On the brink of spring,
as March ended and April began, I took both Todd and Jodi to the woods on
separate outings. They were home from
college for Easter Break, and I was on the backside of our school’s Spring Break. Each had specifically told me that they wanted
to go to the woods and have a meal cooked over an open fire.
On Friday, March 30th
I took Jodi out on a kayak trip down the Sugar River, between Sugar River
Forest Preserve and Two Rivers Forest Preserve.It was windy and cold, but we loved being out on the water.Fortunately we found a little backwater area
that was protected by the woods and blocked the wind.It was nestled there that we cooked a
midmorning breakfast.More than likely
we were some of the first people to run that section of the river following the
ice break up.It was a great adventure
to experience with my daughter, and we both enjoyed spending time together that
day.
A few days later on
Monday, April 2nd I took Todd on a hike to one of my favorite, local,
wild areas.I came home as soon as I
could from school, threw some gear together, and drove us out to our put-in
point.We hiked and talked, and found a
great sandbar on which to build a campfire.After eating, we began our hike back while being serenaded by great
horned owls.It was pitch-black by the
time we reached the area where I had parked my Jeep.It was a great adventure to experience with
my son.We drove home, got warmed up, and
watched the NCAA Men's Basketball Championship.
This past spring I had
two separate outings.Both outings were
worth being experienced, remembered, and documented.Both outings involved time well spent with my
son and daughter.
See you along The Way…
-----
Friday, March 30, 2018
Jodi And Me Free Floating
A Protected Backwater Area In Which To Cookout
A Grandfather Sycamore Tree
Enjoying The Water With Clearing Skies
Monday, April 2, 2018
Todd And Me On The River's Edge
Click For A Video:
Cooking Dinner On A Sandbar
Finishing At Nightfall - Showing More Light Than There Really Was
It
was down to the last day of Wisconsin’s inland trout season; literally down to the
final hours. Like anyone, I was in need
of a brief reprieve to purge my soul and refuel. For me that meant I needed to get into some
water. It’s been a different year for experiencing
outdoor adventures; different as in lacking.
For the record I went trout fishing with my Dad back in May, I had the “Panic
Stricken” trip on a hot day in early July (See previous blog), and then the trip
into Northern Michigan with my son and cousins.
These were noteworthy outings, but not nearly as many as I typically can
have throughout a given season. Life can
be like that. Other things can become
more important and therefore take precedence.
Life can also be cyclical, however, and I know opportunities will
present themselves in some fashion or form in the future.
Twenty-one
years ago I caught my first couple of brook trout in the headwaters of a blue
ribbon trout stream east of where I had grown up. My young family and I were up visiting my
parents that summer. The following
summer, twenty years ago now, I went again and Dad took my first picture
holding a sacred brook trout; deep in the white cedar swamps so common to that
area.
A Sacred And Native Brook Trout - Back On July 2, 1998
Excited To "Get Out Of Dodge"
Excited To Get Into (Freezing) Water
A Video Of Wind On The Milkweed Plant:
With
these memories in mind, I left school as soon as I could this past Monday,
October 15th. My Jeep was
loaded with the necessary gear, and I was bundled up in several layers. The temperature hovered at 40° but it was
falling into the 30’s. Standing in a
cold creek with a slight breeze was going to be…shall we say, perfect! The skies were clear and sunny, despite the
cold temperatures, due to the high pressure.
After the latest flooding we have had these last couple of weeks, the
water level was high but manageable, while clear down to the sandy bottom.
A Video Of Tranquil Waters:
The
fishing itself was marginal, but even marginal is exceptional when it’s in lieu
of the constant drive that can wear you down to a frazzle. I caught and released three brook trout. I had wanted to catch at least one. It was a tribute to those first native trout
caught so many years ago under the hallowed cedar boughs “Up North.”
A Video Of A Brook Trout Release:
Releasing My First Brown Trout
I also caught two brown trout as the Sun set,
and the chill sank deep into my interior.
By that time I couldn’t control or move my fingers, my feet and toes
felt like bricks, and I could no longer see anything in front of me. My total time in the water may have been less
than two hours, but I literally fished until I couldn’t fish anymore. At that point I was finished for the
season. I did decide to keep the last trout
that I had caught. It was a 10” brown
that I would cook for dinner when I got home.
A Video Of The Creek At The End Of The Season:
I
stumbled along through the water under the dim light of a half moon, and then
climbed up out of the creek and began the trek back to my Jeep. Along the roadside section of my walk, I
jumped through the ditch and into a cornfield a couple of times to protect my
identity and hide from oncoming cars. It
was late when I returned to my wife and home. I showered to try to get warm and then fixed
an iron skillet of potatoes, sausage, and eggs to go with my trout. It was the perfect meal to settle in, relax,
and watch the Green Bay Packers pull off a miracle win over the 49ers. All in all, the afternoon and evening was a
brief reprieve, and just what I needed going into this late fall.
With
the recent heavy rains, the opportunity to fish familiar creeks was simply out
of the question. My friend Justin, who
is into such things, was interested in joining me for an adventure on a lake
when I suggested a nearby body of water as an alternative. Rain can affect lakes, but not to the same
degree as moving weather. Plus, we’ve
been itching to explore this little lake and its hidden secrets for a few years
now. If you know me, and you know
fishing, and you know anything about being a part of watching a day begin, then
you know that you don’t want to waste time, and you want to start early. Justin’s final text to me Saturday night was,
“I’ll see you at 5. Dark and early!”
As
promised, Justin was there at the appointed time. As promised, I had the necessary gear
ready. We loaded it into my old, green
Jeep, tied down the back hatch, and headed North. As long as we were moving, and had the
windows cracked open, the carbon monoxide wouldn’t affect us; the kayaks needed
to extend out the back an extra foot or two.
Fortunately we were able to have this extra day over Labor Day weekend
to take advantage of the brief reprieve between thunderstorms, and time that
was finally available. We did make a
quick stop at a Walmart in Janesville for some Johnsonville brats and a brick
of cheese. We needed those ingredients
to add into what we had brought for an “after fishing brunch.”
We
were to the lake about the time that images were becoming visible in the
morning light. As I was backing down to
the boat launch, the stillness was interrupted by loud explosions. At first I thought it was something shifting
around in the back of the Jeep, or that I had hit something. Justin was trying to figure it out too. Then we saw red flashes out along the far
shoreline, the honking of geese, and the white splashes of birds as they ran on
the water to try to take flight. Hmmmm, it
was early goose season. Note to self;
stay clear of the decoys and fish the other side of the lake! We weren’t expecting that.
Justin
and I unloaded the gear, parked the Jeep in the empty lot, and then prepped our
fishing poles. I decided to use a single
hooked spinner bait as my lure of choice; number one because it was less likely
to snag the many weeds in the lake, and number two because it’s what my cousins
use all of the time, and I’ve seen what they can do.
The
sun was just beginning to inch its way over the horizon; peeking up under a
blanket of lower stratus clouds. We
worked the lily pads and we worked the drop-off. Justin also worked on ripping out a few yards
of line that wanted to build a bird’s next rather than do what it’s supposed to
do. He was the picture of patience while
doing that, and floating out in the middle of the lake, but I’ll admit that I
allowed myself to smile when the fish were jumping and surfacing around him
while he was momentarily out of commission.
I
managed the “Lakes of the North Trifecta.”
Catching three different species of fish had me pretty pumped and
excited. The first fish was a 15”
largemouth bass that hit my lure just as it reached the water following a long
cast. He put on a good fight and brought
along a fair amount of weeds that were wound around him as well. After a picture I returned him to the water.
Soon after I caught a 21” pike near the
drop-off. I love this species of
fish. They are the personified element
of surprise; predatory, sleek, and fast.
Justin took a picture of me holding onto it, but they are so darn slimy,
and can explode when you least expect it, that they are difficult to
handle. When you see their teeth, and
are sitting low and personal within a kayak on the waters’ surface, you’ll know
what I mean. I slipped him back into the
lake nose first without a ripple on the surface, as if I was pitching cordwood
into the back of a pickup truck.
As the
action began to subside, I caught a real fighter that both dove and
jumped. It was a 12” smallmouth bass
displaying the traits it’s known for. I
snapped a selfie picture and released it back amongst the dinner plate sized
lily pads.
At
about that time, Justin and I met back up and decided to attempt our plan that
we had had all along. The lake we were
fishing has an inlet creek that feeds into it from another smaller lake. We decided to bushwhack and portage our way
along the creek up into the second lake.
It wasn’t hard, but it wasn’t easy.
We broke down our poles and paddles, and pushed our way along as far as
we could; often grabbing tufts of grass to pull ourselves against the current
as well. Once the creek narrowed to non-navigable,
we got out and dragged our kayaks. It
was about a 20 minute trek into the lake, but we both decided that it was well
worth it. I decided that because I
managed to catch a 16” bucket mouthed bass near an old dock. The largemouth exploded on the surface as I
was lifting my spinner bait out of the water to cast again. Justin decided that because again, the
setting was awesome, we had it to ourselves, and the lake held great potential.
After
circling the smaller lake, we plodded back through the marsh; splashing,
heaving, and hauling. It reminded me of
a pond my cousins have taken me to. You
don’t do it unless you’re willing to work hard and beat your body up with
little to no guarantee that you’ll catch anything at your destination. Either way you still have to fight your way
back. It’s at that time that you realize
that the journey truly is the reward; if you happen to catch any fish it’s
simply the icing on the cupcake.
THREE VIDEOS YOU CAN CLICK ON TO SEE THE PROCESS!
We
paddled quickly across the first lake, repacked our gear, and prepared our
brunch. We cooked over my classic old
Coleman stove. It tasted heavenly.
By this time others were already out on the
lake fishing; their trucks and trailers parked in the lot. We decided to rinse off in the lake before we
headed back. There really is no feeling
quite like getting up early, spending time paddling and/or fishing on water,
and then jumping in to it as a final act of thankfulness. It’s like a reverent baptism. And so Justin and I did just that. It was refreshing! Saying goodbye to the thing that has provided
you the opportunity to get away and relax is just short of a spiritual
experience. But don’t worry little lake;
we’ll be back again soon; dark and early.
I've only gone trout
fishing three different times this year. It's unusual. But with
various responsibilities, or other things planned,
it's had to go to the wayside; however painful that is to type. Things
happen. And so in order to continue posting at least one adventure into my
blog each month, I had to dig up an outing that I journaled about many years
ago. I wrote it back on Wednesday, July 21st, 2010 after a day of
fishing. Enjoy! And don't worry, once the busyness from the
beginning of school winds down I'll get outdoors again. Until then, life itself is an adventure!
----------
When
I go trout fishing with my dad, and in our human clumsiness we happen to screw
something up, we usually make the next cast with a familiar old saying we share
between us. It usually comes after
tripping on some underwater structure of logs or rocks, splashing or making too
much noise, getting a hook caught in a branch laying on the water’s surface, or
some other unforeseen circumstance. It
is usually the type of circumstance I couldn’t even begin to dream up, or put
into words. Nine times out of ten a
trout within a one hundred mile radius would probably, “swim for the hills,”
after such a spectacle. We ourselves
usually laugh, but it’s a laugh that borders on delirium; especially after
having been on the water for several hours, or when we’ve been in the direct
sun too long, or we’re covered with swarming black flies and mosquitoes. With a hint of disdain we’ll continue on with
the next cast; more than likely right back into the same section of water we
just screwed up. As we make that cast we typically preface the retrieve with a
comment that goes along the line of, “Well, if any trout is left (in that once
in a lifetime bend in the creek), it would have to be a dumb trout!” We don’t comment like that to save face, or
hope that the God of fish would have mercy upon us, but rather to save the
creek from certain destruction. If a
trout was still holding up in the currents after one of our “casualties of
clumsiness”, and was left to reproduce and pass on those “dumb” genes, who
knows what the chain reaction would be to the future life in that
waterway. The very existence of the
micro-organisms, insects, and plant life, including the otters, eagles, and
black bear, could be at stake if the trout was eliminated from its environs due
to its own poor decisions or lack of awareness.
Who wouldn’t want to flee for their lives after a large, two-legged creature
came crashing through their favorite feeding spot; complete with neoprene
leggings? And yet, inevitably there is
that small chance that one trout may linger; a small chance that it may
actually still be feeding. And so, as
part of our civic duty after such a debacle, and as proponents of healthy, wary
trout populations in every clear, cool watershed system, we look to see if we
can “cull the herd” and save the trout as we know it by making that
half-hearted cast into the infected waters.
It
was under such conditions that I found myself last week while fishing
solo. I’d seen a few trout in the hour
or so that I’d been fishing, but they were merely feeble attempts at my
spinner. Light taps as they checked it
out.
And
then I came to a lovely, deep pool fed by a cascading flow of trickling water and
a swinging bend in the creek. I started
in the tail of the pool and began working my way up through it. Again, I saw several meager attempts, but no
hard strikes. At last I flipped my line
toward some over hanging grasses; hoping to find a trout hiding under the bank
and on the inside of the bend. It was
next to fresh, incoming water. What I
found instead was some exposed roots.
Hung up in them, I shook my pole up and down, lightly trying to free it
without too much ruckus. When that
didn’t work, I went to the harried, jiggling effect, trying to get the hook to
magically pop off the root fibers.
Lastly, I jerked the pole tip up, trying to rip it free as it slapped
the water’s surface time and again, but it was to no avail. I stumbled forward, reached down and of
course easily unhooked it.
Looking
ahead from my reach I saw there was about two feet of pocket water following
the current that was pouring over the rocks on down to my outstretched hand. I straightened back up and lightly flipped my
spinner into that bubbling water that was directly in front of me. I thought to myself, “Only a dumb trout would
still be there after all of my splashing around.” I of course made the cast anyways.
As
I finished that thought, twenty-two inches of brown trout exploded out from
under the bank. Somehow it had remained
safely hidden in a tight hold of water.
How it remained undaunted, I do not know. What I do know is that it struck with
vengeance, and I was very busy in a small area.
My pole was doubled over. The
large trout made several runs into the pool below me, but each time I managed
to turn its head back into the current and slowly brought it over to me. It took a few attempts to slide my hand under
its belly and bring it into the shallow head of the pool.
The
brown trout was flawless. It had vivid
coloring with its red spotted markings.
Its mouth was curved and beaked with a strong jaw line. Its back and belly were proportionately
streamlined. This trout, without
argument, was the picture of health. It
was perfect.
And
yet there it was in my hands. How
so? Was it the one out of ten trout whose
dumb genes were destined to destroy the species? Holding it even briefly would probably tell
you otherwise. More than likely it was
better described as, “just plain, dumb luck” on my part. At a point in the creek where the water was
loud and churning, the brown had detected no difference when my hook became
fouled in the roots. My approach went
unheeded as it had to face upstream in the stronger current. It could only be such a specimen through
opportunistic living and wary chances; if indeed there was such a thing for a
trout. The brown trout had remained
perfectly hidden, able to feed on the finest of foods at its own discretion, in
an impeccable location. I just happened
to come along under ideal circumstances, despite my clumsy actions, and was
fortunate enough to catch and hold the “perfect dumb trout.” I wished it well, and hoped its genes would
be passed on, as it slipped from my fingers and disappeared down into the pool.
“Sometimes we pray; sometimes we
are the answers to prayer. You become
the answer to prayer when you act as though your life depends on it. Because it does. And so do the lives of everyone your life
touches.”
The
Last Arrow
by Erwin Raphael McManus
Last week my family was involved in “The
Welcome Project.” This was the third
year it has been held. What started as
the brain child of our friend Heather Dellamater, has blossomed into an
outreach of global and epic proportions.
I say global because it helps begin the process of acclimating refugee children
to live in America. Often these children
have only been here 3 years, one year, a month, or a week. They came from Myanmar, the Congo, and
Southern Africa this year. In other
years it also included the children of families from the Middle East and
Southeast Asia. These are families who
left their homeland due to political wars, religious oppression, natural
disasters, or ethnic cleansing. Sometimes
staying in refugee camps in another country for several years, they eventually
are placed somewhere new; somewhere safe.
Rockford, with its history of manufacturing, is where some end up,
hoping to find jobs.
This is epic because although many
children come here being able to speak 2, 3, or 4 different languages, English
or our culture itself, is literally foreign.
And so “The Welcome Project” is able to bring in children, through the
aid of Catholic Charities, Rock Valley College, and a huge host of businesses
and individuals who donate their time and resources, to love them and begin
developing relationships of trust and friendships to help tear down walls of fear,
hate, and uncertainty.
Each day was filled with learning;
reading, ESL, art, computer, outdoor/gym activities, and music classes in
addition to people from the community (principals, firefighters, the police,
and librarians). Throughout the week, through
speakers and actors, the story of Esther from the Bible was told; a perfect
correlation to living in a foreign land.
My son Todd was the director this
year, and my daughter Jodi was one of the interns. My wife Cindy worked in the computer room (and
also helped teach about money and currency).
I worked with the “Blue Group;” kids who were roughly in 7th
grade; give or take a few years.
Together, Cindy and I also picked up and dropped off kids; back and
forth from their homes.
In the end we began
communicating. What started with scared
faces and little to no words, ended with “good morning” or “Jambo” (Swahili
for hello), smiles, high-fives, and laughing.
Mothers & fathers trusted us, and sent their beloved children with
us and we returned them tired and happy (especially after “water day”). Our prayer was twofold in that we would be
available (like Esther), “For such a time as this” (Esther 4:14), and that the
children would be able to take a step closer towards acceptance and being ready
to begin school in just a few weeks.
Their hearts are big and willing, but it does make you question things
like grades, standards, and testing when they’ll simply be trying to
understand, fit in, and maintain who they are; all while learning. May God bless them and their teachers; grant
them unity through love, knowledge, and insight.
It is this very concept that brings
me to the summer road trip that came the day after “The Welcome Project”
ended. The boy’s basketball coach for
Duke University, Mike Krzyzewski, in his book Leading With The Heart
says we want to be a part of something bigger; it’s a team thing. John Eldredge, in his book Epic says, “We’d
much rather be included in something grand than have to create the meaning of
our lives. To know that life, ultimately,
doesn’t rest on our shoulders, but invites us up into it.”
A small portion of our Gulo
Adventure Clan; guys tied to Prairie Hill School District in the past or
present, met at my house at 7:00 Saturday morning and drove westward towards
East Dubuque and the mighty Mississippi River.
Although our diversity may not have been in our origin of cultures, it
was in our ages. And yet, like the
children and people involved in “The Welcome Project,” our group exists like it
does because people want to belong and be caught up in a story or adventure
that is bigger than ourselves.
Merel - The Captain
And what an adventure it was! I didn’t have to hike, or drive, or cookout
this time (not that I mind those things).
We relied on Tyler and his truck to get us there, and then the
overwhelming generosity of Merel and Carol Wilson. The weather was perfect; enough said. When we arrived, Merel gave us a tour of his
boat and then we ate some fruit and donut holes while catching up on life. It felt good to laugh and tell stories, most
of which were true. Then Merel, the
captain, and Carol, the admiral, took us on a 3 hour tour. Actually it was 3 hours and 14 minutes, but
those who are reading this blog, and old enough to have watched Gilligan’s
Island, know why I wrote it that way.
The scenery was stunning; the vistas, the eagles, and the water. Tyler and Zach, the young guns of the group,
even got to man the wheel. Merel’s
instructions were simple; “Keep it between the buoys and in the main channel.” Roger that!
Tyler played an excerpt of Celine Dion’s song, “My Heart Will Go On” from
the movie Titanic, but none of us stood in the bow with our arms raised,
however tempting it may have been. It
was pretty funny.
Zach At The Helm
Tyler Scanning The Horizon As Greg Looks On
Click For The Video:
Who would have thought you could
take men in their 20’s, 50’s, 60’s and 70’s and bring them together with any
commonality? Yet, as we returned to the
marina and dove off the bow of the boat, swam, and ate sub sandwiches, it was
evident. We were made to belong. We were created to do life together and share
our heart and expertise with those around us.
In our case, with this group of guys, it’s centered around
education. This particular trip was
merely a relaxing and motivational boost to get back at it here soon when
school starts up in two weeks. We were
created and molded for such a time as this.
See you along The Way…
Zach, Tyler, Merel, Greg, And Myself On The Mighty Mississippi
This
past Saturday was a chance to hone my skills before I head North to what is
fondly referred to as the “Tip of the Mitt;” Northern Lower Michigan. It’s the traditional trip with some of my
cousins to camp in the woods, and wade rivers, while fishing for trout. What with the heat, humidity, and heavy
rains, it’s the first time I’ve been able to go trout fishing since my Dad and
I did two months ago, in early May (See past blog: “Blessings From The Trout Lily”).
This
time of the year I tend to get a little jittery, and border line panicky, as
the date for this trip approaches. I
look forward to it so much, and find it both fulfilling and rejuvenating, that
I can hardly wait for the date to arrive when I can leave. I don’t wish my life away, as there are
plenty of other things to invest in beforehand, but it is a highlight that
fuels me for the upcoming school year.
This year’s outing up North will be unique and fun as my son Todd joins
our “Band of Brothers/Cousins.” Blood
runs thick generationally.
And
so it was with these thoughts in mind that I woke at 4:00, hit the road by
5:00, and was standing in the water by 6:30 for my day to practice up before
heading North. Although in many ways
it’s like riding a bike, I wanted to brush-up on sneaking ninja like in the
water, be alert to my surroundings, react quickly to strikes, and hold beauty
in the palm of my hand. Having the
temperatures in the low 50’s and wearing a long sleeve shirt didn’t hurt
either. Throughout those early hours, as
the sun rose and the misty fog slowly burned away, I was nice and calm; having
stayed up late preparing my gear and making sure I was set.
CLICK FOR THE VIDEO:
The
mosquitoes were around but not too terribly awful when I was in the water. In the surrounding woods it was a different
story. I put on some mosquito repellent,
even though I typically hate to bother with it or be covered in it. I decided it would help eliminate something
to worry about. Halfway through the
morning, once the sun was higher, I added sunscreen to that. I applied it because although it remained
cool, the sky was bright and cloudless.
Trout
don’t really like being out in the bright sun, and I really had to watch the
placement of my moving shadow. I enjoyed
the opportunity to be out there, however, and managed to catch and release around thirteen
trout. The average was around nine
inches, with the biggest being 11 ½ and 10 ½.
I caught three more browns than brook trout.
CLICK FOR THE VIDEO:
Those
were some of the statistics. What I
didn’t mention was that as I fished, my line was really starting to twist. This of course can affect my cast and
pitches, often snagging the handle of my reel in the process; causing a
ricocheting effect back at your face at lightning speed. Let’s just say that I had to duck and dive
more times than I care to mention, in order to avoid the spinner’s hooks. That’s what probably started my slight aggravation. The fact that I only caught fish in sporadic
sections of time over the many hours I was out there may have added to that,
but it wasn’t terrible. I had hoped for
more, or a bigger one, but those types of things were out of my control and so
I enjoyed the moments to be out of doors unencumbered. At one point I ripped off about thirty feet
of fishing line, but the line underneath soon followed suit and also became
twisted.
After
fishing for about seven hours I decided to get out and head back to my old
Jeep. My wife and I were planning on
picking up my daughter from a conference later that afternoon. I wasn’t quite up the creek far enough to
where I sometimes will fish to; where there’s the resemblance of a trail. By getting out where I did I was going to
have to do some bushwhacking. I was
pretty sure that by heading West by Southwest I could find that trail, and so I
forged ahead. I was getting hot but I
kept my long sleeve shirt on; it helped protect me from the mosquitoes, deer
flies, and poisonous wild parsnip.
Starting
at 2:00 I set forth; keeping the sun above my left shoulder. The grasses I pushed though were at times
taller than me. These gave way to
tangled brush, and then dense woods. I
took a quick video of this part of the venture for “fun.”
CLICK FOR THE VIDEO:
Several
times my landing net, for softly cradling trout in its rubber webbing when I
caught them, snagged on broken off tree branches and twigs. It would jerk me back with a jolt as it was
attached to the back of my fishing vest with a bungee cord. I was doing this all in waders and boots mind
you and as I started getting hot, bitten, and discombobulated, I started to get
panicky and to lose it mentally. I
questioned whether I should keep pushing onward (Was I almost to a trail?), or
should I turn around and either try a different direction, or find the creek
and wade back down it.
River
miles are much longer than actual miles, and I had fished a long way up the
creek. It was now 2:18. I needed to get to my Jeep by 3:00 so I could
be home by 4:00. I took a deep breath,
looked down, found a deer fly embedded into the back of my hand, swatted it
(which splattered blood everywhere), and started hiking back East.
I
couldn’t follow the same path I had made hiking in, because there was
none. Thorns caught at me constantly
from the roses, gooseberry bushes, and buckthorn trees. Yikes! I didn’t want to puncture my
waders. They are only two years old, and
although I am sometimes hard on them with journeys through the woods, I didn’t
want to wreck them if I could help it.
Did I mention that I was getting hot?
After
ten minutes my net caught again, and without thinking to stop and unhook it, I
reached back with my hand and yanked it back to me. I heard the netting tear. Ahhh!
I had put a large hole in it; something I’d have to now add to my list
of to-do’s and fix before I went up North.
I was getting tired. I sometimes
laugh that I run like I do to be in shape to fish like I do. Perhaps I needed to rephrase that to say that
I fish like I do to be in shape for when I run.
The element and pressure of time was causing me to make some poor
decisions. Being panic stricken was
becoming a reality. Was I lost? I started mentally running through the gear I
had with me, and remembered my fire starting kit. Would I need to build a shelter, stay the
night, and start a smoky fire to ward off the mosquitoes and flies? Maybe the search and rescue helicopter would
see the light from my fire. “Good grief
Rhines, keep it together!” I thought to myself.
I knew I had to keep my head in the game. This was fun today right?
Just about then I pushed out into a clearing
of lower height prairie plants. It broke
the feeling of claustrophobia. I decided
to forgo continuing back to the creek and instead headed south to try to find
the path I had originally come in on that morning. After another five to eight minutes of
keeping the sun on my right side I realized that I had happenstance upon what
looked like an old trail. It was
overgrown, but was probably the one that the DNR mows once a year prior to
hunting season. We wouldn’t want hunters
having to get lost and hike through thick shin-tangle!
The "Trail" That I Eventually Found
With
a pace of certainty, I pushed on. With
that pace I miraculously made it to my green Jeep by 3:00. I stripped off my sweat soaked gear, threw it
into the back, and texted my wife that I was on my way home.
What a day! What a mixture of emotions. As the jittery feelings of anticipation
blended with the panicky feelings that occur when my trip up North just won’t
come fast enough, I allowed myself a smile.
Yes, I have a summer class to work on, and some household tasks to
complete before I pack, but I’m ready.
Believe it or not, being panic stricken got it out of my system and put
life back into perspective. I’m going to
enjoy this trip up North. Thank you God
for opportunities such as this.
