tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71363180110763175192024-03-08T03:33:57.249-08:00Wildcat Creek JournalReflections on life in the Great OutdoorsJosh Lanierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14358105029135750492noreply@blogger.comBlogger88125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7136318011076317519.post-83624125088420574782022-07-31T16:47:00.001-07:002022-07-31T17:08:59.664-07:00Book Review: The Promise: A Fly Angler's Long Journey Home By Paul A. Cañada<p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-2b4968ec-7fff-be90-f20c-75455073ae1a"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-2b4968ec-7fff-be90-f20c-75455073ae1a">My favorite stories are the ones that give the author depth and serve as a window of insight into a writer's mind. Within the first few pages, it is important for me to develop a connection with the author, less I will quickly lose interest. I don't mean to sound like some type of literary elitist by any stretch– it's just me being honest. </p><br><p dir="ltr">Reading the first chapter in Paul Cañada's new book, <i>The Promise</i>, I felt that connection immediately. Paul tells of his childhood growing up in a military family, having a father in the Air Force, and the moves and re-adjustments that had to be made each time his father received new orders to relocate. I did not grow up in a military family, nor did my family move from place to place, but the relationship between Paul and his dad gripped me from the beginning. For me, this laid the groundwork for what was to come. </p><br><p dir="ltr">As his bio states, Paul Cañada is an award-winning writer and photographer with bylines in dozens of magazines and newspapers. He is known as a fishing and conservation writer. On the outside, <i>The</i> <i>Promise</i> might appear to be a fly fishing book, but just like most great fishing stories are not always about fishing, this book is not just fishing stories. </p><br><p dir="ltr">Cañada weaves together the narratives of each chapter into a cohesive tapestry of a life well lived. From his early days as a highschool athlete, to his time as a collegiate wrestler, right into his career as a wrestling coach and mentor, Paul gives me the impression of a disciplined and competitive individual. As he tells of his early forays into the natural world, whether it is his introduction and subsequent obsession with birding or bass fishing, Cañada reveals himself as a man with a strong connection to nature. With each chapter, Paul reveals a new dimension of his character, which builds the author's <i>Ethos</i> with the reader. This is a man who speaks from experience, and the kind of writer I want to "listen" to.</p><br><p dir="ltr">Cañada's fishing stories are my kind of fishing stories: he doesn't claim to be an "expert" on anything, but the knowledge imparted on him by years of experience is apparent. The stories are interesting enough as to not seem like something instructional, though he shares some valuable information and advice with the reader, whether he means to or not. The most memorable fishing stories are the ones where the unexpected happens, and this book has its share of spills, injuries and close calls with both rising water and dangerous wildlife: my kind of fishing trip.</p><br><p dir="ltr">Paul has a way of making experiences as normal as traveling or relocating for a career interesting and profound, and he does this without flowery prose or exaggeration. His writing style is matter-of-fact , and bare-bone enough that the reader can get lost in the story and not miss the forest for the trees, to use an old cliché. He does not have to go into long descriptions or use big words to make his stories appealing. The passages speak for themselves. Below is an excerpt from a chapter entitled "Shouldering the Pain," in which the author deals with receiving news of his father's passing:</p><br><p dir="ltr"><i>My drive back to Texas was made difficult by what I had said and done as a teen. Every mean word uttered, every promise broken, fell back on me. My heart was heavy with regret. I know my father forgave me and loved me dearly, but that was little consolation. I believe it was Coco Chanel who said, " guilt is perhaps the most painful companion of death."</i></p><p dir="ltr"><i>Somewhere south of Amarillo, I forgave myself. Dad wouldn't want me to suffer like this, I reasoned. A calm fell over me, and I remembered the last line in the Moorhouse story that dad loved so much, "Like a jackass in a hail storm, the tall, West Texas cowboy stubbornly refused to let the blizzard beat him down</i> <i>permanently</i>."</p><br><p dir="ltr">This is of course only one example of the author laying himself bare for the reader, and I couldn't begin to describe the flood of emotion I felt reading that line, having strikingly similar feelings at the news of my own father's death.</p><br><p dir="ltr">Cañada's description of his feelings toward the natural world are equally similar to my own:</p><br><p dir="ltr"><i>I naturally gravitate to streams and rivers, although I'm unsure exactly why. When I stand in a stream, I can see time rushing by and feel its cold, wet touch against my legs. Maybe the answer to why is that I can feel, see and hear something bigger than myself and my troubles.</i></p><br><p dir="ltr">Paul A. Canada has written a book that is not just for fly anglers. Although the subtitle says <i>A</i> <i>Fly Angler's Long Journey</i> <i>Home</i>, this book is another example of a type of hero's journey, a universal theme of leaving home, experiencing the world with all of its ups and downs, and realizing the person that one has become through those experiences. </p><br><p dir="ltr">This book has become a treasure to me, and is a valued addition to my library– not only with my collection of sporting titles, but with the books that hold some meaning about life's journey. It will certainly be a book I will re-read many times in years to come. I have placed a link below where you can find this book.</p><p dir="ltr"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br></p><p dir="ltr"><br></p><p dir="ltr"><br></p><p dir="ltr"> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Promise-Anglers-Long-Journey-Home/dp/B0B1FC16FF/ref=mp_s_a_1_2?crid=1OBJ1RUFLMTFC&keywords=Paul+A.+Canada&qid=1659310535&s=books&sprefix=paul+a.+canada%252Caps%252C242&sr=1-2">The Promise: A Fly Angler's Long Journey Home</a></p><br><br><br><br><br><br><br>Josh Lanierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14358105029135750492noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7136318011076317519.post-75601398271842162492021-12-13T17:29:00.001-08:002021-12-13T17:29:08.932-08:00Hunting the Hard Way<p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-6835fcca-7fff-d2b0-b848-2a6200bba842">Early morning sun catches my eye as it peeks over the horizon. It seems I am at odds with the world this morning. Already a crow has found my hideout in the tree branches, and pointed me out to his comrades as a spy for the human kind among the oaks. Only minutes later, the squirrel that emerged from the ball of dried leaves in a high fork betrays my location with a series of shrill barks, and I’m sure that every deer within twelve miles knows of my plan and will steer clear of this patch of woods from now until two hours after sunset this evening. </p><p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-6835fcca-7fff-d2b0-b848-2a6200bba842"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br></p><p dir="ltr">Once the alarm calls fade, all is quiet again, too quiet. It is always coldest after daylight, and I sit shivering, without so much as a wren or finch scratching around in the leaves, or hopping from branch to branch to entertain me. For two hours I sit with nothing but thoughts of a warm bed to occupy my time.</p><p dir="ltr">Forlorn and desperate for some sort of action, I lower my bow to the ground and climb down from the tree. I need to do some moving around to stay warm, so I ease along through the creek bottom to the swamp where the deer are known to bed down during the day.</p><p dir="ltr">Hunting on foot is difficult and risky as far as spooking game, especially whitetail deer. But I move at a snail’s pace; taking a couple steps, pausing to scan my surroundings, and looking for anything that resembles a deer.</p><p dir="ltr">My best arrow is on the string of my recurve bow, a finger holding it to the arrow rest. My other hand is ready to draw the instant a deer presents me with a shot. I ease on, slowly stalking the treeline, into the dead brown grasses and cattails on the swamp edge. I find a trail where deer have worn down the vegetation, and I follow it with caution. </p><p dir="ltr"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br><br></p><p dir="ltr">There’s a dead tree limb hidden under the laid-down weeds, and when I step on it, the cracking sound is enough to jolt a young buck from cover, and it leaps wildly from the thick brush to the left of me, and it comes crashing across the path in front of me and runs off to my right, white tail waving like a flag.</p><p dir="ltr">I stand slack-jawed and stunned, and just before it goes out of sight, I raise my bow, and imagine what it would be like if I’d had the chance to have taken the shot.</p><p dir="ltr"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br></p>Josh Lanierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14358105029135750492noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7136318011076317519.post-58433778480744389372021-07-21T19:54:00.001-07:002021-07-21T19:55:42.013-07:00Falling<p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-b4375dfe-7fff-77b6-3558-18d5cb128ed8"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br><p></p><p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-b4375dfe-7fff-77b6-3558-18d5cb128ed8"><br></p><p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-b4375dfe-7fff-77b6-3558-18d5cb128ed8">Standing midstream, I peer down at the rocky bottom through strands of broken light, calculating my next step across the slick stones toward a deep run of swift water in the bend flowing around a gravel bar downstream. A six foot length of stranded log, at knee-height, is obstructing my path, so I choose my route accordingly, navigating my way through water barely shin-deep. </p><br><p dir="ltr">The juxtaposition of light and shadow, early morning sun beaming through the trees, glinting off water and stone alike, and the dark pockets where current seams merge, gives a false sense of assuredness of a path laid out before me. Allowing my feet to feel their way as they carry me along, I take my eyes off the bottom for a moment and examine the edge of the run, just as I reach the head of the captured log. </p><br><p dir="ltr">Before I have the chance to retrain my line of sight to the riverbed beneath my soles, my foot finds no hold on an oblong stone, sloped just enough to let my shoe slide the length of it, and both feet shoot out in the air in front of me, my back crashing on the rocks, and my head submerging enough beneath the wash of impact to fill my mouth and nose with water.</p><br><p dir="ltr">Somehow, my right heel comes to rest on the log, which makes my attempt to rise out of the riverbed a bit awkward. My fly rod, still gripped tight in my left hand, is not hurt, but the knuckles on that hand are not so fortunate. Neither is my backside after I bashed it on the rocks, nor was my right knee that I somehow scraped and had punctured a small hole in sometime between when my feet came out from under me, and it found its place propped on the waterlogged section of hemlock.</p><br><p dir="ltr">Back on my feet, I try to shake off the water as a dog would do, and I look back over my left shoulder to see I had a witness. The man, another angler with a wide-brim hat, looks upon me as if waiting for an encore. After about a ten-count, the man looks away,makes a short, obligatory cast, and treats the situation as if it didn't happen.</p><br><p dir="ltr">I take great care the rest of the way to the gravel bar. The water washes around the bend in front of me, offering to carry my double nymph rig along the bottom to search for the trout hiding in the deep, but I do not fish. Instead, I replay the spectacle I had created, consider the other angler's take on my pirouette and subsequent fall, and imagine what his story will sound like the first opportunity he has to tell it. </p><br><p dir="ltr">My knee is bleeding, my leg and glute are bruised and sore. I choose to continue downstream to find a path worn in the bank to escape the river and find the paved road, so that I can get above him without our eyes ever having to meet. </p><br><br><br><br>Josh Lanierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14358105029135750492noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7136318011076317519.post-43268695954920770352021-02-14T16:37:00.000-08:002021-02-14T16:37:55.790-08:00Love Letter<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br></div>I wake this morning, to find your scent still lingering on my skin. With sleep in my eyes, I try to shake the heady buzz from the hours of being entwined with you the day before. I feel your residual energy flowing all around me. I step into the shower just to feel the rivulets of water wash over my body. You are all I can think about this morning, and I know that I will not find peace until I return to your side.<div><br></div><div>I am completely, utterly, and desperately obsessed with you.<div><br></div><div>When I look upon you, I am captivated. I am enamored by your beauty, by your natural sensuous movements. I follow every curve, trace all of your soft edges with my eyes, immerse myself in the rise and fall of your breath. You whisper mysteries known only to the deepest parts of my consciousness, and the narrative you speak to my heart is as old as the earth.</div></div><div><br></div><div>I have watched you suffer mistreatment at the hands of so many before. You have been taken advantage of, used and abused, stripped of your purity. I want only to protect, to love and to cherish you, because your beauty and grace is something for all to behold. You are my muse, my constant source of inspiration.<br></div><div><br></div><div>Poets and minstrels attempt to put into verse your charm and majesty. Painters and sculpters labor to capture your likeness. Your image is burned into my mind forever.</div><div><br></div><div>What is it that you require of me? For I have found that pleasure always comes with a price. Whatever the cost, I will give deeply. To have you near me is worth any sacrifice. You, the giver of life, wrap me in your arms and carry me away. Take me down to the depths and wash away my transgressions.</div><div><br></div><div>I walk beside you to calm my troubled spirit, touch you with my fingertips to find my place and a connection to all things in the realm on the other side of my reflection. I want to submerge myself into your world, and never come up for air. Entangled with you forever.</div><div><br></div><div>And it is with this sentiment, beloved River, that I commit myself to your protection and preservation, to promise to always be an advocate for your conservation. You have given me so much, it is the least I can do.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br></div><div><br></div>I finished the last of my coffee and read through some notes on scraps of paper in a shoebox by my chair. These scraps of paper I would empty out of my pockets when I got home from work most days. On these scraps of paper, I would jot down notes; sometimes single words that I would snatch out of the air to use at a later time, poems, entire stories, notes to people that I never intended to share with them. <div><br></div><div>Someday, I hope to either put some of these odds and ends together, or add them to a burn pile just so I can fill the box again. I read through things like this when I can't bring myself to write. Sometimes it helps to clear the fog, to lift my mood. Sometimes not. It comes and it goes.</div><div><br></div><div>After a couple of hours moping around in a melancholic fog, I decide I need to get out of the house. It was 40 degrees and overcast, not the conditions I normally consider good fishing weather, but I could care less. It had been so long, I wasn't sure of what condition my fly boxes, rods, leaders, or waders were in, so I just wadded up an armload of gear, piled it into the back of the car, told my wife I'd be back sometime, and drove off without so much as a plan.</div><div><br></div><div>The thick gray clouds threatened rain, or worse, according to the temperature on the instrument panel screen of the car. I drove as fast as I thought I should, I was anxious to make it to the water-- any water. I drove up a winding mountain road to a pull-off, and was pulling on my waders before the car stopped rocking.</div><div><br></div><div>I found out the hard way how much of a disarray my gear was in when I made it to the rock outcropping jutting out into the river. I spent the first half-hour untangling and tying on new leaders on both rods, arranging my pack, just so I could find what I needed, and returned a couple dozen loose nymphs that had came unhooked and were piled in the middle of my flyboxes.</div><div><br></div><div>I made my first twenty or so casts clumsily, like a child playing with a new kite for the first time. The only difference was that the kid could probably keep the kite from tangling in every tree limb in Greenville County. My casting leaves much to be desired, even when I fish almost every day. It comes and it goes.</div><div><br></div><div>For the next two hours, I flog the water with every thing I have in my pack. At one point, I thought of tying a few bare hooks on and adding a few split shot and try my hand at snagging, but I thought better of it. All the while, the same unwanted thoughts swirlled in my head, and it wears me down, like listening to a single Pink Floyd song on repeat for an entire day. A grinding in the back of my head, and working down my spine to my shoulders. Cast and drift down. Cast and drift down. Wash, rinse, repeat.</div><div><br></div><div>The wind was cutting me into shreds, and the only warmth I could find was on 5he downstream side of a large boulder, up to my waist in the swirling water. It kept the wind off of me, and I could at least warm up and get a better gameplan together. </div><div><br></div><div>Without as much as a nibble for three hours covering a half-mile or so of river, I decided to head down the mountain to the flatlands, back toward civilization and besides, it would give me an excuse to sit in the car and warm up for a little bit. I thought maybe I could catch a few stocked fish down there, but you never know. It comes and it goes.</div><div><br></div><div>I drove down the mountain road with my waders and chest pack still on. I did put down a few plastic grocery sacks in the floorboard to keep my felt-bottomed wading boots from leaking too much river water into the carpet. You can never be too careful.</div><div><br></div><div>I pulled into the gravel parking area at what could be considered Mecca for trout anglers in the mountains of South Carolina. An exquisite roadside outfitter, adjacent to some of the most pristine trout waters on this side of the Eastern Continental Divide. The sign is lettered brightly with the moniker BEST HOT DOGS IN TOWN adorning the rustic facade, for all of the local as well as out of towner sports and tourists to see. </div><div><br></div><div>I took only one rod, made my way to the river, and was delighted to find that the wind had died down somewhat. Of course, the troubles I had been mulling over upstream had somehow beat me to the car and had come down to the flatlands with me. So, my regimen of cast and drift down, cast and drift down, was once again applied.</div><div><br></div><div>The stock trucks hadn't been by for a while, it seemed. But I did get a few surges of excitement and a glimmer or two of hope whenever I would sight a stick that favored a trout tumbling in the current. I would cast to them anyway, even after a positive identification that it was, in fact, a stick. You just never know.</div><div><br></div><div>After about an hour, I was wearing thin, giving up hope, and still with a head full. I said I would work my way around a gravel bar, and if nothing, call it a day. I figured that even if I couldn't catch a fish, or even clear my head, that it was worth a tey anyway.</div><div><br></div><div>I had made a few casts and drifts down along the outside bend, across from the gravel bar, when it began to snow. A few more drifts, and the snow was falling heavier and heavier. I waded out onto the gravel bar, blinded almost from the snow. I sat down on the rocks and let the wet snow pile up on my cap and shoulders. My mind, for the first time all day, was focused on something other than my inner turmoil. All I could think about was the snow. I called my wife and daughter, on video call, to show them the blizzard. </div><div><br></div><div>The snow soon turned to sleet, and I felt the sting of all day on the river in my bones. I rose to my feet and could smell something strange, but familiar drifting with the cold wind, blowing snow and sleet. BEST HOT DOGS IN TOWN. Ok. Why not? I'll take two all the way, and a rootbeer, to go. </div><div><br></div><div>You always hear the phrase, <i>It's not always about the fish, </i>but I think that it's not always about the fishing either. Sometimes, I believe the fishing is just the vehicle that will deliver us to a point where something truly magical can happen. And I know that my internal struggle is a lot like my luck when it comes to trout fishing. It comes and it goes.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Josh Lanierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14358105029135750492noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7136318011076317519.post-34689987350607509422021-01-10T12:50:00.001-08:002021-01-10T12:56:51.818-08:00Winter Awakening<div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br></div><div>This morning a thick frost covers the ground, and wild geese echo through the hollow with a resounding cadence, ushering in daylight and what warmth it will bring with it as they spiral downward into the slough among the standing dead of flooded timber.</div><div><br></div><div>Up on higher ground, robins and warblers and sparrows fuss and scratch in the leaf litter beneath the beeches, red cedars, and buckthorns. A bright male cardinal scales the branches of a holly tree, plucking selectively the bright red fruit that nearly matches the bird's own scarlet plumage.</div><div><br></div><div>High in the top of a white oak on the hillside, a pair of gray squirrels chase and tumble up and down limbs and tree trunks, launching their weightless bodies from tree to tree, running a maze of intertwined branches, until another one joins in, and yet another. Alas, the struggle ends in a deadlock, and each returns to their business, digging in the deep leaves on the side of the hill and grinding teeth on the steel hulls of hickory nuts in the boughs of the towering trees.</div><div><br></div><div>Over the field on the other side of the slough, a murder of crows climb and fall in a raucous formation, loud caws and shrieks of both terror and hatred indicates something stirring in the overgrown broomsedge and brambles that rattle the flock of crows, arousing something primal, something imprinted in their DNA since primordial times.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br></div><div>The curled, brown leaves of the beech trees begin to tremble as the invisible fingers of soft wind currents animate each one, and like paper chimes, they ring in unison a low vibrato hum. As the wind picks up, the tall pines on the hill make their own distinct sound as they breathe the secret, sacred, and mysterious name of the Creator.<br></div><div><br></div><div>Meanwhile, the human animal is waking inside of its protective den of wood and stone. Sheltered from the weather in its home, peering out the glass at the cold morning reminds it of just how naked it is, and tightening the cincture of its robe, shuffles flat-footed to the coffee pot to gather warmth. </div><div><br></div><div>As the coffee makes, the human animal scrolls through the newsfeed on its phone, as if looking for a reason to be outraged, offended, or justified in its beliefs. After the coffee is poured, the television is turned on, and the sounds and images give the illusion of a connection to the outside world. What the human once looked to for occasional entertainment and information has now provided yet another distraction from finding its true place and purpose on this earth.</div><div><br></div><div>Discontented with its current state of existence, the human animal searches for meaning in its technological world. Instead of introspection, the human relies on politics, science, and religion for answers to what it should think or feel or do. But deep down, the human has a mysterious longing for something more, it just can't quite put a finger on it. </div><div><br></div><div>Refilling its coffee cup, the human peeks out the kitchen window. It still looks cold and hostile, but the sun is out for the first time in days, and birds are feeding beneath the shrubbery in the yard. Perhaps after coffee, the human will put on an extra layer of skin, and venture out, just to get a little fresh air and maybe some exercise. And maybe, just maybe, find its place in the world.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Josh Lanierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14358105029135750492noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7136318011076317519.post-34141069724396901232021-01-03T07:59:00.001-08:002021-01-03T07:59:13.191-08:00Avoidance<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br></div><div><br></div>This morning I wake to the sound of birds outside the window. When the alarm went off at 5:30, I shut it off and rolled over, remembering this will be the last day I'll get to sleep in for a while. I had plans to get up and try to get some things done before my extended time off from work expired. But then, when have I ever managed my time well?<div><br></div><div>So at 8 AM, I eased out of bed and got the coffee started, while looking out at the creek through the kitchen window to see if the water had cleared up any since the hard rain muddied it two days ago. The weather is mild today for January, and I would really like to try out a few new bass flies I tied this week when I should've been getting my punch list taken care of, checking off things left undone due to conflicts with my work schedule and family matters.</div><div><br></div><div>When the coffee finished, I took out my journal, and filled a few pages with random thoughts, most incomplete and some downright nonsensical, until I had nothing else to bring to the page. I've had a lot on my mind lately, and I have found that if I want to avoid writing enough, there are plenty of things to do in it's stead, things like: watching You Tube videos, reading dozens of articles in magazines or on the internet, or scrolling through Facebook or Instagram. </div><div><br></div><div>Lately, I have discovered that if the urge to write becomes too overbearing, I can simply pick up my guitar and try to learn a song that I'd been humming, but didn't know the chords to. </div><div><br></div><div>There is plenty to do when the one thing you should be doing is right there in front of you, begging for your time and attention.</div><div><br></div><div>So, I get up and put some clothes on and head outside. I walk the path leading down to the swamp to take a look around. I haven't heard or seen any ducks in a couple of weeks since my neighbor and his buddies opened season on them a couple weeks back. The only signs of life out here this morning are a few squirrels and a crow that keeps flying over and checking me out.</div><div><br></div><div>I sit down on one of the fallen snag trees and I start to realize exactly what I am doing, just sitting out here in the swamp. The thing that I do best: avoiding what I need to be doing, which for me, is sitting my ass in a chair and writing until the work is done.</div><div><br></div><div>Steven Pressfield calls it <i>Resistance</i>, and I know all too well what it can do to your creative output. Resistance is a sinister force, and it can take on many forms, and it's different for each person. The resistance I struggle with varies from day to day, depending on what mood I am in, and what's going on in my life at the time.</div><div><br></div><div>The deceptive thing for me is all the guilt that it brings with it, especially when I sit down to write and it feels like the world is coming apart around me. I start to feel the burden on myself to close my laptop, put my notebook aside, and try to fix everything that needs to be fixed, then maybe, just maybe, return to the page at a later time. It never fails that I can't seem to find the time for the rest of the day to finish what I've started. Procrastination is my worst enemy. Always has been.</div><div><br></div><div>I gather up my thoughts and head back to the house. Maybe I'll make myself another cup of coffee, maybe not. But I will do my best to fight off all the things that try to keep me from doing what I was born to do. </div><div><br></div><div>It all starts with a ink blot on a blank page. It couldn't be that difficult, could it? </div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Josh Lanierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14358105029135750492noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7136318011076317519.post-7095957466257019852020-10-28T19:43:00.001-07:002022-01-05T06:12:07.543-08:00A Fisherman Remembers Jocassee Valley<p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-1c95f66d-7fff-856e-01dd-947903c79d85"></p><p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-1c95f66d-7fff-856e-01dd-947903c79d85"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6_l0tBc0_Uka4mlr8dKLy3xhaLVTWcuRqN8_PokIS4pFChGpqSLm3fff2T-_OCC5SRXddkpZTHnevY5YBwAbNdnZKWOELunUcOdKW9xvlKgevldWsqukrOmUjBMgYwVlD2zeaU0Fr9Rc/s1600/1604070957480234-0.png" width="400"></a></div><br><p></p><p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-1c95f66d-7fff-856e-01dd-947903c79d85">In my search for information on the history and tradition of fly fishing for trout in the mountains of South Carolina, I was extremely fortunate to have made the acquaintance of a true all-around outdoorsman and native son of the Appalachians, Dr. Thomas Cloer. <br></p><br><p dir="ltr">Our correspondence so far has been by telephone only, but I hope that once this current health crisis dies down, we can get together in person.</p><br><p dir="ltr">When I first contacted Mr. Cloer, I didn't know what to expect. Why would he be interested in anything I had to say? But I was pleasantly surprised when he returned my call. Within the first moments of our conversation, I felt as if I had known him forever. Maybe it was the kinship felt between two fly fishermen, or perhaps it was his kind voice, warm and familiar, a voice steeped in the tradition and language of the Southern Appalachians.</p><br><p dir="ltr">"Joshua, I would be more than happy to talk to you about fly fishing."</p><br><p dir="ltr">Dr. Thomas Cloer is Professor Emeritus of Furman University, and a resident of Pickens County. He was born into a nomadic sawmill family in Cherokee County, North Carolina, at Hanging Dog. Cloer's father was a foreman with the company, and his family moved around a lot, following the sawmill from Shooting Creek in Western North Carolina, to Turniptown Creek in North Georgia, to Stinking Creek in the high mountains of East Tennessee. </p><br><p dir="ltr">Tom's father and grandfather were both fly fishermen, but it was his grandmother who taught him the art of catching mountain trout at an early age. Tom's grandmother's family had intermarried with the Wolf Clan of the Cherokees. Cloer and his grandmother were constant companions, and he says he was her number one fishing buddy. He says she had an uncanny knack for catching trout. She taught him not only how to catch trout, but also many lessons about life in the natural world.</p><br><p dir="ltr">Tom remembers fishing Turniptown Creek in North Georgia with his dad and brother, Nat in the 1950's. On Turniptown, it was possible to catch all three varieties of trout-- brown, brook, and rainbow-- and they would haul their bountiful catch home to the supper table. Years later, the land on both sides of Turniptown Creek was purchased by President Jimmy Carter and wife Rosalynn. Carter, an avid sportsman and fly fisherman, soon discovered what a great treasure the fishery was.</p><br><p dir="ltr">As the Keowee-Toxaway project got underway in the mid-1960's, a sawmill was needed to accommodate all the timber cleared from Jocassee Valley, and Tom's family relocated to Pickens to set up the mill. Tom and his wife, Elaine, fresh out of college, found teaching jobs in the area, and he worked for his father at the mill in his spare time. </p><br><p dir="ltr">When Tom wasn't teaching in the mountain schools of Pickens County or laboring for long hours at the sawmill, he and his father were exploring the rivers and streams of the Jocassee Valley. Tom says he has fished them all-- Horsepasture, Thompson, Whitewater, Toxaway, Big and Little Eastatoe and Keowee rivers; Laurel Fork, Bearcamp, Wrights, and Mill creeks. He says the fishing then was unbelievable.</p><br><p dir="ltr">Cloer remembers the gates closing on the Jocassee dam, causing the Keowee and Whitewater rivers to flow backwards, and watching as the Jocassee Valley sank beneath the deep, crystalline waters.</p><br><p dir="ltr">Cloer fished the Horsepasture River from its junction with the Toxaway with his dad and their friends from the sawmill. They would make their camp where Bearcamp Creek joined the Horsepasture. Tom remembers catching catfish by lantern, then cooking their catch on a propane stove. The smell from frying fish would waft downriver, drawing other hungry fishermen to their camp.</p><br><p dir="ltr">Tom recalls one night in particular, having made a trip into the Horsepasture to fish, discovering that his dad's old International Scout had a flat tire, miles from the nearest road.They had a spare tire, though it wasn't much better, but no jack. Tom's father, being the industrious man he was, had the idea to cut a pole from a tree and use it for a lever. Tom stacked up some rocks, and together they lifted the Scout just enough to get the spare tire on. They held their breath as they lowered the Scout back down, hoping and praying that the tire would hold. </p><br><p dir="ltr">The Cloers and their fishing companions would sometimes go way back to an area known as Buzzard Roost, on the Toxaway River. The group of men would fish the evening for trout, red-eyed bass, and perch until it was too dark to see, then fish for catfish all night. The men would have breakfast on the river in the morning.</p><br><p dir="ltr">Tom and his dad would fish the Toxaway in a rubber raft, from their drop-off point at the old Toxaway Bridge down to what was called Devil's Hole. They would wade-fish the shallows. </p><br><p dir="ltr">Tom Cloer's roots run deep in the Jocassee Valley and surrounding area. His 4th maternal great-grandfather, Daniel Moody, settled in the Gorges in the latter part of the 1700's. He had acquired land on the Toxaway, Devil's Fork, Crow Creek, and on the Keowee River.</p><br><p dir="ltr">Tom still fishes the rivers and streams of the Jocassee Gorges as often as he can. He has watched the changes-- both good and bad-- that have taken place over the many years that he has called this place home. His stories are extraordinary, and it would take volumes just to scratch the surface of all the experiences he's had. </p><p dir="ltr">He has introduced his children and grandchildren to the land and waters of the Jocassee Gorges, and he is always willing to share his knowledge with others.</p><br><p dir="ltr">Not only is Dr. Tom Cloer a great fly fisherman and all-around outdoorsman, but he is also a wonderful storyteller and a fine writer. He is a recent recipient of a South Carolina Press Association award for his newspaper columns in The Pickens County Courier. I encourage you to check out his columns on local history, mountain culture, and the outdoors. Below is a link to one of his columns, a touching story about memories of fishing with his father.</p><br><p dir="ltr"><a href="https://www.yourpickenscounty.com/there-is-a-river/">There Is a River</a></p><p dir="ltr"><br></p><p dir="ltr"><br></p>This story is also published on my friend Mike Watts' awesome flyfishing website, Rivers and Feathers. Check it out.<div><br></div><div><a href="https://riversandfeathers.com/a-fisherman-remembers-jocassee-valley/">Rivers and Feathers</a><br><br><br><br><br><br><br><p dir="ltr"> </p><br><br><br><br><br><br><br></div>Josh Lanierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14358105029135750492noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7136318011076317519.post-83554286302098973082020-08-18T20:22:00.001-07:002020-08-18T20:40:17.077-07:00Book Review: The Southern Wildlife Watcher<div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br></div>For many years, I have been a devoted reader of <i>South Carolina Wildlife</i>. I have spent countless hours, pouring over each issue with a thirst for knowledge of all things outdoors. I was captivated with the natural world at a very young age, and that passion was fueled by the beautiful photography and impeccable writing found in the pages of my favorite magazine.<div><br></div><div>One of my favorite on-going columns in <i>South Carolina Wildlife</i> is one called <i>For Wildlife Watchers</i>, by Rob Simbeck. </div><div><br></div><div>From the first time I read one of Simbeck's essays, I was hooked. It was some of the most compelling nature writing that I had read up to that point. What impressed me was the writer's ability to draw the reader into the story, and then present the facts in a way that is both informative and highly entertaining. Rob has a way of giving life to his characters (in this case, birds, reptiles, mammals, fish, and insects) that a reader can easily relate to. </div><div><br></div><div>Now, I am pleased to announce, that Rob Simbeck has a new book out entitled: <i>The Southern Wildlife Watcher: Notes of a Naturalist, </i>published by the University of South Carolina Press.</div><div><i><br></i></div><div>This book is a collection of thirty-six of the most common and not-so-common animals of the Southeast. Rob goes into great detail about the biology, behavior, and even the mating habits of everything from pileated woodpeckers to striped bass, from bottle-nosed dolphins to the common house fly. Each essay is packed with interesting information, and a down-to-earth explanation of the science behind the <i>how </i>and <i>why </i>animals do the things they do. Each piece is thoroughly researched, and backed by some of the best and most well-known wildlife experts in their fields.</div><div><br></div><div>I was fortunate enough to receive an advanced copy of this wonderful book, and I have been telling everyone I know about it. If you enjoy great nature writing, or great writing of any kind, I highly recommend this book. It will be available August 28, but you can order your copy right now. Below is a link that will take you to the Amazon page.</div><div><br></div><div><b>"Rob Simbeck </b>has written for the <i>Washington Post, Guideposts, Field & Stream, Birder's World, Wildbird</i>, and wildlife/conservation magazines in twenty states. He is the author, ghostwriter, or editor of more than twenty books and is former president and chairman of the Southeastern Outdoor Press Association."</div><div><br></div><div><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Southern-Wildlife-Watcher-Notes-Naturalist/dp/1643360922">The Southern Wildlife Watcher</a><br></div>Josh Lanierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14358105029135750492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7136318011076317519.post-48226267926583947772020-07-21T19:06:00.001-07:002020-07-21T19:25:57.077-07:00Mountain Bridge<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div><br></div><div>When searching for trout in these southern mountains, the ability to navigate your way through laurel slicks and over slippery boulders the size of Volkswagens is just as important as your angling skills. The farther you find yourself from a paved road, the more aware you become of potential danger: a broken leg, head trauma, a nasty cut across your forearm, with massive blood loss, or God forbid, the bite from a timber rattler. Somehow, though, the desire to find and catch just one more fish is far greater than any sense of self-preservation. </div><div><br></div><div>Maybe it's the eerie silence surrounding you each time you stop to get your bearings that causes you to keep pushing on. The white noise of fast flowing water over the backs of moss-covered rocks is calming, yet unnerving at the same time. The idea that you're not the only living creature in this deep cove keeps you looking back over your shoulder as the mountains close in all around.</div><div><br></div><div>The cold headwaters of the Middle Saluda, rising up from deep underground, pushing up through layer upon layer of ancient rock, the foundation of these southern mountains, is the source of life in this valley. Over time, the water has etched a vein through the land that carries the lifeblood of this mountain cove, and along its course, up sprang towering hemlocks, rhododendrons, mountain laurel, and the imperilled American chestnut. In exchange for the pure source of water the stream provides, the trees and vegetation shade the fast runs and deep pools where the salamander and brook trout thrive.</div><div><br></div><div><i>Salvelinus fontinalis</i>, the brook trout or speckled trout, requires clean, oxygen rich water to survive. Translated loosely from the latin, " char of a spring or a fountain," the speckled trout is the only native trout in the Appalacians. Here in the 13,000 acre Mountain Bridge Wilderness Area, the Middle Saluda and its tributary, Coldsprings Branch, are home to both stocked and wild rainbow and brown trout, as well as hatchery raised brook trout. Some would say that above the falls, beyond the reach of the wild rainbows and voracious brown trout, the true natives have survived in small numbers.</div><div><br></div><div>This land, emcompassing both Jones Gap and Caesars Head state parks was set aside to protect the diverse flora and fauna that thrives so well in these rugged mountains. Streams with names like Julian, Matthew's and Oil Camp Creek hold trout if you know where to find them. This watershed, and the southern mountain habitat that surrounds it, is worth protecting.</div><div><br></div><div>The trout tucked away in these hills are as much a part of the landscape as the towering hemlocks and ancient metamorphic rock that juts toward the sky. The Mountain Bridge Wilderness is one of the last stands against the steady encroachment and development that has ravaged these mountains for centuries. And without these last great places, species such as the speckled trout would go the way of American Chestnut, and the Carolina parakeet. </div><div><br></div><div>The project I am working on right now has me exploring more of these mountains and streams that course their way through the Mountain Bridge Wilderness. I began this journey seeking trout, but what I have found is something much more.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br></div><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/B08BGBB6MJ/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=&sr=">Wildcat Creek Journal: Selected Stories and Prose</a><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Josh Lanierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14358105029135750492noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7136318011076317519.post-72030730065563087702020-07-03T10:36:00.001-07:002020-07-03T10:42:55.856-07:00Wildcat Creek Journal: Selected Stories and Prose<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br></div><div><br></div>My book, based upon the posts on this page, is now available on Amazon. Thanks for reading my posts, and check out the book if you have the chance. Don't forget to leave a review on Amazon once you've read the book. It will help my rankings tremendously if you do. I appreciate your readership. New content coming in the days to come.<div>Right now, I am working on material for my next book, some of which I will be sharing on this blog.</div><div>Thanks,</div><div>Josh Lanier</div><div>Here is the link:</div><div><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08BGBB6MJ">Wildcat Creek Journal: Selected Stories and Prose</a><br></div>Josh Lanierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14358105029135750492noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7136318011076317519.post-25067373241852059852020-06-21T14:26:00.001-07:002020-06-21T14:32:24.451-07:00Wildcat Creek Journal: Selected Stories and Prose<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>My new book is out on kindle! Purchase your copy here and leave me a review. Paperback will be released soon. I'll update when it is released.</div><div>Link to order below:</div><div><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08BJQ2TZ2/ref=mp_s_a_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=Josh+Lanier&qid=1592707658&s=books&sr=1-1">Wildcat Creek Journal: Selected Stories and Prose</a><br></div>Josh Lanierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14358105029135750492noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7136318011076317519.post-71171954034318932302020-06-08T17:23:00.001-07:002020-06-08T17:23:36.871-07:00Walking: Finding the Right Path<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div><br></div><div>Sometimes late in the evening, the mood hits me, and I grab my hat and walking staff and head off in whatever direction I so choose. I do some of my best writing as I walk, because there is always something new, undiscovered, waiting just around the next bend, no matter how many times I have taken that same path.</div><div><br></div><div>Lately, I have neglected to walk like I should, even when my doctor instructs me to do so. Though the kind of walking she speaks of so often is more than a mere sauntering at a slow and contemplative pace like I prefer, I understand that I need to get my heart rate up in order for the exercise to do my body any good.</div><div><br></div><div>As far as elevating my spirit, however, there's nothing like a nice evening walk in the summertime. Or autumn, spring, or winter for that matter. In all seasons there are so many things to see, to draw inspiration from. </div><div><br></div><div>Just to get out and place my feet on solid ground, feel the earth move beneath me, improves my mental clarity, helps to relieve my stress and anxiety, and allows my lungs to fill with fresh air, my heart to pump oxygenated blood to all parts of my body and mind. As times goes by, each step building upon another, building upon another, and soon that steep hill becomes a pleasure, invigorating. </div><div><br></div><div>A mile becomes miles, and soon I am seeking out other paths to follow, or to make my own trail through my own patch of woods, or through my own neighborhood. A paved road will suffice when a dirt road might not be available.</div><div><br></div><div>This evening as I walk, my heart rate begins to soar, partly because of the incline I am treading on, partly because of the pretty flowers in bloom, the songbirds' evening trills, and the path ahead that leads me to where I want to go.</div>Josh Lanierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14358105029135750492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7136318011076317519.post-28129241235401224452020-06-07T17:15:00.001-07:002020-06-07T17:17:17.083-07:00Sustenance<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br></div>For many years, I have struggled to manage my weight, get into and stay in shape, and do all the things that I need to do in order to keep myself healthy so that I can enjoy all the things in life that bring me so much joy.<div><br></div><div>When I was growing up, like many of you, I didn't have much of a choice of what I would and would not eat. At my mother's table, it was Eat it or starve: the choice is yours.</div><div><br></div><div>As an "adult," I pretty much have free range of whatever food I want. The problem is, though, I always go for the cheeseburger or pizza, not the fresh vegetables and lean cuts of meat.</div><div><br></div><div>Another issue that I face is that, for all my life, I have been an emotional eater. Yes, I eat when I'm sad or sort-of depressed, but also go overboard when I am happy, proud, embarrassed, anxious, amused, fearful, surprised, uncertain, relaxed... you get the point.</div><div><br></div><div>I used to really enjoy food and cooking, but now with the way things are in the world, and how busy our day to day life has become, I don't take the time to help make dinner, or to be thoughtful and considerate of what I eat. In terms of quality, the food I consume on a regular basis is, at best, only filling. If something were to taste really good, I would consider that a bonus.</div><div><br></div><div>Now, my wife and I are working on a different approach. A few weeks back, we began cutting back on all the crap in our diets, but we still have a long way to go. So far, I have lost a few pounds, but I'm beginning to enjoy my food again. My wife, Melissa has way more self-control than I possess, and is doing great. </div><div> </div><div>We have always enjoyed spending time in the kitchen together, and maybe now we can do more of it. Still, she's the head chef, and I know and respect my boundaries. </div><div><br></div><div>I would rather eat quality food than a lot of it. Moderation, as they say, is key. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br><div><br></div></div>Josh Lanierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14358105029135750492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7136318011076317519.post-63827814147561416632020-05-31T19:24:00.001-07:002020-06-01T04:56:51.723-07:00A Trout Stream of My Own<div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1haAZXvpaUlxtjxmWBty400E_s3-M2pEvcd6JtesTysUjgHEf4UQU9_-PL0Ru2c5lI4vA7Vu1vKB_6r-We-g3_pDSTdtUL7H4l0iB9xmwDtxtg1aR5GLFRFpA2mAv0Jhh68pdLmbk4CY/s1600/20200326_175558.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1haAZXvpaUlxtjxmWBty400E_s3-M2pEvcd6JtesTysUjgHEf4UQU9_-PL0Ru2c5lI4vA7Vu1vKB_6r-We-g3_pDSTdtUL7H4l0iB9xmwDtxtg1aR5GLFRFpA2mAv0Jhh68pdLmbk4CY/s1600/20200326_175558.jpg" border="0" data-original-width="3024" data-original-height="4032" width="240" height="320"></a></div><br></div><div>Late evening haze, the warm glow of sun on the surface riffles of the North Fork finds me casting a hare's ear soft hackle, mending the drift downstream, trying to keep from hanging up in the tangled arms of a half-submerged yellow poplar tree that fell sometime in the squall of late winter, strong icy winds blowing across the lower mountains, at the foot of the Blue Ridge escarpment.</div><div><br></div><div>There are not very many trout here, in fact, I don't know if the state DNR even stock this stream anymore like they once did. What fish I do catch here are usually good ones, though, and put up one hell of a fight to match the struggle an angler must endure to locate and catch one of these wild, holdover fish. </div><div><br></div><div>This stream is moody. At times, she is as calm and lazy as a summer day, water slow as a glass of fine wine. Other times, she becomes a handful, rough and dangerous, full of pent-up rage, making it difficult for even the most skilled of waders to stand in her powerful current. The waters of the North Fork are cold and deep, sometimes glacial when you're standing waist deep, trying to keep a foothold and at the same time fish the runs around bank edges, the green pools, and under the thick, overhanging brush on the stream's edges.</div><div><br></div><div>The North Fork is not a wide river, casts must be short, but have to be calculated, executed with precision. An angler will lose many flies to the low-hanging trees, the rhododendron, and deadfalls all along her banks. The prospect of catching a fat rainbow or brown trout keeps me going, helps me press on through the rapids cutting between massive rocks, and deep sand in the bends around thick brush.</div><div><br></div><div>******************************************************</div><div>Any local angler reading this knows exactly where I am talking about when I mention the North Fork. Many fly fishers will turn their nose up when they realize what trout stream I'm talking about. I gladly fish that stretch often for two reasons: 1) It's close to home, and 2) not many people fish it, opting for stretches of river that holds more fish, and is easy to navigate. </div><div><br></div><div>I don't care if no other angler would want to fish there, in fact, I am happy the North Fork doesn't get any love from most fly anglers.</div><div><br></div><div>Slightly altering the name is not my attempt to try and disguise the location from other anglers, but to keep from mentioning it to what I call the "general recreationalist," non-anglers that crowd the ground around any trickle of water they can find when the weather turns warm. Those better-known stretches of trout water not only attracts fly anglers, but also picnickers, large families looking for a "natural" area to have a barbeque, and probably some folks who use the water as a trash dump, or a place to do their laundry.</div><div><br></div><div>All I am saying is, find your own place, and try to make it yours. Sometimes, especially in these parts, you will have to share the waters with other anglers, maybe a Sunday tourist or two. Be willing to fish places that other anglers wouldn't be caught dead fishing. Find a place so far off the beaten path that no sane person would ever try to find. And once you find one of those places, keep your mouth shut.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Josh Lanierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14358105029135750492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7136318011076317519.post-80035859677292601292020-04-11T15:27:00.001-07:002020-04-11T15:29:44.330-07:00Corner of the Yard<br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzL07ongedOvZ2LCoD5-g0Z6p9TiB7cbMSNxriti8VDvOhGQ4olhY4KdQqkBjcv_h6yFXlQl_ZSJZtdcwFo4wMHzc60nCEGl_kqNFL4eaDL3xa0pP0UY7FkkW5zbVO-ZSgcunOX_0Yqo8/s1600/20200411_155831.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzL07ongedOvZ2LCoD5-g0Z6p9TiB7cbMSNxriti8VDvOhGQ4olhY4KdQqkBjcv_h6yFXlQl_ZSJZtdcwFo4wMHzc60nCEGl_kqNFL4eaDL3xa0pP0UY7FkkW5zbVO-ZSgcunOX_0Yqo8/s1600/20200411_155831.jpg" border="0" data-original-width="3024" data-original-height="4032" width="240" height="320"></a></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">I had a little help with our garden today. These two young ladies like doing most anything that requires getting dirty, or allows them to play with worms, or having a chance sighting of a garden mole. This afternoon, we dug one up, and it wouldn't do until I had captured the fuzzy little bugger in my cap for further study.</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIikLVeNYbohZkwO2UtqfUqO4-f6YME6uYeJ9kDmiEBYmX4eawPafa__d1-sfFSJVX3KMEOnBHyWUh8DYp8WsLZDEjg29wn7G_MsynlA9jXzmShcYnUdlDaUuDaGlLfhN78m87WnZE4hs/s1600/20200411_143731.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIikLVeNYbohZkwO2UtqfUqO4-f6YME6uYeJ9kDmiEBYmX4eawPafa__d1-sfFSJVX3KMEOnBHyWUh8DYp8WsLZDEjg29wn7G_MsynlA9jXzmShcYnUdlDaUuDaGlLfhN78m87WnZE4hs/s1600/20200411_143731.jpg" border="0" data-original-width="3024" data-original-height="4032" width="240" height="320"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br></div>We worked the soil together, me making sure nobody loses a toe or finger to the hoe, or ruins a foot with the garden claw. Safety first. We had a few disagreements over who got to use what, so I made them take turns.</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">We planted a few hills of squash and cucumber, some Cherokee purple tomatoes, plus bell and cayenne peppers. In another location we will plant watermelons. Hopefully some of the plants will make it to adulthood. I have a tendency to kill things. I've always had a brown thumb, except when it comes to weeds.</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVI8lqxjhXmb_VZQdKs34LTD8Q88gXqyeA-eIM1mzH3KQPjxF-QweSVXDbQqCwlzfI1hhZfru5DiJT9zq1eVKhMYv6EG4Ixu9noc7dmO9Hf3XLjtAb3aMkoQVrl8l2_Qngh7xsrphcRVk/s1600/20200411_164238.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVI8lqxjhXmb_VZQdKs34LTD8Q88gXqyeA-eIM1mzH3KQPjxF-QweSVXDbQqCwlzfI1hhZfru5DiJT9zq1eVKhMYv6EG4Ixu9noc7dmO9Hf3XLjtAb3aMkoQVrl8l2_Qngh7xsrphcRVk/s1600/20200411_164238.jpg" border="0" data-original-width="3024" data-original-height="4032" width="240" height="320"></a></div><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">Now I'm sitting on the patio, resting my back and swollen knees. Getting old sucks. I never thought I'd see the day when I would have to hold on to a fence and have my kids try to help me up.</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">Man, how times flies. Blink and ten years have gone by. I'll be a grandad soon. I hope that I can still do this by the time he/she gets old enough to do things out in the yard. Better start taking better care of my dern self now.</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC806Wwd2M1vQKB1oJTvmzFvwl3k8oExPYNU8L2ibSVy3Jwal8QHFMgTDdYC3omBhwSvp81siRUKJFAR2uRFTJH7BxJ4M1WBxeyMs5QTpIuM797n0dxhyoJFEOeu_3AM0oCJgZ2mmNm3o/s1600/20200411_171822.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC806Wwd2M1vQKB1oJTvmzFvwl3k8oExPYNU8L2ibSVy3Jwal8QHFMgTDdYC3omBhwSvp81siRUKJFAR2uRFTJH7BxJ4M1WBxeyMs5QTpIuM797n0dxhyoJFEOeu_3AM0oCJgZ2mmNm3o/s1600/20200411_171822.jpg" border="0" data-original-width="3024" data-original-height="4032" width="240" height="320"></a></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div>The quiet of afternoon gives me time to reflect on what we have accomplished, and gives me some inspiration and ideas for projects to work on in the coming days. </div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">Right now, the wind is blowing through the trees, and in the west, storms are moving in for Easter Sunday. I'd better enjoy the quiet, and this last bit of sunshine for a while.</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJYGOCvnSYD7A8B3T47mgbQBuEMdUrOWG-CCjggToMDi4GmI33PHwXwqJu2_iqp5_yQ9tRqr_n0-C2kKOF7ZFAzCJC0OBT4DL44cd6BEWulPBtLIuTTUsIHPq53d2YpUTeOcJMNQWFrtc/s1600/20200411_171753.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJYGOCvnSYD7A8B3T47mgbQBuEMdUrOWG-CCjggToMDi4GmI33PHwXwqJu2_iqp5_yQ9tRqr_n0-C2kKOF7ZFAzCJC0OBT4DL44cd6BEWulPBtLIuTTUsIHPq53d2YpUTeOcJMNQWFrtc/s1600/20200411_171753.jpg" border="0" data-original-width="3024" data-original-height="4032" width="240" height="320"></a></div><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div>Josh Lanierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14358105029135750492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7136318011076317519.post-27302708323985997182020-04-05T10:09:00.001-07:002020-04-05T10:13:15.558-07:00RefugeAt our house, we don't watch the news anymore. All we get are snippets from social media posts, most of which only exacerbate the feelings of fear and dread of our collective psyche.<div><br><div>There's the occasional press conferences we will listen to, ones that directly effect our region, state, and community. We're not ignorant about what's going on across the nation, across the globe, neither are we in denial of the dire situation we face each day during this pandemic.</div><div><br></div><div>I told my children yesterday that we're living through a period in time that will be looked back on for centuries. Their lives, too, have been interrupted. I realize that it's my job to provide for them some sense of normalcy. We spend as much time outside as we can. </div><div><br></div><div>So far, my job is holding up. Each day is a constant worry of how I would provide for my family, should I find myself without an income. </div><div><br></div><div>Every one of us will be affected by this, if not by the virus itself, by the economical situation. Family and friends have been layed off from their jobs, or at the least, furloughed for no telling how long. </div><div>This pandemic is having its effect on our mental health, and I worry about those people who were already at the end of their ropes.</div><div><br></div><div>I'm so tired of hearing the term <i>The new normal</i>. This is indeed NOT normal. It is our reality for the moment. Eventually, this will pass. It appears that many of the talking heads on the news are trying to scare us to death, and squash any hope that things will ever get back to the way they were before. This fear porn is trying to lead us to complacency, telling us that this is how it will be from now on, that this social distancing and shelter in place will be <i>the new normal, </i>as they like to say. </div><div><br></div><div>Right now, cardinals and finches are visiting my feeders. I just heard a pair of pileated woodpeckers sounding off in the creek bottom behind the house. I've been trout fishing twice this past week. I hope to get in the woods some this coming days, trying to call up a gobbler. I'll probably hit the North Fork again this week, maybe I'll catch another nice rainbow. I tied a few wet flies and nymphs yesterday in anticipation of the next time on the river.</div><div><br></div><div>We might take a drive today. Later, I'll do some things in the yard. We will get through this, even though it might take some time. </div><div><br></div><div>Stay close to your family and friends. Hang out with your partner, or enjoy some alone time and take a walk in the woods. Don't take a single day for granted, and pray often. Take care of yourself, and those around you. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div></div>Josh Lanierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14358105029135750492noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7136318011076317519.post-76326311304704494702020-03-24T17:04:00.001-07:002020-03-24T17:11:09.192-07:00Gearing Up For Spring Fishing<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.3800000000000001;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:10pt;" id="docs-internal-guid-734aba55-7fff-ee6e-be6a-5791687e4744"><br></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJMDeMtycQSYsq6q5DMLD3_nSkRkSfqh6XWU_02WSTgvSOoVrfqabzvWnTopYG1YG7iWtAI1F7tn0kej_ZlUBCvpnRKiSE6Ca-wJkewbuTL4xgsW6gbF21UzCQXlJ2epdCMGATNqceyx0/s1600/fishing-1572408_1280.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJMDeMtycQSYsq6q5DMLD3_nSkRkSfqh6XWU_02WSTgvSOoVrfqabzvWnTopYG1YG7iWtAI1F7tn0kej_ZlUBCvpnRKiSE6Ca-wJkewbuTL4xgsW6gbF21UzCQXlJ2epdCMGATNqceyx0/s1600/fishing-1572408_1280.webp" border="0" data-original-width="1280" data-original-height="853" width="320" height="213"></a></i></div><i><br></i><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.3800000000000001;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:10pt;" id="docs-internal-guid-734aba55-7fff-ee6e-be6a-5791687e4744"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: " times="" new="" roman";="" font-variant-numeric:="" normal;="" font-variant-east-asian:="" vertical-align:="" baseline;="" white-space:="" pre-wrap;"="">The unseasonably warm temperatures have awakened me from my hibernation a little early this year. Already, I have fish on the brain. I’m standing at the back of my Jeep, trying to solve the jigsaw puzzle of how to fit all the gear I have into the trunk, without having to throw out the jack or spare tire.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.3800000000000001;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: " times="" new="" roman";="" font-variant-numeric:="" normal;="" font-variant-east-asian:="" vertical-align:="" baseline;="" white-space:="" pre-wrap;"="">The only reason I keep fishing gear in my vehicle is the off chance that I will drive by prime fishing water and want to check and see if anybody’s home. I pass by Lake Robinson and Lake Cunningham each day on my way to and from work, and often find myself taking a detour on nice days. I never know when the urge will hit me, so I need to stay prepared.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.3800000000000001;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: " times="" new="" roman";="" font-variant-numeric:="" normal;="" font-variant-east-asian:="" vertical-align:="" baseline;="" white-space:="" pre-wrap;"="">I’m guilty of going a little overboard, especially when it comes to tackle. You can never have too much, I always say--and then by mid-summer, I’ve either lost or destroyed half of what I started with.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.3800000000000001;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: " times="" new="" roman";="" font-variant-numeric:="" normal;="" font-variant-east-asian:="" vertical-align:="" baseline;="" white-space:="" pre-wrap;"="">This year will be different, I promise myself.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.3800000000000001;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: " times="" new="" roman";="" font-variant-numeric:="" normal;="" font-variant-east-asian:="" vertical-align:="" baseline;="" white-space:="" pre-wrap;"="">After taking everything out of the trunk, I step back and assess the situation. What I need to do is consolidate my tackle boxes and choose which rod and reels I absolutely </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: " times="" new="" roman";="" font-style:="" italic;="" font-variant-numeric:="" normal;="" font-variant-east-asian:="" vertical-align:="" baseline;="" white-space:="" pre-wrap;"="">need</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: " times="" new="" roman";="" font-variant-numeric:="" normal;="" font-variant-east-asian:="" vertical-align:="" baseline;="" white-space:="" pre-wrap;"=""> to have in my car. I settle on a medium-sized tackle bag and stock it well with various lures and a good assortment of hooks, weights, and swivels. I make sure to include any necessary tools, such as pliers and a knife, and an extra spool of line or two. I decide to keep two medium action spinning outfits in there, and leave some room for a two-piece fly rod.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.3800000000000001;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: " times="" new="" roman";="" font-variant-numeric:="" normal;="" font-variant-east-asian:="" vertical-align:="" baseline;="" white-space:="" pre-wrap;"="">I gather up the remaining rods and gear, and return them to my storage building for safe keeping. Once inside, I take a quick inventory of the layers upon layers of fishing gear, some of which I don’t even remember purchasing. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.3800000000000001;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: " times="" new="" roman";="" font-variant-numeric:="" normal;="" font-variant-east-asian:="" vertical-align:="" baseline;="" white-space:="" pre-wrap;"="">I guess my next project will be going through all of this stuff, too. I’m sure all of the reels need oiling, and the rotten line replaced. Some of my tackle is spilled out and the hooks are tangled up in bait nets and a pile of dusty life preservers. I’ve got a mess.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.3800000000000001;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: " times="" new="" roman";="" font-variant-numeric:="" normal;="" font-variant-east-asian:="" vertical-align:="" baseline;="" white-space:="" pre-wrap;"="">I’ll start on this as soon as I’m done fishing.</span></p><p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-734aba55-7fff-ee6e-be6a-5791687e4744" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 10pt;">Previously published in <i>The Greer Citizen, March 11, 2020</i></p><div><i><br></i></div><br><br><br><br><br><p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.3800000000000001;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: " times="" new="" roman";="" font-variant-numeric:="" normal;="" font-variant-east-asian:="" vertical-align:="" baseline;="" white-space:="" pre-wrap;"=""> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.3800000000000001;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: " times="" new="" roman";="" font-variant-numeric:="" normal;="" font-variant-east-asian:="" vertical-align:="" baseline;="" white-space:="" pre-wrap;"=""> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.3800000000000001;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: " times="" new="" roman";="" font-variant-numeric:="" normal;="" font-variant-east-asian:="" vertical-align:="" baseline;="" white-space:="" pre-wrap;"=""> </span></p><br><br><br>Josh Lanierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14358105029135750492noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7136318011076317519.post-85490630295194493102020-03-24T16:48:00.001-07:002020-03-24T16:54:48.469-07:00Familiar Waters<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.38;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;" id="docs-internal-guid-791aca79-7fff-e95b-ea48-fac9c3d0e780"><br></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHbMXQEG5CuHK3AwllMvWVZi4StT17nZmds0z-WM7x0ZjV1RHQtA-yyeQQ0gS-ixoYitLtskQwNip6n5bozi2hcGSAYqNN3WwyrPJh03uwazqjGDBmgF114cMHO38Iwdc_GGJ1NvjAMa4/s1600/20200130_173053.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHbMXQEG5CuHK3AwllMvWVZi4StT17nZmds0z-WM7x0ZjV1RHQtA-yyeQQ0gS-ixoYitLtskQwNip6n5bozi2hcGSAYqNN3WwyrPJh03uwazqjGDBmgF114cMHO38Iwdc_GGJ1NvjAMa4/s1600/20200130_173053.jpg" border="0" data-original-width="3024" data-original-height="4032" width="240" height="320"></a></div><br><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.38;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;" id="docs-internal-guid-791aca79-7fff-e95b-ea48-fac9c3d0e780"><font face="Arial">Among my earliest recollections are those of Saturday mornings, fishing the small farm pond across the road with my father. We didn't have any money, so he'd pack some food in a brown sack and we'd walk the dirt road in early morning darkness. We'd sometimes fish all day, returning with a stringer or two of catfish, bass, and bluegill before supper. </font></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.38;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;" id="docs-internal-guid-791aca79-7fff-e95b-ea48-fac9c3d0e780"><font face="Arial"><br></font></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.38;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;" id="docs-internal-guid-791aca79-7fff-e95b-ea48-fac9c3d0e780"><font face="Arial"> Dad woke my brother and me one morning to fish the pond near my aunt's cabin in the mountains of Tennessee. It was still dark when Dad hooked into something akin to a naval submarine. He fought the fish as us boys looked on in excitement. But when he pulled the giant catfish through the ring of neon green slime to the bank, we were horrified at the slimy monster, and both ran up the steep bank thinking Dad had landed <i>The Creature From the Black Lagoon</i>. Dad laughed about that for years.
</font></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.38;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;" id="docs-internal-guid-791aca79-7fff-e95b-ea48-fac9c3d0e780"><font face="Arial"><br></font></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.38;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;" id="docs-internal-guid-791aca79-7fff-e95b-ea48-fac9c3d0e780"><font face="Arial">When my son was old enough to hold a fishing rod, I would take him often to farm ponds and creek banks and tried to teach him everything my father had taught me. In the process, he became quite the fisherman. He now fishes tournaments and is finding sponsors who are impressed with his ability. And to think it all started with him fishing with a Spiderman rod and reel in a farm pond, now fifteen years ago.
</font></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.38;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;" id="docs-internal-guid-791aca79-7fff-e95b-ea48-fac9c3d0e780"><font face="Arial"><br></font></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.38;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;" id="docs-internal-guid-791aca79-7fff-e95b-ea48-fac9c3d0e780"><font face="Arial">I bet my dad would be proud of him. I know I sure am.</font></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.38;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;" id="docs-internal-guid-791aca79-7fff-e95b-ea48-fac9c3d0e780"><br></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.38;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;" id="docs-internal-guid-791aca79-7fff-e95b-ea48-fac9c3d0e780">The best part: I can relive all those times with a flick of the wrist, casting into familiar waters, and pulling those precious memories to shore. <br></p><div><br></div>Josh Lanierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14358105029135750492noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7136318011076317519.post-54569430339638476782020-01-17T17:48:00.001-08:002020-01-17T18:18:29.839-08:00Very Superstitious<br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3SMhljS3WqRXJIMkHon9ZsA9-Mjn1JBoeW4sMaYTc_X6fAJ38uxB9T4NSxzYrVJ8aRcOPu-mn7noYqCFPa5E3Kx3eJig7Ve_iXCJutUFAfgShJozz5va_xo5jCmuzcinoa9ng2DheOH0/s1600/20200117_162232.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3SMhljS3WqRXJIMkHon9ZsA9-Mjn1JBoeW4sMaYTc_X6fAJ38uxB9T4NSxzYrVJ8aRcOPu-mn7noYqCFPa5E3Kx3eJig7Ve_iXCJutUFAfgShJozz5va_xo5jCmuzcinoa9ng2DheOH0/s1600/20200117_162232.jpg" border="0" data-original-width="3024" data-original-height="4032" width="240" height="320"></a></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">Bass anglers are a peculiar lot. They set the alarm extra early, grab a coffee or energy drink, and pile a trove of expensive gear into a boat or pickup, shirking all domestic responsibilities to head to the nearest water in an attempt to catch a few fish they will ultimately throw back. Anglers take time off work and spend wads of cash on equipment and lures to outsmart a fish that are known to hit beer tops and cigarette butts.</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">But like all tribes of people, bass anglers have their own philosophy, and are steeped in fishing lore handed down from ancient times. Passed on as well are the many superstitions held by fishermen and women for generations. It is believed that applying this esoteric knowledge will almost guarantee success on the water, if you hold your mouth right (whatever the hell that means).</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><b>Never Whistle</b></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">In this <i>Cancel Culture </i>we are living in, with the <i>Me Too</i>!<i> </i>movement and all, it is no longer acceptable to make rude remarks or cat-calls to women or to bass, apparently. If whistling at a pretty girl doesn't land you a date, what makes you think it will help you land a fish? Creepers whistle, especially when they're about to do something shady. Bass don't appreciate shady.</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><b>Mentioning the word pig or rabbit</b></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><b><br></b></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">Boat talk can take you down many different avenues, including, but not limited to, farm animals. But the experienced angler knows where the line is, and never crosses it. It's OK to speak of a chicken or a cow. Musings about horses or anecdotes about sheep are acceptable, but never talk about the pig. Or rabbit. Say: curly tail porker. Say: floppy ear fuzzy.</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><b>No redheads</b></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><b><br></b></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">The old cliche' <i>blondes have more fun</i> may have some merit in the world of bass fishing. Same with brunettes. When my uncle Joe said redheads were bad luck, I had no idea he was talking about fishing. There are plenty of red-haired bass fishers out there, so I'm not buying this one. </div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><b>Bananas on board</b></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><b><br></b></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">I flash hot or cold on bananas. Often they are mushy and mealy, but still edible. Sometimes, it's the perfect food to get me through the day. Chocked full of potassium and easy to digest, bananas are a great addition to any lunchbox or daypack. Just don't bring one of those damn things on my boat.</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><b>No water in the livewell before the first fish is caught</b></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><b><br></b></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">How about instead of that, don't forget to put the plug in the hull. I'd much rather have water sloshing around in the livewell, devoid of life, than a boat filling with water faster than I can pump it out. Bad luck to me is doing a headstand in the water, hanging off the back of the boat, while my fishing partner is standing on the throttle to get enough lake water drained out to put the plug in, or to make it back to the marina, whichever comes first.</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><b>Throwing back the first fish</b></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><b><br></b></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">I did this one time, at the start of a bass tournament. The fish was twelve inches, a legal fish to weigh in, but only weighed about two pounds. The rest of the day, my partner and I caught hundreds of eleven and a half inch fish. We went to the weigh-in as spectators. A two-pound fish won the tournament.</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><b>Lucky fishing hat</b></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><b><br></b></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">An avid kayak angler, Ed Morgan was fishing the overgrown edges of a farm pond when he forgot to take a standing rod out of its holder before he paddled under a low-hanging tree. Trying to untangle the mess, his wide-brimmed, "lucky" fishing hat got twisted in the limbs, choking him with the cord around his neck. In the struggle, Ed dumped the boat, broke his rod, and lost most of his gear in the muck. The hat is still in that tree to this day.</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">These are just a few bits of wisdom to keep in mind on your next bass fishing trip. Remember to spit on your worm and check to see if the cows are standing up or laying down.</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">Good luck and tight lines!</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">-Josh</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><b><br></b></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><b><br></b></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div>Josh Lanierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14358105029135750492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7136318011076317519.post-42051063130086365062019-12-22T12:56:00.001-08:002019-12-22T12:56:38.967-08:00Coming Full Circle<br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV-rTb4vJiUWkqkZuDPipwFu5Aqir02M320AujGbDyiKEGMJtgNR9kB1RBm9ZOZ6M41PjDxg2IcU0EiPvTNlf_u7xa3jDodBiYlRH6Z7YS4yVra-qwLTMpBbR3M9M7FKYKuLSkMuxLeXo/s1600/photo-1505950476988-702d4a1af500.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV-rTb4vJiUWkqkZuDPipwFu5Aqir02M320AujGbDyiKEGMJtgNR9kB1RBm9ZOZ6M41PjDxg2IcU0EiPvTNlf_u7xa3jDodBiYlRH6Z7YS4yVra-qwLTMpBbR3M9M7FKYKuLSkMuxLeXo/s1600/photo-1505950476988-702d4a1af500.jpeg" border="0" data-original-width="1100" data-original-height="733" width="320" height="213"></a></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">We were camping on the James River near Gladstone, Virginia one summer when I was a teenager, and as usual, I had struck off by myself to get away from the rest of the family and spend some time exploring unfamiliar waters. Besides, if I hung around the RV site too long, my dad would put me to work, leveling up the camper, hanging those ridiculous owl lights around the canopy, or something. I had seen a picture in the camp store of some smallmouth bass a guy had caught, and I had only seen a few of them in my life. </div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">I waded out into the water about thigh deep and started casting a small Rapala down and across the current with my spinning rod. Besides me, there were three other fishermen strung out along the river in this section of wide, swift moving water. Every now and then, a fish would take a swipe at my lure, but I couldn't get any to commit. I made my way down toward a large rock about a quarter of the way across, and side armed the bait upstream, and watched it bob and ride high on the current, all the way back down to the other side of the boulder in front of me. About the third time, a fish broke the surface, inhaling my helpless little plug, and ran up the river like a torpedo. </div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">With my rod bowed double, and the drag whining with each run, I was finally able to wear the smallmouth down enough to get my hands on it. When I lifted the fish to remove the treble hooks, I received a round of applause from behind me. I turned, fish in hand, and saw a group of five girls, watching from the bank. They were stretched out there in their bikinis and one-piece swimsuits. A few of the girls were making plenty of noise, as to be sure that I took notice. I released the bass, stepped past the big rock, further out, and started casting again. </div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">I was slinging the plug up the river, and ripping it across on the retrieve. I felt a bit of pressure, now that I had an audience. I opened up my tackle pack and swapped my Rapala for a big Mepps Aglia. On the third cast with the spinner, a fish hit like a freight train. Exactly what I was looking for. I wrestled the chunky bronzeback like the hero I was, and lifted the fish high to admire my great catch.</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">Again, the cheers and adulations from my crowd rose in exaltation as I released the bass as if it were nothing. My building confidence in my ability as a fisherman led me out deeper, further out into the current, where surely, my personal best smallmouth lies.</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">What I didn't count on was how much harder it was to stand up in the swift current of the James, once I waded out above my waist. The rocks felt more slippery out there, and I found myself halfway between floating and walking, having a hard time staying in contact with the bottom of the river as I tried to cast. It was about this time when the world turned upside down, and I was suddenly trying to do a handstand in the river, while trying to hold on to my fishing rod and figure out which way was up.</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">I'm pretty certain that I drank about a quarter of the James River that day. Where I ended up by the time I got stopped rolling in the current was a pocket of slack water about twenty yards from the bank, right in front of where the gaggle of females were seated. With knots on my head and scrapes on my body from rolling and bouncing off every rock in the river, I was in no mood for their side-splitting laughter and hollow remarks of concern. "Oh my gosh! Are you OK?"</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">With the rod grasped firmly in my left hand, I remember raising the right one, lifting my middle finger toward them. All of the expressions of bemusement on the beauty queens' faces were replaced suddenly with those of abject horror.</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">....................................................................</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">I climbed up the bank, and walked upstream, away from the other fishermen, far from the sight of the sunbathing girls. I was determined to catch another fish. I found a stretch all to myself. I stepped down into the water and began casting mindlessly into the sparkling riffles. About twenty casts, and a bass nearly snatched the rod from my hand as it ran with the current. It was a good bass, about a pound. Smaller, but as fiesty as the other two, slightly larger ones were. I chucked the Mepps out again. I saw a man step out of the shade of the bank out into the water, upstream from me.</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">This guy didn't wield a spinning rod, wasn't fishing with a Mepps or a rooster-tail or a Rapala. Instead, he carried a long, willowy rod, looked to be nine foot long. I watched as he stripped out line and started to make his first strokes, casting out line in tight loops nearly kissing the surface of the water each time. At the end of his leader was something so tiny I could barely see it from where I was standing, but when it lit on the water and floated a ways, a fish took it. That was probably the prettiest damn thing I had ever seen before, and I was mesmerized by the graceful and effortless casting the man did as he worked his way up the run. </div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">I'd seen people on TV and in magazines do this kind of fishing before, but as a teenager, I'd never seen it in real life. I said to myself that I would try flyfishing someday, but I had better stick to spin fishing for now, it was all I had ever known. I watched the man, on and off, for over an hour. I caught two more smallmouth that afternoon. I had almost forgot my humiliating experience from earlier in the day, until I saw the crowd of girls through the trees ahead of me, as they were heading back to their campsite. </div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">I imagined myself false casting across the water in front of them, with a tight loop of flyline stretched out behind me on my backcast, laying the line down in front of me with elegance and accuracy, and watching as a bass explodes on my fly and takes me into the reel's backing. There wouldn't have been applause, cheering, or laughter. There would have been nothing but silence. Awe. An appreciation my skill and angling prowlace.</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">....................................................................</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">I spent many years, gear fishing like I always had done, before I decided to give flyfishing a try. I wish back then that I had saved up the money and bought myself a flyrod. When I first picked one up, it just felt right in my hand. I thought back to that day on the James, and how neat it was to watch what I considered, at the time, to be a master. I practiced casting, determined to learn everything I could about the sport. All these years later, and I'm still trying to learn. I still consider myself a novice. What is left of the image in my head of the fly fisherman on the James River that summer has been my model. I remember his casts, the way he mended line, and just his posture as he stood thigh deep in the river, waiting for a fish to take his fly. I hope that some day, a young angler will see me, and feel the same.</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">As for those mean and nasty girls I encountered on the river that day...</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">I hope they're all fat and have kids who love to fish as much as I do.</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div>Josh Lanierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14358105029135750492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7136318011076317519.post-71311878567090148332019-12-15T08:33:00.001-08:002019-12-22T15:37:16.082-08:00Can fishing add years to a person&amp;#39;s life?This is a piece I wrote several years ago. It still holds true today.<div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNNcaaXdvCwBHVscfWr1gfkEfIztL3AQBw4ZiX2Gev_E21CFNNTctveKk_9jS-OVg6gM018FW-94OzCWhGR17ITlNqAoilHgSFZ9Ue0v7OFew01wBie9ByRJLZI-GLHfFNlcpfcuhlFIE/s1600/fisherman-fishing-reel-river-39854.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNNcaaXdvCwBHVscfWr1gfkEfIztL3AQBw4ZiX2Gev_E21CFNNTctveKk_9jS-OVg6gM018FW-94OzCWhGR17ITlNqAoilHgSFZ9Ue0v7OFew01wBie9ByRJLZI-GLHfFNlcpfcuhlFIE/s1600/fisherman-fishing-reel-river-39854.jpeg" border="0" data-original-width="940" data-original-height="625" width="320" height="212"></a></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">Everyone needs a place where they can reflect on life. A place that will strengthen their spirit and rejuvenate their soul. Such a place is known only in the heart. There are a few places like that for me, but the one that first comes to mind is the solitude of a mountain trout stream. </div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">As I cast a fly into the dark recesses along the banks and near deadfall trees, my mind wanders to days past. I think of all the great experiences I've had, and the people in my life who have inspired me. All that time, I wish I could get back. It does not really matter to me if a fish is hooked-- just watching them swirl and gawk at my offering gives me satisfaction, and is sustenance to my soul.</div></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">The aroma that comes from the surrounding forest and the the sound of rippling water gives me a deep feeling of peace and quiet joy, far beyond my comprehension. In the spring of the year, it's the new green on the trees and the flowering of plants that give me a glimpse of the goodness of God. In autumn, it's the musky smell of decaying leaves and the crispness of the mountain air. The Creator speaks to me through nature. I see his face sometimes in the swirling waters.</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">Fishing is more to me than the methods used and the number of fish caught. It goes so much deeper. Most of my fond memories as a child were somehow connected to the streams, rivers, and lakeshores of my youth. The water was also a refuge for me in my darkest hours. At times, such places were the only comfort I had. I felt a sense of belonging.</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">What intrigues me the most, is no matter what is chaos is going on in my life at any given time, as I peer into the water for a silvery flash under the surface, I forget about the whole world, even if for only a moment.</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">The mystery that lies around the next bend draws me like a bee to sweet nectar. I cannot resist the urge to venture farther and farther into a section of river that I have never fished before. What draws me is not merely a trout, because I have caught my share of them over the years. I suppose what draws me is the search. Exactly what I am in search of, I am unsure. Perhaps I am looking for more meaning, or a feeling of completeness. All I know is that when I leave this place and head back into the modern world, I feel as if I'm leaving something behind. Some unfinished buisness. Who knows if it will ever be finished. For my sake, I hope it will not be. How miserable it would be to for a man to know he had walked his last mile upstream, fought his last battle with the fish of a lifetime in the cool, clear waters that purify his soul.</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">So after all of this, the question still stands-- can fishing add years to a person's life? That I am unsure of, but I have experienced for myself over the years that it will add a quality to one's life like no other activity I know of. After all, what does the length of days mean unless they are well- lived?</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">Nature has a way of showing things to us. For some of us, it is seen as we stand in a river with a rod in our hands. A day spent fishing is never a day wasted, and at the end of life, I won't regret the time I spent, plying the waters for a richer life.</div>Josh Lanierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14358105029135750492noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7136318011076317519.post-42444864635145099732019-12-11T15:17:00.001-08:002019-12-11T15:17:18.365-08:00Water and Stone: Meditations<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMiTFI_IX45S15zt9lhjzsR9n3P4tcvhVjW8kAZ6awa7rM1mTg0Du1zbCg-CwykPwEnHbVpv_lK7Jy9R12Z7dysb1sNreD74U5ey2cYxPtLda4SFGGYUq2ZlTVODZqZOKqb_n_ahukEGI/s1600/photo-1455577380025-4321f1e1dca7.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMiTFI_IX45S15zt9lhjzsR9n3P4tcvhVjW8kAZ6awa7rM1mTg0Du1zbCg-CwykPwEnHbVpv_lK7Jy9R12Z7dysb1sNreD74U5ey2cYxPtLda4SFGGYUq2ZlTVODZqZOKqb_n_ahukEGI/s1600/photo-1455577380025-4321f1e1dca7.jpeg" border="0" data-original-width="1100" data-original-height="733" width="320" height="213"></a></div><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">My soul finds rest by the river. The soft purling of water over smooth stone soothes my mind, lifts my spirits, and gives me a sense of my place in the Creation. Rivers represent for me life, death, and the passing of time. The constant flow of water washes away my sorrows, and carries my prayers down the river that I must cross over in the end.</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">When I gaze into the cold, turbid water, I am reminded of my own birth and my rebirth. Contained in every molecule of river water is a memory, the resonance, of the formation of the Earth.</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">In the depths of a shadowy pool of clear water, I watch a trout steady itself against the powerful current. Its colors are a remnant of primordial times, proof of the handiwork of God. The trout reveals to me the purity of the river that is its home.</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left; clear: both;">When my mind is troubled, I go to the river. I step out into the cold, clear waters to cleanse my soul.</div>Josh Lanierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14358105029135750492noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7136318011076317519.post-78527676698136088292019-12-09T19:40:00.001-08:002019-12-09T19:40:40.391-08:00 Darkness<div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj_4bBaLRAXzEM55fqI6Zt_MA2JmFHiz7EooguzpqWNehQJJALuL5fFC9yBsLFOUGkeCJF3UhdCHctD-UI6Ra3urh4RW2ZfDheW7VBxDj9TlpjEIOHcwFAeNTDmn6qLnpB68cUqQSoang/s1600/20191031_191145.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj_4bBaLRAXzEM55fqI6Zt_MA2JmFHiz7EooguzpqWNehQJJALuL5fFC9yBsLFOUGkeCJF3UhdCHctD-UI6Ra3urh4RW2ZfDheW7VBxDj9TlpjEIOHcwFAeNTDmn6qLnpB68cUqQSoang/s1600/20191031_191145.jpg" border="0" data-original-width="3024" data-original-height="4032" width="240" height="320"></a></div><br></div><br></div><br></div><div><br></div><div>The effects of the shortened length of daylight on my psyche is compounded by the raw, wet, cloudy weather this afternoon. Seasonal Affective Disorder-- add that to the list of issues I deal with on a daily basis. What I wouldn't give for a little sunshine today. I don't know how much longer I can stand it. When I leave home in the morning, its pitch dark, and by the time I arrive home, the light is fading. No wonder so many of us suffer with depression more in the winter months.</div><div><br></div><div>I know that I have so many things to be thankful for, but I tend to forget that when I am down. My wife and kids are so good to me, even when I am withdrawn, stuck inside my own head. I lash out at them sometimes for no reason, then have to deal with the shame afterwards. If you're anything like me, you know how that feels. </div><div><br></div><div>My oldest daughter found out she has some major issues with her intestines last week. At first, the fear was cancer, but thank God, it wasn't. Her condition is still serious, but nothing that can't be treated. The rollercoaster of emotions we've experienced in the past two weeks has been overwhelming. I'm trying my best to stay positive. All I want is for my family to be healthy. I should look around and realize how good we have it, because there are so many families that are not so fortunate. </div><div><br></div><div>I have sat in the deer stand some days,and all I could think about was the things I was doing wrong. Instead of enjoying my time in the woods, I found myself preoccupied with my negative internal monologue. I would venture outdoors to escape the stress and worry of everyday life. Sadly, the darkness interfered with all of the activities I loved. There came a point when I lost interest in everything. I quit hunting and fishing for a period of time, I didn't even want to go out for a walk in the woods. Somewhere along the way, the dark clouds broke, giving way to cobalt skies. It didn't last long. I found out the hard way that my mental health is always a work-in-progress.</div><div><br></div><div>For those out there who suffer, I am with you. I have nothing in the way of advice other than stay close to your friends and family during these times and pray often. Try not to isolate yourself, and get some fresh air and sunshine when you feel the dark cloud descending. It's going to be tough going, but you've got this. Most importantly, don't be afraid to get help. It's nothing to be ashamed of.</div><div><br></div><div>As for me, my regimen for pushing back on the darkness is taking a long walk in the woods. Sometimes it's standing knee-deep in a river, mindlessly flogging the water, doing what would appear to be fishing. Other times, it's on my knees in my bedroom floor. Point is, do whatever you need to do to take care of yourself. The sun will return soon.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Josh Lanierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14358105029135750492noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7136318011076317519.post-21836866716280476302019-10-28T19:19:00.001-07:002019-12-09T12:12:54.787-08:00Through the Seasons<div>
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As a child, I would sit at the base of an ancient oak tree, the woods my only refuge from a world in which I didn't fit.<br />
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In summer, the green canopy sheltered me from gathering storms, from both the sky above and the soul within.</div>
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On autumn evenings, I would watch the squirrels play on the branches above, and my spirits were lifted.</div>
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Winter's cold breath did not keep me away, and I didn't fear the ghosts that the trees had become.</div>
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When the first leaves appeared in spring, I would be there to witness life renewed, in both the woods and myself.</div>
Josh Lanierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14358105029135750492noreply@blogger.com0