MAYFLIES ON GLASS

Nursing a cold and battling the shack nasties, I was couch-bound and reading a book about fly fishing in the northwest. It stirred up a concoction of memories of my trip to British Columbia last spring and fly fishing in its mountains. As good an elixir to lessen the ague of a head cold as any I had taken. Outside there were snow devils whirling across the yard; fresh powder of the overnight snowfall spiraling upward to reveal the glitter of ice crystals embedded upon the hard crust. The wind chill was calculated at negative fifteen degrees Fahrenheit; another frigid day in a long spell of arctic conditions preceded by a cycle of rain, sleet and ice. I was beginning to seriously ponder the onset of spring.

Broken clouds raced across the sky, sporadically revealing its blueness and letting the sun pour through the window where I sat propped to catch the warmth on my shoulders. It felt as good as that high mountain sun in the Canadian Rockies felt after fishing in the rain, when the roiling clouds and thunder had left in their wake an impossibly brilliant rainbow arching across the full extent of the blue sky. Author Thomas McGuane once wrote, “For such things are we placed upon this careening mudball.” Starved of sunshine here in the northeast for much of the winter, even a little dose of it through the panes can make you almost giddy.

Winter in its extremes can be an impediment to giddiness unless it’s maintained artificially by food or strong drink. I find my equilibrium by staying as active as I can in the outdoors, hiking and cross country skiing. I’ll avoid being trite by not recounting the ways in which winter ski trails can lead to euphoria. This day though, I’m stuck indoors with a good book and day dreaming: of mountains in bloom, clear lakes and rivers, wild trout rising to mayflies, a fly rod rigged and in hand as the morning sun cracks the dawn over the water and…well, there you go, it’s been said before. In a few weeks will come the vernal equinox and the winged harbingers of spring: the geese and the robins and the red-winged blackbirds, many of which will nest along familiar watercourses. There the trout will begin to shake off their sluggishness as the waters warm and the mayflies will begin their flights of fancy. Still, as one with a case of the doldrums, it seems like a long ways off.

And then as if I had wished for them out loud, there they were, not literally in front of my nose, but waiting to be discovered behind my back, etched upon the window pane by Jack Frost himself: a flight of mayflies as if recently hatched from the surface of the stream. No less exquisite made of ice crystals as they are organically and animated in spring time, and no less instilling in me that elated feeling when it’s time to cast that first fly. I wonder, What if I had been thinking of something other than fly fishing? Would the haphazard appearance of those frosted designs have resembled something else? Certainly philosophers and mathematicians have pondered theories of parallels and counterparts and random happenstance, submitting explanations for things such as “getting what you wish for.” Not to mention the psychiatrist Hermann Rorschach (my test being not ink blots but frost formations). No matter. I felt better for a while in seeing them, never mind the science.

　

　

　

　

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.