Ten Year Deja Vu

Louie, Scott, Ric, & Me
2013

My friend Louie and I had been having end of the school year adventures since the spring of 2009.  So when we opened it up to other teaching colleagues in 2013, it was the birth of what would become a gathering of guys; later known as the Gulo Adventure Clan.

While attending the Canoecopia Expo in Madison Wisconsin the spring of 2009, I saw an exhibit advertising a “Paddle to Work Day.”  That birthed a plan in my mind that perhaps I could create a rendition of that idea.  The creeks and rivers near the school where I teach run south towards Rockford, Illinois where my family and I lived at the time.  I began to scheme how I could perhaps paddle down to our house from work.

Louie became my go-to guy for paddling home in kayaks once spring arrived; or should I say, we attempted to paddle home.  We had to finish that particular journey in 2010 and make it a two part experience.  Someday I’ll write a blog post about that crazy trip!  Afterwards, Louie and I added to our end of the school year adventures with a bike ride to New Glarus in 2011, and a rather lengthy hike in 2012 when we walked from school down to my house about 15 miles to the south.  To this end, our 2013 school year outing was expanded to involve other gullible staff members willing to jump in with us for a taste of adventure.  Our objective was to enter into Dry Run Creek beyond the field next to Prairie Hill School, cross the Wisconsin Stateline, and slog against the current up to Highway#67; where the creek flows under the roadway just east of the small Beloit Airport.  “Why,” you might ask?  Why not?!

We gathered in the school’s parking lot and then hiked down to the intersection of Willowbrook and Prairie Hill Road.  Four of us had agreed to be a part of the expedition; Louie, Scott, Ric, and myself.  Wearing old shoes, we stepped down into the slow moving water.  It was freezing cold from the get-go, and as we stood in calf deep water looking at each other, we knew at once that this was going to be tough!  We hadn’t even gotten close to some of the upcoming deep bends or log jams before one of us flat-out stated, ‘I’m not hiking in this!”  As I said, the water was cold, and although it was partly sunny, the air was just about as cool.  We wore long sleeve shirts but I suppose hypothermia, when walking in cold water over an extended period of time, was a real thing!

So it was spontaneously agreed upon that instead of hiking in the creek, we would instead walk beside it; up along its banks.  On the plus side, and to help sooth our change in plans, we were scheduled to stop halfway to our destination at Raymond and Diane’s home.  They lived on the banks of Dry Run Creek in a relaxed country setting.  Diane, who was a paraprofessional aide in my classroom that year, had agreed to have a meal of sloppy joes ready for us upon hearing what we had planned.  Unfortunately, due to the fact that we were now hiking the banks instead of against moving water, we arrived more than an hour ahead of time.  Fortunately we came in only mildly muddy and damp, as opposed to soaking wet and cold.  In addition, our hosts were more than accommodating to the surprise time change and simply relished the opportunity to talk, visit, and feed us.  As our rag-tag crew settled in, we balanced the hospitality with laughter and conversations; some about the history of the area.  Louie and I promised Scott and Ric that our trips of the past had not gone quite so easily; that pain, blood, and at least a minimal amount of suffering were typically some of the necessary ingredients within our excursions.  They nodded as if they understood while mumbling something through mouths stuffed with food.  When our bellies were full and we were ready to start again, we took a few pictures with Ray and Diane that are now misplaced or lost due to time, waved goodbye, and then continued north by northeast across the road and into an open cow pasture through which the creek meandered.  We were soon to cross the invisible Illinois-Wisconsin state line.

It was a couple of hours later that we emerged next to the small Wisconsin state highway.  We took a picture together sitting on a bridge that spanned the creek; used during the winter months as a way to link the intricate snowmobile trail system.  The picture is a classic as pictures go, because it was the first snapshot ever taken of a collection of guys outside of just Louie and I on one of our outings.  Our group of four talked and walked the one mile incline to the airport where my wife picked us up.  Our day trip ended up being slightly different from what we had originally expected, but as successful adventures tend to go, we were adaptable to the circumstances and came away with some good memories.

It was with those pictures from 10 years ago etched in our minds that we gathered once again last month.  It was like deja vu!  A simple get-together, but one that allowed us to reconnect.  As with most people, our lives look different than they did a decade ago.  Over that time much has happened and we’ve had a plethora of additional gatherings, in all kinds of environments and weather conditions, with other colleagues and friends.

At this most recent gathering, we had a short hike out near the Sugar River before enjoying the conversations around an old limestone hearth that encompassed a crackling fire.  Within that setting we enjoyed eating good food cooked in the largest of skillets.  Who knew, when we first came together on the banks of a cold, local creek, that ten years later our adventures would continue to be meaningful?  The origins of what we actually have gained through steadfast friendships can be significant, as we mark the passage of time again and again with similar gatherings.  Deja vu!

See you along The Way…

Myself, Scott, Louie, & Ric
Deja Vu - Ten Years Later
2023

Lessons Learned On The Water

It’s a lake once removed from the one on which we rent a cabin.  My Dad had been there on his own before, but on this day we loaded a canoe and two kayaks for him and me, plus three nephews.  Throughout the week on the main lake we had been catching some fish; most of them okay to decent by most accounts.  But on this newer lake, there was the hope for some pike or muskie, with the prayer that they’d be big.  The lake itself isn’t big water, but it’s water.  And although it's choked full of weeds across most of it, it apparently retained the necessary habitat that warranted an investigative fishing adventure.  It’s a lake that’s bordered by white pines instead of cabins, so it has that going for it as a wild flair.

Myself, Matthew, Max, Rowan, And Dad

After unloading the vessels, and loading up our gear, we split up; going in various directions.  I was in one of the solo kayaks and decided to work my way along the shoreline while casting into the soft stemmed bulrush.  Eventually I fished my way past an inlet creek to the eastern side of the lake.  It was at about that time that I had a big hit on my spinner bait lure; the one with the extra trailer hook that I like.  The fish was strong, fought hard, and when I got it up to the side of the kayak I was greeted with the toothy grin of a 30 inch northern pike.  In the distance I saw my Dad with Max and Matthew in the canoe down by the outlet, and Rowan in the other kayak was on the shoreline opposite from me.  Using my fish gripper, I lifted the fish up behind me and managed to get a selfie with part of it.  I elected to keep it, but without a dispatching club, I simply ran the rope stringer through its mouth and tied it onto the side of my kayak.  It was so chunky that it kept jerking my kayak around while I continued to fish.

Within several casts after that, I had a huge muskie follow my lure.  It must have been between 40 and 50 inches as it slowly cruised under my kayak, turned, and disappeared down into the weeds.  As I was positioned in my seat down next to the water, it was what you’d classify as up close and personal!  I froze, taking short little breaths, and after a brief wait, cast several times in the direction it had finned away, but to no avail.

I fished for a while longer and then got another hit from a pike, this one a 25 inch fish.  Rowan, upon seeing me with some action, paddled over to me and took a picture of me holding it up.

On a whim, not usually like me, I decided to keep this pike too.  Perhaps in the back of my brain I pictured a family fish fry, since we all enjoy the taste of fish and especially pike.  As I untied the first pike I had caught, and started to put the rope through the gills of the 25 inch pike, the 30 incher jerked and ripped the stringer from my hand.  Like a shot I saw it spiraling free down into the depths, I plunged my hand down into the water and managed to grab the very end of the yellow nylon rope.  With big eyes I looked at Rowan and said, “That was close!”  As I began to run it into the gills a second time, both of the pike simultaneously thrashed.  In the midst of the sudden turmoil within the close confines of the kayak, the wet stringer slipped from my hands again before I could recover!  The last thing I saw was the white bellies of two big pike and the tip of the yellow cord disappearing into the black deep.  I said a few frustrated words and sat there dumbfounded; unfortunately more dumb than founded.  There was absolutely nothing I could do but mutter to myself and stare at the water.  What had just happened?  Two prized fish were on a stringer down on the bottom of the lake and out of my sight.  I felt sick to my stomach.  Feelings of shame, guilt, embarrassment, and frustration flooded over me.  What I had done was so stupid.  I knew better than to have done what I had just done.  I switched out to my Red Eyed spoon lure, with the large treble hook on it, and ran it over and over through the water, hoping against all odds that I’d be able to snag the stringer and bring them back up.  All I could think of was the waste.  Taking something to eat is one thing.  Allowing something to suffer was another.  I felt as if I’d been selfish to think that I would need both fish.  In the midst of my casting and retrieving, two more muskies followed up to my kayak; somewhere in the 30-40 inch range.  They were tauntingly eerie in the way that they slowly cruised past me.

A bit later, when my Dad and the boys paddled up, I recalled the tragedy to them.  Literally as I was in the middle of retelling the details of my loss, the two pike and yellow stringer suddenly surfaced a mere 10 feet off my bow, splashed, and dove back down again.  I continued casting to snag them and hoped they would repeat their performance, but that would be the last I would see of my stringer of pike.  My Dad practically had to pull me off the lake when it was time to quit.  I didn’t want to leave!  As I helped load the kayaks, I rationalized that the 25 inch pike probably had a chance of pulling off the stringer, but there was no way that the 30 inch would.  Either it would stay tangled down in the weeds for a snapping turtle, or somewhere a yellow stringer would soon decorate one of the local eagle nests.  A blue ribbon for a prized find.  Finders keepers, losers weepers.

The rest of that afternoon I was depressed.  I sat on the swing outside of our cabin and talked to my sister for a while.  When it rained briefly, I took a 40 minute nap.  Afterwards, the family gathered at our cabin for a pork roast we had cooked in a crockpot, I read for a spell, and then we capped off our evening with ice cream in the small town not too far away.  It had been a day.

Making The Most Of An Otherwise Difficult Day

The following morning I took a walk down to the public boat launch and back to help clear the cobwebs from my head.  I felt like I needed to do something to get out of the funk I was in after the previous day’s disaster.  After breakfast, a couple of us went on a morning boat ride with my Mom in the resort’s pontoon raft.  While out we saw several eagles roosting in trees along the shoreline.  And then together with my parents and niece Maggie, we drove to a coffee shop where my wife was already working on some school work for her Master’s Degree, before we headed out to a cranberry bog and farm.  It was a great little trip on back country roads where we talked, saved turtles trying to cross on the blacktop, and munched on some of the packages of dried cranberries that I had purchased.

By lunch time my Dad had had about enough.  I think he felt like it was time to get me back in the saddle again and out fishing.  Time was a wastin’!  With the rest of the family busy with their own activities, we strapped his canoe onto his trailer and headed back over to the smaller lake; the scene of yesterday’s accidental crime.

After launching, we worked our way around the lake, pitching various lures to and fro.  Dad worked from the stern and I manned the bow.  Between the two of us and the gunwales, in the bottom of the canoe, was my brand new, rubber meshed, landing net.  It had a big hoop, extendable handle, and was the very one that Matt Nelson (aka: NDYakAngler) uses on his YouTube channel.  It’s nothing more than an Ozark Trail special from Walmart, but I secretly hoped it would help land a big fish!

After working our way from one side of the lake to the other several different times, and drifting in the slight breeze, I had a solid strike between mats of underwater foliage; in what appeared to be a deeper channel.  The fish swung our bow around, made a run, and then double backed under the canoe; with the sound of my pole’s tip slapping underneath us as the reel drag whined.  My pole was aimed out over the port side of Dad’s olive green, 14 foot Wenonah, but my line and the fish were somewhere over off the starboard.  The canoe spun under finned propulsion as Dad tried to guide us with his paddle.  Gradually I gained an advantage, saw it was a muskie, and managed to scoop it into my net on one of its numerous passes.  It was my third muskie in as many years at that point, but the first in my net.  Dad handed me his fish gripper so I could hook it onto its jaw, lift it, and have him take my picture.  It was a great scene and a great memory that would now be etched into my brain.  Who would know that somewhere in the waters behind that awesome snapshot, two pike were probably tangled in the weeds down below the surface?  I extracted the lure, eased the great fish into the cool water, and released the gripper; working its body back and forth until the 39 inch muskie slid off from my fingers.  A fish and experience like that helps to ease the pain of a mishap.

For the next half hour or so we continued to fish.  Dad caught and released a small pike and I had a trailing pike and muskie; neither of which were interested in actually hitting my lure.  We headed to shore, packed up our gear, and drove back along the dusty two track road; smiles etched on our faces.

That evening, with our family gathered around, we had an excellent dinner of tacos before several of us headed out for a sunset pontoon raft ride.  We had an osprey and eagle fly overhead and were able to get a great picture of them both.  The capstone of the evening, however, was the loon that surfaced as we slowly motored with hardly a ripple.  It was only 10-15 feet off the side of us, and actually made its wild tremolo call several times with us right there next to it.  It was exhilarating, and each of us found ourselves in awe of the spectacle.  It’s a sound that encapsulates the Northwoods.

So too the Northwoods can be an opportunity to catch a big fish.  Having a Northwoods experience as I did, surrounded by the actual Northwoods, is memorable.  It brings clarity as to what really lurks in the deep.  Being blessed with the encounter of a muskie, after such a heavy loss and painful learning experience, is nothing short of a gracious gift.  It’s one of the many lessons I’ve learned while out on the water.

See you along The Way…

____________________

Morning At The Cabin

An Osprey

A Bald Eagle

Dad

Mom

A Loon

Generating A Generational Gathering

 

Sandwiched between Christmas and New Year’s, and on the backside of a small town in southern Wisconsin, I gathered two other kindred generations and headed out.  First we crossed a frozen lake, and then we climbed the far bank, before making our way up into the woods.

I’ve been there before, but this was my first venture into that locale with my Dad and son Todd.  Although I’ve taken each of them out individually to the woods, and on multiple occasions, it was our first outing all together.  For that reason they each knew the routine, quickly began packing down the snow, and set about collecting and cutting up some firewood.

Our Three Walking Sticks
All Carved By Dad

With the snapping sounds of the crackling flames, and the tantalizing smells of the sizzling food cooking in the skillet, we settled into the rhythm of a day camp in the woods.  We wouldn’t be there long, but we would be there long enough; long enough to generate meaningful conversations between father and son, and grandpa and grandson.  While my dog Kora settled in on her blanket, we sat and talked as I added various ingredients.  The food was typical, meaning that it was what I always cooked.  It’s become what’s expected.  I can appreciate that, even as the one who cuts and prepares it all beforehand.  When you’ve eaten several helpings of it outdoors, and in cold temperatures, you’ll know what I mean.

After indulging in the breakfast, and rinsing it down with some hot cocoa, we cleaned up, packed our gear, and erased any evidence of being there.  Being stealthy is important to keep such places sacred.  It’s why I’m always mixing it up as to where I go.  I suppose it’s like having a random generator that allows me to arbitrarily choose from any one of my special get away places.  In such circumstances I liken my decision making to being, “Crazy like a fox,” but I suppose it’s better described as, “Sly like a fox.”  Either way I’ll lose you if you try to follow me, and still manage to enjoy a great day in the woods.  And should you be so lucky as to be invited to join me, I’ll welcome you into the secret location with open arms; although on more than one occasion I have been known to wander in circles first to confuse people with directions or have them turn off the location on their phones.  As I said, it keeps places special.

For that reason, I’ll always hold that morning special.  Such an outing, in a sacred place, doesn’t happen often; and when it does you mark it.  Generating a time when you can gather generations of your family together for an outdoor experience can be memorable, especially when you each share the same spirit of adventure.  Perhaps that’s why I smiled to myself as I walked with my dad and son back across the lake, watching our shadows in the snow covered ice under the glare of the rising sun.

See you along The Way…

Warmth From The Cold

 

‘Tis normally the water fresh,

     That cleanses the soul within,

But air that’s crisp can do the thresh,

     Freeing mind from stalks of din.

The cold sinks deep and makes it hard,

     For nimbleness of fingers,

Mittens fall short without regard,

     The painful numbing lingers.

On-ward I hike throughout the woods,

     Hiding tracks on bottomlands,

Stealth my trek under snow that would,

     Cover deeds with icy bands.

A tarp that’s strung, blocks wind and blame,

     Maple limb is cut to length,

Grass, twigs, and sticks ignite the flame,

     Easing pain with veneered strength.

‘Twas by my choice for such exploit,

     Where I find myself to hide,

Frozen fingers that do not point,

     River’s edge my only guide.

My sidekick dog is wrapped up twice,

     Once by snow and once by quilt,

Griddled food cooks and smells entice,

     Heaped coals without trace of guilt.

Unheralded taste, sense delight,

     Cockles of the heart are warmed,

Fingers don’t store such heat to spite,

     They don’t at all, so be warned!

I pack with breaks, hands plunged in fire,

     Attempts ward off frozen flesh,

Pup’s patience often belies her,

     Plunged headlong, our prints are fresh.

We traverse North against the wind,

     Powdered snow, thick sheets of ice,

Adventure we’ll never rescind,

     Until next, mem-ries suffice.

Destination and hastened glee,

     Our journey comes to an end,

Prayers battled cold on bended knee,

     Such outings my heart depends!

See you along The Way…

-------------------------

The Painful Numbing Lingers

A Tarp That's Strung Blocks Wind And Blame

My Sidekick Dog Wrapped Up Twice

River's Edge My Only Guide

Griddled Food Cooks And Smells Entice

Unheralded Taste, Senses Delight

Cockles Of The Heart Are Warmed

Pup's Patience Often Belies Her

I Pack With Breaks, Hands Plunged In Fire

Destination And Hastened Glee,
Our Journey Comes To An End,
Prayers Battled Cold On Bended Knee,
Such Outings My Heart Depends.

Free Fallin'

From The Top Of The Retaining Wall,
I'm Looking Down Into The Creek
That I Fell In Earlier That Morning.

What the heck had just happened?  One moment I was walking towards the retaining wall and the next moment I found myself face down in the icy creek.  How was I even standing there without something bleeding, busted, or worse?  I had fallen 5 to 6 feet; almost twice that if you count the distance that my head had traveled.

That story began when my wife Cindy and I went to visit family in Clark Lake, Michigan a few weeks ago.  We stayed with my Aunt Cherie and Uncle Bob, and throughout an extended weekend we had the opportunity to visit a couple of my cousins and their families as well.

Upon the morning of our first full day, I ran around the lake with my cousin Brad for what amounted to a little over 7 miles.  Afterwards, while light snow flurries filled the air, and following a hearty breakfast, we all went into the little town of Brooklyn to watch some basketball games that my cousin Sean’s kids played in.  The rest of the afternoon involved us helping to take some split firewood to a neighbor’s house and watching a little football on TV while hanging out, eating, and talking.

On the following day I met up with my cousin Brian to run a few miles.  We took off down the path next to my Aunt & Uncle’s house, which after a short distance comes out next to Doyle’s Market; which used to be the small store named Robert’s Grocery.

From that end of Clark Lake we ran south on Hyde Road through gently falling snow flakes.  Crossing Jefferson Road, Brian and I passed the farm house where their family used to live; nestled within the old apple orchard.  After a couple hundred yards we stopped at a tributary creek to the Grand River.  Looking at water of any kind, especially moving water, is in our family’s blood.  Apparently someone had recently cut back the trees and brush that had grown next to the retaining wall where the creek runs under Hyde Road, and we wanted to quickly check it out.

I walked over and placed my right foot on the treated four inch plank that was on top of the wall so I could get a better perspective of the view below.  I got a better perspective alright!  As my shoe made contact, I immediately slipped off from some unseen black ice and I plunged headfirst into nothing but air.

I had a split second to look down into the center trough of the creek before my left knee caught the edge of that same rough hewn timber.  It was that impact that sent me into a semi-somersault that caused me to dive head and (right) shoulder first into eight to ten inches of water, silt and jagged rocks.

I was instantly and completely submerged, and soaked while miraculously avoiding most of the rocks.  I sort of bounced up, sloshed through the freezing cold water, and onto the bank while holding onto my left knee.  It hurt!  I hurt!

Brian quickly came over and asked me if I was okay.  He later confessed that he had thought, “I broke Mike,” but in reality, it had all happened so darn fast that there was nothing anyone could have possibly done to prevent it from happening.  I think I replied with a comment that hinted that I would need a few minutes before I could let him know.

Under shock and starting to freeze, I said that I could probably keep running.  Brian said that he wished that he had brought his phone to call for a ride.  He convinced me to head back to his parent’s house as opposed to continuing down Hyde Road, as water and mud poured off my shirt, dripped off the edge of my shorts, and squished out of my shoes.  It was the right decision by all accounts.  It was cold while we stood there trying to figure out what to do, but not as cold as running back against the North wind over the 7/10’ths of a mile back to where we had started.

I’m used to cold weather and typically thrive in it when prepared, but by the time I got to my Aunt & Uncle’s house, I was colder than I could remember being for a long, long time - yet apparently none the worse for wear!

After peeling off my wet, muddy clothes, taking a warm shower, and icing my knee, I incredibly seemed to be alright.  In fact, it was a blessing that by that afternoon I was able to help split and stack wood with my cousin Brad and Uncle Bob before taking a long walk in the wooded hills of a local nature preserve.

Looking back, there really were only two possible outcomes that could have resulted from such a freak accident; either an absolute and unprecedented miracle or an outright tragedy.

While it took about two weeks for the pain in my left knee, and later in my right shoulder, to subside, I seem to have avoided having anything structurally screwed up.  For that I am more than grateful.  And while I can’t say that I’ve had any other outdoor adventures to write about this month, I felt that this story was definitely worth telling!

See you along The Way…

My Cousin Brad & I revisit Where
The Fall Occured When I Had Been
Running With Brian That Morning.