So There I Was.....

a bad place to be lost at night

....walking out of the headwaters of a favorite stream, alone in the evening, when suddenly I hear the sound of a rotten log being ripped apart, like thick organic cloth tearing, raising my pulse, my eyes straining into the dusk and forest to see what's out there.

....up to my neck in the Two Hearted river, my rod and pack held high over my head, the soft sugar sand bottom sucking me down calf-deep, miles down a remote road that no one has traveled in months, struggling against the steady push of the current that seems to whisper one word to me, "Surrender".

....up to my waist in snow, bow in hand, 15 years old, the light crespuscular, my throat tightening, sweat pouring off my brow even as I'm getting colder and then, that sick feeling as I walk up on the only thing I recognize in this thick swamp- my own tracks.

.... lost, stem climbing down between two massive house-sized boulders, in the pitch midnight dark, the sound of my brothers ragged breathing behind me, my own heart pounding in the desert stillness, groping my way down looking for a way out, when suddenly the bottom opens up, I still can't see the ground and I know- the only way out is to go back up.

.... standing on Route 99- the Kamehameha Highway, in my suit, listening to the ridiculous blabbering of the woman who struck me, my rental car totaled, on the far side of Oahu from where I need to be- in Honolulu, in court.

....walking back through Alphabet City, after taking a friend visiting from Finland to the place she's staying- what is an out-of-towner doing staying here?- past the drunks and skells, a man in dreads shouting insanely, the streets full of the young, the pierced, the tattooed, the fringes of even New York life.  We walk up behind a young woman, obviously high, and she turns around, puts her arms around my friend and in a dreamy voice says "Hi" and attempts to kiss him.

...sitting in the snow, my friends out of sight, my call silent.  Turning my head I meet the steady, yellow-eyed gaze of the bobcat, his great ruffed head twenty feet away, searching for the dying rabbit that he'd come to finish off, trying to figure out what this large camouflaged object is staring back.

....sitting in the delivery room, Long Island College Hospital, holding my newborn daughter as she calmly stared into my eyes.  I believe we made a connection, then and there in the noise and bustle and smell, as the doctors worked frantically to save my wife.

....high on this ridiculous talus slope, Keith out of sight below, my leg throbbing in pain, threatening to buckle with every step, my other friends already gone back down to retrieve my pack.  The altimeter on my GPS reads 10,800 feet.  Another rock clatters down the avalanche chute I'm about to cross in the fading light.

....on a paddle boat on the Elbe river in Dresden, Germany, sipping a hefewiezen redolent of green apples and spice, having just reviewed the horror of the Allied carpet bombing and fire-storm, the legacy of war tattooed on the pocked and cratered walls of the museum, and thinking too myself "Travel does not get better than this.".

....hanging on desperately to my climbing tree stand, the platform cable- the one that holds it to the tree- hanging limply, kicked out of its bracket; I'm struggling desperately to hoist myself up into the seat from below in a futile effort, the terrible realization dawning that I'll be hanging here 35 feet up and it will be at least 8 hours before anyone realizes I'm missing.

....on my belly in the apropriately named Billy's Belly Crawl, Sloan cave system, central Kentucky.  I've had my helmet off for the last 150 feet, head turned sideways, my back touching the roof of the cave with each breath, fighting the rising bile and tension, straining to keep my breathing steady and calm.  The guy in front of me has had it- the hours of darkness, four miles of walking, crawling, climbing and constant contortion, the bats, the cold humidity itself claustrophobic.  He stops moving, his breath coming faster, and he starts backing up, kicking me in the head twice.  I grab him and we start The Conversation.

....half a mile off shore in my kayak, a shotgun shoved down between my legs.  It was calm when I paddled the three miles up here, but now, with the red orb of the sun touching the horizon, Lake Michigan has come up.  I've paddled out this far to get past the breakers that threaten to swamp me, and the shotgun sticks up awkwardly, making me feel unstable.  I take another wave over the bow (why didn't I bring my spray skirt?!!), adding more water to the cockpit, and the boat starts to slowly rock.  I paddle towards the landing, still off-shore, my eyes and ears straining in the gathering dusk to find a hole in the gauntlet of waves.

....alone in the darkness with the sounds of the stream, my largest brown trout ever brought to hand after a tremendous battle, and I realize I've come full circle- I've caught this, my best fish ever in the same hole where I learned to trout fish 30 plus years ago, and within 150 feet of the place I caught my first trout on a fly.  One of my most sublime moments ever.

My Outdoor Voice

Same shirt, different fish

"We're using our indoor voice."  I've actually heard some mothers say this to their kids.  Luckily, my parents never used that kind of ineffectual droning on me, which saved me an early hobo life of grifting.  Instead they just sent us outside.  I grew up outside literally- my step-mother worked nights as a nurse, so I spent entire summers outdoors all day long, until I turned 14, at which time I started working outdoors.  Even when I grew up and moved away to New York City, I ended up working outdoors, doing exterior building maintenance on high-rise buildings for my first four years there.  New York was a tremendous adventure.  I yearned to escape the tediousness of rural life, what I saw as a predictable timeline and foreseeable future- the menial job, a wife, children, the unchanging-ness of rural life.  While it was one of my most formative episodes, working outside in New York those four years may have saved me from the more hellacious aspects of city life- the noise and stench, the crowds, the constant awareness borne of being in a predatory environment.  The bubble-boy narcissism of a society completely absorbed in itself.  Working outside in New York was the closest thing to fresh air you could get, and I regularly saw hawks or even peregrine falcons bombing by.  I recall once sitting, drinking my tea from the top of a very tall building overlooking New York Harbor, and upon hearing some low musical notes behind me, turning to find a mockingbird, watching me from ten feet away, quietly singing to himself while I enjoyed my tea.  For that moment I could no longer hear the BQE.  Quite often I would look out onto New York Harbor only to recognize the signs of breaking stripers and bluefish- the wheeling terns and gulls, the frothing water.  The way to tell which was breaking was easy, by the way- if it was bluefish, the birds would refuse to dive into the water, not wanting to risk a bite from their piranha teeth.  All of it ignored by this world of commerce.  But I digress.

I'm not The World's Greatest Angler, I'm a novice fly tyer, my roster of angling accomplishments is woefully threadbare.  One could say "distinctly Unaccomplished" but that pseudonym has been taken and I've ridden those coat-tails far enough.  I may have reached the "average" level in the casting department.

another cast gone wrong

But my not being an "expert" may be a good thing for you the reader- I'm able to offer you a ground-level, boots-on perspective.  In half of the outdoor writing I read, I can't tell if I'm getting the authors thoughts or I'm reading a gear catalog or travel brochure, bought and paid for by their sponsors.  I respect all those authors- it is a trade; I certainly know the compromises I've made in my business, some good, some bad.  What I bring to you is an over-abundance of enthusiasm coupled with extensive time spent in the outdoors.  A do-it-yourself work ethic, 45-50 days a year bow hunting Michigans 90 day season, several years of 100+ days spent on the water, that without being a guide; I've organized and led multi-day kayaking excursions for my friends in remote places, driven hundreds of thousands of miles on road trips across this country and Canada in pursuits both pleasurable and professional. I've fished many dozens, if not a couple of hundred miles on my local trout streams.  I've taken a lot of pictures along the way.

more than just fly fishing

I've done all this as a working man with a business and family obligations like you, bills to pay, friends to keep in touch with.  I've made do with the gear I have and could afford- none of it the latest and greatest.

I'm writing this in celebration of the 1000th page view of my blog- I'm not sure how great a distinction this is, but it indicates at least some interest- you are listening.  I have always been a writer at heart; my teachers in grade school leaned on me heavily to pursue it, and I've always been an avid reader.  Until now I've kept it all bottled up, kept my voice low.
I hate the state or our media-driven, 24 hour news cycle, Top 40, politically correct, pundit laden discourse.  I want to offer an alternative voice in the outdoors, hopefully a refreshing voice of reason. 

What I'm hoping is that you'll continue to tune in- take a break from your job, read my blather over your morning coffee, or turn off the television, put the kids to bed and escape outdoors with me.

I'll be here, using my Outdoor Voice.

FR

my front row seat to the outdoors