Two For Two

It happened on two different days in two different months in two different types of weather.  Although the outcome of both were similar, the result of the outings were two different species of bass; so there was that.  I fished in two different bodies of water, using two different methods, creating two different memories.  So when you wind those facts up into a tight little ball, I guess you could say that I went, “Two For Two.”

The first outing was a brutally hot July summer day.  It was the kind of day that once the morning air burned off, seemed perfect to slide into a pair of old running shoes, slather down in sunscreen, throw some gear into a small backpack, and fish a local creek of moving water.

The cool water is moderately clear in that creek and the bed ranges from sand to gravel; with a few intermittent mucky spots where the water slows in swirling pools on its way to the larger Rock River.  It’s the kind of creek that keeps you guessing and honest in all of its various forms.

Within numerous bends that came in succession I caught a half dozen little small mouthed bass.  It was where the creek split around a pile of brush lodged atop a heap of gravel that I had my first fish of significant size.  It was also where I quietly crept over the gravel bar to the slower moving and deeper channel.  I cast my large spinner up into a nice looking pocket.   The pocket required some precision; one where I’d either come away with a snagged lure hooked in some hidden underwater structure, or lure a fish up from its perfect hiding spot.  Fortunately it was later.

The small mouthed bass jumped several times while racing to and fro within the confines of the channel.  I knelt down on the gravel bar where I had been standing and lifted out a chunky 14 ½” bass.  It was a mindful connection to hold onto such a beautifully marked fish.  I removed my backpack, lifted the fish in front of me, took several pictures, and released it back into the water.

On such a warm day, it was fun to wade and fish with minimal gear while pretending I was just a kid again.  I didn’t fish quite like this as a young boy, but it was definitely the same spirit of adventure, connection, and freedom that I had felt long ago that was spurring me on around each bend.

The next fish that made an impression on that hot day hit within a deep run on an outside bend.  I had cast up along a small point of rocky structure before having an immediate strike.  Right away I could feel the smallie’s strength and it took a little time to bring it up to my hand; aerial acrobatics resembling a big man’s belly flop competition rather than an olympic diving event!

A wide back of muscle from a lifetime spent in moving water graced my finger tips.  The smallie measured at a respectful 16” with camouflaged and mottled markings and I allowed myself a picture with the fish before easing it back into the creek.

My second outing was on a chilly October afternoon; 40 to 50 degrees cooler than that day in July.  I launched into a nearby lake in my trusty kayak.  The colors of the trees along the shoreline were picture perfect.  The leaves weren’t brilliant, but they weren’t drab either.  They were a blend of purple, orange, and yellow with the correct amount of blue sky and reflections to create an imprint on one’s memory.

Not far from the launch I worked a drop off.  Within the first 10 casts I had a solid hit that pulled drag while the fish dove deep.  I wrestled with my large hooped landing net that was weaved within the kayak’s bungee cords, and positioned myself to land the fish.  It’s quite a spectacle to balance a paddle in your lap, keep from being blown by the light wind into the shoreline, reel in a fish, all while trying to prepare a net!  Fortunately I lacked a crowd so any minor gaffe escaped a critical eye.

Once I brought the fish up to the starboard side of my kayak, I could see that it was a largemouth bass; with its distinct difference of light and dark markings on both sides of its lateral line.  However, it kept diving back into the murky depths and pulling drag with it, so it took a little bit of time to scoop it up into my net.  By then I was gently bumping against the rock lined shoreline.

Once I had the fish in my net, I gently removed the lure and held it up for a few pictures before sliding it into the water and watching it disappear below the shadow of my kayak.  It was my longest largemouth bass to date, measuring at 21 inches.  For that reason it was both rewarding and memorable.

After that experience I worked my way along the Northern shore just off the drop-off.  I caught a few smaller bass and a 17 ½” within this section before making my way into a smaller bay.  I fished that section of water hoping for a cruising bass or pike but was simply left to the Canadian geese and mallards who watched me with caution.

It was at that time that the sky began clouding over, the sun was tagging the horizon, and the temperature dropped even more.  I was beginning to become chilled, so I drifted down through the main channel of the lake towards the boat launch.  Doing so, I caught a nice 15” bass before losing another at the kayak and calling it a day; loading my gear back into my Jeep.

I had two different outings, on two different days, in two different environments, catching two different species of fish.  Although both adventures centered around water, which easily tugs at my soul, the different excursions melded into one as I went two for two.

See you along The Way…

While Golden Shadows Dance

 

The flames snap while golden shadows dance;

off hardwood floors and walls of rustic adornment.

As burning logs shift, sparks explode;

mini fireworks cascade into glowing embers.

Smoke drifts through the chimney flue;

evening air the ambiance of a Northwoods campground.

A snowy tread blankets frozen turf;

warm sounds of a crackling John Denver record.

“Lie there by the fire and watch the evening tire;”

while stories and visions decide to hang around like cordwood stacked against the spruce out back.

I dream of life, the world of fish, teaching, and my old bike;

documenting words struggle to leap from my pencil’s tip.

Soon enough sentences will escape and take shape I’m sure;

while time flits and flutters away at Mach speed - hurtling faster than sound and my comfort.

It’s hard to hang on if not for family, friends, laughter, and interludes;

watching flames snap while golden shadows dance.

     See you along The Way…

When The Fish Wouldn't Bite - Much

Over the course of 4 different outings stacked almost back to back over 2 different weekends, the fishing was bleak at best; especially under the intense heat that the Midwest was experiencing at the time.  Still, the winds were out of the south to southwest, so regardless, I proceeded while hoping for the best.  Typically if I have an open chunk of time, and am excited about the opportunity to escape to water somewhere, I’m what others often refer to as “fair game.”

On The Way To The River - Cows : )

   The first outing began on a Saturday morning.  I launched my kayak into a local river and began the arduous task of working my way upstream.  I fished as I went; often from my kayak, sometimes while standing at an inside bend to reach the outside bank, and on several occasions when I tossed my anchor out to hold me stationary in the otherwise strong current.  My anchor is somewhat sad and humorous at the same time, but it works.  To lock it in at the correct depth, I press down on the nylon anchor rope with my foot to hold it firmly against the floor of my purple kayak. While using it, I can easily remember back to when I retrieved the window counter-weights from our first house; when we remodeled to add a sliding glass door and deck out into the backyard.  The window weight anchor is a bit clunky and unconventional, but as I said, it works. And at 16 pounds, the 4 rusty iron tubes do the trick to hold me fast.  That day I caught one lone white bass and that was it.  I had been hoping to get hooked up with some river pike, but after many hours of fighting the current, I turned around and began the paddle back.  Fortunately such an adventure constitutes more than fishing!  I also enjoyed the many different wildflowers, and the scenery as the sun reflected off the water in a thousand shards of sparkling light.

Blue Vervain

Cardinal Flower

Fluff Left Behind From An Eagle
That Took Off In Front Of Me

Woodland Sunflower Along The Banks

Labor Day weekend allotted me the opportunity for three more days to fish, so I decided to cash in on the choice to step into moving water.  It was too hot to do much else.

On that Saturday I woke early and drove 50 some miles through the dark to begin trout fishing at daybreak.  The waxing gibbous moon still hung in the southwest sky, and it felt good to once again visit a small creek I hadn’t visited in several years.  I took my time, but it was tough going in water that was choked with weeds due to the lower water levels.  I managed to catch 4 to 5 brook and brown trout.  The biggest and first fish was a 10 inch brown trout.  Each fish in succession was noticeably smaller than the last by at least an inch, until my final fish wasn’t much bigger than the lure itself.  All of them were released of course, and while doing so I remembered that it had been several years since this creek had produced much.  I like it though, and I can’t remember ever seeing anyone else there, so I give it a chance from time to time.  I saw signs of other people who have fished it though, so perhaps that’s the difference.  Fortunately such an adventure constitutes more than just fishing.  That may be why I hiked back to my Jeep to try another section of the creek with a bit more water, but not without stopping first to smell the native flowers and take some pictures.  Their colors were brilliant and spectacular.

Highbush Cranberry - Viburnum

Sandpiper

Goldenrod

Purple Aster

Unfortunately the second stop yielded nary a fish, so on one last ditch effort I headed to a nearby bigger river in search of pike and smallmouth bass.  I managed to catch one bass, but almost became a permanent fixture of the area after getting bogged down in what amounted to a silt trap.  If you’ve ever stepped into one, you know the fear that can rise up within you.  I wallowed against the current through waist deep muck and water up to my chest for about one hundred yards; falling ungracefully once, but somehow managing to keep from filling my waders with water and sinking into the depths.  Once I reached a sure footed riffle, I took a picture of myself and upon the next immediate cast, my braided line became a tangled birdsnest.  Game over!  It was time to hike out and drive home.

On Sunday I started fishing in the midmorning on a locally large river; under the shadow of a fairly new sports stadium.  At this point I was only slightly desperate and willing to catch anything willing to hit the lure that I was casting into the bends.  Several times I had small fish follow my spinner up to me, but none were hooked.  I made my way up to an old railroad bridge turned bike path, and positioned myself there under its shadow to avoid the intense heat.  While the fish eluded me, I did spend a lot of time saving clams that were stuck in the shallows of the quickly receding water.  I enjoyed seeing them cleaning the water as they were filter feeding and pushing themselves along with their pseudo-foot.  Each one was carefully picked up and tossed into a little deeper water.  As I performed this conservation minded effort, I identified three different  species of the double shelled mollusk.

A Clam Pushing Along With Its Pseudo Foot

Seeing as though it was lunchtime, and more importantly that I was hungry, I zipped home for an hour or so to refuel, regroup, and refocus my efforts.  I decided that the rest of my day would be about exploring a few other local areas in addition to fishing.

I elected to return to the same big river that I had been on that morning but in a different area next to a boat ramp.  I walked and cast into the water from the shoreline until I got to some soupy muck that simply became too much.  With the walking all but impossible, and the number of downed trees lodged in the shallows threatening to snag my lures, I turned around and made my way back to the Jeep.  Although I had nothing resembling a hit, the potential was there, and I made a mental note to return at some point with my kayak to better access some of the backwater areas.  Just off the main current there had to be some toothy pike patrolling the perimeters for unwary bait fish.

My final destination for the day was below a dam that fills a raceway to a hydro plant.  Other people were scattered in various areas of the river - either fishing, swimming, or exploring.  Ironically I saw my neighbor and his daughter off in the distance moseying along in their canoe.  I found out later that they had paddled up to the dam to check it out while enjoying the opportunity to spend time in the cool water under the intense heat.  Later that evening they camped on its bank farther downstream.

I couldn’t believe how low the water was.  Mounds of gravel sent shallow trickles into a myriad of channels that would reconnect in sapphire pools before spilling out and continuing on its journey.  What a picture it painted!  All I could think about was how cool it looked.  How had I missed out on this location all of these years?  I’d been here before of course, on both sides of the river, but had somehow failed to realize the Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer opportunity held within its banks during the low water of summertime.

As I walked out onto a gravelly point, an osprey watched from the top of a dead tree above me.  At one point I actually stood in the middle of the river.  I was barely waist deep in what had always held me with a slight sense of dread.  Rightfully so of course as this river can oftentimes roar with a vengeful power that will pierce you deep with fear when its water runs deep and fast.  Today was not that day.  Although there was the continuous sound of water pouring over the dam, I waded peacefully in the tranquil water.  I fished in old running shoes and shorts, a baseball hat pulled down tight on top of sunglasses for my eyes; the rest of my skin laid bare to the power of the sun and some of our last hot days of the summer.

Standing In The Middle Of A Major River

Despite my best efforts, I didn’t see or catch anything, but I was excited about the area and figuring out how to fish it.  Fortunately such an adventure constitutes more than just fishing.  I’d be back to explore its mysteries.

Monday was Labor Day.  I stopped for some night crawlers before daybreak to supplement casting with lures.  Surely I could catch some panfish, catfish, or something with fins using worms!  I returned to the spillway I had been to the previous afternoon.  The area had transformed overnight.  Whether from rains far to the North, or dams releasing more water, the gravel bars had disappeared.  You could still walk to various areas below the spillway, but with a good foot to foot and a half more water than 12 hours prior.  I fished for quite a few hours; some of that time again under the watchful eye of the osprey.  A toad and leopard frogs kept track of my movements as well; basking in the warm stagnant pools up off the river but down in the crevases of the gravelly banks.

An Osprey Takes Flight From A Dead Tree

I did foul hook a channel catfish, but with the higher water washing more food into the river, the hope for an early morning feeding frenzy was off, even after trying almost every lure in my arsenal as well as a crawler on a bobber.  A clam was the final act of my fishing for the day.  Apparently it had closed down over a hook as my spinner was reeled over it.  I had to work hard to get the hook out before releasing the mollusk unharmed.  Fortunately such an adventure constitutes more than just fishing.  It’s at times like this that you take on a different perspective of such an escapade.

I Caught A Mollusk On A Spinner

The Clam Was Released Unharmed

On my hike out, I ran into a neighbor who had lived next door to the first house that Cindy and I bought in Rockford.  Having finished fishing for the day, we talked while standing in the water and caught up with what the various members of our families were up to in the 17 years since we last saw each other.

Four outings, during 4 days, in four locations, with 4 different experiences.  The commonality throughout it all was that it was both hot as blazes and the fish wouldn’t bite.  If you look at the outings collectively, I kept from being skunked.  But it was nip and tuck on most days, and it wouldn’t be anywhere close to being considered productive; in regards to fishing anyways.  In terms of exploration and experiences it was significant.  Fortunately such adventures constitute more than just fishing!

See you along The Way…

Kringlor

 

Good home cooking; it quite literally flows through my veins.  From within my immediate family, up into all of the intricate branches of my ancestral tree - as well as deep into its roots; foods have been made from the heart.  It’s not that the various foods have been laden with complex procedures or steeped in secret spices and extra ingredients.  In fact, it could be argued as somewhat bland in regard to some tried and true recipes. They are what I grew up with, however, so they have special ties and are therefore important to our family’s heritage.

When I teach a lesson on physical properties in 5th grade science, I explain that properties tend to describe certain traits.  At that point we review the 5 senses and how these can guide us towards articulating certain properties of an object such as: cold, sharp, vibrant, loud, tart, or smokey.  In regard to smells I reiterate to the students an often quoted saying from my Dad, who apparently got it from his Dad, that states, “Of all the smells I’ve ever smelled, I’ve never smelled a smell that smells like that smell, smells!”  I suppose that could go both ways; for the things that smell beautifully aromatic as well as for things that come across putridly rancid!  Regardless, the students think that it’s funny and are quick to learn the quote.  We often discuss how our sense of smell is closely tied to our memory.  I tell them that although I love them as a class, if someone came into our room and told me that right that second my Mom was taking something she had recently baked out of the oven, like she did on a regular basis when I was a boy growing up on our farm; and that I couldn’t reach her any other way than on my own two legs, I wouldn’t blink an eye but would simply take off for my parent's home!  Sure the class would be left in a lurch, but they are 10 or 11 years old when they are in 5th grade and are smart enough to figure out what to do and how to survive.  Besides, it’s my Mom’s baked goods we’re talking about here!

As I walk the 24-ish miles to my parent’s house, I’d probably jog from time to time to help the process go a bit quicker.  I might even break into a sprint over the last few miles as the aroma from the baked goods fills my nostrils; pulling me towards the finish line.  After the cordial hellos and heartfelt hugs with Mom and Dad I’d cut a thick slab of homemade bread, still warm in the middle, and then slather it with butter.  I wouldn’t just eat it, I’d inhale it!  If it was a batch of raisin griddle cookies, I’d pop 2 or 3 of them into my mouth without so much as a blink of an eye.  Should the baked goods exiting Mom’s oven be Swedish kringlor, then I’d savor each bite as I broke off chunks from the soft, circular, treat; the essence of magical memories wafting in the air!

Recently I had a hankering for kringlor.  It wasn’t so much the eating of them that caused the craving, although I wasn’t against such an occurrence given half a chance, but rather it was a hankering bent towards knowing how to make them on my own.  I contacted the source and asked Mom if I could come over and learn how to bake kringlor with her.  You know, the old adage, “Teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime.”

As it happened, the time that worked best was on the afternoon of Independence Day; the Fourth of July.  To kick off the activities, I ate lunch with my parents in their dining hall.  It consisted of an all-American bratwurst, and summer berry salad, among other tasty side dishes.  After that we went up to their apartment and laid out the necessary kringlor ingredients.  We would be following my Great Grandma Fagerlund’s recipe; on my mother’s side of the family tree.  Great Grandma herself had emigrated from Sweden to America as Hildegard Widegren around 1910.  Soon after she met up with a fellow Swede that she had known in the old country by the name of Oscar Fagerlund, who was a blower in a glass factory by trade.  The rest as they say is history!  I am fortunate to have memories of my Great Grandma.  I remember sitting next to her for breakfast at my Grandparent’s farm, I know there is a picture of us together somewhere, and I have a Valentine card from her in my baby album.  Those things coupled with the kringlor, are my link to her past.

As my Mom and I went to work, we substituted vegetable oil for the melted shortening; but otherwise followed the recipe to a tee.  Well, as much of a tee as is necessary for my Mom, who probably has made thousands of kringlors in her lifetime.  She tends to add a pinch of something here and a dash of something there.  In other words, she can make them with her eyes closed, but on that day humored me, and simply helped me work step by step through the process.  Dad entered the scene when it came to demonstrating how he rolled them out between his palms and pinched together the ends to form a circle.  It was a tag team effort between my parents to help teach me the process!  In the past we’ve sometimes had kringlor in a stick form (often referred to by family members as “stogies”), and traditionally they are often twisted into a figure 8, but Mom always made ours in a circle.  Regardless, kringlor tastes awesome no matter what shape they are baked in, and the warmer they are the better!

It was a great experience that day; baking with Mom and hanging out with my parents.  The kringlor I baked was packed into a tub and taken Up North into Michigan with my cousins later that week - for our annual camping and fishing trip.  We had just enough kringlor to have one each morning.  The cousins enjoyed eating them with their early morning coffee before we pulled on our waders, hiked down a trail, and stepped into a river to fish.

On The Banks Of A
Favorite Michigan River
Eating A Kringlor.

I’ve made kringlors once on my own since then to take up to a rented cabin with friends.  I may have lost track of a few of the measurements needed for the ingredients on that batch, but they tasted pretty much the same, so I must have come fairly close.  With continued practice I’m sure I’ll be able to mass produce them without having to even think about it; as if it’s second nature.  Except for the fact that it really won’t be possible to make them as if from a cookie cutter on an assembly line, because they’ll be made from the heart and my own two hands.  For you see, behind every Swedish kringlor I’ve got my family’s history and the surrounding memories baked into that recipe.

See you along The Way…

Eating A Family Recipe With Mom & Dad

A Kringlor In Circle Form

A Well Loved Recipe
Covered In Ingredients...