As I drive
Question:
Nice Job Walt, thanks for the report. BTW, Arnie loves the setup you sold him. It’s his San Juan rig, and he hollered at me when he got his first fish on it. bruce h
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I recognize the beast as Pamlico Jim Roberts and the poor soul in his grasp is wayno
. Between echoing wails of "oh mother of god," I reembark up the trail….. ’tis no use to offer assistance to the damned.
and to think, i taught him everything he knows. that’s gratitude for ya. wayno I take the step to fly with the ravens…… to fly fish evermore.
now there is a well-turned phrase. pretty work, waldo.
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I’ll have what he’s drinking . . .
why shithead, ya wanna try and sober up? –waldo
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BTW, Arnie loves the setup you sold him. It’s his San Juan rig, and he hollered at me when he got his first fish on it. bruce h
cool! –ww
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Cherubic portliness? You’re a dead man next time I see you. –Steve
hurry on up, thar’s ice on the river <g –waldo….. seriously steve, when ya headed this way again?
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Nicely done Mr. Winter … hey with a moniker like that … … cabin-fever indeed! 
Steve (hoping that’s the first time you’ve heard _that one_ this winter 
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I take the step to fly with the ravens…… to fly fish evermore…
Great job walt. I read it twice, and liked it better the second time around. -eddie http://www.guidetracker.com ..go fish Posted with the ‘NEW’ Guidetracker.com newsreader with fishing and USENET "tool tips…" http://www.guidetracker.com/news
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Cherubic? Perhaps you meant "shrub-ic"? Definitely had the portly right, though. Do you dream in B&W or technicolor, Walt? Nice screenplay, that. Happy New Year. How much ice is one that most gorgeous of streams, at the moment, anyway? BC – Hide quoted text — Show quoted text – … I round a bend and see a few flyfisher’s in the stream. I stay to the trail and witness a remarkable scene. From a distance, I see the three of them jumping up and down on a ice covered pool. As I approach closer, I recognize the leader by his cherubic portliness and soon make out his companions….
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How much ice is one that most gorgeous of streams, at the moment, anyway?
howdy bill, the ice seems to be thinning out some….. i’ll be fishing this weekend … finally! –walt
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[big snippage] I take the step to fly with the ravens…… to fly fish evermore. Tight Lines, –cabin-fevered waldo Cool, very cool… And if you take a REALLY big hit, start reading walt’s post, and hold that hit to the bitter end, you get this frickin’ enormous rush… /daytripper (Woooooo BABY!
Only if you’re a speed reader, otherwise you’ll be passed out on the floor, bowl in hand.
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Only if you’re a speed reader, otherwise you’ll be passed out on the
floor, bowl in hand. …and have to clean that bong water stain out of the carpet when you wake up. Joe F. (or so I’ve heard)
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- Hide quoted text — Show quoted text – [big snippage] I take the step to fly with the ravens…… to fly fish evermore. Tight Lines, –cabin-fevered waldo Cool, very cool… And if you take a REALLY big hit, start reading walt’s post, and hold that hit to the bitter end, you get this frickin’ enormous rush… /daytripper (Woooooo BABY! Only if you’re a speed reader, otherwise you’ll be passed out on the floor, bowl in hand.
You say that like it’s a bad thing. /daytripper (Rolllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllin’ another one…
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Only if you’re a speed reader, otherwise you’ll be passed out on the floor, bowl in hand. …and have to clean that bong water stain out of the carpet when you wake up. Joe F. (or so I’ve heard)
That stain ain’t nuthin, it’s that dern smell!
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– Hide quoted text — Show quoted text – [big snippage] I take the step to fly with the ravens…… to fly fish evermore. Tight Lines, –cabin-fevered waldo Cool, very cool… And if you take a REALLY big hit, start reading walt’s post, and hold that hit to the bitter end, you get this frickin’ enormous rush… /daytripper (Woooooo BABY! Only if you’re a speed reader, otherwise you’ll be passed out on the floor, bowl in hand. You say that like it’s a bad thing. /daytripper (Rolllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllin’ another one…
Naaaaah, just a warning to watch out for the corner of the coffee table. St -cough, cough- ahhhhhhh- eveC
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I walk on wishing I could also share some lead-free blue ridge gasoline with Jeff.
You better be talkin about Miller, or else now I KNOW you were tryin to kill me!
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I’ll have what he’s drinking . . . gg – Hide quoted text — Show quoted text – The lonely trail ascends steeply to the cliff, a cliff overlooking this jewel of a stream. The trek is personally winding, dammit, I need to quit smoking. At the apex of the apeak wall, I notice a granitic form, a sitting man. He speaks reverently of my journey and how it has now come full-circle. McCrayfish laughs at my early steps, my baby steps, my many falls. He somberly nods his head as it is time for the next step. I feel weird as my waders are morphing…. changing from a musty olive to a sage green. I take the step to fly with the ravens…… to fly fish evermore. Tight Lines, –cabin-fevered waldo
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down the snow encrusted, icy gravel road, I’m reminded of a seasonal alone… I just noticed that if you read this and listen to "Dark Side of the Moon" simultaneously that there are some amazing synchronized moments.
good one
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down the snow encrusted, icy gravel road, I’m reminded of a seasonal alone… I just noticed that if you read this and listen to "Dark Side of the Moon" simultaneously that there are some amazing synchronized moments. I recognize the leader by his cherubic portliness and soon make out his companions. Cherubic portliness? You’re a dead man next time I see you.
I saw that, too. Doesn’t sound like a marathon trainee from here… /daytripper (And I had my spot already picked out on Heartbreak Hill
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[big snippage] I take the step to fly with the ravens…… to fly fish evermore. Tight Lines, –cabin-fevered waldo
Cool, very cool… And if you take a REALLY big hit, start reading walt’s post, and hold that hit to the bitter end, you get this frickin’ enormous rush… /daytripper (Woooooo BABY!
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down the snow encrusted, icy gravel road, I’m reminded of a seasonal alone…
I just noticed that if you read this and listen to "Dark Side of the Moon" simultaneously that there are some amazing synchronized moments. I recognize the leader by his cherubic portliness and soon make out his companions.
Cherubic portliness? You’re a dead man next time I see you. –Steve
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Beautiful, Walt. Take any photos? — visit my web site: http://home.earthlink.net/~royalwulff/
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down the snow encrusted, icy gravel road, I’m reminded of a seasonal alone.
Good read Walt, for me it read as if you were a ghost. Willi
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[snip] A nice piece of work Mr. Waldo – imagery better than a digital photo. Peter Visit The Streamer Page at http://home.cogeco.ca/~pcharles/streamers/index.html
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down the snow encrusted, icy gravel road, I’m reminded of a seasonal alone. The leafless poplars, birch, and other deciduous trees, are gray and they illustrate, no they magnify my loneliness. I’m alone on a trip to Upper Lost Wilson Prong, a trip of remembrance….. a trip into the future of my past. The road wanders listlessly through the dormant, yet powerful woods. I relate to the road as I wander down this path, an old logging road that will lead me to a junction, a place to park… a place of ending, a place to begin the journey. I park the van and step out into the cold embrace of the mountain winds. There are other vehicles parked and some look familiar….. I wonder who the hell is also foolish enough to be out here on this cold, desolate day. As I’m gearing up, tendrils of wispy snow swirl around and grip me. The grip is strong and it gently pulls at my being, urging me to embark up the trail. There are many footprints in the snow. As a few sets immediately lead down to the stream, I decide to press on up the trail, the trail that also has prints leading up into the rhodo and gray, leafless trees. After a few hundred yards I round a bend and see a few flyfisher’s in the stream. I stay to the trail and witness a remarkable scene. From a distance, I see the three of them jumping up and down on a ice covered pool. As I approach closer, I recognize the leader by his cherubic portliness and soon make out his companions. Steve, Bill, and Bruce seem bound and determined to make way with the ice….. they have to, they must fish this pool. I greet them with a friendly wave and a cheery hello. The three of them look in my direction and cover their faces as a brisk jet of wind whisks through the trees and assails them. I walk on. As I gain footing on the gentle ascent of the trail a few bends upstream, I again see footprints abandoning the trail for the stream. A few more steps up I see through a rhodo window frame, a Native and Englishman casting to a pool. I cease walking and stop to watch them. They are gesturing at one another but I can’t make out the words. The Englishman sits down on a rock and removes a book from his backpack. He waves the Indian over and points to a passage in the book. Jeff removes a bunch of spools from his vest and builds commences to construct a leader, meticulously measuring the lengths of each descending x section, and securing each section with a fine blood knot. He removes Joe’s old leader and attaches the new leader directly to the line with a nail knot. I wish I could do that for Joe. Joe attaches a fly and casts into the pool. A nice fish gingerly swirls at and takes Joe’s fly. After releasing the fish, Joe returns to the rock. He removes a bulky item from his vest, a mason jar. Jeff and Joe share swigs astream…. shoot, don’t they know that stuff will kill ya? I walk on wishing I could also share some lead-free blue ridge gasoline with Jeff. A few hundred more yards up the trail, I look down into a gorge and see a distressing scene. An aged and balding flyfisher, between casts, is being physically pulled up the stream, between casts, by his pony tailed white-haired partner. On closer inspection, I recognize the beast as Pamlico Jim Roberts and the poor soul in his grasp is wayno…. anthony wayne harrison of rowan county. I agonize over the scene, but it is a scene that is set in stone…. a scene from the past, present, and future. Some things change, these things remain the same. Between echoing wails of "oh mother of god," I reembark up the trail….. ’tis no use to offer assistance to the damned. Pleasant smells greet me as I round the next bend. I know the smell that is wafting up to me. I walk up to the fire and cut off a slice of that delightful marinated peppercorned london broil. Fantastic…. wonderful stuff. Lennie is one helluva streamside chef….. witness Opie, good-ole Mark laid back, belching with satisfaction. These boys know how to fish! I decide not to disturb their contentment and proceed back to the trail. The narrowing trail descends from the mountainside to rejoin the stream. There are only a few shuffling prints remaining in the snow and I soon approach the men that are sitting by the stream. They are sharing a Low Down Brown, a tasty NC beer. They are laughing and talking about the huge fish that just broke off Tom’s fly. A big brown. I notice a bottle of beer in the back pocket of Jeff’s vest, and, gingerly remove it. I open it with my trusty trappist monk opener, an opener that has been with me from the time of a great gathering of roffians on the shore of Alarka. I enjoy the fine taste of the Rogue Honey Cream Ale as I resume my journey up the now trackless path. A few yards up I stop and turn to raise a toast to my friends…… but they are consumed….. consumed with the question of where is the last beer. Tom accuses Jeff of sneakin’ it when he wasn’t looking but Jeff proclaims his innocence. They look at each other and say….. WALDO! gawdammit, where’s waldo? The lonely trail ascends steeply to the cliff, a cliff overlooking this jewel of a stream. The trek is personally winding, dammit, I need to quit smoking. At the apex of the apeak wall, I notice a granitic form, a sitting man. He speaks reverently of my journey and how it has now come full-circle. McCrayfish laughs at my early steps, my baby steps, my many falls. He somberly nods his head as it is time for the next step. I feel weird as my waders are morphing…. changing from a musty olive to a sage green. I take the step to fly with the ravens…… to fly fish evermore. Tight Lines, –cabin-fevered waldo
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Filed under: Loneliness Lonely
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