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. 

Trout Finding & Quality Time

What a great way to spend post-thanksgiving! My son, Lewis and I took off to the mountains of North Carolina for a couple of days. We both had a small backpack, a flyrod and waders. Our goal was to find trout. We headed to the NC Trout capital, Bryson City, NC. Chasing the NC Wildlife map, we happened on Alarka Creek. Alarka is a hatchery-supported creek that begins in the Big Laurel area of the US Forest Service land and meanders it’s way thru rocky knolls, farms and woods finally ending at Fontana Lake. This classic NC mountain community is beautiful. We found a pull-off, wader-ed up and got right to

“work” in the stream. Lewis quickly connected with a brown trout using an Elk haired caddis. The Elk Hair Caddis imitates an adult caddis fly or a small stonefly which is right down a trout’s alley! We fished a couple spots along the Alarka and then decided to go to the Deep Creek which flows through Bryson City. 

Celebrated not only for its fishing, Deep Creek has several hiking loops for hikers and bikers alike. It was obvious we were in a pandemic as the parking lot was stacked. Everyone was socially distancing and wearing masks, especially us guys waist deep in the water….sans masks. Once again, it didn’t take Lewis long. Using what anglers call a Dry Dropper, he pulled out yet another brown trout. A

Dry Dropper rig consists of a dry fly, in this case, the Elk Hair Caddis, with a nymph or wet fly attached to it via a piece of tippet. The dry fly acts not only as an attractant with a hook, but also as an indicator for the nymph. As the fly floats, if it quickly goes underwater, you just might have a fish on the line. In this case, ole brownie chose the fly, not the underwater nymph. Having lost his fishing net, I watched him use is hat as a net. It was funny yet also a classically industrious use of his lid. 

 After we hiked about three miles and fished Deep Creek, we headed into Bryson City for supper. The Smokey Mountain Train was in town and the Christmas lights lit up making downtown look like a Hallmark movie. We ate at The Everett Hotel & Bistro, which I will say was an excellent choice. We topped off the meal with a fudge brownie in celebration of the brown landings Lewis had that day. I enjoyed what is probably the best double shot expresso I’ve ever had. Getting dark, we headed to the Super 8 in Cherokee, NC. It had been years since I had visited the Cherokee Reservation. 

 The next morning, we headed to what is called the “Trophy Waters” of Raven Fork Creek. We Fished about four hours. I finally got on the board with a beautiful Rainbow Trout; nothing huge, but as always, some of the best fighting pound for pound. I told Lewis I wanted to take him on a quick trip down memory lane, so we exited the water. As a child, I remember my parents taking my brother and I to Cherokee, staying at one of those side of the river hotels. I remember seeing the outdoor drama “Unto these hills”. A road that was always etched in my memory was the Tsali Blvd. which turned into 441 North. This is probably the most incredible representation of the Smokey Mountains you can drive on. We peaked the mountains at Newfoundland Gap, near Clingman’s Dome. Lewis, like me as a child saw the wonder of God’s handy work. Pretty amazing views. We drove on toward Sugarland Visitors Center and turned left to another amazing memory of my childhood… Cades Cove. 

 My memory as a child was the family camping and riding bicycles around the 11 mile loop road looking at the hundreds of deer, occasional bear and wild turkey. Cades Cove, Tennessee is an isolated valley in the heart of the Great Smokey Mountains. The valley was home to numerous settlers before the formation of the national park. Some of their homes are still there today. Today Cades Cove, the single most popular destination for visitors to the park, attracts more than two million visitors. It felt like 500,000 were there on this day! It was much more crowded than I remembered. I’m sure COVID had something to do with that. As I expected, we saw bear and deer. We also saw people violating the signs that said do not approach the bear. I had my iPhone ready to capture the stupidity on video if necessary. 

 Thru traffic, we made our way out of the park to Gatlinburg. Evidence of the forest fires were still on the sloped hill sides. We ate at Big Daddy's Pizzeria, which I would recommend (great crust & perfect marinara sauce). As mentioned, our goal was trout finding, but what I found was a 26 year old who not only has perfected the art of fishing, but who has become a man I am very proud to call my son. 

Quality time is special and this two day trip is one I’ll deposit in my memory bank for a long time.

"Come on, we're burning daylight!" -John Wayne

John Wayne's classic, “The Cowboys” is probably my favorite western movie. It’s a story of boys becoming men. I know I've watched it 40 times or more. 

 

When his ranch workers desert Wil Anderson, a Belgrade, Montana rancher, to join the gold rush and the

dreams of getting rich, he is forced to find recruits for his upcoming 400-mile long cattle drive to Belle Fourche, South Dakota. One of the coolest western actors that ever gleamed a Hollywood screen, Slim Pickens, who in the movie was Anse Peterson, suggested to Anderson at the saloon that he should consider the young kids that were at the local schoolhouse. He interviewed them, and with hesitation, hired them on to work his cattle-drive.

 

To keep from making the movie a spoiler, I'll stop there and only encourage you to watch this excellent movie. It is about growing up, fathering, and even when the going gets tough...completing the job!

 

So, when I first landed at the Bozeman Yellowstone airport a number of years ago, I noticed that it is

located in the heart of Belgrade. Today, being a little early for our flight, Liz and I decided to tour the small town and drive out into the ranchland. The town is classic Montana; a bar/saloon near the square. 

The ranch land was beautiful. Along the way, in a one-mile stretch, we spotted three bird species. One was the American bald eagle, a majestic bird perched on a power pole. The other was an Osprey with a recent catch in his talons. The other was a falcon, sitting high on a tree. And if that wasn't enough, we spotted a large golden eagle take off with a fine sized snake in his grip! All beautiful flying birds of prey. Not too shabby for a side trip to the airport!

 

Well, Montana was fun this week, but tomorrow morning I’ll say, “We’re burning daylight.” If you don’t get this sentence, you haven’t seen the movie!

A land filled with wonder.

 The amazing thing about Montana is the untouched, vast wilderness. Whether its the Bob Marshall Forest, Elkhorn Mountain Range, The Mission Mountains, or Glacier National Forest, the eye can see

the big picture, but honestly there are square miles of property that few men if any have ever stepped. And the water melting from the Glacier topped mountain create streams and rivers so clear you can see the

bottom of the entire river bed. And water that is so cold you will freeze to death if not careful. This country is wild and untamed. You can see it in the mountains as well as the people who live here. They understand dirt roads and snowdrifts. Its nothing for them to see elk, deer, bear, and even the occasional moose. 

We ended our tour across Montana at Glacier today. It was somewhat crowded, but who wouldn't want to feel the magnificence and splendor of the Rocky Mountains? We drove back south thru Missoula County and cross the legendary Blackfoot. After driving the state, I decided my dream ranch would be in Helmville. Look it up on the map! Ranchers paradise!

We ended the day back in Helena where we ate at the Wassweiler Restaurant. We celebrated

friendship, talked about the trip, and planned our day's next adventure which is floating the Missouri River and flyfishing. Tired? Yes. Filled to bream, absolutely. 

Go North They Said

Today we traveled north toward Kalispell and Whitefish. Driving thru the Flathead Indian reservation we witnessed the incredible Mission Mountains with their high, jagged tops. Then looking up at McDonald Peak which touches the bonds of the atmosphere at 9,820 feet; all I could say was, “truly amazing!"

I’ve spent a lot of time from Bozeman to Helena. I’d call it my "Montana base." It's where my friend and fellow auctioneer Dan Pat lives.

We stayed the night in Missoula as a stopover. I was originally intrigued by Missoula years ago after reading the book and watching the movie, "A River Runs Through It." It's the story of author and fly fisherman, Norman  Maclean. Maclean’s family move to this city in 1909. In 1931 Maclean married his sweetheart Jessie Burns who was from Wolf Creek Montana, a town I’ve driven thru many times on the way to Craig Montana. In the book and movie, Maclean’s character said, “I am haunted by water”. I once read a commentary about his writings that made so much sense to me. It answered the question, what was he haunted by?  He was haunted by the memories of his time on the Blackfoot River and his memories, like the waters, run deep. His life was linked to water.

 

After passing over the Mission Mountains we entered Polson, Montana, and witnessed the pure, clear waters of Flathead Lake. This lake is the evidence of the final lifespan of a great glacier centuries ago.

It is considered one of the cleanest lakes in the world for its size. Its water level is 2,892 feet above sea level. The lake covers 197 square miles. We drove along the west side of the lake continuing north.

We ended the day eating a fine meal at the Whitefish Lake Restaurant.  Afterward, we visited the south side of Whitefish Lake; a smaller but still large lake that backs up to these beautiful mountains. 

Elizabeth and I shot some pictures together near the Lake. The sun was beginning to set over the mountains and the colors on the water and horizon were amazing. Memories of not just our

time together in Montana, but 36 years of living our lives together is what "haunts" my mind (in a good way!) I realized that our "water" has run so deep. I love Montana, but I love Elizabeth more.