Five days, mostly in the woods. No TV, no phone - actually had a phone but didn't use it. Does that count? Cut and split some firewood. A flock of geese flew in to bother the swans on Deadman. A raccoon rustled through one of the woodpiles to bother Lois. But mostly it was the quiet and the changing of the leaves that added a little more depth to our lives.
By the time we left this morning the trees were glowing. Maples, birches, basswood, oak and aspen. A few of our spreading grove of maples finally showed their true colors by breaking out in scarlets and oranges. No doubt anymore that they're reds.
Finally finished clearing the paths. Not a forever thing and will be done again next year. It's now possible to fully tramp all four corners and end up where you started. We're not fancy or mechanized. Hand cutters, ax and rake. The hardwood forests of northern Minnesota are mostly hazel brush if the truth be known. Relatively speaking the trees are few. So path clearing is mostly brush cutting. And if the buggers aren't cut off at the root a walk quickly turns into a trip.
A thought struck me as to the similar size of the jackpines on our land. Nearly all are about as mature as they get, around eighteen inches in diameter. Jackpines can't propagate unless their cones are open and the seeds released. That requires a temperature approaching 200 degrees fahrenheit. Under normal circumstances we're talkin' forest fire.
Also here and there are a dozen or more jackpine stumps. We've been on the property since 1980 and the stumps don't look like they've changed a bit. Eroded, jagged and black but give one a kick and you'll be sorry. I removed one in the yard a couple of days ago using shovel, ax, maul and chain saw. It was a small one to be sure. Nowhere near the size of the others. Took an hour and dulled the saw. Like cuttin' stone. Thick with crystalized pitch.
Long story short, I suspect the stumps are a year or two older than the standing pines. The same fire that fried the old ones also spawned the eighty foot babies dancing in Monday's breezes.
I guess that means life's a hand off. All living things no more than cells that come and go while the organism spreads as far as it can. 'Til it goes phtt also. Not like that's a new idea. And not all that depressing, just the way it is. No myth of Sisyphus anywhere except between the ears. Pushin' that rock up the hill can be a good time so long as you get out of the way when it comes rumblin' back down.
Crap like that flowed through my head as I cut, cleared and did my best to not bleed any more than necessary. And crap it is. About as useful in the long run as clearin' those paths. And just as fun. Passes the time. Keeps the heart pumping and the brain smoldering along. If something worthwhile pops up I'll let you know. Or, more likely, forget it by the time I sit down to the keyboard.
I have no real idea of how to blog. Don't do pictures. Spend way too much time on each entry. Don't write every day.
Oh yeah, I forgot, we saw a salamander. Not that big a deal but we don't see a lot of them. Looked to be black but a closer look would probably say otherwise. Seems like nothing in nature is really the color it appears to be. Closeups reveal a lot of individual things goin' on to make up a completely different looking whole.
In the summer we get gray, mottled tree type frogs in the pitcher pump. I pump for all my little old arms will pump but the frogs, or frog, just crawls back inside never to be seen again. Or at least until the next time up north and I pull the bucket off the pump. I know some toads are poisonous, some hallucinogenic. Gets me to wondering if the frogs in the well have any effect on the water. And if they do, is it any worse than the city water back in Minneapolis? Maybe they're the reason behind my continual inability to hit the shift key when I want to capitalize. Life is an experiment and a continual risk.
God bless the internet. Looked up gray, mottled tree frogs in Minnesota. Guess what? They're actually called gray tree frogs. Ain't that clever?
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Even a Blind Pig
Wednesday was the result of satellite photos and sketchy research. I'd scanned the state forest several times hoping to find another lake worth fishing. Not an easy thing to do when all there is to go by is acreage and most of the lakes within the forest boundaries lack that in spades. What I hoped for didn't seem to exist. If it had there no doubt would have been a paved road and signs. And that would have killed it for me.
Over the last decade I'd floated and fished four of the lakes with mixed results. Fish in each but not many and mostly on the small side. However, there never was another soul on any of them. Probably 'cause the fishing sucked, eh? I didn't actually buy that but wrote the slowness off to bad timing.
But up there near the north end sat this odd little chain of lakes. Chain might be a stretch. About the only information I could get on them was their acreage. Total of about fifty-five. That's for three lakes. But they were connected and would function as one. They were also listed on a Minnesota fishing report website. Seemed no one had fished them or, if someone did, they'd never heard of the website. More likely, if any fish swam those waters they were caught by savvy old coots who'd been fishing them since they were kids back in the thirties and didn't surf the web. And wouldn't snitch on their honey hole even if they were electronically hip.
Getting to the chain was another question. The photo told me it would be simple as pie. But like I've said way too many times in the past, those photos don't show the hills and erosion. Plus, the chain sat on a side road off a side road. Been on roads like them in the past and have the scratches down the sides of several vehicles to prove it. Also, no indication of a boat launch, a good thing and no indication a person could actually get on the water. Maybe a brush drag though a thicket of poison ivy, though I doubted that.
In short, I was pumped. And a little nervous.
The plan was to hit the road mid-morning and be back by supper time. Figured forty minutes there, the same back and five hours on the water. Good plan. And like most good plans, it flew out the window on the first wrong turn, disappeared over the horizon on the second and was never to be seen again on the third. And that didn't get me any further than the first side road.
At this point I began a short drive to the far end of the forest. Lucky for me it wasn't but ten miles and forty minutes away. You see, my problem is I have this total faith in a sense of place and direction that doesn't exist beyond my ears. I mean, how is it possible to miss a turn that comes immediately after the third small lake on the left and before the sharp right hand turn?
All went well for maybe the first quarter mile when I passed a small dried up pot hole that might or might not have been one of the lakes. Sharp right hand turns? 'Bout as many as the sharp lefts. And there was a shit load of them. All this on a road so narrow it's all a city boy like me can do to not come upside a red pine. She was a slow-go over the rocks and mini-gullies. Yeah, I passed at least what might have been three small lakes and probably missed a few more just keepin' it on the road. That's when I decided to take the full tour and get the lay of the land. My hope was I'd be able to figure out where I was on the way back.
Passed a young guy in an old mini-pickup truck on the way. And a middle aged couple on ATVs. We all smiled and waved. Passed them again on the way back. Same smile and wave except I was a little embarrassed about not knowing where I was the first time. By now the road was making sense. Each time I passed a landmark I'd stop, look at the map and zero in on where I was. Also I'd check the odometer and was able to ball park about when I'd hit my turn. Could've used a GPS but where's the fun in that?
The turn was right where it was supposed to be. Guess you could say that about most everything in the universe. A simple, slow drive in led me to the lake. And a driveway down to the water. Where sat the last Okie campsite in the U. S. of A. I sure didn't expect that. In fact, the Spanish Inquisition was higher on my list.
To the right on the lower ground sat an ancient twelve-foot travel trailer. You know, the kind Mickey Mouse would've towed with the pissed off duck riding shotgun. Hitched to it was an early '70s pickup truck with a fair number of rust holes in the lower half. Actually an advantage when it came time to inspect the frame. Over the trailer entrance was a relatively new, by that I mean 21st century, blue tarp as an awning. To the side rose one seriously heavy duty steel tripod from which hung a full sized witches cauldron. A face cord of split wood and a couple of lawn chairs completed the scene.
Up the hill to the left, a late '80s white Ford Taurus. I considered yelling out a hello but recalled my windshield note of the spring and thought a quiet smile was the way to go. Seemed the occupants were out. Or shy. Or dead. Not a one of which was my concern as I was there to fish. So I went about my business quietly and efficiently. Took no more than five minutes. Then moved my truck uphill and out of the camp. Crossed my fingers it'd still be there when I returned and hit the water.
The plan was to paddle my ass across the lake and away from the camp as fast as I could. Also to keep my ears tuned to the sound of car jacks and engine hoists. Lucky for me there was a lily pad bed in the bay where I was headed. So I figured, "What the hell, might as well fish seein' as how I've got four rods strung and ready." Yeah, I'm a regular wizard when it comes to seizing the moment.
And fishing. The idea from the get-go was to go at it like I knew what I was doing, even a master of the trade. Short fly rod in hand working out the line. It was breezy but not too breezy. Enough to give a drift and an occasional, uncontrolled swirl. If I left the canoe alone it would eventually have drifted into firing range of the squatters, that kind of breezy.
Wind and fly line. That's the problem with the way I'd like to fish. That and sitting down with a short rod in hand trying to keep the line off the water as I false cast. When a zephyr comes huffing in, line on the water has to be dealt with or it can end up as a snarl. So it's reel up time. On a calm day it's no problem. Gusty day, it's cast it out, crank it in. Again and again. That usually lasts about as long as it takes me to pick up the spinning rig.
That's kind of the situation I found myself in about a half dozen casts into the day. Fly out and a loop around the reel compounded by a high speed drift. So the popper sat out there unattended for maybe five seconds. 'Bout the time I got the canoe under control and the loop out, the fly was gone. I mentally ran through all the ways it could have disappeared till I reached: 7) Fish on the Line. Figuring that was as good a solution as any I set the hook. Turned out to be a bass. A small one but a bass nonetheless. Then I actually said this out loud, "Could be bass in here." My perception knows no bounds.
Can't say catching that bass with a fly rod made me feel much like a savvy fisherman. But it did give me a laugh. Like the title, even a blind pig finds a truffle now and then.
A dozen fruitless casts later reason snapped up its ugly head. So I went sightseeing to the far end of the chain with the idea of fishing my way back. Those three little lakes proved to be a series of lily padded bays connected by two narrow channels. Got me to thinking of global warming and extended drought. An eighteen inch drop in lake level would be devastating. The chain would be cut. One would become three. Not mindless daydreaming either. It's gonna happen. Doubt I'll see it. Mainly 'cause I don't see myself dragging a canoe in here when I'm eighty years old. But for sure my son Allan and grandsons Jakob, Matthew and Luke might. Maybe it'll mean something to them, maybe not.
The far lake was no more than a dozen acres. But did hold bass and bluegills. The first bass was a fat three pounder that stripped line and got me to say, "Mmm. This baby's got shoulders." Good thing nobody was around to hear drivel like that. Next thing you know I'll be kissin' 'em like Jimmie Houston. Then it'll be time to give up the ghost.
Caught a couple of smaller ones. Enough to convince myself these lakes would require a return trip or two. Good water indeed. The kind a person would rarely have to share. The tourists would stick to the big waters. The locals with a good sized boat wouldn't come here. Canoe and jon boat country. Closest building was six miles away. Not quite like northwest Manitoba but a lot shorter drive. And my fertile mind could easily imagine this as wilderness.
At that point I switched rods to the ultralight and slip bobber combo. It would have been more fun with the fly rod but I was looking to catch a couple of dozen bluegills or crappies. Get the lay of the water as to numbers and size. And it didn't take more than fifteen minutes to find out this was seriously hot bluegill water. Pockets of five to six-inchers here, eight and bigger there. Vibrant color and clouds of them. What more could an avid panfish hunter want?
Over the last decade I'd floated and fished four of the lakes with mixed results. Fish in each but not many and mostly on the small side. However, there never was another soul on any of them. Probably 'cause the fishing sucked, eh? I didn't actually buy that but wrote the slowness off to bad timing.
But up there near the north end sat this odd little chain of lakes. Chain might be a stretch. About the only information I could get on them was their acreage. Total of about fifty-five. That's for three lakes. But they were connected and would function as one. They were also listed on a Minnesota fishing report website. Seemed no one had fished them or, if someone did, they'd never heard of the website. More likely, if any fish swam those waters they were caught by savvy old coots who'd been fishing them since they were kids back in the thirties and didn't surf the web. And wouldn't snitch on their honey hole even if they were electronically hip.
Getting to the chain was another question. The photo told me it would be simple as pie. But like I've said way too many times in the past, those photos don't show the hills and erosion. Plus, the chain sat on a side road off a side road. Been on roads like them in the past and have the scratches down the sides of several vehicles to prove it. Also, no indication of a boat launch, a good thing and no indication a person could actually get on the water. Maybe a brush drag though a thicket of poison ivy, though I doubted that.
In short, I was pumped. And a little nervous.
The plan was to hit the road mid-morning and be back by supper time. Figured forty minutes there, the same back and five hours on the water. Good plan. And like most good plans, it flew out the window on the first wrong turn, disappeared over the horizon on the second and was never to be seen again on the third. And that didn't get me any further than the first side road.
At this point I began a short drive to the far end of the forest. Lucky for me it wasn't but ten miles and forty minutes away. You see, my problem is I have this total faith in a sense of place and direction that doesn't exist beyond my ears. I mean, how is it possible to miss a turn that comes immediately after the third small lake on the left and before the sharp right hand turn?
All went well for maybe the first quarter mile when I passed a small dried up pot hole that might or might not have been one of the lakes. Sharp right hand turns? 'Bout as many as the sharp lefts. And there was a shit load of them. All this on a road so narrow it's all a city boy like me can do to not come upside a red pine. She was a slow-go over the rocks and mini-gullies. Yeah, I passed at least what might have been three small lakes and probably missed a few more just keepin' it on the road. That's when I decided to take the full tour and get the lay of the land. My hope was I'd be able to figure out where I was on the way back.
Passed a young guy in an old mini-pickup truck on the way. And a middle aged couple on ATVs. We all smiled and waved. Passed them again on the way back. Same smile and wave except I was a little embarrassed about not knowing where I was the first time. By now the road was making sense. Each time I passed a landmark I'd stop, look at the map and zero in on where I was. Also I'd check the odometer and was able to ball park about when I'd hit my turn. Could've used a GPS but where's the fun in that?
The turn was right where it was supposed to be. Guess you could say that about most everything in the universe. A simple, slow drive in led me to the lake. And a driveway down to the water. Where sat the last Okie campsite in the U. S. of A. I sure didn't expect that. In fact, the Spanish Inquisition was higher on my list.
To the right on the lower ground sat an ancient twelve-foot travel trailer. You know, the kind Mickey Mouse would've towed with the pissed off duck riding shotgun. Hitched to it was an early '70s pickup truck with a fair number of rust holes in the lower half. Actually an advantage when it came time to inspect the frame. Over the trailer entrance was a relatively new, by that I mean 21st century, blue tarp as an awning. To the side rose one seriously heavy duty steel tripod from which hung a full sized witches cauldron. A face cord of split wood and a couple of lawn chairs completed the scene.
Up the hill to the left, a late '80s white Ford Taurus. I considered yelling out a hello but recalled my windshield note of the spring and thought a quiet smile was the way to go. Seemed the occupants were out. Or shy. Or dead. Not a one of which was my concern as I was there to fish. So I went about my business quietly and efficiently. Took no more than five minutes. Then moved my truck uphill and out of the camp. Crossed my fingers it'd still be there when I returned and hit the water.
The plan was to paddle my ass across the lake and away from the camp as fast as I could. Also to keep my ears tuned to the sound of car jacks and engine hoists. Lucky for me there was a lily pad bed in the bay where I was headed. So I figured, "What the hell, might as well fish seein' as how I've got four rods strung and ready." Yeah, I'm a regular wizard when it comes to seizing the moment.
And fishing. The idea from the get-go was to go at it like I knew what I was doing, even a master of the trade. Short fly rod in hand working out the line. It was breezy but not too breezy. Enough to give a drift and an occasional, uncontrolled swirl. If I left the canoe alone it would eventually have drifted into firing range of the squatters, that kind of breezy.
Wind and fly line. That's the problem with the way I'd like to fish. That and sitting down with a short rod in hand trying to keep the line off the water as I false cast. When a zephyr comes huffing in, line on the water has to be dealt with or it can end up as a snarl. So it's reel up time. On a calm day it's no problem. Gusty day, it's cast it out, crank it in. Again and again. That usually lasts about as long as it takes me to pick up the spinning rig.
That's kind of the situation I found myself in about a half dozen casts into the day. Fly out and a loop around the reel compounded by a high speed drift. So the popper sat out there unattended for maybe five seconds. 'Bout the time I got the canoe under control and the loop out, the fly was gone. I mentally ran through all the ways it could have disappeared till I reached: 7) Fish on the Line. Figuring that was as good a solution as any I set the hook. Turned out to be a bass. A small one but a bass nonetheless. Then I actually said this out loud, "Could be bass in here." My perception knows no bounds.
Can't say catching that bass with a fly rod made me feel much like a savvy fisherman. But it did give me a laugh. Like the title, even a blind pig finds a truffle now and then.
A dozen fruitless casts later reason snapped up its ugly head. So I went sightseeing to the far end of the chain with the idea of fishing my way back. Those three little lakes proved to be a series of lily padded bays connected by two narrow channels. Got me to thinking of global warming and extended drought. An eighteen inch drop in lake level would be devastating. The chain would be cut. One would become three. Not mindless daydreaming either. It's gonna happen. Doubt I'll see it. Mainly 'cause I don't see myself dragging a canoe in here when I'm eighty years old. But for sure my son Allan and grandsons Jakob, Matthew and Luke might. Maybe it'll mean something to them, maybe not.
The far lake was no more than a dozen acres. But did hold bass and bluegills. The first bass was a fat three pounder that stripped line and got me to say, "Mmm. This baby's got shoulders." Good thing nobody was around to hear drivel like that. Next thing you know I'll be kissin' 'em like Jimmie Houston. Then it'll be time to give up the ghost.
Caught a couple of smaller ones. Enough to convince myself these lakes would require a return trip or two. Good water indeed. The kind a person would rarely have to share. The tourists would stick to the big waters. The locals with a good sized boat wouldn't come here. Canoe and jon boat country. Closest building was six miles away. Not quite like northwest Manitoba but a lot shorter drive. And my fertile mind could easily imagine this as wilderness.
At that point I switched rods to the ultralight and slip bobber combo. It would have been more fun with the fly rod but I was looking to catch a couple of dozen bluegills or crappies. Get the lay of the water as to numbers and size. And it didn't take more than fifteen minutes to find out this was seriously hot bluegill water. Pockets of five to six-inchers here, eight and bigger there. Vibrant color and clouds of them. What more could an avid panfish hunter want?
Friday, September 7, 2012
Been on the Water
Whether I like it or not, sometimes it makes sense to stick to the plan. Three days up north taught me a little and in one aspect left me wondering. I'll start with the wondering part first.
I'm a day dreamer. Always have been, always will be. And I do it well. For sure reverie has its drawbacks. Though what I go through these days ain't nothin' nothing like being lost in the ozone of the 1960s and '70s. Those had long term effects, or so I've been told. What I'm saying is that the best mental pictures don't necessarily include all the pitfalls. Or any of them for that matter. That's a good thing. You see too many tiger pits in your path and you'll probably head another direction.
But they also get a person to miss out on a bucket of the joys. It's the unexpected joys that make the stumbling blocks along the way mostly worthwhile. Had I known I was gonna break some ribs back in 2000, me and Al might have changed our plans and missed out on a great trip. Hell, that's really not true at all. We'd have gone regardless. Being an idiot is a joy in itself.
Sometime ago I'd mentioned that satellite photos aren't perfect. They're really exact maps but aren't three dimensional. And don't show exactly how eroded the two tracks are. That's more or less how day dreams are. It's gonna be this way and it more or less is. But something might be missed along the way.
So the plan on the third day was to revisit the lake that'd provided the big pike last Spring. The idea being that the pike we'd caught had to eat something. Perch, sunnies or crappies. To find out I only loaded panfish gear, slip bobber rig and a panfish sized fly rod. Had I brought a pike or bass rod the temptation would have been too great. The idea of catching big fish is a powerful temptation. And I am weak.
Waking up on Thursday morning I wasn't sure which way the day would take me. For sure fishing was on the agenda. But exactly where hadn't been filled in as yet. After breakfast I did the usual, which means at least an hour's worth of aerobic exercise. The gravel roads were dry so the bike came out, chain lubed and tire pressure brought up. Ten miles of rolling hills took me by six small lakes. It's a fine ride. Scenic and strenuous enough for a sixty-five year old like me. Not a puff of wind on the water. Just like the photos on the calendars. Yard wide white pines are shoulder side my route in a half dozen places. They never tire. And drag me along from site to site.
Back at the cabin, over coffee and oatmeal-raisin cookies, I debated smallmouth bass and panfish. Guilt and the plan won out and that's how I found myself back in the state forest puttering along over sand and rock. The rock, she's gettin' serious on the two tracks. Walking pace on all the hills. Nary a sidelong glance is allowed. Found myself alone at the end of the drive and beginning of the portage.
That's where it dawned on me my reverie had missed a point. The last time on the hike into the lake there were four of us. Two to each canoe and the carry could be done on one trip over. Not so this time. Oops. One trip over with the gear. One trip back. And one over with the canoe. Mile and a half. Each way. No big deal I guess but my spring chicken days have turned into late fall stumble alongs. Yeah, she went smoothly enough but I knew the piper would come in the morning to collect his dues.
Then there was the beyond the civilized web factor. I didn't have a cell phone with me. Mea culpa. Wouldn't have mattered a lot anyway as I was too far from any relay towers to order a pizza should the mood strike me. Up 'til a couple of months ago I didn't one of those intrusive buggers. Didn't want one. But it's been decided by the powers that be that I've reached the point where a cell phone would help the authorities find my cold, dead body. Or at least the parts of it not yet eaten by the coyotes and crows.
Got to admit that not having it with me made me feel more alone. And not in the good way it usually does. But there was water up ahead and the feeling was forgotten in less than ten paces.
This is ATV country. The thought struck me both times I'd been here that it would be possible to tow a small boat in behind one of the little four wheelers. From what I've seen that idea hasn't struck anyone else.
The grass track leaving the trail showed I wasn't the only one up the trail since last June. That was fine with me. Not having to wade through waist deep grass is on my list of happy things. Even though tick season is mostly over, deer tick season doesn't end 'till snow covers the ground. Heavy grass provides cover for them. A toppled big tooth aspen blocked the path mid-way. Bye-bye ATVs.
So, did I find any panfish? Obviously the answer should have been yes. But it wasn't. I threw poppers and dry flies. Jig and bobber with power tubes and tiny plastic, yummy, number one, lucky maggots. How could they resist? Well, they could if they weren't there. Nearly two hours on the water with not a bite or nibble. Constantly scanning the calm surface for any sign of feeding. All I saw was an army of water bugs. They were everywhere as I paddled the entire shoreline, working it shallow and deep.
Was I disappointed? No. Didn't even consider myself as having been skunked. If they're there and you don't catch 'em, then your skunked. If they ain't there, well, guess you can say you were merely fact gathering. Which I was. And I had a good time, a really good time. And a stiff neck and sore shoulder from the portage yoke. Homemade of course and stiff as a board. That's both a joke and the truth.
I'm a day dreamer. Always have been, always will be. And I do it well. For sure reverie has its drawbacks. Though what I go through these days ain't nothin' nothing like being lost in the ozone of the 1960s and '70s. Those had long term effects, or so I've been told. What I'm saying is that the best mental pictures don't necessarily include all the pitfalls. Or any of them for that matter. That's a good thing. You see too many tiger pits in your path and you'll probably head another direction.
But they also get a person to miss out on a bucket of the joys. It's the unexpected joys that make the stumbling blocks along the way mostly worthwhile. Had I known I was gonna break some ribs back in 2000, me and Al might have changed our plans and missed out on a great trip. Hell, that's really not true at all. We'd have gone regardless. Being an idiot is a joy in itself.
Sometime ago I'd mentioned that satellite photos aren't perfect. They're really exact maps but aren't three dimensional. And don't show exactly how eroded the two tracks are. That's more or less how day dreams are. It's gonna be this way and it more or less is. But something might be missed along the way.
So the plan on the third day was to revisit the lake that'd provided the big pike last Spring. The idea being that the pike we'd caught had to eat something. Perch, sunnies or crappies. To find out I only loaded panfish gear, slip bobber rig and a panfish sized fly rod. Had I brought a pike or bass rod the temptation would have been too great. The idea of catching big fish is a powerful temptation. And I am weak.
Waking up on Thursday morning I wasn't sure which way the day would take me. For sure fishing was on the agenda. But exactly where hadn't been filled in as yet. After breakfast I did the usual, which means at least an hour's worth of aerobic exercise. The gravel roads were dry so the bike came out, chain lubed and tire pressure brought up. Ten miles of rolling hills took me by six small lakes. It's a fine ride. Scenic and strenuous enough for a sixty-five year old like me. Not a puff of wind on the water. Just like the photos on the calendars. Yard wide white pines are shoulder side my route in a half dozen places. They never tire. And drag me along from site to site.
Back at the cabin, over coffee and oatmeal-raisin cookies, I debated smallmouth bass and panfish. Guilt and the plan won out and that's how I found myself back in the state forest puttering along over sand and rock. The rock, she's gettin' serious on the two tracks. Walking pace on all the hills. Nary a sidelong glance is allowed. Found myself alone at the end of the drive and beginning of the portage.
That's where it dawned on me my reverie had missed a point. The last time on the hike into the lake there were four of us. Two to each canoe and the carry could be done on one trip over. Not so this time. Oops. One trip over with the gear. One trip back. And one over with the canoe. Mile and a half. Each way. No big deal I guess but my spring chicken days have turned into late fall stumble alongs. Yeah, she went smoothly enough but I knew the piper would come in the morning to collect his dues.
Then there was the beyond the civilized web factor. I didn't have a cell phone with me. Mea culpa. Wouldn't have mattered a lot anyway as I was too far from any relay towers to order a pizza should the mood strike me. Up 'til a couple of months ago I didn't one of those intrusive buggers. Didn't want one. But it's been decided by the powers that be that I've reached the point where a cell phone would help the authorities find my cold, dead body. Or at least the parts of it not yet eaten by the coyotes and crows.
Got to admit that not having it with me made me feel more alone. And not in the good way it usually does. But there was water up ahead and the feeling was forgotten in less than ten paces.
This is ATV country. The thought struck me both times I'd been here that it would be possible to tow a small boat in behind one of the little four wheelers. From what I've seen that idea hasn't struck anyone else.
The grass track leaving the trail showed I wasn't the only one up the trail since last June. That was fine with me. Not having to wade through waist deep grass is on my list of happy things. Even though tick season is mostly over, deer tick season doesn't end 'till snow covers the ground. Heavy grass provides cover for them. A toppled big tooth aspen blocked the path mid-way. Bye-bye ATVs.
So, did I find any panfish? Obviously the answer should have been yes. But it wasn't. I threw poppers and dry flies. Jig and bobber with power tubes and tiny plastic, yummy, number one, lucky maggots. How could they resist? Well, they could if they weren't there. Nearly two hours on the water with not a bite or nibble. Constantly scanning the calm surface for any sign of feeding. All I saw was an army of water bugs. They were everywhere as I paddled the entire shoreline, working it shallow and deep.
Was I disappointed? No. Didn't even consider myself as having been skunked. If they're there and you don't catch 'em, then your skunked. If they ain't there, well, guess you can say you were merely fact gathering. Which I was. And I had a good time, a really good time. And a stiff neck and sore shoulder from the portage yoke. Homemade of course and stiff as a board. That's both a joke and the truth.
Monday, August 27, 2012
Waitin' on It
Got a new lake to fish. On a two track off bad forestry gravel. Never been there but sure will next week. Woulda gone tomorrow but there's family considerations. No doubt I'm wrong but most died in the wool fishing writers are either married to anglers or ain't married at all. Might have been married at one time but like all long time fly rodders, evolved into catch and release. In my case it's three generations of family - and the Minnesota State Fair to boot - and family trumps solo canoe trips on small water.
Long story short, it's a case of children. My daughter and son-in-law in the process of moving. Yeah, I could blow that off but Ryan's one of my fishin' buddies and you don't turn your back on someone who could roll your ass in a canoe. Besides, Jake will be there and so will Larry. And three out of four Deans trumps everything.
On the flip side, my all time fishin' buddy and son Allan is on the edge of becoming a father once again. That gives me the willies about next week. D-day could be then. It's been five weeks since I've been up north and it's starting to look like a long ways away.
No matter what, it will be what it will be. For now I'm still thinkin' new water.
Long story short, it's a case of children. My daughter and son-in-law in the process of moving. Yeah, I could blow that off but Ryan's one of my fishin' buddies and you don't turn your back on someone who could roll your ass in a canoe. Besides, Jake will be there and so will Larry. And three out of four Deans trumps everything.
On the flip side, my all time fishin' buddy and son Allan is on the edge of becoming a father once again. That gives me the willies about next week. D-day could be then. It's been five weeks since I've been up north and it's starting to look like a long ways away.
No matter what, it will be what it will be. For now I'm still thinkin' new water.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Jake Gets His Fill - Not Really
Even though most of the United States is in drought northern Minnesota is doing fine. Enough rain so that the forestry roads can be hit or miss. Where we were going today was at the bottom of the pecking order as far as Minimum Maintenance - Travel at Your Own Risk, roads go. Back when I was driving a Jeep, road conditions were no concern. But now, with front wheel drive, I give it some serious thought. Mostly the concern is ground clearance and tires. The rocks left by glaciers weren't dropped with much consideration for the hundred dollar tires that were coming. Or unprotected oil pans for that matter. Mother nature could have dropped them smooth side down But no, razors to the sky. Those things weigh heavy on my mind when two track sand turns into eroded glacial till. Not so much that I'm cheap, which I am, but more that being stranded in an inconvenient location is a pain in the ass.
So those were the thoughts running through my head when we passed the landfill on the way in and were approaching the always angry hound running down the two track driveway. Slow and easy. Say it again and again. Slow and easy. But don't just say it, do it. And see all the rocks. Keep to the high ground. No matter how slow, it's much faster than doin' a four mile portage.
Again it was suntan weather. Mid-day. Only Englishmen fish under those conditions. In tweeds to salmon that have no interest in eating. But we knew where the bass and sunnies could still be caught and that's where we were heading. The idea being Jake at one end of the line, fish at the other.
Two things: the trail to the lake is poison ivy lined. Jake likes to run around and explore. Not a good combination. I've never reacted to poison ivy. Been through it many a time and never had a problem.That isn't so for everybody. Jake carries a little bit of my blood but that doesn't mean he wouldn't swell up like a balloon and fester eternally. So he was warned. Loudly and often, like we really meant it.
Again, Ryan made Jakob carry a load. Not a big one unless you factor in relativity. Jake, for his part, didn't squawk. He did grunt a bit however. To me, that was a good sign. The grunts carry the world. Hopefully Jakob will always carry his share in a somewhat useful direction.
The jon boat was another story. Even though part of its intention was to be dragged it into small, remote lakes, I doubt the instructions said anything about the effort involved. She don't carry like a canoe laddie. We had a choice, one at each end or drag the bugger. Tried both. Carrying turned out to be a drag. Dragging wasn't much better. One of these days someone will have to invent the wheel. Even if they never do, me and Ryan won't complain a bit. Not manly don't ya know.
We worked the shallows. Not a problem for this lake has a lot of shallows. So much so, a first look will have you wondering how it could hold any fish at all. But it surely does. And high numbers in crystal clear, foot deep water where the fish can see you for fifty yards. Gotta be quiet and move only when necessary.
There were a few bass to be found but it was mostly sunnies. Jake found the bluegills to his liking until he realized they weren't as big as the bass. Guess even when you're six years old size matters.
What I learned was that a dark green metal boat with dark green metal seats can sear a butt. Standing up was a short relief from the frying pan but also an opportunity for the sun to to relight the burner. Jake solved the matter by standing up most of the time. Sure couldn't blame him for that. Seein' as how he's a slim kid he could move around all he wanted and not rock the boat.
Outside of the panfish it was a slow late morning and early afternoon. We worked half the lake's shoreline and made a few passes over the middle where the drop off holds thickets of cabbage. Yeah, the kid brought a few bass to the boat. And a whole lot of sunnies. But he was spoiled to the charms of bobber watching. At least as far as the nibblers went. He was lookin' for slam, bang, run with the thing.
And demanding. Like it was my fault we weren't catching any four pounders. Not like he was saying it exactly. But his continual mantra of "I wanna catch bass. I wanna catch bass," had me thinking it was my fault. Like I could do something about it. Give me a break kid. Next time we'll try it in June, after supper and you better be ready to hold onto your rod 'cause they're bigger than you realize. Lots bigger.
Truly, the only thing we did wrong was stay on the water too long. We had snacks, and they melted. We had water, and it was body temperature. Even though we used ample sun screen, we left the water glowing. Like janitors at a nuclear melt down. But it was a hoot. Jake got a taste for what fishing can be. And an assurance that it can be better. Stuff to dream about over the winter. Don't know if he will. But I will. Always have.
Dinner was at the best down south barbecue in the northwoods which just happens to be in Pine River. Name of No. 19. The pulled pork sandwich is worth its weight in lead free jigs. Seriously unhealthy, good eatin'. Jakob wasn't too happy with the place 'cause he had his teeth set on a chocolate ice cream cone at Dairy Queen. Both Ryan and I kept telling him it was on the list of things to do but he was of little faith. Yeah, he got his cone. And moaned his way through it. Not bad for a kid who likes his hamburgers plain. Meat and bun. Nothin' else.
So those were the thoughts running through my head when we passed the landfill on the way in and were approaching the always angry hound running down the two track driveway. Slow and easy. Say it again and again. Slow and easy. But don't just say it, do it. And see all the rocks. Keep to the high ground. No matter how slow, it's much faster than doin' a four mile portage.
Again it was suntan weather. Mid-day. Only Englishmen fish under those conditions. In tweeds to salmon that have no interest in eating. But we knew where the bass and sunnies could still be caught and that's where we were heading. The idea being Jake at one end of the line, fish at the other.
Two things: the trail to the lake is poison ivy lined. Jake likes to run around and explore. Not a good combination. I've never reacted to poison ivy. Been through it many a time and never had a problem.That isn't so for everybody. Jake carries a little bit of my blood but that doesn't mean he wouldn't swell up like a balloon and fester eternally. So he was warned. Loudly and often, like we really meant it.
Again, Ryan made Jakob carry a load. Not a big one unless you factor in relativity. Jake, for his part, didn't squawk. He did grunt a bit however. To me, that was a good sign. The grunts carry the world. Hopefully Jakob will always carry his share in a somewhat useful direction.
The jon boat was another story. Even though part of its intention was to be dragged it into small, remote lakes, I doubt the instructions said anything about the effort involved. She don't carry like a canoe laddie. We had a choice, one at each end or drag the bugger. Tried both. Carrying turned out to be a drag. Dragging wasn't much better. One of these days someone will have to invent the wheel. Even if they never do, me and Ryan won't complain a bit. Not manly don't ya know.
We worked the shallows. Not a problem for this lake has a lot of shallows. So much so, a first look will have you wondering how it could hold any fish at all. But it surely does. And high numbers in crystal clear, foot deep water where the fish can see you for fifty yards. Gotta be quiet and move only when necessary.
There were a few bass to be found but it was mostly sunnies. Jake found the bluegills to his liking until he realized they weren't as big as the bass. Guess even when you're six years old size matters.
What I learned was that a dark green metal boat with dark green metal seats can sear a butt. Standing up was a short relief from the frying pan but also an opportunity for the sun to to relight the burner. Jake solved the matter by standing up most of the time. Sure couldn't blame him for that. Seein' as how he's a slim kid he could move around all he wanted and not rock the boat.
Outside of the panfish it was a slow late morning and early afternoon. We worked half the lake's shoreline and made a few passes over the middle where the drop off holds thickets of cabbage. Yeah, the kid brought a few bass to the boat. And a whole lot of sunnies. But he was spoiled to the charms of bobber watching. At least as far as the nibblers went. He was lookin' for slam, bang, run with the thing.
And demanding. Like it was my fault we weren't catching any four pounders. Not like he was saying it exactly. But his continual mantra of "I wanna catch bass. I wanna catch bass," had me thinking it was my fault. Like I could do something about it. Give me a break kid. Next time we'll try it in June, after supper and you better be ready to hold onto your rod 'cause they're bigger than you realize. Lots bigger.
Truly, the only thing we did wrong was stay on the water too long. We had snacks, and they melted. We had water, and it was body temperature. Even though we used ample sun screen, we left the water glowing. Like janitors at a nuclear melt down. But it was a hoot. Jake got a taste for what fishing can be. And an assurance that it can be better. Stuff to dream about over the winter. Don't know if he will. But I will. Always have.
Dinner was at the best down south barbecue in the northwoods which just happens to be in Pine River. Name of No. 19. The pulled pork sandwich is worth its weight in lead free jigs. Seriously unhealthy, good eatin'. Jakob wasn't too happy with the place 'cause he had his teeth set on a chocolate ice cream cone at Dairy Queen. Both Ryan and I kept telling him it was on the list of things to do but he was of little faith. Yeah, he got his cone. And moaned his way through it. Not bad for a kid who likes his hamburgers plain. Meat and bun. Nothin' else.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Fire and Ice Cream
Back when I was a Jake's age matches sang to the children of the world. The tune went something like this:
Come play with me,
'Cause I'm your friend.
Come play with me
And burn something down.
Ain't I pretty?
And so easy to use.
C'mon chump,
Burn something, anything, down or up.
I don't care. Just burn something.
What I'm trying to say is that matches were everywhere. And, yeah, they were easy to use. Open flames were a part of life. Most everyone smoked. Even us Junior High kids. Back then we burned our trash in the alley, come fall, our leaves in the street. Once in a while, our university football coaches in effigy (see: Murray Warmath). And kids were allowed to torch that stuff. It was great. Nothing like a fire when you had the need to stand and stare.
No longer. One of my fifteen year old nephews didn't know how to strike a match 'til I showed him. Not that he was slow on the uptake. Just that he'd never had the opportunity. Sheltered and deprived lives we live today. Can't fire up a match so you might as well break into the old man's gun cabinet and blow away your gym class. Maybe an exaggeration but I dearly love to go off the deep end when at the keyboard.
So Thursday evening was campfire night in the burning pit. Wasn't quite dark yet. Didn't matter at all. Jakob was definitely up for it. Ryan kept a short leash on him. I was happy for that. Jake didn't realize it but he was happy too. There with his dad, in the woods and dancing around the flames as they snapped up toward the birches. Been quite a while since man first barbecued a mastodon but I think Jakob would've understood their celebration.
Before that we'd taken part in a couple of other ancient rites, miniature golf and dinner at Dairy Queen. Finished the day in the cabin. Ryan and Jakob trying to figure out a simple, but impossible, wooden puzzle. Yes sir, life in the big woods is a basic one.
Sorry, the ice cream doesn't come 'til tomorrow. And it wasn't really ice cream. Soft serve Dairy Queen. But that's close enough in my book. For me it's most always the same thing, medium cherry shake. If you're ever passing through Minnesota and happen to be in Little Falls, that's the town Charles Lindbergh came from, stop in at their Dairy Queen. Probably the best in the state. Until a couple of years ago you could get a pina colada shake. Wasn't on the menu, you just hadda know about it. In with the in crowd kind of thing. Not my cup of tea but Lois said it was the best. Only needed a dollop of rum to make it heaven. Then, one day they ran out of coconut syrup and the owner brought a great tradition to an end.
Come play with me,
'Cause I'm your friend.
Come play with me
And burn something down.
Ain't I pretty?
And so easy to use.
C'mon chump,
Burn something, anything, down or up.
I don't care. Just burn something.
What I'm trying to say is that matches were everywhere. And, yeah, they were easy to use. Open flames were a part of life. Most everyone smoked. Even us Junior High kids. Back then we burned our trash in the alley, come fall, our leaves in the street. Once in a while, our university football coaches in effigy (see: Murray Warmath). And kids were allowed to torch that stuff. It was great. Nothing like a fire when you had the need to stand and stare.
No longer. One of my fifteen year old nephews didn't know how to strike a match 'til I showed him. Not that he was slow on the uptake. Just that he'd never had the opportunity. Sheltered and deprived lives we live today. Can't fire up a match so you might as well break into the old man's gun cabinet and blow away your gym class. Maybe an exaggeration but I dearly love to go off the deep end when at the keyboard.
So Thursday evening was campfire night in the burning pit. Wasn't quite dark yet. Didn't matter at all. Jakob was definitely up for it. Ryan kept a short leash on him. I was happy for that. Jake didn't realize it but he was happy too. There with his dad, in the woods and dancing around the flames as they snapped up toward the birches. Been quite a while since man first barbecued a mastodon but I think Jakob would've understood their celebration.
Before that we'd taken part in a couple of other ancient rites, miniature golf and dinner at Dairy Queen. Finished the day in the cabin. Ryan and Jakob trying to figure out a simple, but impossible, wooden puzzle. Yes sir, life in the big woods is a basic one.
Sorry, the ice cream doesn't come 'til tomorrow. And it wasn't really ice cream. Soft serve Dairy Queen. But that's close enough in my book. For me it's most always the same thing, medium cherry shake. If you're ever passing through Minnesota and happen to be in Little Falls, that's the town Charles Lindbergh came from, stop in at their Dairy Queen. Probably the best in the state. Until a couple of years ago you could get a pina colada shake. Wasn't on the menu, you just hadda know about it. In with the in crowd kind of thing. Not my cup of tea but Lois said it was the best. Only needed a dollop of rum to make it heaven. Then, one day they ran out of coconut syrup and the owner brought a great tradition to an end.
Saturday, August 4, 2012
Jake and the Art of Bass fishing II
Day two was at a lake on which anybody can catch bass. And Ryan did. And Jakob did. Me, I manned the boat. Got used to bein' in the crew back in my Army days and ain't left it since.
We were in no hurry to leave the cabin. No need 'cause of the lake. Good weather, bad weather, full sun, mid-day, it rarely matters. Today it did. Since Jake hadn't ever caught anything, he didn't know how slow it was.
When it comes to lakes, I never learned to share. Poor upbringing I guess. My heart dropped a half inch when we hit the landing. There sat a truck with a rack for a couple of kayaks and a boat trailer hitched to the back. A herd. Tried to write it off with an "oh well, at least they're paddle boats."
I lie to myself way too much. And with a six year old along I've gotta watch my tongue. Pretend I'm a mature man, the kind a kid would like to grow up to be. Near as I can figure no one ever grows up to be that man. Best you can hope for is to not slash the tires of someone who has every bit as much right to the water as you do. Vindictiveness is not a good thing to pass on down the genetic ladder. Or so I've been told.
The north bay is about forty acres, holds fish and was ours alone. If that was our option it'd do the trick. Took a half hour of putzing, zig-zagging and general snafuing before we found some bass. Not a lot but enough.
Jake's first was around a pound. He played the bass by himself with his grandpa's hand hovering over the rod handle's butt just in case. Seemed only natural that he'd crank the fish all the way to the tip. Probably would have cranked it down through the guides and onto the reel if he was strong enough (if you ever read this Jakob, being made fun of can be a good thing. Takes the edge off of being too wonderful. And it's what an old guy like me says to start treating you like the man you'll become someday).
Like the old gray mare, my memory ain't what it used to be. When I conjured up our time on the water I saw trees, lily pads, lake and sunlight. And three guys in a jon boat staring back at me with a look that asked, "Sooo, big shot, what ya gonna have us do? We gonna catch fish or just sit here basking in the glory of your blank mind?" Embarrassed, I had to e-mail Ryan to learn the answer. He had no such problem. Also had five minutes of video and four hundred photos.
I remembered Jakob as being excited by his first bass. But you know how sketchy memories can be. That is if they exist at all. In times past, when catching big pike in Canada, I'd have liked a minute's video to recall exactly what went on. The words we said. The excitement of the moment. Did Allan and I sound like sage fishermen? Or should we have worn oversized shoes and clown makeup?
Jake's video told the tale as no memory could. His pure excitement and the explosive gleam in his eyes said it all. It was a big deal to him. He may someday forget most everything about that moment but not everything. Like mine of East Pike, he'll remember he was truly excited, the flashing light on the water and the feel of the northwoods. As a grandfather, the video told me the moment was all I could have hoped for. 'Course it could have been a seven pounder with a two pound trout in its mouth, been ripped off his jig by a bald eagle and returned to a hovering flying saucer.
The second bass was much bigger. Near the top end for this lake. Jakob had it to the boat when the bass gave him his first lesson in spitting the hook. Hopefully not his last. Also his first taste of the big one that got away. Classic moments in fishendom.
Finally we sucked it up and puttered off to the south end of the lake where the horde awaited us. By then I'd learned most of the pros and cons of a trolling motor. I'd hoped for a top speed of six or seven miles an hour. When that idea of speed was put in my bonnet is beyond me. Blind stab in the dark is more like it. Turned out we moved about as fast as a leisurely paddle in a canoe. However, we ran a straight course so I guess it was faster. And there were three of us instead of two. And we could stand up. Didn't have to pee but we could have. Ability sometimes negates necessity.
Positioning the boat was another matter. In a canoe I do most of the positioning with a one handed sculling stroke. Grip the paddle at the blade top and draw, pry or paddle. Simple and efficient. The motor was okay but not in the same league as the paddle. Old dog and new tricks problem I suppose.
Turned out there was only one boat in the far end. And it had a motor. Seeing as how it was nearing lunch time - for people, not fish as it turned out - they blew out of there within minutes of our arrival. Might also have had to do with the fishing shutting down. Good thing we brought sunscreen.
We gave it a go for an hour then hummed our way back to the landing.
We were in no hurry to leave the cabin. No need 'cause of the lake. Good weather, bad weather, full sun, mid-day, it rarely matters. Today it did. Since Jake hadn't ever caught anything, he didn't know how slow it was.
When it comes to lakes, I never learned to share. Poor upbringing I guess. My heart dropped a half inch when we hit the landing. There sat a truck with a rack for a couple of kayaks and a boat trailer hitched to the back. A herd. Tried to write it off with an "oh well, at least they're paddle boats."
I lie to myself way too much. And with a six year old along I've gotta watch my tongue. Pretend I'm a mature man, the kind a kid would like to grow up to be. Near as I can figure no one ever grows up to be that man. Best you can hope for is to not slash the tires of someone who has every bit as much right to the water as you do. Vindictiveness is not a good thing to pass on down the genetic ladder. Or so I've been told.
The north bay is about forty acres, holds fish and was ours alone. If that was our option it'd do the trick. Took a half hour of putzing, zig-zagging and general snafuing before we found some bass. Not a lot but enough.
Jake's first was around a pound. He played the bass by himself with his grandpa's hand hovering over the rod handle's butt just in case. Seemed only natural that he'd crank the fish all the way to the tip. Probably would have cranked it down through the guides and onto the reel if he was strong enough (if you ever read this Jakob, being made fun of can be a good thing. Takes the edge off of being too wonderful. And it's what an old guy like me says to start treating you like the man you'll become someday).
Like the old gray mare, my memory ain't what it used to be. When I conjured up our time on the water I saw trees, lily pads, lake and sunlight. And three guys in a jon boat staring back at me with a look that asked, "Sooo, big shot, what ya gonna have us do? We gonna catch fish or just sit here basking in the glory of your blank mind?" Embarrassed, I had to e-mail Ryan to learn the answer. He had no such problem. Also had five minutes of video and four hundred photos.
I remembered Jakob as being excited by his first bass. But you know how sketchy memories can be. That is if they exist at all. In times past, when catching big pike in Canada, I'd have liked a minute's video to recall exactly what went on. The words we said. The excitement of the moment. Did Allan and I sound like sage fishermen? Or should we have worn oversized shoes and clown makeup?
Jake's video told the tale as no memory could. His pure excitement and the explosive gleam in his eyes said it all. It was a big deal to him. He may someday forget most everything about that moment but not everything. Like mine of East Pike, he'll remember he was truly excited, the flashing light on the water and the feel of the northwoods. As a grandfather, the video told me the moment was all I could have hoped for. 'Course it could have been a seven pounder with a two pound trout in its mouth, been ripped off his jig by a bald eagle and returned to a hovering flying saucer.
The second bass was much bigger. Near the top end for this lake. Jakob had it to the boat when the bass gave him his first lesson in spitting the hook. Hopefully not his last. Also his first taste of the big one that got away. Classic moments in fishendom.
Finally we sucked it up and puttered off to the south end of the lake where the horde awaited us. By then I'd learned most of the pros and cons of a trolling motor. I'd hoped for a top speed of six or seven miles an hour. When that idea of speed was put in my bonnet is beyond me. Blind stab in the dark is more like it. Turned out we moved about as fast as a leisurely paddle in a canoe. However, we ran a straight course so I guess it was faster. And there were three of us instead of two. And we could stand up. Didn't have to pee but we could have. Ability sometimes negates necessity.
Positioning the boat was another matter. In a canoe I do most of the positioning with a one handed sculling stroke. Grip the paddle at the blade top and draw, pry or paddle. Simple and efficient. The motor was okay but not in the same league as the paddle. Old dog and new tricks problem I suppose.
Turned out there was only one boat in the far end. And it had a motor. Seeing as how it was nearing lunch time - for people, not fish as it turned out - they blew out of there within minutes of our arrival. Might also have had to do with the fishing shutting down. Good thing we brought sunscreen.
We gave it a go for an hour then hummed our way back to the landing.
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