Bobwhite

THE ROAD TO EPIPHANY “There ain’t no place I ain’t never gone… but it’s kind of like that say’n that you’ve heard so many times… well there’s just no place like home.” Lynyrd Skynyrd – All I Can Do Is Write About It I was exhausted after the long drive and all the miles I’d hunted, and my mind drifted across the hazy vastness of South Dakota, drawn to the memories of dreams and certain events in my life by a heavy sun, low on the horizon. I shivered to remember those dreams; startled by the images and intrigued by what was within me that needed to be released. When they reoccurred the images seemed less important than the message, and the knowledge that I was helpless to control or stop them. My only solace was that, in these dreams I was out of my body, and hovered over the scene as an observer. In this detached state, it seemed that what I saw happened to someone else, even though I knew that it was my flesh. The dreams came when they wanted, often on consecutive nights, and then left me alone for months, only to return again. They were always the same, and I’d almost reached a point where I was able to dismiss them because of their uniformity, when they changed. In the new dreams, I wasn't a detached observer; I was naked, and laying face down in the snow. Although I needed desperately to breathe, I was afraid to lift my head and take air because of what I might see. Each subsequent dream carried me further and further away. Sometimes, finding the answers to life's questions is like making a high, crossing shot on a down-wind pheasant; it’s best done without too much thinking. Today’s painting is a watercolor titled, “A Chance For Two – Pheasants”, and is the result of a road-trip to Epiphany. My mind wandered and remembered when the dreams had begun. I was in my twenties, and worked as a counselor with the kids and families of south Minneapolis. My best friend at the time was an Oglala Sioux, and he interpreted them as his grandfather had taught him. While Andy rarely showed emotion, his concern was apparent after he listened to me recount the most recent one. “This is bigger than me,” he said. “You need to see an elder.” “An elder?” “Yeah, an elder. You know, a teacher. A medicine man?” “Do you really know one?” He narrowed his eyes. “He'll be in town next week. Those few that are left have to travel so they can see their people.” Andy had made the appointment, and told the teacher that he had a friend, a “Washita”, that was in need of help. He explained to me that I should bring a gift of tobacco, and pay whatever I could afford. On the appointed day I drove to the address he’d given me, and was met at the door by a Native American woman. When I said hello she simply nodded toward the living room, and it was there that I met Cletus. “This is for you,” I said, handing the old man a bag of tobacco. “The name’s Cletus,” he smiled. I told Cletus about the dreams; my back covered in boils that swelled as I watched, and then burst in a rush of blood and puss. From these holes nematode like creatures crawled and trailed amniotic sacks. I told him that the dreams had begun to include me laying at the edge of a frozen, windswept river and that I was afraid to lift my face from the snow to take my next breath. Cletus seemed to be asleep. When he finally opened his eyes he asked, “What do you see now?” I heard myself describe a scene that was before my eyes for the very first time. “There is a wolf on the other side of the river, and a raven in a tree between us. The raven looks from the wolf to me, and back again. Then the wolf howls, and the raven flies away. When the raven flies away, the wind stops. “You have gone as far you can in this life,” Cletus told me through half closed and hooded eyes. “You must give up everything to go on. You are like a hawk that looks the wrong way. You have the ability to see clearly, and for long distances, but you search in the wrong direction.” The next day I asked my friend, Andy, “What’s he mean, ‘give up everything’?” “He means that you need to have a ‘give away’. You invite everyone that’s important to you, and this includes the spirits of those who have gone before. Then you feast, and give them everything that you don’t need for your journey." “Really? I’ve got to do that?” “Yeah, you do,” Andy said with a grin. “Did he tell you anything else?” In my trance state, I smiled when I recalled what had happened in the few weeks after I’d met Cletus. After a frustrating day with my clients, I’d sent a letter to the owner of an Alaskan fishing lodge and asked to guide. To my surprise, I was hired and after a few minutes thought; I resigned my position at the day-treatment program where I worked. When I considered what to pack for the journey, and what to do with what was left, I had an epiphany. I’d have my give away. All of my friends, both present and past were in attendance, and I gave away everything that I thought might be of importance to them. We feasted and laughed, remembered good times together and celebrated my new life. They wished me luck on the journey. I blinked and found myself back in the truck. Mac, my Gordon setter, had his head in my lap, and he twitched and whimpered as he chased pheasants across the prairies of his mind. The conversation in the front seat had to do with the day’s shooting and where we’d hunt in the morning. It seemed distant. The hum of the tires, and the glow of the dashboard were hypnotic. I drifted back to thoughts of my journey, and the new life I’d found. It was everything I could have wanted; I’d guide in Alaska during the summer, and paint in Minnesota over the fall. In the winter months I’d guide in Argentina until I returned to Minnesota in the spring. Then I’d paint until I left for Alaska. My artwork sold, I’d married, bought an old home to fix up, had a couple of kids, trained a good bird dog or two, and still managed to travel and guide; life was good. I imagined that I’d continue down the same sunny path for the rest of my years. I was content and thought it fortunate that I’d had my “give away” while I was still young, before my life had fallen into place. I couldn’t conceive what it would be like to give everything away again, and I secretly doubted that I’d have the courage to do it a second time. The divorce took care of that decision for me. I didn’t really have a choice. “You’ve gone as far you can in your life.” Cletus' voice said from somewhere in my past. “You must give up everything to go to the next.” Like the first time, this second “give away” forced me to look at my life and decide what was really important. I found that the things I needed for the journey ahead were mostly inside of me. The epiphany made the process easier to bear. Any birth is painful, and so it was with my rebirth. Once reborn, however, I’d never felt so free and happy. My children loved me. I had a much clearer perspective on who I was and wanted to be, I’d found out who my friends really were, and I was, for the most part, unencumbered by the material things that most people think are important. Eating off of plastic plates for a while seemed like a small price to pay for such insights into my life. Mac moaned and shifted in my lap. I scratched him between his ears and trailed my finger down the bridge of his muzzle. He sighed and wagged his tail weakly. “You've had a tough day.” I said softly. “You need to be hunted more.” A road sign flashed past the window. EPIPHANY 7 MILES, it read. “Hey, lets go to Epiphany,” Tim said to Alan. “We can have beers and dinner at the Coon Hunter.” “Bob, you’re going to love this place,” Alan said, turning around in his seat. “It doesn’t look like much on the outside, but it’s the real deal inside.” “They have this big silver box…” “Yeah, the magic silver box!” Tim said. “Bob, you’re gonna love the silver box! I’ve never seen anything like it before. It’s like magic. You order what you want from the menu, they put in the top, and it pops out of a chute at the bottom when it’s done. It’s incredible!” We came to Epiphany from the north. There were a few older homes, a gas station and a boarded-up building or two. One of the darkened storefronts had several cars in front of it, and we parked across the street. As we opened the door a shaft of warm light and laughter spilled out onto the porch to greet us. The Coon Hunter was as inviting and friendly a small town bar as I’ve ever been in, as light and cheery on the inside, as it was dark and nondescript from the road. I think it safe to say that everyone there was a regular, and that after a beer or two, we would be also. It was easy to imagine that we’d gone back in time fifty years, and I wondered what the local brew had been in 1954. We walked past the bar and took a table, as guests in unfamiliar taverns are likely to do, and ordered pitchers of beer. Two cold, quick glasses went down before I noticed Tim grinning at me. When he caught my eye, he nodded towards the bar. There on the back counter, blocking a considerable bit of the mirror was the object of Tim’s rapture, the magic silver box. “What d’ya want to eat?” he asked, sliding me a menu. “You can get any fried thing you want.” The usual bar food was well represented, as well as some things I’d never seen before; fried turkey gizzards. “The gizzards for me.” I said, and added my selection to the growing list. “Cool!” Tim said. “More pitchers?” The magic silver box was now the center of our attention. Pre-portioned bags of battered delight were poured into a short hopper on it’s top, and just minutes later, removed from a chute at it’s bottom, perfectly prepared. There were no switches, indicators, nor gauges, nothing but smooth stainless steel, as efficient in form as it was in function. One after another, we started to yawn. It was time to pay our bill, say goodnight to our new friends, and head back to camp. On my way past the bar, I noticed a glint of light from the corner of the box, and leaned over the counter to have a closer look. There, in the lower left corner of the magic silver box, in the smallest of raised script, was a name. It said, “Cletus”. “You ‘ok’ to drive?” Alan asked Tim, as we climbed into the truck. “Sure, you bet!” He answered, bright-eyed and alert. Jeeze, I wish I were that age again. I thought to myself, as I willed my legs into movement and climbed into the truck with an audible moan. Mac raised his head just enough to let me sit down, then flopped it back into my lap. He hardly even raised an eyelid when I produced the last gizzard from my pocket. The weather would change. It had been unseasonably warm, but the wind had swung around, out of the north, and the temperature had dropped. “Frost in the morning.” Alan said with a yawn. “Birds ought’a sit tight till it warms up.” On the drive back to camp, a gust of wind rocked the truck, and seemed to speak to me; it came as a friend and told of new times and a new journey. I thought of Lisa. I'd met her in the autumn after the divorce, and within a short time, discovered that when I was with her, I was the man I wanted to be. She was offered a job at the lodge in Alaska the next summer, and it was there that I asked her to join me in this new life. We were married, there at the lodge, the following summer. Again, my new life was more than I could have ever asked for. I’d found a friend, soul mate and lover. She adored my children, and they her. We worked together all summer in one of the most beautiful places on earth, and traveled to Argentina during the winter months to fish with friends. I was painting well and the studio thrived under our partnership. Now, I imagined, I’ve found the course for the rest of my life. That is, until we decided to have a child. Unlike before, this decision didn’t require that I give up everything to find a new life. It did necessitate some major adjustments, however. We no longer work in Alaska during the summer, I took a long hiatus from guiding, and we didn’t travel together to Argentina and fish with our friends for a few years. Still, everything in life is a trade; I’m painting and writing for a living, we have a big garden, the old home still needs plenty of repairs, and I get to see more of my friends. Lisa is still my friend, soul mate and lover; the most beautiful woman I know. The older children are now teenagers and better off for her guidance and love. We continue to work together all summer in one of the most beautiful places on earth. I’m painting better than ever, and despite difficult times, the studio continues to pay our bills. Most importantly, we have a new life, a daughter named Tommy. Now, I’ve finally found the course for the rest of my life. Thanks for visiting, Bob White I’m not sure that any of us can really find it… but here are some things that I’ve learned on the road to Epiphany. Life is just like the magic silver box; there are no directions, you can’t turn it off or on, and you get back exactly what you put into it. Going somewhere new is never hard, it’s leaving where you’re at that’s difficult. You never lose by giving things away. Sometimes the least important thing about a hunting trip is the hunting. I still see very clearly, but often in the wrong direction.

Hi everyone, I hope that you'll enjoy this essay. My Favorite Lunch "There is nothing like good food, good beer, and a bad girl." Fortune cookie I stood next to the truck and stared at the rolling hills of wheat stubble. They seemed to march away from the dawn, held back only momentarily by the wind that fell from the distant mountains. Frost lingered in long shadows cast by the low morning sun, and as the day advanced the bejeweled fields retreated, glistening for a few moments in their glory before the frost melted. The back of my neck was chilled and my face was warm. My friends intended to hunt deer later in the season, and the next few days were designed to be a scouting trip. There were several maps spread across the hood of the truck, held down by gloved hands and marked over with colored grease crayons. There's something about the wind that I find comforting, even mesmerizing, and my mind drifted away on it. The conversation with the owner of the ranch and his son seemed distant and unimportant, until the boy began arguing with his father about the best route to a distant ridge. A hundred yards away a small covey of sharptail grouse flew past, their staccato wing beats and glides marked them as the prairie grouse that I'd seen in the distance, but had never held in my hand. "Sharpies!" I said over my shoulder, interrupting the quarrel and pointing, "They're flying into the wheat." "Prairie-carp," the rancher's son mumbled. "You can have 'em all." My friends and the kid turned back to the map, but the old man's eyes, as blue as the sky they reflected, stayed on the birds. Their wings flashed in the low sun as they hovered and then settled into the stubble to feed. There was a smile in those eyes when he finally looked away and walked over to me. "That's a nice bunch of birds," he said. "They roost on the big hills behind us to get the first bit of warmth from the dawn, and then fly out to feed once the light reaches the fields." "I've never shot a sharptail," I said as a way of explaining my presence; I wasn't a deer hunter. "Do you mind if I walk them up?" "I'd join you if I could." He said, looking up into the hills behind us, "but I've got a lot of beef to move before winter. Are you sure that you wouldn't rather hunt pheasants? That's what the boy likes; drives 'm crazy, and there's plenty around the place." "I've shot lots of roosters," I replied. "I've never held a sharpie, I'd rather hunt them, if you don't mind." "Naw... 'course not." He said. "Let the kid have his ditch-parrots." The pencil drawing, "Prairie Still Life" was used to illustrate this essay when it was first published in the March/April 2007 issue of Shooting Sportsman magazine. The kid seemed to enjoy his newfound importance, and climbed into the truck with my friends. I fell in with the old man, and we bounced across the fields in the old ranch truck. There was a suspicious hole in the floor, and he noticed me looking at it. "The boy likes to pot-shoot roosters out of the truck," he said. "I'm glad I wasn't along for the ride that day." As he showed me around the ranch that his grandfather had carved out of a wilderness, I was told all about sharptails; what type of cover they favored at particular times of the day, and where I'd be most likely to find them. As I listened, it became clear to both of us that it would be extremely difficult to hunt these birds without a dog. "I'd let you use my old setter," he said. "But Mac’s shoulders have plumb given out. The doc says I should put him down, but I just don't have the heart to do it." I'd lost my bird dog in a tragic accident the year before, and had just found a pup that might replace him when I'd started to guide in Alaska. Rather than subject him to the travel, I gave him to a friend when I left. I'd walk them up on my own. Eventually, we found ourselves back at the ranch house, where I met his old Gordon setter and had coffee with his daughter. "Kelly can give you a ride out past the alfalfa fields, and save you some time," he suggested. "Work the edges of the wheat stubble until late morning, then concentrate on cover that protects the birds from the wind until mid-afternoon. The edges around the alfalfa fields will be good in the late afternoon, then walk the higher, east-facing slope at dusk, that's where they'll be going to roost." The daughter, Kelly, drove me down the hidden valley, the heart of the ranch, past the alfalfa, and out to the cut wheat fields. There was endless cover to hunt, but my plan was simple; I'd walk with the sun at my back until mid-day, rest and eat the lunch that I carried in my vest, and then turn and hunt my way back to the ranch house with the sun behind me. "Don't be late for supper." Kelly said as she turned the old truck around and headed to the ranch to help her father gather cattle from the high summer pastures. It felt good to slip shells into the double gun and get started. I began my hunt between the stubble and a brushy draw, and dropped down into it whenever it broadened enough to look suitable for the prairie grouse that I sought. Once, as I pushed my way through tangled brush to get to an opening of sparse grass, I flushed a hen pheasant. I was so keyed-up to see a sharp-tail that I almost pulled the trigger as I swung through it. The cackling of a second bird, as it towered into the sky saved the first, and I dropped the rooster. It's weight felt right in my vest. At mid-day I found myself in a wide draw, and wanting to look at the horizon and listen to the wind while I ate my lunch, I began to climb. As I stepped out of the high grass onto a vast field of cut wheat, a covey of Hungarian partridge flushed off to my right, chattering as they made for the safety of the open field. I was surprised and missed with my first barrel. Pull through the next bird, I admonish myself, and the second barrel of the little 20-gauge barked without my knowing that I'd pulled the trigger. The bird that I was swinging through continued on its way, seemingly unscathed. Then began to slow and finally towered straight up for what seemed like a hundred feet, before it flipped over on it's back and pin-wheeled down in a slow spiral, landing gently in the cut wheat. The little partridge made a perfect still life lying in the stubble where it'd fallen, the composition was natural, the colors both rich and subtle. When I picked the bird up to examine it, I found that a single pellet had pierced its head, just behind one eye. Other than the tiny red spot on either side of its head, it was a perfect specimen. If I had wanted to mount a partridge, this would have been the bird of a lifetime. I was ready to eat, and sat down in a pile of wheat straw next to the little bird, and as an afterthought, added the pheasant from my vest to the still life so that I could admire them both. Gusts of wind ruffled a feather every now and then and brought life the composition. The lunch had been thoughtfully packed, and included all of my favorite ingredients. There were pretzels, hard cheese, a tin of kippered herring, a big dill pickle, a bottle of hoppy Czech beer (one that actually tasted fuller and richer at air temperature), and for dessert, a tart green apple. My favorite lunch would be the product of its individual parts, like a symphony, and it would be important to orchestrate the amounts that I ate so that I'd not run out of any one item before I finished them all. The foundation of my meal was the pretzels, the big, hard kind that can break teeth, and I started with one and a bit of cheese. A bite of the kosher dill pickle followed, and it was strong with garlic. It was time to open the beer, and because a real beer necessitates an opener, I pulled the Swiss knife out of my pocket. The rest of the first pretzel was washed down with a swallow of the Pilsner. Back to the pretzels, but this time accompanied with kippered herring, then more pickle, a bit more cheese, and another swallow of beer. The symphony concluded with the last foamy mouthful of Pilsner; just enough to wash it all down, but not so much that I didn't want another swallow. It's nice to finish a beer wanting a bit more. There was a tuft of feather and dried blood on the blade of my Swiss knife from the last bird that I'd cleaned, and I scraped it away with my thumbnail before quartering the apple for dessert. I wiggled into the pile of straw, and watched the high clouds while I savored the perfection of an apple. I may have fallen asleep, it seemed cooler when I finally sat up, stretched, and wondered about the rest of my day. The sun had passed over me on its way toward evening, and it was time to hunt back to the house. As dusk came on, I remembered Kelly's request not to be late for dinner, and decided to walk a direct line back to the house. I was disappointed not to have seen a prairie grouse, but the weight of my vest was satisfying enough. I was happy with the day. The shortest route back to the ranch house took me across an enormous field of short grass, and as I climbed to the crest of a rolling hill a sharp tail flushed at my feet. I missed with both barrels and watched my prize fly away in the opposite direction I was walking. It's cackling sounded like sarcastic laughter as it disappeared into a distant shallow bowl. There was nothing else to do but follow, and as I crested the slight rise that created the depression where it had landed, it flushed a second time. I missed with both barrels and watched as it flew out into the middle of an alfalfa field. I walked directly to where it had landed, and was surprised that it held and flushed a third time, right from under my feet. I missed yet again, and diligently followed after the lone bird. Mercifully it didn't have much energy left when it flushed the forth time, and I hit it with my second shot. I was in high spirits when I climbed the porch stairs and laid the three birds in front of the old setter to admire. His eyes brightened, and it made me feel good to see his tail wag. The smell of dinner wafted from the kitchen, and my day seemed complete. "There's a mess of big ducks on the stock tank," Kelly said from the kitchen door "and Daddy loves to eat roasted duck. Do you think that you might be able to get him one?" My day was looking even better. "I have a second double gun." I said, "Would you like to be my loader?" She giggled, and we were off. "This is great," I said. "The only thing I haven't bagged today is a bunch of ducks." "All we need is just one for daddy," she said. "Oh, that'll be no problem," I insisted. We crept up to the earthen berm that held back the stock tank and slowly peeked over it's top. It was a sight to see. There were no less than a hundred big northern mallards and pintails crowded onto the small pond. I could have easily killed a dozen of them on the water. This is my chance to be a real hero, I thought to myself. "Here's what we'll do," I whispered importantly, while loading the two guns and handing one of them to her. "We'll both stand up to flush them, and after I empty the first gun, you hand me the second." Perhaps, because they felt a safety in their number, the ducks didn't take wing when we stood. There was an un-nerving delay of several seconds before they erupted all at once. I don't recall much about the next few seconds. I don't remember picking a single bird, as I'd been taught as a boy. I don't remember the first two shots, or taking the second gun from Kelly and emptying it too. I don't remember watching any ducks fall to the water. What I do remember is the sick feeling of disbelief as all of those ducks flew away, and that Kelly's laughter sounded a lot like a shirttail's cackle as she walked back to the house. In the end, I'd have to add a little crow to the day's menu.

This short story is a bit irreverent... but I enjoy having a little fun with life and my writing. I hope you'll enjoy it. Liar, Liar, Pants On Fire! "A thing worth having is a thing worth cheating for." W. C. Fields (1880 - 1946) "I just don't get it." My son, Jake, said in an utterly discouraged tone. "I listen to everything in class, take notes, and when I get home to do the assignments, it's all gone. Can you help me, Dad?" I'd been quietly painting, and secretly hoping that he'd figure it out on his own; math was never my strong suit. "I'll try," I said, and then as a disclaimer, "But it's been a long time." Lisa looked over her desk, and saw my distress. I'm sure I looked like a deer in the headlights. "Why don't you keep working, Honey," she said. "And, let me try to help." "I should just cheat, like the other guys do." Jake said, as Lisa sat down next to him. "I was failing college algebra," Lisa said. "And the only reason I passed the course was because a friend of mine, who worked in the shop where the tests were printed, got me a copy of it. I worked out all of the problems and carved the answers into my pencil with an exacto knife." "Really?" Jake asked. "No dung?" I said, looking at my lovely wife in a whole new light, before I continued. "I hate to admit it, but I did something even worse." It's a rare event for a fourteen-year-old boy to hear his parents confess, so freely, the sins of their youth, and Jake put his pencil down to listen. "I was failing trigonometry in my senior year of high school. " I said. "My best friend was in the same boat." Do I really want to tell my son about this? I thought... oh hell, why not? "So one night we broke into the school's testing center and went through all of the filing cabinets until we found the final trig exam. It was like an episode from 'Mission Impossible'." "Holy shhh... wow!" Jake said. "You're kidding. Right?" Lisa asked, and a worried look crossed her face that actually said, Tell him you're really just kidding... please! "Didn't they know which test was taken? They could have just changed the test." My son pressed. "We made sure to take at least one of every test in the cabinet." I answered. They would have had to replace them all." "Cool!" He said, with just a little too much enthusiasm. "Don't ever let me hear of you even thinking about something like that." I said. "I could have... probably should have... ended up in jail. A thing like that will change your life. Besides, now I feel really bad about it." "Yeah." Lisa said, trying to spin some damage control. "I still feel bad about cheating on the algebra test. I was relieved to have passed, but it felt icky; like I'd let myself down." "Lisa's right." I said. "It seems to me that there are two kinds of cheating." And, after a few seconds of thought, I added, "Most cheating is about being lazy and taking the easy way out, that's the worst form of deception; when you cheat yourself. Cheating is always dishonest, but sometimes it can serve a seemingly noble purpose, and no one loses anything because of it. Cheating is nothing to feel good about, but it might be justifiable." "What do ya mean?" Jake asked. "Well, I've heard of certain guides that have bent the rules a little to help their clients catch a few fish." I said. "The fish were all going to be released anyway, and it only happened when the fishing was really tough, or because the fishermen would have been unable to do it on their own, so..." Today's painting is a watercolor titled, "One Last Look – Dolly Varden". Few fish are as stunningly beautiful as a male Dolly Varden in it's spawning colors. To admire a fish such as this, one might be tempted to bend a rule or two...I'll leave it up to you. "So how did you... err... those other guys cheat?" Jake asked. "Sometimes what's called cheating is really just a new and unconventional way around the established methods of the day." I began. "In the old days. a little before my time, in certain streams in England it was thought improper to fish with anything but a dry fly. Even though most of what a trout eats is below the surface, it was considered cheating to fish a wet fly or a nymph. Interestingly enough, it was a guide and river keeper, Frank Sawyer, who developed the pheasant tail, and popularized the method of fishing with a nymph. Today, nymph fishing is a perfectly acceptable way to fish, but it wasn't too long ago that fishing one with an indicator was considered cheating by 'traditional' nymph fishermen. In New Zealand, there are certain rivers where you can't use lead shot to take your fly down, so the guides there tie a fly that has lead dumb-bell eyes and a body of wrapped copper wire. They tie another nymph to it, and guess what? It goes right to the bottom. Cheating, or an innovation?" "How'd you and your friend break into your high school?" Jake asked, getting back on track. "Just a few years ago, in Alaska," I said, ignoring him. "Some of the guides started to use plastic beads instead of yarn glo-bugs to imitate salmon eggs. Everyone thought it was cheating, until they got their hands on some of them too." "Sometimes what people call cheating is really just a way of making things a bit easier, or being more efficient." Lisa added. "Remember how upset some of the guides in Argentina were when you showed up there with your little stomach pump?" "A stomach pump?" Jake asked. "Sure. You catch a small fish and pump his stomach with a bulb syringe, squirt it into the palm of your hand, and find out what they're eating. In the old days, people would kill and gut the first fish they caught to find out what was being eaten; the pump seems a bit more humane to me." "What else have you done?" "I used to go out after lunch, while all of the other guides and fishermen slept siesta, and fish the water that I planned on taking my clients to that evening." "That doesn't seem fair to you guests. Why'd you do that?" "To find out where all of the big fish were." "But, they'd have a sore mouth and not bite." "Not if the hook had been cut off of the fly, they wouldn't." I answered. "I used to cover the water with a big hopper, let the fish take it and then just spit it out. It was a great way to locate big fish. The fishermen thought it was magic. Sometimes, if I had one fisherman who needed a bit more help than the other, I'd tie a few threads of my red bandana to the willow branches over where the big fish held. Then I could turn the better fisherman loose while I worked with the other." "What else?" "In Alaska, I used to make jalapeno corn bread in my Dutch oven for lunch. There'd always be a bit left over, and when I cleaned up and tossed the scraps into the river, the trout would go nuts to eat it. A piece of it wouldn't float ten, maybe fifteen feet before it was inhaled in what looked like a toilet flush!" "Cool!" "darn.. darned right!" I said, correcting myself. "So, I tied up a 'Corn Bread' fly. It was just a dirty-yellow bunny pattern. That fly caught fish after lunch 'til heck wouldn't have it. The guests used to take turns with my rod while we did dishes and cleaned up the wind-knots." "Wasn't that cheating?" "I suppose it was, but it wasn't a deception. We didn't really call it 'fishing'. It was just a fun thing to do, play with the 'trained fish' for a few minutes while lunch was cleaned-up. "So when does it become cheating?" "I don't know, maybe when you trail a nymph off of the back of a sculpin pattern." "Which fly do they hit?" "You usually take them on the nymph." "Why is that cheating?" "Well, I don't think the fish are actually hitting the smaller fly... they're short striking the sculpin and getting snagged on the trailer. It doesn't seem fair to me." "What else?" A lot of guys used to do 'the blind guide shuffle' on the Agulukpak. Every time they'd kick over a rock, or turn up some moss, dozens of nymphs would trail off down stream. Before you knew it... there'd be a bunch of big fish working behind the boat." "Did you ever..." "If it was a tough day, or my fishermen couldn't cast very well... yeah, I'd kick a few rocks. I just wanted them to have a good day." "What are some of the worst things that you... err... those other guys did?" I knew that eventually the conversation would come to this; every kid wants to know all about the worst things his father has ever done. Maybe it makes us seem more human. It was time to step off of the pedestal. "Once, we had a really bad spell of weather at the lodge. It was too foggy to fly and too windy to take a boat out on the lake. After two days of constant pounding from twenty frustrated fishermen, all of the fish in front of the lodge were plenty tired of being caught." "What'd you do?" "Late that night, a bunch of five gallon buckets with holes drilled in them were filled with salmon eggs, tied to an anchor and dropped off in various and key locations in front of the lodge. The fishing was pretty good the next day." "And?" "Well, that was a problem, it was so effective that it got a lot of the guides thinking, and that can be a very dangerous thing for fishing guides. It creates a lot of mischief, and gets them into all kinds of trouble. One of them took to crushing salmon eggs in his fly boxes so that all of the flies were soaked in egg goo." "And?" "It worked great, except that this guide, who we'd named 'Pig Pen' had enough trouble just remembering to brush his teeth once or twice between paydays. After a week or so, those boxes began to smell so bad that no one wanted to fish with him, even if they could catch every fish in the river. Have you ever smelled rotting salmon eggs? Remember when the dog found that road kill a few years ago?" "Whoa, and?" "Then one of the guys decided to make, what he called, 'egg depth charges'. These were little sacks of moline, filled with salmon eggs, with a little rock in the middle. As he ran up river in the morning, he'd toss them out in every likely hole, giggling and calling out, 'Egg a 'muffin'!" as he did so. Then he'd drift his fishermen back down the river, paying particular attention to the spots he'd salted with his bombs." "And?" "It worked like a dream for almost a week. He was a regular grand-slam-hero with all of the guests, until every sea gull in southwest Alaska figured out that he was the 'candy man', and started to follow him in droves where ever he went. They were relentless in their pursuit. Even if he fished a different river they seemed to find him. It was a small flock at first, but the numbers grew daily until he was forced to change rivers. Eventually, no one wanted to go out with him because they'd all come back to the lodge at the end of the day covered in sea gull poop. Have you ever smelled sea gull poop? It's worse than a dog fart! We called him 'Big Bird'." "Wow, and?" I remember one guy who was guiding the 'Pak' with me; we'd fly over early, and before the guests got there, he'd slip a skein of salmon eggs in each of his wading boots. As he walked the boat down the river, the goo would squirt out with each step he took, and the fish would flock to his boat. He was smart too. He always worked the worst, least productive water in the river, water that every other guide avoided like a plague. For weeks he was the envy of every guide working the river. This guy was catching fish, hand over fist, and in places where no one else even dared to drift! That was a true stroke of genius." "And?" "By then it was late September, and the big char began to filter into the river to feed on the sockeye spawn. Have you ever seen the teeth on those big guys? They'll rip a pair of neoprene waders apart like they're made of wet tissue paper. This guy had a real pained look on his face all one afternoon. We just thought it was his rhoids acting up again. At the end of the day, he stayed in the water, loading the Beaver, until all of the guests and their gear were aboard, and taxiing out into the lake. Only then did he hobble painfully to shore and sit down. His waders were torn to shreds from the knees down... and his boots were completely gone! He'd been guiding barefoot for the better part of the day. He looked like a worn-out Robinson Caruso, so we painted a skull and Jolly Roger on his boat and started calling him, 'The Pirate'." "Golly! And?" "And, I think it's time that you wrapped up your homework and headed down to your mother's." I said. I was quickly running out of stories about other people, and would soon have to resort to those about me. "See you tomorrow, Jake!" Lisa called from the window as he walked down the drive. As she closed the window I asked her, "So, did you really cheat on that college algebra test? Or, was that all for Jake's benefit?" "Yup." She said. "It happened just the way I told him. How 'bout your stories?" "I'll leave that up to you." Thanks for visiting! I named that Dutch oven, "Lucile", because I always wanted to be a blues musician... but it was the only thing I could make magic with. The red threads from my bandana worked really well for a while... until the other guides on the river caught on to it and started moving them on me. I never minded doing whatever it took to get my clients into fish... but the very best friends were those who didn't need me to.

My pleasure, Glad that you enjoyed the read. Warmly, Bob White

Good morning folks, The leaves are turning, here in the north country, and it reminds me of one of my favorite autumn reads. I hope that you'll enjoy it. THE THURSDAY MORNING ART REVIEW The Way Its Remembered Memory is a man's real possession...In nothing else is he rich, in nothing else is he poor. Alexander Smith (1830 - 1867) Every day in October started the same; Phil shuffled quietly past the couch where I slept to start the first pot of coffee, and I'd pull the sleeping bag up around my shoulders and turn toward the old stone fireplace. The fireplace was the best weather gauge we had, and I was anxious to see what the day might bring. If the dawn was windy, the embers of the last night’s fire would pulse with the gusts, glowing and fading like it was the cabin's ancient and beating heart. The flue was ill designed, and if a storm was on the horizon, the slightest bit of low pressure would send smoke back down the chimney. Phil claimed that he could predict the weather by how smoky the cabin was in the morning. Set the coffee to boil, wipe the windowpane on the kitchen door to look at the thermometer, pull on a wool shirt, and fill the bird feeders. Phil was a man of habit, and I knew that next, he'd be headed across the yard for a couple of pieces of split oak or swamp ash. As quickly as I could, I'd throw a few pine knots on the dying coals, pull on my hunting pants and meet him at the wood shed. He'd never let me take his load. "I've got these," he'd say. "You grab a couple ‘a more." By the time I’d filled the wood box on the porch, the frost had melted on my bare feet and they’d be coated with the fine Michigan sand. Standing in the yard and looking out over the South Branch, I'd listen to the river, smell the fire catch, the coffee boiling, and watch Phil on his way to the kennel for his setter, Pat. I remember calling him, Patrick just once. "It's Pat," Phil had told be on that occasion. "Pat, for Pat'ridge." All the other dogs in camp stayed in the cabin, but Pat was happiest in his kennel. Perhaps he felt that he'd miss something important if he was inside, or maybe he just liked to sleep under the stars. Whatever the reason, it didn’t have anything to do with the lack of a bond between them. Pat was a one-man dog, and Phil was his man. Most likely, they were both just creatures of habit. Phil would let Pat out of his kennel and then start toward the garden to see if the past night’s frost had done any damage to the few remaining vegetables. Pat would run ahead, circle the garden once to see if a raccoon or skunk had visited, and then stop, to look back over his shoulder at Phil. "All right," he’d say, and Pat's head would cock, his ears up. "Find me a bird." Before the word, “bird” was out of Phil’s mouth Pat would be off through the bracken and over the hill towards the swamp. "Gonna be a fine day." Phil would say with a smile as we walked back to the cabin to make breakfast. Today's image is an oil painting with the same title as the story, "The Way It's Remembered". It shows my friend Jay with his girl, "Libby" on a fine day, clear and crisp. Phil was head "camp keeper", and breakfast was his specialty. The menu would vary; depending upon how smoky the cabin was in the morning. Bacon and eggs meant a fine day, clear and crisp. If the eggs and bacon came with flapjacks, you'd better take a rain jacket. Dan, Phil's son and my English professor, was just about to finish wrapping the lunch sandwiches in waxed paper, when Phil set the bacon and eggs on the table. "Make an extra sandwich for me, will you, son?" He asked. "I believe I'll be joining you boys today." Lunch suddenly took on a whole new meaning, and we all threw ourselves into its preparation. Dan filled an old leather-covered flask of port and tossed it into the box. Fred, Dan’s good friend and hunting partner, lovingly wrapped one of his Cortland Apple pies into the folds of sackcloth. And, not knowing what else to do, I cut a bigger than usual chunk of Pinconning Cheddar off of the block in the icebox. "What will you shoot today, Pops?" Dan asked, as we gathered up our gear, checked our coat pockets for shells, and laced up the high boots. "The Parker, I believe. I've got some old paper shells to shoot up. How's Pat been working for you?" "Right as rain. He'll be glad to have you along today." Because his eyes had started to cloud with age, Phil had been hunting less and less as the years past. It frustrated him to trip in the cover or not see the birds flush. Never mind that I was in my mid-twenties and was always tripping in the woods, and rarely saw a bird go out. Dan had stopped asking his father to join us as we planned the next day's hunt over dinner. It was easier for all of us that way. Pat knew from the moment that the extra sandwich was wrapped that the day would be different. It was like old times, and he jumped up on Phil’s chest to have his ears scratched. We'd start with the cover around the Smith Bridge. There was an easy hillside there, on the west side of the river that we could hunt early in the morning with the sun at our backs. The South Branch was running low and clear as we walked from the parking area, back across the old bypassed bridge, and into the cover where the maples and aspen were a riot of color. The three dogs, Pat, and his parents, Jake and Belle, were out well ahead of us, their bells ringing as we dropped in shells, and gently snapped our guns closed. I’ll never forget the sound of Phil’s Parker when the action locked. It sounded like a bank vault being closed; more of a “snick” than a “snap.” We knew from past experience that any birds that were pointed, would likely flush off of the hillside and cross the road, headed for the cover of the dark tamarack swamp down near the river. The low ground there was so full of blowdowns that it was almost impossible to walk, a perfect refuge. Dan, Fred, and I followed the dogs into the cover, while Phil walked the road and covered the escape route. To a bird hunter, the only sound nicer than a dog's bell in a sun-dappled wood is the quiet when it stops. "Point here!" Fred yelled. "Pat's on. Where's Belle and Jake?" "Gone, past the bird. He’s backing from the other side," I answered. "It’s pinned, but good." "I'll go in," Dan said. "You guys get ready. Pops?" The bird came out low and climbing to clear a blackberry thicket. Dan was swinging on it, and had the big, red phase male, dead to rights. It broke toward the road, following the contour of the hillside as it passed Fred. It was an easy shot, as grouse go, and he too was swinging smoothly with it. I was in no position to shoot and watched as neither of them did. The bird broke out of the cover of the aspen woods and dipped as it crossed the road to refuge. Phil was late in picking it up, but reacted without the panic that we all felt. The Parker spoke once, and the bird bounced into the woods on the "safe" side of the road. Phil was backlit by the morning sun as he broke open his shotgun and bent down to take the bird from Pat’s mouth, so it was difficult to see clearly, but I remember them both smiling. We all came off of the hillside to join Phil in the road and congratulate him. He held the big male grouse in one hand, and the 16 gauge in the other. It was a perfect balance, a perfect moment in time. "This was just right," he said. "And, this is the way that I want to remember it. I'm glad that you were all here for my last hunt." We stood in silence trying to take it in, wanting to protest, but not ruin the moment. "Dan, this is for you; hunt it well and often," he said, handing him the Parker, a shell still in its left barrel. The only sound was a late morning breeze building in the tops of the big white pines. "Bob, a dog like Pat deserves to be hunted, and I know that the two of you will get along. He's yours now." I never remember staring so long nor hard at my boots. When I looked up he was smiling at me. "I think that I’ll just keep this." He said, slipping the grouse into his coat with a wink. The next day I drove across the UP, to my home in Minnesota, with my first bird dog. Dan and Fred stayed on a few days to help Phil close the cabin, and no doubt, had a thoughtful trip home as well. Nearly a year passed, and I was at work thinking about seeing Phil and the guys in just a few days, when I got the call from Dan. "Phil died this morning," he whispered. “The sheriff stopped by to check in with him, and found him sitting on the front porch. The bird feeders had just been filled and the ice in his whisky hadn’t yet melted... he thought that Phil was napping. We’ll bury him in Jackson in a few days. I know he'd want you there. We'll all be going to the cabin afterwards. He'd want it that way. I got to Jackson an hour after the funeral. Had I forgotten about the time change? Or, was it just too painful? I don't remember. I don't recall much about the following week either, except that no one said much, and that Dan made breakfasts, and Fred, the lunches. Later that fall, Pat was poisoned, and I lost him too. I was weeping when I called my friend Jay. “I’ll be at your house in half an hour.” He said. "The woodcock are in, and you need to get out." We spent that day chasing woodcock, and tumbling the occasional grouse behind Jay's setter. It was hard for me not to think of Pat and Phil while in the woods, but I'm sure that this was the very reason that Jay had taken me to his best cover. I realize, now, that he meant for me to remember them, and remember them well. That night as we drove home, I watched woodcock flight against the dusking sky, and knew that everything was as it should be. For, while Phil had given Pat to me for keeps, Pat must have always thought of it as just a short-term loan. Thanks for visiting, Bob White

Hi SKMO, Small world; I grew up in Belleville... graduated from Althoff Catholic HS in '76... did two years at BAC... and graduated from SIU-E in '80. I moved to Minnesota in the fall of '80 to take my first job out of college, and have been here ever since. Stay well and in touch, BobW

Thank you... glad that you enjoyed the essay. Warmly, Bob White

Something new for you to read on a Sunday afternoon. ~ Bob White All You Need to Know About Knots We learn the rope of life by untying its knots. ~ Jean Toomer Looking back on it after so many years, it's obvious to me that my father hadn't tied a fly onto a leader in a very long time. "So, after you go through the eye of the fly," he instructed, "you twist it around five times." He fumbled here, trying to hold the knot far enough away to keep it in focus. "Then you take the end and go back through the little hole before you lick it and pull it tight." "Wow!" I said. "What d'ya call it?" He looked puzzled for a moment. "A fisherman's knot," he said finally with a smile. "Are there more?" "Naw, this is the only one you'll ever need, kid." The oil painting that illustrates this essay is titled, "Small Fry – Largemouth Bass", and shows one of the many fish I pursued as a kid, when I should have been doing my homework. I love to paint fish, and most times the smaller ones are even more beautiful than their elders. I fished for many magical years with this single knot and a few variations of it. When I needed to join two lengths of leader, I simply tied opposing fisherman's knots and called it a blood knot. It wasn't until my first year guiding in Alaska that I watched one of my fishermen tie a blood knot properly, grasped the concept, and began to tie it correctly myself. Sometime afterward one of my guiding clients informed me that my "fisherman's knot" was really just a quaint name for a clinch knot. Furthermore, I was informed, the improved clinch knot was far better. He even quoted me percentages. "Your old clinch knot is only a 75 percent knot at best — the improved clinch is at least an 85 percent knot." Once knots began to be described by the percentage of the line's breaking strength, the race was on, and different manufacturers and tackle companies began to claim trademarks on knots that were designed for them in contests they sponsored. Now we have the Trilene Knot and The Orvis Knot, etc. ad nauseam. It seems to me that we've gone a bit knot-crazy. It used to be that the few knots a fly fisher needed to know barely filled a chapter in one of the few old fly fishing guides. Now there are more than a dozen books dedicated solely to knots and three by one writer! Further, there's a perception among anglers that the more knots you know, the better the fisherman you are; that a certain amount of status can be attained by knowing and using a knot that no one else has heard of yet. I've overheard some fly fishermen speak in hushed tones about knots — like others do about their rare bamboo fly rods, custom tied flies or distant and exotic rivers. I won't be surprised if one day I'm asked to look at a shadow box in someone's den that contains a collection of clipped knots — The Duncan Loop, Tied by Lefty Kreh, or A Riffle-Hitch, Tied by Lee Wulff. Anglers used to judge the success of their day by the number and size of fish they caught. When I was a kid, they would simply say, "We caught a dozen trout, and four of them were over 16 inches." Somewhere along the way, technique became important: "We caught a dozen trout on dry flies." Then the size of the fly became significant (the smaller the better). "We caught them all on size 24 Compara-duns." Then, the length and diameter of the leader came into play: "They wouldn't touch a fly on anything shorter than a 14- foot leader with three feet of 7X tippet." These days a lot of anglers talk about the knots they've had to resort to in order to fool a wary fish: "Why the big guy refused every fly I threw at him until I tied it on with an inverted, non-slip mono-loop." There must be a lot of pressure on today's fly fishing writers to beef up their books with more and more knots, lest they be considered naive. I recently illustrated the re-issue of the classic Orvis Fly-Fishing Guide, and decided to put my prejudices aside and try to learn everything that I could about knots. My goal was to illustrate them so that people (like me) who have trouble tying them could easily catch on to the instructions. I asked an old friend to serve as a "hand model" and photographed him in each stage of the tying processes of each knot. I learned a lot that day as my friend and I argued about how certain knots are tied. I had assumed that there was only one way to correctly tie a knot — in fact there are many. First, one needs to consider if the knot begins with the end of the line passing through the eye in a downward or upward direction (I thought this was arbitrary). Then, if wraps are done in a clock-wise or counter clock-wise manner (I believed that it really didn't matter, as long as one was consistent throughout the process). On top of everything else, there is the matter of whether the tier is left or right-handed. Left-handed people like myself, I can assure you, look at the world differently than the rest of you right-handers. I became haunted by the challenge of how to tie knots correctly. I researched knots on the Internet and I found entire websites and blogs devoted to picking them apart, literally. One website was even animated. I purchased every book about knots I could find, and then began collecting older volumes to see if there was some sort of evolution in a knot's life. I discovered there were sometimes as many as three different "correct" instructions for tying a single knot —sometimes by the same author and illustrator! I'm still in a state of recovery from my book project. Adding flames to my case of burnout, I received a phone call from a publisher who wanted to know if I'd write and illustrate my own book of fishing knots. My skin crawled and I started to twitch uncontrollably at the mere thought of it. This past summer, my wife and I took our four-year-old daughter fishing. As we floated in a boat around the lily pads of a local lake, I strung up a cane pole for her. "This is how you tie on the hook," I explained, fumbling for my reading glasses. "After going through the eye of the hook, you twist the end around the line five times. Then you take the end and go back through the little hole. Then you lick it, and pull it tight." "What's the name of that knot?" Tommy asked. I didn't hesitate. "It's called a fisherman's knot." I said. "It's all you need to know, kid." Thanks for visiting! Bob White This essay first appeared in Guidelines, Bob's regular column in Midwest Fly Fishing magazine.

I look forward to seeing your painting when it's finished. Our "curtain-climber" turned five a couple of days ago, so I know where you're coming from. Warmly, Bob White