Post by Uplander on Apr 4, 2006 8:58:24 GMT -5
With thoughts of the impending start to my 2006 trout season filling my head, I thought I’d share this story of an event from the beginning of last season. See, 2005 was, in all respects, the worst year of my life from the get go. In January I was recovering from bilateral hernia surgery, in February my beloved grandfather passed away without warning in his sleep, and in early June my wife’s father was stricken down and died as well.
It was driving back from the hospital in Maine after dealing with my wife’s father’s death that I had had enough with Fate’s cruel little pleasures….
Drained both emotionally and physically, as we headed down 95 South in New Hampshire, neither of us was looking forward to an evening in our yet to feel like “home,” big, old, creaky “new” house surrounded by boxes and eating off paper plates…. So, I decided to point the car in the direction of the Old Homestead, where I knew my parents, visiting brother and sister-in-law, and, most importantly, 1½ year old niece would brighten Lisa’s day immeasurably.
Arriving in the early evening, Lisa was quickly smothered in “Gracie kisses,” and my brother and father co-opted me for a trout fishing expedition the following morning.
As we hiked in to the trout stream, I was still in a pensive mood, and just couldn’t get my mind on trout fishing, or the forest in general. About ½ mile in I stopped and told my father and brother that I was just going to hike down to the stream here, and could meet them at “X” later in the day. They agreed and continued on their way.
So, there I was, fishing “down low,” where I never do (too close to the forest road), alone. It was a beautiful sunny day, but my heart just wasn’t in it. Especially when I started to notice wet boot prints on the rocks…. Rounding a bend in the stream, I came across an elderly fly fisherman creeling a nice brook trout. He stared at me and was silent. Smiling weakly, I said; “Well, now I know why I wasn’t getting many hits!” Silence…. Trying again, I said; “You know, in all the years I’ve been fishing this brook you’re the first person I’ve ever come across fishing.” A curt response; “I’ve been fishing here for 66 years.”
I could tell he was very unsure about me. So, I stuck my hand out and introduced myself. Quite a pause, and then his hand came up and we shook. “Ken,” he said. “Now you’ll have good luck with that,” he said, pointing to my casting hand. “I just cleaned a trout with mine,” he said, with a small smile.
I chuckled, and with that the ice was broken. We chatted for a few minutes, and I noticed that as I gave him more and more information about the times I had fished the stream and what I had seen there over the years, the more he seemed to warm to me. As we discussed the upper reaches of the stream, some miles away deep in the mountains, he grew quiet and said; “But I don’t go up that far anymore. I’ve got a lung disease and have to take it slow.” I sympathized, and we chatted a bit more. It was then that I began to notice that each time I tried to wind the conversation down and be on my way (I was afraid I was intruding on his fishing), he leapt to fill the void and keep the conversation going.
So, we told tales of our bear and moose encounters on the stream, the fish we’d caught there, and the geography of the surrounding forest.
Finally, the conversation did come to a natural end, and I wished him continued good luck, told him I was going to hike far upstream so as not to disturb his fishing, and turned around to head off to find my father and brother.
“There’s something I want to tell you,” I heard. Turning back to face him, he looked at me and said; “Did you know there are Ladyslippers here? Two pink ones, down that way.” I didn’t know that, but it didn’t surprise me. “Really? I didn’t know that. I’ll have to go look at them,” I said. “Ken, have you ever been to “X?” I asked. “No, but I know where it is,” he replied. “Well, I said, right along “X” ridge there are two large fields of pink Ladyslippers. Each spot must have 20 or 30 flowering plants at least up there.” He was very pleased, and said he’d have to go see; “Especially since if I don’t go soon it’ll be too late….”
With that, in a low conspiratorial tone he told me; “There are yellow Ladyslippers here too.” Now that got my attention! I don’t know how it is where you folks live, but in the Berkshires, the elusive, delicate, yellow Ladyslipper is an extreme rarity, protected and cherished by most who find them. I know a couple spots where they are found, but always in very small numbers. I consider them one of New England’s rarest forest gems….
As I exclaimed delight, Ken proceeded to provide directions to the general vicinity where the golden baubles could be found. “But, there’s only one flower this year. In years past there was three, but only one flowered this year,” he said.
I thanked him very much for the information, and we parted ways.
I had almost two hours before I had to meet my father and brother at the designated rendezvous point. So, I struck off through the forest to search out a glimpse of the coveted yellow Ladyslipper. I wasn’t hopeful, as Ken’s directions were for a relatively large stretch of forest I had been to before many times, but never seen my quarry there….
Thoughts of trout fishing long gone from my mind, I slowly walked circles through acres of green Berkshire forest, eyes scanning the ground. Finally, after more than an hour, off to my left, my eyes locked on the delicate yellow orchid that, to me at least, embodies the American forest to the same degree as the New England partridge and wild brook trout.
I was delighted. My sprits buoyed, I proceeded to seat myself on the forest floor next to the beautiful natural gem, and just relax in peace and solitude.
As I sat there, I was moved by the thought that this elderly gentlemen, evidently coming to his own natural end, had chosen to share this prize with me.
In his honor, I give you a glimpse at one of the secret treasures of the New England forest:
It was driving back from the hospital in Maine after dealing with my wife’s father’s death that I had had enough with Fate’s cruel little pleasures….
Drained both emotionally and physically, as we headed down 95 South in New Hampshire, neither of us was looking forward to an evening in our yet to feel like “home,” big, old, creaky “new” house surrounded by boxes and eating off paper plates…. So, I decided to point the car in the direction of the Old Homestead, where I knew my parents, visiting brother and sister-in-law, and, most importantly, 1½ year old niece would brighten Lisa’s day immeasurably.
Arriving in the early evening, Lisa was quickly smothered in “Gracie kisses,” and my brother and father co-opted me for a trout fishing expedition the following morning.
As we hiked in to the trout stream, I was still in a pensive mood, and just couldn’t get my mind on trout fishing, or the forest in general. About ½ mile in I stopped and told my father and brother that I was just going to hike down to the stream here, and could meet them at “X” later in the day. They agreed and continued on their way.
So, there I was, fishing “down low,” where I never do (too close to the forest road), alone. It was a beautiful sunny day, but my heart just wasn’t in it. Especially when I started to notice wet boot prints on the rocks…. Rounding a bend in the stream, I came across an elderly fly fisherman creeling a nice brook trout. He stared at me and was silent. Smiling weakly, I said; “Well, now I know why I wasn’t getting many hits!” Silence…. Trying again, I said; “You know, in all the years I’ve been fishing this brook you’re the first person I’ve ever come across fishing.” A curt response; “I’ve been fishing here for 66 years.”
I could tell he was very unsure about me. So, I stuck my hand out and introduced myself. Quite a pause, and then his hand came up and we shook. “Ken,” he said. “Now you’ll have good luck with that,” he said, pointing to my casting hand. “I just cleaned a trout with mine,” he said, with a small smile.
I chuckled, and with that the ice was broken. We chatted for a few minutes, and I noticed that as I gave him more and more information about the times I had fished the stream and what I had seen there over the years, the more he seemed to warm to me. As we discussed the upper reaches of the stream, some miles away deep in the mountains, he grew quiet and said; “But I don’t go up that far anymore. I’ve got a lung disease and have to take it slow.” I sympathized, and we chatted a bit more. It was then that I began to notice that each time I tried to wind the conversation down and be on my way (I was afraid I was intruding on his fishing), he leapt to fill the void and keep the conversation going.
So, we told tales of our bear and moose encounters on the stream, the fish we’d caught there, and the geography of the surrounding forest.
Finally, the conversation did come to a natural end, and I wished him continued good luck, told him I was going to hike far upstream so as not to disturb his fishing, and turned around to head off to find my father and brother.
“There’s something I want to tell you,” I heard. Turning back to face him, he looked at me and said; “Did you know there are Ladyslippers here? Two pink ones, down that way.” I didn’t know that, but it didn’t surprise me. “Really? I didn’t know that. I’ll have to go look at them,” I said. “Ken, have you ever been to “X?” I asked. “No, but I know where it is,” he replied. “Well, I said, right along “X” ridge there are two large fields of pink Ladyslippers. Each spot must have 20 or 30 flowering plants at least up there.” He was very pleased, and said he’d have to go see; “Especially since if I don’t go soon it’ll be too late….”
With that, in a low conspiratorial tone he told me; “There are yellow Ladyslippers here too.” Now that got my attention! I don’t know how it is where you folks live, but in the Berkshires, the elusive, delicate, yellow Ladyslipper is an extreme rarity, protected and cherished by most who find them. I know a couple spots where they are found, but always in very small numbers. I consider them one of New England’s rarest forest gems….
As I exclaimed delight, Ken proceeded to provide directions to the general vicinity where the golden baubles could be found. “But, there’s only one flower this year. In years past there was three, but only one flowered this year,” he said.
I thanked him very much for the information, and we parted ways.
I had almost two hours before I had to meet my father and brother at the designated rendezvous point. So, I struck off through the forest to search out a glimpse of the coveted yellow Ladyslipper. I wasn’t hopeful, as Ken’s directions were for a relatively large stretch of forest I had been to before many times, but never seen my quarry there….
Thoughts of trout fishing long gone from my mind, I slowly walked circles through acres of green Berkshire forest, eyes scanning the ground. Finally, after more than an hour, off to my left, my eyes locked on the delicate yellow orchid that, to me at least, embodies the American forest to the same degree as the New England partridge and wild brook trout.
I was delighted. My sprits buoyed, I proceeded to seat myself on the forest floor next to the beautiful natural gem, and just relax in peace and solitude.
As I sat there, I was moved by the thought that this elderly gentlemen, evidently coming to his own natural end, had chosen to share this prize with me.
In his honor, I give you a glimpse at one of the secret treasures of the New England forest:
