Obligatory Year-End Reminiscences

What to say about 2005? Among the standout events for me was the launch of my blog, about a year after I'd plannned to. I've enjoyed "meeting" the folks who've come here. And I've enjoyed reading many blogs, too. Prior to doing my own, I had never paid them any sustained attention. Lots of good outdoor experiences, including another "last" hunting trip yesterday (last trips are sort of like last casts--you'll always end up making a few more, if the opportunity presents itself). Few really bad things happened to us this year--Kristine's hospitalization (for a freakin' CAT BITE!) was probably the worst that came our way. Our porch renovation might qualify as the runner up, but after all the sweating and swearing, it came out looking pretty good (although some finishing touches await us this spring).

My job goes on, usually neither very fulfilling nor very loathesome. It beats unemployment, I guess.

By most external measurements, I had a pretty good year. Often though, it didn't feel that way. For the most part, we financially secure, we were healthy, and we got to do many things we enjoyed. There's a good chance this state of affairs could continue for some time. Which may or may not be good. I feel like I've hit a point where there's no longer much to look forward to. As if I'm in some comfortable rut, and not sure how to get out or what getting out would look like. Maybe the best way to put it is that I feel my life has assumed a shape that can no longer accomodate aspiration. I occasionally wonder if things would look otherwise if I quit fishing, or at least was more casual about it. Seriously, how many passions can a person accomodate?

But enough moping. I hope everyone has a pleasant new year's eve and a fulfilling year in 2006. Kristine and I will be taking it easy at home tonight, watching a marathon of The Wire on DVD. What is it about Christmas break and crime shows? Three years ago, we watched most of the first two seasons of The Sopanos on tape over break, and I think we saw season three during the next year's holidays. As everyone else prays for peace on earth, I slide vicariously into the criminal netherworld.

Perhaps another symptom of some imbalance within. May we all strike the balance we need in the year ahead.

Catfish Caper

Yesterday, the San Jose Mercury-News published its list of the weirdest outdoor stories of 2005.

My favorite:

Two assailants robbed two anglers of their stringer of catfish caught at Troost Lake in Missouri. Worse, one angler, who obviously likes his catfish, gave chase and was shot in the calf. Shirley Coppage, who was fishing nearby, told the Kansas City Star: "I don't understand it. After stealing all that fish, they would have to clean them all. That's a lot of work."

Still more reason to practice catch and release!

Here's hoping I--and the readers who come here--never make this list.

Not odd, but kind of irritating--went to the trap range this morning and shot 4/25 in one round. Never shot that low at any point last winter. Part of me says I need to get out there more, part says I should never return.

Outdoors

Bird of Choice

I'm not talking about white vs. Dark meat. Here in Michigan, there are periodically calls to choose a new state bird. Currently, our official bird is the Robin. Some people question why we chose this--it's not unique to here or especially abundant here (it seems pretty abundant nearly everywhere I go in the eastern US), nor, as far as anyone can tell, does it have a distinctive role in the state's history.

A couple days ago, outdoor writer Dave Richey entered the fray, nominating the chickadee and the Kirtland's warbler as alternatives to the robin. These seem to be almost every anti-robinist's go-to birds, for what it's worth.

Richey is a chickadee booster, touting the little bird's charisma and perseverance. Chickadees

. . . trust people, meet us at the bird feeders when it comes time to refill them, and they circle around and land nearby as we complete this task on their behalf. They have a chuckling little voice, are always busy and provide great year 'round entertainment for housebound folks.

This friendly little bird doesn't head south as the other two contenders for state-bird status do. They are tough, individualistic, and a joy to watch when winter arrives. We predict storms by their feeding activity.



I find chickadees irresistibly charming myself, though like the robin, they aren't unique here by any means. The kirtland's warbler, on the other hand, is. They are known to nest only in certain areas of northern Michigan. I've heard rumors of some nests in Ontario, but Michigan is unquestionably their stronghold--or perhaps, their tenuous toehold. The warblers

. . . are few in numbers, and are an endangered species. They nest in Michigan's young jackpine forests, and have slowly increased their numbers from a low of 25-30 birds years ago to over 400 singing males.

Their numbers are counted during the spring nesting period, and it is believed that for every singing male, there is a female. These birds, through the effort of sportsmen and other concerned individuals, have rose from the brink of extinction to their current high point. They leave the state in early fall to fly south and return in the spring.

They are a pretty little bird but are rarely seen except by biologists who lead tours during the spring nesting period when a bird lover may catch a brief glimpse. Only fire and regeneration of young jackpine forests will keep this bird alive.




To Richey, the scarcity of the KW does not make it more precious.

I would hate to have the Kirtland's warbler as a state bird. They are at an all-time high in numbers right now, but any type of jackpine disaster could wipe them out, leaving us with an extinct state bird

Chickadees, on the other hand

. . . are gutty enough to tough out the long winter, are curious and inquisitive, and are not reclusive. They accept humans and flourish because of us.

Leaving aside the question of whether staying put when the snow falls is "guttier" than migrating thousands of miles on your own power and foraging along the way (how do you compare the courage of different survival strategies?), I am led to wonder about the reasons we choose these state mascots. What do they do for us, and could they do more?

As symbols, they are meant to communicate something, and I think the idea is for them to convey something about this state--the unique or representative flora and fauna, or ones that hold a special place in the state's culture. By that last criterion, the chickadee could be a good choice, since Michiganders do like to boast about the toughness of their winters and praise themselves for enduring them. But the case Richey makes for the chickadee (and views like his are advanced by others) makes it into a symbol of something that has little to do with nature. His chickadee is what many in American society see as an ideal human personality--strong, smart, self-reliant but sociable, a good sense of humor. Someone you'd like as a neighbor or coworker. Call me a misanthrope if you must, but I think the non-human emblems we appropriate for our states ought to say something about the non-human environments in which they're situated.

The KW pulls triple duty in that department. First, it is unique to Michigan. No other place (or at least no place remote from Michigan) can claim that as a part of its environment, in the summer months anyway. Second, its restricted habitat needs and limited range bespeak the jack pine woods that flourish only in parts of the great lakes region, when other environmental conditions permit. Finally, it brings us to reflect on the always fluid state of the physical environment, and on the potential of humans to participate gracefully or disruptively in that flow. In short, the KW could bring Michiganders to pay more attention to where on earth they are, and what they do there. Why settle for a state bird that entertains when you can get one that educates?

Holiday Cold

On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me...a cold.

Kristine has been wrestling with a cold for the last week. A bit unusual, since I'm the one who typically gets sick around the holidays. Often, when one of us is sick the other manages to avoid it, but that wasn't the case this time. Around noon yesterday I felt a tingling around my nose, and by bedtime I had a full-blown sore throat and some heavy-duty congestion. Pretty much the same story this morning.

I was hoping to go on a little outing tomorrow, though that may not happen. Usually I hate these warm spells during winter, but I wouldn't mind this one continuing for a bit, at least until I feel good enough to make it out on the water.

Maybe it's time to turn to the cold cure reccomended by the narrator of Jim Harrison's novel Wolf, which consists of:

*Drinking half a gallon of freshly squeezed grapefruit juice and two gallons of warm water to cleanse the system.
*Eating at least one pound of prime steak, rare.
*Taking a long, warm bath in a darkened room. While bathing, you should slowly sip a bottle of the very best bourbon you can afford, at least a fifth. A cigar is optional during this part of the ritual.
*Sleeping for twenty-four hours after the bath.

Swanson, the narrator, says the treatment leaves him renewed and refreshed, but cautions it may cause hangovers in "those with weak systems." Which, he adds, is their problem.

I think I'll stick with herbal tea.

Health

The FTR Christmas Card

This Christmas finds me reflecting on the nativity of Jesus with some concepts typically not associated with Christian theology, or at least the kinds most commonly preached.* There is a pop rendering of Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle holding that observation of an event changes the nature of the event itself--that by involving ourselves in something, we (not as generic "humans" but as uniquely situated beings with a distinct perspective on and relation to the event) partly influence what it is. Quantum physicists dismiss that as an oversimplificaton, though modern epistomologists have made intriguing arguments to that effect, and the notion also makes sense on an intuitive level. From whatever source, the idea that one's relation to something helps to contitute that thing (and vice-versa) is out there, circulating.

Well. Suppose, for arguments sake, that there is something roughly corresponding to what we call "God." That there is some pervasive presence we could call the heart, or the spirit of the universe. What if this presence could take some uniquely situated form, with particular, concrete relations to some time and place, existing not everywhere but somewhere. What change would that make in the world where this incarnation occured? And what change would this encounter work in that spirit? What if that incarnation was reenacted by communities of people who fashioned a way of living inspired by that initial "situation" of the divine?

Given the often sorry state of our world, I think caution is in order if one tries to delineate any sweeping change for good that came of that nativity in Bethlehem or the life that followed it. But these creative interactions are always complicated things, and the propostions offered by the one celebrated today are, I think, quite interesting nonetheless.
---------------------------------

*Process theology inspired by A.N Whitehead includes similar concepts, though I'm working here with a more traditional notion of God. The Buddhist notion of "Interdepent Origination" partially parallels what I'm suggesting here as well.

Religion; Christmas

And Boy Does it Catch Fish!

Still shopping for the fisherman on your list? Give them a blast from the past!

I recently learned that the Popeil Pocket Fisherman is still produced and sold. First manufactured in the 1950s, the Pocket Fisherman is a compact spincasting rig that folds down to a mere 9". Extend the plastic arm with a guide that serves as a rod and you're ready to chase the big ones! You'll never again find yourself by a river saying "If only I had my rod!" With one of these tucked into your dashboard or purse, any trip can become a fishing trip!

If you grew up in the 1970s, you may remember the TV commercials for these, where a frenetic announcer shouted something like my last three sentences over video of men in boats landing improbably large fish on these stubby little toys. Like a lot of the other Ronco/K-Tel products of that era, they became a punch line, something no one but the hopelessly taste-impaired or unabashedly rednecked would buy, or at least admit to buying.* But they're still around.

Part of their appeal (like that of so many other mementos of Generation X childhood) probably lies in their retro goofiness. Recently, this vintage 1972 model sold on EBay.
Parting with this sounds like a practical decision, but I can't imagine anything but nostaligia or a mania for kitsch behind the purchase. Or the purchase of a new one. The convenience factor is really not that great--even in large pocket, it would be rather clumsy--and what little there is would be more than offset by the rig's limitations. A 1 1/2 foot rod makes casting very awkward, and this rod has the sensitivity of a tent stake, making it hard to detect bites if fishing with bait, or to play any but the smallest fish. The Pocket Fisherman isn't cheaper than conventional fishing gear either. New ones retail for about $40. For that price, you could get a very serviceable spinning rod and reel combo. And seriously, ordinary gear does not take up all that much room. If you want to fish on the go, it's easy enough to keep a rod and a small bag with a reel and some tackle in your car or in a bike pack.

Yet there's no novelty in those things, no aura of can-do space age innovation, nor is there the promise of wetting a line with the mere flick of a wrist. With a Pocket Fisherman in hand, you could be as self-sufficent as the castaways on Gilligan's Island, who you were watching in between commercials for these, and for K-Tel hit compilation LPs and custom potato slicers with the bonus Julienne fry attatchment (honestly, can't you see the Professor rigging one of these out of a coconut and a bamboo shaft?). They will be as eternal as Brady Bunch reruns.

*Full Disclosure Statment: One Christmas while growing up, I received a K-Tel Fishin Magician (12 fisherman's tools in one!) and a Budweiser Lure.
Believe it or not, there were times when the Bud lure caught a lot of fish. I'll leave it to FTR readers to decide whether I belong in the "hopelessly taste-impaired" or "unabashedly rednecked" category.

Hope Everyone has a Merry Christmas.


Tags:Fishing; Pop Culture; Christmas

A Last Hunt

Last week I said it would be quiet here for a while, and I've been true to my word and then some. Finals ended last week, but I've been kind of lethargic since. Not physically tired, as sort of generally sour on life. I don't know why. I I certainly haven't had many ideas to blog about, or much interest in finding any. Yesterday felt like the darkest day of the year for more than astronomical reasons.

It's not going to be a very restful break. I need to begin prepping next semester's classes, and though I've taught some of them before, I seem not to have too many records or notes from those, either at home or in my office at school. So I'll spend much of the next two weeks reinventing the wheel.

But I'm not ready to start that yet. This morning, I got the idea to run somewhere and do some winter trouting. The Muskegon seemed like my best bet, and not unreasonably far for a day trip--at least if you have a full day. However, the idea of fishing didn't come to me until about 9 AM. After two and half or three hours in the car getting there, there wouldn't be much time to fish. And the thought of the drive alone took a lot of the luster away from the scheme. So instead, I opted for one last hunt at a nearby game area.

I'd hoped to get out again when small game season reopened in December, but the snow discouraged me. It gets a lot tougher once you get a few inches on the ground. I had no reason to think today would be particularly good, but I needed to get outdoors.

The outing met my expectations. As on most other outings in southern Michigan, I saw no game at all. But I did get into some beautiful woods, and found some ski trails to visit later this winter, as well as some decent looking grouse habitat to investigate next fall. At one point, walking along the edge of a small creek, my boot caught on the wire securing someone's muskrat trap to a tree, pulling the trap onto the surface of the snow. Sorry to whoever set it. I wrapped the wire around the tree to prevent it from tangling up someone else. Once I'd yanked it out, it wasn't going to catch a muskrat anyway.

I wore out pretty quickly breaking a trail through six or seven inches of snow. After about two and a half hours, I trudged back to my car, feeling pleasantly tired. My heart pumped hard, but comfortably. My legs tingled from the exertion. I'd sweated through the three layers I wore, but hadn't realized that until the hunt was over. And my mind felt at ease for the first time this week. Unsoured, I should say. Back at my desk now, the task of organizing classes doesn't sound any more inviting than it did this morning, but I no longer have that "already beaten" feeling I did earlier.

So small game season ends, for me anyway--clay bird season begins. Maybe tomorrow morning.


Tag: Hunting

Cat Chow, Fish Food

We've decided to start making our cat's food ourselves, since he doesn't tolerate most canned stuff (even the prescription diets) well anymore. Since I had some reward points to use at Cabelas, I stopped there on the way home today to buy a meat grinder.

I found one quickly, and naturally browsed over some fishing equipment on the way out. I also stopped to look at the fish tanks near the front of the store. The store contains an artificial trout stream and some large aquariums of warmwater fish, the latter of which I'd never looked closely at before. In the tanks were pike, muskies, longnose gar, catfish, bass, walleye, and a variety of panfish. Swimming in schools just under the water's surface there were shiner minnows too, providing food for the larger fish. The minnows weren't always easy pickings.

Most of the fish were paying no attention to the minnows--perhaps they got their fill earlier. Those that were chasing them tried to swim slowly near them unnoticed, taking up a position below the minnow school then rising up quickly to grab one. Probably nine times out of ten, the minnows dashed off before the fish could get in striking position. At least half the strikes caught nothing. Once, a walleye nabbed a minnow who had foolishly swum deeper into tank, only to have it pop out of its mouth, apparently unharmed, a moment later. It chased the escaped minnow briefly, but gave up. Perhaps dull hooks or the wrong fly pattern aren't always to blame for fish slipping off my line after the first nip.

Many of the fish didn't look so good--or rather, their colors and markings were dull. It was hard to tell apart some of the panfish. Distinguishing rock bass from white bass and crappie took careful scrutiny. I know Cabelas has a staff of icthyologists to take care of their fish displays, but an artificial environment like that is bound to affect them in some way. At least they looked well-fed and supple.

It was fun getting a view of feeding fish that I generally don't. Most of the time they're invisible to me, and I can only guess about how they're what they're doing under the water. That guess has become more educated over the years, but mostly from deductions or from explanations offered by others. I sometimes think displays like that are hokey, or even a travesty of sorts, but today one gave me an education it would be hard to get on the stream.

Fishing

Degrees of Illiteracy

Yesterday, the NY Times reported that literacy rates are declining among college graduates.

This conclusion is drawn from results of the National Assessment of Adult LIteracy conducted by the US Department of Education in 2003.

When the test was last administered, in 1992, 40 percent of the nation's college graduates scored at the proficient level, meaning that they were able to read lengthy, complex English texts and draw complicated inferences. But on the 2003 test, only 31 percent of the graduates demonstrated those high-level skills. There were 26.4 million college graduates.

The college graduates who in 2003 failed to demonstrate proficiency included 53 percent who scored at the intermediate level and 14 percent who scored at the basic level, meaning they could read and understand short, commonplace prose texts.

Three percent of college graduates who took the test in 2003, representing some 800,000 Americans, demonstrated "below basic" literacy, meaning that they could not perform more than the simplest skills, like locating easily identifiable information in short prose.

On the positive side, literacy scores for black and Asian students increased between 1992 and 2003. However, scores for latino students declined.

Sombering news, but who or what is at fault?

Grover J. Whitehurst, director of an institute within the Department of Education that helped to oversee the test, said he believed that the literacy of college graduates had dropped because a rising number of young Americans in recent years had spent their free time watching television and surfing the Internet.

"We're seeing substantial declines in reading for pleasure, and it's showing up in our literacy levels," he said.

In some ways, this bit of news amounts to a cliché--"Johnny can't read because he's spending too much time in front of the TV!" I've heard this complaint in the background noise of my entire conscious life. Sort of like "Humans are destroying their environment!" One of those complex, intractable problems that triggers spasms of acute panic which (in most of us) soon relax into shrugs.

I don't have the luxury of shrugging off this literacy crisis. I see it every day in the classroom. Last week, in the personal statement I wrote for my annual evaluation, I said that discussing readings had become almost a waste of time. For most of the twelve years I've taught, I've been aware that many students consider reading assignments optional, even when they're held accountable for them in some way, via quizzes, examinations, whatnot. But during much of that time, students usually showed decent comprehension of what they did read. Now, particularly in first semester composition classes, exploring anything beyond the general topic of a reading is like...well, like my "snowshoe walk" the other day, or like it would have been if the snow were 5 feet instead of 5 inches deep. And little of the style or strategy we examine in the readings carries over to the writing. I'm supposed to be helping to reverse this decline in literacy, but many times it feels futile. At least as I'm approaching the task now. As I said in my personal statement last week, it's time to try something new.

I have some colleagues who dismiss, or outright ridicule, the idea of assigning readings in a writing class. Written assignments should come from students freely exploring their ideas, then expanding them through reasearch and revision, they believe. It must work for them, but for me something about that approach doesn't add up. For one thing, regular reading helps one absorb basic print conventions which are very difficult to teach in the classroom, such as when apostrophes are used, and that "woman" and "women" are not the same word. (I'm almost resigned to plural apostrophes--or rather, plural apostrophe's--becoming a standard feature of printed English). But more importantly, it confronts one with new ideas, and with striking ways of communicating ideas. It puts one in conversation with something other than the routine, and consequently makes that routine a richer and more animated thing (I'd like to say it liberates us from routine, but sooner or later we all find one). Those functions aren't unique to reading, but few other media conduct them as readily, or as intimately. Reading is an interchange between work and audience to a greater degree than almost any visual medium. If a college education is meant not only to impart knowledge but to draw one into a community that creates knowledge--a profession, discipline, or an engaged citizenry, for that matter--I think that interchange is essential.

I guess I'm not sure what I'm doing here except wringing my hands. That and reminding myself that literacy is a feeble asset when it's taught as a discrete skill rather than cultivated as a habit of living (and it wasn't so long ago that habit was broadly cultivated, and wasn't just an ideal of self-styled literati). The question I'm left with is, what does that habit look like today?
Tag: Education

Snowshoe Outing (Minus the Shoes)

Yesterday, with all the snow that fell (@ 5"), I wanted to go cross-country skiing. It would have been my first outing of the winter. But the snow was wet and heavy, which would make the going difficult on my waxless skis. So late in the afternoon, I took a walk around the U-M's Matthei Botanical Gardens trails.

I was the only one out, and maybe one person at most had been out before me that day, to judge from the bootprints. One of the most beautiful walks I've taken in some time. Snow clung to the trees like a thick wrapping of cotton. The damp snow fell in clots from tree limbs due to sheer weight. The trees along Fleming creek dropped chunks that dimpled the surface like rising fish. During winter, fly fishermen refer to the "snowflake hatch," which is a wry way of saying that it's too cold for any insects to emerge. But along the creek today, you might have believed that fish were actually rising to the snow.

Where the trail passes behind the Huron Valley animal shelter, it skirts a grove of tall spruces whose upper limbs appear amost knitted together. The canopy they make blocks out a lot of light, but also a lot of snow, leading animals to take shelter there in the winter because it's easier for them to move about and forage. I jumped a doe on first approaching the grove, and saw it several more times down the trail when it stopped in clearings to watch me (the Matthei gardens have some of the tamest deer I've ever encountered). I stopped when it did and gazed back, trying to keep both mind and body still. I wanted the experience of it to be as immediate, as unscreened, as possible. The presence of an interesting animal often provides an unexpected but thorough wipe of the brain, which you may prolong sometimes by ignoring your inner commentator for a bit. The point isn't to be empty or inert, but to let a particular moment, and all it contains, have as much room in your mind as it can. Such experiences are usually short lived, but memories of them don't slip away easily.

I don't know exactly how long the loop I followed was, but after about less than an hour of trudging through the snow, I was getting weary. Sinking in with every step and lifting my boots with a heavy plate of snow on the sole, I thought it was a perfect snowshoe day, or would have been if I owned a pair. Normally when I ski or hike there, I venture along a couple of the looped trails, but one felt like enough yesterday. Especially with a driveway waiting to be shoveled.

That walk was the first time this winter 've really felt I was taking part in the season, instead of watching it happen through the windows of my car or study. Paying the gas bill drives the point home too, of course, but not as agreeably.


Tags: Winter; Outdoors

Where's a Warden When You Need One?

Or a fisheries biologist, or a forester, for that matter?

Maybe wishing he would have saved himself a lot of hassles and majored in supply chain management like his buddies back in college.

(AP):Wildlife agencies across the country are struggling with a combination of rising retirements and declining interest in their jobs among young people seemingly disconnected from hunting, fishing and rural life.

According to the latest statistics available from the federal Government Accountability Office, by 2007 the Interior Department will lose 61 percent of its program managers, the Environmental Protection Agency will lose 45 percent of its toxicologists, and the Forest Service will lose 49 percent of its foresters and 61 percent of its entomologists at a time when Western forests are being ravaged by bark beetles.

The declines come as natural resource managers are juggling more and frequently conflicting demands, including more wilderness vs. more trails for off-road vehicles and a push for greater gas and oil development vs. the preservation of wildlife habitat.

Read It All

Seriously--given a choice between sitting in an office analyzing data on a screen, and writing tickets to drunken, beligerent salmon snaggers or deer poachers, how many would choose the latter? How many people would want a daily piece of this action? Sure, we all crave adventure, but most of us prefer it in non-threatening forms. While teaching English can be a pain, my students are seldom armed and intoxicated, or at least not both at the same time. Busted plagiarists don't throw much at you besides looks of shame and panic.

It's just as troubling to see declining numbers of environmental scientists in public agencies. I suppose changing lifestyles play a role in that, but it's hard to believe the popular antagonism to all-things-government doesn't contribute to the problem too. Jobs that may vanish in the next round of budget cuts aren't that appealing. Nor is having know-nothing legislators scrutinizing and critiquing your work.

My hat is always off to those who care for the outdoors, in any capacity. When I was in high school, I sometimes thought about becoming a fisheries biologist, but it seemed impractical because the placement rate in the field was fairly low. I could work hard for a degree and have no job. So I decided to become a musician.

With that kind of rationality, it's probably just as well I steered clear of the sciences.

Tags: Outdoors; Society

The Grip of Winter

This could make a friendship go sour:

(The Minneapolis Star-Tribune) A 44-foot wooden cabin cruiser locked in ice on the St. Croix River might have to stay there all winter, a Wisconsin conservation warden said Friday.

The boat was moored at Beer Can Island at Hudson, Wis., when it broke loose and floated 4 miles downriver to Troy Township, said Paul Sickman, a St. Croix County warden for the Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources.

It was the result of a misunderstanding between the owner and a friend, Sickman said: "Each thought the other took care of it ... then they didn't call each other about it."

Read the Rest

I hope the pressures of shifting ice don't crush his boat over the winter. Reading this, I feel even happier about having a boat I can deflate and keep in my basement. I also feel curious to know the origins of the name "Beer Can Island." It could denote carefree bachanalian festivities or years of accumulated litter. Or both.

Things will probably be a little quiet here for the next few days. Loads of papers to grade and final grades to tally. And, of course, Christmas cards to mail. If we learn anything from the case of the icebound boat, it's the importance of staying in touch.

Tag: Winter

Bites, redux

On the surface of the sea, we see shimmering light, but beneath it is cold, black, and full of animals.

--Jean-Paul Sartre

The quote above is approximate, but what I remembered of it came to mind yesterday when I thought some more about the stuff in water that bites you, or might, at least. I said that the depths of the rivers were "creepy," but I'm not sure that's the best word. "Hungry," "grabby," or even "anxious" might be better. Underwater, humans are more likely to become prey than on land. We're used to thinking of predators as large beasts that may run us down and rip us apart, but few of us take that possibility seriously because we're unlikely to encounter one, even in the areas they inhabit (and truthfully, few of us go to those places. But leeches will quickly attatch to you, and small fish will nibble at your skin. As I mentioned the other day, large fish like pike will also take a swipe at you in some cases. The air can be pretty hungry too, if you consider mosquitos, black flies, and such things, but I think most people see those as a nusicance more than a threat (at least outside of malaria zones). A few years ago, some women were wading into a river just below where I was fishing. I caught a small rock bass, and as soon as they saw that, one said "ew, he just caught a fish, out of here," and they both left the water, looking worriedly at me as I unhooked the rockie and released it. The Anishinabe Indians who inhabited the Great Lakes area believed that potentially dangerous spirits inhabited waterways, and crossed the waters in silence out of fear of waking them. Whatever fears inspired those beliefs appear to have endured into the supposedly more rational times.

I'm not particularly squeamish about such things (especially because I'm usually wearing waders), but I do keep a close eye out for watersnakes when I'm wading. Our Northern brown water snakes aren't poisonous, but they are quick to strike if you get too near them. They are the "anxious" things below the water.


The stream I grew up fishing near Kalamazoo was thick with them. Occasionally, some did nip at my legs when I waded up on them without seeing them. Sometimes I backed off from fishing certain spots because I saw one curled around a branch between where I stood and where I wanted to fish. These days, when I'm usually fishing larger rivers, I sometimes see them swimming at some distance from me, and I enjoy watching them smoothly undulate their way across the surface.

Once, the night before I left for a fishing trip, I had a dream in which a dead water snake floated past me as I waded a river. Guess what drifted by the next day while I was fishing! Now THAT was creepy.

Tags: Fishing; Nature

The Bite You DON'T Want to Get

Yesterday, Wolf Blog linked to a story about a great white shark attacking a boat off the coast of Australia. Any ambitions I have about fishing the ocean cool just a bit when I read about this sort of thing.


(anybody know how to tie an outboard fly?)

(News.com.au) ROBERT Hogg, his son James and a friend have had a terrifying brush with a 4m Great White Shark.

The trio were enjoying a "relaxing day in the boat" last week at Middle Beach, about 40km north of Adelaide, when a shark launched out of the water about 3.30pm and tore into a bait bag attached to their 5.4m fibreglass boat….

Mr Hogg described his run-in with the great white as "a bit of a shock".

"We felt a bit of a jerk and then the boat sort of started pulling sideways," Mr Hogg said.

"It was bloody huge.”

Not anything you need to worry about on trout streams or bass lakes, though I have heard of pike and muskellunge chomping on digits dangled in the water. Also of snapping turtles drawn to people’s legs hanging down while they ride in float tubes. If you wet wade any distance in the Huron river, you're likely to pick up a few (sometimes more than a few) leeches A shark, though, is another level of danger altogether. Once while I was in the Outer Banks of North Carolina, I was having a blast riding an inflatable raft in the surf, getting knocked in occasionally, until my father reminded me we had been catching small sharks (2-3’) in those waters all week. I went ashore. Why go home minus a toe?

Questions of breathing (and sharks) aside, I don't know if subsurface waters are necessarily more hostile to humans than any other place they're likely to go, but to me at least, they do seem bit creepier. There is more risk of getting out just slightly less whole, physcially, than you were when you went in. Fortunately, the spiritual or emotional effects of fishing trend in the opposite direction.

Tags: Fishing

Yard Birds

Just after I posted yesterday's entry, I noticed a Cooper's hawk perched in the tree just outside my study, keeping a close eye on the nearby birdfeeder.


In vain, it turned out, since the chickadees and titmice had gone to cover before he landed. It was noteworthy, though, since I hadn't seen a raptor in the yard since a kestrel alighted on our forsythias a couple years ago.

The array of birds at our feeders is pretty limited. Of course, so is the menu. We put out black oil sunflower seeds and thistle seeds. Goldfinches come to the thistles (many fewer this year than in previous ones, for some reason), and the sunflower seeds draw chickadees, english sparrows, house finches, cardinals, blue jays, titmice, and white and red breasted nuthatches. A pretty standard winter population, in my experience, except for the red-breasted nuthatches. I'd never seen one before we moved to Ann Arbor. Around our place, they're as common as titmice, but still seem like a novelty. Downy woodpeckers occasionally show up in the yard, but don't come to the feeder. When we lived in Lansing, we had lots of downies on the sunflower seeds. I shouldn't forget the juncos that hang out under the feeder to glean what the rest of the birds knock off.

I can watch birds at the feeder for half an hour, easily. Funny how I've watched the same birds doing pretty much the same thing for most of my life, but still find them engrossing.

Tags:Birds; Nature

Friction to Land Grab

6 guvs protest bill's public land sale

By Gary Gerhardt, Rocky Mountain News
December 3, 2005

Six western governors put Congress on notice this week they oppose a measure pending in the U.S. Senate that would open millions of acres of public lands for sale to mining companies.

Wyoming Gov. Dave Freudenthal wrote Sens. Judd Gregg, R-N.H., and Kent Conrad, D-N.D., of the Senate Budget Committee, on Thursday saying the sale of public lands in a budget reconciliation bill passed by the House could cut off public access for recreation and deny the states billions of dollars in mineral royalties.... The letter states the House bill would net only $158 million over five years, while current royalties yield more than $2 billion a year, split between the federal government and the states.

The letter was signed by Govs. Brian Schweitzer of Montana, Janet Napolitano of Arizona, Bill Richardson of New Mexico, Ted Kulongoski of Oregon, and Christine Gregoire of Washington.

All are Democrats.

The House bill, which would deed lands used for hard-rock mining to private ownership rather than leaving the ground in public ownership as it now does, was sponsored by Rep. Richard Pombo, R-Calif., and set off a firestorm of criticism.

Environmental groups and sportsmen, in particular, say it is a land grab that will privatize much of the lands owned by the Bureau of Land Management, U.S. Forest Service, and possibly even spill into national parks, monuments and wildlife refuges as well.

Nice to hear that someone is standing up against Pombo's plans to sell off large chunks of western public lands. Two things are especially interesting about this news. First, opposition to the sale is coming from state politicians, who (especially in the west) frequently are sympathetic to extractive industries like mining. In the past, some western officials have supported the kind of sell-off Pombo wants. Second, the governors cite the sale's impact on recreational outdoorspeople. It's nice to see someone is taking account of us (and hey, we do pump some money into a lot of remote areas), and of the quality of life that access to wild land and water brings.

For me, the availability of large tracts of freely accessible land is one of the truly great and relatively unique things about the United States. Not that I don't appreciate the rest of this country's virtues (not least of which is the right to bitch about what's wrong with it), but from my perspective, there is no more tangible experience of freedom that parking your car at the edge of some forest and just walking in as far as you care to. Even better would be living close enough to such places that I could leave the car at home...someday. For now, I just hope Pombo's scheme goes down in flames.

Tags: Politics; Conservation

No Hands Fishing

God forbid I ever become paralyzed, but if it happens, all is not lost.

Students Design Breath-control for Fishing Rod

Mechanical engineering students at Oregon State University have designed simulated “breath-controlled” fishing rod devices that can be used by people with limited or no use of their arms and will demonstrate their prototypes during a competition Thursday.

Read The Rest

The Accidental Buckpole

Michigan's firearm deer season ended yesterday, but one Oakland County landowner continues to harvest deer year round. Not that he's trying to, but unintentionally, he's downing more venison than a lot of hunting camps did this year.

GROVELAND TOWNSHIP, Mich. (AP) — Some residents of rural Oakland County complain about a neighbor's wrought-iron fence that they say has impaled at least a dozen deer over the past five years.

It happened again this week, and hunter John Wareham said it shocked even him....Wareham and his wife, Joan, said they are upset with Richard Matheny's choice to leave the 4-foot-tall fence with arrow-shaped tips. The wrought-iron section covers the front of his 5-acre property, while a chain-link fence surrounds the other three sides.

Matheny said he spent $14,000 on the black fence because his neighbors wanted it to look nice. In a telephone interview Wednesday night, he said he would rather not have the fence at all but needs it to keep hunters from trespassing on his property. Read the rest.

The carnage on the fence is a bad thing, but there are several other problems that led to it happening. First, increased housing development in rural areas gives wildlife less room to move, and increases the likelihood of harmful conflicts between animals and people, however benign people's intentions are. Animals have to adapt the best they can; people often do little to adapt to their wild neighbors, to harmonize biotic community norms, as it were. I think this case represent that kind of acting without much reflection about impacts on the nonhuman world. This particular landowner is no more blameworthy than most of us, but that points to the basic problem: environmental calculations are just not part of how people generally make decsions in their daily lives. Clearly we're doing better at this than a few decades ago, but we need to do better, especially as more of us move into places where human impacts have been more limited, or at least more dispersed.

The landowner's complaint about tresspassing hunters points to another pattern of change that is helping to hang deer on his fence. Lands near metropolitan ares where hunters roamed only a few years ago are being developed or posted. This pushes some hunters to more remote public lands (whose animal populations consequently endure greater hunting pressures), and tempts others to tresspass. I don't condone tresspassing, but I do sympathize with the sense of losing someplace you habitually thought of as "your" spot. I was barred from a favorite fishing access when I was a kid because the land was sold and the new owner didn't want me walking across his property. I remonstrated with what, to my youthful mind, seemed like an unassailable argument: that I'd been fishing there for ten years. I felt like I had some claim to it. But of course he gave no credence to my pleas. As long as I lived there, I carried a grudge against the man, and snuck onto the parcel when I thought he was away.(I've since outgrown that kind of behavior!) In the case at hand, as with the deer, hunters become crowded and restive with loss of territory, and up goes the fence. It painfully kills deer that hunters might have harvested were the property still unposted. And I would bet the fence-killed deer are not going into anyone's freezer.

So there's a bigger story here than one decorative fence and a few unfortunate whitetails. Variations of this are probably playing out all over the US.

Tags:Nature; Wildlife

The Word Is Near

On the Christian calendar, today is the feast of St. Andrew. Andrew was one of Jesus's twelve apostles, and an active missionary during the early years of the Christian church. As it happens, he is the patron saint of my parish church--and one of the patrons of fishermen, which I didn't know when we began attending. Is it mere coincidence that I ended up in my present parish?

I probably shouldn’t be too quick to assume an affinity with Andrew just because I fish. My rector used to serve at a parish on the Maine coast, where many in his congregation were working commercial fishermen (like Andrew). In the first St. Andrew's day sermon I heard him preach, he talked up the ruggedness and stamina of these commercial fishers at the expense of recreational anglers, who, he said, "just sit in a boat drinking beer all day." Honestly, I was a bit offended. I hardly ever fish from a boat.

But seriously, Andrew is one of my favorite religious figures, and not because of his piscatorial associations. This is in spite of the fact that we know relatively little about him. In the gospels, he doesn't speak very often, and is seldom even mentioned, in contrast to his showboat brother, Peter. He's a low-key, workaday guy, which is precisely what's important about him.

Andrew and Peter (or in some accounts, just Andrew) met Jesus while tossing a net in the Sea of Galilee , going about their work like they did most other days. But that meeting gave their lives (along with many others') a meaning and a direction they couldn't have forseen. His example suggests that it is within the ordinary that we find the extraordinary; that in common experience we may find what is truly meaningful and wonderful in life. Many of history's sages are in agreement with that, and I think the idea holds up whether you want to associate it with God or not.

It is a message I could pay more attention to, especially when I'm at work, or slogging through some of the less pleasant aspects of domestic life. I'll admit I attend to these things grudgingly much of the time, but I believe, at some level, that they too might bring some meaning or fulfillment if I gave them more care and concern, if I would take them up willingly instead of resenting their intrusion on something more immediately gratifying. What might Andrew have missed if he'd blown off fishing that day to take a walk? What if he'd shut that insistent street preacher out of his mind with daydreams?

I'm the last person who will suggest we ought to banish all hedonism from our lives, or devote ourselves to a miserable routine in hopes of some inchoate enlightenment down the road. I think we all need a plunge into the exotic now and then. But since we're going to spend the bulk of our lives in the quotidian, it makes sense to keep our eyes and our minds open while we're there. To be open to what possibilities it may offer, instead of allowing fatigue or boredom to shut them out entirely. To remember that behind the drone of routine, "the word is very near" (as a passage from Deuteronomy read today proclaims). And especially, when the extraordinary flashes out from the ordinary, to respond to it as wholeheartedly as Andrew.

Tag: Religion

Sprucing Up

Kristine and I decided over the weekend that we're going to put up our first Christmas tree in at least 7 or 8 years. Since we moved to our current house, we just haven't been able to find room for one. But this year we figured we could squeeze a small tabletop model into a corner that recently opened up.

While I haven't missed a tree terribly, there are times I wish we had one, usually on Christmas day. Often we don't do a whole lot to celebrate, aside from cooking a big meal and going to church. In most years, I feel out of step with the season. I don't know that that needs to change, considering some of the excesses that come with the holidays, but a small effort at decorating might make the house a more pleasant place to spend some quiet, frosty nights.

I'm not going to be as hardcore about getting a tree as these people, although when I was growing up, my family always went the cut-your-own route. Mostly that resulted in hours of tramping though the snow at several different farms looking for a suitable tree, finally cutting one that was indistinguishable from most others we'd seen. My dislike of plantations full of cookie cutter pines long preceded any understanding of forest ecology. The greatest challenge Kristine and I will probably face is finding a tree small enough. Anybody seen midget trees for sale around Washtenaw county?

Laying Low

Every have one of those weekends when you can't bring yourself to do much except eat, sip wine, read, and watch videos? When going out of the house sounds like too much effort? I'm wrapping up one of those. That mellow vibe I felt Wednesday has degenerated into full-blown sloth. I have gone out a couple of times (to buy wine, for a long walk Friday, and to jog yesterday), but that's about it.

I suppose I ought to be grateful that I have the space to chill out a bit, but having been raised with an expectation that every waking moment should be productive, I suffer guilt pangs about too much relaxation. Even about going fishing, sometimes.

But the lazy streak is at an end. Though the fog and cold rain outside aren't invigorating in the least, there are a few household chores that I can't put off any longer, and classes to prepare for tomorrow. Fortunately, I have put together some plans for class, albeit at a lesiurely pace. In my fiction class, for the last two weeks of the semester I'll be teaching Carl Hiassen's Double Whammy, a crime thriller set in the world of high stakes bass tournaments. Needless to say, making notes about that book has triggered some daydreams of floating around the edge of a lake on some midsummer night, casting a popper toward shore and listening for a small explosion in the darkness.

Tags: Education ; Bass

Shopping For Jesus

As the holiday retail season gets underway, so does the Friend or Foe Christmas Campaign, an effort to identify and boycott retail chains that don't specifically identify Christmas in their advertising and marketing. Jerry Fallwell is the campaign's instigator, though similar efforts are being conducted by the Christian Educator's Association, Intl., and Don Wildmon's American Family Association. Earlier this week, I heard a commentator on a local Christian radio station endorsing these efforts as well. Supporters of the boycott claim to have the support of at least half a million consumers. Their sights are set primarily on Target, which they allege has banned the phrase "Merry Christmas" from advertising and in store promotions. Target denies the charge.

The boycotters argue that when stores refer generically to "holidays" or "celebration," they are discriminating against Christians. They may even be neglecting a civic duty. The Liberty Council, associated with Falwell, says that stores which "discriminate against Christmas" will receive a letter reminding them that "Christmas is Constitutional," as well as a federal holiday.

Quite a turnaround, this. As long as I can remember, and probably long before, Christians have bemoaned the commercialization of Christmas, the appropriation of the feast of the Incarnation to aid in the accumulation of filthee lucre. Now the problem seems to be that the commercial establishment is ignoring Christmas The moneychangers have quit the temple, and so goes forth the cry of the righteous.

In a way, the de-emphasis of Christmas by retailers has helped accomplish what those opposed to its commercialization wanted. The name of the holiday is associated less with manic purchasing (although the purchasing continues). But that troubles some Christians, who feel excluded or diminished somehow if they aren't given pride of place in the annual year end buying binge, and in every other corner of the public square. Shopping may well be the essential act of civic participation in today's America, so perhaps some feel that if the Kingdom of God isn't at the mall, it might as well be nowhere at all.

As I've understood Christianity and tried to practice it, public acknowledgement of either corporate or private faith is irrelevant. Christianity grew up on the fringes of society, and I think that is where it still flourishes. Demanding the endorsements of governments, schools, and businesses bespeaks a dangerous and overbearing pride, and those behind the Friend of Foe campaign ought to know as well as anyone where that leads. If they really want to see Christ honored in this holiday season, let them feed the hungry, tend the sick, and champion the neglected.

Tags: Christmas; Religion; Shopping

Serenity. Now.

Getting our first really signficant snow of the year. The roads were a bit slippery this morning, and by noon, the salt trucks were in evidence.

I'm off for Thanksgiving break now, enjoying a breather after pretty hectic stretch of teaching. As both student and teacher, I've always enjoyed the pause of Thanksgiving and Christmas breaks, and not only because I'm off work for a few days. For some reason, this feeling of rest and peace comes over me at these times that I rarely have otherwise. I don't have similar feelings about the onset of spring or summer breaks, much as I may enjoy them. What I feel now may be the satisfaction of concluding a long labor, whereas in the spring, I feel grateful simply to have survived one. Also in spring, the rebirth of the landscape AND preparations for fishing season are underway, giving a sense of beginning rather than ending something. At the moment, I may be infected by the stillness of the oncoming winter; I do feel a pleasant congruence between the falling snow, and something in my mind.

I often think of Robert Frost's poem "After Apple Picking" at these junctures.

MY long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn’t pick upon some bough.         
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass         
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell...

Hope everyone finds a bit of rest over the holiday. For those not celebrating American Thanksgiving, I hope you find it where you can.

Read in Tooth and Claw

Australian environmental philosopher Val Plumwood was attacked by a crocodile while canoeing through a national park in Australia about 20 years ago. She survived, but sustained grave injuries. I recently found a link to an article she published about the experience in 2002. She tells a riveting story, interspersed with reflections about the place of humans in nature and the frameworks of understanding through which we view predation and our own eating habits. The piece gets a little theoretical at points, but even those points are accessible and provocative.
I think the article makes a nice appetizer for the mind prior to our annual expression of gratitude via gluttony.

Tags:Nature; Philosophy; Food

Fun with Rodents

Yesterday I was in a bird feeding supplies store looking for a squirrel baffle for our feeder pole. Squirrels can climb our skinny, slick feeder pole with no problem whatsover and clean out our sunflower seed feeder in a matter of minutes, probably as much due to swinging around on the feeder trying to get a foothold as by actually eating from the feeder. No matter. Once they empty the feeder, they can return to the ground to eat whatever seeds fell.

As it happened, I was unable to find a baffle that would fit our pole, but I did hear an interesting remark from the sales clerk helping me: "Hard to believe there's an industry built around frustrating squirrels." It is, come to think of it. I noticed too that there were at least four or five different brands of baffle, all functioning in a slightly different way, which means there are also competing theories about how best to stymie the clever rodents.

So much energy and thought expended to assure that birdseed gets to its intended recipents. Of course, its nothing compared to people dreaming up and experimenting with all sorts of flies for catching trout. True, fishing is more complicated and practiced under a wide variety of conditions, though it may not be much more significant in the greater scheme of things.

Squirrel baffling is evolving into a mamalian analog to catch and release fishing. Among the selling points listed on the baffles' labels is the fun one can have watching the squirrel perform unintentional acrobatics as it tries to circumvent the barrier. You cause the creature some discomfort, take some pleasure from the experience, but ultimately let it go unharmed. No license required, and no closed seasons.

With trout season six months away, I guess I need to find a baffle and get in on the fun.

Tag: Nature

Book Review: Being, Nothingness, and Fly Fishing, by Michael Checchio

Michael Checchio's mission in Being, Nothingness, and Fly Fishing is to recount "How one man gave up everything to fish the fabled waters of the West" while avoiding the snares of cliché that litter the corpus of fly fishing literature. Checchio is acutely aware of the tendency some fishing writers have of lapsing into a sort of mushy myticism about the unity of life, rivers as metaphors for the lifespan, divinity in the flash of a leaping salmon, etc. He even quotes reviews which lay such charges against fly fishing books, taking his title from the sarcastic suggestion of one reviewer that an author could not go wrong pitching a fly fishing manuscript called "Being, Nothingness, and Fly Fishing."

Checchio's appropriation of the title is, as he notes, ironic. No navel gazing or Worsdworthian hymns to the spiritual within the sensible for him. He does, naturally, describe beautiful rivers and he briefly considers the emotional satsifactions of fly fishing. Fishing, he writes, is "one means of perceiving the majesty of our planetary world. And no greater majesty can be available to the human senses." He conjectures that ultimately "fly fishers try to make a kind of healing connection with the world. Fishing lifts us above the ordinary, while keeping us connected to simple things." That's about as far into existential rumination as Checchio gets, and probably as far as most writers need to go.

In Checchio's previous life as a self-described hard-nosed street reporter, the Big Questions were never part of his beat anyway. His book tells the story of how he broke away from a secure but unsatisfying life as a journalist in New Jersey to chase trout and steelhead (mostly steelhead) full time. It follows him thorugh the initial summer of his getaway, hopping trout streams on the Yellowstone plateau (in the fiery summer of '88), venturing north to the summer steelhead rivers of Oregon and Washington, then settling in San Fransisco as a base for chasing steelhead and writing. In keeping with his reporter's background, the narrative pace is brisk, the detail spare but revealing. His adventures are peopled with distinctive characters, usually crusty and antisocial sorts (apparently some clichés of fishing books just can't be avoided--probably because their living inspirations can't). At his best, Checchio, like many American poets (William Carlos Williams comes to mind--what is it about New Jersey?) or Japanese Haiku artisits, conveys great depth of experience by describing the simplest of immediate, tangible things. When landing a memorable brown trout, for instance, he becomes "aware of several things at once. The feeling of living weight on the end of my line. The wind kicking up over the basin, wrinkling the surface of the river. One two three four small birds flying out of the willows." Writers who tie themselves in knots trying to evoke the sense of "connectedness" fishing brings on rarely succeed as well as Checchio does in this handful of sentence fragments.

But if simplicity is the book's main strength, it is also a weakness. Sluffing off his old life for trout bumhood doesn't seem to have been too difficult for the author. According to the subtitle, Checchio gave up everthing to fish the west. "Everything" apparently includes a job he had lost interest in, a home in a toxic, degraded landscape, and mediocre fishing waters. No partner, no family, no strong friendships, nothing of any particular personal significance. And he had plenty of money saved to make the trip. There doesn't seem to have been much at stake in his choice to leave, aside from fulfillment of a fantasy--and a fantasy which is itself a cliché among fishermen (including ye humble reviewer). If there are no serious obstacles to fulfilling that fantasy, where's the story?

Checchio admirably avoids egocentric nature worship, but also delivers a tale without much moral, emotional or intellectual substance. Among the reasons he cites for leaving journalism was to grow as a writer, to create literature instead of copy. That's tougher to accomplish than quitting your job to go fishing. While BN&FF is a start in the right direction, most of the author's intended journey still lies ahead. Along the way, a little introspection, or a glimpse around the edge of those Big Questions, might not hurt him.

Tags:Fishing;Literature

Reading Water

Today, MidCurrent linked to an article from the Charlottesville, VA Daily Progress on autumn fishing in the Appalachins. One passage in the article in particular stood out to me:

Arriving at Second Creek, we were not surprised to find the water low and clear. It was so clear, though, you could have read the stock reports from the Wall Street Journal in 4 feet of water without squinting.

There was something familiar about this, and it occurred to me that I might be observing a trend in how fishing writers gauge water clarity. In spare moments over the last couple days, I've been reading Michael Checchio's Being, Nothingness, and Fly Fishing (which is not nearly as pretentious as the title might lead one to believe). In an account of his first visit to Wyoming's Bechler river, Checcio observes to a companion that "[y]ou could read the New York Times in this water" (93).

For all I know, subaquatic legibility may be a well-established trope for describing the transparency of rivers. But it is one thats new to me. The eternal cliche for describing trout waters is "gin clear," though slightly tannic streams might be said to have "the color of scotch whiskey," or "a light scotch-and-soda tint." People also say rivers are treacly, smoky, or cloudy, which also happen to be adjectives applied to scotch whiskeys. Others (perhaps fishermen forced to go on the wagon, or writing under a cloud of hangover guilt), descibe waters as tea-colored, or glassy. Either way, we're still in the realm of beverages. Rivers running muddy will be compared to coffee-and-cream or chocolate milk. All these are handy and widely understood analogies, but I wonder if they don't also reflect fishermens' desires to commune more deeply with--to drink in--the habitat of their quarry? Or, to put it in more down to earth terms, to make the wilds seem a little more homely?

The legibility descriptions seem a bit more artificial, though they also suggest a nature-culture interface. And there is more congruence between rivers and newsprint than first appears. Fishing is very much a matter of information processing. Despite the fact that papermills negatively impact many streams, paper is a reconstitution of trees and water, along with other ingredients. (Could this be a reason why so many fly fishers compulsively read and write about their sport?) At any rate, I think there is room to develop this notion of rivers as reading lenses.

Articles in the Times or stock listings in the WSJ use very small type, and so rivers allowing you to read those would be streams of above average clarity (Bombay Saphire Gin clear, in the old parlance). Still, newspapers present stark black and white contrasts; to do justice to rivers of extraordinary clarity, you might have to invoke a murkier script: "That river was so clear you could have read the Dead Sea Scrolls in it." A combination of old and new tropes would also convey exceptional perspicacity: "the still, sunlit pool was so clear I could have read the health warning on a gin bottle at its bottom."

Suitable instruments for gauging murkier rivers would include USA Today or pizza coupons. One could say that a river flooded with spring snowmelt or the runoff from a summer cloudburst was "so muddy you couldn't have read the funny pages in it if you'd shined a freakin' spotlight on 'em." The possibilities for irony (and environmental education) are rich: "Once the paper company had clearcut the banks of my favorite river, it ran so cloudy I was forced to take my reading elsewhere."

*sigh* ...Obviously, I've had a long week.

Tags: Fishing;Literacy

A Teacher's View on Textbooks; Snow!

Textbooks are essentially holding tanks for lovely and fragile ideas which disintegrate upon release into the torpor of the classroom.

On a less despairing note, I'm enjoying the year's first snowfall. Big, soft flakes fluttering down and even sticking to the ground. I'm starting to think about cross-country skiing. Not that we'll get enough snow for that today, but when the first big blast of snow finally gets here (if it gets here), I'll be more than ready.


Tag: Education

One to Watch

From the AP:

Republicans Push More Logging

Republican state legislators are introducing bills aimed at boosting timber harvesting in state forests. The lawmakers announced the initiative at several news conferences around the state yesterday. They say the package will be introduced in the House and Senate in the next couple of weeks. One bill would make it harder for regulators to rule certain areas off-limits to logging. Another proposal offers tax incentives to encourage private owners to allow timber cutting on their land. Still another gives incentives to the forest products industry to invest and expand operations in Michigan.

I haven't seen the details of this yet, but it's obviously a matter of concern for anglers and others with a stake in the outdoors. Are riparian areas among those where restrictions will be lifted?

These measures will probably find supporters outside of the timber and paper industries. Hunters like to see cutting tbecause it creates more meadow and regenerating forest areas, which generally increase the food supply available to popular game animals (though not for some species that require mature forests with lots of dead or downed timber). As a bird hunter, I certainly like to see some areas like that (and there don't seem to be a shortage of them at present), but I don't want to see the state turned into a game farm, either.

I have no problem with responsible logging. But cutting that reduces forest diversity or harms waterways doesn't fall into that category. There also is the issue of expanding the network of logging roads. Those can seriously impact forest health, and there has been a trend recently toward closing and rehabilitating them.

How justifed such fears are remains to be seen. But I'll be watching.

The Rake's Progress

Three-fourths of the Earth's surface is water, and one-fourth is land.  It is quite clear that the good Lord intended us to spend triple the amount of time fishing as taking care of the lawn.  ~Chuck Clark

If there's any truth to that, I have a divine mandate for a full week of fall steelheading. Spend half of Friday and most of Saturday and Sunday raking leaves. Finished the job, but at the expense of some grading and other school chores hanging over my head. I'll be doing quite of bit of explaining to my students this week about why I haven't got what I promised them last week. Usually it's the other way around.

Worse things can come from raking, though. One of my neighbors is a fireman, and over the fence Sunday, he told me he'd been called out three times over the weekend to put out brush fires that started when burning leaf piles got out of control. At least I didn't burn down the neighborhood. And in all probability, my yard work for the year is done!

Still Carping

Seems to be a carp weekend. Found the following joke at the site of a Chinese blogger. As far as I can tell, it's his first and only post. Great way to start, though.

 
Two fishermen were out on the lake when one of them dropped his wallet. As they watched the wallet float down to the depths of the lake, a carp came along and snatched up the wallet. Soon came another carp who stole it away and then a third joined in. Remarked one of the fisherman, "That's the first time I've ever seen carp-to-carp walleting."


Tags:Carp;Humor

Giant Killers?

Voracious, 100 lb. Asian Bighead carp are working their way up the Illinois river and into the Chicago canal, knocking at the gates of Lake Michigan. These exotic fish farm ecapees consume two to three times their weight in plankton daily, wreaking havoc at the bottom of the food chain and, ultimately, thoughout the aquatic ecosystem. Who will save our beloved salmon, trout, perch, and bass fisheries?

Perhaps Carp Protein Products of Havana, Illinois. Go get 'em, boys.

Tags: Carp; Conservation

11/11/11/18

Growing up, I often thought my family was a little out of step. For instance, the rest of the country celebrated Veteran's Day on this date, and had since 1954. In our house, the holiday was still known as Armistice Day, the day for honoring veterans of World War I first observed in 1919 and established as a national holiday in 1938. My mother was the daughter of a doughboy, and so grew up with her father's recollections of the Great War, as World War I was then known, and with public remembrances of those who served in it. In one of these remembrances, the children in her school classes would all stand up at 11:00 AM on November 11 and silently face eastward for one minute, commemorating the signing of the armistice ending the war at that time and date in a railroad car at Compiègne, France.

Of course, before my mother was long into her teens, another, greater war came along. Congress eventually dedicated November 11th to remembering all veterans. The change is surely appropriate, though by shifting the focus from particular historical events to a kind of trans-historic heroic character, it makes obsolete the very focused rituals of remembrance that my mother knew. People no longer recall and re-enter a decisive moment, but think of those who have cycled in and out of wars over the centuries. I don't know if this is a gain or a loss, but in my house, it was beside the point. The day was still Armistice day, and at 11:00 on November 11th, my mother would stand and face the east for one minute. That's what she said anyway, and on the few occasions this date fell on a weekend when I was home from school, I saw her do it myself. And at least a couple times, I joined her. I wasn't quite sure what it was about, but I did sense that somewhere in the gesture was a family connection to history. Real history, like you read about, not the (usually unfortunate) history of remote and often deceased relatives told and retold during summer nights on my grandmother's porch.

My ideas of what history does and doesn't count have shifted a bit over the years. I wish I'd paid better attention to some of those family stories, or heard them when I was a bit older and might have understood them better. Beyond my parents, and very sketchy acquaintaince with my grandparents, I don't have much of a sense of my roots. While this lack isn't especially painful, it is there. So when I remember, or when I'm not busy with something I can't set aside, I try to take a minute at 11:00 on the 11th of November to face the east quietly. Not so much for reasons of war or peace or national pride, but to remember who I came from, and where, in time and place, they came from. An arcane private ritual, I'll admit, but as a fly fisherman, I'm predisposed to those anyway.

Tags: [Family];[Veteran's Day]

Wasteland (?)

Today, one of my students wore a T-shirt with the message "Ohio: Nothing to see since 1803." Unfortunately, it's just about the truth, at least in this part of the state. Of course, Ohio's taxpayers support me, so maybe I shouldn't poke fun.

Still, it's not altogether bereft of natural attractions. This region hosts a number of rare butterflies. It seems to be a haven for endangered wildflowers, too. Northwest Ohio doesn't offer much in the way of grandeur or picturesque appeal, but some it has some captivating minutae. I've met a few people with a deep knowledge of and attatchment to the area. I think their bond to this place bespeaks an admirable perceptive capacity.
[Ohio]; [Oak Openings]

Natural Talent

A couple days ago, I ran across the website for Project FLOW, a grade-school science curriculum developed by Michigan Sea Grant with lessons built around the ecology of the Great Lakes. Sounds like a neat course, but what stood out to me was one of the graphics at the site:

I liked it, and something about it looked very familiar. Then I remembered that an artist friend of mine works at Sea Grant as a graphic designer. I checked the credits, and there he was: Todd Marsee.

Todd is a former colleague of my wife's, and has been creating and selling though-provoking nature-inspired paintings for a number of years. I like his work because it steps outside the strict realism of most of the nature art that I see. It shows some serious thinking about how people relate to their environments, yet is representational enough for people with limited exposure to the visual arts (like me) to understand and appreciate. Todd has an online gallery; give it a visit.

A (nonfishing) Fishy Site

Thanks to computers, practically anyone can be an animator. Some evidence suggests this may not be such a good thing.

Four-Oh

Today is my 40th birthday. Spent a good deal of the weekend celebrating, actually. Kristine and I went out for a nice dinner and a movie Saturday; yesterday we met my sister and a friend of hers for lunch as they were passing though the area, and she laid a very tasty cake on me; last night Kristine cooked me a "special birthday dinner," and who knows, there might even be another one of those in the works.

I don't have any great remorse about the number itself. I don't feel that I'm abruptly losing something, or drastically changing somehow. But I am a little confused about what lies ahead. Some time ago, it occurred to me that I didn't know how to be middle aged. All I knew was being young, or at least what being young was at the time when I was young. My frame of reference remained that of a student or an aspiring young professional, despite racking up a marriage, a mortgage, and more than ten years of a teaching career. As the years went on, I could relate less and less to my students, yet I didn't feel much closer to my elders.

I have the notion that, in my parents' time, the paths for one's life were more clearly marked out. There was a certain condition of middle class responsibility and comfort you aspired to and settled into when you had the means and the stability. Youth prepared you for that. But today, it's often remarked that childhood, or adolescence, extends longer than it did a generation ago. Some of that may be due to economic necessity: people may require a longer period of dependence on their parents for support or shelter before establishing themselves. But some of it is because as people age, they want to carry their youth, or youthful interests, with them whether in the form of music, Disney cartoons, Hello Kitty gear, Xbox games, or whatever. Aging becomes a project of accomodating those habits and interests into new circumstances, of, in short, remaning hip. My parents, or any parents of my friends, were never encumbered with that concern.

And that's where it may go well for me. My purchase on hipness slipped away ages ago, and was never that firm to begin with. I may not know how to be middle aged, but I wasn't that great at being young either, at least if being young is about friendships, spontaneity, hedonism, and self-exploration. I got through youth by trial and error, improvising as I went along, and the results were usually tolerable. That strategy is a part of being young I can carry with me as I age. Honestly, I'm not sure what alternatives there are.

Do They Ever Learn?

Among items in the news last week was the passage of a 2006 federal budget, approved in slightly differing versions by the House and Senate, and endorsed in large part by the Bush administration. It cuts a great deal of spending on social programs that help poorer Americans. It also includes tax cuts that will primarily benefit the well off. The budget bills approve oil drilling in Alaska's ANWAR refuge, with supporters offering the specious claim that it will reduce our dependence on foreign oil. What it will almost certainly do is line the pockets of some oil companies and their stockholders.

Included in the spending cuts are a $35,000,000,000 reduction in food stamps, besides cuts in Medicare spending and school lunch programs. In conference, the House may try to push the food stamp cuts higher.

In itself, this is no surprise from the Bush administration and the current congressional majority. With a few largely symbolic exceptions, they've always frowned upon social spending, despite being able to dig up the money for a pointless war and, in the case of the White House, expansive and agressive PR campaigns. What does surprise me is that this plan could pass mere weeks after Hurricane Katrina gruesomely laid bare the gap between haves and have nots in the country, and the greater vulnerability of the latter group in the face of disaster, or even in ordinary life. All these leaders saw the disturbing footage (albeit reluctantly in the president's case) and pledged concern and assistance. But since then, a deadly amnesia appears to have settled over Washington. Bush may have quit drinking years ago, but his short-term memory remains severely impaired.

In church this morning, our rector warned us that on Sunday the 19th, our church would be picketed by the Reverend Fred Phelps and his traveling homophobic freakshow. They're visiting us (and three other Ann Arbor churches) in conjuction with protesting a production of The Laramie Project at U of M. St. Paul argues that by showing one's adversaries kindness, one heaps burning coals on their head. In the case of Phelps I'd rather do the heaping literally, though he'd probably relish suffering for his cause. Which might have been what Paul was getting at. Anyway...grant us forbearance, Lord...

November Olives; More links

Last night I had a 5:30 PM appointment in a building along the Huron river just downstream from the U-M hospital. I got there a bit early and walked down to the river to enjoy the unseasonably warm evening and autumn colors reflected in the quiet flow. Not a breath of wind moving. Ann Arbor's skyline stood out against a lemon twilight, shading into bands of orange and violet above.

Sometimes it's not easy to see how clear the Huron is. From a ways off, it usually appears dull, treacle brown or cloudy gray. But that's just because of dark silt on the river's bottom. People describe the water of many trout streams as "gin clear," and while the Huron is not quite that, it certainly is no more than a slight dash of lime juice or olive brine away from it. Looking straight down in the water, you can clearly make out rocks and drowned timber in the river, beds of gravel, trails of crayfish in the silt, or river grass swaying in the current. At this point in the year, that grass is turning a pale yellow, if it hasn't already shriveled to kinky brown filaments which will shortly come unmoored from their roots and drift along the river's bottom until they disintegrate, adding to the muck along the river's margins, or at the bottom of Gallup Pond.

The river's surface showed a few dimples of feeding fish--something I ordinarily wouldn't expect this time of year, though I suppose the recent warmth has kept the flies hatching and the fish looking up. A few caddis shivered over the water, but the quiet rises were probably from fish sipping emerging blue wing olives.

Some of the little mayflies hovered around head height. I caught one and inspected it for a moment, wondering if I shouldn't have gone fishing on Thursday instead of hunting. Letting him go, I started making plans to meet up with his progeny--and their predators--next fall. For the time being, I was grateful to share a moment the river and its inhabitants.

Found a few other interesting links.

Ontario Wanderer features nature photos and stories from rural Ontario and beyond.

A philosophy professor's lesson plan incorporates fly fishing into his discussion of Swedenborg. Where was this guy when I was in school? (another find from Midcurrent.)