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

Whirling Wisconsin Wings 

The Thanksgiving leftovers had long since been cleaned up and stored in the chest freezer for a later date. Most of those partaking in outdoor activity were either clad in deer hunting orange or dressed in Packer green and gold to cheer on their favorite men of the gridiron. Some were even sharpening auger blades and organizing tip ups and pan fish jigs.  The hard water season would be truly kicking in less than a week.  400 miles to the north, near the Canadian border and beyond, lakes, potholes, and ponds will not see open water again for another 4 months. 

Dad and Big Hoff looked a bit skeptical as Griz and I dug our  layout blinds into an 80 acre, Pierce County plowed cornfield.  My yellow lab Murphy and Griz’s dog Fritzy, frolicked and ran amongst the 6 dozen decoys placed in a ‘J’ shape that pointed directly into a biting 20 mph northwest wind.   Nugget Lake was 5 miles to the north, and Lake Pepin 7 miles to the south.  Thousands of migrating mallards and gadwalls were rafted there.  Our scouting trip the previous day had revealed clouds of waterfowl, looking more like swarms of mosquitoes in July than ducks, piling into the fields with twenty minutes of shooting time to spare.  As we put the finishing touches on the spread, and flipped on 4 spinning wing decoys, we all were hopeful the birds would appear. 

Fritzy neatly waddled her way into the dog blind Griz had for her.  Murphy on the other hand gave me that “I’m not going into that thing look.”  Luckily Dad had a bag of jerky and a Ziploc of salted peanuts to use as bribery.  Murphy was still trying to make himself comfortable as Big Hoff warned us, “Huge flock at 2 o’clock.” 

There were a solid 500 birds that obviously wanted into the field.  From a distance of  ½ mile the specks banked hard to the left and wings started to lock.  We could hear the grunting and feed chuckles as the birds dropped their landing gear over the patch of woods to our south. 

The main flock circled behind us as a single hen and 4 drakes dropped at our feet.  Murphy could stand no more as he burst through his corn shuck hiding place flaring the biggest portion of the flock.  A volley of shots rang out as 3 green heads were dropped not far from their landing space.  Murphy and Fritzy grabbed the downed birds and Griz hid them underneath a couple of our goose shells.

I was sending apologies to the group for Murphy's eagerness as a pair of greenheads dropped from the graying November sky.  Orange feet and solid white neck rings were clearly visible as the drakes realized far too late that they had been duped. Doing the 'ducky back pedal' the birds tried to climb to safety.  Dad and Big Hoff rose and each folded one up.

We were feeling pretty proud of our set up and shooting skills, when 20 minutes later a group of 50 vectored from a giant flock that had left Nugget Lake to feed.  There were several ‘Just abouts’ as the birds skirted the edge of our predetermined landing zone.  Griz finally suggested we should take ‘em on the next pass as they seemed to be losing interest.  A fat hen promptly plopped into the hole and pulled 2 dozen of her friends with her.  How the 4 us managed only two birds in 10 shots is a bit of a mystery.  But, we had little time to feel sorry for ourselves.

 Flock after flock continued to tornado above us, around us, and in front of us for the next two hours.  The company of family and good friends was outstanding.  Murphy and Fritzy performed 16 retrieves that made their owners proud, even if we did run out of peanuts and jerky.  Our shooting could best be described as ‘inconsistent.’

  A short list of excuses included: “The sun was in my eyes…the dog was in my way…my blind doors are stuck…I didn’t want to shoot the spinner…I forgot to load my gun…I thought you were going to take that one…when I pulled up, there were only hens in front of me…I didn't miss! 

  The laughter and storytelling continued long after limits were reached and shooting times elapsed. As we stacked the decoys into the darkness, the nearly full moon lit the way for several more thousand pairs of whistling wings.  They dropped from the sky like fighter jets, and took off again from corn stubble and bean fields with full crops and gurgling voices.

The whistling wings of Wisconsin will not be here much longer.  Soon, the lakes that hold the rafts through the night will be frozen.  The fields of grain and corn will be blanketed with snow.  Its’ now plentiful bounties will be covered until the thawing rays of  March and April melt the white stuff away.  The birds will continue to journey southward, but will hopefully return again next season.

 

Until then, I like to think of waterfowl hunts gone by.  Fond ones include trips down the Chippewa with my Dad and Uncles and Lester, as we ventured into the Tiffany Bottoms.  Waiting for the fog to lift off Maiden Rock Bay, as green wing teal buzz the bobbing decoys; Crouching on a diversion dike with cousin Sam as wave after wave of  diving bluebills bombard us on their way back to Devil’s Lake;  Swatting gnats as the dew and humidity of a September morning stand in the way of dozens of early season Canada geese; Hearing the ‘clickety clack’ of ice from the late Belle’s tail as she fixed her eyes upon circling gadwalls; Remembering  the squeak of oars against locks of crooked flat bottom boats, and feeling the mucky spray of wet labs, that always seem to shake themselves off in front of you. Waiting anxiously to hear the words "Take Em!" over the whirring cupped wings and rattling cattails or wild rice.

Are you lucky enough to have heard, seen, felt and replayed any or all of these things?  Lucky the soul like me who has!

Keep your eyes to the skies and hold your hunting memories tight.  The winter season may be long, but the whirling wings will return in good time...and I'll be waiting.

-TGI

Stan's River

The river doesn’t look like much to the untrained eye. There are only a handful of spots deep enough swim.  Pick any place you want in a ten-mile stretch and you can pretty much cast from one bank to the opposite side.  The water runs cooler and cleaner now than it did 30 years ago. The trout are smaller and thinner, although they are more numerous.  After the first couple of weekends in May, fisherman are quite scarce.  Most opt for inland lakes, or larger rivers with easy access and open casting pockets.

 I like to call it Stan’s River.  That’s not the name you’ll find on the county maps or the state listing of fishable trout waters if you ‘Google’ it. The name fits though. For others, it could have a name like Brule, Rush, Kinni, Eau Galle, Tomorrow, Cedar, Plum, Cannon, Bear, Powder or Flambeau. The true name doesn’t really matter, nor does the location.

You see Stan grew up on this stream. His dad brought him here to pluck plump rainbows and native brook trout from undercut banks in the warming sunshine of May and June. This was before Stan could ride a bike absent of training wheels. That was six decades ago.

Through elementary school Stan and his cronies headed to the river often. To fish, swim, float on tubes, trap muskrats,and pass shoot wood ducks and teal at dawns and dusks of fall.  It wasn’t the best place for small town boy to spend his free time…it was the only place.

Most of the high school kids in the 60’s found other interests that kept them away from the river.  Not Stan. He took his younger brothers, sisters, and neighbor kids with him along the way. Teaching them the best places to wade, where the trout were hiding, and how to fashion an old screen door into  homemade minnow traps.  He taught them to catch crayfish, by scooping them from behind the tail, because they could only swim backwards.  He showed them the best feeder springs for drinking and the ones where the peppery watercress grew. He showed them the best banks for harboring wild black cap bushes, and near-by ridges to find bittersweet plants.

Stan also showed the young ones how to avoid some perils of the riverside shores. In those days, it was best not to tangle with any of the Tachshire family; known Moonshiners who didn’t want any one else near their land.  He also helped them identify poison ivy, stands of wood nettles,and patches of wild parsnip that would be the undoing of many unprepared riverside travelers.

Yet, for each negative curveball Stan’s river doled out, it repayed us with dozens of positive attributes.  The simple serene gurgling of water dancing across flat rocks; the blazing spots, stripes and fins of wild trout; the jet black nose and quivering lips of a month old fawn sneaking in for a sip; the laughter of splashing children; the rendezvous place for grandfathers, dads, sons, and moms to spend some time together wondering what might be around the next bend or what was lurking below the water’s surface. These and many more scenes have been replayed over and over, and they will carry on long after we have passed.

Stan still finds time to venture to the river.  His legs may be failing but his mind is sharp as ever.  He remembers countless details of the trips he’s taken, and the conversations had with a lifetime full of outdoor partners. It may be tough for Stan to retie dry flies onto 5x tippet now, especially if he leaves his glasses in the truck.  But his vison of  60 years worth of memories made on and around his river are as fresh and vibrant as morning dew on a streamside trillium.

Rivers and people are in continuous states of change. Evolving, improving, steadying, rising and falling. So it is with the river and with Stan. For he is as much a part of the river, as it is a part of him.  


-TGI

Musky Madness

This musky fishing outing came as a bit of a surprise.  My wife, Hayley had volunteered her newly acquired garage sale services to younger sister Norah who lives in White Bear Lake, MN with her husband Mark. 

Knowing that spending the first Saturday in June at a garage sale could drive any outdoorsman stir crazy, Hayley suggested, “Maybe Mark will take you musky fishing?”

“Do you have room for me in your boat?” I questioned.

“Yeah, it’s just me tomorrow for the opener,” Mark answered giggling, “My friends refuse to musky fish with me anymore.”

So it was set…

At  4:30 a.m. we pulled into a parking lot.  From all of the vehicles, I wasn’t quite sure if it was the boat launch or the outside of the Mall of America on Black Friday.  Obviously there were lots of other crazy people after Esox masquinongy as well. 

Without too much trouble we were soon bopping across Lake X in Mark’s new rig and 90-horse Mercury.  Killing the motor, we glided towards a mid-lake hump and began heaving our offerings.  I was using one of Mark’s homemade top water baits called a Click Fin. It was a jointed green and black job with three large trebles and a silver prop.  Upon retrieve, it clicked, chugged, spit water, and scared most of the lake’s local waterfowl to the backside of the nearest island.  The teeth marks the lure sported proved that it had fooled a fish before.

Mark chose a two bladed spinning buck tail that musky enthusiasts and bait shop owners affectionately call a ‘Double Cowgirl.’   To best describe this monstrosity, picture a 20 year-old hula dancer’s skirt sandwiched between a pair of cymbals from the local high school marching band.  If you add a grapple or dredge hook to the back, Bingo! You have yourself a state of the art musky catching machine. 

The eastern sky was turning from charcoal to a light gray as we worked our baits with no hint of action for the first hour.  Dimples on the surface and scattering baitfish here and there, led us to believe there was something big lurking in the waters below.  90 minutes later, I gave my arms a break. To keep from getting ‘skunked’ I rigged my ultra- light and pitched a tiny jig towards a weed bed.  Three small crappies in as many casts at least made me feel a little better about buying an out of state license.

The sun was climbing high in a clear sky, so Mark suggested I try a buck tail.  Thankfully he handed me a single bladed number to use, as retrieving a ‘Double Cowgirl’ for any length of time is like trying to reel in a submerged open umbrella.  Mark changed baits often; alternating between wood, rubber, and hardware creations.  To be honest, some of the offerings looked more like Halloween costumes than fishing lures. 

Mark boated a couple small pike, but the less than ideal musky conditions of bluebird skies, calm wind, and heavy pressure from dozens of other fisherman seemed to have the deck stacked against us.  Then it happened…

“Ohh, big fish,” Mark more gasped then said.  “He missed it!”

The mid 40 inch fish had taken a boat side swipe at a bright colored jerk bait. The following fish restored some confidence as we continued fan-casting the area in hopes of hooking up.

Mark explained, “It would be best to let him rest for 20 or 30 minutes, but with so many other boats around, we’ll work him a bit.”

It sounded like a good idea to me, but like most other musky fishing strategies, it did not equal a fish at the end of the line.

We had time to work one last spot before our 9 a.m. curfew set by our wives, children, and mother-in law would be up. We headed for an underwater emerging cabbage bed where Mark had boated a 49- incher the year before.

    About a dozen casts in, I was watching my bait track to the boat as I heard “FISH ON” from Mark standing on the bow. The musky had inhaled a crappie patterned jerk bait that was slightly smaller than a Volkswagen van bumper.   A tail, fins, and sharp teeth thrashed at the surface as Mark steered her toward the starboard side of the boat. The fish was certainly not fond of this situation, so it whirled and headed toward the bow, trying to shake the bait.  Mark led the fish deftly past the trolling motor, to the starboard side, where I was waiting with the net.  The battle was surprisingly short, and I am not sure who was more surprised…Me, or the 30-lb giant that was finning in the mesh that I held in the water. I am sure we both had that “What the h*%! Just Happened” look. 

After a high five, Mark reached over the side and removed the last remaining treble hook from the fish that would measure 47.5 inches.  A couple quick pictures preceded the rocking/ reviving of the trophy fish. With a powerful whip of the tail, she disappeared back towards the cabbage bed from where she had come. 

Ten minutes later a 45-incher followed my slow rolling offering to the boat.  I attempted to make a ‘figure-eight’ to entice a strike, but it was feeble at best in terms of musky fisherman standards.  Like a swimming ghost, the fish returned harmlessly to the depths. Feeling like a toddler who had his favorite toy snatched away, I shrugged and went back to casting.

Mark offered some advice. “Next time reel up nearly to the leader, and push your rod down into the water as far as you can reach. This makes the fish look down. If they are looking up, they see the boat like that one did.”

“Thanks,” I managed. “That would have been good to know a couple of minutes ago!”

We chuckled as Mark started the motor to head back to the landing.  We know better than to keep our wives waiting.  I am far too mentally stable to become a full-fledged musky fishing addict. Hopefully in time, Mark will allow me back in his boat and share some of his secrets about chasing the mysterious musky. 


The preceding rambling is dedicated to Holly Lunde who passed away suddenly on June 2, 2012 at the age of 52. Holly was a tremendous lady who worked for 17 years at the Plum City Public Library, and who also helped me edit some of my blog posts.  She was passionate about turning people of all ages on to literature.  Thank you for everything Holly, may God bless you and the family and friends you leave behind.


-TGI

May I ?

I blinked a couple times somewhere after the ice went out of Lake Pepin in early March and what do you know, we find ourselves in the middle of May.  It’s a fine month…this May is, but I guess that’s my humble opinion.

The fifth month on our calendar gets high marks from me for several reasons. The mud of April has long since firmed up. Flowers are all popped out now, with the threat of snow and frost losing ground in our rear-view mirrors. All our farmer friends are working frantically to finish up the planting.  Some have even cut first crop hay.  We like to send  friendly waves to these workers of the land don’t we?  Except for when they pull those big planters or wagons out in front of us, on county roads when we are already running late for Junior’s spring piano recital.

May brings out in full force the local boys and girls of summer. Aluminum bats sound off here and there, as the sparse crowds cheer local heroes and heroines around the diamonds.  Charcoal grills send out aromas of sizzling burgers, brats and maybe a chicken or two turning golden and delicious, over the top of a can of brew.  Great Grandma’s potato salad recipe is being copied and served all around the tri-state area.  Some of these imposters even taste pretty good…I like mine with extra yellow mustard, and rustic chunks of a dill pickle.

May cruises along, as high school and college seniors make their way up the aisles for graduation, turning pages on this book called life. Students, parents, and teachers are getting ready to shift gears from the rat race of spring mayhem, to the more subdued and relaxing tenants of summer.

The parkas, gloves and stocking hats of winter have been pushed to the back of the closet in favor of flip-flops, shades, and sunscreen.  In no time at all, of those beach towels will make an appearance as well.

Those that want, can now head to their favorite trout stream and use hooks with barbs, and bait them with angle worms found while weeding gardens or flower beds.  It’s now ok to keep a 15-inch brown or 11-inch bookie and serve it with fresh asparagus tips or even some earthy morel mushrooms if that’s your thing.

May keeps a watchful eye as fuzzy goslings and ducklings are steered by mother hens around the Chippewa River backwaters.  They are trying to avoid toothy pike, bedding largemouth bass and the occasional snapping turtle that are all out for an unsuspecting lunch.

The forests and fields are mazes for wild turkey and pheasant chicks.  They peep and waddle through the playground decorated by sun colored wood poppies, and brilliant white bloodroot flowers. Sunsets are closer to 9 p.m. now, compared to 4 p.m. a few months back. That mother May is a damn good exterior designer. 

I think May smiles down on all of us as she makes her way towards June. I tip my hat and smile back.

-TGI