FISHERMEN: # 26 CYCLES

Tags

Adirondack Mountains, fishing, mountain stream, natural cycles, Quebec, trout

 

 

What you don’t see in the above,

is the lake that feeds the steam.

 

“Pardon me but don’t you,

have that backwards?”

 

No, and here is the explanation.

 

It was a mutual aid society,

the stream fed the lake,

with cold clear water,

and the large lake,

fed the stream,

with a great,

aggregation,

of speckled,

trout.

 

And this fisherman,

caught trout,

from sun up,

until all,

the fish,

perceived,

of man’s,

shadow.

 

Then the next day,

the feeding,

repeated,

itself.

© Copy written for what I will never know.

FISHERMEN: # 25 DISCOVERY

Tags

Adirondack Mountains, fishing, God, mountain stream, trout, waterfalls

 

 

He had caught a nice speckled trout in this hole,

then he walked around that big boulder,

and caught one in the next hole,

then walked around boulder #2,

and caught speckle number 3,

skirted the baby hemlocks,

a fourth hole was there,

as was speckled #4,

he lit a briar pipe,

watched a deer,

heard a bird,

and saw,

a God.

© Copy written for what I will never know.

FISHERMEN: # 24 THE CARRY

Tags

algonquin provincial park, big brown, canoe carry, chute, fishing, mountain stream, trout, waterfalls

 

 

It was their lucky day,

I mean really very lucky,

for more reasons than one.

 

They were not looking forward,

to that big long canoe carry,

around that slippery cliff,

but that was what they,

were faced with.

 

So they talked it over,

for quite some time,

debating whether,

once they finished,

the carry and,

their fishing,

whether – -,

whether – ,

they would,

shoot the,

falls.

 

It could be fun and good ride,

in addition they wouldn’t,

have to carry the canoe,

back down the cliff.

 

So they contemplated,

this decision,

and before,

a decision,

was made,

it was

made,

for,

them.

 

When they reached the hole,

at the bottom of those falls,

where the fish had collected, 

a large brookie was caught,

then a monster brown,

and a rainbow trout,

that definitely,

didn’t belong,

in that hole.

 

And best of all they stayed dry,

they didn’t get dumped,

out of their canoe,

and into,

those,

falls.

 

They talked about,

that eventful day,

to anyone who,

would listen.

© Copy written for what I will never know.

FISHERMEN: # 23 THE BIG ROCK

Tags

big brown, big rock, Brainarsville, Chateaugay, fishing, mountain stream, Owls Head, Salmon Hole, trout

 

 

He always fishes the big rock.

 

Well – – – not really always,

unless you only count,

the last two days of May,

contiguous with,

the first two days of June.

 

And for that long weekend,

of glorious fishing,

he drives five hours,

rents a cabin,

with a 1934 style kitchen,

a bed that was used up,

two decades ago,

and shares it with,

two resident mice,

and costs two days wages.

 

But then again,

how else would he ever,

be able to fish,

the big rock?

 

And when he gets,

just below the big rock,

he wades ever so gently,

so as not to disturb,

even the smallest,

pebble.

 

Because he knows,

there is a big brown,

hiding under the big rock.

 

And year after year,

he relinquishes,

two days pay,

four nights of sleeplessness,

breaks eggs in a cast iron pan,

over a propane stove,

with clogged orifices,

and then rushes out,

to fish the big rock.

 

And year after year,

he never fools,

the big brown,

it never bites,

in fact,

no fish ever bites,

under the big rock.

 

So that is why he,

always fishes the big rock.

 

If nothing bites,

that means there are,

no minnows or chubs,

under the big rock.

 

And the lack of tiny fish,

only means one thing,

there is a big brown,

hiding under the big rock,

who is eating all those,

tiny little ones,

(the big brown bully)!

 

And one of these days,

the big brown,

will run out,

of little ones,

to nibble on,

and he will be fooled,

by a nice big fat,

nightwalker.

 

But the man,

always returns,

because there are,

other big rocks,

not like that one,

but big enough,

to hide a medium brown,

or possibly,

another big brown.

 

So for another two,

or three years,

he watches another,

big rock,

and studies it,

until he convinces himself,

that there is a big brown,

under it – – – – or – – – -,

until another big brown,

changes his resting place,

and makes another abode,

under that particular,

big rock.

© Copy written for what I will never know.

FISHERMEN: # 22 COMPANIONSHIP

Tags

Brainarsville, Chateaugay, fishing, mountain stream, Owls Head, Salmon Hole, trout

 

 

THE WOODLAND STREAM; A Tribute to a departed fishing companion, “RWJ”:

If there ever was any one setting that God made for all people it was the woodland stream, the brook that is nestled between steep slopes, jutting rock wall and, sometimes, sapling studded flats. The dark tannic water that flows silver over broken stone, amber in the pool below and mixed with shades of gold as it flows from the shade into a sunbathed meadow.

It makes no difference whether there is one or one hundred trout within its pools; the sounds are there, the solitude is there, and sometimes, a cherished companion, with whom you have spent the day – – – – is there.

 

To the busy person, it is an opportunity to relax,

to the relaxed person, it is an opportunity to be busy,

 

To the poor person, fantasies – – – if only he were rich,

to the rich person, fantasies – – – if only his responsibilities vanished,

 

To the child, his dreams, if only he were an adult,

to the adult, his dreams, if only he were a child again,

 

To the old, memories of past trips and companions,

to the young, plans of future trips and companions,

 

To the troubled, answers to problems appear,

to the placid, questions about life arise – – – unexpectedly,

 

To the agnostic, a “thank you” to an unknown creator,

to the religious, a “thank you” to the same being,

 

To good leaders, fond thoughts of loyal followers,

to loyal followers, faithful trust in good leaders,

 

To me, the many things I wonder if you ever dream of,

to you, the same things that you wonder if I ever dream of.

 

No one pastime and its surroundings can evoke such commonality and instantaneous understanding between two opposite personalities and backgrounds as the stream.

 

Enjoy it now. Saturate your memory with each detail, every venture, every stream, every pool and run. For, the sad part is, your grandchildren will beg you to tell them of things that they may never have the opportunity to experience.

© Copy written for what I will never know.

FISHERMEN: # 21 PARADISE

Tags

big wets, bittersweet, fishing, mountain stream, rockies, trout

 

 

It was a bright and sunny Spring day,

with a slight breeze and nip in the air,

oe’r the mountain he had made his way,

and behind left all his worries and care.

 

The hawk scanned the earth –  talons bare,

for a meal to feed the children in the nest,

sufficient would be a mole, mouse or hare,

once that was completed she could rest.

 

Snow in the shadow of the mountain high,

would keep his catch fresh through the day,

now if he could be careful and remain dry,

fishing line he would unfurl, shoot and lay.

 

More trout fooled him than he did they,

he kept only three for his evening repast,

returned ten browns throughout the day,

then headed to his cabin after final cast.

 

The sun was sinking – shadows grew long,

he saw two deer fawn playing near a pond,

then heard a meadow lark singing a song,

saw fiddlehead ferns with new born frond.

 

His heart grew ecstatic – he knew not why,

he was bursting with joy – no special reason,

with song in his heart – joyful tear in his eye,

other than it was the start of fishing season.

© Copy written for what I will never know.

FISHERMEN: # 20 SUSTENANCE

Tags

big wets, bittersweet, evening fishing, fishing, mountain stream, night fishing, rockies, trout

 

 

It was late evening,

his friend had fish frying,

in a long handled iron pan,

and beans with brown sugar,

hanging in a bucket over the fire,

the potatoes were wrapped in foil,

and cooking on hot rocks,

below the licking flames,

but his hunger was not,

for potatoes or beans,

it was for fish,

not cooking,

but still in,

the creek.

 

© Copy written for what I will never know.