Welcome, June

Last night, in honor of the summery weather and the turning of the month, we enjoyed slices of the first ice cream cake of the season. It hit the spot. Over the past couple of weeks we’ve been switching back and forth between turning on the heat and the air conditioning. The outside heat is back, accompanied by smoke streams from Canadian wildfires to our north.

The neighborhood deer have been nipping at my freshly planted, “deer resistant” serviceberry bushes. I suppose deer “resistance" is to deer proof as water resistant is to water proof in rain jackets. I have now sprayed the bushes with deer and rabbit repellant and hung a mesh bag of the Better Half’s hair clippings on each bush. One of these days I may remember to not believe everything I read or think.

Chalk-fronted Corporal (on left) Common Whitetail [female] (on right)

Photo by J. Harrington

Columbine are now blooming, joining hoary puccoon, lilacs, and wild strawberries. Dame’s rocket started flowering the past day or so. The cloud of lilac aroma in front of the house is heady and delightful. I’d spend more time standing around outside sniffing but the bugs are getting worse by the hour.

A few dragonflies are flitting about. The mole population seems worse than ever it’s been since we moved in. This week I’ll spray encroaching poison ivy if we get a dry spell with temperatures under 80℉. Thunderstorms are forecast tomorrow night after highs near or at 90℉. Dogs will probably need their THC treats.

We finally picked up this year’s fishing licenses and Wisconsin trout stamp. Minnesota doesn’t require a stamp for those over 65. No, I won’t mention how much over 65 I am but this isn’t the first year I didn’t need a Minnesota trout stamp. Now that we’ve made a little progress tidying the yard, if I don’t get out fishing this week, I will manage to do some practice casting in the back yard (he wrote hopefully). These are times to enjoy simple, basic pleasures.

Thankful for Now

BY TODD DAVIS

Walking the river back home at the end

of May, locust in bloom, an oriole flitting

through dusky crowns, and the early night sky

going peach, day's late glow the color of that fruit's

flesh, dribbling down over everything, christening

my sons, the two of them walking before me

after a day of fishing, one of them placing a hand

on the other's shoulder, pointing toward a planet

that's just appeared, or the swift movement

of that yellow and black bird disappearing

into the growing dark, and now the light, pink

as a crabapple's flower, and my legs tired

from wading the higher water, and the rocks

that keep turning over, nearly spilling me

into the river, but still thankful for now

when I have enough strength to stay

a few yards behind them, loving this time

of day that shows me the breadth

of their backs, their lean, strong legs

striding, how we all go on in this cold water,

heading home to the sound of the last few

trout splashing, as mayflies float

through the shadowed riffles.

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Time for a change (or two)

It’s actually starting to seem like Spring here in the North Country. Once again the snow has melted and, come midweek next, overnight low temperatures are forecast to stay above freezing. Leaf buds on the maple trees have burst and, but for a few outliers, the oaks have dropped their overwintering leaves as the new buds swell.

maple leaf buds opening

Photo by J. Harrington

I hate to admit this but I spent way too much time last week doom scrolling and being in an absolutely funky mood. Between laying off thousands of federal staff and laying on thousands of tariffs, it was down the rabbit hole time again. We’re going to be years, if not decades, working to recover once we rid ourselves of our first (and only?) FOTUS [Felon Of The United States]. Despite all the madness, I did complete a preliminary, informal, climate action VENN diagram. It turns out to be trickier than I thought it would, especially since the DrawDown listing doesn’t really cover my interest: the relationships among climate change, the hydrologic cycle, and stream restoration. I made some progress and will keep picking away at it. Stay tuned and, meanwhile, if you’re interested, here’s a link to some local postings that explore climate change and trout fishing.

Speaking of changes, I think this will be the week I take the bback blade off the tractor and start to clean up some of the leaves and branches that came down over the winter. It's also time to get this year's fishing licenses and begin some exploring. That's one of the better ways I can think of to shake the residuals of cabin fever.

Also, please note that April is National Poetry Month. Enjoy Paul Simon's lyrics to help celebrate the month and the changing of the seasons.

      April Come She Will

Lyrics:

April, come she will
When streams are ripe and swelled with rain
May, she will stay
Resting in my arms again

June, she’ll change her tune
In restless walks, she’ll prowl the night
July, she will fly
And give no warning of her flight

August, die she must
The autumn winds blow chilly and cold
September, I’ll remember
A love once new has now grown old

© 1965 Words and Music by Paul Simon

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Happy Autumnal Equinox and Alban Elfed

As of 7:43 this morning, local time, we are into full autumn, if not fully into autumn. The equinox has occurred but the season has not matured. Leaf color is still less than 10%. Some monarch butterflies have fluttered by. Flickers are flittering through the backyard. Strangely, several lilac bushes in the neighborhood have produced a second bloom recently. Meanwhile, the size of sandhill crane flocks has grown and Canada geese are doing training flights. We even saw a woolly bear caterpillar this week past.

just a hint of color in the trees

Photo by J. Harrington

No sign yet of the first frost or the first snowflake in our neck of the woods. Either could arrive any day now. The local crew of hummingbirds seems to have headed south. We’ll leave the feeders up for another week or two in case northern migrants stop by. I think, and hope, high temperatures will now stay seasonably less than 80℉ at least until next April.

As we enter the darker seasons, many of US hope that will only be literal and not figurative. The latter depending on the results of the upcoming presidential election. In our funkier moods, we wonder how many days of relative peace and quiet we’ll get before campaigns for the mid-term elections start up.

Archery deer season opened the beginning of last week Friday brought a handful of thunderstorms, complete with boomings, lightning flashes, and downpours. Will that be the last until next year, or might we experience thundersnows? Stay tuned.

Something we couldn’t share before this because it might have spoiled a birthday surprise was one of this month’s high points. For his birthday, we got the Son-in-Law an Early Lessons print from the BobWhite Studio. The Studio is located not far from our home so we made arrangements to take a peek prior to completing the purchase. In the process, we enjoyed a nice visit with Bob and his charming wife, Lisa. The story behind the print as a gift is that it depicts a man, presumably a Dad, standing behind / beside a girl holding a fly rod. The Son-In-Law has been taking his almost four-year-old daughter fishing quite a bit this summer. She’s a bit young for a fly rod, but, as most Minnesota sports fans have learned to say, “maybe next year.”

Poem Beginning with a Line from It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown

Maggie Smith

Just look—nothing but sincerity 
as far as the eye can see—
the way the changed leaves,

flapping their yellow underbellies
in the wind, glitter. The tree
looks sequined wherever

the sun touches. Does anyone
not see it? Driving by a field
of spray-painted sheep, I think

the world is not all changed.
The air still ruffles wool
the way a mother’s hand

busies itself lovingly in the hair
of her small boy. The sun
lifts itself up, grows heavy

treading there, then lets itself
off the hook. Just look at it
leaving—the sky a tigereye

banded five kinds of gold
and bronze—and the sequin tree
shaking its spangles like a girl

on the high school drill team,
nothing but sincerity. It glitters
whether we’re looking or not.

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Seasonal adjustments

According to our copy of the Minnesota Weather Guide, the normal high temperature this week is 82℉ and next week it’s 81℉. The ten-day forecast doesn’t have a high of 80℉ or more. Early Autumn on the horizon? More mice have been showing up in the mouse traps this month. For some of us, especially me, Autumn’s early arrival would be a pleasant surprise, as long as we don’t revert to 90’s next month. The last time I checked, the average number of days in the 90s in Minneapolis is 13 but

As of August 6, there have been 6 days this year where the high temperature has reached at least 90 degrees Fahrenheit in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

The last time it reached at least 90° F was August 2, 2024.

We’ve been enjoying letting fresh air into the house today. With Summer temperatures, air conditioning, and windows closed, after a while the air does tend toward stale.

local trout stream at "normal" flow

Photo by J. Harrington

The rains and more rains have repeatedly spiked the flows in our local trout streams. Maybe the next week or so will provide better conditions to check out in person how they’re flowing. I may even bring along my Tenkara rod to play with. The simplicity of that approach appeals to me, at least enough to give it a try. The rod has sat in a corner for a couple of years now.

Despite being retired, I’m running into a time and energy crunch. There are a couple of other writing projects I’d like to get started on but posting here on a daily basis, and doing enough from time to time to post about, has been getting in the way of my getting started on those other projects. So, I’m considering going to less than daily here, maybe even once a week for awhile. When and if I get those other projects rolling, I may return to daily here, or not. We’re almost at 825,000 posts and many of our page views appear to be from bots, which isn’t very satisfying as far as I’m concerned. Plus, Blogger is again failing to upload images. [The image  above was added the day after original posting. I don't know what changed.]

The Trout

Amy Lowell
1874 – 1925

          Naughty little speckled trout,
          Can't I coax you to come out?
          Is it such great fun to play
          In the water every day?

          Do you pull the Naiads' hair
          Hiding in the lilies there?
          Do you hunt for fishes' eggs,
          Or watch tadpoles grow their legs?

          Do the little trouts have school
          In some deep sun-glinted pool,
          And in recess play at tag
          Round that bed of purple flag?

          I have tried so hard to catch you,
          Hours and hours I've sat to watch you;
          But you never will come out,
          Naughty little speckled trout!

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Another cloudy sunnie day

Once again I went fishing with my not-quite-four-years old Granddaughter and her Dad, my Son-In-Law. Once again she outfished me. This time quicker and better. She caught an 8 or 9 inch largemouth bass and a couple of small sunnies to my nada. I had swipes at my yellow ant, but apparently the hook was still too big. Next time we’ll scale down the rod, leader and try fishing teeny, tiny streamers. Fishing, like life, is a learning experience. All I knew from fishing different places years ago doesn’t readily transfer to much smaller fish in much tighter quarters around a city dock.

John Buchan: 'The charm of fishing is that it is the pursuit of what is
elusive but attainable, a perpetual series of occasions for hope.'

Photo by J. Harrington

The closest I’ve come to how and where we’re fishing these days was back in about the seventh grade, fishing late afternoon to early evening off the Hingham city dock for smelt, using seaworms as bait and a bamboo pole as a rod. I hadn’t thought about that for years, until this afternoon.

It’s encouraging to see the younger generations picking up where we’re leaving off. The tackle I’ve accumulated over the years may continue to bring pleasure once I can no longer use it. If I make a few adjustments and get back in practice, I hope that won’t be for awhile.

Bringing Forth

On the gold rock,
we used to sit
with our primitive poles.
Sticks we gathered
from grandmother’s
broken maples,
pins we tied by the head
onto white string.
The sunnies swam
brown-golden-rainbow
in her lake, near the sand beach
she brought in
herself. We always cheered
when we hooked
the surge of body and fin.
But I also cried
at the blood, the shining hole,
and more often than not
I threw the breathless sunnies
back in.

— L.L. Barkat

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A fish in hand is worth....

Thanks to an invitation from the Son-In-Law and Granddaughter, I went fishing yesterday. My (not quite 4 year old) Granddaughter outfished me, I’m pleased to announce. In the time I was with them, she caught (and released) one sunfish while I, using a popping bug, had two strikes. Neither of the fish who took a swipe was big enough to get its mouth around a bluegill bug. I should have changed to a smaller fly but wasn’t sure I would be able to see it in the small waves that covered the lakes surface.

one of these might have been better than the popper

Photo by J. Harrington

Although I was outfished and came home empty handed, I accomplished several worthwhile objectives. First, I established I haven’t entirely forgotten how to cast a fly, even into a 10 mph (gusting to 15) headwind, despite a distressing lack of casting exercise over the past couple of years. Second, I demonstrated, to my satisfaction, that I know how to undo a “wind knot” in a leader, created by not being careful with my backcast into the aforementioned wind. Finally, I reconfirmed that the fun is in the fishing at least as much as in the catching. Now I need to haul myself off to a local trout stream and check out how my wading skills are holding up despite a lack of use. I will wait until the wind is topping out at 10 mph or less for that exercise. Today’s 20+ mph breeze is more than I can cope with.

Fishing Before You Know How to Fish

https://www.awakin.org/v2/read/view.php?tid=2574

Through the pines and the one maple I hear her.

I shouldn’t have gone fishing if I didn’t know how to fish.

I shouldn’t have gone fishing if I didn’t know how to fish.

There she stands

legs impossibly long

pink and black polka dot swimsuit baggy

pole in her hands

and a little oval sunfish impossibly on her hook.

I don’t tell her, but I do think

Oh, sweet girl, life is always like that.

Fishing before you know how to fish.

Leaving before you know how to leave.

Speaking before you know how to speak.

Fighting before you know how to fight.

Loving before you know how to love.

Dying before you know how to die.

We are all the child with the pole

worrying about who we’ve hurt.

And we are all the fish on the hook,

hoping for mercy.

Her aunt hears her muttering prayer

and though she hasn’t unhooked a fish in 30 years

grabs the wriggling innocent in her hands

and dislodges metal from cheek.

And this, too, is all of us.

Saved again and again by prayer we didn’t know we were saying

and a witness we forgot was listening.

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The games we play

Today had been forecast to be cooler and wetter, so we made up some sourdough to bake. Today has turned out to be partly cloudy and quite warm (80℉ at the moment) but the dough had risen nicely, so it went into the oven. We’ll rely on the AC to get us through. If we believe the forecast, this may be the week that summer weather actually begins locally, no rain and the prospect of 90’s by next weekend. This isn’t a complaint. We’re not jealous of those who are experiencing wildfires and heat domes. On the other hand, we have been starting to think we understood how Noah felt around the 35th day.

if only they all turned out this well

Photo by J. Harrington

This looks like the time in the season to pick away at some outside chores and fit in a fishing trip or two, without overdoing either. But first, we have to rehang the horsefly trap, a big blue ball covered in sticky goo. The flies are back and last year we got a pleasant surprise when we saw how many ended up stuck in the goo. The dogs appreciate having fewer flies harass them at least as much as the humans. Then, if I get really ambitious, the Jeep could get washed, but that may bring back the rain. Sigh. I know, I’ll hold off Jeep washing until many of the flies are stuck where they can’t harass me as I’m holding a hose or a sponge.

For a recent birthday, I asked for, and received, a copy of Greg Brown’s wonderful album, The Poet Game. I already had a copy of Ani DiFranco's rendition of the title song and wanted to hear it sung by the writer. I’m very grateful I’ve never had to choose between, or among, fishing, poetry and music. Each brings considerable joy to my life. In these times, doesn’t each of us need as much of that kind of joy as we can get. Of course we do. Now, I hope you enjoy

the poet game

By Greg Brown

Down by the river junior year
Walking with my girl
And we came upon a place
There in the tall grass where a couple
Had been making love
And left the mark of their embrace
I said to her, "Looks like they had some fun."
She said to me, "Let's do the same."
And still I taste her kisses
And her freckles in the sun
When I play the poet game

A young man down in hill country
In the year of '22
Went to see his future bride
She lived in a rough old shack
That poverty blew through
She invited him inside
She'd been cooking, ashamed and feeling sad
She could only offer him bread and her name -
Grandpa said that it was the best gift
A fella ever had
And he taught me the poet game

I had a friend who drank too much
And played too much guitar -
And we sure got along
Reel-to-reels rolled across
The country near and far
With letters poems and songs..
But these days he don't talk to me
And he won't tell me why
I miss him every time i say his name
I don't know what he's doing
Or why our friendship died
While we played the poet game 

The fall rain was pounding down

On an old New Hampshire mill
And the river wild and high
I was talking to her while leaves blew down
Like a sudden chill -
There was wildness in her eyes
We made love like we'd been waiting
All of our lives for this -
Strangers know no shame -
But she had to leave at dawn
And with a sticky farewell kiss
Left me to play the poet game

I watched my country turn into
A coast-to-coast strip mall
And I cried out in a song:
If we could do all that in thirty years
Then please tell me you all -
Why does good change take so long?
Why does the color of your skin
Or who you choose to love
Still lead to such anger and pain?
And why do I think it's any help
For me to still dream of
Playing the poet game?

Sirens wail above the fields -
Another soul gone down -
Another Sun about to rise
I've lost track of my mistakes
Like birds they fly around
And darken half of my skies
To all of those I've hurt -
I pray you'll forgive me
I to you will freely do the same
So many things I didn't see
With my eyes turned inside
Playing the poet game

I walk out at night to take a leak
Underneath the stars -
Oh yeah that's the life for me
There's Orion and the Pleiades
And I guess that must be Mars -
All as clear as we long to be
I've sung what I was given -
Some was bad and some was good
I never did know from where it came
And if I had it all to do again
I am not sure I would
Play the poet game

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Fritillarying the summer away

It’s finally stopped raining long enough for me to do a second grass cutting of the season in the back yard. I was also going to mow our ditch where the dogs do most of their business but an orange butterfly, with spots, a fritillary I think, landed on some of the yellow wildflower/weed blossoms that would have been mown into oblivion. That deterred me from ditch mowing today.

Earlier, the Better Half and I headed off to the farm to pick up this week’s community supported agriculture [CSA] share. The share box contained:

• GREEN CABBAGE
• EITHER CARROTS OR GOLDEN NUGGET CHERRY TOMATOES (I think we got carrots)
• SNAP PEAS
• KALE
• BEETS WITH TOPS
• SCAPES
• BABY ONIONS
• SLICER CUCUMBER, and
• CILANTRO

During the drive we got a look at a couple of whitetail does and a few small flocks of wild turkeys. All in all a pleasant way to start a weekend.

box of fishing flies, mostly parachute Adams

Photo by J. Harrington

Yesterday we threatened, or promised, depending on your viewpoint, to spend more time engaged with fly-fishing. Last night, while (re)reading Peter Kaminsky’s Fly Fisherman’s Guide to the Meaning of Life, we reached the chapter on A Fly Fisher’s Essential Reading. I thought you might enjoy seeing what and who's listed:

• In Our Time, Earnest Hemingway
• Trout Madness, Robert Traver
• A River Runs through It, Norman Maclean
• Tarpon Quest, John Cole
• Fy Fishing through the Midlife Crisis, Howell Raines
• Superior Fishing, Robert B. Roosevelt
• Spring Creek, Nick Lyons
• Hatches, Al Caucci and Bob Nastasi
• The Fly and the Fish, John Atherton
• Fishing wth McClane, A. J. McClane

I was pleased to note that I’ve read about half of the titles listed and other works of several of the authors listed. Once I’ve confirmed whether or not a couple of titles are lurking somewhere on our book shelves, we may add one or two of these to an upcoming Christmas list. 

Speckled Trout

By Ron Rash

Water-flesh gleamed like mica:

orange fins, red flankspots, a char

shy as ginseng, found only

in spring-flow gaps, the thin clear

of faraway creeks no map

could name. My cousin showed me

those hidden places. I loved

how we found them, the way we

followed no trail, just stream-sound

tangled in rhododendron,

to where slow water opened

a hole to slip a line in,

and lift as from a well bright

shadows of another world,

held in my hand, their color

already starting to fade.

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It’s about de clutter

I’m not happy with the presumed choices in presidential candidates this election, but the odds are strongly against my vote going anywhere except the Blue column. Do I care enough to vote in the local (state) primary? We’ll see. At the moment I’m not aware of any contests that affect my legislative, congressional, or statewide races. My thinking is that the Democrats have made such a mess of things that I’ll give them a vote but no more dollars. In fact, I’m contemplating going beyond that reduction.

Some years ago, a writer named Seth Godin claimed we now live in an “attention economy.” Several out-of-state Democrats have been spamming my email box with requests for donations. I keep reporting them as spam but the messages continue to arrive, doing no more than pi** me off at the sender candidate, the Democratic Party, and all politicians in general. I am officially, as of today, withdrawing my attention from the political economy until about November 5th or whenever I get around to early voting.

picture me wading here

Photo by J. Harrington

No matter what I do, the political system is unlikely to reform itself. It is, therefore, my responsibility to prevent it from doing unnecessary damage to my mental, emotional, and physical well-being. I intend to take the time I’ve been spending looking at news and doom-scrolling social media doing things that are of more immediate relevance to my life and much more capable of bringing joy into my existence. Mostly, that’s going to involve participating in, reading about, and enjoying fly-fishing, environmental healing, and similar themes.

A former Speaker of the House, from my home state of Massachusetts, Tip O’Neil once noted that “All politics is local.” I’ve been active in local issues and opportunities, it’s time to become more so. My life needs decluttering and this feels like the best time and theme on which to start. The political world, especially, is full of more bitching and moaning than I can (under)stand.

The Stolen Child

W. B. Yeats
1865 – 1939

Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berrys
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than he can understand.

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Soggy is as soggy does

It’s wonderful that I have a stack of books to be read because we’re forecast to get almost an inch and a half of rain tomorrow and rain daily for at least the eight days following. This might explain the large wooden boat I saw one of the neighbors building in his side yard. There’s also been lots of animals walking by in pairs recently. I wonder if that could mean something.

a local trout stream in mid-June

Photo by J. Harrington

It looks like I may need to adjust my fishing plans if the local trout streams start flooding. Not much yard work will be doable. I may have to just relax, drink coffee, bake some more sourdough, and read. Could it be that Mother Nature is giving us an extended Father’s Day present? I wouldn’t want to seem ungrateful, so I may squeeze in a reconnoitering trip to personally assess the wadeability and fishability of my home waters. Remember, last year many of us we experiencing drought conditions.

Meanwhile, yesterday and today I managed to make a little progress in restoring the yard to almost manageable conditions. When, if?, the rain stops we’ll get caught up on mowing, leaf cleanup, and torching a burn pile or two. This year is providing lots of opportunities for me to practice shaking my obsessive-compulsive need to get it done, NOW! and to do better at going with the flow (heh, heh). Maybe some of you will get to enjoy a Father’s Day weekend that isn’t too soggy and can share with some of us what that’s like.

Instructions on Not Giving Up

Ada Limón
1976 – 

More than the fuchsia funnels breaking out
of the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor’s
almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving
their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate
sky of Spring rains, it’s the greening of the trees
that really gets to me. When all the shock of white
and taffy, the world’s baubles and trinkets, leave
the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath,
the leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skin
growing over whatever winter did to us, a return
to the strange idea of continuous living despite
the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then,
I’ll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf
unfurling like a fist to an open palm, I’ll take it all.

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Weather or not, here it comes!

According to a couple of sources, we may, or may not, get an isolated thunderstorm this afternoon. As I thought about it, if the forecast says we may get a thunderstorm or storms, that also conveys the idea we may not get storms. But, if the forecast states that we may not get thunderstorms, does that convey the message that we might? Would it be more effective to just state that the weather will be unsettled for the next several hours?

June sky full of storm clouds

Photo by J. Harrington

I started on this line of reasoning (questioning?) when I had an urge to go fly fishing this afternoon and thought I should check river levels due to all the rain we’ve got over the past several days. I found the site with the data for the USGS station on the Kinni, but can’t find a clear context into which to fit the data. That is, what does it mean that the river gauge height is/was slightly over 9 feet? Even if I compare it with last year, I learn that it’s higher this year but how do I know if it’s wadable and/or fishable? This strikes me as being a classic example of the distinction between data and information. The linked photos on the USGS site look like the river is at least bank full and running muddy, conditions less than optimum for fly fishing, but it would be nice to have a clearer baseline.

Closer to home, the wind is gusting enough that I know better than to even consider casting a fly. I’m sure of that  because I’m watching the crowns of a stand of mature oaks toss and turn and twist and bend. The wind is reported to be at 15 mph with gusts to 25. It’s occasionally blowing birds off the feeder perches.

Reports continue to pile up that we’re failing to respond to climate disruption in anything like an adequate fashion. It might be a good idea for each of us to pay more attention, and take notes, to our local weather and what constitutes a baseline for various activities. I’ve noticed some farmers have been very late this year planting some fields. I’m still on a bubble about trying to get a three sisters garden started. Flax seeds we scattered a year or two ago, and had essentially written off, are just blooming this year. Time for each  of us to start a weather journal? How about learning a bit about permaculture?

The “Change” in Climate Change

By Jacob Shores-Argüello

My cousin WhatsApps me from Costa Rica, fits the family

into the rectangle of video as they wave from the balcony.

He turns the phone, shows me a swirl of birds in the hurting sky.

But they are not birds. They are neighbor Tinoco’s roof tiles

flying in a storm’s rotary energy. My family is calling because

I’m in Oklahoma, which, to them, is synonym for tornado.

Te amo, I say as my cousin lowers the phone for our grandmother

to hear. She’s scared because she’s lived in the town for 80 years

and can’t recognize all these new skies. Because a year before,

a hurricane reaved its way across this country for the first time

in recorded history. Tornado or torbellino or something else,

I ask her about the valley’s strange wind. And she laughs, says

that she was calling to ask me the same thing. I don’t know why

I keep forgetting the change in climate change. My grandmother

sighs as the sky darkens to the color of rum. Why I still think

that we’ll have names for all the things that will come.

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Here comes summer

Dame’s rocket is now blooming, as is our patch of lilies of the valley. Yesterdays rain has been followed by today’s gusty winds. This spring, much of May feels like March. Tomorrow, the techs show up to check out our air conditioning for the summer season. Meanwhile, no signs yet of scarlet tanagers nor indigo buntings. This may be a migration season without exotics.

I bet you know that this weekend is Memorial Day, the unofficial start of summer, as compared to the summer solstice on June 20 this year or the beginning of meteorological summer on June 1. Got that straight? It would be nice if the weather settles down enough to make fly fishing a pleasant experience rather than a life threatening (lightning) excise in exasperation (wind).

a variety of fly lines for different rods

Photo by J. Harrington

Now that you’ve mentioned fly fishing, I’m considering replacing some of my “high modulus graphite” rods with new fashioned fiberglass. Yesterday I was reading about Have We Reached "Peak Fly Fishing"? (Or at least peak fly rod) and some related articles. In the process, I came across a mention of anglers, like me, who’ve developed a habit of overloading their graphite rods by one line weight to slow the casting action (e.g., use a 7 weight line on a rod designed for a 6 weight). What caught my eye was reference to making casting easier and less tiring. Some years ago, I tore up my right shoulder trying to tip up an outboard motor. I’m right handed so that’s my casting shoulder. Finding ways to enjoy casting without wearing out my shoulder has lots of appeal. I’ll start with my bamboo rod and play with a couple of line weights and see how that works and feels. At least I now have more insight into what I’m trying to accom[lish, and avoid, and how to try to do that. Next, I need mother nature to cooperate with some mild, sunny, basically calm weather. Of course, that will require freshening the permethrin on my bug shirts

Trout

By Kathryn Starbuck

I do my best 

to keep pointlessness 

at bay. But here, 

wet above my 

knees, I let it fly. 

Here, hot and cold, 

fingers thick with 

thinking, I try to 

tie the fly and look 

for the net, loosening 

the philosophical   

knot of why I came 

here today, not yet 

knowing whether 

I’ll free or fry 

the rainbows 

and browns once 

they’re mine.

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Trillium time?

It’s time to watch for the blooms of trillium in roadside woodlands. Some of this year’s flowers and birds have arrived about on time, others seem to be a week to ten days or so early. If trilliums blossom a little early, we should see flowers maybe next week. I’m going to remember to watch for them starting tomorrow.

Trillium grandiflorum (Large-flowered Trillium)

Photo by J. Harrington

From the goose I saw walking along a road and having trouble flying, it looks as though Canada geese may be starting to molt. The goose was walking along a gravel road as my Jeep and I slowly approached from behind. First the bird tried to outrun us. Then it tried to fly but had trouble getting off the ground. Finally it flapped and glided 20 or 30 feet into an alfalfa field adjoining the road. Then we drove past.

As of this afternoon I’m feeling less unclothed. I went online and renewed / replaced our Wisconsin family fishing license(s). Tomorrow may provide for a trip to a local fly shop to get Minnesota licenses for the Better Half and I. I’m annoyed at myself that it’s so late in the season (I’m not referring to Minnesota’s recent walleye opener) and we’ve not yet wet a line. You could claim I’ve gotten old and lazy and I’d not have much of a comeback. I’d probably have to plead nolo contendere.

Gather

Rose McLarney

Some springs, apples bloom too soon.
The trees have grown here for a hundred years, and are still quick
to trust that the frost has finished. Some springs,
pink petals turn black. Those summers, the orchards are empty
and quiet. No reason for the bees to come.

Other summers, red apples beat hearty in the trees, golden apples
glow in sheer skin. Their weight breaks branches,
the ground rolls with apples, and you fall in fruit.

You could say, I have been foolish. You could say, I have been fooled.
You could say, Some years, there are apples.

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Pacing the seasons

A month or so ago, the crowns of trees around the house were all bare and skeletony looking. Now they’re mostly filled in, or out, as you prefer. and the tree-line is looking almost solid, although we know it isn’t.

tamaracks leafing out

Photo by J. Harrington

All of a sudden, it’s too warm (70℉) to comfortably do yard work. I know, for some of us it’s almost always too cold or too wet or too dry or too warm. There are those of us who are more in the hunter-gatherer mold than in the farmer or suburbanite mold. I should be standing in a river, waving a stick, to borrow from John Gierach. Instead, I’ve been mowing last year’s leaves into the mower’s bag and putting the contents onto the Better Half’s lily garden as mulch. Mother’s Day is Sunday, you know.

The older I get the more I find that the transition from a largely sedentary winter to more active, warmer, seasons to be full of discomforts. It reminds me of the old saying “I’m not the man I used to be, never was.” Although I know better than to expect to return to the vim, vigor, and resilience I had twenty or thirty years ago, I remain hopeful of remaining ambulatory and then some for at least a few years more. Under the heading of teaching an old dog new tricks, I think I’m finally learning to pace myself and quit before I collapse. I have taken to heart the Lao Tzu observation Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.

Way back when I was in high school and learning Latin, I came across a description of someone who wanted to enjoy all the bonus [good] with none of the onus [work]. We know that, except for politicians and the 1%, that’s not really viable.

Cloud

By Kay Ryan

A blue stain

creeps across

the deep pile

of the evergreens.

From inside the

forest it seems

like an interior

matter, something

wholly to do

with trees, a color

passed from one

to another, a

requirement

to which they

submit unflinchingly 

like soldiers or 

brave people

getting older. 

Then the sun 

comes back and

it’s totally over.

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Something fishy about National Poetry Month?

As I hope you know already, April is National Poetry Month. If you’re a repeated reader of this blog, you may have noted that I’m a trout fisher. That combination makes me absolutely delighted to share the following from the Minnesota Trout Unlimited monthly newsletter that arrived in my email inbox this morning:

The Last Cast
It's National Poetry Month and we're looking for your favorite and original flyfishing poems to share! Submit yours here. Our longtime Trout Unlimited Minnesota print newsletter contributor Larry Gavin shared this recording of himself reading Vespers: Pine Creek with us. Enjoy! 

dry flies hook anglers before they hook trout

Photo by J. Harrington

I’ve been a member of TU for decades and consider the recognition of National Poetry Month by the state council of a national cold water conservation organization to be one of the healthier developments since the first Earth Day in 1970. Speaking of which, I hope you already have on your calendar that Earth Day is April 22. What are you planning to do to honor and celebrate it this year?

In addition to touting (no, I didn’t unintentionally drop the “r”) TU and Earth Day, as part of NPM I bring to your attention Larry Garvin’s A Fragile Shelter, a copy of which sits on one of my bookshelves. It was published locally by Red Dragonfly Press. Try it, you’ll like it, I bet. Here’s a sample of his work:

Christmas Morning South of Town

by Larry Gavin

 

A blue spruce, out of place here,

with bittersweet

twined on its south side—the vine's

orange fruit, autumn's promise,

still hanging like one final

question against blue sky.

On the north side's branches:

snow. Light, a “dusting”

they call it. Dusting.

Two cardinals decorate

the uppermost branches;

scarlet hosts searching

for food.

In the distance, three bells:

one on the collar of each beagle

busy sifting scent in wild raspberry

sumac and Russian olive

and, above the bells, the sound

of voices: mother, son, laughing

in knee-deep snow.

Which of these gifts do I deserve?

None of them, I think,

then I reconsider and realize

I deserve them all. Unasked for

and echoing down through

the years, years full

of gratitude and heartbeats

as one hound's plaintive voice

rises above all of it,

then two more. Simple as

the wishes we all hold dear.

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It’s World Water Day

We got a bunch of water in celebration of today. Unfortunately, it came as flakes, not drops, and we were the recipients of more than twice the amount that fell in most of the area. Measured on our deck and the railing, there were 9 inches of fresh snow this morning. Last night’s forecast was for 1 to 3 inches. Almost everywhere around us topped out at 4 inches. Sunday’s forecast is for an additional 10 inches. Sigh! Spring in the North Country brings blizzards before wildflowers.

the Kinnickinnic River,
a relatively clean trout stream

Photo by J. Harrington

World Water Day this year is about Water for Peace, consistent with the UN’s Sustainable Development Goals, particularly Number 6. In Minnesota, and much of the rest of the country and the world, water quality is being deteriorated, largely through human activities, much like the climate is being disrupted through human greenhouse gas pollution. Do you see a larger pattern here? At the rate we’re going, we won’t be able to colonize Planet B or it’s successors in time to save what’s left of the human race. And if the pattern continues to be consume, dispose, destroy, we’ve no business infecting the rest of the solar system or galaxy. Time to make ecocide a capital offense for countries, corporations,, and their executives?

On a brighter note, at least for now, as the snow melts and rain falls and spring springs, water willl seep into the ground and flow overland to our rivers and streams. Some of us will grab a rod and head out to see what, if anything, we can catch. I’ve been pondering how many of us would be interested in protecting access to and the quality of local waters if we didn’t fish, canoe, kayak, swim, etc. It’s been more than 50 years since the Clean Water Act Amendments of 1972 were enacted, with the goals of:

• "to make all U.S. waters fishable and swimmable by 1983;"
• "to have zero water pollution discharge by 1985;"
• "to prohibit discharge of toxic amounts of toxic pollutants".^[120]: 1

We are failing miserably and seem headed backwards from attaining those goals. Unless we make more progress, faster, we’re unlikely to attain peace in our time with those who recognize “Water Is Life.”

Water

By Ralph Waldo Emerson

The water understands 

Civilization well; 

It wets my foot, but prettily, 

It chills my life, but wittily, 

It is not disconcerted, 

It is not broken-hearted: 

Well used, it decketh joy, 

Adorneth, doubleth joy: 

Ill used, it will destroy, 

In perfect time and measure 

With a face of golden pleasure 

Elegantly destroy. 

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May you enjoy the luck of the Irish

The Irish soda bread has been baked, and partially consumed. Corned beef and cabbage are on the back burners of the stove. I’m wearing a dark green chamois shirt over a light green t-shirt over jeans over dark green socks and olive shoes. When I finish posting this, the latest Altan CD will be set to play on the stereo system. St. Patrick’s Day even brought a few snow showers this morning to remind us that we’re in the North Country, not on the Emerald Isle, more’s the pity.

I’ve been skimming through internet material on fly-fishing in gleeful anticipation of warmer, less windy, days soon to be spent along a local trout stream where I hope to enjoy “the luck of the Irish” as I watch the greening of the countryside around here. With the temperatures forecast for this week coming, I’m grateful and lucky to have a couple of warm, Irish fisherman’s knit sweaters to wear and expect to wait for the greening to prevail.

soon our trees will again begin wearing their green

Photo by J. Harrington

We’re at a time of year when normal high temperatures reach the mid-40s as night-time lows drop into the upper 20s. That’s pretty much what next week looks like, with mixed precipitation late in the week. After all, we’re rapidly nearing the “April showers” time of year. Sounds good to me. Now, please enjoy an Irish poem about trout fishing. It says much about why we spend the time we do trout fishing or wishing we were. Apples of silver or gold are magical and we are lucky to have an opportunity to pluck them.

The Song of Wandering Aengus

By William Butler Yeats

I went out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor

I went to blow the fire a-flame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And someone called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done,

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.

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Captive on the carousel of time*

Our temperatures are consistently running above “normal” while precipitation is sparse to nonexistent. This is likely to present complications for greening up the North Country this spring. The buds on the maple trees in front of the house are beginning to swell but no bud burst yet. Once again local waters are becoming ice free. I’ve lost track whether this is the third or fourth time this year. There’s a better chance this time may last since the Spring Equinox is about a week and a half away and the next few days are forecast to bring high temperatures well into the sixties.

March maple buds beginning to swell

Photo by J. Harrington

We’re watching for signs of maladjustment attributable to our springing ahead an hour early this morning. So far, so good, although the sun’s warmth, when it finally arrives, induces a sleepiness we’re not accustomed to. We expect to adapt over the next few days and look forward to later sunsets bringing longer evenings. I think it’s fair to say that, for most of us, the best two-thirds or three quarters of the year lie ahead.

I’ve actually made some progress getting (some of) my fly fishing gear ready for the season. Two rods have fly lines that have been washed clean and leaders straightened. I discovered that some of my teeny-tiny flies (Tricos) may actually be based on hooks too small to hold a fish. Plus, the eyes are obscured enough that getting the tag end of a tippet through is a) a challenge or b) not doable. Better I should learn these things at home rather than when I’m in the stream and fish are rising.

Please be advised that this coming Thursday, March 14, is reported to be Pi Day. We’re planning on celebrating with French Silk.

[*  The Circle Game]

 

Baked Goods

By Aimee Nezhukumatathil

Flour on the floor makes my sandals 

slip and I tumble into your arms. 

Too hot to bake this morning but

blueberries begged me to fold them

into moist muffins. Sticks of rhubarb 

plotted a whole pie. The windows

are blown open and a thickfruit tang

sneaks through the wire screen

and into the home of the scowly lady

who lives next door. Yesterday, a man 

in the city was rescued from his apartment

which was filled with a thousand rats. 

Something about being angry because

his pet python refused to eat. He let the bloom 

of fur rise, rise over the little gnarly blue rug, 

over the coffee table, the kitchen countertops

and pip through each cabinet, snip

at the stumpy bags of sugar,

the cylinders of salt. Our kitchen is a riot

of pots, wooden spoons, melted butter. 

So be it. Maybe all this baking will quiet

the angry voices next door, if only

for a brief whiff. I want our summers

to always be like this—a kitchen wrecked

with love, a table overflowing with baked goods

warming the already warm air. After all the pots

are stacked, the goodies cooled, and all the counters

wiped clean—let us never be rescued from this mess. 

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