Off to the cabin tomorrow with a side trip through Sioux Falls, there to pick up my son-in-law Ryan and his son, Jakob Dean. Another Dean. Like they're coming out of the woodwork.
Jake likes to fish. But being from the prairies he hasn't had a lot of luck. So we're heading to the great northwoods where the big fishes live. Also my chance to addict another southerner to the way of the rod.
It's also my chance to get the jonboat onto the water. Last time up I had the trolling motor up and running, cleaned the boat and leaned it up against a tree. It's not like being in a canoe. But a jonboat and electric motor isn't too far off, especially with the oars aboard to ease my conscience.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Some Days are Diamonds - Even in the Rain
Third day. Enough with exploring, time to hammer down. Our lake du jour was an old friend. Over a dozen plus trips and I'd never been disappointed. Flat out my favorite lake near the cabin. It has everything. A treasure. And it's well under a hundred acres. Mostly bass and bluegills. However, I've seen a couple of perch that looked like small, day-glo walleyes. Four of them would feed two people nicely. Over the last ten years I've claimed again and again that if I ever tied into a handful of jumbo perch, they were supper. I'll believe that when I see it.
Also, there was the time I was bobber fishing with a small jig on four pound test. Why not? Never caught anything with teeth in that lake. Light line was perfect for the bluegills I was bringing in simply to ogle their colors and throw back with a satisfied chuckle. All fine and dandy until the bobber slowly sank at an angle, turned and came at the canoe. Kinda like the great white shark in Jaws. First it was stripping line, then I was reeling as fast as I could. The fish seemed in no hurry. Like it hadn't a worry in the world being connected to such thin monofilament. Finally it hung a big bodied right, stripped off line 'til it pinged and was gone. Had to be a big pike. Or maybe a beaver. Since then a pike turns up once in a while. Nothing big, but they're in there.
Even though it's one of the loves of my life, I was reluctant to head that way after breakfast. I remembered Eldon as not being a fan of the lake. When the subject came up, he said he remembered it as me who wasn't a fan. What we'd had having was a failure to communicate. We were off in a shot. In a dense, misting overcast.
The lake is truly a carry-in body of water. One look at the line of boulders ending the total crap two-track leaves no doubt of that. What had me worried this morning was the oil pan deep, two-hundred yard long, sand pit we had to negotiate before reaching the boulders. It'd rained pretty hard during the night. The sand had me thinking a good length of towing strap, a come-along and a chain saw would have been fine additions to our fishing gear. Coming down the last rubbly downhill, I gunned it as much as I dared. Something of a slow down but all-in-all, no sweat. Once again my fears were bigger than my stomach.
Right from the get-go Larry and Ryan went into their shore hugging routine. Not that they're predictable. That's just what they do. Always. Don't know if they're scared of open water or like being near trees but creeping along in six inches of water seems to work for them. There's a lesson to be learned there. Some fly fishermen always fish the same type of fly. And manage to do as well as those who match the hatch. Some fish spinners to the exclusion of common sense. It seems familiarity may breed contempt but doing the same thing over and over does lead to some degree of skill and adaptability. So the two of them fish shallow. And do well at it.
Me and Eldon are of the fart-in-a-lantern school. Not exactly sure what that means but my Mom used the phrase once in a while. And not in a complimentary way. I also don't think she had fishing in mind. As for me and El Dean, we move. Work a spot for a short while. If it proves hot, we stay. If not, we move on.
Right off we headed to a small bay that most always holds fish. But not today. In fact, we fan casted the shore from one end to the other. Then back again. The one or two hits we had were no reason to stay. We moved deep and found a couple. Then a couple more. Aha! Or maybe, Eureka! A plan was quickly formed and we worked it over and over for the rest of the morning.
The south wind became our friend. At least during the fishing part. To set up we'd paddle most of the way up wind across the small lake. Then turn broadside to the breeze and let it slowly drift us over the drop-off weed line. There the lake deepens from five to ten feet. As a plus, a line of cabbage follows the drop. Each drift was worth a half dozen bass. Once in a while a jumbo perch or aggressive bluegill. Most bass were around a foot. A few topped sixteen inches and one of Eldon's, just under twenty. That's a near wall hanger for a fifty acre lake. Or most any Minnesota lake for that matter.
All the while the drizzle came and went. Again and again. Sometimes building to a two minute light rain. We don't sight fish so there's always time to scan the skies and shore. Ospreys and Bald Eagles have come to be a common sight. I was forty-seven when I saw my first eagle. Now it's a rare day when we don't see a couple. And we did today. Wading great blue herons, tail slapping beavers, deer drinking from the shore. Always loons. We gave them a wide berth. Come June they usually have a fuzz ball or two riding their backs or paddling alongside. Knowing they're there and being serenaded is enough.
We broke for a short lunch with the other two. Actually we paddled down to the access to take a leak. Larry and Ryan had the same calling. So long as we were there, we snacked and made plans for the afternoon. Normally we'd have moved on. But not today. The other two had done at least as well as me and Eldon. In fact Larry had put our catch to shame with a twenty-two inch, paddle measured bass. And had the picture to prove it. That factors out to between six and seven pounds. Possible bass of a lifetime. When Larry dies we'll know for sure. Hope he catches bigger and lives long.
So the plan was simple. Why leave when we're having one of those days we're gonna remember for years? So we stayed and caught bass 'til our arms were tired. Then caught a few more. It's a long time between bass for Eldon. This day had to last him through the winter.
So we headed back through the sand pit toward some steaks waiting at the cabin. Seems the sirloins had a hankering to become fertilizer. And we were more than happy to oblige them.
Ryan is the barbecuer. It's not so much that he's good at it, which he is, but he seems to relish having the hair and upper layer of skin burned off the back of his hands by oak flame. Me, I get a kick out of seeing him dance through the smoke. He's like a windsock when the breeze is up. Like Mary's little lamb, no matter where he places himself at the pit, the wind is sure to follow.
My job is to fry the spuds. My mom was a master at turning the mundane into simple pleasure. There's no way I can duplicate her art with spuds or my fourteen year old taste buds for that matter, but I try. Half baked potatoes, sliced thin. Two, yes two, vidalia onions coarsely diced. A wad of butter in the pan thinned with a dollop of olive oil. My mom never used olive oil. My God, how could she? She was one hundred per cent German.
Fry the onions 'til they turn clear. Then add the spuds. Salt and pepper to taste. For me that's light on the salt, heavy on the pepper. If the boys from down south didn't have such delicate stomaches I'd shake in a tablespoon of Tabasco. Yum! Then fry the hell out of 'em, turning constantly. A lot of gold and a hint of black is what your looking for. Problem is there's no way you can fry enough 'taters for four hungry men when using a two burner stove.
Meat, potatoes and asparagus. Oh well, what you gonna do when there's no capers? Hard to tell we were suffering what with all the satisfied moanings.
Also, there was the time I was bobber fishing with a small jig on four pound test. Why not? Never caught anything with teeth in that lake. Light line was perfect for the bluegills I was bringing in simply to ogle their colors and throw back with a satisfied chuckle. All fine and dandy until the bobber slowly sank at an angle, turned and came at the canoe. Kinda like the great white shark in Jaws. First it was stripping line, then I was reeling as fast as I could. The fish seemed in no hurry. Like it hadn't a worry in the world being connected to such thin monofilament. Finally it hung a big bodied right, stripped off line 'til it pinged and was gone. Had to be a big pike. Or maybe a beaver. Since then a pike turns up once in a while. Nothing big, but they're in there.
Even though it's one of the loves of my life, I was reluctant to head that way after breakfast. I remembered Eldon as not being a fan of the lake. When the subject came up, he said he remembered it as me who wasn't a fan. What we'd had having was a failure to communicate. We were off in a shot. In a dense, misting overcast.
The lake is truly a carry-in body of water. One look at the line of boulders ending the total crap two-track leaves no doubt of that. What had me worried this morning was the oil pan deep, two-hundred yard long, sand pit we had to negotiate before reaching the boulders. It'd rained pretty hard during the night. The sand had me thinking a good length of towing strap, a come-along and a chain saw would have been fine additions to our fishing gear. Coming down the last rubbly downhill, I gunned it as much as I dared. Something of a slow down but all-in-all, no sweat. Once again my fears were bigger than my stomach.
Right from the get-go Larry and Ryan went into their shore hugging routine. Not that they're predictable. That's just what they do. Always. Don't know if they're scared of open water or like being near trees but creeping along in six inches of water seems to work for them. There's a lesson to be learned there. Some fly fishermen always fish the same type of fly. And manage to do as well as those who match the hatch. Some fish spinners to the exclusion of common sense. It seems familiarity may breed contempt but doing the same thing over and over does lead to some degree of skill and adaptability. So the two of them fish shallow. And do well at it.
Me and Eldon are of the fart-in-a-lantern school. Not exactly sure what that means but my Mom used the phrase once in a while. And not in a complimentary way. I also don't think she had fishing in mind. As for me and El Dean, we move. Work a spot for a short while. If it proves hot, we stay. If not, we move on.
Right off we headed to a small bay that most always holds fish. But not today. In fact, we fan casted the shore from one end to the other. Then back again. The one or two hits we had were no reason to stay. We moved deep and found a couple. Then a couple more. Aha! Or maybe, Eureka! A plan was quickly formed and we worked it over and over for the rest of the morning.
The south wind became our friend. At least during the fishing part. To set up we'd paddle most of the way up wind across the small lake. Then turn broadside to the breeze and let it slowly drift us over the drop-off weed line. There the lake deepens from five to ten feet. As a plus, a line of cabbage follows the drop. Each drift was worth a half dozen bass. Once in a while a jumbo perch or aggressive bluegill. Most bass were around a foot. A few topped sixteen inches and one of Eldon's, just under twenty. That's a near wall hanger for a fifty acre lake. Or most any Minnesota lake for that matter.
All the while the drizzle came and went. Again and again. Sometimes building to a two minute light rain. We don't sight fish so there's always time to scan the skies and shore. Ospreys and Bald Eagles have come to be a common sight. I was forty-seven when I saw my first eagle. Now it's a rare day when we don't see a couple. And we did today. Wading great blue herons, tail slapping beavers, deer drinking from the shore. Always loons. We gave them a wide berth. Come June they usually have a fuzz ball or two riding their backs or paddling alongside. Knowing they're there and being serenaded is enough.
We broke for a short lunch with the other two. Actually we paddled down to the access to take a leak. Larry and Ryan had the same calling. So long as we were there, we snacked and made plans for the afternoon. Normally we'd have moved on. But not today. The other two had done at least as well as me and Eldon. In fact Larry had put our catch to shame with a twenty-two inch, paddle measured bass. And had the picture to prove it. That factors out to between six and seven pounds. Possible bass of a lifetime. When Larry dies we'll know for sure. Hope he catches bigger and lives long.
So the plan was simple. Why leave when we're having one of those days we're gonna remember for years? So we stayed and caught bass 'til our arms were tired. Then caught a few more. It's a long time between bass for Eldon. This day had to last him through the winter.
So we headed back through the sand pit toward some steaks waiting at the cabin. Seems the sirloins had a hankering to become fertilizer. And we were more than happy to oblige them.
Ryan is the barbecuer. It's not so much that he's good at it, which he is, but he seems to relish having the hair and upper layer of skin burned off the back of his hands by oak flame. Me, I get a kick out of seeing him dance through the smoke. He's like a windsock when the breeze is up. Like Mary's little lamb, no matter where he places himself at the pit, the wind is sure to follow.
My job is to fry the spuds. My mom was a master at turning the mundane into simple pleasure. There's no way I can duplicate her art with spuds or my fourteen year old taste buds for that matter, but I try. Half baked potatoes, sliced thin. Two, yes two, vidalia onions coarsely diced. A wad of butter in the pan thinned with a dollop of olive oil. My mom never used olive oil. My God, how could she? She was one hundred per cent German.
Fry the onions 'til they turn clear. Then add the spuds. Salt and pepper to taste. For me that's light on the salt, heavy on the pepper. If the boys from down south didn't have such delicate stomaches I'd shake in a tablespoon of Tabasco. Yum! Then fry the hell out of 'em, turning constantly. A lot of gold and a hint of black is what your looking for. Problem is there's no way you can fry enough 'taters for four hungry men when using a two burner stove.
Meat, potatoes and asparagus. Oh well, what you gonna do when there's no capers? Hard to tell we were suffering what with all the satisfied moanings.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Buffoons on Parade - act I
I'm 65. And hear as good as I used to. But that's no problem. All I have to do is talk a little louder and can hear if what I'm saying is the same as what I'm thinking. Not a problem for me at all. My wife Lois seems to feel differently. Mostly when we're in quiet public places like a movie or church. You see I've got this sense of humor that has no sense of common decency. Death and moral depravity strike me as the ultimate punch lines. Especially death. And when my mind gets going I can make myself at home in some odd, twisted place most people would never conceive of and blurt out a full description in living color. Usually when that happens my intention is to whisper. But Lord knows I ain't. I'm excited and want to share. And then Lois gives me the look. And tells me to hold it down. I blame it on being in Vietnam. When you've seen your share of unnecessary death the world starts to look a little different. Truth is that I've always been that way. Being 65 years old has given me plenty of time to hone my skills. I count it a good thing that I don't spend a lot of time in church. Not so much for me but for all those innocent ears who enter with the intention of being uplifted, not offended.
Whether or not the above rant is supposed to go anywhere constructive is yet to be seen. I'm hoping some vague form of concept will come to mind and bail my ass out. What I'm working around to is lunch in Walker, MN. And maybe the idea that a couple of burritos, with rice, beans extra and two Dos XXs shouldn't come to twenty bucks on the lunch menu.
And that it's a mistake for me to sit with my back to the restaurant. Maybe that's what happened to Wild Bill Hickok. Probably sat facing the door so's he'd be reminded he was surrounded by polite society, in a drunken frontier sense, and should watch his tongue. One time he's forced to sit the other direction, speaks his mind, offends some civic minded Tea Party soul and the next thing he knows there's holes through his body.
It's an election year. In a passionately divided nation. And I was sitting at a table of tolerant Republicans. Actually I know for sure that Larry and Ryan are. Larry doesn't push his agenda and Ryan seems at least to lean over the edge of the road's middle. Don't know about Eldon. He has his opinions. No doubt about that. But they're closer to home than the war in Afghanistan or gay marriage. Me, I was born in Humphrey-land and Vietnam bent me quite a ways to the left. And I speak loudly. And my back was to the room.
Don't recall exactly what I might have said. But I kept getting the feeling someone I couldn't see was getting ready to cold-cock me with a beer mug. Or maybe it was Eldon. If so, I'd have deserved it. I ride him way too much. Maybe because he was an acting-jack desk sergeant MP when he was in the Army. Maybe my rant on the pointless war in Afghanistan was offending one of the 4th of July parade, draped in flags and leather, Harley riders. Don't even get me started on Michelle Bachman and how if you take her seriously you should be put away. One of these days I'm gonna have to stuff a sock in it. There's a fine line between intelligent commentary and being an old man frothing at the mouth about nothing much in general. Hope I haven't already crossed that line.
The beer was good and the lunch about what you could expect in a town sixty miles from the wrong border for Mexican food.
Back on the street we headed for the cars. First job was to rehitch the canoe trailer. You see, Walker mostly has diagonal parking. So the trailer had to be detached and given its own parking spot or it'd be blocking the street. I kinda liked taking up two parking spots. Also liked that our canoes were the only ones we saw on the water or the road. Seeing another one on the top of a car is like a reunion with someone I don't know. That's life up near the cabin this year, last year, any year. Almost like the only legal spot you can float a canoe in state is up in the Arrowhead. It's an odd life, eh?
So, the question was, where were we goin' fishing this afternoon? Of course there was the plan. And the others usually let me make the call. I think that has to do with not wanting to be responsible for a skunking. I don't like to be fishless either but have come to accept that as part of fishing. You watch the pros and the fishing shows and are led to think that the big boys never get skunked. And they rarely do. Factor in the fishing guide they're with, who's on his home turf, and tape editing, and you get the real picture. Like the old saw, the fish are always there; sometimes you catch 'em and sometimes you don't.
The weather was changing. Dark clouds rolling in. A good sign for success. My choice? Another trout lake. Simple drive from Walker. Seven miles of pavement. Four of gravel. Four more of good sand. Three without passing room. A left on a decent two-track with a few mud holes. And finally, the usual brush scraping down the side, slow down for rubble, coupla road ponds and we were there.
Makes my day when Eldon says, "How the hell do you find these places?" Truth is that it's easier than it looks but there's no way I'd let that out of the bag.
Then it's ten minutes of look at the lake, pee in the bushes and get the gear unloaded and reloaded. While that's going on the clouds are getting darker. And then the rain starts. The three tenderfeet from down south all have their rain gear. I'm impressed. And have none myself. I'm dressed for indoor lunch and the sun beating down on a bass lake. Totally unprepared. An idiot.
Larry, on the other hand, was more than prepared. Even had an extra rain suit. Honestly, I didn't want to borrow it. But, you see, it was raining really hard. And I was afraid I'd melt. And the flying monkeys wouldn't be my friends anymore. So for the sake of the monkeys, I thanked Larry and put it on.
So how do the lesser gods reward such kindness? Picture two canoes parallel, pointed into a tiny trout lake. The rain has slowed to a freckling on the water. In the Alumacraft on the left, Ryan sits upfront, ready to go. Larry is standing, half in, half out of the boat. Ready to push off. Slowly, like a slug in mud, my brain comes awake, to realize it would be both a helpful and a safe move to lend them a hand. Somewhere in the microsecond between hang and on, Larry, beginning to lose his balance, did a waltzing stumble to his right. Immediately followed by a counterbalance to the left. All the while, rocking the boat. Kind of an I got it, I got it air about him. But he doesn't got it. And finishes with a half twisting, belly flop back to his right. Into the lake. Towards open water, like he'd decided to head out on his own. Six inches of lake ain't enough to make a sploosh. When he hit, it was more of a kerchuck. And successfully manages to dump Ryan and his gear into the shallow water. Eldon, and especially Ryan, were completely taken by surprise. Lucky me, I got to watch it in slow motion. Guess Larry didn't need a rain suit after all. Outside of a brief dunking and a red face, both were okay. Easy for me to say.
Out on the water, conditions were ideal. Had we caught anything they'd even have been better. But we didn't. Once again it was a series of short strikes. We got hits. A fair amount of them. But none were hooked. Slow, wary, seen it all? I was clueless. If we'd been dead into boating fish, worms, split shot and small hook would have been the way to go. Just a guess of course. In my mind, live bait smacks of cheating. Spinners are bad enough but at least we'd have been fooling them with homemade lures. I'll go back with fly rod in hand. Throw a Royal Wulff or an Adams at them. Not exactly matching the hatch but close enough for a buggy whipper like me.
Whether or not the above rant is supposed to go anywhere constructive is yet to be seen. I'm hoping some vague form of concept will come to mind and bail my ass out. What I'm working around to is lunch in Walker, MN. And maybe the idea that a couple of burritos, with rice, beans extra and two Dos XXs shouldn't come to twenty bucks on the lunch menu.
And that it's a mistake for me to sit with my back to the restaurant. Maybe that's what happened to Wild Bill Hickok. Probably sat facing the door so's he'd be reminded he was surrounded by polite society, in a drunken frontier sense, and should watch his tongue. One time he's forced to sit the other direction, speaks his mind, offends some civic minded Tea Party soul and the next thing he knows there's holes through his body.
It's an election year. In a passionately divided nation. And I was sitting at a table of tolerant Republicans. Actually I know for sure that Larry and Ryan are. Larry doesn't push his agenda and Ryan seems at least to lean over the edge of the road's middle. Don't know about Eldon. He has his opinions. No doubt about that. But they're closer to home than the war in Afghanistan or gay marriage. Me, I was born in Humphrey-land and Vietnam bent me quite a ways to the left. And I speak loudly. And my back was to the room.
Don't recall exactly what I might have said. But I kept getting the feeling someone I couldn't see was getting ready to cold-cock me with a beer mug. Or maybe it was Eldon. If so, I'd have deserved it. I ride him way too much. Maybe because he was an acting-jack desk sergeant MP when he was in the Army. Maybe my rant on the pointless war in Afghanistan was offending one of the 4th of July parade, draped in flags and leather, Harley riders. Don't even get me started on Michelle Bachman and how if you take her seriously you should be put away. One of these days I'm gonna have to stuff a sock in it. There's a fine line between intelligent commentary and being an old man frothing at the mouth about nothing much in general. Hope I haven't already crossed that line.
The beer was good and the lunch about what you could expect in a town sixty miles from the wrong border for Mexican food.
Back on the street we headed for the cars. First job was to rehitch the canoe trailer. You see, Walker mostly has diagonal parking. So the trailer had to be detached and given its own parking spot or it'd be blocking the street. I kinda liked taking up two parking spots. Also liked that our canoes were the only ones we saw on the water or the road. Seeing another one on the top of a car is like a reunion with someone I don't know. That's life up near the cabin this year, last year, any year. Almost like the only legal spot you can float a canoe in state is up in the Arrowhead. It's an odd life, eh?
So, the question was, where were we goin' fishing this afternoon? Of course there was the plan. And the others usually let me make the call. I think that has to do with not wanting to be responsible for a skunking. I don't like to be fishless either but have come to accept that as part of fishing. You watch the pros and the fishing shows and are led to think that the big boys never get skunked. And they rarely do. Factor in the fishing guide they're with, who's on his home turf, and tape editing, and you get the real picture. Like the old saw, the fish are always there; sometimes you catch 'em and sometimes you don't.
The weather was changing. Dark clouds rolling in. A good sign for success. My choice? Another trout lake. Simple drive from Walker. Seven miles of pavement. Four of gravel. Four more of good sand. Three without passing room. A left on a decent two-track with a few mud holes. And finally, the usual brush scraping down the side, slow down for rubble, coupla road ponds and we were there.
Makes my day when Eldon says, "How the hell do you find these places?" Truth is that it's easier than it looks but there's no way I'd let that out of the bag.
Then it's ten minutes of look at the lake, pee in the bushes and get the gear unloaded and reloaded. While that's going on the clouds are getting darker. And then the rain starts. The three tenderfeet from down south all have their rain gear. I'm impressed. And have none myself. I'm dressed for indoor lunch and the sun beating down on a bass lake. Totally unprepared. An idiot.
Larry, on the other hand, was more than prepared. Even had an extra rain suit. Honestly, I didn't want to borrow it. But, you see, it was raining really hard. And I was afraid I'd melt. And the flying monkeys wouldn't be my friends anymore. So for the sake of the monkeys, I thanked Larry and put it on.
So how do the lesser gods reward such kindness? Picture two canoes parallel, pointed into a tiny trout lake. The rain has slowed to a freckling on the water. In the Alumacraft on the left, Ryan sits upfront, ready to go. Larry is standing, half in, half out of the boat. Ready to push off. Slowly, like a slug in mud, my brain comes awake, to realize it would be both a helpful and a safe move to lend them a hand. Somewhere in the microsecond between hang and on, Larry, beginning to lose his balance, did a waltzing stumble to his right. Immediately followed by a counterbalance to the left. All the while, rocking the boat. Kind of an I got it, I got it air about him. But he doesn't got it. And finishes with a half twisting, belly flop back to his right. Into the lake. Towards open water, like he'd decided to head out on his own. Six inches of lake ain't enough to make a sploosh. When he hit, it was more of a kerchuck. And successfully manages to dump Ryan and his gear into the shallow water. Eldon, and especially Ryan, were completely taken by surprise. Lucky me, I got to watch it in slow motion. Guess Larry didn't need a rain suit after all. Outside of a brief dunking and a red face, both were okay. Easy for me to say.
Out on the water, conditions were ideal. Had we caught anything they'd even have been better. But we didn't. Once again it was a series of short strikes. We got hits. A fair amount of them. But none were hooked. Slow, wary, seen it all? I was clueless. If we'd been dead into boating fish, worms, split shot and small hook would have been the way to go. Just a guess of course. In my mind, live bait smacks of cheating. Spinners are bad enough but at least we'd have been fooling them with homemade lures. I'll go back with fly rod in hand. Throw a Royal Wulff or an Adams at them. Not exactly matching the hatch but close enough for a buggy whipper like me.
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Smallmouth Bass
Can't say I've ever dreamt about catching them. Mostly I try and fail in those dreams. Usually the lake is East Pike. I caught my first one there. It's been years since the last dream. What seemed to be the recurring theme was the continual shrinking of the lake. And the growing incursion of civilization. Spookier than hell to me.
The first one I ever saw was caught by one of my cousins. I was at Big Birch Lake with a couple of my Aunt Lavina and Uncle Joe's teen-age sons. They all made a big deal about the fish. Like it was something special. And so it became something special to me. Give me a break. I was only seven years old. Snot nosed.
The ones Rod and I caught on East Pike twelve years later were a total surprise. I'd only seen the one when I was a kid but there was no doubt in my mind that they were smallies. Big, hard hitting. A fish of the Canadian border. And that was as far from civilization as you could get without crossing the border. The border was a big deal to a kid from the Twin Cities back in 1966. The end of life as we knew it. The boonies. And East Pike wasn't a boonie you could drive to. The hundred-eighty rod portage separated it and us from the world of television and indoor plumbing. You had to work to get there. Pay your dues. That was where smallmouth bass lived. The idea of catching them from a boat with a motor on the back just didn't fit the image. Some of that feeling still lives in me. Always will.
I had mixed emotions when we set off on Wednesday morning. And not because of the breakfast. For a change I had my usual gut fillers. Don't do meat or eggs unless there's no choice, which usually means someone else is doing the cooking. My idea of heaven is two kinds of cereal mixed in with fruit and almonds. Add a banana and a tumbler of orange juice. Yeah, I suppose it's healthy. But that's not why I eat it. Flavor baby, flavor. And it makes my tummy feel good. Maybe having breakfast stick to my ribs had a lot to do with us sticking to the plan.
Would have been fun had we caught more on the first day. But we saw new water and maybe learned a little in a negative sense. Also, having a slow day would help define the good days. We'd been at the game long enough to know not every day is a winner as to fish in the boat. Not a big deal. We'd learned it wasn't hard to put a lot of fish in the boat. And knew where a few of the barrels were. No doubt we'd hit one or two before the week was out. Our hope was finding a new treasure.
The mixed emotions had to do with smallmouth bass. I wanted to find them. No doubt about that. But it wouldn't be the same as the Boundary Waters or the Quetico. The lake we were heading for had a public access. I didn't like the sound of that. That's why we'd always driven past on our way to other waters. There'd be boats. Big boats. Big boats with behemoth engines. And live wells. And electronics that did everything but actually catch fish. Time, temperature and internet. As far as I'm concerned all that stuff screws the pooch. No matter what Al Lindner says, a boat full of gadgets doesn't make you a better fisherman. Lord knows he doesn't need them. He's already a good fisherman. As for me, it's hard pretending I'm in the boonies when there's other people on the water. Yup, I'm an elitist whiner. And damned proud of it.
The lake we were off to see also had a thicket of run of the mill largemouth bass. Some big ones in the mix. Better than nothing I suppose. But the idea of largemouth, no matter how big, seemed to pollute my idea of smallie water. My problem, as usual.
Like i said, we'd seen the lake before in a drive-by kind of way. Usually there were a couple of trucks with boat trailers at the gravel access. No so today. The breeze was up and the sun out. Not the best conditions but the wave chop was in our favor, as was the southerly wind. The water was beyond clear with a slight green tint. Almost Caribbean. Both canoes headed down the left shore. Larry and Ryan took the first bay. Fine with me. It was sandy bottomed. Not my smallmouth cup of tea.
Before pushing off, I'd delivered the smallmouth gospel. Fist sized rocks. Lots of 'em. Whole shorelines of 'em. Smallies are finicky. They like it clean bottomed. And they like to eat crayfish. Crayfish live in rubble covered bottoms. Kinda all comes together doesn't it? Take a peek down a smallmouth's gullet and you just might see a crayfish looking back at you. Help me! Help me! And I'll give you three wishes. Happened to me on East Pike. Made me think bass must suck them down tail first. Next time I'm in Cajun country I'll have to watch how they do it. Maybe there's a connection. East Pike, the Quetico and Mann Lake, every smallmouth I've caught, all were hooked on rubble bottoms. That's why it's gospel. And why Eldon and I paddled on.
Wasn't but the next point and it was rubble for as far as we could see. Time to fish. We were drifting down wind. As usual the breeze spun us broadside to the waves. A bit of a bob but definitely fishable.I turned us nose to shore. Kinda the opposite of ideal but you take what life throws at you and make the best of it. Clear water like we were floating on calls for long casts. That is if you intend to catch bass.
Don't know if Eldon heard me but he kept flipping toward shore. Or if I actually said it out loud. But he kept short flipping and pretty much catching zip. I was throwing downwind and parallel to shore. Casting so hard the canoe would bounce when I let her rip. That's not an exaggeration. Can't say I know the physics of it, probably action and reaction, but suppose the bounce has to do with my arm and butt being connected by my torso. If you've ever pitched a lure for all you're worth while sitting in a canoe, well, it's a pretty neat feeling ain't it? A kajoing!, more or less.
Yes, I did catch me some bass. All smallmouth. Yup, it was fun. And they did jump. And spit the hook even better than their big mouthed cousins. Maybe I need to sharpen my hooks? And they did fight and feel bigger than they actually were. And no, it wasn't the same as fishing East Pike Lake. But it was definitely okay.
The only draw down was the wind. Snorting and keeping our drift way too fast for my liking. A half dozen smallies in a half mile of rubble. Good, good lake indeed. Good enough for a return trip or two. Now if the county would tear out the road that passes along the south shore or barricade the access and bulldoze the cabins along the shore and make it illegal for anyone to fish the water unless they were in a canoe. Then you'd have something. Or at least I would. Guess my idea of the People's Water mostly pertains to me.
While me and Eldon were doing our thing, Larry and Ryan were doing just fine. Mixing their smallmouth with largemouth. Sometimes I'd watch them from a distance. See how they're doing and how they're doing it. Like watching whoever's in the canoe with me, it's entertaining and gets my mind working. Saturday morning fishing show in real time with people I know as the stars. Seeing others drifting along, self propelled, catching fish, is a joy.
Before the morning was out we'd toured all three miles of shoreline. Saw enough and caught enough to know the spots to hit the next time. By the time our stomaches were grumbling the bass were taking a deep water siesta. Time for lunch. And maybe a couple of Dos XXs.
The first one I ever saw was caught by one of my cousins. I was at Big Birch Lake with a couple of my Aunt Lavina and Uncle Joe's teen-age sons. They all made a big deal about the fish. Like it was something special. And so it became something special to me. Give me a break. I was only seven years old. Snot nosed.
The ones Rod and I caught on East Pike twelve years later were a total surprise. I'd only seen the one when I was a kid but there was no doubt in my mind that they were smallies. Big, hard hitting. A fish of the Canadian border. And that was as far from civilization as you could get without crossing the border. The border was a big deal to a kid from the Twin Cities back in 1966. The end of life as we knew it. The boonies. And East Pike wasn't a boonie you could drive to. The hundred-eighty rod portage separated it and us from the world of television and indoor plumbing. You had to work to get there. Pay your dues. That was where smallmouth bass lived. The idea of catching them from a boat with a motor on the back just didn't fit the image. Some of that feeling still lives in me. Always will.
I had mixed emotions when we set off on Wednesday morning. And not because of the breakfast. For a change I had my usual gut fillers. Don't do meat or eggs unless there's no choice, which usually means someone else is doing the cooking. My idea of heaven is two kinds of cereal mixed in with fruit and almonds. Add a banana and a tumbler of orange juice. Yeah, I suppose it's healthy. But that's not why I eat it. Flavor baby, flavor. And it makes my tummy feel good. Maybe having breakfast stick to my ribs had a lot to do with us sticking to the plan.
Would have been fun had we caught more on the first day. But we saw new water and maybe learned a little in a negative sense. Also, having a slow day would help define the good days. We'd been at the game long enough to know not every day is a winner as to fish in the boat. Not a big deal. We'd learned it wasn't hard to put a lot of fish in the boat. And knew where a few of the barrels were. No doubt we'd hit one or two before the week was out. Our hope was finding a new treasure.
The mixed emotions had to do with smallmouth bass. I wanted to find them. No doubt about that. But it wouldn't be the same as the Boundary Waters or the Quetico. The lake we were heading for had a public access. I didn't like the sound of that. That's why we'd always driven past on our way to other waters. There'd be boats. Big boats. Big boats with behemoth engines. And live wells. And electronics that did everything but actually catch fish. Time, temperature and internet. As far as I'm concerned all that stuff screws the pooch. No matter what Al Lindner says, a boat full of gadgets doesn't make you a better fisherman. Lord knows he doesn't need them. He's already a good fisherman. As for me, it's hard pretending I'm in the boonies when there's other people on the water. Yup, I'm an elitist whiner. And damned proud of it.
The lake we were off to see also had a thicket of run of the mill largemouth bass. Some big ones in the mix. Better than nothing I suppose. But the idea of largemouth, no matter how big, seemed to pollute my idea of smallie water. My problem, as usual.
Like i said, we'd seen the lake before in a drive-by kind of way. Usually there were a couple of trucks with boat trailers at the gravel access. No so today. The breeze was up and the sun out. Not the best conditions but the wave chop was in our favor, as was the southerly wind. The water was beyond clear with a slight green tint. Almost Caribbean. Both canoes headed down the left shore. Larry and Ryan took the first bay. Fine with me. It was sandy bottomed. Not my smallmouth cup of tea.
Before pushing off, I'd delivered the smallmouth gospel. Fist sized rocks. Lots of 'em. Whole shorelines of 'em. Smallies are finicky. They like it clean bottomed. And they like to eat crayfish. Crayfish live in rubble covered bottoms. Kinda all comes together doesn't it? Take a peek down a smallmouth's gullet and you just might see a crayfish looking back at you. Help me! Help me! And I'll give you three wishes. Happened to me on East Pike. Made me think bass must suck them down tail first. Next time I'm in Cajun country I'll have to watch how they do it. Maybe there's a connection. East Pike, the Quetico and Mann Lake, every smallmouth I've caught, all were hooked on rubble bottoms. That's why it's gospel. And why Eldon and I paddled on.
Wasn't but the next point and it was rubble for as far as we could see. Time to fish. We were drifting down wind. As usual the breeze spun us broadside to the waves. A bit of a bob but definitely fishable.I turned us nose to shore. Kinda the opposite of ideal but you take what life throws at you and make the best of it. Clear water like we were floating on calls for long casts. That is if you intend to catch bass.
Don't know if Eldon heard me but he kept flipping toward shore. Or if I actually said it out loud. But he kept short flipping and pretty much catching zip. I was throwing downwind and parallel to shore. Casting so hard the canoe would bounce when I let her rip. That's not an exaggeration. Can't say I know the physics of it, probably action and reaction, but suppose the bounce has to do with my arm and butt being connected by my torso. If you've ever pitched a lure for all you're worth while sitting in a canoe, well, it's a pretty neat feeling ain't it? A kajoing!, more or less.
Yes, I did catch me some bass. All smallmouth. Yup, it was fun. And they did jump. And spit the hook even better than their big mouthed cousins. Maybe I need to sharpen my hooks? And they did fight and feel bigger than they actually were. And no, it wasn't the same as fishing East Pike Lake. But it was definitely okay.
The only draw down was the wind. Snorting and keeping our drift way too fast for my liking. A half dozen smallies in a half mile of rubble. Good, good lake indeed. Good enough for a return trip or two. Now if the county would tear out the road that passes along the south shore or barricade the access and bulldoze the cabins along the shore and make it illegal for anyone to fish the water unless they were in a canoe. Then you'd have something. Or at least I would. Guess my idea of the People's Water mostly pertains to me.
While me and Eldon were doing our thing, Larry and Ryan were doing just fine. Mixing their smallmouth with largemouth. Sometimes I'd watch them from a distance. See how they're doing and how they're doing it. Like watching whoever's in the canoe with me, it's entertaining and gets my mind working. Saturday morning fishing show in real time with people I know as the stars. Seeing others drifting along, self propelled, catching fish, is a joy.
Before the morning was out we'd toured all three miles of shoreline. Saw enough and caught enough to know the spots to hit the next time. By the time our stomaches were grumbling the bass were taking a deep water siesta. Time for lunch. And maybe a couple of Dos XXs.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Trout
I figured they'd had enough for one day. Six hour drive up north. And an hour prep and drive time to the state forest. Two portages and time on the water. Long day. But they were pumped and who was I to say no? Hell, we were a two minute downhill carry to the trout lake on the one hand. There was dinner to be made back at the cabin on the other. Guess you could say the tilt of the earth came to the rescue. We were nine days from the summer solstice and still had four hours of daylight in our pockets. The decision was made in less than a scan of the group. We loaded the gear in the boats and headed downhill. The prospect of trout is a siren's call to those raised on bullheads.
As we got ready to push off I gave them my whole store of knowledge as to trout fishing in a stocked lake. Put on one of the little spinners I'd made and start casting. They're out there somewhere. Maybe shallow. Maybe deep. Maybe in-between. They are where they are. Also take into account that I ain't caught one in twenty years.
Like most trout lakes, this one was tiny. So tiny the three of them were having a hard time grasping the situation. I just knew they were looking at the points and bays and thinking bass, pike or walleyes. Hard not to when that's the way they'd come to figure water. My fault. Larry and Ryan have their own tactics. No doubt about that. They'll go right in the pads if the conditions call for that. They've learned cover and structure mean food. And food means fish.
But trout like to be comfy. Temperature is everything to them. Structure means diddly. Given time Larry and Ryan would figure it out. But this early evening we didn't have much time. I watched them paddle into a bay. Like I said, who was I to say they wouldn't catch any in shallow water.
Eldon, on the other hand, is a kept man. Sits in the front of the canoe and has to go where I take him. We started by working in twenty feet of water. Cast in. Cast out. Fan cast the area with the idea they could be anywhere. A plan without a plan. Seems I've spent a lot of my life stumbling from event to event with no underlying plan. You'd think trout fishing would be right up my alley. Poor Eldon.
What can I say? I'm still embarrassed. It's not so much that mine was the first rainbow trout. It's more that it was the only one. A proper host shares. Can't say we didn't all had hits. Mine was simply the only fish that impaled itself. Possibly it's another example that the fish know who's on the other end of the line. I've caught trout before. The others haven't. The trout know that and maybe fall prey to an 'oh well, the dude knows what he's doing so it's okay to get caught' attitude. Not my fault when that happens.
An hour of casting practice followed and told us it was time to bag it. Not a lot of action but a good time on a pristine body of water.
Back at the cabin the fire pit was match ready. Earlier in the day I'd had the time to gather up some birch bark and an armful of dry twigs. Above that was balanced a teepee of split oak. Oak adds a fine flavor to meat. No doubt carcinogenic, but I try not to think about that. When I was young the inevitable consequences of minor vices like cooking over oak had little effect on me. I was gonna live forever. Or at least another fifty years. Like there was much difference. Nowadays I'll give those consequences at least a passing thought before striking the match. If you ever saw the grill we use it'd be obvious that oak smoke is the cleanest part of the operation. Oh well, it sure eats good.
At home there's a pile of dry apple and maple wood. All gathered for this trip. It's still there and now it's on the list for next year.
Maybe it's a sign of aging but about all we can do after dishes are done is to sit on our kiesters for an hour. Who can remember what passes as our conversation? We say and discuss life in general. Sometimes our feet. Rarely do politics and religion come up. If ever. In the scheme of things up north the sound of the bats scritching their way out from under the steel roof seems to make a whole lot more sense than whatever Barack Obama or Mitt Romney have to say. Maybe if presidential candidates ate mosquitos...?
As we got ready to push off I gave them my whole store of knowledge as to trout fishing in a stocked lake. Put on one of the little spinners I'd made and start casting. They're out there somewhere. Maybe shallow. Maybe deep. Maybe in-between. They are where they are. Also take into account that I ain't caught one in twenty years.
Like most trout lakes, this one was tiny. So tiny the three of them were having a hard time grasping the situation. I just knew they were looking at the points and bays and thinking bass, pike or walleyes. Hard not to when that's the way they'd come to figure water. My fault. Larry and Ryan have their own tactics. No doubt about that. They'll go right in the pads if the conditions call for that. They've learned cover and structure mean food. And food means fish.
But trout like to be comfy. Temperature is everything to them. Structure means diddly. Given time Larry and Ryan would figure it out. But this early evening we didn't have much time. I watched them paddle into a bay. Like I said, who was I to say they wouldn't catch any in shallow water.
Eldon, on the other hand, is a kept man. Sits in the front of the canoe and has to go where I take him. We started by working in twenty feet of water. Cast in. Cast out. Fan cast the area with the idea they could be anywhere. A plan without a plan. Seems I've spent a lot of my life stumbling from event to event with no underlying plan. You'd think trout fishing would be right up my alley. Poor Eldon.
What can I say? I'm still embarrassed. It's not so much that mine was the first rainbow trout. It's more that it was the only one. A proper host shares. Can't say we didn't all had hits. Mine was simply the only fish that impaled itself. Possibly it's another example that the fish know who's on the other end of the line. I've caught trout before. The others haven't. The trout know that and maybe fall prey to an 'oh well, the dude knows what he's doing so it's okay to get caught' attitude. Not my fault when that happens.
An hour of casting practice followed and told us it was time to bag it. Not a lot of action but a good time on a pristine body of water.
Back at the cabin the fire pit was match ready. Earlier in the day I'd had the time to gather up some birch bark and an armful of dry twigs. Above that was balanced a teepee of split oak. Oak adds a fine flavor to meat. No doubt carcinogenic, but I try not to think about that. When I was young the inevitable consequences of minor vices like cooking over oak had little effect on me. I was gonna live forever. Or at least another fifty years. Like there was much difference. Nowadays I'll give those consequences at least a passing thought before striking the match. If you ever saw the grill we use it'd be obvious that oak smoke is the cleanest part of the operation. Oh well, it sure eats good.
At home there's a pile of dry apple and maple wood. All gathered for this trip. It's still there and now it's on the list for next year.
Maybe it's a sign of aging but about all we can do after dishes are done is to sit on our kiesters for an hour. Who can remember what passes as our conversation? We say and discuss life in general. Sometimes our feet. Rarely do politics and religion come up. If ever. In the scheme of things up north the sound of the bats scritching their way out from under the steel roof seems to make a whole lot more sense than whatever Barack Obama or Mitt Romney have to say. Maybe if presidential candidates ate mosquitos...?
Monday, June 25, 2012
The Deans, the Fish and Other Things
I wasn't actually taking a leak when they drove in. Might have looked like that but my zipper was up and my pants were dry. The truth was simple but a little odd. Lois and I have planted a forest's worth of soft maples over the years. Nearly all have been plucked from the garden where they weren't wanted. Back in the city, our yard is surrounded by maples much like the French were surrounded by NVA at Dien Bien Phu. One of our many unnecessary functions in life is to gather up the biggest ones and transplant them in the cold north woods. There they usually sicken and die, turn into bonsai midgets or are eaten as exotics by mammals or insects. The biggest of the surviving few vines its skinny-assed way through a row of thriving white pines and spruces. It's about ten feet tall, has eleven leaves and will produce a saw log about the same time as the next ice age arrives. It was there I was standing, checking it out when the Deans arrived. I saw no need to move. In fact I considered standing motionless in the trees like I'd been there long enough to have sprouted a few lichens on my north side might just strike the right note to get this year's show on the road. Like most such moments it drew a guffaw or two and passed into the dark like it had never been there.
A round of handshakes to begin trip number seven, an organized off load and in twenty minutes rods were being strung. Ryan Dean's sneaking up on forty and the rest of us are solidly in our sixties. Us AARP boys don't string 'em up like we used to. We know how to make the knots. If our fingers had any respect for age and our eyes could come close to focusing, it'd be no problem. But excited blind men with bumble fingers take a while. Us wizened old veterans don't necessarily do it like we used to. In nearly any sense you can think of. And probably weren't any where near as good as we remember being. In nearly any sense you can think of. It's funny but it's not. Rods got strung, glasses put back on, vehicles loaded and double checked. The three of them are gracious enough to let me call the shots. I appreciate that. Since my truck was already hitched and pointed in the right general direction we were off and into this year's installment of the Coolfront Show.
Keep in mind nobody calls me Coolfront. Never did, never will. It's just a name that popped out of the blue in Canada one day when I was catching my usual share of hammer handles through a sea of Canadian monster pike. My fishing luck and style brought to mind a passing cool front that doesn't so much shut down the fishing like a solid cold front but definitely puts a damper on it. In the midst of bounty I'm doin' okay. But no more than that. Snake Charmer was born a moment later but sounded way too pretentious.
Showing off new water is a hoot. And the one we were reaching by portage was as new as possible. The half mile hike went well. Almost easy. Me and Ryan humped the canoes. About halfway an old friend payed my neck a visit. Portage pad ache is a blast from the past. Takes me back to the first ones along the Canadian border. It's never what you'd call pleasant. But history tells me it ain't gonna kill me. I played the weight shifting game over the last eighty rods. Shift the boat occasionally so the pads hit in different spots. Move the pain around.
Ryan had a different problem. My fault of course. His canoe had a clamp-on yoke that I apparently didn't tighten down enough. I should have taken the time to show him how the clamps worked. Should have helped him throw the boat on. After all, he was a virgin in this game. But I was wrapped up in my own world as usual. Ryan got there alright. Looked like the Hunchback of Notre Dame du Nord by the end due to the mobile yoke.
The remaining Deans, Larry and Eldon, shared the short end of the stick. The weight they carried wasn't the problem. Their's was a juggling act. Tackle bags strung like crossed bandoliers over life jackets, four rods and two paddles apiece, no problem unless something moved. Then the whole structure would collapse like the house of sticks after the big, bad wolf got his second wind.
The carry-in lake was waiting. Looked like she'd been waiting for a long time and was happy to see us. At least that's how I want to remember it. It's my painting and I get to pick the colors. The truth was she didn't give a damn one way or the other if we ever showed. But the sunlight and ripply waves sure looked inviting. Shoulda brought swim trunks.
I was excited. Partly because the angel on my right shoulder whispered this might be the tiny lake of a lifetime. Also excited 'cause I'd dragged three other people along to what the devil on my left shouldered laughed was no doubt a skunk hole. Oh well, what can you expect from thirty acres? My guess was bluegills, bullheads and itty bitty pike. Maybe sand sharks.
Keep in mind I don't know squat about the history of the area we were in. And that I like to blow smoke and say I got my information from either the Bible or the Encyclopaedia Brittanica. Which source I quote as gospel depends on who you are and how well we know each other. We were in the middle of a couple of hundred square miles of marginally accessible, semi-wilderness. Around us laid a half-hundred lakes, only a few larger than twenty acres. Most stood alone. How could fish get in them? My guess has to do with the last ice age. The lakes are dents made by massive chunks of ice falling off the glaciers. For a short time, in a geologic sense, they might have been connected. As the glaciers receded, animals and fish migrated north following the melt waters. Over time the land drained and the lakes separated. The sand sharks no doubt were a gift from migrating Rodans (of Japanese movie fame).
Once on the water Larry and Ryan headed toward the sole island. Eldon and I hung an immediate left with the idea of casting right handed as we moved. You see, I am starting to figure it out. The water was deeply bog stained with nary a weed in sight. We were looking for either cabbage or coon tail and seeing neither. Off in the half dozen bays small pockets of water lilies were coming into bloom. Maybe bass were in the offing but I doubted it.
Honestly, it was reward enough to be on the water even though we were doing nothing more than working the kinks out of our line. Fifteen minutes into the day our first hit was a small pike. Of course. Big enough to simply be called a pike. And my opportunity to flaunt the fact that I was no longer skunked. Eldon followed shortly with something smaller. And finally we were catching pike that would have made fine brook trout. Good for a laugh and easily released with a simple twist of the needle nose. Mystery Lake was proving to be what I'd both expected and feared.
First off, let me apologize. I didn't mean for it to happen that way. Not sure where I first heard it but suspect a John Gierach essay. Even brought the idea up on the hike in, mainly to bolster my hopes. Every body of water, stream or lake, has its aberrations. All of them have their lunkers. How and why can't be pinned down. Luck or wisdom, take your pick. Last year it was Larry who bagged a pair of good sized pike on a sixty acre lake. He was thrilled but has no picture. Bummer.
Mine should have been Eldon's. I'd have gotten just as big a kick out of the fight had it been on his line. But it wasn't. Had we been in a bigger boat we'd have netted it before she played herself out. No such luxury in a canoe. After a half dozen runs it was a quick hoist, photo and a gentle release.
That's the short and sweet of it. But it ain't the way it was and it doesn't take in the weight of my sixty-five years. Or the weight of a century of Minnesota pike fishermen. The walleye might be the state fish but it really isn't. At least from my point of view. Most of those black and whites with a Model T in the background, two guys at each end of twelve foot, sagging pole, were taken 'cause there were pike hanging from that pole. Big frickin' northern pike. Dozens of them. No matter what Carly Simon sang back in the '70s, those photos showed what the good old days really looked like. Days we haven't seen in Minnesota since Dwight Eisenhower was a First Lieutenant.
So when I'm sittin' in a canoe on a thirty acre lake and tie into a three foot northern, I get excited. The weight of all those small fish decades squeezes a whole lot of hoots out of me and even a holler or two. Damn fine fun. And all the better for being so rare. This would have been a fine fish in northern Manitoba. But would have been lost in the numbers. But here?
She lifted like a thick bodied fifteen pounder and had a quarter-sized evil eye she wouldn't take off of me. Yeah, I know that's probably anthropomorphizing. But if it was me finning alongside a canoe and was hooked through the jaw by some idiot in a flop hat, as sure as God made little green apples, I'd have me a generous case of the red ass.
A few days later when I ran the story by my son Allan, my description of the pike had been reduced to a solid ten. Al took a look at the photo and said fifteen was more like it. Big fish. Tiny lake. Sounds like the basis for a career choice. Maybe our lives do really reflect who we are? That's some kinda insight ain't it?
Then it was back to hammer handles for the four of us. Was the single big pike a freak? Al says there's only one way to find out. And he'd like to be along. Conditions were mid-day, blue sky poor. If the two of us hit that carry-in lake we'll shoot for better circumstances. Maybe late fall.
Showing off new water is a hoot. And the one we were reaching by portage was as new as possible. The half mile hike went well. Almost easy. Me and Ryan humped the canoes. About halfway an old friend payed my neck a visit. Portage pad ache is a blast from the past. Takes me back to the first ones along the Canadian border. It's never what you'd call pleasant. But history tells me it ain't gonna kill me. I played the weight shifting game over the last eighty rods. Shift the boat occasionally so the pads hit in different spots. Move the pain around.
Ryan had a different problem. My fault of course. His canoe had a clamp-on yoke that I apparently didn't tighten down enough. I should have taken the time to show him how the clamps worked. Should have helped him throw the boat on. After all, he was a virgin in this game. But I was wrapped up in my own world as usual. Ryan got there alright. Looked like the Hunchback of Notre Dame du Nord by the end due to the mobile yoke.
The remaining Deans, Larry and Eldon, shared the short end of the stick. The weight they carried wasn't the problem. Their's was a juggling act. Tackle bags strung like crossed bandoliers over life jackets, four rods and two paddles apiece, no problem unless something moved. Then the whole structure would collapse like the house of sticks after the big, bad wolf got his second wind.
The carry-in lake was waiting. Looked like she'd been waiting for a long time and was happy to see us. At least that's how I want to remember it. It's my painting and I get to pick the colors. The truth was she didn't give a damn one way or the other if we ever showed. But the sunlight and ripply waves sure looked inviting. Shoulda brought swim trunks.
I was excited. Partly because the angel on my right shoulder whispered this might be the tiny lake of a lifetime. Also excited 'cause I'd dragged three other people along to what the devil on my left shouldered laughed was no doubt a skunk hole. Oh well, what can you expect from thirty acres? My guess was bluegills, bullheads and itty bitty pike. Maybe sand sharks.
Keep in mind I don't know squat about the history of the area we were in. And that I like to blow smoke and say I got my information from either the Bible or the Encyclopaedia Brittanica. Which source I quote as gospel depends on who you are and how well we know each other. We were in the middle of a couple of hundred square miles of marginally accessible, semi-wilderness. Around us laid a half-hundred lakes, only a few larger than twenty acres. Most stood alone. How could fish get in them? My guess has to do with the last ice age. The lakes are dents made by massive chunks of ice falling off the glaciers. For a short time, in a geologic sense, they might have been connected. As the glaciers receded, animals and fish migrated north following the melt waters. Over time the land drained and the lakes separated. The sand sharks no doubt were a gift from migrating Rodans (of Japanese movie fame).
Once on the water Larry and Ryan headed toward the sole island. Eldon and I hung an immediate left with the idea of casting right handed as we moved. You see, I am starting to figure it out. The water was deeply bog stained with nary a weed in sight. We were looking for either cabbage or coon tail and seeing neither. Off in the half dozen bays small pockets of water lilies were coming into bloom. Maybe bass were in the offing but I doubted it.
Honestly, it was reward enough to be on the water even though we were doing nothing more than working the kinks out of our line. Fifteen minutes into the day our first hit was a small pike. Of course. Big enough to simply be called a pike. And my opportunity to flaunt the fact that I was no longer skunked. Eldon followed shortly with something smaller. And finally we were catching pike that would have made fine brook trout. Good for a laugh and easily released with a simple twist of the needle nose. Mystery Lake was proving to be what I'd both expected and feared.
First off, let me apologize. I didn't mean for it to happen that way. Not sure where I first heard it but suspect a John Gierach essay. Even brought the idea up on the hike in, mainly to bolster my hopes. Every body of water, stream or lake, has its aberrations. All of them have their lunkers. How and why can't be pinned down. Luck or wisdom, take your pick. Last year it was Larry who bagged a pair of good sized pike on a sixty acre lake. He was thrilled but has no picture. Bummer.
Mine should have been Eldon's. I'd have gotten just as big a kick out of the fight had it been on his line. But it wasn't. Had we been in a bigger boat we'd have netted it before she played herself out. No such luxury in a canoe. After a half dozen runs it was a quick hoist, photo and a gentle release.
That's the short and sweet of it. But it ain't the way it was and it doesn't take in the weight of my sixty-five years. Or the weight of a century of Minnesota pike fishermen. The walleye might be the state fish but it really isn't. At least from my point of view. Most of those black and whites with a Model T in the background, two guys at each end of twelve foot, sagging pole, were taken 'cause there were pike hanging from that pole. Big frickin' northern pike. Dozens of them. No matter what Carly Simon sang back in the '70s, those photos showed what the good old days really looked like. Days we haven't seen in Minnesota since Dwight Eisenhower was a First Lieutenant.
So when I'm sittin' in a canoe on a thirty acre lake and tie into a three foot northern, I get excited. The weight of all those small fish decades squeezes a whole lot of hoots out of me and even a holler or two. Damn fine fun. And all the better for being so rare. This would have been a fine fish in northern Manitoba. But would have been lost in the numbers. But here?
She lifted like a thick bodied fifteen pounder and had a quarter-sized evil eye she wouldn't take off of me. Yeah, I know that's probably anthropomorphizing. But if it was me finning alongside a canoe and was hooked through the jaw by some idiot in a flop hat, as sure as God made little green apples, I'd have me a generous case of the red ass.
A few days later when I ran the story by my son Allan, my description of the pike had been reduced to a solid ten. Al took a look at the photo and said fifteen was more like it. Big fish. Tiny lake. Sounds like the basis for a career choice. Maybe our lives do really reflect who we are? That's some kinda insight ain't it?
Then it was back to hammer handles for the four of us. Was the single big pike a freak? Al says there's only one way to find out. And he'd like to be along. Conditions were mid-day, blue sky poor. If the two of us hit that carry-in lake we'll shoot for better circumstances. Maybe late fall.
Monday, June 18, 2012
Don't Do No Good to Slap a Woodtick
Last winter hardly happened in Minnesota. Not a lot of cold or snow. Most things seemed to thrive because of that. The roses seemed to explode out of the ground and the city was green in April. Not so the lowly and misunderstood woodtick. Few seemed to be around in May and June this year, their usual time to make hay. Not that I'm shedding any tears. They're an annoyance I can do without. Though it doesn't bother me much to have a few of the little buggers crawling on my body once in a while. Not burrowing in and making themselves to home mind you. The resulting welt and itching makes me think that's not a good thing. Last year I got one in my left armpit and didn't know until it was dead. Guess that should be a lesson to them. Maybe my time in Vietnam built up my immune system? As to deer ticks, that's another story. They scare me.
Back in the old days when I used to smoke there was always a match or lit cigarette handy to sent ticks off to parasite heaven. Dropping one of 'em in an ashtray and applying heat made for a satisfying popping sound. Much like the red ants in Vietnam. Both sounds made my heart feel good. Made life worth living, if only for a second. But since ticks and red ants come in never ending numbers those seconds added up. These days my thumbnails are the weapons of choice. A simple slicing motion across a tick's back does it. Another of my nearly useless talents. Guess I could never be a Tibetan Buddhist with a reverence for all forms of life.
As to the title above, mosquitoes are for slapping, woodticks for slicing.
Of course this brief ramble is nothing but dancing around the subject of this year's fishing trip with the Deans, R., L. and El. I dance because I don't know where to start. But I'm boogying my way in that general direction.
Following the plan - yes, I had a plan - is not something I do well. Things come up. The wind blows. The Deans get all pissy about not catching fish. Actually they don't but the little voice in my head hears their unspoken words amongst all those other voices up there. Hell, they're only up north for a few days each year. El Dean always assures he's just happy to be on the water. That he looks forward to these days all year long. That's what he says, not what I hear. What I'm hearing is that he's been looking forward to the trip for twelve long months so the fishing better be up to his level of anticipation.
What my brain hears and knows for a fact is that he wouldn't be quite as expectant about coming up if he was gettin' skunked day in and day out. Oh, we get shut out once in a while. More likely we'll be bringing quite a few to the boat. As the old saw goes, fishin's always fun but catchin's funner. So the plan only works if it coincides with good fishing. Doesn't have to be a hundred percent of the time. Sixty will do 'er just fine.
Seems I talked the plan up a few blog entries ago so I won't hash it out here. The Deans were to arrive on Tuesday. Me, I figured on Sunday to spruce things up and check some water out. After all, this was to be a new water and new fish trip with one of the lakes a total blank on the radar, even to the DNR. That's the one I was hepped up about and wanted to fish alone. If it was pretty good, I'd take them there. If it was great, it was mine alone. Treasures are hard to find in a state that once thought building a road to every lake was a good idea. Unknown water doesn't exist. My hope was this thirty acres would be something close.
Sunday I cleaned and mowed. Don't be thinking we have a lawn. Keeping the grass, weeds and wild flowers no more than five inches long does a fine job of keeping the mosquitoes and woodticks to a minimum. Also makes me a happy man to sit on the screen porch, cup of coffee in hand and look out on a little chunk of unnatural order in the bosom of Mother Nature. She's a fine old lady and can have the entire yard back when I'm gone.
Monday was an hour or so on the bike, up, down and around on the sand roads checking out the world to see if it was about how I left it. Who could ever get tired of passing hundred foot white pines and Mud Lake? Besides, sweating is a good thing. Keeps me relatively young even though those uphills make me feel like an old man.
Come early afternoon it was time to put up or shut up. The bright sun and blue skies told the tale. Obviously I didn't care whether any fish came to the boat. Tough conditions even without the thirty mile an hour wind gusts. But I wanted to see the water and learn how to get on it.
Moving the solo is a slap dash affair. My first canoe was a fifteen foot Alumacraft that I simply stuffed in the back of our mini-station wagon. Not fancy but it did the job. The Wenonah Vagabond solo is a half foot shorter and the current car is a mid-sized SUV. But the loading is the same. More or less. Nowadays I strap it down after it's stuffed in. No guts I guess. Just can't seem to shake the vision of it bouncing end over end down the highway and passing through the windshield of Jesse Ventura's Porsche. It'd be a shame to waste a fine car like that.
Also aboard, a tackle bag filled with enough gear for two weeks in Canada and three rods, ultra-light and medium weight, the third a trout sized fly rod. Plus the life preserver. If I'm ever found dead floating belly up in the boonies no one'll be able to blame it on not being legally prepared. Stupid maybe, but properly garbed. Oh yeah, I was ready alright.
Since I didn't find the lakes I was looking for when my sister was along I'd rechecked the satellite photos and now knew the real lay of the land. At least I hoped I did.
The final fork in the road was still there. And the trout lake was just where it should be, no more than three hundred yards to the left. Could have driven down to a nice campsite in view of the water if I'd had the guts. That's just my way of saying the two tracks had eroded a bit over the last week and a half. Enough to kick in my wisdom glands. Easier to portage a few hundred yards than to walk home in the dark.
The lake was pretty in a small, forest surrounded, idyllic sense. That is if you like that kind of stuff. Lucky for me that I do. She was zephyr ridden but fishable. The Vagabond takes a lot of attention to track a straight line but is stable as all get out. Mostly it fits my butt well and rides like I'm on horseback. Go with the flow and keep loose hips.
However, the trout lake wasn't why I was there. I gave a passing thought to simply hoisting the boat and gear, saunter down the hill and push off. Wouldn't take but ten minutes. But there was the mystery lake somewhere off to the right. Just how far would be determined by the access point. That is if it had one.
Any thought of fishing it was dwindling. It'd have to be well protected by towering white pines to keep the wind gods off me. Even then the most I could hope for would be a couple of casts, a spin or two, then a high speed drift down lake. Still...? I set off.
The ATV trail was a thing of beauty. Better surface than any of the automobile roads on the way in. Trucks and SUVs are hard on sand surfaces. They give us access and take it away at the same time. Thoughts of unnecessary erosion almost made me want to head down the trail barefoot. Haven't done anything like that since my early days of running. Pavement and broken coke bottles cured me of my nature boy phase. I still have occasional nightmares involving bare feet and running on concrete.
Blackberries just coming into bloom and immense sawtooth aspens defined the wide path. The satellite photos pinpointed where I was going. Looked like the trail would nearly touch the shore in several places. But that didn't mean a canoe could easily be launched. The view from space and the view from the ground aren't the same thing. I was walking up and down hills that didn't seem to exist from hundreds of miles above. A quarter mile in and I could see water below me to the left. To launch here I'd have to ride the boat down like a sled. A half a city block farther a two track angled off through knee deep grass and paralleled the shore.
Knee deep grass in June brought to mind the Incredible Woodtick Slog of a few years earlier. Me and R. Dean had hiked a ways on a similar trail in search of nonexistent water. it was there alright and we'd have found it if we were actually where we thought we were. We did find a few hundred ticks. Or did they find us? Outside of a little squealing and running around on our toes with hands in the air we took it like true woodsmen. The current two track proved tick free. And only had one tiny patch of poison ivy. My kind of near wilderness. I continued in and down until reaching a small, level lakeside meadow. A perfect access. A good looking lake. Bays, a reef and an island. Now if it only held fish. Too bad today wasn't the day to answer that question.
Backtracked and paced the distance at about a hundred-seventy rods. The Deans were sure gonna like that. But the seclusion of the water would more than make up for the hike. Besides, saying you'd done a portage was a badge of honor, or pointlessness, on the level of shitting in the woods. Also there was no indication anyone had fished Mystery Lake in a long time. Hard to believe that was possible in Minnesota, but maybe?
That left the trout lake. I'd like to say a lot of rainbow trout came to the boat. Maybe a lot did. But if so, it was more out of a sense of curiosity than necessity. Not that I didn't have a few hits. Even had a couple on the line. But even though they were farm raised they were hip to the hook. A simple jump and twist of the head freed both. Almost like they were playing with me. I'd have been fishing the fly rod but the gusty winds - by that I mean they never dropped below fifteen and occasionally gusted to thirty-five - had me thinking if anything was hooked it'd probably be one of my protruding head parts. So I used spinners. Maybe it was the long enticing dressing on the trebles. They were attracted by the blade's vibration but went for the colorful candy beyond the hook. Gotta give that some thought. Maybe do some cropping in the future. The truth was, and is, it bothered me I didn't truly catch anything. And, at the same time, it didn't. I fished, got skunked and, all in all had a really good time.
Went home and ate a seriously massive spaghetti dinner. The evening was spent reading and doing nothing constructive save a bit of rod rigging. Never was much of a fan of the Boy Scouts but I can see the logic in being prepared. A half dozen fishing poles ready to go was overkill. No doubt about that. But I had the time, why not?
Having two evenings to myself was glory. A body needs time to waste once in a while. Time to putz with no goal in mind. Something like making compost. Leave it alone and garbage turns to fertile soil. I get me some grand moments of insightfulness when my mind rambles unencumbered. It'd be nice once in a while to write them down. Maybe include them in a blog. Like that'd ever happen. I live in hope, foolish hope.
The morning brought sun and quiet treetops. For a canoeman in the woods the trees tell the story. Today would be good. Tomorrow may be another story. I fear the wind and its future. I've bought into global warming since the late '70s. As to fishing in canoes it's not a good thing. Bump the heat up a little and the winds are sure to follow. Big winds, big waves. Big problems for little, self-propelled boats. To me it looks like it's happening. Not so much that it keeps me off the water. At least little water, like the lakes I usually fish. And I probably won't live or canoe long enough for it to be a real problem. Not so for my grandchildren.
After the morning bike ride, the dishes done, my goal is to be ready for the Deans. Trailer out. Canoes loaded and strapped. Paddles, seat backs, fishing gear and life jacket loaded. Always watching the treetops. When they show, we'll unload their stuff and be ready to go in a half hour. They've got three and a half days. Not enough time to waste a single minute in chaos. We might get skunked but by gar we'll get our hours in. And do it smooth as silk. We'll be going hellbound for leather but in no hurry at all.
Back in the old days when I used to smoke there was always a match or lit cigarette handy to sent ticks off to parasite heaven. Dropping one of 'em in an ashtray and applying heat made for a satisfying popping sound. Much like the red ants in Vietnam. Both sounds made my heart feel good. Made life worth living, if only for a second. But since ticks and red ants come in never ending numbers those seconds added up. These days my thumbnails are the weapons of choice. A simple slicing motion across a tick's back does it. Another of my nearly useless talents. Guess I could never be a Tibetan Buddhist with a reverence for all forms of life.
As to the title above, mosquitoes are for slapping, woodticks for slicing.
Of course this brief ramble is nothing but dancing around the subject of this year's fishing trip with the Deans, R., L. and El. I dance because I don't know where to start. But I'm boogying my way in that general direction.
Following the plan - yes, I had a plan - is not something I do well. Things come up. The wind blows. The Deans get all pissy about not catching fish. Actually they don't but the little voice in my head hears their unspoken words amongst all those other voices up there. Hell, they're only up north for a few days each year. El Dean always assures he's just happy to be on the water. That he looks forward to these days all year long. That's what he says, not what I hear. What I'm hearing is that he's been looking forward to the trip for twelve long months so the fishing better be up to his level of anticipation.
What my brain hears and knows for a fact is that he wouldn't be quite as expectant about coming up if he was gettin' skunked day in and day out. Oh, we get shut out once in a while. More likely we'll be bringing quite a few to the boat. As the old saw goes, fishin's always fun but catchin's funner. So the plan only works if it coincides with good fishing. Doesn't have to be a hundred percent of the time. Sixty will do 'er just fine.
Seems I talked the plan up a few blog entries ago so I won't hash it out here. The Deans were to arrive on Tuesday. Me, I figured on Sunday to spruce things up and check some water out. After all, this was to be a new water and new fish trip with one of the lakes a total blank on the radar, even to the DNR. That's the one I was hepped up about and wanted to fish alone. If it was pretty good, I'd take them there. If it was great, it was mine alone. Treasures are hard to find in a state that once thought building a road to every lake was a good idea. Unknown water doesn't exist. My hope was this thirty acres would be something close.
Sunday I cleaned and mowed. Don't be thinking we have a lawn. Keeping the grass, weeds and wild flowers no more than five inches long does a fine job of keeping the mosquitoes and woodticks to a minimum. Also makes me a happy man to sit on the screen porch, cup of coffee in hand and look out on a little chunk of unnatural order in the bosom of Mother Nature. She's a fine old lady and can have the entire yard back when I'm gone.
Monday was an hour or so on the bike, up, down and around on the sand roads checking out the world to see if it was about how I left it. Who could ever get tired of passing hundred foot white pines and Mud Lake? Besides, sweating is a good thing. Keeps me relatively young even though those uphills make me feel like an old man.
Come early afternoon it was time to put up or shut up. The bright sun and blue skies told the tale. Obviously I didn't care whether any fish came to the boat. Tough conditions even without the thirty mile an hour wind gusts. But I wanted to see the water and learn how to get on it.
Moving the solo is a slap dash affair. My first canoe was a fifteen foot Alumacraft that I simply stuffed in the back of our mini-station wagon. Not fancy but it did the job. The Wenonah Vagabond solo is a half foot shorter and the current car is a mid-sized SUV. But the loading is the same. More or less. Nowadays I strap it down after it's stuffed in. No guts I guess. Just can't seem to shake the vision of it bouncing end over end down the highway and passing through the windshield of Jesse Ventura's Porsche. It'd be a shame to waste a fine car like that.
Also aboard, a tackle bag filled with enough gear for two weeks in Canada and three rods, ultra-light and medium weight, the third a trout sized fly rod. Plus the life preserver. If I'm ever found dead floating belly up in the boonies no one'll be able to blame it on not being legally prepared. Stupid maybe, but properly garbed. Oh yeah, I was ready alright.
Since I didn't find the lakes I was looking for when my sister was along I'd rechecked the satellite photos and now knew the real lay of the land. At least I hoped I did.
The final fork in the road was still there. And the trout lake was just where it should be, no more than three hundred yards to the left. Could have driven down to a nice campsite in view of the water if I'd had the guts. That's just my way of saying the two tracks had eroded a bit over the last week and a half. Enough to kick in my wisdom glands. Easier to portage a few hundred yards than to walk home in the dark.
The lake was pretty in a small, forest surrounded, idyllic sense. That is if you like that kind of stuff. Lucky for me that I do. She was zephyr ridden but fishable. The Vagabond takes a lot of attention to track a straight line but is stable as all get out. Mostly it fits my butt well and rides like I'm on horseback. Go with the flow and keep loose hips.
However, the trout lake wasn't why I was there. I gave a passing thought to simply hoisting the boat and gear, saunter down the hill and push off. Wouldn't take but ten minutes. But there was the mystery lake somewhere off to the right. Just how far would be determined by the access point. That is if it had one.
Any thought of fishing it was dwindling. It'd have to be well protected by towering white pines to keep the wind gods off me. Even then the most I could hope for would be a couple of casts, a spin or two, then a high speed drift down lake. Still...? I set off.
The ATV trail was a thing of beauty. Better surface than any of the automobile roads on the way in. Trucks and SUVs are hard on sand surfaces. They give us access and take it away at the same time. Thoughts of unnecessary erosion almost made me want to head down the trail barefoot. Haven't done anything like that since my early days of running. Pavement and broken coke bottles cured me of my nature boy phase. I still have occasional nightmares involving bare feet and running on concrete.
Blackberries just coming into bloom and immense sawtooth aspens defined the wide path. The satellite photos pinpointed where I was going. Looked like the trail would nearly touch the shore in several places. But that didn't mean a canoe could easily be launched. The view from space and the view from the ground aren't the same thing. I was walking up and down hills that didn't seem to exist from hundreds of miles above. A quarter mile in and I could see water below me to the left. To launch here I'd have to ride the boat down like a sled. A half a city block farther a two track angled off through knee deep grass and paralleled the shore.
Knee deep grass in June brought to mind the Incredible Woodtick Slog of a few years earlier. Me and R. Dean had hiked a ways on a similar trail in search of nonexistent water. it was there alright and we'd have found it if we were actually where we thought we were. We did find a few hundred ticks. Or did they find us? Outside of a little squealing and running around on our toes with hands in the air we took it like true woodsmen. The current two track proved tick free. And only had one tiny patch of poison ivy. My kind of near wilderness. I continued in and down until reaching a small, level lakeside meadow. A perfect access. A good looking lake. Bays, a reef and an island. Now if it only held fish. Too bad today wasn't the day to answer that question.
Backtracked and paced the distance at about a hundred-seventy rods. The Deans were sure gonna like that. But the seclusion of the water would more than make up for the hike. Besides, saying you'd done a portage was a badge of honor, or pointlessness, on the level of shitting in the woods. Also there was no indication anyone had fished Mystery Lake in a long time. Hard to believe that was possible in Minnesota, but maybe?
That left the trout lake. I'd like to say a lot of rainbow trout came to the boat. Maybe a lot did. But if so, it was more out of a sense of curiosity than necessity. Not that I didn't have a few hits. Even had a couple on the line. But even though they were farm raised they were hip to the hook. A simple jump and twist of the head freed both. Almost like they were playing with me. I'd have been fishing the fly rod but the gusty winds - by that I mean they never dropped below fifteen and occasionally gusted to thirty-five - had me thinking if anything was hooked it'd probably be one of my protruding head parts. So I used spinners. Maybe it was the long enticing dressing on the trebles. They were attracted by the blade's vibration but went for the colorful candy beyond the hook. Gotta give that some thought. Maybe do some cropping in the future. The truth was, and is, it bothered me I didn't truly catch anything. And, at the same time, it didn't. I fished, got skunked and, all in all had a really good time.
Went home and ate a seriously massive spaghetti dinner. The evening was spent reading and doing nothing constructive save a bit of rod rigging. Never was much of a fan of the Boy Scouts but I can see the logic in being prepared. A half dozen fishing poles ready to go was overkill. No doubt about that. But I had the time, why not?
Having two evenings to myself was glory. A body needs time to waste once in a while. Time to putz with no goal in mind. Something like making compost. Leave it alone and garbage turns to fertile soil. I get me some grand moments of insightfulness when my mind rambles unencumbered. It'd be nice once in a while to write them down. Maybe include them in a blog. Like that'd ever happen. I live in hope, foolish hope.
The morning brought sun and quiet treetops. For a canoeman in the woods the trees tell the story. Today would be good. Tomorrow may be another story. I fear the wind and its future. I've bought into global warming since the late '70s. As to fishing in canoes it's not a good thing. Bump the heat up a little and the winds are sure to follow. Big winds, big waves. Big problems for little, self-propelled boats. To me it looks like it's happening. Not so much that it keeps me off the water. At least little water, like the lakes I usually fish. And I probably won't live or canoe long enough for it to be a real problem. Not so for my grandchildren.
After the morning bike ride, the dishes done, my goal is to be ready for the Deans. Trailer out. Canoes loaded and strapped. Paddles, seat backs, fishing gear and life jacket loaded. Always watching the treetops. When they show, we'll unload their stuff and be ready to go in a half hour. They've got three and a half days. Not enough time to waste a single minute in chaos. We might get skunked but by gar we'll get our hours in. And do it smooth as silk. We'll be going hellbound for leather but in no hurry at all.
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