Like two juveniles with time on our hands, Dennis and I decided we had to go fishing. Even more like two grinning, mud stained kids we headed down a small, rather unknown creek that emptied into the Wisconsin River 5 miles above the laid-back, quiet community referred to as The Dells. We had spotted the stream on a map and double checked it out on Goggle Earth to see if we could see big Bass laying in there like so much cord wood. While the true fish count could not be established, the spot looked untouched, or at least inaccessible to anyone but overly ambitious youngsters or delusional adults.
Qualified, we departed in the canoe only to find that 2 inches of water will not float a boat. Still undeterred, we mounted our attack that involved trudging the bent canoe over inappropriately fallen logs, nettle covered shoreline and algae infested swamps. After the first fifty yards it became obvious we were going were few had gone and as a result the waiting fish would be ours in great numbers. Around the first hidden bend some three dozen Wood ducks scattered from their hidden dinner tables, some looking back at us as if we were a couple of Australiopithecenes, or maybe the real Piltdown men, coming to hunt them with throwing nets and bola-bolas. In looking at each other we may have noticed the similarities ourselves as the swamp and clinging vegetation was beginning to take a heavy toll on our normally well kept appearance.
As we carefully slid into the hidden pond we had seen in the satellite photo, more ducks broke from the impressive stands of wild rice. A pair of Sandhills Cranes yacked at us for our intrusion into their comfortable grazing ground. The great body of water in which we had hoped to lure massive bass appeared as a shallow weed-filled sea almost impenetrable to normal fishers. But like anyone inflicted with terminal fish fever, we stepped up to the plate willing to get hit by the first fast ball simply to get to first base just moments later.
The strained journey across the forbodding pond reminded Dennis of the African Queen episode where Bogart pushed the ratty old boat, the Queen, through the leach filled, reeking, swamp all for the glory and the admiration of Hepburn. He noted, of course, my failure to measure up to the beautiful distraught damsel. He was without cause other than the distant hope, a glimmer of hope that just maybe he would catch one
fish. He cared not one lick for me other than without my help he would never leave this place and he would be nothing more than a headline in the State Journal about some elderly gentleman found half consumed by turtles with bones cleaned up by one of the eagles we had seen giving us the eye.
It was a hard pull and briefly we thought it might actually be possible that we could not go forward and we could not go back. The pond scum had swallowed us, and done it in concert with the massive Snapping Turtles we had been seeing.
Inches at a time we fought our way through to open water knowing there was no return except over land, a land were we could hear the distant sound of banjo music and see toothless, grinning rubes. Desperately and thankfully, we moved into the shallow open stream but no sooner did we pause to collect out composure when out of the aquatic vegitation appeared a giant Snapper whose jaws could crush our old limbs like match sticks. We reeled to the right not wanting to confront the prehistoric monster. He semmed so at home.
Talk about primitive. I mean we were thinking we were primitive,(remember the paleo man thing). The 35 lb turtle had moss and algae covering its back and the looked million years old. After collecting our composer, we stopped and chatted with the turtle, relating our great crossing---for which he appeared to have little interest. He slipped his old nose above the surface possibly to test our human odor. He looked at us knowing full well he had ancestors that looked just like him on this planet before there was a single human. We excepted that and watched him swim off as we stood fishless. (To be edited and continued)
Qualified, we departed in the canoe only to find that 2 inches of water will not float a boat. Still undeterred, we mounted our attack that involved trudging the bent canoe over inappropriately fallen logs, nettle covered shoreline and algae infested swamps. After the first fifty yards it became obvious we were going were few had gone and as a result the waiting fish would be ours in great numbers. Around the first hidden bend some three dozen Wood ducks scattered from their hidden dinner tables, some looking back at us as if we were a couple of Australiopithecenes, or maybe the real Piltdown men, coming to hunt them with throwing nets and bola-bolas. In looking at each other we may have noticed the similarities ourselves as the swamp and clinging vegetation was beginning to take a heavy toll on our normally well kept appearance.
As we carefully slid into the hidden pond we had seen in the satellite photo, more ducks broke from the impressive stands of wild rice. A pair of Sandhills Cranes yacked at us for our intrusion into their comfortable grazing ground. The great body of water in which we had hoped to lure massive bass appeared as a shallow weed-filled sea almost impenetrable to normal fishers. But like anyone inflicted with terminal fish fever, we stepped up to the plate willing to get hit by the first fast ball simply to get to first base just moments later.
The strained journey across the forbodding pond reminded Dennis of the African Queen episode where Bogart pushed the ratty old boat, the Queen, through the leach filled, reeking, swamp all for the glory and the admiration of Hepburn. He noted, of course, my failure to measure up to the beautiful distraught damsel. He was without cause other than the distant hope, a glimmer of hope that just maybe he would catch one
fish. He cared not one lick for me other than without my help he would never leave this place and he would be nothing more than a headline in the State Journal about some elderly gentleman found half consumed by turtles with bones cleaned up by one of the eagles we had seen giving us the eye.It was a hard pull and briefly we thought it might actually be possible that we could not go forward and we could not go back. The pond scum had swallowed us, and done it in concert with the massive Snapping Turtles we had been seeing.
Inches at a time we fought our way through to open water knowing there was no return except over land, a land were we could hear the distant sound of banjo music and see toothless, grinning rubes. Desperately and thankfully, we moved into the shallow open stream but no sooner did we pause to collect out composure when out of the aquatic vegitation appeared a giant Snapper whose jaws could crush our old limbs like match sticks. We reeled to the right not wanting to confront the prehistoric monster. He semmed so at home.
Talk about primitive. I mean we were thinking we were primitive,(remember the paleo man thing). The 35 lb turtle had moss and algae covering its back and the looked million years old. After collecting our composer, we stopped and chatted with the turtle, relating our great crossing---for which he appeared to have little interest. He slipped his old nose above the surface possibly to test our human odor. He looked at us knowing full well he had ancestors that looked just like him on this planet before there was a single human. We excepted that and watched him swim off as we stood fishless. (To be edited and continued)
No comments:
Post a Comment