A home for my projects, ideas and inspirations which do not fit neatly elsewhere on this site
Some of my recent readings and favorite texts
Some reflections on an independent study, an art project, and my last day in a undergraduate class
It was the last class of the quarter and our professor had asked us to reflect on the role of grief in our futures. I had some thoughts, but nothing coalesced poetically enough to warrant a contribution. Just as the professor began wrapping up, some rough idea came through. But her back was turned, she didn’t see my slightly raised had, I let it go. Tossing my headphones back over my ears, I wondered if anyone in the class would have enjoyed hearing my opinion.
They were stuck there, but you don’t have to keep reading, so here's my thought.
I’ve had grief in my life, certainly not as much as many, but enough to grow familiar with its icy stare. Really, I’ve had enough to begin to believe I’ll always have some. I know it sounds grim, but this acceptance makes me feel like I don’t have anything to lose.
If regardless of what I face I’m still going to have to deal with some grief, then there cannot be much harm in hope. If I’m stuck down here, I might as well keep my eyes peeled for those sunny days in December.
Fly fishing for salmon in western Washington is a grim prospect, especially if you are as poor at it as me. Salmon populations are quickly declining, those that remain are mostly hatchery fish, and a cold drizzle engulfs nearly every day of the season. During the fall of 2020 I created an independent study within my undergraduate program to explore the habit & ecology of local salmonids. I wanted college credits to read salmon books and go tromps around local rivers with my fly rod. I got exactly what I asked for. It was one of the most informative classes I've ever taken.
That fall was a particularly rough year for Coho, the only species of Pacific salmon I had any chance of catching. I spent many hours standing waist deep in cold, stiff currents. Cast, swing, strip and repeat.
Driving my truck down twisted river roads, in search of that next soggy patch of gravel, I would ponder my luck. The voice of experience slowly grew louder… you already spent enough time waving helplessly at those elusive silver splashes to know they are not going to bite today.
Yet, despite my own discouragement, I refused to give up. For every hour I spent in search of that one Coho stupid enough to play my game, my stake in salmon’s success grew. By the end of the quarter any expectation of catching a fish had ceased to nag me, and I was proud to just to witness the river and wait.
A few months later I stood in a promising piece of water on a notoriously disappointing river watching a gaudy chunk of orange and pink flutter through the current as I traced it with my rod. I “should” have been at home working on a project for an art class, but I struggle to communicate honestly and originally through expressive art.
Watching the refracted pebbles of the river’s belly and contemplating what it feels like when a steelhead takes your fly, I began to imagine something honest and at least a little original. On my way out that night I collected a dry sack full of river stones. The next day I spent a couple hours wrapping the pile in wire and stringing them up in a row. Each stone was a cast in a cold winter river. Each pebble another cloudy day spent in front of my laptop. About five feet into the string of rocks I attached the biggest, brightest salmon fly I had in my box.
Have you ever felt a trout slam a fly? Ok, that’s a little esoteric, but what about that first real day of sun in April on the west side of the Cascades? Or when you’ve been driving all night and an early desert sun crests over the highway?
You must know how it feels… to feel. That's what the salmon fly is.
Then back to the river stones, I’ll see how many I can fit on till I reach the floor. I don’t mind the tedium too much as they are actually quite beautiful if you look close.