Tuesday, September 9, 2014
Another day...
...in paradise. An opportunity to get out today came along...and I took it. Another walk in the park...but, I started where I stopped last week. Kinda funny...but, I walked out of the woods just 100 yards from where I started. Trout were on the rise...sometimes taking my trude while doing a complete flip in the air. One really big fish for this water...in the 18 or 20 inch range, cleared the water by its length trying to get a dragonfly buzzing the small pool. I missed a bunch...and, caught a bunch. But, the best fish was a dark brown that came from a narrow chute on a bow and arrow cast...
Friday, September 5, 2014
Transitions...
...are a part of life. Kind of like traditions...but, the opposite. Traditions are locked. Transitions are change...seasons, flow...a river. The ability to change and grow is the secret of life. At least a life well lived...something I learned from my father. My father started this life in Hohenkurchen Germany in 1904. A villager son of a master carpenter he was a remnant of another age. Growing up as a young man during world war I, while his father was fighting on both fronts, molded his desire for peace.
The journey to Madison started in January 1922. A sleigh ride to Leipzig and the train station for a ride to the north sea. The winter cruise to America and another train to Chicago for another train to Madison was most certainly a transition. But, the whole family survived...something amazing considering a loaf of bread was a million marks when they left. They burned their money the night they left their house and most everything they owned. His stories of growing up during WWI and its hardships, or his school teacher owning the fishing rights in his village and never being able to hunt...stuck with me as I took advantage of public lands and waters and the safety of Madisons west side. My father watched the age of the car and airplane and going to the moon. All from a start in another age. I was always most amazed my father ended up on the west side of Madison...one of the most liberal and educated places on the planet.
Old school European, my fathers family helped build that city where I grew up and still call home. Literally...my older brother was a master carpenter building the alter of Frank Lloyd Wrights Unitarian Church when I was young. I remember my father saying, "there's Mr. Wright." when we saw his black limousine on our family trips to my mothers family farm in Richland county. I also remember him talking to Gaylord Nelson at the neighborhood grocery store, and speaking of Aldo Leopold who worked at U.S. Forest Products Lab just a couple blocks from Madisons largest greenhouse where my father worked. Transitions all...this is what molded me and everyone on Madisons west side. An ethic of the land...of hunting and fishing. Not just for sport or tradition...though, both are valid to me. But, for purpose, too. Aldo Leopold hunted deer to manage his land, FLW's works grew from the land, and Gaylord Nelson balanced the earth with that ethic of Madisons west side. A natural, organic, balanced view of life that included hunting and fishing with landscapes and building. A progressive view...
I was indeed, fortunate...sinks full of perch from lake Mendota were common, along with the occasional northern pike. My older brothers 8 pt buck hanging from the swing set was a neighborhood legend...and our sunday 'chicken' dinners were just as often rabbit and pheasant as they were real chicken. The garden was large and our root cellar was full. Cherry, apple, plum, and pear trees were part of our yard on Madisons west side...as were grapes, currents, and raspberries. That back yard was the very edge of Madison. And, the beginning of the driftless...A few miles west you can see the hills of ruble and boulders like pebbles, pushed in front of the glaciers edge. Our house was high on the hill of Merrill Crest with a view of Lake Mendota...another remnant of the glacial push to the south and its retreat.
My love affair with the driftless started with my mothers farm in Richland county...we could drive there in less than an hour and often we left after church in Middleton and were there by noon. My grandmother had fishing rods in a bucket in one corner and rifles in another. Necessary, for the rattlesnakes and critters that nuisance a farm...a problem I now know, myself. But, the fishing poles were what bonded my grandmother and I. She loved to fish and often it was just her and I on the Wisconsin river that was a boundary to her farm along hwy 60 between Gotham and Muscoda. Still, one of the most scenic views in the entire driftless...I do remember asking about trout and her telling me of the Blue river but, I later learned Ash creek had brook trout just over the ridge. My mothers family had survived much transition on their way from the Rhine river and Silesia to the driftless area. I may not have known it at the time but all were preparing me for my own. Those other lives I keep talking about...
Those lives are like the transitions of a trout angler...first, just catching one. Then, more and larger trout...and, finally our own restrictions and values applied to how we pursue our quarry. All valid...As, in deer hunting. Some hunt for food, some for trophies, and others for the over all experience. Again, all valid...part of life and death. Sustenance and discovery all at once. Discovery of self...I have often told anglers fishing the driftless it is the joy of discovery when fishing here. Discovering new water, techniques, and sights and history, are the true joy of driftless angling. Any fool can catch a trout given everthing...it takes transitions and discovery to make an angler or hunter.
Where am I going...? It is approaching fall...trout will move up to spawn, baetis will hatch...and, deer will change their coats from red to grey. Transitions...My 18 yr old son is starting college at UW Richland. My 14 yr old son is quarterbacking the middle school football team...and, my 10 yr old daughter is growing up too fast. I only hope she still wants to hunt when she's old enough. But, trees are turning, the garden withers, and I'm looking to my treestands...the long rods hanging between the deer antlers will soon be back in tubes and new bows will replace them on the porch. Otis will listen for the pheasants crow...The tradition of transition will run strong. Its our heritage, our culture, and, our reason for living...
The journey to Madison started in January 1922. A sleigh ride to Leipzig and the train station for a ride to the north sea. The winter cruise to America and another train to Chicago for another train to Madison was most certainly a transition. But, the whole family survived...something amazing considering a loaf of bread was a million marks when they left. They burned their money the night they left their house and most everything they owned. His stories of growing up during WWI and its hardships, or his school teacher owning the fishing rights in his village and never being able to hunt...stuck with me as I took advantage of public lands and waters and the safety of Madisons west side. My father watched the age of the car and airplane and going to the moon. All from a start in another age. I was always most amazed my father ended up on the west side of Madison...one of the most liberal and educated places on the planet.
Old school European, my fathers family helped build that city where I grew up and still call home. Literally...my older brother was a master carpenter building the alter of Frank Lloyd Wrights Unitarian Church when I was young. I remember my father saying, "there's Mr. Wright." when we saw his black limousine on our family trips to my mothers family farm in Richland county. I also remember him talking to Gaylord Nelson at the neighborhood grocery store, and speaking of Aldo Leopold who worked at U.S. Forest Products Lab just a couple blocks from Madisons largest greenhouse where my father worked. Transitions all...this is what molded me and everyone on Madisons west side. An ethic of the land...of hunting and fishing. Not just for sport or tradition...though, both are valid to me. But, for purpose, too. Aldo Leopold hunted deer to manage his land, FLW's works grew from the land, and Gaylord Nelson balanced the earth with that ethic of Madisons west side. A natural, organic, balanced view of life that included hunting and fishing with landscapes and building. A progressive view...
I was indeed, fortunate...sinks full of perch from lake Mendota were common, along with the occasional northern pike. My older brothers 8 pt buck hanging from the swing set was a neighborhood legend...and our sunday 'chicken' dinners were just as often rabbit and pheasant as they were real chicken. The garden was large and our root cellar was full. Cherry, apple, plum, and pear trees were part of our yard on Madisons west side...as were grapes, currents, and raspberries. That back yard was the very edge of Madison. And, the beginning of the driftless...A few miles west you can see the hills of ruble and boulders like pebbles, pushed in front of the glaciers edge. Our house was high on the hill of Merrill Crest with a view of Lake Mendota...another remnant of the glacial push to the south and its retreat.
My love affair with the driftless started with my mothers farm in Richland county...we could drive there in less than an hour and often we left after church in Middleton and were there by noon. My grandmother had fishing rods in a bucket in one corner and rifles in another. Necessary, for the rattlesnakes and critters that nuisance a farm...a problem I now know, myself. But, the fishing poles were what bonded my grandmother and I. She loved to fish and often it was just her and I on the Wisconsin river that was a boundary to her farm along hwy 60 between Gotham and Muscoda. Still, one of the most scenic views in the entire driftless...I do remember asking about trout and her telling me of the Blue river but, I later learned Ash creek had brook trout just over the ridge. My mothers family had survived much transition on their way from the Rhine river and Silesia to the driftless area. I may not have known it at the time but all were preparing me for my own. Those other lives I keep talking about...
Those lives are like the transitions of a trout angler...first, just catching one. Then, more and larger trout...and, finally our own restrictions and values applied to how we pursue our quarry. All valid...As, in deer hunting. Some hunt for food, some for trophies, and others for the over all experience. Again, all valid...part of life and death. Sustenance and discovery all at once. Discovery of self...I have often told anglers fishing the driftless it is the joy of discovery when fishing here. Discovering new water, techniques, and sights and history, are the true joy of driftless angling. Any fool can catch a trout given everthing...it takes transitions and discovery to make an angler or hunter.
Where am I going...? It is approaching fall...trout will move up to spawn, baetis will hatch...and, deer will change their coats from red to grey. Transitions...My 18 yr old son is starting college at UW Richland. My 14 yr old son is quarterbacking the middle school football team...and, my 10 yr old daughter is growing up too fast. I only hope she still wants to hunt when she's old enough. But, trees are turning, the garden withers, and I'm looking to my treestands...the long rods hanging between the deer antlers will soon be back in tubes and new bows will replace them on the porch. Otis will listen for the pheasants crow...The tradition of transition will run strong. Its our heritage, our culture, and, our reason for living...
Tuesday, September 2, 2014
Another ghost town...
...I call Hooterville. One of the very first streams I fished in the Kickapoo valley almost 40 years ago...it was impressive. Two foot long browns and 18 inch brook trout...and, as flyfishermen, we had it to ourselves. I remember an elderly gentleman with a zebco 202 and a creel with a 25 inch brown sticking out of each end. I lost one bigger that day...
Another afternoon while doing well on the stream, my friend and I walked into the bar on the one block long street and the only business in town, to quench our thirst...we found a half dozen local patrons staring at us in our waders and vests with long rods we stacked in a corner. "You wont catch any fish in the middle of the day..." We just smiled and said we got a few...40 fish days were common.
One evening caddis hatch had fish on every cast...and, one otter that came out from under a large cottonwood tree, just below a concrete raceway to the old grist mill, to chase the 14 inch brown on my line. The evening started on caddis but soon the big mayflies started hatching...sulphurs, hendricksons, and just before dusk the hexes were on. A pair of 20 inch browns ended one of my best evenings ever...
Now, this larger driftless spring creek is on the list of famous waters...guides camping out at access points, flyshops sending sports, and, even locals posting gps just to get back at the guides and flyshops. Its part of my driftless bakers dozen but I haven't fished it in over a year...
Yesterday, labor day...I decided to check out the crowds. To my surprise all the bridges were open...it was overcast and middle of the day, but I expected more. On checking the water I saw the results of heavy flooding and the stream had actually changed course, cutting off an oxbow that had great water. The new water was not so good but I caught a few early...I walked and visited my old friend. The path along the stream was wide...the fish were small and fewer. But, still great water...The clouds gave way to hot sun, so I decided to head upstream to a long un-named spring feeder in the trees. Well, #46 in my old white 'Trout Streams of Wisconsin' published by WDNR four or five decades ago...but, a true gem.
Once, three of us took turns catching 100 brook trout on one rod in an open meadow halfway up '46'...I caught four on two casts. It was always the best and if I took someone there I made them wear a paper bag on their head the last few miles...just kidding. But, that is how much I protected it. I digress...
So, up the feeder...lost a bigger fish under the bridge but caught some as I moved upstream. Small springs, and even the limestone abutment to either an old bridge or possibly a mill had a spring flowing out of its base and entertained me besides the trout. I left just before that old meadow...I wasn't sure I could stand the changes. The old grist mill in town still stands but the bar is long gone...decay still rules but there is signs of life. Mostly in the form of flyfishers...but, the few homes are in better shape, and just maybe, some day the old bar will open. And, once again I can walk in wearing my waders, stack my rod in the corner, and order a cold one. If only this old ghost town can stand so much love...
Another afternoon while doing well on the stream, my friend and I walked into the bar on the one block long street and the only business in town, to quench our thirst...we found a half dozen local patrons staring at us in our waders and vests with long rods we stacked in a corner. "You wont catch any fish in the middle of the day..." We just smiled and said we got a few...40 fish days were common.
One evening caddis hatch had fish on every cast...and, one otter that came out from under a large cottonwood tree, just below a concrete raceway to the old grist mill, to chase the 14 inch brown on my line. The evening started on caddis but soon the big mayflies started hatching...sulphurs, hendricksons, and just before dusk the hexes were on. A pair of 20 inch browns ended one of my best evenings ever...
Now, this larger driftless spring creek is on the list of famous waters...guides camping out at access points, flyshops sending sports, and, even locals posting gps just to get back at the guides and flyshops. Its part of my driftless bakers dozen but I haven't fished it in over a year...
Yesterday, labor day...I decided to check out the crowds. To my surprise all the bridges were open...it was overcast and middle of the day, but I expected more. On checking the water I saw the results of heavy flooding and the stream had actually changed course, cutting off an oxbow that had great water. The new water was not so good but I caught a few early...I walked and visited my old friend. The path along the stream was wide...the fish were small and fewer. But, still great water...The clouds gave way to hot sun, so I decided to head upstream to a long un-named spring feeder in the trees. Well, #46 in my old white 'Trout Streams of Wisconsin' published by WDNR four or five decades ago...but, a true gem.
Once, three of us took turns catching 100 brook trout on one rod in an open meadow halfway up '46'...I caught four on two casts. It was always the best and if I took someone there I made them wear a paper bag on their head the last few miles...just kidding. But, that is how much I protected it. I digress...
So, up the feeder...lost a bigger fish under the bridge but caught some as I moved upstream. Small springs, and even the limestone abutment to either an old bridge or possibly a mill had a spring flowing out of its base and entertained me besides the trout. I left just before that old meadow...I wasn't sure I could stand the changes. The old grist mill in town still stands but the bar is long gone...decay still rules but there is signs of life. Mostly in the form of flyfishers...but, the few homes are in better shape, and just maybe, some day the old bar will open. And, once again I can walk in wearing my waders, stack my rod in the corner, and order a cold one. If only this old ghost town can stand so much love...
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