red in tooth and claw

Fly fishing is often exalted as a sport that requires a deeper understanding of nature, given that the mimicking of hatches and the reading of water and the like necessitates a fuller engagement of ecosystems in action. Or something of the sort. Whatever else it may be, fishing is a reminder that nature is not always a benevolent aide to human endeavors.

On a recent outing, we were fishing off the southern part of Indian Island. The sky was a clean, wind-swept blue; the Olympics jutted above the trees to the west, and the snow-tipped Cascades rose off to the east. It was easily one of the more beautiful places I’ve ever visited. It was also extremely windy. Kansas-style windy. So windy that it was impossible for me to mend my line, let alone to make decent casts. Once we gave up on fishing, we puttered around Port Townsend, then just made the 5:10 ferry, lucking out as stand-by passengers. As we drove across Whidbey Island, we discussed writing projects and the books we were reading; we talked about dogs and wilderness and factory farming. We got to Deception Pass, the connecting point between Whidbey and Fidalgo Islands, just as the sun was setting over the Strait of Juan de Fuca. Ever since our early road-tripping days, back when we were driving Highway 1 up the California coast, we’ve been waiting for the perfect Pacific sunset. Clouds and mountains and trees had always foiled our plans, but this was magnificent. The sky was streaked with orange and purple, the green-blue, white-foamed water dominated the foreground, and trees shaded into distant bluish mountains. As if to gild the lily, we turned and saw a full moon rising over the Cascades in the east. The whole scene had the feel of a minor miracle. People were jumping out of their cars, skipping along the bridge to snap pictures they knew would compete poorly with the experience of being there. Perfect strangers grinned at each other awkwardly, giddy and a little embarrassed at having shared something that felt so special and almost intimate. The afternoon had doted upon us with a series of happy coincidences.

When we got home, though, the same winds that had complicated our fishing had also blown down trees and knocked out power to our neighborhood. Of course I’d waited until Sunday evening to finish my lesson plans, and we were sitting at a road block a half a mile away from our non-electrified house. The serenity of the sunset ebbed completely, and I was tired, cranky, and behind for the week, and there was absolutely nothing I could do.

Deception Pass is but one part of the system of rugged inlets, islands, and coves that characterize the Washington coast; it is so named because the Vancouver Expedition explorers who traversed it thought it a part of the mainland. Whether cartographic or ecological, nature does have lessons for us--object lessons about preparedness, and more abstract lessons about respecting complexity--but conservation is one thing, and empathetic fallacy entirely another. It is good for the human spirit to seek solace in nature and to delight in mountains and seascapes, but sustainability is ultimately a human concern. We talk of saving the earth, when what we really mean is the hope of preserving our ability to survive on the planet. Nature--that is, the forces behind sunsets and photosynthesis and air currents--ultimately doesn’t care whether we survive or not, or in what condition. Although we should certainly care about creatures beyond ourselves, talk about climate change and environmentalism often seems shot through with the same anthropocentrism that got us into this mess. The earth is simply too vast and too interconnected; we can no more save it than we can have dominion over it.

god bless lawrence, ks

Kansas is not the sort of place most people associate with wild excitement, unless of course you're talking about college basketball. There are nevertheless very good things to be had in Kansas, if one but knows where to look. To mark Kendall's graduation and to celebrate our wedding, two events that took place during the same packed weekend last May, we had dinner at Krause Dining. From the outside, it looks like any other house on a typical East Lawrence street, but the interior is divided between a modern addition and the original nineteenth-century structure; diners can peek in on the kitchen as they move through the spaces. Each aspect of the multi-course meal was well planned and very, very good, but the whole affair remained happily low-key. After dinner, we chatted with the owner on the patio as the soft spring night fell around us; it turns out the couple moved to Kansas from San Francisco in part because they wanted to bike their children to school. All in all, a very Lawrence experience: a little funky, rarely flashy, and completely true to a particular vision.

To end the meal, we were served basil sorbet with candied basil leaves, a dish that prompted many a discussion over the course of the summer. Upon receipt of an ice cream maker as a wedding present, we promptly set out to re-create the dessert. Because I am an advocate of all things made from full-fat dairy products, I couldn't bear the thought of sorbet when ice cream was in the offing; besides, we live in Washington now, where sorbet rarely tastes as good as it does on a hot summer day in Kansas. We adapted a recipe for ice cream, and it is as follows. My candying technique was heavy-handed, so my basil leaves ended up rather sodden; they tasted better than they looked.


Basil Ice Cream with Candied Basil Leaves

For the leaves:
8-10 whole basil leaves
Egg white
Granulated sugar

Lightly beat the egg white, adding a little water if necessary. Lightly coat both sides of each leaf with the egg white, then dip in the sugar. Let air dry for several hours, then use as garnish.

For the ice cream:
1 cup whole milk
2 cups cream
3/4 cup sugar
1 large bunch fresh basil

Heat the milk over medium-low heat with 1 cup of cream and the sugar, just until bubbles form around the edges. Add the basil and let steep for an hour. Strain leaves, then let the mixture chill thoroughly. Add the remaining cup of cream and freeze according to your ice cream maker's instructions.

Variation:
We've also made this ice cream using mint; I was running low on fresh mint leaves, so I substituted about a teaspoon of Morrocan mint tea leaves. It was delicious, with a deeper flavor than the fresh herbs alone.

with both feet in

Still no waders, but wading didn’t make a huge difference. I did, however, take a big step toward becoming a Washingtonian, or at least fishing like one. When we arrived at the Nooksack last Sunday afternoon, I gazed longingly at what was sure to be the sweetest spot on the whole river. It was just beyond a gravel bar, and the water pooled between two log jams, creating a lovely confluence of fast current and deeper, slower water on top of a rocky shelf. If I were a fish, I’d hang out here: plenty of gentle water in which to rest, a line of faster current dropping off food, a deep shelf under which to hide. I’d had my eye on this spot, in large part because it was just out of reach. But on this afternoon, the river level had dropped enough to make the wade only ankle-deep. So I did it. Barefoot, the better to save my feet some time in wet boots.

The highest compliment paid in the fly fishing world is to say that someone thinks like a fish; knowing one's prey is, after all, the hunter's goal. At this point, I think I have more in common with the insects. Brought into sudden and bracing contact with a world full of strange practices and stranger terminology, I’m often lost. That afternoon, though, was the first time that casting felt, well, somehow right. More often than not, I’m apt to tangle my line around my feet or my rod, but when the movement of my arm came into rhythm with the flexing of the rod, fishing became fun. As is repeated over and over to every beginning fly fisher, “casting isn’t fishing!” (Kendall’s personal variation on this theme is, “None of that River-Runs-though-It crap!”) Like most dour, fun-spoiling axioms, this one is true, but I understand why casting is so captivating. For the layperson, it is the most visible difference between spin fishing and fly fishing, the practice that, until one knows better, defines the sport. It is also hard, so when I felt my line at last sail cleanly out of the end of my rod and watched it arc over the water, it was exhilarating. Excited, I overdid it on my next cast and promptly turned the end of my line into a tangled mass of fly, leader, and tippet. Luckily, untangling knots happens to be the one thing in fly fishing at which I am very, very good. Although I have yet to catch anything larger than a salmon smolt, I felt momentarily like a fly fisherwoman. It only lasted for a few casts, but it was enough for now.