flâneur

Born-Again Engineering - Comment Magazine

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The quest stood upon the edge of a fillet knife. My feet cried out concerning my madness and folly—ten miles of hiking, one wader leg filled with Cowhee Creek, used boots overly snug, blisters inevitable. I had probed and prodded every bit of frog water I could find on this beautiful Alaskan creek. No sign of silver salmon. It began in February as an idle comment over church coffee in the fellowship hall in Oregon’s Willamette Valley. “I’m turning forty this fall,” I said to my friend Chris. He wore his characteristic Sunday wool vest, his bald head gleaming in the pale fluorescent light, a passel of his plenteous offspring darting about him. “I’ll be on sabbatical too,” I said. “I’m thinking of going to Montana for a fishing trip—maybe hiring a guide. I’ve never hired a guide.” Stricken, his face took on a stunned expression. He looked back at me with deadly serious eyes. His tone left no room for debate: “Dude—we should go to Alaska. I’ll be your guide” What followed was months of te

T The quest stood upon the edge of a fillet knife. My feet cried out concerning my madness and folly—ten miles of hiking, one wader leg filled with Cowhee Creek, used boots overly snug, blisters inevitable. I had probed and prodded every bit of frog water I could find on this beautiful Alaskan creek. No sign of silver salmon. It began in February as an idle comment over church coffee in the fellowship hall in Oregon’s Willamette Valley. “I’m turning forty this fall,” I said to my friend Chris. He wore his characteristic Sunday wool vest, his bald head gleaming in the pale fluorescent…

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