my careless contagion

It's always windy in Wyoming. It's always something but me and her, which is all I ever thought I would need. The weather is like a woman, and like a specific woman. It's never the same, but it's always there, reminding you that you live in her world; she does not live in yours. Like the wind, she tore past you, went through you, left you alone, wondering and waiting and lost. The weather changes quickly, and so did she when she went right through you. But, unlike the weather, she changed you, humbled you, and made you hers. Like the weather, she reminds you that you are almost insignificant, and she can warm you or chill you to the bone, but it isn't because she cares or does not. Like the weather, she is what she is. You prepare for her. She doesn't even notice you. The wind does not want or need or even know you are there. It does what it does. You can't even see the wind, but you know it is there. I wait for her to shine on me again, just like the sun on...

Fishing used to mean a lot to me. I haven't been fishing in years. I'm pretty sure I can no longer tie a knot or pick the right lure or even cast correctly. But I have lots of memories of fishing. My ex-father-in-law was an avid fly fisherman, primarily in the Upper Peninsula. He even wrote a book about his experiences. He tried to teach me how to cast a flyrod. It is a delicate, dancing thing for which I had no patience. I was used to a different kind of fishing, the kind where you don't really catch stuff. No, I'm kidding. I caught my fair share of fish. And, once, I got to meet a guy my brother and I nicknamed "Rock Bass."  The above picture was taken at one of the many lakes in the Black Hills. I mentioned before my first fish was taken at picturesque Sylvan Lake. I'm not sure which lake is in this picture, but you can see the coffee can where I kept my worms. And that green tackle box? I still have it. It has tools in it now, one of ...