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We have a great line-up with some excellent fiction, art, poems, a personal narrative, and a book review to kick off your winter reading.

Warning: This post contains no fishing, no fish and no fish byproducts: it is piscatorially and ichthyologically barren.

Wednesday morning dawned a bit foggy. But we were finished fishing, so weather wasn’t much of a worry. The morning plans were to swing by Monticello, Thomas Jefferson’s spread. In my early life, I desired to be an architect and went to an architectural design and drafting school in Arizona. I still have an interest in architecture, and couple that with my interest in history, especially early US history, and Monticello was on my “Bucket List.” Somehow, on my two previous trips to the east, I didn’t make it there.

Monticello sits on a hill to the south of Charlottesville, and I can imagine it has a commanding view of the surrounding countryside. The fog limited our view to just teasing glimpses of what that view might be like. As with most historical sites, Monticello has been properly commercialized through exorbitant admission costs, a fancy museum, a large staff, guided tours, yada, yada, yada. It was nice to see that visitors have free rein to the grounds, which are fairly extensive. For those of you who like history, maybe you’re like me and you’ve grown weary of the sameness of tours and museums: once you’ve been to one Civil War museum, you’ve basically been to them all. Once you’ve been on a tour of one Revolutionary era house, you’ve been on them all. Sure, there are distinct differences from building to building, but I can find that information in a book or online. For me, I just like to bask in the ambiance of a place, try to imagine what it was like in its heyday, which is hard to do when surrounded by a bunch of tourists and a tour guide yacking away. Call me odd (wouldn’t be the first time), but that’s me.

The house structure itself was, at first glance for me, surprising in its size. I was expecting something much larger. Not that it’s puny or anything—the main floor is over 5700 sq. ft. It’s hard to explain, but the main portion of the house looked smaller to me than it actually is. It might have something to do with the “dependencies.” Or the trees. Something. There is plenty of information available online for those who are interested in the details of Monticello. We didn’t spend nearly enough time lounging around the grounds, but I don’t think Dan would have liked to just sit and look. In fact, I couldn’t do the kind of sitting, pondering, photographing, that I like to do unless I was alone.

We quickly wrapped up our visit and hit the road for Nashville, an eight hour drive. As we neared Nashville, Dan remembered that they have a minor league baseball team, Nashville Sounds. He called a couple of places and found out that the Sounds were playing a home game that night. We watched them spank their arch-rivals, Memphis Redbirds 9-0. It was a nice way to unwind after the long drive.

Thursday was a day of waiting. If you didn’t read Day 1, the main purpose behind the trip was for Dan to help his brother, Xxxxx*, transport some guns across country from Williamsburg, VA to Logan, UT. Dan thought it would be a good idea to get to Virginia early and do some brookie fishing. And he invited me along. Xxxxx was catching up with us in Nashville Thursday to complete the trip.

We did some laundry, ate at a Waffle House (about every three blocks is a Waffle House in the southeast—more prevalent than McDonalds) and got a bit of a nap in. As it got closer to departure time, we thought we should head to downtown Nashville since neither of us had visited there before. As we were driving in, a massive thunderstorm dumped on us, and the radio reports were saying that the freeways were clogging up with traffic. We needed to have the rental back to the airport and meet Xxxxx there, so we skipped downtown and headed toward the airport.

We met Xxxxx, loaded our gear into his SUV rental, and headed out of Nashville around 5:00. Our plan was to drive straight home to northern Utah, 1,700 miles away. We planned on taking turns driving, each one of us driving 2-4 hour shifts.

I must admit that driving a load of guns made me feel like a bit of a gun runner. The last thing we wanted was to get pulled over and have to explain what we were doing in a rental vehicle with Florida plates. We had Utah drivers licenses and Xxxxx probably still had his Mexico license since he had just returned to the country from Mexico City.

Somewhere near Salina Kansas, during one of my driving stretches, the wind had picked up a bit. With the weight in the back of the SUV, the front end was a bit squirrely and the wind caused me to sway a bit. It was nearing 3:00AM with hardly a soul on the freeway except for the gun runners, swaying down the freeway at 77 MPH.

And the Highway Patrolman.

He pulled out of the center median as I passed and followed us for a mile before throwing on his light. I woke up Dan and Xxxxx and eased the SUV to the shoulder.

“Can I see your license?”

I handed Mr. Tan Polyester Pants my license.

“Are you awake? You seemed to be weaving all over,” he said as he glanced at my license and looked through the windows at the boxes lining the rear of the SUV and stacked on the folded-down half of the rear seat. He seemed to step back and notice the sag of the rear end of the vehicle and debating with himself what the relationship was between the sag and the boxes.

“Could you tell me what’s in these boxes?”

“Uh…guns?”

At about that time, Xxxxx, from the rear seat, leaned across some of the boxes next to him, and handed him an identification wallet with a badge in it.

“I’m with ICE. And just so you know, I’m armed,” said Xxxxx, as he gestured toward the handgun near him on the back seat.

The KHP looked at the ID, then handed it back to Xxxxx, and returned my driver’s license to me.

“How many guns do you have in here?”

“27,” Xxxxx replied. “I collect them. I just moved to Utah and I’m transporting my collection to my new house.”

The KHP and Xxxxx chatted for a few minutes about guns.

“Make sure you’re awake,” he said as he strode back to his patrol car, still eying the SUV. I watched in the side mirror as he paused, about five paces behind the SUV, still looking at the vehicle. Then he came back to the Driver’s window.

“Could I see what’s in the back?” he asked.

We all piled out of the SUV and opened the back of it.

He glanced inside and saw a number of smaller boxes. “What’s in those?” pointing toward the smaller boxes.

“Ammo,” Xxxxx said.

“Uh-huh.” The mental chin-stroking was clearly evident as he processed this new information. He hemmed and hawed a few more minutes.

“Well, you boys have a safe trip,” he said. And left.

“So Xxxxx, how much ammo do you have in here?” Dan asked, after the patrolman closed his door.

“About 50,000 rounds,” he said.

And we did have a safe and quiet ride the remainder of the way home.

* I could disclose Agent Xxxxx’s name to you, but then I’d have to…well, you know.

Over the past couple of years I have been looking for a place where I can consistently read good fly fishing literature. I have many literary angling books, but those get pricey and sometimes I just want to read something short. As I have been reading blogs lately, I decided there were enough people out there who might have a similar desire and ambition. I started contacting folks, and, well, here we are.

Our website is under development but you can get a flavor of it from the About Us page and learn about the editorial board and more on both the general philosophy of the magazine as well as the specific topics we hope to cover.

We are in the process of soliciting articles from a wide range of authors covering an array of topics. If you would like to be considered for publication, please read the Submission Guidelines.

If you have any questions or comments about Rise Forms, please use the contact page.

We anticipate launching in the fall of 2010. We look forward to reading your submissions.

Scott Carles,
Editor-in-Chief
Rise Forms: Fly fishing’s literary voice

I have a runner-up if Joe turns down the offer.

For your information, I entered the names of those who left a comment into the “Interactive Fruit Machine” (a random name/word generator) to determine the winner.  http://classtools.net/main_area/template_loader.php/?fruit_machine

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Scott Waldie (who unfortunately passed away a few years ago) gave us a fine gift in his three Travers Corners books. The last, The Final Chapters,” continues the stories of the characters in fictional Travers Corners, Montana.

There is nothing new or startling about these stories, either in content or execution. One of the things I like about these stories is the lack of pretentiousness—what you see is what you get: good old fashioned storytelling. These stories aren’t about big issues. The author isn’t trying to make a point. These are stories about regular people doing regular things as they live their lives in a small corner of the world.

Fly fishing is an integral part of nearly every story. The main character, Jud, is a river boat builder. He also guides and fishes on the local waters, known for their large trout.

Waldie’s storytelling skills are just right, with a turn of phrase here and there to add just enough something extra to a story that makes a connection with a reader. He brings the reader into the story, making them wish they were a part of the story, or, rather, part of the town and lives of the characters in the story.

These stories are about friends and how people get along in a small (albeit idealized) town. Things usually work out well for the characters, but when they don’t you are there pulling for them.

These are “feel good” stories, but they aren’t sappy. They are easy reads, and each chapter is a self-contained story, although they are all about the same place and same people. You could easily open the book to a random chapter and read it without missing a thing.

When you’re tired of your heavy reading, and need a light pick-me-up read, make sure you have all three of the Travers Corners books on hand.

View all my reviews >>

My rating: 3 of 5 stars
Dry Fly Gospel
By Terry Coffey

Book Review

This is a quirky book filled with 12 short stories that catch one off guard. At least they caught me off guard. Granted, with the title it bears and a cover with a picture of a nun holding a fly rod and a wicker creel at her feet, it does lead one to believe that what comes under the cover won’t going to be your typical fishing yarns.

There are twelve stories, and they aren’t all about fly fishing (however, I think fly fishing makes an appearance in most of them). I believe each of these stories has been previously published, many of them in print form.

This slim volume of 92 pages is self-published. There are several errors that occur throughout the book, most of them are the things an editor would pick up. That’s one of the problems of self-publishing—it’s sometimes hard to catch your own errors, especially the larger the piece.

The title story, and first in the book, “Dry Fly Gospel,” starts like this:

“The following excerpts are taken from fragments of what many scholars believe is a fishing journal kept by John, who was the son of Zebedee and favorite disciple of Jesus of Nazareth.”

The story, at first glance, may strike a certain type of reader as a bit sacrilegious: Jesus as a fly fishing instructor and early practitioner of catch and release. However, I think Coffey maintains enough reverence for the sacred so that those who might instinctively shy away from such a story, will not take offense.

The second story, “The Jar of Worms,” features Cyrus, one of the 12 disciples, who tells the story in first person. He becomes enraged when Judas Iscariot, a bait fisherman (this made me crack up), interrupts a story being told by the Master, about dry fly fishing. Cyrus is upset because Jesus invites the bait fishing Judas to join them, Cyrus leaves Jesus, and Judas eventually fills his vacated spot, becoming one of the 12. Of course, Cyrus can’t help firing off a few parting comments about watching out for Iscariot since bait fishermen can’t be trusted.

The book contains a story about a medieval nun who believes she might have the opportunity to work on the Shroud of Turin, only to end up trying to decide if she wants to stay at the convent and remain a nun. One of the stories is about a Vietnam vet who meets Freud at a veterans’ hospital and ends up fishing with Freud, Shakespeare and Hemingway. Another story tells of a woman trying to come to terms with her cancer during a fly fishing excursion.

There is a story of a man in Peru who falls off his mountainside potato farm. One about a solo hike to a pond with a possible huge fish, or possibly a UFO incident. Another about a person who died and became a tree. And a couple of others.

I found most of the earlier stories to be more compelling reading and the last few were a bit, well, almost silly? There were enough interesting stories that I would recommend the book to anyone looking for something a bit eclectic.

The price, $12.95 plus shipping (about $16 total for me), seems a bit pricey for what you get. There is a Kindle edition for $4.95 that seems just about right. (Even if you don’t own a Kindle, you can get the Kindle reader for free so you can purchase books like this and read it on your computer.)

View all my reviews >>

Topo Map

I have been lacking motivation to write for the last couple of weeks. I’m just dying to get on the river, but the weather and prospects for local fishing in the winter is pretty low. And, I’m just not as interested in fishing in sub-freezing temperatures anymore. This has all brought on a lethargy. A little SAD maybe. I don’t know, but I’m ready to hit the river soon.

I bring you something a little different: a two minute reading of this post. Click on the link below to listen.

A New Season’s Topography

Let me know if there was a problem with the audio (other than my voice—I already know that’s a problem, I’m talking technical issues here).

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For those of you who can’t stand listening to me, don’t want to drive your workmates crazy listening to me, or just prefer to read instead of listen, here is the hardcopy:

Speeding along the twisting canyon road, my eyes rarely leave the river—watching, and waiting for a rise. A dimple and ripple expanding in rings. Emanating ever outward—like the map I spread over the kitchen table last week, and the week before, and the week before that—it’s rings expanding over the earth and right off the table’s wooden edge.

Not really rings, but ragged lines. Lines stepping their way up the smooth pate of a hill. Lines that push and pinch together veeing up a canyon: a thin blue strand wefting through the warp of brown.

Snow dusts the gravel where the truck rolls to a crunchy stop at the top of a canyon. In the alpenglow, and by the glow of the cab light, the map is unfolded and consulted. A finger follows the route down. The sun suddenly thrusts itself above a far ridge, and we follow its diffused edge down, as the snow melts before us.

A month ago we traced the contours of the map. Then, there, hunched over paper, tracing the contours of the map, it was all possibilities and anticipation. The giddiness of a new fishing season building as lines were checked. Flies, feathers and a vice packed. Waders rolled and stowed. The Thermos readied in the early morning darkness as the soft hum of the furnace pulsed through the preparations.

But here, now, down in the crease of the canyon… My line lassos realities, cuts an arc out of the sky. Water bunches and folds around my legs: hard edges fore, soften aft, and spread, following the river. Taking a piece of me until those wakes merge and flatten—all a part of the flow. These lines in the sky and water mirror the topography surrounding me. They shadow me through the day and into the season.