“Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.” - T. Scott Fitzgerald
A few short weeks back, when the temperatures around noon soared to a new record high triple digit, and what the slick haired TV meteor boys refer to as, the deadly heat index we hunkered down. It scorched us and tried to kill most all Yankees in the area, and at least one-third of the obese Southerners in these parts. I decided that it was about as good time as any for a declaration of war. It was killing time, a slow death was decreed on the tallest weeds in one pasture.
This one particular pasture was given up for dead back in June after that long stretch of devastating drought. There was no hope left for this patch of grass in my heat addled mind. Written off for dead, never to return, no chance at revitalization.
But somehow, it mercifully rained in July, and not only did the drought resistant weeds recover nicely. Most of the palatable horse food recovered nicely as well. It was simply amazing. It was wrong to pronounce pasture death. Who would have guessed? The pasture was once again almost describable as lush. Lush, yet the weeds were definitely in the lead. Heat or no heat, heat index be damned, the weeds had to go.
So, I saddened up the “Lil’ Blue Hellbender”. I named the old Ford tractor the “Lil’ Blue Hellbender”. The old Ford is sometimes a killing machine. Triple digit temperatures seemed as good as any or for another worthy test of blue tractor endurance. I pulled into the survey of the field of battle as arrogant as any Custer or a Benteen on the Little Bighorn. The Hellbender chomped at the bit. It was a just cause.
The old tractor thumped along with a devious amount of monotony and the drought resistant weeds were laid to rest. There was one drought survivor standing especially tough and tall that vexed me to no end. This sturdy and wiry model has a little yellow button festooned with a series of serrated pedals growing in clusters that are beyond prolific. Not necessarily attractive looking, as flowered weeds go, but in horrendous abundance as they seem to thrive.
I guess if I wasn’t so damn lazy I’d download some sort of weed identification app and put a proper name to this little pasture eater. But, I don’t really care to know the name of an enemy that’s about to die. This is combat. I just want this weed dead. I wondered if George Armstrong Custer ever inquired as to the name of the brave Sioux warrior that aerated him full of holes? It’s not important what the weed is called, I just want to cut it off about the throat. Dignity is not all that necessary or called for when you find yourself in a battle to the death with a mean yellow flowered weed.
So, the Hellbender plows ahead and the heated monotony sets in. Maybe it’s the lush waves of new grass waving in the heated day. Maybe it’s the deadly triple digit heat index and the strong smell of diesel. After a long hour or so, I’m inexplicably reminded, no not reminded, transported is a better word, transported to visions of the wide Atlantics’ Gulf Stream.
Blue water in the northern shipping lanes of the Gulf Stream. A blue that is especially indescribable as far as I’m concerned. I wish with all my might, I had the words to describe this blue, this marvelous blue Gulf Stream, the very essence of a vibrant clear blue. But, I don’t. Sadly I just can’t put this color into words that do it some adequate amount of justice. This particular blue is indescribable. Maybe it’s the cloudless day and the relentless sun along with the total absence of any land.
We were out of Homestead, Florida, trolling for Dorado. A fish that is also rather indescribable. Maybe a golden, green and blue trophy, spotted electric and with some age and good forage, rather blunt headed. Game in every sense of the word. Every bit an Olympic champion in its’ prime.
It was hard to tell how many miles we had drifted from land. I’d lost all bearings, no land in sight. Only an occasional slow moving, northbound behemoth of a freighter headed who knows where. We were told the northbound lanes were faster and therefore were sailed upon to save fuel. Go with the flow. We were told.
Our Dorado catching mentor on this mission was named Virgil. Class of ’55 Miami High. Only Virgil pronounced his home town as ‘My-am-ah’. Virgil claimed there had never been an ‘E’ on anybody’s pronunciation of My-am-ah’ back in those days.
Virgil trolled the Atlantic into sweltering, sweat dripping, sun bleached monotony. The thump of the Mercury was reminiscent of the thump of the weed killing Lil’ Blue Hellbender as we cruised an endlessly seeming yellow weed line. This weed was a good weed. The yellow wasn’t the same color as the weeds being slaughtered in the pasture, but it was still yellow. This weed had a name. “Sargassum weed” flowed on the stream in long ragged lines. Sometimes the floating weed commingled with other submerged debris providing shade, food, cover from long winged aerial predators. Some of these weed lines stretched seemingly for miles when the long Atlantic stream was as calm as a mill pond on a overly hot day, like this cloudless July day.
Logs, lumber, junk and soggy bales of contraband, which likely cost some pilot or boat captain his life, were all targets in the monotony of this slow troll. A huge, floating pasture full of weeds, in a vast stream of relentless heat, humidity, smelling of rotting salt, on a blue river as smooth as a Tennessee pasture of yellow, drought surviving tough little nameless weeds.
The Ford thumped on, the Mercury thumped on. The Ballyhoo dredged behind bubbled, along the aft of the 19 foot boat. We wilted like drought stricken succulents in the windless expanses. The weed line erupted. A bull Dorado arced airborne in the glare of the white flecked blue wake.Three Olympic gymnastic like leaps and then down on the hook. It was similar to the likeness of some nautical acrobat on a trampoline.
After slow hours of watching foam in our wake, this leaping fish was like visualizing a monster suddenly materializing, intent on sinking your small ship. Many fishermen suddenly find themselves screaming at this point. I’ve never really understood the need for screaming at big fish. But we all screamed. Boredom Be-damned.
Killing yellow flowered weeds with a bush hog isn’t quite the same sensation. But at the time I suddenly found myself wanting to let off some gut level scream. Maybe it was what the slick haired TV boys refer to as the dreaded and deadly heat index at work.
These gorgeous fish run in flocks, schools follow the big hump headed male to the boat. He is fought with in the visible blue depths until the next hungry fish is securely impaled. And, so it goes, the boredom is relieved. You invariably, instantly, become mesmerized at the sight of the frantic feeding school under your floating platform. The cooler is filled. The battle under the boat is like some fast paced Hollywood thriller that is over too early. The fish magically disappear faster than they managed to show up scant few minutes before. You’ve definitely lost track of time as the fast traveling fish move off to look for another less dangerous patch of yellow weed.
Odd how a monotonous tractor, oppressive heat and a shin deep pasture full of yellow weed can transport you back in time and plant you in a small boat navigated by a compass. Land marks lost, adrift in a fast moving stream, guessing at just how far north you’ve drifted, in some small space of fiberglass. GPS was not affordable in that tiny craft, in that flat, still, hot brilliant blue ocean current, littered with yellow mats of weed called Sargassum.
Now we’ve seen false fall, yellowed Back Walnut leaves fluttering to the ground. More drought in August than is called for. There’s been the obligatory inventory of the ammo. Rummaging in the closet for shot, camo and the mystery of where the old dove stool is hiding. The yellow buttoned weeds have been finally, satisfactorily savaged.
It’s time for college football, and nut-eating squirrels to be chased. The goose crop needs a good deep thinning. Wood duck and a few confused teal are on the horizon.
Maybe, the overly hot and dry summer is really ebbing to another slow conclusion. Somehow I can still smell the salt in the air, the sweet smell of the trolled flying fish and the slapping of the big Dorado in the fish box.
Last week, I sat on a stool in a fresh cut field with my 10 year old Grandson and watched a hot fall fade. This young dove hunter cradled his trusty Red Rider BB gun like a pro. He blurted out how he was excited that it was time to hunt the dove. I told him I too was excited. It struck me that I was still somehow, in this close fall moment, just maybe 10 years old. Maybe the excitement of fall is somehow timeless.
-----
Send your comments to: whiteoakmtnranger@gmail.com