mine a double!”</span></em></div>
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Erik Helmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00727530868264488710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918514418757933899.post-74008039486251931582019-02-24T15:57:00.000-06:002019-02-24T18:51:40.980-06:00An Interview with the Author<br />
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As this blog, and my writing ventures turn the corner after
over ten years of essays, short stories and vignettes I sat down to reflect
back and think about what Classical Angler means in both the literary sense,
and the bigger picture of what the writing is stating. I also wanted to detail
the creative process as well. How to do this?</div>
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I decided to interview myself.</div>
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Happy anniversary! Many have found a richer world of
fly-fishing and inspiration here. I hope for much more. Writing, like a fine
wine gets richer with age.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSsoh9eCiGFICrggAzVpXuzX6krPxqrB4w62lGkkFYEOk9kHJaVgiZY8TuBCQFhImM_VxeVPuVlSPcq2xOtMZvCH6ii6mrdjiQXLAGtNXeknEjzFRIBem3NSpF4MAUb8MV7MLQbt2zVC0/s1600/11614a+003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSsoh9eCiGFICrggAzVpXuzX6krPxqrB4w62lGkkFYEOk9kHJaVgiZY8TuBCQFhImM_VxeVPuVlSPcq2xOtMZvCH6ii6mrdjiQXLAGtNXeknEjzFRIBem3NSpF4MAUb8MV7MLQbt2zVC0/s400/11614a+003.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Question (Q): “Introduce yourself and describe your work.”</div>
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Erik Helm proprietor of Classical Angler fly-fishing and the
writer best known for being long-winded… just kidding… I live in the Driftless
region of Wisconsin where I guide anglers for trout and teach fly-fishing
classes and schools, produce fly-fishing related leather craft, and write the
Classical Angler Blog of literary explorations into fly-fishing.</div>
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I started all this in 2008. ‘Classical Angler’ came from a
study of classical music I was undertaking on my own at the time, as well as an
appreciation of ‘Classic’ fly-fishing… an era roughly from the late 19<sup>th</sup>
century through the 1970s… the time of the great authors, books, and magazine
articles. Sounds all planned out, but I really had no idea it would blossom
into a side-hobby of writing short stories and essays. Some friend or another
just suggested I start a blog. What’s that? I thought. Well, beginnings are
sometimes tender and innocent things like childhood. The future is an open
book, and you never know where it will go or take you.</div>
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I think of my writing as a blending of examination,
philosophy, humor, nature and the essential spirit of fly-fishing as a sort of
literary sport if you will… I don’t want to just write ‘How to’ or ‘Where to
go’ articles. For me writing is all about the creative process; finding art and
meaning in words and expression of the greater meanings of life seen through
the looking glass of the sport of angling.</div>
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I see somewhat of a vacuum out there in this genre. Articles
and books with actual literary content have been on the decline for the last 40
years, and I miss reading the stories and articles in the outdoor magazines I
picked out of my dad’s library and curled up with for hours on the floor before
the fireplace in long dark winters. Later, after writing for several years
(sometimes appalling poorly), I started collecting classic angling books and
articles by such authors as McQuarrie, Gingrich, Lyons, Haig-Brown, Atherton
and many others, and discovered a sort of symbiosis between my ideas and
thoughts and their explorations… an echo with or of what I was trying to say
and how I was trying to say it… an affirmation at least for me from a past
where creative writing could stand on its own without as many imposed
limitations of commercialism. My blog began to provide the perfect vehicle for
that freedom of expression. Freedom means not having to confine the realm of
artistic expression to less than 750 words or something like having a picture
inserted between each paragraph to hold attention span.</div>
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Q. “Can you describe your creative process?”</div>
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(Chuckling and shaking head while smiling)… Well… I think
each process is unique- each work different in its journey. I guess if I had to
categorize them, they would fit into several vague paths…</div>
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Some works, like ‘Ephemeral’, are like giving birth. The
idea is born and it just grows until it comes out all raw and screaming and
crying and shouting with joy. The works that develop like that often require
little note-taking or planning. Instead, they are born on the spot like Jazz
Improv, and are both exhausting and exhilarating to write. Also, with pieces of
this type I don’t like to disturb them by over-editing afterwards. The mood, mindset,
or passion of the voice of the piece… its soul… if that doesn’t sound too
hokey, can be upset and actually ruined by afterthought and picking and poking
about. I would almost rather scrap a piece entirely, which does get done, than
ruin the fluid thought process which makes it unique. Some pieces are very
unique… like something cooked up on the stove without any recipe, and should not be
fussed with by adding, subtracting, or even trying to coax it in a different
direction. Each piece has a growth process that should not have me forcing any
pre-conceived ideas upon it. Each word, sentence, or paragraph effects the one
following… each turn bringing new discoveries and influencing new thoughts and
ideas. I guess every artist has a different method… Mozart wrote everything
down straight out of his head with little or no corrections. He saw and heard
the piece in his mind. Beethoven, on the other hand was a meticulous editor,
scribbling and erasing and adding and annotating until his scores were often
notoriously undecipherable, yet they both produced beauty.</div>
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I have had several pieces take me a month or more of
note-taking on thoughts and ideas before I actually sat down and wrote the
piece… so yea… there are endless paths to the fruition of an idea. It all starts
with the idea… the inspiration. Sometimes those ideas came to me all at once…
at 3 in the morning while lying in bed, or while fishing or taking a nature
walk. Sometimes the ideas are a dead-end or a failure. I keep several notebooks
full of ideas for essays and writing. On occasion I will page through them and
find a neat idea that remained an orphan and adopt or merge it with something
else and it turns out better after sitting a year on the back burner. I guess
one never knows…</div>
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One trap I have fallen into several times is taking too big
a bite or too wide a view of a subject. Often the ideas get all muddled up and
clarity is lost. It’s like a soup with one too many ingredients… it loses its
unique taste trying to be too much…. Too many blended ideas and the
individuality is sacrificed. I usually try to scrap these and approach them
later, but most of my works, including the short stories are actually composed
or written in one session at the computer.</div>
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Q. “Why the essay? Why do you find this so compelling versus
developing much longer pieces?”</div>
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Great question! I guess I feel that the essay, long or
short, offers a completion, a framing if you will, of an idea, and is
accessible to the reader. I like to compel thought with my writing and weave
themes in a more artistic expression than possible with chapters or some other
format. Maybe it has to do with my personal creative style, but I like to
create and then more on to contemplate another work or creation. The essay
allows the writer to examine things and proffer an argument even if it is
hidden. Often my vignettes have hidden subject matters. Take ‘Gas Station
Flies’ for example… ostensibly a piece about history and nostalgia, the hidden
subject emerges as the author as a child peeping through the trees with his
father at a famous river… it is a piece on growing up… a piece about memories
and change. These themes sometimes emerge from nowhere as I am writing… and I
love that process! I like not knowing! Let the piece tell me what it is all
about. Sometimes the actual subject matter shifts right before my eyes. I find
that so amazing and fulfilling… at least when it works…</div>
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Q. “And the short stories?”</div>
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The short stories by necessity are far more planned. I
usually have a framework written down as to the theme or themes and where I
want it to begin and end… the subject too and some of the detours, but the
writing process still tends to be eclectic. I do like to add mystery and a bit
of horror at times as well as local history. It seems to draw in the reader when
a story begins innocently enough, but then becomes far more than one thought
after the first few paragraphs. I am a very avid reader of the genre of the
short story, especially 19<sup>th</sup> century and early 20<sup>th</sup>
century authors such as H.H. Munro, Somerset Maugham, and others like Checkhov
who have the amazing talent to start their stories not always at a definable
point or beginning, but in the middle of nowhere and travel through the story
in non-linear directions. My chosen wider subject matter, that of angling, can
only accept so much pushing at the boundaries of convention, and I do try to
push as hard as I can sometimes. I think convention is dull or boring…
repetitive and stale. How many stories can you read where a man catches a fish?
Hemingway pretty much owns that! But… what about a story with masked themes
where the reader forgets all about the fish? That speaks to me. </div>
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Q. “I notice you switch voices and moods in your writing
between pieces. Is there a reason for that?”</div>
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All artist are nuts! (Laughs) or just human…</div>
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Well… the mood of the writer and their voice can change…
must change I believe. Many writers in a genre like this have one established
voice, be it humor, philosophical, romantic, serious, happy or sad. Established
voices work. They are predictable. Read some authors out there and after awhile
one becomes kind of lost. Each piece is the same. We go fishing, then a
reflection and philosophical detour, we come back to the fishing, another
reflection, a laugh, and a predictable conclusion. I like to vary the mood. I
never want to write two similar pieces in a row. Two pieces of humor for
example… I try to include a different tonality in each piece. I often write to
a background of classical music, and choose the music or composer based on the
piece I am trying to develop. For passion I might play Beethoven, for jazz
madness… Mahler comes to mind… Poetic subtlety… Bach… We are getting back to my
pre-natal stages of development as a writer. Why, by accident I coined the term
‘Classical Angler’… because the various moods and passions govern music and our
interpretation of music. They mimic our humanity. Instrumental music mimics the
human voice that expresses our existence. Often I find writing about
fly-fishing as satisfying or even more so than actually going fishing. When
ideas flow like rivers the catch becomes more permanent and the journey is its
own reward. Fishing can often be kind of one-dimensional, but writing can be
almost four-dimensional… More freedom to go beyond the rivers into our own
existential being…</div>
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Experiences on the stream have moods as well: frustration,
elation, reflection, joy, wonder at nature, fear of nature, centering and
mindfulness…The themes I develop should reflect those moods if crafted
properly. Formulaic writing may be successful in many instances, but it bores
me.</div>
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Q. “What are some of your favorite pieces you have written?”</div>
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The next one! (smiling)</div>
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Seriously… I don’t know. What I like and what the reader
likes are often very different. Some pieces stand out to me, but fail to
inspire the reader or miss the mark. I aim too high or too low or simply
obscure too much… I am told, or have been told that I am at my best from or in
a free-form mode… like jazz. I like ‘Dear Theo’ for that reason… for its sheer
uniqueness of subject matter and framing. One current author wrote me
concerning it that he thought it “Amazingly inventive.” “The Stand” is possible
my favorite short story, and short and eclectic pieces like “Depression and
Blue Winged Olives” keep coming back to me as compelling. I sometimes wonder
what went into it… what drove it when it was written… or other pieces as well,
but have to just say… “Well, there it is!” I can never recapture the mood so to
speak. “Water-Putting” is a neat little journey of humor and truth as is “Its
Complicated.” That last one I never remember writing… It just seemed to appear
before me already written… I don’t know…</div>
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Q. “They say no writer is ever born a writer, instead they
have a hundred lives before they begin to create.”</div>
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I agree. I was never a writer until middle age. In fact,
although a notorious book-worm, my grammar and spelling was so poor that it
drove my parents nuts! I guess I was always creative though… it’s in the genes.
My dad was a classical pianist and history buff. Mom was amazing artist and
painter of regional acclaim in Wisconsin. She produced thousands of oils,
watercolors, sketches, pastels, drawings, etc. So many varied styles and
explorations. Amazing artist… I think I got the creativity from her. That and I
am an only child, so I was left to entertain myself often enough. There was
always music and art in our house on the East-Side of Milwaukee. We had a
saying, or my parents did… “Bored? Go mow the lawn!” That could translate as
‘There are a million things to do and explore in life… Boredom is a sin.’</div>
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I first tried writing in college. I had an amazing creative
writing teacher… a gal who back in the day smoked in the classroom, looked like
a cleaned up version of Janice Joplin, and urged us to always explore. I loved
writing poetry. She hated it as it was awfully contrived, and she was right.
However, she found my creative stories to be very original. She said I knew how
to tell a good story.</div>
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But I never did anything serious with writing until after
both of my parents passed away. As a form of catharsis I wrote a long memoir
entitled ‘Up on Downer,’ referring to the street we lived on in Milwaukee, and
a play on words. Yikes… it would require a year of editing for subject and
consistency if it were ever to be publishable, but it taught me about writing,
especially the voice, and how important it is in relaying a feeling or a mood
underlying a subject.</div>
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It wasn’t until a year or so after starting ‘Classical
Angler,’ that I sat and re-read some of the pieces I had written and realized
they had some promise. What I lacked was freedom. The pieces that failed were
too contrived again: too methodical. The works that sang were less constrained.
I began to find my voice or voices. I began to write with confidence. That was a
long process, and I still struggle. However, producing something that can be
read and enjoyed is the most fulfilling thing I have ever done. I spent much of
my adulthood for some reason trying to be a business guy… to prove something to
myself… from Information Technology to retail management and everything in
between. Funny if we find ourselves back at our own roots sooner or later. I
guess writing makes me happy, and that I am thankful for, even if the process
of general acceptance can be naked at times, and people don’t read in depth
anymore, the creative process has to come out. I write for the few people who
will appreciate it. I feel lucky to be able to create.</div>
Erik Helmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00727530868264488710noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918514418757933899.post-243578183753073582019-02-19T15:52:00.001-06:002019-04-02T13:23:39.604-05:00The Oath-Takers<br />
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<em>Two old friends have an adventure of a lifetime along a
northern Wisconsin trout stream… one that they might want to keep amongst
themselves for obvious reasons. Copyright 2019 Erik Helm</em></h2>
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The plan, as Ed explained it to Pete, his life-long friend
and fellow fly angler, was to fish Moose Creek in Northern Wisconsin for
brookies. They would park the old Buick at the highway bridge, wade up the
creek carrying their lunches, and be able to fish right until dusk without
having to retrace their steps after dark by utilizing a dike which lay at the
upper stretches of the creek, and ran back to the road through a cranberry bog
after skirting a local lake.</div>
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This idea emerged after last year’s trip to this same river
led to stubbed toes, a dunking or two, a lost wading boot in the bog, and an
exhausting trek back out following the meandering river back downstream to the
car, and missing the evening rise for fear of being trapped after dark. This
seemed like a better plan Pete thought to himself, but asking Ed anyway “Are
you sure about that dike short-cut… Is it public…?”</div>
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“Old railway bed, I checked with the guy at the gas station,
and he says it’s fine.”</div>
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It was a warm sunny morning when they parked the car at the
bridge after a drive of six hours from the city.</div>
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“Risers!” Pete said as he looked over the bridge into the
little creek as Ed busied himself with waders and assembling his Garrison
bamboo rod, his cherished possession. Pete had purchased a Payne rod ten or so
years ago, but he always was jealous of the Garrison. Ed felt the same way, he
was jealous of the Payne.</div>
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It had always been like that for the two old lifetime
friends. Since they met in grade school, they had always done everything
together, fished, hunted, dated and even married two sisters, having the
ceremony together at the same church. The friendship had warmed to a form where
polite teasing and friendly competition always formed a background to their
adventures.</div>
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Ed opened up the sack with his lunch to check it before
stuffing it into the back pouch on his vest, and the smell of burned bacon
wafted forth. Betty was a great cook, Pete reflected, but she always burned the
bacon. Everything Ed owned tended to smell a bit like bacon, even his fishing
tackle. Pete’s wife, on the other hand, had a thing for cabbage, and cooked it
into everything, even the eggs. His lunch would be stuffed cabbage rolls
wrapped in foil. Between the two of them, they smelled like a cheap diner
blue-plate special, but Ed liked burned bacon, and Pete had an affinity for
cabbage. The friendship fit together like two puzzle pieces.</div>
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The rising trout were a good omen as the two friends fished
their way up the stream. The air was filled with little brown mayflies, and
each angler had several dozen flies they had tied in the weeks before the trip
that matched the hatching insects perfectly, even if Ed’s flies smelled a bit
like burned bacon.</div>
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By the late afternoon they had made their way a mile up the
creek and stopped for lunch. Both Pete and Ed had released a dozen brook trout
in the ten to thirteen inch ranges, and kept several of the largest for the
ladies to cook for breakfast. They paused for an hour after they had eaten and
smoked a pipe, quietly enjoying the beauty of the conifer forest, the spring
warblers, the wood ducks flying overhead, and hidden calls of woodcock and
bittern.</div>
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They needed this trip away from the noise and fast pace of
the city and their jobs, Ed thought. They were both nearing retirement age
soon, and the thrill of business was slowly being replaced with a longing for
memories made in quiet places.</div>
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Memories…</div>
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Pete thought about the time in their early teens that the
two of them discovered his dad’s beer stash under the porch, and climbed an
apple tree to drink a few in secret, feeling like men, or at least playing at
being one. The beer was warm and kind of skunky, but neither of them would
admit it or say anything, so they finished drinking them while telling stories
of the future, and what they would do when they were older. The problem became
how to get out of the apple tree. Pete’s legs didn’t work right after the
beers, and Ed was seeing double. They both had thrown up their dinners, and it
took them several hours to sober up and get down from their perches among the
branches.</div>
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Ed reminisced upon the time when he and Pete had first
hunted grouse together. Pete’s first hunting dog was a remarkably dumb lab
named ‘Pep’, short for Pepto-Bismol because that damn dog gave anyone hunting
over her a case of sour-stomach. Sure enough, Pep never did flush a bird that
day, but instead found a skunk, and deciding it might be a funny kind of
grouse, chased it into some bushes. They returned to the car and drove home
with Pep in the trunk covered in tomato juice. They both had to burn their
hunting clothes.</div>
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Funny all the memories that old friends can share, and
through all of them, they had kept the vast majority of any misadventures to
themselves, despite temptation after a few drinks to tell the boys a hell of a
story. “Let’s keep this to ourselves,” became their oath of silence.</div>
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With evening approaching and the sun beginning to angle, the
woods and river cooled and mists began to rise along with the trout, giving an
otherworldly almost spooky church-like atmosphere to the upper stretch. It was
worth all the planning though. As dusk set the two friends caught more trout
than they had ever caught before, and Pete hooked one while his fly was
dangling beside him in the water between casts, while Ed managed to hook a
trout on his back-cast. The fish were suicidal now in a crazed frenzy to eat
the falling spinners of the brown mayflies that hatched all day.</div>
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The last light faded from orange into pastel pinks and
fuchsias as the mists rising from the creek and surrounding bog became thicker.
It was time to go. They could keep the trout fresh in the cooler in the car and
breakfast tomorrow would be heavenly.</div>
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Ed led the way through the bog to a small rise that
indicated the side of the dike or railway grade dimly appearing through the
growing fog which smelled and tasted like something from prehistoric times.
Whippoorwills began to call all around them, and darkness blanketed the woods.</div>
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They were ten feet from the dike when Ed stopped.</div>
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“Shh…” he whispered. “There is something big and dark
standing out in the cranberry bog right ahead of us… Don’t look like a tree,
kind of like a bear or some animal…”</div>
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Pete had better eyes than Ed. “That’s a Moose,” he exclaimed
in surprise, trying to keep his voice low.</div>
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“Shoot. Moose are unpredictable and dangerous. Does it have
antlers?”</div>
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Ed squinted through the fog. “Yup, big rack too. I can see
them clearly outlined against the sky.”</div>
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As darkness settled into inky blackness, the two stayed very
silent and still. Neither had any idea what to do at this stage, and the
thought was beginning to occur to them that they may have to spend some time
stuck here until the moose, still dimly outlined in the near distance, moved on
from its feeding. Ed found a large boulder nearby, and suggested that if they
were going to be stuck here for a bit, they might as well be dry. They climbed
the knobby chunk of granite careful to not make an errant sound.</div>
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It became obvious to both of them before long that they were
well and truly stuck. The moose might or might not be still there, and they
could no longer see through the fog and moonless night to be certain.</div>
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“O.K., let’s take inventory,” Pete quietly murmured. “I have
a bag of peanuts, what do you have?” “A half a pint of peppermint schnapps,” Ed
replied. They had left the half-full thermos of hot coffee back in the car
because it was such a nice day. Both of their minds ended up focused on that
hot coffee as a light drizzle began to fall, and their backs began to ache from
sitting on the uneven cold rock.</div>
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After midnight, they broke down. Ed offered the schnapps to
Pete after taking a swig himself, and Pete opened the peanuts. “Wait a minute
Pete!” Ed exclaimed. What if Moose like peanuts? I can smell them like
anything, and I bet the moose can too.” The peanuts were put away, and a long
silence began. After an hour a staccato rattling was heard.</div>
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“What’s that?” Pete asked in a hush. “My teeth!” Ed
answered. “I’m freezing, and I can’t feel my feet!”</div>
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“We need energy… food. I am so hungry I could eat my hat.”</div>
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“Kind of like the Donner Party…”</div>
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“What…. Eat each other and our hats?”</div>
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“No, as in we need food and we are marooned. Moose don’t eat
trout, get it?”</div>
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“Cold trout? I can’t see my pocketknife to clean them.”</div>
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Hunger and cold can drive men to do things they might think
themselves incapable of in better circumstances. The raw trout tasted like bog,
slimy and silty, and made an interesting combination with the last of the
schnapps. They almost gagged, but managed to eat a trout apiece to help keep
them warm through the night.</div>
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The two old friends spent the night on a cold knobby boulder
in a cranberry bog miserable with the drizzle surrounded by woods noises that
to both of their now acute imaginations sounded like a huge moose on the prowl.
In the weak dead hours of pre-dawn, they managed to nod off to sleep, propped
against each other for warmth and stability.</div>
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A cloudy and misty dawn broke slowly into the forest and
bog, the light increasing until the two anglers could begin to see again.
Awake, but bleary eyed, they both peered through the banks of fog and into the
heart of the cranberry bog in the direction of the road and the position of the
moose the night before.</div>
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“I can’t see it,” Pete sputtered, “It must be gone by now…”</div>
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“No… there it is!” Ed chattered through his teeth, “It
hasn’t moved!” “It’s in the same place as last night.” “It’s huge! I can see
its antlers from here!”</div>
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“Wait a minute…” Pete exclaimed, the increased volume of his
voice causing Ed to cringe. “I smell foul here. No moose is going to stand out
there in a field all night and not move. I am too tired and cold and hungry to
care any more. I am going to creep forward and check it out.” They decided that
Ed would follow behind, and if Pete got mauled, he was in charge of breaking
the news to Erma, Pete’s wife. Pete figured he had the better end of the stick.</div>
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The two crept slowly forward on the relatively dry abandoned
railway dike toward the outline of the moose, appearing now menacingly large
before them. Fifty feet away they paused. Pete spoke first, standing up and
clicking his tongue in disapproval. “Look Ed, It has wooden posts for legs!”</div>
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“I’ll be a monkey’s…” Ed began, trailing off into silence.
They walked up to the moose. Ed knocked on it with his knuckles. Wood. It was
over life-size and was painted black. They could see the highway now clearly as
the meager sun began to burn off the fog of morning.</div>
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They walked around the moose and stared at it from the
front. A stylized moose it was. Looking not half like Bullwinkle the billboard
proclaimed cheerfully…</div>
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“Visit Scenic Moose Lake! Next Exit.”</div>
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“I’ll be damned…” they both exclaimed quietly.</div>
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“I feel like an idiot,” Ed admitted.</div>
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“That is beside the point Ed,” Pete laughed rather
seriously.” “The point is I feel the fool too, but the important thing is to
keep this to ourselves. Nobody, even our wives must ever hear of this.” “Even
our wives?…” Ed grimaced. “Yea, especially them. You know the boys at the lodge
and the tavern would here of it sooner or later, and we would be the butt of
jokes forever.”</div>
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They came up with a story. The car broke down, and they had
to spend the night huddled under blankets until in the morning, when they
discovered the problem: wet spark-plug wires. That would do the trick, Ed
thought aloud. “Yea… Betty is always nagging me about getting the spark plugs
changed anyway. She would get a chuckle out of that one, and it would only cost
me a few bucks for new plugs.”</div>
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“I am serious about the silence thing Ed,” Pete said shaking
his head and smiling. “I think we should take an oath.”</div>
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“What… like double dog dare, or spit and shake… that sort of
thing?”</div>
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“I was thinking more along the lines of something else… If
you tell anyone, I get your fly rod, and if I tell anyone, you get mine as a
penalty. That should keep our mouths shut for a while.”</div>
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The two old friends shook on it and the oath was taken.</div>
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Ed got the nickname of ‘Bullwinkle’ a few weeks later. Pete
was referred to as ‘Moose’ for the rest of his life.</div>
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It was worth it, Pete reflected as he landed a nice trout on
his new Garrison rod. Pete was in the distance, proudly playing a fish on his
equally new Payne.</div>
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Author’s note: <i>On a trip to the Brule’ river in northern
Wisconsin, I passed a field on foggy autumn morning and glancing to my right,
spotted a huge bull moose with black fur and white antlers standing in a boggy
lowland, partially shrouded by the enveloping mists. I was pumped to see such a
rare sight in Wisconsin… until…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>Two years later I was driving the same stretch of highway
up to the Brule’ on a sunny day, and reflected that right about here is where I
spotted that moose…<o:p></o:p></i><br />
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<i>Out in the field stood a perfect replica of a moose, made
of plywood and life-size, and painted black with white antlers. Some farmer’s
idea of a joke. I felt the fool. Now that might make the basis for a good story
I thought… until three years later here I am with the idea fully formed. A
fishing trip and an oath of secrecy… else the fool!</i></div>
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Erik Helmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00727530868264488710noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918514418757933899.post-10472593467668935412019-02-19T12:12:00.000-06:002019-02-19T12:12:24.477-06:00Handcrafts
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Winter brings on a time for reflection and creativity. Here
are two of my latest projects.</div>
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<strong>Rebirth of an American Original:</strong></div>
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I purchased a highly used Savage Stevens 311 side by side
shotgun in 20 gauge this winter. This blue-collar piece of Americana looked
like somebody had glued shotgun parts to a stock for a Daisy red-ryder BB-gun.
Selling for less than $100 new, these shotguns were made bombproof. They were
utility no-frills hunting tools and had to function even after being thrown
into the back of a pickup or carried on a tractor. No room was left at that
price point for aesthetics. A walnut stock was eschewed in favor of beech wood.
This was sprayed with a mix of stain and varnish that often aged badly, melting
and fading unevenly. Checkering was burned in poorly and often crookedly as
well. It was a diamond in the rough, with nice casing to the metal, but would
require the stock to be altered and refinished. As I looked at it in the gun
shop, I saw both the flaws and the possibilities. The challenge? Could I manage
to restore this and make it look like a respectable side by side? I had never
refinished or reshaped a stock before.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo8INlPqtKbAhjWqq6KzbRJ7f_-JjCDpbOSn1vyaRLUgwfjN-yE3Wy2eqn68By6wZH_uk4fGwTGYBW071TgaB2obvNiZReeqVgDZERHqOa3B_zDkO7_9nNRJNavGJGN0Mgw1gwRDLHlMY/s1600/20181222_130711.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo8INlPqtKbAhjWqq6KzbRJ7f_-JjCDpbOSn1vyaRLUgwfjN-yE3Wy2eqn68By6wZH_uk4fGwTGYBW071TgaB2obvNiZReeqVgDZERHqOa3B_zDkO7_9nNRJNavGJGN0Mgw1gwRDLHlMY/s400/20181222_130711.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Raw stock with bad finish and crappy checkering</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU3AhkpvOa4m8Yx2JxVsruBgFW-rz-1t-0Q4FQrlBUaYF7CtZqlRRAe-3fm2ODVBUf4IMPVhkvYsK2kCHUFE6HTjfcz7BozE50HIQ0YhDlUm0ovbu34vdZZov8JGq3Rt2KwC2Lr7rqoJY/s1600/20181226_144432.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU3AhkpvOa4m8Yx2JxVsruBgFW-rz-1t-0Q4FQrlBUaYF7CtZqlRRAe-3fm2ODVBUf4IMPVhkvYsK2kCHUFE6HTjfcz7BozE50HIQ0YhDlUm0ovbu34vdZZov8JGq3Rt2KwC2Lr7rqoJY/s400/20181226_144432.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sanded and re-shaped</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge2WBNDNJE183pIiTUPJmc7k36QuO1S7ShZef6Duuk-pBWdd047aJxB-nYm-ZjZk_VONMleGsW_oS07Sazz8cp7M97FDMxKtyDVZMLNeMJqVRedHGMoHeHTNf0mlhyiQevYA2uvgB2Fw0/s1600/20181227_123748.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge2WBNDNJE183pIiTUPJmc7k36QuO1S7ShZef6Duuk-pBWdd047aJxB-nYm-ZjZk_VONMleGsW_oS07Sazz8cp7M97FDMxKtyDVZMLNeMJqVRedHGMoHeHTNf0mlhyiQevYA2uvgB2Fw0/s400/20181227_123748.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Staining in progress</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGJEd0gxofqupzH4c1c1T-wP-cztZ47Dl4JoiQMmJT3Q8dHx2AEQptauICy6A9FvlYN3sji148xErFTNJiaC1sfloeh1OM3PVA_J-KAdrxEiffwcWvlK9onCWjxyKpzlVLbyu8R5smGBM/s1600/20181228_145520.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGJEd0gxofqupzH4c1c1T-wP-cztZ47Dl4JoiQMmJT3Q8dHx2AEQptauICy6A9FvlYN3sji148xErFTNJiaC1sfloeh1OM3PVA_J-KAdrxEiffwcWvlK9onCWjxyKpzlVLbyu8R5smGBM/s400/20181228_145520.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stain completed</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyYCw_hlIkBkOcCV9RreFpJIw0ix7vO3HCOFmc7XZGaSPxVRKJmEkjdhnlQDibKthhmrkF03nIzFcI3pxTlkuDp0RLBoWS491oD3fEXbbj_JfjG0G1McNWDWyGLSr3R7F392exDDUWvbE/s1600/20190109_144256.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyYCw_hlIkBkOcCV9RreFpJIw0ix7vO3HCOFmc7XZGaSPxVRKJmEkjdhnlQDibKthhmrkF03nIzFcI3pxTlkuDp0RLBoWS491oD3fEXbbj_JfjG0G1McNWDWyGLSr3R7F392exDDUWvbE/s400/20190109_144256.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Finished!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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After 3 weeks of work, this is what came out. I took the
stock down with sandpaper and files, reshaping the squared off blocky looks to
a more slender and elegant form, and re-sculpted the grip. I took off some of
the burned in checkering as well. Then came hours of hand sanding using
progressively finer papers to achieve a glass like surface of wood. Every step
was done without any use of power-tools. I like to feel the raw material in my
hands and let the material and my fingers guide me instead of trying to force
myself on the subject by grinding away with impersonal electric appliances.</div>
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Multiple stains were tried on scrap wood until I finally was
happy with the coloring. The bare wood beech stock had little grain to it, so
that would have to brought out as well. How it would turn out was a mystery
since I was on un-trodden ground here at least for me. It was all a great experiment.
The two color and two-part staining worked out beautifully, especially after
copious rubbing with a tack cloth.</div>
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Now for the finish…</div>
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Ah, Tung-oil… the stuff of frustration… will it ever dry?</div>
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Six coats of thin Tung-oil went on slowly in the late morning
sunlight of a cold January. Every day the stock was sanded with wet-dry paper
and another coat of oil rubbed on by hand with my fingers.</div>
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Finally assembled, the old Savage-Stevens was now
unrecognizable from its original form. It had arisen from rust and dust and
poor machine finishing to glow with pride.</div>
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Hunting with it for the first time was a joy, even if no
bunnies were actually harmed, and the day consisted of wandering around the
woods and briars with a shotgun in hand.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig-jfHSo0W67p5KukpX5w7O9dkAnrodtMYQJDQhYqo6IdZxKnAFjRZnMI2AmGggnwqX-E5t6MueVhN2XGXieqoOix-RErP5z5e4S1OrNL8RtWkiiu1cPtz47547iNKSOeX1SdMWmKhaQA/s1600/20190111_142001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig-jfHSo0W67p5KukpX5w7O9dkAnrodtMYQJDQhYqo6IdZxKnAFjRZnMI2AmGggnwqX-E5t6MueVhN2XGXieqoOix-RErP5z5e4S1OrNL8RtWkiiu1cPtz47547iNKSOeX1SdMWmKhaQA/s400/20190111_142001.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the field</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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What mattered is the pride of ownership I felt at having
something I was proud of and labored over lovingly for all those weeks.</div>
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Handcraft can be so fulfilling. </div>
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<strong>Rod tube commission.</strong><br />
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The second project was a commission from a client and
friend. He saw several of the first leather rod tubes I handcrafted and wanted
one to fit several Joe Balestrieri bamboo fly rods which were being designed
and built for him.</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmCKbdQhFHveVjjB3CpxlDl3hHVG2WYTP-NGaBw8Ms8OpwZnzMjBn82jDv4lrtsqLJuW-FyXBQlNcR8utjJtvtLHIsnisS94xJ1-h9TqCqPxTPuT9vGRDyIipzbShyphenhyphenZD8mcEEXAeyEFZw/s1600/tube2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmCKbdQhFHveVjjB3CpxlDl3hHVG2WYTP-NGaBw8Ms8OpwZnzMjBn82jDv4lrtsqLJuW-FyXBQlNcR8utjJtvtLHIsnisS94xJ1-h9TqCqPxTPuT9vGRDyIipzbShyphenhyphenZD8mcEEXAeyEFZw/s400/tube2.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The problem: Each of my prior rod tubes looked beautiful,
but were not, at least in my opinion, ready for production or sale. The
finishing processes were just not quite up to par.</div>
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I challenged myself to make a piece of art worthy of the
rods that were going to be carried by it. No corners would be cut here. Time
would be taken to ensure a perfect fit and finish. I also wanted it to be
ornate, unique, and rather antique looking.</div>
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The owner is very happy with it, and I am proud to have
produced a little piece of art out of time and leather. I can now make these to
custom order. Price is $700 for the standard model pictured below.</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDBkDH7sOQJrTDoEi4rshOf_T5IBh1B4SViwkkFheodCbkK2aN_S_dZx216zAf9BPDnChQ_CrbhAJmH1TnGQofDcl_x_gktKpfXyJzzty5nfSYcjOYsYfhApMPRS5IWNUtRMv_cbKxeX0/s1600/tube5.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1280" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDBkDH7sOQJrTDoEi4rshOf_T5IBh1B4SViwkkFheodCbkK2aN_S_dZx216zAf9BPDnChQ_CrbhAJmH1TnGQofDcl_x_gktKpfXyJzzty5nfSYcjOYsYfhApMPRS5IWNUtRMv_cbKxeX0/s400/tube5.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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Erik Helmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00727530868264488710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918514418757933899.post-87730660894853670712018-12-17T16:05:00.000-06:002018-12-17T16:05:11.659-06:00Old Hat
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0mFxB6BeNppp4P54v3xsVSsYmxfKSZVIMqk6KlfSaRHdXXm-0Z-AiLsyGJgeCJkGcic5XiZq6U7o5FDkCG2fueOKAp-I3giEH_cP3K8jvOet2RnJEHAI1N0yv5r6tacgoWyBm1n6kUY0/s1600/old+hat+005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0mFxB6BeNppp4P54v3xsVSsYmxfKSZVIMqk6KlfSaRHdXXm-0Z-AiLsyGJgeCJkGcic5XiZq6U7o5FDkCG2fueOKAp-I3giEH_cP3K8jvOet2RnJEHAI1N0yv5r6tacgoWyBm1n6kUY0/s400/old+hat+005.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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The end of trout season found me putting away gear, and so,
to the dreaded overstuffed closet I went. I was clearing space on the top shelf
consisting of hats of all variety when it occurred to me that I have a rather
large and cumbersome collection of fishing hats in various styles and states of
decrepitude. As I sorted through them, each brought back memories. An old Hardy
ball cap that I had worn for years while chasing steelhead in the western
united states almost got discarded after last year I tossed in the washer and
dryer and it turned into a frayed rag, but yet it still sat there with its
sweat stains, little holes marking where I stuck flies as I changed them. </div>
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Dad’s old Irish hats were stacked in the corner. They get
rotated and used each winter season because they hold different kind of
memories, and they keep my ears warm, and the snow off my neck. There was an
old waxed cotton cowboy hat that sort of melted and deformed and thus fell out
of circulation. Tweed caps filled a box. I wear one of them every year on the
Brule’ river, and their inner brims were still filled with flies. In the back,
buried under yet more hats was an old cap from the first fly shop I worked in
so many years back. I took it out and hung it next to my tying area for
inspiration.</div>
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Sometimes rooting around through old things spurs thought,
and I began to ponder the fishing hat as an object symbolic of more: of time,
of history, of expression. I may have traveled to the rivers and came home with
images of water and fish burned into my cortex, but the hats retained even some
of the dirt, the very substrate under the rivers. They weren’t just hats, they
were pieces of my angling history.</div>
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Sidetracked from my gear organization task, I paged through
old copies of fly-fishing magazines and books looking for hats and found a
treasury of ads and photos that had one thing in common: that of a lack of
commonality. Every hat that could be imagined was donned by the anglers: terry
cloth, tweed, straw, the ballcap, the bucket hat, the English driving cap,
Irish walking hats, cowboy hats, trucker caps, packet hats, trilbys, even
Bavarian alpine hats. Then I looked in a new magazine, and every picture had
the same flat-brim ballcap. The variety had disappeared. I had a long discussion
with other anglers older than I regarding fishing back in the day and the hats
they wore and an idea emerged…</div>
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Back in England and in America as well until the turn of the
twentieth century, there was a required ‘look’ to going fishing including
proper attire, and topped by the finest in fashion chapeau. Sometime in the
1920s and 1930s and into the 1980s a change took place. Anglers no longer
wanted to wear a ‘uniform’. They did that five days a week on their job.
Fishing became a time for getting away from the factory and office, and an
increase of working class anglers and hunters filled the outdoors on weekends.
They finally had some leisure time. Entire trains were nicknamed ‘The fisherman
express’, and ran out of the cities on Friday evening bound for the woods and
streams. The people that left the cities behind also left the dress code
behind. They escaped. Wearing a tie and coat with a derby was no longer
socially necessary on the stream. People began to express themselves.</div>
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A time capsule emerged in 1973 in the form of descriptions
of a group of anglers fishing Wisconsin’s Wolf River amalgamated from several
of those conversations I had.</div>
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There was no look in common to them other than a ‘going
fishing’ look, and every one of the anglers had their favorite fishing hat,
unless their wife had finally made good on her promise to destroy it. That was
one thing they did have in common: the universal detestation of their chosen
hat by their wives… That, and a sort of lack of affectation to ‘coolness’
inherent in the varied old hats. The hat itself was a symbol of turning their
backs, and breathing free… of escaping the cities… of non-conformism while not
trying to look like a non-conformist.</div>
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Stumpy showed up in the fishing camp that year with his old
gray felt fedora; the top sporting a large hole. As he told it, the hat blew
off his head ten years back or so when he was playing a large trout. It had
floated downstream and an otter swam out from some rocks on the bank and
grabbed it, towing it ashore. Stumpy gave chase after landing his fish, and the
hat lay in the grass on the bank soaking wet. The otter was nowhere to be seen.
He was reaching down to pick it up, when the otter reappeared by chewing a hole
in the very top of the hat and popping out, looking at Stumpy and squeeking. It
then jumped into the water and swam away, its squeeking teasing Stumpy like
laughter. He never sewed it up, he said, because “The otter must have done that
for a good reason.” The rest of the gang speculated behind Stumpy’s back that
he was a better angler for it anyway, because his brain now got exposed to more
fresh air.</div>
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Carl always wore a brown wool hat his uncle had bought in
New York after he returned from WWII. He got off the ship and realizing he had
no civilian hat, went straight to a store run by an old Jewish man named Isaac.
It had pheasant and grouse feathers stuck in the band, and Carl had turned down
the brim in front so that it came down nearly to his nose.</div>
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Joe had an old ballcap with the logo of some farm machinery
company. It was so stained with oil and grease that the name of the company was
now unreadable. Joe had found it in an irrigation ditch near a farm while
walking in to fish the Oconto River twenty years back. He had misplaced it one
year and showed up with a newer cap, and not had a single fish rise to his fly.
When he returned the next year, the old cap returned with him cocked at a
jaunty angle, and he had out-fished everyone. Since then, he kept it in his
safety deposit box at his bank. All his luck was contained in those old oil
stains.</div>
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Whitey donned a tan bucket hat with blue and red banding.
Stuck to the band were small spinning lures, a half-dozen flies, and a blue jay
feather he had found.</div>
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Lou wore his masterpiece of angling: his fly hat. For ten years,
he had always stuck any fly he clipped off his leader into the hat, and never
removed it. Somewhere under those hundreds of matted and tangled flies was an
actual hat, but no one in the group had ever seen it. It looked like some sort
of abstract sculpture. One time while fishing with the group, Lou had been
attacked by a dive-bombing red-winged black bird defending his territory. The
bird had become entangled in the flies, and Stumpy and Joe had to use a pliers
to free it. They were laughing so hard that Lou got sore at them and later
after dinner, poured clam juice into their waders. Joe and Stumpy fished the
next day surrounded by a cloud of flies they couldn’t shake. They finally dived
into the river to escape the hungry hoard.</div>
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Frosty had the most dilapidated hat of the group. It started
out as a fine Stetson, but his wife had washed it, and it lost its form and
much of its color. It looked perpetually droopy and soggy, and the crown had
bumps and warts sticking out all over. He had set fire to the front brim one
evening lighting a cigar to keep the mosquitoes away, and the hat had smoldered
for twenty minutes, creating a large brown and black-rimmed hole. A hillbilly
would have scorned Frosty’s hat, it was just that bad… or good… depending on who
was talking.</div>
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Fred was the only angler in the party that had a new hat. He
had bought an Irish walking hat in green Harris Tweed because he said he always
wanted one. The actual reason, which came out around the fire after a few
glasses of brandy was that his wife had actually burned his old fishing hat in
a garbage can in the back yard. The divorce followed shortly after.</div>
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These stories made me reflect that these old hats were more
than just hats now. Maybe they had become a mold of the head and personality of
the wearers: a now seemingly empty vessel full of thoughts, memories,
destinations, and companions. Donning them again was like putting on a magic
mask that both transformed and empowered the wearer. Luck flowed in the fibers,
the cloth and the sweat, and you can almost hear the riffles in the stream…
even if they now smell a bit fishy. One more reason to keep and wear that old
fishing hat… a new one would have no stories to tell.</div>
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Erik Helmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00727530868264488710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918514418757933899.post-39661605670469696442018-12-01T17:37:00.000-06:002018-12-01T17:37:13.100-06:00Deer Father<br />
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<em>Copyright 2018 by Erik Helm</em></div>
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14 years old for a boy is a shadow of in-betweens: no longer
a boy, not a man, a time of identities and impressions, of questions and
dreaming: a time of forming.</div>
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In 1979, I lay on the couch watching the winter’s fog
through the windows meld and blend with my father’s pipe smoke as he kept me
rapt with attention. The subject was hunting, and dad was half dreaming and
half lecturing, surrounded by gun digests and outdoor magazines.</div>
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For Christmas that year I had received a .22 rifle, and had
then passed a hunter safety class and joined the local Junior Rifle Club. The
shooting and hunting drew my father and I together in mutual interest at a time
when everything else was pulling us apart.</div>
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I was a good listener, and Dad was a fine talker and
storyteller. He kept me glued to his words as I imagined the north woods of
Wisconsin and hunting, I conjured images of red-checkered jackets, the smell of
pines and the soft crunch of footsteps on new-fallen snow. Dad and I held classic
sporting rifles, and he pointed ahead to show me the way.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpcVWOoe0CZjS7zuHSVZwZzwEbCaRSaw7EzX0AqDELUfbPy_Wj8SAOo94dqkC226KOdJxurU5Vk4QQsRr7YYmMVe09GHr3MpfWTM8CPakv2TZb5JXJPCuX-0rOc7_efcdNFVLupHMeAqY/s1600/deer+dad+001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpcVWOoe0CZjS7zuHSVZwZzwEbCaRSaw7EzX0AqDELUfbPy_Wj8SAOo94dqkC226KOdJxurU5Vk4QQsRr7YYmMVe09GHr3MpfWTM8CPakv2TZb5JXJPCuX-0rOc7_efcdNFVLupHMeAqY/s400/deer+dad+001.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My father and his father in law William Theisen examine a Herter's catalog 1971</td></tr>
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Those daydreams on the couch listening to dad would be the
closest we ever came to hunting deer together. Life got in the way, as it
always seems to, and the unexpected roadblocks hidden around the corner
prevented the father and the son from turning the dreams into reality. We did
hunt squirrels once together later that year while on vacation, but never saw
any. I got up early the next morning, and without dad, shot two by myself. I
cleaned them, and dad cooked them. Larger game would have to wait until the
tendrils of time collided randomly in the future… or not.</div>
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Dreaming takes on a different substance or concreteness to a
fourteen year old. I spend countless hours on the floor with old copies of
Outdoor Life and Field and Stream, full of rich prose and informative articles.
For a city boy, it was like an overdose of adventure novels, Hemmingway meets
H. Rider Haggard. Clarity and exuberance… Dreams…</div>
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For Dad, dreaming about hunting was probably as good as
actually hunting, and far safer and resulted in less anxiety. Dad was an
armchair outdoorsman, but nobody knew more, or had read more on the subject, or
any subject he was interested in, I thought, than my father. He was a
methodical reader and planner. Sometime that winter, he created a list of
hunting necessities. It would never be completed. I found it tucked into an old
notebook recently. When he made it, he was the same age as I am when I am
writing this. The notations in the Herter’s catalog now yellowing with time,
and wrinkled much like the corner of my eyes now.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUG2LR6yY7hsaSKW72L_JOdNj-Nb0zd0AlZNfp3XI0TkQrFPOAx5s9OmMFHlyKJ0VG_FgAuDa431qoLvjLEqLqdlEX6_63oYLX4lLbEOEpNEg3rWvzPkoVFDb0jBGKwWtHNddR3GJ22jk/s1600/deer+dad+008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUG2LR6yY7hsaSKW72L_JOdNj-Nb0zd0AlZNfp3XI0TkQrFPOAx5s9OmMFHlyKJ0VG_FgAuDa431qoLvjLEqLqdlEX6_63oYLX4lLbEOEpNEg3rWvzPkoVFDb0jBGKwWtHNddR3GJ22jk/s400/deer+dad+008.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad's hunting list</td></tr>
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He had one thing covered: rifles. Dad had purchased over the
years a collection of fine used bolt-action rifles: Mausers, Winchesters,
Remingtons, Sakos, Brownings, and his treasured possession, a Steyr Mannlicher
model M carbine chambered in 7X57 Mauser. He cared for them meticulously, but I
only remember him shooting one of them when I was around eight. Once again, it
took someone else to take him to a range. Alone, he was not enabled or
empowered. The Mannlicher was his deer rifle, even if it had no scope mount.
When in his old age, he gave me all the rifles to place into storage, he kept
one in his little apartment: the Mannlicher. It came to symbolize a dream
deferred yet kept alive behind a bookshelf. Maybe some day…</div>
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All life is mere memories and dust, and then he was too.</div>
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In 2017, I prepared to move to the Driftless area of
Southwest Wisconsin, a place of trout streams, hills and valleys, and nature
and scenery like those dreams of boyhood. A city boy moves to a town of less
than 600 people. I had placed several of Dad’s rifles behind the refrigerator
under a sheet to hide them in my apartment in Milwaukee. The Mannlicher sat
there after his passing until unshrouded before the move. I had never hunted
either. The light of the sun shined full on the rich bluing and deep wood; the
rifle was as beautiful as it was patient… waiting…</div>
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As I packed the apartment and planned the endless
life-changes before me, I enquired into the availability of scope mounts. It
turned out that they were harder to locate than I thought. No dice, until after
the move I found them online and ordered a set. Dad also left me a Leupold
scope that probably had been intended to top the rifle in the first place. The
1970s were finally being assembled some 38 years later. I had some notion of
actually shooting the thing, but had not shot a gun in around 30 years myself.
I vowed after my move that I would explore new things, and this would be on the
agenda.</div>
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I had the major tools. They smelled faintly of pipe smoke
and storage boxes, of oil and wax and dream preservatives. He left me a
Herter’s knife for skinning, leather slings, an LL Bean jacket, and hunting
boots. I just had to fill in the rest and make it happen.</div>
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I was and am lucky to have supportive friends who invited me
to share in their deer camp last year, and to hunt with them. I debated it
until the last moment, and then purchased a license and sighted the rifle in at
a local range. The skills I left at 19 years old, that of a competition rifle
shooter, came back slowly. Age played a part too, but skills practiced through
hundreds of hours have a way of seeping in forever. They announced their
awakening with the first ‘BOOM” of the Mannlicher. Silent for so long, it was
mute no longer.</div>
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I learned a lot last year, but only spent about 10 hours
hunting, and never had a shot. Our deer camp ended deer-less.</div>
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This year I decided to hunt squirrels alone in preparation
for deer season. I would use Dad’s classic browning .22. It turned out that I
enjoyed it immensely. It brought together the splendor of nature and discovery
and learning with marksmanship and exercise and solitude. Several squirrels
were dispatched with offhand shots and clean kills. They would be prepared in a
stew the morning before the opening of deer camp and shared with all. The stew
turned out superb. Serendipity… Or foreshadowing…?</div>
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I had one goal for the nine-day season: to shoot a deer. To
do it my way, stalking or still-hunting without the aid of tree-stands, blinds,
or anything else: traditional hunting the way dad would have done it.
Fortunately, all of us at camp based in my friend’s wood heated cabin had the
same philosophy. Do it right, with sportsmanship and restraint.</div>
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The alarm rang at 5 a.m. and we awoke to a landscape of
silent darkness and new-fallen snow. We brewed coffee in an enamel percolator,
downed oatmeal and doughnuts, and bundled up. The rustic cabin and classic gear
and rifles surrounded us like a black and white photo newly colored. It could
have been the 1970s. Opening day…</div>
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It was cold. I startled a grouse as I made my way down the
path from the cabin. I had decided on my own to explore some deer trails we had
discovered early this spring while planting trees on the land. What I actually
found was the most awful tangle of thorns, weeds, brush, and branches possible.
A deer could have been twenty feet away, and I could have passed it unseen. I
found deer beds, but no tracks in the snow. Nothing was moving that morning
except me, and I was progressing as slow as the tangles necessitated. I saw no
deer, but made the acquaintance of squirrels, birds, and a turkey.</div>
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After several hours of this futility, I returned to the
cabin with cold feet. Dad’s hunting boots were the one thing he got wrong. They
were fine for upland game and such, but standing and squatting in the woods
when it was 16 degrees found them inadequate. After a snack of sausage and
cheese, two of us drove to town where I solved the problem with boots two sizes
too big and rated for 40 below. No more cold feet.</div>
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In the afternoon and evening we capped off opening day by
hunting some public land we wanted to explore. I crawled through barbed wire
and brush to discover a maze of deer trails and tracks. A cold wind blew up the
valley, and nothing moved. I found a trail cam tied to a tree aimed at a buck
rub by accident while taking a pee. It was pointed squarely at me. I hoped that
the owner appreciated the diversity of wildlife it captured by accident…</div>
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The second morning broke colder than the first: eleven
degrees by the thermometer. We decided that I would proceed to the top of the
hill where a saddle and dirt track provided a clearing and a field of view. The
other hunter that morning would hunt in the hinge-cuts he had formed through
countless hours of labor to provide ample cover for deer, and allow them to
pause, bed down, and browse for vittles. I started out in darkness ahead of him
and carefully climbed the hill scrambling over trees and under limbs, pausing
from time to time to listen, moving as silently as possible up the edge of a
gully.</div>
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Arriving at the top, I crept into a thicket of weeds next to
a large boulder adjacent to the gravel track on the ridge top. It was just
getting light; the sun edging awake to illuminate the frost that covered every
surface like jewels. A thousand points of light danced and flickered. I sat
down in the weeds and hid myself, concentrating on silence and slow breathing.
My breath came in clouds that fogged my glasses. I relaxed and sat listening to
the morning sounds: a staccato of tentative percussion freezing and thawing,
clicking and rubbing gently on their native instruments.</div>
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An hour passed. The quiet was deafening. I could hear my
heart beat.</div>
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The slumbering stillness was broken by the sounds of deer
moving through and up the gully to my left. All of a sudden my tranquility was
broken as adrenaline flowed and I began to get nervous. I clicked off the
safety on the Mannlicher and took several deep breaths, closing my eyes and
listening. There it was again. Whatever it was, it had run up the slope and
then paused near the top in the brush, moving every 20 seconds or so.</div>
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As quietly as falling snow, a deer crept tentatively out of
the brush. I was in perfect position as it moved forward onto the gravel track.
I raised the rifle and took sight. Where the deer should have been was just a
huge blur. I looked over the top of the scope. Weeds. The weeds I was hiding in
were obscuring my sight-picture. The deer took several steps forward completely
unaware of me. I sighted again. Now the deer progressed into the brush on the
other side of the ridge and paused. It all but disappeared. All I saw was its
outline. I placed the crosshairs where the shoulders should have been and squeezed
the trigger. The thunderclap broke the silence with a sudden brutality.</div>
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Had I hit it? I heard the deer run, breaking brush, and then
silence. I waited as more deer sounds came from the gully. I chambered another
round, working the bolt smoothly. Silence returned to the ridge top. The deer
moved off to the left in the heavy brush. I waited five minutes more and
carefully stood up. I walked to the deer trail where I had shot at my quarry,
and followed the path downhill for several yards. A single drop of blood. Then
more blood appeared hidden in the brush. I moved onward several more yards
until it looked like something sprinkled blood on the brush and branches. I
looked down the trail and there it was. I had shot it through the heart, the
cleanest of kills. For a moment I paused and wondered if that shot, obscured by
brush as it was, was guided from above. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I could
smell a faint whiff of pipe smoke.</div>
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I thought it was a doe, but it turned out to be a button
buck. After returning to the cabin to inform my partners, I dressed it out and
we dragged it up the hill to the awaiting jeep. Hung from a tree in front of
the cabin, a bottle of bourbon and cups were produced, a toast declared, and I
took my fingers and dipped them in the old tin folding cut and sprinkled the
liquor on the deer thanking him for his life and sustenance. Then I downed the
fiery liquid myself.</div>
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My friend turned to me and said, “Well, your father finally
went hunting…”</div>
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It meant something. Something deeply personal. </div>
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I sit here writing this in winter as I watch the snow fall,
and think back to that winter of 1979, and all the unfinished things in our
lives. The fabric of time had collided once again all these years later, and
what Dad had started as a dream shared with a boy, fueled by books before the
fire in our living room on the East Side of Milwaukee had seeded and germinated
in the hills of the Driftless. Dad finally went hunting. I know he was there.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHlfAfnODZjVYQk_K972yJJ_1SZGpQZQxNDAdkpKCKT88as79wHjn1BsA9IuELaG4MOLSb5bTG8wIqTESAtzIgnGV20LVpuypIeiByFHROjcyv55Oppwb9Rp0Lh-02Z0HD_AKIuJ9Qg0k/s1600/deer+2018+001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHlfAfnODZjVYQk_K972yJJ_1SZGpQZQxNDAdkpKCKT88as79wHjn1BsA9IuELaG4MOLSb5bTG8wIqTESAtzIgnGV20LVpuypIeiByFHROjcyv55Oppwb9Rp0Lh-02Z0HD_AKIuJ9Qg0k/s400/deer+2018+001.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The conclusion</td></tr>
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There will be wild meat this winter. It will feed the mind
and the soul, and maybe somewhere a smile will appear deep in the woods at
night, and in the cold darkness of forever, a wisp of pipe smoke may arise from
that smile.</div>
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Thank you dad.</div>
Erik Helmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00727530868264488710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918514418757933899.post-47771782539264813652018-11-05T15:54:00.000-06:002018-11-05T15:54:08.842-06:00The Growth and Fruition of an Idea: a Spey enigma
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSatWNGev3h2Y-HB4DPc0MR3ilqirK7HHPuVAD-mjN9hYaQumFPgHB6zh7MrC4E8nH70bsg2_LTRe4O0a5v22z-Qln9DeGujah26VSJgm2Om9YANOf0E-gSGxtY04SYk4kRRH8KZoIfAA/s1600/11518a+122.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSatWNGev3h2Y-HB4DPc0MR3ilqirK7HHPuVAD-mjN9hYaQumFPgHB6zh7MrC4E8nH70bsg2_LTRe4O0a5v22z-Qln9DeGujah26VSJgm2Om9YANOf0E-gSGxtY04SYk4kRRH8KZoIfAA/s400/11518a+122.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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If a person’s day and life is not to become the predictable
routine of the potato-eaters, experimentation and risk must be explored, and
new things tested and grown. That is art, and what makes life worth living for
me, for as Camus wrote, “If life were clear, art would not exist”, and I would
add that in clarity are found potatoes.</div>
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I was in my new vegetable garden at my equally new home in
the Driftless fumbling with tying up tomato vines in the 90 degree heat and
harvesting summer squash when another newness presented itself in the form of a
call from my good friend Joe Balestrieri the bamboo rod builder and endless
experimenter. The query? ‘Did I think a spey rod could be built for smaller
rivers like Wisconsin’s Brule’ out of a 9 foot bamboo sharps impregnated blank,
and what would one look for in a rod of this type…’ </div>
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Well, the conversation went back and forth for an hour while
I puttered around the garden watering the vegetables and knocking the idea
around in my head. We both had ideas about the action: soft and easy. What
would the grip look like? Would such a rod be able to be built? Most spey rods
are between 12 and 16 feet long, and in my pursuit of the art of spey-casting a
longer belly line, and chasing anadromous fish all over the country, I now own
over 20, most over 14 feet long. Would such a short rod be able to cast a
standard single-hand line, even a double taper with ease? Would it be too short
to properly spey cast? The questions added up much faster than the answers….
Those would have to come in time.</div>
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One thing I love about Joe is that he is more of an artist
than a pure craftsman. Thus, he is always experimenting with ideas and tapers,
shaving this down, adding glass tips to cane butts and vice versa, playing
around with new ideas, and not afraid to fail if a deviation goes awry. That is
a rare thing in today’s world. A freedom that few builders will ever have, and
a quality that reminds me of my mother’s great artwork. She was always turning
around and going in different directions in creativity and experiment. It
filled her world with energy and beauty after a day with the potato-eaters at
her dull day job.</div>
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Of course, ‘Spey’ casting a shorter rod like 11 feet in
length has become somewhat popular recently, as ‘switch’ rods or rods that can
be cast with both one or two hands are gaining acceptance, especially when
paired with thick and very short shooting heads and running lines, but I wanted
the rod to be able to mimic the clean graceful stroke I can achieve with a 15
foot rod and a 70 or even 85 foot weight-forward long belly spey line. Even if
the rod could sort of do it, was the symbiosis of rod and line just a
wine-induced fantasy? We knew we would be on some new ground here. Did the line
exist at all anymore, now that the ‘heads’ and running lines have all but
eclipsed them? I had a couple of things going for me here. One was Joe, and his
openness to experiment and unfamiliarity with the new generation of lines (he
would probably tape on guides and test it with a double-taper silk which would
be an ideal test for what I had in mind), and the fact that I have massive
boxes of old fly lines I could root through and try on the rod.</div>
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As the rod went through the process of creation, Balestrieri
tweaked it to make it lighter, and enquired as to what I thought of grip
length. “Oh, build it long!” I said, “Long enough to properly spey cast, and
make sure the bottom grip is long enough to fit my whole hand around.” After I
got off the phone I wondered if I was nuts. In my opinion, the bottom grip on
shorter two-handed rods, for that is what he was building here, not a switch
rod, are most often too short. This causes problems when casting in the
Scottish style of getting the bottom hand started in the process of bending the
rod early, and before the upper hand comes into play. Would the longer grips
eat into the already short length of the rod and dull the action? Would the
whole thing be just a thought experiment? Well, no risk, no reward…</div>
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As the rod neared completion, I got weekly updates from Joe
as to his thoughts. He cast it in his backyard with a standard 8 weight
single-hand line using an overhead cast, and thought it was very fluid and
‘easy’ in its character out to 70 feet. Would it work with a spey-cast? I would
have wait for the varnishing and drying process to find out.</div>
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The rod arrived one morning about two weeks before I would
be up on the Brule’ to search for steelhead. There was no water nearby to test
it on properly, as our local river was flooded, so I fashioned a grass-leader
out of 20 pound maxima with a series of 3 inch long tags to catch the lawn and
simulate the water-tension necessary with a spey-cast.</div>
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The rod was aesthetically gorgeous. Balestrieri used clear
silk wraps over the guides to allow the beauty of the rich bamboo to show
through, and used an amber agate stripper guide along with a matching wood burl
reel-seat. It was subtle in its richness and depth. The grip was long and
thinner at the back-end of the forward section while flaring into a Ritz-style
front. It actually was the most comfortable grip I had ever encountered on a
two-handed rod. But would it cast?</div>
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I dug out several lines from the fly line mystery box in my
workshop/office, and loaded up the reel to match the rod: a Hardy Golden St.
Aiden lightweight which I hoped with both compliment and balance the rod. There
were so many unknowns in this process. In my head, the rod and reel were the
perfect match, and the line I picked as the most likely choice would also work…
but it was all in my head up until the moment I stepped out to my private
casting lawn at the side of my house.</div>
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I would love to say I heard the aria right away, that it
just spoke to me, but that would ignore the fact that I had never tried to cast
this short of a rod with a long-belly stroke. It overhead cast like a rocket,
and I had to climb a tree to get the grass leader untangled from an ancient
oak, but it was a quirky rod with a spey stroke. I called Balestrieri, and in
the conversation, mentioned the word ‘Quirky’. That was a mistake. Now he
wanted me to send it back to him, and build me a different rod. “No, let’s just
give it time…” I might have been the quirky one here, for getting used to a new
rod can sometimes be akin to getting to know a woman… it takes time. Three days
later I had an epiphany. I slowed down my already notoriously slow casting
stroke even more, and adjusted the line a bit by holding the end of the taper
just at the tip of the rod. It made all the difference. The rod came together
with the reel and the line like they were a long lost family.</div>
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It was a joy to cast on the Brule’ A true blossoming of an
idea that could only be coaxed through its development by a rod maker who is
also a great listener, and understands art and humanity, and my quirky ideas,
and could meld them with his many years of experience creating objects of
beauty and use. I now have a unique treasure, and perhaps the only 9’ 3”
long-belly casting bamboo spey rod ever made.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOv2NY5UzlIJopHkjtx0FMQMDZhP1ijYlL1fsnkkvjVjpdmtjN-5q1SmQWC_-AK3iec9qE_JHLaN_jpCh1qKkkVD2WWtVxTADKARAF1gGb0136Ms_QntSFOt2-UCWV0jZVXCamvB1P018/s1600/102118abrule+007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOv2NY5UzlIJopHkjtx0FMQMDZhP1ijYlL1fsnkkvjVjpdmtjN-5q1SmQWC_-AK3iec9qE_JHLaN_jpCh1qKkkVD2WWtVxTADKARAF1gGb0136Ms_QntSFOt2-UCWV0jZVXCamvB1P018/s400/102118abrule+007.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy camper on the Brule' with the new rod.</td></tr>
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That might make me even more eccentric, but I have been
referred to as eccentric before, so if people scoff at it, they can always go
have a potato. Instead, I will look at the glowing depth of the bamboo as the
graceful loops unfurl and carry a beautiful fly out to a river that is a worthy
compliment to a fruit fully blossomed, born in the summer heat, carefully
watered and worried over, and finally tasted with a sip of water from the River
of Presidents.</div>
Erik Helmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00727530868264488710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918514418757933899.post-66783111892787899542018-11-03T16:08:00.001-05:002018-11-03T16:21:29.026-05:00The Psychology of Stimulators<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzanEURiidFwzW4MlRhSz78jwgOv1-hyluXBEF2x9jKAZcVZgv3JhyphenhyphenlNah1n6XAtOe9ND7lGwMWQQ8FQU_j2imKj4rKbKPwoBWboDtjUq_FswW5ua4uEOPZqPmQdEulcu_6TWOu8YMSnI/s1600/stimulator.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzanEURiidFwzW4MlRhSz78jwgOv1-hyluXBEF2x9jKAZcVZgv3JhyphenhyphenlNah1n6XAtOe9ND7lGwMWQQ8FQU_j2imKj4rKbKPwoBWboDtjUq_FswW5ua4uEOPZqPmQdEulcu_6TWOu8YMSnI/s400/stimulator.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Magic Potion?</td></tr>
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It was a late September afternoon when I received a phone
call from a friend I will call ‘Spud’. “In the Driftless area of Wisconsin for
the weekend… Fish?” was the question. The answer was in the affirmative, (Duh!)
and the time set for late the next morning. I have not fished with Spud more
than a few times for trout, our meetings usually occupied with steelhead, or a
lack of them on beautiful rivers where I lead him on epic detours and
short-cuts which he puts up with for some reason I can only speculate about.
When I have traipsed the creeks with him in pursuit of the wily spotted trutta,
I have found him to be among the best spring creek fishers I know.</div>
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Because of his expertise, I decided to take him to a tiny
brush-clogged stream, and one of my favorites: intimate and complex besides
being filled with challenging trout. I always feel at home here, like I passed
through time and the river to a more elemental and simple place. We met at
noon, and after a cup of tea, packed up his truck, and were off.</div>
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Although cloudy and cool, we timed the fishing perfectly.
The water had warmed enough that a hatch of Blue winged Olive mayflies had
begun. Not a major hatch yet, but enough to get the trout looking up for
snacks. I tied on a little size 18 BWO dry fly, and Spud tied on a size 16
olive stimulator. Now the curious reader might exclaim “Fung Wa? What???” Yes,
a size 16 olive stimulator dry, for that is all Spud fishes with for trout. You
have to respect his trust in it, his determination that the fish will see it as
a morsel of food, despite it being too large and the wrong shape for the
hatching insects on the stream. It works too, at least in his hands, even if
old Ernest Schwiebert, author of ‘Matching the Hatch’ might proclaim, “Das
fool! Zat is der wrrrong kaput forlunkin fly!”</div>
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We progressed up the stream, carefully placing casts to the
tight cover and avoiding all the obstacles in the form of myriad bushes and
overhanging branches. The trout were cooperating too, as I discovered Spud’s
Modus Operandi: simply by over hackling the stimulator, he could place it in
the tightest quarters between twigs, bounce it off the water, gently pull it in
and out of snags, and effectively fish every inch of productive water near
trout cover without worrying about his fly getting stuck. It was almost a fly
with built-in weed guard. The fly was his magic power, his cloak of
invulnerability, his helmet of confidence.</div>
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We both took decent fish out of the complicated chess game
the river demanded of us, and spud being a lefty, we traded off in runs based
on openings that demanded either a left handed caster or right. After an hour
or so, we ran out of river, as it braided out at an upper bridge, and proceeded
downstream to a lower section. This is the kind of happy-go-lucky fishing I
love: no pressure or worries, and a guide’s day off. Catch or catch not, pick
your relaxed pace and fish the challenges with little agenda and a good friend
who is as happy when I catch a fish as I am when he does.</div>
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The hatch of tiny mayflies of the dusky persuasion we were
playing amongst had increased in intensity when we wet our boots in the lower
water. I began catching trout with regularity, and spud briefly considered
changing to a more realistic pattern, but decided instead to increase his
agenda of dancing his seductive little stimulator over, under, and through
every obstacle. He picked up the fish my fly didn’t tempt quite enough. The
menu specialized in small olives du jour , but the blue-plate special of
meatloaf and mushroom gravy with mashed potatoes found on the back page tempted
up some hefty and hungry diners.</div>
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Then the impossible happened. A nice fish chewed up Spud’s
meatloaf stimulator and it would not float anymore. Reaching into his vest, he
opened a fly box that… you guessed it… contained nothing but size 16 olive
stimulators. Alas, the horrors!… it was empty. What to do? After all, we were
only halfway up the stretch of river we were fishing. It seemed that there is a
first time for everything, as Spud extended his leader, and tied on a Blue
Winged Olive fly similar to mine, and cast it forward into the maze of riffles
and protruding flora.</div>
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The change was shocking. I had to look at him to be sure who
I was fishing with. His first cast got stuck in a tree behind him. His second
cast he mended into a bush. Then he stood on the line while it tangled around
the tip of his rod. “What is going on Spud?” I asked. “I am all discombobulated
and un-stimulated,” he replied, while placing his fly into another bush and
slipping on a rock. He started teetering back and forth in an uncoordinated
manner, and if I didn’t know that he was a confirmed avoider of alcohol, might
have thought he had secretly sneaked a snoot-full of potables.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjVYW8fspsTWwCyOMfdL0V2IMvrn96nBH6s72o_RaAL4cQ-iMApqZDr_nH7Cb3j0tBIdiFpZn-DoXSF9SzT8Wiht3m0byQosxNBQD8__tq9iXbFl-9Dpg66HcdIhChZKAeOhU5a_Rz4as/s1600/straightjacket.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjVYW8fspsTWwCyOMfdL0V2IMvrn96nBH6s72o_RaAL4cQ-iMApqZDr_nH7Cb3j0tBIdiFpZn-DoXSF9SzT8Wiht3m0byQosxNBQD8__tq9iXbFl-9Dpg66HcdIhChZKAeOhU5a_Rz4as/s400/straightjacket.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Why? Why is it all happening to me?</td></tr>
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I began laughing, and he did too. I said carefully “You
know, I am laughing with you not at you… I think this is all psychological…”</div>
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“No kidding!” he now almost shouted, “It’s like someone gave
me kryptonite! Before, all I could see was water and targets, now all I can see
are obstructions and obstacles!” It was like a bizarro world, a world of
negatives where black was now white and white now black… targets on the water
to be missed, and every branch, rock, tree, or even his hat turned into some
sort of magnet… and it was all psychological. Removing that damned stimulator
was like pulling out some essential piece of mental DNA, or putting his
batteries in backwards. His wet flies floated, and his dry flies sank. In
short, his confidence and mindfulness was short-circuited. You could almost hear
the fuses popping.</div>
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I seem to fish best when being mindful yet in a Zen state… a
harmony with everything… a sense of ‘Wa’ as the Japanese would describe it. If
I am too distracted, or even too full of concentration and thinking, things
often begin to go wrong… not to the extent of Spud’s malaise, but all of us
have been there at some point in our angling, or will be.</div>
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The answer is to stop thinking of the problem itself, and
return to the beginning. Sit down on the bank and close your eyes. Take a deep
breath… or follow the path of one ‘Tin Cup’, the golfer and psychological
disaster played by Kevin Costner in the movie of the same name. In the movie, a
distracted, in love, and nervous Costner is at the practice driving range at
the opening of the U.S. Open golf tournament, and keeps slicing his drives into
his fellow competitors including some famous PGA pros. The other golfers start
staring at him and making comments as he unravels worse and worse, and can only
seem to hit the ball backwards and sideways. He had become his own ‘hazard’ on
the course, and he had not even begun play yet. The solution proffered by his
coach and caddy played by Cheech Marin is to tie his shoes together, put on his
hat sideways, transfer his change to his other pocket, and other goofy things.
Tin Cup states that he feels like a fool! The coach says “Excellent… swing
away!” and Cup does with a perfect drive. “How’d you do that?” he asks. The
answer: You stopped thinking about shanking and slicing your shots. That
simple.</div>
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Spud’s solution was a bit different but equally effective.
He went back to the beginning and cleared his head too, as he rooted around
through myriad fly boxes and found one last misplaced size 16 olive stimulator,
a somewhat battered former gladiator, but ready to be tied on and sent forward
into the fray. He cast gracefully and perfectly, placed the fly in an
impossible spot, and hooked and landed a fish… and another… and another.</div>
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When the fly finally fell apart from all those tiny teeth,
he reeled up, thanked me for a great day of fishing, and we walked off the
water, and had dinner. It was his closer to the trout season, and would give
him all winter to replenish his box of stimulators. I am thinking of tying a
few too, and putting them in a small pill box… like medication of the placebo
kind for that inevitable day when I become all tangled up in my psychological
underwear.</div>
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Erik Helmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00727530868264488710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918514418757933899.post-67684687634793969782018-09-19T16:22:00.000-05:002018-09-19T17:24:48.704-05:00Ephemeral<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC_FxtwoDwKKZUbuGZ2QNltrGt49-BG4VSv25WjIbBNgP6-zIcp5CthN4naom1zOmW_1V0v0VVPKXc1gB_D_YgAqgWNJjl0770Eg2eNI8x9oxxQdMdhkBAS0iipBfzlifZYL9GEACm7es/s1600/092314a+010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC_FxtwoDwKKZUbuGZ2QNltrGt49-BG4VSv25WjIbBNgP6-zIcp5CthN4naom1zOmW_1V0v0VVPKXc1gB_D_YgAqgWNJjl0770Eg2eNI8x9oxxQdMdhkBAS0iipBfzlifZYL9GEACm7es/s400/092314a+010.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Upper West Fork where the little brookie was caught</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Part one: We go fishing</span></h1>
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The morning broke slowly, and the damp mists shrouded our
progress up Bohemian Valley creek. It was as beautiful as it was quiet, the
only sounds being the light adagio of woodwinds and muted percussion played
upon the riffles; water music.</div>
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The tricos, or minute mayflies we were waiting for were
quiet as well, for none were showing as we crept slowly forward, or sat with
senses aware to sounds and taking in the surface of the water like a
Shakespeare play… drama, or a lack of it to be exact. Some wise sage once said
that there is no thing deader than a dead brown trout stream. Despite the
divine spiritual beauty of the misty valley this morning, like a fog-shrouded
church ruins, the trout were not having any. They just would not come out to
play. No tricos showed for an hour, and no rising trout. Different fishermen
would have placed an indicator on the leader, and attached a weighted nymph,
but we wanted to play this game on our terms that day. As the years pass, it
seems to become more and more important to just exist to witness the beauty of
the rivers here in the Driftless, and part of the poetry in and on the rivers
is to appreciate a few trout to hand, and the restraint to walk away happy with
what the river gives you… a gift.</div>
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I did begin blind-casting a tiny size 22 trico dry fly just
in case; a process not unlike playing the lottery without buying a ticket, and
did manage to hook one small brown trout. Sometimes the number ‘1’ can be an
existential victory. So we left the river happy. It had flowed in that valley
for tens of thousands of years, and we would take up no more of its slow
concept of time that day.</div>
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We stopped at Timber Coulee, the parent river, and another
moss-bed incubator for the tricos, and progressed up a riffle as the sun began
to warm the water. The tricos should be showing, but nature has her own
rhythms, sometimes impossible to touch or feel, or interpret for a mere human
soul. My friend of many years and adventures, memories and wisdom stored in the
coming graying spotted a single rising trout, and covered him with a tiny
caddis and caught him. The water-ghost was a brown trout full of coming autumn
colors and fat. I took the lead up the 100-yard long riffle, but neither of us
could raise a fish to a dry fly. So we left the river to its own terms… after
all, we had both caught a single fish where there were thousands. Sometimes in
life, a single sip of champagne tastes the finest when the glass is put down,
and placed there to stay. You can watch the bubbles, and imagine the next sip,
if there is one…</div>
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The next river we visited upon was the upper West Fork of
the Kickapoo. This gem of the Coulee region saw some of the first stream
rehabilitation work that brought the Driftless area to trout angling
prominence. The sections we were on were near the very headwaters. Often a
change in valleys and streams will turn the cards over, and all comes up
flushes, aces, and royalty. This was one of those days. As dead as the Timber
system was, the West Fork treated us well indeed. The change in venue brought
multiple trout to hand including a 13 inch brown that took the fourth drift of
a skittered caddis under the grass of an undercut. I rarely get to hear the
small Hardy perfect reel sing like that, even my partner heard the ratcheting
from upstream, and the little bamboo 4-weight ‘Princess’ rod bent in a crazy
curve. Interesting karma, since the reel was a gift from him many seasons and
fish ago.</div>
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The river was good to us, and we felt a part of it like an
old friend of many promises kept. We continued upstream, joined now by an old
sage of the Driftless who has forgotten more about trout on the fly than many
will ever know. Now we were three. We located a pod of trout mixed in with
Largemouth Bass, an interesting combination. The bass were washed down from
Jersey Valley lake, the impoundment and dam at the headwaters, and were making
their living right there in the middle of a cold-water trout stream. It was
juxtaposition as extreme as one can get: like a clown at a Harvard philosophy
conference on the subject of aesthetics and epistemology. We cherished the
privilege. Herr Sage picked apart the pod of trout, while we practiced standing
on our lines and tying complicated knots of the macramé variety in our leaders.
Yes, there are those moments too. Anyone who says it never happens to them,
either only wets a line in their mind, or is lying.</div>
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We futzed about for another hour with the bass and trout,
and moved upstream to a section I had not been back to in four years. It was a
section of some old improvements from the 1980s still tentatively clinging to
life after all these decades and the great floods of 2007 and 2008. Structure
in name only, but the riffles held brookies and some browns. There is a magic
place in many streams, an invisible border, a magic gateway where one is
catching brown trout, and then as if passing through a black hole with a single
step, catching only brookies. We stood at the threshold, one leg with the
Fario, and one toe touching the Fontinalis. The ice age lay ahead with fish as
old as the rocks in the stream bed, unchanged since long before man emerged
from a cave, carved a stick, and attaching a string of horsehair and a bone
hook, went forth to angle.</div>
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It was time to go now. Time. I ran ahead to the top of a
riffle where an icy feeder stream poured in from the north. I cast a dry fly up
to where the two waters met and the fly disappeared in a ring. The brook trout
was all of 7 inches long. I held it in my hand. Its body was almost transparent,
like the mirror I passed through to get here held the solidity, and all was
clear as ice where I stood: frozen with ripe berries of color… blues and reds
and halos. I looked at it. It looked back. Our eyes met. I released it back to
its home. My hand held its halo, its negative, its shadow. It felt cold as deep
earth… cold as the waters born there. This was its home. I was just passing
through.</div>
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Time to leave. Time…</div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Part two: The tempest</span></h1>
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I awoke at 1:30 in the morning to a cannonade in the north.
My tired eyes witnessed a firework show on the horizon. The windows rumbled
with the unending timpani of thunder. It went on forever… I fell asleep as the
rain danced on the roof and spattered on my brow through the open window, the
curtains rising with the mistrals to tickle my cheek. It was subtle and
beautiful, this violence of nature.</div>
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I awoke anew. My phone was going off with little pings and beeps.
I grabbed it and began to sort through the warnings and awake to the realities
of the aftermath. Upper Vernon county and areas received over 12 inches of
rain. Jersey Valley dam had breached and failed. Timber Coulee valley and Coon
Valley downstream were destroyed. Bridges were knocked out, people were
scrambling for information, and what was coming was not good. A sobering by
nature. A reminder. A flooding like we have never seen before. Early pictures
resembled a muddy world war one battlefield with trees shorn from artillery
fire. It looked like death… like war… like a painting by William Orpen. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS6pGrUnZUW7WBYLu2Vy2KYXva5ditf0SmxR9B0zGjgO9omObV7SzFam-lanJ_flkX0ynBOGNmAxTrKpbCV8dvghnVSexKmrn9MsPgRbSykBj2hdDUWtCZUJBefFDHbQhJ0KerAn9aRMs/s1600/zonnebeke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="870" data-original-width="1050" height="330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS6pGrUnZUW7WBYLu2Vy2KYXva5ditf0SmxR9B0zGjgO9omObV7SzFam-lanJ_flkX0ynBOGNmAxTrKpbCV8dvghnVSexKmrn9MsPgRbSykBj2hdDUWtCZUJBefFDHbQhJ0KerAn9aRMs/s400/zonnebeke.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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The West Fork of the Kickapoo was devastated. The Kickapoo
itself was beginning to flood and the upstream towns were being evacuated.
Nobody knew how to get anywhere due to roads being closed. People drove for an
hour zigzagging back to where they started… and it was all headed downstream
toward me. At 4:30 the next morning, our town received evacuation orders.
Fortunately, Soldiers Grove had flooded so many times in the past that the main
street business section along the S-curve in the Kickapoo had been demolished and
relocated to higher ground. I was high and dry too at the top of a hill in my
little house, so I went back to sleep.</div>
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At nine in the morning I walked the 400 yards down the hill
to look at the Kickapoo. There were five-foot standing waves where a beautiful
park had replaced the site of the old town. Everything was wrecked, but we were
all safe, Gays Mills downstream would not be so lucky. Built in a shallow bowl
in a wetlands area of the Kickapoo, floodwaters rise there and slowly recede.
The last remaining businesses on the main street got flooded. That had never
happened before.</div>
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I looked across the bridge back in Soldiers Grove, across
the raging brown waters filled with hay bales, trees, parts of silos, and other
flotsam of wreckage. There is a little sign on a post with a red line marking
the high water mark back in 2008. The entire sign was under water. I turned
around and walked back home. I was land-locked for two-days until the
floodwaters receded. Fortunately, nobody lost his or her life in this epic
mess.</div>
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<b>Part three: Reflections<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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It was a week later that I began to tour the damage. I stood
in my own footprints near the headwaters of the West Fork, only my footprints,
and everything else had been erased like the finger of God. Everywhere we had been fishing
the day before was erased. It was as if a lahar had been through the valley. I
didn’t know where I was. Only the hills and the road gave any orientation.
Where the river slowly jogged back and forth turning and twisting as a stream
should dance, it now ran in a completely new and arrow-straight channel fifty
feet wide and ten feet deep. The finger of God. I stood with my friend and just
stared. The silence was tremendous.</div>
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Thousand of hours, countless dollars and efforts in the
shape of stream improvements… gone.</div>
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A small dead brook trout lay in the mud at my feet. Its eyes
no longer looked back… they stared too, unfocused now. </div>
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Had I hooked and released the last fish caught on the upper
West Fork? It mattered not except to mull in my mind the sheer fragility of
life. In the mud and debris were written lessons in a script decipherable only
if I closed my eyes. To be mindful. To appreciate the smallest whispers. To
cherish gifts of nature and friends, to never take anything for granted… I am
but a speck of dust before nature, before God if you like.</div>
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I haven’t been out fly fishing alone since. Now it is with a
close friend or a client. Perhaps I am haunted. Perhaps I held eternity in my
hand for a moment and touched it. I know that this too will pass. All things
are ephemeral now. My senses are more aware. I feel as if I can smell time.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDz3le8ubkWE-LaayV6CqCFU5hnu7jDlb3lHOwzDJvKB_dBjuxyILDISl8TgnBcFA5ofONtAHKraQ1V2ad_Hzkz7_hwS4ZF1HwkJoRqLknDFLnE61KviZN3z5DZgxIRKiCMCGBisj-COo/s1600/81418a+006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDz3le8ubkWE-LaayV6CqCFU5hnu7jDlb3lHOwzDJvKB_dBjuxyILDISl8TgnBcFA5ofONtAHKraQ1V2ad_Hzkz7_hwS4ZF1HwkJoRqLknDFLnE61KviZN3z5DZgxIRKiCMCGBisj-COo/s400/81418a+006.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The last photo I took of the upper West Fork of the Kickapoo. Evening rise and mists.</td></tr>
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Author’s note: <i>Ephemeral means ‘<span class="sdzsvb">transitory</span>,
<span class="sdzsvb">transient</span>, <span class="sdzsvb">fleeting</span>, <span class="sdzsvb">passing</span>, <span class="sdzsvb">short-lived</span>, <span class="sdzsvb">momentary</span>… It is also the root of the taxonomic name for
the Mayfly, a favorite stream bred trout insect: Ephemera and Ephemerella. It
seemed the perfect title to remind us to live in the moment, for all things are
transitory.</i></div>
Erik Helmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00727530868264488710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918514418757933899.post-61022661757633494442018-09-02T13:19:00.000-05:002018-09-03T19:48:18.936-05:00Bibliophile to an Angle<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr0dWwHvwGTG5z61XaNoMlQfSWsKB-wLllEOZHRg_riinUTG_aseapL7reeAKrTepH0DoddlV8v7PonvrftY-rR7Py_Tr54HJ0pifcys9uDGrZiiaHiypMljDj0zZNb9Qfl2J9FzaFSXY/s1600/082718a+010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr0dWwHvwGTG5z61XaNoMlQfSWsKB-wLllEOZHRg_riinUTG_aseapL7reeAKrTepH0DoddlV8v7PonvrftY-rR7Py_Tr54HJ0pifcys9uDGrZiiaHiypMljDj0zZNb9Qfl2J9FzaFSXY/s400/082718a+010.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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Or an ode to books and the literature of fly-fishing</div>
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Author’s note: <i>This is one essay that nearly defeated
this writer. The examination of literature and themes of human expression as
art and life through fly-fishing opened so many doors from expression, nature,
curiosity, the human condition, the digital age, existentialism, and a hundred
others that I started to get overwhelmed. This could be a book with two dozen
chapters. A tome reflective of the human state of reading and not reading, of
philosophy and the exploration of our humanity, achievements, fears, mortality,
and everything else written down on the dozens of pages and notes I have taken
in the last several months leading up to this actualization of putting pen to
paper. Perhaps it can best be expressed as how it emerged, with interlocking
and woven themes rather than chapters. Rivers flow and lines curve and so may
words, if we are willing to read them. E.H. Summer 2018</i></div>
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When I was growing up, our house on the East Side of
Milwaukee was full of books. Books sat on shelves, cascaded off cocktail
tables, were piled on the floor, and carried in hand from room to room. For
much of my youth my father sat engrossed in books, slowly smoking a pipe.
Social gatherings often were occasions of passionate discussions of ideas and
books, punctuated by booze and smoke. My father’s generation kept their minds
sharp, even if their bodies were not always treated the best. Today sometimes I
think we have come to the opposite problem: our bodies sacred, but our minds
awash in a sea of data bytes, with no punctuation rooted-words to tie it all
together.</div>
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As a curious child, I explored ideas with questions…
pestering my parents to no end wanting to know the what, why, and how of
everything. They had a set answer: “Look it up.” The search took place in books
awash in dust and ideas, and often the journey was more important than the
destination or answer, for it took one on diversions both small and large that
opened the mind, and imprinted new thoughts or dimensions of perspective on a
young mind. A transcendental journey away from the mundane.</div>
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My father found great wealth in books and was rich in ideas
and knowledge. Indeed, late in his life he was at the home of a relative after
a funeral, and was in an odd mood, as if he had been faced with his own
mortality. One of the guests approached him as he stood alone quiet and
reflective in the living room browsing through the shelves of books. “What are
you doing?” the relative asked. “Looking at the books,” he replied, opening one
briefly.</div>
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“Oh I hate books,” said the relative. “They cause dust, and
I am allergic to dust.”</div>
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My father turned ever so slowly, and replacing the book
gently and reverently in its slot, said “I would rather have dust in my lungs
than dust on my brain.”</div>
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Thus, when it came time for his son to explore the world of
fly-fishing, I naturally turned to books, and turned the first page in a
lifetime journey.</div>
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The immortal Arnold Gingrich opened his literary exploration
of the world of fly-fishing writing in ‘The Fishing in Print’ with the words:</div>
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“As Sparse Grey Hackle says, some of the best fishing is to
be found not in water but in print. It follows that some of the best fishing
partners are to be found not in life but in literature.”</div>
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A book, in its essence is a recording of thoughts and
experiences, points of view and reflections. Stories, our stories… his story
and history. Books allow ideas to be preserved in a timeless way… mirrors and
windows through another’s eyes. They take us places we have never been, they
augment dreams, and widen our world. They allow for exploration of ideas.
Opening a book can be like an open-ended question: joy, fear, anticipation and
validation… mortality and ecstasy captured through mere words on a page. Books
are a lens into a different world, and an examination of the human experience…
the human soul… the human story. Rivers are dividing points and joining points,
moving water and flowing ideas and expressions… mirrors into introspection and
perspective as words are.</div>
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When mankind placed pen to paper, and the written language
emerged as a preservation tool, books were lovingly created and copied by hand.
Even after the printing press was invented, cherished volumes were often kept
under lock and key in vaults, so sacred and valued were the words. Libraries
were the intellectual equivalent of treasuries… banks investing in or keeping
knowledge. Words opened minds and that scared institutions such as the church,
which spent much of their time and effort banning them and collecting them to
file out of sight forever. Ideas can be dangerous. For us today they are free
or nearly so. So free that we take them for granted, and don’t read them.</div>
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The greatest tribute to anything as far as human history is
concerned is to capture it in art, and the written word, or literature, is one
of the finest forms. It has been said that a picture paints a thousand words,
but I would add that a word conjures a thousand pictures, for the human mind is
not two-dimensional, and words trigger imagination. The finest angling books or
literature are often not entirely about fishing. Indeed, they are about life
seen through our experiences while fishing. The human condition portrayed in
the garden of analogy. William Humphrey wrote one of the greatest stories about
fly-fishing in ‘The Spawning Run.’ It is a story about fishing, but in between
the words are our own foibles laid bare in the bushes of life down by the
river. Thus, the finest books are often not simple how-to or where to go typing,
but viewing life, nature, art and philosophy through fly-fishing. Our little
sport might be unique, for more words have been written about it than any other
sport. Ernest Hemmingway wrote his most simple and essential novel, a single
tale of man and a fish… which was not about fishing, but about life,
existentialism, and the bigger realms. The ideas were as large as the dialog
was simple and child-like. These stories endure and are endless as the rivers.
Ars Longa Vitae Brevis. The writers may be gathering dust, but when we open
their books, we hear their voices. Words are immortal. They give us something
greater to chew on. To taste and reflect on. To live through. A hundred books,
a hundred lives, and one reader living it all.</div>
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Yes, and books are there for learning. There on the shelf,
the bookstore, the library or the hearth mantle available and accessible to
all, only for the <u>boldness of curiosity</u> to open the cover and open our
minds. Why boldness? Because sometimes books make us question things… even
ourselves, and critical thinking can be dangerous to the self-assured. I wonder
often if zealots like Halford the dry-fly dogmatic read books with their eyes
tightly closed. We have to be open to ideas and desire to see the world as
other’s see it. That wider view can be frightening or enlightening, depending
on the reader. A closed mind is a closed book. Learning through books is
something we can all do. The history of the sport, and the varied experiences
and perspectives is our education off the water, allowing us to enjoy the
fishing at a greater level when casting in it. Casting our fly into books can
be as rewarding as wetting an actual line.</div>
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Explore wit and wisdom with Lyons as he stumbles through the
rivers, laugh with Volker, discover the inner humor in Skues, Lose a day with
Negley Farson in ‘Going Fishing,’ explore the north-west with Haig-Brown, Fish
the world around and gain a lens into entomology and history with Schwiebert.
Sit at a table with Ritz and Gingrich at a fishing club with a salon-like
atmosphere where ideas are born and drown in martinis, and fishing is only the
seed for the larger expressions of the mind. Sparse Grey Hackle (Arthur Miller)
wrote a book almost entirely not about fishing… or was it about fishing in the
end? We have to go there to see. We have to feed our mind along with our body.
When we do, we find out why we might have not wanted to fish with Hemingway, or
the development of the Irish wet flies with Kingsmill Moore, what we have
gained and lost in tackle, the joys and losses in the tussle with memorable
fish, discover Yeats and his poetry about fishing and nature, explore the north
woods with Gordon McQuarrie, and even find ourselves feeling so slightly
sheepishly guilty for enjoying these explorations off the stream as much as our
time with rod in hand. There in an essence, was the author’s intent.</div>
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Of course, books also have tangibility, a physicality of
touch and feel and smell that is clinically absent in the digital world. Books
are read by the stream, by the fire, in the company of valued friends and pets,
with wines, and exotic cheeses. Books are like tasting a new food. They each
have a flavor as varied as the natural world and the human personality. The
human writer wanting to be more, to exist in a larger sense, and create
something larger out of a simple act. To separate ourselves from the animals
through art and sport. Books have a durability as well. Treasured and saved. A
gift to be given to ourselves again and again, and shared with others.</div>
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The digital world of today exists for a nano-second and
moves on. It is designed for short-attention spans, and cultivates and harvests
them. Forums don’t explore ideas like books do, they race through inane
subjects like what is the best five-weight rod?… they are there and gone again.
Books are like a fine wine slowly sipped and enjoyed for its character, its
very uniqueness. Scanning typed data is like drinking 100 thimbles of different
wines with a toothpick. We remember and enjoy nothing. Ten minutes later we are
all back where we started.</div>
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Books and ideas are not to be constrained to a formula:
1,500 words with a side bar map and travel tips. Writing by numbers. Books are
the soul of creativity, allowing the author to say what they want, go where
they want to go, without hindrance. We owe a debt of gratitude to editors and
publishers such as Gingrich and Lyons for allowing and championing just that…
even if a book on fly-fishing was not always a good monetary bet.</div>
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Literacy can be defined as not just the ability to read, but
the act of reading.</div>
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Books are our constant companions too, as are the stories
and ideas. We absorb them and they become part of our experiences on the river.
Rounding the bend on a spring creek, one remembers a passage in ‘Reflections of
Rivers Past’, or wading a big river, find ourselves recalling a dozen passages
of the naked fear when the author discovers that nature and water are in
charge, a force not to be tamed or taken lightly, but respected. The written
words peek out of the attic of our memory when we share the joy of landing a
fish with an author who in that moment, captured the feeling so eloquently. We
remember the words: flow, caress, spray, leap, pull, twist, dive, thunder and
roar, cascade, liquid fear, anticipation, loop, cast, etc. The reels scream,
the rods bend, the fish tussle, the angler is in doubt, the line breaks… the
fish is freed. Then on to the next bend…</div>
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Our rod is a mere extension to a foreign realm: an upside
down world where life breathes in water and knows next to nothing about the
air-breathing world above the mirror of the surface. Liken the fly-rod to a
spire on a cathedral creeping closer to god. Hope and mystery dwell in the
nether worlds of heaven and water. We can only touch them for a moment. Words
can take us there, and bring us home safely too. Books and words kindle our
imagination and extend our season as we read of the rivers and fish while snow
falls and the dog sleeps a dreamless sleep like the trout do under the ice on a
dark January evening. We are there too, along with the author. We catch their
fish along with them, triumph along with them, and fail when they do, howling a
barbaric YAWP! echoing across the canyon or valley with our existence,
achievements, fears, and frustrations. Then sit and reflect with print on the
meaning of it all. Why do we fish? Why is this important to us? What about
fly-fishing is so fascinating that we can’t get enough to fill us? The
reflections have been written a thousand times in a thousand different ways,
all worth the quiet to read them. Why did the author labor to record them? Was
it vanity? Was it that he or she felt what many of us do; that fly-fishing is
an art performed in water, but perfected in words?</div>
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The debt of gratitude is not just owed to the publishers,
but to the authors themselves. We can thank them for the vicarious pleasures,
for the absorbed learning, for the pure joy, and time filled with ideas by just
reading their books. There is no greater tribute.</div>
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A new premium fly-rod made of space age plastics costs over
$800 today. Most used ‘reader’ copy fly-fishing books can be had for under $20.
With the used book availability of the internet, access to beginning a library
has never been better. So for the price of one new fly-rod one probably doesn’t
need anyway, we could purchase 40 books, and have a lifetime of experiences to
enjoy, experiences we might never have without reading the travels of the
authors: examinations of opinions we would never have been exposed to if we
didn’t delve deep into the pages, history we may never have known and
connections we never may have known existed without the words being recorded
and bound.</div>
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There is another thing that we often find as an unexpected
bonus by reading books. We discover ourselves.</div>
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Erik Helmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00727530868264488710noreply@blogger.com0