Social Butterflies Don't Hunt

2011-10-23T18:32:00.000-07:00

Sitting here at my desk, I am a little ashamed of myself. I did not go hunting this weekend, no fishing, none of my major projects on my overwhelmingly large to do list got checked off. But I also feel a sense of ease. I spent the time catching up with old friends.
It started on Wednesday night, at a friend's house in Montgomery. He and his family always make me feel welcome, and he is a consummate hunter and fisherman whom I seem to learn something from every time we go outside. This time we are supposed to be embroiled in work related discourse, but we always take side trips to talk about hunting and fishing. The bluegill versus trout argument usually pops up, but it is all in jest. I think it is in jest anyway, Aubrey is very serious about bluegill. We have some well prepared chicken and dumplings, work a little, and talk about his son's football exploits.
On Friday I meet up with an old buddy of mine, a writer, and very busy father. We don't get to meet up much with each other very often, even though we live in the same town. My writing has suffered from a sort of malaise recently, and Danny is very often the cure for that. He writes for a living, and often has very good advice for me, which always helps me to overcome that ever present imp that lives in the back of my brain that screams Failure! Dolt! Danny is a southern boy as well, and the outdoors always comes up in our conversations, even when we sit in a sports bar consumed with the shouts and screams of drunken fans. I get home late, but refreshed, and know that laying on my pillow at 2am, there will be no morning hunt for me. Saturday evening's calendar is full as well, so maybe Sunday.
Saturday morning is for catching up on chores. The preparation for the afternoon and evening festivities are in motion. I Left early to take care of some mundane chores, and realized in my travels, I was about to pass an old friend's house. He and his wife just got back from her hometown in Nagano, Japan, and I detour to their house hoping my unannounced presence will not be too much of an imposition. Joe is a teacher, so he can become hermit like on the weekends, and so he was home. He seemed genuinely happy to see me, and I assured him I was simply stopping by. We caught up a bit, and I bid my goodbyes, promising not to let it take so long in the future. I hope I keep my promise. He has actually saved my life more than once on a rock ledge, and although I have let age and injury take its toll, I would love to go climbing with him again. There is a bond between people who climb together; you have to put your life in their hands, and trust me, falling off a ledge is much more meaningful than falling backwards in a corporate team building exercise.
I get to my next destination and everyone is preparing for the party that they are about to have, which I will leave early due to other obligations, but now is the time for catching up. My friend Joel and his wife Debbie have a wonderful home, full of little voices. Somehow, in the flurry of studying for the bar exam, I must have missed the birth of their fourth child. I knew of the third, Mackenzie, but the last child just slipped in under the radar. It has been too long since I have visited them. We talk about old times, and laugh a lot. The air outside is crisp and cool, just the way I like it. I wonder what the morning will be like in the woods. Nevermind, I look at my watch, and it is late. I must be moving on.
I get to Julian and Traci's house around nine-thirty. Only an hour late. Another beautiful setting for a southern soirée. Julian is a recent friend, and an imposing figure. Very tall, and extremely intelligent, with a booming voice. I remember sitting in class with our friends and laughing as he would answer the roll (grownups still answer roll, it seems) with such a commanding voice it would startle our professors at first. Julian is an consummate gentleman, and generous to a fault. He gives me a tour of the house, and we talk for a while, and he is off to his hosting duties. He comes over and knowing I am not acquainted with anyone in the room, tells me Traci's uncle is an avid deer hunter, and I should talk to him. Her uncle is the only man I can remember in the room wearing a hat, and it doesn't seem out of place at all, in fact, it seems to go with his long, white beard quite well. We talk a while, and I mention I need to be in the stand tomorrow, feeling a little guilty. He quickly lets me know he won't be hunting in the morning, the festivities having resigned him to relaxation, and he doesn't seem bothered by it. I bid my goodbyes, and feel as I leave I sense of belonging to a the world once again.
We all get caught in the tide of life's swift current at times, some of us get pulled under. I have lamented recently of lost friends, and friends that I let slip from my radar, and make a pact with myself to not let it happen again. I have also made many new friends, and reconnected with some of those I let slip through the cracks. There are times when I feel that it isn't my fault that we lost touch; they have a telephone too, I like to think. But I also think how odd life has become. I am reading a book of letters and notes by Ralph Waldo Emerson, and think that he (and others like him) found time in their busy schedules in an age without any of our technological advances, having to put pen to paper to communicate, or take up walking stick and coat to go visit acquaintances in person. The effort was greater then, but still seems to have been made regularly. Then I think of stories of spouses in the same house sending text messages from one room of the house to another. We have lost something very precious in the digital age of Facebook, Twitter, and email. Connecting via the computer is not the same as sitting in someone's living room having a drink, taking part in a gathering of old friends and people unknown. A social butterfly I am not. I swore to myself, after this recent round of pedagogical pursuits, I was going to be in the woods every second I had a chance. I have already gone back on my word. But in this instance I don't regret it one bit.
I love to be in the woods. I love the serenity it gives me to sit in a deer stand, paddle a canoe, or wade a cold mountain stream. Freezing in a duck blind builds character. Calling a wild turkey teaches patience. But in the South (as I suspect in many other parts of the world), we place a premium on getting together and having a nice meal, sitting around talking, and generally having a good time. Sometimes it can be rowdy and loud, but just as often, it is just an evening spent laughing and catching up on old times. I learn so much from reading good books, and from all of my pursuits in the natural world. But from days spent at friends homes, comfortable and well fed, laughing at jokes, and even mourning loss, it reminds me of something profound. Every time I sit out in the woods dreaming of just walking away, and build a cabin in the mountains to become a recluse and slough off the world of people, I have something to come back to.

2011-10-12T18:14:00.001-07:00

Well, it is about that time again. I am getting ready for an annual trip to the Cataloochee Valley to hunt brook trout. It has been apart of my life for 30 years to take a trip to the Appalachain mountains to revitalize myself. More often than not, this trip is taken with family, which makes it even more special. Recently, I was able to celebrate a milestone by traveling to the mountains with a buddy. We came to slay some troots, and generally just unwind. Relaxing wasn't exactly on the menu. We left Birmingham at about 9pm, and with a 5hr trip and a time change, we arrived at our little cabin at around 2am. Throw the stuff on the floor, and crash for a few hours, and up to fish. We started out at little river, near Townsend, Tennessee.

The trout aren't what one would describe using words like "humongous". That did not detract from the pure joy of fly fishing a mountain stream. Once a person gets bitten by the fishing bug (no pun intended), it becomes an omnipresent reality that when he sees water, he will look for fish. This has never been exemplified by my fishing companion, whose wife honestly fears for her life when they cross a bridge when he is driving. He will look over totally focused looking for water, and upon discovery of said moisture, the piscatorial quarry. This becomes problematic.

"Aubrey" ever vigilant

I myself was raised fishing all kinds of water, and have been blessed to live near mountains and the gulf coast. I have fished the ocean, big lakes, even a couple of times in the rockies, but the Appalachian mountains always call me back home. The crisp air, the smell of Rhododendron, Frasier Fir, and Hemlock, the complete immersion in a wilderness away from cellphones or even electricity, is a curative for the soul. I wouldn't trade it for anything. And the color of those fish is something out of this world!

Bow season is opening here and Alabama, and the myriad preparations for opening day on Saturday loom large. I am excited, enthusiastic, and a bit nervous as always. There will be more about that later. But even as I stalk through the woods, excitement about the upcoming fishing trip, the cold weather, and the complete sense of ease will try to pry its way into my consciousness. But first I must see if I can take a deer so as to procure some venison for the freezer, as well as some hair for tying flies. Then I can tie for my trout foray, In early November.

I just hope the smell of Rhodo and Frasier Fir from the recesses of my mind don't mix with the smell of Pine and White Oak in South Alabama this weekend.

FlyTieAndDie

Social Butterflies Don't Hunt