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Leisurely drove to my favorite
river yesterday, drive enveloped initially with veiling thick fog, but
it dissolved to blue-sky eternity as I rose in elevation. Didn't go too
far - not enough time nor energy for a higher-watershed jaunt, just
enough for a little hike to a little spot on the crystal stream. Hadn't
been in the Sierra with the boot for nearly two months, care of my
struggles with the rod to get red salmon, and I so needed it: when just
the boot, my perspective broadens beyond the water and the fishes and
strengthens the relationship among Wild and wild and I, fusing us into
Nature. Soon as I laced up and was stepping softly on the trail, I was
getting it, She enveloping me with Indian-summer autumn glory. The air,
breathlessly still; sun on the exposed slopes I lateralled across
unalloyed and soothingly golden, unlike the diamond piercing light that
often bites you in summer; and the fallen leaves, the lifeless leaves,
so vibrant even in death: black oak and maple leaves hued such a deep
crimson and canary. And when I reached the river, cold, crystal water
bubbled and gurgled, just a light conversation, totally fitting given
the serene environment, everything so clear. I doffed my pack on an
inviting rock and basked like the little frogs in the bathing
light.
And then autumn thoughts.
Fishes. Been such a struggle this year,
and as I lounged by the lilting, golden glint of the river's surface,
pining for a nice squaw or sucker or hardhead to sidle out from the
shadow of a big, mid-channel rock, I realized that I haven't had one
day of truly elegant fishing this entire year - all have been marred by
something. With king salmon, an inexcusable break-off when fumbling
with the photography equipment. With leopard sharks, endless
mainline-leader tangles. With silver surfperch and bug-eating river
trout, a poor landing percentage. And those were the good days. I blew
three whole days at ol' Truckee's lake with only one fish to hand, and
that barely, at dusk on the last day; I was casting like shit, breaking
fish off, and fuckin' just straight up implacably throwing 'em the
wrong lure in Suisun during late winter; all my winter and early-spring
surfperch trips were fucking embarrassing paragons of ineptitude, a
litany dirging a disgraceful number of missed hooksets, a disgraceful
number of broken-off fish, and an appalling count of shitty
presentations care of more mainline-leader tangles. Thankfully, most
have been explainable by my balance problems and thus shaky hold on my
position in space.
Nevertheless, had most fishers
experienced what I had this year, they'd consider it the best fishing
year of their lives - the fishes and I, we've been tight. Reinforcement
of so many solid patterns I realized this year: the voluptuous spotted
bass of a xeric Feather River reservoir eating only the slow jig during
winter 'bout 20 feet down on rocky juts with the light low; the
post-spawn river 'bows eating big pre-emergent mayfly nymphs and then
the hair's ear nymphs I drifted to 'em in imitation; the big summertime
silver surfperch in a mid-day tear on my little grubs in the surf's
mighty current seams up against some stacks; grand leos in that big bay
of Earth's mighty rift sitting in wetland outflows during ebb tide just
like in South Bay a decade ago, singing the reel's clicker then
porpoising out of the water when the circle hook's point pierced; and
big kings gnawing my little spinners and then bucking my big rod in the
dim light of dawn and dusk in smooth runs. But even more: novelty and
its corollary, growth, the fishes have given. Reservoir squaws under
shad on points in late winter - man, that was an illuminating first
experience, a bona fide still-water pattern with the big minnow. Kings,
showing that if the water has some color, the water temp is in their
comfort zone, and a bunch of bozos ain't bombing big stupid shit (e.g., those
ridiculous Flying C spinners) on their heads repeatedly, they will
attack a small, dark lure in the apex of the day. Many stripers this
autumn popping silversides on the surface in low-light conditions being
peculiarly selective, with us only catching a few. A miserable
performance on the beach in March, but, man, so much learned: barred
surfperch loathe turbid water, but goddamn do bat rays and leos love
it, the latter very comfortable and hunting very skinny water among
rocks and eelgrass under the cover of muddy surf. That's one phenomenon
I'd love to experience again, but this time with a big rod suited to
the task, which I didn't have. And that hammering home that it's
arrogance to assume you know all that goes on in a big waterway, so if
you don't bring the whole array of gear, you're so likely to miss a
great opportunity.
And family - "family." Thanksgiving week
here, and those sad, tragic, pathetic people, they enter my mind more
frequently than at any other time of year. "Family" - the word implies
nurturing and understanding, a safety net for when the shit hits the
fan. Doesn't mean absence of conflict or misunderstandings or bad
times, but, ultimately, that the rewards of the relationships outweigh
the detractions. My "family," however, didn't - not because they were
evil - with only a few exceptions, they weren't - but just so
emotionally stunted and weak and therefore lacking the courage for
unvarnished self-reflection, unable to see outside themselves and from
others' perspectives, unable to admit when they were wrong, and that
led - inadvertently - to them overall being more hurtful than helpful.
Sadly, they worsened in those ruts of mind as they aged. I had to burn
bridges with 'em many years ago to end the damage and disappointment.
So - "family"? No, ultimately just relatives.
They gave me little of what I really
needed, my relatives, the uncles and the aunt and grandparents (though
both grandmothers were never once unkind to me) and the parents and the
step-family (the lone exception: one of my step-cousins), but they gave
just enough to keep me from total sociopathy and so salvageable when I
met my tribe, those wonderful friends and their families, in high
school. Have to thank my relatives at least for that, for keeping me on
life support until Aly and Marcus and Jasen and Rob and the Scotts and
Cara and Skippy came along and really saved me. My happiest holiday
memory remains that lovely, soft, snowy winter day in Arrowhead at
Rob's parents' home, where they were so inviting, so open and jovial,
authentically jovial and warm, where I joyously helped 'em in the banal
act of washing their fuckin' dishes. That Rob's parents welcomed me
into their home, that Jasen's mother and Skippy's mom let me live with
'em then expressed sadness when I told them I was moving out, proved I
wasn't near as bad as some of my relatives thought. And I've a photo of
Aly flipping me off when I wouldn't party with her one night because I
had to work at 6 the next morning. That's real family - getting sad or
pissed off because you're leaving, not because you aren't.
Sun falling behind the western ridge,
evening rising early, and the instant chill of the shadows forced my
thoughts into the background and my body back into motion. I poked
around a little up the slope, wanting to press further downstream and
see Wild I hadn't seen before, but what little trail I found quickly
decayed to nothingness under the cover of verdant ferns and rambling
honeysuckle vines. I turned and angled back down to the river, then
rock-hopped like the little yellow-legged frogs that are so the
expression of this river. Autumn surrounded, the haunting, ironic
beauty of death reflected in the brilliant reds and yellows of the
maple and ash leaves, in the rich chocolate brown of the fallen alder
leaves on the teal-colored rocks where a small spring tinkled in
starlight little falls. Jewels.
Light now slivering on the eastern
ridge, evening falling to dusk, and I started my climb out of the
canyon. Though not steep or long - certainly much milder than so many
other climbs I've achieved - still, given my state, arduous. But the
heart got racing a bit, the sweat glands seeped a little, the feet kept
forward progress, and despite my self-destructiveness, I attained the
ridge without hurting myself, then slowed my speed to more deeply
absorb the scene. Shockingly I'd not seen a single bird - no phoebe
deftly snatching the midges or mayflies emerging from the cold water,
no irate jays scolding me for intruding into their forest, no bouncing
little dippers to entertain with their underwater flying, no big ol'
shaggy Red-tailed Hawk spinning soaring circles in the crystal sky.
Left me a bit miffed, so along the ridge, I looked hard for anything
that might have feathers. Eyed a bulge at the tip of a dead oak that
looked suspicious, whipped up the binoc's, and saw...a Northern Pygmy
Owl. I'd never seen one before. I hung with the little bird for a good
quarter-hour, creeping ever closer, changing angles to get as much of
her as I could. She never blew off, totally accepting of my presence.
She was the only bird I saw all day - she was enough.
Back in the old wagon, muscles stretched
and then calm, Rites of Spring serendipitously singing "Is there a
beauty in promises broken?" through the cassette player's speakers, the
clock told me the day, despite the sun's disappearance, was still
young: 3:30 PM. Within a lovely mixed-coniferous forest, many Doug firs
and ponderosa pines and a profusion of blooming red and yellow of
massed black oaks, and on a one-lane road I'd never explored before, I
delayed my drive back to the dreary roar of I-80 and instead took a
little country drive to see more of those pines and firs and that
brilliantly splashing oak. Lovely country - very close to my heart, my
soul, the little road's shoulders awash in blankets of fallen leaves,
those fallen from the black oaks but also the maples. Inchoate images
from my past flooded my mind, misty, a phantom sensation of the prickly
coolness of calm autumn air on my blushing cheeks, on my nose, the
icicle prickle on my naked fingers, fire-crackle crush and crash of the
leaves as I kicked through 'em on my walk to wherever, the odd
exhalation of leaving life perfuming the autumn atmosphere with purity,
like a release of energy from the decay and death in absolution.