A tender song

WALDEN, Colo. – We came west, Zach and I.  To fly fish.

Zach at Don's Pond

Neither of us had done it before. I’d wanted to, ever since seeing the Robert Redford film “A River Runs Through It.”

For me the lure is the river. There’s little that can quiet the soul as quickly as the song of a river, running.

Conjure it now and your mind will hear a rush of sound.  But it is so much more delicate than that.

On this river, the Norris, the water moved swiftly as it tumbled from the mountains.  But then it reached a valley, where we stepped in to it for the first time. And there we heard a tuneful murmur of babbles, burbles and low drips, the octaves changing as it moved along shoreline, over rocks and through branches left by heavy rains or industrious beaver.

But I get ahead of myself.  That was Day 2 of the journey. First to Day 1.

Mike, Zach’s buddy and our guide, had taught us the basics of fly fishing the day before on a small mountain lake.  We were outside Walden, Colorado.  Remembering Thoreau, I had joked about the absence of a pond in or near this Walden.  In fact, this lake’s name was Don’s Pond.  And it seemed an ideal place to find solitude … though the bear dung all along its shores suggested it could get crowded and dangerous.

We would later move up to a second lake, Lost Creek, to continue our instruction.

We did well that first day, each catching our share of Rainbows ... marvelous trout with the signature swatches of reds and oranges along their sides.

Zach, left, and me at Lost Creek Lake.

We marveled, too, at our surroundings – Ansel Adams-like snapshots of tall aspens, dark-green pines, and skies the deepest blue with white, floating, cottonball clouds.  The mountains, distant, showed thin scars of snow still left from the winter. Even in July, it would be only a few months before the snows would mount again.

We learned quickly that fly fishing is an art.  A friend calls it a lifestyle.  It requires patience.  But it is, really, a dance with nature – in the air, above water, and below it, too.   There are basics … the proper way to hold the pole, to let out line, to swiftly move the arm and pole back, then power both forward so the fly sails in a gorgeous arc and alights softly upon the water.

Norman Maclean, the author of the original “River Runs Through It,” recalls his father’s stern view of the world, including his judgment that fly fishing was, in the end, an exercise of arm and pole that happened entirely between “10 and 2,” the numbers on a clock. 

A Presbyterian minister of Scottish descent, the elder Maclean saw it as a metaphor for living – a righteous life requires limits to be successful.

I won’t argue the merits of moral limits here.  But he certainly had fly fishing nailed.   Let your pole slip back to 3 and your fly snares a tree or scrub. Power it forward to 9 or 8 and your line will double up and go slack, your fly landing in embarrassment a few feet from shore.

To see it done well … well, it’s a visual feast, a ballet of motion and string, arm and pole that move, says Minister Maclean, like a metronome … “10-2, 10-2, 10-2” … until at last the fly sails forward and lightly lands.

And then the fish watch … and decide.

Got one! A Rainbow.

They did decide that day, and in our favor.

We released each fish as we caught it, so there’d be no trout on the dinner table tonight.  Instead, bone-tired, we went to the Antler Inn, one of just two eating spots in Walden.

Everything seems to come in twos in Walden, a town founded in 1889 and once called Sagebrush … two restaurants, two gas stations, two liquor stores.  I don’t remember any traffic lights.

Still, the food was good, and we rested well.

Tomorrow’s plan was simple: Begin in the valley, and, with our new skills, work our way up the Norris to its headwaters. 

Simple it was not. 

Next: A Gumby goes wading.

To see photographs of Day 1, click here.

A warm night and other tails

It’s a quiet gawdawful-hot Saturday morning.  But last night, the winds lessened the heat if only for a few hours.  So we sat outside in the long chairs that we usually use at the Michigan cottage this time of year. 

And we closed our eyes and imagined we were there.

The hot, Kansas winds were replaced by shivery lakeside breezes; the rustle of trees turned to waves lapping ashore; the moon’s bright light, rippling across our swimming pool, now danced atop the lake’s crests.

Ahhh.  I could even smell the lake.

It worked for about a minute. 

“Heh, heh, heh, heh, heh.”

It sounded like a steam engine.

“Heh, heh, heh, heh, heh.”

I opened my eyes and looked to my right. 

Dog Riley, the Golden, had climbed up on a third lounge chair.  And there, stretched out, her tongue hanging down, her eyes wide, she panted, her sides moving in and out like an accordion.

Riley in cooler times.

I wanted her to yank in that tongue, close her own eyes and imagine the lake, her favorite.  But I knew that was impossible.  Dogs must pant when the temperature rises or they explode.  And we wouldn’t want that.

So, still stuck in Kansas, we watched the bats consume mosquitoes, slapped a few of our own, and counted our blessings that we had water at our feet, albeit chlorinated.

All of which reminds me … I owe the blog some animal updates before I move on to non-animal things.

Dog, bird and then chipmunk.

First, dog.  Our guest, the black dog, found its proper owner.  Or I should say, the owner found the dog thanks to our post on Craigslist.

Good dog Sammy

It took just the next day.  The dog’s name is Sammy.  She has a sister dog of the same sort and color.  Sammy lived just a few blocks from us, and was headed in the right direction when we grabbed him from busy Nall Avenue.  But who knows whether he would have made it.

Anyway, all is well.  Dog and distressed family were reunited. And I think I’m cured of my notion that three dogs are better than two.

Next, the bird.

We thought Sky’s time was up.  If you recall, Sky is the surviving bird of the finch couple Sky and Sister Sarah, named after the characters in the musical “Guys and Dolls.”

Sarah passed on just before Christmas last year.  It was very sad, in part because I feared Sky’s brashness and love of life would wither.  Experts say a finch often will die within a few weeks of a partner’s passing. 

Something he ate?

But it had been six months since Sarah’s death, and Sky had remained the same – a loudmouth, full of energy, bouncing from corner to corner in the cage like a Super Ball.

Until a couple of weeks ago.  Sky started exhibiting all the symptoms of Sarah’s demise … fluffed out feathers, sitting in one spot, not eating, rarely chirping – hardly a loudmouth.

So mentally, I was readying a burial spot next to Sarah near the northeast corner of the pool.  It was hard. The silence was the hardest. Sky’s chirping typically ricochets down the hallway into the house’s every corner.   

Well, I’m happy to say the old boy is just fine. After two days of funeral preparation, I found Sky back to his usual self.  If anything, he’s even more demanding.

I don’t know what happened.  We were doing some painting, so maybe it was the fumes.  Maybe he ate a bad seed and just needed some Pepto. Maybe he went on a mental vacation. I’ve done that.

Whatever the case, he’s back to normal.  It’s good to hear.

And the chipmunk.

Despite my best judgment, I saved him.

My nemesis was in quite a pickle.

It seems during the night a few weeks ago, he stumbled into our pool.  I thought chipmunks were smarter than that.  But I suspect, drunk with power, he assumed himself invincible and so let his guard down.

The water runs through it.

Whatever, he fell in.  And I found him in the skimmer box in the morning.  Alive, but soaked through like a well-worn sponge.  The skimmer box, if you don’t know, is where the pool water flows swiftly back to the pump.

Now, I faced two options: Let him drown or let him live.  A friend of mine uses a drowning bucket to rid him of such varmints.  Our pool’s return flow, like a giant vacuum, would do the same thing but faster, I figured.

But I couldn’t do it.  I decided he needed rescue.

It wasn’t easy.  I give him credit … he had fought the rapids of that small box pretty well, in part by jumping desperately to the ledge where the water funnels into the box.

I had tried to pull out the box’s skimmer basket with him aboard.  But he would leap to the ledge. 

So I grabbed a pole and, from the pool side, pushed him along the ledge into the basket, then yanked the basket up.  I almost separated head from tail because he reached back to the ledge at the last second. I tried again; same result.

I needed to move faster.  So, the third time, I pushed the pole and pulled the basket with one quick motion.  And he was free.  

He jumped from the basket and scurried into the bushes, leaving a wet trail behind.  

“Lesson learned, you bugger!” I shouted after him. 

I’ve not seen him since. I still haven’t bought my trap, but I assume he’s around. 

Meantime, the bricks continue to settle.  So it’s not like I removed a thorn from a beast’s foot – you know, now friends forever, the war is over. 

But I did the right thing.  I think he’ll realize that some day.  Victory starts with hearts and minds.

The guest

Animals seem to find us.  I’m not complaining.  And it’s not like we’re Noah and the Ark, inviting them in.

But still, they do seem to arrive, for good or ill.

And now there are three.

Tonight, as we were driving home from a wedding, we saw a large black dog with longish hair running south in the midst of Nall Avenue – a very busy street – with tongue hanging to the ground. 

It was clear that it was lost, in a panic, thirsty.

We drove by it at first, but then circled around, fearing it’d be hit.

Dog frenzy:  Cindy manages Linus at left, Riley in the middle, and our guest.

Another car had stopped, the women sharing our concern.  We stopped too, and we jumped out.  I managed to coax the dog to the grassy yard along the street.  And eventually, he and I came to terms … he would sit when I suggested he sit.  And soon, he actually sat next to me and allowed me to grab his collar.

The collar had no tags.

Cindy raced home to get a leash and a bowl of water.  And when she returned, we put the leash on him and urged him in the car.  He jumped in, no problem.  He wouldn’t drink  … not yet.  His eyes spun ‘round, nervous, unsettled.  But his tail wagged. Sure, briefly, but it moved in a positive way.

We arrived at the house and Cindy let our dogs – Linus and Riley – out the back before they knew what was up. And then we brought the guest in.

While I called the cop shop to let them know about our stray, Cindy tried to settle him down.  We had water, food and so forth.  But dogs must check out territory first.  And this one did.  He stopped short at Riley’s stuffed animals scattered on the floor, giving them a good sniff.  He found the food and water bowls, but he was still too ill at ease to drink or eat.  He moved through all the rooms.

Meantime both our dogs were barking out back, knowing something was amiss. 

We had to introduce the three.  If only to stop the barking.

Riley would be first.  We reasoned that by being the female, she would be the most accepting of a new male in her midst.

Unfortunately, Riley is a bit shy.  Yes, she’s a Golden Retriever, full of energy.  But when it comes to other dogs, she literally goes belly up.  I’ve tried to take her to dog parks, but when she sees another dog – male or female – she flops on her back, all her legs spread wide.

A range of  “I mean you no harm” to “Don’t hurt me!”

That wasn’t quite the case here. After all, this was home … her territory. Not some field in a park. We thought she might be more aggressive.

We let her in, and she immediately saw the dog.  She dove for one of her stuffed animals, grabbed it, and ran toward the stranger.  She slid like a ball player stealing second, stopping just short of his black wall of fur. 

And as she slid, she peed a puddle that seemed a lake.

We didn’t criticize.  We knew this was traumatic.  After all, she and Linus had built a predictable lifestyle for the last decade.  Now, suddenly, shy Riley had two males to consider.

Now to Linus.  His small barks grew more incessant, not understanding why Riley was allowed in but he was not. 

Figuring the worst was over for Riley, we let Linus enter.  And he did amazingly well.  Sure, he growled here and there.  He also peed where Riley peed … that territory thing. But stern warnings from us balanced with lots of “Good boy!” seemed to convince him that it’d be better to accept this stranger than to do battle.

So we cleaned the floor.  No big deal. 

Now I’m writing this as all three dogs sleep peaceably in our bedroom.  The black one seems settled at last.  When we got back to the room he immediately jumped on our bed.  Clearly his habit.  But I ordered him down, and he obeyed.  Smart dog.

One small concern: He seems to scratch now and then. Fleas?  Hope not.  Though it wouldn't be the first time for us. 

We texted photos of the visitor to our kids.  Zach thought him cute.  Meghan suggested we name him “Wiley” as a contrast to “Riley.”

Personally, I hope the owner finds us soon.  This dog is well trained and of good demeanor … a sure sign that someone loves him, deeply.  I suspect the owner is in anguish right now.  I would be.

We’ll know more in the next couple of days.

And a final thought as midnight passes. We experienced both thunder and fireworks tonight as the weather conspired with the annual 4^th celebration. 

Not that I don’t enjoy the noise. But it’s clear our newcomer can’t tolerate storms well, nor the bangs of liberty.

Neither can our own dogs. 

So it’s possible that on Sunday and even more so on Monday, the weather and fireworks will mean a time of not-so-quiet desperation for our trio.

And us.

It’s not a major thing. After all, I’m sure Noah suffered the thunder.  It came with the mission.

But he certainly didn’t suffer the fireworks.

“Found: Large black dog, long hair, good disposition.  Running south on Nall Avenue.  Likes to sleep on bed.  Hates fireworks and thunder. Identify his collar, and he’s yours.”