Life Lessons and Fishing

Life experience vs. Fishing  

(Based loosely on Jerry Wilber’s article  …there’s more to fishing than fishing)

 Have you heard the saying, “There is no such thing as a bad day of fishing?” I believe the premise to be nearly entirely true.  Even if in your grand aspirations, you suffer through an occasional broken rod trip, lost stringer, sunburned face, leg-filled horsefly bites, or grumpy outboard that won’t turn over.         

This however is basically a story about life and fly-fishing for smallmouth bass, that some, if not all can make a connection with, even if you have never layed hands on a fly rod.  It goes as follows.   

There are a pair of college buddies home for the summer.  They are football players by trade and the apples of many a 20 year old–something ladies eyes.  Handsome, muscular, confident… I believe the young folks today call it SWAG.   Well anyway, they catch my attention between games while umpiring a doubleheader at the Plum City Blues Tournament.  I hear them say that they would rather fly-fish for river run smallmouth than you know what.  

As Jerry Wilber once said, ‘Knowledge is the cement that holds ones life together,’ and I figure I know a thing or two about smallmouth bass and fly rods.  My knowledge of you know what, is likely behind the times, so I ask them to join me in the Green Lund the day after school gets out.  They giggle, but agree and shoot the question, “ Do you need us to bring you a fly rod?”

I scoff, trying to display my 40 something year old SWAG, “No thanks…I have three or four of my own.”   That is the truth by the way.

                                                                 

So I take the boys  6 or 7 miles up the Chippewa, to likely looking stretch of old riprap, undercut banks, and logjams that I know should hold some pudgy bronze backs.  I mostly keep the Green Lund pointed upstream while back drifting in the June breeze and sunshine.  The water is a bit stained from  the recent downpours, so the lures of choice are dark colored popping bugs and a combination of brown sinking streamers and purple and black leech imitations.  The boys land 3 fish each before I get on the board with a chunky 17 incher, who goes completely air-born to slam my popper.  We are having a grand old time and the college boys seemed impressed at my skills in boat handling, net minding, picture taking, and even bass bug casting.  They even invite me to join them on their home river the week after next.

   

                                                     

I figure it is then time to launch the second phase of my plan, so I ask them what they could tell me about you know what. The one in the front tilted his head to the east, much like a lab puppy does when he hears a strange whistling sound.  The fellow in the middle just shook his head and went silent for the last 3 miles of the drift. Apparently fishing tips on a river are fine to be shared, but when you know what is concerned, it’s every man for himself.    I am currently in the process of rebuilding my SWAG.

-TGI

Decisions

Decisions

I am all for self-improvement.  For years I have read articles, watched commercials and listened to ads that have brought ideas about a thousand and one ways to look better, feel better, make more money, plant better gardens, cook healthier meals and find better jobs.  There are self help groups and online sites that tell you how to organize your life, raise your kids, make homemade wine, make your yard fit for ‘fancy smancy’ magazine covers, and tell you what type of music to play for your plants.

   There is barely a need to form an opinion of your own, because you can find the answers to everything on Wikipedia.  Don’t worry about paying attention on those nice weekend drives because there are Groovy GPS Apps quite easily downloadable that tell you exactly where to turn and when to stop. 

 When I am not chasing my own two kids, carrying out orders from my lovely bride, or chasing fish and fowl around Western Wisconsin, I teach ten and eleven year-olds in a small public school.  It’s a fantastic job. Lately there have been drawbacks there as well.  The powers that be are worried about new standards, new curriculum, smarter balances, and common cores.  We are set on mainstreaming those with special needs and talents, toning down those that are too loud, and perking up those that are too quiet.  We have entry exams and exit plans.  We are teaching to the bell curve and trying not to send the parents to the bell tower. Everyone one is overworked, over taxed, underpaid, under appreciated, out manned, and outgunned, even if they are adequately qualified.  

Today’s 4^th graders need to know what the eighth graders of ten years ago did.  The first graders need to do the work that 5^th graders used to do.  My dear Amelia will turn 7 this year. We are looking at colleges to apply for this summer.

So if you are on of those folks all hip on technology and all of the modern conveniences that make us more like druids and less like real folks,   good for you!  But to be perfectly honest I really don’t need that stuff… At least not this fine morning in May.  

    You see, I am proudly yet quietly here in the country I love to call home.  My eyes, ears, and nostrils are all on high alert. I am hunkered down on the bottom of an open coulee next to a scraggly red oak. I’m at the junction of a sprouting first crop alfalfa field, a dry run of sandstone and pea gravel, and a freshly plowed 30 acres that will be chest high corn in 3 months. My mind is at the junction of weighing the sanity of waking at 3:30 a.m. to hunt turkeys.  

 My neighbors for the last hour have been a bobtailed boar coon, 17 red-bellied robins, 2 squawking sand hill cranes in the distance, and three yearling whitetails, nosing into my  decoys cautiously and proudly showing off velvet racks. The busy morning is backlit by the sun, steadily but slowly rising through a bank of  Plum Creek fog.  Drumming grouse, cackling rooster pheasants, and excited crows are providing the rhythm  to thundering four-tom melody, which plays out on the hardwood points above me.

The smell of lilacs, night crawlers and distant campfire smoke mingle with each other and stimulate my easily distracted mind.  I am down to deciding about important things for today.  Shall I take the green Lund out on Lake Pepin and drag floating jigs for walleyes, or hop in my flat bottom and try to snare bluegills and perch from the Tiffany Bottom backwater sloughs. 

After the dew burns off, shall I try to fill bread bags full of morel mushrooms, or try to fill a creel with wild run brook trout?  When it is time to break for lunch, shall I dive into a mushroom & swiss venison burger on the grill, or sizzle up some not totally crisp bacon in a pan and place it with roasted asparagus?  Decisions, decisions, decisions…

Life is a string of them I tell ya.  It is often hard to tell when we make the right ones.  Lots of folks seem to point out when we choose the wrong ones.  Are we keeping up with the Jones’?  Do we post enough pictures of our kids and our DIY projects like our Facebook Friends do?  Has the decision to put out 2 jake decoys and only one hen foiled my otherwise stellar set up? 

 

Decisions…decisions…Wait!  The time has come to set down my pen and steady my 870 on my right knee.  A full strut gobbler is waddling in with a look of bad intentions on his mind.  Now, 60 yards and closing, so you will have to decide how this story ends.

-TGI

Game Day

On the eve of the Eagles clinching their first ever conference title and possibly the 1^st undefeated football season in our co-op’s history, I can’t help but think back to very fond game day memories that span nearly 3 decades for me.  I flash back to being a 10 year old kid…a manager for the Tim Wilson led Blue Devils of Plum City.  Getting out of class early to pack game equipment and ready the field for Friday.  Riding the team bus, filling water bottles and wearing yellow jerseys about 4 sizes too big; being allowed to stay up until 10:30 to watch the scores and race into town on Saturdays for the local papers’ game summaries. 

Like many I suppose, my main hero was my Dad. After all, he taught me to hunt, fish, play catch…(you know the important stuff when you are 10!)  But my other heroes I watched in practice every day, in the fall and take the field on Friday nights.  Uncle Kurt, Johnny B, Jeff Sauressig, Clint Beyer…I could go on. I truly wanted to be like one of those guys!

I can skip ahead five years, to being a knock kneed 140 pound freshmen… somehow catching a Tony Gilles slant pass against Prescott for the go ahead touchdown in the south end zone.  Add 12 more years, and I can still clearly see Blaine Kadlec getting the ball to Travis Unser, as he scampered into that same south end zone, securing my 1^st ever win as a Head varsity coach.

Another 10 years would pass.  The south end zone didn’t change. I looked at it with pride on my last night as the head coach of the Blue Devils who turned in a dominating performance against

Clayton to secure our teams 7^th straight conference title.

I consider myself lucky to be part of the Pepin Alma football program for the past 3 seasons. The players, coaches, parents and communities have worked extremely hard together.  I know this team is capable of accomplishing our goal.  But, the great thing about football, and life, is there are no guarantees. 

You just have to keep battling, one way or another.  So I’ve included some thoughts that seem to run together and describe my last 30 years of game days.  Perhaps you will feel some of the same things…feel free to add you own thoughts as well. Either way, support your local ‘heroes’ with pride.

Game day is…Waking up early to have that good luck breakfast;

Leaving the collared shirt hanging up and opting for a hoodie with school colors;

Turning up your favorite jam a little louder on the way to school;

Finding ‘Boys of Fall’ on your Ipod or YouTube.

Game day is…Breathing in crisp October air and letting out a loud cheer. Watching the clock tick past painfully slow, as your heart beats fast.   There are good luck signs in business windows and hall decorations around every corner.   It’s team meals and team prayers. Players of the week and players who won’t see the field.  There are faded letter jackets but bright shining smiles.  Painted lines and mascot painted faces.  Fresh cut grass and fresh popped corn.  Hot chocolate and chilly toes.  Standing room only at the south end zone and the bathroom line.

Game days are pep rallies and pep bands.  Pregame speeches and the buzzing lights that break the silence of a focusing team.  Slipping on the pads and spreading on eye black.  Going to the bathroom about 4 dozen times.  It’s the click clack of cleats on the pavement, and the pounding of your heart as you climb through the ropes. It’s electricity in the air and butterflies in your stomach. Players are on edge through warm-ups and the coach is nervous hoping he has prepared them well.  Mothers are about 20 times more nervous than anyone. 

To me, game days are playing for hundreds of people not for 100,000.  Working with your teammates and accomplishing a goal.  Getting knocked down but always getting up… since August.  It’s flipping the coin, then player intros and school songs. .The Anthem signals it’s close to go time.

It’s one more swig of Gatorade before you strap it up.  It’s kicking from the right hash and re-taping your left ankle. It’s the point of no return, and losing yourself in the moment for 48 minutes. 

There are onside kicks and offside flags. Great game plans and unplanned surprises.  Keeping the sideline pumped up and not letting your buddy down. It’s hometown announcers and out of town visitors.  You can see the white stripe turn on the ball as it spins through the black night.  Friday night lights illuminate a temporary heaven on earth.  There are good ideas and bad calls.  4^th graders cheering on older brothers while playing their own game off to the side.  It’s leaving it all  on the field because the name on the front of the jersey means a whole lot more than the name on the back.

   The game clock shows all zeros.  Some are champions. Most are not.  If you are lucky, you can tee it up again in a week.  The team heads for mid field.  Steam drifts in the air as the helmets come off and the shirts come un-tucked. There are handshakes from opponents, hugs from mom and dad, and high-fives from the homecoming queen. Your night is over and you can look in the mirror and be proud, because you are a football player.

                   

Game days are…memories in the making and dreams coming true.  Boys turning into men, and then right back into boys depending on how the ball bounces. 

That’s ok though. After 3 decades, they are still heroes to me.

-TGI

Limits

Three hours of sleep wasn't enough. Six hours should have been the limit with a cough like mine. The weather was too warm and the south east wind would be wrong to hunt our favorite bay.  The dry summer and fall had bare land replacing our ‘go to’ potholes for setting decoys.  I promised Hayley to be home by 9:00 to finish the yard work that had been put off too long, in favor of correcting papers, breaking down football films, and writing lesson plans.  

A true duck hunt should last at least five hours...that's a good limit.

                                                     

There were a scarce number of ducks around anyway. Nonetheless, I talked myself into a morning hunt the evening before. The 90 minute bus ride home from the Eagles 5^th victory in a row did it to me.

Trying to be as quiet as possible and somehow searching for just one more reason to crawl back into bed, I snuck into the kitchen to grab snack for the road.  Nine-year old Murphy’s thumping tail convinced me to grab the rest of my gear, and make the short trip down the hill to Lake Pepin. It's hard to argue with a dog that loves you.

The boat landing was vacant, save for 2 campers that looked like they may have had a bit too much of the fall ‘Flood Run’ the previous day.   A half empty Jim Beam bottle accompanied one brave soul, who looked not so comfortable in a lawn chair that was somehow closer to the porta potty, than it was to the smoldering campfire.  His partner had made it nearly to the tent, before finding a resting spot with his head on a leather jacket, feet propped up on a motorcycle helmet, and nothing more than flannel boxers covering the rest of him.  Except of course for several dozen mosquito bites.  September mosquitoes are especially hearty near Lake Pepin. (They also are partial to blood with a hint of Jim Beam.)                                                      

Murphy and I slipped into our flat bottom, and rowed across the ¼ mile bay, to a small grassy point.  The water was less than a foot deep.  Ninety minutes before legal shooting light, I unloaded the gear and laid back for serious star gazing and thought collecting.   Listening to the sounds of the river never gets old.

  Although fall was approaching, the warmer temps had the frogs croaking out a base drum like rhythm.  
Other oddities began adding bits if information to my ears. 

A Frontenac train whistle chimed in, and whizzing cars from a distant Highway 35 added to the early morning melody.  My labs’ excited panting, tail swishing and mud bogging topped off the symphony of sounds.  As many of you know, labs know just exactly where to shake off to give their owners a swampland facial.

The grayish, turning to pink sky in the east signaled decoy setting time.  It would be a small spread today, with a dozen or so mallards and a couple pintail and diver fakes just to add some color.  Five full bodied honker decoys would border me to the right of the grassy point.  Murphy’s excitement grew as we walked the boat to its hiding spot, and returned to kneel in the sand grass.  A flock of

about 30 Canada Geese broke the whispering solitude of the bay as they left their midnight loafing spot near Rush River and clamored into our spread.  Multitudes of honks, clucks, wing beats and splashing feet were more than poor Murphy could stand.  He couldn’t believe I wasn’t shouldering my gun and making these intruders retrieving practice and eventual smoked goose sandwich meat.  With three minutes to go before shooting time, our noisy visitors had enough of the shaking grass and the large whining fur blob. They headed for the safety of the middle of the lake. 

Murphy was clearly disappointed, so he ventured to the tree line to find a good piece of driftwood to chew on.  He returned only after a short whistle from yours truly. The cell phone beeped at 6:36 so we were now legal to fire.

The first flock of blue-winged teal darted in so low and so fast, I never had a chance to steady the bead.  It sounded like there was about ten of them.  The second chance was at a pair of screaming wood ducks that appeared right out of a weeping river willow.  I folded the drake nicely and passed on mama as she sailed towards Maiden Rock.  Murphy had just dropped the colorful drake at my feet when a lone teal broke from a flock buzzing in from Bray’s point.  My 870 barked twice at the dive bombing bird who was scooting at the top of the water.  Flying Kent Steele sent him into a cart-wheeling splash, as Murphy churned through water and muck for retrieve number two.

The next 30 minutes yielded no downed birds, but we had some work slightly out of range to keep things interesting. Another group of teal buzzed just over the decoys, but I was late on the draw and shot behind the closest bird.  It’s always good to stay humble while duck hunting.

Our next visitors to the bay were a large flock of Pelicans.  On the hunt for schooling shad, the birds filed in and plopped down about 30 yards from our goose decoys. Awkward in appearance up close, pelicans are actually graceful flyers and top line predators of fish on the lake.  Murphy quite rudely interrupted their morning meeting by making a mad dash to the center of the gathering.  Loudly exiting and heading for Stockholm, the Pelicans formed a beautiful ‘V’ back-lit by the fire-like sky rising over the bluffs.  Still admiring that sight, the water just past my feet split as a half dozen teal skidded to a halt in the middle of my decoys.  The water was still moving as Murphy dashed from his hiding spot for a water ‘flush’ of the birds. 

Waiting for the teal to rise safely past my frantic dog, I neatly plopped the last bird of the string down on top of a vacant muskrat house.  With the teal in his mouth, Murphy took a little time to dig through the base of the muskrat lodge to ensure a good amount of squishy mud on paws, whiskers, and dog belly.  

The final bird of the morning was a lone honker that was certainly looking for some company.  The old gander was squawking all the way from Minnesota when he spotted our set up.  Wings cupped and feet down, he rapidly descended from 300 feet to less than thirty.   When he realized he had been duped, he attempted to back pedal like a NFL d-back, and veered sharply towards Bray’s point.  I had plenty of time to wheel around, and dropped the goose with a splash 10 yards from the edge our sand grass hiding spot. Murphy pounced on him and proudly dragged him back to my feet.

The sun was now high enough in the cloudless blue-bird sky to signal pick up time.  With the gear loaded, I ran the 8 horse half throttle towards the Rush River willows, so Murphy could dry off a bit, and for myself to suck in a limit of late September fresh air.  The modest brace of four birds sat across the mesh decoy bag as we turned and headed for Maiden Rock landing.  Murphy locked his front legs, straddling the bow of the boat with his head high and tilted, the same way Hugo, Belle, and Ernie had rode before him. I couldn't hold back a heartfelt smile, hoping the trio of former hunting dogs were smiling down from above, and approving our performance.

It was a fine morning to be a duck hunter, a father, a husband, and a lover of life.  It was a fine morning to swat mosquitoes, wipe sweat and swamp muck from your brow, and pick up downed birds and spent shells. It was a fine morning to run an old outboard, to work squeaky oars, and slide on flip flops after removing cammo waders.  It was a fine morning to giggle at hung over campers, to listen to distant train whistles, and watch pelicans disappear into a September sky.

It was a fine morning to make it home by 9:00 a.m, just like I promised.

-TGI

Where'd you come from....Where'd you go?

February is a darn right tricky month.  Even the spelling and pronunciation causes a double take in most language loving individuals. Our calendar’s second month is a bit of a tease.  She will flash the thawing temps of the promising spring one day.  The next day it will chuckle with laughter as the chains of a mid-winter deep freeze will bog us down. 

February’s personality is that of a stone-faced poker player.  You never quite know what you’re dealing until the mid morning cards are flipped over. Is it parka weather with a long scarf and thinsulate gloves? Sweaters and vests will do the trick most days.  Some February days are ‘short sleevers’ for those with thick skin and low IQ’s.  

Those February road conditions can be a challenge right?  Would you like your inch of ice on top of your foot of snow or at the bottom?  Here in the upper Midwest, the month treats us to amazing weather phenomenon such as thunder snow, ice fog, sleet, clippers, drastic cold fronts, and muddy slush.  February has a hard time making up its mind.  So do the people who trudge forth through its lengthening days.   

Civilians have a hard time deciding on what February really stands for. I mean it’s not like the Christmas month of December, or the fishing season and baseball playing of May.   October is pretty straight forward; harvest season, Halloween and football Saturdays.  But not that evil 28-day February!    We can’t decide if we should be watching for an overgrown hamster box with his shadow or shall we jot down stolen poetry and cheesy song lyrics to give to our latest crush?

Then, we throw the whole President’s day thing in the middle.  But we don’t lock it in place.  We just say, “Let’s do it on a Monday, we all need a little time to organize our thoughts and calm our nerves.”

Ah, the not so lovely February. It is halfway between winter’s serenity and spring’s flowers of eternal hope. It’s in an ever changing state of flux.  We are not really sure where it comes from. Most are happy to see it go.  It gets cast aside like stale bread, flat soda, and mismatched socks.  Good Riddance!

Oh well, at least there are merely twenty-eight days…most years. 

-TGI

The Gift List

It’s getting pretty close to that big day around these parts.  You know the one that puts visions of sugar plums, jolly and plump red-suited elves, and now I-pods, X-boxes and smart phones dancing in the heads of wee ones.  And those a bit older as well. 

So here I sit struggling to come up with something to give my two kiddos at home, along with the 20 I have in my classroom. With all these different kids, it doesn’t seem quite right to give them all the same manufactured craft or card. I am stuck… and close to being out of order. 

So, I go to the garage and get my summer tackle boxes out of storage and go through them. I sharpen and replace hooks, put the top water baits back in their spots, and make sure the deep diving cranks are apart from the shallow runners.  Jigs, plastics, hooks and spinners are once again arranged by size, shape, and color.  I can almost feel June’s warm breeze in my face…pitching an offering to an eager smallmouth bass waiting along a rocky shore.  I feel much better, because when my tackle box is clean and ordered, it kind of cleans and orders myself as well. 

Like a rock thrown from a tire that wallops your unsuspecting windshield, it hits me.  I can give these kids the gift of adventure… although I am going to need a little help.  Not to mention a whole lot of wrapping paper.  If we set our minds to it, I think we can take these kids from a life of watching, to a life of doing. We could make presents of zoo-going and eagle-watching and stone-skipping. We can teach them to take things apart just to see how they went together, and show them it’s ok to get their hands dirty. 

We can prop them up with pine trees or white oaks.  Show them the difference between gray squirrel and cottontail tracks in the snow. Maybe have them identify five different types of woodpeckers here in our neck of the woods.  Perhaps it would be good for them to learn how to crack eggs with one hand like mom used to do, or to roast marshmallows over open flames. 

It would take quite some effort, but together we could show kids of all ages the gift of gratitude. Tell them how the Earth is actually sacred ground, and they darn well better mind their manners when they are on it.  We can show them humor, teaching them to giggle at toads, gurgling catfish, and red fox pups in a July alfalfa field.  Teach them to not take themselves so serious.

Patience would be a good gift too.  We will need to branch out into canoes, flat bottoms, or even pontoons and allow them to soak in the simple pleasure of waiting for a bobber to go down.  Let ‘em tag along on deer stands, duck blinds, or turkey fields to wait for creatures big and small to appear. 

I think I will try to show them responsibility.  Teach them that those texting, gaming and smart phone fingers could be used for tending campfires on the Chippewa River, unloading a couple wagons full of 3^rd crop hay, or even the 2 o’clock to 7 o’clock rhythm of dry fly casting.  

Let’s give these kids the independence to be free thinkers and leaders and optimists. Don’t hold them back…let them make mistakes because they try something new and then figure out a better way to accomplish their goals…Society holds them back enough.   

WHO’S WITH ME?

DO YOU THINK WE HAVE ENOUGH WRAPPING PAPER?

-TGI