Archive for the ‘The Home Waters in My Head’ Category

The Home Waters in My Head–AJ Morris

Saturday, January 7th, 2012

Salmonberry Creek

by AJ Morris

Half of my home creek no longer exists, victim of progress and the self indulgent needs of society. The half that does is merely a shadow of its former self. But I have only to close my eyes and I am thirteen years old again, standing under the arching canopy of alders, the air thick with the heady musk of devils club and salmonberry. The creek gurgles merrily, bright turquoise and clear. The trout are here, streamlined and spotted, with the vivid neon stripes of wild rainbows. I don’t yet own a pair of waders and the icy water burns as I step into the creek. From my left shoulder hangs the comforting weight of a twelve gauge. In my right hand is a fly rod.


The Home Waters in My Head–Lawrence Bergmann

Saturday, December 31st, 2011

The Home Waters in My Head

by Lawrence Bergmann


I am blessed to live in South Carolina.  Sure, we have our problems (the Confederate flag still flies in front of our state capital).  But…. we are a land of water with a long gentle coast of white sand and an unending saltmarsh that is the home for a large number of creatures including trout (not your trout), redfish, flounder and sheephead. The pace of life and the tides is slow.  During the summer, nobody and nothing moves quickly (we wake up to the 80’s every morning.) and fishing is an early morning pursuit.  Of course, we have virtually no winter and in January and February a slowly presented jig or shrimp might yield a meal.


The Home Waters in My Head–Brian Forth

Friday, December 30th, 2011

The Home Waters in My Head

by Brian Forth

Holding the stone, I knew I could likely reach the other side, not that I’d dare throw it. You see, I’ve been here hundreds of times, and every time I visit I leave with not only the memories of those landed and those that got away, but I carry a stone. Each trip ends with depositing that stone in a jar that sits on my desk in an office far from my home river. Gazing on that jar takes me back, even as the daily chaos tries to steal it from me.

The meandering path leads me to familiar ground. The birds, the sounds, the chill in the air, bring me back. Daybreak on the river, the promise of a new day.

Honing my craft and waiting for the opportunity. Waiting as a perfect drift ends with a subtle offer. The quiet stream’s rhythm interrupted by the battle, and then as I slip the fish back in the water the harmony is restored.

Nightfall, I make my way back to the road. I can hear the faint sound of the river fading with the last light of day. The stone in my pocket will remind me.

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