Cladonia Macilenta, Lipstick Powderhorn

Day 154: It's not often that you find a Cladonia you can identify in the field based on macroscopic characteristics and range alone, but given squamule size and shape, habitat (exposed to sunlight for the better part of the day), substrate and a few other details, I am going to venture out near the end of the limb to suggest an identification of Cladonia macilenta, commonly called "Lipstick Powderhorn." There are several other species in western Washington which also have red apothecia, but most have some other morphological feature which takes them out of the running. Several Douglas-firs along the exposed southern shoreline of Lake Scanewa bore a thick growth of tall, red-headed "push-pins," rather too dry and brittle for this early in the season. Lest you think that they might have only been recently exposed to the sun by storm removal of branches, I can assure you that these particular trees have stood in the open for twenty years or more, based on personal observation. I have many fond memories of Lake Scanewa, having sat with my fishing buddy along the shore with our lines in the water, waiting for one reluctant fish to take our bait. It was never a very productive spot, but the companionship was good, and the lack of other fishermen left Nature to speak undisturbed to us in the words of breeze and lapping water. She is never silent, Nature, and even as I muttered to myself as I examined lobes and podetia in minute detail, she was in my ear, reminding me softly of a friend now committed to memory. Good days, those.

Mushroom Memories

Day 283: By and large, mushroom hunters are secretive people who defend their favourite locations with a wall of silence. Many of us prefer to go out alone, and some (myself included) have been known to lay a false trail by parking well away from the most productive spots and then hoofing it overland through terrain which might deter any local who happened to recognize our vehicles. Occasionally, though, we are moved to include a trusted friend in our pursuits, but only after a thorough vetting. I was introduced to a particularly productive patch of chanterelles by my fishing buddy's brother-in-law Eddie. The three of us picked it for a number of years until the bridge washed out, cutting off the only feasible access. When Uncle Eddie passed away, his mushroom basket came to me and although I now use it to hold wool when I'm spinning (preferring to keep my fungi hidden in a bag in my pack), its golden sheen is enhanced by a varnish of memories from the time I spent with Eddie and Sande in the woods. After the bridge was rebuilt, our chanterelle spot was found by commercial pickers as was my alternate location and, within a mere pair of years, they had depleted the sites beyond any hope of recovery. By then, however, I'd found another spot and had been judiciously picking my "one fry-up and a bowl of soup" in a manner which left the mycelium healthy.

Before he retired from his job as the Park's Plant Ecologist, my dear friend Arnie asked me if I'd take him 'shrooming. There would have been no person in whom I could have placed a greater trust, so I agreed. We gathered just enough chanterelles for our two households to have a meal apiece, leaving behind the buttons and older fruiting bodies to continue the cycle. Arnie moved to southern Oregon the following spring, and we've stayed in touch, sharing our botanical discoveries regularly. Yesterday, I received a gift from him: a luxuriously soft bamboo-viscose/cotton t-shirt imprinted with (you guessed it!) two gorgeous chanterelles.

The Flat Run

Day 20: The creek shall remain nameless in this essay because there's a 14" trout waiting for me behind that big rock, I'm positive. And I know what it will take to get it out.

My fishing buddy and I spent a lot of time on this creek, but even before I met him, I'd discovered the boons the Flat Run had to offer. Oh, it's flowing pretty good now because it's autumn and we've had a lot of rain, but in summer, it's slick and smooth. You can't see fish, but flip a beadhead water-boatman just to the left of that rock and let it drift. That ol' trout will take it in a heartbeat because he thinks he's safe down there. Nobody goes down the steep embankment to the Flat Run. Except me...and Sande, in his day.

When we first met, Sande was spry and sure-footed, but as the years went by, he no longer felt safe wading over the slippery rocks in the creek. I'd station him at the Flat Run and then go half a mile upstream. "I'll scare 'em down to you," I'd tell him...and sure enough, by the time I'd worked my way down to my partner, he'd have his dinner on the stringer. The Flat Run seldom let us down. But age is more than an inconvenience, and eventually, he was forced to find easier places to fish and I...well, I didn't feel right going without him.

Sande is gone now. He passed away this last spring. Looking down at the Flat Run, my thoughts were back with him on those sunny, summery days. There's a lunker down there with his name on it, and by golly, I'm going to catch it for him next year, just for old times' sake.

A Rainbow For Sande

Day 152: The memorial service for my fishing buddy Sande was held today at his church, and we were fortunate to get through it with power. It was very windy when I drove into town, large branches flying across the roads, traffic signals not working, rain coming down in buckets, barrels and bathtubs, 150' Douglas firs bending almost to the breaking point, and the sky almost black. It had subsided somewhat by the time I left, the sun breaking through a narrow gap just long enough to create a rainbow against the dark clouds. It seemed symbolic, given the circumstances. Is it any wonder that rainbows feature in so many mythologies? They make us look up when we are downcast and dispirited.

Fishing Buddies

 Day 145: I don't have very many photos of my fishing buddy Sande, and even fewer of the two of us together. We were always too busy pulling in fish to take time out to pose. For almost a decade, we fished the local waters at least one day per week, year-'round and despite the weather. Then as his health began to fail, the trips grew more and more infrequent, and ceased altogether after this photo was taken in 2013 shortly after his admittance to a care center.

We met under unusual circumstances. I was fishing in one of my accustomed spots and saw a man working his way toward me along a stretch of closed water. I mistook him for a poacher, just as he mistook me for a small Asian man until he got within speaking distance. I'd been ready to read him the riot act, but instead, invited him to fish beside me. The fish were being reluctant that morning (a cold, windy March day), but eventually I hooked what promised to be a whopper. As I was reeling it in, playing it carefully so that it wouldn't break my light line, my new acquaintance edged toward me. Worried that he was going to try to be "helpful" with the landing, I horsed my fish, got it stuck in the rocks at my feet, and -ping!- the line parted. It was then that I made a foolish move and tried to grab it. My foot hit a slick, round rock and I plunged face-first into the lake, emerging with nothing dry but one small spot on the back of my head which had been protected by my hat.

Since I lived nearby, I told my companion I was going to go home and change clothes, but before I could leave, he hooked and landed a nice trout. No fisherman walks away when the Bite is on, so I stayed, shivering and wet. Sande, gentleman that he was, gave me his jacket, and the two of us fished until we had our limits. On the way back to our cars, he said, "Would you consider going fishing with me again some time?" I replied, "I think I'd like that, yes." Thus began our friendship.

On another occasion during a telephone conversation, he revealed to me that he'd gone fishing without me, and had landed two nice salmon in one of our favourite spots. I was feeling rather put out that he hadn't invited me along, but even moreso when he added, "...and then I thought, 'What do I need her for?'" Now totally wounded, I was so deeply steeped in self-pity that it took several minutes for his next sentence to register: "...and then I woke up." He had been relating a dream!

Such was his sense of humour, filled with "gotchas" where you least expected them. He could lead you on for hours before dropping the bomb which let you know your leg had been pulled halfway to the moon. He was notorious for his jokes wherever he went, whether it was at a fishing hole or in the grocery store, but he was never unkind and seldom spoke harshly of anyone or anything.

Several years ago, he was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease. Yesterday morning, I received a call from one of his daughters saying that he was failing. I drove down to be at his bedside, holding his hand as he slipped quietly from life.

Christmas 2014

Day 74: Thank you, my readers, for the wishes you asked me to convey to this wonderful man who has been my friend and fishing buddy for many years. Some few of you have met him; others know him only from my descriptions. He knows and remembers your personal stories as well, because I often speak of you to him. Occasionally he surprises me with a question: "How are the girls back east doing? How's that man in New Zealand who lost his leg? Do you still hear from your friend in Chicago, the geocacher?" "Yes," I reply, "he/she asked me about you last week." You are a part of his world, and he loves you for caring about him, even though you may only be known to him as a name or a photo. He is touched by your sentiments, which through me, become bright spots in his day. When I passed your greetings along to him yesterday, he said, "Tell them thank you for me," and so I am, by bringing you this image from our Christmas, a good Christmas because it was spent with my old, dear friend.

The Finished Shawl

Day 53: No sage philosophy today, folks. Friends in several different venues have been after me to post a photo on completion of the shawl I've been knitting for my fishing buddy. You're probably going to ask, "For a man?" Yes, because he's always cold these days, and with shaky hands and arms he can't always control, it's hard to stay covered up in a blanket. This drops over the head and can't come loose because the center section is made of "fingers" woven together. The remainder of the shawl is knit in basket-weave, carrying the theme.

For many years, I fished alone. Then one chilly day in March when I was working the waters of Alder Lake to no avail near the mouth of the Nisqually River, I spotted someone coming along the bank, fishing pole in hand. I watched him carefully, ready to bawl somebody out for fishing in the river out of season (the lake was open, but not the river), but he seemed to be coming steadily on toward my spot. When he got within speaking distance, we exchanged the typical civilities of fishermen and he settled in to fish beside me.

Neither of us were having any luck, and I was just starting to think that I might go home and warm up when I got a bite. I could tell it was a good-sized fish, so I was playing it carefully. My erstwhile companion sidled over a little closer...closer...and I was seized with a sudden fear that he was going to try to be "helpful" by grabbing my line, not realizing what I was doing. My attention shifted to him and off the fish, and as luck would have it, just as I got it near the shore, it got stuck between two rocks. My reaction was to jerk (bad move!), and I heard a sickening "ping" as my line parted. I looked down, and saw the fish, somewhat dazed, only inches away from my feet. I made my second bad move of the day, and thirty seconds later, rose out of the water with nothing dry but one spot on the back of my head. A slick rock had been my undoing, and I'd gone face-first into the cold, clear waters of the lake.

Now frozen to the bone and wet besides, I announced that I was going home for a change of clothes. At that moment, Sande hooked a fish. The Bite was on! I do not believe there is a fisherman alive who could have walked away at that moment, nor did I. I cast my line and reeled in a nice silver. We kept fishing, the two of us, until we'd limited. Halfway through when he noticed I was visibly shivering, Sande gave me his jacket like a true gentleman.

As we walked back to our respective cars, the man I'd just met asked me a question: "Would you like to go fishing with me again some time?" And that was how our relationship began.

Sande is 94 now, suffering with Parkinson's and living in an elder-care facility. I see him often, and when he's able, we talk about the good old days and all the fish we caught. Once upon a time, he wrapped me in his jacket. Now I will wrap him in this shawl, our friendship coming full-circle.

The Coffee Story

Day 364: Somehow I got up this morning without having heard that today is National Coffee Day. I am shocked to think that this event might have slipped by without my notice, and I am grateful to the friend who served up the jolt which wakened me to the fact. It certainly merited brewing another pot, even though I usually switch to tea in the afternoon. That said, now I must relate the Coffee Story since it is singularly appropriate to the day.

My friends will vouch for the fact that I will drink almost any coffee, good or bad, regardless of age. I draw the line at coffee with mold floating on the surface, although I have been known to pour it out of a thermos, week-old and room temperature, drinking it down without evincing any sign of distaste. I drink camp coffee, the kind which forces you to filter it between your clenched teeth to reduce the amount of grounds ingested, and it is not uncommon for me to take up the cup I left in the microwave yesterday to be drunk without reheating (or reheated, as the mood strikes me). I like it so strong that you can stand a spoon up in the cup, and I generally make a 12-cup pot and leave it on the counter until it's gone, whether that's in one day or three. You can't waste coffee.

There is, however, one way I will not drink coffee: sweetened. Add sugar, and it becomes a different drink. Cream or milk is okay, but sugar, never. Thus I set myself up to fall into a trap laid by my fishing buddy.

We'd been washing bait for several hours on Swofford Pond, and to have something to keep my hands busy while I waited for a bite, I'd eaten all my snacks and had drunk the last of the coffee I'd brought along. Bored and needing something else to do, I asked Sande if he had any coffee left. I failed to see the twinkle in his eye when he offered it to me, just as surely as I neglected to remember that he sweetens his brew rather lavishly. I took up his thermos and pulled a hearty swig directly from the neck. It hit my tongue with a cloying splash which caused my mouth to rebel with the same vehemence reserved for the aforementioned mold when it takes me by surprise. In other words, I spat and gagged, and when I regained my voice, I swore prodigiously.

Sande, with the demeanor he always reserved for people who fell for a prank said, calmly, "I thought you said you wanted some coffee." He'd known full well what my reaction was going to be.

"I did," I replied with as much equanimity as I could muster. "I wanted joe, but dammit, you gave me joanne!"

Thanksgiving

Day 57: The girls will be bringing my fishing buddy out of the nursing center to spend the day in the bosom of family. We'll dine together, watch a little football, and then he'll nod off in his chair as old folks do, the younger people caught up in conversations he cannot follow. If he wakes, perhaps we'll talk about the fish we've caught, the hikes to mountain lakes, the people we've met and the adventures we've shared in our long friendship. We'll laugh again over the "shortcut" which took us five and a half hours out of our way and ran the gas tank down to fumes, and at the mishap which cemented us as piscine partners (on that day, I fell face-first into the lake). We'll speak of shad and surf perch, of lunker trout and nets filled with writhing smelt; the smell of tide flats and labor of digging mud shrimp will come to our memories in brighter, gayer colors than they wore at the time.

If I am to be thankful upon this day, it is for recollections such as these and the chance to re-live them with a man who has been as important to me as my own father. If, as I suspect, this is our last Thanksgiving together, I am truly thankful for the chance to be with him one more time.

Aw, Nuts!

Day 333: I went to visit my fishing buddy today and took him out in his wheelchair for a long ramble around the compound. We sat for a while at the fishing pond without fishing, simply enjoying the sun and friendship, watching the big trout swim and rise to take dragonflies from the surface. The grounds are park-like: immaculate lawns, old trees casting deep shade, covered walkways, carefully groomed shrubs, and everywhere, fat Douglas squirrels scurry about for the peanuts residents provide. As I was watching one particularly plump female, my eye fell on this happy sculpture on a pedestal under a central canopy. I angled around, trying to get the real squirrel in the shot with it, but unfortunately the depth of field I had to use to get a good exposure on the sculpture turned the live animal into a blur. You can still see her to the left of the statue's tail, sitting upright in a similar pose.

Fishing Buddies

Day 327: Day before yesterday, my fishing buddy was ensconced as a permanent resident in a nursing care facility about 45 minutes from my home. His daughters had told me that there was a fishing pond on site, and expressed the hopes that I could visit and take him fishing. Today, I wheeled him down to the pond where, using a borrowed pole and off-brand imitation PowerBait, he proved that he hasn't lost his touch. As a guest, I am only allowed to assist him, so I cast out his line and placed the pole in his hands. About fifteen minutes later, the tip of the rod was jerked sharply downward and the game was on. With a flunky drag on the reel, it took him five minutes to bring the fish out from under the dock and into range of the waiting net. Unfortunately, fish (a gorgeous rainbow) had swallowed the hook deeply and couldn't be released. That said, the pond is well stocked with trout of similar size and larger, and only the threat of showers and dropping temperatures urged my old pal from the dock. I suspect we'll be spending many hours here.