Roots

The Uncompahgre River that flows through Montrose varies greatly in flow rates. Much of this variation is due to releases from a dam twenty miles upstream. So far this fall the level has been too high for me to feel comfortable. I had visions of myself tumbling downstream like a large chunk of flotsam with my head underwater and my posterior pointed toward the heavens.

It’s an undignified prospect and not a thought to be entertained for long.

But Wednesday I checked and the river was perfect. Pools and eddies and pockets galore. Unfortunately this didn’t translate into fish caught because I lost two due to my inexperience with barbless hooks.

Later that same day I once more tried my luck, again on the Uncompahgre River, but 22 miles upstream, at Pa-Co-Chu-Puk State Park. It was almost full dark when I caught a beautiful 16 inch rainbow trout. There was so little light left in the day that I could barely see well enough to release it properly.

Of course when I returned home and announced my success to the assembled members of Robin’s book club, not one person believed me. It is possible that I might, perhaps, maybe, possibly have stretched the truth a time or two in their presence in the past, but still … .

******

******

From The New Yorker

******

Many of the people who write about things political keep telling us that the Democrats are losing ground with persons of color and the blue collar world. That the party has become enthralled with hanging out with celebrities and those who own boats longer than 100 feet. That they have forgotten where they came from.

(Growing up in the Midwest I became well acquainted with the DFL, or the Minnesota Democratic-Farmer-Labor party, which was the local branch of the national Democratic party. You had to look no further than the name to see their roots.)

The pundits could be right. Think back on Mr. Obama who so obviously loved the galas and the balls and the White House musical performances and being a guest on talk shows … the man liked to dress up and looked good when he did.

But he might have done more for his party (and his country) if he’d gone to fewer soirées and more barbecues. And perhaps a quinceañera or two.

******

From The New Yorker

******

By now you have almost surely read the story of the old man who went hiking with his dog in August, and for whatever reason died out there on the trail. Just this week his body was discovered, and the dog was still with him, and alive.

The animal was malnourished and had lost half its weight after so long a time, but had not abandoned its owner. An amazing and very touching story.

I suspect that if I were hiking with one of our cats and keeled over that the scenario would be quite different. Poco might watch over me until the 5:00 P.M. feeding time came and went, but then he would quite sensibly take his leave and find his way home.

Cats are much more practical than dogs in these matters.

******