Monthly Archives: August 2017

The Anaconda copper mine in Butte Montana was eating up the town. By the 1950’s it became an open pit mine, an immense excavation with huge trucks that crawled across the bottom like yellow insects, chewing up Butte neighborhoods. They … Continue reading →

On the corner where highway 49 and highway 89 intersect in the Sierra Valley at a tee junction in the town of Sierraville is the only traffic light in Sierra county, a flashing red signal. On that corner was a … Continue reading →

Almost fifty years ago I rode a commuter train out of Boston, bound for dinner at Tom Wittenberg’s house in Needham, Massachusetts. The right hand side of the train was nearly empty. The left hand seats were filled with men … Continue reading →

There was a beautiful husky outside the coffee shop this morning and it reminded me of Graham’s Yukon and that afternoon in Eureka when it began to snow and we looked out to see Yukon standing on top of his … Continue reading →

The trees opposite the coffee shop are moving, An afternoon breeze is rising and I can imagine the wind coming up-canyon on the Feather River and the North Fork of the Yuba, making it hard to cast. A warm wind … Continue reading →

My brother Paul and I sat on his patio in Los Osos in the afternoon sun and talked about why we write. Paul is working on an autobiography that began with detailed research into our family, dating back beyond the … Continue reading →

I went frog gigging with Charlie Way. I worked for Charlie who was the caretaker at Oakland Camp, and Charlie had grown up in Alabama. Frog gigging was a way of life where Charlie grew up but I had never … Continue reading →

A fireplug of a man, he lived in a house with dogs. I could never figure out how many dogs there were. They were rangy dogs that climbed onto the ratty furniture, pissed on the cracked and torn linoleum and … Continue reading →

The hex hatch: Lake Almanor at dusk. The mayflies break the surface like popcorn, shedding their case, becoming almost airborne. They have lived in the mud at the bottom for two or three years, foraging, and now, some invisible bell … Continue reading →

Sitting under a yellow pine at 6,000 feet next to Rice Creek, just south of Mt. Lassen. Read for a while in Viscount Grey’s essays. He writes about birds and nests they build and I am struck by the mud … Continue reading →