An old pond I used to sneak out to for fishin’ from the time I was about 16 until just a few years ago. Because I was one of the very few people to know about it, the bass bred unbothered, and grew into monsters.
I can’t go there anymore. Commercial expansion has destroyed it. The forest is all chopped down now and the land is owned by a car sales lot.
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Sorry if I’ve seemed distant and a bit inactive lately, folks. There are two upcoming excursions I’ve been planning for, hot and heavy. When I get into this mode, my brain gets completely absorbed in all the many details of how I hope things will play out and how to make the most of my time out there.
I play around with a thousand different ideas and slowly whittle these ideas down to just a few that I then actually make happen once I’m on the outing. But this whittling process takes gobs of time and attention.
I like to show off different shelters, cooking techniques, meal types, bedding, and these sorts of things, rather than just show off the exact same gear and approaches every time. For one thing, I like trying new ideas and seeing how they compare to my preferred ways of doing things that I’ve already settled on. This keeps things challenging and interesting for me, and I think this makes things more interesting for people watching later, too. But it does mean that instead ...
Around these parts it used to be common for families to have a single tree somewhere out in the woods where everybody would go to carve their names, and leave a testament to their existence. Kids would grow up and then take their own kids out to this tree - their trusty pocket knives in their little pockets, so that they too could join in this sacred bonding ritual.
It’s a disappearing custom even here in these parts.
Here’s our family tree, and yes, my initials are carved deep into it, the bark swollen after the passing of 40 years. I remember very clearly the day my father took me back there and stood by proudly while I added myself to it.
