In the middle of his poem “Song of Myself,” Walt Whitman addresses the reader writing, “You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle.”
I remember reading that line when I was 24 or so, and it has stayed with me and always struck me that Whitman truly meant it:
“ The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me,
I tuck'd my trowser-ends in my boots and went and had a good time;
You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle.”
You can feel Whitman’s joy. Simple joy, really. This gathering. This clam chowder. And his heart so swollen with human empathy that he feels his good time and thinks, “Everyone should be feeling this right now.” Indeed, we probably should have been with him that day round the chowder-kettle.
It might have refueled us a bit.
My fly fishing itch has not waned. Yesterday, I decided that I was going to drive to my favorite river, The Pigeon, even though it is two hours north of where I live. I was able to convince my good friend, Josh Maday, to go with me. Although he’s heard me talk about the river many times, he’s never been.
He’d been cooped up quarantining for too long. I wanted the river for him.
I was glad for the company too. Many times as I’ve been fishing, I’ve thought, “Josh would really like this.” He doesn’t fly fish himself (not yet), but he walked with me in the river—him with a walking stick and me with a fly rod.
We arrived in Michigan’s Pigeon River State Forest around 6 o’clock… perfect timing for the evening fish. Josh wore my waders and wader boots, and I decided that I would wear an older pair of shoes and swim trunks.
We walked up a two-track road, veered off onto a footpath, and then down a steep hill to the meadow where The Pigeon winds through. Arriving in the meadow we were greeted by the primordial squawk and holler of two Sand Hills Cranes trying, we guessed, to lure us away from their nesting area. We gave the birds a wide berth, and they eventually settled down.
As we followed deer paths through the meadow, Josh commented on the aroma of the grasses. We couldn’t quite put our finger on how to describe it. It was a smell one would guess was on God’s fingers as he called forth the world in Genesis.
It was new and fresh.
Finding words for these experiences has been hard. I guess you should have been with us that day round the meadow.
After twenty minutes of walking, we finally entered the river. The fish. The river. The overcast sky… it was all so generous. By my fifth cast, I’d already caught an 8 and ½ inch brook trout. Not a keeper, but a good sign.
And, it was a good sign. Several bends later, I cast to a dark hole that eddies in the embrace of a hollowed out sandbank. What would turn out to be an 11 and ½ inch rainbow trout (also called a speckled trout) rose up to my Parachute Adams (called such because of the white material tied into a “parachute” on its back, which makes it really easy to keep track of your fly on the water).
The rainbow swallowed my fly out of a bubbling scum line and gave me a good fight. As my line sliced back and forth through the water, I kept muttering (for Josh’s edification), “I’m probably going to lose it.” I had no idea how well the fish was hooked.
I was preparing him (and myself) for disappointment.
But it was not to be a day for disappointments. With the help of Josh’s net work, I landed the fish. My fly was deep in its mouth. These fish were hungry… perhaps even gorging for the fall. I cleaned the fish right on the river bank. Taking it out, I handed its stomach to Josh. “Feel how hard that stomach is. This thing has been gorging itself.”
We left the stomach and the rest of the entrails on the bank for raccoons to eat.
As we continued down the river, we started seeing Great Blue Herons. Maybe it was the same bird. Maybe it was many birds.
Not long after, a brook trout rose to my fly. It pulled it down deep and then started swimming upstream hard against the bottom. I suspect it was looking for a log to tangle my line around and hopefully wrench the hook from its mouth.
I said, “This one’s a keeper too,” and then felt Josh, as though we were on some symbiotic level, pull my net from the back of my vest.
That fish, too, we landed. And, it too had spent its fair share of time round that proverbial chowder kettle because its stomach was also hard with everything it was trying to digest.
We fished the rest of the bends, checked out some promising holes downstream, and then by 9:30 were back in the car on our way home.
We had two keepers. The overcast sky that threatened rain with its darkness never did open up into showers. And though I had feared that the river might be too cold to fish in swim trunks, the experience proved otherwise. Even the sandwiches we ate from the gas station deli seemed to have been made with extra care. I bought some ziplock bags, and the cashier allowed me to fill them with ice so we could keep the fish cool as we drove south.
Unlike a lot of recent days over the last five months, this was a truly good one.
You should have been with us.
I want a day like that for you.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.