What is it with Fishing?

What is it with fishing?

Glen is hard core. He once told me he has a policy he uses to determine when he will fish and when he will not. This policy of his is called the 30-30 rule and while it sounds like a caliber for a rifle, it actually lays the ground work for when he will and will not go fishing. My first exposure to “The Rule” was on a trip down the North Platte in Wyoming, in a stretch called the Gray Reef. Early on this October morning, and it was not a great day in my view, in that it was 36 degrees with a 25 mile an hour wind, we set out. By Wyoming standards this was a light breeze in mild conditions, maybe not a bluebird day, but pleasant and very suitable for outdoor activity---according to Glen.

Glen, in his most comfortable tone and never-ending smile of glee, simply said, as long as the temperature was 30 degrees and the wind was less than 30 mph, fishing was on.  Admittedly, it helped that the Gray Reef was full of very large trout who loved wooly buggers, still 36 degrees and a sand-filled “breeze” of 25 almost made me soil myself. I found the question of  “why” slipping through my mind. He and Frank looked at me as if I was a panty waste, a girly man.

We went and the fish came to us in great droves, Cutthroats, Browns and Rainbows, and even when the wind wrapped the fly lines around the boat and ourselves, there was never a whimper. As the evening approached, and the sun settled into the west, the temperature dropped to a point the eyes on my fly rod were ice-filled. In the dark, a herd of Elk crashed through the water in front of us, unseen but heard. It got late and we could not find the take out, but like Captain Ahab, Glen stood aft, throwing line for that last possible fish. I did not protest for this was life at its best! What is it with fishing?

So this morning, as a result of a call last night, I decided to go fishing tomorrow, to go for Steelhead. Initially, I hesitated after having seen the forecast of 23 degrees in the morning with a ten MPH wind. The 30-30 rule was not looking good here but the forecast for 11:00 was thought to be above freezing, so never mind, it was off on a two hour drive, all geared up and full of myself because the Sheboygan River was running at 300 cubic ft/sec and the big beauties would be moving up---so we imagined.

By eleven, the day had warmed to 42 and the sun floated nicely across the southern sky. In the grass along the bank, the frost still hung to the unlit blades, slippery to aging feet and crisp to the touch. Undeterred, we shuffled our way to waters edge. Our mind’s eye, like always, was filled with anticipation almost seeing the rainbow flash of a strike and the tug of a Great Lake’s monster.

Interestingly, we were alone on our favorite stretch, not a good sign really as it would appear that others were not fishing because the apple of our eyes had not arrived from the big lake. Then, we recalled other times, like this, where we were alone and the fish were there lurking in the deep spots and flowing ripples. Nothing like anticipation. Adrenaline moved through our anxious veins, unaltered by the chill. Dennis gloatingly reminded me of the 36 incher he landed last year.

In the slow backwaters, a few old gnarly, exhausted salmon were taking their last gasps. It was the Browns and Steelhead we were after, the ones fresh from the deep water,  whose fight makes our blood flow. I flexed my flyrod, pulled out the long line, shadow cast a couple of times and landed my favorite bugger gently in the spot that only two years ago I parted company with a Steely of some 12 pounds (in my estimation) who in an act of defiance actually broke my steel hook.

As the afternoon wore on, and my disappointed flyrod worked, never once did a single fish embrace a single hair of my elegant flies. Was I a loser, a fishing ne’er-do-well, an inadequate provider? I reckon I didn’t care because the casting continued and my sometimes delusional dreaming flowed like water over my tasty lures. It is always the anticipation that will not let us leave. It is the thought that just one more cast will draw out the silvery devils in a froth of foam and turbulence.

By mid-afternoon, a touch disgruntled and a smidgen discouraged, we looked at each other and Dennis said, “God, another bust. Still, a nice day and we WERE players, not contenders, but players.”

I remarked, “We looked good, we tried. Maybe we are losers. Just what is it with this fishing?” Dennis responded, “Do you suppose we should come back tomorrow?”

Hit and Miss Engine---My Little Jumbo

I know that most folks expect to experience a high level of intellectual discourse while reading this blog, that means all 10 of you. Oh, I do have some followers in foreign lands and this one may blow by you for the level of the narrative.

What I have offered here is a Little Jumbo Engine made by Nelson Bros about 1915. While not reading Kafka, Steinbeck, Goethe, and Pushkin ( Oh I do mess with Old Engine Magazine and Fiddler), my daily activity does include splitting wood, talking senselessly to the birds, hunting for the illusive deer, staring expressionless into space and playing with engines.

This particular engine came to me by mistake in that I was at an auction and due to my general lack of awareness, thought I was bidding on another item and ended up with this pile of broken rust. I believe the one and only bid was mine at $100, a price I shouldn't mention.

However, once the rust bucket was home, it was clear it had to be made to run for that is the way of an OCD individual who does not really need to make a living nor impress any women---that just comes so easy. On close observation it was noted that many parts were soundly broken, present but broken, for no good reason. In addition, the old engine had obviously been run while many parts were very worn out. Who ever had it, simply would not give up and even though a pencil could be put in some of the out-around clearances, the brute still ran.

It would seem that at one point it probably stopped and then the guy threw rocks at it and even broke more stuff. So this is what I had. Well, hot in intellectual pursuit, we, (brother Jeff and I) started reworking parts, faking others and getting a couple of very expensive welding jobs on the cast iron. It was reassembled and a fudged ignition system was set up using a buzz coil. Low and behold the thing runs, not pretty as one can tell with all the odd hitting and puffing.

More than anything, it is a testament to the nature of these motors. They can always be fixes and by the local jackass. Unlike modern contraptions, it is made to go forever with only minor repairs---as long as one does not throw rocks at it.

Community Singing---An experience

How can I keep from singing


As a peanut butter and jelly faced kid, I was dragged off to church for various functions while my old man grinned  from behind his “I have better things to do”, attitude. It was not an easy task for my mother, but there was some success. While it may be true that initially, it was the grip on my ear that placed me in the choir were I could display my then soprano voice. In time and as my voice changed, the choir became a bit of a refuge both for me, and the Rev. Jay Funk.

The good Reverend knew with me in the choir it was now less likely the church would be destroyed by random idiotic behavior of my brothers and me------and I  actually liked to sing. I’m not sure I can identify the pleasure in it all,  maybe there were cookies, and I did get to sit up front during services rather than with my balcony bound, ill-behaved brothers and friends, nor next to my disgustingly monotoned father, who on a rare occasion, would attend. He did like to sing like Caruso but was near useless to music---and to religion.

In high school, my greatest desire was to thrash about on any field of completion I could find, the more blood and guts, the better. Classroom performance was similar but less well-behaved. However, I along with some off the other roust-abouts, would inevitably find ourselves in the school choir. There was no ear pulling by then, plenty of girls to ogle, no cookies----- maybe it was a chance to get out of something else I really didn’t want to do, like stay in homeroom where I am sure the teacher , like Rev. Jay Funk, was more than delighted to have us absent.

The homeroom teachers were tired of the marbles rolling on the floor, the birds released to fly about the room and the vulgar bodily noises created from God knows what sources. The choir was again a refuge and a source of accomplishment. There was something about singing as a group that settled us down and even the most ill-behaved would wail away even if the tunes were not one of Elvis’s favorite. If I recall many songs were of the hymnal flavor, but no college drinking songs that I later embraced with distinct vigor, while usually face into a few nice brews.

Through the years, singing Christmas carols, and on occasion, casting forth great songs of the wassail tradition was an exciting event. So recently in the throes of a community tradition, we had the wonderful experience of taking in a community sing at the South New Hope Church. Around fifty folks of all ages and variety gathered to learn a number of songs and to work out the four part harmonies.

Jim put the words in our mouths bit by bit, and the old Negro spirituals echoed through the tall, elegant old church. There was round singing, call and response, and one fine setting where, with women on one side and men on the other, we faced each other and in great Quaker tradition sang a song of praise.

This was followed by South African freedom songs, again, a call and response. The history of the apartheid jails were filtering through the music as a lone elegant soloist sang out the call.

History ran through all of  the music, as well as a common thread of time and the emotions of past experiences. The music that filled the sacred halls was uplifting and exciting. After a very quick one and half hours, it was over, but as we finished an encore, and began to walk out, another song just happened to get started. It was if the song, “How can I keep from singing” was playing itself out, for the music continued until we were out the door. There was not one incident of bad behavior from me or anyone. Music still works.

Uplifted, we along with close friends headed out for a Sunday dinner downtown Amherst. While waiting for the waitress to seat us, in the back we could hear what sounded like singing. For a moment we paused, thinking we would sit in a quiet place, away form the chatter and noise, but with little pause, we headed next to the table of barber shoppers feeling we had not had enough.

The silky sounds of tight harmonies drifted over our table and Paul asked if they might do a love song. They stood  facing our table and sang a sad song of love. We joined in and closed out the evening with a tune from the romantic 30s. Music, the singing of songs together, is in our blood I suspect, and as Mar said, “This is a day we will never forget.”

Hard Cider---Fall's Delight

I failed to mention that early in the fall I had the good fortune of pilfering some dandy apples from a friend. I am not sure he meant me to take over 100 lbs of the beauties but that sure as hell is what happened. I was not shy about it as that is not may way and I had a plan---which he did not.

Now, I have known for some time that apples where historically important not so much so they could be turned into pies and crisps, but for the juice that could be fermented. Oh ya, most folks don't really know that but Micheal Pollan laid it all on the line in his Omnivore's Dilemma. It is not that I didn't know this because people need a buzz--always have and always will.

The deal was to get an apple tree that had apples packed with sugar, the more the better because that will drive the alcohol content--more sugar more potential buzz. I suspect this was a winter thing where harvest the apples in the fall, get a good batch going and then by Christmas, while grooving on the Baby Jesus, one could get sloppy drunk and fall onto the dinner table fulfilled. At least that was part of my plan.



So I took the apples out to Byron's where a mass of apple pressers had gathered, admittedly for the purpose of fellowship and getting fresh gallon of apple juice. Not me baby. I rounded up over 5 gallons hell bent on brewing the mash up for the holiday experience. I did not detect any disdain for my intention, so I felt vindicated (sort of a pun).

I totted the jug into the kitchen drunk with excitement,  and added champagne yeast and let her rip. A few days ago I bottle what was clearly not swill. I mean, this stuff was ready to go right now and Christmas is some 6 weeks away so the Baby Jesus will have to wait. However, Thanksgiving will do. I am excited because the taste was exquisite if not profound. This is not fermented pond water but the nectar of the gods. Only problem is, I don't think it is more than, say, 7% alcohol. Still, I am full of myself on this one.

Now, it is no secret a person can set a jug of this stuff out in the winter and let it freeze. The part with the most alcohol will not freeze and can be poured off for Apple Jack---the real objective of our forefathers. Such opportunities.