Glendalough

Roughly an hour south of Dublin is Wicklow Mountains National Park, and at the heart of that is Glendalough (Gleann dá Loch, or Valley of the Two Lakes). Next time we'll bring a camera and a fly rod.

"There Is A Light That Never Goes Out" and "To Lose My Life"

Shortly after leaving Dublin, Jessa and I heard this Smiths classic on the radio and started laughing.

 

There had been moments when it seemed likely that a double-decker bus would crash into us, what with a sleep-deprived driver fighting a lifetime of instincts and looking the wrong way at every intersection while driving on the left-hand side of the road for the first time, simultaneously looking for street signs that mostly didn't exist and wondering what historical reasons might lie behind Bull Alley Street, Golden Lane, and Stephens Streets both Upper and Lower being the same short road.

We both subscribe to the "such a heavenly way to die" sentiment, but there's no rush, and there was much more of Ireland to see, so on further reflection we'll go with this one: "let's grow old together, and die at the same time".

This is our Switzerland

Many years ago, after my mom was diagnosed with ALS but before the disease completely robbed her of her mobility, she and my dad traveled to Switzerland. I'm sure that some people privately questioned the wisdom of their decision to go; I hope that no one had the ill manners to actually say so, but if they did, my parents wisely ignored them. It was, they knew, their first and last opportunity for a trip they'd long dreamed of taking, and in the years that followed, the memories of that trip together must have been a source of strength and joy when so much else was against them. I know they never for a moment regretted it.

...

A little over two years ago, Jessica contacted Don Ryan with the Irish Hawking Club to inquire about attending one of their field meets. She had always wanted to see Ireland, and wisely figured that falconry might be sufficient motivation to get me on a plane with her. Don told her we would be welcome any time, but suggested we wait for the 2016 meet, which would be a joint meet of the IHC and the IAF (International Association for Falconry and Conservation of Birds of Prey). And so she waited.

In those two years, we've each lost a job unexpectedly, and our finances have not improved appreciably. There were plenty of good reasons not to go on this trip, and I expect there are some people in our lives who would question the wisdom of our going. But having endured five years of voluntary poverty (she was solvent when she met me, and married me knowing which way "for richer, for poorer" was going to work out), Jessica was determined to have this trip. And there are some indications that this may be a now-or-never prospect for us as well.

So, this is our Switzerland.

...

We have dived right back into our life in Nebraska. Sunday morning, we were checking out of our hotel in Dublin; by Monday afternoon, Jess was back at work and I was out hawking at Pawnee Lake. (Our first hunt of the season, and good old Stekoa caught the first rabbit we saw.) I'll be back to work myself in a couple of hours, and it's the busy season, so time will be at a premium, but I intend to post photos and stories of our Irish adventure over the next couple of weeks as time permits.

Just two photos and one tiny story for now. Any lingering doubts we may have had dissipated when we saw our Aer Lingus jet at O'Hare in Chicago. We would be flying to the land of Jessica's ancestors on the Caoimhe, which is pronounced "Keeva" and which happens to be the name of our cat. A good omen...

Aggravation, fatigue, and beauty

From the beginning, the migration of wild things fascinated me. I watched bats in the summer streetlights, diving and twisting for mosquitoes, and wondered where they went after winter killed the insects. Crows and geese would come from nowhere to gather, in the spring and fall...and they spoke to me as surely as the stars and the magnetism of the earth spoke to them. They drew me near and I watched them, never knowing exactly why I was watching, but knowing that their wildness was a vital element of life.

—Dan O'Brien, The Rites of Autumn

Dachshunds are high-strung little dogs. They're also...let's just say, not entirely reliable as to housebreaking. I say this with all due affection—I live, by choice, with two of them—but these shortcomings must be admitted. So when they start barking early in the morning, I generally assume they need to go out right away. I might not always be happy about getting out of bed to let them out, but I do it, and I usually manage to be grateful: at least they let me know, right? And it's not so bad if I needed to get up soon anyway.

But gratitude is hard to muster when it's 3:30 in the damn morning.

Bleary-eyed and muttering under my breath so as not to wake Jessica, I stumbled from the bedroom to the kitchen to let the hounds from hell into the back yard. Where, to my consternation, they persisted in barking. Fantastic, now they're going to wake the neighbours. More muttering.

I stepped out to yell at Maxine and Anya, sotto voce so as not to aggravate the neighbours further. I hadn't felt overly warm, but suddenly the cool air on my skin was a blessed relief. And before I could say anything, I heard more barking. Distant. Overhead. And gratitude started seeping back.

I called the dogs in, quietly, and to my relief they came trooping back toward the house—not immediately, of course—they're half-feral, really, or at least half-Farrell—but within a minute or two. I stayed on the back steps for another couple of minutes, breathing in the cool night air, listening to the barking of snow geese, feeling connected to the world again, glad to be in the midst of another migration even if I'm going nowhere.


Other migration posts:

• A quiet spectacle at twilight
• Things we lose, things we gain

Make mine a lovely Harp

Overheard by someone sitting near me at McCourt's before they shut down:

"I don't really like Guinness. I honestly wish I did. I mean, to be Irish, even half-Irish by marriage, and not like t' black stuff—well, it's a bit of a social handicap, innit? But t' truth is, if you give me t' choice between a Guinness and a pint o' horse piss—well, I'm goin' t' have t' seriously consider t' age and condition of t' horse."

Platte River Special

[Missouri, Otoe, and Ponca Indians: original Nebraskans. Art by Karl Bodmer, sourced from Wikipedia.]

My adopted homeland derives its name from Niobrathka, an Otoe-Missouria word meaning "flat water", in reference to what French trappers later named the Platte River. This is a braided river, famously described by settlers as "an inch deep and a mile wide". Though its flow has now been much reduced, over the millennia the river has deposited countless tons of former Rocky Mountains rock throughout the Platte Valley in the form of sand, and sand mining on various scales remains an important industry in the region.

[Platte River Valley as seen from Platte River State Park, between Lincoln and Omaha, with sand-mining operation visible just beyond the river, at right.]

Far to the west, hundreds of miles upriver in central Wyoming, is a famous stretch of the North Platte River known as the "Miracle Mile". Actually about five and a half miles long, it is a tailwater, drawing cold water from the depths of Seminoe Reservoir via Kortes Dam, and eventually emptying into Pathfinder Reservoir, named for John C. Frémont. The cold water supports cutthroat, rainbow, and brown trout, and this fishery spawned a fly known as the Platte River Special.

The PRS is a classic streamer; the exact recipe varies wildly from one tyer to the next, but generally incorporates gold tinsel, yellow feathers, and red in one form or another. This colour scheme suggests, to my eyes at least, a tiny brown trout, but with streamers (even more than other flies) presentation is probably more important than imitation: as long as it moves like a baitfish, predatory fish will take an interest.

[Platte River Special on driftwood.]

So, back downstream to Nebraska, where the Platte is far too warm for trout, and to all that sand. Just west of the city of Fremont (also named for The Pathfinder) is Fremont Lakes State Recreation Area, a collection of abandoned sandpits now used for boating and fishing. Fishing the PRS here, a stone's throw from the Platte, seems appropriate even if it is far from its place of origin. And it works: I can guarantee this black crappie has never seen a brown trout, fry or otherwise, but it clearly viewed the PRS as a fish of some kind, and did not hesitate to take it.

More surprising were the small sunfish (bluegills, greens, and hybrids) that also went for the streamer. Unlike crappie, these little guys aren't typically thought of as piscivorous, but evidently they're willing to give it a go.

I haven't yet fished the Platte River Special in the Platte proper, but this will do for now in terms of validation. I hereby designate the PRS as a "native Nebraskan" fly. (Also any imitation of the Platte River caddisfly.)

The frog factory

Cowles Lake near Venice, Nebraska, is commonly known as "the trout lake" because it is seasonally stocked with rainbows, but it's also a good spot for black crappie, dragonflies, and amphibians.

American toads only occur in a couple of eastern counties within Nebraska, and this lake is the most reliable spot I know for them.

Plains leopard frogs occur here in decent numbers, and are easily recognised by their brown colouration. (Northern leopard frogs are patterned similarly, but in green.)

By far the most conspicuous, however, are bullfrogs.

[All photos by Jessica, with the exception of the first leopard frog by me, and this one by Ellie of Jess holding a developing bullfrog.]

Here be dragons

An assortment of dragonflies, all from Douglas and Sarpy Counties, most by Jessa. [UPDATED with new photos 7 August.]

Halloween pennant. The new dragonfly in town? According to the University of Nebraska State Museum, "it is perhaps a recent invader, since there are no records prior to the 1990s except for a large number collected in Cass County in 1914."

Blue dasher. This lowered-wing posture is typical.

Eastern pondhawk, male.

Eastern pondhawk, female.

Pondhawk male and female together. Very much so. This, the second phase of mating, is known as the "wheel position".

Eastern amberwing. Not just small in the photo; they're small in real life as well.

Widow skimmer, eating a ladybird beetle in the first shot.

Damselfly (please don't ask which).