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There's a thick fog hanging on the ground this morning. The ground is still covered in snow and a light, cold rain is falling. Winter is here. And, so are my seasonal blues. I spend hours tucked under a blanket, caught up in the words of Edward Abbey, living in my own Desert Solitare.
I dream about blue skies, big mountains, cutthroat, and the warmth of the sun in the high desert.
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Happy Halloween, everyone! While everyone else is posting photos of wonderfully carved out pumpkins and clever costumes, I'm afraid the best I can do is 'introduce' you to a mystery.
Several years ago I was urged to read The Royal Wulff Murders by Keith McCafferty, or any of his books. I declined. The idea of a whodoneit mystery with a bit of the wild west and fly fishing thrown in came across as a bit kitschy to me. Maybe it would be 'entertaining,' but I like to think I need more substance to my books for them to be worth it.
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Last week was heavy. I’m sure I’m not alone in thinking that. I’ve spent some time over the past few weeks contemplating the changing of the seasons, how my seasons in life are altering me.
I reminded myself, and am now reminding all of you, to embrace the song of fall.
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"Friend,
When you stray or sit and take your ease
On heath or hill, or under spreading trees,
Pray leave no traces of your wayside meal,
No paper bag, no scattered orange peel,
Nor daily journal littered on the grass;
Others may view these with distaste, and pass;
Let no one say, and say it to your shame,
That all was beauty here until you came."
I've driven past this sign half a dozen times. I always make Jacob pull over so I can read it, admire the flowers growing around it, and feel the breeze flowing through the mountains. Winding down the dirt road I always ask aloud; 'I wonder who wrote that?' And, I forget I've wondered just as soon as I say it. The sentiment, the lesson, is what always stuck.
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We're 17 days away from Durango! So naturally, it's time to start packing!
Here's a look at a few of the outdoorsy things I love and plan to take with me.
Read moreAs anglers, when we think of Norman Maclean, our minds jump to A River Runs Through It, about never leaving Montana, and how Jesus himself was a fly fisherman. We've all got a copy of the book; personally, I own three, one of which has never been touched. And while it will always be a special book, for me, it simply doesn't compare to Maclean's final novel, Young Men and Fire.
My copy is used, purchased second hand, for only a couple bucks. It's worn and dirty and even carries the slightest hint of smoke, probably due to being read at night around a campfire. With the news of several wildfires popping up all over the southwest, the largest being in Durango, I pulled my old friend off the bookshelf. It seemed fitting.
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