late season

Preferred time to go fishing is late September or early October, when all the other fishermen have started hunting and the crowds thin out. What with one thing and another it's usually late October by the time we actually show up, leading to crisp mornings at best and full flight just ahead of an incoming blizzard in most years. We had to stop at Albany County Weed and Pest in Laramie on the way out, to have the canoe inspected for invasive zebra mussels. The cheerful young woman in charge of pests cleared us for import at 6am, with a side conversation about pocket gophers, methods and techniques in control of.

This year the rains came late and hard, so there was still water in the rivers. This is of course Big Lost Creek, with Little Lost Creek coming in on the right. The 4wd road in was a mix of ice, snow, greasy mud, and ice-crusted puddles of indeterminate depth. Fortunately Ken has an actual fishing truck which is quite at home in these conditions. Coming over the top of the hills we found a recent hunting camp with a fine stack of cut wood from the beetle-killed pines. We inspected camp to find the gralloching crossbar in the trees with some tufts of fur beneath; concluding the hunt had succeeded and they would not be back, we salvaged the firewood. The deer watched us carefully. 

I fished all the way down that beautiful riffle without seeing so much as a fin. Despite years of experience to  the contrary I still expect trout to move to the streamer in three feet of clear water. In fact you need a large BB shot on the leader to take the fly down to just above the cobbles and sand of the bottom. Ken took pity and corrected my rig so it started working.  

This is the last legal pool on public land, with fiercely worded signs hedging the lower end, "Trespassers will be violated" or some such sentiments. Every year we contemplate tossing the canoe on the pool to take advantage of the strange water laws of the West, under which a legally navigable waterway cannot be closed and private: every year the fishing in this pool is good enough that we never quite take the trouble. 

That's the last grip-and-grin picture, I promise. The rest have only the beautiful fish and scenery unspoilt by some grinning ugly mug. Up on Little Lost Creek, Bucky and his friends had constructed a fifty-foot wide beaver dam across the lower end so the usual fall run of spawning browns up from the main river was blocked. Bloody engineers. 

There were still fish up there, but just the smaller resident browns and a few rainbows. This fine spotted fellow was in a small run, a sort of miniature steelhead pool, strong green currents folding into a deep obscurity at the bend from which he rose to savage the streamer.

Private property begins about a mile up this creek, beyond which is an industrialist's fortune invested in good solid Western land, plus cows. We fell back to the main creek in the late afternoon. 

This riffle always looks promising but it is quite shallow. Fished it at a hazard, hoping the good water year would provide some cover. By golly there they were, several strong silver red-spotted browns quickly, before I tangled the leader around the splitshot and broke everything off. It was late and we'd caught enough by then. 

An hour after dark the tent had between an eighth and a quarter inch of frost layered on, both inside and outside. Getting into the tent was accompanied by a sort of snowstorm as the frost showered down on my inadequate sleeping bag. That is the first time in my life I've had cold toes in a sleeping bag, even after wool socks. In the morning we left quickly, to drive up the greasy mud slopes while they were still frozen hard. Shortly after dawn back on the hills it was very Wyoming. 

Breakfast in a Riverside cafe, or was it Encampment ? One side of the river is Riverside town, the other Encampment. The prospect of uniting as a single town gives them something to argue about during the long winters. There are two establishments in the combined towns, one is better for eating, the other for drinking and fighting. We chose eating, with a comfortable table in the sun, where the nice waitress Rusty served us and a couple of hunters. 

On through Saratoga, once more surrounded by private property. On a bluff above the river a huge newish castle hangs over the waters, its copper roof now a subdued verdigris. The builder died recently leaving his acreage to a family indifferent to its prospects: the future's uncertain and the end is always near. In the old days the cowboys and ranch hands worked for wealthy cattle barons, now it is wealthy software barons, which is which. The Saratoga airport in July is choked with private jets up to and including Boeing 737s for which the runway had to be extended. We visited the Hot Springs free pool, but neither of the fools on this trip had thought to bring a towel, planning instead to cut our long underwear off just in time for the spring bath. 

Out on the plains the pronghorn mooned us, knowing full well the season was over. 

We made camp out at the implausible plains lake with the salvaged wood arranged for maximum sun and drying effect. It looked like we were preparing for a convivial evening with plenty of seating, instead of the two misanthropes grumbling like old dogs at the cold that in fact ensued. 

Fishing here was slow but good, fat happy rainbows swimming hard in the cold water. 

In the upper pool some huge brook trout were contemplating on spawning, insensible to anything we could offer. A fly tied for carp brought the biggest fish of the evening, 20" or so, lost near the boat when attention was not paid and I wrenched the fly out of its hold. 

Ken built a fire buttressed with the large damp logs. The breezes funneled through the cracks between the logs to create a sort of blast furnace effect, all Halloween orange and chimney red under a band of stars. 

In the morning both sage grouse and  pronghorn wandered by. The grouse crossed the road ahead of us with that 'who, me ?' look about the eyes to show they weren't really there, just sauntering by actually, we were just leaving.. 

Private land again, here opened to the public via an easement which does not allow for driving to the reservoir. Instead we have to hike the canoe through sagebrush. While I hiked back to fetch the anchor, Ken dealt with two huge slab-sided rainbows,  the second on a #22 fly and 6x leader in among willow bushes, for extra credit.

The brookies here were smaller but more willing fortunately. Please to forgive my blurry one-handed picture, I just like the colours.

The sun down, the light in the water dies and turns a hard flat grey. It is time to leave before winter closes on us.

If you should dip your hand in,

your wrist would ache immediately,

your bones would begin to ache and your hand would burn

as if the water were a transmutation of fire

that feeds on stones and burns with a dark gray flame.

If you tasted it, it would first taste bitter,

then briny, then surely burn your tongue.

It is like what we imagine knowledge to be:

dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free,

drawn from the cold hard mouth

of the world, derived from the rocky breasts

forever, flowing and drawn, and since

our knowledge is historical, flowing, and flown. 

- Elizabeth Bishop, The Fish Houses

pronghorn

The black spots are cows. In between the cows are some white spots which are pronghorn alarm signals, or bottoms. Your task is to stalk to within 300 yards of these animals across the open plains..

We decided to try a pronghorn antelope hunt this year, instead of elk hunting, as the pronghorn are supposed to be easier than the seldom seen elk. This sure didn't look easy to me. Quite apart from the emptiness of the plains, the cows are even spookier than the game (which gives one to wonder what it is the cowboys are doing, that the cows find us so alarming). Ian and I dropped into an old water supply ditch, two to three feet deep, and followed its divagations slavishly, on hands and knees. Most of the pronghorn drifted off over the hill or down into little gullies out of sight, but one remained on the hill. We lay flat and watched. When the head dipped down to graze, we'd skulk a little nearer, freezing as soon as he looked around again. This got us within shot, but he was posed against the skyline. The hunter education course we both took is graphic in its illustrations of the horrors of skyline shots, where a missed shot could descend upon unwitting innocents out of sight below the hill. So, we waited, and waited, willing him to take five steps to the right where the shot would be safe: of course he took five steps to the left, and vanished over the hill. We sat up and contemplated the rich harvest of cactus spikes in our kneecaps. 

Empty empty Wyoming lands, miles of green rolling hills and not cover for an ant, anything not a pronghorn or cow gets spotted and spooked at instantly. Crawling doesn't help, they know full well what a crawling hunter looks like, and not so much as a sage bush to hide behind. Ian tried using cows for cover on one stalk, said that worked quite well to 400 yards out, then the cows got peeved and moved off. Apparently it can be helpful to have a horse, walk next to the horse and keep him between you and the antelope; they don't count legs, so a six-legged horse can get quite close. 

After the first day of the season, they figure out what is going on and no longer spook and bolt miles away, too exhausting my dear. Instead they keep a weather eye on you and drift slowly off, staying a safe 800 yards or so ahead. It's possible to cover a lot of country following a herd around, which we did before we figured out what was going on. I learn a little slower than the prey animals, no wonder I remain a hungry hunter. 

This is camp in the morning, after pitching the tent at 9pm last night. Two handsome beasts crossed the road a mile away in the first light, their white flanks absolutely glowing in the sun so they appeared spectrally large, spirit antelope in the dawn. Ian ran away from them and over a little ridge, hoping to sneak closer out of sight behind the ridge. About five minutes later both took fright at something in the unseen world and fled at top speed: a fine sight though discouraging. 

We breakfasted pensively. The Wyoming Game & Fish showed up in one of their monster pickups to check our hunting and camping permits. A different ranger had checked us the previous evening as I backed the minivan up a two-track road blocked by a couple of massive potholes. He said, "ah, just gun it, give it enough gas and you'll make it through". Neither of them said anything out loud about the minivan, but I could see them thinking. 

Parked on the side of the main county dirt road and wandered off again. Although the country is empty and treeless, there's a surprising amount of dead ground (US: dead space) where animals can be concealed. We found a nice big herd, ducked into a handy creek bed and ran two miles around, poked our noses out of the gully and there were 12 heads and 24 eyes all turned around and glaring straight at us. There must have been some noise or scent, fairly sure we were out of sight in the creek bed since I'd used the cows as height markers and couldn't see the cows, never mind the pronghorn behind them.

By this time the hunt area was being patrolled steadily on every two-track by some seven or eight trucks. We took refuge in our ditch again and waited to see if the other hunters would push some animals past us. There are three pronghorn in the picture above, which is why you carry 10x50 binoculars. It's also noticeable that I can no longer keep the camera level when taking a picture. EM Forster observed of Cavafy that the poet stood forever at a slight angle to the universe: in my case I appear to be listing slightly to the left as the years and I approach our meeting point. 

The unfortunate hunted beasts were by now thoroughly alarmed not to mention absent, so we quit and went home. They were all lined up along the main road to wave goodbye, standing safely on private land. 

Some weeks later Ian had Friday off school, so we drove up Thursday night in pouring rain and wind for the last weekend of the season. Since I am now old and weak we did not camp but instead stayed in the cheapest hotel I could find. In the case of success, we would have to stay in that hotel for all future hunts, by way of a talisman. This is a sort of hedging the bets: either we'd endure a cheap hotel night and have luck in the hunt, or we'd be able to pick a better hotel next time. If you don't have skills you have to bargain with the hunting gods as best you can.

Friday pre-dawn drive through the mud to the ranch was interesting at 10mph, fishtailing through the slop. If I could have seen the road conditions I would not have driven the minivan down there. We tried for a herd of a dozen or so, but they were using the ranch cows for cover. As we crawled through the snow in the ditch for half a mile, they just faded away to stay the regulation half-mile out. On the plus side, the snow protected us from another injection of cactus spines. 

Back over the hill and into the ditch on that side, there were three getting ready to bed down in the creek bed. I stayed back in the dead ground and sent Ian to crawl up on them. Again they drifted off, not spooked but not staying to be stalked either. After an hour Ian fired a warning shot in frustration. They trotted up the ridge, stopped to look back, then went over. Ian ran up a mile or so of uphill, used an old water tank on the top of the hill for cover, and approached keeping the tank between him and them. As he came out from behind the tank they started running, but he took the shot and got it. GPS showed it was a running shot at a hundred yards plus, in 25mph gusting wind, after dashing a mile or so uphill. The shot was about 3-6" back from a perfect hit. Clearly I just need to drive Ian to the hunting grounds and then get out of the way. 

Later we had pronghorn backstrap medallions for dinner. The Latin name for the pronghorn is Antilocapra americana, which means American goat-antelope, although it is neither a goat nor an antelope but sui generis. They are affectionately known in Wyoming as speed goats. The choice of wine was therefore obviously a nourishing gulp of Goats do Roam blend (Côtes du Rhône). 

The estate used to be known as Fairview, but this wine succeeded to such an extent the company became eponymous. They always had goats on the farm, for the milk to make artisanal goat cheese. I remember visiting the estate and its goat tower, buying some wine and cheese to have a pleasantly befuddled afternoon. They now have resident springbok as well, though the winelands of the western Cape are far from their native heath. 

These look much like pronghorn and occupy much the same ecological niche, though as the name implies their specialty is leaping rather than the straight run of the speed goat. A nostalgia for springbok may be one of the reasons I love to see pronghorn on the plains. 

loafers and idlers

Those are my pet names for the carp I watch. Ideally they would be feeding when I go fishing, but loafers and idlers are all I usually see: loafers being the fish hanging quietly a couple of feet down, moving only occasionally; idlers cruising slow along the bottom looking mildly interested in the passing show, but not actually feeding. What you want to see is them nose down and tail up, rootling happily for choice morsels in the mud. Two weeks ago found a couple of actual feeders to my considerable excitement, could have sworn this fine young mirror carp had taken the fly:



However he was hooked about 2" behind the mouth, underneath. Presumably my vigorous trout set as he moved forward feeding actually snagged him, dammit.

Blind fishing hopefully got a 16" trout ? dunno what he was doing up around the flats, maybe chasing the balls of gizzard shad that are flipping around in the shallows. The shoals of the shad younglings band together in tight formation, each individual swimming hard to attain the center of the shoal for safety, but getting ousted by the movement of the others and the shoal; forming a kind of natural kinetic sculpture.

Three big fish, one a mirror, were watching over a dropoff into deep water and moving around, not feeding though looking very predatory. Tossed a leather worm at them and a fourth fish came out of the gloom to inhale it. This was certainly a fair take, as I saw the fly vanish into his maw.. 
Good fight, long run, biggest carp I've hooked in a long time, probably 32"+. This is as far as we got though,



He was wallowing in the shallows and glaring at me when the hook pulled out. Bah.

Cast at two smaller fish that were lurking in the green haze just outside the clearer shallow water, which turned out to be 15" smallmouth bass, oddly. Those shad bring everyone up out of the deeps.

This week in the apocalyptic rains, the fish were all happy and feeding hard in the shallows. There were tails just a few feet offshore, plumes of mud drifting downwave. Presented a McSculpin to the other end of a tail, the strike indicator shot a good foot forward, even I could hook that fish. 



He too ran long, as the line streamed off I remembered that Orvis had mounted the line and backing, and I had not checked the backing knot. Luckily it held. They had made a competent nail knot to join the Dacron to the flyline, but had not run the Dacron through the flyline core first. As a practicing neurotic, I'll have to rebuild that - you only hook the fish of a lifetime once, all the details have to be right all the time. It's a hard life keeping up with my delusions.



That's the first honestly-landed carp on a fly for me. As can be seen, I was sufficiently optimistic about the prospects to buy my first new fly reel in twenty years (on sale, dear). The Orvis Clearwater LA IV is recommended: light weight, good size to hold plenty of backing, closed drag though not sealed, with quick adjustment and smooth performance. So at least I'll have the small pleasure of fishing with nicely-made equipment, while the future fish ignore me.

The rest of the lunch-break the fish performed as usual, treating the fly with disdain if not outright scorn. Oh well, it's a start.

carping

This streak goes to 11.. unfortunately it's the wrong kind of streak, the not-catching not-seeing fish kind, not so much as a sniff.. skunked on the last 11 attempts.



On one, took the canoe to Chatfield cruising the extensive flats around the Plum Creek inlet, water 47 and very clear, pelicans sailing overhead: no fish was no surprise. Lots of different ducks, as well as both Great Western/Clarke's and Little Eared grebes watching me suspiciously, doubtless fearing I was going to steal their carp.

Another afternoon went to the 'water treatment' (sewage outfall) ponds, never mind the smell, there's fish out there. The first carp seen this year, some good-size carp leisurely patrolling the mud (I hope it's mud) flats, but no response to my offerings. Eventually a stiff cold wind came up, the fish shivered and faded back down into the murk.

Out at the suburban pond, some truly huge fish were browsing along the dam wall. The stalk and cast went fine, but as the fly sank to their level, each in turn reared up on its tail and fled in horror. Apparently I tie an absolutely terrifying carp fly.

In despair I resorted to bait, which worked sporadically.

Those center-pin reels had not been exercised for thirty years, so at least they got out of the house for a bit.
I find that catching these on bait in no way shape manner or form, assuages the desire to catch one on a fly. How perverse.

unfinished poetry

My Craigslist RSS feed for canoes showed up today with this, 

text:

This is a project my dad was working on that has now gone unfinished. His dream was to strap the canoe on top, and take it down the Colorado River to the Baja. Both the canoe and the bus have a little ways to go. The interior still needs work to be livable. Comes with a refrigerator and a toilet and has the pump and tank in place for a sink. Also has redwood, butcher block, countertops in the kitchen area. It still needs a futon and carpet and it's ready to go. It runs and drives well, it was previously owned by a church who took very good care of it. He has hardly driven it since then. He painted the outside faux-finish to look like an old surfer woody.

Canoe also included if you want it. It also still needs quite a bit of work. Inside needs finishing and the outside needs sanding.

We really need Richard Brautigan to tell stories around this, but he's gone too.

It occurs to me that an RSS feed from Craigslist for canoes may qualify as a tiny implementation of a Machine of Loving Grace..
 by Richard Brautigan

I'd like to think
  (and the sooner the better!)
of a cybernetic meadow
where mammals and computers
live together in mutually
programming harmony
like pure water
touching clear sky.

I like to think
 (right now, please!)
of a cybernetic forest
filled with pines and electronics
where deer stroll peacefully
past computers
as if they were flowers
with spinning blossoms.

I like to think
 (it has to be!)
of a cybernetic ecology
where we are free of our labors
and joined back to nature,
returned to our mammal brothers and sisters,
and all watched over
by machines of loving grace.

Instead we have PRISM. So it goes. 

at a slight angle to reality

Visited seven ponds here in S. Denver this last week, looking for carp, so far 0/7.. did see two fish lying  close by the bank in the S. Platte near Overland park, but they faded away quietly and comprehensively when I clumped down the bank to get  around some trees. There were 4 other flyfishers on this stretch at 11am on a weekday morning, don't they have jobs to go to ? ha. 

Meantime the Public Domain Review has some sketches from a painter of the floating world (ukiyo-e) of Kintaro riding a carp,



Kintaro is a kind of superbaby from Japanese folklore, who seems to like carp. Here's another pic of him wrestling an alarmed-looking big carp, from the Metropolitan Museum collection,



But my favorite is the one from Wikipedia's page on him,

The weary mother scanning the horizons for her renegade baby, who is happily plunging with the fish, strikes a note that my mother would recognize. The mouth of the fish is portrayed in feeding mode, so I guess he isn't much bothered by his rider. 

wealth creators

and the poor were, what they were used to being,
the creators of wealth not, as now they are,
      an expensive nuisance.

 Letter to Philip, W.H. Auden. 1969.

This echo sounded by the modest proposal from the Tennessee legislators, using school test scores to deny welfare to families with underperforming children. Dickens would not have thought to make a villain so cruel.

The bill was withdrawn when its author was shamed by a little girl following him around the Capitol. He's still keen on punishing the poor, though:
"Stacey Campfield asked the state Senate to further study the bill, giving him the opportunity to bring it back up next year."
Watch for him to sneak it through in a midnight session, after the children have all gone to bed in their cardboard boxes.

elk fortress II

Yet though we examined it through eyes prejudiced in favour of gently rolling slopes and shallow draws, we could not but admire the gigantic abandon with which the tall cliffs broke away in ragged bluffs and ridges of rim rock, the sweep of the towering timbered ridges, the sinister depth of great yawning canyons..

Another year, another bootless elk hunt. Like many another high-budget sequel, the special effects were tremendous but the experience as a whole was not up to expectations. We emerged from the trail once again bruised and bowed, but unbloodied. This is a problem when you went in explicitly to shed somebody else's blood and devour their flesh.


View Larger Map

Here's the camp, above in the green and pleasant land of maps, below on the cold cold ground.

We arrived late at the trailhead in dusk shading fast to dark. Loaded up the protesting boy with his backpack and a headlamp, and took off down the boardwalk over the swamps. Beavers slapped the water in alarm as we creaked on by. The boardwalk ended abruptly in the middle of a marsh. Twenty minutes' stumbling in and out of water found the other end of the boardwalk, just beyond headlamp range. It was rickety and posted as closed but we went on anyway. Now my boots were well soaked through, the mist of breath hung in clouds in the headlamp light and lightly fogged my glasses. Well, at least it wasn't raining. Soon after that a mixed rain and sleet began to fall. Usually when night hiking it's possible to go by starlight but tonight the blackness was Stygian. Well, at least it wasn't snowing. Soon after that the sleet hardened into a rattle of icy pellets on the raingear, then softened again into flakes. We came to a stream crossing some thirty feet wide with no clear route through, decided to camp for the night.

In the morning the snow continued. Legal hunting hours are half-an-hour either side of sunup and down, so you need to be out and in position long before that. Ian doesn't do mornings, so I went alone and climbed the icy steeps to look for animals through the veils of snowflakes. Nonesuch. We breakfasted and packed up camp in the slop, then moved on to the campsite I'd planned to reach last night. Well, at least it wasn't cold. We hiked several miles up to McQueary creek in poor visibility with the snow squeaking underfoot, not the best approach to spooky wild elk.

The next morning we found a big bull (from the size of the hoofs, that's my size 11 hoofprint nearby) had wandered past the tent about 20 yards away in the middle of the night. Informed opinions say this might have been a moose but I'm sticking to the elk story. More fresh tracks and scat and bedding areas found every day, but I think they were all nocturnal. This morning we had to deal with some equipment failures: my boots were sodden and cold, Ian's supposedly waterproof pants the same. We gave up and made a nice fire. This really stinks up your hunting clothes, not a good idea, but it was that or leave altogether. After that we had a snoop around in the dark woods, springs, seeps and benches up on the Middle Fork, to the same effect as every other day.

Another morning it was clear but frosted hard, the tent sparkling in the night and our boots frozen rigid. No morning hunt today as we could not physically get the boots on. By now the hunt had degenerated into a backpacking trip, with side excursions into the trackless woods. Ian described it as 'scenic torture'.

Elk hunting by the steps, 

001. get out in the woods where the animals are
002. evaluate food and water availability, hunting pressure, terrain, weather for elk comfort level, which is lots colder than human comfort.
003
  ... through ...
098, are all 'find the elk'
099. stalk into position
100. shoot 

Step 1 is easy and enjoyable; I have complete confidence in Ian to handle step 100; we can probably manage step 99; but steps 3 through 98 are a perfect mystery.

At the heart of the elk hunt are secrets that cannot be told. It needs a kind of instinct developed over years of hunting, dependent on so many variables that the search goes through a fractal decision tree with no leaves. I used to have the beginnings of that instinct for trout, since atrophied through disuse. Now I may be too old to learn elk hunting, at least not without dedicating myself to a full-time study. I'd like that but my creditors would not I think.

The beasts are deep in woods behind miles of deadfall, once disturbed the herd will be three drainage basins away before you reach the first ridge to see where they are going. The only hope is that other hunters will bother them and send them back into your drainage. Once they were plains animals but they have adapted like the tigers of India to become nocturnal mountain woodland animals. The approach then is to spend your elk days still-hunting a couple of prime acres in the middle of hundreds of square miles of deep woods. The trick of course is in identifying those prime acres, requires a few summers' worth of scouting.

We tried that for a couple of days. Here's some minor deadfall on the creek we followed up to 11000ft or so, as always lots of tracks including some bear.

Here the unfortunate boy needed a bathroom break. His feckless father had packed insufficient TP, so he had to use bark and leaves - like that murderous punctuation panda who eats, shoots and leaves. I'd used aspen leaves with some success earlier. On this haul up the hill, Ian took a bad fall on a rotten log into another log, saved the rifle but bruised his quad extensively. We limped out the next day since that put a stop to effective hunting.

We saw a half-dozen hunter trucks on the 10 miles of dirt road in to the trailhead, another dozen or so on the drive out, but the four days we spent a mere 3 miles down the trail were in perfect solitude. The rifle took a beating, rain then sleet then snow, plus hauling it through deep woods and deadfall on 30-40 degree slopes, so it is now in pieces drying out on the flytying desk. It's taken me a whole day just to clean up.

Here's Ian practicing some magical thinking, if you aim it they will come ? nope, this screenplay is bitterly realistic I fear.

potty talk

From 2010, a long weekend of installing a composting toilet in and below the old bath house. I thought we should dig a hole next to the house, then manually dig back under the house: in order to avoid moving the thing off its precarious perch on two old railroad ties. However Evan has a tractor and wants to use it, so we tried lifting the structure onto rollers and shoving. It moved gracefully sideways and started to topple. After recovering from this we started digging next to the house.

The Sun-Mar bogger was bought from a survivalist, whose business card says

“I buy Winchester”

Toilets and Survival Training.

It's a US Western thing, this survivalism: fantasies of competence in a post-apocalyptic world, plus sustainability, another fantasy: "that nauseating fig-leaf for priapic capitalism", as Will Self called it.

While digging the pit below the bath house we uprooted an old bit of sewer pipe, specifically orangeburg pipe. This was popular in the 50s and 60s, but had an expected life of 50 years at best, more like 10 years if rudely treated. It was made of wood pulp sealed with pitch, which seems unlikely at best for applications involving burying it underground near trees. In our case the pipe was from a water line run up to a now-defunct mine just up the hill, so was not too icky.

The throne room, ready for action. We took turns seeding the organic material in the drum with the appropriate intestinal flora, and called it a job well done.

By way of reward, a couple of hours up on the Grand Mesa for a water quality check. This is a simple test - as John Gierach says, if it's good enough for trout, it's probably too good for the likes of me. Here's Little Gem reservoir, in the traditional October horizontal snow. Caught a bunch of skinny funny-looking brook trout, Evan got the big one of about 12” upon which I noticed these fish had forked tails. So I think I caught my first lot of splake.

Artie the Wonder Dog behaved very well, hunted quietly around the yurt all weekend, with an occasional foray to swim in the canal when it got too hot. One of our farm syndicate had bought some chickens which soon fled the coop and went feral. They are the handsomest birds I ever saw, plump and glossy. The farm manager Manuel told us, "there is gold beneath the green", as they liked to lay below the one spruce tree: finding the eggs is a kind of easter egg hunt now. They do stick close to the farm manager’s house where Artie did not rove luckily.

On Sunday evening we we picked and ate elephant heart plums: not from the fridge or cold, but a sort of revelation all the same, scented and voluptuous. The chickens hung around our feet chooking companionably. To be honest our company might not have been so very attractive, it was more Artie sitting at the end of a taut peach-tree anchored leash, staring fixedly at them with the slaver running from his jaws. We left after that, I hope he doesn’t remember next time where the birds are.

2011 was the Great Potty Flood. I passed by the yurt on another fall weekend in the course of scouting for elk (which is another and longer story, full of trauma and incident).  On Saturday morning the irrigation pipe behind the bathhouse was leaking. The pit containing the composting toilet was completely full of water, so everything but the throne itself was immersed. The leak was fixed Sunday and the pit drained by Monday morning. I guess we'll never run the electric fan on the bogger now, but the drum still turns, good enough. 

2012 brings the annual potty warmup, adding warm water and some starter bugs, also dumped some compost and raked out the compartment.
The above picture shows the proud result of several years' use - all my own work ! well not really. Whoever went last, DID NOT ROTATE so there were TP blossoms in the output. It's possible there was some uncovenanted usage, as there were numbers of cigarette butts in the outhouse too.

Smells sweet as a nut.. really, no odoriferous assault at all. None of that 'whoreson saucy stink', as the inventor of the flushing toilet, poet Sir John Harrington, says:

even in the goodliest and statliest pallaces of this realm, notwithstanding all our provisions of vaults, of sluces, of grates, of paines of poore folkes in sweeping and scouring, yet still this same whorson sawcie stinke, though he were commanded on paine of death not to come within the gates, yet would spite of our noses, even when we would gladliest have spared his company..

'Scuse me,  I'm off to fertilize something..

Robert Gordon puts this in perspective with a thought experiment for the meliorists and iEnthusiasts:

With option A you are allowed to keep 2002 electronic technology, including your Windows 98 laptop accessing Amazon, and you can keep running water and indoor toilets; but you can’t use anything invented since 2002.
Option B is that you get everything invented in the past decade right up to Facebook, Twitter, and the iPad, but you have to give up running water and indoor toilets. You have to haul the water into your dwelling and carry out the waste. 

As a late slow suspicious adopter I am still at option A anyway, but we do hauling and carrying at the yurt by way of practicing for that post-apocalypse.

Meantime the Gates Foundation is making artificial poop :

This is in service of reinventing the toilet. The ambition is laudable, the execution suffers from that same technocratic hubris which corrupts other efforts of the Foundation. Take a look at these gleaming marvels of engineering,
one

another

I particularly like the little arrow on this one, to show the synthetic poop where to go.

Now imagine how long either of these would last, in their target environments - desperately poor countries with good supplies only of dust, heat, hungry goats and inventive cannibalizers of technology. Let me hasten to add that I mean 'inventive cannibalizers' in the most complimentary sense and in no way pejoratively.
A thoroughly exercised composting toilet built like, pardon the phrase, a brick shit-house, would seem to be a better approach than chromed steel and microprocessors.

By way of contrasting example, World Bicycle Relief builds a massively under-engineered bike as simply as possible. This is supplied together with training for maintenance so there are field technicians available, providing both a decent job and running bikes.

carp fishing

Since I've forgotten how to catch fish on lures or flies, I wondered if I could still remember how to catch carp on bait. 

Dug out the old centerpin reels and spooled on some new 6lb line, over the ratty decades-old monofilament that was quietly aging on them. Scraped out old fossilized grease and applied new lithium bike grease, guaranteed not to harden: there's another job I won't have to do again in this life. Mixed up a batch of bread and sweetcorn for baiting, and proceeded to get the skunk again.. oh well. I remembered quite clearly what to do, but forgot all the blank days enjoyed while doing those same things. 'Blank' here of course is in the sense of palimpsest, rather than merely empty. 

This is an old gravel pit now pond, deep and clear. There are no shallows to speak of, everywhere drops off quickly into ten feet or more of water. Had there been shallows, the pond would by now be plagued with dude-brahs exercising the new fashion of flyfishing for carp, but that can't be done blind without seeing the fish; well, it can be done, if you don't mind a catch rate that registers only in glacial time; even global warming won't speed it up enough to matter. Arthur Ransome in 'Rod and Line' describes some carp flies he found illustrated in 18th century fishing pamphlets, unfortunately not in enough detail for tying. 

Black-striped suckers with sex on their tiny squamous little brains roamed just offshore, circling and writhing in promiscuous shoals. There was a little excitement when I hooked one of the smaller carp, fifteen pounds or so. The cast was about 60yds, his first run went from there clear across the pond and stopped only when the fish ran out of water. For a moment I wondered if he was going to clamber out, over the bike path, and take off into the next pond. There was only a few yards of the 150 yards of new 6lb line left on the spool. After twenty minutes or so it was about ten yards off, got a good look in the clear water, then the hook pulled out. That hardly ever happens with a carp.

The rodrest in the pic was manufactured in 10 min with an old tent peg and a bamboo garden stake, not quite state of the art. The bamboo is old and dry, beginning to split in several places; so I can honestly lay claim to owning a split-cane rod rest.

The park ranger yelled at me for jumping over the barbed wire fence early in the morning. Luckily he was unwilling to chase for some reason so I simply faded into the astronomical twilight, carp rods at the ready.