Category Archives: fly fishing

Okay, so I fish.

Posted on by
2
Since my first memory, thanks to my dad and his love, fishing has been a part of me. And recently, finally, after years of hoping, I made it to Alaska.

Alaska from Alaska Air, mountains, glaciers, rivers. Almost to Anchorage.

Why fish? Because I love wilderness, and fishing takes me there. And over twenty years ago I decided to only fly fish. I’ve fished Scottish highlands, Colorado lakes and rivers over 11,000 feet high, Yellowstone rivers, and the Gulf of Mexico with no other boats in sight. Alaska may be the last great wilderness for me to see, right now. Where we went, you have to fly in on bush planes called Beavers.

 

Unfortunately, each place I also saw the result of climate change, all of which made me agree with Obama and disagree with Romney: more and stronger hurricanes in 2004/5–Hurricane Ivan drove us out of Pensacola; millions of acres of beetle-killed trees in the Rockies and this year over 8 million acres of forest fires, the High Park Fire visible from our back yard; and in Alaska, fewer salmon. They are moving north to rivers that used to be iced-over. They like it cold. I guess Yemen has salmon, too. I prefer the scenery in Alaska.

Most of the time I have fished by myself. There is something about being alone on a boat in the Gulf, or wading in a mountain stream. The quiet sooths and my thoughts wander wherever they want, mostly writing stories. I love it. Though I have to say, fishing with friends or family has its own draw. Especially in wild Alaska, where brown bears (Grizzlies–big ones)have never attacked three or more people. That’s what my two other friends on this trip kept telling me. Now, in Colorado, where I live, alone is fine. I can be on two rivers in a half hour, fish on. Fish on!

Alaska started out landing in a small lake and putting together the pontoon boat.

Then we floated down this river, 31 miles,

except the first day we dragged the boat a lot. It was shallow. We were tired by the end of the day.

But, way before the end of the day we started catching fish. Ken with a small grayling.

I don’t have all the pictures. The first day I tripped coming out of the tent and did a drop-and-roll . . .  right onto my camera. Toast. The disc compilation of photos from my friends cameras is coming, I’m told. Later.

At any rate, once we started catching fish, it never ended. The last day we fished, I think we caught a hundred fish, maybe apiece. I was very lucky. I caught a tiny variety: many, many, many, manymanymany grayling over 20 inches, and then equally as many, okay, more, moremoremore Dolly Varden (kinda like big brook trout), one 26 inches; and few and far between, salmon. I caught a few silver salmon, one big rainbow, a few pink salmon, and more Dolly Varden.

We caught them on . . . basically anything we threw—pegged beads, dry flies, mice, huge streamers, small streamers, nymphs, foam hoppers.

Then the rains and wind came, and I just wanted to be warm.

We crushed the barbs on the hooks, but in no way shape or form did we remove barbs from our obnoxious trash-talk to each other. If you taped it, you would think we hated each other. Not even close. The greatest thing was the other guys, and me I hope, helped out as much as we dissed each other. That is the measure of friendship. You dish it out, and you make sure there is a big bowl and a clean spoon to eat it.

Thanks, Scott and Ken. It was amazing. Now can I please have those photos?

Milt

I was sad that day

Posted on by
Reply

 

Fern Lake, Rocky Mountain National Park

It was about four weeks ago. A beautiful day. I camped with my son at a high mountain lake, after a hike the day before that tested my knees and stamina. The morning brought glittering spider webs, round and symmetric, new as the first rays of sun that illuminated their wonder. Why did a spider make them so beautiful, their rungs so perfectly even, the concentric circles almost exact enough to have required a compass to trace them? An osprey glided over the lake, its chirping call common to most Americans, except in this mountain haven. An osprey at 9500 feet. Cool!

Golden fish with blood red lower jaws cruised the shallows, searching for breakfast—greenback cutthroat trout, nervous at any moving shadow, instinctively aware of osprey, or other predators. That would be me, a fly fisherman. I caught a few, hungry gulpers that pounced on the fly the instant it hit the water. Quick release and back they cruised, wiser to subsequent flies, but still strong, vibrant in color, an integral part of the beauty. High mountain peaks surrounded me, a few white valleys only small remnants of glaciers of old, before the world warmed. Glacier melt cascaded in rivulets down the mountain cliffs, filling the lake, gaining in strength down the valley, and finally quenching our thirst in the Front Range. 85% of the water we get comes from the mountain runoff.

At that thought, I was sad. The Cache la Poudre River was clean until the High Park Fire seared and glazed the earth so that water no longer seeped in, but flooded into the Cache la Poudre River, making it as black as soot. What caused the fires? Maybe it was too hot with too little rain for too long. Ya think?

 

Up here, miles from the High Park Fire, half the pine trees are rust-colored, dead to a beetle that is another harbinger of warming; not cold enough in winter now to kill them, so they kill the forest.

High Park Fire sunset from our back yard

Cache la Poudre River runs black with High Park fire soot after flooding rains

 

I was sad because my son who loves this wilderness as much as any, may never have his own children see these things. If the globe keeps warming, the snow will melt sooner, more fires will engulf the beetle-killed forests and the beauty, the world I’ve known, will be gone. Another fire may make all the biggest ones in the past piddling things. We could lose the fish, the moose and the coyotes.

All because humans, that would be us, must have energy to build, to drive, to heat, to seemingly survive in this twenty-first century. Yet, my son and I camped without electricity, without heat or AC, and still lived, though much more simply for a few days.

It was beautiful but I could not wait to drive my car as quickly as possible down the valley next to that glacier-fed river to get back to my comfortable bed, to be cooled by AC and enthralled by a movie on TV. That weekend I cut my lawn with a power mower. This winter I will stay comfortable, heating my home enough to roam the rooms in shirt sleeves.

Can we actually live well for more than a few days without all these things we deem necessary?

For my sons, daughters, and grandson’s sake I hope so. All those working on solar power, wind power, cars that run on natural gas or anything that leaves little carbon dioxide behind, keep trying. It’s worth it. I don’t really want a terrorist to make it happen like in Dan’s War. But if we keep it up, it could.

Milt

Bad Day?

Posted on by
4

Woke up, beer was stale, coffee cold and weak, it’s still 2012, and then I looked at last week’s blog–What is an American Patriot?

Damn. What a rant. All about freedom, too. Blek!

But, today is so much better. Forget patriots. Just look at Twitter or Facebook, or listen to the news—everyone’s a patriot. I have to move on.

There’s really nothing I can do to prevent war. Since about 3000 B.C., war has been a continuous human event. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_wars_before_1000 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lists_of_wars

Find out how to make shields and arrows out of bronze and look out baby, I’m gonna take over your pissant little Stone Age community. Gunpowder—oh hell. Nuclear bombs, computer-assisted, laser-guided bombs—one touch and I get my gold, my water, my oil, and you’re toast.

So what are my chances of getting rid of war? Rat’s ass chance in a box full of cats.

Back to business. All I have to do today is get up, have some coffee, edit a novel or two, drive to the store for beer, and watch Wimbledon. Of course there will be the smattering of Graham Norton, perhaps Preditor for the 1213th time(that’s a prime by-the-by), and finishing up Dashiell Hammit’s The Maltese Falcon (It’s old, but damn!). Maybe cut the grass, but only if it’s not raining and it’s green. I do enjoy the color green, don’t you? And when the grass is cut it’s so neat looking and even greener. Then again, I can still see the dog when she pees. She has to work to get through the taller grass and she needs to struggle a little to keep her legs strong. A fourteen-year-old lab needs all the help she can get.

Also, the mower uses oil and gas. Pity.

I would like to ride my bike thirty or forty miles, but since I’m not quite as young as I used to be (I did mention it was 2012, right?), maybe cut that in half. Actually, I did that, and the damn Poudre river is as black as soot—exactly as black as soot. How the hell am I gonna catch any fish in a river full of soot this summer? Probably not. Well, there’s plenty of other rivers I can drive the camper trailer to and have a jolly old time. A forest fire is such a hassle.

There is a damn good movie coming on tonight, and I gotta get a new blog out, so I’ll need electricity until about 10pm. That only uses coal, so I’m okay there—if only coal were a bit cleaner. That pizza and beer was damn good. A man has to assuage his sufferings somehow. Am I right?

Okay, so the day wasn’t so bad. We’re still at war and I didn’t have to give up a damn thing. Imagine that.

I wonder what it would be like to be eating a protein bar and humpin a seventy pounder (that’s a ground pounder term for hiking with a 70lb pack) over Afghan mountains wondering if that next step could trigger an IED and blow my leg off?

All to keep Big Oil flowing and to allow millions of strangers to enjoy freedom.

No thank you. Not for me. Glad someone else is giving up their life. I don’t even have to give up my movie. Why should I?

Let’s see. Tomorrow I’ll fly a gas-guzzling plane to visit my mom and brother. I hope the plane isn’t late.

Milt

Pay Attention, It’s Cool!

Posted on by
Reply

Have you ever had one of those moments of clarity that rivaled Plato, or Leonardo da Vinci? Maybe the Dalai Lama or Tom Petty? We’re talking moments, okay.

They seem to come to me when I’m exercising, like riding my bike, or lately, walking and listening to Pandora. (You can listen while you read by clicking here http://www.pandora.com/#/station/play/749768438523820680) Lynyrd Skynyrd and Barenaked Ladies does it for me. Okay, Tom Petty, too. http://www.myspace.com/tompetty

Today it was the bike ride. I decided to really pay attention to things around me and boy was it cool. (Who says cool, anyway? Me.)
A robin flew with me for thirty yards, off to my left flank, glancing at me, keeping pace, flap and coast, waiting for me to catch up. I could see his feathers flutter in the wind, and his eye keeping an eye on me. Then he cruised over to a fence, lit, and glanced back as I pedaled on. I waved bye. That was cool. http://www.weforanimals.com/free-pictures/birds/robins/page-1/pictures-2.htm

The smell of fresh mown grass on the Cathy Fromme Prairie; the piercing, plaintive song of the Meadow Lark, (and the in-between chirps, like preparing for the opera); the clacks and squeaks of the red wing blackbird; the feel of the rhythm in my pedaling and breathing; the gray clouds gathering from the mountains and cooling the air; the many greens and textures of trees. All of this kept me company today. Yeah. Cool. Click on both videos together and get the real feel.

Not on the bike ride, but most important to observe is family. My grandson saw me for the first time in five days (I was away fishing–go figure), and ran to me with arms outstretched, yelling, “PahPas.” When he hugged me I could feel it in my chest, and my eyes watered. The best cool there is.

Maybe the exercise is like flushing the old stagnant blood from the boulders of gray cells and putting in new oxygenated blood. Yep, a fly fishing analogy. Alas. (I know–no one says ”alas” anymore? Deal with it.) Maybe the last several days of fly fishing opened up my mind, kind of like putting aside a novel I wrote for a while and going back and editing and making it so much better. Time does that sometimes: makes us better.

Not sure what, but I do know it was cool . . . right up until the time I thought I was still young enough to pedal, drink water and look at the scantily clad girl walking by. Fumble water, almost break ankle trying to clip out of pedals before nearly falling. I recovered. Geez, I just looked at her. Okay, so I ogled. She walked off. Probably noted my fall in her daily journal under “Pay Attention, Dummy.” Right, she has a journal. More like a facebook page. Hope she didn’t take a video with her iPhone. I’ll have to ride at night from now on.

Anyway, maybe just paying attention to all those little things each day will help me feel good about the world and avoid anger that can lead to arguments and war. Me and Tom Petty. Don’t forget the Dalai Lama. Yeah.

In the words of the immortal, or irreverent, Bill Murray, in Caddyshack, “So, I got that going for me.”

 

Milt

REVIEWS:  http://tiny.cc/mt6b7

Buy it now–Amazon:

$1 of each book goes to Veterans

Barnes and Noble:http://tiny.cc/htmrb

Smashwords for all other e-book formats:http://tiny.cc/o0nh3

More at my Facebook Author Page:http://tiny.cc/sumdo

Contact me at www.miltmays@gmail.com

 

The Fragile Human

Posted on by
2

Have you ever wondered about how one day you can be on top of the world, thinking you are the greatest author the world has seen (move over Faulkner, Shakespeare and Stephen King), love your family, and wish everyone was as lucky as you; and then the next day something stupid happens: you find a dumb mispelling in your greatest novel, or your computer crashes with fifteen short stories, three novels and all your family pictures from the last three years, or whatever—it would be better if you picked—and suddenly you’re ready to eat ice cream until you pop and watch movies all day, or maybe, like Whitney Houston, you take a hot bath and . . . .

Surviving today can sometimes be difficult, even if you’re a great success. Just look at Whitney Houston. Artists might be at the far end of fragile because they put their guts out on the street for people to see, and sometimes trounce upon, with cleats. Artists want people to feel the same way they do about important matters. They look at things differently, and allow us to see the world for what it really is, instead of what it appears to be. They touch us deep inside; make us cry or laugh. They create their intuitive placard about life and hope we “get it.”

The problem arises when almost everyone is moved and praises the artist. It’s not a problem for their art, their placard, but for their very fragile nature, on being a human. The praise is addictive and they want more, each time striving for better, more, sometimes turning to drugs to get that high they got after that first “discovery,” when everyone loved their art and told them so.

Think of hitting notes like Whitney, as clear and steady and heartfelt as a spring sunrise. If you could do that, feel that rush, know how it moved others, wouldn’t you long to do it over and over?

You don’t have to be an artist. Think of the soldier on the battlefield—some might say as far from art as you can get. He is praised for killing others quickly, efficiently, and without complaining. So when he does his job well, he also gains recognition with medals and promotions, parties, and then . . . when it all stops and he comes home, everything hits bottom. It’s no wonder these soldiers have depression and psychiatric problems, aside from the fact that they were committing something that before their military days was considered murder. How in hell can we continue to force young people to do this? Whose idea was THAT?

Bottom line—we are all fragile emotionally, and must practice some self-praise on a daily basis to get through the rough times. Meditate, exercise, pray, do yoga, walk with music in your ears—something positive. If you feel you are doing something wrong, negative, stop it. Change. Love yourself first. And don’t take yourself so seriously. Don’t dwell on yourself; make sure you know you are an okay person, failures or not. Time will prove you right. Maybe even tomorrow.

I’m singing in the rain, just . . . .

mm

Dan’s War is an award-winning techno-thriller with heart, about the end of world oil . . . in two weeks. Cajuns and one lone computer geek try to save us against an ecofanatic and his army.

All E-book formats on Sale.

Amazon Kindle:http://tiny.cc/5sxjm

Barnes and Nobles Nook:http://tiny.cc/dsiho

Smashwords for all other e-book formats:http://tiny.cc/o0nh3

REVIEWS:  http://tiny.cc/mt6b7

More at my Facebook Author Page:http://tiny.cc/sumdo

Contact me at www.miltmays@gmail.com

Blame Her, She Can Take it. Happy Valentine’s Day!

Posted on by
2

Have you ever wondered why someone would do something that was truly on the top of the stupid list, then you do that same idiotic thing yourself, AND THEN (because obviously you are not that stupid!?) you go and blame someone else—someone you love dearly.

Last fall my wife and I were on our way back from the yearly camping trip that we dearly treasure, where I spent two of the best dry-fly fishing evenings of my life on the famed San Juan River, and we explored Mesa Verde, including a fabulous meal at a five-star restaurant. We’d pulled our trailer nine hours from Mesa Verde through the awesome arches country of eastern Utah and the spectacular Colorado River canyon. We ached to go home. But if you’ve ever pulled a trailer, you’ll know that nine hours is long enough. Plus, home was another five hours away. So we pulled into a picturesque camping spot near Rifle, Colorado. We were both tired and ready to have a bite, read a book, and enjoy the views.

That’s when I tried to scrape off a vent cover from the top of our trailer, using a pinion
pine tree. Once I actually saw, with my own two eyes, someone scrape off the side of their trailer on a tree at Yellowstone. Seeing should be the best way to actually learn a lesson without experiencing it. Right? Those pull-through trailer sites can be tricky. But not for me.

Really?

 I have a photo attached you should study, in case this “incident” does not “take.” Yeah, wouldn’t have been so bad if had just been the oven exhaust—one baggie and some duct tape, story over. But no, this had to be the biggest vent in the roof, aside from the AC unit (thank God that tree was just on one side and not overhanging the entire top). Though the hole, if left open to rain, could have ruined the refrigerator, heater and half the kitchen—all big-ticket items (okay, the AC would have been worse, not to mention other things happening to us—much worse—but I precede myself).

Getting back to the “incident.” Did I immediately blame myself for being so stupid? Nah. I jumped out of the truck and blamed my wife for not watching the trees and warning me that any second, if I pulled further forward, that tree limb would scrape off the vent and part of the trailer. I have to train her better.

Really? Would someone actually think that?

I am such a dolt—one with Guilty written into every red corpuscle. Flip each little red blood cell over in that boiling oil you want to fry me in and you will also see a very tiny Stupid tattooed on the back side.

The great thing about it? We both laughed it off. After. She knew I didn’t mean to blame her. Okay, she loves me more than I deserve. Also, I got to saw off the limb because I could not even budge the trailer without more damage. Have you ever sawed a pinion limb? Tough mothers. And perching in a tree like a monkey, but with the balance of on overweight, middle-aged, has-been athlete, I found concentration and sweaty fear took the place of anger. Yeah, pretty quick.

After that, I needed a lot of duct tape and a ladder. Colorado Park Rangers are your friend, by the way. She held the ladder and I taped the covering back on while we talked frankly about the “incident.” She never even let the ladder sway. Not once. She made great bacon and eggs for dinner; I had two beers; and we both slept like babies. After all, worse things could happen, like being in the middle of a twenty-car pileup on I-70 the next day before reaching home.

Just kidding. I was more careful and more awake, so everything went well—no pileup.

Two lessons I hope I learned. Never blame others for your own mistakes—you’d think after all these years I’d have learned that one already. The other thing: Don’t take yourself so seriously. I’m fallible. It was only a vent. My wife and I are still alive
and safe. It’s people that matter. Especially those you love.

So tell someone you love them, before you blow up and blame them for your own stupid mistake.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Baby. I do love you. Now, about that other thing …

Milt

Dan’s War is an award-winning techno-thriller with heart, about the end of world oil . . . in two weeks. Cajuns and one lone computer geek try to save us against an ecofanatic and his army.

All E-book formats on Sale.

Amazon Kindle:http://tiny.cc/5sxjm

Barnes and Nobles Nook:http://tiny.cc/dsiho

Smashwords for all other e-book formats:http://tiny.cc/o0nh3

REVIEWS:  http://tiny.cc/mt6b7

More at my Facebook Author Page:http://tiny.cc/sumdo

Contact me at www.miltmays@gmail.com

I Fly Fish for My Heart

Posted on by
1

I fly fish for my heart

My brain tells me it’s too cold right now to brave blizzards, to stand in a freezing river flinging feather and fur to catch a wriggling piece of cold-blooded muscle. But my heart aches to hear the river rush and the hawk scream, smell the moss mixed with fallen leaves, to see a wild brown trout with red spots as bright as paint jump from a river as clear as gin, pulling on my rod, testing my skill.

It’s stupid to travel five-hundred miles over icy roads to catch dumb fish and drink beer and tell lies. I should stay home and do something more productive.

Not if I want to keep living.

I can drive slower and soak in more conversation from friends I’ve missed. Our stories are of life, hardships and joy, bringing our souls warmth and touching that elusive thing called humanity. The nights after the river are full of laughter at conquering a wily opponent, the brown or the rainbow that took seven changes of flies and three changes of depth to catch. Beer and gin are not the only tonic, nor required to put our minds at rest from the crazy concrete and computer worlds we have escaped, if only for a week.

When I fly fish I step into another world, one of here and now, of casting and drifting, of observing and breathing in nature: a balm that has healed my overworked brain time after time, year after year. Sharing it with friends is more than a pleasure—it makes my year. Without this, my heart would shrivel, and soon my brain and body would follow.

I fly fish for my heart.

They don’t get my Nirvana, man

Posted on by
Reply

They just don’t get my nirvana, man: Green pastel prime
numbers and those I love, prairie views as far as tomorrow, mountain streams
clearer than air, bike paths free of glass. Do I see prime numbers in my head
as green floaters when I think of those I love? No, but I get it,
and I wish I could see primes and those I love in color. That would be cool.
The views from the bike path at Horsetooth Reservoir unfolding all the way to
Pike’s Peak—I get that. Oh yeah! Fly fishing for cutthroats of orange jaw and
dark green back (fish the size I would use for bait in Pensacola), surrounded
by quaking aspen changing to gold in autumn,while being studied by a bighorn sheep
or a deer splashing downstream—I get that. Anytime!

They poke fun at the geek, or accelerate with their diesel
“duellies,” trying to run me and my bike off the road and clouding the view
with black smoke, or crank their non-muffled Harley cruising by the river
throwing a beer bottle and laughing when it shatters on the bike path and the
fisherman (not to mention flipping the finger when you yell at them).

Or they put up signs like this.

When I took the picture I wondered if crosshairs were
centered on my I-phone. One week after this post the sign was taken down!!

Then, I went back to cruising on my road bike, the warm sun
on my back, marveling at the beautiful humans I saw: a four-year-old boy with trainers
wheels, smiling and huffing and pushing to make it up the hill, his parents
close behind—new fun and love; a fat girl streaming in sweat, jogging and
working it—not giving up; septuagenarians holding hands and walking, smiling,
talking, and waiving hello as I pass—a generation we’ll miss.

Or, a few weeks back I saw this.

I went back to cruising on the Cathy Fromme Prairie trail; my feet and legs pumped and moved—feeling life.

Doesn’t take much, really—a bit of compassion, restraint, respect for someone else. I love Harley riders, and truck drivers–salt of the earth and most are great people and friends.  A few spoil it for many.

There are now seven billion of us. We have to learn to live with each other. Let’s get rid of war.

Respect my nirvana, man. And theirs.

Apparently this worked. The owner took down the sign!!

mm

Dan’s War is an award winning techno-thriller with heart, about the end of world oil . . . in two weeks. Cajuns and one lone computer geek try to save us–not giving up and feeling life every day.

All E-book formats on Sale.

Amazon Kindle:http://tiny.cc/5sxjm

Barnes and Nobles Nook:http://tiny.cc/dsiho

Smashwords for all other e-book formats:http://tiny.cc/o0nh3

REVIEWS:  http://tiny.cc/mt6b7