Just got back from doing some renovation to a town home my wife and I own in Minneapolis. We are trying to get it ready to put on the market in June. Lots of work to be done on a place that one has lived in for over 20 years. Especially when one is told by the real estate agent that the whole house needs to be redecorated as the present decor is passe. Personally, if the house is sound, has indoor plumbing, and electrical service then it should be ready for the market after a reasonably adequate interior and exterior paint job. If one is a real estate agent, which is another name for salesperson, then that means that they will actually do something to sell it, and not, as they say, have the home sell itself. I don't know, but that just makes sense. Besides, this is a perfect starter home located in a safe and clean neighborhood, close to both grade and high schools. Oh, well, we do as we are told.
Anyhow, I returned home to our place in the Chequamegon National Forest on last Thursday evening and spent Friday doing spring maintenance. The Forest Service and State Department of Natural Resources has listed the fire danger as beyond extreme to that level where all obese people are prohibited from wearing corduroy pants and taking long walks. A couple of years ago we had the same conditions about this time of year and a fire started some three miles east of us burning through the other side of our little lake finally stopping at the banks of the Namekagon River just little over a mile from our home. It was interesting to watch the fire suppression chopper dipping this huge water bucket (well, that is what it looked like!) into our lake and dumping it on the advancing front of the fire. I was wondering just how many fish got caught up in the bucket. That would certainly make for a really bad day. Going from peacefully swimming, minding your own business, to plummeting into the fires of hell.
The weasel is back, picking off the unwary mice that frequent the area below my wife's numerous bird feeders. I watched it on Friday morning dispatching mice with a ruthless efficiency killing 4 mice within less than 10 minutes just feet away from where I was raking leaves. Since weasels are one of the few species that kill even when not hungry, I use the anthropomorphic term "ruthless" to describe its obvious concentration on its efforts and not as to its "motive." I have watched this behavior before and find it just as fascinating each time. The rock wall adjacent to where I was working apparently housed numerous mouse nests as each time the weasel entered somewhere different in the wall out it would pop (no pun intended) from another location with an adult mouse in its mouth. I am hoping that the weasel, along with the Barred Owl (at least I think it is a Barred Owl) that frequents our little forest at night, will serve sufficient to keep the mouse population somewhat under control.
When I took a walk on our beach with our golden, Maggie, later on Friday morning, I watched as a mallard pair flew just over Maggie's head as she stood in the water up to her chest. The mallards landed some 30 to 35 feet away from Maggie and then did something unusual. They swam directly up to the dog stopping about 10 feet away and remained there as Maggie stood intently staring at them. When Maggie stepped toward the ducks, ever so slowly, the ducks would swim out maintaining their distance, but not appearing flustered or frightened. I called Maggie out of the lake and the dog and I continued our walk along the shore. Sure enough, the mallard pair followed remaining about 10 feet off shore. When the dog ran at them into the lake, they just jumped up and flew a few yards further out, landed, and, again, swam directly toward the dog. I sat down in a chair on the beach and watched this "cat and mouse" game go on for some time. Finally, the dog and I left the beach, but the mallards remained behind, cruising the shoreline back and forth just in front of our house as if waiting for Maggie's return. I found it interesting, however, that when I stepped into the lake (yes, it was invigorating to say the least) the mallards furiously swam away from me out to about the distance where they had originally landed.
Stood out on the rocky point last night and watched the walleye spawning. It wasn't as busy as it was earlier in the week. I think the spawn is just about finished.
Heard the wolves howling last night. Reminds me so much of northwestern Montana near Whitefish. They sounded pretty close, just across the lake from us. I was out walking the dog for one last time before bed. She perked up her ears and then ran for the back porch. She was anxiously waiting at the backdoor whining while I slowly walked back to the house listening to the chorus of howls.
I realize there isn't a whole lot about trout fishing in this post, but I did spend some time late on Friday evening tying some Royal Coachman flies using some different colors for the abdomen, such as bright yellow, bright green, bright blue. Don't know as if I can still call them Royal Coachman flies. My wife thought the blues ones would make good earrings.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
Spring Rain
It is raining out. It is an early spring rain, the kind that isn't quite certain if it wants to be rain, snow, or something in between. The sky is that grey that looks like beached carp three days dead. Even the loons are hunkered down on our little lake, stoically maintaining.
I sit at my computer looking at pictures of last year's trout adventures, laughing, sighing, dreaming. I watch as the Department of Natural Resources fishery personnel pull in their survey nets just off of the rocky point adjacent to our beach. They call it Maggie's point after our golden retriever, because, as they explained, they can locate it easily enough, as our dog has stood off the far end of the point barking in greeting every year for the last 5 years. I watch as they throw her a handful of small "Milk Bone" dog treats. She scampers into the water and retrieves as many as she can before they get too soggy and sink below the surface of the water.
I have spent the last few weeks, when I can, hiking along some of my favorite trout streams, watching the progress of the coming of spring. I make note of some of the changes that have occurred since last year, observing in some cases that what once was a tantilizing rock structure has now all but disappeared due to the spring run-off. I record the changes, take pictures of some, simply note down others. It will be interesting to see how the fishing has been affected due to these changes. That is what I like about stream fishing. It is never the same experience no matter how many times you fish the same location.
I just saw the vixen who lives up the road , carrying a rabbit in her mouth. I will have to check the den again to see if she has kits, as she has been gone from her normal routine for about a week. Maggie keeps an eye on her, but has never interfered with the fox as it passes through our forest to her den. Maggie has never been leashed or penned, so she has had ample opportunity to chase and otherwise, harrass the fox. I wouldn't be surprised to one day find Maggie out in the backyard playing with the kits as the vixen stands around watching. It would be just like Maggie.
One of the loons has just expressed its displeasure at the sight of a newly arrived eagle flying over the lake. Since these loons are nesting here-- (and there has been a nesting pair with a least one chick for over 10 consecutive years) --it appears that the eagle is getting a heads-up on what hunting opportunities exist. We have watched the drama play out numerous times over the last 10 years between the loons and the eagles. Some years the eagle has won; others, the loons. There is nothing right or wrong about it; it just is.
Well, I think I will close for now and go off to tie some more emergers, nymphs, and dry flies; and dream of warm sunshine, soft breezes, and the joy of being alone with the "...art that is performed on a four-count rhythm between ten and two o'clock." (A River Runs Through It, by Norman Maclean).
Vaya con Dios
I sit at my computer looking at pictures of last year's trout adventures, laughing, sighing, dreaming. I watch as the Department of Natural Resources fishery personnel pull in their survey nets just off of the rocky point adjacent to our beach. They call it Maggie's point after our golden retriever, because, as they explained, they can locate it easily enough, as our dog has stood off the far end of the point barking in greeting every year for the last 5 years. I watch as they throw her a handful of small "Milk Bone" dog treats. She scampers into the water and retrieves as many as she can before they get too soggy and sink below the surface of the water.
I have spent the last few weeks, when I can, hiking along some of my favorite trout streams, watching the progress of the coming of spring. I make note of some of the changes that have occurred since last year, observing in some cases that what once was a tantilizing rock structure has now all but disappeared due to the spring run-off. I record the changes, take pictures of some, simply note down others. It will be interesting to see how the fishing has been affected due to these changes. That is what I like about stream fishing. It is never the same experience no matter how many times you fish the same location.
I just saw the vixen who lives up the road , carrying a rabbit in her mouth. I will have to check the den again to see if she has kits, as she has been gone from her normal routine for about a week. Maggie keeps an eye on her, but has never interfered with the fox as it passes through our forest to her den. Maggie has never been leashed or penned, so she has had ample opportunity to chase and otherwise, harrass the fox. I wouldn't be surprised to one day find Maggie out in the backyard playing with the kits as the vixen stands around watching. It would be just like Maggie.
One of the loons has just expressed its displeasure at the sight of a newly arrived eagle flying over the lake. Since these loons are nesting here-- (and there has been a nesting pair with a least one chick for over 10 consecutive years) --it appears that the eagle is getting a heads-up on what hunting opportunities exist. We have watched the drama play out numerous times over the last 10 years between the loons and the eagles. Some years the eagle has won; others, the loons. There is nothing right or wrong about it; it just is.
Well, I think I will close for now and go off to tie some more emergers, nymphs, and dry flies; and dream of warm sunshine, soft breezes, and the joy of being alone with the "...art that is performed on a four-count rhythm between ten and two o'clock." (A River Runs Through It, by Norman Maclean).
Vaya con Dios
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Cruising my favorite trout streams around Gitchi Gummi
I haven't written for a while and I apologize to my many readers and fans. (Yeah, right. I think I am the only one that reads this blog.) I have spent the last month and a half looking for a new consulting contract, as I finished my last gig at the end of February. Boy, you can sure tell the economy has gone south. (Something, BTW, I should have done for the month of March). Anyhow, I haven't really wasted my time. I have built new bird houses, bird feeders, owl nesting platforms, and some twig furniture to sell at the rustic decor tourist traps. But by far my most favorite activity has been cruising the trout streams that I have fished over the years in Northern Wisconsin.
I started my examination of those streams and creeks in the middle of March, when there was still enough snow in the Chequamegon/Nicolet National forest to require snowshoes to get around. Of course, most of the streams were still locked up tight with ice, but you could see evidence of the beginnings of spring. As I have ventured out in the past few weeks, I have seen the slow awaking of the streams, the wildlife, and the surrounding forest. There are new bird songs to listen to. (Beats the heck out of the raven calls one hears all winter up here.) The sound of the flowing water creates a harmonic backdrop to the many sopranos singing in the forest canopy. Just yesterday (Saturday, April 18, 2009) I saw my first bear of the year and came across evidence of a recent visit to one of my favorite creeks by one of the many wolf packs that frequent the north country. And, of course, this entry would not be complete without mentioning the return of the nesting pair of loons to the modest lake I live on.
The leaf buds on the trees, however, are still wrapped tight as if not quite certain that they want to face the vissitudes of spring. The deer are struggling to find something to eat, and, consequently, have devastated my newly planted white cedar trees, my high bush cranberry bushes, and my dogwood shrubs.
The forest floor is still solidly frozen, but it is always the last to give up to spring. However, the damp and cold has not intimidated the hardy grouse. The drumming has begun and the forest echoes with the sound of rapidly beating wings. Cruising over the newly open water are the returning eagles and osprey. And, of course, with the retreat of the snow and the uncovering of the unfortunate victims of the long winter, there are the vultures scanning the ground from their spy-plane like vantage point.
As I venture along my streams, I dream of dewy mornings shrouded in fog while I cast a small fly to a promising riffle beyond that beckoning rock. I dream of the rise of a brook, rainbow, or dare I think, a monster brown trout. But I must be patient, as spring only has a tenuous hold on the forest. However, it grows stronger every day.
I started my examination of those streams and creeks in the middle of March, when there was still enough snow in the Chequamegon/Nicolet National forest to require snowshoes to get around. Of course, most of the streams were still locked up tight with ice, but you could see evidence of the beginnings of spring. As I have ventured out in the past few weeks, I have seen the slow awaking of the streams, the wildlife, and the surrounding forest. There are new bird songs to listen to. (Beats the heck out of the raven calls one hears all winter up here.) The sound of the flowing water creates a harmonic backdrop to the many sopranos singing in the forest canopy. Just yesterday (Saturday, April 18, 2009) I saw my first bear of the year and came across evidence of a recent visit to one of my favorite creeks by one of the many wolf packs that frequent the north country. And, of course, this entry would not be complete without mentioning the return of the nesting pair of loons to the modest lake I live on.
The leaf buds on the trees, however, are still wrapped tight as if not quite certain that they want to face the vissitudes of spring. The deer are struggling to find something to eat, and, consequently, have devastated my newly planted white cedar trees, my high bush cranberry bushes, and my dogwood shrubs.
The forest floor is still solidly frozen, but it is always the last to give up to spring. However, the damp and cold has not intimidated the hardy grouse. The drumming has begun and the forest echoes with the sound of rapidly beating wings. Cruising over the newly open water are the returning eagles and osprey. And, of course, with the retreat of the snow and the uncovering of the unfortunate victims of the long winter, there are the vultures scanning the ground from their spy-plane like vantage point.
As I venture along my streams, I dream of dewy mornings shrouded in fog while I cast a small fly to a promising riffle beyond that beckoning rock. I dream of the rise of a brook, rainbow, or dare I think, a monster brown trout. But I must be patient, as spring only has a tenuous hold on the forest. However, it grows stronger every day.
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