“Middle ground only comes in war after lots of people have died—and only after the important people are worried they might actually lose.”
Sanderson, Brandon. Oathbringer: Book Three of the Stormlight Archive (p. 219). Tom Doherty Associates.
TODAY FROM AMERICA:
A. POOKIE’S ADVENTURES IN EL DORADO HILLS:
The weather broke colder this weekend. The temperature dropped from the mid-seventies to the mid-fifties. Not cold by the measure of those places that enjoy (or suffer) real winters, but enough to make these old bones prefer indoors with a warm cup of coffee to walking outdoors no matter how good the exercise may be for them. Nevertheless, on Sunday, instead of my usual stroll around the lakes, I rambled a bit through SDS park near my house. The paths in the park mostly circle the community playing fields and pool. One path, however, branches off through the woods and along the creek. It, for some reason, is called, New York Park. I rarely take that path because it contains signs that say, “Beware of Mountain Lions.” Next to bears, I fear mountain lions most.
Recently, I posted on Facebook a short piece I had written a few years ago about the 1950s Rock group Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers. In 1956 or 1957, I attended a concert featuring the group in Brooklyn’s old Fox Theater with a young lady friend. We were both teenagers 16 or 17 at the time. We have not seen each other for over 60 years so imagine my surprise when that Facebook post received a “Like” from her.
Now, I believe Facebook is one of the most pernicious things to have been foisted on humanity since the invention of warfare, nevertheless, for the anziani like me, something like this can make our day — perhaps even our whole week.
I spent Monday helping Naida move some things around her house and disposing of some of Bill’s old clothing at Goodwill. While erecting a bookcase in her office, I noticed an amazing collection of books set in or about California during the period in which she set her great California Gold Country Trilogy. Many of the books she used for research. She pointed out a few places where she adapted the information for use in her novels. She also told me that while writing the books and even after they were published she received a number of original diaries written by people who lived in the area at the time in which the novels were set, including one that was so fantastic and dramatic that I still cannot get it out of my mind.
While the story contained in that diary (now lost) that she told me about while we took a coffee break is too long and mysterious to relate in its entirety here, some of the background is quite interesting. It all had something to do with the gold discovery at John Sutter’s Mill in 1748. Marshall was not the first to discover gold in California. Several others had done so before him. There was even an anemic and brief gold rush when gold was discovered In Southern California about 20 years before — in the San Gabriel Mountains I believe. About a year before Marshall’s find, a Mormon family had found gold in what is now the City of Folsom. They busily packed the gold dust and nuggets they had located in the local creeks into barrels. They intended eventually use the treasure to found the Temple City of the Mormons in the golden hills somewhere near where I currently reside. Unfortunately or fortunately depending on your view of the Latter Day Saints, Brigham Young, their leader, took sick with rocky mountain spotted fever somewhere near the desolate shores of the Great Salt Lake in what is now the State of Utah and declared to all that God had decided he would build his New Jerusalem there rather than in California. The Mormon gold digging family tried to dissuade the leader of their church by pointing out the golden hills were indeed golden, the great valley contained some of the richest farmlands on earth and the native people were willing slaves. But, despite their arguments, their entreaties fell on deaf ears. So, about the time Marshall and his cronies were setting about publicizing their find, they packed up their treasure and returned over the hills to found their blessed City on the Mountain or in this case the desert.
Marshall found the gold at John Sutter’s the mill site in early January of that fateful year but did not announce it publicly until May. What he and his cronies — among which was the writer of one of the diaries Naida obtained — spent those almost five months searching for additional rich sites, securing the land, obtaining the supplies miners would need, establishing the campsites the miners would require as they traveled from San Francisco to the future diggings in the foothills and so on. In other words, it was intended to be a vast real estate scheme in the grand California tradition.
To put everything in context, it is probably important to recognize that San Francisco in March of that year when Sam Brannon — who may or may not have been one of the conspirators — prematurely ran down the City’s main street shouting that gold had been discovered, only about 350 persons of European descent and about 800 of African, Asian and Latino heritage lived in the City by the Bay. The Europeans who reaped most of the benefits of the scheme, as they usually do, were for the most part little more than thugs. Within the next five years or so, over 80,000 people flooded into the City in pursuit of the riches that ultimately mostly ended up in the hands and pockets of the thugs and conspirators. After all, in good old American business theory, the greedy grubby miners could be viewed as little more than unpaid workers and small independent contractors who paid to the conspirators for supplies, food, drink, and rent almost every penny of value they received from anything they dug up.
And what of Marshall? He was by some reports a very dislikable man, contentious, perhaps violent and a bit deranged who, after all this, died broke. But not before, along with some friends, Folsom, Ord (of Fort Ord fame), and others had dinner as guests in the home of William L. Leidesdorf. Leidesdorf, a black man from St Croix, a shipowner and accountant, was the wealthiest man in San Francisco at the time (he is also considered the founder of San Francisco). He owned the land upon which the Mormons discovered their gold. He, in partnership with John Sutter, had acted as agent for the sale of the gold discovered in the area charging a 50% commission for their efforts while trying to keep the existence of the discoveries quiet. During that very dinner, according to the now lost diary, the host died under mysterious circumstances. Shortly thereafter Leidesdorf’s mother living is St Croix and his only heir received almost $800,000 (out of over $2,000,000 promised, the remainder of which she never received) in today’s money for renouncing her interest in her son’s estate that had been left to her by him and worth more than $50 million today’s value. When the estate was finally probated the land containing most of the value in that estate passed into the hands of the guest whose name the city eventually built thereon now bears his name. But, that is all another story.
Today, the skies and clear, the temperature in the mid-sixties. I continue to kick the can down the road as to not only what I shall be doing next month and to where I may be traveling but for the rest of my life as well. There are some days that that bothers me a lot and some nights it actually makes me thrash about in despair for a few minutes before I fall asleep.
As for my projected travels, while I agree with Josiah Bancroft’s dictum “Never let a rigid itinerary discourage you from an unexpected adventure,” I prefer to dispense with the “itinerary” altogether and get right on with the “unexpected adventure.”
Today, I saw my first ornamental fruit tree in bloom. Spring has arrived, appropriately on Valentine’s Day.
I never liked Valentine’s Day. In grammar school, before they began requiring everyone to receive a Valentine’s Day card, I rarely got any even though my mom made me bring one for each kid in the class. I wasn’t a bully, just the quiet weird kid who sat in the corner and read history textbooks. The bullies all received Valentine’s Day cards. Everyone likes winners. Come to think of if, there were (and still are) very few holidays I liked, As a kid, I liked Fourth of July. The volunteer fire department in the little town I grew up in always put on a bitchin fireworks display. Memorial Day was pretty good also. A bunch of families would gather together at a place called Peach Lake in Westchester County, New York. The men would eat raw clams all day, drink beer from kegs and get drunk. The women would get angry because the men were all drunk and then the arguments would start. In a way, it was a little like Fourth of July, lots of fireworks. One day, my father drove the car into the stream that fed the lake — my brother and I sitting in the back seat thought it was great fun — my mother, not so much.
Another week has gone by, more trees have burst into bloom and the daffodils have pushed through the earth and splashed some of the local gardens with streaks of buttery yellow. I have not felt well this week, fatigue and listlessness. It could be the change of seasons. It often affects me like this. Well, not to worry, it is whatever it is.
On Saturday, I helped Naida move more things out of the house, drove HRM to various skate parks, read late into the night and struggled with my fury over the latest massacre of innocents in school by right-wing fanatics with an assault rifle.
B. PONDEROUS PONDERINGS AND MEANDERING EPHEMERA:
Like most people I guess, I have lived more than one life — in my case three. We all live our own timelines of course, from birth to death and whatever might happen in between. I seemed to have lived my life in about five year or so increments usually ending in some life altering collapse, usually self-inflicted. After that, there would be about three years or so of wandering in between each phase as I tried to put my life back together.
My second life was the almost 15,000 books I have read in the past 75 years or so, most of them fiction — and most of the fiction fantasy — the farther from the mundane the better. I do not read words. Only images run past my eyes.
My third life is my dreams. Often they impinge on my waking memory and I believe things occurred in my life that never happened. For example, for years I believed there was a seacoast town I would periodically visit. I knew the people, the shops, streets and so on. One morning, I thought it would be pleasant to visit the place for a day or two. I searched for how to get to it and discovered it did not exist. It made me wonder not whether I was crazy or not but what else it was that I remember that also may be fantasy. On the other hand, I could be stuck in an ontological cul de sac or is it an epistemological dead end. There is no question, however, that I live in a metaphysical planned unit development with Descartes my neighbor on one side, Schrodinger on the other and Timothy Leary showing up once a week with a philosophical leaf blower strapped to his back.
Ruth sent me the picture that is posted at the end of this entry. It is also posted and shared on Facebook. It is a drawing of Aaron Feis He is one of the heroes tragic massacre at the school in Parkland Florida where a young white nationalist and NRA supporter opened fire with an AR-15 on the students and teachers in the school killing at least 17 of them. Feis, a gym teacher, placed himself between the shooter and his students to protect them. He was shot several times. There were other heroes in this tragedy including one young man who held the door closed to the classroom in which his classmates were cowering in order to keep the assassin out while bullets tore through the door and into his body.
Rather than also adding my heartfelt support to the reams of articles calling for gun control or bemoaning the unconscionable corrupting influence on the body politic of the NRA or immoral and cowardly behavior of the Republican Party, I want to know where are the monuments to these heroes and those like them who have given their lives to save the innocent from crazed true believers armed with weapons of war who with ever-increasing frequency kill our children and our neighbors? Where are their parades, mausoleums permanently guarded by uniformed sentinels, statues in the park, flags flown in their honor, and anthems sung? These heroes are not those who agreed to put on uniforms, place themselves in harm’s way, bear armaments designed for mass killing, are trained to fight and kill and who face similarly armed forces dedicated to killing them in turn. The heroes like those who died at Parkland did not sign up to put themselves in danger, did not expect to become victims of a mad war on innocents and children manipulated by a criminal industry and abetted by a corrupt political class. They, these heroes, nevertheless, rose to the task unbidden to protect their fellow Americans their fellow humans no matter their beliefs or backgrounds. Where are their memorials? Only in our tears?
MOPEY JOE’S MEMORIES:
Over 40 years ago, I helped draft the California Coastal Plan. Among the elements of that plan was the Government, Planning and Powers element that I authored and from which the structure of the massive California Coastal Program was drafted into several separate pieces of Legislation including the creation of the California Coastal Commission to regulate new development along California’s 1500 mile coast; a 300 million dollar bond act to begin purchasing those recreational and environmental lands of irreplaceable value and; the creation of a novel agency the State Coastal Conservancy whose job it was to facilitate the purchase of lands needed for planning purposes (e.g. buffer areas for coastal cities, consolidation of unbuilt out subdivisions and the like), restoration of coastal resources threatened or degraded by pre-existing development, urban waterfront restoration, public access and coastal dependent agriculture preservation.
Shortly after the passage of the legislation in 1976, I became the first Executive Officer of the Slate Coastal Conservancy. During my tenure, the Conservancy published a magazine entitled “WaterfrontAge.” It was focused primarily upon the urban waterfront, the use of land acquisitions to control the spread of urban development into existing undeveloped areas along the shoreline and general resource restoration initiatives.
After I left the Conservancy the magazine’s name was changed to “Coast and Ocean.” Its focus was shifted from the urban environment to the rural environment. This change reflected the tension between two points of view among those involved in coastal matters. There were those who believed the emphasis should be on controlling the spread of existing urban development onto highly valuable resource and open space areas and to provide for those urban amenities that would encourage people to want to remain or resettle in those urban areas.(e.g. parks, recreation, visitor-serving uses.) On the other side, there are those who believed that government’s role should be focused primarily on preventing development wherever it does not currently exist. Of course, there were also those who believe a government should not be involved at all in the business of protecting resources and regulating industrial, commercial and residential development.
Recently, while wandering through the internet, I came upon a copy of the third issue of “WaterfrontAge” from about 35 years ago. In it was my introduction to the issue. I thought it would be interesting to re-published it here to see how well it has aged.
“I BELIEVE there are two primary elements that reappear in the urban waterfronts we consider exciting and attractive. The first element is a cluster of activities that require a waterfront location — recreational uses such as bathing or boating; commercial uses like fishing, cruise-ship berthing, boat haul-out facilities, and port operations; and environmental uses such as the wildlife sanctuary described in the previous issue of WaterfrontAge. The second element is public access: whether achieved by paths, boardwalks, or promenades, public access adds to the vitality and color of the area and certainly improves the overall value of the waterfront location, both for the public served and for the commercial ventures nearby. The variety of uses on the waterfront-sometimes in startling juxtaposition-attracts a variety of visitors and public access increases the force of that attraction. However, it seems that these two requirements, access and water-related uses, must exist together to guarantee a lively waterfront.”
“In addition to these primary elements, the waterfront should provide activities for their support such as boat repair facilities, chandleries, bait shops, restaurants, and even hotels. Beyond this the normal city uses and densities are appropriate.”
“In my travels, I have found this pattern of waterfront development remarkably consistent in both recreational and working waterfronts. In particular, in Scotland, I happened upon a small fishing Village on the east coast called Arbroath. Its harbor, encircled by walkways and old stone breakwaters, teems with activity; recreational and fishing boats jostle one another; people strolling stop to watch the fishing boats unloading and processing their catch or to watch the fish being smoked. Restaurants, inns, and shops line the streets nearby and overlook the harbor, and the houses of residents peek out over the scene.”
“Adjacent to all this activity, a small rocky beach is crowded with bathers. But surprisingly, a few hundred yards away and still visible from the harbor, there is a wide sandy beach, backed by a handsome promenade and an empty grassy slope. The beach and its park are often deserted, in marked contrast to the busy harbor area. The contrast suggests a connection between the harbor’s development and its appeal; unlike the solitary beach, the harbor provides facilities, for a variety of activities as well as simple access.”
“Arbroath and other well-known waterfront cities arrived at this pattern of development by trial and error. The pressures of competing uses on the waterfront led to the development of a variety of different industries side-by-side. In addition, certain industries, such as fishing, boating, and lodging enforced the need for public access to the waterfront.”
“Recently, the State Coastal Conservancy’ has embarked on a number of projects that seek to help establish this pattern in some of California’s urban waterfronts.”
“In Morro Bay, a small town in San Luis Obispo County, our application of these elements is nearing completion. The Conservancy has had a tremendous influence on Morro Bay’s waterfront.The area is particularly suitable for the Conservancy’s projects because it has remained largely undeveloped, and our projects can influence the shape of future development. We decided that it was inappropriate and unnecessary to attempt to redevelop the area so we decided instead to anticipate future growth and provide the structural elements around which the waterfront could develop as the city of Morro Bay grows.”
“This meant that our projects aimed to manipulate the existing development pressures into patterns which would guarantee the long-term health of the waterfront as well as provide public amenities.”
“The Embarcadero had become crowded with commercial uses which had come to exclude other uses. Our first project was to open the area to public use by planning two public parks at either end of the Embarcadero. From the Embarcadero, the view of Morro Bay’s striking harbor had been gradually cut off by restaurants built over the water on pilings. Ironically, the commercial value of the view had led to the development that threatened that very view, one of the major tourist attractions of the area. One Conservancy project extends viewing platforms from the streets that end at the harbor’s edge; these platforms also provide physical access to the harbor by including ramps leading down to floating docks. The docks are to be used by visiting boaters, who would be able to dock there and visit the city’s restaurants and shops. This improved access has created considerable interest among private developers, who see a likely market for visiting boaters.”
“The local commercial fishing industry, containing the largest active fleet in southern California was enhanced by a Conservancy grant for a new commercial fishing pier for tying up fishing boats and unloading the catch. By ordinance, the commercial fishing fleet on the northern end of the Embarcadero is protected from the pressures of lucrative visitor-serving development. However, the city administrator at Morro Bay, Gary Napper, considers the fishing fleet’s activities a major tourist attraction. Visitors come to the pier especially to watch the fish scooped from the boats the dropped in a cascade into the carts on the docks on their way to the nearby processing plant. The push to diversify the uses of the waterfront has included recent plans to make a major fish-processing plant stretching from downtown to the Embarcadero itself, which should improve the quality of that product and provide an interesting fixture for tourists to visit.
Most recently, the initial steps have been taken to provide some public financing for the construction of two hotels to support the rehabilitation of Morro Bay’s waterfront. In contrast to this large-scale commercial development, part of the Conservancy’s program at Morro Bay has been the restoration and preservation of the extensive dune areas north of the town center.”
“Mayor Bud Zeuchner considers the economics of the waterfront’s development secondary to the need to preserve the aesthetic value of the setting, which is considerable. He believes that the Conservancy’s projects have successfully combined the conflicting pressures (to develop commerce, to preserve natural beauty, to encourage tourism) into a compatible system. The final product, he anticipates, will be a waterfront where water and land both meet the people and meet the people’s needs. The comprehensive plan which embraces Morro Bay’s waterfront does not allow anyone use to intrude on any other, yet still encourages a great variety of water-dependent uses of the waterfront.”
“Every effort has been made to pattern Morro Bay’s waterfront after the liveliest urban waterfronts, like that at Arbroath. The Conservancy’s projects have sought to combine commercial, recreational, and environmental elements of water-dependent activity, to juxtapose these uses for more efficiency and interest, and to provide sufficient access to the waterfront to encourage visitors.”
“Although it remains to be seen if Morro Bay’s waterfront, which is bound to grow, develops into the lively and productive setting we find in the world’s most successful waterfronts, I think a good start has been made.”
A. On Top: The Joy of Overwriting.
“There was an unhuman presence on the other side of the door: it made the skin on my wrists tingle and brought an electric taste to my tongue. I listened with my ears and an inner sense I’d been uneasily practicing for the past year. Tuning in on the uncanny channel brought me a faint sizzling, chittering echo of chaotic un-minds jostling for proximity to the warm, pulsing, squishy meatsacks. The lightning-blue taste of a warded summoning grid—not a large one, just an electrified pentacle unrolled on a desk—was like fingernails on a blackboard: Andy was conducting midnight invocations by the light of a backlit monitor. Okay, so he wasn’t being totally stupid about this. But it still set my teeth on edge.”
Stross, Charles. The Rhesus Chart (Laundry Files Book 5) (p. 10). Penguin Publishing Group.
A. Tuckahoe Joe’s Blog of the Week:
I found this in https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/tag/pulp-fiction. Enjoy…
“Ezekiel 25:17. “The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of the darkness. For he is truly his brother’s keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know I am the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon you.” I been sayin’ that shit for years. And if you ever heard it, it meant your ass. I never really questioned what it meant. I thought it was just a cold-blooded thing to say to a motherfucker before you popped a cap in his ass. But I saw some shit this mornin’ made me think twice. Now I’m thinkin’: it could mean you’re the evil man. And I’m the righteous man. And Mr. .45 here, he’s the shepherd protecting my righteous ass in the valley of darkness. Or it could be you’re the righteous man and I’m the shepherd and it’s the world that’s evil and selfish. I’d like that. But that shit ain’t the truth. The truth is you’re the weak. And I’m the tyranny of evil men. But I’m tryin, Ringo. I’m tryin’ real hard to be the shepherd.
he became the shepherd instead of the vengeance.
Jules Winnfield- Samuel L. Jackson”
― Quentin Tarantino, Pulp Fiction: A Quentin Tarantino Screenplay.
(JP — Imagine, Jackson had to memorize the entire passage and recite it while acting the part. I always found memorization to be the most difficult aspect of acting. Often, I would resort to making words up whenever I forgot them during a performance. It would drive the director crazy when I would make up whole lines of Shakespearian verse. The audience, however, never caught on.)
B. Trenz Pruca’s Observations:
Have you ever wondered why it is that humanity’s great ability to innovate and alter our physical environment for the better seems never to extend to our conscience?
C. Today’s Poem
Astrud Gilberto – Girl From Ipanema
Tall and tanned and young and lovely,
The girl from Ipanema goes walking
And when she passes, each one she passes goes, “Aaah…”
When she walks, she’s like a samba
That swings so cool and sways so gently
That when she passes, each one she passes goes, “Aaah…”
Oh, but he watches so sadly –
How can he tell her he loves her?
Yes, he would give his heart gladly,
But each day when she walks to the sea,
She looks straight ahead — not at he…
Tall and tan and young and lovely,
The girl from Ipanema goes walking
And when she passes, he smiles, but she doesn’t see…
Oh, but he watches her so sadly –
How can he tell her he loves her?
Yes, he would give his heart gladly,
But each day when she walks to the sea,
She looks straight ahead — not at he…
Tall and tanned and young and lovely,
The girl from Ipanema goes walking
And when she passes, he smiles, but she doesn’t see…
She just doesn’t see…
No, she doesn’t see…
But she doesn’t see…
She doesn’t see…
No, she doesn’t see…
ANTONIO CARLOS JOBIM, DAVID JOHN GLEDHILL
D. Xander’s Musings:
Hook, Line, and Sinker Part 2
As I composed this, it was a little after 8:00 p.m. last night on what was a fun but demanding day: Alex, my older grandson, turned three today. No noisy party, no big deal, although his real birthday present comes in two weeks when the family is going to Walt Disney World and the Bahamas. Things have changed a LOT from the days when I was a kid!
Back then, in the Dark Ages, birthday presents were normally badly needed new clothes, underwear, or shoes. When I was about to turn 7, however, I made it abundantly clear that I was hoping to get a butterfly net for my birthday. It was expensive, too — $7.00. In 1961 dollars, that was equivalent to maybe $40 or $50 today; I haven’t priced butterfly nets recently — I just try to avoid men in all-white clothing chasing me with big ones. Yes, I suppose I was getting a head start on the collecting binge that 4th graders go through — collecting coins, stamps, rocks, butterflies and moths, dolls, toy soldiers — you name it. And just last Wednesday, as I was leaving after my doctor’s visit, sure enough, a boy about 9 or 10 ran up to me to show me the beautiful butterfly he’d just caught . . . and it was huge.
Nerd that I am, I pointed out that actually, it was a moth. “That’s not a moth,” he said, but Pete, the nerd naturalist, used the occasion to instruct the kid, pointing out that butterflies have simple thin antennae; this bad boy bug had antennae that looked like enormous feathers. Like the big fat sphinx moths, looking more like a small bird you see at twilight in a lighted stadium [http://www.pbase.com/rcm1840/image/135226348] or gas station . . . or if you had a honeysuckle vine in early summer, like I did as a kid, you’ll remember their fat bodies, the red and white horizontal stripes on those tasty juicy fat bodies (well, to a bird, but these are what tomato hornworms turn into), and from somewhere deep in that scary dungeon that is my brain, I said without even thinking, “That’s called a Cecropia moth.” How the hell I remembered that obscure factoid from over half a century ago is just something I do, and it’s scary. But here’s a link so you can maybe see why I would’ve never forgotten its name, so you can see just how cool that moth is: http://photobucket.com/images/Cecropia+Moth#!
So what does all that have to do with steelhead, the subject several days ago? A steelhead is a rainbow trout, right? It’s a trout that travels down creeks and rivers to the ocean, there to fatten up for a few years, to come back up their natal creeks and rivers to spawn. Unlike our five species of Pacific salmon, however, steelhead don’t necessarily die after spawning; in fact, some even spawn three or four times in their lifetimes (sounds about like me . . . ) But so what?
Well, it’s a pretty BIG “so what.” It isn’t just that they’re anadromous; it isn’t just that they don’t die after spawning. In fact, even among steelhead, there are amazing adaptations that individual populations have. They’re not just one kind of fish; BUT fisheries biologists in the late 1800s up until even today, unfortunately, certainly thought so. Back then, a rainbow was a rainbow, and the distinction between stay-at-home rainbows and anadromous ones was ignored or not known. They were all gathered up. The biologists stripped them of their eggs and sperm, mixed it all up, stream-resident rainbows and migratory steelhead rainbows, redband trout of different races, and produced “rainbow trout” to stock in every little creek, pond, or lake that would support trout, whether it already had some or not, since “these trout were produced by science!” Tens of thousands of years of survival in harsh, almost unbelievable conditions, led to important adaptations, but the biologists didn’t know that or care to know, for that matter. They shipped those fertilized eggs, or baby trout, or fingerling trout, or “catchable” five-per-pound rainbows all around the world. Hatchery trout are designed to produce hatchery fish, eating food pellets. It’s illegal to “chum” in most areas of California, but I wonder what would happen if you went to a lake recently stocked with hatchery rainbows, and scattered handfuls of gravel, like a hatchery worker ringing the dinner ball. Think you could catch your limit then, with the lake’s entire shipment of factory fish swarming near you, eagerly looking for the “food?”
“SO?” I hear you say. Well, for one thing, rainbow trout are aggressive fish, and hatchery rainbow trout are aggressive . . . and stupid. They are produced because hatchery life created the soulless creatures to provide meat, and for no other reason. Well, ask any fly fisherman (male or female) who’s been skunked, and he’ll say that he matched the hatch with a Size 20 Chironomid pupa pattern and a 6X tippet, to this one trout, and it refused to take despite fifteen perfect casts, and it was the smartest goddamned fish he’d ever seen. [Note to all women who have been made trout fishing widows by their husbands: Fish are actually pretty stupid and have tiny little brains. So tease your hubbys, but don’t push it too far. Right. Put a worm on a hook, and that trout’s ass is yours.
These dumbed-down hatchery fish — beautifully nicknamed “rubber trout” or “factory trout” by the late Robert H. Smith, author of Native Trout of North America, in which he detailed his lifelong task of catching and photographing every species and subspecies of salmonid in North America (even in high-elevation streams below the Tropic of Cancer in the Sierra Madre Occidental on mainland Mexico, where as many as possibly six or more undescribed new species live), the hatchery trout have had the very precise body language of the species bred out of them. They don’t understand the posturing of native fish, instead, disrupting the orderly and understood body language of wild native fish and just blundering their way through, shooting their wad while native pairs of trout are spawning, weakening the gene pool, displacing the wild native fish, and eventually replacing the natives . . . kind of like what white Europeans did to the world. (to be Continued)
E. Giants of History:
Nothing to report today.
Toms Strutting Their Stuff at Campus Commons.