Stop Sucking

Holding expertise does not always result in good teaching.  We've all had the express displeasure of being taught by less than stellar educators.  Not just in the classroom, but also in life, and for the purposes of this blog, in the field.

I've been told many times that I should've been or still should be a teacher.  The numbers are probably skewed simply because I know a lot of teachers and everything looks like a nail to a hammer, but it happens fairly often that somebody says, only half mockingly, "Dude, you shoulda been a teacher."  I disagree.

Even in the few areas in which I hold a modicum of expertise, my teaching style often leaves quite a bit to be desired.  Holding the knowledge is not the same as being able to express it in an articulate and useful manner.  I can easily recall more than one instance in which a session showing somebody how to tie a fly or make a roll cast devolved into near-silent charades, ever increasing in intensity until both of us were frustrated almost beyond caring.  Monkey see, monkey don't.  When I get flustered in a demo situation, my usually acceptable command of the language largely sublimates into the wind, and I'm reduced to mumbling idiocy.

Stop sucking, just do the shit like this! may have actually passed from internal mantra to verbal exhortation on occasion, though only with the buddies I know can take it while happily pointing out everything I stumble over.

Pro Tip: if you ever get the urge to teach your significant other to fly cast, just slam your head in the truck door a few times, and get it over with before you start.  The only time I've bickered more intensely was the time we tried to put plastic film up on the windows together in an old apartment.  That stuff that probably saves three nickles on the gas bill, but takes a year off your life due to the stress of putting it up together -- divorce lawyers should sell that stuff in bulk.

Zeke gives spinning a shot on my vice by lantern light

I will say that when it goes well, introducing somebody to a new skill can be very gratifying.  A while back I was in New York for a fishing vacation with some friends from an internet forum.  My buddy Zeke and I sat down at the vice for a lesson in spinning and stacking deer hair on the hook.  I managed to remain coherent and somewhat informative, he didn't get frustrated, and all went swimmingly.  As it ended up, a line of people formed at the table to take their turns at spinning hair, and I had to rush at the end to catch the evening bite out on the lake, grateful and humbled to have been looked to for a bit of instruction in something I am fairly practiced at.

It doesn't always go so smoothly.  I once found myself watching late night baseball with an inebriated Argentinian college student in a dorm room in Portland, Oregon.  You heard me.  We'd returned from a long night on the town with a group of students, and I was none too sober myself.  I don't recall now what happened to the rest of the group, but there we were, suddenly alone with the Mariners on the tube.  Saturday night rock stars.

While I'm no baseball expert, I am a patriot and fan with a comprehensive understanding of the rules.  Twenty-some years of fandom, however, did little in preparation to explain the simplest of baseball regulations to a wobbly South American struggling mightily to understand the game and remain upright on a bean bag chair.  Our little vignette here opens with a foul ball down the third base line.

"So, nothing happens if the man hits the ball outside those white lines?" slurred our foreign friend.

"Not exactly. It counts as a strike unless he already has two strikes.  If he has two strikes, then nothing happens.  Then it's basically out of bounds and a do-over."

The catcher then immediately fielded a foul pop to end the inning.  Slowly assuming the form and posture of a garden slug in the bean bag, "I thought you said nothing would happen?"

"Yeah... unless the defensive player catches it on the fly.  Then it's an out."

"What's 'on the fly'?"

"... so... you play soccer?"

Which goes to show there comes a point in our understanding of any subject or activity wherein we are able to pass over the details to take in the entire picture.  The little stuff becomes given that the big picture may play out.


Experts hold "conditionalized knowledge," meaning the knowledge they hold reflects context and situation, and they can retrieve it quickly without much additional effort in the corresponding instances.  Novices, by definition, cannot be so lucky.  They have to slog their way through seemingly important patterns and facets that may mean nothing in the big picture, but appear to hold the key to cracking the code at any moment.

We woodsmen look at the woods and see individual species.  How they might be useful to us or relate to the species we're chasing, be they feather, fur, or fungus.  We see systems and interconnectedness and where we'd build the lean-to if we had to spend an unplanned night.  The novice can't see that.

On the other hand, if I look at a spreadsheet full of numbers or a malfunctioning carburetor, my brains starts to go all soft and tallowy.  I hear the Benny Hill theme, and feel the need to go fishing.


No matter our level of teaching proficiency, it is our duty as outdoorsy folks of all stripes -- fishers and hunters, foragers and wanderers alike -- to teach.  To get outsiders involved in our favorite activities.  Not only to bring to them the same joy we feel out there, but to preserve our outdoor way of life.

I used to bristle at that thought.  My personal manner of getting outside involves a lot of getting away from, well... everybody.  That's not the right way or the wrong way, but often when I head out there, I'm hoping to pass my time without seeing another soul.

The thought of bringing others into it only to clutter up the joint once seemed so counter intuitive.  Why would anyone ever want to see more chuckleheads clogging up the trout stream?

The answer has become obvious with age and accumulated knowledge.  If we don't encourage others to partake, vast libraries of personal knowledge and experience will be lost forever.  Not only that, but when there's nobody left to practice our lifestyle it will be deemed outdated and inconsequential, ancillary at best.  It will wither on the vine.


The proliferation of technology as it pertains to our outdoor pursuits is a massive subject due an entire blog entry of its own here (and much more), but I will say that there are many examples of how it can be used for teaching and learning in the arena.  For me, YouTube plays a very large role.

I watch a lot of fly tying demos.  I have shelves full of fly tying books, and while they remain both useful and sometimes beautiful in their compositions, nothing beats seeing it happen right in front of your eyes, sometimes in high definition, with the ability to pause and rewind at will.

There are all sorts of fly tying teachers floating around out there in the YouTube ether.  They range in style, quality, and teaching ability across a wide spectrum -- from Brian Wise, whose videos of chunkalicious streamers are played back on fast forward to thumping music for those of us who have existing knowledge of the materials and techniques used, to Davie McPhail.  His very comfortable pace and euphonious brogue lend themselves to in-depth and relaxed, comprehensive instruction.  If you ever zoned out to Bob Ross and The Joy of Painting on PBS back in the day, that's the neighborhood Mr. McPhail inhabits to me in the fly tying world, and his videos are as mesmerizing as they are instructive.  A happy little pine tree lives right here...



This post is sort maundering out of control at this point, but I think what we're driving at here is that if you know how to do something, especially something outdoorsy where this blog lives, I think you should teach others how to do it.  Don't mind the fumblings and stumblings if your teaching style is as abrupt and stilted as mine sometimes is.  They'll be happy for the instruction.

Brian has been shooting woodcock since before I could dress myself.  When I think of proficiency in an outdoor activity, I often think of him.  The way he powders a bird, then thumbs another shell into that ultralight pump gun as an afterthought.  I'm grateful for his years of instruction, and happy to report that the young buck here can now often hit the bird before he does when we swing on the same one.  Sucks getting old, I'm told.

Of course, all the experience in the world, mountains of teaching and learning, can do little when the birds simply aren't there.  Sometimes you just have to follow the old guy's lead when he says...

... Piss on it, dude.  Let's go get a burger.

Then the Internet Happened

There's a state of mind that comes about sometimes.  I'm grateful when it does, I actively seek it out, and I believe a lot of us who spend time off the pavement are seeking it as much as anything else.

When I sit in my ice fishing shanty, nothing but the hiss of the heater and the gentle glow of the flasher to keep me company, I find myself sucking into... myself, if you'll permit me the horrible turn of phrase.  The world outside that thin layer of canvas disappears and, for at least a little while, there is nothing to be found in the galaxy other than what I can touch within easy reach.  It's a cocoon, a hideaway.  It is, to me, supremely comfortable.  The catching of fish, at that point, is so remotely inconsequential, it nearly fails to enter the equation.

On the right lake, you can sometimes have the whole place to yourself

When I walk through the woods.  When I walk through the woods until that perfect state arrives in which my feet are not yet sore and barking, my legs are heavy but not yet gone to clay, I'm tired but in the midst of a slow-motion runner's high, and the quarry no longer matters.  I walk to achieve this state as much as I do to powder a grouse in the slanting morning light or put fungi on my table.  And I do it alone a lot.  Not that I dislike the company of those I hunt and fish with, but things just seem to make more sense when I'm on my own most of the time.  There's no keeping pace, subtle competition is nowhere to be found.  If you've ever tried to coordinate a deer drive or bird hunt through heavy cover and over rugged terrain with a large group, you know that it can be, at times, more hassle than it's worth.

And so I remained happily alone in the dark, so to speak, for quite some time.  I've spent time with my "Madison friends" (so delineated not only by their geographic existence, but their relative disinterest in outdoor sports) during the week, and wandered off to chase protein and sunsets alone quite often on the weekends.  It was fulfilling, and obviously interspersed with weekends I treasured with my outdoor buds. 

The difference between alone and lonely is mostly a matter of comfort with oneself, and that works for me.  Whether I ever produce anything worthwhile again or not, the fact is that this ginormous melon on my neck not only barely fits in most hats, there's also a creative mind sloshing around in there that craves quiet time to think -- sometimes deeply about the meaning of things, often about the perfect piece of pie... and redheads.

In the span of a couple years I suffered a great many painfully sickening losses.  So for a time I'd been cruising along in solo mode, adjusting to a life irrevocably wounded.  People worried about me.  They talked of me in hushed tones and "stopped by" a lot.  They used kid gloves with me during the holidays, knowing that almost everyone I'd had was gone.  Somebody gave me a canned ham once, which would've been very sweet if I were a 1970's housewife with a surplus of pineapple rings and maraschino cherries.  They marveled at my "toughness," which never really existed, and when they'd had enough cocktails, awkwardly congratulated me for not becoming a lop of weeping goo.  Insert vaguely uncomfortable man-hugging.

It was all very overwhelming and sweet, and I am forever indebted to every one of them for their love and compassion, but my one true respite throughout it all was grabbing a rod or a gun or a kayak paddle, and pointing my sniffer into the wind, alone.

Eventually we all got on, family, friends and I, with being the ones still above ground together, and things got as back to normal as they ever will be.  I continued my lone jaunts even as I began to treasure my time in deer camp or with the bird hunting boys more and more.

Then the internet happened for me.  A social media explosion, more precisely, akin to the big bang; Google Earth, GIS and all the other useful outdoor cyber-tools notwithstanding.  Before the pulverizing avalanche of heartache beset my family and I, I'd joined an ice fishing forum.  I remember the day.  People were sick and in the hospital.  I wanted to go fishing, but obligations with out-of-date waiting room magazines bound me from the ice.  So I clicked around and found the forum, which will remain nameless here because I was later ejected for being too likable and funny.  Also for toeing the line right up to profanity, quite creatively, I thought. 

While I am and was an electronics junky, far from a stranger to LEDs and touch screens, I'd never joined an internet forum before that.  I'd never used any social media.  I was content to eat my lunch quietly on a stump in the swamp, and look at my own pictures when I got home.  I only begrudgingly use Facebook now to halfheartedly promote this collection of rambling drivel, and then not very often.  My current Instagram addiction may be a different matter, but I try to convince myself that it's only related to my affection for, and envy of, quality photography.

It turns out the sweaty palms and butterflies associated with joining that first ice fishing forum were completely unfounded.  While that community could not abide my penchant for playfully twisting the language right to the edge of acceptable public use, I did meet there a group of outdoorsmen I'm still in daily contact with today.  All of us too fantastic in form and thought to mix with the great unwashed, we formed our own private outdoor forum that still thrives to this moment.  I can alt+tab over to it as I type this, and they will probably razz me for being a verbose, blathering donkey when they read it.

This is a group of men who have grown together, built cyber-camaraderie over the last half decade.  And not just over the ether of the interwebs.  I've flown halfway across the country to fish with some of them.  One guy actually had the impudence to move to Montana without taking the rest of us.  I hope to sully his home with my presence and frightening fly casting someday.

It has become more than an outdoor forum.  It's a community.  I know their kids' names.  We share our real life victories and defeats.  They comforted me when everyone was dying.  I stood up in one of their weddings.  All because some nerds at MIT and DARPA wanted to talk to each other back in the day.

Draw a horizontal line across Wisconsin from La Crosse to Sheboygan.  Rotate it clockwise a tick, and you're damn near connecting my house to that of my good friend Adam, but we never would have met without the internet.  Packer games, ice fishing, talk of girls, booze-soaked rowdy wedding receptions; we could have shared none of them had we not each clicked on the link to that ice fishing forum.

After years of chatting through the screen, Adam and I finally meet

I belong to many internet forums now, some related to the outdoors and others not.  I'm even starting to get the hang of this Twitter fad.  As is true for all of us, though, my closest  personal friends will always remain nearest my heart.  The Lathrop Street gang from back in the days when a house cup and a marginally clean shirt made you a celebrity, the guys I marched with, the retired crew up in deer camp who are probably hoisting one and talking about how cool they used to be right now, and Brian, who was there with Dad when I was born and still shoots woodcock faster than I do -- these are my people.

This blog is a form of social media I never imagined myself being involved with, but it has led to acquaintances all over cyberspace.  I read some of your wonderful writings, see your gorgeous pictures, and am inspired to write and cook and chase game more than I ever have been.  Thank you.  But while we're at it, what's up with all the stickers?  I may be a relative social media noob, but where are you people sticking all these things?  Seriously.

Still, I often find it most comfortable to go it alone.  If you're ever in Wisconsin and you see a lone fly fisherman casting like he's being stung in the face by invisible hornets... or a solo bird hunter miss an easy passing shot... or a solitary mushroom seeker arresting a fall in the brush with his face, stop and say hello.  It's probably me.

Thoreau's Rust

It wasn't that many years ago I attended eight or nine weddings in a single season.  I can't even remember how many there were or who they were all for.  Summer weddings all run together after a while -- hot church, pretty dresses, open bar, possible bourbon-fueled horrific dancing. Thankfully for my gift and travel budgets (and waning tolerance of  the Chicken Dance), that ridiculous rate has not continued.  I'm resting comfortably at four mandatory nuptial celebrations this year, leaving more summer weekends for whatever I wish to do with them.  But even with a relatively rare open weekend currently staring me in the face, there just isn't much for me to do outside at the moment.

Henry David Thoreau stated that he needed to walk in the woods every day lest he "acquire some rust."  I haven't walked in the woods or water for more than a half-hearted gambit in weeks.  I have become a soft and reluctant slave to the wonders of central air.  There are almost no hunting seasons open right now, and the drought and abominable temperatures have conspired to render my flowing home waters little more than somber rills of considerable thermogenic prowess.  Due to the drought, all the counties that entail my home fishing waters within a couple hours' drive have been declared a natural disaster area by the federal government.  Judging by the pitiful state of the streams, I would have to agree.  It's easy for me to get angry and flustered about the state of things, but then I remember to try to only worry about the stuff I can control.  And that even if all were refulgent tumbling stream and idyllic glade this year, summer weekends are often surrendered to other non-outdoorsy pursuits so I'm probably not missing that much in the end.

Were I a gardener, I'm sure I would have plenty to do. I am the oldest son of a Master Gardener who practiced his beloved hobby with a zeal generally reserved for those deemed headed for the nut house.  It is perhaps odd that I picked up most of his other outdoor loves, but somehow the green horticulture gene seems to remain recessive in me.  I suffered through my indentured servitude, kneeling on closed cell foam or cardboard, for many more hours of my upbringing than I care to recall.  I knew what raised lasagna beds were before they were even called that, and I swear that, for a while there as a dust-covered tike, I thought pvc pipe was made specifically for the purposes of building hoop houses.

While I treasure nearly every moment I spend outside, I have little wish to garden, especially considering that I live minutes from one of the most celebrated farmer's markets in the country.  I fish and hunt, pick the occasional sack o' shrooms or greenery, then happily hand cash over mountains of brilliant produce bordering the capitol square here in Madison, in order to enjoy the glorious peas or melons or whatever it may be, next to my fairly chased protein and fungi.

That attitude may be eroding slightly as I age, however.  In recent years I have begun to keep a battery of herbs standing sentry in hideously counterfeit terra cotta strawberry pots at the corners of the garage, something I swore I would never do until I considered my monthly expenditure on bubble packs of basil.  That was a big concession for me, but I still do not see the days of hauling loads of organic matter to recently constructed garden beds in my future.  I know which booths sell the best heirloom 'maters up on the square, know some of the proprietors by name even, and that is enough for me at the moment.

Foraging follows as the next step in progression of logic.  Were I a more adept, involved forager I would certainly have a lot more to do outside this summer.  But I pretty much stick to the so-called Foolproof Four when it comes to mushrooms (puffball, sulphur shelf, morel, chantarelle - as I learned them) with the occasional shaggy mane thrown in.  Anymore species than that, I start to worry about my internal organs turning to goo.  Berries I am comfortable identifying, and scarfing down like a bear when presented with the chance.  I can identify and collect probably a couple dozen of the various leafy green yummies found around, but I almost never think to until I see them, and start stuffing them in my fishing or hunting vest.  An opportunistic forager, at best.   

So, with "my" streams parched and hunting seasons closed, here I sit in a café because I often feel more relaxed, write more clearly, in new-to-me environs.  I ordered something more adventurous than my standard iced coffee, and have been presented with a libation resembling more a chilled flagon of diabetes than the dark and intense beverage I desired.  My mistake.  With the mercury rocketing toward the century mark again, while the dew point hovers somewhere between stifling and drywall mud, my current caffeinated hide is nestled in the corner of bigger building.  As I walked in, I could hear the rooftop air conditioners roaring away like locomotives in a desperate race to keep things livable here down below.

Perhaps an impromptu camp run is in order this weekend, to fish the slightly cooler northern waters, and daydream about all the pleasure fall will bring up there.

I am not the only outdoorsman growing sweaty and restless.  The "Campmeister," owner and perhaps figurehead of our camp, continues with his amusing emails that count down the days until the opening day of gun deer season, and record all the things we must do and buy before then.  I have been reminded numerous times by him that I'll need a new truck and deer rifle come November in order to maintain my membership, simply because he wants to use them.

Brian texted me last night without forewarning.  Five simple words: Is it hunting season yet?  We joked about yearning for the bloodied backs of hands often earned in the woodcock thickets, and hassled each other over missed birds of the future and past.

Ruffed grouse are the undisputed king of upland game birds in northern Wisconsin, and north-central Wisconsin is considered ruffed grouse Mecca to many uplanders from all over the world, but we don't have the birds here in the southern reaches much at all.  We used to when I was a kid, along with wild pheasants, but we don't anymore.  Now we have subdivisions and Pier One Imports, which if you are reading this, I think you'll agree, is not the loveliest of trades.  I have to drive about three hours north from where I sit right now to even have a chance at a grouse when I step into the thick stuff.

So we are specialized and fairly rare dedicated woodcock hunters, Brian and I.  The vast majority of upland hunters chase grouse, quail, pheasant, and a handful other species with unfailing determination and contentment while the diminutive timberdoodle gets relegated to second class status.  The woodcock gets little respect.  Grouse might be tougher to hit in cover, but I adore the twittering flush and challenging corkscrew flight path the camouflaged woodcock brings to the fight.  They can be found with relative ease around here, and found with relative ease almost everywhere when the migratory flights are passing through, so the bulbous-headed bog sucker has become our primary quarry.  I cannot get enough of chasing them through the mushy bottoms, prickly thickets, and up on top of the coulees in the western part of our state.

 If you're willing to hump it all the way up, they might be in the sumacs on top.  Or they might not.

And the faintly liver-like flavor of the red breast found under those feathers?  Tell you what, you hang on to your braunschwieger and sandwich spread.  I'll be perfectly content with my woodcock "pâté" on some crusty grilled bread with a good dark porter.  

I remember my first woodcock fondly and clearly.  Those images we share of upland hunting in the fall: the shimmering popples, the balsam-laden meandering creek bottom, the lone hawthorn hidden back from the trail that always seems to shelter a bird or two.  None of those were there for my first woodcock.  The bird flushed wild to my left and behind as we were trudging back to the vehicles, in an ugly little vine-choked slough along the gravel road that lead to the parking lot.  There was no arcing flight of bird or puff of feathers settling gently in the sun.  Honestly, I don't even remember seeing the bird, that ditch being so thick and tough to see through.  Still, I spun, I shot, and I was pierced by Cupid's arrow for chasing that silly looking little bird.
 

   Make no mistake.  We'll hit the road, and chase down some partridge this fall as well.

Which all calls into question something I've stated numerous times, both here and in everyday life before.  I have asserted that I don't need a rod or gun in my hands to enjoy my time outside.  I still believe that, but this summer has challenged my stance.  Frankly, it is easier and a lot more comfortable to plop down in the AC, and drink this melted candy bar.

Any hunter or fisherman who has been at this as long as my friends and I have know that we practice our chosen pastime not for the game itself, but because of the places it takes us.  I'm thinking of a place right now, almost unbearably green and full of life, that I never would have known had I not had a fly rod in my hand at the time.  I savor dozens of those places in my mind.  There are hundreds of thousands more that I will never know in my home state alone.

We fish against the odds, trying to fool the minute brains of fish into thinking bits of fur and feather are real insects or baitfish.  We push through the cover, fighting a certain losing battle with caloric net loss against the birds we will bag for the dinner table.  Living strictly on wild game in the modern world is a near impossibility with all the driving and expensive shells required.  I don't think it can be done.  Either you or your truck will starve.  Aside from that, who would want to?  I'm proud to say I do a lot of my own killing for the dinner table, but sometimes you simply need a succulent slab of pork or beef to throw on the grill, and I'm not allowed to shoot those.  So we don't do it solely for the food, though there is most assuredly a component of that.  We paddle long and hard against the wind to reach the revered honey hole, not only for the sustenance or joy of fighting a big fish, but because it takes us to that place.

Sometimes it is difficult to put your boots in the dirt and go when there is little impetus from the sporting side of things.  Now, for example.  The heat and humidity are convenient excuses that I've fallen prey to recently.  The lack of rain is a real problem to a small stream fisherman like me, but there are certainly more waters to fish.  It's time to get out the Gazetteer, and do a little exploring.   As soon as the weather settles into a slightly more humane pattern, I will force myself to get out there and work up a good lather, cover some ground and see what I see.  To shake off some of Thoreau's rust.



Note: If you are a local and you read this immediately upon posting, you may have noticed that the temperatures and humidity referenced herein do not coincide with those currently happening outside.  You're on to my secret.  I generally let these posts marinate for a couple days before I proofread, re-write, edit, and try to un-suck them as much as possible.  If I didn't do it this way, the shocking number of typos, non-sequiturs, and basic cretinism would render you unable to read this blog, or perhaps anything, ever again.  Thanks for checking in. 

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?

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!