Just a little further Lord, I can almost see the dawn.

Just one small rest before the light of day.

If I can catch my breath, I’m sure I can continue on.

Just a little further Lord, help me find my way.

 

Just a little help Lord, lend me your shoulder when I stand.

The way is hard and I’m weary in my soul.

Strengthen my resolve to go where you would lead

Just a little help Lord, for I am only a broken man.

 

What draws us to the untouched reaches in pursuit of a fish?

Is it the nosing rise of trout to a perfectly cast fly?

Is it the changing hues of light on the canyon wall as the sun pours empty its cup?

Perhaps it’s the uncountable stars that by night showers us in awe and wonder.

 

No, I think it’s restoration.

Amid the burdens of the day, these places heal our wounds.

Each cast is the unfurling of doubts and each adventure the stirring within our soul.

 

We come to make stories against the backdrop of God’s creation.

We come as men seeking only adventure and the rise of a fish.  

 

Rain.... An Observation

As he stood there with the cool breeze blowing through his hair, he searched to find himself. He could not.

All he could see with his blank stare was the tree’s leaves turning over in unison, like the applause of a grateful audience.

Then it began, one or two drops at first, then rising into a gradual crescendo as the rain fell.  It walked across the field slowly, yet at the blink

Of an eye it was upon him.

It surrounded the porch on which he sat and held him in its arms as it danced. He was lost in the quite calm that the rain made as it echoed off the tin roof and streamed down the gutters.

For a moment he was the rain and it was him. His mind raced at the sight if this beautiful and mysterious dance that was being performed before him as each drop danced into puddles.

A dance that now involved him, but who was he that the rain should choose to reveal itself, to fall and shower him in its magnificence.

Then, much like it had started, it was over, the rain was gone and once again he was alone.

Soon, the sun would swoop down and steal away all the gifts so graciously left, and there would be no evidence of the beauty he had just witnessed.

Many others would pass by and have no recollection of what had taken place here, but he would know.

He would remember and he would wait until once again he was graced by the dance, and once again he would surrender.

The sun will shine.

Does not your heart cry out? Does not your very soul morn?

We are the lovers, we are the peace makers; and yet, where is our peace.

Are we not reminded with every beat of the heart in our chest of the hurts we have known and the betrayal we have experienced?

Do we not bear witness to the most basic of our flawed nature?

I have cursed at the sun for shining its light, and yet felt its warmth rejuvenate me.

Yes we have cried, and yes we have hurt, but rise up I say to you, rise up and meet the morning sun.

Embrace each ray of light that shines upon your face for we are the lovers, we are the peace makers, and peace shall be ours.  

Ode to the Blackberry

The English call them bramble and in the south, nothing says summer like the fruit that hangs from its vines. I’m speaking of blackberries of course and this summer has been a spectacular year for this wild berry in the Kelly house. It’s early July and to date we’ve managed 14 lbs. of blackberries thus far. While the wild berries may not be as naturally sweet as the store bought berries there are plenty of recipes for this little berry. The tangled web of thorns and vines keep many predators at bay but for those who are persistent and willing to encounter a few scrapes along the way the reward is well worth the effort put forth. Here is what I call an Ode to the blackberry and few of the items we’ve made this year with this year’s berries.

Oh bramble bush of berry and thorn

On the path that lays clear and worn

Once more I’ve come to reap your fruit

That hang from your vine and thorny root

You scratch and claw and resist until I’m done

As I pick away in the summer sun

There will be cobblers, pies, and jelly for all

And wine with dinner come this fall

The berries on your vines are only a part

Of the thing I love that sets you apart

For as we pick in the beautiful weather

You give great cause to bring my family together

The South Holston April 2014

The South Holston (SOHO) is one of the premier trout tail waters in the eastern United States.  When my friend Russ notified me that the SOHO would be maintaining a flow of only 200 cfs we made plans to fish while the water was low.  In a normal year the sulfurs would be hatching and the fish would be looking up by now, but this winter has refused to subside and in return most of the hatches have been delayed awaiting the warm sun of spring. 

We arrived in Bristol eager to make our way to the water.  The high peaks of the ridgeline had a clear line of demarcation and the snow that covered those peaks was a majestic site set against the back drop of a clear blue sky.  While we put on our waders and gathered up our gear it was spitting snow and we noticed how stained the water was from the rains the previous night.  We surveyed the water and selected entry locations and both Russ and I set out to fish.  The wind was at my back but I could feel its sting on my knuckles which were already cracked and brittle from a cold winter.  We fished only a short while before realizing this spot was unproductive so we didn’t bother to take off our waders before loading up and moving on. 

 The pulls offs alongside the river were eerily empty and we questioned if the local fishermen knew something we didn’t.  We pulled under the Weaver Bridge and waded out to test our luck at the small island and saw a couple fly fishermen already working the right bank.  They fished long enough to pull two very nice browns from the bank before calling it a day.  Russ and I assumed their position without so much as a strike and we were worried that our two hour drive may be for nothing.  Now the sun was overhead and the cold morning had given way to a windy but pleasant day.  We loaded up once more and headed for the weir dam.

Russ with the largest rainbow of the day!

We arrived in the parking lot to find other’s already fishing and catching rising trout.  I stepped into the water and noticed right away how crystal clear the water was.  There are no feeder creeks here to stain the water and I was optimistic about our chances.  I tied on a number 20 zebra midge and adjusted my strike indicated to what I thought would be the right depth.  Russ was into fish immediately and had probably landed 8-10 to hand before I had my first fish in the net. This was a day in which Russ caught the first fish, the largest fish, and the most number of fish and I couldn’t have been any happier.  It took a few more adjustments to the strike indicator depth and I too began to get strike after strike.  Several fish broke me off before I adjusted to the ever so slight strikes these fish were providing.  When an opening came Russ moved down into another area and advised that I should move with him.  I was somewhat reluctant to move since I felt like I was finally dialed into the fish where I stood; but as I watched him gets strikes on almost every cast I all but ran to fish beside him.

What was to take place for the next two hours was like nothing I had ever seen while fly fishing.  I’ve fished several tail waters in Tennessee as well as out west and I’ve been covered by caddis during an insane hatch on the Big Horn River in Montana, but I’ve never seen feeding such as this.  While the surface wasn’t bubbling with trout, heads where emerging from the water in a ten foot seam that yielded

Not gonna set any records.....but I'll take them all day long!

strikes at almost every cast.  Russ and I were not “fishing”, we were “catching”…and in large numbers.  I would estimate that I took no less than 30 fish from that hole and Russ had to have taken many more than I.  Each time I cast my fly would only touch the water before the strike indicated sank and another fish was on.  I caught fish after fish with a pent us fury as if I were making up for every one that ever got away.  This was fine for the first 45 minutes and then I realized something. I missed the challenge of which fly would work, and what depth to fish it, and whether there were even fish in the area I was casting.  I’ve returned home from many fishing trips disappointed by the difficulties I encountered on the water and frustrated by the low numbers of fish caught.  Now I found myself having no problems catching a fish on almost every cast and in truth, it became boring.  Here is my advice to any fishermen that may read this blog; celebrate the days when the weather is nice and the fishing is easy, but don’t forget to relish those days when the weather is rotten and the fishing is slow. It’s not just catching fish that bring us back to the water.  It is the challenge and the hope that a fly may be cast and a trout may rise.      

My Only Love

The harvest moon hung high on the horizon and it’s light clothed us as the nights chill just began to settle in. The porch upon which we sat offered open views to the yard and neighborhood below and while our children dreamt we talked. We gazed into one another’s eyes as best we could in the dim light and we remembered. It is these conversations I enjoy the most. We laughed at the ideas we had when we were young newlyweds with no money and a dream. We had ambition and energy and where we are now is where we always wanted to be. Our voices would crack as we discussed those hard times in life we saw together and those we have lost. More than anything it was the quite conversations we enjoyed. Some moments words can’t suffice. In a single gaze you can look into that person’s eyes and see your children being born, the tears you’ve shared , and the struggles that were fought together. No one else was there to see the tender underside of my life, but she was. In seventeen years the laughs have outweighed the tears and the love we share burns even brighter than the day we exchanged vows and made a promise of forever. Only now, hindsight offers a clearer view of those vows because for seventeen years we have lived them. In the distance a barking dog is heard and the Katydid’s song plays in the background as constant as the ocean’s waves. Her eyes grow heavy from the sleep that is trying to invade. The conversation has gone silent and she takes one more deep breath before she stands to go in. Exhausted from the day it’s time for rest. “Love ya” she says as she kisses my cheek before heading in. “I’ll be in soon” I reply but I can’t stop reflecting. Each memory plays like a film in my mind. What a life we have shared. My only love.