Though I'm no fly-fisherman,
I envy them a little their excuse
For spending hours along streams.
Their gear is the best sort of technology,
light and quiet, tools for inserting oneself
into a place without disturbing it.
The mind of the man standing beside the water, or in the water,
is in that cold pool
as much as it is in his skull.
It is down there
with that graceful, fierce, possibly mindless,
intensely aware creature.
Why take the fish out of the water?
It's the way things go on this planet, and the fish
from the sizzling frying pan tastes good.
Others have developed an interesting philosophy
called "catch and release." They're like poets
who don't write down their poems.
The fishermen I know don't tell me their secrets,
but my friend Walt
has opened his box
and shown me, one by one, maybe a hundred flies,
and my friend Gerry writes,
"I angle only with dry fly,
whether caddis or dun
depends on the surface of the water,
ripply or smooth."
To which I reply, I'd like to have an art like that,
stream-lined, slender and lined with streams,
casting curving lines in the sound of a stream.
I like to go out to creeks and do nothing
but listen to the current, lie on a rock in the sun.
But I admire the man who knows
that a trout is lurking in that pool,
the one below the leaning hemlock,
and can cast and drop a line in, just so.
|Hard Time In Concord
for Robert D. Richardson, Jr.
You may have known that Thoreau
lost his brother, John, the closest friend he ever had,
his simpatico companion, the one he went with
down the Concord and Merrimack Rivers,
the one person with whom
his elm-tree-like tendencies were least.
Tetanus shots didn't exist yet,
and when John nicked himself while stropping his razor,
the signs of lockjaw soon appeared, and the doctor said,
"No hope." He died in agony in Henry's arms.
A few days later, Henry too had the symptoms,
it was feared that he would die, but it turned out
that it was sympathy, not lockjaw, that he had,
and he recovered. But he never got over itwhy would he?
the loss of his older brother, his life-long friend.
When he said in Walden, in his half-cheerful, enigmatic way,
"I long ago lost a hound, a bay horse, and a turtle dove..."
it must have been partly John that he was thinking of.
And you may have known that Emerson
lost his son, Waldo, five years old.
The boy was fine, and then he came down
with scarlet fever, and five days later he was delirious,
and in the evening he died. Louisa May Alcott,
nine years old, came to the door the next morning
to ask how Waldo was. Years later she remembered
Emerson coming to the door, so worn with watching
and changed by sorrow that she was startled
and could only stammer her question, and Emerson replied,
"Child, he is dead." Years later she wrote,
"That was my first glimpse of a great grief."
Emerson never got over itwhy would he?
and it was after this that he wrote
the great essays "Experience" and "Fate."
You may have known about these incidents. I did,
but I never knew that they both took place in the same month
January, 1842. The day that Thoreau recovered
was the day Waldo fell ill. A hard time in Concord.
Some people are annoyed by their long, demanding sentences,
the grandiosity of their philosophy, so impractical
always telling us to be more than we are.
I've always liked them. But somehow until I read
about that terrible month, I never grasped
how much stoicism you need to be an optimist.
They were made of pond water and starry skies, pickerels
and loon cries, large thoughts, blows that knock you
to your knees, extravagantly strong wills. OK.
I'll be that too, or try. Not to think what they thought,
much as I'm moved by their thinking, but to be what they were a sensible thing for a man to bea Transcendentalist.
"NOTICE: Big game season is now in effect. The wearing of furs and hats with horns is not recommended, nor are any dark colorsi.e., black, brown, gray."
-trailhead warning, New York State Department of Environmental Conservation
I am wearing my gray wool pants, and my brown boots.
I set my name down in the trailhead resister
just past dawn, no one else around,
a few flakes of early snow
falling through the gray air.
And my black, water repellent coat,
and my dark brown fur vest, buffalo fur,
and my Russian hat.
I will hike up to Avalanche Pass today,
and perhaps beyond,
at times sitting down on a rock
to listen to the silence or the wind,
and possibly the sound
of not so distant gunfire.
In my small black pack
I am carrying some dried fruit and nuts
and a canteen of water.
It's the only sensible thing to do.
We will see what happens.
I will breathe the cold air
and breathe out steam,
a dark figure striding among the birch woods.
I have always wanted to make this journey. Now
I strap on my nine-pronged antlers
and set off down the trail.
|Home ~ About Us ~ Membership ~ Bookstore ~ Gallery Info ~ Archives ~ Workshops ~ Links ~ Niedecker|
Copyright © 2003-2012, Woodland Pattern Book Center. All rights reserved.