Woods Wanderer

Judy misses camping on a mountain stream now that her backpacking days are behind her. So last week we did the next best thing. We secured a cabin only steps away from the Otter Creek, a few miles outside the western boundary of the Adirondack Park. It turned out to be quite the place: a nearly new cabin with all the amenities. Quite comfortable. A lot better than camping, that’s for sure.

Judy left the cabin only to walk down to the creek and groove on it. A pair of Adirondack chairs just outside the cabin was the best place to be, with a full view of the stream. She spent considerable time there. I, on the other hand, explored the area – restless soul that I am. On the second full day of our stay, I walked the nearby Independence River with a fly rod in hand. For several hours I saw no one or any kind of development. Caught and released a couple trout in the process.

The fishing was pretty good for this time of year, but I opted for a one-day license since I was more in the mood to hike. I scouted a couple trailheads in the Independence River Wild Forest. Oddly enough, I ended up hiking at Whetstone Gulf State Park instead. I figured that way Judy wouldn’t worry about me. “State park” sounds safe, doesn’t it?

Whetstone Gulf turned out to be a bona fide canyon. A big sign at the trailhead says you must be 18 or be with someone who is in order to hike it. I hiked the North Rim Trail out, and the South Rim Trail back, completely circumnavigating the gulf. Five and a half miles altogether. Most of the time I was no more than a couple feet from the edge of the precipice. Some fantastic views along the way. A lot more than expected.

Our last evening at the cabin, we enjoyed a campfire in the fire pit down by the creek. With temps cooling off fast, thanks to a wide-open sky overhead, we sat close to the fire. Once again in comfy Adirondack chairs. The amber stream rushed past as the campfire crackled. It was a good finish to a very pleasant getaway. We’re already talking about doing it again next year.

Tags: Adirondacks, cabin in the woods, hiking, trout fishing

In theory I am trout fishing, but that’s not really why I’m here. Oh sure, I have a fly rod in hand and I cast my line into every stretch of water that looks like it might have a brook trout in it. But my eyes are drinking in the wild beauty all around me so it’s hard to care whether or not I catch anything. I am simply here.

Recent rainstorms have brought to life the forest, turning everything green. Not just a color wheel green, but a deep, surreal green convincing me that life is good. Elsewhere on this planet, forests are burning up and the landscape is drying out. But not here. This corner of the world is still lush.

Why am I so lucky to be slowly making my way up this mountain stream, deeper into the wild? I wade across crystal clear water that has a chill to it despite summer heat. I crawl over boulders reminding me that I’m no longer a young man. I kneel before emerald pools to keep from spooking the trout in them. I frequently stop casting just to look around, marveling at the tenacity of life taking root in every nook and cranny. All this I’ve done many times before, but today it feels like a moving meditation, a wordless prayer.

There is no philosophy or religion that adequately captures the wonder and beauty of existence. I have certainly tried to formulate a worldview that does so, but my efforts always fall miserably short of the mark. Some poets come closer, but even they can’t do it justice. What my senses tell me during an outing like this cannot be turned into a credo – not even a hedonistic one. While I’m out here, I am astounded by the sudden realization that I am a part of this incredible world. What else can be said? Words fail us all – philosopher, theologian and poet alike.

At some point, one must simply let go. I let go, sitting before a small waterfall, listening intently to the constant gurgle of running water as glimmering light dances across a rock face. Through the years I have become a lousy fisherman. I just don’t care about that anymore. Now it is only wildness that interests me, and I can’t get enough of it. Wildness draws me deeper and deeper into the forest until some part of me disappears – the part that believes that what I am and what I do is so important. Wildness tells me otherwise.

Tags: forest solitude, mountain stream, natural philosophy, trout fishing, wildness

I’m pleased to announce the release of my collection of short hiking narratives set in Vermont. It’s called Wandering in Vermont Woods appropriately enough. A few years back, I published a collection of hiking narratives set in the Adirondacks, and that has gone over well. My bookseller friend Donna at The Eloquent Page suggested that I do the same for narratives set in Vermont – my home turf. So here it is.

This collection opens with a relatively long account of a solo excursion in the Breadloaf Wilderness 35 years ago called “Tracks Across the Forest Floor.” Some of you may remember that from a previous publication. I’ve reprinted 10 other pieces from previous publications, as well – several of those books now out of print. There are two pieces in this collection dating back over 20 years that haven’t been published until now, and three brand new pieces seeing print for the very first time. It’s quite a mix, actually. But the spirit of the wild graces them all.

The Long Trail, southern Vermont, the Northeast Kingdom, or close to home – I’m all over the map in this collection. Sometimes backpacking; other times just out for the day. Sometimes bushwhacking; occasionally trout fishing some mountain brook. Usually alone, but not always. Sometimes contemplating philosophical matters while banging around in the Green Mountains; often just being being in the moment. Always the woods wanderer.

You can get a copy from Amazon.com, or by going to the Wood Thrush Books website. I hope this book inspires some of you to venture into the woods this summer. There’s nothing else quite like a little time spent in a wild place.

Tags: bushwhacking, Green Mountains, hiking, nature writing, trout fishing, Vermont

Remarkably enough, there were no black flies out yesterday when I set foot on the mountain brook. I don’t know why. They’re out in force in my backyard. A bug-free outing in the spring is a real treat, though. I walked the brook for several hours, pretending to fish for trout. But what I really wanted was the sound of rushing water, a cool breeze wafting up the stream, and wildflowers in bloom along the banks. I got all that and more.

Oh sure, I casted my fly into every emerald pool of water and did my best to entice brook trout to the surface, but nothing happened. No rises, that is, until the last hour of my outing. I caught and released one brookie at that time, happy not to be skunked, then lost another on a second rise. Slow fishing. But when the forest comes alive with that luminescent, vernal green it’s hard to care about anything else. The sudden explosion of leafy growth, both overhead and across the forest floor, is reason enough to be in the woods. Trout fishing is just a good excuse to witness it.

When I stumbled upon painted trilliums in full bloom, I couldn’t help but smile. Plenty of other wildflowers come up in May, but this is one of my favorites. There’s something about painted trilliums that brings joy to me. Perhaps that is because I associate it with the Green Mountains – my home turf – and with my first mountain brook outings a long time ago. Eternal renewal. That flower shouts it.

When I was finished fishing, I sat down on a large rock next to the stream. I smoked a cigar in celebration of a recently published book and counted my blessings. I have many, including the crystal clear stream itself. Just then several dun-colored mayflies rose into the air, similar to the fly I had been using. I reveled in the beginning of a mayfly hatch even though I was too tired to take advantage of it. Sometimes it’s enough just to witness such things. The miracle of spring is that even the harshest winter can’t prevent it from coming. And that is reason enough, I think, to walk the brook this time of year.

Tags: mountain stream, springtime, The Green Mountains, trout fishing, wildflowers

Several times during the past month, I have gone into the mountains to fish small streams for wild trout. That’s what I usually do whenever I pull out my fly rod. But yesterday I did something different – something I haven’t done in years. I stayed in the lowlands and plied the relatively big water of the Missisquoi River instead, up near the Canadian border.

Shortly after leaving the muddy bank and wet wading into the murky waters of the slow-moving river, I hooked into a brown trout. An Adams fly did the trick. Then I tangled with the trout’s wily kin, missing most of them. Caught and landed another brown before too long, then watched daylight give way to twilight while being outsmarted by the rest. Good fun. But I must admit that I felt a little out of my element.

Yeah, yeah, I know how to read the river, match the hatch, and do that 10/2 cast made famous by A River Runs Through It. But that’s not my style. Not really. I’m more of a crawl-through-the-rocks kind of guy, more accustomed to crouching low and side-casting, usually on my knees, into a pool of clear, cold water only ten or fifteen feet away. Pagan fishing, I call it, because fishing for brookies in mountain streams is all about stalking the trout, immersing oneself in the surrounding forest and going a little wild in the process.

Unlike most fishermen, I prefer small water to big water. I prefer the diminutive brook trout to the larger brown or rainbow trout. That said, it sure is a lot of fun to work a foot-long fighter to the riverbank. A brookie will fight like hell, but they are usually not more than 8 or 9 inches, so my rod never bends over much.

So there it is. Soon I’ll go a-fishing again, returning to my natural habitat up in the heavily forested mountains, scrambling over rocks on a clear, fast-moving stream. But when the urge to play with the big guys strikes, I’ll be back on the wide river. It’s all a matter of priorities, I suppose.

Tags: fly fishing, rivers, small stream fishing, trout fishing

After surprising three deer crossing the road, I parked my car then stepped into the woods. My dog Matika was right on my heels. The sun was just clearing the eastern horizon. I had crept out of bed a little after 4 a.m. and was now approaching a mountain stream at daybreak. A hermit thrush greeted me with its flute-like song.

I ignored the mosquitoes while tying a fly to my line. A cool breeze wafted down the brook as the first shafts of sunlight broke through the trees. The tumbling stream rushed along, unraveling my thoughts. Next thing I knew there was a brook trout tugging my line. I lifted my rod and brought it to the bank where I was crouching, much to Matika’s delight. She danced about in predatory play. The small fish slipped back into the drink faster than she could react.

I caught a few more fish and lost a few while slowly making my way up the stream. It hardly mattered. My casts were more out of habit than intent. I was enthralled by the deep green tunnel directly ahead – the dark hemlocks, vibrant moss and ferns, and slick gray rocks around which the stream flowed. Fishing was just the excuse that brought me here, what got me out of bed.

Upon reaching a deep pool at the base of a boulder, I gave up all pretense of fishing. I sat on the stream bank admiring the unspeakable beauty all around me and soaking in its wildness. Eventually, after killing a dozen or so mosquitoes taking turns at my forearms, I removed the fly, reeled in all my line, and hiked out.

Back on the road, I felt the full power of a sun only days away from the summer solstice. Not even mid-morning and already the air felt warm. It was going to be a hot day, but I’d already enjoyed a cool reprieve at the beginning of it.

Tags: daybreak, mountain brook, summer solstice, trout fishing, wild beauty

I am pleased to announce that Walt Franklin’s fine collection of fly-fishing essays, River’s Edge, has been reprinted. I first published this book under the Wood Thrush Books imprint back in 2008, but now it is available at Amazon.com as well as the WTB website. And it will stay that way indefinitely.

River’s Edge is primarily about the joy of fishing for trout on thirty streams, both large and small, in northern Pennsylvania and upstate New York. But Franklin also does an excellent job seasoning detailed descriptions of his outings with cultural observations, natural history, and streamside ecology. There is plenty of fly-fishing lore thrown in for good measure.

Franklin and I have been friends ever since we encountered each other’s writing back in the early 90s and started corresponding. Through the years we’ve gotten together many times to hike, fish, drink beer, and talk literature. I’ve learned a lot about fly-fishing from Walt. In fact, it was he who taught me the mysterious ways of aquatic flies when I first took up the sport.

In addition to fishing narratives, Franklin also writes travel essays and nature-related verse. To promote these books, I have added a new section at the Wood Thrush Books website: Other Books by Walt Franklin. Check it out. I will soon have these books in stock. In the meantime, you can sample River’s Edge by going to Amazon.com and clicking on the “Look inside” button. Or you can visit his blog site, Rivertop Rambles.  If you’re the least bit interested in fly-fishing, you won’t be disappointed.

Tags: fly fishing, nature essays, River's Edge, trout fishing, Walt Franklin

A few days ago I went to a favorite brook to do a little fly fishing. Trout season had opened three and a half months earlier. I hadn’t been out yet. An outing was long overdue.

My dog Matika was with me, of course. When I grabbed her leash, she knew it was going to be a good day.

It mattered little whether or not I’d actually catch fish. Like Matika, I just wanted to sniff around. Yeah, the smell of the forest and the sound of cool, clear water tumbling through it is reason enough to be on a stream.

A mountain brook in late summer charms a guy like me in a way that is difficult to describe. My mind empties as I scramble from one promising riffle to another, stalking the wild trout, until suddenly I am face-to-face with unspeakable beauty: a flume, overhanging cliff, waterfall, or some deep, quiet pool that I must show my wife Judy someday. Then a hungry mouth splashes towards my fly, yanking me out of my reverie.

I’m not a very good fisherman. The rising trout usually catches me by surprise. I am easily distracted by the call of a thrush in the distance, the rustle of a forest creature in the nearby understory, or a wildflower blooming along the rocky bank where only moss should grow.

Two small trout landed in my lap despite my best efforts, not because of them. Then I meandered up the brook a while longer, rod in hand but no longer fishing, in search of god-only-knows-what. Deep within lies some vague desire to walk the brook for no reason at all. Sometimes I give into it.

I quit the stream around midday, hiking through the forest to the nearest road then daydreaming back towards the car. No doubt other motorists were cursing me as I slowly made my way home. Under the influence of the wild, I shouldn’t have been on the road.

Tags: fly fishing, mountain brook, reverie, summer, the wild, trout fishing