God loves stories so much; he created people so there would be an endless supply.
Kevin Kling – author, storyteller, playwright
Northeastern Minnesota Book Awards ceremony, May 23, 2013 in Duluth, MN
Musings
A River Runs Through My Bucket List (or Learning How to Fly Fish Before It’s Too Late)
English: Green Highlander salmon fly. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I have to admit, I like creating lists. They help me remember things and when I cross something off one, it gives me a straight-lined sense of accomplishment. A few years back I started a “Things to Do When I Retire” list; not really a bucket list (things to do before I die), but a similar concept. The list contains things like volunteering for the Red Cross, taking painting lessons, taking classes at a local folk arts school, and doing more photography.
I was content to delay the activities on the list until I had time during retirement, which was probably about 15 years away. That was, until one of my friends died unexpectedly in his early 40s. A sense of mortality smacked me in the forehead and I realized how much I’d been putting off really living and making the most of the present. In my friend’s honor, I decided to stop PLANNING and start DOING.
One of the activities on my retirement list is fly fishing. I suspect the inspiration for that came from watching the 1992 movie “A River Runs Through It.” Directed by Robert Redford and featuring Brad Pitt, the movie centers around fly fishing scenes in Montana. It was also around that time that I visited Montana and helped fight a wildfire on the White River National Forest in Colorado. I saw people fly fishing on rivers in these places and it looked so idyllic, I knew I had to try it someday. Plus, the biological aspect of the sport appeals to me. You have to know how to think like a fish and be aware of what’s going on with the local bugs to be successful.
Well, “someday” came last week. Rogue, non-retired list-breaker that I am, I took a fly fishing class with a group of women along the banks of a river on the outskirts of town. The opportunity was organized by one of my women friends and taught by Katherine Lansing, a local fly casting instructor certified by the International Federation of Fly Fishers.
Katherine Lansing
Lansing became an instructor by accident. She had been fly fishing for a few years, then she signed up for a class she thought was about how to learn to cast better. Turned out it was about how to learn to teach other people to cast better. Although hesitant, she took the class, which led her on the path to becoming one of only 80 female certified fly fishing instructors in the U.S. at the time.
We met under a picnic shelter at a local city park on a 40-degree evening. As the five other women described how they became interested in fly fishing, I realized I was the only one there not introduced to the sport by a man. Everyone else had been introduced by a boyfriend, husband, brother or father. Not sure what that says about me. I do admit I had been hoping “some man” would take me fly fishing, but it just never happened.
Lansing started the class by giving us an overview of the various fly fishing equipment and showing us how things worked. Then she introduced us to knot tying. We learned two knots, practicing first on chunks of nylon rope, and then on the more challenging fishing line. Tying the knots became more difficult as the cold temperature took its toll on our fingers. But it wasn’t long before we were up and moving, practicing our casts on the lawn beside the river, which was roaring with melt from spring runoff.
Casting was fun, and people kept remarking that I’m a natural at it (preen, preen). If I am a natural it’s from a lot of practice casting regular fishing lures and maybe from throwing an atlatl (a prehistoric throwing spear), which is a story I’ll perhaps tell another time. As we casted, Lansing went around and gave us tips in her no-nonsense and helpful manner.
After about 2-1/2 hours outdoors, I could no longer feel my toes, so I decided it was time to head home. But I enjoyed the experience and I’m looking forward to actually getting out on the water to fly fish next time. Then I’ll be able to officially cross that one off my list, and I’ll have a new hobby NOW instead of waiting for my retirement or until I’m dead, whichever comes first. (Smile.)
Vinny with a Y not an IE
grey wolf (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I was walking my dog through the local forest the other day when I met a 12-year-old neighbor boy for the first time. His name is Vinny; spelled with a Y on the end, not an IE. “People mix that up all the time,” he said. He was walking a chocolate lab who was also 12 years old. His lab got along well with my goldendoodle so we let them off their leashes to romp.
Vinny was the talkative sort. I’m always amazed at how much kids unknowingly reveal about their lives and their parents’ lives to strangers. While on the one hand, I’m glad children are still trusting, on the other hand, I shudder to think what could happen if the information made it into the wrong ears.
During our short walk, and with hardly any prompting from me, I learned about all of Vinny’s former and current pets, that Vinny’s parents are hiring a nanny for the summer to drive him to his soccer games, that he has a sore knee but his mom said that some exercise walking the dog would probably be good for it (I had to smile at that one), and that Vinny’s dad shot a wolf.
Of course, as a wolf novelist, this last bit of news gave me pause. I can’t even remember how the topic came up, but suddenly, there it was, as unexpected and pungent as blood on leaves. I do remember that Vinny was explaining how he likes to deer hunt. He was in his deer stand when he was 7 and a wolf appeared and scared him. From questioning and further conversation, I got the impression he was in the stand alone, but that his dad was nearby, possibly in a different stand. Vinny ended up meeting up with his dad and telling him about the wolf. That’s when he told me his dad shot the wolf.
Oh, there were so many things I could have said and so many routes our conversation could have taken. My first instinct was to trot out the fact that wolves have not been documented to kill a human in the U.S. but once in recent history; that they are shy and normally do not approach humans. But I didn’t. I wasn’t there in the forest in a deer stand with a scared young boy. Obviously, something the wolf was doing scared him and concerned his dad enough that he decided to kill it. And during my book signings in northern Minnesota and Michigan, I’ve heard many stories from people about wolves. I understand that they are capable of all sorts of behaviors, many of which are seen as threatening by humans.
Instead, I said something about wolves usually being curious more than anything else. I wanted to ask him if his dad reported the shooting, because I’m sure at that point in history (5 years ago) the wolf was still considered an endangered species and thus illegal to kill. But I really didn’t want to know.
Vinny then went on to describe a plan he and his dad made in case Vinny ever felt threatened by a wolf again. He told me the special kind of ammunition they would use, which would hurt/scare the wolf but not kill it. This gave me a bit of consolation. At least they knew that killing the wolf was wrong and either got the special ammunition idea from a conservation officer or his dad had thought about it enough to figure it out. I doubt that shooting a wolf with anything is a good idea because the wolf could die of an infection, but I kept my mouth shut about this, also. I didn’t want to criticize Vinny’s dad because that could shut Vinny off for future conversations about wolves.
Our conversation ended with Vinny asking me if my youngest son likes to hunt. I told him we weren’t hunting people, but that my son enjoys fishing. By that time, we were at a crossroads and we separated, each to our own homes. I hope I meet Vinny again. Maybe I’ll have another chance to educate him more about wolves. I sure hope so.
Vinyl Memories
Two records remain from my childhood collection: The Monkees first album and an autographed copy of Fleetwood Mac’s Rumors (“To Marie – To a very special person. Lindsay Buckingham”). If I recall correctly, I inherited the Monkees album from one of my brothers. The Rumors album was a gift from my sister (who was dating Lindsay Buckingham’s brother at the time). I gave away the rest of my collection to a store downtown during a cleaning fit several years back.
I was able to hear the albums this weekend at a friend’s house. She recently bought a turntable and had a party to celebrate, inviting everyone to bring their records. Although the stile arm rode small waves of warpage, I was so pleased and relieved to discover my records were still playable! It has been so long since I even looked at one, I had forgotten that records are two-sided. I blame time and compact discs for that.
I used to love watching records spin, getting almost hypnotized while the music played; staring at the stile as it progressed slowly toward the record’s middle. Try and do that with a CD! I’d lean on the console and sing along to Neil Diamond, Jethro Tull, Heart, Jesus Christ Superstar, The Sound of Music – we had quite the eclectic collection.
Of course, after records came cassette tapes. I would record my favorite songs off the radio when I wasn’t listening to my very first cassette album – Cat Steven’s Tea for the Tillerman. But somehow, I totally missed the 8-track era.
Although now I appreciate being able to burn my own CDs with individual songs through I-Tunes and creating personalized radio stations through Pandora, listening to records at my friend’s house reminded me of what’s been lost with the evolution of the music industry. I don’t claim to be a music industry expert, but it’s obvious to anyone paying the least bit of attention that a whole generation of children has grown up with a different music listening experience. No more self-hypnosis to the red Columbia label.
Instead of the 33-1/3 rpm LP (for the younger set, that’s a 33-1/3 revolutions-per-minute long-playing record), we now have the I-pod. It’s not bad, just . . . changed. Who knows what we’ll have next? But one thing’s for sure, we’ll always have music of some sort. It seems hardwired into our beings.
Since I only have two records, I don’t think I’ll go so far as to buy my own turntable, but it sure was fun to recreate the childhood experience of listening to music, if only for one evening.
