Fishing and Hiking With Grandma

It's a weekend so we get Grandma to go to Yellowwood with us.

It's a breezy day, so she helps keep Sebastian and the snack bags from blowing into the lake. She's also a big help as we move our base camp a couple of times looking for those elusive bluegill.

I'm checking Sebastian's bait when he steals the camera out of my pocket and takes a shot of my best side. Big laughs for him over this excellent trick on Grandpa.

After half an hour with no bites the unspoken question is voiced: "Time to hike?" We all agree it's time to hit the trail. This is Grandma's first time on this trail, so Sebastian leads the way.

The wash of green over the forestscape is deepening, and wildflowers are proliferating.

We're pleased to find a yellow trillium. There are many more trillium on the way.

We go a long way into the woods, circumventing numerous mudholes on the trail, then turn around and do it all over again on the way back out. It's a good hike.

I get Grandma and Sebastian to pose on this log for a photo, but before I can get the camera focused Sebastian is up and off again. He won't come back, explaining "I want to get back home!"

So we go down the dam embankment past some redbud which is now approaching its peak all over these Indiana woods and roadways.

We had brought two vehicles, so Kim and Sebastian head home in her car, and I drive the truck, loaded with the float tube, around to the north end of the lake. My fishing trip would continue.

It's still breezy, and will blow until dark. I kick around the mud flats and pick up a bluegill where the flats drop off. I put on the brakes and try for more, but can't find any.

As I head in toward the west shoreline an Osprey soars overhead. It's a real gift to have Osprey here. They were a constant presence on my favorite lake in Washington State, and I'm very glad that I don't have to get used to not having them here. On that subject, there are supposed to be some bald eagles nesting in this area. I think I saw one here way back on one of my first trips of the year, and I'm keeping my eyes open.

I find a bass. I always hope that one bass will bring others, but so far that hasn't happened.

I kick around past one of the several occupied goose nesting platforms. The mother goose extends her neck in a sign of stress or alertness but does not abandon her eggs.

I kick across to the other side.

Over there I get into some black crappie again, but as quick as I find them they're gone.

I work on down the shoreline as the sun settles in the west.

I come upon some bank fishers, well set up with low chairs and packs of supplies. They're fishing a narrow inlet with big floats. There is a father and a son. The son is doing most of the fishing, with occasional advice from the father. The father strikes up a conversation with me. He asks me how I'm doing, but he really wants to tell me how he's doing. They're catching catfish using shrimp in the shell for bait. He tells me they've got eleven fish on the stringer already, and they didn't get started until 4:30 or 5:00. Looks like they're in for the long haul. He's sitting comfortably in his chair in the dusk still musing about catfishing as I pass out of hearing.

I find one more bluegill in the dark, and begin trolling back to the boat ramp.

It's still breezy, but the rocking of the waves is restful. I watch the waxing moon rise behind the high overcast while off in the distance the catfishermen's light flickers on and off, on and off.

America's Most Endangered Rivers

It looks beautiful, but it's endangered. This is the Menominee River in Wisconsin, Number 10 on the list of America's Most Endangered Rivers.

Go HERE to see the full list on the American Rivers site.

"VII" by Wendell Berry

"The Veteran in a New Field" by Winslow Homer

What a wonder I was

when I was young, as I learn

by the stern privilege

of being old: how regardlessly

I stepped the rough pathways

of the hillside woods,

treaded hardly thinking

the tumbled stairways

of the steep streams, and worked

unaching hard days

thoughtful only of the work,

the passing light, the heat, the cool

water I gladly drank.

"VII." by Wendell Berry from A Small Porch. © Counterpoint, 2016.

A Kind of Rhythm Settling In

You're still grabbing time when you can get it to get to the lake for a few hours, but a kind of fishing trip rhythm is settling in, and it feels like you'll arrive at a balance soon between fishing and everything else in life.

And this place is quickly becoming "the lake"--the place you want to be, your home away from home. The frogs are singing your song.

While you work the shoreline on the north end--still new territory but getting pleasantly familiar--you hear a Barred owl off in the timber, and an Osprey flies over. This is your kind of place.

You find a nice little bass. You're still waiting for bigger bass to come up higher.

And you disturb another denizen of the shorelines and backwaters: a midland water snake. You get close enough to make him hiss at you. You back off; they aren't venomous, but they're aggressive--you got bit by one years ago trying to grab it by the tail.

A bluegill comes out of nowhere. You're finding single fish, but haven't found a school yet.

You work south then pour yourself a cup of coffee and strike out across the lake for the other side. You troll a heavy streamer behind you.So far there are no fish high enough in the water column to make trolling effective.

On the other side you head back north and enjoy the remaining sunlight as it washes the eastern shore.

You get into some black crappie. Pretty fish. They seem to be schooled up, and you get more bumps than hookups. But these fish give the fly a vigorous hit. You see one flash silver as it comes up and whacks the fly down in the green depths.

Soon the sun is overtaken by clouds rolling in for the night.

One more bluegill comes in the twilight.

As darkness deepens, you kick back toward the take out. There are some people setting up camp near the boat ramp. As I pass them a fire suddenly explodes out of the dark. It smells like they used gasoline to start it. Once the refinery smell dissipates, though, and the scent of wood smoke fills the air, it's a pleasant ending to the day. You wonder what they're going to have for supper, then hurry home to get yours.

Another Teasing Spring Day

Another teasing spring day: you think the warmth is here to stay, and then the cool edges fold in on you again. But while it's warm you give in to the temptation to tempt some bluegill with a dry fly. You see bona fide rises, and you get some tentative bumps. But the hookups come by raking the shorelines with a streamer. Still small fish, but harbingers of better to come. All signs--from the glint of sun on water, to rushing geese, to ghostly blossoms in the dusk, to the quarter moon breaking through the clouds--point to hope.

"The Same River" by Jeffrey Harrison

"Crooked Creek Rocks and Water" Aleta Karstad

Yes, yes, you can’t step into the same

river twice, but all the same, this river

is one of the things that has changed

least in my life, and stepping into it

always feels like returning to something

far back and familiar, its steady current

of coppery water flowing around my calves

and then my thighs, my only waders

a pair of old shorts. Holding a fly rod

above my head, my other arm out

for balance, like some kind of dance,

trying not to slip on the mossy rocks,

I make my way out to the big rock

I want to fish from, mottled with lichen

that has dried to rusty orange, a small

midstream island that a philosopher

might use to represent stasis

versus flux, being amidst becoming,

in some argument that is larger

than any that interests me now

as I climb out dripping onto the boulder

and cast my line out to where the bubbles

form a channel and trail off in a V

that points to where the fish might be,

holding steady amid the river’s flow.

"The Same River" by Jeffrey Harrison from Into Daylight. © Tupelo Press, 2014.