Tag: Hotels

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New Mexico/Colorado Packing List

Gear

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.

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More Florida Playlist

Gear

We took five rods. We took my 7 weight G. Loomis Asquith with a Tibor Everglades reel and a bonefish line. When we weren’t fishing for big tarpon that’s the only rod we used in the Everglades. It’s a little known fact, but Lord Asquith was the commander of the British forces in Florida during the Revolutionary War, and made a pile selling swampland to British loyalists escaping from New York and New England.

We also took Kris’s 8-weight Helios 3 with an Orvis Hydros reel, a 10-weight Helios 2 with a Tibor Riptide reel, and a 11-weight Helios 2 with an Orvis Mirage reel. All of them had floating lines. In the Everglades we used the guide’s 11-weight H3 because we needed an intermediate line and because H3. We used the guide’s 10-weight H3 out of Key Largo because the guide didn’t like my leader and because H3. My leader was tied with lots of bits and pieces of fluorocarbon and his was a simple 40-20-40 or thereabouts.

It rained out of Key Largo, so our rain gear came in handy. I wore my Converse high tops. Kris kept wanting me to go barefoot so I’d feel the line under my feet, but I never did. Together with my blue sun gloves, blue Buff, blue cap, and blue eyes I was very color-coordinated, and going barefoot would have ruined the whole ensemble.

Unfortunately my boat bag was orange. I need to work on that.

We also took Kris’s 5-weight Helios 3 for the Miami canals. More on that later.

Flies

We only used a few. For the bonefish it was a lead-eyed root beer crazy charlie, probably size 8 or 10. The tarpon fly we used was a black toad, not very big, only a couple of inches long, tied on the the usual sized hook for tarpon, 1/0 or 2/0. For the smaller fish and the baby tarpon we switched to an orange and white baitfish pattern, size 4 maybe. it wasn’t a fly I knew, but any clouser variant or baitfish pattern would probably have done. These were all guides’ flies.

The Canals

I wanted to fish Florida canals on our first trip to Florida, but we didn’t have the time, or at least the energy. This time we did, but only for an hour because of a luggage snafu. ProTip: Don’t try to late-check a bag of food and expect TSA to get it onto your plane, and if you do be ready for the recriminations of the lady at the Southwest baggage claim who feels wronged because you late-checked luggage. Also, buy the Coke Zero when you get there. When one explodes in the plane and mixes with the instant oatmeal it’s a real mess, even when you bag is waterproof. Maybe especially when your bag is waterproof.

At the canal it was too windy for Kris’s 5-weight, and it was hot. We were fishing on the side of the road in a warehouse district. It wasn’t a transcendent outdoors experience.

Hotels

We had great luck with hotels. We stayed at The National in the heart of Miami Beach. The National was built in the 50s, and is immaculate. I wanted to spend the weekend floating by the poolside bar and drinking mai tais, and if I’d done it the other guests could have gone home and told their friends that in Florida they’d seen the Great White Manatee.

In Key Largo we stayed at Popp’s Motel. There are nine cottages with a beach. There are palm trees and hammocks. Nobody was there but us, though in-season my guess is it’s packed.

Restaurants

On the way out of the Everglades we stopped at Robert is Here in Florida City. I had the mango and strawberry milkshake, Kris had the blackberry. There is a low-rent zoo in the back where you can sit at picnic tables and watch tortoises and goats and the other customers while you drink your milkshake. There are parrots and motorcyclists with tattoos and The Great White Manatee. It’s a fine place.

In Miami we went to Joe’s Stone Crab for lunch. I had expected something close to Felix’s Oyster Bar in New Orleans, something with a formica counter and twirly stools. Instead it was white table cloths and waiters in tuxedoes. A waiter who spoke tourist gave great guidance, and there was crabmeat and key lime pie. The waiter had a good Houston story about being stuck in Houston during Hurricane Harvey, and volunteering at the George R. Brown shelter.

The guy behind us had stories too, and he announced them with unflinching gusto. Here are his stories.

  • He was raised right here in Miami, and every time he came home he came to Joe’s, and he especially wanted to bring her to Joe’s.
  • He loved her, and that story she told about her parents was funny, and her family must think he was robbing the cradle.
  • Don’t worry about how much food he was ordering, because he could eat it all. Gusto!
  • People come for the crabs, but really it was the coconut shrimp that he loved.
  • These weren’t local crabs. These were west coast crabs. He could tell, he was raised here.
  • She would love the key lime pie.
  • Ok, she hadn’t loved the key lime pie. They’d order the chocolate cake.
  • She was so funny. He loved her.
  • He loved her.

My back was to them, but while it was impossible to see I could hear him fine, more than fine, more than I wanted. Whether or not raised in Miami his accent was Jersey, and she was 25 (or at least he said she was 25) and her accent Asian. She didn’t talk much.

When we left I got my only glimpse of them. He was closer to 60 than 25, a bit rotund, a bit worn, a bit sagging. If he’d been a fish he would have been a gizzard shad. She was nondescript. She could have been 25 or 30 or 40, a bit rotund as well, and not glamorous, nor seemingly striving for more glamour than any of us might seek. Was she Korean? Vietnamese? How did these two meet? Online? Was there some sort of matchmaker? Would things end well? I wished them well if well was in the cards, but I guess didn’t really think it was.

That evening we went to The Surf Club at the Four Season’s Hotel. The blurb promised nostalgic cuisine and the Thomas Keller touch. That sounded fun, expensive what with Thomas Keller touching our bank account, but fun. And nostalgic cuisine! 50s-60s cuisine! It sounded just right for Miami.

Here is what I learned: you can’t high concept authenticity. You can high concept all you want, and if the concept is good it will travel, but if a restaurant is concept and the concept is authenticity (and that’s really what you’re at when you’re grabbing nostalgia), well, you can’t Make America Great Again. It doesn’t matter how good the service, how finely sourced the beef, how excellent the dang-that’s-really-expensive wine list, a $46 soft boiled egg is still a soft boiled egg, even if it comes with caviar and a buckwheat blini.

I was dressed in my finest fishing wear, including my bright blue Converse high tops, so I didn’t exactly fit the space, but I figured nothing said 1960 like Converse high tops. Kris told me not to get the oysters Rockefeller, but I’m a sucker for roasted oysters. It never works out though. Except for the Oysters Gilhooley at San Leon’s Gilhooley’s (cash only, you can smoke at the bar, and be sure and stop and admire the Harleys out front) I’m always disappointed. The oysters were surprisingly fine, still plump and fresh, but how do you make bread crumbs bitter? Were they scorched? And why ruin an oyster with a slather of spinach? I ate the oysters anyway, just so Kris wouldn’t know she was right. They needed some hot sauce, but so did much of the 50s.

Kris didn’t do more than taste her lamb chops and said they were over-salted and overdone. They took them off the bill. Great service, and the crudite and martinis were magnificent. They cook magnificent crudite. My steak was a steak. It was a bit over salted in pockets, but I didn’t tell Kris.

Just like lunch there was an old man with a much younger woman, and this old man was frightening–if he wasn’t Miami mafioso he had missed his calling–while Kris was certain that any woman that tall and with arms that thin was a young man in drag. She was so coiffed and painted that you couldn’t tell what she’d begun as, male, female, beautiful, plain.

She had a mass of frosted hair over a dark underlayer–there were a lot of women in the room with a mass of frosted hair over a dark underlayer, and there was a magnificence in the complexity of it. How did they do that? In more innocent places you’d just guess their roots were showing, but this was so planned, so well-executed, and so universal that it could be nothing but premeditated. Did they dye their hair dark, then dye it again light? It had to take hours, did it take days? I wondered why Kris didn’t do the same, but she’d have to add more hair to get the effect. I like her hair just fine.

I don’t think she was a young man in drag, but I didn’t ask. When I was leaving the maitre d’ asked if I’d enjoyed my golf. Our kind of place.

South in Key Largo we ate at The Fish House. Its concept was to throw fishy looking bibelots on the wall and serve the same menu they served last year and the year before and the year before that, with whatever fish was fresh that day. The couples at the tables next to us got into a heated argument about the President until one stormed out. My nose was so far into my plate that I couldn’t tell who took which side, but the remaining couple, the couple immediately to our right, lived in Manhattan on the Upper West Side, and guessed from our intro that we’d dined with Thomas Keller the night before. They were younger than us, but not by much, and said that they’d had dinner the night before at the Trump Doral, the one that had made all the headlines for the G7 conference, and that there had been a woman in a sequined Make America Great Again dress that wasn’t meant to be ironic.

At the fish house the oysters were from Texas, just like us. There was no slather of spinach. On our way out of the Keys the next day we stopped again for a second lunch.

Our final night in Fort Lauderdale we found a red-sauce Italian place, Il Mulino, and ate comfort food. We didn’t talk to anybody. We didn’t watch anybody or overhear any conversations. We split a pair of Apple Airpods and streamed the Astros beating the Nationals in World Series game 4 through Kris’s phone. Those were more innocent times.

Donuts

No donuts. We didn’t eat a single donut.

Playlist

I’ve covered my Florida playlist before, and there’s nothing more to be said except this time I liked it. I liked Mel Tillis. I liked the Adderly Brothers and Ray Charles and Arturo Sandoval and John Vanderslice. Not a single Jimmy Buffet song cycled through, and I liked that. I’ve made my peace with Florida. I’ve caught my Florida fish.

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New York, Vermont, New Hampshire Packing List, Part One

Mount Equinox overlook, Manchester, Vermont

Rods, Reels, Waders

We took five rods, two 9′ five weights, a new Winston Pure and an Orvis Helios 3D; an 8’6″ four weight Orvis T3; a Scott 8′ four weight STS; and a Winston 9′ six weight boron IIIx. We never used the six weight, but being a Winston it looked good in our luggage. the Winston Pure unhappily broke when I slammed a weighted streamer into its tip, but I’ve broken rods before and will break them again. It’s off at Winston getting repaired. I think the repair cost is $75.

The broken Winston Pure is the rod Trout Unlimited sent me for my work as chair of our Houston Mayor’s Commission for Preservation of Bayou Salmonids. Restoring brook trout to Houston’s bayous is a real priority of mine.

Our reels were a mixed lot, all click and pawl, some older Abels and Orvis Battenkills and a newer Hardy. In Vermont on the Waloomsac River the combination of largish trout and current made a disk drag useful, and it’s the only time I’ve ever wanted a disk drag for trout. All of our lines were coldwater floating lines.

For pike we used Chuck DeGray’s eight weights with Orvis Mirage reels and 250 grain Depth Charge lines. I used the Recon and Kris got the Helios 3. Go figure. The Mirages are great, powerful reels, and I’d fish with Recons any day.

We took waders and boots. The hardest thing about air travel with wading boots is that post-wading they’re ten pounds heavier, and it’s usually enough to take our luggage over the weight limit. To dry them I’ve tied them to car roof crossbars, stuffed them with newspaper, perched them on air conditioning vents, and used a motel room hair drier.

By happenstance this trip I found the perfect answer: we didn’t wade the last two days fishing. Where we fished the Connecticut isn’t a wadeable river, so we stayed in the boat. That meant by the time we got to the airport the boots had dried. If I can help it I’ll never wade on the last day of a trip again. And I’ll try to get a rental car with rooftop crossbars just in case.

Chuck had two specialized bits of gear for pike fishing. To land fish he used a cradle net. It seemed harder to manage than a normal landing net, but it worked well for pike. He also used a jaw spreader to keep a pike’s mouth open for hook removal, which reminded me of a tool my dentist might use when I was being uncooperative.

Luggage

For years I’ve had a rolling FishPond rod case. It looks great, long and thin and stylish like a lot of FishPond stuff, with a lot of serious looking pockets and such for reels and fly boxes. It’s big enough for four rods, a vest, waders and boots, plus the other miscellany necessary for a fly fishing trip. The problem is that every time I drag it behind me through an airport it flips, and when I wrestle it back upright it immediately flips again. If I lean it against something, say an airport check-in counter, it immediately slides down onto the floor. It will not stand upright and it will not lean. I put up with it out of a certain earned fondness from familiarity, and it’s problems are no more than an annoyance and its virtues many, but Kris, who is a woman of strong opinions, passionately dislikes that case.

She bought an Orvis Safe Passage rolling bag a few year’s back. It’s pretty, but it has it’s peculiarities. It has these two three-quarter inch aluminum tubes inside that seem to go nowhere and do nothing, and for the life of me I can’t figure out their purpose. Still, it’s big enough for waders and boots and vests plus a goodly number of clothes. It’s got one real problem: It’s not big enough for rods.

So for Father’s Day this year Kris bought me a different FishPond bag, the Grand Teton, which rolls without flipping, at least some of the time stands without falling over, and is long enough for rods. In the old bag the hard bottom let me carry rods in Neoprene socks without tubes, which saved both weight and space, but I don’t trust rods in the new bag without tubes. Stuff is piled right on top of them. It does stand upright in an airport, and it doesn’t immediately flip over when I roll it along behind me. So far so good.

Rental Car

We usually rent mid-sized SUVs because we can load rods inside the car without breaking them down, but for some reason the cost of an SUV out of New York City was ridiculous. Instead of the SUV we got a full-sized Chevy Malibu. I guess it’s not really amusing to most people, but driving a Chevy Malibu around America sure amused me. It just seemed so 1960s, like a living television commercial during the Sunday night Bonanza episode.

Manchester, Vermont

We picked our New York hotel because it was close to a National car rental pick-up near Washington Square. There’s a premium paid for picking a car up in NYC, keeping it a week, and then dropping it off in Manchester, NH. I don’t know if we also paid a premium because the car was a Malibu.

Hotels

We had great luck everyplace we stayed, the Washington Square Hotel in NYC, the Beaverkill Valley Inn, the Equinox in Vermont, and the Lopstick Lodge in New Hampshire. I’d stay at any of them again.

Donuts

I’ve already mentioned our New York City donuts, and we didn’t look for bakeries in the Catskills. Manchester, Vermont, however, is a donut rich environment. I had read that the Equinox Resort had the best donuts in town, and the cider donuts are very good, warm, and dusted with sugar. The problem is that donuts are only available in the dining room at breakfast, and two of our three mornings we were gone before the dining room opened.

Mrs. Murphy’s Donuts, Manchester, Vermont.

Our second Manchester morning though we made it to Mrs. Murphy’s donuts. They were already open and full of morning coffee drinkers at six when we got there. The guys at the counter had ceramic mugs, so high marks for Mrs. Murphy.

When we looked for donut shops in New Hampshire all the offerings we found were Dunkin Donuts. This didn’t surprise me. Getting ready for New Hampshire I’d read Scott Conroy’s Vote First or Die, about the 2016 New Hampshire primary. It prepared us for New Hampshire’s fondness for Dunkin Donuts. I don’t have a strong opinion about Dunkin Donuts, it’s a chain that’s not that common in Texas, but years ago when I read the Spencer detective novels Spencer always ate their corn muffins. I buy one whenever I’m in a Dunkin, but as someone who grew up on cornbread I think they could be better. Don’t tell Spencer.

What We Didn’t Do

In New York we didn’t explore the Catskill rivers, other than one small bit of the Beaverkill. There is also river fishing further north, and winter steelheading is a thing in the far New York north. There are a lifetime of rivers there, and I’d love to have seen more.

We’d been to the National Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown before, and to the Metropolitan Museum of Art many times. I’ve heard there’s not much else to do in New York.

In Vermont we didn’t visit Robert Todd Lincoln’s home, or fish the Batten Kill. There are lots of streams we could have explored but didn’t. We did stop at a farmhouse to buy maple syrup, so that’s off our list.

I really wanted to rent one of these tiny boats in New Hampshire. Puttering around the lake in the marine equivalent of a go cart just looked unimaginably fun to me. I had worked out a plan for fishing the lake from one of those boats rigged like we fished Pyramid lake in Nevada, with a balanced leech and a dropper nymph on a long leader under a bobber. I think I could have spent at least a day drifting and watching the bobber, but I never rented the boat.

In New Hampshire I also never got to shake the hand of a presidential candidate, or eat at the Buck Rub Tavern. I could have probably crossed both thoseoff my list in one trip to the Buck Rub. I’m pretty sure there’s always at least one presidential candidate shaking hands and busing tables at the Buck Rub.

We didn’t actually drive into Canada. We took our passports, but just couldn’t bring ourselves to put up with the bureaucratic brouhaha of getting over and then immediately turning around and coming back. I kept looking for the wall between us and Canada but couldn’t find it. Build the Wall!

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The Beaverkill, The Catskills, New York, June 24, 2019.

At the Wulff School we’d cast fly rods most of the weekend, but we hadn’t fished, and before we left New York State we needed to catch a fish. We had a mile of private access to the Beaverkill, and Monday morning we’d booked Craig Buckbee as a guide. Saturday and Sunday we’d fished once or twice before or after class, but the class day was long, and the bar at the Beaverkill was very good, and practicing Bach on the porch with the guitar and a martini in the evening or the guitar and coffee in the morning was a lot easier than climbing into waders. Plus it’s hard to drink a martini while fly fishing. That’s where bait fishing has fly fishing beat cold.

Craig was one of the Wulff School instructors. He tournament casts, guides in New York and Pennsylvania, and teaches casting in Central Park. That last didn’t seem odd to me, but then I realized that most people may not as a matter of course practice casting in urban parks. Thinking about it later there aren’t many places it would be more fun to learn to fly cast than Central Park. I bet you could aim your casts at those little sailboats.

The manager at the Inn told us we’d done the school right, staying over that morning to fish. The Catskills have had their moments: 19th century fly fishing, Borscht Belt resorts, and the Hudson River School. I told her that a young colleague had mentioned that her husband wanted to go to the Catskills, and she said that the Catskills were again a hot outdoors destination, especially for young folk out of New York City. They come to camp and fish and mountain bike and kayak and Nordic ski and feed the ticks. I guess if I were 30 years old and in the City I’d be there as well. I guess come to think of it I was there. I’m such a hipster.

The locals told us that the Beaverkill Valley Inn and the surrounding area had once been owned by Larry. The locals we talked to all mentioned Larry. Larry turned out to be Laurance Rockefeller Jr., great grandson of John D. Rockefeller of Standard Oil (and business partner of Henry Flagler). He’s a noted Republican environmentalist, which is a species that as a conservationist he couldn’t save from extinction. Mr. Rockefeller Jr. has spent big bucks on land preservation, both in New York and out West, and on the Upper Beaverkill he seems to have done smart things. He took acreage and resold it in 20 acre plots protected by conservation easements. He renovated and sold the Inn as a country club to the new residents. There’s no golf at the club, but there is croquet.

He also did about a zillion dollars of stream restoration, and Craig pointed out where huge granite blocks had been carefully arranged  in the river to preserve trout habitat. He did not, on the other hand, spend a zillion dollars on tick eradication, or on mosquito prevention, or, as my new discovery on this summer’s list of insect horrors, doing to death the black flies. Black flies love me. I am their new Man God, and they each want a piece of me as a remembrance. 

Maybe it was so even before all the work, but Mr. Rockefeller’s Beaverkill is as picturesque and inviting as a trout river can be. There was no covered bridge where we fished, and someone should point that out to Larry, but there was a mighty picturesque one just down the road. As a general matter trout live in pretty places, and this pretty place was all a trout could desire.

Meanwhile in this pretty place Craig had spent the past two days teaching us, and I worried getting out on the river that he would constantly remind me to relax my shoulder. He didn’t. He was low key and quietly humorous. He asked about Kris’s preferences, and I told him that Kris would be happiest if he gave her plenty of time to flail away on her own, and he did. He paid attention to her, but it wasn’t intrusive, and it was always just enough. Same for me. He didn’t correct my sloppy casts, even though I figured he ached to do so. This was about fishing, and he talked about the water and helped me fish.

He must have changed out my flies a half dozen times in that four hours. I vaguely remember fishing small streamers with a wet dropper down and across and on the swing. Did I do that? I think I did that, but at this point things blend and that may have happened two days later in Vermont. I think though that that’s how I caught my first small brown. It came off the hook at the net, and I didn’t get a picture, but I figured that if I caught nothing else that was good enough for me and New York.

I also vaguely remember fishing nymphs, and Craig pointing out a yellow Sallie. Mostly I remember how pretty everything was, including the yellow Sallie.

Kris caught a small wild brown on a purple bodied dry, and then another larger stocked brown, and after a while I was fishing with a purple bodied dry. This must be our year for purple. Speaking of Mississippi Craig said he’d gone to Houston’s Glassell School of Art, and had expected to be a children’s book illustrator. He had a particular interest in nature illustrations, and he and Kris talked birds. I wanted to ask if he knew Walter Anderson’s strange work, but never got around to it. I think if I were interested in nature illustrations I’d want to know Walter Anderson, but I never even asked Craig if he painted now. Next time.

We were close to the end, and Craig had told Kris she could cast 15 more times–he’d really sussed her out. It was both a hard number and a small enough number that she couldn’t say she’d lost count. We’d moved downstream towards the Inn and Craig told me where to cast in the softer water flowing past a rock shelf set into the bank and I caught a nice stocked brown on my last cast of the day. I really did. I caught a brown trout on a dry fly. There was no hatch of course, hatches being a hoax that Yankees perpetrate on gullible Houstonians, but at least I’m reasonably certain now that it can be done. I did it. I caught a trout on a dry fly.