Last Hike

With clear weather forecast for yesterday (to be followed by rain over the rest of the holiday), we put aside a renovation project to take a hike out at Pinckney State Rec area. The temperature was nearly 50 when we hit the trail around 2--a fine early November day, on the brink of January.

If winter comes, can spring be far behind?

I don't know. Winter still hasn't come.

We don't have the snow or the cold I'd expect around new year's (which I actually enjoy), but we still have the long twilight that begins around 3 and fades to black around 6 or so. We enjoyed a vespertine passage though the woods, an exercise conducive to reflections on the end of something.

A few shots from along the way:



We had a wet autumn, and small ponds spread over most low spots.



The wood along the way (like just about every forest in SE Michigan) were becoming overgrown with pink (Amur) honeysuckle and multiflora rose, pernicious exotics that choke out most other shrubs and ground cover. Much of the time it seemed like we were walking through a thicket. The best views came when we reached large openings like these two. They must have been lovely when October's colors were out.



On the way home, we stopped in the hamlet of Hell (yes, that's the town's name) for a beer at the Dam Site Inn, whose walls were emblazoned with stencils of flames and devils. (This town milks the name for all it's worth--its major industry seems to be the production of T-shirts printed with Go To Hell (Michigan) on them and other demonic kitsch). The tavern apparently does get a bit hellish at times: we overheard that a large fight had broken out around closing time the night before and ended with a good deal of blood on the floor, though we found the place friendly enough.

It was a day I will savor well into the new year. Today it's back to shuffling lumber around. Hope everyone else finds some pleasant way to mark the occasion.

Where Have They Gone?

It's a cliché that some of fly fishing's greatest rewards are immaterial. But the experience leading to those rewards is to a large extent defined by the material items though which we practice the sport, and for some fishermen, these items are almost as interesting as fishing itself. Think of the arguments that rage ad nauseumover bamboo vs. graphite rods, fluoro vs. mono leaders, small vs. large arbor reels, etc. Many of us like to think of fishing as a means of "getting back to nature," but to commence fly fishing (or any specialized pursuit) is to enter a distinctive realm of commerce and manufacturing.

Yet like the realm of nature, it changes and evolves over time. This morning, the owner of a New Hampshire fly shop I've patronized a few times took stock of this fact, prompted by the task of sorting through a few decades worth of old fishing magazines. The ads in them sketched a lost world, one dominated by names that have since disappeared or fallen from favor.

Remember Fenwick rods? Pfleuger Medalist, or Martin reels? Red Ball waders? They were among the most prominently advertised products in a 1980 copy of Fly Fisherman the shop owner perused. All are still with us, but you no longer see many on the stream. Where once these graced the shelves of quality fly shops, they hang on now in discount stores (though they still can do the job--my first pair of Red Ball waders lasted longer than my first Orvis breatheables). In that same issue, he noted, Berkely advertised fly lines. They currently make an excellent and wideley used monofilament line (Trilene), but I didn't know they had ever made fly lines.

I wonder how my Teton, Reddington, or St. Croix gear will be regarded in thirty years. I guess I can ask people, as I'll likely still be using it, if I'm blessed to be living then.

Despite the restlessness of technological innovation and consumer desire, fishermen do hold on to certain simple, venerable items:

We cling to an old fashioned way of fishing and as much as we embrace new technology, we revel in still doing it the hard way. No new-fangled spinning reels for us. Today’s fly reel may be made of space-age metals and have a drag that will stop a freight train, but it better be single action. Lord forbid that one of us is ever found with an electronic fish finder. As much as we love plastic rods, we still love wooden landing nets. The use of motor boats is OK, but a wooden drift boat has a whole lot more romance and that is the way we like it.

Maybe what this means is, we embrace those material items consistent with the pursuit of fly-fishing's legendary immaterial satisfactions.

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If I don't get back here over the weekend, Happy New Year to all.

Christmas Pop Culture Confessions

#1—

“Jingle Bell Rock routinely turns up on lists of the worst Christmas songs ever. I actually like it. I know it’s beyond kitschy, almost Pat Boone-ish, and certainly a shameless attempt to cash in on the emergence of Rock and Roll in the 50s. I don’t like it because it’s exemplary musical art, and I’m not totally sure why I like it at all. The simplicity and sentimentality may be its appeal. It does conjure visions of an easygoing, uncontrived holiday gathering, set in some simpler mid-century time frame. It inflicts a nostalgia for something I never knew. Or maybe for a celebration more laid back than my family’s were.


#2—

I find It’s a Wonderful Life extremely depressing. When George Bailey begins the downward spiral that eventually leads him to the bridge, I’m dragged down with him and I don’t come back up after Clarence the angel arrives to redeem George. I’ll leave about ¾ through the movie convinced that It’s a Crappy Life.

Although if I do watch to the end, the scene where Clarence shows George that if he had never been born his town would have been full of seedy dives and dance halls, I start wondering whether someone else's birth has prevented my neighborhood from being a cluster of bookshops and brewpubs. Or from being at the center of a thousand acre forest park.


Speaking of Christmas movies, I've noticed that the newer film versions of Dickens' A Christmas Carol have fewer references to both Christianity and alcohol that their predecessors.

#3--

I like Bing Crosby's Christmas albums. Though not the film White Christmas

#4--

I didn't send Christmas cards this year. Just didn't have time once I finished my end-of-semester work. Of course, I could have skipped that hunting trip last Monday.

No, I just didn't have time.

#5--

I believed in Santa Clause until I was about ten. Even the ubiquity of mall Santas didn't give me any doubts. I knew the real one was at the mall where my dad worked. As far as his getting around the world in one night, I figured that the different time zones made that possible.


Savor your Christmas farragoes and fantasies. They are one indulgence you won't need to spend Janurary working off.

Turning Point

In the northern hemisphere, today is winter solstice, the shortest day of the year but one heavily freighted with meaning. Ancient people celebrated it with candles and fires, anticipating the increase of light to come. In its early centuries, the Christian church inaugurated a celebration on a nearby day for the same reason. Those with Seasonal Affective Disorder may take some encouragement from it, knowing that each forthcoming day will administer a slightly greater dose of sunshine than the last. It is a day that traditionally provokes reflections on the changes and transitions of life. It reminds us that growth emerges from decay. Of course, the fact that "as the days grow longer, the cold grows stronger" underscores that growth in enlightenment or fullness of life does not come easily--a spiritual lesson equally pertinent to Christians, neopagans, atheists, and every other sort of believer or nonbeliever.

It's common practice on FTR to ascribe meanings to days (and seasons, weather events, etc.) according to their import for fishermen. To me, and, as far as I can tell, to other fishermen, winter solstice itself has no particular piscatorial importance. But it brings to attention the fact that summer solstice is six months away. And summer solstice usually falls near the beginning of the giant hexagenia mayfly hatch, the high point of the year for many fly fishermen. We're halfway there. And that merits hoisting an eggnog or two, I think.
* * * * * * * * *

Kristine's company sent each of their clients a set of different holiday-themed cards this year, all designed by employees. Kristine was asked to design a solstice card. I thought it was pretty neat, so here it is.



Stay warm in the days ahead, and watch for the light.

Cold Night...Not.

I did make it north to chase a few partridge yesterday, but the sleepout did not come off. I awoke Monday with a stiff left shoulder which got stiffer and sorer as the day went on. By the end of the hunt, I was weighing whether or not to continue north and camp on the river or go home. The hunting had not been very enjoyable. While it was pleasant being out, the gun seemed five pounds heavier than usual, and any lifting with my left hand--even raising a full water bottle--sent pain shooting into my neck. Sleeping on hard, cold ground wasn't likely to improve the situation, and another day hunting with someone driving a spike into the base of my neck wasn't much of an enticement to continue the trip. So at the end of the day, I turned the car south and was home a little after 8.

I'm still pretty sore today, though it seems to be passing. This is part of getting old, I guess.

You may have already gathered that the hunt was not productive. As on my last trip to that area, I moved no birds. I did locate a couple of clearcut areas that will be worth returning to in a few years, and I scouted out a few fishing spots I may visit in the future. I'm grasping how much I still have to learn about finding grouse, and how much a few lucky excursions have spoiled me. Recognizing that ignorance doesn't bother me, though the lack of opportunity to pursue the requisite education does.

Aside from a sort of visceral compulsion, I don't have that much encouragement to purue it either, though sometimes that can come unexpectedly. At the first place I stopped in the woods, I opened the car door to catch a blast of tangled, delerious wailings from a pack of coyotes and sat still listening to them for a while. They must have been moving, as the sound gradually trailed off in volume, though not in intensity. I construed their calls as an invitation to join the hunt.

Cold Night Ahead

Well, it's official...tomorrow night I'll be tenting on the banks of the Au Sable...the forecast calls for lows near 20, which will make for my coldest night of camping ever, but somehow I'm looking forward to it. I think a quiet night, deep in the woods will be a perfect post-semester wind down, not to mention a break from holiday preparations, which are beginning to snowball.
Assuming I don't lose my fingers to frostbite, I'll be back with photos and hopefully a decent story or two on Wed.

Break!

I submitted final grades for my courses last night around 6. Three weeks off, filled, of course, by preparing for next semester's classes, writing paper proposals, and house chores. Hopefully hunting on Mon. or Tues. Or both; I'm thinking of attempting to camp out Monday night. The temp isn't expected to go below 20˚F so why not?

Last night Kristine and I went to a gathering our church put on to benefit a Sri Lankan family who has a daughter here for medical treatment. Our church and several others have been helping out the family since they got here last summer, and last night, the family cooked some traditional Sri Lankan dishes for the benefit dinner. Wonderful stuff. It was, not surprisingly, comparable to Indian food--I'd be hard pressed to distinguish it (vegetable curries, tandoori chicken, chutneys) from any Indian food I'd eaten. But my palate wasn't asking for passports.

Tonight we will go to the family Christmas party in Kalamazoo. I still need to make a couple of gift stops on the way out of town---ugh. I try to stay away from stores during the pre-Christmas weekends. But I'll survive.

Speaking of which...

I thought this basically hit the mark:

Cartoon by Dave Walker. Find more cartoons you can freely re-use on your blog at We Blog Cartoons.

Deadly Cute

Bunny Suicides cartoons. Who knew the macabre could be this adorable?

Charity--Charitably

Laura over at Ypsi~Dixit recently posted and commented on an article that reminds us of some of the ways that efforts to help the less fortunate may further lessen them. To need, even simply to receive, the largesse of others can be felt as an affront to one's dignity, implying that one is unable to provide for one's own. Would-be givers undercut the value of their gifts if they focus on people's needs more than on the humanity of people in need. The writer of the article at Laura's blog recounts a creative and successful effort to overcome this humanitarian dilemma. Worth reading in this giving season.

Spirit and Flesh

Fellow Episco-blogger and cyber acquaintance Dan wonders why, in this age when Christendom resounds with modern-day prophets urging us to believe the whole of the bible, not picked and chosen verses we happen to agree with, certain verses are never much studied or preached upon.

Consider, for instance, this nugget from 1 Samuel:

1 Samuel 18:25-27 - 25-- Then Saul said, “Thus shall you say to David, ‘The king desires no bride-price except a hundred foreskins of the Philistines, that he may be avenged of the king's enemies.’” Now Saul thought to make David fall by the hand of the Philistines. 26 And when his servants told David these words, it pleased David well to be the king's son-in-law. Before the time had expired, 27 David arose and went, along with his men, and killed two hundred of the Philistines. And David brought their foreskins, which were given in full number to the king, that he might become the king's son-in-law. And Saul gave him his daughter Michal for a wife.

Why aren't the advocates for "traditional marriage" all over that one?

Check out the rest.

Catch a Wave

Surfing on Lake Erie? It happens.

It was the kind of day that lives mostly in Cleveland surfers’ fantasies. Pushed by the storm’s winds, water the color of chocolate milk rose 10 feet in the air before slamming onto a beach of boulders and logs. The temperature was 40 degrees and falling. One surfer, Vince Labbe, climbed onto his board only to get blown backward by 40-mile-an-hour winds.

Given its industrial past, Cleveland largely turns its back to Lake Erie, lining the coast with power plants, a freeway and mounds of iron ore to feed its steel factories. The shore is especially deserted in winter, when strong winds and waves pummel the land. In December, as temperatures dip into the 20s and ice gathers in the lake’s small coves, Cleveland surfers have Lake Erie almost entirely to themselves.

Surfing Lake Erie is basically disgusting,” said Bill Weeber, known as Mongo, 44. “But then I catch that wave and I forget about it, and I feel high all day

I'd heard about people who surf Lake Michigan when the big blows hit in November. It makes sense people would surf in Cleveland too, since it's not uncommon for large waves to arise quickly on shallow Lake Erie. Though I wouldn't care to try this myself, I feel some affinity for these guys insofar as they pursue a sport many people would think is odd and a little scary, in places and conditions most would avoid.

Cleveland surfers believe they are the last remnants of the original surf culture in the 1940s and ’50s, when surfing was still a renegade sport of social misfits who scouted virgin breaks, surfed alone and lived by a code of friendliness to newcomers and respect for the water. They keep their best surf spots secret. They consider themselves part of an underground society. And they hope to keep it that way.

You could describe a lot of fly fishermen in similar terms.

Above and Beyond

This week, the Christian calendar turns over and a new liturgical year begins. The first season of the new year is Advent, which celebrates the promise of Christ's coming--in the past, present, and future. Much of the scripture read in churches at this time year concerns the end times, making for a rather disconcerting prelude to "Silent Night," eggnog, and stuffed stockings. One of the wiser preachers I've heard said that the eschatological texts of Advent invite us to consider the dimension of ultimacy against which our lives play out, and to which they proceed. In short, Advent asks us to look beyond the moment.

Many spiritual philosophies urge us to be fully present in each moment of our lives. I think this idea is a good one, and fully consistent with the Christian idea of "having life, and having it abundantly." Its major shortcoming is that our ideas and experiences of "presence," or "the moment," are necessarily limited. Even mystics' experiences of infinity, in which all familiar distinctions fall away, are still limited by one's capacity to absorb them. But that doesn't mean the mystic does not experience something that stretches the bounds of awareness, and straining to see beyond whatever situation in life may enrich the moment--or life--we thought we knew.

For all of us, there is some great beyond that looms before us, or sends out a dim signal from the fringe of our consciousness. Perhaps it is our sense of Spirit within existence. It may be a gap in a relationship we have been unable or unwilling to fill, or a half forgotten dream. For some it is a shadow within that they have never had the courage to dance with, or dispel. Perhaps it is our own mortality, or the End of Days itself, in whatever forms that assumes.

To turn away from the immediate and focus one's mind on these things from time to time can draw us out from familiar routines and beliefs that often serve as much to shield us from reality as to negotiate it. It can erode boundaries around our lives we had thrown up for convenience' sake. This is not often easy or pleasant to do. Not to do so is to diminish every moment in which we would fully dwell.

Whether or not December draws you toward a cradle and a star, the challenges of Advent are worth answering. Year round.