I don’t know when beaver came to be employed at the state forest, but the rodent engineers are there, and they’re rocking the ecology of the woods. So what, you may be thinking. Aren’t there bigger threats to native trout today, say hydro-fracking, silt accumulation, global warming, etcetera? Why worry about a mammal that’s evolved with brook trout over the eons? Granted, the eastern char has a lot to be concerned about today, but let’s not disregard the beaver.

Castor canadensis may have evolved naturally with brook trout on a multitude of eastern streams, but remember, the trout’s current range is a mere fraction of what it was in pre-colonial days, and the presence of expanding beaver colonies on a single brook trout water can have a major impact, especially if poor land use by our own two-legged species has already minimized the number of fish.

My introduction to Vandermark Creek came long ago, during my Alfred University days in the 1970s. Since then I’ve never caught more than two trout at a single outing there, and I’ve never fished downstream for the brown trout that are stocked on a minimal basis every year. The creek has never seemed all that good for fishing, though I did manage to land a nice 11-inch brookie on the stream about five years ago. My last two outings at the creek were unsuccessful, and on a recent winter morning I inspected the low, clear waters and saw little more than beaver dams, silt, and large quantities of chubs.

As the value of beaver fur has lessened over the past few decades, minimizing trapper interest, beaver populations have surged in many rural areas. The Avery Report, a study published in 1992, collected data from the impact of beaver colonies on trout streams in Wisconsin. The report had studied fish and mammal numbers before and after the removal of beaver dams on trout streams. After looking at streams for six years following the removal of beaver dams, the Avery Report concluded that brook trout numbers rose and that water temperatures cooled. Stream turbidity was reduced; gravel beds were again exposed, allowing the spawning process. The flow rate of streams increased; the depth of water and the channel widths decreased. Unfortunately, across the study area in the 1980s, summer air temperatures were higher than normal, thus the water temperatures of the streams were cooler by a mere 2 degrees Celsius. Considering the potential effect of global warming on native trout stream waters, conclusions from the studies of dam removal do not sound encouraging. As one report suggested, “air temperature is the most important element in controlling trout habitat.”

I saw many little beaver dams in various conditions along the creek, and though I briefly fantasized that the beavers could be discouraged and the beaver dams removed by hand, I also realized I’d need an army of assistance and I wasn’t even comfortable with the idea of messing around with nature, as unbalanced as it seemed in this location. It would be nice to see the sediment cleared away and to know that oxygen levels would be increased, but it would also be nice to see the whole human world living together in peace and harmony. It wasn’t going to happen any time soon.

It’s a different story in our western states. For example, beaver ponds in the Rocky Mountains often have an opposite effect on trout. The ponds allow herbaceous plants to grow, eventually adding to the food supply. But here we’re talking about water temperatures rising from the 40s into the 50s under harsh conditions, rather than rising from the 50s or 60s into the 70s or beyond. Western ponds tend to have short life spans for fishing opportunities, but some of the fastest brook trout fishing I ever experienced was on the beaver ponds of the Colorado Rockies.

I asked Scott Cornett, fisheries biologist for the Department of Environmental Conservation in western New York, to weigh in on the subject of beaver ponds on eastern trout streams, and Cornett replied, in part: “Most of our streams have become marginal temperature-wise for brookies due to our poor land use practices, and the beaver ponds just push them over the edge.” He went on to say that new beaver ponds occasionally allow good brook trout fishing, but they quickly become silted in. As beavers rapidly consume the nearby wood supply, the waters warm up to allow, at best, the spread of brown trout in the watershed.

I don’t know what can be done about the problem, if anything, other than encouraging good land use practices. I’d like to hear about your own experiences with brook trout at the beaver ponds, or your thoughts about the interesting rodent and the colorful char.

Whether my top search terms are “i heard…” or “tale of Norway spruce” or “great elm restaurants” or something less mysterious, I want to clarify one point: I don’t care how the hell a visitor arrives at Rivertop Rambles, be it by direct address, by typing error, by foot or snowmobile, by teleportation, or by the evening stage, I’m just glad that somebody arrives here in one piece. Whether you’re a first-timer or a regular reader, I appreciate the patronage, and you’re always welcome to comment here or open up a dialogue.

Some of my visitors must be disappointed when they get to RR and discover that it’s not what they expected. Unwitting cybernauts must think,  ”WTF– another Nature blog!” Though I usually make no excuses for the subject of my writings, I am sorry for explorers who arrive here down-heartedly, and would like to offer an appeasement. The next time someone types in “tale of Norway spruce,” because I once discussed the weed-like growth of these non-native trees, or “great elm restaurants,” because I once mentioned Great Elm as the publishing outfit that I operated,  I’d like to at least have a photo on the subject for the visitor to take home as a souvenir.

For ”tale of Norway spruce” I offer an illustration of artist Marc Chagall’s “Time is a River without Banks.” Images of a fish, clock, violin, and lovers fly out from the arms and branches of one of my thousand spruce trees. Indeed, time is a river, and at RR we’re right at the headwaters of it. For “great elm restaurants,” which I’ve learned are dining spots somewhere off the hub of the Ohio midlands, I can offer only a quick shot of my breakfast chambers, not delectable dining by any means, but tastier than southern grits.

For Emily’s introductory line to “Dying” I offer the first and final stanzas of the poem, plus an image of a fly buzz that you might hear when your number’s up at the end of the dusty trail.

I heard a fly buzz when I died/ The stillness round my form/ Was like the stillness in the air/ Between the heaves of storm/…

With blue, uncertain, stumbling buzz/ Between the light and me;/ And then the windows failed, and then/ I could not see to see.

A lot of us fly fishers spend an inordinate amount of time on our beloved waters. Aren’t we lucky that a trout fly doesn’t buzz?

I already felt a bit crippled due to the fact that, before we left New York for our flight to El Paso, our otherwise adorable daughter had borrowed the digital camera and forgotten to replace it in our luggage. So, we had to shuffle into the Alamogordo Wal-Mart and buy disposable memory-keepers, damn-it, and the certainty that our photos of New Mexico would reflect less of the renowned “Enchantment” and more of a second-rate bewitchment. Despite that disappointment plus the tension produced from the fire crisis in the region, the end result of our trip was more like a fine whiff of desert rain.

It was our first visit to Glenwood village and the southwestern section of New Mexico. The Catwalk National Historic Trail follows the upper Whitewater Creek in the headwaters of the San Francisco River system. Whitewater Canyon has 15 miles of fertile trout water that remains cool and fishable all summer for hybrid Gila-rainbows. The rare Gila trout has been down-listed recently from the EPA’s endangered list to that of threatened status. This small, golden, finely spotted trout can be fished for on a catch-release basis in several remote streams of the Gila Wilderness. Our three-day sojourn at Whitewater Canyon did not allow time for a backcountry hike to the Gilas, so I tried to focus on fishing for the pretty hybrid. Some of the fish I caught resembled the genetically pure Gila, whereas others clearly showed not only the yellow and olive coloration but also the parr markings of a rainbow. The introduced trout is the main competitor in the native’s struggle to survive.

Other attractions of the canyon include a birding wonderland where some 300 species can be found throughout a typical year. When a gorgeous painted redstart settled briefly on a branch just 10 feet from my head, it seemed to mock the cheap camera in my pocket, saying, “Forget the plastic, buddy; just remember me as I am.”

The Catwalk Picnic Area, at 5100 feet above sea-level, gives access to the canyon. From here, one can hike and fish upstream for miles to the trail-less heart of the Mogollon Mountains. When you climb and note that the canyon walls are stretching skyward for thousands of feet, you’re either humbled and bound to earth or else you’re hallucinating and not paying much attention to your passage. The Catwalk, that half-mile elevated route at the lower end of the Recreational Trail, is a memory now. That renowned suspension trail was the route of a pipeline once supplying water to a settlement of miners at the mouth of the canyon. Those miners are vanished now, as are most of the tourists and hikers that had set out walking with you on the trail. Again it’s time to drop down to a lovely Whitewater pool and tie on a barbless Yellow Stonefly to your leader. With a careful approach and a short cast of a 2 or 3-weight line, another Gila-hybrid is sure to revive your visions.

As we left our cabin for the drive south to Silver City, we listened to a chorus of coyotes from across the roadway. The cacophony of yips and cries reminded us of kids suddenly shouting and screaming. I wondered how far inside the big wilderness their larger cousins, the Mexican grey wolves, might be found. Hopefully the reintroduced wolves were doing fine despite the hardship faced through forest fires and an element of unsupportive cattle ranchers in the state.

When we stopped at the Aldo Leopold Vista south of Glenwood, we stood alone on arid ground dedicated to the great twentieth-century environmentalist and writer. A jackrabbit hopped into shade of a pinyon pine, and a family of Gambel’s quail scurried for cover. At this interface of desert and mountain worlds, we enjoyed an excellent view. The land was fine by virtue of its being there– for its own sake first of all, and secondarily for whatever non-destructive pleasures people could derive from it. This was America’s first designated wild place, thanks to the early efforts of Aldo Leopold who was once a forest supervisor for the Gila. It was here that Leopold’s famous experience with the “fierce green fire” in the eyes of a dying wolf ignited a slowly evolving land ethic in our culture.

Driving nearly 50 miles north of Silver City on a mountain road, we passed great tracts of newly charred forest land and came to the Visitors’ Center at the Gila Cliff Dwellings National Monument. Green growth was already pushing outward from the burnt lands, and we climbed on foot for a mile along Gila River headwaters, crossing Leopold’s “Mesa of the Angels” to the caves on a south-facing slope. The side-by-side caves of the ancient cliff dwellers echoed the quiet words of visitors and park volunteers. We learned of the pre-Mogollon peoples and the later Apaches, of the harsh lives anchored to a beautiful canyon and its shaded stream. In my own effort to further investigate this country of caves and mesas, I would have to string up the fly rod, seek the cool riffles in the cottonwood shade, and stroll the West Branch Gila. After we enjoyed a quick lunch in the valley, I didn’t need much prodding to go.

Back in 1986, Michael Czarnecki and I published a small anthology of poetry and prose entitled Susquehannock, A Literary Anthology of the Upper Susquehanna Watershed. We included a John Rezelman poem in that anthology called “Seneca Flour Corn.” I’d like to reprint the piece here, a poem suggesting that if you want to make a difference in your world, perhaps all you need to do is learn about your place of life, consider its histories, get involved with it, and plant a seed.

Please enjoy.

Seneca Flour Corn

The smoke hung thick in the valleys that year/ When Sullivan’s army burned the Indians’ corn./ Neverless, a little bit survived/ In some damp hollow or some hidden patch./ For without man’s help this maize cannot survive./ It needs man to strip the kernels from the cob,/ Plant them so each will have its space to grow,/ Protect from weeds, animals, insects, birds,/ Harvest it, store it, keeping it always dry/ And never, ever eating up all the seed./ Left all to itself, the corn would surely die.

Forty kernels a friend gave to me/ Of that very self-same kind the Senecas grew/ The sort that they most valued for their meal./ It prospered for me, increasing many fold./ I hold an ear of it in my hand–/ Broad white kernels on a slender cob,/ A thing of beauty as well as living food.

General Sullivan, that grain is living still/ And I have helped it to outlast us both.

John Rezelman

“Consider what a vast crop is thus annually shed upon the earth. This, more than any mere grain or seed, is the great harvest of the year. This annual decay and death, this dying by inches, before the whole tree at last lies down and turns to soil. As trees shed their leaves, so deer their horns, and men their hair or nails. The year’s great crop. I am more interested in it than in the English grass alone or in the corn. It prepares the virgin mould for future cornfields on which the earth fattens. They teach us how to die.”

Henry David Thoreau

An abandoned railroad bed follows the stream for several miles to the hilltop and provides easy access to the woods, although much of the land on either side of the bed is posted and requires permission for entry. Wild trout can be fished for in the winter under special regulations that require study. If the weather cooperates and you don’t mind wandering in total solitude, there are brookies to be met and sights to be considered.

A rusted wheel from a train stood beside the trail, suggesting that linear time has a circular dimension as well. A mossy log that I photographed 20 years ago was still lying across the stream, its moss now gone and its back collapsed, the pool beneath it much shallower than before. Again a trout flashed outward from beneath the log and missed the drifting fly, whereas 20 years ago a trout rose from the same location and struck a dry fly I had offered. Today, a mile closer to the river’s source, a grizzly sight reminded me that wounded deer often seek the solace of flowing water in which to die. Skin and marrow made a slow retreat from the skull of an 8-point buck and reinforced the fact that nature is more than pretty pictures and a place for man to escape his rat-race world.

During my first afternoon at the stream, I stopped on the trail and peered up through the trees. A line of light on the north side of the hollow seemed suspicious. I climbed several hundred feet to have a look. I knew of a hydro-fracking operation less than three miles from the Triple Divide, but I hadn’t observed it, other than its lights seen after dark from other hilltops. Here it was. The industry drilling for natural gas in the Marcellus Shale beneath northern Pennsylvania typically works on acreage hidden from public scrutiny, although its trucks and mobile work force are obvious throughout.

Despite attempts to steel myself against sights like this, the view caused my organs to flip and quaver. I recalled my first look at strip-mining operations in the mountains. Here the razed woods and fields were featuring pumps and plumbing of the fracking business, for the horizontal drilling that requires huge amounts of water, sand and chemicals to fracture the deep shale beds and release the gas. I thought about the spills and seepage problems associated with the new gas industry here in Pennsylvania, and I saw no end to the acreage modified on this hillside for the use of high-tech drilling. For 40 years I’ve wrestled with ways to minimize my impact on the earth, short of committing suicide. I was battling my “carbon imprint” long before the term got invented, but through it all I’ve never been the model of a modern eco-friendly man. Sure, I’ve sacrificed on creature comforts– have mostly driven little cars from small Eurasian countries, have never owned a real TV, and only in the last few years have learned to dwell compatibly with a laptop computer. Though my struggles to live sensibly have met with only moderate success, I think I’ve earned the right to be appalled by this approach to industry.

So the green plastic line above the trout stream and the forest marks the new line of industry. Here begins the field of sudden wealth for the few. I hope the work will mean nothing to the wild brookies just below, to those brightly colored “canaries in the coalmine” for the industry that’s creeping into coldwater country. Descending to the trail, I thought, hell, it doesn’t even matter at this point if someone is for or against the fracking business. It just seems that locating such an operation on a native trout stream and on the headwaters of a major eastern river is wrong. To locate it here made no sense to me, and it just felt wrong.

There was a “murder of crows” on the hill and they were noisy (getting more so as the season progresses toward spring). The other day I took the liberty of translating their commotion, their connection to me, as saying it was time for me to start tying flies again. Sure, it’s a leap of faith to go from crow noise to the tying of feathers on a trout hook, but why not. Crows are known to be capable of recognizing individual humans (not that any crow has ever singled me out as a person of significance) and they’re capable of figuring the simplest of math problems (as I usually am, if I’ve had a night of sleep), so why not have them point out the obvious: a new fly-fishing season is approaching fast, and I’d better get back to the tying bench.

“You crows upon the reddening hill,/ Cease wrangling for a while, be still.”

About 10 years ago I bought a small painting in New Mexico. “Crow Messengers” is a watercolor by the artist David Gary Suazo. Today I took it from my wall and studied the reflection. It was like a daydream when I closed my eyes. Crows came in from the cold and settled around me like the night. Crows can drive you crazy if you let them, if you stay inactive, so I shook them off, replaced the painting on my kitchen wall and headed for the tying vise.

I tied a handful of early season favorites, not exactly trout cuisine or works of art, just “meat and potatoes” on a hook. And I tied a handful of wingless wet flies, soft hackle patterns whose lineage reaches back to the merry days of England, nearly to the fifteenth-century and the art of Dame Juliana Berners. Patterns like the Partridge & Orange, the North Country Spider, and the Orange Fish Hawk. For all my years of fly fishing, I had mostly ignored the use of these patterns and it was time to get familiar with their construction and their use. This was still early February but the strangely warm weather and the talk of crows said, “Move it, old fella; get back to the basics and prepare.”

“The clamorous crows! How basic and strangely human/ To cry their fate of death, voice love and hate–/ Long living gives them wisdom, the acumen/ To make no truce with man or beast or fate.”

[all lines of poetry are from the works of W.W. Christman, 1865-1937]

Climbing the seasonal road up Dryden Hill I slammed to a stop at the same location where I saw the “fisher tracks” one month ago (see my post “Views From Dryden Hill,” 12/29/11). They were there again– same place, in fresh snow, and I thought, wow, this creature is habitual! In my first revisit of the Dryden heights I crossed the tracks of a fisher again. What a coincidence, considering that these solitary hunters regularly cover a territory of 10 to 30 square miles. But taking photos of the prints, I saw a red flag and heard a lightbulb pop. A flush of excitement gave way to sudden doubt. After checking the nearby stream and finding obvious raccoon tracks, I was starting to see them reflected in these tracks along the road. The crows I’d heard earlier may have been stressed by a passing eagle, but they may have been also calling me to a lesson.

My earlier Dryden post has been popular, thanks to the fisher track reference. As I walked up the hill, turning west on the gravel road, I started feeling bad about that. I was probably mistaken about those tracks and I hoped like hell I hadn’t led any of my readers astray. I know readers were checking those photos and probably scratching their heads, too kind to comment on a likely error. I could look back at my haste to identify those tracks and observe a classic example of “I’ll see it when I first believe it” syndrome. Sort of like, if you believe strongly enough in UFOs you’re eventually going to see one. The good news was that fishers have been seen and photographed on trail cam in the Greenwood area, but the bad news was that the tracks I found were looking more like coon prints every minute. I could do one of two things now; I could find a cozy den on Dryden Hill, crawl inside and hide/hibernate for a while, or I could whistle the theme of Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue and get on with my walk.

Speaking of holes (like cellar holes), I was finding them nearby. There was a stone cellar in the sumacs by the road. There was a farmhouse cellar in the woods and another one with warped stone walls now overshadowed by lilac bushes. I tried to picture a lonely farm wife planting those bushes in a quiet hour many years ago, never imagining the day when someone would pause here trying to recreate a moment in her life. Beyond the cellar stood the ruins of a barn and silo, gray stone, rusted metal, and a bald tire to remind us that this place once housed a set of human labors, pain and joy, and hopes for better days. I was drawn to the ruins this day, for sure. And then I saw it– on the far side of the broken-backed wooden structure by the barn’s foundation. Muddy tracks in the snow. A creature had entered the shelter there and left no sign that it made an exit. The tracks appeared to be from the same animal that had crossed the road downhill. Raccoon. I could see how the snow distorted the ideal image of a coon track, the kind I’ve seen pictured in books and found in mud along the river banks. The granular natures of snow and sand and pictures in the mind are worlds apart from each other.

I moved through the woods and came to a small forgotten graveyard by the road. Weathered nineteenth-century stones stood leaning from the winds and storms and the push of growing trees. Today marked the anniversary of my father’s death, but his ashes knew a softer place than this, among the trees he planted rather than facing the cold winds of an open hilltop. Groves of evergreen or windblown field, none of it matters much to the bones and ashes drifting through endless space.

I returned to the hollow on an old town roadway that is now a hunter’s path through the woods. I startled groups of deer, followed a fox track and then decided I was done with it, at least for now. I would stick with tracking brook trout in their small stream homes and leave it at that. Crossing the stream near my house I saw more evidence of hungry raccoons. There were those prints, like a tiny hand with fingers spread, an ideal image, almost. In this warmest winter that we’ve seen in years, raccoons were out like never before. Maybe I could blame my faulty tracking skills on global warming rather than stupidity… but that wouldn’t be too smart.

There was no shade or protection from the sun along the lower half of the Dog. Sounds were easily transmitted. Brent and I would see no other hikers till returning to the small state park where we began. We climbed the first 600 feet in four-tenths of a mile, careful that our steps did not disturb a napping rattlesnake. We paused at the first plateau to view “insignificant Alamogordo” 10 miles to the north. Around us grew Chihuahuan Desert shrubs like mesquite, creosote, ocotillo, agave, century-plant, and horse-splitter cactus.

To describe the area as a “rivertop” might be pushing the boundaries of definition somewhat, but below us was a canyon stream originating in the forested heights of the Sacramentos. On our south side rose 1500-foot outcrops of dolomite and sandstone. The plateau silence was punctuated only by the call of birds. A Scott’s oriole, yellow and black, warbled from a cactus stalk. Uncommon black-chinned sparrows launched from underfoot and fluttered across the arid, skin-cracked slope. To the north, white-throated swifts fed busily above the canyon.

Pushing toward the second bench (plateau) we switch-backed into grasses and the fragrance of scattered juniper. Until yesterday, the entire Lincoln National Forest of New Mexico had been temporarily closed to the public due to fire hazard, but now we climbed an open stairway into blue sky solitude. The trail turned and twisted through multi-colored cliffs. The Spanish had called this section of the Sacramentos the Canon del Perro, the Canyon of the Dog. Mescalero Apaches had known the country well. The canyon was said to have the finest water in this desert region, starting high above us and dropping toward the great White Sands below.

At the second bench we descended into juniper and cottonwoods toward the Fairchild Cabin. We were half way to the pine-clad summit, as high as we would go today. The trail beyond the cabin is known as the “Eyebrow,” a notoriously challenging path, especially in July.

The first cattlemen and European explorers of the region coveted the canyon springs. Brent and I also enjoyed the trickle of liquid gold and the trees and grasses sprouting from its sands. Resting at the cabin ruins, I heard the cooing of a whiskered screech-owl that echoed from the steep rock walls. Later I would learn that this owl, a life-bird for me, has a small home range but is common in Southwestern canyons.

The Eyebrow, above us, wasn’t meant for a summer climb. This extension of the canyon trail is known for ambush. When pursued closely by their foes, Apaches had scrambled up the trail and waited there. As enemy soldiers approached, Apaches wiped them out with a shower of rocks and arrows. They took delight, as one historian claims, in listening to the screams of men and horses plunging into the depths below. The natives fought off the Mexican Army here, as well as the U. S. Cavalry on at least three occasions.

Many men perished for want of Dog Canyon water. They wanted it for cows, for personal comfort, and for its power to separate gold from stone. But the stream, beyond the grasp of most, dropped quickly to the desert and evaporated. And so it seemed to me– beyond (far beyond) my world of trout and fishing with a fly.

That night, as Brent and I sat on the gypsum dunes of White Sands National Monument with Brent’s sister and her mom, I looked to the sky and the Milky Way, that band of pale light sweeping south to north across the heavens. Cooling air wafted over the dunes and felt like water. After the heat of day, the night air felt like a wash of mountain spring. In a place where water, scarce as quail’s teeth, was as valuable as life itself, I sensed the presence of a trout stream at home, or of a brook that stumbled out of Dog Canyon nearby. I could almost see the canyon’s stream again, inching over the flats, approaching the basin, then vanishing into the sand.

Like a chess game with its pieces scattered far and wide across the board, the fight may seem less focussed than the anti-nuke battles were. There are no black versus white pieces lined up face to face. The hydro-fracking forces, pro and con, are duking it out on squares of ground all over the country: on the high plains of our Western states, in northern Pennsylvania and the southern half of New York State, in West Virginia and Ohio. The verbal push and shove is happening right here in the towns where I live. Those in favor of horizontal drilling and the fracturing of shale for the gas therein have the money (or will get it) plus the backing of state governments. The anti-frackers seem to have the passion of the Long View with regard to the health of the environment and the well-being of future generations.

Hydro-fracking for natural gas has been industrializing northern Pennsylvania for several years now. In New York there’s been a moratorium on the issuance of fracking permits but that is soon to end. The time for signing petitions, for speaking at public hearings, and for arguments at various meeting halls (as productive as it’s been) may soon grind to a halt. It’s time for me to shut my mouth for an hour or two and take it to the woods.

Out there, at First Brook in New York’s headwaters of the Genesee, I found a leaking oil well on the stream’s south bank. That was in April 2011. Five months later the U. S. Environmental Protection Agency followed up on my discovery and pulled the rusted tank while sponging up the mess. Today, on a cold January afternoon, I visited the stream again, bushwhacking up the hollow as far as the snow and ice allowed. I paused now and then and listened to what the trout brook said:

My glass is half empty and covered with ice. They’d suck it for five million gallons per well, inject it down deep with sand and with secrets, plus benzene, tuolene, xylene, heavy metals and salt. And what goes in, comes out. What oversight? Your local conservation district’s taboo, and the regionals need more than 20-20 vision. Who but the streamwalker will watch for those spills? And will you watch for “free-gas” to seep from your taps? No, I don’t want the new roads, the traffic from trucks. I don’t want to flow shackled through fragmented woods. I want what you see here, winter’s wild freedom and peace. People want jobs, but who’s this work for? What jobs could they make to embrace the whole earth? It’s all for the gas, the big bucks, from life when the sea covered all. I cannot live one day with a toxic heart. I’ve seen the years of lawless mining– coal and oil and gas– we’re cleaning up still. There’s no frackin’ way I want to see more! I’ll not flow gentle into that good night… I’ll not flow gentle into that good night.