fishing hole
before the osprey returns
casting for trout
Showing posts with label fishing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fishing. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 3, 2018
Monday, April 17, 2017
Posted with BlogsyFriday, March 31, 2017
Monday, July 18, 2016
Friday, May 13, 2016
Thursday, January 7, 2016
January 7: On the bay
We went fishing today on Florida Bay, heading out from Islamorada and ending up in a channel just off Flamingo in the Everglades. The morning began with fog and chop, but within a few hours the water was smooth and clear, enabling us to see how shallow it was. The flats teemed with birds, from sandpipers and egrets to pelicans and the deliciously hot pink Roseate Spoonbills.
Tropical mirage:
fishing in a glassy sea,
pink birds flying past.
Thursday, July 23, 2015
Wednesday, November 19, 2014
Monday, May 5, 2014
Sunday, July 21, 2013
Saturday, July 20, 2013
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
April 30: Osprey
This morning the shadow of a large bird moving through the trees manifested itself as a brown and white Osprey. It perched in a tree in the neighbor's yard, from which it could look down on the river. I think it was poised right over my husband's favorite fishing hole. The river's barely more than a stream where we live, but it serves as a wooded, watery pathway for Ospreys, eagles, and kingfishers. I never get too used to seeing them pass through my back yard.
Osprey watches the river.
It's all about positioning--
right place, right time.
Osprey watches the river.
It's all about positioning--
right place, right time.
April 29: Kingfisher
Didn't get outside all day until I left the office well after 6:00 pm, but was rewarded for a long day's work by a kingfisher rattling overhead. First one of the spring for me here, though I've seen some further south in Maine. He seemed to be traveling downriver. When I told my husband, he wondered aloud if the river had been stocked with fish this spring. I think he was also wondering silently if he could get outside and go fishing while there was still daylight.
Kingfisher sounds annoyed
to find the river so low.
Spring hopes realign.
Kingfisher sounds annoyed
to find the river so low.
Spring hopes realign.
Monday, April 16, 2012
April 16: Gone Fishing
I came home tonight to an empty house. I didn't expect it to be empty; my husband's car was out front as usual. In fact, I came in the door talking to him, was in mid-sentence before I realized that the only one there to greet me was the cat. Maybe he walked to the store, I thought. He wasn't feeling well today, maybe he wanted some comfort food? Then I saw his note: he'd gone out back to get in some fishing. The guy can't talk because his throat is so sore, but he's down on the river right now on this chilly evening casting a line. For some reason that makes me really happy, despite my concerns for his health. Until yesterday, when our niece compelled him to take her fishing, this guy--who in the past has always had a line in on the water on April 1--hadn't yet made the time to go fishing this spring. Now, hopefully he'll get back in the groove of spending that half-hour or so by himself at the end of each busy day, unwinding down on the river with his rod and flies.
Fisherman alone
with his thoughts, casting them free
into the river.
Fisherman alone
with his thoughts, casting them free
into the river.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
October 1: Trap Day
The lobstering season on Monhegan Island, where I've been hanging out for nearly two weeks, begins October 1. Monhegan lobster fishermen, of which there are nine boat captains (including two women), traditionally fish through the winter in hopes of getting a better price for their lobsters. (It also leaves their summers free to pursue other fish or other jobs.) So Saturday morning the boats all started out from the harbor laden with traps, undaunted by a pre-dawn thunderstorm and thick mist. Even from my inn I could hear the cheering from the wharf as the boats chugged out into the fog to set their 300 traps in precise locations on the ocean's floor.
It's hard to watch them go and not try to imagine what that must be like in January, hauling traps out of 45-degree water with freezing spray blowing across your bow. It's a life of hard work but a certain freedom--the ocean is your office. Or, at least the bit of ocean that surrounds the island in which the Monhegan lobster fishermen have exclusive fishing rights.
It's hard to watch them go and not try to imagine what that must be like in January, hauling traps out of 45-degree water with freezing spray blowing across your bow. It's a life of hard work but a certain freedom--the ocean is your office. Or, at least the bit of ocean that surrounds the island in which the Monhegan lobster fishermen have exclusive fishing rights.
 |
| The wharf on Trap Day |
Leaving the island on Trap Day is a bit daunting, as the "ferry" boats pull up to the same wharf as the fishing boats. A fishing boat can only hold so many traps at a time, so the remaining traps sit on the wharf until the boat returns to re-load. So boats are re-loading most of the morning, with the ferry having to grab a few minutes between them to get passengers and luggage on board. Passengers are funneled on board through walls of traps, while the wharf and harbor bustle around them--the true way of island life revived for another season.
Everyone chips in:
drag a trap, play some music.
This is island life.
Monday, August 15, 2011
August 15: Only in Maine
I met an old friend from high school for a drink after work today. He's been living a life in high finance and investing in New York, so he doesn't get back to Maine often. When I showed up, he said, "I know I'm in Maine when it's cold and raining and you're wearing flip-flops!"
My friend had taken his two little boys mackerel fishing in Rockport harbor today in a punt with a tiny motor. They hadn't gotten far when the motor broke. But the boys had trolling rods, so he ended up rowing them around the harbor for an hour-and-a-half while they fished for mackerel. They each caught three. I've got to think that as they grow up in suburban New York, their Maine summer experiences will seem magical to them. Those are the lasting memories, the ones that will bind them to this place no matter where they end up.
Walking to my car in the rain, dusk falling, I watched an osprey soar overhead on its way to the harbor. I love that I live in a place where ospreys sail past on a regular basis, in any weather.
Back home, as my husband and I were planning out what to have for supper, a friend drove up with a tray full of fresh-caught squid: there's our meal. Perfect. Only in Maine. It's these little things, these telling little stories of place gathered up each day, that make me feel so grateful that we live where we do.
A friend shares his catch:
squid jigged in Rockport harbor.
Fruit of the full moon.
My friend had taken his two little boys mackerel fishing in Rockport harbor today in a punt with a tiny motor. They hadn't gotten far when the motor broke. But the boys had trolling rods, so he ended up rowing them around the harbor for an hour-and-a-half while they fished for mackerel. They each caught three. I've got to think that as they grow up in suburban New York, their Maine summer experiences will seem magical to them. Those are the lasting memories, the ones that will bind them to this place no matter where they end up.
Walking to my car in the rain, dusk falling, I watched an osprey soar overhead on its way to the harbor. I love that I live in a place where ospreys sail past on a regular basis, in any weather.
Back home, as my husband and I were planning out what to have for supper, a friend drove up with a tray full of fresh-caught squid: there's our meal. Perfect. Only in Maine. It's these little things, these telling little stories of place gathered up each day, that make me feel so grateful that we live where we do.
A friend shares his catch:
squid jigged in Rockport harbor.
Fruit of the full moon.
Friday, July 30, 2010
July 30: Loon Chick
This evening we spent time with my four-year-old niece, who is staying with my parents for the weekend. We had dinner al fresco in the back yard, and then Fiona and I decided to sit on the dock and watch the river. Water bugs skittered across the surface, and Fiona was excited to see a couple of small fish slip past us underwater. As my husband got his fly rod ready to do a little casting before sunset, we all noticed the loon family in the middle of the river: two adults with one fuzzy brown chick between them. They seemed to be teaching it how to fish. Fiona looked through binoculars at them, but I'm not sure she knows how to use them well enough to see the birds. My mother tried to explain to her how loon calls are different depending on where they are, that the place, not the bird, determines what they sound like. I think that too was beyond Fiona's interest and comprehension at this point, but we'll make a birder out of her yet!
Fish began jumping as sunset burnished the clouds. Fiona was impressed with Uncle Paul's dragonfly fly. She'd probably have been even more impressed if he'd caught something with it. Four ducks that I think were wood ducks flew past. A beaver slowly made its way upriver, as it does every evening, a silver vee trailing behind it. And the loons drifted upriver too, still fishing. My dad built a small fire in the fire pit, and we all stayed outside in the growing dark, past Fiona's bedtime.
Loon chick with parents--
family night on the river.
I watch with my niece.
Fish began jumping as sunset burnished the clouds. Fiona was impressed with Uncle Paul's dragonfly fly. She'd probably have been even more impressed if he'd caught something with it. Four ducks that I think were wood ducks flew past. A beaver slowly made its way upriver, as it does every evening, a silver vee trailing behind it. And the loons drifted upriver too, still fishing. My dad built a small fire in the fire pit, and we all stayed outside in the growing dark, past Fiona's bedtime.
Loon chick with parents--
family night on the river.
I watch with my niece.
Monday, July 5, 2010
July 5: Heat
It's a hot one here in New England, and I'm sitting in the shade at the river's edge while my husband fishes from a kayak just offshore. Birds sing all around us, trills and hums, and a loon just drifted by. Another loon sits on her eggs in the floating nest tethered just off their usual nesting island, where in past years the shifting water level has led to nest failure. Periodically a wind chime that sounds a bit like a cow bell rocks in the light breeze, or a bass jumps close to shore, the ripples slowly spreading outward. A lazy day, a holiday. A chipmunk just meandered under my chair and legs as if it hadn't a care in the world.
I'm ostensibly reading biologist Bernd Heinrich's book Summer World: A Season of Bounty as I sit here, but mostly I'm just listening to the birds and watching light play on the water. It's almost too hot to read--my brain just wants a siesta.
Heinrich says, "Summer is a time of green, urgency, lots of love lost and found. It is the most intense time of year, when the natural world of the northern hemisphere is almost suddenly populated with billions of animals awakening from dormancy, and billions more arriving from the tropics. Almost overnight there is a wild orgy of courting, mating, and rearing young. The main order of business in summer is reproduction."
For purposes of this book, "summer" is the period from May through October (the other six months of the year are beautifully covered in his book Winter World). Clearly at this point of the season I think we've moved beyond orgy into the rearing young phase, at least judging by the languorous mood prevailing today. There's more simple play happening than fooling around, in other words. (Cole Porter's lyrics to "Too Darn Hot" spring to mind.) A juvenile sparrow just chased a chickadee around a pine tree. And a few hours south of Maine, my niece's fourth birthday party just began, an all-girl, princess extravaganza. Yesterday my other niece, who turned one on the Solstice, took her first steps, and must've been so excited about it that she stayed up all night long, according to my weary sister. Rearing young is exhausting work--you won't catch me doing it--but it's an essential part of the cycle of life, the mature, summer part. Baby birds are busting out all over now, and adults fly urgently to and fro with beaks full of food. It's the season of bounty and new life, always something new to see, always something new to gather for the memory stores.
Afternoon heat rides
birdsong, trees' green reflections--
my skin's wet with it.
I'm ostensibly reading biologist Bernd Heinrich's book Summer World: A Season of Bounty as I sit here, but mostly I'm just listening to the birds and watching light play on the water. It's almost too hot to read--my brain just wants a siesta.
Heinrich says, "Summer is a time of green, urgency, lots of love lost and found. It is the most intense time of year, when the natural world of the northern hemisphere is almost suddenly populated with billions of animals awakening from dormancy, and billions more arriving from the tropics. Almost overnight there is a wild orgy of courting, mating, and rearing young. The main order of business in summer is reproduction."
For purposes of this book, "summer" is the period from May through October (the other six months of the year are beautifully covered in his book Winter World). Clearly at this point of the season I think we've moved beyond orgy into the rearing young phase, at least judging by the languorous mood prevailing today. There's more simple play happening than fooling around, in other words. (Cole Porter's lyrics to "Too Darn Hot" spring to mind.) A juvenile sparrow just chased a chickadee around a pine tree. And a few hours south of Maine, my niece's fourth birthday party just began, an all-girl, princess extravaganza. Yesterday my other niece, who turned one on the Solstice, took her first steps, and must've been so excited about it that she stayed up all night long, according to my weary sister. Rearing young is exhausting work--you won't catch me doing it--but it's an essential part of the cycle of life, the mature, summer part. Baby birds are busting out all over now, and adults fly urgently to and fro with beaks full of food. It's the season of bounty and new life, always something new to see, always something new to gather for the memory stores.
Afternoon heat rides
birdsong, trees' green reflections--
my skin's wet with it.
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