Been told I didn't need another one but sure felt I did. Been wanting a noodle rod for several years for solo canoe fishing and also figured one would be just the thing for shore fishing down in Alabama. Two birds was just enough excuse for me to cave in. Ordered one to go along with the salt water reel I'd also fallen for. Last year I brought the fly rods for casting practice. This year I'm actually hoping to catch something.
A noodle rod is a long, ultra light fishing pole, something like a fly rod but rigged for spin fishing. In my case it's a nine footer. Some are a bit longer. I went with the shorter of the two in my price range 'cause the coin flip told me to. If it turns out I'd been better off with a ten footer at least it won't have been my fault.
The idea behind a noodle is extreme length compensates for ultra light weight. Rather than going with a stout rod, the whip of a noodle softens the effect of a relatively large fish. Also allows the fisher to go with a lighter weight line. And makes it possible to throw lures of only a thirty-second of an ounce. Covers the gamut from sunfish to twenty pound red fish. At least that's what I've read. We'll see. That's what the reviews say but I have my doubts. If it turns out a nine foot ultra light works for ten pound fish could it be possible to musky fish with a fifteen footer?
Then there's the business end of the line to consider. For me that means spinners of course. Figuring there's no way a man could have too much tackle I ordered enough crap to tie up, paint and form sixty of them in sizes three, four and five. A little research turned up a spinner rig for red fish and speckled sea trout that's right up my alley (a dark one with overflowing trash cans). About the only thing left to find is some new nail polish to make the blades extra special. Fish appreciate a quality paint job as much as a well tied bucktail treble hook. Well, at least I do.
Saturday, November 15, 2014
Friday, October 24, 2014
It Always Takes Longer Than Planned
Three days at the cabin in fine weather is always a pleasure. Sure was this time. I'd headed north to fish 'til my arms ached. Didn't work out that way. The wind was roaring on Tuesday and Wednesday but temperatures were mid-fall mild. Not canoe conditions but definitely good for biking or walking.
I haven't forgotten my intention to walk all sixty-eight miles of the North Country Trail lying within the Chippewa National Forest. Doing so may take the better part of a decade. If it does then so be it. Seeing as how I'm day tripping the attempt, each mile gets walked twice, out and back. So, the sixty-eight turns into a hundred and thirty-six. Figuring eight or nine miles per day and one or two days a year (I'd walk more days but my attack of Lyme Disease and fear of a recurrence put the Summer months off limits) moves me well into my seventies. The clock's ticking, not gettin' any younger and, the truth be known, whether or not I do it is of little consequence.
On Tuesday evening I pulled out the trail map to figure out my Wednesday hike. I was drawn to a four mile stretch touted as having a fine stand of old growth red pines. I like trees. It also passed several small lakes. I like lakes. One of them was a stocked trout lake. I like trout lakes. So that was the plan. Unless I changed my mind.
But I didn't. Turned out to be easy, too easy. The weather was ideal. Cool enough to need two layers on top. Hardly broke a sweat. My top layer was a blaze orange windbreaker. No sense taking any chances even though gun season for deer won't start for a week or two. However, bow season or black powder was in progress. Ever since I'd had a bead drawn on me twenty-five years earlier while running a gravel road I've been gun-shy when Fall rolls around.
Deer opener brings more armed people to the woods of Minnesota than there were grunts in Vietnam. The major difference between the groups has to do with training. Before we hit the paddies and mountains in Asia each of us had logged five months of instruction and practice. About all a deer hunter has in his/her background is a permit and a rifle. So I wear blaze orange in hope the color will pierce the consciousness of even a bad hangover.
As it was I spooked a few grouses and they in turn spooked the hell out of me. How anyone could get a shot off before those birds were long gone is beyond me. 'Spose it'd take some getting used to the rush of flight in the silence of the woods to get the gun up and working as opposed to simply wetting my drawers. And meandering down the trail and paying close attention to the whirr of the grouse would take some of the fun out of a good walk. My mind likes to wander even farther afield than my feet.
Between birds I passed Hazel Lake. The DNR stocks it with rainbow trout in the Spring each year so bumblers like me can pass a couple of hours not catching them. More on that later. Hazel's barely big enough to be classified a real lake but it does have two campsites for fishermen or hikers. Either would be a good spot to spend a night with my grandson Jakob. Would be even better if Hazel had a few bass or bluegills. Not that I don't think he's up to catching trout but it'd be embarrassing should he out fish me. Maybe we could bobber fish with worms, leave it up to chance. That way I'd have an excuse.
When I started this entry I didn't realize how appropriate the title was going to be. Since I wrote last, late Fall has turned into early Winter, deer hunting has made the woods a dangerous place to wander and I've simply run out of writing gumption. There's only so much to be said about what it's like being outside. If you've been there you know how it looks, sounds, feels and smells. Writing and reading about being there just ain't the same. Lord, do I know that.
Since those walks I've kept myself busy building a deer-proof, raised garden bed for my son and daughter-in-law. Sounds relatively simple 'til you know what the garden will look like when it's done. It's a twelve foot by twelve foot, cedar affair built on a slope. The upper wall is two and a half feet tall and the lower, a tad over four feet. The entryway has a three foot by six foot, arts and crafts garden gate leading to a six by six, raised, inner court yard with a decked floor. All the walls will be topped with four foot high screening. Yup, she's an elaborate affair. The garden's not done yet. Call it ninety percent.
What I miss about working for a living is the creativity needed to figure out and do each day's tasks. Thinking is good. Blog writing fills some of the gap but takes a back seat when I get involved with a project like the garden. Anyway, that's my excuse for the near month-long gap.
Like I said, the eight miler went by fast. Fast enough a part of me wanted a return in the morning but there was that need to go fishing standing in the way. After all, the reason I was up north was to hammer the trout lakes and maybe even catch a few. So, before the sun set I loaded up the truck and lashed the solo canoe atop with the idea of an early start in the morning.
I woke to a mild breeze and overcast. Near perfect trout conditions. Can't say I was enthusiastic about my chances but that's one of the beauties of fishing, you just never know when your best day will come.
Hazel Lake was easy to find. Even the half mile sand access road was no problem. My history says it's always possible to make a wrong turn even if the road I'm on is the only one around. But I did okay. Crossing the North Country Trail got me to slow, look both ways and wish I was afoot. But there were trout to catch so I moved on.
As usual I scanned the sand road for tire tracks. One fresh set had me worried but it turned out the grassy access was deserted. Good. I'd brought two rods. A couple of weeks earlier at a church thrift shop, Lois had talked me into an old, two buck, seven foot, fiberglass Shakespeare Wonderod. It cleaned up to near new and it was already strung with reel and four pound mono tipped with, what else, a little homemade spinner. The other rod I had yet to assemble was a ten foot fly rod. Went with a home-tied Clouser Minnow on the business end. 'Spose you could call it a fly but the Clouser is more or less a jig. Call it what you will, for me homemade takes some of the bite out of being skunked and adds to the good feeling should I catch 'em by the bucketful.
The access sits on a little bay that looked like it needed something out of the ordinary to perk up its day. Like maybe a balding, gray haired man flinging a lure into its water with a fifty-eight year old spinning rod. Yup, I was up to the task. Gotta say I liked the slow motion feel of the rod. Like a catapult. After having lived with decades of graphite the old whip in my hand took some getting used to. A timing problem solved with a half dozen casts. It sure could lob an eighth of an ounce a long way.
Earlier I'd looked up the model number on the internet. What I had in my hand was supposed to be an ultralight but was stamped a medium. Coulda fooled me, it sure acted like an ultralight. If you're not familiar with the old Shakespeares, they're usually, and this one was, white shafted. Throw in red and gold windings and a cork handle. The reel mount was a green metal affair which could be slid up and down the handle. Maybe that was Shakespeare's way of allowing the rod to balance out with different sizes of reels. Yup, I liked the rod alright, so much so I almost left the fly rod in the truck.
I'd like to ramble on about all the fish I tied into or the number of hits I had or even all the bald eagles I saw. But I won't. Except for the bald eagle whose luck was about the same as mine. The upside was all the casting practice. Tried this, tried that. Learning to snap my wrist downward just before I released the line pulled it all together. It was a lot like a baseball pitcher throwing a sinker. The wrist snap kept the rod accelerating to the very end of the cast. Would have been nice to have at least one hit as I worked the entire shoreline. In desperation I trolled the lake's length with the fly rod. Finished that off with flinging the Clouser Minnow a few dozen times along the north shore.
In retrospect I could've gone elsewhere for bass and pike. Would've been fine for a fish or two, then left me with a deflated feeling saying, "You should have gone for the trout old man." I gave some thought to another trout lake. However, the sun was peeking through the clouds and threatening to take over the entire sky. When it did I figured any chance of hooking any trout would be slim at best. On the upside, the North Country Trail was only a couple of hundred yards away. And, sun or cloud, it'd be there for the walking.
Ten minutes after loading I found myself in the turnout for the trail. Same one as yesterday. I was in the process of resigning myself to the eleven miles waiting for me in the woods. Been a while since I'd covered that many miles on foot. The five and a half miles out would fill in the gap between the four miles I'd covered the previous day and a four and a half I'd walked two years earlier. The inward five and a half would get me back to the truck. Yeah, I was a little spooked by the distance. As usual, my preparation was minimal. Just old running shoes on my feet, a dark chocolate bar, a half bottle of water I slugged before setting off and the fishing clothes on my back. Hell, this wasn't an expedition, just a stroll in the woods.
The goal for the day was a vaguely remembered spot somewhere near the shore of North Stocking Lake. I figured I'd recognize it by the map in my mind and, as it turned out, the sign posted to the side of the trail.
It was another near perfect day for a walk, cool and sunny. The opening mile was a pleasure.
Ponds here and there. A half mile passed along an esker. At least that's what I thought it might be. This is glacier country. Most of the hills I suspect of being moraines, so why not an elongated ridge as an esker? Makes it sound so much more wilderness like.
Wasn't long before I entered the forest primeval. Thickly treed, dense undergrowth, filtered light. There I came upon the bear's bathroom, a short stretch where they came to mark their territory or simply got into some bad grub. Whatever the reason there were several piles of scat.
The first two miles flew by. So easily I figured the eleven would be no problem or, at worst, nothing more than fatiguing. What I hadn't figured was the return miles growing in length. Reaching the turnaround at North Stocking I was already starting to fatigue. Oh well, what the hell, suck it up and move on. That's what I did. My only breaks involved photographs.
Once again I learned it takes a talented eye to do justice to a view. Wish I had one. Maybe if I had more time (an odd thing to say when you're retired) photography would be a skill to learn. Find a pair of swans on a pond and stalk them like a hunter to get a photo that'd look splendid on a blog post. But there were only the three days to cram with as much doing as I could and still have time to do nothing of consequence like reading and cooking.
Yeah, I slogged those last three miles. Began to look for the crossing of the Woodtick Trail close to a mile before I reached it. "Should be around the next turn in the trail" passed through my mind a dozen times before it actually was. What lightened those last two miles was a large stand of red pines. Some I figured to be three feet wide at the stump. Big, big trees for Minnesota.
Turned out I was right. In retrospect the eleven miles was no more than fatiguing. By the morning I could have done it again but it was time to pack it up and head home. Hopefully we'll make it up north one more time before sub-zero temperatures come to roost. There's a canoe laying alongside the house that should be in the shed. Hopefully that'll be excuse enough.
I haven't forgotten my intention to walk all sixty-eight miles of the North Country Trail lying within the Chippewa National Forest. Doing so may take the better part of a decade. If it does then so be it. Seeing as how I'm day tripping the attempt, each mile gets walked twice, out and back. So, the sixty-eight turns into a hundred and thirty-six. Figuring eight or nine miles per day and one or two days a year (I'd walk more days but my attack of Lyme Disease and fear of a recurrence put the Summer months off limits) moves me well into my seventies. The clock's ticking, not gettin' any younger and, the truth be known, whether or not I do it is of little consequence.
On Tuesday evening I pulled out the trail map to figure out my Wednesday hike. I was drawn to a four mile stretch touted as having a fine stand of old growth red pines. I like trees. It also passed several small lakes. I like lakes. One of them was a stocked trout lake. I like trout lakes. So that was the plan. Unless I changed my mind.
But I didn't. Turned out to be easy, too easy. The weather was ideal. Cool enough to need two layers on top. Hardly broke a sweat. My top layer was a blaze orange windbreaker. No sense taking any chances even though gun season for deer won't start for a week or two. However, bow season or black powder was in progress. Ever since I'd had a bead drawn on me twenty-five years earlier while running a gravel road I've been gun-shy when Fall rolls around.
Deer opener brings more armed people to the woods of Minnesota than there were grunts in Vietnam. The major difference between the groups has to do with training. Before we hit the paddies and mountains in Asia each of us had logged five months of instruction and practice. About all a deer hunter has in his/her background is a permit and a rifle. So I wear blaze orange in hope the color will pierce the consciousness of even a bad hangover.
As it was I spooked a few grouses and they in turn spooked the hell out of me. How anyone could get a shot off before those birds were long gone is beyond me. 'Spose it'd take some getting used to the rush of flight in the silence of the woods to get the gun up and working as opposed to simply wetting my drawers. And meandering down the trail and paying close attention to the whirr of the grouse would take some of the fun out of a good walk. My mind likes to wander even farther afield than my feet.
When I started this entry I didn't realize how appropriate the title was going to be. Since I wrote last, late Fall has turned into early Winter, deer hunting has made the woods a dangerous place to wander and I've simply run out of writing gumption. There's only so much to be said about what it's like being outside. If you've been there you know how it looks, sounds, feels and smells. Writing and reading about being there just ain't the same. Lord, do I know that.
Since those walks I've kept myself busy building a deer-proof, raised garden bed for my son and daughter-in-law. Sounds relatively simple 'til you know what the garden will look like when it's done. It's a twelve foot by twelve foot, cedar affair built on a slope. The upper wall is two and a half feet tall and the lower, a tad over four feet. The entryway has a three foot by six foot, arts and crafts garden gate leading to a six by six, raised, inner court yard with a decked floor. All the walls will be topped with four foot high screening. Yup, she's an elaborate affair. The garden's not done yet. Call it ninety percent.
What I miss about working for a living is the creativity needed to figure out and do each day's tasks. Thinking is good. Blog writing fills some of the gap but takes a back seat when I get involved with a project like the garden. Anyway, that's my excuse for the near month-long gap.
Like I said, the eight miler went by fast. Fast enough a part of me wanted a return in the morning but there was that need to go fishing standing in the way. After all, the reason I was up north was to hammer the trout lakes and maybe even catch a few. So, before the sun set I loaded up the truck and lashed the solo canoe atop with the idea of an early start in the morning.
I woke to a mild breeze and overcast. Near perfect trout conditions. Can't say I was enthusiastic about my chances but that's one of the beauties of fishing, you just never know when your best day will come.
Hazel Lake was easy to find. Even the half mile sand access road was no problem. My history says it's always possible to make a wrong turn even if the road I'm on is the only one around. But I did okay. Crossing the North Country Trail got me to slow, look both ways and wish I was afoot. But there were trout to catch so I moved on.
As usual I scanned the sand road for tire tracks. One fresh set had me worried but it turned out the grassy access was deserted. Good. I'd brought two rods. A couple of weeks earlier at a church thrift shop, Lois had talked me into an old, two buck, seven foot, fiberglass Shakespeare Wonderod. It cleaned up to near new and it was already strung with reel and four pound mono tipped with, what else, a little homemade spinner. The other rod I had yet to assemble was a ten foot fly rod. Went with a home-tied Clouser Minnow on the business end. 'Spose you could call it a fly but the Clouser is more or less a jig. Call it what you will, for me homemade takes some of the bite out of being skunked and adds to the good feeling should I catch 'em by the bucketful.
The access sits on a little bay that looked like it needed something out of the ordinary to perk up its day. Like maybe a balding, gray haired man flinging a lure into its water with a fifty-eight year old spinning rod. Yup, I was up to the task. Gotta say I liked the slow motion feel of the rod. Like a catapult. After having lived with decades of graphite the old whip in my hand took some getting used to. A timing problem solved with a half dozen casts. It sure could lob an eighth of an ounce a long way.
Earlier I'd looked up the model number on the internet. What I had in my hand was supposed to be an ultralight but was stamped a medium. Coulda fooled me, it sure acted like an ultralight. If you're not familiar with the old Shakespeares, they're usually, and this one was, white shafted. Throw in red and gold windings and a cork handle. The reel mount was a green metal affair which could be slid up and down the handle. Maybe that was Shakespeare's way of allowing the rod to balance out with different sizes of reels. Yup, I liked the rod alright, so much so I almost left the fly rod in the truck.
I'd like to ramble on about all the fish I tied into or the number of hits I had or even all the bald eagles I saw. But I won't. Except for the bald eagle whose luck was about the same as mine. The upside was all the casting practice. Tried this, tried that. Learning to snap my wrist downward just before I released the line pulled it all together. It was a lot like a baseball pitcher throwing a sinker. The wrist snap kept the rod accelerating to the very end of the cast. Would have been nice to have at least one hit as I worked the entire shoreline. In desperation I trolled the lake's length with the fly rod. Finished that off with flinging the Clouser Minnow a few dozen times along the north shore.
In retrospect I could've gone elsewhere for bass and pike. Would've been fine for a fish or two, then left me with a deflated feeling saying, "You should have gone for the trout old man." I gave some thought to another trout lake. However, the sun was peeking through the clouds and threatening to take over the entire sky. When it did I figured any chance of hooking any trout would be slim at best. On the upside, the North Country Trail was only a couple of hundred yards away. And, sun or cloud, it'd be there for the walking.
Ten minutes after loading I found myself in the turnout for the trail. Same one as yesterday. I was in the process of resigning myself to the eleven miles waiting for me in the woods. Been a while since I'd covered that many miles on foot. The five and a half miles out would fill in the gap between the four miles I'd covered the previous day and a four and a half I'd walked two years earlier. The inward five and a half would get me back to the truck. Yeah, I was a little spooked by the distance. As usual, my preparation was minimal. Just old running shoes on my feet, a dark chocolate bar, a half bottle of water I slugged before setting off and the fishing clothes on my back. Hell, this wasn't an expedition, just a stroll in the woods.
The goal for the day was a vaguely remembered spot somewhere near the shore of North Stocking Lake. I figured I'd recognize it by the map in my mind and, as it turned out, the sign posted to the side of the trail.
It was another near perfect day for a walk, cool and sunny. The opening mile was a pleasure.
Wasn't long before I entered the forest primeval. Thickly treed, dense undergrowth, filtered light. There I came upon the bear's bathroom, a short stretch where they came to mark their territory or simply got into some bad grub. Whatever the reason there were several piles of scat.
The first two miles flew by. So easily I figured the eleven would be no problem or, at worst, nothing more than fatiguing. What I hadn't figured was the return miles growing in length. Reaching the turnaround at North Stocking I was already starting to fatigue. Oh well, what the hell, suck it up and move on. That's what I did. My only breaks involved photographs.
Yeah, I slogged those last three miles. Began to look for the crossing of the Woodtick Trail close to a mile before I reached it. "Should be around the next turn in the trail" passed through my mind a dozen times before it actually was. What lightened those last two miles was a large stand of red pines. Some I figured to be three feet wide at the stump. Big, big trees for Minnesota.
Turned out I was right. In retrospect the eleven miles was no more than fatiguing. By the morning I could have done it again but it was time to pack it up and head home. Hopefully we'll make it up north one more time before sub-zero temperatures come to roost. There's a canoe laying alongside the house that should be in the shed. Hopefully that'll be excuse enough.
Thursday, October 9, 2014
Moon Shadow
Under normal circumstances my bladder is full around four in the morning. For a few years now I've been considering a pail for my business at the cabin but never seriously enough to actually bring one from home. Besides, heading outdoors in the middle of the night is not something I'd ever consider doing in the city. Yeah, once under the trees I could stumble down to the outhouse but that calls for a blind shot to a small target in a dark little box. Or perching on the seat and baring tender parts to whatever toothy vermin call the underfloor home. It's much easier to simply enjoy the opportunity to take in the fullness above while emptying below. Mosquitoes are a problem during the warm months but this last week brought lows in the mid-thirties. Perfect evacuation weather.
Unfortunately, I saw only one star. Our land lies beneath a dark night sky. When there's no moon, the Milky Way looks like you could grab hold and pull yourself into the heavens. However, on the first night the clouds were thick and the world below, black. The other two nights were gauzed-over and hid all those up north stars but did little to damper the near full moon. I suppose it could have been brighter during the wee hours but no flashlight was needed when I wandered through the unlit cabin. Outside it was bright enough to read (should I have been interested in reading while I peed) so long as the print was large and held nose close. Don't know why I turned my back to the moon, maybe to read the book I didn't carry or to have my silhouette to fire upon. Started at my head and worked my way home. Don't recall if Cat Steven's song had him doing what I was doing to my moon shadow. Maybe I should check out the lyrics? Back in a minute…. Nope. Seemed he was concerned about losing his body parts and doing a lot of leaping and jumpin. No doubt I could've pranced around while taking a leak but my dance would've been more wet than wise.
Anyhow, as I was standing there spread-legged, off in the distance over on Deadman the trumpeter swans began to cavort. A city block away and their flapping and honking was as clear as my shadow. A few seconds later they were joined by a chorus of coyotes yip-yippin' away. Can't say I've ever been accompanied a finer choir. All of us doing what comes (or goes) naturally.
Thursday, October 2, 2014
So, What Do I Do With It?
For the past couple of years I've been an avid fan of Ebay's vintage fly rod listings. Even bought a couple of classic fiberglass rods through them a while back. Cripes, now I've got more fly rods than you can shake a stick at and don't really use them a lot. Once in a while I get the urge and whip some line. I'm not all that good at it and never will be. But I have caught my share of foolish fish with them. Gotta admit a fly rod is a lot of fun when the fishing is hot. And the rods are a pleasure to pull out of the tubes once in a while simply to see and hold them. And when the urge strikes I've got a choice of sticks.
Not needing another rod is no reason for me to stop looking at the Ebay listings. That and checking out bamboo rod discussion forums have both taught me a lot about an esoteric subject which has little or no real meaning in life. But it's fun. I've come to know manufacturers, models, what's good and bad, which rods would be affordable if I ever went insane. Can't say I'm anywhere near an expert. Heck, I've never actually held a bamboo rod in my hands.
That all changed about a week ago. Lois and I were visiting friends and relatives in the Milwaukee area. While there we did a brief rummage through the antique shops of Cedarburg. Off in the corner of one of them I spied a cloth fly rod sock. Oh me, oh my, just had to check it out. A quick check told me it was complete and in very good shape. The manufacturer's label was gone but the model was written in white ink near the cork, Vernley. been over the charts enough times to know the rod was a top model from Horrocks-Ibbotson. Nearly all their rods were bottom end and sold for five to seven bucks in 1950s hardware stores and such. The Vernley however, sold for five times that and was considered a decent casting rod.
Long story short I bought it for the tag price of forty-five dollars. So now it sits here at home. Needs one tip straightened and touched up with varnish. That'll give me a fun project for the winter months. Outside of those minor shortcomings, she's a fine rod that can't be easily used with modern fly lines without redoing the stripping guide. And I have no need for it whatsoever. And will never buy another, unless I stumble upon one.
Not needing another rod is no reason for me to stop looking at the Ebay listings. That and checking out bamboo rod discussion forums have both taught me a lot about an esoteric subject which has little or no real meaning in life. But it's fun. I've come to know manufacturers, models, what's good and bad, which rods would be affordable if I ever went insane. Can't say I'm anywhere near an expert. Heck, I've never actually held a bamboo rod in my hands.
That all changed about a week ago. Lois and I were visiting friends and relatives in the Milwaukee area. While there we did a brief rummage through the antique shops of Cedarburg. Off in the corner of one of them I spied a cloth fly rod sock. Oh me, oh my, just had to check it out. A quick check told me it was complete and in very good shape. The manufacturer's label was gone but the model was written in white ink near the cork, Vernley. been over the charts enough times to know the rod was a top model from Horrocks-Ibbotson. Nearly all their rods were bottom end and sold for five to seven bucks in 1950s hardware stores and such. The Vernley however, sold for five times that and was considered a decent casting rod.
Long story short I bought it for the tag price of forty-five dollars. So now it sits here at home. Needs one tip straightened and touched up with varnish. That'll give me a fun project for the winter months. Outside of those minor shortcomings, she's a fine rod that can't be easily used with modern fly lines without redoing the stripping guide. And I have no need for it whatsoever. And will never buy another, unless I stumble upon one.
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
Outbound
Brian set his phone alarm for six o'clock. Never thought of it before but I guess a cell phone does have its place in the Boundary Waters. No matter the nature of the trip inevitably time plays a role and a cell phone is smaller than an alarm clock. In keeping with the spirit of where we were our phones could have been left in the car. Also in keeping with where we were, they could have been stolen, though I find that hard to believe. Never heard of forestry road gangs unless that's what they call the crews who keep the trails clear of deadfall.
Around five-forty the alarm went off. Odd. Brian reset the time and we quietly laid there hoping some of the night would start to give up the ghost. At six it was still pitch black. Also odd. Fortunately Brian had brought a pair of headband lights that came in mighty handy over the next forty-five minutes as we gobbled down calories and broke camp. By the time we pushed off there was more than enough daylight to see where the lake ended and the trees began.
And boy did we cruise. Borderline canoe men. Our line was die straight and the light headwind had no effect on our progress. Less than half an hour later we'd landed and said goodbye to West Pike. Even the portage went faster now that we'd eaten twenty pounds and dumped what remained of the cooler ice. By the time we hit Clearwater the idea of a return next year was appealing. We even began to discuss a trip to East Pike and catch bass 'til our arms hurt.
Clearwater smoked by until we hit the big bend in the lake with three miles to go. That's right, I'd almost forgotten about saying something three days earlier about headwind in and headwind out. And our dead west headwind was a good one with rollers, whitecaps and an army of playful zephyrs to whack us in the face every half minute. Only one thing to do, suck it up, duck our heads and dig hard.
Looking back on the paddle it seems we couldn't have taken more than an hour to finish the lake. In truth it was closer to two hours for the three miles. Oddly I never felt we were in jeopardy though there were times when the canoe was moving sideways more than forward. But once we'd committed ourselves, the over-riding thought was nose to the wind. And that it'd eventually be over.
Finally we found a break from the wind with a quarter mile to go. There I began to laugh hysterically. Tears down the face. There was this picture in my head concerning the way I felt and just had to let Brian in on it. Wasn't all that funny but it sure tickled my fancy.
While we sat bobbing in the shallows I started in, "I'm so tired and numb at the moment that a pit bull could run up and sink its teeth into my testicles as we off-loaded our gear. Wouldn't bat an eyelash. Hell, I could drive all the way into the Grand Marais hospital with him still holding on. Walk in the door and ask if there was a doctor available to surgically remove the dog. While sewing me up the doctor would no doubt faint from all the blood oozing out. Leaving the doc laid out on the floor I'd walk into the lobby, naked from the waist down with the needle and thread still hanging and call out, 'is there a seamstress in the house?' "
Brian kind of stared and chuckled a bit, maybe even laughed. Can't say for sure since the tears were messing up my vision and my laughter drowned out any outside noise. Guess you would have to have been there. Me too. What seemed hysterical at the time now just seems odd.
Turned out we'd arrived at eleven o'clock like we'd hoped even though the headwind had added an hour to the trip. It seemed Brian's phone had somehow given us an hour and we'd gotten up at five instead of six. They don't call them smart phones for nothing.
We stopped in Grand Marais for coffee and phone calls. Let those who cared know we were okay and to charge up on needed caffein. The five hour drive to the cities was actually fun. Sure beat having to put nine hundred miles behind us like in the Manitoba days. Among other things we talked of a possible return. By then the pain of the portages was just a memory and I was already getting fired up about a possible next year.
Around five-forty the alarm went off. Odd. Brian reset the time and we quietly laid there hoping some of the night would start to give up the ghost. At six it was still pitch black. Also odd. Fortunately Brian had brought a pair of headband lights that came in mighty handy over the next forty-five minutes as we gobbled down calories and broke camp. By the time we pushed off there was more than enough daylight to see where the lake ended and the trees began.
And boy did we cruise. Borderline canoe men. Our line was die straight and the light headwind had no effect on our progress. Less than half an hour later we'd landed and said goodbye to West Pike. Even the portage went faster now that we'd eaten twenty pounds and dumped what remained of the cooler ice. By the time we hit Clearwater the idea of a return next year was appealing. We even began to discuss a trip to East Pike and catch bass 'til our arms hurt.
Clearwater smoked by until we hit the big bend in the lake with three miles to go. That's right, I'd almost forgotten about saying something three days earlier about headwind in and headwind out. And our dead west headwind was a good one with rollers, whitecaps and an army of playful zephyrs to whack us in the face every half minute. Only one thing to do, suck it up, duck our heads and dig hard.
Looking back on the paddle it seems we couldn't have taken more than an hour to finish the lake. In truth it was closer to two hours for the three miles. Oddly I never felt we were in jeopardy though there were times when the canoe was moving sideways more than forward. But once we'd committed ourselves, the over-riding thought was nose to the wind. And that it'd eventually be over.
Finally we found a break from the wind with a quarter mile to go. There I began to laugh hysterically. Tears down the face. There was this picture in my head concerning the way I felt and just had to let Brian in on it. Wasn't all that funny but it sure tickled my fancy.
While we sat bobbing in the shallows I started in, "I'm so tired and numb at the moment that a pit bull could run up and sink its teeth into my testicles as we off-loaded our gear. Wouldn't bat an eyelash. Hell, I could drive all the way into the Grand Marais hospital with him still holding on. Walk in the door and ask if there was a doctor available to surgically remove the dog. While sewing me up the doctor would no doubt faint from all the blood oozing out. Leaving the doc laid out on the floor I'd walk into the lobby, naked from the waist down with the needle and thread still hanging and call out, 'is there a seamstress in the house?' "
Brian kind of stared and chuckled a bit, maybe even laughed. Can't say for sure since the tears were messing up my vision and my laughter drowned out any outside noise. Guess you would have to have been there. Me too. What seemed hysterical at the time now just seems odd.
Turned out we'd arrived at eleven o'clock like we'd hoped even though the headwind had added an hour to the trip. It seemed Brian's phone had somehow given us an hour and we'd gotten up at five instead of six. They don't call them smart phones for nothing.
We stopped in Grand Marais for coffee and phone calls. Let those who cared know we were okay and to charge up on needed caffein. The five hour drive to the cities was actually fun. Sure beat having to put nine hundred miles behind us like in the Manitoba days. Among other things we talked of a possible return. By then the pain of the portages was just a memory and I was already getting fired up about a possible next year.
Saturday, September 27, 2014
Return to East Pike Lake
It'd been forty-eight years since I first saw the lake. Brian, my middle aged nephew up there in the front of the canoe, was just out of diapers when Rod Middlested and I first fished its waters. Not that that means a whole lot to anyone but me. But there was a part of me wanting to be where we were heading on Friday morning much the same as that day in '92 when I chose East Pike as Allan's introduction to the Boundary Waters. For me the lake was, and is, the be all, end all.
Brian had fished East Pike in '94 during our first (of three) annual, family style BWCA fishing trip and had a fair amount of luck. He caught more than his share of smallies including a four plus pounder. Don't know if he was more pumped than me to be returning but it wouldn't have surprised me.
As far as I was concerned the only drawback to our day was having to approach the lake from the west instead of the east. We wouldn't paddle the rapids into John Lake, do the up and over portage into East Pike and most of all, wouldn't stand on the basalt slab at the end of the portage. You wouldn't think that last part could carry much meaning but it sure does. Was standing there when I caught my first smallmouth, did a selfie back there with twelve year old Allan and I've dreamt of that rock several times. Simply put, it's one of my happy places.
Back when Lois was pregnant with Allan we took birthing classes. One part of them was learning a kind of self hypnosis technique in which we'd lose ourselves in a happy place of our own choosing. Mine was the basalt slab on East Pike. Hadn't realized the connection for Allan and and I until now. Sometimes there's more going on than meets the eye. I have no idea what makes the world go round but for me that slab is an important place. Guess I'll have to find a way to return next year. Spend some time on the basalt, maybe even take a nap.
Once again, not wanting to stumble around in the dark, we slept in. After a hot and gobble it down before it gets cold breakfast, we pushed off on another splendid day to be alive. Originally the plan had been for a day on a trout lake by the name of Gogebic. In my mind's eye getting there was a simple slog of no more than a hundred rods straight up a steep slope. Brian would carry the canoe, I'd carry the rods and paddles (unless I could convince him to carry it all and maybe also piggy back me). Tough but we were tough guys ready to take on any challenge. When me and my mind's eye took the time to actually scope out the trail I realized my folly. The portage wasn't but a few rods long. Then it turned into the Border Trail and meandered here and there before passing by the lake. The hundred rods turned into something over two hundred. The portage into East Pike on the other hand was listed as a hundred-seventeen rods. Us tough guys quickly turned into us reasonable guys.
Seeing as how the carry was flat and short we left the portage yoke back in camp. I could say I forgot it and was too lazy to turn around after a quarter mile but I won't. What the heck, a couple of reasonable guys like me and Brian could each hoist an end and carry the canoe from West Pike all the way to Duluth without breaking a sweat. Sure didn't work out that way. We not only broke a sweat but had to set the Wenonah down a half dozen times. Why a canoe being carried by two men should seem to weigh more to each than one thrown on the shoulders of a single man is more than I can figure out. But it does. Could be carrying a boat, open side up, bears the weight of all the atmosphere from there to the edge of outer space whereas all that air slips off an upside-down canoe and falls to the ground. Best e-mail Stephen Hawking for his opinion on that.
Flat in the real world isn't flat. Instead it's a constant up and down punctuated by rock, root and mud. Anyhow, that's my excuse for setting the canoe down as much as we did. It also seemed like someone had moved the lake. We didn't come on East Pike until the seventh around the next corner. Allan and I had done the same carry seventeen years earlier and I'd recalled it as being more rods than the number on the map. But memory is fickle 'specially when the brain involved is pushing seventy. Later in the day I learned my twenty year old map was off by sixty rods. Cartographic typo?
I'd also recalled the put-in as being a jumble of pointy rocks. It was. Chalk one up for memory even though I'd rather have been wrong. We could easily see the most used avenue of attack by all the aluminum streaks on the rocks. Made my teeth cringe. A minute of scouting found a better way and we were off.
The first mile of East Pike looks more like a river than a lake. She's nothing but deadfall for the bass and cabbage beds for pike. In fact our first fish was a pike - can't I was happy about that - pushing thirty inches. Brian released it for me. He's a man in his prime who does stuff with skill and aplomb and I'm smart enough to let him show off his talent. Also cuts down on pike punctures. Brian grabbed the fish behind the gills just like he knew what he was doing. A minute later, after I promised to catch no more pike - not easy when one of your nicknames is the Snake Charmer - we moved on in pursuit of bass.
East Pike is noted for its smallmouth bass. One of the best lakes around. But we were nearly an hour into the paddle before we started to find a pattern. At least we thought it was a pattern since our luck never grew to hot and heavy proportions. Mostly Brian did the catching. That was okay with me. Boat control was as much a part of the experience as landing fish. I was happy simply being where I was and watching Brian tie into some bass.
We'd caught a good drift along the north shore only requiring a sculling stroke now and then to correct our course. Over the next hour while casting spinners parallel to shore we landed perhaps ten fish. None was bigger than two pounds but all fought hard and never gave up 'til pulled from the water. Smallies are respected for their fighting ability, no doubt due to their dislike of having holes popped through their faces. Might also have something to do with their fear of hot frying pans. I have to agree with them. Can't say I've ever wanted to have the meat sliced from my bones, dipped in batter and fried in a half inch of boiling oil.
We took a break on a basalt slab point that had seen a lot of traffic over the years (centuries?). Why not, it was a perfect site. The landing was level and wide. Plenty of places to pitch a tent or build a fire for a shore lunch. All told it was the best camp site on the lake but it wasn't designated as such by the Forestry Service. While there I did the usual kicking around in hope of finding something cool, maybe from the Voyageur days. Instead I found artifacts from the previous century, old bottle caps, removable beer can pull tabs and a sheet of rusted steel. Guess I found the cool stuff a couple of hundred years early. I left it all there to age.
The carry back into West Pike was no easier. Same length, same routine and I was a few hours older. On the way we ran into the high-tech twins direct from REI Sporting Goods. Their gear looked to weigh about the same as the stack of hundreds they forked over to pay their bill. Brian recognized their stuff for what it was. All I could think of was, "This canoe keeps getting heavier by the second."
Dinner was home made spaghetti and a bunch of other edibles we wolfed down hoping to reduced the morning's load on the way out. Needing an early start so Brian could get ready for work on Monday morning, we crawled into the bags around nine.
Brian had fished East Pike in '94 during our first (of three) annual, family style BWCA fishing trip and had a fair amount of luck. He caught more than his share of smallies including a four plus pounder. Don't know if he was more pumped than me to be returning but it wouldn't have surprised me.
As far as I was concerned the only drawback to our day was having to approach the lake from the west instead of the east. We wouldn't paddle the rapids into John Lake, do the up and over portage into East Pike and most of all, wouldn't stand on the basalt slab at the end of the portage. You wouldn't think that last part could carry much meaning but it sure does. Was standing there when I caught my first smallmouth, did a selfie back there with twelve year old Allan and I've dreamt of that rock several times. Simply put, it's one of my happy places.
Back when Lois was pregnant with Allan we took birthing classes. One part of them was learning a kind of self hypnosis technique in which we'd lose ourselves in a happy place of our own choosing. Mine was the basalt slab on East Pike. Hadn't realized the connection for Allan and and I until now. Sometimes there's more going on than meets the eye. I have no idea what makes the world go round but for me that slab is an important place. Guess I'll have to find a way to return next year. Spend some time on the basalt, maybe even take a nap.
Once again, not wanting to stumble around in the dark, we slept in. After a hot and gobble it down before it gets cold breakfast, we pushed off on another splendid day to be alive. Originally the plan had been for a day on a trout lake by the name of Gogebic. In my mind's eye getting there was a simple slog of no more than a hundred rods straight up a steep slope. Brian would carry the canoe, I'd carry the rods and paddles (unless I could convince him to carry it all and maybe also piggy back me). Tough but we were tough guys ready to take on any challenge. When me and my mind's eye took the time to actually scope out the trail I realized my folly. The portage wasn't but a few rods long. Then it turned into the Border Trail and meandered here and there before passing by the lake. The hundred rods turned into something over two hundred. The portage into East Pike on the other hand was listed as a hundred-seventeen rods. Us tough guys quickly turned into us reasonable guys.
Seeing as how the carry was flat and short we left the portage yoke back in camp. I could say I forgot it and was too lazy to turn around after a quarter mile but I won't. What the heck, a couple of reasonable guys like me and Brian could each hoist an end and carry the canoe from West Pike all the way to Duluth without breaking a sweat. Sure didn't work out that way. We not only broke a sweat but had to set the Wenonah down a half dozen times. Why a canoe being carried by two men should seem to weigh more to each than one thrown on the shoulders of a single man is more than I can figure out. But it does. Could be carrying a boat, open side up, bears the weight of all the atmosphere from there to the edge of outer space whereas all that air slips off an upside-down canoe and falls to the ground. Best e-mail Stephen Hawking for his opinion on that.
Flat in the real world isn't flat. Instead it's a constant up and down punctuated by rock, root and mud. Anyhow, that's my excuse for setting the canoe down as much as we did. It also seemed like someone had moved the lake. We didn't come on East Pike until the seventh around the next corner. Allan and I had done the same carry seventeen years earlier and I'd recalled it as being more rods than the number on the map. But memory is fickle 'specially when the brain involved is pushing seventy. Later in the day I learned my twenty year old map was off by sixty rods. Cartographic typo?
I'd also recalled the put-in as being a jumble of pointy rocks. It was. Chalk one up for memory even though I'd rather have been wrong. We could easily see the most used avenue of attack by all the aluminum streaks on the rocks. Made my teeth cringe. A minute of scouting found a better way and we were off.
The first mile of East Pike looks more like a river than a lake. She's nothing but deadfall for the bass and cabbage beds for pike. In fact our first fish was a pike - can't I was happy about that - pushing thirty inches. Brian released it for me. He's a man in his prime who does stuff with skill and aplomb and I'm smart enough to let him show off his talent. Also cuts down on pike punctures. Brian grabbed the fish behind the gills just like he knew what he was doing. A minute later, after I promised to catch no more pike - not easy when one of your nicknames is the Snake Charmer - we moved on in pursuit of bass.
East Pike is noted for its smallmouth bass. One of the best lakes around. But we were nearly an hour into the paddle before we started to find a pattern. At least we thought it was a pattern since our luck never grew to hot and heavy proportions. Mostly Brian did the catching. That was okay with me. Boat control was as much a part of the experience as landing fish. I was happy simply being where I was and watching Brian tie into some bass.
We'd caught a good drift along the north shore only requiring a sculling stroke now and then to correct our course. Over the next hour while casting spinners parallel to shore we landed perhaps ten fish. None was bigger than two pounds but all fought hard and never gave up 'til pulled from the water. Smallies are respected for their fighting ability, no doubt due to their dislike of having holes popped through their faces. Might also have something to do with their fear of hot frying pans. I have to agree with them. Can't say I've ever wanted to have the meat sliced from my bones, dipped in batter and fried in a half inch of boiling oil.
We took a break on a basalt slab point that had seen a lot of traffic over the years (centuries?). Why not, it was a perfect site. The landing was level and wide. Plenty of places to pitch a tent or build a fire for a shore lunch. All told it was the best camp site on the lake but it wasn't designated as such by the Forestry Service. While there I did the usual kicking around in hope of finding something cool, maybe from the Voyageur days. Instead I found artifacts from the previous century, old bottle caps, removable beer can pull tabs and a sheet of rusted steel. Guess I found the cool stuff a couple of hundred years early. I left it all there to age.
The carry back into West Pike was no easier. Same length, same routine and I was a few hours older. On the way we ran into the high-tech twins direct from REI Sporting Goods. Their gear looked to weigh about the same as the stack of hundreds they forked over to pay their bill. Brian recognized their stuff for what it was. All I could think of was, "This canoe keeps getting heavier by the second."
Dinner was home made spaghetti and a bunch of other edibles we wolfed down hoping to reduced the morning's load on the way out. Needing an early start so Brian could get ready for work on Monday morning, we crawled into the bags around nine.
Monday, September 22, 2014
Friday
Every so often when in the boonies I get the feeling Armageddon has happened and I've missed it. The whole world gone. Pfft. None left but us paddlers out beyond cell phone range and no one left to call even if we could hook up. Anyhow, that's what I was feeling when I awoke. That, a stiff back and a right arm that hadn't as yet rejoined the living.
Light level is my alarm clock. It's hard to stay in bed past 6am in the summer and hard to roll out of the sack before 7am in the dreariness of winter. Several times during the night I'd awakened to eyeball the tent ceiling looking for signs of morning. For an hour after my mid-night stumble into the woods to urinate, it got a little brighter, then got darker again like the earth had gotten tired of spinning west to east and reversed itself. Not sure what was going on I did the only logical thing, hit the snooze alarm in hope morning would eventually arrive. Finally both of us gave up the ghost and arose under an intense overcast. Layers on layers of clouds shielding us from from the evil, melanoma raising rays. But it wasn't raining and no rain was in the forecast. We had food, a stove and a lake full of fish to catch right outside our door. Out of the tent we found no frost on the ground but we could see our breath in the air. Our morning prayer of thanksgiving was for the person who came up with long johns (rumor has it they were named after John L. Sullivan. Must have been cold when he was in the ring. Could have been his bare chest and knuckles that brought on the chill). Life was good.
As far as the fishing went on Friday I'd best talk about how well we ate and all the firewood Brian gathered. Yeah, it was slow. The cause could have been the massive cold front that'd passed through on Wednesday. Could have been the angle of the sun during the few moments it'd peeked through the clouds. Could have been our lure selection, where we fished, the color of my boots or even what I'd eaten for breakfast on my last day of school back in eighth grade at St. Austin's. Best skip the last one or I'll start blaming it all on the nuns once again (truth be known I'm leaning on having done something terribly wrong in my previous life as a flatworm in Ireland. Karma is a powerful thing.).
Sausages, eggs and Texas fried potato patties? Could be that's what we had. If we didn't, that's what we should have had. A few days earlier while packing I distinctly remembered thinking, "Spatula? Spatula? We don't need no stinking spatula!" On Thursday while flipping the grilled cheese I realized my mistake. Fingers and a fork worked okay but a spatula would have been way better. Looking at six eggs in the morning's pan that little voice in my head laid another of those nasty 'I told you so's' on me. Nasty little voice. Only one thing to do, grab the fork once more, cut and scramble the whole mess up and call it breakfast. It ate good.
It's not like we spent all our time in camp working out the day's menu. In fact we pushed off and covered most of the east third of West Pike. Hours and hours of fishing. And we weren't skunked. We worked bays, points, protected spots and wave beaten shores. Jigged them, spun them and threw plugs both big and small. The bass, they were a tight lipped pack on Friday, no fun at all. That's why we finally pulled ashore for Brian to gather deadfall and drift wood. All bone dry and bark free. There we also learned birch trees are next on a beaver's pecking order after aspen. Got me wondering if it's the taste of aspen or its relative softness Bucky finds attractive. While I pondered that earth shaking problem, Brian scampered along the shore gathering this and sawing that, then throwing armfuls of wood into the canoe. Yup, he was pilin' himself up quite a load. Good thing we were in the middle of a lake in the middle of rain drenched forest. Our chances of being hunted down as the perpetrators of the Great West Pike Fire of 2014 were slim.
Dinner was a whole different story than the fishing. Sometimes it's not so much what you're doing but how you're doing it. Dinner was high on both. Steak, taters and a lot of carrots. In years past I'd brought along a bag of little carrots as grinders with digestion in mind. There's a lot of soft food consumed in the backwoods. Seems soft food has a way of sticking to your ribs as the old folks used to say. Not only sticks to your ribs but has a way of moseying through one's digestive system in no hurry what-so-ever to again see the light of day. Call the carrots an inducement.
Before firing up the stove Brian broke open a wedge of French cheese he'd brought along to go with the box of wine he'd also packed. So there we sat, or stood, cup of dry wine in one hand, bits of cheese in the other, men in the woods. Yarrgg!
We'll start with the potatoes. They were store bought hash brown patties. Had the seasonings and some kind of oil already infused. Outside of the potato chunks there was little in them that smacked of homemade. But they were tasty, kind of like having fast food in the forest. The carrots were fried en masse in a puddle of foaming butter and seasonings till they were caramelized and nicely browned. Decadent indeed and all Brian's idea. The strip steaks were fried much the same, seared to a black crispness on the outside then warmed through over a much reduced heat. Dessert was granola bars and honey crisp apples. Damnation it was fine!
One of the pleasures of camping is taking the time to prepare a good meal. I didn't know that in the early days. Back then my idea was packing a dozen envelopes of freeze dried meals, to save weight of course, adding water and heating the meal to a tolerable warmth. The stuff wasn't nauseating and if we were hungry enough, which was pretty much every meal, it went hot and fast. At least until the last few bites from the pouch when the stuff had cooled and my tastes buds were in shock.
Regardless of the passage of time freeze dried was no real improvement over the c-rations and LRRP rations we had in Vietnam. Yeah, they also went down easily at first. Hunger can overcome bad tasting food for a while but only for a while. Finally, after a month in the field, my menu was reduced to crackers, peanut butter, fruit, desserts and candy. Meals be damned. Travel light and eat what you can stomach on a daily basis was a grunt's motto.
Back in Allan and my Canada days we began to drag along a cooler with fresh food. All told our food weight doubled but our meal appreciation went off the chart. Maybe that's an exaggeration but you get the idea. With fresh food, cooking turned into preparing, took longer but became part of the experience, the fun.
Long story not so long, Brian and I ate well and took some of the edge off the mediocre fishing. After the sun went down Brian kindled his bonfire. He fired up a big bright blaze with occasional billows of smoke to make up for our lack of tobacco. These days I seem to enjoy a fire more when someone else does the tending. The weather was supposed to hold for another day and in the morning we were off to East Pike Lake.
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