smallstreams.com is both a community and a collection of thoughts, images and prose by fishers who all share a love of fishing the intimate waters of our planet... small waters that are thankfully often overlooked by mainstream anglers.
If you enjoy casting a fly to fish that will often wholly fit in your hand, welcome to our home.
I fish because I love to;
because I love the environs where trout are found,
which are invariably beautiful,
and hate the environs where crowds of people are found,
which are invariable ugly;
because of the television commercials,
cocktail parties and assorted social posturing I thus escape;
because, in a world where most men seem to spend their lives doing things they hate,
my fishing is at once an endless source of delight and an act of small rebellion;
because trout do not lie or cheat but respond only to quietude and humility and endless patience;
because I suspect that men are going along this way for the last time,
and I for one don’t want to waste the trip;
because mercifully there are no telephones on trout waters;
because only in the woods can I find solitude without loneliness;
because bourbon out of an old tin cup tastes better out there;
because maybe someday I will catch a mermaid;
and, finally, not because I regard fishing as being so terribly important but because
I suspect that so many of the other concerns of men are equally unimportant – and not nearly so much fun.
-John Voelker (Robert Traver ) (spacing/formatting added for emphasis… -GS)
This was the winning entry of the smallstreams.com writing contest a few years ago… brought back to life recently in the forum by the author, member John M. Larson (Alpinefly.) Enjoy…
The Winter had been bitterly cold and dreary. Then again, what more can be said of Colorado’s San Luis Valley; the cold spot of the nation most of the time. With the Sangre De Christo Mountains to the East, the Methodist Mountains to the North, and the San Juan Mountains to the West, arctic air would sweep down into the valley with an unrestrained vengeance. Survival experts will simply tell you that an exposed body would be hypothermic and dead within minutes as the air sucks the water and life out of every living thing. There was something more then just arctic air that had sucked the life out of me on this Christmas day. Seven years before, I was married on this magical day. Now the magic had turned to a bitter divorce. On this Christmas day, I went hunting, more out of tradition then desire.
No movement other than the flicker of an eyelid betrayed the Old Predators presence as he scanned the ambush site for movement his trusty weapon of choice clasped in a sinewy right hand. He had taken up his chosen position at the side of the clearing while the sun descended ever lower on its slow arc to the western horizon and temporary oblivion.
Past experience had taught the old man well. He was well aware of the suns reluctance to surrender its position of dominance to the approaching darkness. He was also aware that this struggle for dominance would probably allow him enough light by which to carry out his mission. He knew he would need to act swiftly and silently if he was to succeed.
Observations from two previous sorties with some careful stalking, had determined where and when would be the best time and position from which to strike with the greatest chance of success. His preys inbred instinct for survival and uncanny ability to sense imminent danger, coupled with excellent vision, made an undetected attack across the open clearing almost impossible in daylight.
Susan’s mother needed help. She had lost her husband to a heart attack a couple years earlier, and now she knew that she couldn’t keep the house alone. Susan went on Sunday to spend a week with her mother in the difficult work of deciding what to take to an apartment, what to give to the children, what to donate, and what to discard.
For a week at least, I was alone in the house. The nightly phone calls didn’t make up for the quiet rooms and the lonely breakfasts and the dinners for one.
It was high summer, and by early morning the city air was hot, heavy and gray. The slow and noisy commute to the office was a trial, the work day was a conviction, and the slow drive home was the sentence. My boss appreciated me for my work. I had seen that appreciation fade for other people when their contributions fell off for a quarter. I’m good at what I do. But it’s draining to know that at a division meeting, every other person in the room is hoping you fail, so they might take your place.
By Wednesday life was intolerable. On Wednesday afternoon I squeezed my remaining staff meetings into Thursday morning. Most of my clients were at their golf resorts, or at their lake homes, and would not be trying to reach me. That evening I packed a small bag with clothes, and a backpack with what I would need to sleep two nights in the woods. I packed one banty bamboo rod in a fiberboard tube, and the little reel with the four weight line, and flies for a couple of days of fishing. That evening I told Susan where I was going, and we said we wanted to see one another for an early dinner on Sunday.
Thursday was as hot and dismal as every other day. I made it through the morning, and left the office at noon. My bags were in the trunk. At a fast food place I bought twelve hundred empty calories to carry me through the afternoon. Traffic was light on the way out of the city, and I drove fast on the interstate, with the radio tuned to jazz. Continue reading Two Miles In… the story beyond the poem.
This is one of the Maldives Islands… Gerard’s photo… from his post: Maldives Islands – Indian Ocean… So… pictures like this and the stories behind them are what you’re missing if you aren’t a member of the Community…
A decade or more ago I decided computing would be a necessary part of being employable. Guess what I found… yeah, Smallstreams. It was then very much Adam and the big cat team, I’ve been an on and off poster ever since.
Me? Born in 1950 in the UK, where we still had food rationing as a result of the 2nd World war and the UK being up to its neck with debt. I grew up with a vague feeling of never eating quite enough, which was not quite true. My country cousins, farmers, all had an excess of meats and fruit and vegetables. When we visited we would have over full stomachs. I did OK at school, guess I could have stayed on after age 16, but my exams did not promise much so I was apprenticed as a chef . A month later exam results came in, I was offered a place in the 6th form. Too late. I already had an income, mates who knew rock and roll clubs (and good pre taliban afgani stuff,) etc… etc… and wow!
