I’m back. I was on vacation for a week, camping with my  kids and doing some photography.

And  now, another Bossa Nova tune… in this case featuring the incomparable Dianne Krall, who is a triple threat with her smoky voice, her amazing command of the keyboard, and yes, the fact that she is a pretty hot looking babe. She is here, singing the female version of the classic “Girl from Ipanema”.

I love this clip, not only for Krall’s performance, but for the Brazilian audience’s incredible participation in singing a song they obviously know by heart.

They need little prodding to sing it.

This song was written by Antonio Carlos Jobim with Portuguese lyrics by Vinicius de Moraes. The English lyrics were written by Normal Gimbell.

The song was composed originally in 1962, inspired it is said, while the authors sat at a particular café in Rio. A comely, if for our society, underaged (15y/o), young girl would often walk by during their visits, inspiring the original version of the song.

  Though this sounds vaguely creepy, in the context of current sensibilities, the translation  of the original lyrics reveals an elegant, and entirely proper tribute to youth, beauty, and vitality (rather than the slavering of two older men ogling a barely pubescent young women).

The English version I think, is certainly pleasant, perhaps casting the “girl” (or the “boy” in Krall’s case) as older and more an object of desire. It   is really a different and much less sophisticated lyric.

The “girl” was later identified by Jobim, as the very real and beautiful Heloísa Eneida Menezes Paes Pinto.  Later in life, perhaps in part based on her notoriety, she became a model, business women, and ultimately a plaintiff, when she named her chain of boutiques after the song that made her famous… and was sued (unsuccessfully) by the composers.

To finish this, here’s the song again,  sung in the original language, and much later in time, by  Jobim with a friend. “Tom”Jobim has sadly  since expired.

May he rest in peace. I would thank him for this wonderful song.

   

    

    

Gas Drilling In Pennsylvania   

This is the full text of an Editorial published in the Wilkes Barre, Times Leader on Sunday , June 6th, 2010. It is about the juggernaut of Marcellus Shale Gas drilling that is  steamrolling across the farms and wildlands of Pennsylvania.   

   Like many in our region, I am struggling with the issue of drilling for gas in the Marcellus Shale formation. It’s hard to ignore the potential benefits. Gas drilling in Pennsylvania has the potential to tap a new source of clean-burning fuel applicable to many uses, from home heating, to motive transport, to the production of electricity.  In North Texas, where companies have been drilling gas wells in the Barnett Shale formation since the 1990s, gas production has added a significant number of new, good paying jobs to a struggling region. For land owners, gas leases offer the prospect of significant income in these challenging financial times. Unlike the wind energy boondoggle of several years ago, the gas industry comes with the prospect of very real and tangible benefits.   

  Given my previous modest involvement in environmental advocacy, I have been asked by a number of people to weigh in on the issue. Up to now I have been reluctant, as I was not knowledgeable enough to have an answer. I’m still not sure that I am. What I have learned however is sufficient to cause me great concern.   

    In my travels, I have spent a lot of time in the western part of the state, where small gas and oil wells have been a regular feature of the landscape for many years. They generally sit on a small footprint, and appear to have little impact on their pastoral surroundings. I once encountered a venerable, but functioning gas/ oil well in the middle of a lush forest that had grown up around the installation. Many of these are so-called “stripper wells” were drilled by landowners themselves, down to depths of 1500-2000 ft. They produce modest amounts of natural gas, and have had some problems such as “gas migration”, particularly the so-called “orphaned” wells, abandoned by their owners before being properly “plugged”.   

   So, at first blush, gas drilling wasn’t particularly frightening to me.   

   But… this isn’t your grandfather’s gas drilling.   

  “Fracing” is the process by which gas is extracted from the shale that lies roughly 5000-9000 ft below ground in this region. Suffice it to say that it involves injection under great pressure of very large volumes of water, sand, and what was, until recently, a secret mix of chemicals, now known to contain some really nasty toxins and carcinogens. This is done do fracture the rock and allow gas to be extracted. It said to be safe, because the process occurs a mile or more below the surface, far below the natural aquifers. As I understand it, a good proportion of the fluid is then recovered, and has to be dealt with at the surface. A pad site can house 6 to 8 wells, each of which will need to be fraced.     

Given the usual strict federal regulations that apply to industry, I wondered how such a risky process could be legal. It turns out that since 2005, gas drillers have been exempt from the Safe Drinking Water Act, and thus the nation’s most potent and pertinent regulatory laws. Arguably, this is the only way that they could get away with injecting these toxic chemicals into the earth.   

   Each episode of fracing requires significant heavy truck traffic to transport the literally millions of gallons of water, plus the sand, and chemicals required. And what is the source of the water? Apparently in western Pennsylvania where drilling is well underway, it has been streams and rivers.  A Pittsburg television news team recently reported that in August of 2008, well drillers actually “pumped dry” Sugarcamp Run, a stream in Washington County.   

  Another huge problem is what to do with the toxic brine extracted from the well after fracing is completed. Our current DEP Secretary, John Hanger was recently quoted on the topic: “I am concerned about the capacity to treat the water…There is a problem looming.”   

  There are very few treatment plants in the state that are equipped to properly detoxify the mixture pumped out of the well head.  Some drillers have attempted to present the waste water to municipal treatment plants. Many have prudently refused the gift. In some parts of the state the water, which may not be completely detoxified by the municipal equipment, is still being discharged into the Monongahela River which serves as drinking water source.   

By the way,  brine samples from 11/13 Marcellus wells in New York tested by their DEC recently, were found to be radioactive, some at levels as much as 250 time the level allowed by law   

    If this large volume of contaminated, possibly even radioactive liquid is not treated, then it must be stored on the site. Where there are liquids, there will be spills…and there’s going to be a lot of liquids in holding ponds, in tanks, and in trucks driving on our roads.   

Also, has anyone considered how  the municipalities involved are going to pay for the rather drastically increased wear and tear on what have been up to now often lightly travelled rural roads and bridges?   

    I think of the Foster Wheeler incident near my home in Mountaintop. There, a relatively small amount of trichloroethylene, a chemical degreaser, escaped into the soil and fouled a great many water wells downstream. The solution was to run public water into the affected homes. What would happen to the value of your home if there were no public water nearby, and fracing water contaminates the local aquifer? Or worse, if drilling contaminates the public water supply, a scary thought with drilling set to occur near to the Ceasetown and Huntsville reservoirs.   

    I have a number of friends who own acreage suitable for drilling; others have been offered money for a well to be run beneath them from a drilling “pad” on adjacent land. I have heard them describe the money that they have been offered for leases on these properties, often where they reside. I own no such land, and I think I’m glad I don’t.  The temptation to sign on must be overwhelming.   

   I am concerned that these friends do not understand the intrusion on their lives, as well as those of their neighbors, that drilling on their property would involve. I also fear that the effects of such a violent and toxic geologic manipulation might cause problems far beyond the borders of their parcels. I hope that they’re testing their water supplies and perhaps the soils near to where drilling may occur, to establish a baseline. Someday that information may be essential.   

  I honestly believe we should slow down the rush towards widespread drilling.  Let’s drill some wells in carefully selected sites.  See what happens. If everything comes out OK, drill a few more. After all, it’s not like the gas is going away any time soon. What’s the big rush?  The potential downside is huge.     

  Perhaps we should wait for the results of recently announced EPA study, commissioned to investigate the surge in reports of drinking water contamination in sites near to where fracing has been used.   

   I fervently hope that we can find a safe, cost-effective way to exploit this wonderful resource with out permanently ruining our aquifers, wild places, and watersheds.   

I’m just not convinced that we have, as of yet.   

                                                                                   Henry F. Smith Jr. MD   

    

 

  Bluegrass music can be a little raw sometimes.

For fans accustomed to overproduced commercial country, or popular music, bluegrass music can at times, sound unsophisticated and perhaps even, a little shabby, very much the hillbilly cousin you have to acknowledge, but are secretly ashamed of.

For dazzling urban sophisticates, the music is tainted, at times with an unpleasant aroma of religiosity and with a sense of poor rural folk living a life devoid of the things they value.

   They fail to appreciate the beauty of hard work, innocent romance, and devotion to God and family, that is often thematic in Bluegrass music.

  I had little interest in the genre until like many people, I was captivated by the soundtrack of the Coen Brothers film, Oh Brother, Where Art Thou. This wonderful film is a beautifully written allegory to Homer’s Odyssey   set in the deep south of the 1930’s. The  film is populated by wonderful actors such as George Clooney, John Turturro, Tim Blake Nelson, John Goodman, Holly Hunter, and Charles Durning. It  features music by some of the most talented practitioners of the craft, including Allison Kraus, Gillian Welch, Pat Enright, and  Dan Tyminski (who is the true lead vocalist of the movies most memorable hit: “A Man of Constant Sorrows”.

    As a long time fan of Celtic music, I have found much joy in these extraordinary performers, as well as the largely Celtic-based melodies, which after all, have their roots in my beloved Appalachian Mountains.

   Submitted for your approval: a wonderful version of an old gospel tune: “Soldiers of the Cross”, performed by a bluegrass legend, Ricky Skaggs, and his band, “Kentucky Thunder”.

 For the bluegrass newbie, I think it helps a lot that the back up “band” is the Boston Pops Orchestra, with an incredibly congruent and complimentary symphonic treatment. It should be clear from the performance, that these are some incredibly talented and creative musicians, as skilled and polished as any.

This genre is a window into the past, to the rugged individualists who settled the frontier of the eastern mountains from North Carolina, to Pennsylvania.  To me it makes for a wonderful accompaniment to a good book, a porch rocker, and a warm June evening.

 

The Mountain Laurels are starting to bloom in Pennsylvania.

    This is our state flower, and its emergence marks the point where our climate finally evolves from the fickle whims of April and May, to the soft summer weather of June. It is a moment of unconscious celebration for people who begin to open their pools, grill in the evening after work, and sit on the porches at night, listening to the distant call of whippoorwill.

   Here in the northeastern part of the state, we are beginning to see the delicate clusters of white blooms open up on the lower altitude woodland slopes in our region. By mid to late June they will bloom in abundance throughout the northern third of the commonwealth.

   I have for the last fifteen years, taken a week of vacation at this time, to wander the mountains, either by backpacking, or more recently, because of the burgeoning weight of my photo equipment, and a bad knee, car camping and day hiking. The laurels, and their cousins, wild rhododendrons, provide the forests their last splash of widespread color before they settle in to the monotonous green of summer. Arguably, it is the last time until fall, for a photographer to use wider lenses in the forest. After the laurels are extinguished,  longer focal  lengths become more useful to capture the later blooming wildflowers which are scattered throughout the woodland greenery.

I have several striking memories of this time of year involving Mountain Laurels:

   I first hiked the West Rim Trail of north central Pennsylvania in mid June, perhaps eighteen years ago. I was mainly a mountain biker at the time and hadn’t backpacked in years. I didn’t realize at the time, the different conditioning needed to carry a pack over distance. The rugged trail, plus the weight on my back played hell with my feet.  The weather had been wet, and I remember being extremely eager for the trip to end. I was getting close on the third day. The last portion of the trail diverts west into the Tioga State Forest, apparently to avoid Coulton Point State Park which hugs the rim of the” Grand Canyon of Pennsylvania”  in that location. Within the last four miles of its northern terminus, the trail leaves the woods to once again skirt the edge of the gorge.

   The Pine River gorge at this point is roughly 800 feet above the river, and the edges are swathed in laurel, which was in full bloom as I emerged from the forest on the path as it swerved to edge of the ridge. My jaw dropped at the beauty. White blossoms were everywhere, densely surrounding the trail. To my right was the spectacular vista off the ridge. I photographed it at the time but the small pocket camera and I were inadequate to the task, and the results were unpublishable. The memory of this, however, was worth every blister.

   A year later, I was on the Loyalsock Trail in the Wyoming State forest. This is a very vertical trail, laid out I am told by an Explorer troop, which must have had very sadistic leadership.

   I was in better shape that year and enjoying as I recall some wonderful June weather with blue skies, seventy degree days, and fifty degree nights. Hiking with several friends, we lugged our heavy backpacks up another of the seemingly limitless up hill climbs that mark the trail’s early miles.

    I remember cresting a hill, and looking down on a relatively old growth stand of trees on the vast wooded slope below. The canopy was quite high, perhaps 150 feet. There was a feeling of being in a vast verdant space. The forest floor was lush with white laurels, all in full bloom, a carpet that extended for as far as your eyes could discern. All of this was dappled with shafts of sunlight, occurring at random spots where the leaf cover was spare. No one could help but to stop, and stare. Though it was only 11 AM, we found a log on which to sit, and ate our lunch early.

June is a wonderful time of year in the eastern mountains.

 Perhaps God makes the Mountain Laurels bloom, just to remind us.

     

  In the eastern United States, where there are mountains, there will be streams.   

    It’s inevitable. Elevated terrain enhances precipitation, which is absorbed by the soils, gathers together, and then works to find the easiest route off the mountain. In the moist, temperate climate of Pennsylvania Appalachians, this means that thousands of cold, swift brooks cleave the earth in their gathering rush to the valleys below. Many start as tiny flows, emerging from the rocks at a point somewhat below the crest of the ridge. Depending on the vertical rise of the land and the watershed they capture, they gather speed and volume as they cascade off the mountainside.   

    Mountain streams serve as the punctuation for the many long wilderness trails scattered throughout the commonwealth’s wild areas.  In planning a trek through the wilderness, attention must be given to the availability of water at points along the planned route. Knowing the location of streams is essential to avoid carrying large amounts of the heavy liquid.   

    Many of the small mountainside brooks are seasonal, with no surface water present during drier years. Coming upon a parched stream bed when you were counting on replenishing your water stores is a distinctly unpleasant experience.   

     Where the mountains are steeper, the topography becomes more interesting. In the deepest draws of the northern mountains, the sun rarely penetrates to the forest floor. Legions of ancient hemlocks line the steep side walls of these eastern canyons, cut by eons of the action of water against rock. Glens form, where the land forms force the water to fall abruptly in altitude, increasing its hydraulic power. Ricketts Glen is just one example of this; there are many other spectacular falls and glens which are often quite remote and visited only by intrepid souls.   

    Hiking in the Tidaughten State Forest, deep in a within a mountain glen, I once found a mature American chestnut tree, blooming on a  spring morning. So remote was its location,  it was untouched by the blight, which kills its more accessible relatives while they are mere spindly adolescents.   

   Because of the severity of the terrain in ravines and draws, loggers in the past may not have had sufficient access for harvesting. These draw and ravines, deep in our state forests are wonderful places to experience true “Old Growth” forest. Here you can find four-to-five-hundred year old relics from our pre-colonial past, in this case White Pines and Hemlocks that tower two hundred feet and more over the forest floor.   

   The climate in these sheltered places is much more constant and gradual than on the nearby ridge tops. Shielded from the sun, snow lingers much deeper into spring.  It is cool here, even on hot summer days, especially where the streams run strongly into the warmer months.   

   On one of the more established hiking trails, such as the Loyalsock or the West Rim Trail, more often than not, a  stream crossing will have acquired a fire ring and informal tenting sites. These are generally fine places to overnight. On a clear winter nights, they can be warmer, the dense cover of conifers preventing radiational cooling.   

    Summer rain is shed initially by the hemlock canopy, making such places are a clever hiker’s refuge in wet weather. The rain comes down eventually however as the accumulated water drips slowly, over days, from the fine interlaced needles.   

  On a hot summer day, glens and ravines are cooled by the shade and the cold creek water. After the sun sets, cool air descends through the ravines from the mountaintops, clearing the air of biting insects, and providing a lovely sleeping experience.   

   Sadly, there is a real threat to these wonderful ecotones. An insect called the hemlock woolly adelgid is spreading throughout the state, threatening to wipe out the hemlocks that shelter these lovely places. There are efforts to control the parasites, but they have only partially successful. If they do not succeed, there will be a fundamental alteration of woodland and stream ecology in the eastern forest.   

 Visit these lovely places while you still can.

I was 12 years old when on AM radio I first heard James Taylor singing his song, “Fire and Rain”.

 This exposure was the first of many to a singer/songwriter that in many ways wrote and sang a part of the soundtrack to my early life.

 I loved his spare arrangements, and the plain but pure vocal performances. His style was unadorned but elegant. Plus, he wrote much of his own music.

In the intervening time, not much has changed.

I’ve seen him live on several occasions; he is a very consistent and professional performer who seems sublimely comfortable in his own skin. His expressions on stage seem to sometimes reflect a joy and  genuine surprise that he can make his large audiences so very happy.

I remember, years ago seeing this performance of “Shower the People”, with this unique way of providing vocal support.  I was delighted to encounter it on one of my late night rambles through You Tube. It’s fun for me to share it here with you.

The You Tube addiction goes on…

 This time, here’s a video from a television show that  was filmed to promote one of my favorite Sinatra albums: Francis Albert Sinatra and Antonio Carlos Jobim.

When you listen to this song, with its marvelous bossa nova rhythm, it’s easy to assume it was written in Brazil, perhaps by Jobim himself. The lyrics are fresh and contemporary. They are to the point, and elegant in their simplicity.

Surprisingly, this is not a Latin tune. It was written by non other than Irving Berlin, for the 1938 film “Carefree” where it was sung by Fred Astaire. Listen how beautifully it adapts to its new Brazilian identity.

 By the way, how about singing while smoking?  Not really a long-term plan for a vocalist. Still it was admittedly, very hip.

Adaptability is one of the attributes that makes a song a classic.

For fun, here’s the original. Sorry about the subtitles.

I hope that all of you Moms out there are treated to a happy work, and stress-free day by your adoring family.

I have posted this essay, which originally served as a eulogy for my own Mother, who died almost 6 years ago while she was still far too young.

Our family wants to thank all of you, who have come today to St. Leo’s, to honor the passing of our beloved Mother, Geppie Smith. In this beautiful church, the place of her baptism, we now give her back to God. We would like to share with you the flow of her wonderful life.

Mother was born, not far from this church, on Nicholson Street in Wilkes-Barre, to Helen and Joseph Williams. The youngest of five children, she was originally to have been named Virginia. It seems that the word came down from her Uncle George, who later became the bishop of Harrisburg, that she should be named after the saint on whose feast day she was born. This, unfortunately, was St. Gertrude, a name she was never comfortable with. Happily, her sister Jane, a toddler at the time, nicknamed her Geppie: a name that followed her for the rest of her life.

     Mom was educated, first here at St Leo’s, then later at St Anne’s Academy. Her time at St Anne’s included the first several years of World War II. She liked to tell her children that at the time, the students suspected that the German-speaking Christian Charity Nuns were hiding escaped Nazi POW’s deep in the cellars of that formidable old building.

    Mom ultimately was graduated with a degree in English from Marywood College. She was very proud of her education. Until the end, she was a strict grammarian and a ruthless editor of any written material we brought to her. She always knew the correct spelling of any word about which you would ask.

    Mom was apparently no wallflower, but during college, she met the love of her life, Henry (Gus) Smith an ex-navy man and student at the University of Scranton. They quickly fell in love.  So smitten with her was my father, that he allowed the wedding to take place on the first day of Buck season. Mom always said that Dad looked a little jealous on the drive home, as they passed car after car with trophies tied to the hood. 

    Dad worked at the time as a salesman for Armour Inc.  There was sadness early on. They lost their first child, Ellen, shortly after birth.  They endured a 6-month separation shortly after the birth of our Ellen when mom was diagnosed with tuberculosis. Happily, the new drugs just becoming available at the time saved her from what might have been a fatal illness.

   After this, things settled down a bit. Dad did well and won promotions. They built a lovely Cape Cod in Mountain Top, just up the street from the current homestead. Their first son, Henry Jr. was born.

   It was around this time that a close friend of Dad’s applied to medical school, and was accepted. This rekindled Dad’s lifelong dream: to be a physician. Despite the profound disruptions to their home life and finances that medical school would entail, Mom was always encouraging and supportive. They sold their home; Mom and the kids moved back to my grandmother’s home on Nicholson Street, Wilkes-Barre, while Dad attended Jefferson Medical College in Philadelphia, coming home only on weekends. They endured, while apart, the loss of a second infant named Mathew Joseph, and celebrated the birth of a daughter, Mary Louise.

  In Dad’s third year of Medical school, Mom and the kids moved to Lansdowne, outside of “Philly” to an old rickety intern’s residence. To say that money was tight would be to vastly understate the circumstances. Our Mathew, and then in less than a year Elizabeth Anne, were born during that period. Dad worked extra hours while Mom found novel ways to make do with the little money they had. She never complained.

    Ultimately, Dad finished training and bought the current home on Spruce Street in Mountaintop. Not yet content with the five little miscreants already terrorizing the neighbors, they had two more, David and Moira. Dad’s practice flourished, loans were paid off and financial problems eased. By the mid-seventies, there was even some modest affluence. Mom became a rather accomplished cook, a passion that continued to this day.

    To be sure, Mom had her foibles. One was her somewhat “casual” approach to housework. This stood in sharp contrast to Dad’s tightly organized nature. This might have threatened a lesser marriage: so deep was their love that there was rarely a conflict. Dad confined his organizing to the garage, the basement, and his sheds. Mom’s clutter ruled elsewhere. In this wonderful happy household, they raised and educated all seven children with humor, discipline, and love.

   As we got older, married, and had kids and careers, Mom became the glue that has bound us all together. She listened to our problems, defended our shortcomings, and celebrated our successes. She was the conduit of communication for the family. She was intolerant of any conflict between her children and worked tirelessly to resolve them. She fully expected that her children and their spouses would emulate the love and devotion that existed within her own marriage.

    I think back to more recent times, specifically to my parent’s fiftieth-anniversary party. There was a moment while they were dancing that we were lucky to capture on film. Mom so comfortable in Dad’s arms is positively beaming; surrounded as she was by her beloved family and friends. In her long wonderful life, I doubt she was ever happier.

     Though she is gone she leaves us a powerful legacy: that true love can endure all manner of hardships and ultimately triumph. It is up to us to pass her love of God and family on to our children. She is undoubtedly in heaven; which for her would probably be the endless feeling of being in my father’s arms on that night in December, with her children, her family, and her dear friends sharing the dance.  

 Thank you for helping us celebrate her life.     

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 I would of course, never forget my incredible wife, mother to our two wonderful (if slightly deranged) children. Happy Mother’s Day Cathy.

I’m a little “fuzzy” on this Friday morning. I freely admit that I overindulged last night.

You see, once I get started, I find it hard to stop. I have the first one, then see another and want that also.

Whoa… it not what you think. I’m fuzzy this morning after getting only about 5 hours sleep. It’s that damn YouTube.

One of the core beliefs in my life, is that that much of what serves as entertainment these days, pales in comparison to that which was available routinely on television to those of us who grew up in the 60’s and 70’s.  Entertainers such as such as the so-called “Rat Pack” of Sinatra,  Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr. Bing Crosby, along with others such as Judy Garland, Andy Williams, Peggy Lee, Louis Armstrong and even Ella Fitzgerald, were seen by many in my generation as embarrassingly unhip, in a world where John was as big as Jesus, and Paul was dead. They were my parent’s favorites, which alone cause them to be totally uninteresting. As I have now reached middle age and survey the offal that is served up on prime time television, I dearly miss the past.

   One thing missing from television modern television schedules is the variety show.

There have been a few recent attempts to revive the genre, none have been successful.

The beauty of these shows was that it seemed that no one in entertainment was “too big’ to be a guest. Most big performers have hosted shows, either as once a year events or as a series. This set the stage for some incredible combinations of now legendary performers in there prime years. Would you like to have seen Babra Streisand appear with Judy Garland? It happened several times. How about a young Sammy Davis, with Nat King Cole? Ditto.

As I discovered several months ago, it’s all on You Tube.

   Last night, it was Julie Andrews that sucked me in.  Her name appeared in the Google window as an offering, as I searched for something else (I was actually new car shopping). I clicked on it and ended up on You Tube watching the most amazing duet of Andrews with, believe it or not, Carol Burnet. It was early sixties and both were young, up-and-coming Broadway stars (Andrews I think was playing Guinevere in Camelot, Burnett was starring to rave reviews in Once upon a Mattress).

I was bowled over by this. Julie is her usual extraordinary self here, her voice bell-like and elegant, yet flexible enough to handle the up-tempo parts.  Carol Burnett that surprised me. As a young woman, perhaps her career as a “comedienne” was not yet established. Perhaps she was keeping her options open by singing in a more polished way than she did later in her career. When I hear this video, I wonder if Burnett sandbagged a bit, in duets on her show , perhaps to keep the singers whom often guested  from being upstaged by a mere “comic”.

Well, once done with that video, there will be a title on the right side of the page that seems interesting, and off you go. Andrews and Tony Bennet, then Bennett with Vic Damone and Bobby Darin, Darren doing “Mack”…it goes on an on. It’s an astounding resource.

   And before you know it; its quarter to three.  And wouldn’t you know that in a window to the right of the screen, there’s a link to a live version of Frank doing “One for my Baby”.

Oh well, just one more…

Fishing the Lehigh

 

 

In honor of the first day of the Trout Season for 2010, I offer this essay:

 

For the Pennsylvania angler, there are many forms of fishing to be experienced. From trolling the depths of Lake Erie for salmon, “still fishing” at night for catfish, jigging through a hole in the ice of a frozen lake, or riding a high-powered bass boat across a lake to a favorite weed bed, the choices are numerous. Without disparaging these pursuits however, fishing in Pennsylvania for me has always been about streams… and trout.

     The trout is a wonderful food-seeking engine. Whether brook, brown or rainbow, it is a sleek, torpedo, painted with precise and tasteful patterns of red, silver, brown and blue, aesthetic in a way unmatched by the pallid green of most other game fish.  For the most part, they exist in rivers and streams, searching for a variety of food sources including crayfish, minnows and most importantly, aquatic insects.

   Trout behavior is if nothing else, logical. They favor positions in the flow where they are protected from the current (and thus expend less energy), but have ready access to the main channel where the food is plentiful. Larger fish generally get the most favorable locations. Fishermen know this, they cast their lures into the relatively quiet water behind large rocks, or near to eddies and undercut banks.

    Pennsylvania is well known as a desirable trout fishing destination. It is our topography that determines this. With large regions of ridges and valleys; with mountains that are high enough, but not too high, our state is interlaced with excellent trout water. From the remote hemlock-shaded streams of the Allegheny National Forest, to the more open limestone creeks of the central state, to the upper Delaware River, the angling opportunities seem almost endless.

     Though there are many ways to fish for trout, fly-fishing is by far the most challenging. For most anglers, the goal of an outing is to catch multiple, preferably large, fish however you can.  Fly fishermen see it somewhat differently. Limiting themselves to the use of odd-looking wisps of feathers, hair, and thread as bait; they seek to present the quarry with unlikely replicas of the aquatic insects that on that month, day and hour, and in that particular creek, are the trout’s likely food source.

    To accomplish this with any consistency, one must not only understand trout and their behavior, but also the etymology of aquatic insects. Much of the fishing is “catch and release”, facilitated by the use of “barbless” hooks.  Thus in effect, the trout ceases to be a trophy, but becomes instead a judge, testing the accuracy of the fly tiers art, the gentleness of the cast, and the angler’s knowledge of stream biology.

     This is not to say that trophy fish are not pursued. Even in this gentle art, landing a huge, slack-jawed creature is an exiting and memorable event. The fish is handled gently, measured, and perhaps photographed, then as quickly as possible returned to the streams embrace.  A taxidermist may later immortalize it; working from the snapshots and dimensions to create a replica of that noble creature.

    As we later admire it, mounted perhaps on a den wall, it is fun to think that the magnificent spirit depicted there probably still exists. One can imagine it, grown slightly larger now, slipping quietly through the waters of that very same stream, waiting patiently for the next juicy morsel to float by.