Late on a Wednesday afternoon, four huge Atlantic salmon finned in the current at the tail end of a long, deep pool on a small Maine river.
An hour or so earlier, a hefty trout had chased my imitation stonefly nymph up from the deep water in front me to within a foot of the surface just off the massive boulder on which I was standing.
The haunting and beautiful duet of a pair of loons cut through the thin fabric sides of our tent. So did the chill evening air.
The reaction was instant. At the sound of the splash, my heart began to race. I could feel the rush of adrenaline as my head whipped around toward the sound.
The first rapids we hit is known as Surprise. “Because,” as our raft guide Linc told us, “when you come into it, it catches you by surprise.”
The morning began with a rainy drive of a little less than an hour along the western edge of New River Gorge National Park in West Virginia.
I confess that walking around a wildflower preserve does not jump to the forefront of my mind when I ponder outdoor activities.
I have often thought that humans have an innate desire for communion and communication with other creatures.
I’m standing on the snow at Rikert next to my wife Deborah, clicking my cross-country ski boots into my bindings.
The same climate change that is dramatically shortening the season for outdoor skating across the north — including places like the Rideau Canal Skateway — is also opening up new habitat for Burmese pythons to move northward.
As soon as I hit “send” on last week’s column, I began pondering various works of literature that illustrated the virtues of walking and which have inspired me over the years to be more appreciative of the practice.
My wife Deborah and I like to go walking. We are not interested in walking the Appalachian Trail. Nor even the Long Trail. Although we both find longer walks in new places enjoyable, most of our walks are just 20 minutes long on familiar trails in the woo … (read more)
Even before stepping out onto the ice of Bryant Pond 30 minutes before dawn on New Year’s Day, I could tell it was going to be an unusual opening to Maine’s ice fishing season.
It’s probably not accurate to say that fish taught me anything. Numerous fishing outings on which I failed to interact with any actual fish is evidence that I don’t even understand their language.
The natural world can be brutal.
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