Can anyone derive a function that best determines the bird-spacing for flocks of birds sitting on over-head telephone lines?
The spacing seems amazingly uniform and must be determined by each individual birds "personal space"; or are other factors at play here?
- wingspan?
- Some sort of fluid dynamics anomaly that occurs as air flows between each bird?
- the frequency (Hz) of the current traveling through the wires?
The next time you are traveling and see a multitude of birds sitting on the lines, notice how far apart they are and consider why.
Monday, December 3, 2007
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Bill and the Gibson Tractor
One of my favorite things to do with the family during the summer is attending tractor shows and being from a rural community,there are plenty to see. At one local show, I spotted a Gibson tractor that someone had painstakingly restored. It was a brand I was unfamilair with and it was very intersting to look at. I wanted a picture of it and as soon as I brought the camera to my eye, my son Bill stepped into the picture (what a ham). So each year that we go to this show, I have Bill stand by this particular tractor and take his picture. Below is a sequence of a few years worth.
Cars Change, People Change
The car we drove in our youth as compared to what we drive today often reflects how we have changed as a society and as an individual.
Remember back to the car you drove and your friends drove in high school; how have your choices changed today? Ah yes! The cars with names like “Charger”, “Challenger”, “Super Sport” and “Grand National” were common sites prowling the streets and burger joints of our youth. Names such as these implied strength, power and speed. And the names for the various parts and options on these cars were powerful; names like: “Air-Grabber”, “Shaker Hood”, “Max Wedge”, “Cross-Ram”, “Rock Crusher” and “Pistol Grip”. Even the color options had clever names, “Limelight Green”, “Go-Mango”, “Plum-Crazy Purple” and “Triple Black”.
My “Gear-Head” buddies and I craved cars with these descriptions. These cars were bought cheap and fixed up to go fast, very fast. The weekends were spent fixing and tinkering with these cars. “Parts”, always looking for parts; parts stacked in your garage, parts in the trunk, trading parts with your buddy; parts, parts and more parts. You collected parts and tinkered until you had everything you needed to build your very own “Dual-Quad, Hemi, Shaker Hood, Pistol Grip, posi-traction Dodge Charger” and could describe this without grunting like a caveman.
In our effort to go faster, considerable time was spent under the hood. It would be simple to change the carburetor from a “spread-bore” to a “double-pumper” or the intake manifold from a dual-plane to a single plane high rise, all to go faster. All unnecessary items were removed, things like air conditioning, heaters, cruise control, spare tires and sometimes extra seats, all to go faster. Little or no attention was paid to the steering, brakes, tires or safety equipment; none of these things helped us go fast. Remember your buddy with the big-block powered Camaro that would launch harder than the space shuttle, but, because of its antiquated drum brakes, you hoped and prayed to the Heaven’s above that it would stop before you got to Indiana? Those were the good old days, huh?
Today your choice in cars has changed due to responsibilities, awareness of safety and changes in our culture. Now the cars have subdued, safe names like: “Caravan”, “Cavalier”, “Prius”, “6”, “Expedition” and “Aztek”. They have descriptions such as “Minivans”, “traction control” and “Hybrid”; with ”Air-Bags”, “satellite radio” and “DVD players”. No longer are we obsessed with high horsepower and speed, but, creature comforts and safety. Our cars now have anywhere from five to seven seat-belts and as many air bags. We have gone away from driving big heavy cars with tiny brakes; now the cars are smaller and lighter and come with brakes that would stop a jumbo jet.
Working on our cars has become a past time as well. Cars have became increasingly difficult to repair and most of the “tinkering” has been engineered away or done by an on-board computer. With demands on time from family, no time is available to work on a car anyway.
When we were young we kept our cars clean and shining, but, now our cars are most likely an embarrassment. Time would be spent cleaning, polishing and waxing the paint that was left on our prized muscle car so we could “cruise” the strip. The interior would be meticulously cared for; the ripped seats would be shining like new and there would be no trash of any kind in the floor or ash tray. Open the door on most family cars today and you will find Cheerios, French fries, socks, diaper bags, sunscreen and toys. Toys, toys, toys; everywhere toys – under the seats and in every possible pocket or cup holder. Speaking of cup holders – your old car left the factory with zero cup holders; you added three when you climbed in; your two hands and the space between your legs. The factory now offers eighteen cup holders in a car that seats only seven passengers.
Now speed is not important anymore, it has taken a back seat (no pun intended) to safety, comfort and economy. The benefits of thirty years of engineering are apparent in the mechanical marvels we drive every day. It makes one shudder to think of how fast and unsafe we use to drive in our youth.
Remember back to the car you drove and your friends drove in high school; how have your choices changed today? Ah yes! The cars with names like “Charger”, “Challenger”, “Super Sport” and “Grand National” were common sites prowling the streets and burger joints of our youth. Names such as these implied strength, power and speed. And the names for the various parts and options on these cars were powerful; names like: “Air-Grabber”, “Shaker Hood”, “Max Wedge”, “Cross-Ram”, “Rock Crusher” and “Pistol Grip”. Even the color options had clever names, “Limelight Green”, “Go-Mango”, “Plum-Crazy Purple” and “Triple Black”.
My “Gear-Head” buddies and I craved cars with these descriptions. These cars were bought cheap and fixed up to go fast, very fast. The weekends were spent fixing and tinkering with these cars. “Parts”, always looking for parts; parts stacked in your garage, parts in the trunk, trading parts with your buddy; parts, parts and more parts. You collected parts and tinkered until you had everything you needed to build your very own “Dual-Quad, Hemi, Shaker Hood, Pistol Grip, posi-traction Dodge Charger” and could describe this without grunting like a caveman.
In our effort to go faster, considerable time was spent under the hood. It would be simple to change the carburetor from a “spread-bore” to a “double-pumper” or the intake manifold from a dual-plane to a single plane high rise, all to go faster. All unnecessary items were removed, things like air conditioning, heaters, cruise control, spare tires and sometimes extra seats, all to go faster. Little or no attention was paid to the steering, brakes, tires or safety equipment; none of these things helped us go fast. Remember your buddy with the big-block powered Camaro that would launch harder than the space shuttle, but, because of its antiquated drum brakes, you hoped and prayed to the Heaven’s above that it would stop before you got to Indiana? Those were the good old days, huh?
Today your choice in cars has changed due to responsibilities, awareness of safety and changes in our culture. Now the cars have subdued, safe names like: “Caravan”, “Cavalier”, “Prius”, “6”, “Expedition” and “Aztek”. They have descriptions such as “Minivans”, “traction control” and “Hybrid”; with ”Air-Bags”, “satellite radio” and “DVD players”. No longer are we obsessed with high horsepower and speed, but, creature comforts and safety. Our cars now have anywhere from five to seven seat-belts and as many air bags. We have gone away from driving big heavy cars with tiny brakes; now the cars are smaller and lighter and come with brakes that would stop a jumbo jet.
Working on our cars has become a past time as well. Cars have became increasingly difficult to repair and most of the “tinkering” has been engineered away or done by an on-board computer. With demands on time from family, no time is available to work on a car anyway.
When we were young we kept our cars clean and shining, but, now our cars are most likely an embarrassment. Time would be spent cleaning, polishing and waxing the paint that was left on our prized muscle car so we could “cruise” the strip. The interior would be meticulously cared for; the ripped seats would be shining like new and there would be no trash of any kind in the floor or ash tray. Open the door on most family cars today and you will find Cheerios, French fries, socks, diaper bags, sunscreen and toys. Toys, toys, toys; everywhere toys – under the seats and in every possible pocket or cup holder. Speaking of cup holders – your old car left the factory with zero cup holders; you added three when you climbed in; your two hands and the space between your legs. The factory now offers eighteen cup holders in a car that seats only seven passengers.
Now speed is not important anymore, it has taken a back seat (no pun intended) to safety, comfort and economy. The benefits of thirty years of engineering are apparent in the mechanical marvels we drive every day. It makes one shudder to think of how fast and unsafe we use to drive in our youth.
Daniel Boone Home
On a cold winter’s day, my oldest son Bill and I were going to discover and explore the Daniel Boone Home together. It would prove to be an experience of a lifetime. That morning after leaving our house, the first stop was McDonalds for hot cakes and a chocolate shake. Yes, a chocolate shake; Bill , nine years old, is my oldest son, a pretty good boy and a joy to be with. He has consistently been getting straight A’s in school and is sharp as a tack. My wife and I are baffled as to where he gets his thinking skills from; when we were his age we were both day-dreamers and did not do well in school. But as far as learning and exploring, Bill is a good buddy to take in these adventures, for; he picks up on details that I do not always notice.
As we drove east on Hwy M from Warrenton on this sunny and cold morning, it was apparent this would be a perfect day for exploring. The two lane highway took us through gentle rolling hills, past farms and pastures; the gentle sway and bounce of the car, the warm sun shining through the windows and Alison Krauss on the radio could easily lull a person to sleep. We took in the sights of the surrounding countryside. A roadside marker marking the Boones Lick Road, a sign for “Roger’s Tractor Service – Specializing in Ford 9N”, horses adorned with blankets grazing in a pasture, a hawk circling high above, a new log home high on a hill, another sign for an upcoming “Sausage Dinner at Friedens Church of Christ”; all indicators of life in a cold and grey landscape.
Upon arriving at the Boone home, we entered the gift shop. The building which was probably once filled with farm implements and smelling of hay now smelled of fragrant herbs. The interior is lined with shelves containing cookbooks, candles, lye soap and books containing historical information about people and places of the Femme Osage valley. Across one end of the building was a low counter, behind which stood three women. One of the women, dressed in costume representative of the early 1800’s, asked if we were interested in taking a tour of Daniel Boone’s home. “Yes, please” we replied and she directed us outside to a smaller out-building that had been converted into a small movie theater. The movie, which lasted about twenty minutes, contained historical information about the home and included a concise history of Daniel Boone and his family and chronicles their migration from the east through Kentucky into Missouri. Our walk from the theater to the house went past a group of re-enactors buildi
ng a “Long-Hunters” cabin from red cedar poles. One of the men was being interviewed by a man with a camera crew. Up the walk, beyond the group of men, we passed by the spring house. The spring house is a small structure built into the side of the hill usually over a natural spring. Its function is to act as natural refrigeration for storing perishables such as milk and meat . In the winter, blocks of ice would be chopped from the nearby creek and stored in the spring house to further aid in the refrigeration. Our guide questioned Bill if he recognized the spring house from the movie, he replied that he had. With this, Bill, explained the similarities between this building and the Penguin House at the St. Louis Zoo. He described how in the summer the Penguin House felt freezing cold, but, during the winter it felt quite warm. 
The house, built by Nathan and Daniel Boone sits high on a hillside facing north. The exterior masonry was made from limestone blocks quarried from the nearby bluffs and shaped by hand by the builders. The tool marks in the masonry are still visible today, over 200 years later. The house took seven years to complete and includes seven main rooms connected by a center hallway. On each end of the house is a chimney that services multiple fireplaces; in all there were ten fireplaces when the home was originally built. Before entering the front entrance, I tapped Bill on the shoulder and pointed out the large openings between the bricks along the front of the house. Our guide explained that these openings were originally intended to act as gun ports to defend the home in case of Indian attacks, but, were never used. The interior of the home was filled with splendid wood work, from the black walnut flooring on the first floor, the hand carved mantels above the fireplace and the hand-hewn timbers over head. The second floor was a continuation of masterful woodworks, but, here the floor was solid oak. The lower level was used as the family’s kitchen and dining area. The interior had a stone floor and walls; dark-wood tables and a few cooking vessels were also around the room .On each end of this large room was a fireplace, one with a beehive oven for baking. In the corner was a large copper kettle. Bill immediately asked if popcorn, his favorite snack, was popped in this kettle. Our guide explained that sometimes during seasonal events popcorn was indeed popped in it; other times it was filled with wassel or apple butter. She continued to explain that during the time the Boone family lived here it was used for cooking meals, laundry, salting meat and for bathing. With the last statement, Bill effectively was “grossed-out”.
At the conclusion of the house tour, Bill and I decided to further explore Boonesfield village. The buildings of Boonesfield are not original to the Boone family property, but, have been moved in from the surrounding countryside. Some of the buildings that make the village are: the grist mill, the general store, a church, a home with barn, the cabinetmaker’s shop and the potters shop. The entire collection forms a circular road with the buildings on the outside of the ring and a large field in the center. Down on the very far end of the circle, opposite from the Boone ho
me, a second group of men were constructing a second long-hunters cabin. Bill and I stood there watching the men shape the cedar poles with an adze. It was at this point that Bill informed me that he had left his coat in the car and now he is freezing. I had never noticed that the hooded sweatshirt that he was wearing was not the hooded jacket that I normally see him wear. In an effort to warm him up, I gave him my coat and we walked over to a brick building to get out of the biting wind. Near the brick building was a barn where two sheep were kept. The sheep had a humorous appeal to me, they looked like two over-stuffed pieces of furniture on four spindly legs. We paused long enough at the sheep for Bill to have a brief conversation and a quick chuckle. From there, w
e quickly moved to the brick building and leaned against the south wall bathing in the winter sun and out of the wind. The wall felt warm on our backs as Bill stood quietly trying to warm himself and I wrote notes in my journal. From around the corner of the building I heard the sounds of voices and peered around and there stood a woman dressed in period garb, entering a door. I spoke “Hello”, trying not to startle her, and she replied “Hello, come on in out of the cold”. Bill and I followed her into the building which was actually a kitchen. Inside she and another woman were baking apple pies, bread and cinnamon rolls. Under the light of the rooms only window was a large wooden table, upon 
which the women were preparing their bake goods. In the center of one wall, which happened to be the wall Bill and I were standing against, was a large open hearth fireplace. There was a collection of cast-iron dutch ovens in the floor in front of the fire, these contained balls of bread dough rising in the soft warmth of the fire. Above the fire was an iron swing arm and on its end was a large graniteware kettle with wisps of steam escaping its pour spout. To the right of the fireplace was a baking oven. There was a small wooden door, which when opened revealed the cavernous brick oven, inside were several pies. Below this door was an iron door; behind this was the fire for heating the oven. The women explained that the fire und
er the oven had been burning for two days, but, the oven was still just not hot enough. They offered us both hot chocolate to drink, which Bill and I graciously accepted. IN the corner of the room was another copper kettle like the one we had seen in the house up the hill and once again Bill inquired about popcorn. They replied rather jokingly, “No, but in the fall it’s filled with beef stew”. Immediately, my thoughts were imagining the big kettle filled with steaming stew, dreaming of the smells and could almost taste it.. A man came in from building the cabin to get a hot cup of coffee and while one of the women was fetching the kettle from the fire, he paid for his cup by offering to bring in an armload of wood for their fires. I instructed Bill to follow the man out the door and help bring in some wood and he followed the man out. The man returned with Bill following; both carrying wood. The women thanked Bill and explained to him that in the frontier days, the children would have been responsible for carrying all the firewood and water to the kitchen. When the man left, Bill and I thanked the women for their hospitality and back out into the cold we went. We sat on a bench under a large arbor and finished our hot chocolate while I wrote more notes n my journal.
When finished, we continued exploring the little village. Next to the building that housed the kitchen, stood a little yellow house surrounded by a white picket fence. The front entry was adorned with rat
her intricate moldings and dentils, the work of a skilled craftsman. The next building was the Peace Chapel. T
he chapel is the stereotypical country church; white with tall windows and grand spire. On top of the steeple was a white dove with a branch in its beak; its wings open as if landing on the pinnacle. This particular building was originally erected in New Melle in the 1800’s and moved to its present location a few years ago.
Bill and headed back to the gift shop and on to the car. The drive home we talked about the adventure with great enthusiasm. He talked at great length about the two women and the baking oven and how much fun he had exploring with me. I explained how his mother would be disappointed that she did not come with us on our adventure. Together we decided that we would return someday with Momma and his little brother Tom-Tom in tow and experience the Boone home and Boonesfield Village again.
As we drove east on Hwy M from Warrenton on this sunny and cold morning, it was apparent this would be a perfect day for exploring. The two lane highway took us through gentle rolling hills, past farms and pastures; the gentle sway and bounce of the car, the warm sun shining through the windows and Alison Krauss on the radio could easily lull a person to sleep. We took in the sights of the surrounding countryside. A roadside marker marking the Boones Lick Road, a sign for “Roger’s Tractor Service – Specializing in Ford 9N”, horses adorned with blankets grazing in a pasture, a hawk circling high above, a new log home high on a hill, another sign for an upcoming “Sausage Dinner at Friedens Church of Christ”; all indicators of life in a cold and grey landscape.
Upon arriving at the Boone home, we entered the gift shop. The building which was probably once filled with farm implements and smelling of hay now smelled of fragrant herbs. The interior is lined with shelves containing cookbooks, candles, lye soap and books containing historical information about people and places of the Femme Osage valley. Across one end of the building was a low counter, behind which stood three women. One of the women, dressed in costume representative of the early 1800’s, asked if we were interested in taking a tour of Daniel Boone’s home. “Yes, please” we replied and she directed us outside to a smaller out-building that had been converted into a small movie theater. The movie, which lasted about twenty minutes, contained historical information about the home and included a concise history of Daniel Boone and his family and chronicles their migration from the east through Kentucky into Missouri. Our walk from the theater to the house went past a group of re-enactors buildi
ng a “Long-Hunters” cabin from red cedar poles. One of the men was being interviewed by a man with a camera crew. Up the walk, beyond the group of men, we passed by the spring house. The spring house is a small structure built into the side of the hill usually over a natural spring. Its function is to act as natural refrigeration for storing perishables such as milk and meat . In the winter, blocks of ice would be chopped from the nearby creek and stored in the spring house to further aid in the refrigeration. Our guide questioned Bill if he recognized the spring house from the movie, he replied that he had. With this, Bill, explained the similarities between this building and the Penguin House at the St. Louis Zoo. He described how in the summer the Penguin House felt freezing cold, but, during the winter it felt quite warm. 
The house, built by Nathan and Daniel Boone sits high on a hillside facing north. The exterior masonry was made from limestone blocks quarried from the nearby bluffs and shaped by hand by the builders. The tool marks in the masonry are still visible today, over 200 years later. The house took seven years to complete and includes seven main rooms connected by a center hallway. On each end of the house is a chimney that services multiple fireplaces; in all there were ten fireplaces when the home was originally built. Before entering the front entrance, I tapped Bill on the shoulder and pointed out the large openings between the bricks along the front of the house. Our guide explained that these openings were originally intended to act as gun ports to defend the home in case of Indian attacks, but, were never used. The interior of the home was filled with splendid wood work, from the black walnut flooring on the first floor, the hand carved mantels above the fireplace and the hand-hewn timbers over head. The second floor was a continuation of masterful woodworks, but, here the floor was solid oak. The lower level was used as the family’s kitchen and dining area. The interior had a stone floor and walls; dark-wood tables and a few cooking vessels were also around the room .On each end of this large room was a fireplace, one with a beehive oven for baking. In the corner was a large copper kettle. Bill immediately asked if popcorn, his favorite snack, was popped in this kettle. Our guide explained that sometimes during seasonal events popcorn was indeed popped in it; other times it was filled with wassel or apple butter. She continued to explain that during the time the Boone family lived here it was used for cooking meals, laundry, salting meat and for bathing. With the last statement, Bill effectively was “grossed-out”.
At the conclusion of the house tour, Bill and I decided to further explore Boonesfield village. The buildings of Boonesfield are not original to the Boone family property, but, have been moved in from the surrounding countryside. Some of the buildings that make the village are: the grist mill, the general store, a church, a home with barn, the cabinetmaker’s shop and the potters shop. The entire collection forms a circular road with the buildings on the outside of the ring and a large field in the center. Down on the very far end of the circle, opposite from the Boone ho
me, a second group of men were constructing a second long-hunters cabin. Bill and I stood there watching the men shape the cedar poles with an adze. It was at this point that Bill informed me that he had left his coat in the car and now he is freezing. I had never noticed that the hooded sweatshirt that he was wearing was not the hooded jacket that I normally see him wear. In an effort to warm him up, I gave him my coat and we walked over to a brick building to get out of the biting wind. Near the brick building was a barn where two sheep were kept. The sheep had a humorous appeal to me, they looked like two over-stuffed pieces of furniture on four spindly legs. We paused long enough at the sheep for Bill to have a brief conversation and a quick chuckle. From there, w
e quickly moved to the brick building and leaned against the south wall bathing in the winter sun and out of the wind. The wall felt warm on our backs as Bill stood quietly trying to warm himself and I wrote notes in my journal. From around the corner of the building I heard the sounds of voices and peered around and there stood a woman dressed in period garb, entering a door. I spoke “Hello”, trying not to startle her, and she replied “Hello, come on in out of the cold”. Bill and I followed her into the building which was actually a kitchen. Inside she and another woman were baking apple pies, bread and cinnamon rolls. Under the light of the rooms only window was a large wooden table, upon 
which the women were preparing their bake goods. In the center of one wall, which happened to be the wall Bill and I were standing against, was a large open hearth fireplace. There was a collection of cast-iron dutch ovens in the floor in front of the fire, these contained balls of bread dough rising in the soft warmth of the fire. Above the fire was an iron swing arm and on its end was a large graniteware kettle with wisps of steam escaping its pour spout. To the right of the fireplace was a baking oven. There was a small wooden door, which when opened revealed the cavernous brick oven, inside were several pies. Below this door was an iron door; behind this was the fire for heating the oven. The women explained that the fire und
er the oven had been burning for two days, but, the oven was still just not hot enough. They offered us both hot chocolate to drink, which Bill and I graciously accepted. IN the corner of the room was another copper kettle like the one we had seen in the house up the hill and once again Bill inquired about popcorn. They replied rather jokingly, “No, but in the fall it’s filled with beef stew”. Immediately, my thoughts were imagining the big kettle filled with steaming stew, dreaming of the smells and could almost taste it.. A man came in from building the cabin to get a hot cup of coffee and while one of the women was fetching the kettle from the fire, he paid for his cup by offering to bring in an armload of wood for their fires. I instructed Bill to follow the man out the door and help bring in some wood and he followed the man out. The man returned with Bill following; both carrying wood. The women thanked Bill and explained to him that in the frontier days, the children would have been responsible for carrying all the firewood and water to the kitchen. When the man left, Bill and I thanked the women for their hospitality and back out into the cold we went. We sat on a bench under a large arbor and finished our hot chocolate while I wrote more notes n my journal.When finished, we continued exploring the little village. Next to the building that housed the kitchen, stood a little yellow house surrounded by a white picket fence. The front entry was adorned with rat
her intricate moldings and dentils, the work of a skilled craftsman. The next building was the Peace Chapel. T
he chapel is the stereotypical country church; white with tall windows and grand spire. On top of the steeple was a white dove with a branch in its beak; its wings open as if landing on the pinnacle. This particular building was originally erected in New Melle in the 1800’s and moved to its present location a few years ago.Bill and headed back to the gift shop and on to the car. The drive home we talked about the adventure with great enthusiasm. He talked at great length about the two women and the baking oven and how much fun he had exploring with me. I explained how his mother would be disappointed that she did not come with us on our adventure. Together we decided that we would return someday with Momma and his little brother Tom-Tom in tow and experience the Boone home and Boonesfield Village again.
The Trout of a Lifetime
The Trout of a Lifetime
I was in desperate need of a hiatus from the fast-paced lifestyle of the corporate world and a day of fly-fishing on the river would be the prescription that I needed. As I packed my gear the evening before my trip, my thoughts were mixed between leaving my family behind and the need for time to myself. During the two-hour drive in the dark hours of the morning, my thoughts were of my family peacefully sleeping in our home and of them starting their morning with breakfast and cartoons. They will be grown and gone before I know it and I am missing out on a day with them by going fishing by myself.
The river that morning was peaceful and serene, and the morning fog still hung over the water. The only sound in the air on this cool, crisp morning is the trickling and bubbling of the cool spring water as it flows around rocks in the stream bed. The few fishermen that shared this small piece of the river stood almost motionless as they tied their flies on their lines; waiting with anticipation for the sound of the bell that indicated the beginning of the days’ fishing. This is exactly the peace and serenity I am in need of. As I wait, I think once again of my children, I reflect on my own life and allow my stress and worries from work to wash away downstream.
I had picked up fly-fishing just a couple of years earlier when I found a fly-rod and reel in my garage in a bundle of old fishing rods that I had inherited from my grandfather. After talking to a friend about the old rod I had found, he explained how much he enjoyed fly-fishing and he gave me a box of flies that he had tied, just to get me started. Once I started, I was “hooked”, I couldn’t get enough, I learned to tie my own flies and was successfully catching fish at the local ponds and lakes. But the glory would be mine if I could use what I had learned to catch a rainbow trout someday.
When the bell sounded that particular morning, my heart leapt in my chest; I was finally trout fishing. Many questions raced through my head, were the flies I had tied going to fool a fish as cunning as a trout, were my casting techniques well enough to place the fly in just the right place to entice a bite? As I slowly walked along, casting toward the riverbank, I noticed the fishermen around me were successfully landing trout of keeper size and quickly filling their creel limit. I had not even had a bite or seen a trout that seemed remotely interested in the fly I was presenting, I was becoming discouraged. Did I tie an unconvincing fly pattern, is my presentation wrong? Why are those around me successful while I continue to fail? How can I return home empty-handed after leaving my family behind for a day by myself? I must land one of these elusive creatures or completely rethink the time and expenses I have invested in this hobby.
Then it happens. I had just changed flies and tactics from a top-water fluttering action to a “let it sink and drift a while” strategy when “BANG”, a fish strike. My heart was pounding now as I let the fish take out some line. My concern was to not lose this trophy, how much is too much drag on the four pound test line I was using, how do I keep from losing this fish? The trout and I fought for what seemed like ten minutes or more, but, was actually only about two. When I was finally able to get the trout in close enough to scoop it up with my net, I was relieved. I had done it; I finally could be included in the group of people who can say they had caught a trout, one of the smartest fish on the planet and I had successfully tied and presented a fly that could fool the best. As I held the fish at the waters surface and removed the fly from its mouth, I reveled in my accomplishment and stood with wonder at this beautiful animal. The sparkling smoothness of its body and the vivid colors of its markings; characteristics of a trout that you can not pick up from books and magazines, only from viewing one up close. As I stood there mesmerized by this thing of beauty, I gently slipped the trout back down into the water and watched as it slowly swam away.
Since this moment, I have experienced catching other trout, but, none as memorable as the first. Sure, I returned home from that trip without any fish, but later realized that with many things in life, sometimes “The fishing is far more important than the fish”.
I was in desperate need of a hiatus from the fast-paced lifestyle of the corporate world and a day of fly-fishing on the river would be the prescription that I needed. As I packed my gear the evening before my trip, my thoughts were mixed between leaving my family behind and the need for time to myself. During the two-hour drive in the dark hours of the morning, my thoughts were of my family peacefully sleeping in our home and of them starting their morning with breakfast and cartoons. They will be grown and gone before I know it and I am missing out on a day with them by going fishing by myself.
The river that morning was peaceful and serene, and the morning fog still hung over the water. The only sound in the air on this cool, crisp morning is the trickling and bubbling of the cool spring water as it flows around rocks in the stream bed. The few fishermen that shared this small piece of the river stood almost motionless as they tied their flies on their lines; waiting with anticipation for the sound of the bell that indicated the beginning of the days’ fishing. This is exactly the peace and serenity I am in need of. As I wait, I think once again of my children, I reflect on my own life and allow my stress and worries from work to wash away downstream.
I had picked up fly-fishing just a couple of years earlier when I found a fly-rod and reel in my garage in a bundle of old fishing rods that I had inherited from my grandfather. After talking to a friend about the old rod I had found, he explained how much he enjoyed fly-fishing and he gave me a box of flies that he had tied, just to get me started. Once I started, I was “hooked”, I couldn’t get enough, I learned to tie my own flies and was successfully catching fish at the local ponds and lakes. But the glory would be mine if I could use what I had learned to catch a rainbow trout someday.
When the bell sounded that particular morning, my heart leapt in my chest; I was finally trout fishing. Many questions raced through my head, were the flies I had tied going to fool a fish as cunning as a trout, were my casting techniques well enough to place the fly in just the right place to entice a bite? As I slowly walked along, casting toward the riverbank, I noticed the fishermen around me were successfully landing trout of keeper size and quickly filling their creel limit. I had not even had a bite or seen a trout that seemed remotely interested in the fly I was presenting, I was becoming discouraged. Did I tie an unconvincing fly pattern, is my presentation wrong? Why are those around me successful while I continue to fail? How can I return home empty-handed after leaving my family behind for a day by myself? I must land one of these elusive creatures or completely rethink the time and expenses I have invested in this hobby.
Then it happens. I had just changed flies and tactics from a top-water fluttering action to a “let it sink and drift a while” strategy when “BANG”, a fish strike. My heart was pounding now as I let the fish take out some line. My concern was to not lose this trophy, how much is too much drag on the four pound test line I was using, how do I keep from losing this fish? The trout and I fought for what seemed like ten minutes or more, but, was actually only about two. When I was finally able to get the trout in close enough to scoop it up with my net, I was relieved. I had done it; I finally could be included in the group of people who can say they had caught a trout, one of the smartest fish on the planet and I had successfully tied and presented a fly that could fool the best. As I held the fish at the waters surface and removed the fly from its mouth, I reveled in my accomplishment and stood with wonder at this beautiful animal. The sparkling smoothness of its body and the vivid colors of its markings; characteristics of a trout that you can not pick up from books and magazines, only from viewing one up close. As I stood there mesmerized by this thing of beauty, I gently slipped the trout back down into the water and watched as it slowly swam away.
Since this moment, I have experienced catching other trout, but, none as memorable as the first. Sure, I returned home from that trip without any fish, but later realized that with many things in life, sometimes “The fishing is far more important than the fish”.
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