Of Jungle Rot And The Esox Lucius

Remember campfire songs of yesteryear?  Nonsensical lyrics that concluded with the phrase, “Same song.  Second verse.  A little bit louder and a little bit worse!”  It was the kind of activity that easily whipped kids up into a frenzy as the song progressed.

  It was sort of like that for me as I hit the same river as I did last week, but this time with my friend Andrew.  Originally there was to be one trip with four of us.  Some bad, inclement weather changed things up on us, however, so one friend had to drop out, and while the other two still were able to go, it required two different dates and two separate trips.  It was actually my wife Cindy who said that I had the time, so why not just go twice in back to back weeks.  I didn’t question it, and the rest (as they say) has become history.

Andrew’s only two years older than my own son and less than half my age.  In fact, his Dad and I actually attended the same college together for a couple of years.  But since Andrew joined our teaching staff four years ago, he and I have hit it off.  Over the course of this last school year we’ve probably run a couple hundred miles together throughout midweek runs.  You tend to get to know one another when you’re running and talking to someone on a fairly regular basis.

Cindy again provided the necessary driving for us and our gear to be dropped off.  The weather over those two days was humid and borderline soupy; closer to what one might affectionately refer to as, “Jungle Rot.”  And while jungle rot may perhaps happen more to a person’s clothing and shoes under such conditions, it’s probably not far off from the truth of what could happen to a person’s own body if left unattended for a long period of time.  Still, time out on a river’s wilds is time out, and one doesn’t complain when subjected to such circumstances.  In addition, it was supposed to rain.  While planning things out the night before over a phone call it was Andrew himself that quoted me directly saying, “Like you’ve always said Rhines, you can endure anything for 24 hours.”  Yesh!  You can’t back out of anything after apparently saying something like that.  While I’ll admit that I don’t remember the exact time or place I said that, I won’t deny that it sounds like something I’d utter offhandedly; being mindful that real-life situations do exist that nobody wants to experience.  This adventure, fortunately, was not one of those situations.

We hadn’t paddled for long when we pulled off the main channel and into a jungly, backwater bayou.  It wasn’t deep, but when the sun chose to show itself for a brief period of time and help bake things a bit, it looked both inviting and promising.  Fish were indeed surfacing around us, but we didn’t hook into anything but submerged logs.  After some time, we decided to exit the sloughlike area so I paddled slowly while Andrew switched up his lure.  As we approached the divide where the main currents of the river started, I put down my paddle and cast up alongside the bank using my trusty old #5 silver Mepps spinner.  What I got in return was a chunky 30.5 inch pike.  He fought, and pulled, and was magnificent.  He did have a few war wounds on him, whether from an eagle or bigger fish I do not know.  Andrew took a quick picture for me and then I slipped the pike back into the water.  While it would have been nice to have had the pike for dinner, we still had a ways to paddle, and oftentimes it’s just as rewarding to get a picture, return them to the water, and know that right now that fish is somewhere in that river hugging a bank, with its toothy pike grin, waiting to zip out after some unsuspecting prey.

A 30.5 Inch Pike
Caught & Released

We continued onward at that point, and although we did stop to cast and fish one outside bend, the clouds were returning and billowing and so we pressed on towards our goal, hoping to set up camp before any rain started.

By 5:30 p.m. we had our tents up and quickly set to work to gather firewood so that we could get it covered and keep it dry.  Then we went fishing.  Although we didn’t catch any fish per se, we did snag into some underwater structure that we decided to take care of.  While Andrew hung onto his pole; attached to a lure that was attached to a “lure eating tree,” I went back to get my canoe.  Unfortunately in dragging it past my tent, I bumped it against one of my frame poles causing a slight tear that I’ll have to repair later.  It happens, even when you’re trying to be careful.

We spent the better part of the next hour dragging sticks, branches, and logs out from one particular hole, all while dancing around a rather large fishing spider that was literally running across the surface of the water.  It was large enough that it actually made paddling noises and created a wake while scurrying for the grasses on the nearby bank.  It was really cool, but I won’t lie that it also gave you the heebie-jeebies.  Once we had finished, we were soaked between the slight sprinkle, sweat, and water flung up onto us from the river.  In addition, I thought that I’d be nice and tidy things up by rolling one of the large branches further up onto the bank.  What I got in return was a branch, weak and muddy from being submerged for years, that snapped and whipped black muck across my legs, shorts, arms, face, and my bright yellow Joe Robinet “Exploring” T-shirt that I’d gotten for Christmas.  Perfect!?

Back in camp, Andrew worked on cutting up our food for dinner while I tried to coax the fire to life.  It was slow going with the damp air, but eventually our two paths converged and we set the food in the coals to cook.  I then promptly grabbed my towel to try to clean up before the jungle rot truly did set in on me.  Fortunately the river water was relatively warm, so I was able to perform a submersible push-up in a shallow, sandy section of the river, clean off, and avoid a catastrophe!

Back at camp in cleaner clothes, I realized to my disdain that I had forgotten the ketchup; a staple for most tinfoil dinners.  Luckily the food was delicious anyways, as well as necessary, to replace the energy we had been burning.  While it did sprinkle and rain off and on, we managed to miss the outright thunderstorms that went racing through to our South, and so I was able to read a couple of short stories from Patrick F. McManus before we tucked away for the night.  I had started the tradition with Justin the week before, only this time I read “Skunk Ladder” and “Mean Tents.”  I felt like they were relevant.  I concluded the evening in my tent by again reading a chapter from Sigurd Olson’s book entitled, The Lonely Land, but not before having to help along a giant wolf spider next to the zippered door of my tent.  Apparently it had wanted to join me inside.  I thought better of it, however, and encouraged it on its way back into the grass.

I woke early, but managed to fall back to sleep a bit longer before getting up and continuing to read; all to the sounds of the birds and last night’s rain dripping off from the trees.  I reread a section from The Lonely Land when in 1955 Sigurd Olson and 5 of his buddies paddled canoes down Saskatchewan’s Churchill and Sturgeon-Weir Rivers, following the ancient trail of voyagers and Hudson Bay’s fur traders.  I love the section where he details how at the base of Trout Lake Falls, three of his companions hook into three monstrous pike all at the same time; each fish weighing in at over 20 pounds.

Andrew and I came out from each of our respected tents by 7:00 and had our camp packed away and covered in a tarp by 8:00; just as the rain started again.  We grabbed our poles and waded through the tall, wet grass to the river.  We were soaked before we even saw the water.  Not much luck was had, other than a 20 inch pike that I caught and released, and so after a while we went back to cook our skillet during a break in the rain.  Again Andrew cut up the food while I worked on the fire.  It needed encouragement to get started.  We both laughed that at least it was only affecting the two of us.  If we had been cooking for the entire Gulo Adventure Clan of teaching colleagues, there may have been mutiny due to the time it took to get anything resembling a consistent flame started, let alone a breakfast cooked.

Andrew Fishing In The Rain From A Sandy Point

The Bald Eagle In The Dead Tree
Showed Up Three Different Times
To Look Out Over The River & Our Camp

Afterwards we fished a nearby hole again, but this time from a different vantage point.  As I stood back and watched, Andrew used a top water rubber frog, working it from the far bank out over the pool, amongst the dimpling raindrops falling upon us.  After a spell he started seeing action.  Three different times a big fish took a swipe at his lure, but each time the hook was set it would pull out from the mouth of the fish, keeping us from seeing exactly what it was or its size.  Actually, on that final third strike, the hook was set, but unfortunately his line snapped and both the fish and lure were never seen again.

With permission, I stepped forward and cast a few times to the pool before concentrating on a drop-off from the bank on my right.  About the second cast, I felt the push of water that I mentioned in my last blog entry, and so I turned to Andrew and quickly said something to the effect that he should watch because something was coming.  It came alright, but by that time I had almost reeled the lure to the tippet of my pole, and was running out of room.  Sure enough the strike came, but it missed, turned, and disappeared back along the bank.

No mystery as to what it was.  By its Latin name it’s known as Esox lucius.  Esox refers to a large, long nosed, freshwater fish of the Northland.  Their body is torpedo shaped, long, and perfect for their predatory tendencies.  Lucius can mean light, but in this case it more closely refers to a wolf (wolf in Greek = lukos).  This explains why a pickerel, or pike, is sometimes called a water wolf.  Once you see the voracious teeth you’ll understand.

Regardless, on my ensuing cast back to the pool I rendered nothing.  Next I split the distance between the pool and the original bank.  This time the Esox pike hit hard and solid.  My pole was doubled over and the fish raced around in the water around my legs.  In reality, it was a hot minute.  I decided I wanted my fish gripper to grab the pike by the jaw, but it was attached to the backside of the backpack I had on, and I couldn’t quite reach it.  At the same time Andrew was both choosing and tying on a new lure while simultaneously receiving a call from a school he had recently applied to North of Milwaukee.  Andrew had resigned from our school this spring, became engaged, and was stepping out in faith hoping to hook a job teaching band this fall near the area his fiance’ Meg had already found a job.  Was he receiving an acceptance call?  Was he getting the job he had interviewed for?

I interrupted the moment by calling out, “Andrew!  Can you get that gripper off my backpack?  I’m a little busy here attached to this pike!”  He shook himself back into the present, ran over, and got it for me.  I probably should have just lifted the fish with my hands, but I also needed my pliers to get the hook out.  I clipped on the gripper, snapped the line and extracted the hook of the Mepps from the pike, all while Andrew took a few pictures for me.  I then ran the pike back and forth through the water, forcing fresh water through its gills until it pulled from my hands.  It swam three or four feet away, sat there fining for a few minutes, and then pushed off into the pool.  While standing there in the falling rain, all I could think about was that the moment had been awesome.  The pike had measured at 31.5 inches and had a wide back that would have been hard to even get my hand around.  Esox lucius indeed!

A 31.5 Inch Pike
Caught And Released

I checked my own phone at that time and saw that Cindy was starting out to come pick us up.  It was almost noon, and we were still nearly an hour’s paddle away from the take out area.  Eek!  A miscalculation on my part!  Andrew and I quickly grabbed our poles, launched the canoe into the river, loaded our gear, and started paddling; all in a process that took only 30 minutes.  Not bad!

The skies continued to drizzle, but the scenery was great regardless.  We came skidding up to our designated spot by 1:30.  Cindy pulled in at that time as well, in my old silver Jeep.  We loaded the canoe and gear, and then headed home; none the worse for wear after quite an adventure.  And what an adventure it was; a memorable one forever embodied with rainy-humid weather practically leading to jungle rot, and the ever surprising Esox lucius.

See you along The Way…

-----

PS - And that afternoon Andrew found out that he had gotten that job!  Congrats friend...

Drying Out My Gear (Back Home)
And Preventing "Jungle Rot"

River Rats

From Right To Left, Justin And Me At The Launch

“Canoeing and fishing are ways to get beneath the surface of things, to open our hearts to the world.  They make us participants in nature instead of spectators, a crucial distinction because participants tend to become passionate and protective, and spectators tend to become indifferent.”

Dennis, Jerry. “Night of the Aurora.” Canoe and Kayak Magazine, July 2000.

As I stare down at the random spots of bubbling skin on my arms and ankles; the after effects of poison ivy, I am reminded of a recent adventure with my friend Justin.  We decided to hit a river where we could paddle down, camp alongside, and fish within its banks.  Yes, those banks are typically covered in Toxicodendron radicans, commonly known as poison ivy, but if you know what you’re looking for, you can keep the rashes to a minimum, and maximize your exposure to an outdoor expedition.

After compiling our gear, my wife helped coordinate our drop off.  Initially there was a chance for rain, but we ended up with perfect conditions.  As river rats we paddled and occasionally fished some outside bends, to no avail, as we made our way through a maze of downfalls that were now jutting above the surface; a result of the low water levels.  On the way down river to our designated camping spot, the bald eagles seemed as numerous as sparrows; several having much better luck at fishing as they carried off spectacularly large specimens most humans would gawk at.  In fact, it was with bugged eyes and mouths hanging open that we saw an eagle drop half a pike from the lofty tree that we were pulling up under to camp.  At first I thought the splash was that of a beaver-tail, but Justin in the bow of the canoe could see the white head of the massive bird that was responsible.  Upon closer inspection we found the chunk of fish in the water as the eagle flew up and out from under the canopy where it had been perched and feeding.  The remains of the pike measured roughly 16 inches of what must have been nearly 30 inches at the onset; a testament to the acute strength of our nation’s bird.

Justin Fishing An Outside Bend

The Half Eaten Remains From The Bald Eagle

The grass growing on the bank of our chosen camp was tall and nearly my height.  We pushed it over in a small area for our two tents, allowing the springiness of the grass to provide a mattress effect when we headed to bed that evening.  Next we collected a few small branches of oak to use as firewood; it was hard, dry, and would make great coals for our small cooking fire.

        Since it was still early evening, we set to exploring the section of the river near us to see what we might be able to catch while fishing.  Early on we tossed and hooked fairly expensive lures into submerged logs, losing them to the “river gods.”  They must have accepted our unwitting sacrifice, because I soon caught a smallmouth bass on a #5 silver Mepps spinner I had just tied directly onto my braided line; having lost the fluorocarbon tippet with my spinner bait moments before that.  While Justin worked through his own penance, I then hooked into a great river pike in an area Justin had previously explored.  I had a feeling that I was about to get a hit because I had felt the all too familiar sudden easy retrieve when something is charging your lure and pushing water.  Occasionally it’s because you are reeling your lure over submerged structures, but more often than not, you’re about to get a strike.  When the pike hit, I saw the swirl, set the hook, and felt the power.  There isn’t a whole lot that compares to experiencing the tenacity of a predatory fish like a pike.  It’s both awesome and unforgettable.  I managed to clip a fish gripper to it’s jaw and lift it up as Justin snapped a couple of pictures.  The pike measured at 27 inches and was worth every bit of that!

With A Little Smallmouth Bass

With A 27 Inch Northern Pike

Having dreamed of catching a fish and cooking it then and there as a shore lunch, we elected to keep it.  Justin went about cutting and breaking up our firewood while I got ready to clean the pike.  Unfortunately I had forgotten my fillet knife, so I had to use a regular knife instead; using a mud caked log along the bank as my cutting board.  Both of the fillets were too large for my iron skillet, so we cut them in half and fried them individually.  They were heavenly, delicious, and we tried our best to savor the taste, setting, and experience as we wolfed it down.  We decided to cook the tinfoil dinners that we had also prepared; full of potatoes, carrots, onions, and chicken.  The dinners weren’t necessary after the fish, but since we had them, we went ahead and stuffed ourselves.

The Overturned Canoe Acted As Our
Table & Bench At The Fire

Under the reflective light of the rising full moon I read Justin two humorous outdoor stories using my headlamp, laughing to Pat McManus’ “The Grasshopper Trap” and “First Knife.”  Afterwards, within my tent, I read from one chapter of Sigurd Olson’s The Lonely Land  before turning off my light at 11:00 and calling it a day.

The Full Moon Rising

Personally I slept fairly well, only waking to occasionally shimmy my sleeping bag back into position.  Justin said that it was the best that he’d slept in a tent in quite a while.  A cardinal started the day at 4:34 and that gave the rest of the nearby birds the permission necessary to begin reestablishing their territories and call out to one another.  One in particular called out to us all morning long from a nearby silver maple.

That next morning we fished again.  I managed to catch a second pike after a while; this one at 26 inches.  Both Justin and I had watched as it followed my spinner up stream, but it missed the strike as it came up and over the point of a sand bar I was standing on.  Two more back to back times the pike tried to hit the lure and missed before I finally slowed the reeling down to such a point that the spinner barely turned.  When the pike struck one more time I set the hook and managed to catch it.  It was a beautiful pike, and after a quick picture I released it back into the pool from which it came.

With A 26 Inch River Pike

After all of that excitement, we went back to our camp.  With the absence of dew, the tents were taken down and packed away dry.  The rest of our gear was piled, and after another delicious meal, this time of potatoes, sausage, and eggs, we loaded our supplies into our canoe and began our paddle down to our take out spot.

We talked, laughed about various mishaps with our fishing tackle, and thoroughly enjoyed paddling the river.  It was a fun adventure to have shared, and as Jerry Dennis quoted about those who canoe and fish, we delved deep as active participants in nature.  River rats that are passionate and protective of such environments that surround moving waters are certainly going to perceive and experience it in a refreshing manner.

See you along The Way...

Finishing Our Journey At The Take Out Spot

A Rookie In Tight Quarters!

When we were kids the first thing that my sisters and I would inquire of my Dad, upon his returning from a fishing adventure, was if he had caught anything.  He’d usually reply, “Well, I swam as fast as I could, but I couldn’t catch any.”  Our typical response to him at that point was, “Dad, you know what we mean!  Did you get any fish?”   It was a standard “Dad Joke.”

This morning, after sleeping in a bit longer than expected to make sure potential storms had moved northeast of us, I prepared my gear for fishing.  As my wife, daughter, and I are staying in a rented cabin this week, I flipped over the kayak included in the package deal.  I had already grabbed a life jacket from the hallway closet, and picked up both my pole and backpack full of lures and other helpful equipment.

I started southeast from our dock and pitched my six inch Rapala towards the shore and neighboring docks, reeling it back out over the drop-off.  I worked my way around to where I knew a twenty foot hole extended diagonally across the lake.  Once lined up, I continued casting ahead, allowing the drag of the lure to pull me slowly ahead as the paddle lay across my lap.  After reaching the opposite shore, I proceeded through a channel into a wider, enclosed bay; working lily pads as I entered.  I hadn’t gone too far before a bald eagle flew over me, and two loons serenaded me with their wailing cry.  Their sound was unique; both exciting and haunting.  

Weeds began to show as the depth shallowed, so I switched to a Scum Frog lure that my Dad had given to me.  It allows you to cast onto lily pads and over underwater vegetation without getting snagged.  My wife likens it to an all-terrain vehicle.  Still, I moved on without anything even slightly resembling a hit from a fish.

After almost two hours of being on the water, I began to exit the bay by way of the channel I had come in through; this time working the southwest bank with a #5 silver spooned Mepps spinner.  Occasionally on my cast I would remember to swirl my lure in a figure-8 pattern, or at least back and forth as much as my low profile in the kayak would allow me.  It’s a technique that many fisherman use for those trailing, lurking fish that need encouragement and a little extra time to think twice about opportunistically hitting what looks like food and the catch of their day.  

One of my casts at that time landed on the outside edge of some lily pads sandwiched between two docks.  I was about to consider making the extra patterned movement before lifting the spinner from the surface of the water when at 7 to 8 feet off my starboard bow, I finally had a hit.  It was both immediate and solid; doubling my pole.  Elation was my first thought, as I just knew this was going to be a really nice pike.  The fish dove for the bottom of the channel, wrapping my pole under the bottom side of the kayak and then surged for the lily pads, dragging me with it.

The great fish made several more runs like that before rolling at the surface, and triggering that inner voice that had kept trying to tell me that this was probably more than a pike.  On that roll the fish looked greenish-brown, with none of a pike’s horizontal yellow dashes along it’s flank.  Several times I tried to bring it alongside me as I held on with one arm and scrounged through my backpack laying in the bottom of the kayak; looking for my phone to try to take some pictures of what was going on.

This fish was big, dwarfing the silver Mepps lodged in the side of its mouth.  It slapped its tail, dove, and sprayed me when I reached for my gripper.  I had managed to fire off a few quick pictures of the fish on the surface of the lake, but I was struggling to get the gripper attached to its jaw.  It would pass so swiftly through the water that I couldn’t get it fixed on like a person might that could lift the fish’s head while standing in a boat.  At water level, the points of my treble hook, and the points of the teeth in its huge head were a bit more “up close and personal” than one might like, but I finally got the gripper hooked into its jaw on around pass number ten.  I also got thoroughly soaked in the undertaking!  I was now solidly attached to a 40 inch-ish muskellunge!

I quickly saw that the small forceps I use to extract hooks from the trout that I typically catch was dangerously akin to bear hunting with a switch.  While my right arm was being wrenched from its socket, I again dug into my backpack for my multi-tool.  The pliers on that could do the trick.  In fact, they had to do the trick.

If elation was my first thought, panic was a close second; not for the fish and the catch, but more for the release.  I was attached to what some might term a predicament.  Fortunately I was able to get the Mepps lure out of the corner of its jaw and out of the muskie using the pliers.  Unfortunately, once I did that I saw that my line came down from the tippet of my pole and through the small gap between the sides of my gripper, which of course was attached to my wrist and the muskie; the cheaper quality, smaller model of gripper at that!

If the fish had thrashed again with a loose lure, it could have gotten ugly (-er).  I worked desperately to cut the fluorocarbon, threw the lure in the bottom of the kayak, whipped my pole out of the way, got my phone ready, grunted to lift the muskie up out of the water for at least a partial selfie with half of me and half of the fish...and then the #%@$ phone wouldn’t work!  No matter what I tried (with one hand), I couldn’t get it to take my picture as my phone had gotten wet.  “Nooooo!”  In frustration I thought to myself that this couldn’t possibly be happening now.  I wanted a picture.  I needed a picture!

I was getting nervous about getting the fish released, however, so I lowered him into the water and undid the gripper.  It was just that easy.  Suddenly all was calm.  I watched the silhouette of the fish descend into the murkiness of the water and then scoot up under a dock.  I know muskies can grow much bigger, and that in these parts, a “keeper” only starts at 40 inches, but considering I was sitting in a kayak at water level, with an average pole and gripper, it was still a respectable catch.  Most likely it was the new braided line and fluorocarbon leader I had recently put on, coupled with the knots I had learned how to tie that certainly made all of the difference.

I could see the muskie gently finning in place and his tail even came up out of the water once when he bobbed down, but after about five minutes or so the great fish disappeared back into the channel.  I felt confident that it would survive the ordeal.  I had gone from elation, to panic, to frustration with the camera, and now finally relief.

The release was not how I had pictured it, as in a perfect situation I would have wanted to hold the muskie and slowly work it back and forth before letting it swim strongly away.  Catch: A+; Release: C-/D.  I was definitely a rookie in tight quarters, but admittedly it would make for an exciting story. 

I restarted my phone as I paddled away, and of course it instantly worked again.  And once I was back at our cabin, I took the case off and dried it entirely so it was back to normal on all accounts.

Later when I told my family about my experience, Mom said that she wished she could see a whole movie of that adventure, while my sister replied that she could picture the craziness.  Dad had wondered what would happen if he ever got a hold of a big pike or muskie while in a kayak, adding, “Now I know.  Think I’ll stick to a boat or canoe at least...if I have a choice!”  My Uncle Bob wrapped it up commenting, “When you have a fish like that, anything can go wrong and always does.  It’s part of the fishing experience!”

I suppose the story of what I caught and how I caught it became the picture that only I can see inside of my head.  I’m not gonna lie that even several hours later I was still a bit jittery from the whole darn experience...but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t take another shot at it given another chance.

See you along The Way...

Opportunities To Escape

I’ve escaped and gone fishing numerous times these past few months.  I vowed that I would go after being bound to completing graduate level classes for the last couple of summers and then coming off from the hecticness of E-learning this spring.  I wouldn’t say that I felt like I had earned the opportunity to be somewhere on a lake or creek.  Far from it in fact.  However, I would say that I was looking forward to calling my own shots, being surprised by something unforeseen lurking under the surface, and immersing myself into nature’s frontier.

Water draws me like a magnetic field.  When you are born and raised in a state once known as a territory, and has a motto that claims, “If you seek a pleasant peninsula, look about you”,  then the spirit of adventure and water itself are distinctly and firmly established into the lifeblood of your soul.

I’ve been fortunate to fish in several different venues, but I’ll save some of those outings for a later blog entry and instead narrow the focus to the three recent times I’ve hit creeks for trout.  Compared to past experiences, and with a keen eye for when the fishing is on, I can honestly say that my three outings were marginal at best.  Still, an outing is an outing and being a relative optimist, each opportunity to escape held surprises that solidified the excursion as worthy of being documented and therefore remembered.

My first escape was back in May.  I hit a creek that I fondly refer to as my “Home Creek” because I know it so well.  Although I hadn’t visited this creek in several years, I did relatively well on this trip.  The weather, albeit a little too sunny for a trout’s liking, was absolutely beautiful.  I got up a little later than usual, thankful for a chance to sleep in, but managed to be in the water by 8:00.  Of the eleven or twelve trout that I caught, all of them were brown trout.  A couple of them were 14 inches, most were about 12 inches, and a few were 10 inches.  I did lose one 16 inch trout after it launched right out of the water at me.  I almost had to use my pole as a fencing sword to defend myself; something I had to do decades ago when I accidentally walked up on a nesting goose.  When a mother goose is camouflaged on eggs with her neck stretched out flat to the ground, while you stumble along in your waders looking for an entry point into the creek, the explosion of honks, wings, and beak can surprise the heck out of you!  Once I gathered my wits, I narrowly escaped the feathered mauling by quickly backing up, and jousting in the air with my fishing pole, while trying to keep from falling over onto my butt.  My Dad was with me on that day, witnessed it all, and still laughs about the attack when the story comes up.  Anyways, I escaped the launching of the brown trout too, but also never caught and landed it.

My second escape was during the third week of June and in a favorite little creek in South-central Wisconsin.  I left home in the late afternoon when storms were predicted.  I drove undaunted and was in the water by 6:00 p.m.  The mosquitoes and deer flies drove me crazy from the beginning.  Soon after pushing through high grasses and red osier dogwood to get to the creek, I cast my lure ahead along the bank of a relatively long run.  As I began to reel, I felt that sudden, easy retrieve when a fish takes a swipe and pushes water around your lure, yet never touches a barb.  When the spinner reached my side I glanced down and saw a hog of a brown trout turn right next to my leg.  Things like that tend to stick in your head and push you onward just in case another would try the same thing.  Around the following bend, the heavens unleashed and I was instantly soaked through down into my waders.  Typically fish can start hitting in such weather, but from the look of things as I had hiked in, the area had already received some rain before I had arrived.  In spite of this, I managed to catch 14 or 15 trout; half were brookies and half were browns, and most were really small.  They were hitting softly so it was hard to react.  As the rain passed through, the temperature went down ten degrees and by the end, as darkness fell, I shook from being cold and wet.  It was time to quit and escape back to somewhere dry and warm.

Trekking like I did in the dim light, and in another squall of rain, it reminded me of silent trudges I’ve had while fishing with my cousins; when you just keep your head down and walk.  The fishing was poor to medium but somehow “fun-ish” once I was back to my Silver Jeep; my fingers wrinkled like prunes.  Sharing an experience like that sometimes makes for a better story than living it.

My last escape was the first week of July.  It was on the front side of what promised to be a long period of unusually hot, humid, and rainless weather.  I woke too early, but after watching a little TV, falling asleep for another hour, and then bouncing up, I left at 5:00 and was in the creek by 6:30.  As I drove. I stopped three different times.  Between the full moon setting and the sun rising, it was an absolutely beautiful scene.  I couldn’t pass up capturing some of it in pictures.  Temperatures started in the high 60’s that morning, but by the time I left to return home hours later, it was nudging 90 degrees.  The slight breeze was out of the East by SE, which does not bode well for fishing, but I had decided to try anyway on a hope and a prayer.  Overall I caught six small brook trout and one 13 inch brown, all in the first hour or two, but still I pressed on.  I fished that section until I had a relatively easy place to get out and start the hike back to my Jeep; baking under the sun in my waders.  Once there, and apparently as a glutton for punishment, I decided to try a lower section of the same creek.  It was a new area I hadn’t fished before, and I wanted to explore, try something new, and see if any of the “big boys” would surprise me and come out to play like they are wont to do.  Generally big browns will feed in the darkness of night, but on occasion I have seen them charge out from a bank in broad daylight as well.  The problem is that by then you’re hot, you can’t remember the last time you had actually brought a fish to your hand despite some magnificent casts, and then they strike when you least expect it.  That happened twice in that section of the creek.  The first flew out from a shallow overhang, grabbed my spinner, and then rubbed it off on some underwater grasses just as I tried setting the hook.  It was huge!  The second rose off the bottom of a pool, took two swipes, missed, and was never seen again.

It was at that time that I broke down my pole and started my hike back, munching on several handfuls of blackberries as I went.  It was brutally hot by then, and I downed an entire thermos of ice water once I reached my Jeep.  All in all the experiences were a chance to get out and both wet my line as well as enjoy time on my own without any deadlines or people needing my attention.  For that matter, although the fishing wasn’t spectacular, the opportunities to escape were priceless.

See you along The Way...

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Some Pictures & Videos from the "Escapes"

Sunday, May 3rd, 2020

Monday, June 22nd, 2020

Click on the short video below to see the squall on the creek:

Sunday, July 5th, 2020