An ode to the angered angler

Way up in the north where the Susquehanna grows

And the pipelines follow south where it flows

And the deer herd dwindles – especially the does

Is the land of the angered angler.

Deep in the endless mountains, they say

If you look close enough, still to this day

You can still see the footprints, the forked laurel branch

Left by the angler, who could not, would not stay.

Where was the angler – where could he be?

And why was he angry? Why did he flee?

From up in the north where the Susquehanna flows?

The old fracker still lives here.

Ask him. He knows.

You won’t see the fracker.

He’s not very big.

He hides in the crown block on top of his rig.

He lurks in that crown block, as high as a crow

And warms his brown socks while dodging the snow

Using the gas that he pilfered from way down below.

Go ask him, I tell you, go ask him today.

He’ll tell you, he will, if you’re willing to pay.

Why the angler was angered and went far away.

It all started way back, such a long, long time back …

Way back in the day when the river was clean

And the bass had no lesions, their eyesight still keen

And the trees were all dense, the critters content

That’s the day he arrived and set up his tent.

In that pristine wilderness, he started to dig

Using equipment bigger than big

And plowed through the trees,

Knocked them all flat

He could have cared less for such habitat.

Suddenly, with the sound of a cast

And a zinging brown fly that flew right on past,

The angler was there with barbed hooks galore

He walked to the rig, he knocked on the door.

And he demanded the fracker drill there no more.

“I,” said the angler, “speak for the fish

Which you seem to pollute as much as you wish

The bass are all splotchy, the snakes have no home

You ran them all over with trucks caked with chrome

And the deer have less room to graze and to roam.”

“You fool,” said the fracker, “stop griping – stop grumping.”

And on he continued with digging and dumping.

The river glazed over, the creeks slowly died

The bass couldn’t breed, their organs all fried.

The squirrels and the chipmunks, the deer and the snails

The eagles, the salamanders and a few cottontails

They all fled the land, looking for food.

While the fracker drilled there, all greedy and rude.

As the angler got angry, the fracker cashed in

Until all the gas, and his wallet, got thin.

And then, only then, did he see his mistake

As he walked past a poisoned and decaying snake

And faced the angler, who was red in the face.

“Look what I’ve done to this wonderful place!

I’ve turned it into a home of great waste!”

The angler, he left — he just disappeared

Leaving the fracker alone, stroking his beard

When he realized something both ironic and weird:

Everyone, he thought, loved the fracked gas

They used it for heating, for cooking their bass

They shelled out their money, they made him mad rich

And he drilled them more gas, all without hitch

And they all were blind to the one glaring glitch.

Everyone, that is, but that guy with the hooks

The one who gave him such not-so-nice looks

The angler was the one who tried taking a stand

Who stood for the fish, who stood for the land.

If only there were more who together would band …

The sportsmen, the anglers, the hunters, the trappers

the campers, the farmers, the trail-bound horsebackers

All of them united, all with one voice

Do you, faithful reader, plan to make the right choice?

Then join in the cause, save the Valley’s outdoors

Before our natural treasures are heard from no more!