Thirty Years Plus

Thirty years ago today, on Saturday, December 31^st, 1988, Cindy and I got married.  Her Dad used to joke that we had robbed him out of a dependent on his taxes by one day that year.  Real funny!  Cindy and I had started dating our sophomore year in college.  She was the first girl I had ever dated.  There was something intriguing about this girl who was into sports (she was on the volleyball team that fall).  We had a good time hanging out and getting to know each other that year.  Unfortunately we broke up as we started our junior year.  I’ll admit that I struggled with that, coupled with the fact that I was also busy as an R.A. that year while having trouble in my upper level math classes.  I came home to Michigan for Christmas Break.  During that time I talked a lot to my parents about refocusing, starting fresh, and switching my degree to elementary education. 

A week or so following Christmas Break, a bunch of guys and girls got together and played football on the front lawn of “The Mansion” on campus; at night, under the street lights, and during a snowstorm.  We were a small college.  Since our friend groups overlapped, Cindy was there.  Throughout the football game she kept tackling me in the snow.  I couldn’t quite figure out why, and I wasn’t sure I was ready to open up that quickly; although I’m not going to lie that I probably liked the attention.  Not long after that we got together, talked, and decided to begin dating again.  That was on Wednesday, January 21^st, 1987.  Oh yes, believe it when I say that I’ve got the important dates written down!

On Sunday, March 20^th, 1988 I was on my return drive from Gaylord, Michigan heading back down to Trinity College following Spring Break, when I decided to swing by Woodfield Mall.  I had been working lawn jobs since the fall and finely had what I needed for the last payment on an engagement ring.  I didn’t even wait, and instead decided to pick it up that afternoon.  Although it made for a really long day, I surprised her with a trip to downtown Chicago where we ate dinner at our favorite Greek restaurant (“The Plaka”-now closed).  We topped it off with a carriage ride where I proposed.  A carriage ride was what we had done on our very first date two and a half years before that, so it was a perfect way to be nostalgic and give her the ring.  She did say yes!  I had already asked Cindy’s parents for permission to marry her (unbeknownst to her) a few weeks before that when I took them out for breakfast.  We called our parents late that night to tell them the good news.

Cindy graduated in May of that year.  I worked up in Northern Michigan as a camp counselor throughout the summer at Spring Hill Camp.  She went back home to her parents, worked, and began planning for our wedding.  In the fall I student taught 4th grade at a local elementary school.  When I finished in December, I packed up my stuff, said a tearful goodbye to a great bunch of friends that I had roomed with throughout my college years, and headed home to Michigan for Christmas with my family.  My sister and I returned to Northern Illinois a week later driving in my little Chevy S-10 truck with the rest of my family following behind me a day later.  On Saturday, December 31^st we were married.  The rest they say is history, but it’s been an adventurous thirty year journey ever since; one that will continue on now into the future!

See you along The Way…

PICTURES THAT TELL THE BEGINNING OF OUR STORY:

Brett, Carl, Brian Scott, Mike, Brad, Tim, Jim, Patrick

Lisa, Becky, Mina, Cindy, Beth, Karen

The Rhines Family-Mike, Dad, Mom, Becky, & Karen

The Firman Family-Beth, Dad, Mom, Patrick, Cindy, & Carl

Dr. Kantzer Married Us-With His Wife Ruth 

PICTURES FROM THIS 3OTH YEAR:

Dinner Out For Our 30th Anniversary

Burgers at "The Rock" In Beloit-A Good Way To Celebrate

Memories Of Spring 2018

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 30^th 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 2^nd 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…

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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

A Brief Reprieve

            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 15^th.  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.

            See you along The Way…

Dark And Early

            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.

            See you along The Way…

The Perfect Dumb Trout

            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!

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            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.

            See you along The Way…