Father Water, Mother Woods: Essays on Fishing and Hunting in the North Woodsby Gary Paulsen, Ruth Wright Paulsen
Survival in the wilderness--Gary Paulsen writes about it so powerfully in his novels Hatchet and The River because he's lived it. These essays recount his adventures alone and with friends, along the rivers and in the woods of northern Minnesota. There, fishing and hunting are serious business, requiring skill, secrets, and inspiration. Luck, too--not every big one gets away.
This book takes readers through the seasons, from the incredible taste of a spring fish fresh from the smokehouse, to the first sight of the first deer, to the peace of the winter days spent dreaming by the stove in a fishhouse on the ice. In Paulsen's north country, every expedition is a major one, and often hilarious.
Once again Gary Paulsen demonstrates why he is one of America's most beloved writers, for he shows us fishing and hunting as pleasure, as art, as companionship, and as sources of life's deepest lessons.
From the Paperback edition.
"The pieces are rooted in the details of a youth spent in search of perfection: the perfect cast, perfect catch, perfect shot...On target." School Library Joumal
"Descriptions of light and water, of fish and wildlife, kindle in the reader a measure of the author's own complex respect for nature."
Publishers Weekly, Starred Review
- Random House Children's Books
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- 12 Years
Read an Excerpt
Down by the Power Dam
Every year it is necessary for fishing to start. Even though it has gone on year-round it must have a beginning each year, and fishing always started in the spring.
In the small northern town in Minnesota where we were raised it is possible that everything started in the spring, but fishing was the most important thing, and it became vital to watch for the signs that it would begin.
There were two primary indications.
One was the car on the ice.
Pollution was not then considered nor discussed, and each year the town would put an old car on the frozen ice of the river and tie wires from the car to a clock on a tree on the bank. The idea was that when the ice started to go out the car would fall through the ice, trip the clock, and there would be an exact record of when this event occurred.
Much was made of this whole business. It was not just a way to dispose of old cars-- although over the years the bottom of the river became littered with them, and god only knows how many fishing lures were lost by people trying to fish around the cars and catching their hooks on door handles or bumpers. More importantly, the old car on the ice became a contest that occupied the whole town.
Everybody guessed at the exact moment when the ice would progress enough into the "rotten" stage (also known as "honeycomb ice," which I would come to know intimately and with horror later, running dog teams on small lakes and the Bering Sea) and allow the car to drop to the bottom.
It started that simply. At the courthouse or the library there was a large bulletin board, and for a dollar you could sign the board and write down your guess to win the car-through-the-ice raffle. Of course, you never met anyone who had won, but only those who knew somebody who had won, and therein, in the winning, the simplicity was lost.
The raffle dominated the town. Merchants competed with each other to put up prizes for the winner so that along with a sizable cash award there were dozens, hundreds of other prizes, and all of them had to do with summer and most of them had to do with fishing.
Rods, reels, life jackets, lures, anchors, boats, picnic baskets, motors--it was said that a person could win the raffle and be set for life as far as fishing or summer was concerned, and as the time approached people would find reasons to walk or drive along the river to see the old car.
"Oh, I had to run down to the elevator and check on grain prices," they would say. "The car has one wheel through but she's still hanging there."
"My aunt's been feeling poor," they would say, about an aunt they hadn't spoken to in twelve years, "and I thought I should stop by and check on her. The car has both rear wheels down now. She's just hanging there, teetering..."
"No, the car, you ninny--the car on the ice."
And as the time grew still closer there were those who would come and sit with bottles in paper sacks and fur caps and boogers hanging out their noses and drink and spit and scratch and wait and sometimes pray; just sit there and wait for the car to fall and make their fortunes.
Naturally it never happened when anybody thought it would happen, but it always signaled the end, the final end of winter.
And the beginning of spring. Also, when the ice became that rotten it began the signal to the fish that spawning was close.
The second indication was the light.
All winter the light had been low, flat, cold. In midwinter it became light in the morning at nine or so and began to get dark at three-thirty or four in the afternoon on a cloudy day, and most of the time it seemed to be dark and cold.
But as spring came and the ice became rotten on the river the light moved, was a thing alive. The sun came back north, like an old friend that seemed to have been gone forever, and it changed everything, changed the way things looked. There was still snow, still cold at light, but during the day it was brighter, clearer; everything seemed bathed in soft gold.
People changed as well. During the winter, talk--what talk there was--was always short and to the point and almost always seemed to be on weather-related problems: how difficult it was to start a car in the cold, who was sick with a cold, who was getting sick, who had been sick and was getting well only to get sick again, how it was necessary to drain the car radiators at night (this was before antifreeze) and refill them with warm water when it was time to start them the next day and how they almost never started and wasn't it a shame that the car companies, the Car Companies with all their money, couldn't design a car to start in the winter?
The light changed all that, made the winter end, though there was still more cold weather, still more mornings when nostril hairs stuck to the insides of your nose and the combed ducktails froze on the way to school, more days when it was possible to play the joke where somebody talks somebody else--and where do they keep coming from, the ones who can be talked into these things?--into pushing their tongue out on a frozen propane tank where it would stick and leave a piece of tongue-skin.
The light changed all things.
It was the same sun, and it seemed to come up at the same time, but it rose higher and made gold, new gold that altered everything. Jacobsen's Bakery, where we would get free fresh hot rolls sometimes in the morning to carry when we delivered papers--two rolls each, one in the mouth and one still hot in the pocket of the jacket for later--the bakery was transformed. It had been an old brick building with a loading ramp on the back for the truck to get the fresh bread, and now, in the new gold light it became a bright castle of fresh bread smells and beauty; rising out of the alley next to the Montgomery Ward (always, always called the Monkey Wards) store.
The trees near the library, still without leaves, still with scrabbly arms that reached into the sky, did not seem ominous now but reaching. And the library seemed to shine with warmth and beckoned in the new light, and it became impossible to believe in winter any longer, only in the newness of spring.
From the Paperback edition.
Meet the Author
Three-time Newbery-winning author Gary Paulsen, hailed as "one of the best-loved writers alive" by the New York Times, divides his time between his ranch in New Mexico, a sailboat on the Pacific Ocean, and his dog-kennel in Alaska. He's written over 200 books for young people, stories that have been embraced by readers of all ages.
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Sighs and watches
"Cats old enough to swim please gather under high rock for a clan meeting." She yowled down to her clan from the large stone. "Its moonhigh and time for me to name my detupy. One cat in this clan has soon bravey in the past and has soon respect to everyone of his clan mates. Lighteningstrike please step forward." She summond th black tom with a flick of her tail. "Lihteningstrike i woukd be horroned to have ou help me lead this clan." She meowed to the clan hopeing they would agree with the dissicon to make the om detupy.
Are you tired of exciting stories about hunting and fishing? Of course your not. Gary Paulsen is back again with another outdoor book. Except this isnt a novel; This is a collection of short stories compiled into one amazing book. This book has everything you can expect from Gary Paulsen. It recalls real life incidents and adventures in the north woods of Minnesota. This book will take you from a warm summers day by the lake , to a blizzard in the cold of winter while tracking a deer. Every adventure is full of excitement, and you just might think some of them are pretty humorous If you liked ' Hatchet' and ' The River ' you will have to read this book. I would recommend this to all ages and especially to any people that enjoy h unting and fishing.