on a warm fall sunday i'm feeling overworked and tired. i slip down across the border. the windows are down. the music is loud. it's been dry so the dirt road disappears in my wake. i pull into an empty lot and listen to a pheasant cackle in the marsh. i lose count within the first hour. all the fish eat the same fly. at times i'm shocked by how hard it is to pull my feet free from the sucking mud. the soft bottom wants me to stay. so i do.
there were twelve of them altogether. we taught them about biology and habitat. we taught them how to reload their own shells. we taught them about dogs and the relationship we have with them as hunters.
an olympic shooter showed up and gave them tips and each and everyone of them broke more clays afterwards.
we walked with them at arms length through the fields. each one of them watching a dog work for the first time. we talked in calming tones to kids whose hands were shaking with anticipation, excitement and apprehension.
each time the dogs locked on point their confidence grew.
with vests heavy under the weight of success and cheeks marked lightly with blood of their first animal killed. the group that started off the morning painfully quiet, chattered and laughed and wildly exaggerated tales of what had just happened.
today i hope we started some of these kids on the path to becoming a hunter. whenever possible, give up some time and make sure you are passing on what you can.
i had been looking at the sun, checking the time on my phone and thinking about the light we had left. i'd had the phone for a long time.
then the sun crested the ridge. it was hot both in temperature and quality. maybe some underwater shots. i put my phone in the pocket of my waders and crept through some tall grass along the bank to a pod of risers holding in a foot of water. eventually one ate a small parachute.
with the fish comfortably resting in the frame of an immense boat net we all shuffled to deeper water. i stood chest deep next to my coworker who was in a dry suit and holding thousands of dollars of gear. our feet resting among the long, waving greens growing from the stream bottom. the fish was beautiful. our angler somehow whispers the fish calm with her touch. we shoot and shoot. the fish slips away and we wade ashore. i say thank you to everyone for the hundredth time in 4 days.
i look at the sun and think about the next move. i reach into my chest pocket to check the time. it was full of water. my phone, a buff and a couple of pieces of old, tangled tippet all got a solid washing.
although there were two professionals capturing everything from sun up to sun down. i had been taking piles of snap shots for myself. i laid in the grass and realized that my simple oversight had to let those memories go.
after the work was done and i was just fishing for myself. i found that i held some trout just a little longer than usual. i was trying to burn their iridescent colors and shapes into my mind.
the brief disconnect worked out fine in the end. i returned home with only one frame from from the entire trip but with a head full of images.
the still water game has been good to me. except for today. i didn't even stop to take a piss. 10 hours straight. that's probably why i have a headache right now. but who stops for a drink when you are getting your ass handed to you?
the wind nearly broke me. next time i'll bring two anchors.
i put in the work from the moment the boat slid off the trailer until the CLACK-TING, CLACK-TING of my winch echoed from bank to bank and it slide back on. i loaded my gear, put on the strap and checked the trailer lights. i rubbed my wind burnt face and stretched my back and that is when it hit me. the wind had stopped. the final fuck you.
it's always been hard to leave this place. except for today.
it's good to see hunting films upping in quality and getting beyond just the kill shot.
this is pretty good too.
once my father-in-law and i kept a couple of trout to fry and have with beans from the garden. he said "once these babies are nice and golden brown the tails are like potato chips"
so i ate mine. he was wrong.
the air fills up with undulating columns of glittery wings. each pair beating out a rhythmic rise and fall. eventually all strength gives out and it's onto the current for a final ride.
trout are soon aware of the dead above and start a rhythmic rise and fall of their own.
i take advantage by dropping a lifeless object onto the surface, attempting a very literal "dead drift" that will match the cadence of the fish.
i spend the rest of the day thankful that this cycle of demise allows me to pull life from these cold currents.