Just wanted to make sure you all knew that I moved fishingpoet to it’s own domain. Just click here and you’ll be taken to fishingpoet.com. You’ll see an easy email subscription box up at the top right. Just enter your email, submit and confirm and you’re good as gold.
I look forward to having you all over to the new digs!
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Fishingpoet now has it’s own newly minted URL: fishingpoet.com
On the great advice of some folks who have been the iffy road of free blogging platforms before, I decided to put this journey called fishingpoet into a better pair of waders and boots and really get out into the current of this crazy electronic river. I’ll still be writing stories and poetry about fishing, hunting, fatherhood and my time in the Army, I’ll just be doing it on a site that is truly my own.
For those who have subscribed to this wordpress site, it’s easy to now follow at the new address. You can simply bookmark it or subscribe to the RSS feed and you’ll get notifications just like you do now.
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I’m not counting the days…I’m just close enough that I can say “three” without looking at my fingers.
I just packed and shipped a big box with my gear to Josh’s place in Portland. Inside, a duffel filled with fly boxes, waders, boots, a couple hats, handwarmers, my hunting backpack, chest pack, trout net, fly reels, wet-weather gear, clothes, head-lamps, hunting knife, one corncob and 2 Grabow pipes (plus lighters)…oh yea and my 8 wt Loomis, 5 wt Scott and 3 wt Eagle Claw (yes, you read that right…Eagle Claw). It’s going to be like Christmas morning unpacking that box when it arrives Friday morning.
The plan is to camp 2-3 days each on three rivers: the Upper Deschutes, the Upper Fall and the Crooked below the Prineville Reservoir. I’m excited. Heading toward sleepless. In all my travels, I’ve never been to the Pacific Northwest. I’ve read stories about the rivers and the muscled spirits they hold. I’ve got my notebook for stream-side thoughts and fire-side recollections. I’m taking pics and video, downloading it all to my laptop when we pack out to the truck between rivers. It’s time for stories of my own. My imagination is stuck somewhere between the Field & Stream magazines of my childhood and Wonka’s factory. Golden ticket. Damn right I’ve got one.
The coolest part: I get to be on the water for 7 days with an old friend. It’s been 17 years since we we’re stationed in Germany, working god-awful hours at an ammo supply point, and keeping god-awful hours at the local bars. 17 years. We’ve got a lot of fishing to do.
Another from the thesis. I spend a total of two months in the Delta doing research for a book about the Delta Blues. One day I had a chance to paddle on the river in a dugout canoe, hand made by John Ruskey. There’s only a handful of natural wonders in this great country that can grab you by your soul and fill you full of a profound new perspective. The Mississippi is one.
Yesterday on the river, the Old Man spoke in roiling current & half buried bleach-white branches. Heading upstream, hugging the shoreline to avoid thousand-yard barges & the Coast Guard tug snagging stranded buoys, we paddled past lifetimes of conversation gouged out of the rip-rapped banks, past forty, fifty foot trees beached thirty foot above water-line, like broken toothpicks discarded after a dinner of catfish, fried okra, black-eyed peas & sweet tea.
When you’re on the Mississippi you’re on river time.
I kept waiting for something to happen.
We made a fire among driftwood on a sandbar & boiled water for coffee while the river slipped past silent as the smoke from the black walnut we were burning. I crossed the tracks of beaver that had gnawed down brush-branches & dragged them to the water, a raccoon’s small hand-prints following the waterline for dead fish, the ghosts of coyotes wrestling around higher up the bank—tails swishing sand, paws, bellies, backs & snouts imprinted. The river is down 18 foot from normal for this time of year & we’re all taking advantage.
When spring sends its run-off from the Continental Divide & Ohio River valley, from Canada & the northern plains, our tracks here will be washed away—disappearing in that immense breath.
One of the best things about being a creative at an advertising agency is that I’m fortunate enough to call some amazingly talented people my friends….artists, designers, writers, musicians, photographers. Another bonus is being asked to collaborate with some of these talented people on a project that’s outside the confines of work…especially when the project is about bowhunting.
I had been on some shoots for Grant Taylor, a photographer, friend and kindred outdoors spirit. He’s slogged his way into a muddy January field, climbed 25 feet up a tree and hunkered down in a snowy hedgerow to get shots like these (and the masthead image on this blog):
So when he asked if I’d be willing to write poetry for a bowhunting photography promo book that he was planning, I was all-in. An added bonus: I got to work with another close friend and tremendous designer, Rachel Spence.
Aside from it being a beautiful collection and representation of Grant’s outdoor photography and Rachel’s design, the finished product turned out to be, for me, a pretty significant reflection on my passion for this sport and the outdoors, as well as my relationship with my dad. It’s not often that I get emotional about anything I write, but at one point while writing the piece for the image of the the generational picture, I actually got choked up – realizing just how fortunate I’ve been to have the time in the field that I do with my dad. It’s a big deal, and something I look forward to enjoying with my kids.
At any rate I wanted to share the book with all you kindred outdoor spirits…enjoy.
And with that, I give you SEASONS.
(Just click the link. It’s attached as a PDF)