Early Morning’s Light

 After tumbling around in bed for an hour, flipping this way and that

(God forbid that I disturb my dog’s four legged extension (into my back)

or my granddoggie’s big curl)  I surrendered. 

6:30 a.m. is not my finest hour, but, knowing that I can catch some fantastic views on our farm with mist rising over the fields or witness muted daybreak sun and colors about to blossom, I threw my boots on under my nightshirt, grabbed my camera, and cursed the dogs–who acknowledged my suffering by rolling over to take full, victorious possession of the bed.

There have been early mornings in the past where I’ve stumbled out in dawn’s stupor to find some deer nibbling at our crab apple tree or noticed a big tom turkey strutting his expanded fan past the ladies.  These guys stick their rubbery, bloody sausage-necks out and gobble a ridiculous “love song”.  The sound makes me want to shoot one of them right between his ugly eyes  just because  it is early (and I don’t drink coffee) and me and the ladies are not in the mood for his shenanigans.

We used to have a group of three big Toms that shared a flock of about 20 hens.  I nicknamed them, “The Three Kings” and forbid  John from shooting them in turkey season.  Hello, these are my pets.  One day I hid in our barn and shot some pictures of them out a side window.

There are always rabbits on the run and all kinds of bird songs to remind me that dawn’s early light is special.   This morning the moon was still high in a night-blue-budding sky and the fog was almost to the top tip of the trees.  The grass was heavy with wet dew; good thing I had the boots.  I trudged out, pulling my nightie up to keep it dry, and took these pictures.  So worth it!

Reel Excitement in the Yukon Territory

Float Plane, Cook House, Four Cabins and the Equipment Shed

At auction was a B.C. Canada fly-in fishing trip for four people.  The room was full of sheep hunters who had no interest in the deep.  As the opening bid fell lower and lower, my casting arm crept up higher and higher until it was finally seen by the auctioneer who, with a wink, slammed down his gavel with a resounding, “Sold! to the only bidder.”  ME

After wrangling my mom

to come with me, I set about finding my next victim.

I mentioned the trip to my fellow Airstream adventurer, Steve, who wrangled his long time fishing and hunting buddy, Ken, to join him.   (A big thank you to Ken’s wife!)  We all flew from the midwest to Vancouver B.C., up to Whitehorse in the Yukon, and then drove seven hours to meet a chopper headed to our final destination, Dease Lake.  My mom and I shared one cabin and the guys shared another.  We nicknamed ourselves “The Core Four” and our daily mission was to bag The Trifecta–at least one of three varieties of game fish:  a rainbow trout, a dolly varden, and a grayling each time we went out.

I’m afraid of grizzly bears…

and there was no shortage of those brown devils in the vast wilderness that was our fishing camp.  Sleeping with a heavy shovel next to my bedroll was a comfort.  In July the sun barely sets north of Alaska, giving us 21 hours of daylight to fill.  By 1 a.m.  we were hanging shirts and bags over the windows so even our one room cabins got some shut-eye.

One day a  joker sneaked up on us and dared to slap his big, flat tail on the water, next to the bow of the boat, which made changing my Depends a necessity.  I’m still mad at him.  The pelted plague.  A bucktoothed rascal.  An Angry Beaver.  We weren’t even throwing our lures at his lodge this time.   Collectively, we spotted a moose swimming, a lone wolf, lots of loons surfacing and calling, otters at play, ducks we can’t identify, a ruffed grouse, and a caribou skull and moose antler– the only remains of both killed by wolves.  One lucky snowshoe hare, with his brown summer jacket on, scampered past the front door of the cook house before Daniel, our First Nation guide, could skin him and put him in a pot.

Drinking water was hauled up in buckets from the lake and poured directly into pitchers and cups.  It was crystal clear and so good and cold!  Our only modern appliance was a propane range. The five second rule morphed into the five minute rule in camp.  Grub was as rough as the terrain but after a hard day of cranking and reeling, it was all good.  We played 9 rounds of “golf” and lots of cribbage when we weren’t in a boat.  Golf is  a card game that doesn’t require a nine iron or a club throw.  Without electricity, grooming was done “old school” using a table basin, a tea kettle (if we wanted hot water) and the same towel for a week.  Did I mention the outhouse?  Let’s not.

After aggravating fish for five days on Dease Lake, we stayed on a few extra nights in Whitehorse, a surprisingly upscale, wanna-be town where I scored an ivory necklace made from fossilized wooly mammoth tusks–a must have for any girl.  We were all set to venture out on a 150km cruise on the scenic Alaska Hwy to Skagway.  Along the way we saw a bear, several moose, and stumbled upon a wildlife preserve.  The best part about Skagway was getting there; the town itself is a tourist trap for cruise ships.  To be fair, there were some amazing bronze sculptures, carved caribou antlers, and Inuit artwork but one had to strike gold in order to make a purchase.  I was hoping for an authentic and historic Klondike gold mining town and seaport but discovered a micro-mini Wisconsin Dells filled with the same trash and trinkets in each store window.  On the upside, it rained a lot.

Back in Whitehorse, we found a coffee spot called “Baked” that not only serves 172 different kinds of java, juice, and jams but they excel in baking raspberry chocolate scones–voted Best in Show by the Core Four.   One morning we sipped and sat, imagining what our catch and release fish were telling their buddies.  Wide eyed, one might exclaim, “You guys aren’t going to believe this, but I was abducted by aliens!  They had a silver metal ship and I was lifted up through the water into the sky…it was so bright…I couldn’t breathe.  They were giants who probed and prodded in my mouth while sounds came out of theirs.   OMG are they ugly!”

Photo credit for some of the pics goes to Steve.  Thanks for sharing!

The Perfect Crime?

One summer several seasons ago, my husband and I were engaged in a “discussion” where He was talking and I wasn’t listening.  Capital intended.  Somewhere in the exchange He made a remark which catapulted me into a two year crimespree.  I blame Him.

It all began with a silly, simple thing like me wanting to go fishing.  It is what I love to do.  To do it properly one needs a boat, some gear, a dog who is your co-pilot, and an overcast June afternoon with a cold pop in a cup holder and some bug spray on board.  I had everything but the boat.    That’s when the discussing turned into cussing and a non-typical threat; a gauntlet thrown down by Him:

He said, “You may NEVER have a boat because we don’t have room for it.”

Really? Do we not live on a farm?

I’ve excelled at getting what I want throughout our 30 year marriage…capitalizing on the tricks we wives perfect over the years.  Most of the time John finds it amusing and challenging, so it all works out in the end.   This was a man who has always given me everything in this life I’ve ever really wanted and I guess he just underestimated how badly I wanted to fish and how far I would go to land one.  To me, His words were like nails on a chalkboard or a wedgie on my dreams.  In desperation and on vacation, I turned to a life of crime.  I couldn’t stop myself.  I am a weakling.

In hindsight, the guilt almost outweighed my visions of reeling

in a splashing four pound smallie.  (almost)

A land-lover, He was back home making the bacon and I was in da U.P. camping on the shores of the Michigamme Reservoir with my parents, my brother and his grown children.  We had all been sharing my dad’s Bass Tracker and admittedly, it was crowded.  Being the fun girl that I think I am, I buzzed into town just to see if anyone was giving any old boats away on the side of the road.

I could justify something on the cheap side –but I knew I could never bring it home.

Just then I spotted an older aluminum boat with an Evinrude 115  resting on top of a  trailer whose durability was suspect.  The whole thing jumped off the side of the road and screamed, “Pick me!”   After kicking some tires and talking turkey, she was all mine.  I tried to stop myself; I really did.  Then I named her Mabel.  Trusty ‘Ol Mabel.  I stopped in town and found some letters at the hardware store, so her name could be properly displayed.  She and I had a rip roaring time for two summers in a row out on that lake.  We filled her live well and I dove off the bow into the cool water a couple of times.  When winter came, I stashed her at a storage facility.  A little thrill ran up my leg as the time went by and He was none the wiser.

Everyone in my family was sworn to secrecy.  No pictures of Mabel.  No mention of her blue gunwales or how she was strong enough to pull skiiers.  They said they couldn’t lie, but wouldn’t inform (knowing this is how I operate).  My husband, John, was on a need to know basis and he didn’t need to know.

We were in Chicago at my parent’s house during the spring that my father died.  The house felt empty and the backyard didn’t look right.  That’s when John looked in the yard and asked my brother, “Where is Gramp’s boat?”  Without thinking, my brother replied, “It is up north in storage with Kelly’s.”

John’s eyes literally bugged out of his head as he grew

a big Grinch smile–he had me. 

I was a goner.

Oh, I’ve paid for my crime since then and the story of Trusty ‘Ol Mabel is told and retold so much that I’ve become a legend in my own mind.  This story had a happy ending (hehehe) because John was a good sport; the surprises in life keep marriage aglow and if I wasn’t naughty, he wouldn’t stay interested.  All has been forgiven and eventually Mabel was less trusty than crusty and she went on the auction block.   Guilt.  Yepper… this was over the top but I would do it again.

Roosevelt’s Cowboys

“Sinewy, hardy, self-reliant, the cowboy’s life forces men to be both daring and adventurous, and the passing over their heads of a few years leaves printed on their faces certain lines which tell of dangers quietly fronted and hardships uncomplainingly endured.

They are far from being as lawless as they are described; though they sometimes cut strange antics when, after many months of lonely life, they come into a frontier town in which drinking and gambling are the only recognized forms of amusement, and where pleasure and vice are considered synonymous terms. On the round-ups, or when a number get together, there is much boisterous, often foul-mouthed mirth; but they are rather silent, self-contained men when with strangers, and are frank and hospitable to a degree.

The Texans are perhaps the best at the actual cowboy work. They are absolutely fearless riders and understand well the habits of the half wild cattle, being unequaled in those most trying times when, for instance, the cattle are stampeded by a thunderstorm at night, while in the use of the rope they are only excelled by the Mexicans. On the other hand, they are prone to drink, and when drunk, to shoot.”

–1885, Theodore Roosevelt’s “Hunting Trips of a Ranchman”

 I could listen to this song 100 times straight and never tire of the lyrics. 

Charlie Harper Week

How could I have JUST DISCOVERED this amazing illustrator!

Charlie Harper (1922-2007) created over 50 “minimal realism” environmental themed posters for national parks, nature preserves and wildlife sanctuaries as well as being a frequent contributor to Ford Motor Company’s magazine Ford Times for nearly two decades.

He painted birds and beasts moving about in their natural habitat–breaking the portraits down into simple shapes and forms using vibrant color palettes.  He especially loved birds and bird watching.  His subjects are going about their business, undisturbed by the viewer.

My family expects  accepts my quirky collections, random interests, and impulse fetishes.  This week it is definitely Charlie Harper week around here.   I will spend hours researching this artist and his works.  All I want to do right this minute is save all of his illustrations in a file on my computer so I can enjoy them later.

Most of what I learn will fall on deaf ears as my family will, no doubt,  “fake listen” to me regurgitate new found facts and potent potables.  They will nod politely, say uh-huh, and smile while trying to hide the fact that they are texting on their phones in their laps.  I can see the texts now:  Hey, Adam, Mom is a cuckoo-cuckoo bird!

The Best Thing About Fishing

1946 – My Grandpa (center) on the Michigamme Reservoir

Spinning a fish tale is akin to being an artist or painter. You’ve got to know how to layer it. Once you’ve caught your limit and filled your head with memories to last until next time, the lying comes in. It is a sin to call it lying because it isn’t really LYING. It is taking a piece of nice fabric and sewing a little design on it. You sit around a campfire and gradually you swindle yourself into believing a rogue fish ran on you three times and was so big you had to grab an oar and slap him silly to get him in the boat. You might have even noticed a bear on the shore threatening to take your keep. Why, I’ve even caught the same fish twice once and reeled in a lure I lost last year.

You don’t just catch a fish once. There are certain ones you catch over and over again as you fall asleep at night. With closed eyes, you tighten the drag as the line spins off–with adrenaline at each end. Remembering the details of the day many times will eclipse the fish itself: the mist on the water at daybreak or seeing a doe and fawn at the water’s edge. Maybe you spotted an eagle perched on a crooked branch. Now throw in the taste of a sack lunch sandwich when your belly is growling, bug bites, and the things you forgot to bring and all the ways you made do. All of this makes the actual fishing of the fish a secondary thing.

When we are grown up and too old for fairy tales, a fish tale is a healthy thing. Without these fabrications, life is mostly a matter of adult things like work, taking out the trash, and thinking about the bills you haven’t got the money to pay. A fisherman who won’t toy with the truth is the kind of person who will do you one in the eye on a deal, kick his dog, or peek in your medicine cabinet. Can’t trust ‘em.

 Three blondes are sitting by the side of a river holding fishing poles with the lines in the water. A Game Warden comes up behind them, taps them on the shoulder and says, “Excuse me, ladies, I’d like to see your fishing licenses.” We don’t have any.” replied the first blonde.

“Well, if you’re going to fish, you need fishing licenses.” said the Game Warden. “But officer,” replied the second blonde, “we aren’t fishing. We all have magnets at the end of our lines and we’re collecting debris off the bottom of the river.”  The Game Warden lifted up all the lines and, sure enough, there were horseshoe magnets tied on the end of each line. “Well, I know of no law against it,” said the Game Warden, “take all the debris you want.” And with that, the Game Warden left.

As soon as the Game Warden was out of sight, the three blondes started laughing hysterically. “What a dumb Fish Cop,” the second blonde said to the other two, “doesn’t he know that there are steelhead in this river?!”