Craig Wisner


High Country (Daydreams).

rain chased back by a full moon

-visions of a bear in the same silver light

weaving shadow, becoming shadow

rooting in fragrant earth

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lakes cold, mercurial

echoing owl calls

with sweet indifference


And suddenly we find ourselves out, sagebrush speeding beside the highway, disoriented as if waking from a dream.  Lights and computer screens add to the seeming implausibility of the wind still blowing cool through the pines.  At this very moment.

What else is there to say?




On Killing Trout.


I didn’t know the names of many mountains or rivers then.  The winding drive seemed impossibly long and cold in the darkness.  The heater of dad’s Datsun 210 struggling to keep up, frozen vinyl of the seats sticking to any exposed skin.  I’d stay with him on some weekends, staying up and eating Fritos and cheese dip, the occasional can of Vienna Sausages thrown in for good measure.  Dad’s culinary tastes were not very sophisticated.  We’d wake early with junk-food and video game hangovers, make lunch, and pack our gear.  Matching fishing vests (which I still own) were pulled out of the closet, accompanied by ultralight Daiwa spinning rods that broke down to only a foot long.  I remember being very proud that I carried the same rod as my dad, that I didn’t have some cheap kid’s version.

Bologna, cheese, and mustard sandwiches on white bread and cans of RC Cola tucked into our pockets, we’d come to the river in search of trout.  My father could pull fish after fish out of a hole, working the current, drifting a salmon egg and tiny split-shot exactly where he wanted it.  I don’t remember ever catching any fish myself, but he’d hand over his rod to let me land some of his.  It took many years of fishing on my own after dad died before I realized what was happening; that he simply knew how to read things and be silent whereas I was charging through the river like a drunken buffalo and casting as if my rod were a bull whip.

Dad relished fried trout, filleted and coated in flour, crisped and finished with salt and pepper.  We’d savor the day’s catch that evening before retiring to the latest chapter in our quest to beat The Legend of Zelda.

Decades later, I’m still sneaking out of the house silently at 4am, my own family asleep, making the drive up the cold mountain.  Bluegrass on the radio, heater working, I can now name all the surrounding peaks, rivers, and forks…

I moved away from spinning rods to fly fishing, self-taught on the same river I fished with my dad, standing thigh deep in a cold December pool.  His ghost stands at my side, reading the current with me, trying to drift our line just so, easing it into a dark undercut on the opposite side…


I know how to catch fish now, probably better than he did.  But in my mind, dad remains a legendary fisherman on account of the magic I watched him work as a child.

It’s probably been over twenty five years since our last fishing trip together.  I’m out in the garage today, preparing for a week in the High Sierra, piecing together an ultralight Tenkara fishing kit, selecting and putting the finishing touches on a few hand-tied flies.

The last trout I caught brought tears to my eyes, summoning back the connection to my father, our time on the river together.  There’s a part of me that would rather not kill them; images of blood in the grass surrounding colorful scales haunt my dreams.  But I push it down.

Because I know he would’ve loved this, finishing a beautiful day over the hiss of a fry pan beside a stream.  I do it as much for him.  My father was a fisherman and I’m my father’s son, roll casting to a ripple in the shade.




It’s tempting to liken distance running to asceticism, especially when temps are over 90 degrees and climbs are approaching 1000 feet per mile.  The Desert Fathers parched their tongues under a Middle Eastern sun; I’m in the San Gabriel mountains with my head low, dizzy and grinding out the grade.

Rim Trail 1

Somewhere beneath the heat and sweat a silence takes over, a purity of being.  My body doing what it was built to do; blood pumping, muscles contracting, lungs filling and expelling air.  This is right.  And it’s not always a struggle; I had miles and miles of smooth, quiet running yesterday, everything clicking, everything steady.  No turbulence, just a mirror-like mind reflecting the world around me.  Silence and solitude and breath.

Rim Trail 2

I want to see the world before I’m gone.  I want fresh trails rolling out before me, new vistas around each bend.

Mountain Fragments. (Remnants from recent overnights).

Dry leaves

dance in an eddy

as stones are worn

to dust

lost in a sheet of water

sliding down the rocks

-attention broken

by an ant exploring

my ear


my daughter asleep in the tent

lit by a crystal moon

-I’m left at the fire

with frogs

and dreams

searching, always searching

the woodpeckers mock

my zen


smiling at birds

whispering to a fox

touching peace

in the cool skin

of a salamander

-sitting in darkness

I’m filling with light


(hands cupped together)

a gesture of gratitude

beneath twilight oaks


I heard death this morning

just beyond the amber light

-soft footsteps dampened

with bracken fern

and birdsong

-it will be here soon enough

walk slowly, friends

dispel haste

and lift your heads

put on another pot of tea

—it will be here soon enough.


24 hours,

2 packages of ramen,

1 bag of instant coffee.

This shit doesn’t have to be complicated.

Untitled. (at the cemetery)

She burns frankincense

in a bowl

as a bluebird hops and flicks

among gravestones

-smoke mingling with sunlight

and the stunted dreams of the dead.

I sit under a cedar

and dream about ghosts

trapped in the shadows

of yesterday.

Glasses were raised

and the men stood to sing

about homeland and love

-the faint sounds of silverware and music

now muffled beneath roots and earth.


As if names carved in stone

and traced by the fingers

of a stranger

could ever account

for their laughter.

Thoughts on Birding.

Twilight whippoorwill

Whistle on, sweet deepener

of dark loneliness


I’ve been birding.

Many, many hours worth over the past few days.  Alone mostly, but with my mother and my wife on separate occasions.

I have been aware of birds for a long time, obviously, with fragments of names drifting in the back of my mind, scattered remnants of field biology classes in college.

But recently, there was an epiphany:

They’re perfect.

Little forest dwellers, canyon hermits, waterfall architects, purveyors of perches and lookouts and mud nests.  Colorful, raucous, solitary, bold.  Singers, squealers, scratchers, and composers, sentinels and hunters, greeters of the morning light.

I credit solo trips to my hermitage with this newfound appreciation, waking in the morning to a cacophony of sound, so much it’s almost impossible, at least for this amateur, to separate one creature from another.  Initially it was not their looks but their songs that drew me in.  I lay there in my sleeping bag, staring at the canopy of oak and bay trees in complete mystified silence at what creatures could produce such noise.

Sometimes you realize you’ve been hearing something yet have never really heard it.  In this case, it might have taken me 40 years of being outside.  With classical music, it took Philip Glass.  This is not to say I haven’t been deeply moved in the past, but sometimes things hit you in an entirely new way, seemingly out of nowhere.

I suppose that at times we have to be ready, have to have lived and felt certain things before we are capable of understanding others.

Progression and evolution.

I also credit my mother, an avid birder, Audubon Society member, and Huntington Library desert garden tour leader.  She’s taken me out birding in the past, bought me a gift membership to the Audubon Society a few years ago, as well as membership in our local chapter.  And, of course, the Sibley Field Guide to Birds of Western North America.   I haven’t gone on outings with the clubs (yet), instead just regularly digesting their magazine and newsletters.  I suppose all of this information has been slowly sinking in, helping to catalyze this recent change in interest.

I also realized this is a perfect activity to share with her.  We walked in a canyon yesterday, both of us with binoculars in hand, talking and looking and passing the morning together.  Doing something while doing nothing: the best way.  Together.  In a moment I clearly understood that I do not how much time we will have together and that birds seem like such a good thing to meet over, something that will form a solid foundation for future memories.

I could feel it.  Standing by her side, watching a pair of red tailed hawks circling the hills: I will remember this.

Today my wife and I went to one of our favorite canyons, a timeless stretch of classic California, teeming with bird life.  Cliff swallows everywhere, a kestrel perched at the tip of a dead trunk, horned larks singing from rocks in the grasslands on the approach.

wind wolves

A perfect day with my partner.  Another foundation built.

I’ve been cataloguing my sightings, listing birds and dates and locations.  Meeting new birds that were likely in front of me for years, reacquainting myself with those I already know.  The desire to understand who is who, who says what, and who lives where has me approaching the wilderness in a fresh way.

It’s seeing through a child’s eyes again, even after 40 years.  It’s an excellent practice in being mindful.


Cascading notes

of a canyon wren

blend with water song

and golden oaks


Fuck off, I’m birding.

Enough. (Joshua Tree Backcountry, 3/29/17)

I had high hopes for this trip.  I went out with the intention of hiking the Fried Liver Wash from Pleasant Valley, connecting with the Washington Wash on the Pinto Basin side of the Hexie Mountains, then looping back to my staring point.

That plan was immediately foiled when I got to Geology Tour Road and saw a giant 4WD ONLY sign at the entrance.  I’m familiar with Joshua Tree dirt roads, having driven plenty in 2WD compact cars, but I wasn’t sure if something had changed and I just wasn’t feeling up to testing it.  So I switched course, driving to Pinto Basin, intending to pick up the Fried Liver Wash on that side and reverse the loop.


I was getting a bit impatient by the time I parked.  There was traffic on the drive out, the billboards all seemed especially belligerent, soon the entire planet will be eating from the same five crap food chains, and people were driving like maniacs.  And Joshua Tree has been completely overrun.  I’ve never seen crowds like this in 25 years; I sat with the car off for 20 minutes in traffic just to get through the fee kiosk at West Entrance.  The misanthrope in me started to surface, alive and powerful, bellyaching and grimacing over what the hell a person’s got to do for some peace and quiet and solitude…


But all that settled quickly.  I love the moment when you turn off the engine, step outside, shoulder a pack, and realize it’s quiet, nothing but wind.

I also loved the quizzical, almost disbelieving looks from the other visitors parked at the backcountry board as they saw me walk off into the desert with a pack.  I had almost 10 liters of water, enough to go goof around for a couple days if I chose.  I headed cross country for the mouth of the wash.

The desert is deceiving.  What from a distance looks like easy walking can prove to be quite slow.  Broken rock everywhere, no level footing to be found for miles, not until I finally picked up the first fingers of the wash fanning out from the mountains.  It became quickly apparent that I’d be changing my mileage expectations drastically.

The wash was dead still.  Any breeze that I had before entering completely disappeared, leaving me doing a drunken shuffle through glaring sand, sweat starting to pool.  Being on the low side of the park, temperatures hovered around 90.  “Fried Liver Wash” was beginning to seem quite appropriate and it’s only spring.

A few hours in I took refuge under the shade of a smoke tree, stretching out for one of the most glorious backcountry naps I think I’ve ever taken.  Nearly a full hour of peaceful slumber, awakening occasionally only to brush buzzing things from my ears or face.  A silence surrounded me that was so dead I could hear flies and bees from scores of yards away.  This would be the highlight of the trip, staring lazily through the branches at the sun and feeling my weight against the earth.

Walking, walking, I renamed the Fried Liver Wash the Same Old-Same Old Wash.  I felt like I was walking in some strange limbo in which every bend revealed the stretch that I was just in, some sort of horror unfolding in which I’d never, ever get out.  I am a very patient person and I don’t mind my share of suffering, but something about the nature of this trip was beginning to shift.  I was losing my drive.  After another few hours, nearly at the end of the wash spilling into the Pleasant Valley side, I began to ask what proved to be a trip-ending question:  Why?

I truly enjoy long stretches of solitude, but on this occasion I genuinely found myself wondering what I was doing out here in this wash, sweating and alone.  What is it with beating myself up in the wilderness, with long hikes that end up with me limping home when I could be riding waves or sitting under shady waterfalls instead?  Motivations for sitting in silence I can understand.  But why the need for discomfort?

My imagination turns to all of the desert ascetics before me, the Desert Fathers, Paul the Hermit out baking in the sun, St. Anthony of the Desert, itching and thirsty and silent.  I wonder about the Shia whipping themselves into ecstasy with chains, the famed standing or sitting or rolling Babas of India, contorting and punishing themselves into an imagined purity.  I daydream about monks throughout the monasteries of the world, meditating until their legs are locked, staring at walls for lifetimes.  To say why I understand this nonsense is too difficult to put to words, but for better or worse, something inside me can relate.  But on this day, I was growing pretty certain that I had had enough.


I was sufficiently satisfied that the scenery was not going to change and started to consider setting camp and retreating into chores and daydreams, but there were still three hours until dark and I was a bit restless.

Enough.  “I’m going home” a voice says, “As long as I don’t get snake-bit or break an ankle, I can be back at the car by 10PM”.  But another voice was telling me that I was just giving in to the monkey-mind and being impatient, that I needed to pitch camp and finish what I started.

And then a quiet voice reminded me that life is short and there is no need to sit in the desert alone if I’m not having fun, stuck on a trip only trying to prove some sort of pseudo-spiritual point.


I think I need to listen to that last voice a little more.

I was done with Fried Liver Wash, content to turn the trip into a twenty-plus mile dayhike with way too much water on my back.  I’ll likely be back to finish this loop when the temperatures are a little cooler and the familiar ascetic voice starts to get loud again.

But today?

I’m taking a jog to my favorite shaded waterfall.