Once In A Lifetime Is Enough

I don’t know what it is about showers but I get inspired when I’m naked.

Transitions are never easy. Some people adapt to change with difficulty. Others relish it and adapt like a duck to water. I like change only because I get bored. But when I find something I like, I completely geek out with it. Doesn’t matter if it is guns (I own only one currently but my list is growing everyday of Guns I Will Own), fly fishing (four fly rods, one that is bamboo three graphite: a two-piece Orvis which is a 5-weight and two Reddington–4-piece 4 weight and a 4-piece 8-weight that I bought specifically for fishing in Lake Michigan to chase after Salmon, in addition to my own fly-tying kit with all the various accouterments, fly-fishing vest, Gink, nippers, and zingers that would fill a Rubbermaid tub), I have built my own desktop PC, painted and sketched (thus a gazillion brushes, paints, easels, pencils of various hardness and softness, paper out the yin-yang)…**breathe in, breathe out**…so when I find something (or someone) I feel deeply about, I am all in-no holds barred passionate, and it takes a helluva lot of violence to get me to let go of my grip and just free-fall.

As I was saying, shower–inspired–naked….

Kenosha, Wisconsin is a city that has seen better days, I think. But it’s around 100k or so in population and is considered the northernmost suburb of Chicago even though Milwaukee is closer–55 miles versus 35, respectively). And if you do a little research you will find that Orson Welles, Don Ameche, Mark Ruffalo, and Al Molinaro (big Al from Happy Days in case you were wondering) were natives of the city. It is mostly a bedroom community now. American Motors used to have a plant there as well as Chrysler. You can read an interesting article about it here in Reuters in case you are interested. But they’re gone now and so Kenosha has become a distribution center for the likes of Amazon and Rustoleum. But there are some great pubs too like Captian Mike’s on the harbor and Uncle Mike’s by the I. Yep, they’re related. Kenosha’s one saving grace are its pubs.

But if you go back a couple of centuries, it was the trading center of the area and its product of exchange was the mighty beaver. And if I remember my facts correctly it all happened around the area known as the Pike River.

I knew nothing of this when I moved there in 2008. But I found out quickly when I heard that Salmon–both Chinook and Cohos–were roaming the deep expanse of Lake Michigan and would migrate into this little choke point of the Pike each Spring and Fall. Hell yeah! I’m am now a salmon fisherman! At least that is what I wanted to be. And why, you ask? Because that’s what I do; not at all unlike Tyrion Lannister, you know, drinking wine and knowing things? In addition to the other stuff I stick my hands in, I am also an armchair historian. My ex often quipped that I had a lot of useless information at my disposal (the obvious inference being…). So I needed to know. Now I am not pretentious, just insatiably curious–about everything. (I have also been accused of being reckless–wrecking ball was the exact term–but that is for another time). And nothing gets me more excited than chasing fish and finding out how they got there.

The King (Chinook) and Silver (Coho) are not native–obviously–but were introduced to counteract another invasive species and one thing lead to another and pow! you have a world-class fishery smack-dab in the Midwest. And as I mentioned earlier these gallant slabs of muscle made their pilgrimage into the tiny tributaries feeding this great lake every Spring and Fall.

It was one Fall in particular in which I noticed that my need to get a fly wet was not being met. And so, longingly, tenderly, I rigged up my rod with some flies I had been tying and threw it into the back of my venerable Isuzu Trooper. Fisherman are the most hopeful people in the entire world. Honestly I had been gazing at a certain stretch of the Pike on my way to a home I was remodeling when I noticed that there were several cars parked in a well-worn area. They were from Illinois but I could forgive them that. What interested me was that the Pike was a dirty river. And I was pretty sure that salmonids needed brisk oxygen-rich, relatively clean water to thrive. Then I also remembered, “Oh yeah, they’re salmon and it’s about sex right now. They are literally dying to get it on. So it doesn’t matter much where it happens as long as it happens.” Oh crap. I think that sounds like me. Projection….

I had to get to my job but made a silent oath to return. I did during my lunch break.

Up until that point, the only fish I had really chased after were trout and bass in my home waters of Missouri. The trout were hatchery raised and the bass were all brutish and really did nothing for me. I had never tussled with the likes of anything over a couple of pounds. Besides, I was salmon-dumb anyway. So, curiosity got the best of me and I stopped to throw a line in not really expecting anything. I walked down to a promising hole and prayed silently to the fishing gods, which in this case I think were probably Scandanavian…have you ever had a Kringle before? There’s a great place in Racine if you are in the neighborhood and want a yummy pastry. Good idea in case you get skunked–which is likely. Pastry and coffee are always a winning backup plan in these fickle waters.

I can remember casting my line a couple of times–roll cast was all I had room for–with a Gold-Ribbed Hare’s Ear tied on. Drifted fine, no drag–if anything the practice was good. But something peculiar happened. The fourth time through my line suddenly stopped.

Swearing under my breath at getting caught in a snag I lifted the rod up just to make sure. But it didn’t budge. Tried again but this time my line began to move and move and move. So I pulled, then lowered my rod tip and pulled some more now noting that my heart began to race a little when I realized that it kept moving in spite of my efforts. Then I felt it.

One of the main reasons I have fished so long was the connection I have felt at hook-up. It is that living, pulsing slab of pure energy fighting against my pull. It is that giddy smile, that quick look up from the fight wondering if anyone else felt what you did. And it is that adrenaline and endorphin rush which keeps asking for more. If anything, fishing is an insatiable soft-addiction of the most glorious kind. And here was my addiction buried in murky water moving quickly to a snag about 10 yards away from me and it appeared that it was gaining speed and indeed showed no signs of letting up anytime soon. And so our tug-of-war began.

I quickly began to recite in my head all of the articles I had read on landing big fish. Sadly nothing came at recall. My mind was blank. All I could feel was this behemoth on the end of my 6x tippet. (The struggle was real, dear reader. The struggle was real.) The beast could turn on a whim and move to another location in the pool. By this time–which felt like almost an hour but was in reality about two minutes–I had planned a way to beach the quarry if it…would…just…come…my…way.

I had held on thus far without any fatality and decided that I would gingerly try to exert a little pressure in the opposite direction of the fish’s travel. And so rather than fight against the fish I decided to vary my retrieve and move from my right side to my left side and quickly react whenever the fish would feel my plan and then react. I had to be at my peak, all my senses on alert and thereby gain control and conquer….!

Actually, that’s not what happened at all. I had had so much adrenaline rushing through me that the only thing I could think of was to hold on with one hand and grab my cell phone with the other and call my brother who lived in Montana and rub it in; That here I was, the Elder Brother, catching a fish of a lifetime, whilst he sputtered away on those puerile flows emanating from the Rocky Mountains.

Honest to God. It is exactly what I did–well not the last part. Just the first. I called him in mid-catch because I couldn’t just keep it to myself. The conversation lasted about 5 minutes because I didn’t know what else to do.

What kind of awkward conversation is that going to be and how do you end it?

“Hey. It’s me. Guess what? I have a fish on and it’s big.”

Silence. “Oh really?” More silence.

“Yeah. A salmon, I think.” And it is growing larger in poundage as we speak!

More silence….

“Well, gotta go now. I think I need to try to land this fish.”

“Okay. Talk to you later. Have fun.”

“Yeah, tell the kids I said hi. And we’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Okay.” Click

It is like getting caught with your pants down. What are you gonna do, really? So I was caught holding a twenty pound fish and a cell phone which weighed a couple of ounces. Such irony isn’t it when you stop for a moment.

Sadly, the closest I could come to landing the fish (which I later decided it was a Chinook because the Silvers don’t get that big and its coloring has been indelibly etched into my psyche as golden brown), which I later “estimated” it was around twenty pounds, was to drag it somewhat up to the small shoal where I was standing in the hopes of grabbing it. But at that last moment the knot gave way and it was lost all within about 18 inches of the soles of my feet. And there I stood in the absolute quiet of the moment, heart racing, head pounding, cursing and yet beaming because I had just touched something at the apex of its existence at the threshold of death. And in that moment, which would never come again, I touched something in myself which was enough to get me through the next several years that I lived there.

It is remarkable to me that we can be so close to things that are living and both dying at the same time.

I fished that run several times after but never caught anything else. I even fished the Lake itself and was into several fish there. Brought one home and smoked it, thankful for the gift of its life and providing for my family. But never like that first one I encountered. And yet I think it was good that I never did.

I am in Montana now. And I dream of the Bitterroots off to the west and Sapphires out east.Tonight they are shrouded in clouds and I sit here in this Valley dreaming again and I remembered that Fall where I felt out of place in a new city trying to scratch out something which resembled a life and ultimately feeling like a failure after the marriage ended. I remembered the pain today again but I was thankful for that moment on the Pike where I felt alive–even if it was so, so brief. I was thankful for the life that my ex and I had built and the children which came through our union. I remember some happy times.

And here I am, this transient being, caught between two worlds. Once in a lifetime is enough.

A Long Time Coming

A couple of months ago, another life-changing event occurred in my life. I would like to say that it was the end of a series of really trying and difficult events that had wrapped up the last several years. It wasn’t. It was just one more. And in all likelihood it won’t be the last. But this one seems a little different.

If you’ve have followed my blog, or have taken the time to read some from my other site, Of Rain Falling From The Sky, you would be aware that a singular event occurred which has become the defining moment of my life currently–that is the end of a marriage of almost twenty years. For the last couple of years after, I have been retooling my life. Make no mistake it has been very hard. You get stripped bare. You lose almost everything–friends, identity, income, relationships. In my case I made debt and could put all of my belongings into an SUV.

For the longest time–in fact as far back as I can remember–I’ve wanted to live in Montana. My family lived there when I was but a wee lad of 6. It was Western Montana. Flathead Lake. Woods Bay, to be precise. I could drive you there today and show you the exact house that my father built and we lived in. In therapy (during my separation) I realized that that was the last truly and deeply happy memory I remember. Please don’t get me wrong on this, because I can see some eyes rolling and saying, “c’mon, the last happy memory?”

A little clarification. Happy in a way I as a child could feel secure and safe. I was with all of my family; all of my dad’s brothers lived in Wood’s Bay as well as his father, and I had cousins as far as the eye could see. We fished. He hunted and fished. He had work. He felt alive–I know this through conversations my mother and I had after the divorce (there was also a twinge of regret in her for ever leaving that place). And as any adult will later realize, happy parents create the framework for a child to feel safe, and loved, and secure (and again, I know that it is far more nuanced than that. I’m not so naive as to believe that is all there is to a happy childhood. Good grief I know there is so much more! But that’s not the point of this  anyway–I’m not interested in developmental theory. Rather how I got to where I am at right now and why I am writing about it and subsequently sharing it with you, dear reader.) Montana was that place for me. And ever since we left, with me clutching an 8-track tape player my aunt Imogene gave to us, deep down in my toes I wanted to be back in the mountains.

I have often wondered why. I have often tried to get back. But the doors just seemed locked no matter how hard I knocked and tried to jimmy them open–figuratively speaking. I remember visiting one summer several years ago and sending out resumes. Nothing. No bites. It just wasn’t the right moment I guess. No matter. Fast forward forty years and I’m here now.

I landed in the Bitterroot Valley. It is far more beautiful than I ever realized. I had lived in the shadows of the Missions before. But this Valley. Something feels different this time. It feels like I have at long last come home. What I need hasn’t changed. It always seems like it is about money. But maybe that comes with some time. Remember reading a statistic somewhere that it takes, on average, about 5 years for a soul to become integrated in a locale and put down roots.

I have always been restless, looking for a place, I think. I have many who would say to me that’s just a desire for heaven. I am not so sure. When I look out across this Valley, or hike a local trail, or take a drive, I find myself smiling uncontrollably, or even laughing out loud. It’s like I am giddy somewhere. Maybe down into the depths of my soul or something. I can’t really put my finger on it. I just know it happens spontaneously. It feels like my restlessness has stopped. Or maybe it’s just my age catching up with my drive. It isn’t so ambiguous, really. It feels more like a terminus. This is it. This is the Place. I will die here and have my ashes spread out over these mountains. At least that is what I have told myself and a few others.

The men who helped to found this country were looking for something like that, the absolute liberty to be themselves, to create their own destiny, to keep some aloof potentate out of their pocket books. And Montana, as it has been written elsewhere, is the last best place. Taxes are pretty low. No sales tax. Property taxes are comparable to where I am from. Maybe a couple of tenths higher, not much though. Housing is expensive because, well, these wise Montanans realized when all the wingnuts from the West Coast and all the Beautiful People could make this into their back yard, it was a golden opportunity–not unlike the gold rush of the late 19th century. I know there are many Montana natives who ruefully look at these implants with a deep skepticism but more often than not, these wealthy individuals kinda help maintain a pretty poor economy. My brother mentioned to me in passing that the median income for the Valley was around $95K/year. So if that is opportunity, the Montanans seized upon it. Realtors are legion.

The gun laws here are very relaxed. And it isn’t because of a militia mentality. Rather, it’s because so few people live here and they would all rather be left alone to live their lives and there are still bears and mountain lions roaming around here. So respect that and I think you’ll do nicely. And for that reason alone, especially after the last several years of my life—hoo-ee, I am ready for that!

I am looking outside my window right now, drinking a lovely cup of locally roasted coffee. In the background I can see Kootenai Creek canyon. It is about 5 minutes away at the most. I have been planning a day trip up there for weeks. I’ll have my Tenkara rod and overnight pack along with my buddy River, the Golden Retriever. We’ll make a killing. And this is what I do in these long winter months. I dream.

I have been on the other side. I have been on the side of death when my rest wasn’t welcome, when I knew that in the morning Depression would be right beside my bed with it’s gangly fingers probing me, looking for the breaking point. Oh, how many days there were when I said death would be welcome! But the thing about this disease is that there is so much fear within it. Even though I wanted to die, the courage was not within me to pull the trigger and finish this. And I thank God for that. It has now given me perspective. I still have moments that are triggers for me. But I have learned to manage this far better than I can ever remember. And I have brought that perspective with me to this place. And This Is A Big Place. Those mountains out there are far, far older than my brief span of eighty years (if I am lucky–most Coleman men haven’t been past their sixtieth birthday). And they are beautiful and that beauty fills me, does something to mend the bones of my soul, and helps me to realized that God knew I needed this far more than I could’ve realized. I never want to lose sight of that. I never want to wake up and not smile when I see the sheer canyon walls of Blodgett and Mill Creek. Those peaks are rugged and wild and free and sentinels, their silent gaze stretching out over this valley floor with a strength and solidity that I need. Death will come for me someday but I am at peace with it finally. And coming to terms with that means I can live now. And that is certainly what I plan on doing no matter how difficult it may become.

It is still a transitional period for me, obviously. Some things aren’t exactly clear. You know housing and such things like that. It hasn’t gotten easier. My children are still 1500 miles away but there is joy here for me now and I welcome it. I often pray, “Lord, please. I would like to win just one today.” I can’t say that the tide has turned, as such. I haven’t won the lottery. My debt is still there, but I am chipping away at it. I still sleep fitfully, sometimes with a lot of anxiety about tomorrow, but I am beginning to believe that it will be okay, that the struggle will be worth it–and whatever other tripe I can conjure up at the moment.

I love this place. And if I listen softly and calm the noise of my own head for a moment, I can hear the rush and wild tumult of Kootenai calling to me. And I know that in a couple of months my line will be wet and I’ll be holding something truly wild in my hands caught on a fly of my own making in a state that is as rugged as I want to be.

[And here is the shameless plug]

Come follow what I am doing. I am going to write way more. I am going to think and share. And I want you with me. I want you to share, even though it may be vicarious at the moment, what I see and feel. Some of it will be like this. Some of it will be fishing stuff. Most of it just my musings. That’s my agenda.

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Sunrise

There is something strangely reassuring when I watch the sunrise.

This morning the air is chilly. Winter’s cold is still holding on. Frost is on the ground. The trees, while beginning to bud, still are barren and their naked fingers still remind me of a sleep not yet completed.

I’ve been standing outside for quite some time. Around me the birds are all in chorus bidding the sun to crest over the horizon. Even an owl has gotten into the act as his great bellowing “hoot” rings through the woods nearby. But the day is still quiet, still new, still full of promise, yet with a nagging doubt.  Although my coffee is getting cooler each second, I habitually take a sip and it’s the sunrise that grips me.

The sky’s infinite gradation, moving from vermilion to pale yellow, warms me, somehow. It’s sweet kiss upon me makes me smile. And no one is watching me smile. I’m standing outside alone, utterly alone. I could wish that I had ponderous and deep thoughts. I wish that Inspiration was standing right next to me with an envelope containing a theme that would forever alter the consciousness of humanity. Alas. I only have coffee and a few words and the lazy smell of a wood fire drifting into our valley.

The moment is fleeting. As quickly as the sky bloomed with color it has gone. A pale yellow crests and the sky becomes homogeneous. Yet there is still quiet. The distant trees are still a blur and shaded in pale blues and violets and a mist still hangs in the air and I can see the hoary glaze on last season’s grass. There is green. But it is in patches. It is vibrant and young and awakening. But it is patchy and sparse and its quest seems impossible.

Thus I am confronted with my “impossibility.” I am confronted with struggle and this crazy, tumultuous mini-season in the Ozarks between Winter and Spring. I am confronted with my own crazy, tumultuous mini-season of emotional dormancy and awakening health and vibrancy; a seeming dance between the halting steps of insanity and peace. Perhaps these are deep thoughts. Perhaps this is just trying to squeeze too much emotion and meaning out of a so tightly conceived space that there is nothing left in the sponge–not even a dampness. But I trundle on. This time I turn my back on the sunrise and return to my cabin.

I’ve tried to ponder deep subjects. I’ve tried to plumb the depths of my own emotional state, to understand my truth. I’ve driven on the road to discovering my deep and abiding passion, to find my one true purpose and had to often pull to the side to question the trip itself. I’ve often wondered–existentially speaking–whether we even are able to fully discern what that purpose is. I’ve often thought that really all we can do is just look for it. And I’ve often concluded, How can we even know? It seems that the conclusion that I keep arriving at is that the quest is in itself what is important. Really all we are making and carving and hammering out is our own space of self-expression and identity and in fact that the possibilities are as wide open as the vistas of the Plains of South Dakota. And that merely to strive is the fullest expression of our own humanity. That to not strive is to placate to the unseen forces of apathy, depression, and despair.

Those forces I will resist.

It is Spring.