Retired With Nothing Better To Do: Becoming A Piscator Millionaire

 Been almost a year and a half now, retirement in full. A life event long time in coming, but somehow snuck up on me and when it did, mixed emotions tended to argue between themselves. The thought of having nothing to do sounds appealing, while in other ways, not so much. This nothing better to do syndrome worked for a while, however sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch can only appease those inner desires for so long. After a while, other desires began to stir, working themselves into a froth, prodding and goading me to get off my duff and do something.

Moon and Venus - Barren River Lake Morning Sky

 Angling has been a lifelong adventure, one that potentially can satisfy that nothing better to do itch. I've pursued this sport trying to become a tried and trued piscator, off and on, ever since I was a little feller. More off than on for most of my life, but still something I've always enjoyed. Being retired with nothing better to do, well, it only seemed natural I would once again begin to regularly cast a line from time to time. I was recently reminded just how destitute I had become at the sport. The prospect of making a few casts toward a rocky bluff, to feel the strike and tug of a heavy fish on the other end, then the contest of wills to land an amazing creature against his instinctive will to get away, all served to reawaken long ago suppressed desires to get up early and chase the sport of fishing dream. 

To purposely miss out on several hours of sleep took a bit of will power, but once up and going it wasn't so bad. Rolled out of bed at 3:30ish AM to down a cup of strong coffee, a vital beverage that sort of helped to remove the sleepy fog hovering around my eyes, mostly anyway. The old Jeep was already loaded, completed the previous afternoon. On top my venerable Old Town Canoe was strapped down, fishing gear and other necessary gear thrown haphazardly in the backend. Early thirty is a hard time of the morning, but when I stepped outside into unseasonably cool air, I discovered the sky was selling its ebony tint with diamonds scattered across the empyrean palace. The moon, not to be left out, was on sale as well, a polished sliver of its self, stenciled low, just above the tree line. It was the kind of morning where I was granted the authority to feel very wealthy, a piscator millionaire of sorts, the kind where wealth is defined by the blessing of good health, a good home, and extra time with nothing better to do than to go fishing.

Backing out of the driveway I turned to take the backway to the main road, and once there, rolled confidently across the access and headed on toward the rendezvous of canoe and lake. The cooler than normal weather for this time of year was an escape from the heat and humidity of previous weeks. Low winds would make the canoeing part of the fishing trip more enjoyable and easier. This early, not much traffic was on the road and I passed all the familiar landmarks along the route; the antique store, the storage facility, a long white fence bounding a section of property, the water tower, the cut through the terrain to flatten the road, then at the halfway point, I passed through that first little town, you know the kind, one so Mayberry-like, you can easily identify with the folks living there. On past the other side, the country road rolled and curved through the hills more aggressively than the first half of the drive, and before long I crossed the first of two bridges, slowing over both, to take a quick first look of the lake. Fog drifted in columns across the surface. A good sign. Then I caught the first glimpse of the ridge that formed the long bluff where I'd be doing most of the fishing. 

The sun not yet risen was throwing out a bright reddish glow behind the hill and created a undulating broken silhouette outline across the ridge top. A few stars were still visible, tiny jewels accenting the morning sky. Just above the ridge a crescent moon shone bright and reassuring. Hovering below the moon and to the left, the brilliant glow of Venus, second only to the moon in brightness, provided an additional accent.

It was almost 5:00 AM as I backed down the boat ramp, no one else there yet. I briefly stopped and surveyed the lake. As I stood on the edge, columns of thickened fog danced across the deceptively calm surface, shoved and stirred with but a wisp of breeze. Having a piscator millionaire feeling well up inside sort of filled my heart as I anticipated the first morning cast, but first I had to off load everything.

My Old Town is a good old canoe, just shy of 20 years old now and has garnered its share of battle scars and scrapes. Fishing from a canoe has its own rewards. Not always comfortable, but always enjoyable for I have been privy to some amazing mornings through the years in spite of my lack of effort to get out. As a photographer it has provided me with both physical and emotional moments of the heart along with some amazing photographic opportunities.

 I backed it off the canoe rack, stood underneath and lifted my shoulders into the portaging yoke to feel the full weight of the craft, about 60 pounds or so. A few steps to the waters edge, a quick flip to one side then a gentle plop onto the shallows. Most of the time I just use a wooden paddle to get around, but when I am fishing I prefer to attach a trolling motor as it allows for quick and easy movements without having to drop your rod, lift the paddle, move into position, drop the paddle, then pick up the rod and make a cast...only to repeat the process dozens of times. More time is spent repositioning the canoe than fishing. With the trolling motor, just a twist of the handle and slight directional movements can be easily made and you're back to fishing.

I almost did not bring my camera on that trip, but at the last moment, my photographer instincts thought better and I decided to do so, with good fortune as a result. Just after I shoved off, a blue heron drifted through the fog to set down close to the bank about 40 yards away. I slowed down, grabbed the camera and snapped a few quick pictures in the low light. Turned out to be the catch of the day and another one of those piscator millionaire moments. 

A few moments later as I drifted past the first rocky point on the end of the bluff, I heard some splashing and a series of high pitched barks and chirps. Looking over my shoulder to see what it was I found five otters climbing out of the water onto the rocky ledge. I thought it strange cats would be playing around the water before I realized they were otters They scurried away into the cover, playing and horsing around with each other. 

I drifted next to the shaded bluff where the shelves of rocks and boulders stair stepped their way into deeper water. A perfect haven for holding bass along drop offs and submerged ledges. Although I fish using a variety of lures, my favorite is to simply use deep diving crankbaits. Before long, the line grew heavy with a dull thud and a large very nice bass engulfed my lure. It fought with noble contempt as I reeled him in closer to the canoe. Just to make his point as to what he thought of my feeble attempts to catch him, one quick jerk and a deep dive and the line parted. I always catch and release, so I considered him caught anyway, but reduced the drag on the reel just the same. 

Through the morning as I fished along that shaded bluff I managed to catch and release 3 additional good sized bass plus also managed to hang into another even better one who snapped my line for the second time of the morning. That 8 lb test line just was not up to par for the day and I replaced it with new heavier line later on. 

A pair of Kingfishers chattered and darted by alighting on a tree branch overhanging the waters edge. Nearby some yellow looking birds with gray backs and black on their face darted in and out of a series of willow branches. Several times along the bluff other blue herons made their attempt at fishing the shallows. Interesting birds they are with their long necks and spindly legs and their blue grey coloring helped them to blend into the stony gray background. With a smart jab, he too easily speared a small fish before gulping it down.

The last catch of the day came after a bit of a dry spell. I was heading back toward the ramp and was about half way there. Somewhere around 30 or maybe 45 minutes had passed since I last caught one and the morning was growing brighter and warmer as the sun climbed against the backside of the bluff. I made a long cast close to the bluff, started a slow retrieve and after a few cranks the line again grew heavy followed by a thud. I knew I had another good one on, but after having had my line break twice, I did not force the issue and slowly worked the bass closer keeping tension on the line but not horsing him in too aggressively. It passed across the front of the canoe then took to the air and jumped clean out of the water, twice, splashing me in the process. I just knew the line was going to break again, but I eventually worked him close enough to grab his bottom lip and lift him into the canoe. He must have gone somewhere around 5 pounds, the best bass I've caught in quite sometime. I was truly enriched, and that piscator millionaire feeling swelled into a new dimension.

Yeah, after enduring way too much time away from the sport, I felt like a real fisherman again that morning, with my simple canoe setup. Those high dollar bass boats may indeed be awesome and fancy not to mention expensive, but I'd rather not be in such a hurry and take my time to enjoy the moment with my vintage Old Town Canoe. Its all part of the process of becoming a piscator millionaire. Attempting to do so again was a good feeling for I had allowed myself to grow stagnant in that regard. What I rediscovered that morning was a comforting feeling, certainly not financially, but within an even more satisfying realm, one that filled my day with recalled memories, the kind that simply allows you to know things are the way they should be again, and peace of mind is the most valuable asset one can possess. 

Being retired with nothing better to do, well, that's not such a bad way of life. One thing for sure is, for the first time in a long time, I feel quite wealthy...as a piscator millionaire, someone who possesses the kind of wealth accumulated from great memories made, and good times remembered, rewards stored within the heart to be revisited during duller times. There is no better place for such things to reside, in a piscator's millionaire heart, especially when there is nothing better to do.

 

Morning of The Heron: The Making of A "Spur-of-The-Moment" Photograph

I almost did not take my camera that morning. I was heading out quite early to enjoy a morning of bass fishing at a local lake. Very summer-like temperatures and humidity had overtaken the previous couple weeks so when a cool front drifted through the area dropping the temperatures into unseasonable ranges, it was difficult to resist getting out. Seems like I had been cooped up far too long and the chance to do some bass fishing offered a wonderful reprieve, so much so, all I was thinking about was spending the day in my canoe and fishing. Photography was to take a backseat and pretty well determined I was not even going to take a camera on this trip.

At the last moment, just before I pulled out at 4:30am that morning, I grabbed my camera, an extra lens and battery and secured them in a watertight container. "Just in case I might see something..." I said to myself. 

The morning was indeed much cooler and I donned a light hoodie to ward off the slight chill. When I arrived at the lake, a lively fog was dancing across the surface stirred into movement by a gentle breeze that rolled down from the tops of the ridges that formed one eastern bank. By 5:10am I was on the water moving toward a mile and half long rocky bluff where I planned to spend most of the morning fishing. By this time the sun was still below the horizon and behind the bluff, but the sky was getting brighter with its glow being reflected off the shallow ripples rolling across the surface. The background appeared almost black and the fog took on a bluish nature to it in the subdued light of predawn. A blue heron drifted across the gap between me and the ridge and lightly settled into some shallow water just a few feet off the bank to my right. He was slightly backlit by the soft morning light and presented a silhouette. I slowed down, and drifted slowly forward while I extracted my camera. The light was very low and I adjusted the settings to account for the available light. With a slow shutter speed and long 300mm focal length, handholding a camera steady enough to prevent camera shake was difficult, even more so while sitting inside a canoe whose every whim is to bob and rock at the slightest provocation.

I framed the shot firing off several quick captures before the heron might spook. I reset the camera exposure to try to get a faster shutter speed...then fired off another set of quick exposures, the heron squawked and leaped into the morning air to disappear into the fog. On camera the images looked promising, but by this time I was ready to do some fishing so the camera was replaced in its box and the fishing pole readied for action. 

Later after returning home, I loaded the few photos from that morning and focused on that first series of the heron. A few of them were indeed blurred by camera shake, but several were clear and sharp. By applying a selective compositional crop, and adjusting the exposure values in post processing, I settled in on the one final image. Did manage to catch several good bass that morning, but the best catch of the day turned out to be this one iconic, spur of the moment, nature photo.

I've written at length about how planning and preparation are vital to the success of capturing a great photo, and certainly applying such principles to your photography can produce some positive results. However, there are times when instinct and spur of the moment action trumps any degree of planning. Listening to and acting on those inner feeling can at times produce a truly unique and spontaneous photo, and sometimes those often turn out to be the best photos of all.

My Favorite Sport - The Early Years and Then Some

Fishing...Man's favorite sport, so I've gathered. Well, maybe not every man's favorite sport, but certainly one I've been quite fond of for many years. My love affair with it began many years ago when I was just a little feller. Seems we went on a church outing someplace, I think it was on the banks of Poteau River in southeastern Oklahoma, and most everyone brought along a fishing pole. I could not have been more than four or maybe five years old, but I can still recall flashes of memories standing on a steep muddy bank throwing out my baited line that was connected to a seven or eight foot long cane pole. The old bobber simply sat there somewhat motionless in the slack water. There were lots of people lining the bank, some casting with fancy fishing rigs, but most simply using the old tried and true cane pole method. Not sure what bait I used, probably worms, but I do remember seeing minnow buckets dangling from the bank into the water several feet below. After what seemed like a very long time, someone, one of the men I think, walked by and asked where my cork bobber was. I said I didn't know, it went under a little while ago. He said lift your line up and to my amazement, a fish was dangling from the other end. I have no idea what kind it was, it was just a fish, but lots of folks sure made a big fuss over me catching that smelly old thing...and thus my career as a fisherman began.

A few years later on what was my 7th birthday I believe, my grandparents actually came to visit us and we went to some local park where there was a little creek with a bridge crossing it. My grandfather gave me a long package wrapped in brown paper. Of course I asked him what it was and he just smiled and said it was a flag pole we were going to setup at the park. I believed him of course and eventually after we set up the picnic table with whatever food and birthday cake we had, they all called me over and told me it was time to set up the flag pole. I was all excited and ripped open the long package. To my astonishment, there was no flag pole. Instead there was a brand new Zebco 202 fishing rod and reel. Like a dummy I asked where the flag pole was. After they all stopped laughing, my grandfather told me there was no flag pole, but that fishing rod and reel was all mine, a birthday present, and I could fish the creek below the little bridge if I wanted to. It took me all of three seconds to rush over there. I suppose I just naturally knew how to use that rig for I spent quite a while throwing the hook and bobber into the water...never caught anything if I recall, but every cast was filled with anticipation. 

That rig also came with a hookless practice plug, and after we left I'd spend hours throwing that thing as far as  I could throw it then reeling it in. The first thing each morning, I'd grab that fishing rig and head outside so I could cast it and begged my dad to take me fishing again. Eventually he did, on occasion, but he was trying to finish his college degree that had been interrupted by World Was II and he didn't have a lot of free time, or money, to take me very often.

Over the next several years my fishing exploits were sporadic and fell somewhat into a drought, but the drought was broken when my grandmother's brother, Uncle Manly, took me and my brother fishing one summer morning to a favorite farm pond of his. Said the pond was full of crappie and bass. By this time I had graduated to a newer, more advance fishing rod and reel, a classic True Temper brand, with a blue fiberglass rod and a bait casting reel filled with a few yards of braided fishing line. We over slept of course, and Uncle Manly got patiently irritated with us, but we managed to arrive at the pond just before sunrise. 

He extracted the sections of cane pole from his trunk and with the patience of a master fisherman, and in spite of arthritic fingers, attached a hook, bobber, and a minnow. I was too advanced to use such archaic fishing techniques and began to throw my Lazy-Ike fishing plug. Before he made his first toss, I must have cast a dozen times...no catches. He smiled and flipped the line out about 20 feet or so, and before the bobber settled, a huge crappie gobbled his minnow and he pulled it in. I turned the surface of the pond into a froth with that Lazy-Ike, still no catches, but he simply hooked another minnow on, gave it a quick toss...and within a few seconds landed a second nice crappie. After his third or fourth catch, I humbly asked him if I could use one of his minnows, and of course he said sure thing. A few seconds after tossing it about 30 feet out, boom, my first catch of the morning.

Classic Lazy-Ike like the one I had

This pattern continued until the sun got too high and the fish simply quite biting. I did manage to catch a couple with the Lazy-Ike, but I was taught a big lesson about fishing that morning, and I understood more clearly what being humbled really meant. We caught a good stringer of fish that morning and I caught my first glimpse of what it meant to be a real fisherman and the other values associated with the quest to catch a fish. I kept that old Lazy-Ike lure for many years and caught a lot of fish with it, but on a float trip down the Buffalo River in Arkansas, I, against my better judgement, cast it into a nice looking pool and true to its fish catching ability, I hooked a nice smallmouth bass. A few seconds later, the line snapped and the fish and my vintage lure were gone.

That old True Temper fishing rod and reel served me well during the summer. My summertime friend Geary, whose grandmother lived across the road from my grandparents, and I would get into all kinds mischief together. We'd hound my grandmother or his to take us out to Wister Lake so we could fish below the spillway, which was a great place to catch all sorts of fish, black bass and white bass, to drum and buffalo and even carp, catfish, or gar. One day my grandmother took us out there and simply left us, we were both probably about 8 or 9, unheard of today to leave kids like that, but we were excited. We had no food, no water, just a paper sack with a few hooks, bobbers, and sinkers inside. We waded a shallow area onto a gravel bar that offered a perfect location to cast into the current created by the outflow coming from the dam. Geary had made a DIY dip net out of an old screen door where he had extracted the screen, tied some string to each corner, and placed a rock in the middle to make it sink.

We'd wade over to a shallow area where some minnows were swimming, drop the net into the water and wait a few minutes for the minnows to return, then lift the contraption. Each time we'd catch 2 or 3 minnows, toss them into a minnow bucket, then do it again. After a few attempts we'd end up with a dozen or more free minnows. 

Curiously, an old timer had waded across onto that same gravel bar. He had one of those tackle boxes that opened up into 3 or 4 levels of trays and he carried 3 or 4 fishing rods with fancy rod holders he plugged into the gravel. Geary and I would attach a minnow to our hooks. Using a heavy lead weight attached a few feet above the hook, we'd cast way out into the current which was strong enough to bounce the weight and minnow along the bottom. Ever so often we'd reel in the line and recast. On one such cast, I felt a heavy jolt on the rod and when I started to reel it in, it felt like it was hung up, but then it started to pull back. Whatever was on the other end was so large and in that current, that old True Temper reel's drag could not keep up and it stripped out almost all of my line and bent the pole almost doubled over. I was unable to reel it in. Geary dropped his rod and grabbed the line and pulled it in by hand as I took up the slack. After awhile, we dragged a giant buffalo, or maybe a drum, I'm not sure which, onto the gravel bank. We were jumping up and down...and that old timer simply watched us in amazement. That was the single biggest fish I've ever caught of any kind. All afternoon we continued to catch fish like that until my grandmother showed up to take us home. Cannot recall if that old timer with all the fancy gear ever caught anything, but I don't think he did. 

Since those years I've been able to enjoy fishing in places like the high country of Colorado, the clear  mountain streams of the Ozarks, farm ponds, big lakes and small, and have pursued it in all kinds of weather and conditions. By far my favorite way to cast a line is from the inside of my canoe. Many times when I lived in Arkansas, just a few miles from the Buffalo River, I'd take a Saturday and haul my canoe to one of the put in locations. Being by myself, I'd paddle, or wade and line my way upstream as far as I could go, fishing here and there just enjoying the refreshing flavor of the place. Eventually, I'd find a shady spot and just sit for a spell before floating back to my truck. Those quiet moments were the best moments of the day and they offered me time to reflect on growing up learning about how to fish. I still do such things when I'm fishing, take time to just sit quietly and absorb the peaceful respite of nature.

As a photographer, I am always looking, always observing the world around me. When I find the time to load up my canoe and head over to a favorite fishing spot, most of the time I take my camera with me simply because the nature of bass fishing usually requires an early start, and that consequently, most often is when the light can be at it's best. On one such recent outing, I almost did not take my camera, but at the last moment decided to do so. I arrived at the location well before sunrise and with the air being cooler than normal for that time of year on that trip, magical whiffs of fog danced across the surface of the lake. The ridges that formed the boundary of the lake, hid the horizon, but the sky was beginning to turn bright and reflected off the surface of the water. A gentle breeze stirred the fog, and tickled the water into a light ripple. As I shoved off, to my right a blue heron gently settled next some limbs extending out of the water near the shoreline. 

My eye instantly locked in on the scene and I extracted my camera from its watertight container. The light was low, very low, and I had to shoot at a very slow shutter speed in relation to the 300mm lens focal length being employed, even after boosting the ISO up a notch or two. I fired off several shots trying to hold the camera steady, hoping that at least one of the images would not be blurred by camera shake. The fishing that morning was excellent and I enjoyed those few hours alone with nature. When I returned home and started to browse through the few images I took, I locked onto that first series with the heron. Although I caught several nice bass that morning, that one photo turned out to be the best catch of the day.

Those days afield during the early years when I learned about the sport of fishing were some of the best teaching moments of my young life. During those years more than fishing skills were engrained into my world, things like self reliance, adaptability, persistence, strength of character, and respect for what nature has to offer. As the photo of the heron demonstrates, the most important thing I learned about fishing can be summed up in one phrase: There's more to fishing than catching fish. 

Shooting The Rapids: The Thrill and Humor of White Water

 I used to own an old Coleman Canoe. Paid two hundred dollars for it way back around 1978 or so. They have been manufactured since the late 70's, but have undergone a great deal of structural changes since then. Mine was possibly a second generation model, very close to the original style. It was a fifteen foot model, red in color, constructed of an aluminum tubing frame stretched inside a tough polyethylene plastic shell. Sealed into both ends were two blocks of styrofoam floatation. It was a tough and functional canoe. It was also heavy weighing in around 70 pounds or so. 

On the Big Piney

Even so, I probably put more mileage on that old canoe than the Old Town I've owned now for almost 20 years. In fact, I plumb wore it out for it had a couple of cracks and holes punched into it along with countless scrapes and dents along its length. I would seal the cracks with duct tape and shove off. Probably should have named it Patches, or Bumps, or maybe something else appropriate. 

My old fishing rig

Ended up giving it to my neighbor when we moved to Kentucky. That's when I purchased my Old Town Camper canoe. It's a gorgeous piece of engineering too, but has long since lost its new charm with a good number of scrapes, bumps, gouges, faded color and assorted battle scars earned on its own.  Oddly enough, that Old Town is better suited for flat water than moving water...hull design and such things...although I have made a number of float trips with it and zipped through a few lesser challenging moving water shoots.

That old Coleman served me well and provided the opportunity to explore an aspect of canoeing I've not been able to pursue in recent years: Running white water rapids. We never did a great deal of that kind of floating, but did do enough of it to at least understand the thrill and risk of doing so.

Old Town Camper on my Jeep

 Although the Buffalo River in Arkansas is not particularly known as a   white water float, the upper end of the Buffalo when the water is high   enough is a good place to get into some moderate white water runs.   The  lower end tends to spread out more, but many of the longer calmer   sections of the river are connected by a substantial drop off where a   series of rapids kicks up a challenge.  We've floated all but the last of   the lower part of that river and have had some good fun shooting some  high water rapids.

By far the most fun and most challenging runs we made was on Arkansas's Big Piney and the Mulberry rivers. We caught The Big Piney just about right one time when the water levels were high enough to generate a good flow, but not so high as to create any undo risk. One of the funniest things we saw while running that river was at the put in. We had just shoved off and were waiting inside an eddy waiting on the other two members of our party who were taking  their time getting ready. As we waited, another couple of guys showed up with a very short, maybe 12 feet or so, birchbark design pattern fiberglass canoe that they probably borrowed from someone. Both of these guys were somewhat large, too large really for such a short canoe, and as a result created a top heavy, unstable situation. We watched them load it up with a cooler filled with beer, many of which they had already consumed. Well, they shoved off...and within about 25 maybe 30 feet in perfectly calm water, with a comical plunge followed by a series of explicative phrases, over they went, beer cans and all.

After we stopped laughing we paddled over to help gather their gear which was merrily floating on down river, paddles, empty beer cans, a lunch box now partially filled with a soggy lunch. A few minutes later, they pulled out and left.  Probably the wisest move they made that day, for they would have never survived what awaited them down river.

We were able to run through some good rapids that day and that old Coleman did good. It wasn't the prettiest canoe on the water, but it sure was functional and handled the big stuff with ease. Several times we'd stop and survey the rapids to pick out a good route through, shoved off bow pointed into the current, then allowed the bow to swing around with a hard pull, one left, then right, then a power stroke, a strong back brace to slide across to miss a boulder, rooster tail waves engulfing us shipping water, two then three times, then finally to spill into calmer water.

Sorry poor quality photo -
Me and Rocky running the Mulberry River

After each run we'd lift our paddles overhead and give out a shout of triumph and after each run we'd have to find a gravel bar, pull off and bail out several gallons of water we had shipped before moving on. Can't remember how many rapids we faced that day, but it seemed it was a continuous encounter. 

My old friends Ralph and Neuman, both have long since passed on, floated in Ralphs old Grumman aluminum canoe that day. That old canoe probably was manufactured shortly after WWII and had seen countless hours on the water. It had been used by an outfitter who took it into the Boundary Waters area as part of yearly expeditions. Ralph bought it used many years before I ever knew him, and sure got his money worth out of it. It was because of my experiences floating with him in that old Grumman, I was convinced to purchase my Coleman. His old aluminum canoe was noisy, hot when it was hot, cold when it was cold, but tough and durable. On the Big Piney, what was funny about it was, even though both Ralph and Neuman were accomplished canoers...on flatter water...neither were particularly adept at handling heavy water. 

On one of the first sets of rapids, somehow or another, they got turned sideways, then spun around backwards, and ricocheted and muttered their way through and around boulders and haystacks as they looked over their shoulder. It was a funny sight to witness and teetered on the edge of a disastrous outcome, but somehow they managed to get through it unscathed. We accused them of showing off, of which they readily accepted as the reason why they did it that way. We knew better.

 Because of that old Coleman canoe, I experienced some of the most fun, humorous, wild adventures I've had the pleasure of being a part of, and I solidified strong lifelong friendships. I miss ole Ralph and Neuman, and my brother Ken, for they are all gone now. Our group of six spent many days and hours floating, camping, and fishing, and that old Coleman played a big part. On occasion, even though we live 700 miles apart now, the three of us who are still around, Rocky and Curtis and I, get together for a float trip. Sadly, too much time seems to pass by between those days though.

Ralph and Curtis on the Buffalo River

Yeah, that old Coleman Canoe served me well for all those years. It saw many sunrises, many sunsets, all kinds of weather, storms, sleet, rain, blue skies, hot and cold and it ran a good number of rapids over the years. I originally purchased it as a stop gap measure...until I could afford a real canoe...however, it provided a long term bonanza of thrills and humor, along with memorable moments. I wouldn't trade those memories for any of the newest and best canoes out there.

The Melancholy Warmth of A Wooden Canoe Paddle

 I experience melancholy moments sometimes. Usually on a rainy day, but sometimes not. Often when one of those days disrupts my day, I begin to recall times past spent outdoors with old friends some of whom have passed on now. I miss those days. Even though I now have pretty much all the time I need to pursue such things, for one reason or another, I'm not always able to do so, I suppose that situation contributes to such melancholy moments. Even so, when such days happen and those old memories come back to life, they serve as a reset option to those old desires and pursuits that have lain dormant for too long, and that is a good thing.

One of the many pine covered tall bluffs on the Buffalo River

Just the other day, I picked up an old wooden canoe paddle, one I had not used for many years. In more recent times when I am able to get out with my canoe I employ the use of a newer, more efficient, wooden paddle with a beaver tail blade, but once that old one was in hand, its feel and even its aroma transported me back many years when I and my old friends made numerous fishing trips or float trips, each one an adventure, and in some cases misadventure, in their own right. I suppose the misadventure ones generated the most memorable moments. It was during a time when my photography was limited to using disposable 35mm film cameras. Oddly enough, they did a pretty good job and I am thankful for having them for they captured many special moments spent afield with my friends.

That old paddle is so tattered and weathered, it looks as though it belongs in a museum really. The  laminated strips that run the length of the blade began to split apart a long time ago. They were sort of repaired with glue and heavy duty staples to hold it together. It worked. It's been sanded and varnished so many times the wood has darkened and there are cracks, dents, scars, scuffs, and other assorted wounds across its length, every one a story unto itself. Oddly enough, I find it reassuring to revisit the stories from such scars. Just holding that old paddle and feeling the lumps and bumps it gathered over the years brings them to life again. 

I remember the largest smallmouth bass I ever caught while floating Arkansas's Buffalo River using that paddle. We made numerous multi day floats on that river and that old paddle came along on most all of them. Good times they were. Drifting here and there on crystal clear waters flowing beneath towering, pine accented bluffs and the surrounding woodlands accented with the white bark of river birch trees, well, it just don't get much better. 

Deep within the Buffalo River watershed

We'd drift on the winding currents, cut across and through a set of rapids, then cast into the deep blue hole just below, searching for that elusive big smallmouth bass. Sometimes we'd just stop to stretch our legs or kick back and simply enjoy the view.

My friend Rocky in his vintage Old Town Canoe

Setting up camp at days end on a gravel bar, the subsequent meal cooked over a campfire with its accompanying aroma of smoke and flame, took us toward the evening with a satisfied feeling. In spite of being worn out, we'd sit up late into the star studded night recalling and retelling the finer and more humorous details of past misadventures. 

The canoes would be pulled up on the gravel bank a few yards away...and that old paddle would be leaning against mine, it's handle extending toward the ebony of the night. With a bit of luck we'd see a shooting star silently rush across the night sky. Before long the days adventures would remind us of how tired we were. Even so, we were reluctant to crawl into our respective tents, but it felt good to stretch out a stiff back against something solid.

Best campsite on river: Skull Bluff

The next morning we'd stir into groggy activity, sipping and enjoying the flavor of that first cup of coffee around the morning fire. Often a light fog might be hovering over the waters. What a way to start the day. 

We'd purposefully move slowly on those mornings. To hurry was counter to the feeling. Not a great deal of talking took place. Instead we would simply absorb the sounds of the morning and the aroma of the fresh air. Those were some of the fondest moments when the sleepiness from the night before struggled to move out of the way. Not far off, the chatter of a Kingfisher might crack the calm of the morning stillness followed shortly by a splash when he dove to catch his breakfast. Although the water was moving, its surface was smooth and every small ripple and blip bubble from a rising fish would add a small measure of texture across its flat plain. Those are the sights blended within the sounds of nostalgic moments that simply cannot be forgotten.

Eventually, each morning on the river, we'd gather our gear, pack it away inside the canoes, shove off...and I'd take that old weathered paddle in hand...In spite of the cool morning air and the dampness dripping the length of its handle, the feel of that old wooden paddle possessed a warmth to it, but maybe not in the way you might figure.

Rocky taking a break

 

The warmth came from the moment when purpose and place converged to generate one of those special memories, the kind of memory that can only be stored deep within those harbored places of the heart, where they can best be kept...then, recalled...on a melancholy day.

Ace Maker

 One of my longest and most persistent Walter Mitty daydreams is to become a pilot. Not just an ordinary single engine Cessna pilot, although that would be awesome, but a full blown military Top Gun aviator tearing up the sky in high performance jet aircraft...Yeah😏 well, that didn't happen...but,  I spent countless hours reading about and watching documentaries about aviation over the years and I am still fascinated by the mystique and drama of military aviation. When the movie Top Gun came out, I guess it was in 1986, I was one of the first in line to watch it and more recently I caught the newest version of Top Gun Maverick. Great movies both of them. That's about as close as I ever came to fulfilling that dream. Seemed there was just never enough resources, never enough time, never enough 'Just do it' attitude. I'm too old now and have come to accept the reality that I will never fulfill that dream, not even piloting a single engine Cessna. But, my fascination with the adventure of flying still resides deep inside and ever so often it gets rekindled back to life.

Here in Bowling Green, Kentucky, we have a wonderful aviation park; Aviation Heritage Park (AHP) ( link below) where several vintage military aircraft are on display. Along with a new museum that is still under construction, it serves as a great family oriented lesson in history. Each of the aircraft and the pilots who flew them have a connection to the community. A few years ago I spent some time photographing some of the airplanes, not just snapshot tourist photographing, but capturing these symbols of heroic action in a way that magnifies their style, performance, history, and nostalgic value.

I do have other posts and YouTube videos outlining the detailed techniques of how these photos were made and processed, so I won't go into detail here, but you can check them out with a simple site search or by clicking on the links below. Instead I'd like to talk about how I created the Ace Maker Poster and in general about the lighting and how it enhanced the subjects.

Ace Maker is one of my favorite photo's from AHP. I especially like the simplicity of the composition which gives it a rather dramatic impact. Technically the aircraft is the T-33 trainer version of the original F-80 Shoot Star jet fighter manufactured by Lockheed. The F-80 was the first operational jet fighter for the American Air Forces and was placed into operation just before the end of WWII. By the time the squadrons were trained and operational, the war had ended, so they never saw combat during that war period, however it did see extensive use during the Korean War. The T-33 version became the standard jet trainer for the military in 1948 and earned the nickname Ace Maker as the first generation of jet pilots earned their place in history flying this amazing aircraft. 

Creating this photo was a bit of challenge as I had to shoot it in layers using remotely fired speed lights, capturing one side then the other, then capturing the front. The wing lights were covered with a red gel and attached to the back of the wings and banged straight down onto the tarmac which reflected the light upwards to illuminate the underside of the wings. That's where the red glow comes from. The aircraft on display sits on its landing gear and there is a display information plaque placed in front of the airplane. The original combined image displayed above on the right, shows how the final lighting configuration setup was completed. To create the Ace Maker poster, I had to remove all the reflected light on the tarmac along with the plaque and landing gear. Doing so gives the airplane a heads up, head-on, highspeed coming at you look.

The Ace Maker  jet fighter is a classic design with classic historical references. Photographing it was a fun challenge as I wanted to create an image with power and style, one that stood apart from the ordinary and takes the viewer back to an earlier historical time when aviators still flew by the seat of their pants.

Aviation Heritage Park

Capturing a Classic Fighter

Shaping Light

A Walk In The Woods: Discovering Visual Moments of the Heart

 There are days when events seem to press heavily upon me. No one is immune from such things. It's just a part of life I suppose and as we grow older the accumulated effects of enduring what at times seems like a never ending stream of pressing moments take a toll on your life. 

As a reult, sometimes I just feel like getting out and taking a walk in the woods. Not nearly often enough do I seek refuge there, but when I do, I rediscover the soothing effects places like woodlands possess. Woodlands, they have become one of my favorite locations to get away and to carry a camera for within them a photographer can discover a myriad of visual moments of the heart. 

It matters not what time of day, kind of day, or time of year, a woodlands will speak far beyond the visual to anyone who enters its realm. 

When light filters through the canopy and sets the leaf edges ablaze with color, or when a morning mist finds its way through the random corridors of trees, who among us can resist taking a moment to just absorb what nature offers. 

As a photographer, I sometimes forget to take those moments of silence to just look. Instead I often get caught up with setting up the shot, working out the exposure values, and checking the results when I should just stop and visually capture what is there. Sort of defeats the purpose of being there when I spend more time looking through the camera instead of observing through the heart. 

There are times I do just that, usually when I don't take my camera along, so I can better focus on the real reason I am there. There have been times I've missed a few camera shots, but they are not lost, really. They are stored in my heart...just for me to enjoy as a memory.

Although I enjoy walking through the woods anytime of year, my favorite is probably fall, especially here in Kentucky. It is during this season the woods come alive with color, and when you catch it all, the light, the color, the mist, the breeze, the reflections, aromas, the feeling, well, it makes being a photographer much easier.

Even a simple nature walk can work wonders, but I really enjoy a longer outing. Sometimes it requires a bit of effort, but I do enjoy making a backpacking trip from time to time during the fall season when the air is cooler, the bothersome bugs are gone, and the colors simply fill your soul. 

Once you've reached your destination and get settled in, it becomes time to just enjoy the moment. A campfire, a one pot meal, then time to expand out on the ground cover of leaves and stretch your back.

Take a moment to gaze upward through the canopy of trees, then just close your eyes and allow the sounds of the woodlands infiltrate deep inside. No finer symphony exists than the movement of the leaves as the breeze searches through their realm high above. On a blue sky day, the contrast of colors produces a no finer work of art. Why don't I do this more often, I ask myself when such moments are allowed to exist for my world. Being retired now, well, there are no more excuses.

Winter of course can be a challenge but it offers a unique opportunity as the light and shadows run deep and long and what is obscured by foliage most of the year suddenly become visible. 

When snow is on the ground the texture and atmosphere of the woodlands transforms into a wonderland. Crisp and clean, fresh and clear, a snow covered woodlands is a delight to explore.

When the snow melts the woods become filled with a damp aroma that clings to everything in sight. At once refreshing and enchanting, and again subtle and bold at the same time. When the woods becomes saturated everything becomes darker in texture and more quiet in atmosphere. The sound of footsteps are muffled, yet the chatter of birds becomes cleaner and magnified. The woods simply takes on a different aura, one that will renew your mind and fill your lungs with fresh air.

It's not always the big scenes that become most important. Often, the smaller more subtle images take center stage. It's the small details that define the woodlands more precisely. 

A single flower, and single brown leaf still clinging to a limb, a clump of snow nestled into a cleft of a branch, the odd green leaf budding from a winters branch, a butterfly sitting lightly on a bloom or a tree stump lying on its side. These are the items that define the depth of a woodlands...and they are easily overlooked.

Woodland edges can also provide a treasure of photo ops. It is there you find a great many plants and wildlife you may not otherwise see. 

The light is often brighter and sharper here but that offers other photo opportunities where plants can be back lit and wildlife feed on the shoots and feel safe having the refuge of the woods nearby. You may also find fencerows or old sheds and barns near the edges of woodlands. All of these make for rustic scenes that enhance the moment.

A walk in the woods to discover a visual moment of the heart can often refill the emptiness that so often infiltrates into our lives. Those emptying events we have little control over, but we can make time to take a walk in the woods.

Take your camera along for the ride and search for those simple compositions that define the woods you are in. But most of all, find time to simply be still and listen to allow the woods to fill your heart with its healing properties.