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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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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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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Nature always bats last!

In our neighborhood, today marks the start of a January thaw. The temperature has climbed above 32℉. It did that yesterday in The Cities (Minneapolis / St. Paul) due, I believe, to their urban heat island. What little snow was left on the deck is almost gone. Sometime in the next few days we’ll take a crack at starting the tractor and seeing if the back blade can be lifted from the frozen ground. I forgot to put a block under the blade when last I parked the tractor and having it available to plow snow increases the likelihood we won’t get much.

The persistent cloud cover may obscure Thursday’s full moon, called the Great Spirit Moon by the Ojibwe and the Hard Times Moon by the Lakota. There was a break in the clouds last night and an almost full moon brightly lit the snow covered back yard. Remember, from that famous visit, “the moon on the crest of the new fallen snow, gave a luster of midday... ?” Come February 4, we’ll have reached the midpoint of winter and from there, technically, will be on our way out. Meteorologically, that may or may not be the case. We’ll see.

Christmas 2023 -- rain

Photo by J. Harrington

To remind you of what a strange winter it’s been around here, the picture above was taken on Christmas. Yes, those are raindrops on the trees, -- in Minnesota, -- at Christmas!! Meanwhile, world governments continue to putz around instead of taking a coordinated, cooperative approach to minimizing greenhouse gas emissions and adapting to the climate changes we’ll be faced with for the next century or more.

If we don’t get a lot of snow, or rain, over the next several weeks, spring flows in local trout streams will probably be less than normal due to lack of snowmelt runoff. I don’t want to speculate about the rest of the  fishing season, since I’m trying to become more optimistic. Voting for Republicans who will focus on denying the existence or the seriousness of climate breakdown should only be done by those who have no descendants, don’t expect to have any, and don’t give a damn about the rest of US.

Let Them Not Say

Jane Hirshfield
1953 – 

Let them not say:   we did not see it.
We saw.

Let them not say:   we did not hear it.
We heard.

Let them not say:     they did not taste it.
We ate, we trembled.

Let them not say:   it was not spoken, not written.
We spoke,
we witnessed with voices and hands.

Let them not say:     they did nothing.
We did not-enough.

Let them say, as they must say something: 

A kerosene beauty.
It burned.

Let them say we warmed ourselves by it,
read by its light, praised,
and it burned.

—2014

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A philosophy for the times

Late yesterday I started playing with some of my fly-fishing gear. Today the Better Half [BH] provided navigation to Bob Mitchell’s Fly Shop at their current location. (The BH has been to the current location before but I hadn’t.) My speculation yesterday was correct. Spending some time in a fly shop further perked up my drooping spirits that had started perking while playing with a couple of reels yesterday. It’s reassuring to be reminded that, although it may seem so on occasion, winter in the North Country isn’t actually interminable and there are things to do to make it more passable.

From what I read, this year may well be a tough one. As a way of enhancing my self care activities, I’m going to focus more on fly fishing’s enjoyment and experiences. Previously, we’ve shared our admiration for John Voelker / Robert Traver’s Testament of a Fisherman [below] from his wonderful Anatomy of a Fisherman.

Testament of a Fisherman

The perspective in Testament is, I believe, a healthy one for any time and the more difficult the times become, the healthier that perspective becomes. I have drifted too far from appreciating all that’s involved in the concepts above and hope to spend this year adjusting course. Perhaps you might want to consider something similar? If we don’t take care of ourselves, we’re not much good to much of anyone. Although I didn’t buy anything today at the fly shop, the selection of flies I don’t have and haven’t fished made me feel like the proverbial kid in a candy store. That’s a feeling I want more of and am not likely to get scanning the headlines.

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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Why? Fish!

Here’s an early holiday present for those who celebrate Hanukkah, Solstice, Alban Arthan, Christmas, New Year’s, or anything else at this time of year. File it under Nature Bathing, Self Care!

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

Testament of a Fisherman

I fish because I love to. Because I love the environs where trout are found, which are invariably beautiful, and hate the environs where crowds of people are found, which are invariably ugly. Because of all the television commercials, cocktail parties, and assorted social posturing I thus escape. Because in a world where most men seem to spend their lives doing what they hate, my fishing is at once an endless source of delight and an act of small rebellion. Because trout do not lie or cheat and cannot be bought or bribed, or impressed by power, but respond only to quietude and humility, and endless patience. Because I suspect that men are going this way for the last time and I for one don’t want to waste the trip. Because mercifully there are no telephones on trout waters. Because in the woods I can find solitude without loneliness. … And finally, not because I regard fishing as being so terribly important, but because I suspect that so many of the other concerns of men are equally unimportant and not nearly so much fun.

— Robert Traver, Anatomy of a Fisherman

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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When are the tipping points?

It’s hard to believe that only four months ago our back yard was snow covered. Today we are, again, under an “Excessive Heat Warning” until 10 pm tomorrow. The actual temperature is 95℉. The humidity makes it feel like 105℉. Normal high temperature for this date is 80℉. The earliest snowfall in our area was September 24, 1985. It will be interesting to see how much things cool off over the next month, but I’m not getting my hopes up. In fact, I fully expect next winter, when it arrives, to be colder and snowier than “normal” to compensate for this summer’s weather. That way, on an annual average basis, our extremes won’t look as anomalous.

back yard: April 22, 2023

Photo by J. Harrington

I’m just hoping the weather and the water temperatures moderate enough that I can go fly fishing on a trout stream without triggering a guilty conscience. (Releasing a stressed fish into water temps at the upper limits of its tolerance invites mortality.) Maybe next week I at least need to go for a ride and check water temperatures for myself. Perhaps by then I’ll have overcome my heat and humidity induced lethargy.

Male hummingbirds are still coming to the feeders. Sandhill cranes are beginning to flock up. Sandhill colts are nearly grown. Summer won’t last forever and in six months I’ll be complaining about cold and snow that seems never ending.

Heat

H.D.     1886 – 1961

O wind, rend open the heat,
cut apart the heat,
rend it to tatters.

Fruit cannot drop
through this thick air—
fruit cannot fall into heat
that presses up and blunts
the points of pears
and rounds the grapes.

Cut the heat—
plough through it,
turning it on either side
of your path.

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Returning to flow state

We dodged several bullets yesterday, almost literally. There were thunderstorms all around us and we were caught, briefly, in a torrential downpour, but we avoided, through pure luck or something, the hail that shattered windshields and dented sheet metal elsewhere in the Twin Cities area. Strangely enough, we also had a brief dry spell while we picked up our CSA share box and again later while we were unloading bags and boxes of items for a yard sale. It looks as though I’m going to have to forego my “poor me” complaints for at least a week or two.

Upon arrival home, the mail contained a package of pamphlets from the Order of Bards, Ovates & Druids, including several on the role of water in Celtic and Druid spirituality. Those nicely complement the Kimberly Blaeser paper I’m currently reading, A Cosmology of Nibi. I’m more and more delighted by the correspondence I find between Celtic and Native American cultures. The likelihood that what passes for culture in colonial America will ever give earth and water and air the respect they deserve is not great, but I keep hoping to find ways to move the needle in the right direction. I think that’s something elders are supposed to do, isn’t it?

(upper) Kinnickinnic River

Photo by J. Harrington

As long as we’re on the theme of moving needles, I want to share a recently distributed notice from the Twin Cities chapter of Trout Unlimited, of which I’m a long time member, that may be of interest.

Regular newsletter readers are aware that we have a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to remove two dams on the Kinnickinnic River, an iconic trout stream that is the home water for much of our membership.  This year, the US Army Corps of Engineers is conducting a feasibility study on the removal of the dams and restoration of the river corridor.  This feasibility study is the first big step in developing a firm plan for the restoration of the river, and can bring up to $10 million in federal funding to the project. TCTU members have provided critical seed money to get this project going.  
The Corps will be hosting an open house on Tuesday August 15th from 6 pm to 8 pm at the River Falls Public Library.  Corps officials will provide a detailed overview of the feasibility study, and welcome the public to join and provide comment. River Falls City Officials will also be present.  The Corps' press release announcing the Open House is here.
This is a great opportunity for us to show our support for the restoration, provide comments, and get our questions answered.  I plan to attend, and I hope that you can join, too! A strong contingent of TU members at this meeting will demonstrate to the Corps and the City just how important this project is to us.
If you would like to read more about the Kinni Restoration project, please check out this page on our website. 

It is a very pleasant surprise to find the Corps actively engaged in river restoration as well as their normal efforts at river industrialization. We look forward to a positive outcome of the feasibility study and, ultimately, the removal of two dams in River Falls. We’ll check for press coverage late next week and will post here anything we find.

Navigation

Jeanetta Calhoun Mish

Nervous-system tracings of rivers before dams—
to map watercourses is to diagram human hands
running in fingers to deltas. Neosho, Kaw,
Cimarron, Verdigris, Arkansas, Chickaskia.
Flood flow in spring, summer languid. Call
their names—conjure those whose language
they carry. Memory exists in nerves, lives in
rivers like silver-scaled great-horned serpent,
basilisk who admonishes our failures. Metaphor
reminds us that humans subsisted along rivers
immemorial. Recall, then, those dead metaphors,
breathe them back to life—river of time, river
of memory, river of life, river of blood, river of
song, river of death. River of contempt. Not the
same river, not the same woman—Heraclitus’
axiom along cattail-encumbered bank. Honor
rivers’ meanders, their currents our late-night
reveries that roar, crawl along, rush downstream,
and overflow, leaving mica scales behind. How
rivers sometimes get lost. How we all get lost.

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Going local (again, some more)

We’re almost through with July. It remains to be seen if summer is through with US. The flowage / creek / pond complex north of our place is close to dry. The Sunrise river, downstream of the dam in Carlos Avery, is way below bankfull. Yesterday’s storms varied enough that some northern parts of the county got almost 3 inches of rain, while southern locations only received a little more than half an inch. Water temperatures in the area exceed 70℉ and are more than 80℉ at some nearby stations. Time to leave the heat-stressed trout alone until things cool down.

few local corn fields look this healthy

Photo by J. Harrington

It’s not as though there’s a shortage of things to be tended to around the place. The ever present dead branches need collecting. If we avoid wildfire smoke for a bit, I may even burn some of them. The tractor's off being repaired, so mowing and related efforts are deferred until it’s healthy and functioning again. I have a multitude of tsundoku stacks that can stand to get organized and some fly fishing gear that still needs cleaning and checking out (for when things cool down).

As we begin the transition from summer to harvest season, and approach my favorite half of the year, I need to refresh my awareness that I can only live one day at a time and that, if everything’s important, nothing’s important. I’m noticing more and more that the local newsletters from Trout Unlimited chapters frequently contain stories of local folks doing good works that improve pieces of and places on the earth and the lives of those who live and play there. That’s frequently more than I see in national and international headlines. Could it be that the secrets to a happy life are underfoot? Does the Mad Farmer offer the secret(s) to real success?

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

by Wendell Berry

 

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,

vacation with pay. Want more

of everything ready-made. Be afraid

to know your neighbors and to die.

And you will have a window in your head.

Not even your future will be a mystery

any more. Your mind will be punched in a card

and shut away in a little drawer.

When they want you to buy something

they will call you. When they want you

to die for profit they will let you know.

So, friends, every day do something

that won’t compute. Love the Lord.

Love the world. Work for nothing.

Take all that you have and be poor.

Love someone who does not deserve it.

Denounce the government and embrace

the flag. Hope to live in that free

republic for which it stands.

Give your approval to all you cannot

understand. Praise ignorance, for what man

has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.

Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.

Say that your main crop is the forest

that you did not plant,

that you will not live to harvest.

Say that the leaves are harvested

when they have rotted into the mold.

Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.

Put your faith in the two inches of humus

that will build under the trees

every thousand years.

Listen to carrion — put your ear

close, and hear the faint chattering

of the songs that are to come.

Expect the end of the world. Laugh.

Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful

though you have considered all the facts.

So long as women do not go cheap

for power, please women more than men.

Ask yourself: Will this satisfy

a woman satisfied to bear a child?

Will this disturb the sleep

of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.

Lie easy in the shade. Rest your head

in her lap. Swear allegiance

to what is nighest your thoughts.

As soon as the generals and the politicos

can predict the motions of your mind,

lose it. Leave it as a sign

to mark the false trail, the way

you didn’t go. Be like the fox

who makes more tracks than necessary,

some in the wrong direction.

Practice resurrection.

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Lammas loaf

Lammas, or Lughnasadh, is celebrated one week from today, on August 1. In its honor, I have a sourdough loaf in the oven. It’s been months since I last baked bread and the house’s AC is coping with having the oven on while outside the temperature is exceeding 90℉. This year, between spring burning prohibitions and summer drought, and skies smoke filled from Canada, we’ve not been able to work celebratory bonfires into our schedule at appropriate times. I know it’s early for “baking season,” but it feels good to be getting back into the routine.

sliced sourdough loaf

Photo by J. Harrington

Now, it’s not my intent to do a “bread and fishes” routine with this posting, but earlier today I (re)discovered an organization known as the Native Fish Coalition which is developing an approach for holistic stream restoration. The pilot is on a stream in my state of origin, Massachusetts. The target species is brook trout. This serendipitous sequence has re-enthused my waning interest in fly fishing, brookies, and habitat restoration. Those interests had, like bread baking, drifted to the wayside over the past few months. Summer ennui?

As a long-time member of Trout Unlimited, I was curious to learn TU’s perspective on native fish conservation. Turns out TU has a National Workgroup on the subject. I hadn’t picked up on that over the years. Now I’m going to do some reading on what each organization has accomplished and hopes to achieve in the future, particularly regarding brook trout, and see what volunteer opportunities that presents. Not bad for a sultry summer weekday.

We hope you keep cool during our hot spell and that the thunderstorms we’re expecting don’t become another severe weather alert. However, since I’m not doing bread and fishes today, I’m not above casting (some of) my bread upon the waters, if we get enough waters. If not, I may see what happens if I cast a fly upon them. (I know. I’m ashamed. The heat’s got to me.)

Bread

By Richard Levine

Each night, in a space he’d make

between waking and purpose,

my grandfather donned his one

suit, in our still dark house, and drove

through Brooklyn’s deserted streets

following trolley tracks to the bakery.

There he’d change into white

linen work clothes and cap,

and in the absence of women,

his hands were both loving, well

into dawn and throughout the day—

kneading, rolling out, shaping

each astonishing moment

of yeasty predictability

in that windowless world lit

by slightly swaying naked bulbs,

where the shadows staggered, woozy

with the aromatic warmth of the work.

Then, the suit and drive, again.

At our table, graced by a loaf

that steamed when we sliced it,

softened the butter and leavened

the very air we’d breathe,

he’d count us blessed.

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Fishing for satisfaction

With luck, we may get some rain tonight and tomorrow. We could use it. Much of our area is back under moderate drought. I’m debating if a wet day tomorrow means Mother Nature is giving us a father’s day present of some much needed rain or if she’s spoiling father’s day barbecues with rain. Is the cup half full or half empty?

Streamflow along much of the Minnesota side of the St. Croix river is below the 7 day average for this time of year. I’m going to see if I can manage a half day or so of field check on the Wisconsin side one day next week. Smoky air kept me inside more than I’d planned for the week just ending. Then again, next week is forecast to be at or near 90℉, a little warm for pleasant field work even if it is near, but not in, a cold water stream. I seem to recall predicting last winter that Mother Nature would compensate for excessive winter conditions by providing excessive conditions this summer. Looks like she’s making an honest man of me, so far.

cool looking trout water

Photo by J. Harrington

We’re coming up on one of my favorite times for fishing for trout, when the tricos (Tricorythodes sp.) begin to hatch. It will be interesting to see (literally) if I can still tie on a size 18 or 20 fly to the end of a very fine tippet. Maybe I’ll just tuck a rod and some hip boots in the back of the Jeep if I get out to field check conditions. Many years ago, when I was a boy scout, I learned to “be prepared.”

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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Fishing for the future

A lazy Sunday in March is good for reading, napping, munching, and watching the birds come and go at the feeders. Once again we are faced with  a mostly cloudy week upcoming and the prospect of more than an additional half a foot of snow before next weekend. I hope someone soon reminds Mother Nature that we’ve reached the time of year when the snow pack is supposed to experience a next loss, not gain more than melts. I’m sure we’ve not lost seven inches of snow cover during the past week.

There’s no sign of open water, nor even the icky gray color that rotting ice shows, at the Sunrise river pools in Carlos Avery Wildlife Management Area. We’ll check more regularly from now on since we believe that, in general, waterfowl migrating north generally seek open water. That’s likely to be slow coming since the near term temperature is below normal and even normal isn’t all that warm around here.

what kind of ancestors do we want to be?

Photo by J. Harrington

Even though Minnesota offers fly fishing opportunities during the winter, the traditional stream fishing opener (inland trout) is more than a month away. In anticipation, I’m going to ask you to read a couple of recently published articles that we all need to think about and act on.

The future of fly fishing rests in our hands, in HATCH magazine, and

Do we anglers, ourselves, amount to a ‘conservation challenge’? by the Editor of TROUT magazine

There’s also an article in today’s Star Tribune in which Minnesota Pollution Control Agency officials claim they can’t limit nitrate pollution to our rivers and streams. There’s legislation [HF2076/SF1937] pending in the Minnesota Legislature that would reinstate the Citizen Board that used to oversee the MPCA. If you’re concerned about clean air, clean water, healthy babies and having the “fishable/swimmable” water we were supposed to have back in 1983, you might want to demand your Minnesota legislators support that legislation. Alternatively, if there are no fishable waters, we anglers won’t be faced with the question of whether we, ourselves, are a conservation challenge. Problem solved.

The Fisherman

W. B. Yeats - 1865-1939

Although I can see him still,
The freckled man who goes
To a grey place on a hill
In grey Connemara clothes
At dawn to cast his flies,
It's long since I began
To call up to the eyes
This wise and simple man.
All day I'd looked in the face
What I had hoped 'twould be
To write for my own race
And the reality;
The living men that I hate,
The dead man that I loved,
The craven man in his seat,
The insolent unreproved,
And no knave brought to book
Who has won a drunken cheer, 
The witty man and his joke
Aimed at the commonest ear,
The clever man who cries
The catch-cries of the clown,
The beating down of the wise
And great Art beaten down.

Maybe a twelvemonth since
Suddenly I began,
In scorn of this audience,
Imagining a man,
And his sun-freckled face,
And grey Connemara cloth, 
Climbing up to a place
Where stone is dark under froth,
And the down-turn of his wrist
When the flies drop in the stream;
A man who does not exist,
A man who is but a dream;
And cried, 'Before I am old
I shall have written him one
Poem maybe as cold
And passionate as the dawn.'

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Damn dams, don’t damn fisheries!

 I think I’ve mentioned that I’m a Trout Unlimited member involved in fundraising and related efforts in support of removing two dams on the Kinnickinnic River in River Falls, WI. Much background on that effort can be found at the Kinni Corridor Collaborative web site.

part of Kinnickinnic River restoration

Photo by J. Harrington

Although restoration of a free-flowing Kinni is important, I don’t believe there are threatened or endangered species involved, unlike a situation involving Atlantic salmon in Maine, back in my native New England. In a message I recently received, Trout Unlimited asked:

Did you know that wild Atlantic salmon are on the brink of extinction in U.S. waters? Salmon once returned to rivers from Connecticut through Maine by the hundreds of thousands. Today, fewer than 1,000 salmon return to just a few rivers in Maine.

Our best chance to save this majestic species is to remove four aging dams on the Kennebec River. Right now, federal agencies are weighing that very question, providing what is likely our last opportunity to restore a self-sustaining run of Atlantic salmon (and other important migratory species) to the Kennebec watershed.

Please join TU in urging federal fisheries officials to save our salmon by decommissioning those dams and allowing the lower Kennebec River to flow free to the sea once again.

Learn more

More and more research is supporting the physical and mental health benefits of fishing. To attain those benefits, folks need someplace to go fishing. The Kinni offers the prospect of adding miles of Class 1 trout water in a city in a large metropolitan area, the Twin Cities. Among most fly fishers, Atlantic salmon are a prized quarry. Let’s not find ourselves bemoaning the truth of Joni Mitchell’s lyrics:

Don't it always seem to go 
That you don't know what you've got 
Till it's gone 

Elegy ["I think by now the river must be thick"]

By Natasha Trethewey

For my father

I think by now the river must be thick

        with salmon. Late August, I imagine it

as it was that morning: drizzle needling

        the surface, mist at the banks like a net

settling around us — everything damp

        and shining. That morning, awkward

and heavy in our hip waders, we stalked

        into the current and found our places —

you upstream a few yards and out

        far deeper. You must remember how

the river seeped in over your boots

        and you grew heavier with that defeat.

All day I kept turning to watch you, how

        first you mimed our guide's casting

then cast your invisible line, slicing the sky

        between us; and later, rod in hand, how

you tried — again and again — to find

        that perfect arc, flight of an insect

skimming the river's surface. Perhaps

        you recall I cast my line and reeled in

two small trout we could not keep.

        Because I had to release them, I confess,

I thought about the past — working

        the hooks loose, the fish writhing

in my hands, each one slipping away

        before I could let go. I can tell you now

that I tried to take it all in, record it

        for an elegy I'd write — one day —

when the time came. Your daughter,

        I was that ruthless. What does it matter

if I tell you I learned to be? You kept casting

        your line, and when it did not come back

empty, it was tangled with mine. Some nights,

        dreaming, I step again into the small boat

that carried us out and watch the bank receding —

        my back to where I know we are headed. 

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Wanna help restore a local river, the Kinnickinnic?

I hope everyone is enjoying sunshine, blue skies and above average temperatures at least as much as I am. Today we finished the paperwork on our 2022 taxes, so that’s done. We visited one of our favorite independent book stores this morning and I proved sometimes I can behave myself. I still have a stack of books from Christmas that I haven’t read so no additions to that stack today.

Valentine’s cards and gifts are, I think, taken care of. Tomorrow we’ll visit our son for awhile. For a change, I’m feeling as if I might be holding my own. We’ll see come Wednesday morning if I’ve been too optimistic. Meanwhile, I’m going to enjoy watching snow and ice melt and flow away.

Last night’s clear sky allowed viewing some stars, which I hadn’t done for some time. The fact that the moon is no longer as bright and full as it was helped, although it was bright and beautiful in this morning’s sky.

Kinnickinnic upstream of River Falls

Photo by J. Harrington

For the past year or so, I’ve been involved with the Twin Cities chapter of Trout Unlimited helping to raise funds to restore the Kinnickinnic River from River Falls downstream by first determining the feasibility of getting Corps of Engineers funding to facilitate removal of two dams and then undertaking restoration of the river and its environments at the former impoundments and downstream toward the St. Croix. The latest chapter newsletter has a story by the chapter president with links to some recent articles explaining what’s involved and an invitation to participate in a silent auction fund raiser. Please take a look at the excerpt below and consider bidding or making a donation.

This is a big year for the Kinni. You may have read about the progress we have made in removing the dams and restoring the riparian corridor in Trout Magazine and Fly Fisherman. Locally, the River Falls Reader featured an in-depth article in January .

Last summer, the Wisconsin DNR made a $1 million award for the Kinni dam removal. This spring, the US Army Corps of Engineers (COE) will commence a feasibility study that could unlock an additional $10 million in federal funding. Donations by TCTU members in 2022 provided critical seed money to obtain the WI DNR grant and to get the COE feasibility study going. We have a bit more money to raise to support the feasibility study and we hope to finish by the time the Spring Caddis hatch starts! 

You can help by:

• Making a donation by credit card or check.

• Participating in our Silent Auction. We are offering a limited number of items contributed by TU members who care deeply about the Kinni. The auction is live now, and will end on March 15th.

• Attending the River Falls Fly Fishing Film Festival on March 3rd. Tickets are available here. A share of the proceeds will help fund the feasibility study.

If you are interested in more information on the Kinni, please check out the Kinni pageof our website. This is a once in a generation opportunity to restore an iconic trout stream in our backyard, and I appreciate your support!

 Last year ArtReach St. Croix published a chapbook of poems by local poets of the St. Croix valley. If you follow the preceding link and scroll to page number 20 [not the 20th  page], you’ll find today’s poem. It’s about a trip down the Kinni.

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Time to walk on water in the North Country

Sun’s out; sky’s blue; temperature’s in single digit. Fairly typical North Country winter day unless it’s snowing. Most of the trees are still encapsulated with snow. Parts of our road might as well be on the Gunflint Trail, although Duluth got lots more snow than we did the past few days. With all the hills up there some sledders must be really happy.

I’m starting to do my usual routine of getting agitated because I’m not completely in charge and I’m not sure folks are following my “suggestions” regarding who should get what for whom. Then again, I didn’t believe that yesterday the Vikings would pull off the biggest come back of all time in the NFL. I’d claim that the cold is going to my brain, but I find ways to tie myself up in knots in summertime too. I believe I’m an imperfect perfectionist, which  isn’t the same as a double negative being a positive.

The preceding paragraph provides a classic example of why one of my Christmas presents to myself, and those around me, is rereading and folllowing wabi sabi. Another present, of a similar nature, is to take more closely to heart John Voelker’s Testament of a Fisherman. May we all enjoy tight lines, but not too tight, from now through next year.

Testament of a Fisherman

In case the text above is hard to read, here it is as plain text:

Testament of a Fisherman

I fish because I love to. Because I love the environs where trout are found, which are invariably beautiful, and hate the environs where crowds of people are found, which are invariably ugly. Because of all the television commercials, cocktail parties, and assorted social posturing I thus escape. Because in a world where most men seem to spend their lives doing what they hate, my fishing is at once an endless source of delight and an act of small rebellion. Because trout do not lie or cheat and cannot be bought or bribed, or impressed by power, but respond only to quietude and humility, and endless patience. Because I suspect that men are going this way for the last time and I for one don’t want to waste the trip. Because mercifully there are no telephones on trout waters. Because in the woods I can find solitude without loneliness. … And finally, not because I regard fishing as being so terribly important, but because I suspect that so many of the other concerns of men are equally unimportant and not nearly so much fun.

— John Voelker, a.k.a Robert Traver, Anatomy of a Fisherman 

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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