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The Age of Fish in Eurmerica
huntingwithdaughters
Member Posts: 195 ✭✭✭
The Age of Fish in Eurmerica
I used to think our cottage just sat on a piece of lopsided, badly drained land. The quotes to have it regraded were discouraging. I deplored the awful soil, the endless rocks. A landscape architect said that is what grows on our land: rocks. Then I looked it up: our pauper's plot is 419 million years old. I thought the cottage was old! And we've had to rebuild every inch of it. You could say the foundations of our house are 419 million years old. I could put up a plaque to that affect and sell tickets to tourists.
Our house, unlike your Greek Revival, your Victorian, your Arts & Craft, ours is from the Devonian period, put that in your pipe and smoke it, mister! The Devonian business is named after Devon in England and its Devonshire clotted cream. Put it on strawberries, drink a glass of sauterne and forget your arteries for a change. The British got here first with fly fishing as far back as that! No wonder they are so snooty about their chalk streams.
According to people who lived back then, forests and meadows sprang forth from a lot of old rocks. Fish became so diverse that you could get enough kinds to make a good Bouillabaisse in even the smallest towns. This was the Age of Fish in Eurmerica. The fly fishing wasn't good back then and people complained. Finally something was done about it and trout showed up, 350 million years latter. And you though waiting in a checkout line at the supermarket was tedious.
I stand before you where it all happened, a later day Adam. For my piece of terra firma lies squarely planted on the Glaciated Pocono Plateau, yes in the Poconos. And we are first cousins to the Catskills.
I drove along the B Creek today. Every inch of it is posted but I didn't care anymore. I was consumed with emotion as strong as first love, my entire body and soul reached out to each boulder, caressed each undercut bank. I imagined cast to a rise in each pool and seeing a rainbow show his colors to the sun. I watched the water rush down rapids like someone I might never see again leaving on a train. Now, back at the cottage, I am smiling, lying on the bed. Smiling at the miracle of that stream and its tributaries and cousins, escorted by wild trout as they sing their way down to the sea.
I used to think our cottage just sat on a piece of lopsided, badly drained land. The quotes to have it regraded were discouraging. I deplored the awful soil, the endless rocks. A landscape architect said that is what grows on our land: rocks. Then I looked it up: our pauper's plot is 419 million years old. I thought the cottage was old! And we've had to rebuild every inch of it. You could say the foundations of our house are 419 million years old. I could put up a plaque to that affect and sell tickets to tourists.
Our house, unlike your Greek Revival, your Victorian, your Arts & Craft, ours is from the Devonian period, put that in your pipe and smoke it, mister! The Devonian business is named after Devon in England and its Devonshire clotted cream. Put it on strawberries, drink a glass of sauterne and forget your arteries for a change. The British got here first with fly fishing as far back as that! No wonder they are so snooty about their chalk streams.
According to people who lived back then, forests and meadows sprang forth from a lot of old rocks. Fish became so diverse that you could get enough kinds to make a good Bouillabaisse in even the smallest towns. This was the Age of Fish in Eurmerica. The fly fishing wasn't good back then and people complained. Finally something was done about it and trout showed up, 350 million years latter. And you though waiting in a checkout line at the supermarket was tedious.
I stand before you where it all happened, a later day Adam. For my piece of terra firma lies squarely planted on the Glaciated Pocono Plateau, yes in the Poconos. And we are first cousins to the Catskills.
I drove along the B Creek today. Every inch of it is posted but I didn't care anymore. I was consumed with emotion as strong as first love, my entire body and soul reached out to each boulder, caressed each undercut bank. I imagined cast to a rise in each pool and seeing a rainbow show his colors to the sun. I watched the water rush down rapids like someone I might never see again leaving on a train. Now, back at the cottage, I am smiling, lying on the bed. Smiling at the miracle of that stream and its tributaries and cousins, escorted by wild trout as they sing their way down to the sea.
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