I start out with the best of intentions. I tie my fly carefully to the end of my line, tugging at it to see that it’s secure. I scan the water for the most promising ripples and check behind me for back-casting obstacles. The last few times out, though, have brought nothing but a line snagged on river rocks, on willows near the bank, and on dead logs in the water. In the past two days, specifically, I lost a nymph to rocks on the Nooksack river near our house and an elk hair caddis on the North Fork of the Nooksack nearer to Mt. Baker. Two days, two flies, with hardly a fish in sight. Although I am loath to believe that money spent improves one's sporting skills, it appears that I need some waders. Better casting skills would help, to be sure, as would a raft, as Kendall is quick to point out. It stands to reason that to catch fish, one must go where the fish are. And where the fish are, it would seem, is always just beyond my reach.
And so, the past few trips I’ve fished a little (more casting practice, after all) and observed a lot. I’ve seen the seemingly infinite variations of green on display in Washington, from the ever-present lime-colored moss to the green-black of the interior forest, and the glacial-turquoise hue that stays with the Nooksack until it melds with the greenish-brown color of rivers that pass through farmland. I’ve watched several caddis hatches, and seen the struggling wings of insects produce on the water’s surface exactly the sorts of movements that fly fishers try to imitate. I’ve marveled at the beauty of a proper cast, and I remain convinced that, to paraphrase Julia Child, casting requires both technique and the courage of one’s convictions. I also watched as that same perfect cast was frustrated by a leery fish. I’ve been mesmerized by the current patterns produced by the interaction of surface and depth, and have meditated on Norman Maclean’s descriptions of river geometry. I’ve also been amazed by the apparent ability of Washingtonians to wet-wade in very cold water late in September; Kansans, despite their general disdain for excessive air conditioning and their predilection for watching tornadoes from their porches, evidently do not share this trait.
I do the things I know how to do. I practice, I ask questions, I practice some more. Almost inevitably, though, I stumble up against some aspect of the fly fishing world that outstrips my modest skills. And so, there, where certainty and precision elude me, I sit and watch.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
the trip without a camera
We just returned from a five-day camping and fishing tour of central Washington, with nary a picture to show for it. Although I often bemoan the interference of technology in enjoying the moment rather than documenting it via Facebook, text message, or cell phone, I frequently fall sway to the impulse. (I do my grumbling quietly, of course, lest I be thought a fuddy-duddy.)
But on this trip, neither of us grabbed the camera. In this spirit of more mindful observation, then, here is a list of highlights from the trip that are resistant to capture through photography.
• On the hike to Merritt Lake, off of SR 2, the wet smell of fall wafting up from the cool forest floor and meeting the piney, sun-warmed upper air currents.
• While fishing the Cle Elum and Yakima rivers, the glossy, sensuous green-black swirls of river water as evening fell.
• The thrill of turning around on a trail (Iron Bear Creek, off of US 97 north of Cle Elum) and seeing, completely unexpectedly, Mt. Rainier in the distance.
• As we left the dense forests of western Washington, seeing the sky clear and blue above me and visible to an expansive horizon far in the distance.
• The realization that many of Washington’s famed fruit crops grow not in the verdant orchards I’d imagined as a child, but in irrigated semi-desert landscapes. As we followed US 97 north toward SR 20, forested mountains gave way to rugged rock formations laid bare of vegetation by the increasing aridity. Yet dotting an expanse of land dominated by variations on white, ochre, and beige were localized splashes of intensely green lawns, orchards, and vineyards, along with the brilliant blue of the Columbia, which makes such agriculture possible.
• The heart-pounding moment when, as we were searching for a campground and I was lost grouchy thought because we would again be setting up camp in the dark, a rustling in the grass by the side of the road proved to be a young black bear that darted in front of the truck, then stopped to inspect us before disappearing into the forest. Many a trailhead sign with instructions about how to handle potential bear encounters had prompted lots of worrying, but I didn’t anticipate the adrenaline and the sense of danger averted that came with actually seeing a bear. We saw either the same bear or a similar one the next morning on our way to hike, and both times I was a little awed and very glad that humans and dogs were all in the truck.
• Falling in love with the area around Winthrop, which combines mountains and forests with a sense of open perspective that I associate with places like Montana. The mountains of western Washington are also big, rugged country—and driving west on SR 20 is nothing short of awe-inspiring—but the reduced rainfall east of the Cascades thins out the trees and lets the sky compete with geography and vegetation.
• Feeling, for the first time this summer, that Washington is becoming home.
But on this trip, neither of us grabbed the camera. In this spirit of more mindful observation, then, here is a list of highlights from the trip that are resistant to capture through photography.
• On the hike to Merritt Lake, off of SR 2, the wet smell of fall wafting up from the cool forest floor and meeting the piney, sun-warmed upper air currents.
• While fishing the Cle Elum and Yakima rivers, the glossy, sensuous green-black swirls of river water as evening fell.
• The thrill of turning around on a trail (Iron Bear Creek, off of US 97 north of Cle Elum) and seeing, completely unexpectedly, Mt. Rainier in the distance.
• As we left the dense forests of western Washington, seeing the sky clear and blue above me and visible to an expansive horizon far in the distance.
• The realization that many of Washington’s famed fruit crops grow not in the verdant orchards I’d imagined as a child, but in irrigated semi-desert landscapes. As we followed US 97 north toward SR 20, forested mountains gave way to rugged rock formations laid bare of vegetation by the increasing aridity. Yet dotting an expanse of land dominated by variations on white, ochre, and beige were localized splashes of intensely green lawns, orchards, and vineyards, along with the brilliant blue of the Columbia, which makes such agriculture possible.
• The heart-pounding moment when, as we were searching for a campground and I was lost grouchy thought because we would again be setting up camp in the dark, a rustling in the grass by the side of the road proved to be a young black bear that darted in front of the truck, then stopped to inspect us before disappearing into the forest. Many a trailhead sign with instructions about how to handle potential bear encounters had prompted lots of worrying, but I didn’t anticipate the adrenaline and the sense of danger averted that came with actually seeing a bear. We saw either the same bear or a similar one the next morning on our way to hike, and both times I was a little awed and very glad that humans and dogs were all in the truck.
• Falling in love with the area around Winthrop, which combines mountains and forests with a sense of open perspective that I associate with places like Montana. The mountains of western Washington are also big, rugged country—and driving west on SR 20 is nothing short of awe-inspiring—but the reduced rainfall east of the Cascades thins out the trees and lets the sky compete with geography and vegetation.
• Feeling, for the first time this summer, that Washington is becoming home.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
the accidental angler
“Set!” yells the guide, and then patiently explains again why the fish escaped and what I must do if I am to catch a fish. Intellectually, I understand that my rod needs to come up as I simultaneously put tension on the line to set the hook into the fish’s lip. Sensing precisely when and with how much force still eludes me; the guide points out that it is a feeling, and feelings are difficult to teach. As with so much in fly fishing, I fall short of putting theory into practice. I have yet to catch a fish.
Surprisingly little of my rural childhood has prepared me for fly fishing. I have vague memories of overhearing men discussing bait and lures, of falling into the lake while watching my dad fish, of watching with horrified fascination as he cleaned the fish that would be our dinner. Until recently, I thought of fishing, when I thought of it at all, pretty much as I think of golf, which is to say mostly as an easy way to spoil a perfectly good day outside. But I married into fly fishing, and fly fishing is, to its practitioners, nothing less than a way of life. It is also a measure of character, and so I gamely cast my fly in the direction I think the guide is pointing. I ask questions about fish habits and habitat, about what my rod and line should be doing, about different kinds of flies. It is a beautiful sport, but one so filled with strange vocabulary and arcane practices that I struggle to understand the basics. My father-in-law enthusiastically answers my questions with technical detail and scientific reasoning. My husband replies that the aim of fly fishing is always the imitation not only of the food itself, but its approach to the fish.
Therein lies the difference between my husband and his father, but it occurs to me as I stand in the river skittering my fly across the water to mimic a struggling insect, that such an artfully meticulous sport also approaches something akin to theater. Fish need to be convinced, drawn out with a realistic imitation of life, from tying flies to casting to managing the line in the water. As my husband likes to observe, fly fishing is a world where the fake beats out the real. If a grasshopper were tied to a hook, it would plop unconvincingly into the water and give away the illusion. Instead, to fly fish is to animate an imitator with skill, timing, and luck. What actor doesn’t hope to achieve the same? Fish, it turns out, seem to want what so many of us want, which is to believe in skillful imitation, in art, and occasionally, in things we know to be too good to be true.
Surprisingly little of my rural childhood has prepared me for fly fishing. I have vague memories of overhearing men discussing bait and lures, of falling into the lake while watching my dad fish, of watching with horrified fascination as he cleaned the fish that would be our dinner. Until recently, I thought of fishing, when I thought of it at all, pretty much as I think of golf, which is to say mostly as an easy way to spoil a perfectly good day outside. But I married into fly fishing, and fly fishing is, to its practitioners, nothing less than a way of life. It is also a measure of character, and so I gamely cast my fly in the direction I think the guide is pointing. I ask questions about fish habits and habitat, about what my rod and line should be doing, about different kinds of flies. It is a beautiful sport, but one so filled with strange vocabulary and arcane practices that I struggle to understand the basics. My father-in-law enthusiastically answers my questions with technical detail and scientific reasoning. My husband replies that the aim of fly fishing is always the imitation not only of the food itself, but its approach to the fish.
Therein lies the difference between my husband and his father, but it occurs to me as I stand in the river skittering my fly across the water to mimic a struggling insect, that such an artfully meticulous sport also approaches something akin to theater. Fish need to be convinced, drawn out with a realistic imitation of life, from tying flies to casting to managing the line in the water. As my husband likes to observe, fly fishing is a world where the fake beats out the real. If a grasshopper were tied to a hook, it would plop unconvincingly into the water and give away the illusion. Instead, to fly fish is to animate an imitator with skill, timing, and luck. What actor doesn’t hope to achieve the same? Fish, it turns out, seem to want what so many of us want, which is to believe in skillful imitation, in art, and occasionally, in things we know to be too good to be true.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
of habits and improvisation
On a recent trip to Victoria, BC, Kendall and I went three times to Rebar, taking in breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Like pilgrims on a journey, we arrived eagerly, if somewhat shyly. The pattern of the day settled around our meals at the restaurant, much in the same way that the weekly rhythm of our relationship grew around food. We didn’t date so much as find ways of eating together. At first, we reserved for each other weekend evenings and special dishes designed to impress without seeming overwrought. Kendall's specialty--and the very first meal he made me--is salmon with lavender-orange salt, pasta with pesto sauce, and steamed asparagus; I made him flan and bread pudding with brioche and bourbon butter sauce. He made vegetarian borscht; I made walnut bread. One Thanksgiving, we baked a pumpkin pie together; the next year we made wasabi sweet potatoes with pork tenderloin in a balsamic vinegar and caper sauce. There were Saturday football cookouts at Beau and Ashley's, which inspired theme dinners later that winter. Asian night, for example, with peanut noodles and spring rolls and lime-pepita cookies, or Americana night, with gourmet mac-and-cheese and pulled pork and potato-buttermilk dinner rolls. (Luckily, more energy went into cooking and eating than into naming.) Food has featured prominently in our travels, and we've eaten at markets in Mexico and road-side barbecue trucks in Texas. We cheered Beau and Ashley in the barbecue competition at Dodge City Days and devoured their practice samplings. We followed the recommendations of parents (Rio Mar in New Orleans; Blue Sky Burgers in Amarillo), and searched out new favorites (El Reynaldo’s in Goodland, KS). If food initially provided an excuse to spend time together, changes in our relationship showed up in our culinary habits. We went from cooking for each other to cooking together. Dress and manners got more casual as the recipes got harder, and we found reasons to buy things like star anise and lemongrass and powdered shrimp and tamarind paste. Weekend dinners grew into multi-step affairs that necessarily included friends and leftovers, thereby weaving us more tightly into the textures of daily life together. We evolved a repertoire of recipes, got to know each other through the habits and nuances of food. What we’d eaten and would like to eat, the politics of food, how you can learn most of what you need to know about a person by the way he or she eats. Through the long bitterness of last winter, cooking and eating together was both catharsis and comfort, and our wedding this spring featured Gruber’s appetizers, Beau’s prime rib, wine from Kendall’s parents, and Stacy’s vegan chocolate cupcakes.
Because we’ve spent several years eating our way through their recipes, going to Rebar for the first time felt a bit like a first date with an old friend. It was silly and extravagant and a little obsessive, and completely in line with the habits that make us who we are. We promised ourselves that next time we'd check out Victoria's other food offerings, and we probably will. Sometimes, though, it's best not to mess with a good thing; after all, the salmon with pesto is still in heavy rotation.
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