Fishing the Bay with Builder Bob--Day One

There's a Thanksgiving tradition 'round these parts. A group of men with places in Kilmarnock head down for the weekend to fish and drink something stronger than their wives' insipid iced tea. Sometimes they stay at home for the holiday dinner, and sometimes not, depending on how relations are going with the missus. This year, Dad and I were invited by Builder Bob to join his crew. We initially thought it was owing to our sunny dispositions...turns out we just add more rockfish to the boat's limit...

Captain Bob

Thursday and Friday brought bad weather on the Bay, so we postponed departure until Friday evening. Saturday, we were on the water early enough and cleared Indian Creek in plenty of time to watch the sunrise over Windmill Point. A day of trolling never got the skunk out of the boat, so it was back early for dinner in Kilmarnock and some passing of George (Dickel) and lies around the table. Then off to bed, hoping for better luck in the morning.....

Sunup Over Windmill Point

Lines Out West of the Ship Channel

Thanksgiving Day--2009

Thanksgiving Day has always been a pretty big hunting day around here. We're generally not working, and my brothers are often here at the farm with us. We have all afternoon to siesta, so an early morning is no great challenge even if the Thanksgiving Eve family get together strays into the wee hours. This year it was just Dad and I on one of our favorite beaver pond honey holes. Pre-dawn and dawn low light photos are tough to do right. They never seem to do justice to the moment I'm trying to capture. That time, before the birds start calling, is quiet, serene...for me very spiritual. I'd love to share the essence of this part of the hunting experience, but really cannot...these pics are the best I can do, I suppose.

Pre-dawn in the Beaver Swamp

First Light

Sometimes we sit together; other times a few yards apart. Until first light, the only way I know Dad's there is the glow of his cigarette in the dark. When light comes, he appears in the shadows. Then we wait, first for the birds, then for the sun as it rises in our faces.

Dad in the shadows

Sunrise Over the Decoys

November 20, 2009

As if the events of the first few weeks of November weren't enough, I lost my job of sixteen years on the 12th. There are no excuses, however, for ditching the outdoors. I spent many hours quietly still hunting our woods Beyond Bibbs Store. The leaves were still crisp, and rustled all around in the breeze and underfoot making the woods pretty noisy until late afternoon when the wind died and nap time called. I took this shot with my phone camera as I lay down to doze in a leaf pile by an old log in the late afternoon November 20.

Naptime by an old log--Benelli Nova

Needed Some Time Outdoors--November 7, 2009

This is the first of a series of posts recreated from photos, memories, and my written journals. On this day, I had just left Cris and Christiane's side and Cris was having a pretty rough day. We knew the end was near, and I just needed to get off by myself. I drove home, hastily gathered some gear and the dog, and drove over to the Bibb place for a hour before sunset. It was a surreal afternoon. My hunting pal lay dying as I sat in the field with one hand on the warm back of my dog, the other on the cold steel of my shotgun. I tried to maintain my composure as I carried on a one way conversation with a Labrador.

Every Day's a Good Day to Flip

At first I couldn't think of taking a life while Cris was fighting for breath in a dark room thirty miles north, but things came naturally as birds began to fly, and I knew Cris would want me to quit sulking and shoot. We took a few birds; Flip, as always, was on his game and made picture perfect retrieves. 

As the sun set, the temperature plummeted, and I walked back to the truck shivering and wiping a few tears as I put the gear up with the dog.

Sunset in Louisa

Cris

Cris passed away yesterday evening while at home with Christiane and sleeping quietly. He drew one final breath and simply stopped. The cancer he'd held at bay for a year and a half finally took him. His final weeks had been tough ones for Cris and his family, although he rallied somewhat last week and was able to smile and carry on conversations, giving everyone around him a final memory of the old Cris. During those moments he chided Christiane, kidded Dad, spoke to Harry, and groused with his nurses. For a few days his blue eyes sparkled, then in his final few days he lapsed into a peaceful sleep.

In a fashion typical of Cris, he directed that there be no memorial service or funeral. The man who didn’t want people singing in restaurants on his birthday for fear of drawing unnecessary attention to himself wished to go out of this world without fanfare. Cris is being cremated, and his ashes will be spread in a favorite trout stream high up in the Blue Ridge, from where all of us that loved him can look West and see him. It's a favorite, secret fishing spot of his and his father's...a fitting spot to rest.

We had years of great times together..hunts long remembered, Harry growing up, state skeet tournaments so hot you could fry eggs on the gun barrel, and just plain shooting the bull over a taste of whiskey. Last year's final duck hunt proved his last...so glad it was a good hunt. Even after he got sick, Cris never gave up living, loving, hunting, laughing. They gave him a couple of months and he took a year and a half...some of the best living of his life.

Raise your glass and toast Cris. So long buddy. We'll sorely miss you.