Devils Track Recon

An hour and a half from the door runs a steelhead river that is, without question, my favorite.

There's two reasons for this. One is the water. It's all good, clean, fast and gnarly. Two is the geography. From where the steelhead can get into it to where they can't run any further is canyon water. Also, its a shale canyon, so even if you were a billy goat, chances are you'd take a big time header trying to reach the river from the rim in ninety-five percent of it's length. When the water goes up, you just don't get to fish it. Coupled with a generous amount of spawning habitat in sanctuary water, this river gets some good steelhead runs.

Here's a tiny feeder before bailing two hundred feet into the river. This, too, takes steelhead.

Looking up the canyon.
Sanctuary starts at the river a couple of hundred feet below.

Down the canyon. At the bottom of the picture, signs of open water. At the top, the big pond is in the background.


Stupe on point. With the woodcock heading north on spring migration, she just couldn't help herself.

Weathering the last of winter...

Just before the big hookup...

Fish on in the big surf!!

Manuevering a large steelhead through early April ice...

AWWWW! Huge native buck! Cut the line at the last minute!

Green, continued.

The making of a cabinet.

Waxing eloquent about the natural beauty of wood has been accomplished by too many others. Wood speaks and this piece is already saying, "Fill me with reels, hooks, feathers and bottle openers."

Dados and rabbets cut.

I put clamps on to glue it up solidly and keep it square. Lots of clamps. Then, when the nieces and nephews come over and barrel into it with, say, a splitting maul, I'll just have to sand out some mars instead of trashing the thing and starting anew.

A sanded carcase, ready for finishing, drawers, and uploading of all kinds of wonderful fishing and hunting crap. The DA already wants it.

Part of the Green

This desk has been relocated. A sure giveaway might be the lack of feathers and thread on the floor. Another might have to do something with the fact that there's nothing on the desk. Like, say, a pile of Magic Tricks or Jungle Bunnies.

But that's all obvious banter.

The fly-tying desk needs something in the way of drawers. The man that delivered me into this great world first cut the above pictured redwood and made it into deck railing. He did a good job picking his materials. The railing lasted thirty-five years. Happenstance and wherewith dictated that contract work was to bring us together again and I tore out and rebuilt his multiple decks. I saved as much as I could.

Deep Soak

Letting the greeze and funk off:
Post two-hour deep ultra dry seep to the bones sownna fest. Tail-flop in the spindrift next to shore and realize that a pile of snow can feel real good.

And now for a unique news flash

Well, my brothers, the local rag from the nearest biggest city has deemed our beloved Poplar River front page newsworthy. A color photograph adds touches sure to roil the hearts and minds of those who grow their own granola. A good aerial shot it is. The brown river slurry is contrasted sharply with the lake water, which looks as if it could be used by vacationing snorkelers, looking for tropical fish. In reality, as we know, those good old staples of tannin and clay will do just the same for any river in the right conditions.

At any rate, as the article states, this river has been declared Dirty Enough To Think About. Furthermore, it has also been observed that only the last two miles of this river has turbidity (shit in it, sediment only, the stuff that can't be ignored right away like fertilizer and fuel oil), and that only the last two miles have been heavily developed.

A pie graph visually depicts the culprits:

Ahhh, let's see here. Ok, we got Golf. That's one percent. No Worries.

Channel Incision, three percent. Source of incision not listed. What else.

Ok, we got the naturals, Megaslump (big dirt/clayslide) Twenty-six percent. Forest, fourteen. Gullies/Ravines, eleven. Other Landslides, ten.

Then the rest. Here's Ski (alpine resort) thirty-three percent. Seems kinda heavy. And developed, one percent.

That's a whole lotta land to river love for two miles!

This gets me thinking about solutions. I mean real solutions. Somebody has to pay for this, right? We have the feds hiring researchers already, MPCA and the rest of the state agencies, and the locals. It's just one river forthelovapete. This is getting expensive, the taxpayers really don't dig this. They can SEE it. It's in the papers. But at least they don't live in the river with the fish!!!

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!

Alright, I'm done fuckin' around. Here's the deal. This is it:

Get the meetings at the stupid fucking town hall over with. Pull the wool, whatever.

Then put that Megaslump in shock and awe mode. It needs it. If that thing can just sit there and think it belongs there because the river made it, then we need to KICK ITS ASS. Do the same for the other gullies and ravines and landslides. It's concrete time, pour away and bring in the big ass rock.

Ok, that's it for all the big natural contributors. Except the trees. Special plan. Cut em' down. Takes care of that. Then more Ski Hill. This will call for more development but that's fine, they're only at one percent. After that, we encourage a nice, clean, non-profit organ, feed them state and fed grants, and give 'em the go to channelize the whole valley. Make sure some trout get thrown in there from time to time, and find some cheap deep root wonderbrush for the banks. The greener the better. Miniature chinese dinasaur whatevers. Nice.

Meat Post

One hundred and twelve feet of real free range venison pepper stick cradle a foot and a half of the finest venison summer sausage.

This pic was taken only minutes after leaving the walk-in of the best Yugoslavian butcher in the upper midwest. Note the fine frost, a sign of perfect short-term preservation.

A Ride

An Aretha Franklin unit that sings like Aretha Franklin. The old truck on the right, just waiting to die loaded with a ton of firewood or sheetrock. Below zero tempuratures required.

A couple of minutes from the porch.

Dwindling cliffs on one of the Twin Lakes.

Sitting on Aretha, sipping a Miller, and watching the granite and birch speak to me.

An old timer in his seventies broke camp from the first lake and rode up to check her out.

He was pretty excited to see a machine running that was built back when he was gettin' jiggy with the real Aretha. He was riding an ol' Elan and wasn't comfortable letting it idle for too long. So he split.

On the way to the lakes, this cutoff trail exists. At sixty degrees from level, it rises about two hundred feet. At the top, I once watched a bogey suspension disintigrate from underneath a bombadier my dad let me use. Then there was the Elan that the patriarch of the c-boy clan was kind enough to let me destroy. That one overheated at the pinnacle of this trail. The excess heat found its way to the gasoline tank, which was around half full and, yes, ignited. It opened up the hood of the machine and left my stunned ass thirty feet behind the machine. The eyebrows came back eventually. In summer and winter I remember this spot. Here was my very first bout with mortal luck.

Happens every time

The DA wanted a new clean setting in the basement in which to tone the abs and clean the soul. Hence, in the stead of writing in this silly damn blog and ice fishing, I have been making dreams come true. Complete with new drywall, paint, wiring, plumbing, lights, tiling, trim and carpet, this will be an ab-toning soul-cleaning mecca.

I'm still working on moving the fly-tying table down but the DA doesn't think that feathers and fish are like yoga. I think feathers and fish totally blow yoga away because Gjod made them before yoga. Yin and yang, man. The fish is always biting at it's tail.

While getting into some trimwork at the basement stairwell, doing picky crap to make it look good and measuring down to a strong sixteenth, I got hit.

The steelhead.

I knew I was fucked there from the word.

Now my life is nothing but:

drift rods and fly rods and what reel to put mono on and don't forget that you didn't score in the Kadunce falls hole with a nymph.

And that I never score there with a nymph.

And then you put eggs on and...oh jeses mortification.

And the hard hammer t-mos had on the freebase hare's ear in the deep water below the shale hole on the tism that late spring

The Cross River.

The Humpy Hole and the sticky, sweet deep drift. JEEEZ.

Just remembering all the King Salmon there were in that period sized spot.

How hard can I hump the DT this year?

I need to backpack up and camp on it for ten days. Nothing but a camera.

Should I shake up the Grude and have him show me the Split Rock secrets this year?

Mom has a house at Crow Creek. I'm going to check that out.

Finagle down to the mouth of the Manitou.

Sly down to the mouth of the Caribou.

Get my ass up to Canada, where I'll stop short and spent five days at the Brule.

More bait and wait with flies at the Poplar?

No more clay banks or Kimball for me.
Focus on BASS flies this year!








A horrible, mighty struggle.

NINETEEN SEVENTY

If you ever get invited to a seventies party, cut and run. No. Run. To hell with the cut part.

In an earlier post I described the recipe for pure trouble. This was a seventies party devised by members of the same tribe as before. Given some and taken others. I'll describe the scene back then, in the seventies.

It's 1973:

That's Joe Cool in the top pic. One Nine Seven Zero youth defined. Laid back. Big, big ass matching bottoms. Perfect hair with stylish accoutrements. Joe is peaking on the latest mix of cocaine and whatever form of heat was handed to him last. He's feeling right and tops and chicks have been on him all night. All of the other dudes, gay and straight, are staring.

The atmosphere and the mirrorball are making him look all the better at the party and soon, as shown in the second pic, he decides to show off some moves. He's got plenty of hot ones, this Joe; for sure. For sure. He can point. He can sweat. He does IT ALL!

At just the right moment on the tune the best flamingo in the party joins him. The looks in the crowd tell her that he's got all the other boys beat and she matches him, hip for hip. They move, they groove and swing and duck. The dance crowd goes crazy and everyone joins in.

Later, more guests arrive with groovy brownies and more cocaine and food and Joe, with the aid of this new girl, digs in. Everyone parties and dances, chills and spills and dances some more...

In the morning, after that wild party Joe wakes up with a hangover and realizes that something has happened.

He realizes that it's nineteen eighty five. Saturday morning in June? What the hell? Are those my kids? What's with the short hair! OH MY GOD! They're not being DRAFTED are they?! Does the army really pin their jeans at the bottom like that! Son! What are in all of those pockets?! To his dismay, his mouth tastes like the haispray he uses and DAMN!... with the BeeGees still pound, pound, pounding in his brain, feels as though he's being nuetered with rubber bands!

Poor Cool Joe decides to go back to bed to try and sleep it off.

The real Joe in the pic went home early, before he tripped on those gorgeous trousers.

Clink the glasses

A legendary New Years locale. There's no power or running water. Hence, no one puking on your shoes or spilling your beer.

Stupe and the original renegade pacing part of the cabin fleet; a 1973 Polaris TX.

The Polaris with original owner.

The fishing was slow on new years eve. We thought for sure we'd get some action with a low front and some snow coming in. I thought the sunken island would hold some fish but no one wanted to paddle out that far fearing the east wind would pick up.

The DA swatting dogs off of a new set of skate skiis.

Isn't that just delicious?

We hung this for some light...

...didn't need it. Burning the deadfalls and an old dock made of spruce.

The DA recovering with Rudy, a springer puppy with a good life ahead of him.

Hope yours is good, too

Happy New Year.

Tribute

Recipe for pure, pure trouble;

Marry a finn.

Mix in some swede blood.

Add sister and sister in law with similar attributes.

DON'T STIR!!

Let combination meld for undetermined amount of time.

Ingredients will seethe and compliment, plan and undermine.

Add wigs, stretch hummer limo.

With an extreme amount of appreciation to the aforementioned, lovingly blend in time and care.

And Rock-n-Roll.

Happy Thirtieth Birthday to the DA!

Backlash Four, Three Rivers

Late June and the boat calleth. Since theres so much damn water here to see, an exploratory daytrip nearby made sense. Bragging about faraway destinations lacks soul if you don't know your own backyard, so Stupe and I made the Little Isabella, Isabella, Snake route.

Set up in the boat at the L Isabella landing.

L Isabella, first portage.

Stupe noticed the cow, but again demonstrates that upland birds are her pot o' gold.

Last portage on the L. Isabella. Stupe makes the blaze and assures me no suprises await. Like bear cubs.

When my brother first moved to spring creek country, we fished the pastures. Once, when moving to and from a run, we passed a cow. He remarked, "You have to wonder, that cow could be thinking nothing or, 'I'm gonna eat this guy'". You never can tell. Same with moose. The animal will almost always move off. When chin deep in the BWCA, always keep in mind the long slog out if a fiesty moose decides your boat would be better off with a hole punched in the bottom of it.

Aforeseen bull where, at top right, L Isabella runs into Isabella proper. Stupe and I had some cheese and crackers and a cold one and watched the moose mow the river bottom. Hungry fella.

Isabella rapids number one, this one was runnable but we portaged.

Isabella flowing, at right, into Bald Eagle Lake. Twenty pound Northern Pike like to attach themselves to your stringer of walleyes in this water. The pic is taken at the end of the seventh of ten portages on the trip and the second longest at 141 rods. This is a prime spot to pitch hell and whatnot on a nine weight and have a real shot at landing a big Pike. But it ain't free. The last portage is the longest at 198 rods, which is the trail from the parking lot to the Snake River which leads to Bald Eagle. Hope you have a light boat.

Backlash three, Bwca sawbill two

PREFACE:

According to NOAA;
Fifteen below zero at 10:30 pm, Nov 30 2007.

Give thanks, 'coasties and southerners. You get open water.

I'll post some stuff you wish you had done from my summer now that the weather is good for working on the honey-do list, unless you want to see and hear about me taping sheetrock.

90 degrees. The walleyes are off. Beer available. Lake is warm.

S-Rod, this year's sponsored mexican, introduced us to a form of relaxation he calls "diapering".

After watching us float like dying whales or kicking the lake to a froth, the Don himself decides to demonstrate the proper prerequisites for total denial of gravity. With a leap he was afloat, and witnessing his instant gratification, all of us followed. We wished for the knowledge sooner.

Given ideal water temps and atmospheric conditions, bliss is near.

Taken from the campsite.
Some classic summer fishing. The crew members are floating around to see what might happen. This is how tourists smash fish records to bits. Feet up, dangling lines, and then something pulls the canoe to the bottom of the lake. You can be as hardcore as a twenty ton piece of granite about anything. If you don't lay back and watch how the water hits the boat every now and then, you'll wish you had.

The poles sticking out of the bow and stern have yellow deer hair and rubber legs attached to them, just in case.

A pre-diaper shot of the Don. After viewing the picture shortly afterwards, we decided that total serenity or absolute stupidity gives a man enough courage to dive the way he does. Out of ten, the water entrance was a solid eight.

Shortly after landing at the campsite. Very shortly. Very, very shortly. We recognized some challenges. Yes, rookie campers, animals learn by and from you. After chasing this little fella off of the plates for two days, we trapped his ass and hung him from a tree in a large plastic bottle. There he witnessed the goings on for awhile. Then he was released unharmed. He was seen no more.

Backlash two, bwca sawbill

A meal in late June in camp. I chose Sawbill Lake this year for its darkness, thinking that the hex's would be there. They were. Portages are customary on our annual trips but we decided to stay on Sawbill. Hence, the football and chairs got the nod on this one and I'll be damned if I know how my brother in law squeaked that sink drain in between the thwarts.

Backlash one

Another adage; it is said that, where I sit by a nice pine fire, there are four seasons. Almost Winter, Winter, After Winter, and Road Construction. An educated guess in it's origins might involve a real inventive sport to blame for the coining and word of mouth with the snowbird gang and barflies to name a few. Like many, it is a twisted tale.

A disagreement:

During Almost Winter, the leaves go psychedelic. You can explore previous posts. There you'll find good times, folks. Good times.

The After Winter period revels in waiting for the Big Thaw.

The mouth of the home water. The river is pouring over the frost line, six feet up from lake level. When the line backs to the first rapids, game on for the first river steelhead. The Pond is at the left in back and early this year served as catalyst for The Thaw as well as major and minor tackle preparations.

Very exciting this After Winter is. For afterwards, one gets all dirty with fish.

Winter. At it's birth, forty degrees is a three layer consideration. Near it's death, t-shirts at thirty-five and sunny. Shorts and crocs for the adolescents.

In between; Sixty below windchills or a frozen lake so quiet you can hear a pin drop in six fresh inches on the far shore.

More to come. It just got born.

Road Construction equals summer. Here, the main thread gets wider and straighter to accomodate the tourists. Along with winter, it's aptly named. Frost heaves up on rock and clay with passion and lust. They feast on road the whole while.

Spanning three or four months of real summer-type weather, Road Construction seems a short, memorable season.

Getting off on the scenery, waiting for the deer.

I was pondering the vintage 1972 Polaris at this stage of the game and how it will pack me and a load of essentials onto a trout lake covered with another fifteen inches of ice for another winter.

Richard scouted this clear cut and in the middle of the first week, staked a blind and sat down here. He spent the first twenty five minutes of his season watching for deer and the end of the twenty sixth killing an eleven point. You watch and listen to the old dogs in all styles of life. If you don't, you're effectively turning tail on the crystal ball.

There's gunsmoke still coming out of T-mos' 94.

A quarter mile in.

Timber wolves. The night after Richard shot his deer, they followed the trail into the blind, tore up the spot where the deer was hit, tracked the run, ate the gutpile, followed the drag, and fucked up the ground where the deer left terra and entered truckbed. In an order few or none have been privy to. The spot is near epicenter of the densest population of wolves in this country. I did think about that when going back in for a field dressed deer. Sans rifle.

Still another cutover picture. There's the truck. Halfway there. The son of a bitch didn't look this big. Thank God for snow. I should have stripped those layers. I'd have chopped those antlers by now. I wish there was a little bit more snow. Fuck those four wheelers. This is fun. I'm having a brewski when I get back.

Every time I make a cut, there's a plan. Hollandaise here, bleu cheese butter there.

And a perfect one for mucking straight.

A pic for a fellow whose love of meat goes right to his email address...