Tuesday, October 10, 2017

Consideration

I revised and finished an article for New Jersey Federated Sportsmen's Clubs News very early Monday morning. This organization I deeply respect, not for conservatism per se, but for the grounded quality I find in relation to both fact and story material. The editor, Oliver Shapiro, is first rate. When he's improved sentences of mine, I've endured without complaint. He knows the publication through and through, and so he commits the right tweaks to keep its communication finely tuned to the readership. His vigilance never flags.

I sent him the article, on lake trout, by email at about the usual time. With very few--if any--exceptions, always after midnight the second Monday of the month. Then I went downstairs to settle into reading an issue of Fly Fisherman. I read a few sentences when something clicked, so I came back upstairs to write this piece for Litton's Lines I work on now with the intention of keeping it in Drafts. Something important had triggered in my mind, but I will post about my trout fishing later on Monday first.

Here we go.

I could have contacted fisheries biologist Sean Crouse of New Jersey Fish and Wildlife for the News article on lake trout. Could have asked him about why lake trout seem to come in close at Round Valley during the severest cold, even though--by late December--that reservoir is plenty cold, and lakers like 50-degree water anyway. (Even with average late December weather, that water surely isn't much warmer than when under weather extremely cold.) Is there something I'm missing, I could ask. And of course, his authority on the page would help, right?

As a Round Valley Trout Association member, I met Mr. Crouse in March. He was enthusiastic about a question I submitted to him before the meeting, but as the presentation began after we spoke and throughout, I felt uneasy. The relationship between authority and club didn't seem right, even though many members asked further questions after he finished speaking. This wasn't an issue of silence among the public, but the uneven balance of attitude between state and public I observe is normal, as such events have unfolded since the day the Constitution was ratified, but certainly not the only normal way for public and a state official to interact. For me personally, and I would italicize "personally," if that didn't give undue emphasis, considering that my real concern here is impersonal, but nevertheless, for me personally, I felt as if putting the official on a pedestal would ultimately disrespect us both. And as a matter of fact, I asked whether or not barred sunfish are present in the reservoir, in such a direct manner that Mr. Crouse felt compelled to (impulsively, humanly) utter the Latin name for the species, a moment which could have been awkward, but because of it's timing and quick attentive regard for me, when our eyes met with an electrified flash of mutual recognition, it felt uncannily perfect. I did not know and do not remember that Latin name, but at age 9, I was obsessed with zoology, and my mother had the intention of my learning Latin that year (1970) for the purpose of my pursuing science. I did not learn Latin, and though I did feel a little overwhelmed at this prospect that never came about, I thought about it a lot, and took interest in a "Latin" course during 7th grade I felt was too slow and too much by rote to follow. It was just some adjunct of some other "period."

I emailed Mr. Crouse almost immediately after the meeting. He had sent me a pdf of the presentation, and I asked if I could use a particular photo from it for my blog. No answer came. So I confronted him on this by forwarding the email message, telling him it's no loss to me if I can't use the photo, but if I can use it, that's a simple plus. Could I. He replied and told me he had to seek approval. I could have shot back and told him not to trouble himself, but I guess I was stymied. He wrote in that same email that he would get back to me.

That's what the state is for the most part, in my humble opinion. Trouble.

Since Mr. Crouse never got back to me about that photo, if I were to email for information to stack up the import of my article on lakers, I might expect no reply, but I could phone him. One of my readers often does, and they talk fishing at length. I suspect this wouldn't be so easy for me. That's an irony. If you were to get in my shoes and feel what went between Sean and I, when I asked about the sunfish, you could understand. Other guys for whom the state seems normal as an authority have no problem speaking to him informally on the phone.

There's another consideration. Not that I should presume of an authority not knowing something and claiming that he does, when I have no such evidence, but simply to acknowledge my preemptive refusal to ask, when the state of affairs is as I have outlined. You guys and gals read my posts. So you know that when I don't know something, I'm not afraid to say so. Why should authority be any different? Aren't we each human beings who don't know everything? We certainly know very, very little; no matter how great the genius any of us possesses--very little, compared to what is. So it's never contrary to the (true) pride of any representative of any organization--I certainly presume--to admit of not knowing.

I don't know what other factors might be involved in why lake trout prefer to come in close to shore during periods of severe cold. I don't even know if this proposition is true. In the article I only say I have some evidence it is true. But I don't need a state official's authority to beef up the text. Especially since the particular official I have in mind has already gone against his own word in relation to me.

The greatest--in my opinion--philosopher of all time, Aristotle, wrote very simple words: "To know is not enough." But what can this mean? Many things. And for one, the sand flies back in the face of any man who "needs" to know in order to presumably keep face, when he does not know, but feels and behaves as if he should. This is not to say such a man might not advance to knowing better, and this is not to say this might not be a good thing. Only to say that it's perfectly OK if he does not know, right now, and he shouldn't feel awkward about that; he shouldn't have to look over his shoulder to an agency that might make demands unwarranted by the facts of life. It's not to demand humility of officials who rightly should take proud stances, but simply to discriminate between an authentic willingness of an official to engage and keep a true dialogue, and, on the other hand, an evasion. This latter state of affairs is one of cowering and flight from responsibility. It's completely beside the point, if Mr. Crouse's time is limited. So is mine. But as I say, I  will respond to everyone who comments on this blog. I actually do so, unless it's spam. I felt at the Round Valley Trout Association discussion as if the state "didn't have enough time" for us, so to speak, when RVTA is the prime voice of stakeholders in the fishery. The discussion did not probe indepth, in my opinion, particularly on the issue of whether or not stocking herring is a good idea after the structural work on the reservoir is completed and water levels rise. That's something members wanted to do. Me included. Anyone can judge--by common sense--that untold tons of vegetation growing in along shorelines, with the water level drastically lowered, will produce some fertility, which these herring might live on for awhile, and yet the issue was given short shrift as Crouse moved the discussion along. Surely he knew this was a prime concern of ours.

That attitude I mentioned. I find in the public, everywhere, awe before authority. But individuals forget that they have authority of their own, which should come first.

 http://littonsfishinglines.blogspot.com/2017/03/round-valley-reservoir-rvta-trout.html

Monday, October 9, 2017

Get Away Outing to Pohandusing Brook

Near Belvidere


I promised some Americana and captured just a little of that on camera. Leaving Bedminter in steady rain, stopping at Shannon's Fly Shop in Califon on the way over to State Highway 31 while perusing an issue of The Drake, I came to infer valuable info on how to go about a certain essay. Hope for this sort of thing is more precious in itself than practical, but I never forget appearing in Salmon and Steelhead Journal as a 2016 finalist for the Brookwood Press Writing Award. Yours truly may make it yet, and if not, well, a life well-lived never depends on outside recognition.

Getting to Pohandusing Brook proved more time consuming than I had prepared for. My mapping--I don't use GPS--was frivolous and yet sufficient. I found some access near CR 519, but here the stream seemed too little, so I went through Belvidere and found a promising stretch.

I parked near industrial fencing and a No Trespassing sign, but outside that fence....well. (Actually, nothing forbids anyone.) You don't go to strange new places, emphasis on strange for this snippet of thought, unless you have a little of the explorer in you. The sort of explorer who can deal with strangers, if they decide to confront him. As I got my stuff together--I fully enjoyed tying on leader, tippet, and a little worm imitation--I imagined my brother David doing this (he's bragged about "guiding" me on the Farmington River in CT)--and that was a no brainer. Nothing against him, but he never would get near this place. I had already entertained the company of a State Police officer, having pulled over on a wide shoulder to review my maps. I never saw the flashing lights until he smiled and turned back to his unit. I had simply looked up--my window down in the heat--and in a confidently pleasant and matter-of-fact way, greeted him.

Despite the forecast I noted last night, I had felt rain would be no problem, and it was no problem at all, until the very end of my outing, which I'll soon relate. I ambled through brush and into little Pohandusing Brook, soon dabbling my fly near a little undercut, way too shallow I observed once I got close. The water didn't feel very chilly, my never having put on my chest waders, and I even wondered if it were at or above 68 degrees, the temperature that divides fishing for trout or leaving them be, if you value clean release. The weather was so muggy and warm I took off my rain jacket to leave it behind for the time being, figuring I'd wade and hike upstream with Sadie the Black Labrador for at least half a mile. I never got more than about an eighth of a mile before I saw the stream runs though a backyard, a nice bridge over the water connecting the property.

So much for my dream of getting well and good into a little stream. In the meantime, I had found a nice pool and caught a couple of dace. On closer examination, I found it's about two-and-a-half feet deep, certainly enough water to hold brown trout, especially with the nice undercut into thick tree roots. I saw no browns. And so I was thinking. Surely no one fishes the Pohandusing Brook. But the state has designated it a wild trout steam with reproducing brown trout, and I don't doubt but a tiny bit they're in there. After my blowout at this nice hole I photographed, I was fully bent on looking for more, and who knows, elsewhere in this state I'm surely to do so.

I felt very satisfied. Creeks and I go way, way back. I would enjoy exploring dozens in New Jersey, had I the time. It was time to leave and I had sunk deep enough into experience that it didn't feel ridiculous, and I imagined that after I judged Buckhorn Creek useless, I might have time to try Peapack Brook near home for a few minutes before heavy dusk.

I got to where I had parked my car, and noticed the fence gate was now open, a truck with headlights on facing in my direction, a driver inside. I leisurely packed up, only very slightly nervous and staying that way, refusing to feel awkward. I guess the guy stared with the sort of stony eyes we all know about, that mindless indecision of the captive of our modern demise of ideology, the sort of zombie Dagny in Ayn Rand's novel Atlas Shrugged shot dead, but before I got in view of this situation, I was thinking in a celebratory way about how all of us share this planet, regardless of us parceling it out on mathematical terms that amount to money and private ownership. But more than this. I'm not against private ownership and fancy myself a believer in laizze faire capitalism, but there has to be some way to overcome the mindless (bad!) aspect of greed for benevolence towards one another based on such facts as the air we breathe, water we drink and wade, and soil we stand on.

By everything I deduced, I trespassed against no one today. I drove off having already forgotten the open gate and truck. Best part of the day was fishing the Pohandusing.

I did find Buckhorn and some access, where I quickly judged the creek too little. I hung a right, found some water that looked kind of interesting; no access here. So I found a pullover, looked at my map, but as I drove off, noticed my gas was dangerously low, so I never took the trouble to find the right turn I needed, bent on getting to Philipsburg and eventually Peapack Brook, but when I got to State Highway 57, I turned left, looking at little creeks as I passed by and coming upon a larger bridge, as I hoped to see. This turned out to be the familiar Pohatcong, but I saw--after stopping and getting out to look--only fishless water, me not willing to wade and look with sun very low. I found gas, turned right on Rt. 31 at Washington while listening to the Grateful Dead. I've meant to listen to Bach's Concertos for One and Two Harpsicords (I habitually hear classical), but today I heard Crosby, Stills, and Nash, the Dead, and the Outlaws.

There were moments approaching an experience I well know referred to in "Box of Rain," on the Dead's American Beauty album. I listened to this album alone among Dead tracks today. Any of you over 35 who read this blog might relate to this sort of evaluation of life as something not just airy fairy, but psychologically factual. A dream we dreamed one afternoon long ago.

It's not Deja Vu. Much better than that.

I hung a left and saw stretches of the Musconetcong River--to be stocked tomorrow. I have never before seen these before I got to Changewater. That road took me to Point Mountain, when I knew I had borne northeast, instead of southeast, so it took me longer to get to Peapack. But I had cut new territory. I did get to Peapack Brook before heavy dusk, but the water ran high, off color (visibility about a foot), and full of leaves and twigs. I knew this meant a skunker, but I tried thoroughly the hole where Jorge caught a wild brown on a salmon egg in April. The effort helped bond me with my two-weight fly rod.

Not much of a day in terms of fishing, but there's never a time away that doesn't incentivize me for more to come. I thought I should have waded upstream the Pohatcong while I was there. (All the time and gas it takes to return!) But I wouldn't have had much time. I got to thinking about trying the Peapack again.

Above all, I got away from the grist mill of the almighty buck. That might seem an ironic thing for a believer in laizze faire capitalism to say, and I guess it is ironic, but then again, I think the dollar--ultimately--is the only way it's possible to get away from the grind. Can you imagine any other, besides going vagrant? Anyone who would choose that course of action, anyhow, would find his or herself in quite a grind for sure. If the world is too much with you--as I felt it's too much with me as I parked at home not very long ago--that feeling at least implies the possibility of earning one's way free and clear of a daily drudge. But this eventuality means, of course, it's paid for. I certainly never want to be the sort of guy who expects others to pay my way.
Residential scene near where I fished the Pohandusing

 I caught two striped dace at....

Best spot I fished


 The residence with bridge over the Pohandusing


Sunlight broke through, touching mountains south and east of Belvidere

South of Belvidere. (Belvidere means "beautiful place," perhaps a sort of vain romanticism you might expect as simplified by limelight, but real beauty does exist hereabouts in both ragged edges and soft-toned mists out and away from hyper-real images designed to titillate, obsess, and empty your wallet.)






Bizarre Weather

Nothing bizarre about this little tornado.

Not once in my life--until tonight--have I called weather this. All my life, I've paid keen attention to weather. Blizzard, hurricane, tornado, 96 degrees early in April, all this and much more I've appreciated first hand, no instance of weather whatsoever have I stooped to name bizarre. I have too much respect for and understanding of this planet.

But this October is really abnormal. It's not actually climbed above 90 this October, not this year, only in late September and for at least two days then, other days near that figure, but days on end have reached the 80's or near this range--71 degrees out right now near midnight--and 70's, including mid-70's, are forecast all the way through the 22nd!

Mid and late August was the weirdest of summer weather, also worth mention. It felt like October. In other words, the weather is acting like a badly led government, not a natural system.

So. What about my plans for Hopatcong? Well, Landolfi didn't phone me. We have an understanding of the likes--or he should by now, too. Especially since he's the one who doesn't get back to me. He must have read the forecast before I read it. So the point is completely moot, other than to say we're not going and that's the simplest way of his saying so. I've called him a kite in a tornado and I've featured a photo of him falling on ice. He knows I get on his case. But no else gets him out fishing as I do, and no one else offers appreciations for this as he does, either. Which I don't simply take, but listen to and remember for hopes of life getting better. Honestly, he can really use some fishing, instead of baiting the hornets tearing around his brain at a million miles per hour. The implication such a statement bears for potential talent is ultimately more complimentary than disparaging by far. That's something most people don't understand.

So the forecast for tomorrow. Heavy rain all day. Oliver Round and I fished some nine hours through steady rain in November on Lake Hopatcong, and neither of us--soaked through our raingear upper body and lower--had any complaint. Temperatures, as I recall, never got above about 52. I would, of course, fish Lake Hopatcong in rain at 75. Might not catch any walleye or hybrids, though.

Oliver and I got walleye and hybrid.

I emailed Oliver last night, asking about a Musconetcong River tributary. Hances Brook, he told me. Got home tonight and on the computer for info, deciding as I booted up that what I need is another tributary, so I can fill Oliver in on one he hasn't fly fished--but might yet. Or at least between the two of us, we will have Hances Brook and...I'll get to the names in a moment...down.

I selected New Jersey Wild Trout Streams as my search. A Google Maps guide really does help. I'm headed to the Belvidere Region. Buckhorn Creek and Pophandusing Brook. Brown trout. Not tribs of the Pequest, but Delaware. If I can't find access, there's Hances Brook to the south, and another nameless I found on the map to scout first. Maybe a road sign will inform me of the name.

The Musconetcong River has 19 Trout Production tributaries, but by the Google Map information, none of these are classified, which can make things feel interesting at ground level where life matters most.


https://www.google.com/maps/d/viewer?mid=1iWVVybxRwGCAJ8YjJczBbWzk24w&hl=en_US&ll=40.91240947458444%2C-74.63628850000003&z=9

Wednesday, October 4, 2017

The Line on Hybrid Stripers and Walleye






The Bottom Line on Hybrid Stripers and Walleye

By Bruce Edward Litton



          I never forget the first time my son and I tried weighting live herring along the bottom edge of a Lake Hopatcong drop-off in October 2007, but I don’t remember if we got clued in by secondhand information or the rig seemed obvious. A half-ounce egg sinker ahead of a small barrel swivel and a four-foot, six-pound test leader of monofilament tied to a size 6 hook. The only change we’ve made since involves the use of size 10 treble hooks. I owned a topographic map, selected a sharp drop, used a fish finder to determine the edge between the slope and flat deep bottom, anchored shallower and cast our rigs to that edge. Sure enough, we caught good-size walleye of about four pounds.

          We kept coming back for more each third week of October. We’ve caught walleye every fall, and after a couple of years, began catching hybrid stripers along with them. On several occasions, a lot more stripers than marble eyes. Lake Hopatcong is not the only New Jersey destination for either species by the same method. Hybrids grow perhaps just as large in Spruce Run Reservoir and may be as numerous. Manasquan Reservoir features them also. Average size is about three pounds, fish slightly less than two pounds abundant, four-pounders common. I’ve caught a few five pounds and a little better, but so far, I’ve been jinxed at catching one of the six, seven, or eight-pound fish that so many of us read about in fishing reports, see photographed or catch ourselves. I’ve hooked and lost a few in this range and they fight like nothing else in freshwater. They just don’t leap as smallmouth bass do.

          Walleye inhabit Swartswood and Greenwood lakes, Monksville and Canistear reservoirs in addition to Hopatcong where they average about four pounds, six-pounders commonly caught with a number over eight pounds caught each year. We don’t catch loads of walleye less than two pounds as we do the bass, and though walleye do gather together in pods, the explanation for the catch discrepancy involves their not schooling in large numbers. On one occasion early in October, I witnessed fellow Knee Deep Club member Marty Roberts catch the last of about a hundred hybrids on one outing. He stayed anchored in a single spot, his fish alarm sounding off like Christmas bells.

          Many ways exist to catch both of these species and most of them cross over. In almost a decade, I’ve successfully used different approaches, but I like the bottom line of drop-offs in October best. I sit back and let the world unwind. Nothing else has been so relaxing and productive for these species. One caveat. Not all of the fish will cruise right along that bottom edge. In general, we set from 20 feet down to 45 feet, but throughout the month of October, be aware that on either Lake Hopatcong or Spruce Run Reservoir, fall turnover and oxygenation of the deepest water is not likely complete until the end of the month. We have marked fish as deep as 33 feet on October first, and yet as late as the third weekend, have witnessed herring dead reeled up from 40-foot depths. Your live bait is the canary in the coal mine, so check on it to avoid wasting effort.

          We follow no hard and fast rules on where to set, besides always putting at least a couple of six lines total between two of us right on the deep break. A good idea for beginners is to mark that edge with inexpensive buoys. Most often, we rig four lines with live herring and cast to shallows for bass and panfish with a rod apiece while keeping an eye on the open bails of the herring sets. Other anglers set drags light, tightening them upon setting the hook, but especially with quick-running hybrids, this can make a mess. Walleye, on the other hand, take the bait slow, line poking off the spool. You really know when a hybrid hits. Grab the rod, engage the reel and set the hook so that treble hook doesn’t catch in the gut, a problem we’ve never caused.

          Trebles allow herring liveliness. A single-shank hook turns inward upon a herring’s eye when placed through the nostrils, so a treble is preferable. Slip a prong through that bony opening for the most secure and liveliest arrangement. The tiny treble rides on top of the herring’s head like a thorny crown. Since the little hook with those hazardous extra prongs often catches inside the fish’s mouth, use a hook disgorger or long-nosed pliers to remove it.

          We miss a few hits. Not many. Medium-power spinning is all that’s necessary, and we’ve caught nice walleye on ultra-lights. However, with six-pound test monofilament and an eight-pound hybrid on the terminal end, power the fish when you can, but never force it. Hybrids have convulsive power like no other freshwater fish, sure to explode in sudden bursts of muscular force that will snap line instantly if the drag is the slightest bit too tight. Some veterans would never go so light, but on the other hand, Marty Roberts, last I spoke to him about it, catches hybrids only with ultra-lights, so it is a matter of preference as much as a matter of fact that a big hybrid will test any gear. I have caught five-pounders on 10 and 12-pound test, and though I felt relief in having a margin of more control than with lighter line, the fights remained long and sustained. The point is—these fish aren’t leader shy. If you use a 12-pound test leader, no problem. Fluorocarbon is all but invisible anyway. Hybrids must have good eyesight, as walleye certainly do, and yet many get caught on chicken liver, so they rely on smell, too.

          Herring happen to be rich in Omega 3 fatty acids. If you are good with a razorblade or very sharp knife, slightly incise live herring along the back, never so much as to impede liveliness much, just enough to release a little scent. Muscle gets cut, so a little of the fish’s vitality and endurance will be compromised, and yet so long as the fish remains active on the hook, a compromised life is more of a target to a predator. Walleye floats made of Styrofoam—black is best—help keep crippled herring out of rocks and other bottom obstructions. They slide onto the leader like an egg sinker and the hybrids and walleye don’t mind. Or just slip a little junk Styrofoam on the line, although the typical whiteness may not be ideal.

          There’s nothing else like it. Whether the wind howls like Halloween banshees or the lake lays calm and flat, this method works all day, but get on the water before dawn for the best action early. When the wind blows 20, 30 knots and everyone else hunkers down behind shoreline ridges in the calm, we anchor right in the blow, don’t even bother to double anchor, and let the boat ride the swells. Wind’s where the best action awaits.

http://littonsfishinglines.blogspot.com/2012/10/lake-hopatcong-hybrid-stripers-strike.html

Once that Summer Weather began to Stick Around...and a Little More yet

Presently 46 degrees in Bedminster, nothing else so cool is forecast until the 12th. During the recent heat, Lake Hopatcong water temperature hit 80 degrees, according to J.B. Kasper's "Freshwater Report" in The Fisherman. Fortunately for fishing--though I love heat--nights and even afternoons cooled off a few or more days before Joe Landolfi and I would have fished the lake yesterday, but temperatures are forecast to rise back into the 80's before we get out--I hope--on the 9th.

Landolfi is a kite in a tornado, and I accept the likelihood, based on past experience, of his not making any outing we commit to, but most often, we get on the water. And every time he's taken another turn, he's sincerely wanted to stick to the plan. I assured him that I was fine with missing this one. We'll get out next Monday.

I had a great 10 hours or so writing two essays instead.

Interesting point Kasper made in that report. He claims rainbows started to come in close to shore at Round Valley more than two weeks ago. (I believe he gets that sort of information from Mike Roman of Round Valley Trout Association, who I firmly believe is reliable.) Any case, those rainbows high-tailed it back out deep, once that summer weather began to stick around.


Monday, October 2, 2017

That's Just Our Own Lunacy

The former AT&T World Headquarters entry (remains AT&T) at the stretch known as The Zoo, very crowded during spring trout season.


Joe couldn't make his way out of Union in time for me to meet him at 1:00 p.m., or anytime near that, so we canceled on Lake Hopatcong this afternoon and evening, planning on going next Monday. This afternoon, I felt pronounced warmth returned, and last I looked at the forecast, more weather above 80 degrees is coming. We've had three or four very chilly nights, so by now those hybrid stripers and walleye are beginning to shift into the fall feed, but unless more chilly nights ensure, fishing might be tough next week. It might have been tough today despite the auspice anyway.

Sun nearing horizon and my needing to stop at Quick Check, I went to the North Branch Raritan at AT&T with my camera and Sadie, though really, the need was less to go to Quick Check than to get a little of the rough and the finer of a nice day. Walking between Rt. 202/206 and the river, the field had especially cooled, and I thought of warmth as I stood on the porch just an hour before, recognizing it might be some of the last I feel of this summer. It's fall, but seasons really have their own ways. They never really obey lunar arrangements as if by boxed schedule. (That's just our own lunacy.)

No fishing rod, I felt the lack for a moment. Could have caught a few redbreast sunfish. Wow. But I had fun with these fish last year on my two weight. Took note of the fact that within two weeks, trout will be stocked here, and not crowds as April draws will come, but quite a number of fishermen will poke their boots among stones.

Water is low and clear. Felt a little odd, since it's been such a wet summer, but come to think of it, the rains have abated.

I clocked my old Civic (still runs smooth) up 202/206 to the Quick Check convenience store. That place feels cheap and sleazy, yet I usually don't regret patronizing. Driving home, I wondered what's in store, not really only for me, but also other people caught in dutiful worlds of wage work. I recognized it was the Quick Check influence, but I didn't regret the sour feeling, because it was rush hour, and as with any event, I open my mind, pay attention, and process a thought or two. To regret that is self-sabotage.

Ever since Cornelius Vanderbilt said, "The public be damned," referring to millions of Americans in misery at, or slightly below, or slightly above, the poverty line, the working class has struggled as if in the fetters of a penal system. I deserve it, of course, since I could have earned a B.A. degree but chose not to earn any. That's a trick statement, because it instantly makes you think wage work is something horrid, doesn't it?

I did go to college. Eight colleges and universities. (Not one of them Vanderbilt University.) To say I have no college education simply isn't true. I have no degree. No degree beyond an Associate degree in Liberal Arts. The fascination for what began with Plato's school The Academy is no less compulsive than flies on shit, so instead of pretending I can one-up worldwide academia by ignoring it, I pay the closest attentions my time allows. Rather than growing less convinced that true education happens independently of institutions, the more I learn about all sorts of social institutions (all of them directly or indirectly connected to the central institution, academia), the more this conviction grows. You might think corporate power is central, since it buys colleges and universities, but the self-made business tycoon with no college education is more of a 19th century phenomena than one of the present, Steve Jobs aside, and besides, the thinking that made the phenomena of big business possible isn't without academic affiliation--as all important intellectual contributions become academic as soon as possible--though in essence, all original thought is native, not academic.

Not for a moment does this conviction of mine about education independent of academia discount the fact that any student studying at a college or university properly learns by use of his or her own independent mind, which means, in essence and in fact, independently of that institution. By what I observed during my years away at school, the best of these students read on their own, as well as what was assigned.

That claim will incite the pointed rage of a million loyalists, who assert there is no independence from social institutions like colleges. You can never placate them. They are embittered and sold out. Of course colleges and universities influenced me and continue to, as they have influenced and continue to influence you. Anyone who reads this blog. But any mind chooses. And I challenge myself, as I challenge my readers. Which is the primary consideration? This earth, given and independent of our mental actions and yet demanding of our independent reason, or the secondary institutions we erect upon it?

Don't mind me, the amateur philosopher. Once and awhile I depart from the usual romancing of rivers, streams, lakes, reservoirs, and ocean, and wrangle not with "monster" fish, but ideas I could be wrong about, since context, point and counterpoint, weighing the ideas against facts I might not have considered, etc. etc., all of this in a vacuum of conversation, not one or more other people engaging me, involves not only what is real but grasp or lack of grasp of what is real. It is true that the earth is not an institution, for example. But before Thales of Miletus some 2600 years ago, no man understood the concept of objectivity anyhow. With that fact in consideration, what does it mean to possess native insight? Does what we learn through our family rearing, at least at the most inward levels of family rearing, count as native? But the family is an institution.

Round and round it goes, and I could write foolishly all night, though any of us might agree that there is a planet. And there are also academic institutions. And the two are not the same. 

Sunday, October 1, 2017

Hacklebarney State Park





Trish's idea, we rode into Chester and had breakfast at the Chester Diner, listening to NPR on the way, appreciating the very high level of journalistic report on Hugh Hefner's great influence on our culture. Also Trish's idea, a Hacklebarney State Park hike. She had mentioned both last night and I capitulated instantly, feeling only slight grudge for the fact that we hiked Hacklebarney only two years ago. I tend to strike new ground.

With little time before I will go to work, we walked to the, I believe they are, Trout Brook Falls. On the way out, I checked the map, and though I couldn't conclude for certain on the evidence that this is Trout Brook, not Rinehart's Brook, most likely it is Trout Brook. (By what I've gathered, there are wild trout in this stream, but you would have to work hard to find one.)

On the way home, we came up against standstill traffic. Alstede Farms and Cider Mill Farm are drawing huge crowds, which is why Hacklebarney was very crowded, also. I turned around, and took Hacklebarney Road back from where we came, following it out and making turns, knowing I was somewhere in the vicinity of Willowwood Arboretum, and somewhere in the larger context of Long Valley and Califon. We never found Willowwood, but did come upon CR 512 pretty soon, a road I know. I had answered a question from Trish with, "I don't know where I am," and while she fumbled with her mobile device unsuccessfully, she got nervous, so I guess I made a mistake in saying that, but I can't seem to help but elevate drama when I can. On Fairmount Avenue, a road I vaguely recognized though it still didn't make me sure of our whereabouts, eventually the image of the crossing of 512 at a church came to mind. With that church and crossing shortly behind us, I said so, but my words came across anticlimactically as I feared they would, since I spoke them after the fact. She made the point that we were lost, oh, but that I "knew" that intersection was coming up.

Hardly lost. I reminded her that back in my teens, my friends and I used to smoke joints and I would drive my Ford Fairlane station wagon up into North Jersey at night completely at random, the three or four of us finding our way back to Mercer County every time. We called this repeated-but-always-unique adventure the Space Cruise.

Trish and I connected with Route 206 in Bedminster Township 19 minutes after we had turned around.

On this last stretch homeward, I turned NPR on and then off. Johnathan Swartz played "Hey Jude," and we've heard that number as many times as John Lennon tripped on LSD. Back at home, I felt very good about the morning, felt affirmation for life to come yet, felt good about moving to Manhattan in retirement--if Trish's plan comes true--and there on that peculiar island joining mostly informal organizations and making friends with writers, photographers, artists. (And if we have some money, a boat will be docked on the Hudson.) And despite my attitude towards the Beatles (and Johnathan Swartz) minutes before, after all, songs do get so jaded they no longer make sense, despite this ooze of overfamiliarity, when I booted up this computer, it occurred to me that taking a sad song and making it better is about as central a tenet as any great philosophical mind can impart.






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