THE ROCK AND A CHRISTMAS TREE

It’s nineteen degrees, the wind is gusting, and the blowing snow has covered the ski tracks I made yesterday. Christmas is just around the corner; the time has come to head over to the local tree farm and harvest one for our living room.

The route to Pleasant Valley Tree Farm could well have been an inspiration for a Currier and Ives print, and as I drive I’ll probably be in a Holiday frame of mind. Especially if Jingle Bells or Sleigh Ride is playing on the radio. But then the trout stream will come into view, darkly winding through the glen below the road and I’ll forget about Yuletide and remember instead eventful days during the season of the trout and fishing this stream and others, when Christmas and winter were nowhere in my thoughts. Like that warm April morning at Mill Creek in a light drizzle, busting brush along the bottom of the steep bank, approaching The Rock. Cold water and a strong current but feeling good about the onset of spring with no more snow on the ground; hearing the rushing water and seeing the beginning of buds on the trees and the poking up of the skunk cabbage. Feeling good to be fly fishing again after a long winter.

There was that short cast to the pocket water at the base of The Rock, the aggressive pull of the trout and the ensuing tug of war which denoted new beginnings as certainly as the other signs of life sprouting along the stream bank. That brown trout, speckled in red and black along its yellow flanks, a survivor of winter, surfacing from the drab water in a display of color, becoming a special harbinger of Spring. There was that feeling of elation found not so much in the physical act of catching a fish, although that is always part of it, but more so because of being witness to the simple miracle of the trout and the reaffirmation of nature’s cyclical continuity.

As the snow flies and accumulates on the banks of the streams, and as ice forms at the edges of shallow pools, I will think of The Rock as a symbolic sentinel standing mid stream guarding against winter’s pessimism, otherwise known as cabin fever or the shack nasties or the winter doldrums. Come springtime, trout will inevitably return to the pocket of still water at its base and to lies in other pockets and pools along the rocky stream. I’ll be reminded of that, whenever I pass it by this winter. Then again, winter is what you make of it. For starters, an outing to cut a Christmas fir or spruce tree is reason to be glad. And then decorated and standing near the window as the flurries blow across the yard, the Yule tree will be as fitting a symbol as any of optimism and good cheer.

　

　

　

　

　

　

THE LOST VALLEY

BOOK TITLE:

FROM THE CLEAR WATERS

(Illustrated) 

by Mark Cudney

An excerpt from the story,

"The Lost Valley"

The rain finally stopped so Luke decided to forge ahead, trying his best to recapture some of the old magic. He thought maybe it was the weather or old wounds that dulled his spirits. 'But no,' he thought, 'things just aren't the same.'

At the boggy area with the tag alders Luke suddenly remembered Walt shooting at a rising woodcock with Heidi on point, right where he was standing now. It was their last hunt together, and they had been heading back to the truck after a long day. It was a scene to be captured in paint, and it was how Luke saw it now. Earlier he had found an old spent shell casing and had wondered if it could possibly be one of theirs from time gone by. 'Good old Walter,' he thought, 'gone all these years. MIA.'

He whistled to his pup and kneeled to scratch its ears. "You did good today, boy. I think it's time I gave you a real name. I think I'll call you Wally, if that's okay with you. He would have liked to be here today. He would have liked you."

Crossing the soft mud of the bog, Luke struggled for balance. He had to force each step forward out of the muck, which sucked at his boots. Once on firmer ground he stopped to unload his shotgun and clean his glasses. He called to his pup, dug in his pocket and fed him a handful of dry chow. There was a rustling noise behind him and he turned, expecting to see a squirrel or some other animal they had spooked. But all he saw were his boot prints becoming visible as they filled with water, as though a sylvan spirit was treading his very path. 

For more information about the book go to:  http://www.markcudney.com/

OSSWASSO IKE or The Story Behind the Painting, "From the Alders"

                 "From the Alders"  cropped from the original watercolor                         

OSSWASSO IKE was a whitetail buck. In the hollow below our barn, at the end of the two track lane, there’s an old homestead turned hunting camp. Prior to that it was inhabited by the hermit Mark Poore--ninety three years old when I came to know him-- and getting by without running water, electricity, phone or central heat.  When I was a kid, I’d visit and listen to his tales of the old days. But that’s a story to be told another time. When he was gone and the homestead sold to the hunters, I’d continue to visit when the men were there, listening to their tales. They had formed a hunting club called “Osswasso.” The tale that enthralled me most was of a trophy-class whitetail that inhabited the glen, showing itself at inopportune times prior to the opening of the big game season and becoming scarce thereafter. They called him Osswasso Ike and through the years his existence became more myth than fact until someone would stumble upon a huge buck in the hemlock swamp or in thick cover along the brook. It was always old Ike they saw and the encounters would fan the flame of his legend and feed the fire of their desire to “get a pop at him.”

Likewise my desire grew the more I sat among them and heard their stories. Thirteen and impressionable, I relished those visitations when I was “the kid” and welcome to come around and listen to the talk about hunting, firearms, politics, woods lore and more. There was no censorship from off-colored jokes nor was there a lack of advice for winning the ways of the fairer sex. I figured I was lucky to be a step ahead of my contemporaries in the knowledge I’d gleaned from this group of learned men, some of them old enough to be my grandfather. Only later did I learn of the importance of field research and hands-on experience--in all aspects of their teaching.

My close friend and grouse hunting buddy, Wayne, and I hoped to get a look at him whenever we were in the coverts. As young teenagers out small game hunting, we jumped a fair share of deer and once or twice caught a glimpse of large antlers. In that way we were able to perpetuate  the myth. And it was Ike we hunted for when we first entered the woods as deer hunters. It was my resolve to show those old codgers who the hunter was among them. I ignored the lesser bucks that came my way, always holding out for the big guy I was certain would show himself. College intervened and then the call to armed service came for Wayne and me, and we were yet to bring home the venison.

Things had changed within me after I returned years later after my military discharge; although the traditions of the season still inspired me, the desire had diminished. I continued to take a pass on any deer that came within range, more out of inner conflict than with a need to sustain an old quest to harvest a “wall hanger.” I told myself that progeny of Ike roamed these woods and that if I got the chance at one of them, I should take it.  All the while, deer seasons came and went; old hunting friends moved away or were taken away. It just wasn’t the same anymore.

Nevertheless I believe I came across Osswasso Ike or rather, the essence of what he was to the Osswasso gang--all gone now--one autumn day while grouse hunting. I was stalking the brook in the hollow, downstream and within sight of the neglected Osswasso house. A grouse flushed and dove into a patch of alders on the opposite stream bank, offering me no shot but a vivid image of a large antlered buck disturbed there from his bed. The scene was one of a lasting impression and inspired me to create the painting, “From the Alders,” a portion of which is shown to illustrate this story.

I like the fact that there was a big deer lying close to the old house that day, that I was near him when he rose from the bushes and fled. It’s consoling to be a witness to perpetuity, even as the house continues its slow but sure collapse upon itself and the likes of Ike and  the Osswasso gang  have  been confined to memory.

SOMEONE'S WATCHING

There was a time, not so long ago, when you could get out into the woods and experience an unself-conscious type of solitude, when losing your self in the forest “primeval” was the point in being there. To lose one’s self was to take a step back and forget for the time being that you’re a creature of the modern age, prone to the anxieties associated with all it entails. Until recent innovations, there was a feeling of freedom being in the deep woods. Freedom from intrusion, social protocol, freedom from urbanity. Not to worry about being unfashionable. There in the woods, to make a point, one could feel free to do as the animals do and relieve oneself, out in the open, if necessary. Nowadays, however, you want to look over your shoulder, up and down and all around before you even consider it.

Take for instance the invention of the Trail Camera. Popular with hunters and landowners to record the wanderings of elusive critters, they’re becoming as numerous in the woods, hills and fields as are annoying yard lights and motion detector systems scattered all across the countryside. As if there aren’t enough lights in the night sky already what with those that pinpoint cell towers, wind turbines, airliners, ad infinitum. But, I digress. To hike--where it’s permissible--in the woods or about the fields and streams now, you find yourself looking out for a box strapped to a tree, lest you become one of those critters caught and recorded perhaps in a less than complimentary moment. You find yourself in a shopping mall state of mind: “Someone may be watching!”

Then there’s the ever so popular portable tree stands used by hunters. Come the first of October they begin “springing-up” in the woods like toadstools overnight, in use throughout both the archery and regular big game hunting seasons. Out grouse hunting one fine October day, stalking slowly through some prime cover, I was startled by a voice from above. My state of mind being what it was, engrossed in nature and appreciating the spiritual essence of the wilds, I thought for a fleeting moment it was the voice of Mother Nature calling to me. But no, I had walked within a few yards of a bow hunter sitting his perch on high, camouflaged head to toe. He was all but invisible. It was disappointing to realize it was just a common man and unsettling to think about what might have happened had a grouse flushed in his direction. With the overlapping of bow season and ruffed grouse season, the grouse hunter needs to be thinking of what may be sitting vulnerable half way up the oak tree ahead. “It didn’t used to be that way,” an old timer friend once said. "You could be in the woods and not worry about monkeys in trees."

There was a pleasant day when in the woods and feeling quite alone, I suddenly felt like some one was watching. I was at the top of our property, near the path that leads to my friendly neighbor’s woods. In a familiar spot, I knew of no cameras or tree stands, but the feeling was strong, so I scanned the area. I was feeling miffed; another moment of reverie interrupted. ‘Too thick with overhead foliage to be under the scrutiny of a satellite,’ I thought, my paranoia resurfacing. Then there came a scuffling from the branches above and a throaty animal noise. A raccoon was watching, evidently annoyed at the intrusion of his space.

OCTOBER EVENING

I’ve stepped outside to do some moon gazing. The still air smells of fallen leaves and wood smoke. It’s mid October and many of the trees are bare-limbed and stark against the twilight sky. I’d prefer the foliage would hang on for a longer time in their Indian Summer dress, that autumn was not so short-lived. Once stimulated by the colors of fall, I become greedy for more.

Earlier in the day a grouse was drumming in the woods beyond the back door--the dominant one perched on his log letting the young guys from the springtime brood know who’s boss. This evening, from the pines nearby, an owl hoots and is answered by another farther up the hillside. It’s eerily quiet as I stand on the patio and listen to their conversation. They sit their perches, harbingers of the nighttime harvesting of prey. If I were a field mouse, I’d fear for my life. The silent stalkers are about the woods. One moonlit night hiking a snowy woods path through a stand of pines, a large owl passed over my head. I first noticed its fleeting shadow cross the snow and looked up to see outstretched wings, so close yet so silent gliding among the branches. Had I been a smaller mammal, it would have been over before I even saw the shadow. You appreciate the fact that in this neck of the woods, at least, you’re high atop the food chain.

The moon sits bright on a tree top and the scene encourages premature thoughts of the Yule season: the Christmas tree has been decorated and suddenly you feel the urge to sing a carol or two. Well, not quite. Halloween is yet to come. My thoughts progress to images of hideous witches in black capes and ghoulish beings that lurk in dark places; things that used to scare me as a kid with an all-too-vivid imagination. Maturity (old age) diminishes those silly fears, I think, only to have them replaced by real life ogres such as the tax man, zealots and the Grim Reaper. Yet I enjoy the heightened sense of the ominous this time of the year. It’s a childlike stimulation when the rewards gleaned are no longer in a trick-or-treat bag, but in the re-knowing of another season.

I step off the patio and round the corner of the barn. WHOOSH! A deer snorts from beneath the apple tree grown wild near the foundation, and the adrenaline rush I get is like a jolt of electricity. I see dark phantoms leaping in all directions and hear their hooves thudding upon the ground, their white tails defined by the moonlight. They retreat to the field across the way, blowing like a pod of surfacing whales. I wonder to myself, How much longer can this well-used heart go from beating normally one moment to full acceleration the next? I’m tempted to check my feet to be sure I haven’t jumped out of my shoes. I go over to the tree and pick up a fallen apple. It’s crisp and tart. An animal shrieks and there is the noise of leaves rustling in the woods.

THE RIVULET IN THE GLEN

In the glen below our barn a brook runs downhill to feed into the headwaters of Neil’s Creek. Farther downstream, before Neil’s Creek empties into the Cohocton River, it supports a healthy population of Brown trout. Salamanders and crayfish inhabit our shallow brook but not trout. Being an avid fly fisherman, I wish it did. It courses a narrow run through a gully and over sedimentary rock, falling in steps on its way to the creek and the river. It forms small pools at the base of its many miniature water falls where one could imagine a trout holding if it were bigger water. Falling water inspires contemplation. The sound of water over stone reminds me of other streams and creeks--trout water--and times there with a fly rod.

There are numerous rivulets throughout the hills and more than a few creeks and rivers in the region with waterfalls and running water more impressive than this one: Stoney Brook Falls, Reynold‘s Gully Falls, Wiscoy Falls at Mills Mills where it joins the Genesee River near Portageville. The Upper, Middle and Lower Falls of the Genesee itself in Letchworth Park. There, the thunder of the falls and the power of the river inspires awe. You tend to contemplate the ferocity of nature. Whereas in this gully, where the folds of the hills meet to form a narrow cleft with rocks and purling water, you sense a different power, one that inspires introspection of a more intimate nature.

There are grouse and deer, fox and raccoons inhabiting this section of biosphere; other forms of wildlife too numerous to mention. Once during a particularly challenging time, I sat above the brook and watched a winter wren flit about the exposed roots of an oak tree at the waters edge. It would disappear among the roots into the darkness of the undercut stream bank and reappear again. My troubles soon became small in comparison to the greater importance of this reclusive little bird plying for sustenance, hunting the tangled roots beneath the immensity of the trees and the all encompassing forest.

I like to hike along the brook in the spring and fall when there aren’t the distractions of mosquitoes and deer flies, turning stones now and then, examining fossils, looking for encased caddis fly pupae. I’ll often pause by a pool and listen to the water. Recently at one of those pools, as I kneeled close to examine some detritus beneath the surface, there appeared the face of my father. Even though I’ve been told I resemble him, and I can see it somewhat as I shave in front of the mirror, it came as a bit of a shock to see him there in the undulations of the water. We had explored this brook together many times beginning when I was as young as my eldest grandson. And it occurred to me then that I’ve done it with my kids and my grandkids too. With them, I’ve re-discovered some of those things I’d lost along the way. Dad stared me in the face, the reflection of me-as-him animated by the current, making it appear as if  I--or he--was nodding in agreement or approval.

Last June I camped and fished with friends in British Columbia amid spectacular scenery. There were raging rivers, not to mention numerous creeks and drainages. All beautiful in their own right. I was happy to be there but not as content as I am when re-exploring my little brook. I suppose it’s reassurance of a kind found in a place where water flows through familiar territory. Where in its reflections you can see where you’ve been, where you are and where you’re going.

THE MORNING WOODS

I took a walk this morning at sunrise, this 18^th of September, down the hill and across the brook to the woods gully. There’s a fox den on the embankment and I headed that way facing into the sun. The grass in the path was soaked with dew. At the edge of the woods where the trail descends steeply to the brook crossing, I entered a darker space where the sunlight was divided by the breaks in the trees into individual beams with singular illumination, some ricocheting off the flora into the darkness and some finding a spot on the forest floor as if focused through a piece of glass. There it would burn off the wetness and cause wisps of steam to waft upward.

At the top of the gully far off to my right there was a flash of whiteness. It was there and then it was gone; one of those things that happen when, later on as you think back on it, you wonder if you saw anything at all. Could’ve been a piece of foliage briefly catching the light, or an aberrant firing of an optical nerve cell. It was that quick. This has happened to me often enough however to know that it was the flagging of a whitetail deer: it’s upraised tail, the whiteness of it, catching the slant of one of those beams of light for a duration of time measured in the blink of an eye. I heard the dull hoof-thuds of the leaping deer; a twig snapped. Otherwise it made its escape quietly and but for the ray of sunlight it would have remained unobserved.

So it was with the circles of light suspended above the woods floor. They weren’t there at first, at the moment of the deer encounter. Although my eyes had scanned the woods looking after the deer, I didn’t see them. Not until I continued my walk and turned into a shaft of light did one appear practically before my eyes: the near perfect circle of webbing spun and suspended between two trees by an orb weaver. If I took a step sideways, it would disappear from the light, but then others beyond would appear. Within the darkness and back-lit, they seemed to be self-illuminating and hovering; fragile little faerie wheels of exquisite manufacture. They were everywhere it seemed, revealing themselves only when properly aligned with the light. Had I been walking in another direction it would have been as if they didn’t exist at all unless, of course, I had walked into one and gotten a face full. That has happened too, often enough, at other times in various locations.

I came to the fox den, the one where in the winter, on my skis and gliding quietly, I had caught the red fox napping outside the entrance, curled up in the snow in a spot of sunlight. I came close enough then to take a couple of photos with my pocket camera before it heard me or sensed me, and disappeared not back into the den, but off into the woods. This time the fox revealed itself only by what it had left on the mound of the den: a few scattered bones of its prey.

I left the den and the bones and continued on up the trail. By then the quality of the light had changed, filtering through the canopy of the woods and  becoming diffuse. For a while there, seen “in a different light,” ordinary things like deer tails and spider webs had assumed a primal level of importance.

It was almost magical.

LAST RETRIEVE AT CORBETT LAKE

FLYFISHING
 AT THE
DOUGLAS LAKE
RANCH
 AND THE LODGE
AT CORBETT LAKE,
 BRITISH COLUMBIA.

British Columbia and its lakes Minnie, Stoney and Corbett. The Douglas Lake Ranch and “world class fly fishing.” Where the deer and the free range cattle roam beyond the quintessential ranch gate that greeted us after driving miles of gravel road through a mountainous grassy landscape.   We came from Whistler over the pass where there was snow on the peaks the first day of June and a mud slide blocking the road. There were five in our party: Dick Draper and I in one truck; Rob Pomroy, his young retriever Hurley, and John Alexander in another. Both trucks and the boat that Rob was towing were packed full of camping and fly fishing gear for our week long stay at the yurt on Minnie Lake.
 
This was the last leg of my journey which began driving the dirt road from my rural home in Western New York to a stop over at my son’s home near Buffalo. He and his family then drove me to Toronto, Ontario where I caught a non-stop to Vancouver and a rendezvous with Dick, John and Rob. It was a journey begun, oddly enough, by my vicarious sharing of a poignant moment with two men and a dog. A few degrees of separation with common ties to Western New York figured into my role in the event, as the artist commissioned to recapture that moment in paint.  The dog was an aging Labrador Retriever called “Sedge” and Rob was his owner. The event took place while hunting ducks near Vancouver. It was a threesome that morning, Rob and Sedge and Dick, waiting in their blind for that special mallard to come within range. Sedge was in the twilight of his days; Rob and Dick’s purpose was to allow him an opportunity, one last time, to retrieve a fallen duck. The moment happened and what resulted so moved Dick that he contacted me the next day and I agreed to begin work on the painting paying homage to Rob and Sedge.  (View the painting and read Dick’s full account of the event at http://www.markcudney.com/ under “Sedge’s Last Retrieve”).

Dick and I had not met but we had been corresponding via email, sharing a mutual interest in creative writing, fly fishing, and the out-of-doors experience in general.  Our degrees of separation were founded in Dick’s friendship with my cousin Jim, going back to their days of being roommates at Cornell and in the fact that Dick had grown up near Hamburg, New York not very far from my boyhood home. Jim had sent Dick a gift of a print I had produced along with some of my writing samples and so, our correspondence began.

Once the painting was finished and received by Dick in Whistler, BC, he then arranged for me to join him, Rob and John at Minnie Lake. “We’ll send you your round trip tickets. All you need to do is get to Toronto and WestJet Airlines. Rob and I will see to the rest,” Dick told me in words to that affect. Now, I’m known among my family and friends as one who avoids travel as much as possible, that it takes some prodding to get me “off the hill.”  Especially during the prime spring time fly fishing season on my home water. But this time I was easily persuaded. When the words “British Columbia, fly fishing for rainbow trout and camping in a yurt on the Douglas Lake Ranch” were used to convince me, the phrase “no-brainer“ came to mind. So I set to the task of making a gear list and happily shopping, during the months beforehand, for those items necessary for my trek to BC.

Journal Entry: Arrived at the ranch around one p.m. Chilly. Intermittent rain. Unloaded gear at the yurt and went fishing. I learned quickly that with these guys, there’s no dawdling when you could be fishing. I was still absorbing the scenery, the vast stretches of open range surrounding the yurt, and trying to organize my gear. With haste, we readied the trolling motor powered boats as it began to rain. I joined Rob and Hurley while Dick and John manned one of the ranch’s skiffs. Trolling a sinking line, Rob soon had

a fish on. ‘Already?’ I thought. ‘Wow! This looks good!’ It leapt forty feet or so in front of the boat and Hurley, inspired to retrieve, leapt off the bow.  He swam toward the splashes while Rob did his best to maneuver the boat and control his line.  Thanks to Rob’s angling and boating skills, a meeting of fly line, dog and trout was avoided. Rather than try to heft him over the gunwales, Rob made Hurley swim alongside the boat to shore where he was able to come aboard unassisted. We then set off again and trolled sections of the lake with Hurley on watch in the bow. Thereafter, he maintained his cool and stayed in the boat, although he needed to inspect every fish brought to net. All of them that day caught by Rob, I might add.

 J.E.: I thought it odd to troll with a fly rod and found it awkward to cast, when it was necessary, a sink tip line sitting in a boat with a dog. Lots of fish jumping. I was having trouble finding my rhythm and felt clumsy. This was a whole

new world of fly fishing, having spent my time wading the streams of  New York and Pennsylvania dry fly fishing for brown trout with an attitude. I hadn’t fished, trolling from a boat, since my childhood. Rob was getting hits left and right and netted a few of those rainbow trout while Hurley and I sat in the bow, waiting for one with my name on it. After all, trout were jumping wherever you looked! Undiscouraged, rather enjoying the catching and releasing by Rob, the leaping trout and just being there in British Columbia, I remained ready for that first fish.  Hurley, on the other hand, eventually became bored with the inaction up front, dismissed me with an air of disdain and went aft to be near Rob and further close encounters with fighting fish.

J.E.: Not off to a great start. Got my line entangled in the prop. Struck too quickly at trout hitting the fly. Unfortunately the former was to become repeated “burr-under-the-saddle” moments for me over the next couple of days, during the time we spent trolling. Rob actually had to disassemble the prop at one point to untangle my line. Now, Rob is an exceptional young man, an exuberant fisherman, a lover of dogs and the outdoors. Easy to know. You couldn’t ask for a better fishing guide and companion. He wanted me to do well. Throughout his experience with me in the boat, he exhibited the patience of a saint. However, there came a time when I believe that he may have wished me overboard and swimming to shore, so that he and Hurley could fish unencumbered.  Maybe it was the latest prop incident or my missed strikes. May have been the time I managed to coax a trout close to the boat only to break it off before the net. More than likely it was the time, when using one of his favorite “hot” flies, I mis-played a beautiful rainbow and it broke off under the boat, taking that fly with it. No, it must have been the morning we were fishing Corbett Lake, near Merritt, BC.

It was our second to last day of the trip after we had left the Douglas Lake Ranch to drive to a cabin on Corbett Lake. There was the promise of some dry fly fishing to be had during afternoon hatches, not to mention some hot chironomid fishing. I was looking forward to not trolling. The pair-ups in the boats remained the same. I think Dick was happy to leave me to Rob since he too had experienced one of my prop mishaps the one time we fished together: a windy day on Minnie Lake with whitecaps, when we also lost motor power and had to row back to the yurt.

Rob and I had anchored near shore first thing in the morning and were setting-up our chironomid rigs. It was a nice morning and we were both looking forward to catching some trout. But when I went to cast, the fly I was holding and didn’t let go of  became deeply embedded into my index finger. I looked at my finger in disbelief then glanced over at Rob who was involved with his rig and hadn’t noticed what I’d done. I took my hemostat and tried to work the hook free. It wasn’t working. The last thing I wanted to do was to spoil Rob’s day. I tried to think of a way to keep on fishing. I kept on trying to work the hook through the other side of my finger to cut-off the barb and make it easier to extract. Yep, shoulda pinched the barb down beforehand, but it was too late now. No good; most of the hook was buried and I was “wimping-out” at the pain. I thought I might be able to wrap a couple of bandages over the protrusion near the hook eye and worry about it later. In the end, I showed it to Rob and was surprised he kept his cool. My respect for his tolerance for this ugly American grew even stronger. Dick and John were nearby so we motored over to their boat where Dick assessed the situation, offered to try and extract the hook then decided it best not to. Long story short, John offered to drive me to the Merritt Medical Center so that Dick and Rob could continue to fish. We exchanged boats and headed to Merritt.

J.E.:  A painless extraction and last chance to catch a trout from Corbett Lake. Redemption on a dry fly.  The doctor on duty at the Emergency Room in the small, one story center informed me that what with my inadequate insurance, I was looking at a $900 bill for hospital services. I thought then that a half bottle of scotch and a pliers back at the cabin looked like the way to go. Reading the discouragement evident in my body language he added, “There is another option. If you’re agreeable I can take care of this in a minute out in the parking lot, off the books, but,” and he spoke directly to the nurse receptionist holding my admittance form, “mum’s the word.”  I agreed. She ripped up the form. Once outside and standing near his car where it appeared not to be a doctor tending to a patient--we could have been friends comparing fishing gear, the Doc his forceps and me the lure--he numbed the finger, yanked the fly out, handed me two bandages and said, “The rest is up to you.” And, no charge! Giddy with gratitude, my finger dripping blood, I about kneeled down and kissed his shoes. He saved the day. John and I were able to get back to the lake and in the boat for the rest of the afternoon.

  
The next morning, our last before heading back to Whistler, found Rob and I and Hurley together again. I can only surmise that Rob was on a mission to better my luck. Hurley may have been looking forward to my next mishap or he may have gained an air of empathy towards me since he stayed near me in the bow. But up until then, I half expected to be relegated to a lodge boat by myself with a pair of oars during the time we had left.  It turned out to be the most exciting few hours of fishing for me since the day on Stoney Lake when we all caught countless rainbows on chironomids, dragonfly nymphs and trolling. This morning on Corbett, we anchored in the shallows at the end of the lake and fished midges below a strike indicator. The water was looking-glass clear; a loon appeared underwater near the boat chasing a trout. There were so many fish rising and jumping in the cove it was dreamlike. Rob assisted me in gauging leader length and fly size and we both caught a bunch during the chironomid hatch. Then a mayfly hatch began and we switched to dry flies. Rob caught two or three before I had re-rigged my rod. I selected an Eastern  dry fly pattern I had in my box and tied it on. Time was getting short. We needed to get back soon and hit the road. The rises had let up and Rob was preparing to lift anchor and I began to reel in and call it a day. I was happy with the action we had and the fact that Mr. Murphy (of Murphy’s Law) wasn’t with me this day. There was a rise form just then and I thought I’d try one more cast. I managed an accurate presentation and the trout hit the fly. With the hook set, I had another trout on, but this one was more special than the rest, taken on a March Brown dry fly from my own fly box. This was the fishing I was used to: sight casting to rising trout. It jumped and ran and dove and then jumped again near the boat. Twice it took a run below the boat and twice I led it out. It finally relented and came to the net. I believe that Rob was just as happy or even moreso than I was. Of the many trout I did catch there in the lakes of British Columbia, this was the one I’ll remember most vividly.

J.E.: The good outweighed the bad: The weather was uncooperative much of the time with wind, rain and a cold night or two requiring a wood fire.  Most of the time, unsheltered Minnie was choppy due to the wind and we opted to fish nearby Stoney Lake. Even so, it was comfortable there in the yurt what with a wooden floor, wood stove, bunk beds and small kitchen area. Even a heated outdoor shower. Following a day of fishing, there were steaks and other food prepared over an outside fire. In the mornings, a hearty breakfast. One evening as a late dinner was being prepared, a storm blew in with wind, rain and hail. When it had passed, the clouds opened and a vivid double rainbow arced across the full extent of the sky. We all paused in what we were doing, awestruck. I thought it apropos to end the day that way: a rainbow above the water with all those rainbows beneath the surface. It was as if all the vivid colorations of the trout inhabiting the lake were drawn up into the very sky.


There were numerous occasions such as that which made the small misfortunes seem insignificant. There were the evenings at the campfire when the coyotes sang; the call of loons; the sight of eagles; the beauty of the rainbow trout and so many to be seen rising and jumping. Hearing of Dick’s and John’s many catches including the special trout of theirs that tail danced on top of the water. There was the unforgettable scenery of the open and rolling range land around the lake with mountains as a backdrop. Simply breathing in the high mountain air. The morning I walked up the draw behind the yurt and saw two mule deer. The friendly people of Merritt and the Lodge at Corbett, the generous Doc, my new friend John Alexander. My more than generous hosts, Dick and Rob, who arranged for me to join them. Finally, that “last retrieve” I made on the trout on a dry fly. It wasn’t as poignant as the retrieve that Rob’s old dog Sedge made on their last hunt together and which proved to be the catalyst for the events that led to my being there in BC, but it was an act that seemed to make the whole of the experience come full circle. Sedge got to do it one more time and so did I.  

                      Left to right: Rob Pomroy, Hurley, Dick Draper, John Alexander, Mark Cudney

  

BLOG PREVIEW

Welcome to the "From Bronson Hill" blog. I'm new to the blogosphere and somewhat of a dinosaur when it comes to this type of web communication, so this is a test to see if I hit the right buttons and turn the proper cranks to download and upload those things necessary to make it all visible and readable. I know I can make this an interesting page for you to visit on a regular basis if I can avoid trying your patience. I may be a bit behind the electronic-age times, but I'm well aware of the demand for quickness and accuracy. (I know all too well, since I'm still on dial-up connection here in the boondocks.)  Okay, let me see if I can download, er, I mean upload an image:

Okay, that worked! It only took the better part of twenty minutes. Anyway, I selected the book cover to "hype" my book of short stories to those of you not familiar with it. Might as well start-off with an ad. You can go to my website http://www.markcudney.com/ for more info along with a couple of reviews from Amazon.com.

In the furure I'll post other stories and essays along with a photo or two or a painting I've done; also some short takes on items of interest having to do with my experiences here in the hills. I've recently returned from a fly fishing trip to British Columbia and I'll be posting a story and photos about the days spent fishing the small lakes on or near the Douglas Lake Ranch near Merritt, BC.

I hope to hear from you with comments, good or bad. I'll try to keep glitches to a minimum.

Mark