Birthday Bonus

For ye shall go out with joy, and be led forth with peace: the mountains and the hills shall break forth before you into singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands. Isaiah 55: 12

Low water for my special day would make the perfect gift. The night before my birthday I checked the generation prediction number. My brain screamed yahoo, when I learned Norfork River would be wadable until 11:00 a.m.
For safety’s sake, I called the dam generation number the next morning, learned that the prediction was true and hurriedly loaded my gear into my car. Skipping breakfast, I remembered to pack a small chest with drinks and throw in a packet of cheese crackers. Breakfast could wait!
When I arrived at Ackerman Access on the Norfork River, I saw a packed parking lot with a small spot remaining just the right size for my tiny car. I quickly parked, tugged on waders and boots; and then began to string my rod. My friend Bob, who was preparing to leave, told me he’d caught and released only two. His suggestion was a Zebra Midge. This is a favorite fly at Norfork, but unfortunately I rarely have good luck with it. It takes a finesse I haven’t acquired yet. Instead I attached an Orange Partridge, a success from my last trip here. Before I entered the water, I scanned both up and downstream. As usual, people stood near each other in a long string like bulbs on a Christmas tree. I marveled once again why fishers choose such close proximity and still hope to catch fish.
Instead, I decided to hike up to the first island where it appeared there were few of the same energized individuals. After the flood of 2008 and high water last year, the island now has a break where water gushes from a small pool to the main channel. Always on the look-out for a fast riffle where trout might be waiting for a ready supply of food, I cast into the run
and let the Partridge drift into the quieter waters below. Within a few casts I was into fish and landed a small stocker whose silver body shimmered in the warm April sunshine. I continued to catch a few more of the same stature until I felt a harder tug and knew this one was better. Like those nature shows, where the big ol’ gator thrashes and rolls over, this Bad Boy tried the same maneuver. Wondering if I’d lost him early-on, I kept the line tense and brought him almost to the net before he strained once more and spit out the hook.
Refusing to be disappointed, I relaxed and continued to fish enjoying the delights of my special day: the call of a Kingfisher as he flew over the water, the antics of a large heron as he patiently stalked the minnows in the shallows, and an abundance of sunshine after a long dreary winter. My attention returned to my fly and another sharp yank brought a larger Rainbow to my net. This was the best of the morning and simply the frosting on an already glorious day.
Eventually, two men from downriver wandered into the lower part of my area and immediately began catching fish. Unfortunately this interrupted my lucky streak. Since time for dam generation was close, I decided to call it a day aided by my now-mewling stomach.
Since it was my birthday, I decided I was worthy of extra calories and stopped by Shady Grove Grocery, the best kept secret of the Ozarks. What appears to be an ordinary convenience store at the crossroads of Highway 201 South and Shipps Ferry Road, contains some of the best made-from-scratch food you’ll ever eat. Guaranteed to make even your grandma swoon!
Since the morning chill had settled into my cold feet, I asked what they had hot. The reply made my taste buds do the Happy Birthday Dance: grilled cheese sandwich on jalapeno bread and loaded baked potato soup. I waited patiently and read my book, beginning to relax and feel my feet again. Soon the food was delivered by the young server and I dug in, enjoyed my book and resisted licking the bowl of the last droplet of soup. Of course, since calories were not measurable today, I inquired about dessert options. The wonderful chef at this establishment had just finished fried pies in my choice of blackberry, blueberry, or cherry. I chose blueberry, still warm, with a crust more like a light scone than a fried pie and ribbed with feathery white icing. I found myself making small comfort-food noises and quickly looked around lest someone think I was crazy.
Somehow I waddled to the counter, paid my bill, shouted congrats to the chef and drove unhurriedly back down Buford Cut-Off toward home. On the way, I spied a small boy jumping on a trampoline in his back yard. He leaped with joyful abandon apparently unencumbered by worldly worries. On this perfect day, I understood!

River Rehearsal

I will praise the name of God with a song, and will magnify him with thanksgiving. Psalm 69:30

The famous philosopher Camus wrote, “In the depth of winter I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer.” After spending the Christmas holidays with family in Oklahoma during the state’s worst blizzard in history, I could relate to the depth of winter part. Arriving home, I received only a brief reprieve before we received our own “after-Christmas-gift” of snow, leaving the roads a frozen mess after a day of record-breaking low temps.
Stepping out on my back porch to empty trash in our big barrel, I heard a heavenly melody from one of our resident Cardinals. Balancing on one of the suet cakes swaying from the edge of the porch guttering, he puffed out his tiny red chest and sang as though his small heart would burst from the joy of it. The freezing winter wind ruffled his top-knot and still he continued.
I stopped a moment and observed our fluffy landscape through new sight: the coiled-up water hose, now unhooked, where I’d normally rinse off waders and boots after a morning on the water; the bamboo-like river cane, forever green, silently keeping time to the bird’s symphony; and the hole in the large tree at the edge of the campground steps where squirrels nestled each night, sleeping part of the winter away. There was peace and contentment in that observation.
Waiting another moment, I watched the river churn below me off the edge of our campground. The rushing water created its own composition more like a moving gospel piece than a waltz. The White River is considered a tailwater and therefore at the mercy of the Bull Shoals Dam generation schedule. For the past several weeks, there have been large numbers of units generated round the clock with no wadable water; but the magnificence of these high flows was not lost on me either. In about ten more days when the measurement is back to power pool, there will be low water and giant trout ready to garner my fly into their strong lips, providing delight inexpressible to other types of fisher folk. With the plethora of food provided, fish will have grown plump and feisty and assault anything that moves. There is hopefulness in that vision.
I daydream of four-wheeler rides downriver to my neighbor’s back yard where I will park and tip-toe gingerly down his homemade rock steps across the deep gully. Then I will trek across the large gravel bar to my favorite riffle. My mind wanders to the new narrows access above Wildcat Shoals where I’ve only fished twice; but found to be a paradise truly worthy of those who make the effort to walk across two islands to arrive there.
And I retreat to my cozy kitchen and gaze out my bay window at the birds. Now I understand the songbird’s message. In the sunny days to come, there will be a great thawing. Spring will bring new hope and enjoyment of the sport I love ….
And I too will sing.

Autumn Affirmation

The eyes of all wait upon thee; and thou givest them their meat in due season. Thou openest thine hand, and satisfiest the desire of every living thing. Psalm 145:15,16

If summer is the season of action, then fall is the season of reflection. A sense of melancholy settles in my spirit. Yet the last Saturday in October glows with promise and beckons me to my front porch. Supper bakes in the oven and a salad waits in the fridge. I have planned ahead to capture this afternoon all to myself, understanding that I require soaking in the last burst of autumn. This is a journey I must travel, complete with deep rumination, before I release the season and face winter’s challenges.
Normally I would sit on the back porch of our rural home and observe the White River and Fletcher’s Mountain. Often the river soothes my subconscious and provides transition and closure to another phase of my life. Then why today is the sunshine of the front yard more enticing than the river side? Perhaps because the maples glimmer with transparent light unlike their shaded brethren on the mountainside. The hilltop hardwoods haven’t yet begun their fall cycle; but the four maples on this side of the house preen in their reddish jewels, not quite ready for full cocktail dress. Like a young woman requiring help for the formal dance, they demand my full attention.
I loll in the small rattan seat with my feet propped on a straight chair and alternately read my current choice of fiction then gaze into the forest across our country road. Neighbors call to one another on the mountainside. Then silence seeks dominion and I begin to settle. For a few seconds, I am captivated by the wood’s hush soon disturbed by the raucous calls of angry crows. Perhaps I have interrupted their train of thought. Their bickering and irritation, directed at a small hawk whose mother has left the nest, keep me from simple mental vegetation.
Forced to return to my deepest thought processes, I muddle on the latest question in my world: have I accomplished enough service in my life? I will turn sixty in April. If sixty is the new fifty, as the Baby Boomer literature tells my generation, will I somehow re-capture the affirmation I felt at that age when only one year from retirement? Or will I struggle inside the dreary pit of fifty-one where I lost my nineteen-year-old child to a drunk driver? I have survived both the pre and post of fifty. I have completed a sparkling career, built a successful resort business, been published several times, learned to fly fish, contributed much to my church, been a faithful friend to several and a loving wife to only one.
Yet I contemplate the last third of my life and wonder whether those accomplishments are enough. Is this season of my existence like the October of my youth where the holidays were anticipated with many secrets and much yearning, or simply a slide into bleak winter and too many days spent shut up in the house? I examine my list of incompletes: finish writing the great American novel, master the perfect tight loops of my fly rod, laugh more, encourage enough people with kind words and support along the way. Some of those accomplishments can be evaluated and measured. Yet others may become part of the great immeasurable: a never ending parade of unfulfilled prayers and people resistant to change and help.
I review a mental list of friends whom I could call to drag me from my gloomy reverie and discard the idea, choosing instead to navel gaze then study the trees again. They hold the key to my dilemma if I will accept the lessons they teach. They have escaped the normal wind and rains thus far. Their leaves cling tightly to their branches, knowing their time will soon come to dance. They prevail impervious, not fearing the loss of leaf security or dignity. They enjoy their protection and success for a short while, discarding them to face the next season unafraid, secure that spring will bring rejuvenation.
A small whirling insect captures my attention. Aroused from my sun drenched laziness, I watch as it lands on the porch rail. Slightly larger than a ladybug with a thin body, the beetle’s green back holds distinct black marks which lend a checkerboard image to his color. He pauses to touch each foot to his oversized antennae, unconcerned about the female giant who leans closer for a look. After his brief rest and polishing, he departs---his green wings a tiny flare of hope before twilight arrives. I soon lose sight of him in the bright sunlight. Does he provide a teachable moment?
I survey a piece of spider web floating across the space between the trees. This is how spiders travel. Does the spider fear the distance from one tree before it can arrive at the protection of the next one? I marvel at his faith to let go without positive assurance of a secure landing; but sense that his survival lies in the breathless courage to try. There is a connection here among the creatures of the lawn and backdrop, if I just open my mind. Receiving the gift of the association developed by the variety of God’s resources promises to enhance my life as they have blessed this special October day.

Consider the lilies how they grow: They toil not, they spin not; and yet I say unto you, that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Luke 12:27

As the oven timer dings, I breathe in the victory of this humble yet glorious landscape and realize that I have much to offer this world with the last third of my life. Like the trees, I will prevail without trappings and protection. Like the beetle I will spin with joy. Like the spider I will survive the journey. Copyright 2007

Blessings,

Writer Gal

Casting Catastrophes

For ye have need of patience, that, after ye have done the will of God, ye might receive the promise. Hebrews 10: 36

Low water to a fly fisher, who’s been deprived of it for weeks, is akin to unlocking the candy store to a small girl with ten dollars in her fist. Recently, Bull Shoals Dam generation schedule has been conducive to some of the finest wade-fishing I’ve ever encountered. So when I prepared my blog post, I expected to supply wondrous tales of all the days I’ve caught a ton of fish lately. I almost considered mentally moving my Rookie status into the intermediate category until one day this past week.
That day reminded me, once again, why fly fishing is never an exact science and why Murphy’s Law operates in my world on a frequent basis. I fished only two hours since friends were invited for dinner that night. I’d prepared cabbage slaw and an old fashioned banana pudding before I left for my favorite gravel bar.
By the time I finished fishing, I noticed my leader appeared short and needed a new piece of tippet. Weary and somewhat lazy at that point, I decided to remedy that problem the next fishing trip and head on home to finish dinner arrangements. The supper went well. Everyone raved about the banana pudding. Fast forward to the next day.
I analyzed my leader and deduced I could get by with a longer piece of tippet rather than a brand new leader. I rode the four-wheeler to my favorite access point behind a neighbor’s place, rigged up with an extra-long piece of tippet and my favorite White River Angel fly, descended the new steps my kind neighbor had built into the gulley and waded carefully across the ditch to my favorite spot.
As I began to cast, I realized the tippet was perhaps a bit too long, when I hit myself on top of the head with the fly. Attempting to adjust and wait a bit longer with the “hesitation step” of my backcast, I next wrapped it around my hat. On the third try, I not only hit myself on top of the head but wrapped it around the magnifiers connected to the brim.
Beginning my normal self-counsel whereby I talk aloud to myself, I finally managed to get a decent cast with no fish. Changing flies and shortening the tippet seemed appropriate, so I chose a yellow soft hackle called an Anna Kay. Getting the line through the hook hole became a trial. The feathers blocked the way. I soothed them down and finally gave in to my sixty-one year old eyes and flipped down my magnifiers. After tying a cinch knot, I somehow managed to trim not only the surplus but the knot as well. Maybe focus was my problem; as I managed to repeat this embarrassing process three more times before I trimmed the excess properly.
After casting the Anna Kay several times with no results, I decided to switch flies again. By now the tippet was too short and I did what I should have done from the beginning, which was to install a brand new leader. I tromped to the gravel bar, disconnected the old and unwound the new. I connected the leader to fly line and prepared to tie on a piece of tippet. I had just recently learned to tie a proper surgeon’s knot and thought I’d give it a try again instead of my “made-up” version, that’s easier but takes up too much leader. Somehow it didn’t work as well as when I had the picture in front of me. When I pulled one last time for security, everything came apart. In my now totally frustrated state, I decide to fall back on my old knot.
At long last, I was ready to re-enter the water with a fly named a Little Randy. My tippet was the right length. My back-cast didn’t snare my hat or glasses. All I needed was a fish. Where were those fifteen to twenty trout I’d caught on my other days? Why did my thumb and palm throb from all my extra casting? And why was the sun suddenly broiling in the heavens?
*

When my life is snarled and my patience gone, where should I turn? On those knotty days when impatience and doubts overtake me, I realize I can't resolve my problems alone. I cannot simply cut the knots, throw down my gear and walk away. I must instead reach for the Lord’s guidance. No matter how many fears and problems overcome me, he never abandons me. He is always here, walking beside me, guiding, guarding, wrapping his loving arms around me even during my deepest distress.

Isaiah 41:13 says: For I the Lord thy God will hold thy right hand,saying unto thee, Fear not; I will help thee.
*
When hunger waved a hand at me one more time, I finally succumbed and made my way back across the ditch and up the steep steps to my trusty vehicle. I mentally shook myself, promising a better fishing day tomorrow. In deep reflection, I steered the four-wheeler home and consoled myself with the banana pudding leftovers!

Blessings,

Writer Gal

Holy Hitchhiker

Jeremiah 29:11 For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, " plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."

When I return from wade fishing, I rinse off waders and boots. After a few hours, they are dry enough to bring in for storage. However, I leave my dip net on the porch propped against the wall for a couple of days until the wind and heat assure it won't mold. When I picked up my net to return it to its hook yesterday, I noticed gooey yellow slime on the slider unit. After wiping it off with a paper towel, I discovered a hitchhiker in the form of a caterpillar who had obviously deposited the goo. I carefully balanced him on the net handle and took him outside to leave him on the porch rail in a safe place. This time I made it a few more steps when I saw the result of part of a butterfly's life cycle: a brown lumpy chrysalis imprinted with an undecipherable shape almost like the hardened body of a caterpillar. Who would have guessed that in all the normal habitats around our back porch for such an event to happen, the worm would have chosen the dip net? There are all kinds of nooks, posts and ledges on the porch as well as plants, trees and brush only a few feet away. But the worst part of all, was that I had inadvertently interrupted his mission: to complete the pupate stage in which he will form the chrysalis around his own body thus imprisoning himself until he “dies” to resurrect again as a fully formed butterfly in the future. What I had done by my “good deed” of releasing him outdoors was to force him to begin the process all over again. I reflected on how often we mortals interrupt God's plan for our lives with our petty concerns and agendas. I can only speculate how much we must try his patience when he has to start over again re-molding and shaping us into the Christians he wants us to be.
Yet, I see the results of his efforts as I gaze out my office window. I feel as though I'm immersed in my own butterfly kingdom. With the onslaught of summer sun, our butterfly bushes are now as tall as the lower edge of our windows. Like the hypnotic trance one encounters when staring at a fish aquarium, I'm mesmerized by this view of a variety of Ozark butterflies to delight the eyes. Smaller varieties, like the Zebras with their turquoise colors banded by black stripes, frolic and drink from blooms next to my little corner of the universe. They're often accompanied by hummingbirds who flee from our sugar water feeders to seek a more natural taste. When these creatures leave, the larger swallowtails arrive at the table including the Tiger, Spicebush and the Giant Black Swallowtail. They drift and cavort in the glimmering buds until I'm almost lulled to sleep, so peaceful is their rise and fall ... like a baby's sigh during nap time. And once again, I'm reminded of the simpler pleasures in life and the glory of God's love and patience ... where time waits for the rustle of butterfly wings and sunshine brings them back to me at dawn.

Only One

The Lord thy God in the midst of thee is mighty;he will save; he will rejoice over thee with joy; he will rest in his love, he will joy over thee with singing.
Zephaniah 3:17

Recently, the hot line number for the generation schedule at Bull Shoals Dam announced 2 units. I checked the water level on our campground boat ramp and decided I could safely wade there or a high mound of gravel bar upriver. Choosing the latter, I found clear water and safe footing. My approach was to cast a fly, let it swing in the current for a few seconds and then drift next to a brush pile. Trout often seek the quieter water in this situation where they wait in lazy fashion for served food. Several light ticks on the line indicated small fish, but nothing I could capture. After trying a Little Randy fly (very hot the week before on no generation), I experienced no hits both with and without a strike indicator. Next I attached a tan scud with no results either. I paused to watch a pair of damsel flies land on my sleeve. I wondered if they were attracted to my sea foam colored shirt or simply paused to visit. Concentrating again on the task at hand, I chose my “go-to” fly: Mike's White River Angel. I used it first with a strike indicator with no action. Since I normally like to strip the fly in, I removed the indicator, cast into fast water and again allowed it to drift into the seam separating shallow water from deep. A strong take startled me and a sassy fat Rainbow gave me keen competition. After several healthy lunges, he finally tired and I scooped him up in my dip net. I gratefully admired his vibrant colors; then I eased the dip net back into the water for his release. Any day with at least one fish in the net is always a joy to a rookie fly fisher.
God ministers to each of us on an individual basis. He lovingly catches us in the midst of our struggles in icy cold waters, washes our sins away, then gently releases us to witness to others of his mighty power. He takes great delight in every single one of us.
The shirt sleeve view and rich hues of the damsel flies as they sought respite, were simply added blessings.

Riffle Rendezvous

Cast your cares on the Lord and he will sustain you. He will never let the righteous fall. Psalms 55:22

Like an old friend who waits for my return, my riffle is back and ready to fish. Last year during the floods, the river's landscape dramatically changed. My favorite rockpile and stream site sustained punishment from the pounding waters. I feared I might never fish my spot again. Yesterday with another low water day, I resolved to wade across the swift water and determine if it was again fishable. Even though the white rock which had been my marker was covered up, I found the rock collection in much deeper water, but wadable. I pulled my cinch knot tight on my White River Angel fly and threw across the swiftly moving water and allowed it to drift down stream. Within the first two casts, I landed a glistening Rainbow. The next several casts rewarded my net with five more fish. Each one was carefully released to await my next trip. Wishing to get closer to the far shoreline where I'd hooked and lost a nice Brown two years ago, I waded into deeper swifter water. I planted my wading boots hard into the gravel bed, but the current still rocked me with a constant pressure. After several casts along the edge of the mud and with no more fish, I began to feel uneasy at the continuous push of the water and realized I was close to losing my balance. Two giant Blue Herons fussed at me with raucous language. Deciding to heed their advice, I reeled in my fly, attached it to my rod and ever so cautiously turned around to seek a shallower spot. I stumbled over a large unseen rock, but regained my footing thanks to my wading staff and a small prayer. Finally I reached a more comfortable position but with no takes. I walked up the gravel bar and fished the end of it where there is heavier water and a deep cut; but netted no fish. By this time, the sun slid over the horizon and I decided to return to the riffle. I threw in a slightly different direction and again, waited for the fly to drift downstream. Two more fish plunged at the end of my line before I left. I'd accomplished what few rookies do: caught and released over my limit in an afternoon of fishing. I will rejoin my old pal riffle on another low water day. The rockpile and the fish will be waiting.