Everything Outdoors with Chalen

We should get a new tent,
Ours is old and worn and spent,

Last Year it started leaking slightly,
On a trip where it rained nightly,

And long before that we had to tape,
One of the poles to keep its shape,

The zipper won’t zip more than halfway,
Leaving nothing to keep the mosquitos at bay,

Once on a trip in the bitter cold,
We accidentally melted a hole,

And once when we were hiking out,
We lost the stakes and now go without,

A hundred trips this tent has borne,
And for its trouble is looking worn,

Time for a new one, maybe bigger,
But now that I’m ready to pull the trigger,

With all the trips that have came and went,
It really still is a Very Good Tent.

A trickster of fish and gambler of fate,
here in the house I dream and wait,
of warmer water and warmer weather,
here amongst my fur and feathers.

Preparing for battle on the lakes and springs,
creating my weapons of tails and wings,
thread and tinsel, dubbing and hackle,
all the tools to create my tackle.

Tweaking this and trimming that,
the wings stand up, the tail laid flat,
the body tapered, head whipped tight,
a sharpened hook ready for the fight.

I sit back and gaze in admiration,
and without a moment’s hesitation,
tell myself that old angler’s lie,
that I have tied the perfect fly.

I sit here fingers freezing,

Nose running, often sneezing,

Listening around me for a sound I’d like to hear,

Sitting in the woods, waiting for a deer.

I hear a squirrel rustling,

Birds chirping, flying, bustling,

The woodland life around me continues drawing near,

And I am sitting, watching, waiting for a deer.

Now the light is getting dimmer,

Shadows growing getting slimmer,

And now my time to sit is running out I fear,

I wonder will I always be waiting for a deer?

I’m out of light to borrow,

better luck may come tomorrow,

or maybe in a week, or not until next year,

but I’ll be sitting patient, waiting for a deer.

As I was on the river,
one cool and sunny day,
I watched a better angler,
as they made their play.

The bittern slowly stalking,
along the shallow shore,
caused me to pause my talking,
and see what it was going for.

The calculated movement,
every slow and careful step,
brought us to this moment,
for which the bird had prepped.

It’s calm belied its quickness,
as with a turn it dove,
and I was there to witness,
when it brought the fish above.

A small and wriggling bream,
trying to shake free,
and on the bittern wades upstream,
a better angler than me

Every angler falls for the waters’ dirty trick,
When hooked into a big one in lake or pond or crick,
First the rods bends
But soon the fight ends
For alas, it was only a stick.

The grass crunches underfoot
on my way to the creekbank
“Fire Danger: High”
reads the sign at the trailhead
too dry, much too dry lately

The walk is longer than it used to be
the water, retreating downstream
has left less of the creek there
the sun on near still pools
seem more intense
or perhaps simply concentrated
the same sun on less water
low water.

The fish that remain
those that did not flee with the water
are hungered by the staleness of the water
barely moving, bringing them no food
but in their shaded hides and cut bank hollows
they lurk
waiting for drifting insects
waiting, hoping for morsels

As I work upstream
casting into the minute shaded pockets
the water shows what life it has left
the ravenous inhabitants dart from safety
and taking no caution
attack my fly with abandon

Swift and stout
darting in blues, greens, oranges
punching well above their weight
the miscellany of panfish fight
much more than their fingerling size

One after another they come
small, but sturdy
and in such numbers
that in telling about it later
I must leave a few out to be believed

Walking what was once the creekbed
I make note
of features once hidden
and when the water returns
I will know the haunts and snags
that fish will call home
a sad advantage afforded anglers
by low water

A broad bend shows the time worn channels
where the creek has run
leaving a pool
now amputated from the flow of the creek
where the water has warmed
and film coats the surface

I almost miss it
casually passing in the corner of my eye
a hint of movement
the lazed flick of a fin

A closer look discloses
in the tepid pool
a gar
the toothy, torpedo-shaped dinosaur
trapped in a shrinking vessel

To catch a gar is always a joy
but this feel different
to catch it, yes
but to set it free
in the diminishing water

The fish seems lethargic
no fly can rise it
what to do?
how to stay the certain demise
should it remain
The needle-like teeth
gleam at me as I enter the pool
the gar drifts aimlessly
making no effort to escape

I’m close now
bending slowly, I reach down
slowly cradling the fish
gently lifting it from the water
It makes no struggle
no thrashing or jerks
the gar seems dull
less slimy than I’m used to

As I walk it over to the remaining channel
it slowly rotates its fins
yearning towards the water
I slip it into the water
and for a moment it hangs motionless
then effortlessly it glides towards cover

Leaving only a memory
of low water.

Abrupt, like a sharp command,
the low hum of the forest is broken,
A punctuated bark,
then another, quickly,
flattened against the trunk of an oak,
the red squirrel chatters,
warning the woods,
of my unfamiliar presence,
the watchman of the forest,
announcing unexpected guests.