I happen to glance out the front door and notice the hanging light cord suddenly assume a near horizontal position when a 25-or-so-mile-per-hour gust of wind and snow whipped across the front porch.
The same gust blew a couple chickadees right off their perch on the bird feeder while the cardinal held on for dear life, his beautiful red feathers fluttering and ruffling in the cruel gusts as the feeder did some wild gyrations in that wind. Several other bird species sat in the trees surrounding the feeder bouncing up and down and swaying rapidly back in forth in the tossing branches. All had their feathers puffed up for maximum heat retention and their heads pulled down, several with their eyes shut.
I have always found it amazing such tiny creatures can live in such frigid conditions and survive the long bitter night without freezing solid. They’re tough, no doubt about it. My wife and I take some comfort in knowing the black oil sun seeds we fill the feeder with provides the fuel to keep them warm, but thousands of birds in the forests make it through living only on natural seeds, buds and the dormant insects tucked into the multitude of cracks and crevices of tree bark.
Another gust blasted across the porch and suddenly the chair beside the wood stove, some popcorn, a drink and a book seemed like a terrific idea. Thank goodness for the shelter of our homes on days like this! I was a little restless as I sat soaking up the wood heat and set the book aside. Today might be a good day for remembering.
As your life progresses you see and observe many things. You come to know what is possible and believable or perhaps I should say expectable. Many humans are known to spin a yarn or 2 and some even feel free to invent a tale or 2 no matter how ludicrous it may appear. You generally listen to be polite and then seek other company. But, as the saying goes, truth is stranger than fiction and a smile tugged at the corners of my mouth as I thought about some strange happenings in my life.
In my youth I became a real frustration to my relatives. All knew that anyone who loved the outdoors as much as I did needed to have a good knife on hand for the countless applications which arose regularly every day I was afield, especially during the summer when my friends and I were combinations of young Tarzan and Huckleberry Finn. We didn’t need a school sport, TV, IPod or cell phone; we effortlessly created every amusement necessary for every second of every day well within the limits of the law.
We weren’t overweight, in fact we lost weight running, climbing hills, swimming, riding our bikes, wrestling and sleeping out. We were cut, scratched, sunburned and our fingernails were dirty. We made regular trips to the doctor for a stitch or 2 and Grandad complained he could hardly sleep for the sound of snapping bones. But since I am drifting off subject, the relatives tried to keep a decent knife in my pocket or on my hip, I used them constantly.
Unfortunately, due to a young boy’s shockingly poor memory, impatience, inability to think of 2 things at the same time (Put knife in sheath and then SNAP the snap to hold it in place) and just bad luck, I lost knives at an alarming rate.
Some of those knives were expensive and caused me heartbreak along with severe lectures and scolding by irate relatives who had spent a little extra on the kid for a quality blade. Soon though they realized I was totally hopeless, lost, and impossible to train in the knife department and purchased only the cheapest models.
One better knife they found on sale and which I really liked was made in Sweden. The blade was made of Mora Steel, stout, well-shaped and suitable for either cutting or prying, holding a sharp edge for some time.
My Dad, knowing of my miserable record sought to make it impossible to lose this knife, drilled the handle, fastening the knife and sheath together with a long green, braided, coated, flexible wire. He surveyed his handy work with some pride; it had to work.
That Saturday he dropped me off on a ridge and I took a compass course for the headwaters of a native trout stream. Navigating to the stream’s source I walked rapidly downstream until the stream grew large enough and began fishing.
Soon I came to the first big hole, a beauty, where the stream ran up against and under a large rock. Sneaking up on hands and knees I tossed a juicy worm into the current and watched the water sweep it underneath the overhang. Immediately there was a sharp tug and I set the hook landing a fat 9-inch brook trout, a monster in those days. I was shaking and thrilled.
I reached for my knife on my belt and had a terrible time getting it out. Resting underneath my coat and fishing vest it was very difficult to get at, so I took it off my belt, cleaned the fish and headed downstream.
Miles later I reached back into my vest for the knife to clean my remaining trout. It wasn’t there! Oh, oh…..
Frantically, I tried to remember where I may have lost it, but to no avail, it could have fallen anywhere. Why, oh why, had I taken it off my belt? It wasn’t pleasant imagining my father’s reaction to the bad news.
When Dad picked me at the stream’s confluence with Potato Creek he was all smiles having caught the limit of brook trout himself. We shared our day’s adventures and finally I couldn’t stand the tension anymore and told him what I’d done.
At first he looked surprised and angry; then, surprisingly, began to smile.
“You’re really impossible aren’t you?” He asked, shaking his head as if he should have known I’d lose that knife even if he’d sewn it to my hand. He glanced at me again almost respectfully, as if I was a celebrity, a 1 in million sort of character and commented he couldn’t wait to tell the family how I defeated the odds yet again. He kept smiling and shaking his head the entire drive home, it was unnerving.
The next year I repeated the trip sorrowfully remembering my lost knife on the walk in. I caught another trout in the same hole and flipped him out on top of the rock where among the dead leaves I glimpsed the green wire. With a shout I grabbed the wire and hidden knife holding it up in triumph! What were the odds of finding it again?
The sheaths rivets were rusted as was the blade but some sanding, polishing, oil and varnish returned it to a useable condition. I still have that knife; it’s the only one I ever recovered. So, the green wire did save my knife, but not in the way Dad intended! When I excitedly showed him the knife he was amazed smiling and shaking his head yet again!
Another year we were floating the river in late June and stopped for lunch. As always, we cast out a night crawler while we were cooking. We propped the rods on forked sticks with a heavy rock on the handle.
Suddenly a drag screamed exceptionally loud and turning we saw Dad’s rod some 6 feet in the air, arcing toward the river. It hit with a splash and we waded out quickly, but it was gone. Sometime later a huge carp well over 20 pounds; rolled on the surface several times and we knew what’d taken the rod. Dad was a little miffed, but always carried a spare pole. We finished lunch and continued the float. We knew the pole was gone forever.
At the end of August I parked the car at Seneca Junction, fishing upstream. The river was very low, perfect for ultralight equipment and a tiny black spinner. I began catching bass
About a mile upstream a brook ran into the river creating a long sandbar with a deep backwater well out of the current. I caught a big largemouth bass there, pretty unusual and even stranger, several crappies about 12-inches long. I imagine the warmer water drew these fish into the backwater.
After landing a wildly flopping crappie slightly downstream from my original position I happen to notice a loop of fishing line sticking out of the sand. Curious I began pulling up the line hoping to find a lure at the end. Twenty feet later I found, to my astonishment, an entire fishing rod buried in the sand.
After washing it off in the river I discovered the pole was, believe it or not, Dads! What are the odds of finding Dad’s pole over a mile downstream, buried completely in a sandbar 2 months after the pole was lost? It’s hard to believe such a thing could ever happen.
Despite the abuse the fiberglass pole and cork handle were still fine, but I had to replace the rusted guides and sand-filled, corroded reel. When I presented my father with his repaired, long lost fishing pole he was absolutely amazed. The 12, 15 and 24-inch length markings he had painted on the pole were still there positively identifying the rod as his very own. He used the Miracle Pole as he called it for years afterward; catching many more fish on it.
It’s strange the remarkable events which can take place. Are some fated to happen or simply strokes of incredible luck, defying the odds? Now there’s a question for you.
