Reduced to Possession?

Really? What a strange term – reduced to possession – and one that I’ve never liked. I know it generally describes the end result of killing a game animal, but I could never agree that the grouse in my hand has been reduced in any way. If anything it seems the bagged quarry is elevated somehow, for as much as we think of and talk of the beauty of the bird, don’t we really only become fully aware of genuine beauty when we have it close in hand. Of course, the bird might have a differing opinion of all this but it’s an unthoughtful and cold hearted gunner who doesn’t appreciate, at least for a moment, the dark neck ruffs and intricate markings of the feathers before smoothing them a bit before sliding the bird into the gamebag. I can’t say I’ve ever pouched a bird without fanning it’s tail open for a few seconds, at least. Maybe I was confirming the sex, or the size, but likely I was just looking at it because I wanted to. I can’t walk by a good work of art without doing the same. Sometimes I’m drawn to stopping and gazing at the view, a dog, or maybe my gun, for much the same unexplainable reasons. Sure, I know there are guys who swat birds and toss ‘em into a milk crate strapped to an ATV or into the back of a pickup with as much deliberation as they would dropping cans of beans into a shopping cart. I don’t get that and I don’t know what to think of it.

Nor have I ever harvested a grouse. I’ve harvested some tomatoes. Some potatoes, too. Quite a variety of vegetables now that I think of it. But I’m not a farmer – I don’t have the stuff it takes for that – I’m a hunter/gatherer. Grouse, like all the best of Nature are wild and natural. Have you ever heard anyone state they were out harvesting blueberries, or morels? Really? Even if they’re not wild, say we raise them, do we really harvest any animals? Does the stockman say he’s going to harvest some steers at slaughter time? We hunt grouse don’t we?... but we don’t “harvest” them.

I suppose it’s all just a way of describing the killing of game in an unassertive manner to avoid stirring the pot of the anti-hunting type of folks who are all so quick to proclaim what we do is wrong. I expect there are those of you who have to put up with that sort of thing more than I do. It’s easy for me to just avoid it. So, if you have to make your life easier by ending your hunting trip saying “I harvested a grouse, today,” well... I’m sorry. But believe me, you’ll feel better if you can boast, “Yep, I got me two grouse today” or “Yessir, I killed the biggest grouse I’ve ever seen. Took two shots, but I got ‘im. Just look at these tail feathers!"

I’ve shot birds with fellows who, when birds flushed, yelled “Kill it! Kill it!” That was always kinda disconcerting to me. It would have been far worse, though much funnier if they’d yelled “Harvest it! Harvest it!” Ha, that cracks me up just thinking about it!



While I’m on the subject of what I deem as incorrect lingo, the other day I was talking to a new hand in the sporting goods store about the right size scope cover for the optics on my deer rifle. He said I should bring the weapon in. God forbid I ever use it as a weapon.

September! Already!

Man, bird season opens in ten days and I haven’t finished my June fishing yet! I just spun new line on a reel today when I suppose I should be oiling the boots and getting some shot shells lined up. I still think I need to wave a fly rod at some more sunnies and bass before summer is gone. The days are still summer warm but the evenings have been getting right chilly. My neighbors over in Embarrass took a frost last Sunday evening. A few weeks ago I was working dogs with a buddy and we talked big ideas of shooting clay pigeons and scouting out new places to hunt before season. Well, we haven’t started that, either.

A while back I opened an insistent e-mail that simply stated, “There’s no excuse not to go fishing ” It was from my buddy Scott who spends his summer days-off fly-fishing a couple of neat rivers for, mainly, smallmouth bass. We’d never gotten our spring trout camp put together and after a number of false starts he laid it on the line, so to speak, and quite perfectly to boot! I had days available, and the desire to continue my quest for the large bass taken with a fly of my own making. So after the many e-mailed photos of Scott and company posing with recently hooked bass of hefty proportions, the plan was made.

I’d never fished the river we met on, but it’s a real beauty. Hardly any development along its banks, too shallow and rocky for any heavy boat traffic, and a good population of smallmouth bass. The order of the day was drifting downstream to a take-out point, tossing large poppers and divers to the shoreline and jerking them back with quick, violent strips of the line.


Most of my angling consists of wading or sitting in a canoe or boat, so standing on the raised deck of Scotts jon-boat sometimes tested my balance and though I caught myself a few times, I managed to stay in the boat throughout. A western style drift boat would be a nice way to go, but the jon-boat works well and I brought home some ideas on how I would modify one for that type of drift fishing. Scott floats the river often and made a fine guide, optimistic and complimenting my accidental accuracy when appropriate. We took turns at the oars and I learned something watching him fish the river, too.

There’s some kind of excitement seeing your popper explode in a splash as a river-raised smallmouth hits and takes off. The fish living in this current are strong and the thumping rod relays their effort to shake the hook loose. They often clear the water at first, dancing on their tails before bulldogging their way to the rocky bottom and doing their best at staying there. Neither of us caught the 20 incher that day, though it’s no surprise that Scott took the biggest. Fighting a stiff wind part of the time and constant casting or rowing had me getting sloppier and sloppier, and after something like 9 hours on the river I was kinda tired out. But a good kind of tired and one I’m looking forward to again.

It’s hard to stop having that kind of fun, so days later I waded the rocky Cloquet River without as much success at catching fish, and the fish I caught were indeed smaller, but with apologies to J. Gierach, I was, at least, standing in a river waving a stick.

canoe camp...

When I was a kid in Boy Scout camp I failed over and over to earn a merit badge in woodcraft ‘cause I kept forgetting to make sure nobody was in range while I was chopping wood. I guess I figured if anyone was dumb enough to get close to a kid with an axe, they’d get what they deserved. But the night games of capture-the-flag and afternoons canoeing on the Mississippi river made it all worth it, even though I couldn't get anyone interested in paddling across and invading Wisconsin by water. Maybe that’s when I realized much of my outdoors life would be spent alone.

My camping has come quite a ways since those days, but it usually still amounts to crawling in a tent and sleeping real close to Mother Earth. There are exceptions, of course, like hunting camps in comfortable cabins or sleeping in some kind of RV during a fun recreational weekend. All in all, however, my camps still have a primitive flavor to them.

Living close to Minnesota’s Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness has afforded me some wonderful camping opportunities and some great country to travel and fish in. I’ve made some unforgettable canoe trips through the BWCA and the Canadian counterpart, Quetico Provincial Park. Early on I was impressed with the idea of going it alone and soon found my way to owning several solo canoes before I settled on the one that I still have today. My first trips were learning experiences. I used gear I’d collected when I was tripping with a group and quickly learned that weight is the enemy for a solo traveler  and I took to updating just about everything I owned from tents to sleeping bags, to stoves and packs. When all was said and done I was comfortable and confident with my stuff and was spending weeks each year in canoe country, by myself.

I recall easy quiet mornings where the only sounds were from songbirds and my deer hair popper’s “bloop!” on the still surface of a border lake shoreline. Always expecting the ferocious strike, it seems so unexpected when it does happen. Like buck fever in the deer woods, my heart races as the fly rod bends to the weight of a diving fish. Then there was the evening on the north end of a broad Quetico lake when schools of minnows boiled the surface and jumped from the water hoping to escape the pursuing lake trout that coursed back and forth just beneath my canoe. I wonder if I’ll ever see anything like that again, or experience that kind of fishing? And could anyone ever tire of the loon’s piercing call that startles you awake during the night, then to lie back on the sleeping pad and enjoy the song through thin tent walls?

 I’ve caught scores of walleyes in those lakes, and pike so large I wouldn’t try to get into my canoe. I’ve been pulled far across clear lakes by large lake trout not willing to give up and I’ve enjoyed backwoods fish fries that still make my mouth water. I’ve camped in the best of weather and some of the worst. I’ve lain on rocks and became sunburned at water’s edge, and I’ve huddled under a tarp while storms pummeled my camp to a muddy mess.

I’ve also made trips that were mainly focused of traveling and exploring, and some of the sights and experiences are indescribable. I remember one camp where I sat on the shoreline and watched a moose feeding across the lake the same time a bear was prowling a couple of hundred yards from it, all the while a pine marten was exploring my campsite behind me. I once ignored a Quetico ranger’s route warning and failed four times to paddle upstream into a dangerous chute that was bound to capsize me in high cold water. Unwilling to backtrack, I ended up spending hours cutting my own portage. There was another early season trip where I found portages flooded and pushed my loaded canoe through the trees to a lake waiting ahead. From the lake looking back it was impossible to find the portage trail and I was happy to make camp knowing I was not returning that way.

A few days ago I woke to hear rain pelting my tent. It was the same rain I fell asleep to, but it’s a different matter to be lulled into dreamland by the rain than to know I’d have to get up and break camp in it. So I relaxed in my bag and listened, and dozed, while the rain and wind drummed and rustled the nylon tent surrounding me. For those who have experienced it, you know there’s nothing quite like it and I hope to enjoy again, soon.

Lightweight canoe & 6 weight rod...

The foam frog landed inches from the shoreline and rested a few long seconds before I gave a short jerk and plopped it a foot across the surface. It sat still for a moment before the line slowly started to drag it into the lake. That’s when the smallmouth bass hit it with gusto and the fight was on! The fish pulled back and forth before it broke the surface and I’m sure I was wearing a smile that matched the bend in my rod. I was happy to reach down and grab the fish by the lip and admire the feisty bass before releasing it to grow and fight again. Three days before I was catching eating-size crappies on another lake with minnows and jigs but there’s nothing quite like playing a lively fish on the fly rod!

I’d found this little lake years ago when I was exploring grouse covers with my setters. It takes a half-mile hike to reach it from the forest road, which is enough to nearly guarantee an un-crowded setting, and it felt good to have my canoe on my shoulders as I made the portage in. A walleye stocking effort failed, but the smallmouth bass population is claimed to be “thriving,” which is a stirring declaration to a guy who loves pursuing them with a fly rod.

 

Author Jim Harrison wrote about the world-class smallmouth fly fishing he enjoyed in Quetico Park, which isn’t all that far from me. I’ve been there a lot, and have experienced the best of it as well, but it requires some planning, reservations, fees, and a couple of days (at least) of canoe travel and camping. Whenever I can get a lead on some close bass waters I take heed, and if it can duplicate some wilderness travel all the better. There’s nothing like fooling a fish, any fish, with fly-fishing gear and I'm happy for the chances I get.

When I was getting my gear together I opened a box and found a pair of foam frogs I don’t recall purchasing. I know I didn’t tie them myself – they may have been a gift, but they were too appealing to leave home. I assume they were designed for large-mouth bass, but it was worth giving them a try on the water I was heading for. Besides, how fun it would be to catch fish on something that looks like a cartoon character!
  
I couldn’t have picked a better day than yesterday. The day before I worked the dogs between rainstorms until the big ones blew in that afternoon and chased me home with lightning and thunder. Today is much the same with wind and rain, but yesterday was calm, cool, and mostly overcast. The goldfinches and rose-breasted Grosbeaks were feasting at my feeders when I left home and it seemed a perfect day. Even my casting came easily and my rod felt like an old friend as the line unfurled overhead and stretched out on target after a long winter’s rest. And it was easy to keep the canoe in position and work the shoreline with my offerings, something I don’t take for granted, since even a soft breeze can become a battle in a solo canoe.

I didn’t hammer the bass like I’d hoped, but I did affirm there was a good population that I will be happy to visit again. Nor did I land any big trophies, but I’m encouraged by a good number of spawning beds, even though I saw only one with a bass tending. I fished the frog for a while until the action slowed and then had success with a deer-hair diver. My Clouser Minnows hooked one nice pike, but I couldn’t hook a bass with them. Still, it was a fine day on the water with canoe and rod so I toasted my good fortune with Makers Mark and hit the sack with a smile. I believe it is early yet, and the smallmouths will be more aggressive in the coming days. I only hope I can get there to find out!

30 May 2011

Girl Scout Cookies, Free Coffee, and Karma

Yesterday I swung through town on my way to hook up with some friends for an evening of live music and stopped at the grocery store to grab one of my favorite hot sandwiches. I entered the store, turned for the deli and walked right past two young girls sitting at a table selling Girl Scout cookies. It didn’t register at first, but I didn’t get far when I was stopped by a memory.

Some years ago my friend Charlie and I where heading home from a bird dog field trial in Tennessee. It was around this time of year, early March, and though no one is ever in a hurry to leave the warm breeze and welcoming quail plantations of the Cumberland Plateau for the cold and snow of northern Minnesota, we were anxious to have the miles behind us.

We were driving a one-ton diesel and pulling a 30-foot horse trailer loaded with three horses, nine English setters, and two pointers. The radio was warning of a winter storm moving in from the north when we pulled into one of those mega truck stops somewhere in Kentucky. While the fuel pump ran I went inside to fill my coffee cup and find the restrooms. Inside was a typical looking convenience store setup that I passed through and walked past a diner area where half a dozen road weary truck drivers sat at the counter having a bite to eat and talking about bad weather coming. I set my cup on the counter and when the waitress asked, “Black?” I nodded and continued down the hall. A little video arcade caught my attention to the left with its flashing lights and dinging bells. On my way back from the restroom I noticed a little girl and her mother sitting at a table filled with boxes of Girl Scout cookies. They were across from the arcade and I hadn’t seen them the first time through. I was eager to hit the road and walked right past their warm southern smiles. I was almost to the cash register when I thought “wait a minute, I’m not in that big a hurry.” Then I turned around and walked back to buy some cookies. The mother helped the little girl make change and she delivered her “thank you, sir,” with the sweetest Kentucky accent I’ve ever heard.

Up at the checkout stood a gray bearded trucker with a cowboy hat and he looked at my boxes of cookies. “I see you got yourself some cookies, me too,” he said and showed me his box of Thin Mints. “Yeah,” I replied with the first thing that came to mind, “if I’d walked by that little girl selling cookies I’d have bad luck for a week.” The gray trucker gave me a grin and a nod and turned to finish his business. The men at the counter may have overheard us or not, but at any rate six gruff truckers rose from their stools and lined up to buy some cookies from that little scout. It was a neat scene, though the poignancy didn’t strike me until later up the highway, but when I went to pay for my coffee the smiling waitress offered, “Why don’t you have a donut with that coffee, on the house!” Charlie and I drove north, missed the worst of the storm, and enjoyed a good trip home munching Kentucky bought Girl Scout cookies.

Needless to say, yesterday in the store I did an “about face” and strolled back to buy myself some cookies from those young girl scouts.

a strangers view...

After one peaceful evening last October I crawled out of my tent to a frosty, dark morning a hundred or so miles west of here. I was over there exploring some new hunting areas during the day and sitting outside in the chilly air sipping Knob Creek and pondering the Hunter's moon at night. A pretty fine way to spend some time, I think, and that morning I was about to light my stove and boil up some coffee when I thought "to heck with it," and drove into the nearest town to get some breakfast.

It was still dark when I spotted a little diner with quite a few vehicles parked outside and a sign that claimed "home cooking." As it turned out the claim was false. Compared to the mostly sorry breakfasts I usually have, this place was far better. I suppose most everyone in the place knew each other so I got the usual looks when a stranger comes into a place like that. It was during the week and I'm guessing most of the regulars worked at an equipment manufacturing plant a few miles outside of town. I sat down at a table and the waitress came and poured me coffee without my asking and told me the breakfast special was the way to go. So I ordered it without knowing what it was. A minute later I saw it posted on a chalkboard by the door.

An older guy that everyone greeted by name came in and took a stool at the counter and ordered his meal while she poured his coffee. I kinda overheard the waitress scolding him and warning about his cholesterol level and health in general. A couple of others seemed to side with the waitress and joined in. I'm thinking he had a heart problem, or something. He knew these folks were his friends and were concerned about him, but he just took a sip from his cup and looked up and said, "Now listen..."

Then this guy went on to tell them just how content he was and how he'd seen the world in the service, lived in Hawaii for a while, built his own house in the woods with the help of his wife and raised three kids, the early years without electricity, who were grown and successful and gone. He'd fished and hunted in Alaska and worked and played hard all his life, and made a passel of friends doing it. His wife had passed and he didn't figure at his age there was much left ahead for him. He was happy and satisfied and all he wanted in life was a big plate of bacon and eggs -- and if it killed him he'd have no regrets.

While I was digging into my own bacon and eggs I thought about what he'd talked about. I don't think everyone has to go skydiving or bull-fighting to live a full life, but you need to do something. We all have things we want and need to do that are important to us. I guess we all have our own bucket list. The idea is to keep it short.

Won't be Spring for awhile...

…but it almost felt like it for a couple of days last week. We enjoyed melting weather for three days, and one night it didn’t freeze and there was no ice on the water buckets in the morning. Nice. The sidewalks and kennels were down to bare concrete, people were skiing in shorts and tees, and it was downright pleasing to have a case of spring fever. We missed the January thaw, there wasn’t one. It seemed like it snowed daily since Thanksgiving and when it wasn’t snowing it was 20 below or colder. So this February thaw was more than welcome. Of course it didn’t last.




This morning I woke early but, weary of crawling out of the sack in the dark, I napped until the rays of the morning sun broke into the window and I could see the grosbeaks, and chickadees, and redpolls flitting around the bird feeder. I was still in pajamas when I pulled on my boots and coat and followed Ty out into the sunny morning to let Jack and Molly loose from the kennel. I kind of hated to let them out because the packed snow around the feeders is high enough that Molly can nearly jump up and reach them. The grosbeaks are shy and non-confrontational and won’t tolerate being hassled by an annoying spaniel, so they leave immediately. Only the chickadees are brave enough to quickly land, grab a seed, and head for the higher branches of the trees. When the dogs get tired of chasing little birds and head off for another part of the yard to search for mischief, a hoary woodpecker will appear and take a few stabs at the suet, and a nuthatch will join the chickadees for a quick bite.



I didn’t stay out long in my pjs. The thermometer read minus 5 and the lure of hot coffee inside was too much to ignore. After breakfast I sat with a cup and watched the birds for a while, and now and then a setter or spaniel would pass by on snow banks window high. The dogs were light-footing across the yard on a thin crust of snow. Every dozen steps they would break through and I could nearly feel their frustration at not being able to open up. I also had a feeling the conditions would make for some wonderful snowshoe travel and before long I was outside affirming the idea.



A light dusting had fallen last night, just enough to make for excellent tracking. The crusty snow held my weight and I snowshoed throughout the woods easily and randomly north. There was no need or desire for a trail so I just walked where I wanted. I carried my cruiser axe in case I had reason to clear branches but there was no need; I just took the clearest route, but I did use the axe to check the snow depth beneath me out of curiosity. Each time I pushed the handle into the snow it went the entire length right to the steel head of the axe.

I saw tracks of fox, coyote, fisher, marten, squirrel, rabbit, mice, and deer. The deer were using packed trails and I’m sure they’re having a heck of a time now. I expect we’ll lose a fair number this year. I did not find any wolf tracks in the area I covered behind my house, which is a bit unusual. I have to pity those deer when their tiny hoofs pierce the crust that holds up the broad-footed wolves. I've seen the results and know how harsh Nature can be. There were also grouse tracks, and quite a few of them, which I always like to see. I think the grouse will have a hard time getting through the crust right now and that’s a concern, especially if it stays cold, but this happens every year and the grouse always seem to survive. Though today I never saw any wildlife other than at my bird feeders, I’ve been seeing grouse regularly coming out to road edges and pecking gravel and high in birch trees feeding on, I suppose, catkins. I often flush grouse near my pigeon loft and wonder if they are there for some feathered company.

This afternoon the clouds rolled in and it started snowing. There were several inches of fresh snow by dark and I’ll bet tomorrow morning will be a good time to be on skis. Hhmmm…

Snowshoes

I fell in love with snowshoes when I was yet a teenager and spent much of my time outdoors chasing all manner of wildlife and exploring hills and valleys and rivers and such. I was trying to learn how to catch fox in traps and having some success. But when the snow became too deep for easy walking even I had to concede to something more reasonable. However, I thought, if I had snowshoes there would be no safe fox for miles. I made my first pair from scrape plywood and a couple of miles of bailing twine. The result never lived up to the anticipation but the course was established, and snowshoes would become necessary winter gear for myself.

I broke my first snowshoe on my first winter camping trip. Some friends and I set up in the Whitewater River valley and explored the river bottom like we never had before. The open river winding through the snowy woods and meadows was a sight. Somewhere along the way we broke into a rowdy game of snow tag and I was running full out when I caught a toe or hit a hole or something. I went tail over teakettle and when the explosion of snow settled I looked down to see the frame of my shoe broken in two places. Little did I know then that I was about to embark on a lifetime of broken snowshoes, skis, canoes and other assorted outdoor gear. I still have that shoe with the metal splints I attached to keep it all together, but it was never the same.



This is a year for snowshoes if I ever saw one. There is no going into the woods without them and I dislike being confined to the plowed yard and roads. Even the powerful snowmobiles seldom leave the groomed trails – I asked a neighbor motor-head if he could break a shortcut ski-trail for me to the groomed trails of Big Aspen on his monster Polaris, or Ski Doo, or whatever it is. No, he reckoned, it wasn’t worth the risk of getting stuck out in those woods. So I broke the mile trail myself, on my snowshoes.



I’ve used bearpaw and beavertail style snowshoes but long ago became convinced longer and narrower Alaskans were the way to go. Ojibwas have a pointed toe but are otherwise about the same as Alaskans. I’ve tramped through a lot of brush on snowshoes and can’t say a pointed toe is any real advantage. They all get tangled and the best thing is to avoid the worst of the brush. When the course is more open the Alaskan, or pickerel, style allow a more natural stride but when the snow is deep like now, it’s still a leg burner. Rubber bindings are fast on and off, but for long hauls the A-type binding offers me more stability and I’m experimenting with the old wick binding described in The Snow Walkers Companion.



I like the art of traditional wood and rawhide. Now that I’ve re-laced a snowshoe of my own, I really appreciate the technique of the snowshoe craftsman. Even though I’ve broken a number of ash frames in various mishaps, I don’t see the day soon approaching when I’d buy a pair of the new metal and composite materials. They may work fine and some have a binding/crampon combo that would be awesome climbing hills, but the ash and rawhide shoes give me a feeling something akin to old double guns and felt hats. There is modern gear out there that may be as good or even better, but some of the old ways seem worth hanging on to.

It’s a real winter, here. Roofs are collapsing under snow loads and there’re plenty of 25 –35 below zero temps. The ski trails are excellent, grouse are comfortable in snow roosts, and the deer are yarded up. The woods are snow filled and beautiful and snowshoes provide the means to get out and see it. Neat.