Give It Some Action

“I don’t dead drift anything. Give it some action and make 'em come after it.”

With that, Len twitched his wrist and sent the silver panther martin upstream, dead center, in the seam, fifty feet out, then ripped it back, damn near as fast as it had departed. Predictably, it arrived home with a brookie attached.

Little has changed in the two years since I'd last fished with Len Harris. The Wisconsin countryside is still beautiful. Its spring creeks still flow clear and full of brown and brook trout. It still gets bloody hot in August. And Len can still drop a spoon into a teacup from seventy feet.

Even the photos I took last week look like the ones I brought home way back then.

Len and I resumed our acquaintance in the dark, pre-dawn parking lot of a Mobile station, across from the Richland Center American Legion, shook hands, and picked up right where we’d left off twenty-four months earler - scooting through the Wisconsin countryside, chasin’ trout.

We drove west, heading for the upper trickles of Kickapoo River feeders. Lazy spring creeks, quite different from the tumbling mountain trout streams I'm used to. Len still bristles at the tell-all destination book that leaked the sweet little waterway we were to spend our morning on, so I’ll decline to agitate him further here. Suffice to say we bushwhacked the creases of some dense private farmland - with landowner’s permission, of course - and waded some lovely Driftless water. Beaver country, it seems. Their handiwork was everywhere.

Now, I’m an unapologetic streamer guy. Dries are nice, but too often they require patience (strike one), concentration (strike two), and skill (a big whiff! Strike three! I’m out!) So when Len suggested that I throw dark size 10 woollies directly upstream and twitch them home, I was all over it. The caddis and hoppers could wait ‘till tomorrow. There wasn't much rising, anyway.

We brought a couple dozen feisty trout to hand during our morning out - eight to fourteen inches, browns and brookies, no tigers. I probably missed twice that number to old reflexes and older eyes. I do, however, suspect that I caught more than Len, but only because I did 90% of the fishing. Len was happy to point out the lies and watch me spook ‘em. For the most part he only fished while I was retrieving a fly from foliage – an occasional hazard in these tight spaces, even with my favorite little 7’6” 4wt - or after I’d declared a pool fishless. Such statements were usually proven inaccurate with a single snap of the wrist.

“You’re up,” he’d say, often and with genuine delight. I typically didn’t decline, sending another cast upstream, letting the bugger settle.

“Now. Give it some action.”

Yes sir. Gladly.




Note: Be sure to see more of Len Harris at his blog The Stream of Time and on numerous mid-western fishing forums. He's an angling machine.

Simply How It's Done

It felt awkward, I must say, walking into the restaurant wearing my waders, but I followed Len’s lead. He hadn’t steered me wrong yet. Well, there was that bridge pool that he said was only “waist deep," but that’s a story for another time.

As we finished wading our day's second lengthy stretch of spring creek, the sun began to push the trout we were chasing into deeper cover and it made good sense to call it quits before it was straight up and seriously hot. The forecast called for low 90s, wicked for this part of the country, and it was well on its way. We climbed a makeshift tree root ladder out of the streambed, crawled into the Ridgeline that we’d shuttled earlier that morning, and drove the dusty farm roads back to Len’s Mountaineer, parked downstream, at our starting point. Four miles of side roads, one of water, or a half-mile as the crow flies. Measure how you will.

Back at the truck, I reached to drop the tailgate for a seat to pull off my wet Freestones, but Len paused only long enough to toss his rod and huge salmon net into the back of the Mercury, then slid into the driver’s seat and cranked it up. “Let’s go get some lunch.” I scrambled to follow, five-point turning the Honda on the narrow track and hustling to stay close enough to his rear bumper to see where he forked, far enough not to choke on his dust.

Fifteen minutes of country dirt and a half-hour of county asphalt carried us back into the heart of Richland Center where we parked on Main Street, a block from the middle of town, in front of Gables restaurant, regionally known for its Friday night bluegill fish fries. Once again I thought to drop the waders, but Len went straight for the front door, unchanged. I shrugged, and joined him. We smelled of late-summer sweat, rich Wisconsin creek bottom, and bushwhacked wild mint - with a low note of fish. A not altogether unpleasant bouquet, to my unsophisticated nose, but one that I feared our fellow diners might not equally appreciate.

I needn’t have worried. The handful of lunch patrons that sat scattered about the small dining area gave us scarcely a glance as we slipped into a booth – slick waders gliding easily over the smooth leather benches, exquisitely polished, no doubt, by several decades of the in and out of workingman’s denim. It was all I could do to keep from sliding onto the floor.

Our waitress arrived – that is, if it’s proper to refer to someone’s grandmother as “waitress” – and without a hint of irony inquired “You guys been fishing?” The room grew silent and every head tilted in our direction like some old E.F. Hutton commercial. Before I could wrap my head around what other possibilities there might be for our current attire, Len spoke up. “Yep. We’ve been trout fishing up in the hollow.” Heads nodded in silent approval. Eyes returned to their plates. Life was good.

We ate our hearty breakfast-for-lunch casually, exchanged a few pleasantries with the folks at the nearest table, and, with a firm handshake and promise to do it again, parted ways - Len for home and I for Spring Green and some old friends. And we stayed in our waders until we arrived at our destinations – at least I did. It seemed that it was simply how things were done here on the Driftless.

I wonder if he sleeps in his?

Where's Mike?

He's off somewhere, probably feeling a bit driftless about now...

It's Been Too Long

What the….

I punch the snooze, roll over, and burrow deeper under the covers, trying to recall the last time I was roused by an alarm clock. The recollection won’t come. Instead, a number of plausible explanations as to why I can’t remember begin to solidify in the sleepy haze, gaining substance while last night’s odd assortment of inadequacy dreams dissolve to nothingness. Two trains of consciousness, passing in the dark awakening.

Why can’t I remember? To be sure, my memory isn’t what it once was, but that’s too easy an answer. It’s also true that I now live a life unfettered by rigid schedule, scorning all “must be somewhere” situations that require unnatural temporal intervention. A clock, much less an alarming one, is a tad incongruous and easily forgotten. But it’s not that either. The real reason takes a moment to surface and, when it does, it’s enough to push me from under the covers and into the quiet darkness of the house.

It’s been too long since I’ve been trout fishing.

Now, I’ve been on the water my fair share this year (forty-four days, according to my journal) but it’s been months since I’ve been out for trout. Instead, it’s been largemouths, smallmouths, carp, redfish. Fish that live close by. Fish that don’t mind summer heat. Fish that move in patterns independent of their orientation to the sun. Fish I can get to at my leisure. But not trout. Unlike the others, trout conjure alarm clocks. You see, the closest cold water is a few hours away and I like to be in the stream to watch the morning mists rise.

So I get up and move quietly through the dark house, bare feet on cool concrete. Dress. Eat breakfast. Slip out the side door. The truck is packed and I'm on the road as light begins to bleed into the rearview mirror. Two hours on the road in deep contemplation of nothing in particular - certainly nothing important. Two hours that pass in a heartbeat. A sunrise walk along the tracks. A quiet, careful wade down a feeder creek as morning rays begin to filter through the trees. The feeder empties into larger water and I’m on a trout stream once again, watching it come alive. Here early, thanks to the almost forgotten clatter of an alarm clock.

Yeah. It’s been too long since I’ve been trout fishing

Bacon Beer and Belly Dancing

HOGWASH hickory-smoked brown porter
Bacon beer! We house-smoke malted barley over hickory wood, imparting a sweet, subtle smoke to our hickory-smoked brown porter. Depending on your comfort level with smoked beers, you may find Hogwash subtle or overwhelming. Try it with North Carolina barbecue for some smoke-on-smoke action, or go for the Trifecta of Awesome: bacon, beer, and chocolate! 5.5% ABV
Availability: YEAR-ROUND, mostly.*

Good copy, but they had me at "Bacon beer!" Sadly, we missed the "mostly" this time and settled for corn-brewed cream ale and a solid southern lager. Mighty fine fallbacks.

And, after a couple of pints, the strangest thing. A belly dance recital broke out.

Just shoot me now.

That's odd. This picture seemed in perfect focus when I took it.

* Text from the Fullsteam Brewery website. If you're ever in Durham, their sweet potato beer is amazing.

The Photo Bin - July 2012

Time again for another set of the odds-and-ends that populate my monthly Photo Bins. They may not be particularly artistic or captivating (or in focus) and they don't fit any particular post or story. They are simply disparate shots taken during the past month that speak to me in some way - often I can't say exactly why - and I feel like sharing them.

The image above, for example: the oddities that stand in the front window of a neighbor's small home, photographed last weekend during the annual neighborhood sunflower contest. (Robin's won at a mere ten-foot-eight-inches. A tough year for good sunflowers.)

Why does this picture captivate me? I haven't a clue. But it does.

This one, of course, makes a little more sense. My buddy Bill finishing off a nice double-haul. It would have been even better finished had a puppy drum eaten it, but if you fly fish only to catch something, you're misguided. Sometimes the rhythm of a nice cast is as good as it gets.

From the same day. What you don't see in this shot are the bazillion-dollar beach homes that flank this lovely old vestige of the intercoastal past. Back when the salty edges didn't mean polish and flash. I miss those days and this place reminds me that I do.

Tomatoes. Lots of tomatoes. The new garden is overwhelming us with its abundance. Especially of tomatoes. Tomatoes everywhere. Tomatoes.

This odd shot is here because it's the first interesting image (to me, at least) that I have captured with my cell phone. I'm not into the the whole Instagram scene - not that my not-so-smart phone could manage it if I were. I tend to use my phone as, well, a phone. Okay, I text a bit. But I liked this picture, taken at the local watering hole one late evening. I suspect that a few pints of Red Oak probably helped in its composition.

No explanation needed here. The clothesline off the back deck supports a lot more than laundry. Such things are a large part of why we love it here.

And finally. It's been a difficult year, 2012, as we struggle with loss. But occasionally we are reminded that life has two realities - one as joyful as the other is devastating. Obviously, I didn't press the shutter on this one. Mary did. I had my hands full.

Thanks for your indulgence. These Bins are fun for me, if for nothing more than the review of what I've been up to the past few weeks.  And I appreciate those of you who don't mind coming along.


Note: Yes, for those who noticed, the Photo Bin is usually just a trio of pictures that speak to me. But, this month, my quirky photo catalog was especially chatty. Hope you don't mind.

Running Dark

Where's 004? Where’s the goddamn waypoint?

Bill hunkered down behind the console windscreen, out of the stinging rain, and stabbed desperately at the Lowrance buttons, franticly popping up glowing GPS coordinates and relief maps and menus and who knows what in rapid succession, searching urgently for the tiny boat ramp icon as we skipped across the surface of the lake like a thrown stone. Into darkness.

Where's 004? Where's 004!?

I was of little help as I was forward, trying to reseat the flickering running light, holding tight to the rails and keeping a wary eye on the sporadically and spectacularly illuminated sky closing quickly behind us, chasing us off the water like some freakish Fourth-of-July display gone out of control. Someone had dropped a match in the skyrocket box and we were getting our asses out of there before it blew.

We’ve pushed a lot of limits, Bill and I, but we draw the line at lightning. This time, though, we'd drawn it a bit thin.

Notions of landlocked summer stripers busting bait balls at dusk had taken us to Kerr Lake, a couple hours north, braving the 50/50 chance of afternoon and evening thunderstorms that are a constant fact of life here in the South. We launched the boat into a spectacular 180-degree double rainbow, hoping it meant good luck for the evening, but several miles down the lake the sky went squirrely, sending us back from whence we came, in a hurry and in absolute darkness. A few technical challenges on our hasty retreat raised the adrenaline level just enough to make us feel truly alive.

And wishing to stay that way.

Bill ultimately sorted out the GPS and we found the unlit twenty-four-hour launch, though we did pass it by twice before my Petzel picked it out in the gloom. As is often the case, our return to safety coincided precisely with the clearing of the skies – a frustration, for sure, but we didn’t second-guess our decision to turn tail and run. That crackly stuff isn’t something to be trifled with.

Our gas level precluded a second trip down the lake so we trolled the creeks around the launch, pitching poppers at the banks and clousers at shadows on the fish-finder without much success. But midnight on the lake came still and cool, well worth the earlier trauma and lack of fish. The soft swish of fly rods in the dark, the gurgle of poppers in unseen waters, and the twinkle and smell of distant campfires soothed our jangled nerves and closed the evening quite nicely.

And we got to see one heck of a fireworks display, if just a little too close for comfort.

A Day in the Life

"Honestly, at this point I think your blog exists largely to taunt those who still work for a living."

A comment prompted by my last post. Harsh. What the commenter doesn’t realize is that being retired is no day in the park.

Unless, of course, you want it to be.

I am often asked how I fill my day. My friends ask because they feel that I’ve abandoned them and desperately need to know that I'm bored shitless. Strangers are just curious how such a dashingly good-looking young man could deal with not having important and productive things to do.

How do I fill my day? It’s a good question and one that I often have a hard time answering. Mary simply says “He fishes,” but there’s more to it than that. At least I think there is.

So, today, I’ve decided to keep track. I’ve purposely picked today because there’s nothing special going on to falsely impress you; no place that I need to be. It’s just another everyday Monday.

At least I think it’s Monday. I have problems with the whole day-of-the-week thing because, typically, it doesn’t matter a whole hell of a lot.

Anyway, here goes.

5:25a – Wake (five minutes before the alarm goes off) and roll out of bed. I don’t get up this early every day, but it seems a good one to wander down to the river before the summer sun gets above the treeline. A quick bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios, a Mt. Dew, a half-hour on the computer, feed the dog, and out the door. No gathering of gear necessary. My homewater stuff stays out and ready.

Three hours wading the Haw, pitching assorted bugs under the overhanging trees, unproductively. Summer’s finally baked the river into submission and perhaps it’s time to look elsewhere until September when the bass begin to reanimate. But it’s a nice way to start the day, fish or no.

Return home and spend a couple of hours moving mulch to the north slope – whittling down the twelve-yard pile (the second one) that sits at the end of the gravel parking pad.

Crank the chainsaw and section a fifteen-foot white oak trunk to be split later. Four others remain, all harvested during the clearing of a neighbor’s paddock, but it’s gotten too hot to mess with them. They’ll still be there tomorrow.

Retire to the side porch, strip to the skin, and sit and watch the hummingbirds dive-bomb one another around the nectar feeder. Text some friends about fishing tomorrow, giving them the bad news about the absent Haw bass, while Carolina wrens, goldfinches, nuthatches, phoebes, and titmice struggle to supplant the family of piggish mourning doves on the safflower tray. An incoming red-bellied woodpecker scatters them all, like bowling pins - the thunder of the departing doves’ wings, deafening.

Hang my fishing gear to dry. Toss my soaked and dirty clothes into the wash. Shower.

Eat some lunch - a BBQ chicken leg from the night before, some strawberries, and three scoops of vanilla ice cream.

Clean my mess on the deck. Gear, tools. Notice some tarnish on my Orvis Power Jaws forceps and polish them with a little Bar Keeper’s Friend. Thought I’d paid too much for these things several years ago but they’ve been everywhere, fresh and salt, hung around my neck for countless hours, and have become a fishing touchstone for me.

Make some sweet ice tea.

Sit on the porch and read, William Gibson, ice tea by my side, until Mary returns home from a celebratory lunch with a friend. (Happy Birthday Joanne!) She’s followed shortly by our neighbor Robin, necessitating that I scramble and put on more than my boxer shorts and Sanuks. Damn.

The girls make fresh basil pesto. I pour more ice tea and let the ice melt while I take a nap. Mid-day naps are the single most wonderful thing that retirement allows. I snooze, interrupted occasionally by the whirr of the Cuisinart and warm-hearted laughter that drifts from the kitchen.

Mary and I wander down to the pond and float for an hour or so, socializing with what neighbors show up. The usual suspects generally arrive around 5:00 to wash away their workday in the cool, deep waters. Your neighborhood probably has a pool. This community has the pond.

Home again for another quick shower and to start some rice for dinner. The next hour is spent checking the local weather, coming and going between the laundry, stove, and computer, penning a post for the blog, playing with some pictures.

Dinner (black beans and rice, homegrown diced tomatoes with CSA onions, and a shot of Texas Pete) in front of the TV - which we watch entirely too much of. At least we avoid the commercials. DVRs are heaven-sent. The Newsroom (HBO’s fantastic new series, the first ten minutes of the pilot are not to be missed), The Finder (the final episode, cancelled, dammit), and White Collar. Mary thinks Neal’s scruffy beard is cute. The jury is still out on mine. Been out for years.

Load the dishes into the dishwasher, take the dog out one last time, a final cursory look at my email, and head for bed. The Tempur-Pedic feels perfect after such a long, rigorous day.

That, then, is how I spend a typical day. Not terribly exciting, eh? So, in response to the cruel accusation that I use this forum to taunt those who continue to work, who continue to keep our economy alive, who continue to lead active and productive lives, I have but one word.

Busted.

Drool

Not something you see every day on a southeastern screen porch, Montana-brewed Moose Drool. But for some reason I don't feel much like writing about it this morning.

Go figure.

Building a Home

When, exactly, does a structure become a home?

When the COO is signed? No, that's just man's inane bureaucracy. When the furniture gets moved in? That's only ocupancy. When the first mortgage bill arrives? Please.

A structure becomes a home when it's opened to friends, when it's shared with those who will find their way back with regularity, when it's infused with light and life and laughter. It doesn't need walls or a roof or running water, though these will come in time. To be a home it just needs our spirit.

We helped build a home Saturday night.

Many years of happiness, Robin and Sam. That's what we wish for you. In this home, many years.