The Photo Bin - August 2012

It seems as though I spent the entire month of August on the road. Visits to family in New Jersey, Indiana, Illinois and a fair amount of traipsing about the Southeast piled the miles up on the Ridgeline – and on me.

It’s appropriate, then, that this belated August Photo Bin was shot from the driver’s seat as I wandered the early morning back roads of Wisconsin, escaping to a little Driftless trout water. A few of the images may seem abstract but, in truth, they are exactly as I see things at O-dark-thirty in the morning. Just a bit on the dreamy side.

As anxious as I was to get to the stream, I was almost sad when the drive ended. Chasing Len and the rising sun through the misty hills and fog filled valleys, past shrouded grain silos and down dark, dusty country roads, stirred my soul and awakened me to a new day.

But it sure felt good to get out of that driver's seat once we arrived.

You Can't Catch What You Can't See

Chris: Sheepshead. Three of them. Eleven-o’clock. Seventy feet out.
Me: Huh? Where?
Chris: Coming your way. Sixty feet. Fifty.
Me: I can’t pick them up!
Chris: Wait. They’re turning. They're gone.
Me: @#$%

Len: He took it! Hit him! Uh, too late.
Me: Really? I didn’t feel the take.
Len: Didn’t you see that indicator move sideways?
Me: No, I lost it in the wash.
Len: Too bad. Looked like a nice brown.
Me: @#$% *^%

Bill: Listen to them carp slurp. Oh. There he is. A bruiser. By that rhodo snag.
Me: What snag?
Bill: Seriously?
Me: @#$% *^% @#%$^)(*@!!!

It had been a few years since I’d had my eyes checked. My ophthalmologist of nearly thirty years passed in 2008 and I had not brought myself to find a new one. He was a good friend and I didn’t mind the annual long haul to Raleigh to avail myself of his professional skills and his good nature, but the trip was not so inviting once he was gone. So I let it slide. For years.

But in the past six months exchanges like the ones above have become annoyingly commonplace. Now, I love my non-prescription Maui Jim’s – they’re fine polarizers - but I was obviously missing details and missing fish as a result. Something had to give.

So I bit the bullet. A new eye doctor, a new prescription, and the birthday splurge of a pair of Costa Del Mar Joses with Rx 580P ambers. Take that, old eyes.

The first day on the stream was mind-blowing. I saw everything! I saw texture. I saw detail. I saw nuance. I saw every leaf, every rock, every ripple. I saw more than my poor brain could deal with. I saw too much. I was driven to near catatonia by information overload - by extreme visual stimulation - by clarity.

A glance over my shoulder to check clearance picked up things that, previously, my mind would have discarded as inconsequential (which, of course, they were) but, having snagged my attention on the distant perfect detail, I held the backcast and had to reset my spatial bearings.

It was disorienting. It was unsettling. It was overwhelming.

It was fabulous.

A couple more trips under my belt have calmed my consciousness and I’ve settled in on having more to assess. Extreme detail is now mentally filtered and the incredible clarity of my field of vision has become a delight rather than a distraction. I’m gonna love these things.

After all, you can’t catch what you can’t see.

Bring It

Is that all you got? Really? You can’t rain any harder than that?
Bring it, motherfucker.

BRING IT!

Bravado. Irony. Jinx. Stupidity. Reverse logic. Whatever. Soaked to the skin. Soaked to the bone.
Water pours from the brims of our hats like wedding veils. Drowned rat nuptials.
Betrothed to the tug. For better or for worse.
What the hell.
I do.

BRING IT!

Hit a clear stretch. Fish it hard. The murk arrives. Move higher. Get above the mud. Not for long.
Move higher. Closer to the sodden clouds. No. Deeper into them.
Do it again. And again. And again. And.

Just one more pool. One more stretch and we’ll call it a day. Get out of this shit. Get dry.
But damn it looks good up there. Back to the truck after that. One more pool.
Where’s the road? Doesn’t matter. Look at that next run.
Can't get no wetter.
One more pool.

Shiver. Cast. Laugh. Rinse. Repeat.
Shake your fist at the sky.

BRING IT!

And it does.

My thanks to fellow rat Alex Landeen of Fat Guy Fly Fishing for stopping by while visiting friends in the area. The remnants of Hurricane Isaac blew out the local water so we headed west to find some foothills smallmouths, not quite sure what to expect. We should have known.

Okay. We knew. But we went anyway.

On Reputations

Odd. It appears that I've somehow acquired an undeserved reputation as a drunkard beer lover. This misconception crystalized last week in, of all places, the wilds of Wisconsin when my brand new fishing buddy, Mac, upon the end of our first day on the water together, reached into the back of his truck and pulled out a six-pack, saying "I understand that you're into beer."

I, of course, was dumbfounded. Where'd he get that idea? I started to protest, but thought better of it and, unwilling to hurt the dear boy's feelings, reluctantly accepted his largess. It was quite the sacrifice, I assure you.

But I'll give Mac some credit. He picked the wares of a fine small local brewery, The New Glarus Brewing Company, a delightful little summer seasonal, Totally Naked. The bottle says:

Pure and crisp, this is a beer with nothing to hide. Wisconsin two-row barley malt insures a mellow and smooth body. We import Noble hop varieties from Germany and the Czech Republic to insure a fine mature aroma with no course bitterness. Expect this beer to pour a delicate golden hue that sparkles in the summer sun... Kick back, relax and enjoy the simple unadorned flavor. This is beer at its most basic.

I don't know about the pour or the summer sun sparkle, but it damn sure tastes good straight from the bottle, sitting on a tailgate, watching the moon rise at the end of a fine day of fishing. So next time you find yourself in southern Wisconsin, hopefully chasing Driftless trout, be sure to look up New Glarus. Kick back, relax, and get totally naked.

Wait. I mean get Totally Naked.

Crap. I'm sensing yet another undeserved reputation in the offing.


Blogger Geek Note: It will be interesting to see the keyword hits that this posts brings.

Deep in the Weeds

I fully expected to bump into Mowgli and Baloo, bopping their way through the jungle. Or to have some hideous children-of-the-corn moment. Or to simply lose my way in the sea of seven-foot black-eyed susans, never to be found again. It was delicious.

I'd asked Mac, somewhat skeptically, if waders were really necessary. My early glimpses of the sweet little stream seemed to belie the need to get wet, and it was bloody hot, but he had nodded and I reluctantly suited up. Good thing too, for without that slick outer surface I might still be out in that deep Wisconsin meadow, tightly wrapped in bright green tendrils.

Instead I slithered my way through the growth, pausing in the occasional gaps of matted grasses formed the night before by bedding deer, listening to the constant drone of bees, enjoying nose-to-nose stare downs with curious hummingbirds, and following the sound of running water - often the only clue that a stream was near.

Mac and I had arrived late on a bright afternoon to my favorite kind of trailhead (an empty one), strung our rods, and continued on foot down the dirt track that bisected the small Driftless area valley. In time we turned off-road and waded into the lush deep grasses, bushwhacking our way to the small spring-fed stream that also split the area, though considerably less directly than the roadway. Waterways scoff at straight lines.

From deep in the tall grassed edges we drifted dries in the occasional pools and three-foot wide runs, Mac floating his nice little hopper ties and I with a tight-cut, tan caddis. Often the stream would disappear under the grasses, usually to reappear as it gathered itself in troughs created beneath tumbled trees or where it pushed up against the valley’s western walls. It was tough sledding early, while the sun lingered high, but as it dropped and the shadows deepened, life returned to the pools, rewarding our stealth and steeple casts with a few tentative strikes, then more vigorous interest in the terrestrial imitations we offered.

The final hundred yards of water, below the feeding spring, yielded us three nice brown trout, skinny as their home stream, the last a surprising twelve incher that, despite the narrowness of the waterway, danced acrobatically in the fading light.

We ended our fishing day back near the trucks, absently pitching bugs under the bridge, nicking small brookies as they dimpled the stream in the bright moonlight. Having satisfied ourselves that enough was enough, we wandered back, dropped a tailgate, and sat in the dark with a warm Wisconsin ale. I had a three-hour drive ahead of me that evening, back to Chicago, and Mac an hour return to his Madison home, but neither of us felt the immediate need for the road, happy to spend a moonlit hour listening to the gurgle of the stream and talking quietly of nothing in particular. It was the end of my trip, my short two days on Driftless water, and I was in no hurry to leave - delighted to have just spent a casual evening on a truly unique trout fishery with a fine new friend.

And thankful to have emerged from the Wisconsin heart of darkness, alive, and able to fish another day.

A huge thank you to my new friend Mac of The MacLoosh Chronicles. I invited myself into his region and he kindly put in a day on his favorite Driftless trout water with me. And a mighty fine day it was.

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.