Thanks for Nothing

"I've noticed that many of the people I've really enjoyed fishing with over the years have turned out to be sturdy peasant stock from Michigan.  I don't know what it is about the anglers from that state, but you can spot it: some kind of casual facility with difficulty, or belief that suffering is the only promise life keeps, so that when things go even a little bit right, it's like a gift."
(Standing in a River Waving a Stick by John Gierach, Simon & Schuster - New York 1999)
  
     Last Thursday, July 2nd, my Dad and I headed North; North to the Westfield, Wisconsin area where I had gone solo a month ago.  We drove as the sun rose and soon found ourselves in the cool waters of an awesome creek.  I say that it's awesome because of its ingredients.  It has a light, golden colored, sand bottom.  It's that sand that sifts with the currents to create drop-offs that descend in to dark bends.  As you fish them, you wonder what's down there; down beyond what you can see.  The banks are lined with what can only be described as a horticulturist's bucket list.  Trees, bushes, plants and grasses; all are native foliage in breathtaking environs.  It's what brings me back when I have the extended opportunity.  

      The sun was still at enough of an angle to provide some areas of shade as we started.  Otherwise, the sky was bright blue and the air cool enough to allow us to wear a long-sleeved shirt.  It's the shade and dark skies that are best for the brown trout that primarily reside in this creek.  My Dad caught a beautifully marked thirteen inch trout within the first hour.  I managed a little eight and nine inch brown, and then that was it for both of us.  It was slim pickings for six to seven hours of fishing after that.

      We fished with passion.  We fished with effort.  By the end we didn't have much strength left, and what we did have we needed to hike out and drive back.  It's not often you go and get totally skunked, and it's not often you go and get nearly skunked.  But, sometimes when everything looks marvelous and appears perfect, it's not what you need to catch trout.  I suppose it's an oxymoron; lots of energy expended in a setting to die for; cast after cast made for nothing more than practice in very cool temperatures for July; only a few trout caught and seen with time spent in the water.  Sure the winds were out of the East by Northeast, and sure we know the proverb that says:

"Wind from the North, do not go forth.

Wind from the South, blows bait in their mouth.

Wind from the East, fish bite the least.

Wind from the West, fish bite best."

Sure we know that it's more about the pressure than the wind, and sure we know that wind is created when two air masses, of different pressures, collide.  I'm also sure I've heard someone say, "A bad day fishing is better than a good day working."  But I'm also sure those people have never fished with us before, because although it's more than enjoyable, it's always a lot of work; with or without the mosquitoes.  I'm sure that the unknown person, who took my camera during the Fourth of July fireworks, two days later, feels a little remorse.  It's the camera I was using from school, that captured our fishing adventure, and had ten or more awesome nature shots on it, along with several images of my Dad in action; not to mention a couple of videos including the one of my Dad catching his brown trout.
     Luckily we had a couple of pictures taken with a phone.  The others, though lost, are at least etched into my brain: the rising sun, the white pine needles, little bank-side flowers, new growth on the tamarack, water trickling over a sand and gravel bar, several of Dad casting for the hope of a strike, in addition to a few pictures of an awesome sunset.  

      It's in that memory of spending some time together; together on water that's downright spooky it has so much unforeseen potential; that I give thanks.  Although we hardly caught a thing and in the end my camera was snatched from me and came up missing, I can at least say, "Thanks for nothing!"  A friend of mine commented on our experience by saying, "Luckily you can rely on your optimism to get you through."  Perhaps, but even more it's probably that gift of having come from sturdy Michigan stock; stock that can make light of a situation no matter what state I'm in.
See you along The Way...

"Home" Waters

"With rivers as with good friends, you always feel better for a few hours in their presence; you always want to review your dialogue, years later, with a particular pool or riffle or bend, and to live back through layers of experience.  We have been to this river before and together.  We have much to relive."
(Full Creel by Nick Lyons, Grove Press-New York 2000)

The Path In

     Two days ago, after finishing up all but a few things yet to be "tied up" at school, I headed out to my "Home" creek.  It's water that I cut my teeth on, and quite frankly, have been spoiled with.  I can get to it relatively quickly.  I can fish it with my eyes closed, I've fished it so often.  In fact, come to think of it, when my kids were younger I had them squeeze their eyes together like the shells of a frightened clam as we approached it's location.  That way the secret couldn't be pried out of them, and they could be truthful when they said they didn't know where Daddy had taken them fishing.  I've seen this creek at every stage of water level, and fished it in every type of weather.  I've come away several times when it's seemed that every living thing within a ten mile radius was obliterated.  I couldn't get anything to hit my lure on those days.  I've also caught some of my biggest trout in the bends of this little, nonchalant, trickling creek.  The things I know about fishing for trout (and I know I've only hit the tip of the iceberg) I learned here; from watching water, to seeing hidden locations, to pitching a lure.  Deer, wood ducks, otters and blue herons are but a few of the creatures I've seen over the years; many times it's been up close and personal.  The river itself has changed a lot too over the 15 years that I've fished it.  Bends have busted through to the other side of the snaking water, leaving only a trickle to run in the original creek bed - soon to be oxbow. 

Fallen Log Covered In Moss

Fallen trees, that created gurgling holes, have long since rotted or been ousted during rain-swollen washouts; only to be replaced by new ones, now lodged at a slightly different angle, creating a whole new way to go about fishing it. 

Moss Spore Pods

Home waters.  Fishing them, walking them, and knowing them helps you feel grounded; and yet, there is still that constant change that keeps you learning and appreciating it for both its familiarity and newness.
See you along The Way...
----------------
"Now I've fished in a number of places over the years, and there are few things I love more than the adventure of wading into a new river for the first time or finding a new mountain lake.  Still, the home water infiltrates your consciousness in a distinctive and comfortable way.  It becomes an inescapable part of daily life."
(The View From Rat Lake by John Gierach, Simon & Schuster Paperbacks-New York 1988)

A Quick Pic Before Release

"The only way to become acquainted with a river or lake is to embrace it: Walk the shores, wade the shallows, cast a line into it, paddle a canoe on it, rig up a rope swing and drop, shouting, into the heart of it.  Knowledge comes with experience, a word whose root translates into 'being in peril.'  Risking peril puts us closer to a place than we can ever get by standing at a safe distance, watching."
(The River Home by Jerry Dennis, St. Martins Press-New York 1998)

Released Back Home

A Brief Glimpse Of A 14" Brown

                                    
"I've been fishing this little trout stream off and on for as long as I've lived here, which by now feels like forever.  I could say I learned how to fish for trout here and not be far wrong.  I've seen it in all of its moods and all of mine.  I've spent time on it with old friends who are no longer alive.  I guess you could say I've gotten a little sentimental about it."
(Standing In A River Waving A Stick by John Gierach, Simon & Schuster-New York 1999)

A Fish-Eye View Of Brown Trout Skin

Time That Was Bound To Happen

     I'll admit that I've had a bit of a plan for this entry bouncing around in my head.  One that I hoped would come with a punch, or the zest, to get back at journaling and blogging like I was for the first few months of the year.  Since the snow left and I've been able to work outside on our yard, I've been putting the hammer down.  With my son's graduation open house at our home, I used it as my motivation to push and get the landscaping completed beforehand.  I didn't have a concrete picture of what it would look like but I had a basic idea.  Several nights I was out working in the yard with a headlamp on, following a day of teaching, in addition to the many afternoons and weekends.  Family members, who were here for graduation, literally helped me finish it off the night before the open house; a good thing or it would have been a really late night.  I'm sure I'll write more specifically on the landscaping later this summer once I finish up the last few projects.
     Yesterday was the last official school day (for teachers...the student's last day was the day before that).  I still have quite a bit to finish off in my classroom and as an athletic director, but it's not pressing.  I'll try to get that monkey off my back in the next few days and weeks, though, so I can recharge before starting it all again in August.  The hardest part about yesterday's last day with the teachers was knowing all of the changes that will occur to our staff between now and the next school year.  I'll write more on that in the next few weeks too.
     Now, onto this idea for today's journal entry.  With our crazy spring, today was my carrot.  It was what helped me stay focused and pull the cart of correcting papers and tests, and doing whatever it was that I've needed to get done lately.  I told people, "When school's out, I'm going to get up early, drive two hours North, be in a creek at sunrise, fish, get out, eat lunch, take a nap, journal then fish some more before coming home."  As I come off a school year and period in my life when I'm bound by time to the nearest minute; I thought I could journal a play by play of what happens throughout my adventure, but then slowly let the strictness of time melt into words that simply express what's going on.  The yoke of time could be laid aside whether the reader realizes it or not.  By telling you that up front, I truly don't think I am ruining any surprises.  Fred Gipson told you "Old Yeller" was going to die on the first page of his classic novel, and you still were intrigued to read his story. It's more about the relationships of the characters and the experiences they had.  Perhaps this adventure would similarly hold true; an adventure of time that would be boundless.
     
Thursday, June 4th
11:23 pm : Went to bed after an emotional day at school and preparing for tomorrow's adventure (picking up the Jeep from a shop in Rockford where it got a check-up, purchasing a fishing license in Janseville a bit later and then packing).
Friday, June 5th
2:14 am : Woke up
2:36 am : Got up and turned off the clock radio that had been set for 2:45.  Dressed.  Made a fruit smoothie of banana, pineapple, strawberries and Greek Style yogurt.  Packed the rest of my extras, used the bathroom, and said goodbye to Cindy.
3:05 am : Backed out of the driveway.
3:53 am : Passed the US Highway #12/18 exit going into Madison, WIsconsin.
4:23 am : Left Interstate I-90 and headed due North on Interstate #39/US #51.
4:50 am : Came off the Westfield exit.  Saw 7 different deer, in the growing predawn light, that almost jumped in front of me.

5:10 am : At the creek.  Cool and over-cast...perfect!  I texted Cindy I was here and then let my cousins know as well (they are an hour ahead in the eastern time zone).  We like to know when each other is out, even if we personally can't be.

 







5:40 am: In the creek and released my traditional plug of cedar with a prayer.  While getting ready, I heard the sounds of a red squirrel along with a pileated woodpecker, flicker, sandhill cranes, cooper's hawk, and a host of other birds I recognized but can't match to the species.

7:54 am : Had a hefty strike, followed by another, after switching to a heavier and bigger spinner that got deeper into the holes.  The Fox Valley Trout Unlimited Chapter and WDNR had been doing some work here that had created some open/stable banks and nice bends/holes.  Unfortunately I lost that lure on my next cast when it snagged on something underwater.
8:28 am : Caught an 11 inch brown trout that I kept.  Typically I catch and release my first one of the season, but I didn't feel I should with this one since it took me longer than I like to get the hook out.  The trout in this creek hit "crazy hard" (when they do hit :) no matter what size they are; as they are wild and feisty.

9:24 am : After catching and releasing two more nice brown trout, my graphite pole broke.  It's an ultralight, but still; a break on the lower, handle section?  It hurt too; because when it snapped, the broken section "sling-shot" back into my finger.  

At the same time I also lost another lure...an old silver spooned one that I had caught the first three trout on.  I wasn't really pulling back that hard when the pole and then the line broke.  It probably was time to regroup anyways.  When I had lost my first spinner, it took with it the only swivel I had apparently brought.  The fishing I had done since then was really twisting the line, to the point that it wasn't working well at all.  Later on, one of my cousins commented, "What word does Mike say out loud when he smashes his knuckle and breaks his pole in one fell swoop? I am still jealous of you." (Of the opportunity to be out fishing.)  I replied, "Actually I stood there in the water dumbfounded and didn't say a thing...probably more dumb than founded."

9:38 am : Took some pictures of some wild lupine plants that I found 

after climbing out of the creek...and barely made it to a secluded section of the pines to go potty!  (There's a lot of layers to peel off when you have a back-pack, fishing vest, and waders on.)
10:18 am : Packed everything back into the van and headed out in search of some swivels.
10:48 am : Finally found and then purchased some swivels and two replacement spinners in the little town of Coloma.  I hate going back in to "civilization" when I'm out, but I didn't have much choice if I wanted to keep fishing...which I did.
11:51 am : Back in the water after checking out some upstream, headwater areas of the same creek and eating lunch (PB & J sandwich, strawberries and cheese/crackers).  I broke down and wore my mosquito netting while in this area.
12:56 pm : I caught my 6th total trout of the day (3rd in this section).  It was a 13 inch brown trout that I kept.  This section of the river is tight and brush covered, but it still manages to have relatively deep bends, up to three or four feet deep, where trout can hide.

1:57 pm : Decide to turn around now to head back.  I caught six or seven trout in this section.  Took some more pictures of native plants while walking out.

Wild Columbine

Wild Iris

2:25 pm : Arrive back at the Jeep and then drive back to this morning's section.
3:13 pm : With the seats folded, I lay down in the back of the Jeep to take a nap.  I have the windows down and the back hatch open.  Mosquitoes are a non-issue...thank goodness!
4:20 pm : Woke to cool air and oven birds singing.  I began journaling and reading.
6:35 pm : I ate a dinner of a PB & J sandwich, nectarine and some chips.  Reorganized my supplies and began getting ready to hit the water again.
6:58 pm : Hiked in so I could fish back.
7:09 pm : In the water.  This section has big, deep bends.  I have to get out onto the bank to get around a few of them because it would be over my waders.  The setting sun is directly in my eyes...can't wait for it to go below the tree line.
7:49 pm : Blue jays (the first I've heard of the day) are in a raucous and catch my attention.  As I turn to look, I realize they are chasing a barred owl that perches on a branch above me.  At first it is looking behind itself at the blue jays, but then it turns and looks right down at me standing in the water.  I am frozen, and it's a stare off, until it flies off to another tree back on the last bend; the blue jays in hot pursuit.
7:58 pm : Arrive at a wide, sweeping  bend that's been in the shadows for some time.  It is here that I catch a twelve inch brown trout that literally hits my lure so hard it launches out of the water on the outside bank and lands in front of me.  It's a good fight and I decide to keep it.

This is a "Category 3" section of the creek, which means you are allowed to keep up to three trout (that are a minimum of 9 inches long).  For all of the times I've come to this river, I've often only caught and/or kept a total of one or two trout.  Several times I've come away with nothing caught or kept.  This creek is so beautiful though, that I love coming back to it regardless of the outcome.  The banks are lined with tag alder and red osier dogwood along the water's edge, and tamarack, white pine and oaks further back.  

Tamarack

Tag Alder - Female Catkins/Cones

     The bottom of the creek is golden colored sand that descends down into dark holes on the outside of the bends.  It definitely beckons me back from afar.  Creeks of potential & promise are like that.

     I take a picture of the last rays of the day reflecting off from the water and then hike back to the Jeep.  After putting everything away I send a text that I'm heading home to my wife Cindy, my cousins, my parents and then my teaching team.  These are people that know I was out today.  As I drove the country roads leading back to the highway, every field had at least a half dozen deer in them.  I was tired on the way home, but I was content too.  I had literally spent the entire day on the river; a day that was boundless in time.
See you along The Way.

Snagging Some Dogwood

     *An Entry from Mid-April*

     It started as a joke between my Dad and me, as I was figuring out how to fish for trout in Northern, Lower Michigan.  I was over 30 years old at the time.  Without even realizing it, I had grown up surrounded by the headwaters of three "Blue Ribbon" trout streams.  It took going away for college, and then being married while living and working in another state, for me to realize what was there.  Not that I took it for granted, or missed out on taking advantage of the many other perks that the north-woods countryside had to offer.  It was just that when I would come back to visit my parents I needed that connection to where I had grown up.  I had tried trout fishing a few times when I was younger but I was a bit too short, in some hiked up waders (held up with a black bungee cord), and I never really caught anything.  It was those factors which led me back to panfish and whatever else would take my bait, when I did have a chance to get out.
     Once I started trout fishing as an adult, I was hooked.  The irony was that although I may have lacked the concentration early on, it required every ounce of it where my Dad reintroduced me to running waters.  Those headwater creeks were small waters to fish.  It took patience, planning and precision.  The creeks were full of stumps, roots and sticks from the white cedar, balsam, spruce, and hemlock.  Those trees didn't compare, however, to the bank willows, tag alder and red osier dogwood.  For every good pitch and cast from my pole, at least a half dozen of them wound up around some twig, or snagged a branch or leaf.  The joke between my Dad and I was that no matter what the species was that snagged our spinner, it was most likely an alder or dogwood; or at least that's what we called it regardless.  If nothing else, it provided us with a chance to practice great casts with our spinners.
     And now I'm planting red osier dogwood in my yard.  I can identify it now by sight, no matter the season, with or without leaves.  After the drought during the summer of 2012, we lost roughly 80% of the arbor vitae bushes along our west-side lot line.  After a few summers of cutting the dead evergreens out, digging out the stumps, and burning it all in my fire pit, I was ready to replace the plants.  I decided to go with plants that were native to Northern Illinois.  This past fall I put in two sections of a triple, split-rail fence.  It would provide the rustic backdrop for a noninvasive border, while giving me areas to plant native plants and bushes that are designed for our environment and climate.
     I had transplanted staghorn sumac and red osier dogwood around the yard at our prior home; from a wood line of a farm just inside the Stateline in Southern Wisconsin.  I wanted to do that again, but I needed to find some I could dig up first.  These species form colonies in the form of clumps, by sending up new shoots from their root structures.  I simply needed to find out where some dogwood existed around here that I might have access to.

     Some friends that live nearby, and have some wooded areas, invited me to come walk their property in search of the red osier dogwood.

In the past I've collected rocks from their farm fields to use in my landscaping; this was simply another adventure in a different form.  The wooded sections are marshy, lowland areas; so I wore rubber boots over the course of two different days to get back into some areas where I might find it growing.  On the south-side of a small, trickling creek from where I'd found a stand of it two years ago (to replace some spirea bushes with it in the backyard alongside the house), I found two mother plants of the red osier dogwood.  From these, several satellite shoots were growing forth.  The satellites of this species of plant either come from the root structures themselves, or branches from the mother plant that get pushed down into the soil and begin to take root.  It was from one of these plants that I gathered the shoots for transplanting.  It was hard work.  It was muddy work.  I was covered in muck; both from digging out the shoots and then hauling it through the woods and back to my Jeep.  The clumps of dirt surrounding the roots were heavy and saturated.  I had found them before they had sprouted; an important aspect for the success of the transplant.  As an act of goodwill, I freed the remaining mother plants of choking grapevine, while hacking back the ever pressing honeysuckle. 

Mother Plant #1

 

Mother Plant#2

Furthermore, I took some shoots in the form of branches and thrust them into the soggy ground in the hopes that they might perpetuate their species just outside of the mother plant’s arms.  I also planted one of the larger bushes I had gotten, on the edge of the property owners pond.  It truly was the least I could do for the opportunity to bring home what I had found.
     Once home, I planted several of the red osier dogwood plants along our lot line

between the sections of the new split-rail fence.  I went back the next night and got some more from the second mother plant I had found.  By the time I had finished digging it out that night, it was dusk, and so I left it by the pond to retrieve the following evening after school.  The second load was so tall that I had to tie down the back hatch of my Jeep because the tops were sticking out the rear.  

     All in all it was back breaking work; but it was fun to explore, locate and then be able to get some shoots while leaving the main plant to continue doing what it does.  Plus, it saved on having to go buy plants from a nursery.  Granted, the plants are often times a bit scraggly and rough; but you would expect that from native plants that have been living and surviving in the wild.  They'll thrive in the open air, now that they don't have to compete for sunlight and nutrients with other bushes and trees growing tightly around them.  It's the red osier's wildness that attracts me to it.
     With all of the work I've been doing on the landscaping around our house, I may have to resort to casting a spinner in the yard to practice fishing; in lieu of actually going fishing.  If I'm lucky, perhaps I'll snag a red osier dogwood.
See you along The Way...

I See Her

"After standing a few minutes beside Cindy, I went over and stood beside the baby who was being monitored by the nurse.  It was then that I whispered her name into her ear twice.  I was able to then carry her back over to Cindy..."
*From a journal I kept before, and after, Jodi's birth.
 
     With rivers running ice free now and their levels falling to their normal "pre-spring rain" flowage, fishing season is just around the corner.  I look forward to getting into water during the warmer seasons.  Ninety some percent of the time I'm in some out-of-the-way creek, stream, or river fishing for trout.  The other ten or so percent I'm probably floating a river in a kayak, looking for bass or pike; usually with my cousins.  Those are things I look forward to.  Getting out and fishing moving water, for me, is as much a passion as hiking in during the winter, and early spring, to cook a meal in the woods.  I usually partake in such a cold weather endeavor with friends, family and at least a few times solo.  So as the seasons change, and one passion comes to an end while another is about to start, I scheduled a date to go out at least one last time; this time with my daughter Jodi. 

We've wanted to get out for a while now, and Spring Break gave us that opportunity.  We always enjoy talking, eating meals over a fire and taking fun pictures together.  As we hiked along the road we looked for an access point into the woods.  Once in, we released the dogs, wandered along an age old oxbow in a mixture of hardwoods and bottom-lands, and then looked for a place to make camp for a couple of hours.  We found some kindling and sticks for our fire and then cooked our meal. 

I watched her and listened to her.  It's a strange thing to see your kids growing up.  When I see Jodi, different visions, both from pictures and memories, come to mind.  It's mind boggling really.
     I see her making dresses for her "Pinky Bear" out of carefully torn and tied baby wipes (complete with a veil).  I see her running up and down a snowy hill with her sled in tow.  I see her running by to quickly thump her older brother Todd and then putting herself into timeout (apparently she had weighed the consequences and decided it was worth it & then imposed her own discipline).  I see her practicing various hair styles on her dolls and then trying them on herself or friends.  I see her learning to ride her little, two-wheeled bike on the baseball field behind Bloom Elementary School. 

I see her painting pictures to hang on our refrigerator.  I see her and Todd designing forts for each other in the living room (decorated with blankets, pictures and stuffed animals), and then spending the night in them.  I see her growing in her confidence and love for reading when she had struggled to connect with words in the beginning.  I see her watching the classic Little House on the Prairie series and then progressing through The Waltons.  I see her feistiness and emotion when competing in sports.  I see her weaving pouches and hats out of yarn with her looms.  I see her rhythm while running.  I see her curling up on the couch to watch You've got Mail, Sleepless in Seattle, Anne of Green Gables, or Little Women; four of her favorite movies.  I see her sitting at the table working on homework.  I see her asleep, and out like a light, in her crib or sleeping bag. 

I see her smile and laugh; especially at something witty.  I see her being content to sit in her room working on projects.  I see her being shy and staying close to Cindy & me.  I see her being silly and having fun with friends.  I see her in my arms, as I carry her from the car to her bed, after a late night.  I see her being stubborn or frustrated and throwing a fit.  I see her being kind-hearted.  I see her describing dreams for her future.  I see her helping Cindy bake goodies in the kitchen.  I see her swimming until her skin was wrinkled like a prune.  I see her playing with babies or toddlers in the nursery at church.  I see her having deep and meaningful conversations with Cindy.  I see her love to go to bed early, read and then fall asleep.  I see her struggle to get up.  I see her staring out the car window at clouds in the sky.  I see her sitting on the shore of one of the Great Lakes with wind in her hair.  I see her telling me, when she was little, that she wanted me to do something to her belly; tickling, the thing that you hate to love.  I see her excited about getting ready to visit and spend time with family.  I see her having great times for devotion and reflection.  I see her Snapchatting with friends, or pinning fun pictures on Pinterest.  I see her riding her old fashioned bike around the neighborhood.  I see her drawing with sidewalk chalk on our sidewalk or driveway.  I see her dressing up for a school dance.  
     When I see Jodi, different visions from pictures and memories come to mind.  I see her; the girl who's becoming a young woman.  I see my girl; the girl who's name I once whispered into her ear at birth.
See you along The Way...