Highway to Everywhere

I was cruising north toward home after a successful weekend at Brian's house when it happened.  The previous days had combined early morning duck hunts with installing a new steel roof on his house in the afternoons, so I was flagging a bit.  Not grievously sore or tired, but waning just enough that things suddenly seemed to be happening a little too fast around me.  That feeling you get when it dawns on you that you need to find a place to park, and either get out and unbend the hinges a bit, or grab some z's right there behind the wheel.

I was engrossed in a favorite podcast at the time, which normally keeps me awake and alert (fellow werdnerds, please find A Way with Words on your radio dial or itunes feed), but the need for a graceful exit from the speeding masses was growing more pressing by the mile.  I paused the podcast in order to quite literally shake the fatigue from my foggy head, and the radio came on.

Then it happened, and I could've driven on over the horizon.

Miles north of  Menomonee Falls, Wisconsin, after you've been in the corn fields past the car dealerships and fireworks stands for quite a while, the highway crests the tail end of the Niagra Escarpment and looks out over a broad valley.  As I slid down into that valley, together with, and so post-modernly separated from my fellow travelers, the comforting staccato call of the Green Bay Packers play-by-play man tumbled out of the speakers, and I gazed across the sunlit valley gone amber and crimson with autumn.

This is it.  It's here.  All was suddenly right with the world.



I often think of my outdoor life laid out like a highway before me.  The tires creep out of the driveway on New Year's Day.  We drive all the way to the ball dropping on Times Square again; hunting, fishing and foraging along the way.  Annual rites and markers pass by, some like inconsequential signposts, others with all the grandeur and beauty springing forth from that golden valley under the sun.  Surprises crop up on the year's highway, detours that lead to both joy and disappointment, sidetracks that lend color to another 365 days of chasing the dream over hill and through the thickets, but there are those moments, both infinite and infinitesimal, that come along the road every season almost without fail.  I treasure them just as we do the perfect shotgun swing or topwater slash.

One of those milestones is that moment in fall when the leaf colors are approaching their climax, and I suddenly find myself driving home from another trip afield with the Packers playing on the radio.  It's an ephemeral, seemingly trifling snapshot of the fall, but that does not mean that I treasure it any less.  It's just football and receding chlorophyll, nothing more, but when it sneaks up on me like that it also functions as a reminder that I'm still here.  Still taking breath, still getting after it, hopefully with muddy boots and a few birds in the back of the truck.

It's also one of the first reminders that we are in the thick of it.  The wind is shifting around to the north, most of the hunting seasons are open, there will be football and tailgating.  Woodsmoke in the air.  It's the greatest time of year.

Some of these yearly occasions are more structured and sure-handed.  Anticipation builds, for me at least, all of November for the opening morning of gun deer season.  I know that for some of you reading this the preoccupation rears it's head long before it does for me, but I don't feel it in the air until Halloween passes.  The woocock hunting is too raucous before then.

Regardless of when the impatience and expectancy set in, opening morning brings with it a magic that cannot be diminished by the knowledge we have of it's coming.  Regardless of all the preparation, all the stories remembered around the fires leading up to the day, the back clapping affection that we men sometimes find ourselves only comfortable with when everyone is finally in camp; when night fades into opening morning on the stand, it never fails to evoke chills.  Hope mingles with prayer in that moment, and I feel like I want to get down and chase them, but there is nothing to do but sit quietly and wait, a constraint that does nothing but add to the thrill.

One of my small annual milestones, the impetus behind this very writing, happened just this morning.  I arose, and after the normal amount of dreary-eyed shuffling around the house, stepped out onto the front deck.  Immediately upon doing so, a shiver overtook me right up from the toes.  No shiver of anticipation or excitement, this was your standard Holy-Mother-it's-cold-out-here shiver.

But that first true shiver of fall brings with it an avalanche of thoughts and sense memories.  My mind immediately turns to thoughts of burning wood and hearty stews and good dark beers.  No longer are we panting under the searing glare of July's unrepentant blast furnace sun.  There is frost on the grass, and fallen leaves.  Squirrels make their tireless runs to oak and hickory while the whitetail's rack slips through the willow bottoms.  Woodcock fly low and unseen in the night, only to flush where there were none mere days before.  Coyotes sing in their new winter coats over the muskies and pike as they put on their feeding run before it all goes cold and dark.  It's all in that one tingling shiver on the deck, and so much more.

Opening morning of gun deer season being the glaring exception, most of these small yearly instants in time cannot be forced.  The act of searching for them changes them from the outset.  We aren't quite to Uncertainty Principle here, but you can't chase Schrödinger's cat.  Like so many other things outside and in life, they must be observed as they come and in their own time.  They punctuate life rather than filling it, and come to fruition only through their own being.

Less grand than sweeping vistas as we travel the yearly road, overlooked by many who never have the need to seek it out, hardly ever mentioned among men who hunt in pounding rain and through impenetrable briars; we find the cherished, even venerated, comfortable place to sit.

It is an exceedingly rare gift to find a truly agreeable place to park oneself while out in the wilds.  Maybe once a season, God willing and the creek don't rise, I will find myself sitting truly comfortably while engaged in the otherwise lumpy, muddy, bug-infested business of chasing fur, feather, and shrooms 'round and 'round.

I often hunt squirrels with a stop and stalk approach, as many of us do.  We walk as quietly as we can for a while, eyes glued to the canopy (which is nearly guaranteed to produce at least one stupendous tumble from a hunting partner once a year), until we find a likely looking place to stop and watch things.  I hunt this way with a vest that includes a stadium seat for just this purpose.  It felt so thick and luxurious in the store that I figured I might no longer need a bed, opting to simply sleep on my hunting vest.  That turned out to be not often the case where big oak roots and sharp rocks are in play.  The forest floor is miles from the sales floor in more ways than one.  But I recall one fluffy-tail hunt a few years ago where everything came together in the seating department, and that piece of foam was the most comfortable perch I'd ever encountered.  So I reacted accordingly.  I sat right there all afternoon.  I took a nap.  I didn't see a single squirrel and I didn't care, the holy grail of outdoor seating having finally been found.

These signposts throughout the year's highway often act as talismans.  They give us the power to carry on by reassuring us that things are going along as they should.  Once happened upon, we can continue down the road of our seasons knowing that we are not lost.

Among the most powerful of these guideposts is the first fire.  Campfires are always alluring, and there is nothing better than staring into the wood stove as a lifeline while the snow drifts ever deeper, but the greatest fire of the year is always the first one that is truly needed.  You've daydreamed about it while toiling with maul and hydraulic splitter.  The cant hook brought blisters fighting the big ash trunk now broken down and burning.  Muscles burned and sweat ran, and now it all amounts to the mesmerizing flame we've all been worshiping since nearly the beginning of time.

Backyard campfire in the rain last week

It would be a glaring omission to not return, from a previous post, to one of my favorite stops along the annual highway.   Gun deer season is the High Holiday of the year among my ragged clan of hunting friends.  Not all partake, some prefer to continue fishing or hunting birds, but all of us know that no treasure can compare, no light can shine so brightly, as that shimmering out into the night from the deer camp window.

While the deer hunting may not be spectacular in our corner of the state, the camaraderie certainly is.  And the pinnacle of that coming together every year is Bloody Mary Tuesday.  The tradition began long before I was invited to join the camp, but it is burned into me as the single greatest gathering day of my year.  The guns are put away as people drive in from all over the county to share in drink, food and storytelling.  I force myself to sit back and listen to my elders, as much for their comedy as their wisdom.  I can safely say that I look forward to Bloody Mary Tuesday and that collection of men as much as I do anything else in my sporting life.

The fellas, Bloody Mary Tuesday

I hope to be heading down the annual outdoor highway for years to come.  The milestones continue to grow in number over the years, but in their magic they hold the power to remain undiluted by one another.  I don't believe any of us can accrue too many.  Please feel free to share your annual treasured milestones in the comments below.

North and South

As the temperature outside sails over 100 degrees yet again, and the sun beats the more winter-inclined souls among us into dreary submission, my outdoor mind turns to thoughts of fall.  It's just starting now, the very beginnings of autumn dreams sparking to life in the heat.  There will be college football tailgates in the lot, all of Madison pulsing with excited energy under the changing leaves, as we wait to cheer on Bucky.  There will be deer and ducks to chase, once again.  And there will be birds.

I re-waxed the tin cloth Filson bibs in anticipation last night.  No need for a heat gun in this weather.

That's an important distinction.  In the parlance of the Wisconsin hunter, especially those hailing from the northern part of the state, ducks are not birds.  They are not referred to as birds when hunting comes up in conversation, anyway.  When you're going duck hunting, you say you're going duck hunting.  The phrase "bird hunting" means one thing north of Highway 10-- ruffed grouse hunting.  While the mention of bird hunting could technically pertain to the pursuit of any winged and feathered creature, it evokes only images of thundering flushes in golden popple thickets and fragrant balsam bottoms to most of us.

That, and a nudge from my buddy Frisbee, set me to thinking about the many differences in language and practice we encounter between the urbanized, populated southern region of the state and the more wild realms up north.

I've already employed one linguistic difference between north and south, almost unwittingly.  I grew up in the southeastern corner of the state, in a tourist town where the "flat landers" from Illinois were tolerated during summer with cool indifference and where those trees of white bark and leaves fluttering on squared petioles were referred to by their given name -- quaking aspen.  The quaking aspen does not exist up north, or so the casual listener would think.  It's actually very prolific, but it's referred to as the popple.  I'd never heard that until I was invited to camp, and frankly, I hid my confused ignorance until I figured out what they were talking about.

"Popple," so far as I can tell, is also sometimes used as a catch-all for any of the slender light-barked trees that grow in thick, nearly impenetrable clumps around the state.  I've seen aspen, birch, poplar, and even occasionally young willow and cottonwood referred to as popple by those less concerned with botanical accuracy.  And I knew what they were talking about, even if their taxonomic skills left something to be desired.

Of course, bird hunting talk brings another salient example to the front.  Ruffed grouse are almost never called ruffed grouse up north.  Often, as denoted in the phrase "bird hunting" above, they are simply called "birds."

"How many birds did you get today?"

"The leaves are still up so it was a little tough.  A few wild flushes that I couldn't see, but I put one in the vest."

Both parties know they are discussing the ruffed grouse exclusively.  If a woodcock (the only other upland game bird up there) made it into the game bag, it would be mentioned separately.

The grouse is also frequently referred to as a partridge up there, another stumbling block for me as a rookie in the camps more than a decade ago.  I'd heard them referred to as grouse or even "ruffs" or "ruffies," but never as "partridges."  In my early days, it often seemed as though those guys were just making up names for stuff in order to confuse me.

A similar anomaly exists in the fishing world of our camps up near the border with the upper peninsula of Michigan.  Often, if not always, "fishing" refers solely to trout fishing in that part of the world.  Like bird hunting means grouse hunting, when someone from the camps asks you how the fishing has been, they most likely want to know the condition of the local trout streams, at least outside of the ice-locked winter months.  And you can forget talking about fly fishing up there.  It remains little more than a curiosity with the old guard still in power.

Being a dedicated smallmouth fly rodder, this can sometimes throw a spinnerbait into the gears of a conversation for me.  I've been met with more than one quizzical look after going on about fly fishing for smallies in the same rivers they think of as trout water.  Then I remember that trout are king up there to most, and then almost exclusively using a spinning rod and worm.  Which is a real shame actually.  Not that I have anything against catching a few gorgeous brookies for dinner, but if they were even casually in touch with the outside fishing world, the up north boys would realize they reside literally in the heart of what has become a world-class smallmouth fishing destination in recent years.  People empty their pockets to airlines and guide services for the chance to strap up against huge smallmouth bass in rivers my friends and deer hunting compatriots drive right by to fish for six inch trout.

A bass fly fisherman from the southern part of the state is a fish out of water, as it were, telling stories around the fire.  I might as well be speaking a foreign language half the time.  Brian even commented on it once, during the long drive home after a great bass fishing trip up there.

"Man, those guys have no idea about the smallies, do they?  They just looked at us like we're nuts."

"No they don't, and all the better for us.  They leave them alone."



The Yooper and northern Badger also have a rare and strange superpower.  They can make wood.  At least if you listen to them talk about it.  Where a kid from Fontana like me grew up splitting and stacking ricks of firewood, they "make" firewood.  After a little reading on the subject, I believe the phrase could be a calque of the Finnish, much like a Cajun might "make groceries" using a direct translation of the verb faire in French.  Whatever the history or derivation, I grin a little inside every time I ask what happened up at camp in my absence, and it is related to me that firewood was made.

The gear and tackle of the northern sportsman must also be discussed here.  While the causes can vary, almost none of my peers from the northwoods find themselves some-time slaves to the whimsy of outdoor equipment purveyors as I do.  I stop at the big box stores or specialty web retailers all the time, and often become enchanted with a certain rod or reel, boot or backpack.  They don't have to worry about such infatuations around camp, as the nearest big stores are hours away.  Not that they are ignorant of quality, it's simply often a matter of gas mileage and opportunity for some of them.

Ted will never read this as he remains convinced the internet is a fad and thinks a laptop is something you pay scantily clad women for in the back of a gentleman's club, so I can state with no worry of future recriminations that his life-long affair with questionable gear is the direct result of his induction into the Hall of Fame of Tightwads.  He is cheap and proud.  I've accompanied Ted and Rog on the deer season grocery run for camp, and I enjoy watching Rog slowly come to a simmer as Ted quibbles over every single cent for a can of beans or a loaf of bread, the cost of which will be divided between multiple paying members of the camp.  Ted is completely willing to fight for quarters of cents... as Roger's ears slowly take on a burning glow of frustration in the soup aisle.  The entire affair is glorious to take in.

Ted is one of the funniest men I've ever met.  He is easily the undisputed champion of joke tellers I know, and has forgotten more about trapping fur bearers than I will ever know.  A great guy to hang with.  He also painfully parted with $25 for his last rifle scope, pulled from a bargain bin (Camp Boys, correct me if I'm wrong on that figure).  You simply cannot convince a miser of that jaw-dropping conviction to spend a few more bucks on his gear.  I stand both amazed and mystified when he walks into camp with yet another "steal" most hunters would toss in the bin.  Then I sit back and try not to cry laughing at his stupendous jokes and stories with the rest of the guys.

Primo stands at the other end of the spectrum among friends who use gear from decades past.  He is one of the best woodsmen I know, and has a nearly encyclopedic knowledge of every fire road, two-track, and fading backwoods ATV trail in the eastern county.  When October rolls around, I'll look forward to our meandering bird hunts together more than anything else up there.  Sometimes we spend more time bumping down rocky lanes last visited by voyageurs, guns safely cased, than we do actually chasing birds, but that's OK too.

He has no aversion to quality gear, outfitted as the most hearty logger all winter long, right down to his signature Husqvarna suspenders.  Everything I've ever seen him use has been stout, well-cared for, and in perfect working condition.  It's just that some of it was popular well before I was in elementary school.  He apparently sees no need to update, nor should he if he be judged by results.  He bags as many fish and game birds, spends more time in the woods, than almost anyone I know.

 Canvas hipsters, Mitchell reel, Ugly Stick, even a wicker creel on the back.  Like fishing with my bud, Norm Rockwell

That brings us to the what I suppose you would call the Up North Attitude.  It is not unique to the northwoods or our camps by any means, but that is where I encounter it most often.  Relaxation is part of it, surely, but that does not fully encapsulate the feeling. It's more the idea that, come what may, we're in camp and everything else is better left for another time.  Nobody gets worried when guys are hours late or unaccounted for.  They probably ran into friends.  People don't get uptight about dinner time or curfews -- eat what you want when you want, and go to bed whenever you see fit.  There exists no unfortunate infighting or snarky gossip sadly found in many of the other groups I associate with.  We all go along to get along.

The internet is unheard of and you have to drive quite a piece down the road to get a finicky single bar on your cell phone, so there is almost no contact with the outside most of the time.  The world carries on, the weather will be what it will be even if you can't check it, and there's cold beer in the fridge.  Let's toss some cards, and pretend we're the only people on the planet for a while.  Why else are we here, after all?

The Swedish Glug Affair

Last weekend Brian and I fished a small river in the southeastern corner of Wisconsin.  It hasn't always been the most generous river in terms of catching fish, but it is right in the heart of my childhood stomping grounds, so I enjoy it almost no matter what.

We've waded this diminutive beauty together for smallmouth bass numerous times over the years.  Like all small rivers it is often sensitive and moody, showing great diversity of flow and attitude from trip to trip.  The fishing last weekend was not particularly good, but it was not terribly poor either.   It was, I guess, reliable -- quite possibly the only word you can use to simultaneously compliment and insult a fishing river.

As we fished, I noticed again that Brian is entering the Crusty Old Guy stage of his outdoor career with a good deal of grace, actually.  He has avoided stagnation in the form of idleness.  As he creeps toward his sixth decade outside, he remains an archetypal man's man. Meat and potatoes seasoned only with the salt of the Earth.  Canning and foraging, gardening and pickling, doting over an aging bird dog have in no way diminished the stunning natural athlete and hickory-hard badass I've known since I was a boy.  He can still walk farther than you and I, carry a heavier load than you and I, and close through the thick stuff on a birdy flushing dog faster than you and I.  It's just that those abilities, once a matter of no conscious thought, are concerns of effort and pride to him now.

I will stipulate that the swim trunks do detract from his tough guy reputation

We waded in each other's company, Saturday, letting the flow and layout of the river dictate our cadence and relative positions.  Communicating through language pared to it's essentials by decades of friendship on the water, we melded into a single fishing entity, covering water, passing one another or waiting for the other, as the bends and current dictated.  After you've fished together for so long, especially on a familiar stretch of water, there is little need to talk.  You grunt, and point, and slide around the river like stars orbiting each other, both to cover water and stay out of each other's way.  This dance will never appear on any reality TV show replete with deep spray tans and miles of cloyingly saccharine cleavage, but that does not render it any less beautiful to me.

Brian has fly fished in the past, but for the most part, I think I'm reading him pretty well when I say that he simply doesn't abide that fancy crap.  He grew up when fly rods were called "trout rods," and that was what they were used for, usually by effete city boys in funny clothes from Chicago.  Times change, Brian doesn't.

So it was, then, that I was was casting the big streamers I love to tie, on a fly rod that has become my right arm, while he pounded the water with a crankbait and spinning rod.  That was fine with both of us.  We don't judge each other for our personal preferences in methods of fighting fish.  I think it's ridiculous when fishermen do.

"Peanut Envy" Designed by Kelly Galloup, habitually tied and fished by me.

Brian was throwing the old reliable Rebel Crawfish crankbait, and muttering to himself in an affected Yooper accent every time he caught a fish, "That's the only luhr a man needs, hey."

For those few of you unfamiliar with the crankbait as a concept, it is one of those fishing lures that consists of a body or "plug," usually constructed of wood or plastic, from which hang multiple sets of triple or "treble" hooks.  The crankbait is often used as a so-called "search bait," meaning you cast it around, with that armory of hook points rattling through the water until it snags into something; be that fish, tree, stone, or otherwise.  Crankbaits as a class are a formidable, spiny little bunch, and the only ones that make me think, Aw Geeze, please don't put a hook through my thumb, every time I reach down to grab a fish with one in its mouth.  

Eventually, just as sometimes happens on the dance floor, there had to come an ugly end to our watery gambol.  As we occasionally uttered three-word thoughts to each other, and silently pointed out likely targets for one another's casts with our rod tips, he suddenly yelled, "Look Out!"

I had been lulled into that trance born of the rhythm of fly casting blindly to a sparse fish presence, when the big smallmouth bass he'd latched into, crankbait bristling with hooks, turned sideways in the current, and shot between my legs.  There was nothing either one of us could have done about it.  Those hooks were buried in my hide inside a second or two.  The fish thrashed a few times whilst tethered to my ankle, an interesting sensation to be sure, and it was a welcome relief to my rapidly firing pain receptors when she finally pulled herself free.    

Crankbait by Rebel, river sandal by Keen, pasty Sconnie ankle by Mary and Kurt

I may be judged soft and weak by future generations, but it was then that I declared we were done fishing.  At least until I was able to return to a comfortable gait sans crankbait welded to my ankle, snagging on the grass and weeds every other stride.  An Ace Bandage temporarily snugging it to my leg would've been the perfect option for continued fishing in minimal discomfort, but you can only carry so much stuff in your vest.

We retired to Brian's house where he found a pair of cutters and some heavy cord with which to pop the hooks out of my flesh, but not before the banter began as I drove us back to the homestead.  It took only minutes before the digs began to fly, concerning both his inability to control his fish and my failure to get out the way.  It may very well be that we each felt a little bad for the way it went down, but such feelings are seldom shared between us.  Instead, we jab and laugh and curse each other.  And laugh some more.  It's a different form of intimacy, much more comfortable and effective than talking it out.  I can't even imagine...

"Oh, my!  I am so truly sorry I was unable to control that fish before he hooked you in the ankle.  It must be dreadfully painful.  Please let me know if there is anything I can to to assist you."

"It's quite alright.  I apologize for being unable to get out of the way of your trophy fish.  Let's just ride home quietly, and get this taken care of immediately."

How uncomfortable.

The hook removal went swimmingly well, using a method of cutting away the body of the plug (because I was hooked on both ends), then popping them out with a length of heavy monofilament line.  Easy as pulling a loose tooth, really, except there is no hook fairy to give you a quarter in the morning.  It's probably best not to hide hooks under your pillow anyway.

I was certain to remain stoic and completely unmoving during the procedure, knowing that the tiniest movement or peep from me would result in Brian having the ammunition to blow the ensuing decades of campfire re-tellings entirely out proportion.

Therein lies one of the few challenges (and greatest pleasures) of being a dude hanging out with other men.

I am pleased and lucky enough to inhabit a huge group of loosely-knit men who cover the entire spectrum of interests and allegiances from MENSA to IBEW, burning Red State to hardcore Blue, Metallurgist to tattooed Heavy Metal rocker.  Fifth generation farmers and hipster nerds, alike.  I think that stems partly from the fact that any time you claim a bar stool in Madison you're as likely to sit next to a Doctor of Meteorology as you are a plumber, and partly from the fact that nearly everyone fishes at some point, no matter what they were born into.  Fishing talk transcends almost all boundaries, and comes up just as easily at the bar as it does whispered in the pews before a wedding.  At least if you're hanging with me.  

The one thing almost all of these friends have in common is that they love to give each other a hard time.  I do too.  As far as I'm concerned, one corner of heaven is reserved for a card table or wood stove and the re-telling of the time your buddy screwed the pooch, or pulled the greatest prank ever played.

Speaking of which...

In the fall of 1996 I was invited to join a deer camp in the northwoods of Wisconsin, by a family whose only natural state of being is one of generosity and kindness.  Let us not assume, however, that their natural inclinations toward charity and goodness precluded these men from pulling one of the most well-conceived and enacted, stressfully painful pranks I have ever been the target of, early in my stay there.

It involves the consumption of a homemade Swedish liqueur called Glögg, or "glug" as it is known to the American ear in camp.  Rodger makes glug for the boys almost every year.  It is a family recipe passed down from father to son, with rightful pride, for generations.  I've seen the tattered and dog-eared oldest surviving incantation, the writing barely legible on crumbling yellowed paper.

It's the good stuff.  An alcohol content absolutely through the rafters, but prepared and reduced in such a way that the drinker feels almost none of the deleterious effects until it's too late.  And that is the crux of the problem, as I so ruefully learned.

At the time, I was only newly dating Rodger's eldest daughter, Erin, she of radiant green eyes and perpetual mischievous grin.  He was a pilot and retired naval officer, I was a nerdy little college puke, invited by his nephew, Frisbee, with whom I'd become fast friends in the dorms.  I was was fully and rightfully intimidated by Rodger.

The first Sunday night of our eleven-day deer season the glug came out.  I partook, and heartily.  Being the new guy, however, and unable to taste the intensity of the alcohol so well prepared, I over-indulged.  That's stating it kindly.  I hastily got very, very intoxicated.  Rip-roaring drunk.  Loud, annoying, hammered-asshole inebriated.  You get the picture.  I was 22, don't tell me you never did.

Frisbee and I had to return to Madison the following morning for our mid-terms.  I was hungover and tired, but happy to get back to the city to see Erin, admittedly less joyful about the tests.

We took our exams, and, as promptly as possible, made the four-hour trek back to deer camp.  I was in high spirits, riding back up north with Frisbee, the appropriate clothes and firearms in back, ready to hit the woods and hang with the guys at my new camp.

We rolled in, full of youthful enthusiasm, and I was surprisingly greeted with less than stellar salutations.  Even shunned a bit by the better actors.  While Frisbee was greeted with hearty handshakes and claps on the back, I was granted only mild acceptance.

Rodger's brother shook my hand, and whispered, rather mystically,  "I CANNOT believe what you said about Erin to my brother."

Later that night Rodger came in with the bottle of glug under his arm.  As is the tradition, he shook hands with every man around the table... except me.  Completely ignored me, as a matter of fact.  I stood up straight and tall, as a young man courting his daughter should have, and stuck my hand out, only to be met with cold indifference.

As the evening progressed, he offered shots of glug to the boys.  "Who wants a shot of glug... Ted?  Paul?  Primo?"  All the way around the table, until he got to me.  He looked me directly in the eyes with a fair amount of derision, and asked plainly, "Truth serum?"

I wilted inside.  Damn near died, honestly.  I had no idea what I'd said to him about my dating life with his daughter, couldn't recall most of the previous Sunday night, honestly.  In the days that followed, it was all I heard about from the other guys.   ...you need to apologize to Rodger.... I can't believe what you said to him... you should never drink that much in front of your girlfriend's dad....

The entire remainder of our gun deer season progressed like that, as I fretted in my ladder stand and worried in my bunk.  Cold shoulders from the old guys and glances of pity from the boys my age.  In the true spirit of a good prank, it was perfectly executed and very nearly too uncomfortable to take.

Of course, it came out on the final Sunday that I hadn't said a single bawdy or remotely inappropriate thing to Rodger about Erin and I.  But they knew my memory of the evening in question would be foggy at best, and jumped on the opportunity as a clan.  They gleefully played me the entire week.  I have to say that Rodger played his part very well, effectively treating me like a leper the entire time.  I only wish that I had known him then as I do now, so that I might've been able to express true thoughts to him personally, concerning his acting skills and devious trickery.  As it stands, we remain tight friends to this day, so perhaps it is better that I couldn't.

I can't explain it to you now, all these years later, but this ribbing and silliness are examples of things men can bond over.  It doesn't hurt anymore that they keelhauled me.  It's hilarious.  There are plenty more camp stories where that came from.  Pranks that I had a part in, or that happened before I was even born.  They are the basis of our banter and inside language, rites of induction and continued membership.  They're part of the narrative of who we are as a tribe, and I love them.  Even if they occasionally sting at the time.

The deer camp boys, after a deer drive.  I'm on the left, safely four away from Rodger.

Old Guys

I was in Milwaukee looking to hit a couple of the Lake Michigan tributaries for steelhead late last week, and needed a place to lay my furry head.  Since a tent set up in the parking lot of a corner gas station seemed like a questionable idea at best, I offered to provide dinner at my younger cousin's apartment in exchange for couch space.  A small group of friends, roommates, and relatives quickly agreed to join us for dinner.

I arrived early in the evening, and got to work, sort of spinning my wheels a little at first like you do cooking in a foreign environment.  You tread water and monkey around a bit looking for cutting boards and the like, but it eventually comes together.  Or you order pizza.

We had a few beers and shared more than a few laughs together, gathered in the kitchen as always seems to happen.  I put together salmon with mango relish and wilted spinach on ancho sweet potatoes and asparagus with lemon butter sauce while sipping beer and enjoying the din of a hot kitchen filled with friends.  The meal was fine, but I believe the Crave Brothers Petit Frère, paired with a torn demi baguette and medjool dates, may have stolen the show before I'd so much as peeled the taters.  That there is some cheesey goodness, I do declare.  I only stepped on the dog once during dinner prep, which I considered the foremost accomplishment of the evening

Hey Chucklehead, quit slopping the food around!

Confused when my alarm startled me from my couchy slumber, the strange quarters and belly full of beer conspired to complicate the matter of finding the bathroom in the dark.  Eventually, dressed and ready to go, I smiled as I crept stealthily down the back stairs.  It has been a while since I had to sneak my way out of an all-female apartment before the sun.

It was apparent as soon as got in the river that the spawning run was almost completely over.  I saw one deserted redd and one fish in a couple hours of fishing.  Like everything else outside this year, the fish had hopped a meteorological wormhole from the end of March to the beginning of May.  I was a few days late and a thousand dollars worth of fly tackle short.

Discouraged but undaunted, I hopped back in the truck, and pointed her due north, out of the city and up the west coast of Lake Michigan.  In the time-honored tradition of internet fishermen everywhere, all streams will remain nameless here, but I soon found myself standing in another burbling ribbon of tributary water, it too nearly devoid of spring chrome.

I know when I've been beaten.  I could've pounded the water, swinging flies blind with little confidence, but there are other species to prey upon out in the woods.  I walked the banks, kept my eyes peeled for new quarry, and eventually found it in the form of ramps.  Delicious spring onions that have since been pickled for use later in the year sprouted from the pockets of my vest until it resembled a poorly constructed ghillie suit.  And for the record, yes, I was on public land open to digging.  The fact that I didn't confirm that via the internet on my phone until later is unimportant now.

It was then, crouching in the sun on the bank of a glistening stream, that I felt something amiss. Nothing blatant, no neon sign blinking and buzzing.  Just a tickle, a niggling wisp of something out of place.  I'd caught the tiniest vibration of something not right, hiding in the periphery.

So I did what you do in that spot.  I became a squatting statue trying to ignore the sound of my own heartbeat.  I watched and listened and waited.  And there it was again, off to my right and downstream.  I still didn't know what it was, but I'd caught a hint of movement this time.  I remained still, struggling to see farther and clearer, trying to evolve into a hawk or a deer.

When it happened the third time, I had it pegged through the crash of riverside fallen trees and brush.  A puff of smoke.  Using careful woodsmanship and stalking skills honed through years of practice, I'd discovered one of the most coveted prizes on the stream and in the forest.  The mysterious and often cantankerous, old guy.

He was in worn, but well cared for gear, and eyed up my own tackle with a cynical stare as I approached.  Chewing on a dime store cigar and staring into the water as if to make the steelhead appear through sheer force of will, he looked as though he might've grown up out of the ground right there, as natural as any other tree stump.  I was greeted with the standard silverback brusque indifference.

You're too late.  Fish'er gone.

Thanks, Old Guy.  I can see that.  Why do you think I'm wandering around the forest with onion tops flopping out of my fly vest?

As is the case with with most of the wizened old cranks you meet out there, his initial bark was all show.  Once I'd demonstrated my worth in the form of passable fishing knowledge, an understanding of local weather patterns, and tacit agreement that the current evil incarnation of government (no matter the current evil incarnation of government) was out to destroy fishing and generally ruin the world, I was accepted into the fold.

We had a great conversation, if with a slightly more radical political bent than I normally adhere to, and I was able to glean a little more fishing knowledge about that spot from him.  The great thing about old guys who have been fishing a spot for as long as I've been alive is that they often share a lot of detail, even if it is buried in ranting and stogie chomping.

I hunt and fish with a lot of them.  For the purpose of a little definition, I'm referring to anyone old enough to be my father, and on up from there.  Brian is going to go ballistic when he reads this, but sorry dude, you're one of them even if you can still kick the asses of men a third your age.  Settle down, it's a term of admiration.

I love them for their stories, I try to shut up and learn when they speak, and I'm constantly amused that they just don't give a slippery shit what they say.  I don't know when you get that pass, when you've seen and lived enough to say anything to anyone, but I can't wait to get my membership card in the mail.  It is my sincerest hope that it only arrive without the stipulation to wear my pants up under my nipples.




I met Dennis back when we had an apartment on Orchard Street, just over the hill from Lake Wingra and Wingra Creek.  I'd seen him time and time again when I'd head down there after work, sitting half asleep in his lawn chair, a couple lines in the water.  Dennis was a devout carp fisherman with the optimistic and patient ways that accompany such an endeavor.  He'd worked for the post office for decades before he retired, and I learned a lot about the city of Madison from him.

Like most old guys, he was set in his ways.  As we became friends, I tried to help him out by attempting to update his ancient gear and techniques.  I made boilies and dough balls, taught him how to tie a hair rig, and got him a reel with a clicker.  Mostly, he was content to mash canned corn onto a treble hook, and drink his warm  PBR into nap time.  He could've caught more fish if he'd cared to update his fishing, but he'd probably caught more than his share already.

He did keep meticulous records of every fish he caught.  Date, time, size, and bait used were religiously recorded in his tattered little notebook.  That always gave me a laugh.  Even funnier to me, he was still a horn dog.  He could barely walk, but he was forever craning around to gaze upon the tanned college girls running the paved path behind us.  He once fell to a knee out of his lawn chair trying to get a good gander.  After I was able to compose myself, I dried my eyes, and offered to install bike mirrors on his chair.  He declined, stating that if he broke his neck staring at a woman, it would be a fine way to meet the Lord.




Our deer camps are predominately filled with old guys, using the definition above.  Some of them are just sliding into old guy-dom, while others have been comfortably there since I was invited to join them almost sixteen years ago.  If I stop to think that some of them will not be there to greet me any longer someday, I can get downright distraught.  Their stories and jokes are fantastic, their knowledge of the land and people is deep and indispensable.  And they've taken more of my money at the card table than I care to admit here.

I don't think they'll mind me stating that they don't always hunt as hard as they may once have, but there is nothing better for me than coming into a warm camp, and being greeted by their cheers and jeers from around the fire.

Old guys rock.

The Curse of the First Cast Fish

It was an unseasonably warm and sunny morning on Lake Delavan.  Right around the middle of April, I believe.  Too many fishing seasons have passed to be sure now.  What I do remember is that I had to strip down to my skivvies in the bow of Brian's jon boat to get my long underwear off as we were motoring out.  While I had my bibs and union suit tangled around my boots, struggling to get re-dressed, he goosed the throttle over and over, sending me sprawling to the deck more than once.   Laughing and threatening to tumble me into the frigid spring water, he was having a grand time of it already, and we weren't even fishing yet.

We set up in area known to be good for crappies that time of year.  Minnows on gold Aberdeen #8 hooks below a slip float, a step or two up from the old cane pole on the bank, but not exactly highly technical fishing.  I fiddled with my set-up a bit, making sure the bobber stop was set where I wanted it, giving the split shot an extra scrunch, and finally, letting a minnow fly to plumb the depths in search of my dinner.

It was a thing of beauty, exactly what you want to see.  The bait hit the water, and the float barely had time to right itself before it slumped over again -- the signal that a crappie had risen to hit the minnow as it was falling.  Using the longer rod I prefer for this application, I swept up the slack line I'd not yet had a chance to mend or retrieve, and gave it that little pop of a hookset you use on papermouths.  The light rod bent into a deep arc, and soon enough, a gorgeous foot-long slabber with nice shoulders was brought to hand.  I try not to see them as only meat, but my mouth may have been watering as I tossed him on ice in anticipation of a fish fry that evening.

Then, as often happens when you count your grouse before you hit them, we experienced just about the worst morning of fishing you can have.  Not horrifically bad.  There were no gale force winds, the boat didn't capsize, and nobody died, but you know what I mean.  No more fish.  We fished under floats, we drifted, we tried every color and flavor of live and plastic bait in the boat.  It simply was not happening.  We could mark them, but the sun was high and the wind was low, and they weren't in the mood to play.  The end of our collective rope came around noon as we watched a kid no more than 12, standing on the dock at the launch, pull crappie after crappie after we'd taken the boat out.  The Curse of the First Cast Fish.

We fishermen are a notoriously superstitious bunch.  I do have a trinket or two that I enjoy using or having with me while I fish and hunt, but I'd thought myself fairly immune the mental games of The Curse... until it kept striking.

While I haven't chased them a lot in the past couple years, I do enjoy the freight train pull of the channel cat.  They dig and swirl, and when big enough, threaten to break line and bust tackle.  They always have one more run in them just when you think they're ready for the net..  A commendable attribute in any fish.  They're ugly and spiny and a little tough to handle when they thrash and twist in your hands.  I like that too.  This ain't casting tiny dry flies over timorous golden trout in an idyllic glade.  It's muddy and stinky, and everybody's probably gonna end up bleeding a little by the time it's all said and done.

The place I normally fish for them can be a real riot at the right time of year.  The fish winter in the lake.  At some point they decide to run back up to their summer haunts in the river.  I don't know if it's water temperature, day length, the angle of the sun or the season premier of Biggest Loser that sets them off on their journey against the current, but when the spring rains come, and they bunch up in the lowest reaches of the river to make their run, it can be outstanding for those of us lying in wait with cut bait and baitcasters.

 Moderation is a good thing.  Sometimes two rods are all I can manage in that spot.

We're allowed to use up to three separate lines here, but when they are in the river in spring, I seldom get more than two rods in the water.  The bite is too fast, and the third rod just ends up taunting me.  As if somehow, if I could only get that third line in the water, the catching would be that much greater, when in reality, it would most likely lead only to tangled lines, missed fish, and creative cussing.

On the other hand, more than a couple times in that very spot, the hammer of God has fallen after that first cast fish, and rendered me with a nearly empty cooler (and belly).  I remember a fine April morning that appeared perfectly nasty for the cats in my spot.  A warm wind barreled in from the west, churning the little backwater nearly to whitecaps, beating the last remnants of busted shore ice into submission.  The sun shone, but not too brightly, and the water level was very high.  All excellent conditions for chasing the bewhiskered torpedoes of bone and muscle.

I leaned hard into the wind as I walked down to my favorite shore fishing spot, having decided it was slightly less idiotic to fish the gale out in the cover of willows than in a boat.  I was thrilled to be out in perfect conditions for the spot, battered by gusts and vernal hormones.  I cast hard into the teeth of the gale, my cut-up sucker falling well short of the intended target, but it did not matter.  Before I could get the second line in the water, I heard a bait clicker screaming over the howling wind and looked to see the first rod bent over nearly double.  Perfect, I thought.  This day is going to be spectacular if we don't end up getting blown to Kansas.

But that was it.  The only fish of a long day watching clouds whip by at a very impressive clip.  The Curse was at work again.  It's to the point that I almost dread catching a fish on the first cast now.

So it was last weekend at camp.  Most of us arrived Friday for Drink Beer Burn Wood 2012.  Handshakes abounded, venison made it's way to the grill, and glasses were raised between friends.  Saturday morning, a handful of us headed down to the tiny lake at the end of the road to assess the mood of the panfish under the ice.  On the advice of a friend who had seen a solitary ice fisherman out there for part of the week, we drifted out to his spot, and popped a half dozen holes.  I may have marked a fish or two on the Vexilar, but it was pretty barren so we packed up the gear, and headed to a bigger lake down the road.

We trudged out on snow gone soft and mushy in the sun.  I know this lake much better.  A hole was drilled in a likely spot, I knelt in the snow and lowered down a miniscule teardrop jig tipped with a sliver of scented plastic, my first try on that water for the day.  I saw him racing up from the bottom on the Vexilar, and almost before I could react felt the distinctive pop.  I hoisted my smallish perch to the topside of the ice, and that was it for me.  Hours later, after many holes and every combination of jig and bait I could think of, every drop speed and jigging motion I could muster, my count held steady at one perch.  And that single fish did not even have the common courtesy to call up a pike as he struggled below my tip-up the rest of the fishing day.  We marked fish most of the morning, but could not get them to bite, which may be a topic for an entirely new post on outdoor frustrations that make you want to punch yourself in the face

I did, however, manage to accomplish my singular goal for the trip.  Richard, a native boy of the south transplanted to the land of hard water fishing by marriage, was along for the trip.  While I promised nothing, it was my secret hope to get him his first fish through the ice.  Not long after I landed my behemoth, he was able to pull an equally impressive ringback from the grassy depths.  And then, just as I had shown him, he succumbed to the Curse of the First Cast Fish.  

Sorry, bro.  I promise not to catch one on the first drop next time.

2011, A Retrospective

I know a lot of you who read this are in these pictures, so I thought I'd post some of my favorites from 2011.  My initial thought was to remain within the theme of this blog; hunting, fishing, and food.  There are so may shots I like, however, that we are going to wander a bit into the realms of tailgates, weddings, and random parties as well.  I try to avoid the "grip & grin" hero shots in most posts, but I'll indulge in a few here.

One thing I've noticed already is that if I'm going to be posting a lot of pictures in the future, I need to stop taking shots with my phone, and start using a real camera.  Probably even invest in something a little grander than my little point & shoot, wonderfully waterproof and indestructible as it is.

That being said, enjoy the show!

We started off the year in Pasadena, and what a blast that was!  Right up until the Badgers lost.

I flew to New York to fish and camp with some friends.

Always tie flies with a rifle handy

Then there is Dingleballs, our annual charity event to raise money for the fight against Adenoid Cystic Carcinoma.

A little fly fishing in Michigan...

The lap of luxury

Plenty of tailgating...

Technically New Year's Day 2012, I know, but it's Lambeau!

Deer season...

Don't ask...

Now there's a trophy!

And a few more from the field...

Pee break...

I stumble into a decent tie once in a while

A nap in the woodcock woods

And if you've ever wondered what giddy full-grown fly fishermen sound like during a prolific 70 fish day, just have a listen.

Happy belated New Year, everyone!