I got to celebrate my birthday at our home in the Catskills,
near the headwaters of the Beaverkill River. I like to say it is as close to heaven as I’ll probably
get. July 12th’s day
near heaven included helping my good friend Rudi Stahl cut up and remove a
storm damaged tree, putting mulch on blueberry bushes before fencing them in to
help keep foraging creatures away, harvesting a banner onion crop from the
garden, and turning over the beds in preparation for planting late season
lettuce and spinach.
Later in the day Margot invited all the Stahls to join us
for an early evening drink on our porch.
Nancy and Frederica drove over and joined us just as the Netherlands was
finishing off Brazil in the World Cup consolation game. Rudi was on his way, having decided to
take a hike on the trail that passes by both the Stahl’s house and ours.
Rudi arrived with a story to tell (always a good sign yet
another gathering will be enjoyable).
He began with a wildlife report.
On his way over he’d seen two deer, one turkey, one bear, and...could we guess…a trout! The deer and the turkey were
unremarkable. The bear, one of
several making more frequent appearances in the neighborhood, immediately
invited discussion of other bear sightings, bear shooshing technique (including
a stand up demonstration by Nancy), and the reminder that the ripening
blueberries at both homes will ensure more bear sightings, fencing or no.
Then to the trout.
Our homes sit on wooded hillside, pocketed with meadows, that slopes
down to the Beaverkill. There are
any number of rivulets, rills and little creeks that all lead down to the river. Some are natural, others man made
drainage to help keep trails from washing out. Many times they are dry and rock filled. After a spring and summer of rain,
sometimes heavy storms, they trickle and sing on their way downhill – feeding
the Beaverkill and quickly turning it from a mountain stream to a river over
the course of its 28 mile length.
A river famous for its trout fishing.
The trout.
Rudi’s trout, he told us, was in a puddle, one couldn’t even call it a
pool, in one of these tiny tributaries.
A brook trout, nearly a foot long, splashing about in just enough water
to survive, easily a quarter of a mile uphill from the river. Had it managed to somehow swim upstream
(up rivulet) during flooding from one of our recent heavy thunderstorms? Miraculous, if so. Nonetheless, there was the trout
undeniably stranded in its own tiny pool.
Discussion on the trout’s fate ensued. Left alone it would expire with the
inevitable drying out of the pool. Unless, the thunderstorm that threatened our
party on the porch and drove us inside briefly provided enough water for a
partial stay of the fish’s demise.
Would a bear find it and make a quick meal? Should we get it?
Fresh mountainside trout for my birthday dinner? Brief speculation on how to best
dispatch the fish once scooped from its modest confines in order to prepare it
for dinner. Somehow my position as
birthday boy gave me some deferential authority in our decision making. What did Bill want to do?
None of us were really happy with human consumption as a
resolution for the Brookie’s dilemma. Had he been properly fished out of the
river, perhaps a different story.
Scooped from a puddle? It
didn’t seem right. Finally, it was
agreed. We filled a 5-gallon
bucket with water and the party followed Rudi down the trail to the spot where
there was, undeniably and improbably, a trout. Finding the fish seemed about as likely as sighting a troll
underneath the bridge just below us on the trail. We’ve always called it The
Troll Bridge. But our party was
prepared this time for trout, not trolls.
We warmed to the task. Rudi
set a large rock to dam one end of the puddle and bar a damaging escape
attempt. He tried an Austrian one-hand
grab, but this trout was far too wily for that technique. A second bucket was
deployed. Dip and scoop yielded no
better than Austrian hand grab.
Finally Rudi set the bucket at one end of the pool. The trout headed toward the other end.
Fredrica reported on the trout’s whereabouts. With an inattentive moment the fish headed to the other end
of its tiny enclave, Rica gave the signal, Rudi scooped, and suddenly there was
much flopping, cheering, and a trout newly arrived in a fresh bucket of
water.
An excited collection of fisher-people trooped back to the
house and to our cars. The trout
took what one might presume was its one and only car ride. Our two vehicle caravan drove down to
the river. We parked and went to
the water’s edge. As Birthday Boy,
I had the honor of spilling the lucky trout back into the river. A tip of the bucket and the brook trout
was in its proper element, slicing upstream with reassuring speed that let us
know it was happy and healthy, unaware of our celebratory clapping.
Neither the Brookie nor I know what the next year will
bring. I doubt the fish has
thought about it very much. I, not
much more. But for each of us, the
first day was glorious. I stood
next to Nancy as we lingered at river’s edge, looking upstream. It is a beautiful spot. Early evening, the water shimmering as
it cascades over rocks, providing proper hiding pools for a fish and reminding
me that indeed, our home in the Beaverkill Valley may well be as close to
heaven as I’ll ever get. If I do get closer, it’s hard to imagine it being any
better.