Wildcat Creek Journal

I am a coffee fanatic. Nothing pleases me more than a French press full of freshly ground fair trade, organic coffee from somewhere halfway across the globe. Sumatra has been my favorite for quite some time now: the humid, earthy aroma, with a hint of high mountain rainforest in each sip, a perfect campfire coffee, as I sit and watch he fog lift from the surface of some remote trout river. Or, if you prefer an espresso drink, a nice grande flat white with heavy whipping cream, served by a caffeine jacked hipster with a face full of metal at the local Starbucks. Coffee is always my fuel of choice, wherever I find myself, but lately, I have become obsessed with tea.

My favorite so far is the old standard Earl Grey, which is black tea flavored with the unique spicy citrus flavor of bergamot oil from the Mediterranean. The caffeine content from tea is milder than in coffee, but it provides a nice pick- me- up, and doesn't give me the jitters after a few cups like my other dark drug doe…

Yesterday was gorgeous, with sunshine and temperatures in the mid seventies, but there was a storm brewing in the distance. Thunder was rumbling far off in the west, and slowly headed in my direction. I would have to move quick, so I grabbed my old decrepit flyrod and a box containing a few poppers, as well as some nymphs, just for good measure. I waded through a tangle of saplings and small vines, making my way to a bank above where a branch dumps in to Wildcat Creek. Immediately, small shadows scattered, a school of bream, and they were headed for cover, which in this case was a mountain laurel bush and some submerged roots of an undercut bank.

All around me, and overhead, were limbs, vines, and leaning trees that would take my flies and probably my leader if I tried anything other than a simple roll cast. After a few tries, and a couple of snags, I figured out that I would have to let the slow current make the presentation for me. I flipped my white popper out toward the opposite …

A couple of weeks ago, I bought a new sketch pad and some pencils, sure that with a little practice, I'd be able to steady my hand enough to produce a few somewhat recognizable drawings to go along with some of my writings about nature and outdoor experiences. I loved drawing in a past life, though I was never really any good. Back then, it was superheroes or comic book characters, something I'd do rather than studying for a history exam, or doing my Algebra homework. I drew some animals and fish, but they were always cartoonish. Sometimes my drawings were good, but I never took it seriously. Same thing with writing. Had I known then, what I want to know now. My first sketch the other day was of a rainbow trout. It wasn't perfect, but I was satisfied with it. I took my time and paid attention to detail, and found the whole thing both relaxing and invigorating. I was tickled that it actually favored a fish, much less a trout. I spent a while shading in the right colors. I…

Daylight begins to filter through the tops of yellow poplar, white oak, and eastern hemlock trees, and soon floods the understory of this mountain cove, deep in the Carolina hills. Mountain Laurel and rhododendron are woven together into an impenetrable sea of tangled boughs of green. Laurel hells-- what they are referred to in this region-- grow up steep walls of rock and bracken fern, giant deadfall trees and green mats of moss, wherever it can hold on. A place like this is hard to find your way through, but it is very easy to get turned around in, and if a man gets himself lost out here, he is truly lost.
Back in this cove, I am miles away from any paved roads. The only modern sound I have heard came from an airplane flying overhead just before nine o'clock this morning. A pileated woodpecker’s cries echo in the canopy of trees just below where I am standing. Far off, a crow caws. My phone doesn't have a signal here, and I don't know whether that is a curse or a blessing…

Light begins to fade, and darkness creeps in Just as water crept into this timber After the beaver dams backed up the flow Of what was a small stream, clear and flowing Pines go first, rotting until the tops break, Falling into a tangle of thick vines The poplars, waterlogged and leaning Soon they will be hollow, providing homes For screech owls and wood ducks, and the raccoon That left the seedy droppings on this log I am standing on to get a better view Of all that is happening in these woods Order from chaos, from death comes life The circle is eternal, everything changes From woodland to wetland, the cycle goes One dies off and another one is born Abundant waterfowl now calls this home Where the squirrels once buried acorns, The water is two feet deep and rising I would have to wade to my deer stand now My beloved holly, she's a leaning Before long, she too will fall over The timber is dying off in a swath The once thick canopy, now open sky Only the skeletons of big trees re…

You got home from work that morning at three AM. The house was quiet and empty. Your wife and daughter were out of town, and he had been staying at your mom's for three days, and you couldn't wait to see him. Getting to sleep by four, you set the alarm for eight, giving you time to get the gear together and make lunch for you both. Baloney sandwiches, and juice boxes. You hurried to his school and signed him out. It was going to be a good day.You gave your boss some lame excuse why you wouldn't be in the next evening, but you broke down and told him that you were laying out to take your boy fishing, that you haven't seen him in almost a week, and he just smiled and patted you on the back. "See you Monday," he said. You wanted everything to be just right, so you went down the list of things to remember, all that night as you did your job.He came running down the hallway when they called his name on the intercom, and hopped up in the truck. He had so much to ta…