A resolution I made for this fishing season was to explore some new rivers. For about the last five or so years, I've fished almost exclusively on the Au Sable system. There are plenty of good reasons to keep going there, but I also have wondered what other rivers have to offer.
So, in keeping with that plan, I ventured Monday evening to the Boardman river just outside Traverse City. I got camp set up and finished dinner in time to be on the river by 9 PM. I simply guessed about what part of the river to fish, but as soon as I got the water I could see I had guessed well. The stretch before me was wide and slow, strewn with downed timber and bounded large bands of muck (mud beds are the habitat for the larvae of the Hex mayflies I was pursuing). Confirming my choice of water, several other fishermen appeared just behind me. Apparently, someone was convinced there would be a hex hatch here. And there was, sort of. At around ten after ten, a few hex spinners appeared in the air, and several fish began feeding along a logpile below me. None of them sounded really large, and I got a few short strikes, which, during the hex hatch, usually means you're dealing with fish too small to get the hook in its mouth. Eventually, I did land two smaller browns, both around 10". The feeding continued until about 11, but for the last half of it, I couldn't get a strike. A guy I met back at my vehicle who'd fished below me said he'd caught a 17" brown, but nothing else. Of course, he added, the fishing had been spectaclular last night.
Still, it wasn't a complete blanking, and I very impressed by the look of the water. No regrets about the choice of rivers, and much anticipation for the next day.
The next day got off to a poor start, though. As I began to make breakfast, I realized I'd left my coffee at home. However, I had been thinking of going to Traverse City to buy a few things and troll for some info at a fly shop, so I figured I might find a good coffee shop as I ran those errands. On the way in, though, I quickly confronted a crunch of traffic and chain stores. I had forgotten about this aspect of TC. It had been a long time since I'd come into it from the south, where most of the retail infestation is. Before I was halfway to downtown, I turned around, got a cup of gas station coffee, and bolted back to the peaceful environs of the upper Boardman, making do without gourmet Joe and fishing tips from the locals.
One of the reasons I had stayed away from the Boardman before was its proximity to TC. I drove back to camp Tuesday morning wishing I'd maintained my prejudice against it. But I calmed down quickly once I got into the woods again. Areas of state forest just beyond the city are no busier than many other recreational districts of Michigan--in fact, my riverfront campground was almost deserted while I was there. And the Boardman was less crowded for the Hex hatch than other waters I've fished. I suppose the area is busier on weekend, but most places are. Generally, I was impressed with the degree of wildness that remained on the edges of a fairly large town.
On Wednesday, in fact, it was the lack of amenities that would drive me to another stream. But between here and there lie several fish stories.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Thermal Refugees
When we got to the question of dinner last night, I suggested a cool salad. Kristine, the brains in the household, suggested going out. Went to Madras Masala, underneath the Maynard parking structure. My vote for Ann Arbor Indian chow still goes to Raja Rani (Mysore Woodlands for take-out). Not bad, though, and given yesterday's heat, I would have gladly had PBJ sandwiches if I could eat them in air conditioning. The waiter, bless his heart, never let my ice water glass get empty. After dinner we browsed in Border's for a while. You know you're a geek when fears about all you're missing out on in life come upon you most strongly in bookstores.
After our dinner had settled, Kristine and I walked around the block for the first ice cream cone of summer. Those are occasional treats for us, as opposed to when I was growing up and our family went our for ice cream at least once a week. If my dad and I went to Meijer's and the temperature was over 60˚, we'd always get a cone. It's a wonder my sisters and I didn't need triple bypasses before we were 20.
We came home around 11, and the house was an oven after being shut up for three hours. I think I sweated more in the half hour we sat up before bed than I usually do when I jog. Which, by the way, I didn't do yesterday or today.
People Who Ought To Be Flogged (I may make this a running feature, so here's nominee #1)--People who sing loudly in public restrooms. Additional lashes for dancing at the urinal. I never would have guessed the Liberty Borders' was that inspiring.
After our dinner had settled, Kristine and I walked around the block for the first ice cream cone of summer. Those are occasional treats for us, as opposed to when I was growing up and our family went our for ice cream at least once a week. If my dad and I went to Meijer's and the temperature was over 60˚, we'd always get a cone. It's a wonder my sisters and I didn't need triple bypasses before we were 20.
We came home around 11, and the house was an oven after being shut up for three hours. I think I sweated more in the half hour we sat up before bed than I usually do when I jog. Which, by the way, I didn't do yesterday or today.
People Who Ought To Be Flogged (I may make this a running feature, so here's nominee #1)--People who sing loudly in public restrooms. Additional lashes for dancing at the urinal. I never would have guessed the Liberty Borders' was that inspiring.
Saturday, June 25, 2005
Pick Your Villain
Bloggers and bulletin board participants have been fuming over the SCOTUS's Kelo vs. New London decision. As you've probably heard by now, the upshot of this ruling is that local governments may employ eminent domain to force property owners to sell their land to other private interests for economic development. In short, the deed to your home is now permanently on an auction block. Despite the reassurances of the 5 justices in the majority that this ruling does not permit the forced transfer of property purely for private gain, I have a feeling that will happen. This ruling offers a splendid vehicle for the time-honored practice of cloaking pecuniary motives in bromides about civic good. A participant in a bulletin board I frequent said that he had lunch yesterday with a contractor who told him land developers are ecstatic about the ruling. An anonymous anecdote, maybe, but easy to find credible, given the opportunism of developers (evidenced by the unrelenting transformation of fields and woodlots anywhere within two hours of an urban center).
Scary implications aside, one of the most interesting things about this ruling is the range of explanations offered for it by internet critics. I've noticed that pretty much everyone, regardless of their political orientation, blames this on or otherwise links it to their personal bête noire. Some conservatives, noting that the more liberal members of the court made up the majority in the case, contend that the ruling is a natural extension of the liberal desire to expand government power. If true, I would say that the justices' hold to a mutant liberalism, unmoored from the traditional concerns that have motivated liberals to employ government on behalf of the citizens. Of course, my personal strain of liberalism or progressivism or whatever you want to call it has a strong populist flavor. Not surprisingly, then, I see this as an extension of the "highest profit regardless of the consequences" mentality, and of the trend toward government action to aid business interests at the expense of individual citizens. More something you would expect from Bush administration officials than allegedly liberal judges, but plenty of socially liberal, Democratic officials act likewise. There are not clear partisan boundaries to this logic.
Cory, at An Empire Wilderness, feared that the way things are going, pretty soon it may be in the ‘public good’ to seize property for churches or faith-based institutions. Given that churches don't pay property taxes, I'd suspect the opposite is more likely, especially for churches like mine that are active on matters of social and economic justice. This could be a means of silencing any number of politically inconvenient groups or persons. The most ill-conceived response I've seen is a New York Times editorial from yesterday, which applauded the ruling as a victory over the "'property rights' movement." I've followed and written about the property rights crowd for a while, and I think the scare quotes are well deserved. They appeal to their sovereignty over their property to flout zoning and environmental regulations, and I'll admit there is a certain logic to that, at least if you stopped thinking after you read Locke. But the Kelo ruling makes mere occupation of property tenuous. The issue here isn't balancing owners' rights with environmental or social concerns, but making anybody's home available to the highest bidder. Of course, members of the Times's editorial board likely do not occupy homes that are probable targets of redevelopment.
The silver lining to this is that the case may well unite America's polarized citizens behind an issue. At least if we don't forget about it until the eviction notice comes.
Scary implications aside, one of the most interesting things about this ruling is the range of explanations offered for it by internet critics. I've noticed that pretty much everyone, regardless of their political orientation, blames this on or otherwise links it to their personal bête noire. Some conservatives, noting that the more liberal members of the court made up the majority in the case, contend that the ruling is a natural extension of the liberal desire to expand government power. If true, I would say that the justices' hold to a mutant liberalism, unmoored from the traditional concerns that have motivated liberals to employ government on behalf of the citizens. Of course, my personal strain of liberalism or progressivism or whatever you want to call it has a strong populist flavor. Not surprisingly, then, I see this as an extension of the "highest profit regardless of the consequences" mentality, and of the trend toward government action to aid business interests at the expense of individual citizens. More something you would expect from Bush administration officials than allegedly liberal judges, but plenty of socially liberal, Democratic officials act likewise. There are not clear partisan boundaries to this logic.
Cory, at An Empire Wilderness, feared that the way things are going, pretty soon it may be in the ‘public good’ to seize property for churches or faith-based institutions. Given that churches don't pay property taxes, I'd suspect the opposite is more likely, especially for churches like mine that are active on matters of social and economic justice. This could be a means of silencing any number of politically inconvenient groups or persons. The most ill-conceived response I've seen is a New York Times editorial from yesterday, which applauded the ruling as a victory over the "'property rights' movement." I've followed and written about the property rights crowd for a while, and I think the scare quotes are well deserved. They appeal to their sovereignty over their property to flout zoning and environmental regulations, and I'll admit there is a certain logic to that, at least if you stopped thinking after you read Locke. But the Kelo ruling makes mere occupation of property tenuous. The issue here isn't balancing owners' rights with environmental or social concerns, but making anybody's home available to the highest bidder. Of course, members of the Times's editorial board likely do not occupy homes that are probable targets of redevelopment.
The silver lining to this is that the case may well unite America's polarized citizens behind an issue. At least if we don't forget about it until the eviction notice comes.
Friday, June 24, 2005
The Envy of Them All
On my way out to the Huron this morning, I stopped at Bagel Fragel on Plymouth road for some breakfast. While packing up my whole grain w/ cream cheese, the man behind the register asked me if I was off to work. "Heck no," I replied, "I'm going fishing."
"Lucky you!" he said. "I had some good luck out at my brother's cottage last weekend, caught over twenty bluegill, and I'm going back tomorrow." "I wish I was going fishing today," the lady behind me in business dress exclaimed. "You must be a teacher." With a smile, I said, "As a matter of fact, I am." Groans and head shakes from the whole line of customers. Summer may be the one instance when people express a wish to be in my shoes. Hearing me complain about grading papers and dealing with lame student excuses the rest of the year might put a damper on their envy, though.
As it happens, my fellow bagel eaters might not have missed that much. I went to Riverside Park in Ann Arbor, right below the U-M hospital. The river is quite wide and shallow there, and there doesn't seem to be much good cover aside from some downed trees which rest in very shallow water.. I picked up a few smaller smallmouth bass and a very feisty rock bass, but the action was much slower than I've experienced elsewhere on the river. I went underneath the Maiden Lane bridge and found some carp cruising in the slow water below it. Tried twitching a small muddler in front of them--got one rejection, though a few little bluegill dashed in and grabbed the muddler before it got near the carp. Not the greatest day astream I've had, but it still beats working.
A note to Ypsi-Dixit: I saw your comment about Riverside park and wondered if you meant the Riverside park in Ypsilanti--I didn't see a dock at the park I went to. I'm curious about the Ypsi park, and wondered if the river is wadable there. I would like to try same areas below AA soon. Comment if you stop by here and let me know.
"Lucky you!" he said. "I had some good luck out at my brother's cottage last weekend, caught over twenty bluegill, and I'm going back tomorrow." "I wish I was going fishing today," the lady behind me in business dress exclaimed. "You must be a teacher." With a smile, I said, "As a matter of fact, I am." Groans and head shakes from the whole line of customers. Summer may be the one instance when people express a wish to be in my shoes. Hearing me complain about grading papers and dealing with lame student excuses the rest of the year might put a damper on their envy, though.
As it happens, my fellow bagel eaters might not have missed that much. I went to Riverside Park in Ann Arbor, right below the U-M hospital. The river is quite wide and shallow there, and there doesn't seem to be much good cover aside from some downed trees which rest in very shallow water.. I picked up a few smaller smallmouth bass and a very feisty rock bass, but the action was much slower than I've experienced elsewhere on the river. I went underneath the Maiden Lane bridge and found some carp cruising in the slow water below it. Tried twitching a small muddler in front of them--got one rejection, though a few little bluegill dashed in and grabbed the muddler before it got near the carp. Not the greatest day astream I've had, but it still beats working.
A note to Ypsi-Dixit: I saw your comment about Riverside park and wondered if you meant the Riverside park in Ypsilanti--I didn't see a dock at the park I went to. I'm curious about the Ypsi park, and wondered if the river is wadable there. I would like to try same areas below AA soon. Comment if you stop by here and let me know.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Preview of Coming Events
Tuesday afternoon I got an email from Barbara, the director of my program at UT, asking if I could participate in a symposium on service learning the university is hosting in September. I have been trying to incorporate some service learning (mostly focused on environmental concerns) into my composition classes, so I said yes. The event isn't until September, I thought; I won't have to worry about this before I go back to school. Then yesterday I took a closer look at the description of the event and saw that presentation proposals had to be submitted by Friday, June 24. Yikes!
To tell the truth, almost two months into summer break, I've nearly forgotten what pressure is like. Today and tomorrow I get a refresher, a taste of what awaits me at the end of August.
Deadline or no I'm still going to the Huron tomorrow morning. Maybe at Riverside park, which is unexplored water for me.
To tell the truth, almost two months into summer break, I've nearly forgotten what pressure is like. Today and tomorrow I get a refresher, a taste of what awaits me at the end of August.
Deadline or no I'm still going to the Huron tomorrow morning. Maybe at Riverside park, which is unexplored water for me.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
There's Bears in Them Thar Malls!
Some former residents of the Lansing area are thinking about moving back, and are scouting out homes around Michigan's capital city. But those who have settled in their absence aren't exactly rolling out the welcome wagon.
The Lansing State Journal reports > several sightings of black bears near busy roads and shopping centers during the last week. DNR and law enforcement personel are trying scare the bruins away from the city. I wonder, though, if their blank gun rounds and sirens can overcome the lure of dumpsters and free-roaming housepets.
Their appearance doesn't surprise me. When I lived in the Lansing area (1996-99), I saw bear tracks occasionally in Sleep Hollow State Park, about 20 miles to the north, and in a creek bottom about thirty miles west of Lansing. They were bound to come closer at some point.
I can understand Lansingites being concerned about having the Old Man in a Fur Coat living just beyond their hedgerows. Still, I have to cheer a bit every time I hear something like this. If I still lived there, I'd be tempted to print and distribute yard signs urging "KEEP THE BEARS--BANISH WAL-MART!" A place seems wilder, more vital, when it contains the possibility of running into a large, unpredictable predator. It's easy for environmental advocates to become too focused on those big, charismatic critter that look good on fundraising calendars, but there's no question that some of their charisma rubs off onto every part of the lands they inhabit. And that's good for us, the two leggeds.
People can (and in many places do) manage to coexist with bears, but it takes some adjustment from they way they tend to live in city and suburban areas. It may mean not letting your dog run loose after dark, or not leaving steaks cooking unattended on the gas grill while you mix a pitcher of Cosmopolitans. Or being just a tad more alert while jogging in the county park. In short, life in bear country requires being more aware of your surroundings and of the consequences of your actions. A lot of us could stand to develop those qualities, and for reasons beyond dealing with wildlife. It's said that the tooth of the wolf whittled the legs of the deer. Can the lurking presence of the bear sharpen human brains dulled by an impoverished environment and a surfeit of consumer comforts?
As I noted above, "the authorities" aren't interested in finding out, and are trying to drive the bears northward. But if the bears can run the gauntlet, there are some good opportunities for them in the other direction. Once they get around the city of Landsing, they could make their way to the large state game area near Dansville, where they could hide in acres of forests and swamps. I'm pretty confident Dansville SGA could support a bear or two. If bears became pressed for space there, it would be a fairly short jaunt across a mostly rural area to the Pinckney and Waterloo rec areas, which would give them about 30,000 semi-wild acres to roam. And give my home county a new spark of wildness.
Seldom do I find myself rooting against the police, but I'm afraid in this case I have cheer for the fugitives. When I hear reports like this one out of Lansing, I feel like a desert dweller catching sight of distant storm clouds. They might dissipate or change course before they bring the rain, I know, but the mere sight of them stirs hope for better times to come.
The Lansing State Journal reports > several sightings of black bears near busy roads and shopping centers during the last week. DNR and law enforcement personel are trying scare the bruins away from the city. I wonder, though, if their blank gun rounds and sirens can overcome the lure of dumpsters and free-roaming housepets.
Their appearance doesn't surprise me. When I lived in the Lansing area (1996-99), I saw bear tracks occasionally in Sleep Hollow State Park, about 20 miles to the north, and in a creek bottom about thirty miles west of Lansing. They were bound to come closer at some point.
I can understand Lansingites being concerned about having the Old Man in a Fur Coat living just beyond their hedgerows. Still, I have to cheer a bit every time I hear something like this. If I still lived there, I'd be tempted to print and distribute yard signs urging "KEEP THE BEARS--BANISH WAL-MART!" A place seems wilder, more vital, when it contains the possibility of running into a large, unpredictable predator. It's easy for environmental advocates to become too focused on those big, charismatic critter that look good on fundraising calendars, but there's no question that some of their charisma rubs off onto every part of the lands they inhabit. And that's good for us, the two leggeds.
People can (and in many places do) manage to coexist with bears, but it takes some adjustment from they way they tend to live in city and suburban areas. It may mean not letting your dog run loose after dark, or not leaving steaks cooking unattended on the gas grill while you mix a pitcher of Cosmopolitans. Or being just a tad more alert while jogging in the county park. In short, life in bear country requires being more aware of your surroundings and of the consequences of your actions. A lot of us could stand to develop those qualities, and for reasons beyond dealing with wildlife. It's said that the tooth of the wolf whittled the legs of the deer. Can the lurking presence of the bear sharpen human brains dulled by an impoverished environment and a surfeit of consumer comforts?
As I noted above, "the authorities" aren't interested in finding out, and are trying to drive the bears northward. But if the bears can run the gauntlet, there are some good opportunities for them in the other direction. Once they get around the city of Landsing, they could make their way to the large state game area near Dansville, where they could hide in acres of forests and swamps. I'm pretty confident Dansville SGA could support a bear or two. If bears became pressed for space there, it would be a fairly short jaunt across a mostly rural area to the Pinckney and Waterloo rec areas, which would give them about 30,000 semi-wild acres to roam. And give my home county a new spark of wildness.
Seldom do I find myself rooting against the police, but I'm afraid in this case I have cheer for the fugitives. When I hear reports like this one out of Lansing, I feel like a desert dweller catching sight of distant storm clouds. They might dissipate or change course before they bring the rain, I know, but the mere sight of them stirs hope for better times to come.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Much Better, Thank You; Another Huron Morning
Whatever bug had crawled up my butt during the last week seems to have moved on. Feeling much more like my self, or at least some functional approximation of it.
I went down to the Huron at Island Park again today. Got on the water about 7:30, stayed two hours. Fishing was slow at first, which came as a surprise. I did catch one decent smallie after about 20 minutes (olive WB), then hooked into a carp that made a looooong run before snapping the leader. It is nice to see the backing once in a while. After that, a few more rockies and smallmouths, including one smallie of 14". That would be my best for the year.
A few fish were smacking bugs on the surface, maybe the caddis that were dipping down to the water occasionaly. I switched to a floating line and tried skittering caddis and stonefly imitations in the quieter water. Caught a small bluegill and one very nice rockie--a little over 7". No hits by bass as far as I could tell. Need to return there with poppers.
I think I'm going to start going to the Huron at least two or three mornings a week, trying different stream sections and different tactics. That may put me as close to my fly-fishing fantasy life as I'm likely to get for the time being. Sometimes when non-anglers hear me pining away for more stream time, they cluck their tounges and remark that if I got to fishing all the time, I wouldn't enjoy it as much. They could be right, but I want to test the theory for myself. Maybe this would count as the "research" I always tell my colleagues I'm going to do over the summer.
I went down to the Huron at Island Park again today. Got on the water about 7:30, stayed two hours. Fishing was slow at first, which came as a surprise. I did catch one decent smallie after about 20 minutes (olive WB), then hooked into a carp that made a looooong run before snapping the leader. It is nice to see the backing once in a while. After that, a few more rockies and smallmouths, including one smallie of 14". That would be my best for the year.
A few fish were smacking bugs on the surface, maybe the caddis that were dipping down to the water occasionaly. I switched to a floating line and tried skittering caddis and stonefly imitations in the quieter water. Caught a small bluegill and one very nice rockie--a little over 7". No hits by bass as far as I could tell. Need to return there with poppers.
I think I'm going to start going to the Huron at least two or three mornings a week, trying different stream sections and different tactics. That may put me as close to my fly-fishing fantasy life as I'm likely to get for the time being. Sometimes when non-anglers hear me pining away for more stream time, they cluck their tounges and remark that if I got to fishing all the time, I wouldn't enjoy it as much. They could be right, but I want to test the theory for myself. Maybe this would count as the "research" I always tell my colleagues I'm going to do over the summer.
Monday, June 20, 2005
Fishing for Medicinal Purposes
Woke up today in foul mood. No real reason for it I can think of, other than that being my default mode as of late. I had an academic project planned for today, but I couldn't face the thought of sitting at my desk. Didn't have the energy to untangle someone else's bright ideas and spin a few of my own from them. Or to do much of anything else, except maybe crawl into someplace dark, cool, and quiet for the day, or for the rest of the year maybe.
The only plausible alternative, I thought, was to go fishing in some nonserious, aimless sort of way; going to a river and letting it wash away the poison I had in my system. The Huron river, which I hadn't been to yet this year, was the only prospect (If I'd had to drive all the way to Cloud Creek, I might have driven into the first overpass I saw). I didn't know if it fished well in the morning or not, but fish in the net really wasn't the object.
I got to the river at Island Park about 9:30. Shadows were still long over the water, but sunlight was making the midstream riffles glimmer like beds of tiny flames. Lots of small mayflies (tricos?) were hovering over the water, and I saw a few larger, brown drake size mayflies emerge. Tan caddis were skittering on the surface, and occasionally disappearing in the eruption of a rising fish. I fished my way down to the riffle just above Fuller road, lobbing streamers into spots that looked good, just enjoying the press of the river on my waders and the quiet of the morning. No one who saw me would have said I was casting with surgical precision or working every lie throroughly, but I was doing exactly what I wanted to do. My mind was empty and unburdened. Working on autopilot might be the best way to describe it, getting back so something so basic that it could function satisfactorily regardless of recent perturbations. Gradually some of that satisfaction worked its way into my conscious mind. There were even flashes of excitement. As it happens, I did catch some fish, the usual assortment of smallmouth and rock bass. Some of the smallies pushed 12", fairly respectable for Huron fish. Though at least for this morning, size did not matter. I'll likely forget those fish sooner than I will the clusters of catalpa blossoms lining the river, creamy white and full, with cigarlike seed pods drooping beneath them. The sight of those alone did a lot to drain off the bitterness.
Depression usually isn't considered a waterborne illness, but why take chances? If you live in Ypsilanti, Flat Rock, or anywhere downstream of Ann Arbor, don't go near the water, lest whatever passed out of me on the stream contaminate you. If you can't avoid going to the river, be sure to take your fishing rod for immunity.
The only plausible alternative, I thought, was to go fishing in some nonserious, aimless sort of way; going to a river and letting it wash away the poison I had in my system. The Huron river, which I hadn't been to yet this year, was the only prospect (If I'd had to drive all the way to Cloud Creek, I might have driven into the first overpass I saw). I didn't know if it fished well in the morning or not, but fish in the net really wasn't the object.
I got to the river at Island Park about 9:30. Shadows were still long over the water, but sunlight was making the midstream riffles glimmer like beds of tiny flames. Lots of small mayflies (tricos?) were hovering over the water, and I saw a few larger, brown drake size mayflies emerge. Tan caddis were skittering on the surface, and occasionally disappearing in the eruption of a rising fish. I fished my way down to the riffle just above Fuller road, lobbing streamers into spots that looked good, just enjoying the press of the river on my waders and the quiet of the morning. No one who saw me would have said I was casting with surgical precision or working every lie throroughly, but I was doing exactly what I wanted to do. My mind was empty and unburdened. Working on autopilot might be the best way to describe it, getting back so something so basic that it could function satisfactorily regardless of recent perturbations. Gradually some of that satisfaction worked its way into my conscious mind. There were even flashes of excitement. As it happens, I did catch some fish, the usual assortment of smallmouth and rock bass. Some of the smallies pushed 12", fairly respectable for Huron fish. Though at least for this morning, size did not matter. I'll likely forget those fish sooner than I will the clusters of catalpa blossoms lining the river, creamy white and full, with cigarlike seed pods drooping beneath them. The sight of those alone did a lot to drain off the bitterness.
Depression usually isn't considered a waterborne illness, but why take chances? If you live in Ypsilanti, Flat Rock, or anywhere downstream of Ann Arbor, don't go near the water, lest whatever passed out of me on the stream contaminate you. If you can't avoid going to the river, be sure to take your fishing rod for immunity.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Father Sarducci Lives!; Martinis with Martha
Yesterday Kristine and I went to the wedding of Stan M., one of her coworkers. He's from an Italian family, which meant, among other things a wonderful antipasto bar for appetizers at the reception. I would have been glad to make it the main meal. Also at the reception, the priest who gave the pre-dinner blessing was clearly from the old country, and sounded for all the world like Father Guido Sarducci from the old days on Saturday Night Live. Especially when he launched directly from the prayer into a story from his missionary days in Africa about how courting men had to make a gift of cattle to a prospective father in law if they wanted permission to marry his daughter. In conclusion the Father turned to the groom and asked "So-a Stanley, a-how many cows you had to give for Tracey?"
Don't know why but for some reason I had a taste for a martini today. I haven't had one in years, but it seemed like a good idea. We got a martini shaker a few Christmases ago as a door prize at a company party and had never used it. We don't have martini glasses either (which, as I see it, are one of the main reasons to drink one in the first place). So today I picked up Bombay gin, vermouth, and some Martha Stewart martini glasses from the K-Mart on Washtenaw (4 for $9.99). I think this will take some experimentation to perfect, but I've learned this much so far: kalamata olives are NOT a suitable accompaniment to a martini (even though they're one of the few olives I like to eat)--lemon zest is wonderful. More results to follow...
Don't know why but for some reason I had a taste for a martini today. I haven't had one in years, but it seemed like a good idea. We got a martini shaker a few Christmases ago as a door prize at a company party and had never used it. We don't have martini glasses either (which, as I see it, are one of the main reasons to drink one in the first place). So today I picked up Bombay gin, vermouth, and some Martha Stewart martini glasses from the K-Mart on Washtenaw (4 for $9.99). I think this will take some experimentation to perfect, but I've learned this much so far: kalamata olives are NOT a suitable accompaniment to a martini (even though they're one of the few olives I like to eat)--lemon zest is wonderful. More results to follow...
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Fishermen Out of Water; More Cat Stuff
Last night Kristine and I had dinner at Arbor Brewing. While we waited for our food to come, a party trouped in wearing full fishing regalia--fishing vests, hats, fishing-theme T-shirts. No waders, though some wore wading sandals. A few even carried fishing rods. I didn't get the feeling they'd come in for a post-angling pint--the fishing rods had some kind of tags on them, and these people looked way too clean. They all wore some kind of green button on their fishing vests, so I thought they might have part of some presentation or skit. There was some kind of event underway on Main Street when we got there last night--music, streets blocked off, lots of people milling around (including a significant number in formal wear). I don't know what it was, since it had concluded by the time we left the pub (and no, that wasn't at closing time...). Had the fisher-manqués been taking part in that? No way of knowing, and I didn't wonder too much about it, either. Seeing them made me think mainly of the outings I still want to take this year. There really is no getting away from this obsession.
As if my cat didn't have enough problems. When the vet took a blood sample on Wednesday, he shaved a part of Pavlov's neck to get a clean access for the needle. I hadn't realized how much fur had been taken until this morning. Pavlov is a longhair, and normally, the spot the vet shaved would be puffing out nearly an inch from his body. Lookin at him from above or from the side, or from any distance, your probably wouldn't notice the bare spot--I hadn't before. Not so from close up.
This morning, he began the day (or maybe MY day) as he often does, laying on the bed about six inches from my face, glaring at me. I'm afraid breakfast has never come early enough for him, even before his appetite went into overdrive. When you look at him straight on, the shaved spot makes him look like he's missing half his neck, like there's a chunk gone between his head and chest. It's kind of sad, yet kind of funny too. Times like this, I really wish I had a digital camera.
As if my cat didn't have enough problems. When the vet took a blood sample on Wednesday, he shaved a part of Pavlov's neck to get a clean access for the needle. I hadn't realized how much fur had been taken until this morning. Pavlov is a longhair, and normally, the spot the vet shaved would be puffing out nearly an inch from his body. Lookin at him from above or from the side, or from any distance, your probably wouldn't notice the bare spot--I hadn't before. Not so from close up.
This morning, he began the day (or maybe MY day) as he often does, laying on the bed about six inches from my face, glaring at me. I'm afraid breakfast has never come early enough for him, even before his appetite went into overdrive. When you look at him straight on, the shaved spot makes him look like he's missing half his neck, like there's a chunk gone between his head and chest. It's kind of sad, yet kind of funny too. Times like this, I really wish I had a digital camera.
Friday, June 17, 2005
Starving Cat Chronicles, cont.; Retro Revue
Good news on the kitty front. All Pavlov's tests came back fine. No diabetes, no thyroid or kidney problems. Hopefully the medication will settle his innards down so that he can digest better and put on some weight. I'm going to call the vet later today to ask about supplementing his kibble with some favorite people foods. The thing he seems most attracted to is cheese. Any kind, but the smellier the better. If we open a package of feta or sharp cheddar, he will race to the kitchen from wherever he is, plant himself at the edge of our counter, and rock back and forth as he breathes deep draughts of cheese funk. You'd think there was catnip up there. I'm not going to feed it to him if he can't handle it, but if he can...maybe I'll treat him to some Iams provolone or Science Diet au gratin in hopes of bulking him up.
Kristine had a hard day at work yesterday and spent most of the night collapsed on the couch. She as wathching TV, and one of the shows that came on was NBC's Hit Me Baby One More Time, where pop stars of the 80s or early 90s trot out their greatest (or sometimes, only) hit for a studio full of manically appreciative fans (many of whom weren't born when these songs were first released). I saw a couple bits of it while passing through the living room, and had watched part of the first episode last week, and have mixed feelings about it. I did like some of the artists back in their day, and don't mind hearing their music now. But I like to think of them as they were then, and maybe of myself as I was when I first heard them. If I hear, say, a Howard Jones song on the radio, I might think back to the time I was starting college, the friends I had then, the odd satisfaction of hearing people I didn't like declare that Howard Jones was a stupid faggot. Music by itself can allow you to slip out of the present. But when you're between household tasks, sitting in a living room you note is badly in need of renovation, watching Howard Jones perfom an old hit today (and a song I thought marked his loss of cool, no less), looking like an overworked banker more than twice as old as most of the people in the audience (some of whom resemble the people who called him stupid 20 years ago), it's hard to think of much except that fact that you're getting old. Instead of evoking pleasant memories of youth, the spectacle impresses on you that past a certain point, you shouldn't try too hard to reclaim it.
Not that I really disdain any of those musicians for trotting out their old hits and striving for a comeback. It's got to be a better way of making a living than, say, telemarketing. Or teaching English.
Kristine had a hard day at work yesterday and spent most of the night collapsed on the couch. She as wathching TV, and one of the shows that came on was NBC's Hit Me Baby One More Time, where pop stars of the 80s or early 90s trot out their greatest (or sometimes, only) hit for a studio full of manically appreciative fans (many of whom weren't born when these songs were first released). I saw a couple bits of it while passing through the living room, and had watched part of the first episode last week, and have mixed feelings about it. I did like some of the artists back in their day, and don't mind hearing their music now. But I like to think of them as they were then, and maybe of myself as I was when I first heard them. If I hear, say, a Howard Jones song on the radio, I might think back to the time I was starting college, the friends I had then, the odd satisfaction of hearing people I didn't like declare that Howard Jones was a stupid faggot. Music by itself can allow you to slip out of the present. But when you're between household tasks, sitting in a living room you note is badly in need of renovation, watching Howard Jones perfom an old hit today (and a song I thought marked his loss of cool, no less), looking like an overworked banker more than twice as old as most of the people in the audience (some of whom resemble the people who called him stupid 20 years ago), it's hard to think of much except that fact that you're getting old. Instead of evoking pleasant memories of youth, the spectacle impresses on you that past a certain point, you shouldn't try too hard to reclaim it.
Not that I really disdain any of those musicians for trotting out their old hits and striving for a comeback. It's got to be a better way of making a living than, say, telemarketing. Or teaching English.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Starving Cat Chronicles, Pt. 1
For a couple years, our cat Pavlov has been mysteriously losing weight. At the same time, his appetite has become voracious. He'd eat six times a day if he could. He never paid that much attention to our food when he was younger, but now where we're making dinner, we have to prevent him from jumping on the counter. As for what became of his formerly impeccable litter box habits, the less said the better.
The vet we were taking him to a year ago (at a specialized cat clinic, no less) didn't think there was anything to worry about. Of course, he wasn't begging her for food constantly. And she didn't have to clean his litter box and the surrounding area twice daily. We took him back to the vet we used when we first came to Ann Arbor (who we left for a ridiculuous, petty reason), who prescribed a special diet and antibiotics. This seemed to bring him around. He was satisfied with two meals a day, he went back to his normal weight (11 lbs.) and seemed in a better mood generally. There were a couple of relapses which we brought under control with another course of antibiotics.
Sometime over this last winter, Pavlov took another turn for the worse. He now weighs less than he ever has before (7 1/2 lbs.), and his appetite is relentless. Took him back to the vet yesterday, where he was given a battery of tests. We should know the results today. The likely possibilities, according to the Dr.: thyroid problems, kidney problems, diabetes, or intestinal inflammation. I'm rooting for #4, as it's the most treatable. But even if it's that, I suspect it won't be a fix it and forget it situation. Whatever it is, we'll likely have to deal with as long as we have him.
I wonder how much longer that will be. He's 15 now, and sometimes when you watch him napping, you think, that is one old boy. At other times, he still acts like the overgrown kitten he's always been. He's still fairly active, despite his problems. Always ready to play tug of war with a string or to catch a catnip buzz. Still runs to greet us at the door when we come home. And he's still a ruthless mouser.
Kristine and I got him the fall after we were married, and its hard to imagine our household without him. But it's getting harder to brush off the idea.
The vet we were taking him to a year ago (at a specialized cat clinic, no less) didn't think there was anything to worry about. Of course, he wasn't begging her for food constantly. And she didn't have to clean his litter box and the surrounding area twice daily. We took him back to the vet we used when we first came to Ann Arbor (who we left for a ridiculuous, petty reason), who prescribed a special diet and antibiotics. This seemed to bring him around. He was satisfied with two meals a day, he went back to his normal weight (11 lbs.) and seemed in a better mood generally. There were a couple of relapses which we brought under control with another course of antibiotics.
Sometime over this last winter, Pavlov took another turn for the worse. He now weighs less than he ever has before (7 1/2 lbs.), and his appetite is relentless. Took him back to the vet yesterday, where he was given a battery of tests. We should know the results today. The likely possibilities, according to the Dr.: thyroid problems, kidney problems, diabetes, or intestinal inflammation. I'm rooting for #4, as it's the most treatable. But even if it's that, I suspect it won't be a fix it and forget it situation. Whatever it is, we'll likely have to deal with as long as we have him.
I wonder how much longer that will be. He's 15 now, and sometimes when you watch him napping, you think, that is one old boy. At other times, he still acts like the overgrown kitten he's always been. He's still fairly active, despite his problems. Always ready to play tug of war with a string or to catch a catnip buzz. Still runs to greet us at the door when we come home. And he's still a ruthless mouser.
Kristine and I got him the fall after we were married, and its hard to imagine our household without him. But it's getting harder to brush off the idea.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
To Buy or Not To Buy?
Half the confusion in the world comes from not knowing how little we need. --Richard Byrd.
The Amiga lady in yesterday's entry knew just what she wanted, even if it took me a while to catch on. A guy I met Sunday afternoon was having trouble making up his mind.
Walking the bank back to my car, I passed a guy fishing and exchanged the usual pleasantries. He was having the same luck I was (mediocre), and threw in the towell shortly after I moved on. While I was taking my waders off at the car, he trudged into the parking lot too. After he had packed up, he asked me if I'd like a beer.
On a summer afternoon pushing 90˚, standing on the bank of a fine trout river, there is only one possible answer to that question.
As we shared the suds, he told me that he had driven up to Rogers City from suburban Detroit that morning to look at a piece of property. It was a small undeveloped lakefront parcel he was considering mainly as an investment. But with property values stagnating in the area, he wasn't sure if he should take the plunge. "What would you do?" he asked.
I'm probably the last person in the world you should consult for investment advice. But under the influence of half a Budweiser and fairly sure he wouldn't take my word as gospel, I offered it. "If it's a place you'd enjoy going, it's not going to be a loss in any case," I said. "But if you're interested mainly in the return, I'd think twice." He nodded and observed that after holding the land for three years, the owner had reduced the asking price to barely above what she'd paid .
"Just don't know, just don't know," he said. He began kicking the sand and frowning at nothing in particular.
He seemed to be a walking mass of uncertainties, and he reviewed many of them in detail with embellishments of head shaking, cynical laughter, and impatient groans. Did the Manistee fish as well as it used to? Will Central Michigan (his alma mater) ever field a promising football team again. What job and investment choices would let him retire the soonest? Should he drive home tonight or stay up north and crash in his vehicle? And did the state allow you to sleep at accesses?
I could only answer the last. "No, but I don't think they ever check. I've done it."
In the midst of these other concerns, we returned occasionally to the matter of the Rogers City property. I guess if you're considering laying out $_ _,000 for a piece of land to bankroll your retirement, you're bound to have a few misgivings. Even after a day on the river. Near the conclusion of the book on fly fishing and literature that I finished the other day, Mark Browning (the author) argues that fly fishing and writing so often go hand in hand because both are seen as paths to self-knowledge. My beer buddy arguably contradicts this, or at least the part about fly fishing. I started to wonder about fly fishing's purported capacity to help its participants adjust their priorities and find peace of mind.
Fishing and experience in nature generally may or may not be antidotes to acquisitiveness. Thoreau, Harry Middleton, and some other writers certainly believe they are. On the other hand, the desire for more tackle and trips to new places can itself become a consuming passion (even an incentive to give money to stream conservation...). When it does, though, such passion tends to abate with time. I think I can safely say that at the very least, fishing has the virtue of focusing and limiting one's lust for posessions. I was unware if the guy from Sunday had any literary aspirations (hope not, as that would probably add to his angst), but possibly the best suggestion I could have made would have been to spend some more time fishing.
The Amiga lady in yesterday's entry knew just what she wanted, even if it took me a while to catch on. A guy I met Sunday afternoon was having trouble making up his mind.
Walking the bank back to my car, I passed a guy fishing and exchanged the usual pleasantries. He was having the same luck I was (mediocre), and threw in the towell shortly after I moved on. While I was taking my waders off at the car, he trudged into the parking lot too. After he had packed up, he asked me if I'd like a beer.
On a summer afternoon pushing 90˚, standing on the bank of a fine trout river, there is only one possible answer to that question.
As we shared the suds, he told me that he had driven up to Rogers City from suburban Detroit that morning to look at a piece of property. It was a small undeveloped lakefront parcel he was considering mainly as an investment. But with property values stagnating in the area, he wasn't sure if he should take the plunge. "What would you do?" he asked.
I'm probably the last person in the world you should consult for investment advice. But under the influence of half a Budweiser and fairly sure he wouldn't take my word as gospel, I offered it. "If it's a place you'd enjoy going, it's not going to be a loss in any case," I said. "But if you're interested mainly in the return, I'd think twice." He nodded and observed that after holding the land for three years, the owner had reduced the asking price to barely above what she'd paid .
"Just don't know, just don't know," he said. He began kicking the sand and frowning at nothing in particular.
He seemed to be a walking mass of uncertainties, and he reviewed many of them in detail with embellishments of head shaking, cynical laughter, and impatient groans. Did the Manistee fish as well as it used to? Will Central Michigan (his alma mater) ever field a promising football team again. What job and investment choices would let him retire the soonest? Should he drive home tonight or stay up north and crash in his vehicle? And did the state allow you to sleep at accesses?
I could only answer the last. "No, but I don't think they ever check. I've done it."
In the midst of these other concerns, we returned occasionally to the matter of the Rogers City property. I guess if you're considering laying out $_ _,000 for a piece of land to bankroll your retirement, you're bound to have a few misgivings. Even after a day on the river. Near the conclusion of the book on fly fishing and literature that I finished the other day, Mark Browning (the author) argues that fly fishing and writing so often go hand in hand because both are seen as paths to self-knowledge. My beer buddy arguably contradicts this, or at least the part about fly fishing. I started to wonder about fly fishing's purported capacity to help its participants adjust their priorities and find peace of mind.
Fishing and experience in nature generally may or may not be antidotes to acquisitiveness. Thoreau, Harry Middleton, and some other writers certainly believe they are. On the other hand, the desire for more tackle and trips to new places can itself become a consuming passion (even an incentive to give money to stream conservation...). When it does, though, such passion tends to abate with time. I think I can safely say that at the very least, fishing has the virtue of focusing and limiting one's lust for posessions. I was unware if the guy from Sunday had any literary aspirations (hope not, as that would probably add to his angst), but possibly the best suggestion I could have made would have been to spend some more time fishing.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
The Clueless Samaritan
On Sunday morning, I went to the Glen's Market in Grayling for some provisions. When I got back out to my car, a woman in an old, rusting hulk of a Lincoln pulled up and asked if I could do her a favor. Well, sure, why not?
She told me that she had severe back problems and asked if I could go in and get her rutabaga.
"You want me to buy you a rutabaga?" I asked.
"Yes," she replied. "It's hard for me to walk and I don't want to go in if they don't have any."
I wasn't in any hurry, so I went into the store again and found the rutabagas, which are thought of as "winter vegetables" for a reason. The ones Glen's had were pulpy and covered with black splotches. I figured the lady could cut off the bad spots, so I got one (76 cents out the door). I returned the woman's car and held the bag with the 'baga out for her.
"What's that?" she asked.
"The rutabaga you wanted."
"I asked you to check and see if they had an Amiga. It's a motorized wheelchair, and I need one because of my back problems."
Oh. I must have seemed like a moron, and I was about to reinforce the impression. I went back to the store, looked inside the lobby, and saw that two Amigas were free. Back at the lady's car, I told her this and received a perplexed look.
"I need you to bring me one. It's a lot easier for me if I don't have to walk inside to get one."
Ahhh. On the way back in, I tossed the bag with the rutabaga into a trash can, and felt ready to dive in after it and hide. It took me a couple of minutes to figure out how to operate the Amiga, and I ran over my foot once in the process. Once I mastered the controls and walked it out to her car, I left it near her door, waved, and got in my car as quickly as I could.
I seldom indulge in self-congratulation about good deeds, but I left this encounter innoculated against it entirely. Embarrassment has its uses.
She told me that she had severe back problems and asked if I could go in and get her rutabaga.
"You want me to buy you a rutabaga?" I asked.
"Yes," she replied. "It's hard for me to walk and I don't want to go in if they don't have any."
I wasn't in any hurry, so I went into the store again and found the rutabagas, which are thought of as "winter vegetables" for a reason. The ones Glen's had were pulpy and covered with black splotches. I figured the lady could cut off the bad spots, so I got one (76 cents out the door). I returned the woman's car and held the bag with the 'baga out for her.
"What's that?" she asked.
"The rutabaga you wanted."
"I asked you to check and see if they had an Amiga. It's a motorized wheelchair, and I need one because of my back problems."
Oh. I must have seemed like a moron, and I was about to reinforce the impression. I went back to the store, looked inside the lobby, and saw that two Amigas were free. Back at the lady's car, I told her this and received a perplexed look.
"I need you to bring me one. It's a lot easier for me if I don't have to walk inside to get one."
Ahhh. On the way back in, I tossed the bag with the rutabaga into a trash can, and felt ready to dive in after it and hide. It took me a couple of minutes to figure out how to operate the Amiga, and I ran over my foot once in the process. Once I mastered the controls and walked it out to her car, I left it near her door, waved, and got in my car as quickly as I could.
I seldom indulge in self-congratulation about good deeds, but I left this encounter innoculated against it entirely. Embarrassment has its uses.
Monday, June 13, 2005
Dry Spell Continues
The fields and streams have received some much needed relief from the weekend's rains, but alas, my trout net remains dry. I took whirlwind trip north this weekend hoping to get in on the brown drake hatches, but was either too late or not where I should have been.
Just before 9PM on Saturday, I got onto a spot on the Manistee that's been good to me before. It had rained some in the afternoon, and the stream was a bit cloudy, but not high. A few stoneflies fluttered around. Around 9:45, some feeding began near me, though I could see no insects on or under the water. Tried a few different patterns and received only a short strike on an Isonychia dun. Just after 10, a few brown drake spinners came into view, but never fell. I stayed on the river until 11:30, checking the current with a flashlight from time to time, and while I was there, I saw all of two drake duns rolling by. The feeding never resumed.
Sunday afternoon, I fished another part of the Manistee and finally got the skunk off my line. Smaller brookies were rising to some kind of midges, and I took about a dozen or so with Griffith's Gnats and a small Adams. Many of those were very small. But even the little ones were pretty spooky, and getting any rise felt satisfying.
Glad it happened in the afternoon, because the evening was another bust. Tried the South Branch of the Au Sable toward the center of the Mason Tract. While working upstream before dusk, I got a couple of strikes skittering a stonefly pattern away from cover. That's a technique I'd like to experiment with a bit more. (any tips would be appreciated!) For much of the evening, two beavers were working their way upstream alongside me, sometimes falling back, sometimes swimming ahead, and apparently paying me no mind. I've never seen them that bold around people before. And I'd never been close enough to one to hear it chewing before. They do make pretty short work of those limbs.
I set up in a log-strewn run below a riffle around sunset and scanned the skies for spinners. None came. Not a one. Zippo. For around ten minutes on either side of 10:00, there were occasional rises coming from the seams of the riffle. None suggested a large fish, but at that point I wasn't too picky. Once again, no flies visible either on top or in the film. And once again, I got a short strike on an isonychia. A while after the feeding had stopped, while scanning the water with my light, I saw a sulfur dun drift by. Was that the secret? I've seen them come off that way before, briefly around nightfall and mostly out of sight, but usually earlier in the season. I really couldn't say what was happening--kind of like my outing on the PM last weekend. This is a disturbing trend--nights with perfect conditions for dry fly fishing, rising fish, and nary a hookup.
June is a month with epic possibilities for fly anglers, but you never know if the epic will be a romance or a tragedy.
Actually, some of the most interesting parts of this trip came during run-ins with humans. Those stories coming later this week.
Just before 9PM on Saturday, I got onto a spot on the Manistee that's been good to me before. It had rained some in the afternoon, and the stream was a bit cloudy, but not high. A few stoneflies fluttered around. Around 9:45, some feeding began near me, though I could see no insects on or under the water. Tried a few different patterns and received only a short strike on an Isonychia dun. Just after 10, a few brown drake spinners came into view, but never fell. I stayed on the river until 11:30, checking the current with a flashlight from time to time, and while I was there, I saw all of two drake duns rolling by. The feeding never resumed.
Sunday afternoon, I fished another part of the Manistee and finally got the skunk off my line. Smaller brookies were rising to some kind of midges, and I took about a dozen or so with Griffith's Gnats and a small Adams. Many of those were very small. But even the little ones were pretty spooky, and getting any rise felt satisfying.
Glad it happened in the afternoon, because the evening was another bust. Tried the South Branch of the Au Sable toward the center of the Mason Tract. While working upstream before dusk, I got a couple of strikes skittering a stonefly pattern away from cover. That's a technique I'd like to experiment with a bit more. (any tips would be appreciated!) For much of the evening, two beavers were working their way upstream alongside me, sometimes falling back, sometimes swimming ahead, and apparently paying me no mind. I've never seen them that bold around people before. And I'd never been close enough to one to hear it chewing before. They do make pretty short work of those limbs.
I set up in a log-strewn run below a riffle around sunset and scanned the skies for spinners. None came. Not a one. Zippo. For around ten minutes on either side of 10:00, there were occasional rises coming from the seams of the riffle. None suggested a large fish, but at that point I wasn't too picky. Once again, no flies visible either on top or in the film. And once again, I got a short strike on an isonychia. A while after the feeding had stopped, while scanning the water with my light, I saw a sulfur dun drift by. Was that the secret? I've seen them come off that way before, briefly around nightfall and mostly out of sight, but usually earlier in the season. I really couldn't say what was happening--kind of like my outing on the PM last weekend. This is a disturbing trend--nights with perfect conditions for dry fly fishing, rising fish, and nary a hookup.
June is a month with epic possibilities for fly anglers, but you never know if the epic will be a romance or a tragedy.
Actually, some of the most interesting parts of this trip came during run-ins with humans. Those stories coming later this week.
Saturday, June 11, 2005
Rivers of Print
I've been enjoying the book on fly fishing in literature. (Haunted By Waters: Fly Fishing in North American Literature. Mark Browning, Ohio UP, 1998. ). As he explicates the significance attributed to fishing by various writers, I see many of the ideas about the sport that I've come to on my own. It's a bit like reading one's own psychohistory, though not unsettling in the least.
An idea that is new to me concerns the relation between the world of the river and the world of print, which represent respectively my vocation and my livelihood. I've said here before that I often feel as if a wide gap seperates them, that they are strong and irreconcilable attractions in my life. As he discusses the relationship between writing and fishing, Browning tosses in this quote from Ted Leeson which suggests a way of harmonizing them:
The craft of angling is the catching of fish. But the art of angling is a receptiveness to... connections, the art of letting one small thing lead to another until, if only locally and momentarily, you realize some small completeness. By no coincidence, this is the art of writing essays, as it is, I think, the art of living, for among these three occupations there seems to be no essential difference in degree or kind.
Sounds right to me, and it sounds rather like the art of teaching, too. I don't feel I'm on the way to living seamlessly yet, but there is definitely something here to explore, both on the stream and at my keyboard.
And I'll probably find more provisions for that exploration eventually. There is a god-awful lot of books about fly fishing published, but despite my interest in literature and my mania for fishing, I've read few of them. Most I have read haven't been that impressive--in the main, fishing books seem to get written by fishermen who write instead of writers who fish. I have enjoyed very much some non-fiction by the latter group, particularly essays by Jim Harrison and Tom McGuane, memoirs by Harry Middleton and Gretchen Legler, as well as an odd piece in a magazine or two whose author I can't remember offhand. David James Duncan's The River Why is probably the best fishing novel I've seen, with A River Runs Through It a close second. I can still remember reading Hemingway's story "Big Two Hearted River" reprinted in Field and Stream (the sacred text of my childhood) when I was about 10. It captivated me like nothing else I had read to that point, the first, second, the fiftieth time I read it. That issue of Field and Stream stayed on my nightstand for years afterward. Haunted by Waters has turned up a few new names that I want to check out. Maybe there's a project in that for me. While Browning articulates many important insights about the genre, his work also begs a number of questions about it, which someone in the know really ought to engage.
An idea that is new to me concerns the relation between the world of the river and the world of print, which represent respectively my vocation and my livelihood. I've said here before that I often feel as if a wide gap seperates them, that they are strong and irreconcilable attractions in my life. As he discusses the relationship between writing and fishing, Browning tosses in this quote from Ted Leeson which suggests a way of harmonizing them:
The craft of angling is the catching of fish. But the art of angling is a receptiveness to... connections, the art of letting one small thing lead to another until, if only locally and momentarily, you realize some small completeness. By no coincidence, this is the art of writing essays, as it is, I think, the art of living, for among these three occupations there seems to be no essential difference in degree or kind.
Sounds right to me, and it sounds rather like the art of teaching, too. I don't feel I'm on the way to living seamlessly yet, but there is definitely something here to explore, both on the stream and at my keyboard.
And I'll probably find more provisions for that exploration eventually. There is a god-awful lot of books about fly fishing published, but despite my interest in literature and my mania for fishing, I've read few of them. Most I have read haven't been that impressive--in the main, fishing books seem to get written by fishermen who write instead of writers who fish. I have enjoyed very much some non-fiction by the latter group, particularly essays by Jim Harrison and Tom McGuane, memoirs by Harry Middleton and Gretchen Legler, as well as an odd piece in a magazine or two whose author I can't remember offhand. David James Duncan's The River Why is probably the best fishing novel I've seen, with A River Runs Through It a close second. I can still remember reading Hemingway's story "Big Two Hearted River" reprinted in Field and Stream (the sacred text of my childhood) when I was about 10. It captivated me like nothing else I had read to that point, the first, second, the fiftieth time I read it. That issue of Field and Stream stayed on my nightstand for years afterward. Haunted by Waters has turned up a few new names that I want to check out. Maybe there's a project in that for me. While Browning articulates many important insights about the genre, his work also begs a number of questions about it, which someone in the know really ought to engage.
Friday, June 10, 2005
Of Fences, Flowers, and, of course, Fishing
I'd planned to hit the Huron river this morning for smallmouth, but lazies got the best of me.
A shame, since the rest of the day is going to be no fun. I'm going to powerwash our deck and fence in preparation for refinishing them. This is supposed to be done annually, but I skipped last year, and some parts haven't been done for three years. Note for purchasing next house--no wooden decks!
Garden Update: Yesterday morning I went outside to water and saw that something had eaten most of our sunflower seedlings. Bought three started sunflower plants at Whole Paycheck to replace them. Not much to them except long stalks with a small cluster of leaves at the top, hopefully out of bunny reach.
All the plants I transplanted in our wildflower meadow are still alive. There are a few sprouts which might be incoming wildflowers or might be the grass returning that I'd hoped I'd finished off with the rototiller. There are a lot of sprouts I know for sure are grass.
This week, some lovely pink asters came into bloom near the road in front of our house. I'm going to watch for their seeds to develop and mature so I can add them to the plot out back.
I've noticed that wild roses have bloomed in the last week. Their fragrance in the morning air makes jogging a little more pleasant. It almost makes up for having to swat deer flies.
I have resumed some of the academic reading I'd planned for the summer (and was doing so well with until the garden thing got going). Yesterday I started a book about fly fishing in North American literature. I have a feeling it's going to supply a number of quotes for this site.
And on the subject of fishing, yesterday I received a solicitation to purchase a life membership in Trout Unlimited. It happens a couple times a year. I have been a regular member for a few years, and have thought about going for the lifetime membership, but the cost has held me off. But this time I think I'll go for it. Why? Is it my deepening committment to conservation? Hell no, it's the rod and reel they're giving away to new lifers. I had been considering buying a rod like that anyway. Maybe my motives are impure, but it's still a good contribution to a good organization (and I'm pretty sure TU isn't paying retail for those rods). Besides the rod, I'll get a cool patch to put on my fishing vest so everyone can see just how generous (or calculating?) I am.
The Ann Arbor chapter does some pretty good work and I've wanted to get involved with them. If only they didn't meet Wednesdays.
A shame, since the rest of the day is going to be no fun. I'm going to powerwash our deck and fence in preparation for refinishing them. This is supposed to be done annually, but I skipped last year, and some parts haven't been done for three years. Note for purchasing next house--no wooden decks!
Garden Update: Yesterday morning I went outside to water and saw that something had eaten most of our sunflower seedlings. Bought three started sunflower plants at Whole Paycheck to replace them. Not much to them except long stalks with a small cluster of leaves at the top, hopefully out of bunny reach.
All the plants I transplanted in our wildflower meadow are still alive. There are a few sprouts which might be incoming wildflowers or might be the grass returning that I'd hoped I'd finished off with the rototiller. There are a lot of sprouts I know for sure are grass.
This week, some lovely pink asters came into bloom near the road in front of our house. I'm going to watch for their seeds to develop and mature so I can add them to the plot out back.
I've noticed that wild roses have bloomed in the last week. Their fragrance in the morning air makes jogging a little more pleasant. It almost makes up for having to swat deer flies.
I have resumed some of the academic reading I'd planned for the summer (and was doing so well with until the garden thing got going). Yesterday I started a book about fly fishing in North American literature. I have a feeling it's going to supply a number of quotes for this site.
And on the subject of fishing, yesterday I received a solicitation to purchase a life membership in Trout Unlimited. It happens a couple times a year. I have been a regular member for a few years, and have thought about going for the lifetime membership, but the cost has held me off. But this time I think I'll go for it. Why? Is it my deepening committment to conservation? Hell no, it's the rod and reel they're giving away to new lifers. I had been considering buying a rod like that anyway. Maybe my motives are impure, but it's still a good contribution to a good organization (and I'm pretty sure TU isn't paying retail for those rods). Besides the rod, I'll get a cool patch to put on my fishing vest so everyone can see just how generous (or calculating?) I am.
The Ann Arbor chapter does some pretty good work and I've wanted to get involved with them. If only they didn't meet Wednesdays.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
And God Saw that it was...Free for Children Under 12!
From the AP:
Tulsa, Oklahoma, June 8 - The Tulsa Zoo will add a display featuring the biblical account of creation following complaints to a city board about other displays with religious significance, including a Hindu elephant statue. Read the Rest.
I don't obsess about creationism, despite my post earlier this week. But this story gave me one of those "what the #@%*" moments when I came across it. It raises a lot of questions, not least of which is how exactly you represent this event? Will they hire a local sculptor to fashion that "dome above the heavens" that became the sky? And how will they handle Eve's creation out of Adam's rib? That brings us to the issue of nudity, which might discomfit pious Tulsans. Maybe we'll only see Adam and Eve in their fur-clad, post-lapsarian phase.
Seriously, though, this is sad. Not because it's unscientific or outside a zoo's purpose (though a case can be made for these), but because it's a lost opportunity. Why not create displays of the fauna and habitats of the biblical lands? What about exhibits demonstrating the role that various animals played in cultures of the ancient middle east? ( I suspect the Hindu elephant statue is actually serving a function of that kind.) What exactly is, say, that "pelican of the wilderness" that a psalmist referred to, and what response might it evoke in audiences of the time? Exhibits of this type would be practicable, and not without spiritual value for those who sought it.
In Bruce Feiler's wonderful book Walking the Bible, an Israeli man considers the question of whether the Torah's stories are true, and concludes that establishing their literal truth is beside the point. Where he lives, he can see the places where the stories are set, where the heroes of the ancient Hebrews performed their deeds and the covenant relationship between God and his people took shape. For him, regular, immediate contact with these places gives the texts connected with them an authority and substance beyond what any doctine may confer. A number of writers have observed that landscapes validate the stories of Native American groups in a similar way. (See Barry Lopez's "Landscape and Narrative" and Leslie Marmon Silko's "Landscape, History, and the Pueblo Imagination.")
The stories of the Bible are clearly important to many in the community this zoo serves. Seeing some of the material context of those stories might give them an immediacy, a materiality--and maybe even a dimension of truth--that reading alone does not. Imagine displays like "What Birds would Jesus Watch?" or "Running with the Bulls of Bashan." Aquarium tanks could display the sorts of fish that Peter and Andrew were hauling out of the sea of Gallilee (something I've always wondered about myself).
Whatever their potential appeal to Christians, though, such exhibits would be at least as much in the service of natural history as of faith. One wouldn't need to believe in a word of the Bible to appreciate them.
Tulsa, Oklahoma, June 8 - The Tulsa Zoo will add a display featuring the biblical account of creation following complaints to a city board about other displays with religious significance, including a Hindu elephant statue. Read the Rest.
I don't obsess about creationism, despite my post earlier this week. But this story gave me one of those "what the #@%*" moments when I came across it. It raises a lot of questions, not least of which is how exactly you represent this event? Will they hire a local sculptor to fashion that "dome above the heavens" that became the sky? And how will they handle Eve's creation out of Adam's rib? That brings us to the issue of nudity, which might discomfit pious Tulsans. Maybe we'll only see Adam and Eve in their fur-clad, post-lapsarian phase.
Seriously, though, this is sad. Not because it's unscientific or outside a zoo's purpose (though a case can be made for these), but because it's a lost opportunity. Why not create displays of the fauna and habitats of the biblical lands? What about exhibits demonstrating the role that various animals played in cultures of the ancient middle east? ( I suspect the Hindu elephant statue is actually serving a function of that kind.) What exactly is, say, that "pelican of the wilderness" that a psalmist referred to, and what response might it evoke in audiences of the time? Exhibits of this type would be practicable, and not without spiritual value for those who sought it.
In Bruce Feiler's wonderful book Walking the Bible, an Israeli man considers the question of whether the Torah's stories are true, and concludes that establishing their literal truth is beside the point. Where he lives, he can see the places where the stories are set, where the heroes of the ancient Hebrews performed their deeds and the covenant relationship between God and his people took shape. For him, regular, immediate contact with these places gives the texts connected with them an authority and substance beyond what any doctine may confer. A number of writers have observed that landscapes validate the stories of Native American groups in a similar way. (See Barry Lopez's "Landscape and Narrative" and Leslie Marmon Silko's "Landscape, History, and the Pueblo Imagination.")
The stories of the Bible are clearly important to many in the community this zoo serves. Seeing some of the material context of those stories might give them an immediacy, a materiality--and maybe even a dimension of truth--that reading alone does not. Imagine displays like "What Birds would Jesus Watch?" or "Running with the Bulls of Bashan." Aquarium tanks could display the sorts of fish that Peter and Andrew were hauling out of the sea of Gallilee (something I've always wondered about myself).
Whatever their potential appeal to Christians, though, such exhibits would be at least as much in the service of natural history as of faith. One wouldn't need to believe in a word of the Bible to appreciate them.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Confessions of a Heat Wimp
SE Michigan has moved suddenly from pleasant days in the 70s to 90+ scorchers. This kind of heat knocks me on my can. I want to sulk indoors all day, venturing out only toward dusk. If I do leave the house, it's usually in my car with the AC cranked. Just last summer I bought my first car w/ AC, and I seem to be making up for all my years without artificial coolants. No AC at home, but the trees around out house and some window fans (plus lots of ice water) keep the indoors pretty tolerable. My fantasies about moving back to UP aren't all about getting close to good trout waters--you don't get many days over 90 there. And nights get pretty chilly even on the hottest days.
Last summer, Kristine and I visited Valley of Fire State Park in Nevada for a couple days. They say the name refers to the fire-red rock formations, but I think that's just a ruse to maintain the flow of tourists in summer. We went there in late July, and it was well over 100˚ when we arrived in the afternoon. At night, the temperature fell only to the upper 80s--not great conditions for tenting. We took very short hikes around sunset and sunrise, otherwise it was short excursions from the car. The place is beautiful, and I really would like to see it again, say around Thanksgiving.
Never really mind the cold that much. You can always put on another sweater. But for at least a few hours a day, there's no escape from heat. All you can do is get yourself into shade, or into AC, and wait. Maybe I can look at these summer days as an opportunity to overcome my impatience, a trait which mixes poorly with low heat resistance.
I guess I could try to cool off this way, at least if it's legal in Michigan. No worries about losing $2 flies in the trees. And no tangles of line left behind to trap birds and vex river cleaners. You still would need to pack out your beer cans, though, and I think I'd need quite a few before I could grope in the dark for one of those big uglies.
Speaking of river cleaners, here's a photo of the crew from the cleanup last Saturday. I'm the tall guy in the blue T-shirt in the back row. Kristine is next to me in the white shirt and blue bandanna.
Last summer, Kristine and I visited Valley of Fire State Park in Nevada for a couple days. They say the name refers to the fire-red rock formations, but I think that's just a ruse to maintain the flow of tourists in summer. We went there in late July, and it was well over 100˚ when we arrived in the afternoon. At night, the temperature fell only to the upper 80s--not great conditions for tenting. We took very short hikes around sunset and sunrise, otherwise it was short excursions from the car. The place is beautiful, and I really would like to see it again, say around Thanksgiving.
Never really mind the cold that much. You can always put on another sweater. But for at least a few hours a day, there's no escape from heat. All you can do is get yourself into shade, or into AC, and wait. Maybe I can look at these summer days as an opportunity to overcome my impatience, a trait which mixes poorly with low heat resistance.
I guess I could try to cool off this way, at least if it's legal in Michigan. No worries about losing $2 flies in the trees. And no tangles of line left behind to trap birds and vex river cleaners. You still would need to pack out your beer cans, though, and I think I'd need quite a few before I could grope in the dark for one of those big uglies.
Speaking of river cleaners, here's a photo of the crew from the cleanup last Saturday. I'm the tall guy in the blue T-shirt in the back row. Kristine is next to me in the white shirt and blue bandanna.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Evolution Proxy Wars
Over the last few months, the Gull Lake school district--not far from where I grew up in west Michigan--has emerged as another flash point in the conflict over teaching evolutionary theory in schools. (An assortment of articles on the Gull Lake case are here.) For some time, several Gull Lake teachers have been using a book called Of Pandas and People which promotes the theory of "Intelligent Design." According to ID, life on earth reveals an irreducible complexity that could not have appeared by chance, but must have been purposefully ordered by some intelligent agency. Last year, the Gull Lake school board ordered OP&P withdrawn from classrooms on the grounds that it promoted religion. Ann Arbor's own Thomas More Law Center is threatening a lawsuit to restore it; the ACLU is poised to countersue.
This issue has more than enough partisans already, and I won't join the fray here. But an update to the case on the radio yesterday got me thinking about a lot of rhetoric I've heard on the question over the years. It's a given that creation/evolution dispute, in whatever shape they assume, are not only about the origins of life, but about the hegemony of one or another segment of society. For a long time, though, I've had the impression that they are more fundamentally about the nature and source of power in creation--and society. Continue Reading.
The ID folks (like 18th century deists) compare complex structures in nature to complex human artifacts. For instance, a Thomas More Center press release on the Gull Lake case contends that
Since the late 1950s advances in biochemistry and microbiology, information that Darwin was not privy to in the 1850's, have revealed that the machine like complexity of living cells - the fundamental unit of life- possess the ability to store, edit, transmit and use information so as to regulate biological systems. This suggests that the theory of intelligent design offers the best explanation for the origin of life and living cells.
Creation is thus a matter of top-down engineering. There's a Guy In Charge with a blueprint who orders something constructed to his specifications. There may be junior engineers involved (natural processes, early life forms, human beings...) but they merely obey directives from the great Project Manager in the sky.
This is a very familar model of how things work in daily experience. From early on, we're taught to obey authorities, and that things happen mainly as a result of individual action and initiative. Those ideas have a place in life, but can they tell us anything meaningful about our origins?
Yes, necessarily, claims ID advocate and Baylor faculty member William Dembski. His "No Free Lunch" theorem holds that for observers to get design out of nature (which he believes is inevitable), they must read design in--specifically, the kind of top-down design described above. Against this, Michael Ruse, an ID critic, argues that thanks to natural selection, "we can get apparent design out." Or, design, and creativity, may result from unconscious, non-purposeful processes; from the interaction of numerous factors not obeying any master directive. From the bottom up.
This also resonates with daily experience. Different interactions among people--collaboration, conflict, friendship--can bring results unforseen by their participants. It is a basic truth of ecology, too: by relationships, phenomena emerge, endure, and perish. Yet for many, this model doesn't seem applicable to the emergence of life. For religious persons especially, it seems to discount the idea of a Creator.
Or does it? Why make an idol of the individual creative intelligence? The philosopher of religion William Grassie cites problems with the ways the metaphor of design is commonly employed in the origins debate.
Why should we limit God's generativity to a term taken from human architecture and engineering? There are much more interesting metaphors for God--artist, lover, friend, parent, teacher, motivator--all of which are also ultimately inadequate in describing that which transcends all and is also everywhere present.
Maybe we limit it thus because these other metaphors suggest that authority, value, and power is dispersed beyond the hands of an ultimate sovereign Lord or King. To ground the top down model in nature itself gives a metaphysical underpinning to imperatives to obey your dad, your president, your commanding officer, your dissertation director, your priest, your regional sales manager, etc. The bottom-up model supports something a little more egalitarian, democratic, and messy.
And so tradition and liberation battle on, in the science classrooms.
This issue has more than enough partisans already, and I won't join the fray here. But an update to the case on the radio yesterday got me thinking about a lot of rhetoric I've heard on the question over the years. It's a given that creation/evolution dispute, in whatever shape they assume, are not only about the origins of life, but about the hegemony of one or another segment of society. For a long time, though, I've had the impression that they are more fundamentally about the nature and source of power in creation--and society. Continue Reading.
The ID folks (like 18th century deists) compare complex structures in nature to complex human artifacts. For instance, a Thomas More Center press release on the Gull Lake case contends that
Since the late 1950s advances in biochemistry and microbiology, information that Darwin was not privy to in the 1850's, have revealed that the machine like complexity of living cells - the fundamental unit of life- possess the ability to store, edit, transmit and use information so as to regulate biological systems. This suggests that the theory of intelligent design offers the best explanation for the origin of life and living cells.
Creation is thus a matter of top-down engineering. There's a Guy In Charge with a blueprint who orders something constructed to his specifications. There may be junior engineers involved (natural processes, early life forms, human beings...) but they merely obey directives from the great Project Manager in the sky.
This is a very familar model of how things work in daily experience. From early on, we're taught to obey authorities, and that things happen mainly as a result of individual action and initiative. Those ideas have a place in life, but can they tell us anything meaningful about our origins?
Yes, necessarily, claims ID advocate and Baylor faculty member William Dembski. His "No Free Lunch" theorem holds that for observers to get design out of nature (which he believes is inevitable), they must read design in--specifically, the kind of top-down design described above. Against this, Michael Ruse, an ID critic, argues that thanks to natural selection, "we can get apparent design out." Or, design, and creativity, may result from unconscious, non-purposeful processes; from the interaction of numerous factors not obeying any master directive. From the bottom up.
This also resonates with daily experience. Different interactions among people--collaboration, conflict, friendship--can bring results unforseen by their participants. It is a basic truth of ecology, too: by relationships, phenomena emerge, endure, and perish. Yet for many, this model doesn't seem applicable to the emergence of life. For religious persons especially, it seems to discount the idea of a Creator.
Or does it? Why make an idol of the individual creative intelligence? The philosopher of religion William Grassie cites problems with the ways the metaphor of design is commonly employed in the origins debate.
Why should we limit God's generativity to a term taken from human architecture and engineering? There are much more interesting metaphors for God--artist, lover, friend, parent, teacher, motivator--all of which are also ultimately inadequate in describing that which transcends all and is also everywhere present.
Maybe we limit it thus because these other metaphors suggest that authority, value, and power is dispersed beyond the hands of an ultimate sovereign Lord or King. To ground the top down model in nature itself gives a metaphysical underpinning to imperatives to obey your dad, your president, your commanding officer, your dissertation director, your priest, your regional sales manager, etc. The bottom-up model supports something a little more egalitarian, democratic, and messy.
And so tradition and liberation battle on, in the science classrooms.
Monday, June 06, 2005
Chewing the Fat (and the Coleslaw)
At the BBT cleanups, there is traditionally some sort of dinner gathering in the evening. This year, Steve Fraley, one of BBT's owners, sprung for a pig roast at his place. Other guests brought something to pass. Before heading over, Kristine prepared her asian-style coleslaw in our motel room--neat feat.
Steve had told everyone to stop by after 7 PM. Great, I thought. We can show up, socialize a bit, eat some prime swine, and still leave in time for me to fish the evening rise. Nice plan, but it wasn't to be. Not too many people had arrived when we got there a bit after 7, so we had a few beers, talked with the other (mostly local) guests, and salivated over aroma of the slowly-roasting pig. It was nearly 9 before we carved the porker and sat to chow.
Talk about good stuff. The meat was juicy and richly flavored--it made pretty obvious what you lose in processed, shrink wrapped foods. Contributions of salads, veggies, muffins, and deserts rounded out one of the better dinners I've had in while. Great atmosphere, too--in Steve's pole barn, lined with more fly rods than I think I've ever seen outside a shop. After dinner, most of the crew moved to the backyard to sit at a campfire and talk fishing, local culture, and highlights of previous cleanup gatherings. Kristine and I left a little before midnight, just as a horseshoe tourney was getting started. Maybe I didn't get my night of fishing, but good food, good conversation, a campfire, and fresh memories of a full day on the river--even without a rod in hand--is a more than adequate substitute. And truth be told, I'll have more evenings on the river in my future than with company like that.
I really don't have a lot of fishing buddies. I nearly always fish alone, and don't mind that. But companions to share your passion for it add another level of pleasure to the pursuit. You could say they add another dimension to the ecology of the stream, one that enriches both inner and outer landscapes.
Thanks to Steve for organizing the event, to Craig, our boatman, and to everyone else who came. See you again in November. To the thirty or so people who signed up and didn't make it: we missed you, and so did the river.
Steve had told everyone to stop by after 7 PM. Great, I thought. We can show up, socialize a bit, eat some prime swine, and still leave in time for me to fish the evening rise. Nice plan, but it wasn't to be. Not too many people had arrived when we got there a bit after 7, so we had a few beers, talked with the other (mostly local) guests, and salivated over aroma of the slowly-roasting pig. It was nearly 9 before we carved the porker and sat to chow.
Talk about good stuff. The meat was juicy and richly flavored--it made pretty obvious what you lose in processed, shrink wrapped foods. Contributions of salads, veggies, muffins, and deserts rounded out one of the better dinners I've had in while. Great atmosphere, too--in Steve's pole barn, lined with more fly rods than I think I've ever seen outside a shop. After dinner, most of the crew moved to the backyard to sit at a campfire and talk fishing, local culture, and highlights of previous cleanup gatherings. Kristine and I left a little before midnight, just as a horseshoe tourney was getting started. Maybe I didn't get my night of fishing, but good food, good conversation, a campfire, and fresh memories of a full day on the river--even without a rod in hand--is a more than adequate substitute. And truth be told, I'll have more evenings on the river in my future than with company like that.
I really don't have a lot of fishing buddies. I nearly always fish alone, and don't mind that. But companions to share your passion for it add another level of pleasure to the pursuit. You could say they add another dimension to the ecology of the stream, one that enriches both inner and outer landscapes.
Thanks to Steve for organizing the event, to Craig, our boatman, and to everyone else who came. See you again in November. To the thirty or so people who signed up and didn't make it: we missed you, and so did the river.
Sunday, June 05, 2005
City of Stone & Big Haul on the PM!
Kristine and I just got back from a river cleanup in Baldwin. A couple of times a year, a local shop, Baldwin Bait and Tackle, sponsors this outing. It's a chance to give back to the river a bit, and also enjoy some good company.
Kristine took all Friday off and we went to the Petra exhibit at Calvin College in Grand Rapids. An utterly absorbing, thought provoking show--and, oddly enough, it gave us a few ideas for remodeling our house. After that, we drove north to Baldwin, where, after the obligatory dinner at the Log Bar, Kristine chilled in our motel for the evening while I went to the Pere Marquette for a couple of hours. Hit a spot near Gleason's Landing, and all indicators pointed to a good night--warm and still, with very few fishermen around. A bit after 9:00, flies started popping (sulfurs, mahognies, grey drakes), and soon fish were feeding freely near me, including some that sounded quite large. But I'll be darned if I knew what they were eating. Threw numerous variations of sulfurs, and drakes at them to no avail. The feeding stopped about 10:15, and I headed back to my car, or tried to. Got lost on the way back to my parking lot and had to ask a guy camping near there for directions. Once I got in my car, I got lost on the maze of back roads returning to Baldwin. Not one of my better angling performances, any way you look at it.
The cleanup began at 8:00 Saturday morning with a group photo at BBT. After we found spot in a boat and laid in a supply of trash bags, it was off to the river. Kristine and I joined a guy named Craig from Saginaw to clean a middle section of the Pere Marquette. I fished a little at first, but eventually put the rod away to concentrate on gargbage detail. The river was actually not too trashed, though the stretch we were on probably sees less traffic than some others. Still, we managed to fill up two large garbage bags with beer cans, chip bags, sandals, lighters, and discarded fishing line, among other things. Most unusual item--an umbrella hat I dug out of a mud bank, basically an elastic headband connected to small umbrella. I'd think that would be a bit unweildly, and not terribly dignified. The wearer might have thought so too. Kristine found a very rusty beer can with a logo a copyrighted 1933. Craig handled rowing duties for the day, quite ably, I should add. After about 10 AM, canoeists passed us pretty frequently, and every one of them we talked to was grateful for our work. Hopefully, they were also encouraged not to add to it.
We got off the river a bit after 3 and headed back to Baldwin for a little nap in preparation for the post-cleanup banquet. Details on that gathering to follow shortly.
Kristine took all Friday off and we went to the Petra exhibit at Calvin College in Grand Rapids. An utterly absorbing, thought provoking show--and, oddly enough, it gave us a few ideas for remodeling our house. After that, we drove north to Baldwin, where, after the obligatory dinner at the Log Bar, Kristine chilled in our motel for the evening while I went to the Pere Marquette for a couple of hours. Hit a spot near Gleason's Landing, and all indicators pointed to a good night--warm and still, with very few fishermen around. A bit after 9:00, flies started popping (sulfurs, mahognies, grey drakes), and soon fish were feeding freely near me, including some that sounded quite large. But I'll be darned if I knew what they were eating. Threw numerous variations of sulfurs, and drakes at them to no avail. The feeding stopped about 10:15, and I headed back to my car, or tried to. Got lost on the way back to my parking lot and had to ask a guy camping near there for directions. Once I got in my car, I got lost on the maze of back roads returning to Baldwin. Not one of my better angling performances, any way you look at it.
The cleanup began at 8:00 Saturday morning with a group photo at BBT. After we found spot in a boat and laid in a supply of trash bags, it was off to the river. Kristine and I joined a guy named Craig from Saginaw to clean a middle section of the Pere Marquette. I fished a little at first, but eventually put the rod away to concentrate on gargbage detail. The river was actually not too trashed, though the stretch we were on probably sees less traffic than some others. Still, we managed to fill up two large garbage bags with beer cans, chip bags, sandals, lighters, and discarded fishing line, among other things. Most unusual item--an umbrella hat I dug out of a mud bank, basically an elastic headband connected to small umbrella. I'd think that would be a bit unweildly, and not terribly dignified. The wearer might have thought so too. Kristine found a very rusty beer can with a logo a copyrighted 1933. Craig handled rowing duties for the day, quite ably, I should add. After about 10 AM, canoeists passed us pretty frequently, and every one of them we talked to was grateful for our work. Hopefully, they were also encouraged not to add to it.
We got off the river a bit after 3 and headed back to Baldwin for a little nap in preparation for the post-cleanup banquet. Details on that gathering to follow shortly.
Friday, June 03, 2005
Seasonal Turnover
A Brown Drake mayfly imitation, posed with the real thing.
As the fishing report I linked yesterday showed, changes are afoot in the river world. The early season flies have run their course for the most part, and we're moving into the big bugs of early summer: Gray Drakes, Brown Drakes, Isonichias, Giant Stones, and, a few weeks from now, Hexes. This means it's time for the pleasant task of reordering my dry fly box.
Normally, I shun maintainance tasks to the degree it's possible. I can live with high grass on my lawn. I clean my office "when I have the time," which seems to be at the end of the semester. I'll skip shaving a day or two a week, and would forgo it entirely if I didn't look ridiculous in a beard. When camping, going three or four days without a shower doesn't phase me (so much for invitations to campouts...). The exception to this is maintaining my flies and fishing gear.
I don't carry every fly I own on the stream, though there are people who do. About three times a season, I'll remove from my dry fly box flies whose time is done, and insert the flies coming into season. Usually I guess right, though I've been caught unprepared a few times. Removing the old and putting in the new is a evocative chore, stirring memories, hopes, and reflections on the passing of time. I'll think of fish I caught on flies I remove, or about hatches I hope to see of the flies I insert. Putting away my Hendricksons for the year, I'll think, this May of chilly sunshine, sudden raindrops, and sweet blossoms is gone, and you'll be a year older and a survivor of God knows what before you see another.
With the weight I attatch to these dry flies, it's a wonder they float.
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Relos Redux; High Season
Maybe I shouldn't blog after 10 PM. Last night, I couldn't quite put my finger on what bothered me in the NYT piece on "relos." All the usual stuff about disconnection, a family being yanked around by one person's career, etc., yes, but there seemed to be something more there.
Then after I went to bed, my objections started to gel. It seems that as our ecomomy expands and causes various kinds of social and ecological disruption, it simultanenously shrinks the number of people likely to see this or to care. The modern, post-Silent Spring environmental movement has talked continuously about "raising awareness," and has in fact made modest progress in that work. But during the same period, ways of living have taken shape among a lot of people that undermine the possibility of community or ecological awareness, and that place people's concerns at an ever-greater remove from the usual environmentalist sermons. Old "anthropocentric" habits of mind may be less the problem in the future than constantly shifting patterns of adaptation to economic trends, and overriding concern about what way to shift next.
Or maybe the concept of rootedness and all its Thoreauvian baggage need to be jettisoned from our thinking about an ecologically and psychically healthy way of life. There have been rumblings along these lines from the horizons of contemporary literature and philosophy. I guess I have more reason now to investigate those.
The relo story hits home for me because I might well have grown up in a downscale version of it. Due to my father's job transfers, my family moved three times by the time I was six. None of the children in my family were born in the same city. But when the boys upstairs called on my dad to move to yet another post (one involving a promotion, no less) after we'd settled in Kalamazoo, he declined. Of course, his career took a downspin from there, but in compensation, we found some continuities in life that we came to value greatly--friends, schools, church, and of course, that fine little trout stream across the road. I think I'd be a very different person today if we'd kept on roving. Who knows, maybe I'd have gotten an MBA, thrown myself into the relo lifestyle, and felt I was none the worse for it. Maybe I would have taken up golf (ugh!).
If you're a fisherperson, today's fishing report from Gates' Lodge in Grayling will have you drooling. All entomologicall hell is breaking loose up there, as it should in June. Odds are, barring adverse weather, any night on the stream this month could be the night of a lifetime...provided you can figure out what the trout are targeting. And get yourself in the right spot on the right night. Otherwise, you'll left fishless, stuck with starlight, the noisy night woods, and the inky river rushing past your waders. My fantasy is to spend every night of the month of June on some good trout stream. Maybe one of these years...
Then after I went to bed, my objections started to gel. It seems that as our ecomomy expands and causes various kinds of social and ecological disruption, it simultanenously shrinks the number of people likely to see this or to care. The modern, post-Silent Spring environmental movement has talked continuously about "raising awareness," and has in fact made modest progress in that work. But during the same period, ways of living have taken shape among a lot of people that undermine the possibility of community or ecological awareness, and that place people's concerns at an ever-greater remove from the usual environmentalist sermons. Old "anthropocentric" habits of mind may be less the problem in the future than constantly shifting patterns of adaptation to economic trends, and overriding concern about what way to shift next.
Or maybe the concept of rootedness and all its Thoreauvian baggage need to be jettisoned from our thinking about an ecologically and psychically healthy way of life. There have been rumblings along these lines from the horizons of contemporary literature and philosophy. I guess I have more reason now to investigate those.
The relo story hits home for me because I might well have grown up in a downscale version of it. Due to my father's job transfers, my family moved three times by the time I was six. None of the children in my family were born in the same city. But when the boys upstairs called on my dad to move to yet another post (one involving a promotion, no less) after we'd settled in Kalamazoo, he declined. Of course, his career took a downspin from there, but in compensation, we found some continuities in life that we came to value greatly--friends, schools, church, and of course, that fine little trout stream across the road. I think I'd be a very different person today if we'd kept on roving. Who knows, maybe I'd have gotten an MBA, thrown myself into the relo lifestyle, and felt I was none the worse for it. Maybe I would have taken up golf (ugh!).
If you're a fisherperson, today's fishing report from Gates' Lodge in Grayling will have you drooling. All entomologicall hell is breaking loose up there, as it should in June. Odds are, barring adverse weather, any night on the stream this month could be the night of a lifetime...provided you can figure out what the trout are targeting. And get yourself in the right spot on the right night. Otherwise, you'll left fishless, stuck with starlight, the noisy night woods, and the inky river rushing past your waders. My fantasy is to spend every night of the month of June on some good trout stream. Maybe one of these years...
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Turf Wars, again; Transients at the Top
After a futile attempt yesterday to work the remaining clots of grass out of my meadow plot area by hand, I relented today and rented another rototiller. That took care of it, in two more passes. Tomorrow the seed and plants go in the ground. One thing the experience has taught me--grass is tough stuff. Soft up top, yes, but sturdy below. Looking out at a well-trimmed lawn (or even at mine), you generally don't get an impression of strength. But it's there. How much more must there be in a mature natural prairie?
Today, the New York Times ran a feature about "relos," a segment of the American upper middle class who are in effect "executive gypsies." As "the shock troops of companies that continually expand across the country and abroad, they move every few years, from St. Louis to Seattle to Singapore, one satellite suburb to another, hopscotching across islands far from the working class and the urban poor." While some of these corporate warriors gladly trade stability for financial reward, others "complain of stress and anomie. They have traded a home in one place for a job that could be anyplace. Relo children do not know a hometown; their parents do not know where their funerals will be. There is little in the way of small-town ties or big-city amenities - grandparents and cousins, longtime neighbors, vibrant boulevards, homegrown shops - that let roots sink in deep."
Sound like a life I couldn't manage, though also one I'm unlikely to be tempted with. I think there is some value of being intimate with a particular landscape, and that's obviously not an option for the relo set. But even more unsettling (so to speak) is the impression the article gives of relo life being confined by work, commuting, and residence in a place designed to insulate and pamper people like oneself. Confusing, challenging stimuli kept to a minimum, and an escape always in the offing with the next promotion or transfer. All the usual problems of suburbia, just heightened by a life of constant motion. Too long in this pattern, I suspect, would give one an incredibly warped view of the world and one's fellow beings, much as happens with the habitués of academic ghettoes.
Somewhat reassuring is the fact that most of the individuals profiled in this articles seem to sense and try to counteract many of the problems this life poses. They try to forge some kind of connection with their temporary communities. An interesting shift, this, where even the most basic sorts of community connection belonging even in the sense of residence, are things improvised and not given. Though probably one in the offing for a long time. Its apotheosis may be here.
Today, the New York Times ran a feature about "relos," a segment of the American upper middle class who are in effect "executive gypsies." As "the shock troops of companies that continually expand across the country and abroad, they move every few years, from St. Louis to Seattle to Singapore, one satellite suburb to another, hopscotching across islands far from the working class and the urban poor." While some of these corporate warriors gladly trade stability for financial reward, others "complain of stress and anomie. They have traded a home in one place for a job that could be anyplace. Relo children do not know a hometown; their parents do not know where their funerals will be. There is little in the way of small-town ties or big-city amenities - grandparents and cousins, longtime neighbors, vibrant boulevards, homegrown shops - that let roots sink in deep."
Sound like a life I couldn't manage, though also one I'm unlikely to be tempted with. I think there is some value of being intimate with a particular landscape, and that's obviously not an option for the relo set. But even more unsettling (so to speak) is the impression the article gives of relo life being confined by work, commuting, and residence in a place designed to insulate and pamper people like oneself. Confusing, challenging stimuli kept to a minimum, and an escape always in the offing with the next promotion or transfer. All the usual problems of suburbia, just heightened by a life of constant motion. Too long in this pattern, I suspect, would give one an incredibly warped view of the world and one's fellow beings, much as happens with the habitués of academic ghettoes.
Somewhat reassuring is the fact that most of the individuals profiled in this articles seem to sense and try to counteract many of the problems this life poses. They try to forge some kind of connection with their temporary communities. An interesting shift, this, where even the most basic sorts of community connection belonging even in the sense of residence, are things improvised and not given. Though probably one in the offing for a long time. Its apotheosis may be here.
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