This is from opening week of the GA turkey season this year.
For some reason I got to thinking about a good friend of mine who is now
gone. James Kilgo. Some of you may have read his writings and some may
have even had the fortunate adventure of meeting Jim in real life.
http://www.georgiaencyclopedia.org/nge/Article.jsp?id=h-493
Jim was a great man and an inspiration to me thru my high school and early
work years. He was a throwback to southern gentlemen of times past.
Someone our great grandparents would have known.
Southern writers like him are few and far between these days. Shoot south-
erners like him are few and far between these days. Jeff Foxworthy has sto-
len our heritage and made us into rednecks and people to be pitied and
laughed at (sorry this is a soap box of mine!!!). Kilgo makes us proud to be
of the rural south. The glorious unreconstructed south of our childhood and
our dreams. The south seen only in glimpses today while floating a river,
turkey hunting in a river bottom, or visiting a small country dinner in the
middle of nowhere on a road that no longer is traveled by much of anyone.
In my imagination while sitting in a turkey blind this week I have relived the
conversations Jim and I had while playing with turkey calls and fly fishing at
a Christian retreat he attended and I was working. I was referred to by him
as Cohutta Jim. At the time I was taking people trout fishing up there all the
time. We'd smoke cigars and talk about the intimacy of turkey hunting or the
beauty of fly fishing. He once described someone walking up on you while
working a bird as almost as dire an intrusion as someone walking in on you
with your wife in an intimate embrace... And if this has ever happened to
you while hunting you know what he means.
He had a way to say things like that. One I wish daily I could capture and
cultivate. At once so clear and concise yet so completely poetic.
I guess I may have spent too much time in the woods alone this week. Qui-
etly waiting, watching and listening to well.... Not much this week.
Instead my constant companions this week have been my friends since passed on.
Jim is one of many that I miss while sitting in the woods in the morning.
Spring for me is a time when I stand amazed at the growth of my children.
The swift passage of time and the grey hairs that seem to show up in my
beard in the pre-dawn hours. Easter and it's memories of family get togeth-
ers. The carrying forward of our family traditions and the faith of my fa-
thers'. Turkey hunts, beautiful hand made calls, dogwoods in bloom, and the
glory of a pre-dawn wood lot. The quiet. The feeling of being there as if you
are witnessing the birth of the universe. You can feel God there with you.
The soft whistle of a whippoorwill in the morning air.
The sound of a turkey's wings beating as it flies down in the first crack of
day light.
That lone gobble in the mist. He's the one bird you never seem to pin down.
Every southerner (cause we are a hopelessly romantic lot) who hunts them
has one. That one majestic long beard that seems to always escape every-
one. Every season. No matter that we claim to be hunting this bird 10 years
later. His name is Crazy Larry, the ghost, psycho gobbler, Boss. He never
seems to die. For some reason he is that rarest of all turkeys. The UNDEAD.
Oh well. The South has created many creative and wonderful people and a
few kooks. I guess I stand in line with the kooks... Those who chase red
headed strutting birds around all spring. Bass all summer and fall and little
furry animals all winter long.
The glory of the outdoors is the wonder of God's creation. God's intricate
planning and workings to provide for us this magnificent place we call home.
It's just that down here. In Dixie. In Georgia we live in His den.
You know the more I fish the more I think of fishing, the more
I dream about fishing the more I fish, the more I fish the more
it consumes me. ESPECIALLY when you do it with a long rod
baby...
What is it about the fly rod that turns some of us into uncom-
promising fish bums and fish heads??? THe rhythm? THe
beauty? The challenge? All of them? Maybe the lifestyle? Stomp
around a campfire in the mountains, beer and brats on a fall
line river, cold mornings throwing streamers for reluctant
trout, nicotine rushes to get you thru the night floats? Yeah
that must be it.
Why do we pursue fish with feathers and flash? Why do we flail
into our days with tiny tippets and bad back casts into, over,
and under trees, rocks, and cussing guides? Cuss like drunken
sailors when we snag something and can't wait to do it all
again telling our wives how much fun we had while not bring-
ing anything home not even a picture. Maybe deep down we
are all masochistic. Maybe we have a screw loose. At least I am
sure that's how my friends and family look at my travels and
pursuits...
My dreams consist not of beautiful beaches and women but salt
flats filled with fat redfish chasing mullet, 10lb browns crash-
ing top water flies, smallies leaping in the fall sunlight, large-
mouths busting a deer hair fly at dusk. Beautiful rivers cut into
the mountains with high canyon walls and limestone outcrop-
pings. Sunsets on the marsh. The scream of a good reel with a
good fish in the backing. The beauty of a bent rod.
Tattoos, nicotine, and unkempt hair are more common among
my fishing buddies than Phd's, MD's or God help us lawyers. A
few friends have spent more on rods than on cars. A few even
houses...
Personally I think it's a life style. Not just a hobby. I had al-
most forgotten how much I like the feel of a fly line laying out in front of me. The sight of a popper landing under an over-
hanging branch. It has been a great year of rediscovery for me.
Man cannot reach perfection. I am a Presbyterian, Scot-Irish,
and mountain (half of me anyway) bred fellow so I believe like
in the movie that "Man is a damn mess" but thru fly fishing we
can gain a little bit of perfection. The other half is just an anti-
establishment un-reconstructed confederate from Atlanta who
just does this to be different...
Maybe just maybe it's the places, the people, the experience of
fly fishing that I love and chase. Trout do not live in ugly
places. Shoal Bass don't either. In fact can you fish in an ugly
place? Or once we reach the water does everywhere become
beautiful?
In any case that's my ramblings and thoughts for a night... A
week of a couple of good fishing trips. Only a few fish but a lot
of good companionship.
Can't wait to do it all again.
May the Lord bless your harvest
and provide good hunts every one.
May your dogs' nose be keen
Their feet be swift
May your cover be thick
and your briars be low.
May the Lord provide good companions,
Good food and fine weather.
May the skies be fair
and the days be cool.
The rabbits may they be plentiful
and hard running.
And most of all may God bless everyone in this New Year.
It's a Saturday morning in the lowlands. Drizzly rain as almost always falls on the green fields. You and your family. Wrapped in wool gather to meet with your elder. This will be the first of 3 or maybe even 4 days. The elder sits down with you and talks to your family. They ask about your situation. Your marriage and your family. You talk about your struggles, your fears, your desires, and prayers. The elder watches the interaction of your family then hands you each a communion token.
Sunday morning dawns gray and cold. Wrapped in your wool coat your wife in a tartan wrap your children in wool pants and dresses. All 5 of them. You arrive at the field early and your family gets a spot on the grass near where you believe the preacher will stand.
Suddenly men appear on horseback. Bearded serious looking men though all with a smile on their face. All carrying guns and swords. 200 in all circle the group. The preacher stands up and explains they are here for your protection. You are expecting your communion service to be attacked this morning. Even with this announcement no one leaves.
You look around and notice all your neighbors, your cousins, your family, all the people from your village are here. Men and women who are willing to sacrifice it all to be here this morning. Most of the men have little scars on their arms as yours do. The scars are from the signing. You as they did signed in blood. Your covenant is your future, your life, and may very well be your death.
For three days you meet and listen to preachers, take communion, sing, and listen to more preachers. For three days the armed men sit and wait for an attack. But it never comes. They walk you to and from your friends homes and the services. For three days no one shows to molest your services. For three days despite the threats more and more people show up. By day 3 your number has doubled.
You make this trip as far from your home as you have ever been to worship and take communion with your Church. The government wants to execute you for being a member. Just for being a member. Your pastors are not allowed a manse or church building. They preach in fields, mountain sides, even frozen rivers. Anywhere a crowd can gather. They if caught by the authorities will be hung, beheaded, have their right hands cut off and even disemboweled. You expect no better. But they preach with a fervor of the Kingship of the Lord Christ! The sufficient grace of God and with the moving of the Holy Spirit they have changed a nation!
This is the story of the Presbyterian Church in Scotland in the mid 1600's. Imagine seeing this. Imagine seeing the growth in the Church this caused.
These are our ancestors. These are the people who came here. Who settled in the back country of the US. Who shaped our very constitution and our outlook.
If only we as Christians today had the spirit just the spirit of these men and women and children what could we do? What could we accomplish? What would the state of our country be?
May the Lord bless His people, His Church, and our lives.
