i did not know

i did not know

i did not know
what beauty
was before
you smiled or your blue
eyes opened and for
the first time
really
fixed me found me
father yours
lost like you are
adrift in your sea
just like you and
struggling
as you struggle and fight
to swim out
through confounding
currents and swirls of
unbidden cryptic
frenetic chaotic faces
only ever and rarely
finding harbour
peace
in your clear gaze
and your smile and
the hope that
you find it too
when i smile
when i laugh
with you

November's Bounty

If I have to identify one theme from the past few days, it must be parenthood. Oddly enough, that's still not the title of this entry. Let me explain.

First, this past Sunday and Monday were an excellent reminder of how plentiful the rewards of November steelhead fishing can be. Second, as spending time with my sons often prevents me from venturing out, November happens to be my own father's birth month. So, it is a positive irony that I got to share Sunday fishing with the man for whom I must have cost many fishing days myself, as a tot. This month gives me a lot to be thankful for!



But now, about the boredom. It was excessive at times, truly. It's funny how the long minutes and hours of fishless drifting tend to vanish from our fishing stories. Very few trips are without a lull, where one starts thinking about lighting another cigar, maybe sharing a beer or switching spots, making a coffee run to Tim Horton's, remembering that last month's phone bill isn't paid yet, and what did I do with the remote for the DVD player because I'd really like to find... plop! the float goes down and our mind is back; usually too late as we swing a crushed bit of bait up out of the water and into the muck on the ground behind us.



In fact, my dad almost tripped on his own feet when it happened to him Sunday morning. His floundering and near dive into a patch of wet sand is what woke me out of my reverie. He missed the hit, but it was just as well since the fish eventually did make it around to visit us. We were fishing on an eastern lake Ontario tributary, and these rivers get like that: one minute you almost believe that there never existed a single fish in the history of the river, and the next you can barely keep them off your offerings. Once the fish rolled in, dad and I managed to land over a dozen chrome bright steelhead in less than an hour and a half.



Other than the fact that we pretty much had the entire river to ourselves, thanks to our patience, the highlight was shared between a missed behemoth that would probably tilt the scales at 15lbs and the stupidest NY escapee imaginable: he was hooked and landed three times (we recognized him by the strange upward angle of his snout and the diagonal scoring on his left cheek - he also happened to be the only dark fish of the lot). I will let you guess who missed that big one. But does it really matter? Both dad and I got a good look at it, and we both held our breath until it finally got free.



Sunday was different only because I was in Western NY, by myself (all my prospective fishing partners having had other things that needed doing), on a river that has a decided advantage in mykissian quantities and therefore offered more opportunity for donut redemption.



The morning was good, the late morning and early afternoon dismal and crowded, and the late afternoon was chock full of fish. I got to resume my photographic experimentations of actual fish, instead of (as above) floats lazily bobbing, or marsh vegetation (as below). About those lovely pictures, I snapped so many of them while waiting for steelhead on Sunday, that the batteries in the camera died on our second fish. Irony?



Another marked difference between NY and Ontario tributaries is that very few of the odd, truncated mutants that are often encountered in NY are ever seen in Ontario. One of the hens I caught on Monday was not only abnormally short, but so dark as to make me believe that she might already be mating.



Finally, though I spent less time hauling in fall steelhead than I did waiting for them and wondering where they'd got to, when they did show up they were available by the gaggle. Both rivers I fished afforded me stretches of good luck of the kind where, after unhooking one fish, your next drift had barely started before you hooked yet another.



These poor fish, these second, third, fourth and fifth comers; they are unfortunate. They can't fool you as you dream of them and wander in your thoughts with glazed eyes. You are ready for them, and your reflexes are warmed up. The float pops down, and you know exactly when to strike. Your nerves are charged for action, yet you are calm. You are excited, but you are very much at ease.

You are steelhead fishing in November, enjoying rich bounty.

p.-

Before...

The last few days before a long awaited fishing excursion are like the scent of fresh bread. In some ways it is better than the moment that comes after you first shred through the new loaf and scoop onto a warm slice a melting glob of butter, to bite into the steaming, delicious flesh. The scent itself always evokes the first bite that springs from the dream idealism, although the bread is not fresh for long, can be too hot or not of the kind that its fragrance had promised.

I dwell in the scent of it now. Already the hours drag. The minutes eek each small tick as drops from some old tap, with a rust clogged, slow, slow drip.

The promise of the coming novemberine days is almost palpable; it is felt in the crenelations of the brain like current rushing under one's scalp: dreams of fish dancing like fish, who disappear from sight as soon as the fisherman's silhouette rises through the clear water.

Outside I hear the rain patter on the glass like impatient fingers tap tapping the ever nascent question "is it time now?" Is it time to wake up, now, to set the rod and tackle in their designated sacred space by the cooler in the trunk, and roar the engine to life?

Can the long awaited morning be here yet? And will there be enough rain?

Is it time now, to break out the sandwiches I made for lunch, to savour them and as I chew the fresh crust, ponder the brilliant morning that was and the memories that were made?

No. Not yet. The oven's just warming up, and the rods are sitting still, by the door, waiting.

p.-

Good morning

As I sat watching the shadows in the moonlit pool, awaiting daybreak, I pondered that having forgotten my camera at home yet again might not be such a big deal. The shadows that I was watching were not mere shadows, but dark Chinooks chasing one another in the tail-out of a pool. The water in the pool was far, far clearer than what I had expected to find. After Friday's and Saturday's precipitation, I was pretty sure that there would be quite a bit of colour to the water. But now as the moon shone I saw not only the black, frolicking Chinooks but the white gravel underneath them: "Low and Gin Clear," words of doom for any Steelhead fisherman.

It was also my luck to be sharing this prestigious bit of low, clear river with six or seven local fellows, some of whom had waded over in their running shoes and were already flinging their bobbers at the elusive shades, cursing when they turned out to be logs. The honour of the quick flick at the end of every 8 foot drift is ubiquitous, and I hear it practiced around me in the gloaming. But when my float goes under and a chrome flash is seen, cigarettes drop from mouths agape, the whites of eyes glow like stars. Language erupts that is all "he just had one on," and nothing like "that was a nice one, bud," no acknowledging the stranger who just lost a fish and showed you that they are present. And so, soon, there is my float and about four others hovering over the short pool, and the evidence of my folly is now complete. I can't take the fishing pressure, myself; I start down the river well before the sun breaks the horizon.

A full hour of doubt elapses, as I work my way down closer to where my car is parked. What should I do? There are other options than here, and certainly the water must have better colour elsewhere. I am indecisive, so I keep fishing. I get into a rhythm, despite the low flow, the shallow current and my pessimism. I reach a straight section of river that I've never fished before and spot what looks like a deeper drift, but it's hard to tell from the angle at which I begin to fish through it. I don't know it yet, but there's a straight line down the middle of this pool. Drift six inches to the right, and your hook digs itself into a wiry stump, but drift six inches to the left and; the float goes down. It is not the expected snag, at least. But it's a Chinook. The heavy, powerful headshakes are telltale. I consider snapping off, then the fish leaps - big bright chrome Steelhead! She fights me up and then far down to the end of the drift, where I finally tail her and get to admire her rosy blush and her bright flanks like freshly minted nickel. She goes approximately eight pounds, and after a short breather sitting comfortably in the current, she smashes at me with her tail, a big boil and she's gone.

Less than an hour later, two good pan-sized trout also fall to my wares, and I almost succumb to the desire to eat them... but I don't. A Chinook also grabs my bait, but I have no interest in disturbing him so I snap my line off as soon as I get a good look at him. But all I can think about is that first Steelhead.

It's funny how one fish can sometimes make your day. Or rather, what that one fish can do to your day is what's worth considering. Later in the afternoon, I will catch three more fish, two of which are bigger than the gorgeous hen from the early morning, respectively weighing in at 10 and 12 pounds. The 10 pounder will leap five, six or seven times and attempt a little tail-walk before he is finally subdued, and the 12 pounder will take me about fifteen minutes to land and he will bend the 13ft Frontier as I have never seen it bend; but the beauty of the first fish, the unexpectedness of her, and the mythical time of day when I caught her, all leave a deeper mark. One fish turned my whole day around, magically going from unmitigated disaster to jubilant success.

I haven't smiled like that for a fish in a long time.

p.-

First Fall Chrome 2007

I was wisely counseled not to start my 2007 fall season where I eventually foolishly went anyway. What is it with rash individuals that they must always be so stubborn? Anyway, it was off to Steelhead Alley that I went, with Richard in tow and very much in the game, last Saturday morning.

We arrived at our destination in good time, and early. But what met our eyes, as the sun rose, was not a river but what now looked more like a series of stagnant meres connected by dust-choked rivulets... It seems that the southern shore of Lake Erie, known for its temperamental, spate-driven rivers has been very hard hit by this summer's drought, and water levels are nowhere near what they should be. Later in the day, we would meet a gaggle of pennsylvania steelheaders, looking for all the world like shipwreck victims washed up on barren shores. They had a forlorn, regretful set to their shoulders, doubtful of their chrome fortune.

Anyway, despite the conditions that first met us in the morning, we bravely set bait to hook, and it is our good fortune that a number of fine specimens had indeed braved the unnaturally low water levels and were present to accept our offerings. But our luck would not last, as it turns out. A high wind, gusting to 45kmh started rising at about 10am, followed by a high pressure front - effectively ending our fun for most of the day. The wind blew so hard at times that it kicked up mini maelstroms of dust, and our floats were often blown back upriver, against the feeble "current."

Richard managed to find the hot button at the very end of the day, landing the fine hen in the caption below. But most of the rest of the time was spent smoking cigars, drinking beer, eating lunch and granola bars, making jokes; and brainstorming cost-cutting measures for our home economies, by planning amendments to our wives' and toddlers' diets, shifting them strictly to barley and corn (number 1 and 2 respectively on the calory per dollar ratio scale).

No fun whatsoever (when I announced the new diet to Laura the next day..hmmph! women!).

p.-

Huron River, Michigan

It's been a while since I wrote something significant about fishing. It won't be much longer, I swear.

Meanwhile, I took my entire little contingent on a trip to the Huron River, near Ann Arbor Michigan, last week. Well, not exactly. The Huron River was more of a side trip. We actually went to see Dr. Richard Solomon M.D. as a unit, for the benefit of Isaac. More on the Huron River follows, below.

We have heard about a lot of different therapies for children with autism, and Dr. Solomon was referred to us as one of the best in "play" therapy. We wanted to see him in order to get a different point of view as to what we should be doing for Isaac now, as well as how we could best apply play therapy to Isaac - and we wanted to hear about it from a proponent of that therapy, as there seem to be so few of them here in Canada.

The visit to Dr. Solomon's office did not disappoint, and I believe that it will prove to be a turning point for us in our battle with autism. Many things about the consultation impressed me, not least of which was the efficiency with which an information-packed two hours were conducted. We learned a good deal that I won't recount here, lest I start chapter one of a new book on the subject. At this point in our fight with Isaac's condition, we are well educated; but Dr. Solomon managed to shed light on many facets of our child's difficulties as well as teach us what we really needed to know: how can we, his parents and those who love him the most, best help him. No matter the challenges that lie ahead, sometimes all one needs to get underway is a clear road ahead. This is what Dr. Solomon helped us with most last week, and in my view it is a gift beyond estimation.

Now, about that river. It turns out that the Doctor himself is somewhat of a trout and bass fisherman - another trait that marks him as an intelligent man. But I'm not sure that he's aware of what he has almost right on his doorstep. The Huron River is a huge warm water river, that is stocked with roughly 35000 steelhead yearly, and it is known mostly for its spring run. I would have loved to have sampled it in October, nonetheless, but my passing there was so short that my interest needed to be mostly professional. I am pretty certain that what steelhead are in the river at this moment have not gotten very far up river, and I was as far is it is possible for them to go. In May, there should be throngs of them, but in this extended August I would not be bothered to rig up for mere ghosts of anticipation.



The stretch of river that I visited was deep and mostly slow. It flows rather somnolently in long bends over a weedy bottom, which looks to be a mix of sand and gravel - although it was difficult for me to tell, as the water was somewhat stained from a recent rain. Now and again, a riffle or two show up and the river dives into a pool. And its banks are heavily wooded, so that I would not suggest tackling it without your waders. In fact, in the lower stretches, boats are de rigueur for serious numbers anglers.



Beyond this, my observations are that there are a lot more deciduous trees in southern Michigan than what is commonly observed around Toronto and points north. And they are much larger, too. I used to live in Windsor, Ontario, so long ago now that I'd forgotten that oak and chestnuts trees could get so big. The area also seems to benefit from warmer weather, a later fall and an earlier spring, which would account for the size of its trees.



We have a return appointment with Dr. Solomon in February, so I may just pack my gear and bring it with me at that time. We will see. I hope I will!

Finally, here are a few more of the pictures I took during our visit to the Huron. Enjoy!







p.-

The Lords of the Lord the Rings

It's been three years since the last installment of the movie trilogy of The Lord of the Rings was released on DVD, and I've finally decided to sit down and speak my mind about the whole sordid mess.

Some of you may know that I wrote my Masters thesis on The Lord of the Rings, the book, by J.R.R. Tolkien. This makes me more of a purist than most viewers of the three movies. It also means that I take certain thematic and literary aspects of the books a lot more seriously than most people. And all of this translates to a more critical view of some of the events and characters in the movie, how they were portrayed, as well as some of the really crappy substitutions that the screenplay writers made over what Tolkien had previously intended.

I don't blame the movie's writers, Fran Walsh, Philippa Boyens and Peter Jackson, for trying to find directions for the plot that are more simplistic than what the books had achieved, especially since movie audiences don't tend to be as erudite as the reading public. But I do reserve the privilege to make comment on some of the aspects where I think they foundered.

Before I go on, I should mention that much of my consternation with the films stems not only from book-related mishaps, but also from the point of view of a movie buff. Almost anyone who loves movies has at least one, but usually more than one, favourite that they can watch over and over again. For example, I could watch The Empire Strikes Back, or The Shawshank Redemption, or Gettysburg - pretty much any time, and I would still enjoy those movies for what they are to me: really well produced, entertaining and meaningful stories. I don't find myself capable of saying the same for the Lord of the Rings movies.

There's too much cliché to them, I guess. One device that is used in the movies which really turns me off is the use of "what ___ ?" In linguistic terms, this is called "evaluation," which is the story teller's way of quantifying the importance of what is going on. Music in movies is a form of evaluation. For example, in The Gladiator, the battle scenes represent excellent musical evaluation. But in strictly literary terms, repetition, exaggeration and alliteration can all mark evaluative writing - such as in Joseph Conrad's "Heart of Darkness" ("The horror! The horror!") or Shakespeare's "Richard III" ("A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse!") An often overlooked aspect of J.R.R. Tolkien's writing is that he was a master of evaluation. It is also for this reason that his books read so well and that so many people, who otherwise don't read Fantasy novels, pick up his books and then never put them down; and his descriptions of Lorien and of the charge of the Rohirrim are among the great literary masterpieces of our time.

This brings me back to "what ___ ?" There are several instances of this poor evaluative device that pop up with irritating regularity, meaning to me that the screenplay writers were strapped for time & had no better device to fall back on. There is the instance where Frodo has just called Gollum by his rightful name, "Smeagol," and this latter responds with "what did you call me?" At the end of "The Two Towers," there is Sam's speech about going on with the fight, and there still being something to fight for. The music for that scene, and the cutting back and forth between Sam, the Ents and Helm's Deep is actually very nice evaluation - but Frodo's response, which is supposed to cap it all off, is like a flat balloon: "what is it Sam?" as though he wasn't about to tell us! In fishing terms this is like seeing your float strike downward from the vicious attack of a ravenous and frenzied ... old boot. Tolkien did not resort to this simple trick, in his books, and his portrayal of the scenes are vastly different.

But the movie is replete with these what? what? what? setups that don't exist in the book. It is very much like the blast of a hammer: the first time it is surprising, then it gets progressively less so until one just ignores it, or is bored by it. It reminds me of a critique that Mark Twain once wrote about Fennimore Cooper (author of The Last of the Mohicans), namely that:

Style may be likened to an army, the author to its general, the book to the campaign. Some authors proportion an attacking force to the strength or weakness, the importance or unimportance, of the object to be attacked; but Cooper doesn't. It doesn't make any difference to Cooper whether the object of attack is a hundred thousand men or a cow; he hurls his entire force against it. He comes thundering down with all his battalions at his back, cavalry in the van, artillery on the flanks, infantry massed in the middle, forty bands braying, a thousand banners streaming in the wind; and whether the object be an army or a cow you will see him come marching sublimely ...

This is very much the way the writers of the movie The Lord of the Rings approached their script. They hit us over and over with the same tricks, the same set ups and with the same mega-blast exaggerations of Tolkien's original. The Black Riders make creepy-crawlies slither out of the ground, the mountain troll in Moria walks into the chamber of mazarbûl and engages the entire kung-fu masters company in a brawl, the King of the Dead enters into disdainful scary-o discourse with Aragorn and Gimli and Legolas, Legolas turns into the mega atomic surfer dude snowboarding down stairs and extreme-skiing to death huge mammoths, the Ents turn into blithering idiots stupid enough to be tricked by Pippin the stupidest of all hobbits, etc... ad nauseum. In these (and so many more) scenes, the movies so misrepresent the books that anyone reading The Lord of the Rings for the first time must either find the real story bland in comparison, or be puzzled as to where the script writers got the inspiration for scenes that just do not exist in the book.

Finally, although I could go on and on, all of this forced hoopla mars the subtlety and poetry with which Tolkien had so painstakingly decorated his original stories; and I am left with the feeling, not so much of having seen something wonderful and artful, but more of having been to the carnival and having had a reel gud time.

And maybe that's all that Walsh, Boyens and Jackson had truly set out to achieve, when they sought to bring this massive beautiful and ungainly thing to the silver screen: just giving their viewers a good time. After all, it is Hollywood, and the name of the game is profit, above all else. Balancing the necessary flash-bang plot pyrothechnics with a sufficient amount of more deeply flowing literary matter is a very difficult and foolhardy thing to attempt, especially when your writer was J.R.R. Tolkien. And that is probably why the first time I saw the movies, it was a good time; but the second time, it was merely tiresome.

p.-