https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/3c2c58ac41ca116a69c1cb546d00992d.pdf c7557b58c68c2c7930d023f0148ddc77 PDF Text Text Flyway: Journal of Writing and Environment �The terms “migration route” and “flyway” have in the past been used more or less indiscriminately but ... it seems desirable to designate as migration routes the individual lanes of avian travel from breeding grounds to winter quarters, and as flyways those broader areas into which certain migration routes blend or come together.... —F.H. Kortright, The Ducks, Geese and Swans ofNorth America Flyway: Journal of Writing and Environment Vol. 14.1 �An Imaginary Fish C o V5 a nonfiction • flyway I eat breakfast in diners, lhere are a number to choose from in Casper, Wyoming, and they’re all similar. 'They’re full of vinyl chairs and old men using salt and grease to hasten their way into graveyards. Every ramshackle breakfast spot in town has at least one waitress named Shirley, and even if their names are really Megan or Janet, they could still pass for Shirleys. My favorite egg and bacon hole stands next to a truck stop on the interstate running beside the Bozeman Trail. In its prime, the Tumbleweed Cafe served steak from six to eleven, but the owners haven’t hosted a dinner in fifteen years. 'They have all they can do to lure a counter full of white males in for coffee before nine o’clock. I’m there at quarter after eight. When I moved to Wyoming, it became clear that I was going to share meals with geologists if I was going to frequent old diners. 'The regional economy has drawn earth scientists to town for a century. In the early 1900s, a handful of drillers found oil in quantities large enough to catch the eye of petroleum giants Sinclair and Conoco. People called Casper the “Oil City.” They projected it would grow to become the hub of the Rockies—bigger than Denver. It didn’t work out like that, but the fossils are still in the ground, so we’re home to a high number of geoscientists. I took geology as a freshman in college. I couldn’t resist. Earth science did not relate to my major, but I didn’t care. As a kid I spent entire afternoons walking gravel roads, searching for agates. My parents gave me a rock polishing kit in 1977. Every two months I loaded the tumbler and added a cup of mysterious powder. When the machine shut off, I opened the lid and found a container of gem stones. 'The stripes and colors convinced me that there is enchantment in the world beneath our feet. I took that sense of awe with me to my geology course, and I found a teacher whose sense of wonder actually exceeded mine. Professor Ted Abrahams talked about tectonic plates in a tone that I associate with religion. I still use the terms and concepts that I learned—especially when I’m on a road trip. 'The problem is that my wife gets nervous when I point to the difference between igneous and �64 flyway • nonfiction Hanson sedimentary rock through the window of the car at sixty miles an hour. When I began eavesdropping on the conversations of geologists over breakfast, I noticed that the tone was less than reverent. That took me by surprise. Mostly, the Earth was referred to as a “son-of-a-bitch.” In truth, any person or thing that came between these men and deposits of oil were referred to this way: layers of bedrock, bureaucrats, incompetent crews of employees. Come to think of it, most people and things were referred to as sons-of-bitches. I don’t mind that kind of talk. I use the terms myself. I use them more than I should, but I like the old guys at the diner. I’m looking forward to becoming one of them someday. I curse as a way of practicing for life as a codger with nobody to force me to behave myself. Son-of-a-bitch! Today the conversation isn’t about drilling rigs, soil composition, or the petroleum market. The subject this morning is fly fishing. Jimmy drove over from Glenrock. He dropped his wife off at the shopping mall. Fred asks him what he's been up to and he explains that he fished the Laramie River yesterday. I chime in that I’ve heard good reports from the south fork of the stream. Jimmy says, “Yeah. We did alright. My grandson caught a half a dozen brook trout. We ate them on shore. That kid is gonna be a fisherman.” I go back to reading my copy of Desert Solitaire. Fred asks Jim, “Have you fished Porter Creek?” He replies, “No. I think that’s private land. I haven’t asked permission to fish, but I heard there are bull trout over there.” Fred and Jim continue to talk about the area. I continue to pretend that I’m reading, but I can’t read because I’m busy listening to them. Jim explains that you can access the water on pubhc land if you drive south to Wheatland and then go west on a dirt road. The stream carves a canyon into the east slope of the Laramie Mountains. A rancher by the name of Hemstead owns the property along the foothills of the range, but the creek starts in the high country on land within the Medicine Bow National Forest. �Jim tells Fred about a rumor that Hemstead’s grandfather used to bring buckets of bull trout back from Montana. He says, “Ihe ospreys and pelicans ate most of them, but the wise ones hunkered down, became adults, and now they reproduce.” Fred says, “I’ve heard about bull trout. Ihey’re like brookies, but they’re big and aggressive.” Jimmy says, “Brook-trout-a-go-go.” An Imaginary Fish Two days later. I’m headed to Porter Creek. I’ve read about bull trout. They’re endangered. Their standards for clean water are high, and the number of western streams pure enough for them shrunk in the twentieth century. Today, the fish are protected. James Prosek painted a picture of a bull in his masterful book of illustrations titled. Trout. The mixture of uncommonness and beauty prompted me to drive down past Wheatland and then west to the Medicine Bow. While I’m loading my backpack in the car, my wife steps into the garage with the helmet I use for skateboarding. She says, “Take this with you.” She worries when I travel by myself, especially when I set out for a new canyon. I don’t try hard enough to ease her fears. I actually raise her level of concern with stories of rattlesnakes and brushes with death on the edges of cliffs. What can I say? It’s nice to have someone who worries about you. The stories are easy to exaggerate. Canyons can beat you up. I come home with scrapes on my elbows and knees. Once, I came home with a case of poison ivy that ran from my toes up to a spot where you would not want a skin rash. Another time, I had to climb home with a gash on my ankle so deep it revealed the bone. I’m not about to start wearing a helmet when I fish, but I promise Lynn I’ll come back safe. There is no trail to Porter Creek. Still, I find a spot where people park their cars. I am not the first one to make the descent. It looks simple enough. The gorge is four hundred feet deep, and I manage without having to climb. There is just one place where I have to hang by my hands and drop over a ledge. Once I’m on shore, I fit the pieces of my fly rod together. I slip out of my boots and into a pair of sandals. 65 �66 flyway • nonfiction Hanson I tie a Goddard’s caddis fly to the end of my line, and then take a seat on a downed tree. Beside a creek, I usually get so excited I charge into the water, flailing like an idiot. This time I take stock of what lies before me, above me, and to the sides. Fifteen minutes pass. It’s easy to spend time watching a stream: stripes on a canyon wall, the shapes of cottonwoods along the bank, pillows of water bubbling up behind boulders. In contrast, no one takes time to stare at a football field. Baseball diamonds don’t inspire, and I’ve never heard of anybody getting lost in the majesty of a hockey arena. I am reluctant to compare fishing to other sports. I don’t think of angling as a sport. I don’t really know what to call it, except “something I have to do, despite several good reasons not too.” 'This isn’t my first staring contest with a creek. I am thankful for my sunglasses. A harsh light beats on Wyoming. Low elevation states have a mile’s worth of atmosphere to take the edge off of the rays. In the West, we’re right up on the sun. 'The light can burn in ways that we don’t even understand. My wife and I met in Tucson. We rented our first apartment from an artist by the name ofJohn Botrell. The walls of his studio were lined with eight by ten foot desert scenes. At first, I assumed the pictures were photographs. While he sifted through a stack of paper, searching for the proper lease to sign, I took a close look at the images. 'They were paintings—perfect reproductions of the local scenery. When I asked about his process, he explained that he mixes a dollop of white paint into every color on his palette. In the end, the shades and tones match our squint-eyed view of the landscape. The precision of the work struck me, but I am a fan of more impressionistic art. I like it when painters take some creative license. When it comes to reahsm, I say, “Get a camera if you want to make a photograph.” On our way home, I asked Lynn, “Isn’t he just another realist, trying to recreate the desert with tiny camelhair brushes?” She replied, “No.” �Then after a moment of silence^ she said, “He is a cactus.” An imaginary Fish My line falls onto the water. Then it drifts toward me on the creek. I pick up the fly and toss it over and over. I watch the course of the fake bug on the current every time. I fish dry flies. Ihat means I fish sporadically. Mostly, I take to the water when bugs hatch off of the surface. I’ve never felt the need to keep a strict angling schedule. I have friends that take pride in fishing across the calendar, including December and January. Others spend a hundred days on the water every year. Such efforts are very American. When we enjoy something, we tend to take that thing to an extreme. For example, I have a colleague I cannot picture without a pipe full of tobacco jutting from between his teeth. Of course, there is nothing wrong with enjoying the smoke from a bowl of burning tobacco. I bring a pipe with me when I pack into the Big Horn Range. Once or twice a year, around sunset, I like to commemorate a moment spent alone at the base of a granite cirque. But a dozen times a day? Every single day that you’re alive? White people learned about tobacco from Native Americans. Ihe plant does not grow in Europe. For a thousand years, native people coaxed smoke from the leaves of the plant they called “kinnikinnick.” They used it for ceremonial purposes. Tobacco played a role in attempts at diplomacy. A chief would inhale smoke from a pipe, raise it in the direction of the four winds, and then pass it on. The ritual formed and then helped to maintain relationships. The smoldering leaves made the men’s breath and the air around them visible—it symbolized their common bond to the Earth and its atmosphere. White people turned the act into a meaningless habit. I continue to cast, and my attention shifts to the geologists at the diner. Fred and Jim spent their careers drilling, dredging, stripping, and otherwise ruining the land, but when they talked about the possibility of bull trout up on Porter Creek, their eyes shone. They liked the thought that someone gave the rare fish a new habitat. 67 �Hanson Westerners have an odd relationship with the environment. For generations, newcomers took what they wanted. At various times, waves of settlers flocked to the region to fulfill their ambitions: miners, loggers, trappers, homesteaders, buffalo hunters, and today, a combination of roughnecks and corporate executives. Museums are full of sepia-toned photos of men with waxed moustaches posed in front of sawmills, mines, drill towers, and mountains of bison skulls. We spent two hundred years acting like voracious adolescents. flyway • nonfiction Not long ago, our culture and history met up with a population of bull trout struggling to hold their place in the Jarbidge Wilderness of Nevada. Jarbidge, Nevada isn’t on the way to anything. It’s a tiny berg at the end of a gravel road. Its population is made up of ranchers, prospectors, and an assortment of people who dropped out of society. It’s a prickly bunch. They’re isolated and committed to a way of life that began four branches up their family trees. In 1998, a storm washed out a road that ran alongside the Jarbidge River. The road led to the wilderness area north of town. When the Forest Service heard about the damage, they decided to close the road as opposed to having it repaired. They based their choice on a concern for the bull trout in the river. They assumed that road building in Jarbidge Canyon would increase the amount of silt running downstream, and bull trout cannot tolerate any dirt in the water. Their gills evolved in clear creeks. Anything less than pure can snuff them out. The people ofJarbidge did not like the decision. The thought that they would have to alter their driving habits for a fish sent them into an angry funk. They protested the ruling that prevented them from using public land for their private purposes. At first, the protest took the form of letters and telephone conversations, but those efforts did not succeed. In the face of having to bend their interests to those of a threatened trout, the people ofJarbidge began to organize a full-scale public tantrum. They started laying plans for a “shovel brigade.” On July 4th, 2000, a hundred people gathered to rebuild the road that had been closed to save the bull trout in the river. The event seized the attention of the media. �Interviewees vented their frustration. They trumpeted their right to do what they pleased on the land their ancestors stole from Native Americans. Actually, they left out the part about living on stolen land and borrowed time. Nobody even mentioned trout—the sole reason the Forest Service decided not to fix the road. An imaginary Fish People like using public land as they see fit. Throughout our history we encouraged that tendency—for example, we used the Hard Rock Mining Act of 1872 to help settle the Rockies. We said, “There’s gold in them thar hills!” and we told people to go out and get some. Although, at the time, that meant gray haired old guys with teams of mules were lighting out for the territory. It was quaint and romantic. I grew up watching Grizzly Adams in prime time. I know the story. You do too. So do the people ofJarbidge, Nevada. They know the tale perhaps too well. The story says, “Big, wild men should do what they want in this big, wild world.” The story made sense in the 1800s. The problem is that it’s not the 1800s anymore. The twenty-first century world isn’t big or wild. It’s indefatigably small, and some of its pieces are shrinking and threatening to vanish forever. The America where everybody takes what they want, without a thought toward the consequence is gone. The Hard Rock Mining Act of 1872 is still the law of the land, but lately gray haired men with teams of mules are not the ones taking advantage of its provisions. Today, corporate giants based in places like England, Denmark, and Canada use the law to extract oil and minerals from the American West. The quaint, romantic story about striking out on your own and making it big as a freedom-loving individual turned into the story of how corporations use lawyers and lobbyists to take what they want from states hke Wyoming, New Mexico, and Montana. I decide to hike upstream on shore. Porter Creek’s streambed is pocked with boulders, each one a potential hiding place for trout. Twenty yards along I fling a fly onto the water upstream from a rock. The bug drifts along the near side of the stone and vanishes—gulped by a fish. The trout runs for a deep stretch and I follow him through the current. I make it to the edge of the pool, but o 5’ o' o 69 �Hanson I’m up to my waist, so I cannot wade any further. I let the bend and flex of the rod wear the fish out to the point where I can pull him toward me. It’s a brook trout—just a common fish. He is spectacular. I don’t hold him for too long. I release the hook from his jaw and then ease him back into the creek. The stream fishes well through the morning and into the afternoon. I catch seven brook trout within a mile of my vehicle. The rock cliffs on both sides of the creek close in and grow taller as I make my way upstream. When I stop, the gap between the walls creates a narrow band of sky up at the canyon’s rim. Through the slot I watch two prairie falcons soar in circles, sliding into and out of view. 70 flyway • nonfiction On the bank, beside the water, I develop a theory. Bull trout never swam the pools of Porter Creek. I’m afraid the geologists at the Tumbleweed Cafe are mildly delusional, but I forgive them. They are old. They spent forty years working to help corporations extract profits from the public land in Wyoming. When they were young, I’m sure that seemed like a sound choice. The business gave them stature, built six- and seven-bedroom homes, put Cadillacs and pickup trucks in three car garages. Even so, at some point, people grow tired of seeing their plains and forests bought up and ravaged by multinational companies. At some point you start to root for the underdog, even when the dog is an imaginary fish. � Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Print Journal Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource An Imaginary Fish Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <div class="element-text"> <div class="element-text"> <div class="element-text"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <div class="element-text"><a href="http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/">http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/</a></div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Chad Hanson Language A language of the resource ENG Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. Chad Hanson Journal Publications, CCA 04.ii.e.2025.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CCA 04.ii.e.2025.01_ChadHansonPapers_57 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Searchable PDF Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available <em>Flyway: Journal of Writing &amp; Environment&nbsp;</em>is published by Iowa State University