'Bamaland - 2014-5

     Arrived today.  Gear still in the process of being unloaded and sorted.  Hopefully there'll be something to write about over the next few months.  No wilderness, no canoe, no Canada but Alabama has more A's.  Close enough.  Gotta long rod, spinners to fling, hardly even need any fish.  Yup, I'm the zen fisherman.  Only thing more zen-like would be to not fish at all.  Skunked?  The zen fisherman is never skunked.  What is the sound of one arm casting?

Panic Time

     So what did I forget?  Have one rod and one reel.  Enough so long as nothing goes wrong.  Best pack another set, but which ones?  Decided on a decent reel I have no love for and a seven and a half foot fiberglass light weight I kinda do like.  Problem solved?  Problems are never solved, they simply evolve.
     Then there's all the lure making stuff.  Blades, wire former, buck tails, etc.  I know I've missed something but I'll be damned if I'm treading through all the crap again.
     Yeah, packing for three months involves a lot of preparation.  Just writing these words makes me want to throw in a couple of fly rod setups just in case.  Or maybe pack the waders.  Yeah, the waders.  I can just see me now, ball deep in the bay, humming a happy tune, when along floats a jellyfish.  Then another, and another till I'm surrounded by the slimy buggers.  My waders aren't breathable.  In a panic I just might fill them to the knees with bodily fluids.  Not good.  Best sleep on it.

Plans for the Southland

     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.

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.

 
   

   

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.

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.
   

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.