“But, Did You Catch Anything?” In response to a readers question.

IceFishing 1-20-12 (Photo credit: DenSmith (old – dennisbsa))

I don’t remember if it was Patrick F. McManus, or John Gustafson from “Grumpy, Old Men” who said, “When you are not catching fish, your stories tend to revolve around the scenery, and what a beautiful day it was. But when the fish ARE biting… Well, then, it’s all about the fight.” Perhaps it was neither who said it, maybe it came from my own pool of wisdom… It was probably Pat, or John.  But in reference to your question. I drilled about 8-10 holes in the lake that day- after 2 holes with an 8-inch auger with dull blades, and 6-inches of ice on the lake surface, I would lay on the ice and do my, “fish out of water routine”, until I had sufficient oxygen levels to continue.  After the first two holes, I fished each hole for 20 minutes a piece, catching 2-3 fish within the first 15 minutes. I did this until boredom set in, and decided that new holes needed to be drilled, and remembered that the best fishing occurred within the first two minutes of dropping the bait down the hole.This is based on observations in which I would watch what the little rascals were doing underwater with a video camera. When the bait dropped, they would swim madly from out of nowhere like an outfielder chasing a pop-fly.So, like I said, I would drill 2 holes. Lay on the ice sucking air like a fish out of water, repeat, until I had 8-10 holes. I say 8-10, because delirium MUST have set in causing me to drill several more holes I had forgotten about. Then, I would drop the baited hooks down the hole.  Once the bait was dropped I would give a 2 minute count, then move to the next hole if I did not get a strike. I am sure the professionals on Poland’s Professional Ice Fishing Team have a shorter name for this technique, but I called it “maddness I could not escape.” I caught about a dozen pan fish that day, and released some of the smaller ones. (Those worth less than a bite.) But… the sky was clear, crisp, and bright. Children were playing on the ice, and somewhere a happy dog barked, as leaf-less trees swayed gently in the breeze.  It was a beautiful day!

…The Tastiest of Baits.

Isborr (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

Challenges are lurking behind every endeavor, even for the person trying to get some ice-fishing time in.  Now days, just getting the frigid temperatures necessary to freeze the lake surface seems impossible.  Then coordinating the freeze with time off work seems a logistical nightmare. I remember when Old-Man Winter would freeze the ice in November, and it would stay that way until March.  That was before the Global Warming came along.  Now, it seems we can’t get good ice.

 

Global warming ubx (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

The last time we had a good freeze was a couple of years ago.  Since then, there was no ice hockey, the local ice fishing contest was cancelled,  there wasn’t even enough snow to host a snowball fight.   It was too warm!  It was very frustrating because at the end of the last good ice fishing season my dear, sweet, lovely wife had bought me a gift in the form of ice fishing jigs.  Fancy ones, with the sparkly crystals embedded near the hook.  The flashing crystal is meant to drive those curious panfish to madness with wonder, and hunger. Enough so, hopefully, to compel them take the bait.  There was this one jig in the bunch called the, Tarantula, that had hooks ALL over the place.  Scary looking!  It makes you think it will just reach out and snatch a fish for even swimming near it.  Heck!  Just trying to bait the thing up looked like an exercise in self-mutilation. I couldn’t wait to try it out.  It didn’t happen, however, because the global warming swooped in and took the ice away for the season.

 

Recently, the weatherman rolled his weather-dice, and made big predictions for snow, cold and the first promise of “fishable ice” this season.

 

“You have to hurry,”  He said.   “Because next week the temperatures would shoot back up to 50 degrees and the ice would go away.”

 

The weatherman began sounding like one of those commercials where they are selling their stuff at low, low prices.  It was annoying.  Regardless, I couldn’t wait to get to the lake!  It seemed that the work day would never end, but when it did I was on my way to my favorite fishing spot.

 

Heading out on the road I had reminded myself that with cold, and snow comes slippery roads, and before I knew it, what looked like a promising head start on the highway soon degraded to a crawl.  You can only imagine my disappointment as the vehicles in front of me ground to a halt, and the neighboring lanes of traffic began stacking up like blocks on a Tetris board, whittling away the head start down to a late night arrival.

 

Tetris (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

Now when the weatherman says “fishable ice” I can only assume that he means that the water will be hard.  I have never fished with him, so I don’t know how he comes to a determination. But when I say, “fishable ice”, I mean that it has to successfully pass a series of test I have created to ensure the joy and safety of the fishing experience.  It goes something like this… Sometime in November, the lake freezes and I chuck rocks at it to see if I can smash holes in the surface.  After that is done, I step out on its surface a foot or two off of shore to see if the ice will hold me.   After that is done, I go inside to dry off and change into fresh clothes because I have broken through what is termed, “Thin Ice”.  After that is done, I sip coffee, while standing guard by the picture window; watching the lake, waiting for the neighbors to congregate on the lakes surface.  When they do, then I know its safe to go ice fishing.

 

Ice Fishing in Katonah NY (Photo credit: sonjalovas)

 

During a recent neighborhood gathering I overheard a conversation in which one neighbor admitted to another that watching me break through the “thin ice” is part of their test before letting their children on the ice.

 

Ice Skating, The Pond at Bryant Park, NYC (Photo credit: Holly Ford Brown)

 

My family enjoys the fish I occasionally bring in.  And because of this I try to justify my ice fishing urges to my hardcore, fly-fishing buddies by saying that the “nymphs” I use are very authentic, fight down to the taste.  They only shake their heads in sadness, and disgust as they deliberate whether or not they should revoke my seat at fly-fishermen’s table at the local coffee shop.

 

Coffee Shop (Photo credit: dailylifeofmojo)

 

While it is true that big risk often produces big rewards, so too can they produce big disasters.  Human nature has proven that temptation will compel us to go for the bait almost every time.  Maybe it is not just the bait itself we are after, but instead, the challenge of getting the bait without getting caught. Perhaps challenge truly is, the tastiest of baits.

 

worms (Photo credit: Wahj)

 

A Christmas Surprise!

During the 2012 Christmas break I received an unexpected, and very exciting surprise gift from my college-aged nephew, Matthew.  It all happened the second day of the family gathering.  You know the one.  The one where your mother-in-law works her fingers to the bone cooking restaurant grade feasts; with snacks on every table, and drinks cooling outside the sliding glass door in “nature’s refrigerator.”  There were also babies to hug and hold, laughter to be shared, good memories to reflect on, and secrets to revealed.  And this year the secrets were about ME!!!  So, to make a long story short…

About a year ago, I had thought that creating a T-shirt logo with “Urban Grizzly Gear” would be fun to make, and had promptly done so.  I then, equally as promptly, added a link to my blog site, thinking I may let it sit there for a little while before posting any advertising.  Once again, I promptly forgot about it.  That is, until I saw Matthew standing in the doorway wearing one of my first, “Cafe-Press”, designs with a big grin on his face.  He got me!  And now the secret was officially out.

The first “Urban Grizzly” T-shirt sale.

While it is true that Matthew’s purchase was the first.  Don’t be the last to get your “Urban Grizzly Fishing Gear”  I have sizes from the smallest cub, to the adult sized bears to suit your Grizzly needs.  I have shirts for your canine pets, clocks, I even have bumper-stickers and gift boxes, too.

Now, I must say, that after the initial shock; I couldn’t help but notice that the emblem on Matthew’s t-shirt was pleasing to the eye, and the t-shirt seemed durable enough to withstand the rigors of an Urban Grizzly, college student.

Thank you, Matthew, for your support.

Let your bear roam free!

Shannon- The Urban Grizzly

 

Father and Son Battle at the Metro Park

As the fighters moved around the course, “Mongoose” spied, “Corvette” under the sunny, blue sky with a few wispy clouds hung for decoration.  “Corvette” could see the grin on “Mongooses” face as they passed each other at top speed.  Corvette began a turn, and could since the Mongoose reaching for his gun as he turned in behind him.  Corvette saw one of the missiles fly past in front of him; a narrow miss- though he could hear it whistle  as it flew past.

Two missiles whistle past their target during an intense battle.flew past.  Corvette then began a counter-clock wise death spin, hoping Mongoose would foolishly expend a couple more missiles early in the fight, as he usually did; so he could swoop in for the kill.  As he began a second rotation he watched a missile come in and hit him low to the left-side.  Mongoose peeled off the pursuit, as the rules dictated while Corvette flew to the end of the course; gaining speed for his run.

After a tight turn, Corvette kicked in the speed, quickly gaining a lock , and firing his first of six Nerf missiles, as Mongoose sought to evade.  Peeling off a wide turn in the Lower Huron Metro Park parking lot; Corvette observed Mongoose, picking up spent rounds and loading them in a laugh filled panic as Corvette bore down on him.  Corvette took his time locking on, which cost him; because Mongoose pulled a blind hip-shot that nailed corvette in the shoulder.  Corvette knew he was in trouble, having ridden past Mongoose who was off his bike with his feet on the ground; which, according to Geneva Conventions allowed Mongoose to engage and lock on as soon as he was back on his bike.  This is exactly what Mongoose did; jumping on Corvettes six and firing a missile into his back as they laughed with one another, while braking in the middle of the empty lot to gather their missiles for their Nerf guns.  For the next time.

Corvette looked at his Son, “Mongoose”, and said; “You sure got me that time, Son.  That was fun!”

The winner!

“Yeah, Dad.  That was fun!  I guess that will teach you to mess with me.”

“You can say that again, Son.”  Corvette Said.

“Yeah, Dad.  That was fun!  I guess that will teach you to mess with me.”

I couldn’t help but smile.

Evading an incoming missile, “Mongoose” lives to fight another battle

The Kingfisher.

Reblogged from Urbangrizzly's Blog:

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While camping at a favorite vacation spot, I stealthily rowed the boat closer to a known Bass hang out.  The boat, an ancient vessel, was about 14 feet long, constructed of iron and cinder blocks, painted green, and had several leaks.   The boat had its’ own smell.  I am reminded of the boat on those rainy mornings when the worms are flooded out of the houses. 

Read more… 1,267 more words

I saw what must be the son of the Kingfisher from this story over the Labor day weekend. I am worried for him, because he began yelling at folks to; "Get off his lake." Oh well, I hope it works out better for him than it did for his old bird.

The Dentist Visit- A 2010 Re-post

 

SEE YOUR DENTIST – NARA – 515370 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I regretfully resigned myself to the dentist.  I had scheduled the appointment six months before, after my last cleaning, but two months since the growth appeared on the roof of my mouth.

I knew this day would come, had worried about its coming for years.  I used to be a snuff dipper, and there was not a day that went by that someone wouldn’t warn me of the cancer risks involved.  So when the growth appeared, I did what every other man facing the battle of his life would do…I ignored it, and I told nobody; and I began the process of taking account of my life… The one thing I had discovered was that at age 40 it had gone by to fast.  I should do something about it.

“The next appointment was two months away.”  I told myself, I will share the news then.  In the meantime, I will explore it.

It felt like a blister.  So, one morning, being a man, I thought I would pop it.  Reaching for the nearest sharp object; a pair of nail clippers with file, I proceeded to jab at it.  It was refused to go away, just like I feared it would, thereby cementing my diagnosis.

English: Nail clipper (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Finally, the day before my appointment arrived, and I found myself restless.  I felt good about being able to get this off of my chest.  Because at least then the process would begin.  I would enter some kind of chemo, my hair would fall out, I would be sick a lot, I would lose weight because my food would now come in a can with a chocolate, or strawberry flavor.   Relatives would come to see me; some who I wouldn’t have seen in decades, as I lay in bed drinking iced water from an oversized styrofoam cup.  They would leave the room when I had to use the bathroom in the strange-looking jug that hangs by the bed rail, which some of the children who visit want to touch, but their mothers firmly tell them not to, and in a few months it would be over.

“My wife would be a widow, and my son would be fatherless.”   I found myself thinking as I stared into the TV at 2:15 a.m.

The next morning I took my son to day camp, while I went to the dentist to keep my appointment.  Once there, the hygienist began her work.  She was very funny.  No doubt doing her best to keep her patient at ease, while being professionally thorough in her work.  As she began her task with a snap of her latex gloves, I told her my story… the whole horrible thing, I told her that I was a reformed dipper, I brushed every day, flossed once…in a while, and that I now had this growth, and held my breath as my words sank in.  She took my statement in stride and said,

“Open up, and let’s have a peak.”

English: A Dentist and her Dental assistant (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I watched her eyes search the innards of my mouth, moving back and forth above the facemask that she wore.

“Yup, I see the lump you described.  I need to call the dentist over.”  She ended abruptly.

My heart skipped a few beats; after all, she wouldn’t call the dentist over unless it was serious, right?

The dentist pulled up along my chair, and began his inspection.  The mask hiding his facial expression, which I struggled to search, trying to find any expression to indicate good or bad news, only to find nothing.  He paused after the exam before speaking.

“What you have, is called a fistula.”  He said sternly.

The news burned like a lance through my heart.  I bravely held my emotions in check.

“Why has this happened?”  I screamed in my head.  How am I going to tell my family?  I worried to myself.

Before I could ask the first question, he looked me in the eyes, and said.

“I know what you are thinking.  And I can tell you how you got this.  It is from using too many dirty words.  Mr. Potty-Mouth.”

My confused expression encouraged him to continue.

“A fistula is a small sack of pus that forms from an infection.  We will just clean it out, treat it with antibiotics and you should be all set.”

He paused, then lowered his voice for what HE thought was the bad news.

“Although.”  He paused for effect.   “The best way to treat this issue is by doing a root canal.”

It’s Root Canal Friday (Photo credit: The Shifted Librarian)

It was probably the first time he ever had anyone leap out of the chair to click his heels together for a root canal.

 

Fishing Memoirs- 8:10

Trout-master Jim posing in front of the Castle Rock Inn Motel and Cafe along the Gallatin River.

It was the early 2000′s, and the Detroit Red Wings were a force to be reckoned with on the ice, and Trout-master Jim and I were still fired up about the great, but very brief, fishing experience we had in the Yellowstone area on a family vacation the summer before. It seemed that whenever we gathered for a family event, the rest of the family would have to endure our stories. At one meal, in particular, the gauntlet was thrown.

“You know,” Trout-master Jim slyly began. “If a person had the interest, it wouldn’t take much more than a days drive to get back to that river.”

Typical East Gallatin River Rainbow Trout (Released) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Feeling the pressure and desire to relive the fantastic fishing on the Gallatin River, I looked over at my lovely wife to gauge her reaction to her father’s challenge. She wore a beautiful smile, and sparkling blue eyes that seemed to say, “Go for it, guys!”

“Okay” I said, breaking into a mild sweat of anticipation. “When do we leave?”

“How about when school let’s out.” Jim suggested.

Both of us being teachers, this worked out nicely.

“Sounds good to me.” I said.

That was pretty much all there was to the planning! Sure, there was a to-do list that had to be attended to, but we still had a couple month’s for them to be all worked out. And the details were limited to fishing gear, clothing, road tunes, and grub.

On a beautiful June day Trout-master Jim pulled his Astro-van into the driveway. This was D-Day, a trip of a lifetime was about to begin. As he stepped out of the van, he asked my dear, sweet, lovely wife to grab us all a pop from out of the cooler for a toast. As she did so, I looked into the cooler and was astounded at how full the cooler was. I have seen grocery stores with fewer items than this cooler had! My wonderful mother-in-law would never let us leave the state without a full arsenal of snacks. It was impressive.

After retrieving the pops, and opening them, we held them aloft as my lovely wife toasted us with the slogan;
“Montana or bust!”

As I loaded up my gear, My dear sweet, lovely wife opened up the back door of the Astro-van and stuck a sign in the back window that quoted her toast; “Montana, or Bust!” We made small talk for a few minutes, before it was time to say good-bye. Then we lit out for the highway, to take us back to the great fishing of Montana’s Gallatin River, and possibly explore another river or two.

Trout-master Jim, and I alternated driving responsibilities for 27 hours from Michigan’s Thumb area to the “Castle Rock Inn Motel and Cafe.” The one located south of Bozeman, on Gallatin Road. We had stopped in for a cup of coffee there, last year, and it seemed like a nice place. We had made reservations for what we thought was a room near the river; but instead was half of a house with a kitchen, and a deck that extended almost the entire width of the river. It was nice.

Trout-master Jim and I getting coffee from the Castle Rock Inn, the year before the 8:10 trip.

After the long drive, our eyes were spinning around like those slot machine dials you see in the casino movies. But that started to change when we were checking in, because we were about to be educated by the owner; a really nice man named, Fred. Fred was mild-mannered, spoke with an even voice, was knowledgeable of local politics, and told funny stories of fishing, bears, and hikers. But as Fred began to talk fishing, Trout-master Jim and I listened in rapt attention as the spinning dials of our eyes stopped on big trout.

Fred said; “Listen, what you wanna do, is get up early in the morning, and go down to that big rock near the bend in the river. Then, cast around the rock, and let your rig drift into where the current eases up.”

Fred paused, like all good story tellers do, before continuing. “Last week, at about seven in the morning, I would watch a guy cast; just like I told you, and get into a tremendous fight with and enormous Rainbow Trout. It had to be this big.”

As he spoke, he held his hands about two and a half feet apart. Then he finished his story.

“He never got him in. But every morning he was there, the fisherman had ONE shot at him. Once the fish was hooked, and got free, that would be it for the day. He wouldn’t touch anything the fisherman threw at him.”

Trout-master Jim and I exchanged glances, and returned or attention back to Fred. No doubt looking as sincere as a couple of deputies just getting the warrant on a bandit who was to be brought in- dead or alive.

While we were unloading our gear, Trout Master Jim asked;

“What time is it?”

After the long drive,  Fred’s big trout story and our need to fish, you would think that the answer would be a simple one. But certain details were overlooked. I took a quick glance at the 70′s era sunburst, yellow analog clock that hung on the houses brown-paneled wall.

“It’s 8:10.” I answered.

Since it was morning, “8:10″ was completely within the realm of possibility, and we were under the influences of Vacation Time. The effects, “Vacation Time”, have on the human mind are fast acting, and mysterious. Someone should do a study. It’s like your on vacation, and you are so absorbed in the good times, that time becomes meaningless. This is not the case in the regular world. In the real world, you are run by the clock; bed times, meal times, wake-ups, meetings, appointments; I even remember when T.V. shows ran on a schedule. The phrase; “Time flies when you are having fun” was made by someone caught in the grips of “Vacation Time.” Conversely, the phrase; “A watched pot never boils” was coined by some harried, overworked, under-vacationed chef…waiting for the pot to boil, wishing he was on vacation time.

Thinking that we had such an early start to our fishing vacation, Trout-master Jim could think of nothing else besides that monster fish Fred had described. And decided to take a crack at him to see if Ol’ Fred was having us on. He tied on a size 14 Parachute Pale Morning Dunn (PMD) and cautiously made his way to the river. I hung back to watch the master from my perch on the spacious deck. The view there was second to none. The river had an iridescent glow to it, almost a greenish-blue and was dotted with gem colored rocks as big as a pop cooler which gave that section of river a jewelry-like appearance. It was a nice distraction to ponder, while Trout-master Jim got into position. He had to take his time, because that river was a-ripping! One wrong step, and he would have been down the chute before I could get off the deck.

Trout-master Jim took a position upstream, and at an angle of the big rock Fred had described. I could see that Trout-Master Jim was keeping nearer the shoreline so that the fast current wouldn’t pull at him, while the rock would block his profile from the big fish. Once he was set, The Master began stripping line off of the reel until he had enough to reach his target. He let the line drift downstream a bit to set up a roll cast, and throwing a “Zorro-Mend”, or Reach-Mend at the end of the cast, to create a zig-zag pattern with the line on the water to reduce drag, and offer a more realistic drift.

The PMD drifted around the big rock and swirled around the calm back water for a moment before a giant trout rocketed out of the water with the fly in its mouth. From where I stood on the deck, it appeared that the trout was as tall as Jim was, even though he was only in water up to his knees! As the fish began falling back into the river, Trout Master Jim’s rod began bending with the weight of the mighty fish, then nothing. He got away. Trout master Jim held his position for a moment, either not believing it happened, or hoping it wasn’t over; I couldn’t be sure. But when he turned to look in my direction, he wore one of the biggest smiles I had ever seen on another human. He shrugged his shoulders and began reeling in the line, knowing that any more attempts this morning would be useless.

After that, we decided to throw some gear into the Astro, and hit some of our more successful haunts from the previous year to warm up on, before we went exploring. I’m glad we did, because it was just like old times! Trout-master Jim started the catching fish at nearly the first cast; which continued for pretty much the rest of the day. I caught quite a few; enough to make it fun, but not enough to be bored with it. We were having such a good time, that we hadn’t eaten lunch, dinner, or even a snack; and before we knew it night was setting in to chase us off the river. But we couldn’t leave because the fishing was too good to quit.

When we finally pulled ourselves off of the river; we were exhausted, but grinning from the satisfaction that we were repeating last years good fortune. There were no restaurants to be found in the area, so we returned to the cabin and began to forage for food in the cooler. We were grateful for Marian’s cooler packing skills, because we had a dinner fit for royalty. As we relived the day’s fishing events, I asked Trout-master Jim;

“What time is it?”

Looking at the yellow clock on the wall, Trout-master Jim answered.

“A little after eight.”

My mind was so filled with good fishing memories that I didn’t question the time. In fact there isn’t much I remember after that, except waking up in the morning from a blissful night of sleep that was filled with fishy dreams.

As I stumbled around, getting the coffee going, I could see that Trout-master Jim was getting his gear together to have another go at that “Monster Trout”.   As he worked, he asked;

“What time is it?”

Looking up from the coffee pot to the clock, I said;

“Huh, that’s weird.  It’s 8:10.”

After investigating we realized that the clock on the wall was unplugged!  We laughed over this for a bit, and then became philosophical about it. We began to use it at any opportunity to remind one another that it didn’t really matter what time it was, only that it was time to fish. So whenever either of us asked the time, we always answered: “8:10.” It was our own personal, “5:00- Somewhere” cue to remind us to relax and enjoy the time we had on the water. And it was in this spirit, that having missed the big fish, once again, that Trout-master Jim and I decided to explore the Madison River which was a few miles away. The first section we encountered was called, “Black’s Ford.”

As we pulled onto the trail that paralleled the river; big, ominous looking clouds were building. We slowly drove along the river looking for sign that fish were there, so we wouldn’t waste time. As we drove the trail, Jim saw a couple “rises”, with one trout rising so high, he ran out of water. We pulled off to the side of the trail, geared up and we each sought out our own spot.

Trout-master Jim’s approach to fly-fishing is clean and professional. He works his way; slowly, and methodically casting to likely fish holding areas, and enters the water only to fight a fish, or when all likely fish holding areas along the shoreline have been cleared. Then he continues in the same cautious manner toward the center of the river. Not me; once I am geared up, I hit the water like a ten year-old at the water park. No doubt tripping, slipping, and stepping on 25 fish as I plod out to the exact center of the river.

Sometimes it can be a bit ticklish getting out there, because water depth isn’t always what it seems to be. And in this particular case, on this particular river I had painted myself into a spot where if I took a step up or down stream, I would be, “Taking on water”, as we fly fishermen like to say. So, with nothing else to do, I started casting.

I was fishing a section of river that had a weed bed which formed a sort of, “hump”, about 30 feet downstream, and at an angle from where I stood in the middle of the river. I would cast to both sides of the hump, starting from its’ beginning, and work my way down, trying to give a good presentation to any trout that lay in wait. After a while, I was catching some nice 9+ inch trout, some of them were Rainbow’s, but most of them Brown’s; and then I got a jolt that nearly took me out of my wader-boots. While using a size 16 Parachute Adams with a size 14 Bead-head Prince Nymph dropper, I let it roll on the far side of the hump; and a fish hit my rig so hard, I thought it was going to jerk the rod from my hand!

Typical East Gallatin River Brown Trout (Released) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

After getting over that first shock, I began working the big fish. First, I would hold the rod with my right hand at about a forty-five degree angle. This would force the fish to have to fight two battles; the current, and the line. If you just hold on center with the current, that fish will fight all day, in fact they do that all day anyway. Then you switch to the left hand, and lean the rod out forty-five degrees the other way. The trick here is slow and easy. Don’t horse ‘em. Because if you do, you may pull the hook out, and the fish gets away. And I have had big fish get away, no doubt this one would to if I didn’t keep my focus. Trout-master Jim called me on the walkie-talkie, and said;

“It looks like you got a nice fish there.” Trout-master Jim observed. Then, offering encouragement said. “Don’t horse ‘em!”

I grinned as the first big drops of rain began falling. Then with my free hand, I keyed the mic attached to my fishing vest.

“You should net this big fish for me.” I suggested.

“If you think I’m climbing into that river, you’re nuts! That current is doing a hundred miles per hour!” He exclaimed. Then added; ” Anyway, that looks like a big fish. You have to fight that one on your own.”

It was good to know that we both understood the rules of landing big fish.

When he finished the last statement, the sky opened up, and the downpour began. In an attempt to offer more encouragement, Trout-master Jim’s voice spoke over the small radio.

“I hope the creek doesn’t rise!”

I nodded in understanding.

I slowly kept working the fish; left, then right, left then right. Sometimes, I would break the routine, go to center, then back in the same direction. Occasionally the fish would break his routine of imitating an anchor at the bottom of the river, and would shake his head. I would ease the pressure during these times, and pray a bit. The prayer may have lacked in detail, but they were sincere nonetheless.

“Oh, please! Oh, please!”

Left, then right. Slowly now. Hold on right. Start to move left, switch back to right. Ease up for head shake. After five or so minutes, I found my self in the zone. The rain slowed to a steady torrent, and I could see Trout-master Jim moving toward the van to watch the show from a comfortable seat. Slowly my mind began to wander; left, then right…easy, now. Take in some line, not to much. Left… I was thinking about big fish I have lost in the past. It’s very frustrating. I know of some folks who have broken rods over losing fish. Right… It’s kind of like sports. Like hockey! I was watching a game the other night before we left for Montana, The Wings, Vs. The Avalanche. Steve Yzerman had the puck and was skating head on for the goalie- an easy shot to the right because he had the goalie off-balance, and he MISSED! His reaction could have been explosive, full of rage, but it wasn’t. He was sliding on his knees, as his head tilted to the ceiling in the, “Oh, man! I missed!” pose; and he was laughing. He was not busting his stick on the ice, no cuss words were pouring forth; he was laughing, like he just enjoyed being there. “Oops, I missed! Maybe next time.”

Original Logo of the Detroit Red Wings. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“Hey Griz!” The radio chirped. “Do you know what time it is?” Trout-master Jim asked.

By now, it seemed like the fish and I had been locked in battle for hours. I shook my head, “no”, in response.

“It’s 8:10!” He said.

I smiled, as I tilted my head up allowing the rain to sting my face.

“I am here.” I said to myself.

After about three-quarters of an eternity, the fish began rising to the surface to surrender. It looked to be a really nice, 20+ inch Brown Trout. And I nearly had him. He was so heavy, that when I reached out to net him, his mass combined with the current speed pulled him away from me, keeping him just out of reach. I could see the fish was tired, and I wanted to get him in quickly to finish the battle so I could release him. I extended my hand to grab the leader to pull him in the rest of the way. As I did so, I remembered a piece of advice saying to never touch the leader or the fish would get off. Disregarding the advise, I grabber the leader, and pulled the fish toward me. The big Brown Trout suddenly gave a last shake of the head, which threw the hook from his mouth. As he slowly sank back into the depths, I swear I saw him wink, and grin up at me. Taking a page from Mr. Yzerman’s book, I just winked, and smiled back.

“What happened?” Trout-master Jim asked.

“He got away.” I said.

“You grabbed the leader, didn’t ya?” He inquired.

“Yup, I had no choice. He was done.” I admitted.

“Well, that’s fishing.” Trout-master Jim agreed. Then continued. “Hey, let’s go get a burger, I’m hungry.”

“Good idea!” I agreed.
The fishing went on like this for several more days. It was like we couldn’t miss, and even when we did, it still felt like we were ahead. With catch and release fishing it was like that.

On the last morning at the Castle Rock Inn, Jim went down to the rock, for one last go with the monster. This time, he went downstream of the rock, nearly parallel with where the fished had leaped out of the water every morning, since we first arrived. Taking my coffee out to the deck, as had become the ritual; I had taken my usual position over the gem encrusted stream, and waited for the show to begin; as did Fred, and some other patrons.

Jim stripped off some line, and quickly shot it low, toward the rock; hooking the end of the line so it pointed to that calm spot behind the rock, where the big trout was known to lie. The Parachute PMD lit softly upon the water’s surface, with barely a ripple. After a three count, in which everyone watching held their breath; the water exploded, and Jim quickly set the hook and worked his way behind the fish; pulling from behind. This seemed to confound the fish, because his next jump sent him to the shallow water just in front of where Trout-master Jim was standing; who had pulled out his net and leaped at the Trout like a cowboy roping calves at the rodeo.

Trout-master Jim quickly removed the hook, and lifted the giant for all to see. Unfortunately, nobody had a camera to commemorate such a catch, but I remember.

This is not the fish Trout-master Jim caught on the Gallatin, but as you can see; big fish= big smiles!

After releasing the monster, Jim sat in the river staring into the water, the current pulling his fly line taut. I chose this moment to key the mic.

“Great position, super cast, and a well-played fight. Time of catch, 8:10.”

I could see his head tilt back in laughter, as I went into the cabin to begin packing for the trip home.

***It has been years since we have taken that particular fishing trip. We have since taken other trips in that area, and even beyond, that have stories of their own. But whenever I check the time as I run through my daily to-do list, and find the hands stuck at 8:10. Well, I just pause, smile, and remember all of those fun trips; because on my list, “8:10″ is always the time Trout-master Jim and I go on a fishing trip.

America the Beautiful!

English: Boat on the beach in the harbor of Munising, Michigan. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Heading out on a motorcycle trip from Michigan’s Thumb region to Montana, and back again, I was struck by how great a country we live that we can just up and go explore if we choose.  There is a lot of beauty out there to fill your eyes, and soul with if you can get out the door.  You can see people participating in just about any activity under the sun; if it is legal, and makes them happy, then they can pursue it.  If is not legal, then they risk a penalty.  Sometimes there is a penalty even if the activity is legal to perform.  My fishing buddy, and motorcycle riding father-in-law slowed as children clambered onto a bridge West of Munising to watch children do “cannonballs”, into the river below that drained into Michigan‘s Lake Superior.  With video games, and computers in every home, I was led to believe that this kid of stuff was left behind in the 70′s.  The beach near Au Train was stuff full of people, with cars lining the road as people filled in all the available beach sand to bask in Northern Michigan‘s slice of sunshine.  It was as if you could envision “Lady Liberty” herself stepping down from her pedestal to dip her toes in the water.

Lady Liberty at Sunset, New York, NY (Photo credit: Grufnik)

I could see her on the beach, with her spiked tiara holding her bangs in place while the lake breeze blew her long brown hair back in feathery strands.  She stood for a moment near the mouth of the river, watching with blazing blue eyes, as the children played and dove into the water.  You could see a smirk forming on her lips, as the squeals of delight forced her smile to broaden into a complete smile exposing pearly white teeth.  As she nodded her approval.

It wasn’t long before some teenagers invited her over by the volleyball net.

“Hey, Liberty!  We need another player.  You in?”  They asked hopefully.

Lake superior Au Train Bay (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Her blue eyes sparkle as she takes off her robe revealing her bathing suit that barely conceals her tatoo’s.  On one shoulder are all the names of those who served her under a banner which read, “Those who will not be forgotten.”  The other shoulder have the names of those who hindered her under a banner that read, “You ARE forgotten.”  Liberty has a wicked spike, and a mean serve, which helped her team win the game.  Once it was done she took a stroll down the beach listening to her I-pod.  No doubt playing all her favorite patriotic songs.

I saw Liberty throughout the whole ten-day trip.  She was hiking down the road in the mountains.  She was fishing in the boat next to us; laughing with happiness when she hooked a nice trout.

We saw her in Minot, N.D. with the cleanup efforts taking place from the flooding.  No doubt, each sad, sad story causing a wound that would take time to heal. Despite the pain, her blue eyes flashed with determination as she nodded with approval as folks in the area agreed on the best methods to remove the water, and breakdown the levies used to hold the water back.  She had a strong shoulder to cry on when folks needed it, and comforting hands to hold when consoling those who lost everything… encouraging them.  Because with Liberty, you feel like you can get it all back.

She was down the road, where petroleum was being extracted from the ground with a relatively, and somewhat controversial new technique, promising to make America strong, and independent again.  She was in the restaurants and stores where folks built, and rebuilt their own businesses, and their lives.  She wiped the sweat from her brow as she pedaled across the plains during the heat wave. She stood with her bible, and torch, after another tourist asked to take her picture in the Beartooth Pass as she posed before the amazing Mountain views.

Approaching Beartooth Pass from the west along the Beartooth Highway. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Liberty was everywhere we rode, and places we did not.  In courtrooms, studio’s, board meetings, pet shops, on the farms, in the little house on the prairies, and the big ones, too.  Liberty may have some scars, but she bears them with pride.  When you take the time to notice her, not just on her pedestal, but everywhere you look, you realize that Liberty is not only beautiful… She is GORGEOUS!  And she stands proud all over the nation.

Liberty (Photo credit: bre pettis)

Devil’s Tower- A Story For Lynne

An innocent Facebook question from my friend Lynne whose question; “Did you take the nature walk around the tower?” Prompted this weeks response.  I have two options; Tell her the truth, or give a line of B.S. I will choose both!

The tower my friend is referring to is called Devil’s Tower.  It’s very famous.  There was even a movie that included space aliens, Richard Dreyfus, and a space ship with a really kicking sound system.  My family was on a vacation out West, and though we had seen Devil’s Tower from I-90 several times in the past, it only appeared as a half-inch protrusion above the surrounding landscape from that distance.  So, since none of my family had ever been really close to it, we thought we would take a side trip to get a closer encounter.

When we pulled up to the visitor center, we got the feel that this “protrusion” must have been a signpost of sorts for the pioneers heading West, because it was VERY large, and as previously noted, could be seen for miles around.  We had found a really sweet parking spot, and thought a “short” hike would be educational, and exciting.  We just didn’t anticipate how much.

The information kiosk near the trailhead warned that the hike would take about 45 minutes, and that the toughest part of the trail was the “first” hundred yards, which was near vertical. At the beginning of the trail was littered with wild, bizarre markings as well as indentations in the ground.  It was a curious sight, but not enough to conduct serious observations at this point.

After a few vigorous minutes, we “summited” the initial 100 yards to an area some began referring to as “Base Camp“.  I squinted my eyes in concern, because I wasn’t sure if those milling around us were using this area as a rest stop BEFORE going on, or a rest stop, BEFORE finishing.  It was evident that sufficient courage was needed for both, but I shrugged it off as I began snapping the first of several hundred pictures with my camera.

As I finished the initial photo-op, we began to pull out of the mob of people at base camp, and move on to the trail which looped around the tower.  We were greeted to the sights of boulders as big as our mini-van that folks were swarming around like Disney World mascots; as well as, beautiful cedar, and Juniper trees.  It was strange, but the smell reminded me of those scented aerosol sprays they sell in the supermarket.  I wondered if the rangers had to get up extra early to spray the area down, or if they had fancy hidden “scent”dispensers that the fancier establishments employed.  You know the places that have them strategically placed, and they put a “puff” of scented air keeping the surrounding area smelling fresh.  I looked around quickly to see if I could locate them, but didn’t see any around the trees.  Anyway, as we started the trail, we had to be careful, because there were other people who were enjoying their trip as well; and sometimes we had to pause while a family would take an opportunity to take a picture.  It was at these points that politeness, and social niceties were always displayed, like “Excuse me, or pardon me, or oops, sorry about that!”  As you bumped someone off of the tractor-sized boulder while mugging for the camera.

Eventually, the crowd would stretch out and you would have a section of trail to yourself.  It was kind of like driving on the freeway.  You know those really long trips that last more than 5 hours, and you start to recognize vehicles that you have passed once or twice before?  The reason for this occurrence is usually based on bathroom breaks, and speed.  If someone passes a car which has the words; “Just married- Honk if you like this.”  written on the back window of their vehicle.  It is my belief that you are under certain obligations to do so!  And depending on each vehicles bathroom schedule, you may encounter each other more than a dozen times, on a road trip.  And you have to honk each time.

“Look. it’s the newlyweds!”  The driver says.  “Beep-beep!”

“Another person liked our status!”  The groom says excitedly.

“Oh, yea!”  The bride would say before correcting herself.  “Never mind.  It’s that same van with the bicycle lasso’d to the roof with a combination of ratchet-strap, and water-ski rope…crazy stalkers.”  She would say to her husband as they all smiled and waved at each other politely.

Walking on the trail, however, was different.  It wasn’t the potty stop, that was the cause of the repetitious encounters, but photo opportunities,  and taking in the view.   It has been my experience, that when someone is proud of their loved ones accomplishments; intimate conversations that are usually kept private suddenly become loud enough for all to hear so that the parent can beam a ray of sunshine on their child.

While taking a family photo, I overheard a father ask his son; “Hey, what kind of rock is this?”  His son looked at it for a moment before answering; “Igneous!”

“Very good!”  The father exclaimed proudly.  He then turned to me and said, more than a little smugly; “He’s a boy scout.”  As he said this I looked up the trail to my own son who was using his hand-held video game system to take pictures of pine cones, boulders, chipmunks, and upon occasion, the tower itself.

“Mine makes video games.”  I grinned, making my eyes really big; trying hard to do my impression of Clark Griswald.

The other father faked interest as he nodded his understanding, while reaching for a pine cone.  Though for protection, or identification interests I didn’t know.

As we continued up the trail we crossed paths several times; exchanging pleasantries, and hearing the proud father lift objects for his child to identify.  The line finally being crossed when the father held up various weeds with the child reciting different teas that could be made from each.  Nearing the end of the trail, and our endurance; I was invigorated when a Bull Snake rustled up the trail near my feet.

Bull Snake on Pacific Ave Bridge in Miles City, Montana. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“Snake!”  I shrieked indifferently, as I stepped aside promptly, and watched as the B.S. made his way up the path.  Now, as I look back at the pictures, I can’t believe how the camera distorted the size of the snake, because in the photo it appears to be about 4 feet in length, but when the snake showed up to greet us, he seem nearly the same size as the one who co-starred in the King Kong movie.

Upon hearing my newsflash, the mother of the scout family reported her findings with a terrified howl; “It’s coming right for me!”

To which the father replied calmly;

“He’s fine, the snake will do what snakes do.”

I thought the comment was a bit strange, and not comforting in the least, because mayhem, murder, and plunder is what I thought snakes did.

It became apparent that his wife was in agreement with me, as her urgings became more insistent, and increased in both volume, and pitch.

The son, who was bringing up the rear; no doubt thinking of nothing more than identifying things was late getting the newsflash from his mother.  Though when he did,  had apparently disagreed with his mothers assessment, and assumed the snake was instead, coming for him.  Whereupon,  he made a haste retreat for the comforting heights of the tower.  That is until such a time that the snake reversed his course- muttering something about dropping his wallet.   It was at this point that the scout found his courage and began his own pursuit yelling; “I am going to kill it!”  While wielding his backpack in the classic bludgeoning fashion made famous in all the hiker, snake killing movies.

My own son was behind the snake the whole time, as calm and indifferent as a war reporter.  And as the snake altered directions again, and again chasing the boy scout, and haranguing his poor mother, my son snapped pictures, and video of it all.  He then quickly compiled the data in the appropriate manner in which his computer teacher instructed, and created a video game in which the “Scout” would have to climb levels of Devils Tower while the Bull Snake would shoot pine cones, boulders, chipmunks and his shrieking mother at him from the top of the tower; all to the sounds of a famous movie whose name escapes me at the time.

As we finished the “loop” around the tower, and once again encountered the crowds at the summit, we discovered why the curious markings and dents were located at the bottom of the trailhead.  When flying down the near vertical grade trail you had two options: Either hit the brakes near the end of the trail to soften the landing, or don’t.  Apparently from the markings, and dents; some chose both.

Fishing Memiors- Of Family, and Fishing Trips.

Dear readers, I have been away for a while on a family trip out West.  It was as beautiful and amazing as it is advertised.  This post concerns lessons learned from long ago, and rules I still employ…even with this most recent trip West.  I hope you enjoy it!

-Griz

Gallatin River in Yellowstone National Park 1997 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

While still in the early stages of fly fishing, there were still lessons to be learned.  Unbeknownst to me, the next lesson came when my dear, sweet, lovely wife suggested a family trip to a cabin on the Gallatin River in Montana, not far from Yellowstone National Park.  Anna had delivered our first child the year before, and had a desire to get to the mountains, and thought this would be fun.  Anna also said that her folks were going to be in the area, and might hang out for a few days, and perhaps get some fishing in if we took our equipment.  It sounded good to me, so off we went.

Union Pacific Railroad Brochure on Yellowstone National Park (1921) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

There are some things in this life that you can anticipate, and there are other things you cannot.  I knew I was going to have a good time in Yellowstone National Park, because Anna and I had been there before, and it WAS amazing.  However, fishing a blue-ribbon trout stream that still had blue ribbon trout that you didn’t require the fisherman to have a divining rod, witch doctor, and a clairvoyant to locate was not anticipated at all.

I cannot say with any absolute certainty when it happened.  I know that both Jim and I had some luck catching fish, by casting into the river just outside the cabin, but it wasn’t until Jim suggested we go explore the river down stream that it got more interesting.  We pulled off to fish a section of the river that was pinched in tight on both sides by canyon walls that occasionally sprinkled boulders the size of tractors into the river, and made for very pretty scenery.  And it was near one of those tractor boulders that I began casting.  Within the first five cast I hooked, and eventually landed the prettiest 13-inch Rainbow Trout, that had the general shape of a football.  Within five more casts, I had another of equal size, shape, and beauty as did Jim, and this continued until we couldn’t see the river anymore, because darkness had set in; telling us to go to the cabin, and get some rest.

Cutthroat-Rainbow Hybrid trout, Gardner River, Yellowstone National Park (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

On our way back to the cabin, we were both determined to have another go at those trout; and had even planned on, “getting up early”, so as to accomplish the two major task set before us.  1) Catch big Fish.  2) Accompany our lovely wives, and children to the grandeur that is Yellowstone National Park.

We did get up early the next morning, and we did catch big fish, which only worsened the ailment that Jim and I began to suffer; which was commonly referred to as: “fish-more”; as in, we wanted to fish more.   We did visit all the grand scenery of YNP; though in doing so, some could argue that the hushed voices, whispers, and shady rapid-eye movements Jim and I exchanged closely mimicked those of prisoners who were planning their escape.

Nymphing The Gardner River, Yellowstone National Park, September 2005 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

In the end, the whole family was satisfied with the turn out of the trip.  Yellowstone National Park was still awesome, and so was the fishing.  And a valuable lesson was learned; there are family trips, and there are fishing trips- when planning one of these, leave the other at home.

Thermophiles produce some of the bright colors of Grand Prismatic Spring, Yellowstone National Park (Photo credit: Wikipedia)