Christmas Music

 

​I’ll admit, when Thanksgiving is over, I somewhat dread Christmas music. “I’m dreaming of a White Christmas”, “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” and so many others are played in every restaurant, gas station, and waiting room to the point of overkill. 

However, there are two pieces that speak to my heart. “O, Holy Night” and Handel’s “Messiah.” A time of Advent ushers into the heart of a believer, the incarnation of the Christ child. 

Recently, a close friend sent me a text and said, “What are you doing tomorrow night? We’d like to give you and Elizabeth a Christmas gift.” They picked us up at 6:30 and took us to Centenary Methodist Church to hear the entire performance of Handel’s Messiah as performed by the Winston Salem Symphony. 

Most people are familiar with Part 2, No. 39, The Hallelujah Chorus. As the violins welcome the chorus’ soprano, alto, tenor, and bass singing Hallelujah, they are echoing the scripture found in Revelation 19:6 “Lord God Omnipotent reigneth.” Later, “and He shall reign forever and ever”, Revelation 11:15. 

Seated in the nave of the church, after a 2 ½ hour performance, I discovered the genius of German-born George Frideric Handel. While known as a Christmas piece, only part one of the enduring classic relates to the birth of Christ. The thesis of the piece of music is the entire story of the gospel, found in both the Old & New Testaments.

                              

The experience was received with great appreciation of the gift, and of going with friends, fellow believers and being reminded of the Gift of God that is free to all people who seek Him. 

 

Field & Stream

 

I don’t really remember where the love for the field became the stream. As a child, I remember my brother subscribing to the magazine, Field & Stream. I fell in love with the notion of sitting in a cold duck blind either on upland waters or in a 6x8 box on stilts somewhere in the Core or Pamlico Sounds. When my son was too young to remember, I’d haul off to Hyde County which at the time was the eastern flyway mecca of waterfowl. We’d sleep in dives, get up at 4 am, wader up, and walk into impoundments of flooded corn aka cocaine for ducks. Unlike deer hunting, waterfowl hunting is a social sport. As my son, Lewis gained in years, his first love was deer hunting. He reached the local pinnacle of a nice 10-point buck at our family farm. However, as the taxing duties of climbing a deer stand, sitting on a cold seat, still and alone waned, Lewis was introduced to The Duck Commander where he learned the tricks of the duck call and later was led to &saving faith by Phil Robertson, the Duck Commander himself. We would later drive 5 hours one evening to the Greenville, NC Duck Expo to meet him in person. 

Lewis and I took many trips duck hunting, watching the sunrise and the feathered creatures land in our group of decoys. Those days were incredibly exciting. We experienced many reservoirs in the local area and sounds, salt marshes, and natural lakes along the North Carolina Coastline. 

The evolution of the human heart is interesting. Lewis was introduced to one of my great loves in his twenties. As a child, I was hooked on fishing. I remember bungee cording my tackle box to my Honda XR75 and putting my bait caster between my legs and over the handlebars so I could motorcycle to local farm ponds. My local friend Grover and I would “tear them up.” We kind of had a competition as to who would catch the most. My Dad and Mom during this time would take the ole john boat and use a flyfishing rod and popping bugs to catch the bream and bass at the local ponds as well. I was intrigued by the art of a wisping line being laid inches from the bank. The fish would pop the topwater lure, take it under and they would pull the fishing line into the boat to net the fish. That was probably my genesis of flyfishing. 

I purchased the entry-level Clearwater rod and reel in my twenties and returned to the ponds I roamed as a child. A few times I would go to the mountains to find a trout stream to try my luck. Honestly, it was more an experience of seeing the wonder of our mountains than landing the beautiful rainbow, strong brown or native brookie. The year 1992 created a vision in my mind of a beautiful story and the epic rivers of Montana. I visited Montana on a family trip in the early 2000s where we saw the rivers, but we never stopped to fish or wade. Finally, after many years, Elizabeth and I spent a week in Helena, Montana whereby a random yellow page ad, we chose a guide to put us on the Missouri River. Craig, Montana. Trout central. Our guide, who is now a close friend, Taylor Todd, was not only a guide but a teacher. After 8 hours on the river and 20-25 large rainbows, Elizabeth’s mammoth brown; I knew I had to introduce Lewis to the stream experience. The next summer, we came back to Montana, this time with Lewis. The experience was equal to the previous year. I remember seeing his eyes when he landed his first fish. The memory is almost like slow motion. We were surrounded by Wolf Creek and Dearborn Canyons that line the wide flowing river once traversed by Meriwether Lewis and William Clark.
Connecting with the water’s current and feeling a tight fly line with a trout on is almost electric.

On that trip, I watched the evolution of a committed duck hunter to an all-in trout fisherman. Since that trip, I have watched Lewis become a master at the art and science of all thing’s trout. It has increased his geographic knowledge of the North Carolina Mountains. Truly, a large part of my life has been in the field and stream. All things said the experience has been grandeur. The sunrises have made me speechless; the sound of the streams has given me peace. The inheritance my son has gained being connected to nature gives me great satisfaction. 

No Grizzly, but plenty of Brookies

 Brook Trout.

So often, when you go fishing, the subsequent two questions asked by friends are 1.) How many did you catch, 2.) how big were they.

To be honest, I'm that guy. I love to land rainbows and browns in the net. I love it when they are 18 to 24 inches. I'll even call it a success when you get a 12-incher, especially in North Carolina.

Last week, my son Lewis and I went to Helena, Montana to drift the Missouri from Craig, Montana to the Mid Canyon past the confluence of the Dearborn River. We landed a total of about 12 fish averaging 12-14 inches. Not an epic day, but was pure satisfaction. What I didn't know was the following days where going to be even a better experience with small fish.

Let me explain.

My close friend, Dan Pate, offered me his Polaris General side by side to go the a Diehl Ranch in Winston Montana. The ranch owner was gracious enough to give us access to a small creek coming out of the Elkhorn Mountain Range. This mountain range is southwestern Montana,  part of the Rocky Mountains and contains approximately 300,000 acres. It is an inactive volcanic mountain range with the highest point being Crow Peak at 9,414 ft, right next to Elkhorn Peak. The mountain range is surrounded by the capital city of Helena, one of my favorite towns, Townsend, Whitehall and Winston; Home of the Big Bull Restaurant. 

We parked the side by side next to the creek, a steep drive to the bank. During runoff, this creek can be very wide and fast, but being mid-september, the creek was 10-12 feet wide in the broadest areas. Logs brought down by the snow capped runoff lined the creek. Rocks to numerous you couldn't count. Most of the creek was shallow only inches deep. But about every turn, you would find pockets of deeper moving water. My son Lewis who I taught to fly fish many years ago showed me that he was no longer the student, but the teacher; showing me how to rig the right dry fly and dropper (nymph). We were in the back country, so wildlife abounded. I asked Dan to provide for me bear spray as this was Grizzly country, so he provided me a chest holstered Ruger 44 magnum. This gave me some security, but Lewis would yell "Hey Bear" around every turn to scare away any potential visitors. 

Lewis "high sticked" his rig because the cover along the creek wouldn't provide the vision that most people have about fly fishing. High sticking is where you sneak up to the area you want to fish, drop the set and let the dry fly be your set indicator (like a bobber). 

We were going after the coveted fish, the North American Brook Trout. The "brookie" was introduced to Montana from the east in 1889. They desire small, cold headwater streams.  It wasn't long before Lewis caught the first one. The colorful dots on its side is what distinguishes it from the popular rainbow and frisky brown trout.

No, they weren't big, but we were as excited about catching them as we were the larger rainbows the previous day.  Lewis landed a nice rainbow that day, but the overriding catch of the day was brookies. 

Fishing is one of my favorite sports. When you have a guide like Lewis, it makes it that much more fun. When you catch the elusive, colorful small stream brookie.....well....I guess it doesn't get any better than that.