Where is Your Joy?

Since I was old enough to remember, I've always loved hunting, camping, and especially fly fishing.

Escaping to the outdoors. It was part of our life as a family. It was simply what we did. And it in I always found happiness. Peace. Solace. Joy.

I can't say exactly when that all started to change.

But it did.

After I'd been married for four or five years, when the "honeymoon was over" I began to question, "Is this all there is to life?" I had a beautiful wife, but we fought all the time. I had a good job, with future prospects, but I began to hate, (no, despise) it.

I was a fly fisherman. I lived for it. It was how I perceived myself. It was my main pursuit in life.

But I began to grow frustrated in that pursuit. It was not as enjoyable as it once was. The rivers and places I once loved to go, were becoming more and more overrun with hordes of people, thanks in part to greedy self-promoting fly fishing magazines who felt the "rivers needed more friends."

I had grown more competitive in fly fishing. Always trying to outdo myself. Never satisfied with what I caught. Always bummed out by what I couldn't catch. Obsessed with all the gear, or, more appropriately named; the "Trappings." At one point I had accumulated several thousands of dollars worth of fly fishing and fly tying gear. Not that I paid retail for it. I had friends in the industry that always got me buddy deals. But I was always buying, selling and trading what I had for the "next best thing." But it was never enough.

It became in me, a big, hungry monster that I could never satisfy.

And though I didn't realize it at the time, I had been filling up my life with stuff, to try and fill up the empty and hurting places in my heart.  My mom had told me that back in the seventies she and my dad had done the exact same thing, to try and fill up the empty places in their lives.  But they were never satisfied. And numbing the pain and disappointments of life with alcohol soon became their false substitute for joy.

And I can tell you with sad, deep conviction from our experiences as a family, that this does not work. It only destroys.

Recently in my journal I wrote:

"Your joy can only be stolen if your look for joy in things that can be lost."

 And over the course of my life I have seen that come true more times than I can count.

I used to have a small collection of well guarded "last best places" where I could go to escape, think, meditate on life, etc. But eventually, one after another, all those last best places failed to bring me the solace and peace I so desperately sought. Joy was elusive. Not to be caught.

Where do you look for joy?

For me, what once brought lasting joy, no longer does. Because those things that once brought joy can be, or have been lost. They could never live up to my heavy expectations.

Relationships can die. Spouses move on. Family disowns you. Jobs go away. Money dries up. Favorite rivers or camping spots are now over crowded. Your health can change in a New York minute. Friends move away.

Everything in this life is for a season. Some long, some very short. Our life is literally a vapor. Here today, gone tomorrow.

Today my joy is found in something and someone that can never be lost, never be taken from me. Those of you who know me well, know my secret.

For those of you who don't, I would love to share it with you.

All you need do is ask.


—At The End of My Line.

Thank God for Friends

"There is a friend who sticks closer than a brother."

When I look back over the last forty years of fishing and camping trips to beautiful destinations all over the west, what stands out is not the scenery, the fish, or the photos. What made all these trips truly memorable are the good companions who shared the journey with me.

When you drive a hundred miles and hike the banks of a river all day with a guy, you get to know a lot about each others lives and stories. You discover that you're not alone... that we all share in many of the same trials and struggles as the next guy. And you can encourage one another and have your friend's back.  

All the men in these photos have greatly impacted my life and I respect and appreciate each one of them. Very thankful for the times we've spent on a river, around a camp fire, or just doing life together.

And of course the times you spend with your own family in the outdoors are priceless memories that nothing can ever diminish. I am so proud of and thankful for my Dad and my Son. They have both impacted my life in such a profound way. I will always be grateful

My Dad on Father's Day 1972.

My son Jeremy with his first fish, 1980's.

The following is one of my favorite lines from the story, "A River Runs Through It"...

“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs—I am haunted by waters.”

—The End of My Line.

Peace Like a River

The tranquil scene in this photograph, which I took while on a much needed, very relaxing road trip with my wife this spring, is about as close to peaceful as anywhere I know of on this earth. The only sounds we heard were red winged blackbirds, the low dim of the pastoral meadow stream, and the soft gentle breeze in this stunning Oregon paradise.

But then cars and trucks speed by spoiling the moment. Then I saw the empty beer cans and worm containers from thoughtful "sportsmen." Then I saw the "No Trespassing" signs. Then I saw the barbed wire fences keeping people like me out. There were several indicators that we were definitely not welcome here. I don't blame the land owners. I wouldn't want people trampling all over my portion of paradise either.

Every time I travel through this area, which is where I also grew up in the early 1970's, it brings back all the good memories I have from childhood, learning to fly fish in southern Oregon. And a part of me wants to move back here every time I visit. What a place to retire to. I never want to leave when I stop at this spot. So peaceful...

But peace is fleeting. 

I used to have a small handful of 'last best places' where I could go to sit and just be quiet...be still...and find some peace. But all those places have now been invaded by other peace seekers and sportsmen. They are all overrun. No peace is to be found there anymore. I feel like there is no place left to go...

And that's the point. 

It's something I've learned the hard way, after several decades of searching for peace 'out there'... it is not to be found...out there.

True, lasting peace is only to be experienced within. A place can't provide it, no matter how beautiful. Another person can't give it, though they love completely. No, you have to go much deeper, much higher—to the immortal. To the heavenly.

A promise from the Divine, to all those who will receive it:

"Behold, I will extend peace to her like a river, And the glory of the Gentiles like a flowing stream."

And,

“Whoever drinks of the water that I shall give him will never thirst—the water that I shall give him will become in him a fountain of water springing up into everlasting life.”

It's taken me almost sixty years to realize my peace cannot be found in a place. 

But I can truly say that the peace which surpasses understanding is freely available to all who will ask for it and receive it...

—At The End of My Line.

A Fuel Pump and some Coconut Cream Pie

It was pre-springtime in the Klamath Basin, 1973. Cabin fever was making us more than a bit antsy, even a little crazy, after a long winter that seemed to go on without end. Opening day of trout season was still at least a couple of months away and we had to get out of the house. Truth be told, I think my mom sent us away as we were beginning to drive her crazy too.

If you don’t like long, cold, snowy winters, don’t live in Klamath Falls, Oregon. At an elevation of over 4,000 feet above sea level, this is the kind of place that most retired folks quickly move from and go to Arizona for the winter. I remember my brother and I walking to school on some very frigid days, our big Alaska-style parkas zipped all the way up, with faux fur lined hoods cinched up tight around our faces. We usually had couple of snow days every winter where they closed the schools. Those were good days.

My dad and my uncle Jim had been debating about a good place to take a road trip on that blustery Saturday morning. We couldn’t go too high up in the mountains since there was still way too much snow and most of the roads were either closed or impassable. They agreed on Silver Lake, about 100 miles from Klamath Falls. I was a bit disappointed that there was no place to go fishing. But it was good to get out of town and see some new country.

We were hoping the sun would come out and the temperature would rise a bit. But it drizzled sleet and stayed cold. So we packed some salami and crackers and cold drinks and hit the road in my Uncle Jim’s old light blue GMC pickup. The only things we were armed with were my dad’s Bushnell 7x35 binoculars and a camera. We drove alongside Klamath Lake heading north on highway 97 until we passed the small tribal town of Chiloquin, eventually leaving the main highway at Silver Lake Road, entering Klamath Marsh National Wildlife Refuge. We never quite made it all the way to Silver Lake, but we drove until there were no more trees nearby and soon there was only scrub grass and the occasional small sage brush.

 
We didn’t see another human being all day out there, but there was abundant wildlife. I stopped counting at 200 mule deer. They were everywhere, making their spring migration. My dad always told me I had the eyes of an eagle since I was usually able to spot deer in the distance before he did. I appreciated any praise my dad gave me, as it didn’t happen often. More often than not I was in the dog house for my bad grades.

Along with the mule deer, we saw antelope, bald eagles, and several sandhill cranes. If you have never heard the sound a sandhill crane makes, you must do so. Their sound is beautiful, captivating, almost haunting, difficult to describe. Southern Oregon is part of their regular migration path. And they nest there every year.

After spending hours exploring the area and counting all the various critters, the snow flurries were beginning to pick up. Our salami and crackers were long gone and we were getting hungry. Dad said we should probably start heading back. I think we had gone maybe five or ten miles when my Uncle Jim’s truck died. Dead as a doornail. He couldn’t start the thing. He popped the hood and he and my dad climbed up and started investigating what the problem was. They soon located a small hole in the fuel pump about the diameter of a pencil. How the heck that hole suddenly appeared in the fuel pump is a mystery that was never solved. My dad and uncle had to find a way to plug the hole in the fuel pump to get the truck started again. Problem was, we had nothing in the truck to plug the hole with.

In my dad’s truck, he always carried a roll of duct tape and some bailing wire, not to mention a tool kit, a shovel, and a few other necessities. However on this particular day, my uncle did not have anything in the truck that we could use. So dad said we needed to start looking for some small twigs to use to plug the hole with. Problem was, there wasn’t a tree in sight. We were probably fifty miles from any gas station or repair shop. And there were only a few sparse sagebrush scattered along the road. So we found a suitable twig from what brush we could find, and finally got the hole plugged and miraculously, the engine started. They had to pour some gas into the fuel pump to prime it. But we were finally on our way.

A mile or so down the road, the engine died again. They got out and looked at the fuel pump and the dang twig had popped out. So we had to find another twig to plug the hole with. But most of them were too thin. But this time we collected a couple of extras just in case it popped out again. Sure enough, the new twig eventually popped out again too. But we had spares, and after several more times of engine dying, put new twig in, prime pump, we eventually made our way back to the Highway 97 junction where there was a gas station and a café. I was starving!

We dragged ourselves into the café and found a seat. When the waitress took our order dad and I got a cheese burger, fries and a coke, and my uncle Jim said in his slow, smooth-as-can-be southern drawl, “Yes, I’d like a cup of coffee and a piece of coconut cream pie.” I’ve never forgotten how smooth he was placing that order. My wife and I still laugh about it today.

(Uncle Jim)

What amazes me most about this memory is I was beginning to get worried we were going to be stuck all night in the middle of nowhere when the truck would not start. In the same situation I’m not sure I would have had the wherewithal to locate the problem in that fuel pump much less figure out how to fix it. But my dad and Uncle Jim were both calm and made the best of a bad situation. My uncle Jim was always cracking jokes and was a very funny guy. Lesser men might have lost their cool and started swearing around a kid, adding to my fears. But these men were a class act, and set a great example, and I felt totally safe in their care, as always. And it turned out to be among my many memorable grand adventures while growing up in southern Oregon.

(Dad)

In the many trips I’ve taken over the years, the destinations have been incredible. Great scenery. Amazing fishing. Big trout. But what made these trips all truly great were the people I was with. They made an impact in my life. The camaraderie. The friendship. The family relationships. The precious people that will be forever etched in my memory…

—At the End of My Line

Getting Away From It All

“Thousands of tired, nerve-shaken, over-civilized people are beginning to find out that going to the mountains is going home; that wildness is a necessity.”
(John Muir)

It's good, on a regular basis, to get out of the noise and crush of the city, and drive out into the country...where it's much quieter. Where life slows down. Where you can hear the sound of the breeze and Red-winged Blackbirds. Where you can hear your own thoughts...

Where you can just rest.

As much as I love standing waist-deep in a swirling river, pursuing and catching big trout, the drive through the countryside that takes me to my destinations are just as cleansing, and magical to me.

The smell of burning stubble in early spring. The smell of mint in summer fields. And the smell of onions being harvested at the end of summer are forever implanted in my senses.

There's something about getting up before dawn, and hitting the road at first light, that makes me come alive. A fresh start. A new road to explore. A new day in the journey.

My camera is always on my car seat next to me whenever I hit the road. You never know what you're going to see out on the open road. You have to be ready.

When I was younger, the prize was always the destination and especially the fish to be caught there. But now, the real prize for me is the journey.  The fish that may be caught at whatever the destination, are merely sprinkles on top of the frosting. 

Whenever I get a really early start, I always see things that I wouldn't have otherwise. An amazing sunrise, deer, elk, or wild turkeys. 

A beautiful trout, with just the right light and background, can make for a great photo as well.

Coming home from a long work road trip, I witnessed this amazing winter sunset over the lower Snake river.  To get the shot, I had to walk out onto the bridge over the interstate. From the road, the area you can (supposedly) walk on looks a lot wider. But once you're out there, it looks two feet wide at best, and the wind thrown at you by diesel trucks screaming by at 85 MPH feels like it will blow you right off the bridge and into the river. I literally took my life in my hands to get this shot, and swore to my wife I'd never do it again...

As much as I like "glory shots" of the big fish we're often blessed to catch, my favorite photos taken over the last ten years are shots captured on the way there, the way back, and exploring the scenic areas in-between fishing...

I also love capturing an unsuspecting friend in a surprise shot at last light.

Or a glimpse of rapidly vanishing small town USA...

There are times when you have to act quickly to catch that perfect lighting before it's gone...

For me, getting away from it all is found in seeing the beauty along the journey and capturing those priceless moments in my heart, mind and camera. 

More and more, what I want to get away from are the hordes of consumers. The noisy, insensitive, competitive anglers, ready to steal or defend their favorite fishing spots.

The once longed for destinations are rapidly being overrun by the very same people Muir wrote of that long to come home to the mountains. And many of the wild places we need to escape to aren't so wild any more.

But the journey of the soul in the wild places of a man's heart is something no one can take away or spoil. 

The memories of hot summer days, the smell of wild roses and sagebrush, the sound of a peaceful river, an afternoon breeze whispering in the pines, and Red-winged blackbirds chirping in the willows, and the peace that passes understanding, are mine to cherish forever...

—At The End of My Line. 

A Breath of Spring

Finally... mercifully... it begins again.

The long dormant winter is fading away and brilliant green blades of grass are appearing. Crocus, Tulips and Hyacinth are poking up through the dry, arid soil, crying out for, and beckoning the spring rains.

Succulent green buds are popping out on the Lilac bushes, and those cool fuzzy things are draping from all the Aspen trees in the front yard.

My soul cries out for the breath of new life that always comes with the arrival of Spring.

My heart longs for the refreshing spring showers and the intense thunderstorms with deafening claps of thunder that accompany each piercing bolt of lightning. I love the big spring storms that shake the entire house, and also shake your spirit, letting you know just how alive you are... that there's something much bigger out there than just yourself.

I'm not a winter person. As I get older and my joints and torn meniscus ache, I don't miss the times I used to ski as a younger man. Six months of spring, four months of fall, and one month each of winter and summer would suit me just fine.

Hopefully, in the next life it will be eternal spring there. Perpetual times of refreshing, cool, cleansing breezes, brilliant green plants and trees with sparkling, crystal clear springs and creeks everywhere.

I love to walk out into the back yard on a warm spring morning and just breathe in the fresh air and newness of spring.

The breath of life.

The first day of March called me out to don my waders, and hit the river in town, with boxes packed full of every kind of fly I think might entice a hungry trout or two. It was great to get my rusty fly casting arm loosened up and see if I could still hit my target. Fortunately, it's just like riding a bike. You never forget how.

The sky will continue to get brighter blue and the grass and trees more brilliant green in the the upcoming weeks. Bugs are hatching rapidly and the trout are hungry. Get outside and breathe in the fresh spring air. 

It's a time of new life. 

A time to become fully alive...

—At The End of My Line. 

Seasons of Life

While a few hearty souls may enjoy wading freezing rivers, with ice in their guides, and icicles hanging from their beards, I usually opt to hang up my fly rod until early spring.

I was blessed to enjoy many amazing days of fishing this year.

From early February, to Late October, the many faces of a river throughout the changing of the seasons is truly something to behold.

Choosing to vacate my favorite brown trout streams starting in mid-October, I like to give the old spawners plenty of peace and quiet, to ensure there will continue to be a healthy population of new fish in the seasons to come.

It's also very comforting to just say, "It's been good, and that is enough."

In my younger years, no matter how good a day of fishing had been, I would continue to fish until dark like a madman, as long as the fish were still rising. It was never enough for me.

But time and years have a way of changing your perspective and altering your priorities. 

Relationships have become much more important to me than the recreation itself. And while I enjoy fishing alone on occasion, the fellowship within the fishing is priceless. A day on a river spent with your Dad or a best friend, enjoying the creation—well aware of our glorious Creator—is woven into the unforgettable tapestry of your life.

I can count on one hand, the true friends I've had in my lifetime. Friends who "Stick closer than a brother."

Looking back on a remarkable season, what made it so remarkable, were the priceless times of fishing and fellowship that I enjoyed with these true friends. 

And I look forward to another new season in 2015.

As we celebrate this Christmas season, more than anything, I look up, to my best Friend of all—Jesus, the Son of God—who has woven us into His story. 

He said:

"Greater love has no one than this, than to lay down one’s life for his friends."

Merry Christmas to you and yours!

—At the End of My Line.