We were supposed to be in Georgia today, fishing for shoal bass on a northeast Georgia river. We canceled our reservations on Friday. Hurricane Ida was in the Gulf, and there was still the chance it would veer west into Houston. Living near the coast, it’s one of the things you learn about hurricanes. It ain’t over ’til it’s over. Never discount the chance a hurricane may hit until it hits someplace else.
Even if it didn’t hit Houston–and thank God it didn’t–its projected landfall was between Houston and Atlanta, and flying home today was certain to be a mess. We can try again later. Meanwhile, if you do such things, say a prayer for Louisiana.
In 1733, George II established Georgia, and it was the last of the original 13 Colonies. It was the brainchild of James Oglethorpe, a British parliamentarian, as a means to help the English poor. Georgia would give them a new start. It would also be a buffer between the Spanish colony in Florida and the British Carolinas.
It succeeded pretty well as a buffer. As philanthropy, not so much.
Under Oglethorpe, individual land holdings were limited to 500 acres, and charity settlers couldn’t sell their land. Rum was prohibited. Slavery was prohibited. It was gonna be a moral utopia.
William Vereist, James William Oglethorpe, 1735-1736, oil on panel, National Portrait Gallery, London.
It was a bust. Instead of giving immigrants a clean slate, the poor brought their debt with them. The land along the coast, the land settled first, was lousy for farming, and the English poor didn’t know how to farm anyway. For passage, immigrants, including children, were often indentured for long periods, some for decades. Planters from other colonies, particularly South Carolina, began to encroach, while the immigrants began to sneak off to other colonies where they could at least get a drink.
The Colonial Georgia poor were probably worse off than they’d been in England, though at least they didn’t have student loans.
In 1742, Oglethorpe left Georgia in a huff, never to return. In 1750, African slavery was legalized–it was already widespread. As a bastion of redemption and the hope of the poor, Colonial Georgia failed.
With that sterling beginning, Georgia was on a roll. Many Georgians would have been perfectly happy remaining British, and it was the last colony occupied by the British. Early Georgian government land grants were rife with fraud that lined the pockets of Georgia officials, and multiples of the same available land was sold to different buyers at rigged prices.
Georgia was ground zero for the Trail of Tears.
The Civil War? Georgia seceded based on what was probably a fixed election, and the war remained unpopular, particularly in mountainous North Georgia. Then there was the Siege of Atlanta and Sherman’s March to the Sea. During Reconstruction, Georgia was the only rebel state to be admitted to the Union, only to be kicked out again after it immediately kicked out all African American members of the Georgia legislature.
Gone with the Wind is set in Georgia, and its portrayal of the South is a deservedly difficult subject. Woodrow Wilson was from Georgia, and his overt racism has sparked his reappraisal. After its demise at the end of Reconstruction, the Ku Klux Klan was revived in Atlanta in 1915. There were 593 recorded lynchings in Georgia. While he was out jogging, Ahmaud Arbery, 25, was shot to death in 2020 in Brunswick, Georgia.
Jimmy Carter is Georgian though, and Martin Luther King was from Atlanta. After the 2020 presidential election, Georgia’s Republican Secretary of State may have saved our democracy. Still, if you were going to pick a state where the 2020 election kerfuffle would center, ten’d get you twenty that the center would be Georgia.
American Tobacco Company, Hugh Jennings and Ty Cobb baseball card, 1912, Library of Congress.
I would have loved to have seen Ty Cobb play:
AB 11,440/H 4,189/HR 117/BA .366/R 2,245/RBI 1,944/SB 897/OBP .433/SLG .512
Over a 23-year career, Cobb was on base for 43% of his 11,440 at-bats.
As of 2019, Georgia remains a growing state, its population having increased every year since 1930. In 1990, its population was 6,478,216. In 2019 its population was estimated at 10,617,423. It’s the New South, whatever that may be.
About 55% of Georgians are Anglo, 10% Hispanic, 32.6% Black, 4.4% Asian, and 2.2% multiracial.
in 2016, Donald Trump carried Georgia in a landslide, by 50.3% of the 3,967,067 votes cast for President. In the 2020 presidential election, Joe Biden carried Georgia by roughly 12,000 votes, or .23% of the 4,935,487 total votes cast for President. It was a surprise, I think, and the aftermath was as important to our democracy as Sherman’s March. If you look at it though, how Georgia actually voted has few surprises, and is consistent with the rest of the country. Turnout was up by 6% over 2016, but turnout was down in 2016 over 2012. By region, there’s the obvious blue vote centering in Atlanta, which is expected. Then there’s Baldwin County in middle Georgia. It’s a county with a population of 45,000, about 55% white. Biden carried the county by 50.5%. That’s a surprise, but it’s a surprise without much effect.
Macon, Marietta, and Savannah, all smaller cities, voted blue. Athens and the surrounding area, home of the University of Georgia, went blue, but that’s pretty standard for college towns, whether in Georgia or Idaho. Then there is a scattering of small population counties, remnants of a cotton belt, where the population remains majority African American. Those counties voted blue.
No statewide officeholders in Georgia are Democrats, but both U.S. senators are. The Georgia Senate and itsHouse ofRepresentatives are Republican majorities.
Geographically Georgia is similar to the other Atlantic states, but on a horizontal slant. The southeast is a coastal plain, followed by its mid-state foothills, its Piedmont, rising to the Blue Ridge and Appalachian Mountains in the north. I’m still surprised reading accounts of Appalachian Trail hikes, when the hiker starts in Georgia. I guess I should be equally surprised when the hike ends in Maine. The Appalachians go most of the way up the Atlantic Coast
We fish in northeast Georgia for shoal bass, a river bass. Because of Atlanta’s airport, it’s easy to fly in and out of Georgia from Houston. We’ll poke around Atlanta for an afternoon, go to part of a baseball game between the Atlanta Native American Warriors and the first-place San Francisco Giants, then spend the night in Helen, “the Charm of Bavaria in the Heart of the Blue Ridge Mountains.” As far as I know, none of the Atlanta Braves are part of Georgia’s .5% Native American population, and having sat through a series of particularly painful Astros losing efforts against the Braves in the 90s, I’m certain that the Tomahawk Chop is the most despicable fan chant in sports. I completely support efforts to ban it, and public pressure to change the Braves’ name. My opinion is not influenced in the least by my hatred of the franchise. Really though, whatever my opinion of the Braves, given Georgia’s particularly tragic expulsion of the Creek and Cherokee, having a baseball team with a Native American mascot is unforgivable. Of course I’d probably still hate the Braves whatever their name.
Meanwhile shoal bass are one of the 13 species of black bass, a river bass, closest genetically to spotted bass. They’re native to Georgia, northern Florida, and northeastern Alabama, but are endangered in Alabama. They’re most common in the Chattahoochee and Flint River drainages. I figure that I’ll deem any bass I catch that isn’t obviously a largemouth as a shoal bass, and I might even fudge on a largemouth.
Georgia Department of Natural Resources, Shoal Bass.
I’m not really sure what a shoal is, but I think it’s a sandbar in a river.
The Flag of the State of Georgia, by the way, is the flag of the Confederate States of America, with the addition of the seal of the state of Georgia and the words “In God We Trust.” It was adopted in 2003, replacing a flag that included the Confederate Battle Flag.
Flag of the State of GeorgiaFlag of the Confederate States of America
On Latir Creek in New Mexico we fished 8.5 foot 3 weight rods. On the Cimarron, I stuck with the 3 weight and Kris switched to a 4 weight. On both streams we fished 7.5 foot leaders with a 5x tippet. I wet waded the Latir, Kris wore waders. We both wore waders and boots on the Cimarron.
Wading staffs are always helpful.
In Colorado, we used 9 foot 5 weights, which have just a bit more punch. There weren’t any overhanging trees, and the stream and the fish were larger. Leaders were 9 foot 5x.
I dug out a 30-year-old vest to take to New Mexico because I thought I’d be carrying lots of stuff. I’m not sure why I ever quit using it in the first place. It holds lots of stuff.
Where we stayed
The first day we drove from Houston to Tucumcari, which has a great selection of Route 66 motels from the 50s and 60s. We stayed at the Roadrunner Lodge because they advertised as pet-friendly, and they were. It’s a great place to stay with dogs. In Taos we stayed at an AirBNB, and it was outstanding. It had a kitchen and we cooked a lot of green chile sauce.
Where we ate
During the past year, I seem to have migrated to spicier food. Maybe it’s age and declining taste buds, maybe it’s Covid boredom, but a trip to New Mexico seemed timely. I vowed that on this trip I would learn to like green chile sauce–in New Mexico you’re supposed to choose green sauce or red, and in the past I always chose red, under (the mistaken) impression that green was hotter. Here’s what I ate:
Green chile sauce cheese enchiladas at the Pow Wow in Tucumcari.
Green chile sauce huevos rancheros at Kix on 66 in Tucumcari.
Green chile cheeseburger at Santa Fe Bites in Santa Fe.
Green chile sauce chile relleno at Rancho de Chimayo in Chimayo.
Green chile cheeseburger at the Abiquiu Inn in Abiquiu.
Green chile sauce chile relleno at La Cueva in Taos.
Green Chile cheeseburger at the Blake’s Lottaburger in Tucumcari. On the way out of town. Just in case.
Plus I had ordered a copy of the Rancho de Chimayo cookbook, and we made two batches of green chile sauce at our AirBnB, one vegan and one con carne. I made green chile cheeseburgers one night and enchiladas another, plus huevos rancheros a couple of mornings. Kris made posole with green chile sauce one night.
I love green chile sauce. The Rancho de Chimayo cookbook has both a vegan and con carne recipe. Both are great. Here’s the Ranco de Chimayo vegan recipe, more or less:
4 C vegetable broth
2 C chopped roasted mild to medium New Mexican green chile. I bought a tub of frozen, and didn’t bother thawing.
2 chopped tomatoes. Or a can of chopped tomatoes would work.
1 T minced onion
1 t garlic salt
2 T cornstarch dissolved in 2 T water
Combine everything but the cornstarch in a large saucepan and bring to a boil for 15 minutes. Add the cornstarch slurry. Reduce to a simmer and cook for about 15 minutes more.
It goes with everything, though I didn’t try any green chile sauce donuts. The con carne sauce basically adds a quarter pound of browned ground beef to the vegan recipe.
Donuts.
Rebel Donut in Albuquerque is decidedly on the “I-learned-my-skills-in-Portland” ledger of the donut world. My son explained that the Blue Sky donut with the blue rock candy is an homage to Breaking Bad, which was filmed in Albuquerque, so civic pride! The strawberry/chocolate donut is high on my list of not-to-be-missed donuts. It’s a great place.
I asked at the counter if they’d fill my thermos with coffee, and it kind of shook them. I asked if they’d sell me the number of large coffees it would take to fill my thermos, and they smiled. They filled my thermos and charged me for three large coffees. I think there were actually four. Friendly folk.
Where we didn’t go.
There are so many things I’ve seen in New Mexico, and so many I haven’t. I hope I get to go again.
We didn’t go south to fish for Gila trout, one of the smallest and most fragile of North American trout populations. Probably best to leave them alone. Still . . .
In Taos, we didn’t visit the Taos Pueblo. I wanted to. I haven’t been since I was a child. The reservation is closed because of Covid. We also didn’t re-visit the Millicent Rogers Museum, or stop at Georgia O’Keefe’s home in Abiquiu. Next time.
Books
I listened to most of the mystery novels by Tony Hillerman, and his daughter Anne Hilleman. I’d read the Tony Hillerman novels before, years ago, and they hold up well.
Hampton Sides’ biography of Kit Carson, Blood and Thunder, is outstanding. All the problems and glories of westward expansion are focused in Kit Carson’s life, and he really was extraordinary.
I re-read Death Comes for the Archbishop. There’s even a vignette about green chile sauce. And Kit Carson.
Playlist
Our Colorado playlist consisted of Rocky Mountain High. Like I said, there wasn’t a lot of preparation for our trip to Colorado.
Our New Mexico playlist was also pretty short. The Shins are from Albuquerque, and I included Michael Martin Murphy because, even if he’s from Dallas, he’s connected in my mind to Red River. The folksinger Anna Egge grew up in a commune near Taos, presumably populated by the kind of near-nuff Buddhists who open their hook gaps. I downloaded a bunch of what I would call Norteño music off of a New Mexico playlist. There’s supposed to be a difference between New Mexico Hispano Norteño and Tejano Norteño, but I’m not that subtle.
We tried to listen to Aaron Copeland’s Billy the Kid, but frankly IMusic sucks and it kept playing the Gun Battle over and over and over.
Around Tucumcari–I really liked Tucumcari–we started listening to (Get Your Kicks on) Route 66. There must be 37 covers, including versions by The Rolling Stones, Chuck Berry, Manhattan Transfer, and Nat King Cole. Then we started listing to versions of Willin‘. Just to be clear, the lyrics to Willin’, which goes from Tucson to Tucumcari, are not “just give me wheat, rice, and wine.” Kris was right, even if she did laugh at me 38 years ago.
I don’t care. “Wheat, rice, and wine” is altogether better than “weed, whites and wine.” That lyric doesn’t even include the Oxford comma.
Guitar
I took the Kohno, and played transcriptions of lute music by John Dowland. I got a new sticker for my guitar case.
I was ambivalent about fishing Colorado. I had this romantic notion of spending a month or so rambling around the state following inclinations and topographic maps to fish. Instead of a month we only gave Colorado a day. We didn’t even spend the night.
We crossed the border at Antonito, at the Sinclair station and the marijuana dispensary. I grew up in a county that prohibited alcohol sales, so the marijuana dispensary just over the New Mexico line made perfect sense. Since New Mexico has recently legalized pot and in-state sales will start soon, I guess the dispensary will move on to Clovis, in legal New Mexico just over the illegal Texas border, so that it’s ready for the next dry state.
From the Wikipedia entry for Antonito:
The area’s economy has recently experienced an upsurge with the passage of Colorado’s recreational marijuana laws. A 420-friendly town, several recreational marijuana dispensaries have opened within the city limits.
We didn’t visit any of the dispensaries, but there are also a bunch of fly fishing businesses–lodges, cabins, shops, and guides. Every other car sported a rooftop rod rack. I own a rooftop rod rack, but it’s one of the few I’ve seen in Houston. In Antonito they’re required by local law. Given the dispensaries, I suspect there are plenty of mellow anglers trying to remember where they put the key to their rod rack.
This is a car with a rooftop rod rack. I knew where the key was.
Back in New Mexico on the Cimarron, Shane Clawson and I had talked about not catching fish at all. I lose a lot of fish before I land them, and since catch-and-release is the goal anyway, that’s perfectly ok with me–fishing is cruel, and a remote release helps fish survive, plus I always remember the fish I lose better than the fish I catch.
I mentioned to Shane that I’d thought about cutting the point off my flies at the bend of the hook and playing tag with the fish, just watching them rise to my disabled fly but never hooking any. Shane said that a Taos friend did something similar. Most of us already fish with barbless hooks, and Shane’s friend widened the hook gap so that any hooked fish was almost certain to shake loose before landing. He could play them for a second, then watch them disappear.
“Of course he’s Buddhist,” Shane said.
Well of course he is. He’s from Taos. Buddhists are more common in Taos than pot dispensaries in Antonito. I’m pretty sure there’s a prayer wheel aisle at the local Walmart.
That’s a long introduction to hanging out early on Thursday at Conejos River Anglers, waiting for the guide, and saying that I didn’t really care if we caught fish or not. “Bullshit,” someone snapped. I guess so, some anyway, but truth is, I’m always a bit ambivalent about catching fish. I’ve got my Buddhist tendencies, plus if I didn’t catch a fish on the Conejos, I’d still have my chance at a month-long ramble.
Then I went out and caught a fish.
Which is skipping way ahead. To get to that fish–and it was a lovely, fine cutbow, about 19 inches, fat and healthy, and caught not on my first cast but on no more than my tenth–anyway to get to that fish we had to meet our guide, Micah Keys, at the fly shop and then drive. Antonito is at 7,890 feet. Where we fished on the Conejos, near its headwaters below the Platoro Reservoir, is around 9,900 feet. To gain that 2000 feet of elevation we drove 48 long winding miles up the Conejos River, much of it on gravel mountain roads.
That’s a lot of river, and from time to time during the year I suppose almost all of it is fishable. In high summer though we went as high as we could to beat the heat. Fish mortality increases when the water temperature approaches 70 degrees, plus the fish stop feeding. Even at elevation the water was too hot to fish by 2 o’clock.
Before the water temperature stopped us, we caught more fish, all browns. Micah had us fishing size 18 bead-head nymph droppers, not much more than a bit of colored thread with a tail for visual balance and a tungsten bead to make it sink–fished about 20 inches under a parachute Adams floating in the surface. Micah said his name, by the way, was from the sheriff on The Rifleman, not the Old Testament Minor Prophet. That’s probably for the best, since it seems to me that the Minor Prophets would be lousy fishing companions.
Google Earth
Where we fished, the Conejos is a series of braids and random meanders through the meadow. I thought at first it was feeder streams, but it was only the river making it up as it went. None of it was slow, it had 2000 feet to fall after all, but wading wasn’t that hard either, at least not hard qua wading, because frankly any movement was kind of tough. Houston is 80 feet above sea level, and we were fishing close enough to 10,000 feet to make no never-mind. I’m in reasonable shape, but following Micah from the car to the stream was better aerobics than my daily run, and a lot harder.
After lunch Micah and I stood in the river and watched a brown 30 feet away consistently rise to something on the surface. I’ve never watched a fish rise so often or over such a long period. I thought for a while that there was more than one fish, but I don’t think there was. There was just one big fish, actively feeding.
What I should have done, and of course what I didn’t do, was get a photo of the fish before trying any cast, but I didn’t even bother getting a good photo of Micah, much less a hard photo of a fish. Micah helped me get positioned for the cast, and then the fish took my dry fly just like it was supposed to.
And then the fish was on and then it wasn’t. Dammit. Of course it never rose again. Dammit. I hate losing fish.
