Quiet Angler

“… I might go a-fishing. That’s the true industry for poets.” — H.D. Thoreau

To catch and release the wild fish, he is quiet on approach and works to keep himself small inside the landscape. He enjoys the solitude and prefers to keep himself less conspicuous than usual. The April sun shines on the wild leek and the spongy ground where the wood frogs chuckle. An eclipse of the sun will occur within hours, sweeping across the watershed, and he wonders how his own spirit will react to the afternoon shadowing. He abides by natural law and by man-made law where the health of wild things is considered. He does not need to catch a fish, but a holdover brown trout, taken from a pool inside the hemlocks of the West Branch Genesee, is cause for celebration. There a trout life has been shadowed, pulled out from its haunts, eclipsed like the sun. The catch is handled briefly and returned to the stream. The man and fish recover. He’s alive and shining on a new day in a new season, grateful for the waters that sustain us all.

wild leeks

silver willow blue sky morn

Middle Branch, Genesee

Main (East) Branch, Genesee

West Branch, Genesee

Tough day on the headwaters

checking out the trail cam

Red fox has a den behind my house

Thanks, and stay tuned for my ramblings from Belize!

Between Every Two Pine Trees…

“Between every two pine trees is a doorway to a new world,” said John Muir, and so begins my newly published 75-page book of poetry entitled Between Two Pines, just issued by FootHills Publishing. I’m proud of this collection, a finely handbound volume that contains what I like to think of as “my best batch yet.” And if you’ve enjoyed my writing over the 13 years of Rivertop Rambles, or if you’ve encountered my poetry in the past, you might want to check out a copy ($16 postpaid), available from FootHills in Kanona, NY or from me personally at franklinL3@yahoo.com.

According to a back cover blurb, Between Two Pines “…contains a wide variety of styles and artful expressions unified by a fresh view of the commonplace and its potential for love, magnificence, and sorrow.” Yeah, it’s a tasty batch of old work and new, if I’m allowed to blow my horn immodestly for a moment or two. A short excerpt “fresh as foam, as old as the rock” (as Emerson once described poetic ideals):

For the Girl Singing Neil Young on Wisconsin Avenue

I heard you singing as I walked out onto the street.

Years later, you are still that girl,

all that I remember from one rushing day,

still swaying like a tree by a distant river.

Otherwise, it’s been a quick three months since the commencement of the winter season and the appearance (gasp!) of my previous post here on RR. No excuses offered, other than to say that I’ve been busy with my writing, reading and other projects while doing very little fly-fishing– an activity that’s about to shift gears here at the start of spring. Before I mention anything about future plans, here’s a few of my favorite photos taken from the new year:

solstice fire, Dec. 2023

winter blaze felt good

stone wall, King Hill summit

fungi, winter woods…

Allegheny River

a nice winter trout

I was saddened by the ermine’s accidental demise…

but am brightened by spring’s arrival.

Thank you, folks, and please look forward to a quickening of the posts here at Rivertop Rambles. I hope to be fishing and hiking more frequently now, with the steelhead season ripening, the small streams with wild trout beckoning, the hills coming alive with birds and wildflowers, a family trip to the Mayan jungles of Belize in April, and plenty more. Sing cheers!

Meeting the River Trout

The break in December weather was like a holiday gift from the gods. The air temp rose to 53 degrees F., the river temp to 44. Although the sun hid behind the deep gray clouds, I stood in the northern PA water, reasonably warm and comfortable, casting with an old reliable bamboo while listening to the cornstalks rattle in the breeze along the riverbank.

Two months ago, I could find no trout here in this headwater but now the German browns were clearly present and determined to inspect the drifting artificial egg. These fish were brightly colored, hefty and, most likely, planted in a late-year stocking effort. My only challenge was to get immersed in the moments as thoroughly as possible– while staying dry and while the feeding frenzy lasted.

What an active hour-long session it was! Good luck and timing had brought me to one of the season’s best workouts. Captured browns were numerous and averaged about 15-inches in length, each one quickly returned to its domain. A gift that afternoon– from the river, from whomever lent assistance to their placement in the pools and riffles. So, a tip of the hat, a sweep of the rod, to the water, cornstalk fields and looming hills. It pays to keep an eye out on our ever-changing lands and waters. A surprise is always near. The peace and quiet can be wonderful while it lasts.

Mountain, Moon and Snow

I was ready to fish the Blue Ridge Mountains, but the National Park Service had wisely closed the Shenandoah waterways to fishing due to the extended drought conditions in central Virginia. On Thanksgiving morning my son and I climbed Turk Mountain in the park, enjoying crisp and clear conditions on the short hike out and back before rejoining Charlottesville friends and family for the holiday.

Osprey goes hungry

Rambler’s walking stick

Back at home I reveled at the dark blue autumn night, the so-called Beaver Moon rising above the South Ridge following an afternoon of planting daffodil bulbs along our hillside paths with Leighanne. Time was passing so quickly I could only wonder, at my age, how many more full moons I’d see in this life where we’ve spent 43 years together re-inhabiting an old farm bringing land and house and heart to a mostly wonderful fruition. Old Woodenhead, my wintertime alter-ego, raps on his crown a few times and, thinking of the days ahead, hopes for the best.

Climbing up…

Shenandoah Nat’l Park…

Blue Ridge overlooking upper North Fork Moormans watershed

Yes, for those metaphoric daffodil blooms of spring, we make the most of these darkening days like the beavers of the marsh and riverbank, their hunger satisfied in layers of fur and fat, still slapping mud or hauling browse to fortify their dens and lodges. Here the garden has been laid to rest, the lawn has been straightened, the barn roof repaired. I’ve given notice to the mice and the flying squirrels that their place is out-of-doors and not beneath our rafters come December. We need peace and stability in this crazy world of ours, but my warning to the wild ones (in as much as I adore them in their rightful realms) is sincere: I have traps, if necessary, and enough good alcohol to see us through.

Beavers in the moonlight?

atter a busy day?

Every year I say, ah, the first snowfall of the season… what a beautiful affair. The air sparkles with unusual freshness even if the temperature remains below the freezing point all day. I venture through the yard and climb uphill, as usual, but my boots crunch on crystalline ground. The birds have mostly flown, and the light is deceptively empty. The tracks of fox and deer are newly printed in the snow. I follow them until they veer off into the brown stalks of summer past, until my eyes, widened by four decades of living in the hollow, catch a distant view I’ve never seen before.

gettin’ there…

late November home

Owl Farm, first good snow…

Tracking…

Turk Mountain view

good night

Toward the Long Sleep

Rambling ever onward toward the long sleep known by hibernators in the northern countryside, I am grateful for continued wakefulness, appreciating the days and hours as we have them. Grateful, giving thanks, even, for good health, for family, friends, wild creatures, and democracy while we have them.

first view, from the road

Thinking of the bear den recently dug near the house, in full view from the road, of the town crew stopping there to view the drowsy animal in the morning light, hearing the driver exclaim, “Wow, that’s one big effin bear!” I rambled down to the fellas saying, “Yeah the hole’s just been excavated. Bear is fat and lazy now and ready for the big sleep.” The guys will agree that hibernation sounds like a pretty good idea for the approaching winter. “Wouldn’t mind sleeping like that for a while, waking up occasionally to drink a beer, take a piss then hitting the hay again.” I tell them I’ll be keeping an eye out for the bear’s protection through this hunting season. Later I remind myself that taking care for the planet’s health is something anyone can do to one small degree or another (even through the times when we think it’s a lost cause) before the ultimate sleep arrives. It starts in whatever place we call our home.

Bear retreated before I arrived

what it’s all about… we had our barn roof replaced… the boss’s pup said, “don’t work too hard!”

trail cam does, “Who’s chasin’ us?”

Later… three guesses

coyote

raccoon

it’s nice to wake every once in a while, for something tasty

and then rejoin the wild ones again

not to be forgotten

a favorite wild brookie run

Indigo

Not blue,

but the end

finally said

before sleep.

(excerpt, From the High Hills to the Bay, WF)

Rivertop Redux

My first four images are selections from the trail cam on my “back forty”:

red fox

a couple of big night stalkers…

in the Halloween spirit…

And here two poetic excerpts, appropriate for this season of quick transitions, from my book Earthstars, Chanterelles, Destroying Angels:

the golden season slips away

oh, to hold it for a while

to see this home

in context of eternity–

beyond the beautiful leaf,

the faint song of a bird–

form beyond forms–

“ten thousand things”

slipping away

beyond…//

the hills seem haunted

by the ages–

bare trees climb the sky

a stream bends toward the sea–

leaves float, faces

from the grave disperse–

an aster blooms

near a fossil rock–

an autumn eye

looks for summer past…

usnea, a lichen…

I may have had a beer or two for this one…

upper Pine Creek watershed

witch hazel bloom

chinook salmon, 10/25

not sure who won…

north country trib

Finally, to complement what I take to be the feeling of this time and season, I follow with something to be shared if you’re into music that is bluesy and melodic– Snowy White’s clear-toned “The Time Has Come,” a beauty from the heart and soul, like so much of his music, inspired by the great British blues guitarist, Peter Green:

Serenity

In a world of war and conflict, social and political malaise, it sure is nice to step from the beaten path into autumn’s colorful serenity. With recent trips into the Adirondacks (heavy rain from a passing tropical storm) and to wild brook trout country near my home and in northern Pennsylvania, tranquility and quietude were readily experienced. Here are some of my favorite photos taken in recent days. As always, thank you for your visit to this site. Happy trails & a wish for peace.

From my poem “Upland Gallery” in Earthstars, Chanterelles, Destroying Angels:

… the glory road of autumn

valley to sky

where hills recall the sea

and life beneath the waves–

the glory road of autumn

mountains rising, falling

ghostly fishes leaping–

now the robins migrate,

sing through oak and aspen–

the glory road of autumn….

new rod w/ 100-year-old Hardy reel

nodding ladies-tresses (a wild orchid)

a.m. view toward Greenwood from behind our home

Indian Lake, Adirondack campground in the rain…

at camp

when the rain let up…

serenity… back home

Now, if you want to spice up that serenity with an excellent British R&R video from Family (a personal favorite band, the unofficial house band of this blog), check out the following– 50 years old now & still kicking ass. I devoured the bands 7 studio albums issued from about 1968 to 1973 and continue to cherish the art. [Thanks to Steve Maginnis, at his blog A Family Affair, for selecting this as his “Music Video of the Week.”]

Fall Brooks

The turning, colorful season was an open invitation to spend a couple of days among the mountain streams of northern Pennsylvania. The male brook trout are in spawning hue, as beautiful as any wild fish can be, and readily accepted my rambling catch-and-release activity in the big creek’s headwaters. There my favorite streams felt wild, secluded, but accessible thanks to hiking trails and old abandoned railbeds.

I quickly lost count of all the hungry brookies that I saw, and one memorable catch was a wild brown that initially rose without success to my dry fly. Resting the fish, now hiding in some shadowy niche, I switched my offering to a bead-head nymph, and that did the trick. Throughout the pleasant hours fishing carefully in my solitude, the 6’8″ glass rod (with a shortened leader and a 3X tippet) worked its magic for a sense of soul rejuvenation.

Here are the first two stanzas of my poem called “Fishing” that appeared in THE WILD TROUT, a chapbook published in 1989 and 1991;

The current spreads a coolness over thighs.

With nerves taut, abandoned to the moment,

I react to contrary motions– striking

to the shadow of a passing kingfisher,

to a leaf-flash, water’s sudden tugging…

Learning to perceive the hidden,

I cast for clues among the resting fish,

over stonefly nymph dislodged, perhaps

to relive that first catch long ago….

So, thanks to all the squaretails, all the wild fish, all the beauty of an autumn day that draws us toward appreciation of the finer things in outdoor life, the music of the spheres, the pull of the line, the summoned in a timeless flow.

Autumn Poetry in Motion

It’s a busy time on the rivertops as autumn starts to spice the water, land and air with coolness, longer nights and general decay. Birds become more active with migration urges, wildflowers thicken the high grassy fields and roadways, trout begin to shed their summertime lethargy and start to feed with more enthusiasm. I’ve attended numerous poetry events lately and hit the brook trout streams more readily than in summer. I’ve retired (or accidently broken) a few old fly rods but recently acquired an unusual little fiberglass wand that’s rapidly become a favorite. And my neighbor and fishing partner, Dave, loaned me a trail cam to install on my back acreage. A first viewing of the wildlife action at the site proved to be of interest.

hmm what is that thing… edible?

red fox says I’M GONE

fishin’ pal Bob S. hauls us up a little feeder stream at Hammersley

A poem that I included in my non-fiction book called Learning the Terrain is called “Cardinal Flower,” the subject of which is going off the bloom now (photo wildtoledo.org) but is seldom far from my September thoughts:

Native lobelia

scarlet robed

flares

above the muskrat’s wake.

Trout rise for a small emergent mayfly–

the heron’s eye

notes a wavering

white-striped fin.

Blossoms stir

along the stalks–

small red birds

lift their wings…

A shadow falls

across the riffles.

poetic wild asters

Tandem Anniversary

My wife and I recently celebrated an almost blissful 41 years of marriage by visiting a couple of New York breweries and then, on the homeward trek, by stopping in Naples for an ice-cream fix. I enjoyed the (ahem!) fly-fishing fudge, married to a scoop of finely textured coffee. Next morning, I set forth on a visit to a local head water to see if the trout were staying cool enough. I had another anniversary to observe.

beaver-chewed duo

The water temperature in the deep-pool riffle registered at the upper-limit for trout comfort. At any higher reading I would not have made an effort. In likelihood, the browns and rainbows were stressed enough by late-summer conditions, but the watershed had recently experienced some cool nights and sufficient rainfall, so I was back at it. My love-affair with bamboo fishing rods had experienced some pangs of heartbreak recently, so I was on the water with my earliest rod infatuation– a 1973 Fenwick. Yeah, a 50-year-old fiberglass pole.

trout pool on a feeder stream

The year was ’73. My girlfriend at the time broke my first fly rod (an ugly yellow stick that I owned for a decade) when she slammed it in the doorway of my VW Bug. She felt so bad about the accident that she went out and bought me a much-improved instrument, the 5-weight 7’6″ Fenwick. I was thankful for the gift, certainly, and fished it intermittently for the next dozen years but, truth be told, I never cared much for it. I don’t know why. Maybe the “action” was unbalanced; maybe the design was a little goofy, whatever… And it didn’t help to know that graphite rods were becoming hugely popular at the time, no doubt much more efficient (and expensive) than the older glass utensils. I could not afford a decent graphite in those days, but I could dream.

Joe Pye Weed

Fashionable trends are no stranger to the fly-fishing business. I might have been trying to “keep up with the Joneses” back then but, in my defense, I was hitting the learning curve and didn’t really know any Jones people who were fly-fishing at the time. Remember, this was well before THE MOVIE starring that Pitt fellow. Then, by 1991, I acquired my first Orvis Superfine graphite and… it’s been downriver ever since (sort of).

downriver

Graphite came and graphite went. Bamboo came for me and (sadly) split-cane rods eventually lost their edge and went because of breakage and poor relations with custom repairs. But fiberglass arrived again, as vital as vinyl record albums, and I’m pleased with its toughness and its slower (than graphite) casting stroke. I had given the old Fenwick to a neighbor kid who used it for years and then suddenly returned it after he went out and bought his first graphite rod. Anyway, what goes around comes around. I reevaluated my antiquated fiberglass wand and wondered– what the hell was I thinking? I could now make 50-foot lawn casts accurately and with ease. What wasn’t there to like?

well-chewed flies

The only fish rising to a dry fly was an occasional chub. Not a good sign. Then I decided to fish a tandem rig: two wet flies– a Hare’s-Ear for the tail fly and a Green Weenie for the dropper. A drift through the cool deep riffle brought immediate action. A rainbow took the Hare’s-Ear, and a brown trout took the Weenie before the action ended almost as quickly as it started. The fish were set free from the old fiberglass rig, and the present moment melded with the bygone era for a brief but pleasant overture.

first fish

second fish

future fish, too?