Fishing on the River (With You)

There are things that I’ve always wanted to share with someone special, a favored fishing spot is one of those things. The descent from down the canyon walls into coffeepot is a beautiful thing, a green river surrounded by a canyon of pines a bushes. I couldn’t wait to show Keli what fly fishing in Idaho is like. The bad part was that the fish weren’t too eager to show us a good time. They were rising but wouldn’t take our flies, no matter what we tried; I must have tried ten flies. Nevertheless, memories were made, no catching was done, but we got some good fishing in. Next time.

Desolation

Here's more to that story, this is the begining of it.

Chapter One

“For wheresoever the carcase is,
there will the eagles be gathered together” –ST MATTHEW 24:28

Glory and honor were the only thoughts belonging to Elias Roberts as he walked tall toward the President of the United States with a Smith and Wesson 44 In his right hand. His finger twitching slightly in anticipation of what might happen and if the destination could be achieved and glory attained. Elias harbored no personal ill will toward President Ulysses S. Grant, but rather only longed for a moment of fame and meaning to his otherwise meager existence. The nickel had warmed in the sweaty palm of his right hand, and as he drew he dropped the weapon causing a small but noticeable scene. One of President Grant’s personal attendants shot Elias Roberts, who died at the age of 21, alone. Taking two shots to the torso, one shot piercing the left lung and the other through the gut. Elias would only lay and smile at the floorboards until the lights of his eyes dimmed and grayed.
The papers would tell of the attempt, but his name was not mentioned. His family would not attend his funeral or show any kind of remembrance toward their lost son and brother. They believed his mind had gone insane and his will bent to that of the confederate loyalists he rode with on bank robberies and train heists. There was not a wife to mourn for the loss, and there were no children baring his namesake to wonder what had become of their father. His personal belongings were sold to pseudo gypsies in New York City for five dollars.
His closest friend was his brother, David, who would not take the news lightly and was surprised at the nonchalant behavior that the rest of his family carried towards the death. They had given up on the son that had been driven mad through war and robberies. His mother would note that when she looked in his eyes, she viewed chaos and an unquenchable loneliness. Grass grew thick around his headstone, and moss began to cover the north end and a part of the engraving which only read, “Elias Roberts, 1850-1871”.

King Chicken

I Am Your Rooster, and You Are My Hen.

If You Flew The Coop, I'd Bring You Back Again.

I'd Love You Tenderly and Make You

Nests of Soft Grass, And If Another Rooster

Tried To Take You I'd Stomp His Punk Ass!

So Baby Lay Your Head On My Shoulder,

I Am Your Rooster, Your King Chicken,

I Am Your Solider...

For Keli

You Make Me Laugh,
You Make Me Smile,
You Make My Knees Weak
and I Become A Pile...
I'd Buy You Flowers Everyday
Like Pansies and Roses,
and If I Could I'd Part Puddles of
Water For You Like Moses.

Desolation

This is a paragraph from a book i'm writing, it's pretty boring, but I keep writing and writing. I wonder if i'll ever complete any of the books or stories I start, that'll be my next goal. This story is about a gunfighter who is beggining to regret his decisions in life. This is a quick description of who he was.

"He sat at the dining table in the house that his father built long ago, his brown eyes surveying the grain in the wood. The natural consistencies caught his attention the same way most things do that people generally look over, the patterns on a blade of grass, or the thread count on linens. Most people took him for what he was, and what he appeared. A thick sandy brown beard covered his face, and if one looked close enough, they would see strands of red hiding in the brown. The hair on his head was darker and very thick, and if he’d lived to be eighty it never would have receded. On a good day his height was five feet eleven inches, and a bulky one hundred and eighty pounds, which was large for that day and age. When nervous, a stutter would make itself slightly known and then return to depths of his soul when he was comfortable. His guns were always on his hips or within reach. Trust had long since left his company, inside of his racked soul was true loneliness."

Despondent

When I was a boy I would count the stars, and would become angry as the number would change on me, then one day my Father told me that the stars are without number and that one could not possibly count them all, I remember being wrought up, perplexed, despondent. That was my loss. There is always the story of the one that got away, for me this was a 25-30 pound yellow catfish. As I pulled the monster in, he reared his ugly head out of the water, if only to tease me and give me a glimpse of his splendor before returning to the murk. That was my loss. The good part about losses, is that you always gain experience, and you gain an appreciation for what you didn't lose...

There and Back Again

I haven't been able to go home for quite some time now, but the call to Memphis had finally been heard. My Nieces and Nephews are growing up alot, it makes me sad to know that I have and am going to miss so much with them. Memphis is still as I remembered it, the color green is everywhere, and the air is never completely silent. We took Jayden fishing for her first time, and true to southern form she caught one, a little channel catfish. I was excited for her, I can't recall the first fish I caught, but the thrill is still there when I catch one now.

Scroggin

The other day, while fly fishing, my buddies and I saw our nations symbol messin around. As we awkwardly watched the two birds make love, I realized that I was witnessing a rare and possibly sacred experience. Sorry i'm not too good at explaining, i'm a guy.

All Things Beautiful

Sometimes words escape us, causing us to think a little harder. There are some things we cannot understand or put words to, but can be very familiar with. I am reffering to feelings. When a fish is caught on a fly rod, one has the pleasure of knowing that they did not catch that fish by luck, but by practice, methodical casting, and trying hard to think like the fish in the river they stand in. My somewhat recently new policy is catch and release unless I am camping, then the fish can be called supper. The other day I caught a hybrid and a rainbow trout within twenty minutes of eachother, on a dry fly while we are still deep in the nymph season. I was happy and impressed with my fish. I pondered on whether I should keep the rainbow, who was one hell of a good looking fish, or release him and hope that karma might grant me more in the near future. I let him go, and kept at it. When fishing, my thoughts are turned to other things at times, but I don't worry about them. Fly fishing makes it so I can look at my problems in a different light, one where I can see the blessings that come from my trials. I feel like everything will be alright when I'm on the river.

Counting The Stars

I miss being able to lie out on the green grass without worry. What I wouldn’t give for a summer camp out with my brothers and Mother Nature, with the mountains enveloping us with their beauty, and the rivers softly speaking to us as we cast. I miss being free. I miss feeling like everything is going to be alright again. The songs of the cicadas and tree frogs will always be a part of my soul, being able to move it in special ways. The lightning bugs used to dance in the air, and I would often sit and watch as a kid, I still would now if given the chance. What I wouldn’t give to be able to see my family again. My life is full of good things always; at least I can count the stars…

"Mother Nature is the only woman that embraces me without reservations." - Caleb Stucki

My Last Waltz

This is a song I wrote about valentines day a while back. Written down it looks pretty stupid, but I like how it sounds when I sing and play it on the guitar, which I haven't done for anybody.

“No!” said the clouds to the sun trying to shine.
“Sorry.”, whirred the bullet that left the gun.
“When?” said the man with his head in his hands.
“Forget.”, whispered the wind that bit the man’s face.
“Who?” said the woman who wouldn’t decide.
“No!” said the river that pounded the dam.
“Hate!” said the outlaw just before he was hung.

"Love..." thought the man who sat alone on the hill.
The devil laughed as the widow cried until she whispered sweet lullabies…
The devil laughed as the widow cried until she whispered sweet lullabies…

I'm gonna come back one day.

A Trip To The Unknown

Our lives are busy and frantic, and often days speed by in blurs of time. Work and money keep the show running while it could take some time to realize that if we are not careful, we could lose some of our most valuable attributes. When is the last time a flower was carefully observed, noting the finest details of it? Or the sway of the waist high meadow grass in the fall, with the wind blowing away the songs and memories of summer? Or the rolling waters of the South Fork of the Snake River accompanied by a four count rhythm and moths dancing on the water to welcome the shadows of dusk? Miracles happen around us everyday, from seeds setting in the soil and growing through photosynthesis, to realizing that the person that matters the most is the one that makes you forget about the things that make our days go by in a blur of time, they are the ones who make you forget time is even flowing. When realism hits us, we still have that suspended timeless moment in our minds that we will be able to take to the eternities...it's these moments that make me fully realize how much I've missed her.

"Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs...I am haunted by waters." - Norman MaClean

The Big Catch

It is no secret that I love to fly fish. There is a lot of observation, planning, and trial and error that go into it. There are some trout that will eat anything, usually brookies and some cutthroats more than others. The bigger, more experienced trout take more effort. When I get to the river and choose a good hole where a monster might be hiding in the depths, I observe the surroundings, the time of day, but most of all I observe and look for what might be on the menu. Usually there are little moths, caddis flies, and mosquitoes. I’ve learned that these prize trout, the ones that make it all worth it, are picky and are hard to fool. With just the right balance between art and skill, you can make one rise. I also strive to leave the banks and shallows to fish in the deeper waters where the big fish swim near the bottom in the cooler currents. When the hook is set, and the fight begins, all sense of time and worry about anything else is lost, and you are left suspended in a segment of time that belongs to you and the fish at the other end. There is no greater disappointment than when the fight with the fish is lost and it gets away with your fly in its mouth, but at the same time there is no greater thrill than fighting with the fish for ten or fifteen minutes till it gets tired enough to bring to shore. Then she is yours forever. In some ways fly fishing can be related to dating women. I would dare venture to say that a lot of women aren’t picky and will take any fisherman’s hook. I have always felt like I need to fish in the deeper water, and wait for a woman to rise and be caught up with what I have to offer. So it is that you will see me standing on the edge, somewhere just past shallow but near deep, with the water nearly up to the limit of my waders, in hopes of catching the most beautiful fish in the river. I am meant to fish in deep water...

Revisited

Sunday afternoons are always good times for reflection. I went to the old farmhouse that I had spent a good deal of my childhood in, after the conclusion of my sunday church services. The house, which was never very impressive to begin with, was in shambles, and a weatherbeaten shell of it's formality in my mind. The smell of sage still clung in the air, as I had remembered. I touched the ground that my bear feet had once trod hundreds of times over a decade ago. I didn't know why, but it made me sad and I felt like a dark cloud had been hung over my soul. It is always hard when this happens because I don't know who to turn to except God, and most times he makes me deal with it anyways. I looked around for some sign of memory that would give me hope and a little peace, and as I looked, I noticed the setting of many stories and many small moments that will always matter. Winter is still in full effect as I gaze on the mess of everything, but I didn't notice the cold as much as I noticed the growing hole in my heart. I realized the fear that was coming, and told myself that it had no place in my life. Even though I don't know the outcome of my journeys to come, I do know the direction i'm heading, and I pray that I may be led to good ends and good beginnings, for where somebody is going is all that really matters. When I look back on my past I realize that with each decision I made, came a lesson to be learned and appreciated. I still can't help but be haunted by it...