Spiderwebs

Two of my favorite outdoor activities are hiking and fishing. They're both forms of recreation that I find calming, and to some extent even soothing. They allow my mind to wander, to think deep thoughts, while at the same time taking in the beauty that nature provides. I participate in both not necessarily in tandem, however to reach the small streams I prefer to frequent, the former usually comes paired with the latter.

There's that saying, and I'm not sure who made it up, that "the early bird gets the worm." While I can't prove the validity of that statement, I can vouch that the "early angler gets the face full of spiderwebs."

It's probable that you know what I'm talking about. Being the first one on an intimate trail or waterway in the morning, you'll often encounter the weavings of the resident arachnids, spanning the tight sections of land or water you're attempting to ascend. You muster your best limbo dance or shimmy to avoid disturbing the delicate weave of gossamer, but often you don't even see the trusses until it's too late. Typically it's a minor inconvenience, but at times you come face to face with the architect. Depending on your disposition to things that creep and crawl, that could be a level 5 traumatic experience.

It was a spiderweb sort of morning for me the other weekend in western North Carolina. I rose early, putting a premium on being first to the trailhead. This lead to an encounter with several webs on my hike in and amblings about the stream. I always enjoy seeing these marvels of nature, because it means I'm the first outsider to intrude today, the fish (and spiders) haven't been pestered yet, and should be eager to bite.. 

On this day, said eagerness was confirmed. It had rained the week leading up to this visit and the waters were high, the trails muddy, and spiderwebs thick. But it didn't matter, onward I pushed and found just enough soft spots in the rushing currents to locate the wild rainbows that call this tributary home. 

Tightlining small nymphs seemed to be the best tactic to bring a trout to hand. The tenkara rod I was using was perfect for this presentation. With the waters so generally swift, I did manage a trick a few fish with unweighted kebari, but they were the outliers. Had it been a nicer day conditions wise, I probably would have fished my 3-weight and dries, but it didn't look like rises were going to be a common occurance. 

After several hours of fishing upstream, I found the remains of a primitive streamside campsite and used that as a point of exit, hiking the hour or so back down to the trailhead. It's amazing how much slower one moves while in the water, consumed with prospecting each pool, riffle, and eddy. 

 

Dismantling and stowing my gear back at my SUV's tailgate, I couldn't help but notice the day's accumulation of spider's silk lightly covering my pack, rod tip, and hat. Running my hand across each to remove the remnant strands allowed me time to reflect on the day's activities. Perhaps spiderwebs are not for the faint of heart, but for an angler, they're definitely a sign of promise.

Wolverines!

Fish are meant to stay in the water. No, I'm not preaching for you to "keep 'em wet." It's an actual truth, or so I'm told, that fish belong in the water. Something about gills and breathing. It's only our questionable oversight as anglers that chooses to remove them from that sanctuary. Be it permanently for tablefare, temporarily for sport, or these days, egotistically for the 'Gram.

After a week of catching some hefty brown trout in the meandering spring creeks of southwestern Wisconsin, I switched gears and redirected myself to the sanctum of the Georgia headwaters, seeking a reunion with its much smaller, wild, resident rainbow trout.

The day was gorgeous, with just enough warmth from the sun to occasionally pierce the crisp air that can only be found at altitude during the heat of the southern summer. And even better, the trout were in a good mood, or at least a hungry one, their metabolisms likely jumpstarted by the pleasant weather.

While the fish weren't particularly picky, repeatedly succumbing to any and all sub-surface offerings, they immediately reminded me how slick and slithery they can be, once wrangled from the water, fooled by their eyes and stomachs. 

See, those Driftless browns tend to stay put after the throes of battle. Once conquered, they gently lay down their flag. This submission allows you to hoist them from the water momentarily to get a closer look, dress their wounds by dislodging the hook, then if you choose, return them from whence they came. Their captive behavior resembles a form of situational awareness, as if they understand the war is almost over and their time as a prisoner will be brief.

However those rainbows... Oh, those plucky little Georgia rainbows choose not to go down without a fight. While they may be brought to hand faster, it's only a ploy. A Trojan horse approach to combat in which they strategically get as close to their adversary as possible before unleashing a full artillery of spasms, gyrations, and convulsions. Anything to jettison the hook and then return to the water defiantly and without exploitation. As anglers, we're the Russians and they're screaming "Wolverines!"

That's why those little mountain rainbows have earned a special place in my heart. They may not be the biggest fish, but they never surrender. They never quit. Fight on Wolverines.

Five Days in the Driftless

My flight landed in Minneapolis at 830am local time, about fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. The checked bag was among the first to emerge from the darkness and take its place to be claimed upon the conveyor belt. I watched it circle once before lunging to snag the handle. A short tram ride found no line to pick up my rental SUV. I paid for a Toyota, but they gave me a Mercedes. A bit fancy for my tastes, but so far everything was coming up roses.

Day 1: Why is it So Hot?

After an almost 3 hour drive through what seemed like endless construction I found myself in the heart of the Wisconsin Driftless. Hastily lacing up some wading boots and stringing up my tenkara rod, the harmonious melody that was my trip was interrruped by an abrupt record scratch. I couldn’t help but notice how hot it was. 92 degrees. In Wisconsin? The high in Florida was at least ten degrees cooler. It really didn’t matter. Well it did, but not that much. One of my favorite spring creeks lazily flowed before me. And I mean lazy. The water was low, the sun was high, but there were no other anglers to be found, and I was going to catch some fish.

Luckily, enough browns cooperated to make the back sweat worth it. You know the kind of humidity-induced perspiration that begins as a few individual drops rolling down your sides but evolves into a drenching so much that your shirt clings to your torso? Some might even call it moist. That’s a fun word to type. I may have shed the fishing skunk, but I’m sure by this time I smelled ripe.

Needing to check into my cabin, I cut the fishing a smidge short and headed over to the farm on which it was quietly located. Left a nice wet mark on that Mercedes’ haughty leather seat along the way. Did I mention how hot it was?

Now settled in the cabin for the night, a few of my friends (and roomates for the week) began to file in as well. Exhausted, I thought I was feeling the ill-effect of sunstroke. A blur of orange took over my eyes as they rapidly went in and out of focus. Fortunately, it was only Luong Tam walking through the front door.

Day 2: Cowtown

I met up with my friend Dave early this morning. You know Dave. Or likely know Dave’s voice. He’s the James Earl Jones of Tenkara Angler. We decided to drive a bit to fish a creek that is typically quite productive. I mean what kind of jerk would take his friend to a creek that sucks?

Much like the day before, the sun was high and the water low, but we found some riffles and deepish pools during our creekside meander. I’d pick up a fish, Dave would pick up a fish. This continued for about 45 minutes… and then some lifeguards on four-wheelers called an “adult swim” for the cows. All anglers out of the pool! I’ve never known livestock to be cognizant of stream etiquitte, and almost predictably they decided to seat themselves right in a pool Dave was working up to fishing. These were not the browns we came here for.

So, upstream we proceeded and each caught our fair share over the next 3 hours. The fishing wasn’t prolific, but it was good enough to keep our rods bent frequenly enough to avoid too many awkward, fishless silences. Note that I had said this creek was typically quite productive, not always quite productive. Happy with our morning of catching, we exited the stream and walked back to the car. Dave mentioned that his dermatologist would have been proud of him today. If you look at the photos, you’ll recognize why.

Day 3: North of the Border

I have a favorite creek in the Driftless. It’s a good drive north from where I usually fish. It might as well be in Canada. By name, it practically is. It’s lightly wooded and holds both brown and brook trout. It was still to be above 90 degrees this day and the shady spots were going to be welcomed.

This was a solo trip. Not that I keep the location of this stream under lock and key, rather I just wanted a bit of solitude. Growing up an only child, I don’t mind being alone, particularly in nature. Seclusion often authors the most interesting inner monologues. Well, I guess I wasn’t totally alone, as I did find constant companionship at the end of my line.

Later that evening was the main gathering of the Great Driftless Tenkara Campout. It was the total opposite of the morning’s tranquility. There were probably close to fifty people in attendance, eating, drinking, and talking about tenkara. There were raffles, presentations, casting contests, and story telling. I even had an extended conversation about ice fishing of all things. (Note, I’ve never ice fished in my life.)

I like being around people, but if I was to be recklessly honest, I don’t really enjoy group gatherings. They can be a bit much. A group of five is awesome. Ten is okay. But, fifty… well… Perhaps it goes back to that only child dynamic. But I attended for a bit, talked to some, and tried not to be too socially awkward. If I recall, my new acquaintance Bob characterized such activity not as antisocial, but rather nonsocial. That sounds good to me. Type As were seemingly too many to count. I’m fine with sitting back and being a Type X, Y, or Z. That said, my dysfunction should not take away from the fact that the organizers held an absolutely wonderful event!

Day 4: Put a Fork in It

This was by far the best morning of fishing of the trip. Chunky browns and some stray brookies were situated neatly beyond the pastures of a Mennonite farm.

If the water looked like it held fish, it did. Likely, two or three from the same run, given you coaxed them out of hiding just right. Lightly twitching, twitching, twitching, before feeling the sharp rebound of a take and the subsequent mounting pressure. You were nothing more than a flexed forearm away from fourteen inches of butter. It was glorious. And still hot. But I didn’t feel the temperature at all. Being distracted by the tugging of brown trout can do that to a person. I can’t say the same for the yogurt covered raisins stashed in my fishing pack.

A change of location and several hours later, my cabinmates and I decided to take a night out on the town and hit a local restaurant, and then try our hands at fishing the early evening that followed. As one might expect, there aren’t a lot of options to go out and eat on a Sunday night in the middle of mostly nowhere, but we found a welcoming establishment and ordered food. It eventually even got served, and obviously quickly eaten.

The fishing that followed was pretty good for the limited time we were out. A strange haze filled the sky. They said it was due to wildfires in Canada. (The real Canada, not the one from the day prior). It made for a surreal backdrop, not only for the evening, but for the rest of this trip to the Driftless in general.

Day 5: Donny Osmond Creek

Donny Osmond? If you’re familar with the area, you can figure out where we fished. Or just play Sherlock Holmes and look at the road sign in the picture below. This morning I paired with my friend Matt and we both found regular success early on. The cool water flowed through some high banks above and beautiful structure below, while the braided riffles seemed to produce section after section. Matt was fishing wet flies, I was fishing nymphs. The surf & turf combo seemed to be the perfect entree for several hours… until it wasn’t.

As with most mornings, the fishing faucet turned off as the sun rose to its apex in the sky. I picked a final brown out of a narrow section of water before collapsing my rod and exiting the creek by the roadside. There was a gentleman standing by his pickup truck watching me scale the bank. He asked, “how they biting?” I replied, “okay, I caught a few.” As with most fishing conversation, it was neither fully the truth nor fully a lie.

It was probably for the best to stop at that point, as we were going to meet up with our friend Mike, who was dropping in for an overnight stay. Sadly, he was arriving virtually at the same time as I was departing. Even though we squeezed in a brief nightcap that evening, the morning’s outing with Matt was essentially my walkoff for this trip.

The Postscript

Before I knew it, this year’s Driftless angling adventure was over, relegated to but a fond memory. I found myself hurriedly packing my bags and getting ready to depart early the next morning. Delta Airlines was calling me. But not before one final breakfast sandwich from Kwik Trip.

Five days of fantastic fishing. Five days of fun with friends. Five days of fattening food. Five days of fucking hot temperatures. These were my five days in the Driftless.