February...

Groundhog Day came and went but I can’t recall the resulting prediction. It can’t matter too much ‘cause us northern Minnesota folks put no stock into what a pen-raised Pennsylvania woodchuck has to say, anyway. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not putting down good old PA – I have some very good friends out there, I know there are some awesome bird dogs there and I’d love to fish some of those fabled trout streams. It’s just that I’m thinkin’ that brown fur ball with the unpronounceable name doesn’t have a clue how long my winter is gonna be. I sometimes wonder if the top-hatted mayor who hoists Punxstawney Phil into the air doesn’t maybe secret a pinch of fur into his pocket for later use at the fly vise. Wouldn’t blame him.

Then Valentine’s Day came. I think it was something like ten below zero that morning. No worries about melting chocolate hearts. That was days ago and winter lingers on. There are people steelhead fishing in Michigan. I’ve been reading about them and I envy them. It will be awhile before there’s open water around these parts so my outdoor gear has not been fly rods, but rather snowshoes and skis. That’s not bad, however, and I like to get out and survey the winter woods on those soft and quiet days.

This is also the time of year that I make a little firewood for next winter, so besides using the skis and snowshoes I also fire up the chainsaw. I was well into it, satisfied that I’d done some real work when I was overcome by the urge for a little recreation. A snowshoe hike seemed in order and a quiet patrol would be a welcome contrast to a buzzing chainsaw.

There are a couple of old abandoned homesteads within a half-hour hike from my place. Over the years I’ve watched the weather break them down further and further and the day is coming when there will be nothing left of them. I know only a bit of the history of them, but it’s obvious that turning out a hardscrabble living on rocky northern Minnesota farms was a tough proposition.

The buildings are broken and caved in, but springtime lilacs still bloom around what’s left of the house, and I put in the lilacs around my own yard and kennels from plantings I dug from the homestead over 20 years ago. I’ve trapped and hunted within sight of the old places and the overgrown fields have been important dog training grounds for me. Yesterday I was happy to find grouse roosts in the deep snow of what was once a front yard. I can still find the remnants of a log sauna and smokehouse with Finnish dovetailed corners that I’d bet hung as many deer as cattle and hogs.

These old homes are kind of mysterious, I suppose, and it’s hard to pass the impulse to explore them. You never know what there is to find; though anything of value had disappeared long before I ever set foot on the place. You hope you don’t stumble into an old well or startle some kind of critter from under fallen roof poles. If you’re in the mindset you may even wonder about any spirits still keeping tabs on their property. I’ve yet to run into any ghosts, but one of my trails goes through the woods right past the old house and I’ll admit it’s a little creepy at night.  Still, they’re compelling locales and I have to wonder what kind of faith and skills and toughness those men and women possessed who made their homes and lives there. Between the two places, on a wooded knoll surrounded by cut hayfields is a small little known private cemetery where some of the original homesteaders rest.

I hiked on home to a warm house and flipped on the basement light to hang my snowshoes to drip on the floor. It was a day to be outside so I grabbed the splitting maul to finish the tree I was working on. The fun part is dropping the trees. Blocking and splitting is… well, exercise. I wouldn’t freeze without firewood, however; my efficient propane furnace prevents that. But there are some trees around the place that need cutting, and every dollar worth of propane saved is a dollar’s worth of gas for a springtime fishing trip.  Or so I tell myself. Yep, it’s a good life.

It's wintertime!

If you don’t own or have access to a variety of outdoor gear you stand the risk of becoming handy around the house. I’m not talking about having a mere variety of fishing rods, however. I mean variety as in “diverse” – you know, gear for every season. On the other hand, being handy is not all bad and there’s a bit of Red Green in a lot of us, though I know people who seem to thrive on such things. I know one fellow who keeps several photos of his shingled roof pinned up in his office. I have to agree that it looks like a mighty fine job but to my untrained eye it looks very much like every other shingled roof I’ve seen. And after all, the guy performs building maintenance for a living so the fact that he did it himself isn’t all that astonishing. He’s a steady talker too, and kind of a busy-body anyway, so I take comfort in knowing that I won’t run into him out in the field ‘cause he’ll be at home wiring a new ceiling fan, or something. I guess we all belong somewhere.

Even if you are a talented do-it-yourselfer with a pending project or two, it seems something of a shame to, say, spend a weekend installing flooring while so much expensive outdoor gear sits waiting and wasting in the basement and garage. OK, so it’s the middle of winter and we’re through hunting, the boat’s long put away, the camp tarp has been waterproofed and to a casual observer it might seem as if there’s nothing much left to do. If we were meant to be outside recreating someone would have invented cold weather equipment, right? Like goose-down parkas, ice augers, insulated boots, snow pattern camouflage coveralls, snowshoes, and skis. You get the picture – I rest my case.

I knew it was warmer the instant I stepped outside. Warmer than yesterday, anyway. There was no sub-zero temperature to grab my breath and water my eyes. My porch deck didn’t creak and pop when I put my weight on it. My boots didn’t crunch in the snow on my way to the dogs. No, it wasn’t that cold – looked like a fine winter day. The dogs were glad to get out of the kennel and raced around happy and excited. Yesterday morning Jack danced gingerly in the cold, but this morning he was off and running, eager to catch Molly. Together they sprinted the familiar trails around the perimeter of their territory, ready to chase off any intruders that happened to wander in during the night. Jack and Molly met me at the loft (I keep a small loft of pigeons for dog training, supposedly, but now for my own enjoyment as much as anything) and waited impatiently as I fed and watered the birds. Then they jumped and whined in front of me as I made my way back to the house. I could nearly hear their plea “C’mon! Let’s do something!” before I went in for a cup of piping coffee and to decide what that “something” should be.

A week ago I took the dogs up for a ski on the Rice River.  Most of the river is hardly wider than a canoe is long and I’ve hunted, fished, and trapped the river often, but seldom venture on its unreliable ice in the winter. No one does. Many years ago I broke through its ice on a December morning that read minus 10 degrees when I'd left my house on foot. I went in to my waist and when I climbed out I quickly stripped and wrung out my wool pants, long johns and socks. Still, it was a cold and potentially dangerous three-mile hike over rough country home. Two winters ago I was working on an old wooden bridge on the same river but miles downstream. Working on bridges  (my day job) off the ice can be advantageous, but this time I broke through near the center pier pilings and went in to my neck. I grabbed some bracing on the piling and quickly clamored out while my partner on top of the bridge rushed to find a rope. He ran back to the railing to see only the hole in the ice where I’d been. I was on shore by then but you should have seen the look on his face!

We’ve had some real cold spells and the stretch of river looked so smooth and inviting that I couldn’t resist trying it. I figured my skis would distribute my weight and that would help. I turned Jack and Molly loose and proceeded behind them laying a set of tracks on snow that had seen nothing but deer, fox, and wolves all winter. I was still in sight of my truck when Molly took an outside bend near an old beaver house and broke through the ice.  She was out of the water before I knew it and playfully rolled in the snow to dry off – a process that I know works; though I’m not sure how. However it works, I don’t believe it would be for me. Now, I outweigh Molly by a couple hundred pounds and my agility is dramatically un-spaniel like, but I took it in stride and decided she’d found a weak spot from current near the beaver lodge. It was a beauty of a day and I kept going, warily when need be. The ice in mid-stream seemed hard and strong when I poked at it with my pole, but at the many old beaver dams we crossed I could hear water trickling under the ice. It’s like a friend said, “It’s not the good ice you have to watch out for.”

The skiing was awesome and fun. I glided easily down the river while the dogs raced and chased ahead. Ravens flew overhead, as well as an eagle. A Pileated Woodpecker went by and Molly chased it into the woods. Here and there a small dam would have to be crossed cautiously and it started to get creepy when Molly put a paw through the ice right in front of me. We were about an hour out when we came to a three-foot beaver dam that Molly went over and promptly busted through again. Thankfully she was able to get out on her own but I had had enough. Stopped, I heard running water all along the dam and decided I had pushed my luck far enough. Jack hadn’t gotten wet at all and I have to think he isn’t quite as reckless as the spaniel, picking his routes more carefully, but then I don’t think anything is as reckless as Molly.  So I gave her a call and turned around to follow Jack back to the truck, disappointed my new ski course hadn’t been all I’d hoped for. At least I was still dry.

Yesterday it was nearly 11 a.m. before the temperature climbed above zero. I spent most of the morning inside stoking the stove, sipping coffee, and listening to Charlie Parr on the stereo. I could hear Jack and Molly tumbling about on the deck in a wrestling match while Ty lay snoring next to my chair. I had a broken snowblower that needed fixing so I finally went out and tipped the machine on its nose to find the trouble. I removed the belly pan to find and replace a broken shearpin. Then I spent an hour widening the drive and pathways around the place. I was happy to drive it into the shed and turn it off and was enjoying the silence outside when I noticed an aspen tree leaning precariously over the driveway and another threatening the canoe shed. So it was another hour or so with chainsaw and splitting maul converting the troublesome trees into firewood. That was yesterday, but today there was little work on my schedule.

This morn I was on the skis, again. This time I clipped in at my door and skied the upland trails and breezy fields, high and dry, across the road. Jack and Molly loved it, of course, and I pushed through unbroken snow that sometimes piled at my ankles. It was slow going for awhile and I broke into a sweat, bit it was welcomed exercise and felt good to be moving – under my own power and silently. I was surprised at the absence of animal sign. I found one grouse snow roost and a few deer tracks and several weasel prints were all to see. There are some nice backwoods trails winding up and downhill, along an old beaver pond and in through old growth balsam woods before going into young aspen stands that were logged off a few years ago. I used to drag a track-setter behind an old snowmobile to make a more polished trail but I quit that a few years ago. If the snow gets too deep and soft for skiing I will pound a trail on snowshoes. When I want the speed and ease of groomed trails, there is a great Forest Service trail system only a couple of miles away.

Cross-country skiing is a great way to some wintertime exercise, but it’s more than that. There’s nothing much better than easing through the beauty of a silent winter landscape. Crisp clean air is good for the body, good for the head and this is the time to do it. Breaking trail on skis is an easy way to get more than enough exercise for one day and I’ll likely feel it tomorrow, but I’ll remember it much longer. Relaxing now I can already feel the tenderness in the back of my thighs. Muscles well used – it’s not a bad feeling. And while I never seem to do it enough, I can’t wait to do it again.

27 Jan. 2013

settlin' in...

I was sitting in a duck blind last October with my partner, Fledge, quietly chatting about dogs. He figures it’s time to get a new pup. We also talked about guns and boats and some of the other things guys talk about when they’re gazing at the sky waiting for shooting time and trying not to drink all their coffee too early in the day. In gathering light the decoys came into focus and when one of us said, “we’re legal,” all chat stopped. Moments later the ducks came low and fast right out front. Shotguns blaze and blast and old gray-whiskered Mac, my favorite Labrador, gets his chance to do what he loves most – retrieve ducks.


Fledge, Mac, and I shared quite a few blinds last fall. The places we hunted varied, but there was a certain unchanged routine to it all. We’d boat out and set dozens of decoys in the dark and then sit and try to get comfortable in the blind, pulling our collars up against the wind that was, hopefully, at our backs. The shooting was usually good first thing and we’d bag some ducks every time out. Long about 9 o’clock things would slow down. We’d start talking again and be surprised when a trio of woodies passed right over our heads, or a high pair of mallards that would look down at us and say, “Hey look! That guy is shooting an old A5. Haven’t seen one of those in years!” or “That fellow could use some help with that duck call.”

Sometimes the geese would come just when we thought it was over. And they came often enough to keep us in the blind for another hour or so, but sooner or later one of us would say, “well, whaddya think?” That meant we’d give it another half-hour. I don’t recall, right now, the last time we said that but we ended in cold, snow and ice.

It’s a New Year and most of the hunting is over for another season. Sure, we can still go out and chase rabbits or take predator calls for fox and coyotes. We can set traps until spring, and go ice fishing, too. Those are the things that keep us from cabin fever and going stir-crazy, but Jim Harrison once implied that we accept “the months when no suitable sport is available.”

I’m looking at my fly-tying desk as I write this. I’ve got an idea for some new bass bugs I’ll be eager to show the boys, come spring. For now I guess it’s time to settle in for winter. It’s about time to wrap it up.

Ol' Dennis

Things in camp were moving along pretty well, maybe a little better for Tony than the rest of us because he’d shot a nice little 3 pointer a week before while the rest of us were still waiting. John had hunted opening weekend and couldn’t return, but Tony came back with Jack, so there were again three of us in camp. I’d had some opportunities – I’d let three small bucks pass the first two days of the season including a six-point that I bleated back twice hoping to see it’s rack was somehow bigger than it really was through my binocular and scope. I know it would have provided some tasty meat, but for the last years I’d been scoring on some nicer-racked bucks that seemed to get bigger each year. I can’t say I’m a trophy hunter, but my photos of past hunts and the antlers hanging on my canoe shed allow me to recall and relive those hunts far after the taste of tenderloins and jerky is forgotten. Anyway, it was early in the season and I reckoned I could wait it out for a bigger deer.

The second Saturday it rained. It really rained. I’d seen one deer that morning that disappeared before I had much of a look, and returned to camp about noon to dry out and warm up. Tony and Jack were already cozy in the wall tent, had the stove stoked and their clothes hung to dry. Tony was the hunter again that morning. He’d killed a good-looking eight point buck before the rain got to him. With my gear hanging to dry it seemed like a good day to sit in the tent and hear Tony’s story while rain pounded the canvas. Jack was already in his sleeping bag.

So we sat around sipping coffee and talking. Tony told how the buck came out of the cutting 70 yards from his stand and he took him broadside, and maybe he’d have a head mount done by a taxidermist friend. I was considering how I was going to fill my smoker with venison that I hadn’t killed yet. Outside the rain had turned to a kind of slushy sleety mix and it was mighty comfortable in the warm tent. We were in the middle of discussing the merits of an enclosed heated deer stand when there was a knock on the canvas door – or what passes for a knock on canvas. Tony unzipped the tent and invited in our visitor, a thin old timer who stepped in and said, “Boys, I’ve got one down and could use a little help.” He was wearing an old red wool coat with some blaze orange sewed to the shoulders, a red wool hat, wool pants, and a pair of those knee-high rubber boots that I’ve always known as “mean greenies”.
 

If you’re one who spends much time in wild country, you know the time may come when you might need some help in one way or another. So when someone can use a hand there is only one answer. While Tony and I were getting ready to go, the old fellow introduced himself as Dennis and spotted my rifle propped against my cot. “Model 700?” he asked. When I affirmed it was he allowed, “Yeah, that’s a good rifle, shoot one myself.” And just before we all stepped out of the tent Dennis looked at me and asked, “You don’t happen to have a camera, do you? It’s not a bad buck.” No problem, I assured him and slung my camera around my neck.


We followed Dennis several miles up a forest road to his hunting spot. Then we kept up as he marched in at a pace that far belied his 73 years. After a short walk he stopped at a mark he’d kicked in the dirt and turned to describe the circumstance. He’d hunted his way down to a little lake and was working his way back. “Oh, I was soaked, soaked to the skin!” Two bucks, he said, had chased a doe across a trail before him and stopped, “eighteen steps away, right by that tree,” and he paced it off for us. “I shot the bigger of the two,” he explained with a satisfied grin, “and it ran back in there and dropped.” Dennis had his deer dressed and covered with balsam boughs to keep it hidden from the birds, and anything bigger that might have taken an interest before he got back to it. He tossed the boughs aside and revealed a huge, beauty of a mature ten-point buck. Tony and I both said Wow and admired the buck, each of us instantly wishing we’d had a chance at a deer like that. I got Dennis to pose with his deer for some photos and he seemed amazed when he told me his son had a phone that could send pictures “anywhere in the country!”

Before long we had the buck pulled up to the road and loaded in our truck to haul up to Dennis’ camp. Hanging from the front of his camper was a collection of deer and moose sheds that serious shed hunters might take years to find. He’d picked them up during one week of deer hunting. And he had a dozen wire muskrat stretchers along. He was camped for the entire season, might as well do a little fur trapping, too. Once safely hung in a tree, we admired that deer until Dennis invited us to rest in his warm camper. Over his wife’s homemade pie (“Oh, you’ll enjoy this!”) we listened to Dennis tell his stories of hunting that country for almost fifty years. He spoke with a hint of an accent (Midwest Scandinavian, I’d say) that’s easy to listen to – with a simple truthfulness that comes from over seventy years of honest country living.

After making sure we were comfortable and had plenty of whipped cream on our pumpkin pie, Dennis produced a photo of the largest buck he’d taken. In it he was posed next to a massive 300+ pound heavy antlered twelve pointer he’d killed many years ago. In trying to pick his brain it soon became evident that this man was a hunter. A real hunter. He’d camp off the forest road for the entire deer season. His companions couldn’t hunt the season like he could and he would be on his own until the last weekend when his son would return to break camp. Each day he would be out in the woods exploring. He’d find deer and moose sign, see fishers and pine marten and spot a wolf now and then. He knew who was camped where and their various hunting grounds. I saw his compass but I doubt he used a GPS. “When you’re out in the bush and your shadow is fourteen feet long, you’d better take long steps to get out before nightfall,” and “The thing about deer hunting is you never know what will happen in the next half-hour.” Quaint and obvious advise, I suppose, though I had to feel a little embarrassed about contemplating the enclosed deer-stand when he related how he’d taken all but one of his many deer and thirteen elk “with my feet on the ground.”

Differences in hunting technique can be too subtle to be noticed. Or they can be so diverse and contrasting that one wonders how it can all be covered under the one heading “deer hunting.” For years I tried to perfect the still-hunting method – sneaking slowly and quietly, stopping often trying to see the deer before it saw me. It can be an excruciating and frustrating exercise in patience, but it is also a fulfilling way to get in touch with the land and nature and that is important for, well …good reasons. And when it goes well it is the most rewarding, at least to me, way of deer hunting possible. The best buck I’ve ever taken was by this method, but for the last four or five years most of my deer hunting has taken place sitting in a tree waiting for the deer to come to me. The “hunting” part was mostly pre-season hunting through my basement in search of my gear. I’m not sure if still-hunting is an art or craft. I’m kinda hoping it is something that can be learned, then perhaps I can get better at it, but I get the feeling that some folks, such as Dennis, have some kind of aura or karma about them that grants consistent success in their pursuit. You know how it is, some people catch all the fish doing nothing noticeably different than anyone else in the boat – and they do it effortlessly.

It was too late to hunt that evening after our visit, but it was worth every minute. Dennis doesn’t know or care much about cell phones and computers, but he can tell you when the deer will move by how the clouds cross the sky. I don’t know how many guys know how to hunt, know the country, and know woodcraft like old Dennis, but there can’t be many. I’ve been hunting the same country as Dennis for quite a few years now, but when he described some hills and valleys, swamps and ledges and rivers that he thought I would know I had to admit I hadn’t been there. And I wonder why. I didn’t sit on my stand the rest of the season. I was again inspired to hunt the traditional way. I wanted, once again, to hunt a nice buck like a woodsman, with my feet on the ground. Later that week I was able to drop off copies of the photos I took, but of course he wasn’t at his camper – it was daylight, after all – old Dennis was somewhere in the woods.

and there were always birds…

Anticipation grows faster than the last days of summer disappear, and maple leaves turn red overnight while that first frost wreaks havoc on our last hanging tomatoes, but by now there’s no surprise – it happens every year, and all we can think about is grouse hunting.

I can’t say the start of the season has been anything fantastic or epic – other than the weather, which has been for the most part ideal. The trouble with great weather is I can’t use it as an excuse for poor hunting on my part. And though I’ve only been out a few times in cover that is close but heavily used, at least I can say I’ve brought home enough game to share a good meal with Dad.

I usually start the season on the forest road near here. That’s because the first days grouse hunting are never the best days, and I like to save what I think of my better covers, which are farther away, for a bit later in the season when some of the leaves have fallen. But I like that forest road. I can hunt the morning, run home for lunch, and return for the afternoon. There was a time when I could park near the trailhead and walk down the middle of that road and have the dogs work ahead. It was nothing more than a two-track then and the rare vehicle that came by had four-wheel drive and was moving slowly. That forest road has been rebuilt and now days its common for tiny little cars to come tearing by at near highway speeds. Of course along with the good road came the inevitable crowds. There’s a good amount of public land to hunt along the road so it’s a magnet for bird and deer hunters alike. Add a couple of decent duck lakes and ponds so there’s some more traffic and it gets kind of crazy out there. Although it’s still a gravel road and can get real dusty, it’s an absolutely beautiful drive this time of year and this morning I watched three happy folks climb out of their mini van to photograph the fall colors.

Everyone is out there to enjoy some kind of outdoor experience so we're all pretty cordial about the whole thing and usually wave at a passing vehicle and pull over to let faster vehicles go by. And so far there’s still a kind of etiquette (however grudgingly) about staying away from a cover that’s already occupied. It’s common sense, really; when you park your truck at the head of one of the many offshoot trails you should be able to feel a sense of propriety. Now and then I’ve came across other hunters in the same area because trails come from different directions but it’s not necessarily a bad thing to share a little conversation with like-minded people. Like I said, we’re all out there for some kind of enjoyment, and hunting may be an alibi for a walk in the autumn woods.

Despite the increased pressure, I can almost always find some birds to shoot at. That’s only because my dogs get out where most don’t to find birds. Yet this season, so far, has been pretty slow in terms of flush rates, but I haven’t yet hunted anywhere but off that forest road and I know there are no secret places there. So when the hunting turns into hiking I can’t help but recall all the grouse and woodcock I’ve taken from the coverts along that one forest road. There was a time when my shooting could stand up with anyone and my setters seemed to find birds where there were none. Maybe it’s the outdoorsman’s memory that seems to paint the past a little brighter than perhaps it really was, but I’d give a lot to hunt over Cully, Molly, or Mayday once again.

23 Sept. '12

driftin'

One morning I was standing in a Montana river casting for some of the huge rainbow trout that live there, when my friends Scotty and Brett pulled up in a beauty of a drift boat and invited me to join them for a float down the river. Now, that decision was a no-brainer – I’d been seeing drift boats for days and out west they’re as common on the water and behind pickup trucks as aluminum Lunds are here in northern Minnesota. You couldn’t stop at a gas station, café, or fly shop without getting close to a few. The graceful sweeping rocker to the upturned bow and stern, leg braces for stand-up casting, and low mid rowing seat with long oars fascinated me. I’d watched them pass on the river and saw them being handled like no rowboat I’d ever been in. I was in love with them before I ever set foot in one.

I haven’t been out west fishing for some years, now, and it sort of bugs me that many of the best experiences I’ve had were years ago. I’ve lately found myself overcome with an urgency to do a whole lot more with life and a lot less with work. It’s like the old adage: No one ever said from their deathbed,"I wish I would have worked more.” Unfortunately, I’m not wealthy enough not to work at least some, and I could hardly work less and still hold down any sort of job, but when I opened the e-mail that said, “I have Brent’s new drift boat, wanna do a float trip?” I had to tell the boys at work that I’d see ‘em next week!

It’s easy to like a guy who has a drift boat. Brent (not to be confused with Brett) is a good bird dog guy – which is how I met him, at a field trial. And like a lot of bird dog guys he’s a fly fisherman. I found out about that a while back when he out-fished the rest of us down in the hardwood trout stream country. Now, it’s not so hard to out-do me with a fly rod. I’m kinda old, kinda slow and relaxed, and as likely to be as interested in a muskrat swimming by as a trout rising against the far bank. But when you catch more fish than the Grinch and Little Buddy you’ve accomplished something. Scott knows his angling, builds his own rods and fishes with more purpose than anyone I know, and that’s putting it lightly. And nobody enjoys it more than Brett does. I once watched him work a pod of rainbows on the Missouri River. I was up on the overlooking bank and he didn’t know I was there. He stalked close and cast a few times, changed flies and cast some more and never stopped smiling the entire time. That's how he fishes. Can’t beat that!

Let’s just say that anyone who owns a drift boat to fly-fish mainly warm- water species in Wisconsin and Minnesota rivers has more than a casual interest in the sport. How Scott came to have Brent’s boat is no business of mine but I have to believe he came by it honestly.

It was a beauty of a morning. I stood at the landing for a few minutes before Scott arrived and watched the river pass by. It was sunny and calm and not as warm as it had been only days ago. Here and there a fish broke the surface. There was no one in sight and I knew it would be a good day.

Scott showed up and we shuttled vehicles 10 miles downstream before getting underway. Scott manned the oars first, and right off I could hardly believe how comfortable I was casting from the bow. This trip was, to me, all about the boat!
                                                                                                                                                                                                 


Of all the people I see on a daily, weekly, or even monthly basis nearly every one of them is a fisherman. And just about everyone is a deer hunter, including a number of the gals, too. They all enjoy camping, bonfires, having dogs running around and just being outdoors in general. But there are damn few that have ever been in a drift boat. Yes, I have, but not often enough! It’s hard to describe the easy sort of way it moves down river. It turns quickly and will spin around into an eddy or pool like nothing else. It draws very little water and the tag inside the bow states its purpose of “shallow whitewater.” It’s a simple matter to drop the anchor and stop in the river for a break or to fish out a particularly good-looking spot. It’s almost as much fun to row as to fish from. Sure, it’s a specialized craft all right, and it makes drifting those moving rivers special. You can float a river in any kind of boat or canoe, or even an old inner tube. But if you ever get a chance in a real drift boat just say yes.

We caught some bass that day, and we saw some we didn’t catch. I landed a small northern pike on a popper. It's fun to man the oars and watch your partner work the water, and in my case, maybe learn a little something in the process. And if anyone is catching fish while you're behind the oars you can always claim credit for putting them on the right place! We watched big red-tailed carp roll on the surface and even saw a green and yellow parakeet take a bug off the water and land in a branch over our head. Yep, a parakeet! Living wild! We stopped at a pretty sandbar for lunch and waded for awhile, ever trying for another fish.


It was nearly dark when we reached the take-out point. The fishing had been good but the catching was slow. Scott had been catching some real hogs in the two weeks previous, but it figured things would slow down when I arrived. Still, it was a day most people should have, but won’t. I'm sure glad I did.

TROUT CAMP

I really don’t know if Trout Camp went the way that anyone expected or not. I have to believe it was pretty close, because I doubt anyone had much for preconceived ideas about it, anyway. I know it took me longer to make the 300-mile drive than I expected. I worked a long day in the Duluth area in an effort to repair, however temporarily, some of the recently flood-damaged roads so folks could leave their homes and get to where ever they had to go. But the spring-fed trout streams of southern Minnesota beckoned and my plan had been laid. I took off south by late afternoon and settled back on cruise control. The weather lady on the radio announced expected temperatures nearing 100 degrees the next day but I figured I’d be standing in cool water so how bad could it be?

I usually get a little anxious on approaching Minneapolis/St. Paul. The traffic becomes far heavier than this old country boy is accustomed to and those lit-up signs warning of construction, accidents, and stopped traffic ahead are a pain. I generally know where I’m going but when I’m warned of a crash eight miles ahead/take alternate routes, well… what the hell now? Of course, the shortest and quickest route required me to merge into bumper-to-bumper traffic and cross maybe four more lanes to exit on the southbound highway a quarter mile away. Yeah, I missed that one. But still, once on the southside and leaving the metro area I found myself relaxing a bit and looking forward to the scenery along the Mississippi River.

There’s a liquor store I like to stop at in Lake City. A few years ago the town was undergoing some riverfront urban renewal with lots of brickwork, scenic drives, and curvy walkways. All quaint and good-looking work. Anyway, I parked near the door and paused to look at some of the brick façade going on the liquor store. One of the three masons on the scaffold asked which of the two colored bricks I liked best for trimming the window openings. Yep, if you’re ever down there, I had a hand in that! The walk-in cooler in the store was the last time I’d feel chilly for awhile, and I enjoyed it while I could – though you can’t stay in a store’s beer-filled walk-in cooler for too long before someone comes checking on you.

I found my campsite and set my tent next to a tiny brook trout stream with just enough daylight left to make a few unfruitful but indulgent casts. There I was, trout fishing!

The last time I camped there I woke to gobbling turkeys and light rain. This time there was a welcomed breeze that took away some of the evenings humidity and heat. I was on the water before most people were out of bed and stood in the river below a pool I’ve had luck in before. A comfortable breeze was coming down the river and just strong enough to pay attention to. There was only an occasional rise along the far bank so I plied the near water first. I drifted a favored 16 Dark River (for no good reason other than it’s what I caught ‘em on here before) dry fly through the riffles and over the head of the pool drawing no attention. No luck with a nymph, either. The pool below is long and broad and a good place to swing a streamer so I confidently tied on my choice number 12 wooly bugger and had a nice brown trout on minutes later. Finally I put several dries to the far bank to no avail, even though the riser was coming up now and then for who knows what. I worked my way upstream for awhile as the sun came up and the temp started to climb. Then I drove into town and found some coffee before heading for another branch of the river that I first fished as a young boy.

The day was warming fast and I noticed grasshoppers in the ditch where I parked my truck. Hmmm… something to keep in mind. There was no one else around and I had the river. My Gold Marten nymph took the biggest brown from an undercut bank, and though it wasn’t fast and furious, I caught trout regularly throughout the morning. When I found another one of those slow rising fish, I plopped a hopper imitation close to the bank and the trout took it. Nice! It was getting close to lunchtime when I drove back to town to see if I could locate Scott or any of the others in the crew.


One of the neat things about being in the river valley is no cell phone service. In my youth I took great pleasure in loading camping gear in my old truck and disappearing for a time – I’d missed the hippie generation by some years, but I still liked the idea of stickin’ it to the man and livin’ free. That’s hard to do if your boss, your mate, or anyone else can give you a call anywhere, anytime to see how it’s going. I know I’m something of a retro grouch, but if Big Brother wants to know what I’m up to he will have to come looking. Later I spent a few years specializing in solo wilderness canoeing and paddled hundreds of miles in Minnesota and Canada totally out of touch with anyone and, believe me, your behavior and actions turn pretty scrupulous when there’s no one, and no way to call for help. But when you get back to civilization you know you’ve at least done something and there never seemed like much risk involved at all.


On this trip I wasn’t so much trying to be free as I was trying to do a little fishing with some buddies, so I drove up to the farm country, dug my phone out of my pack and turned it on to get a message from Scott. A short time later we were having lunch and a beer at Mauer Bros.

We met up with Brett and Brent for the evening fishing in conditions that were, for me, miserably hot and humid. Everyone caught trout, mostly on nymphs, I think, but also some dry flys and yes, hopper imitations. My last fish of the evening came on a pheasant tail nymph, the only rainbow I caught. A nice buck deer came down to the river to see what I was up to, and a big flock of turkeys startled the heck out of me when I flushed them in the woods going back to the truck. Cocktails in camp, a visiting raccoon, a leaky air mattress for a bed, more fishing in the morning, a disintegrated wading boot, a tasty tailgate lunch, and before I knew it I was driving north for home. Can’t wait ‘till next time!

pass the bass, please...

So I had this hot tip about a bass lake from a fiddle player, of all people, and I was trying to figure out when and how to check it out. Now, a fishing tip from an old time fiddler can be handled several different ways, but I happen to know this guy and know he’s a fisherman, so I took him at his word. He even showed me a phone photo of a hefty smallmouth lying on top of a cooler. A good-looking fish, no matter how small the cooler was. That fiddler wasn’t fishing for bass, though, he was looking for walleyes and crappies – you know, eatin’ fish – but he caught so many accidental smallies that he thought of me and my flyrod. Last Tuesday seemed like a good day to check it out so I marked “gone fishing” on the calender at work and headed north with a canoe on the rack.

The lake is around 50 miles from my place, the last seven miles on a worn, partially flooded gravel road that gets narrower the farther you go. The kind of road that’s turning into a trail and feels good to drive in a four-wheel drive truck. If you meet another vehicle one of you pulls over as far as you dare and the other creeps by with nods and waves exchanged. I’d gotten a pretty good start and stopped only once just long enough to fill my coffee cup. Still, I’d had thoughts of being on the water at sunrise, which I wasn’t but it didn’t matter. It was a beauty of a morning with fog wafting across the lake and the warblers, thrushes, and whitethroats were singing and chirping. A mother loon with babies greeted me just off the landing and I felt the anticipation rise and the familiar haste in getting started before anyone else came along and saw what I was up to.

I have two canoes, and the one I use is determined mostly by the distance I have to carry it. One is sleek, narrow, fast and light. I’ve paddled and portaged it all over canoe country and love the darn thing, but it has it’s own personality and is only user-friendly to a degree. It’s kinda like sitting in the yard knowing there’s a hornet nest hanging fifty feet away. You probably won’t have any trouble, but if you do... It’s hard to get completely relaxed.

The other is a bit shorter, wider, more stable, and heavier. It's easy to get comfortable in, and you can sneak out of the seat to move forward to reach your rain-gear, or turn around to grab something behind you without feeling like you're going in the drink. Usually. Occasionally I'll even stand up in it to stretch a bit. Because I could drive right to the landing, I had number two. At the ramp I plopped it in the water, rigged my rod and pushed off.

Right from the start, the shallows along shore consisted of rocks varying in size from boulders to the softball sized rubble that means smallmouth bass! Here and there is a patch of sand or weeds, and there are many trees laying from the shoreline to add hiding locations for the fish and snagging places for the errant tossed lure. I started with a hard, froggy looking popper and hooked a bass on the third cast, hardly away from the boat ramp. I continued along the south shore, in the shade of the forested shoreline as the sun lit the rest of the calm lake. Easing the canoe with a slow stroke of the paddle, I’d rest it across my lap and cast five or six times, catching bass regularly as they boiled at the popper and hit with a splash.

Cruising into a large bay I was greeted by a pair of upset beavers that circled my canoe and dove with their tails cracking the water every few minutes. It was so quiet and still I could hear their breathing as they swam a hundred feet away. I’d have an eye on one as it zig-zagged in front, only to be startled by the loud splash of it’s partner behind me. The beavers didn’t exactly drive me from their bay, but I’d have no peace until I left it.

Thankfully, it was mostly calm all day. There was the infrequent casual breeze that would come along and nudge the Old Town and me into, or away from shore and I’d have to scull myself back into position for a quick cast, but it wasn’t enough to bother much. I'd mentioned before to my fiddle playing friend that he could paddle me around and guide me, but he showed no enthusiasm for that suggestion. I didn’t try to keep count of the fish I caught, and you don’t have to try until they start adding up. Sometime in the morning I actually did lose count and anytime that happens you’ve had a good day. I did keep an eye on the size, however, and though the fish I caught fought for all they were worth, all were well under anything considered a trophy. For no particular reason I changed flies once in awhile. I caught bass on hard poppers, deer hair divers, a big Madam X, Wooly Buggers, and Clouser Minnows. I was casting well enough, it was a gorgeous day, and I was having a ball!

Long about 10:30 a lone angler in a boat arrived on the lake and he stood in the front of his boat and worked the shoreline as I was doing, only with an electric trolling motor. I watched him a couple of times through my binocular and saw he was casting a crankbait and skittering it back with purpose. I saw him land two bass and hoped he dropped them back into the lake. He saw where I was and stayed well away, which I appreciated, and then motored to the other side of the lake. I was kind of surprised to see another guy targeting bass, but I know he was having fun. Next time I visit that lake I may use my boat as well, and let the motor do the work while I do the fishing!

At lunch time I paddled into deeper water, dropped anchor, and rigged a spinning rod with a worm rig and dropped it overboard for any walleye that might wanna have lunch, also. Then I slid off the seat to the bottom of the canoe, propped my life jacket behind me, and rested my feet up on the gunwhales. A cold hamburger and a beer from the cooler hit the spot and I sort of dozed off until I heard someone chatting across the lake. I turned to see five canoes going by heading for the portage down at the other end. Nice! I thought, and they reminded me of the many canoe camping trips I’ve been on and how I need to again. I know I’ve envied over some pretty fantastic looking fishing boats, but there’s something about a canoe that stirs me.

I like having a rod in my truck and a canoe on the roof, sometimes for a week or more, in case I get the chance, or the urge, or a whim to use them. There’s not much trouble to it: see some water, stop and check it out. You might find something good, or you just might find something great! And paddling warms and loosens muscles that hardly get used any other way so that’s not a bad thing, either. It’s quiet and peaceful, and... what the heck, canoes and fly rods cohabit the deep and artsy side of what a lot of folks think fly-fishing entails.

The motorboat had loaded and left an hour before, and it was closing in on suppertime when I eased my canoe back to the landing. I was pleased and tired in a way handling a canoe and flyrod all day makes a guy feel. It was easy to let that old, familiar satisfied relaxation come to me while I recounted the day on the way home.