Queasy Rider

It all started with a storm.

Last Friday night as I was cooking dinner for my family a big thunderstorm system moved through our area, wreaking havoc on small towns west of the metro. Fortunately for me our community was unscathed. A few hours later I was riding shotgun in my friend Al's car, leading a caravan of four cars across Wisconsin, with the lightning still receding off to the East.

We were sharing a charter on the "Angler Managment," a 32-foot Trojan, out of Kewaunee, Wisconsin. We arrived in Kewaunee right at 6AM, when our charter was to begin, but because of the recent high winds we decided to delay until 8 to let things die down and to get some breakfast. When a Great Lakes charterboat captain suggests that you wait it out a bit, you don't really argue.

I wish now that I had actually eaten some breakfast in town -- But as it were, I had some greasy sausage sticks and other assorted pogey bait that I had brought along. I munched hungrilly on those sausage sticks as we motored out of the protected harbor. Out on the lake it was better than I expected but still pretty rough seas. After about 15-20 minutes of wave crashing I began to feel very very hot and very very queasy. I looked over at Al and he was worse off than me

I have only been seasick one other time in my life, and it also involved a hastily-scarfed breakfast of dubious components. I had to hurl a couple of cookies over the side but by and large held together. Thankfully my friend Faron had some Dramamine with him.

The first four hours of our charter were fruitless. In all that time we had one bite, which my friend Jet lost. It wasn't for a lack of trying; the skipper threw everything he had in the water save for Al's puke bucket. It was getting to be so bad that I suggested that we anchor the boat and fish with bobbers. About then the next bite hit. I was up.

At first I thought I was into the fish of a lifetime. He certainly felt that way. But as it turned out there was a problem with the planer board on my line, and I was basically trying to reel in my fish with the planer board turned sideways in the water. Making it worse we were still maintining trolling speed; so once the skipper saw what was wrong he slowed up the boat a bit and that helped. I boated the first fish of the day, about a 7 or 8 pound king.

The action picked up after that, and Jay, Faron and Al each boated fish. It was starting to look like things were picking up, but when we got back to the top of the order, it was Jet's turn and we didn't get anymore bites. So in the end we returned to port and Jet was empty-handed. Poor guy.


Here is the full group of us. From Left to right: Jeremy, Siegfried, Faron, Yours Truly, Jay, Al and Jet.

Siegfried and Jeremy were on a second boat with Sieg's grandkids. They boated three, so they didn't do much better. We're a pretty diverse group: A South African, a German, three Americans and Two Filipinos.

Here's a photo of yours truly with the skipper and his mate. Ironically the guy dressed for fish cleaning is the skipper, and the more 'skipperly'-looking fellow on the right is the mate.





Here is a picture of Faron and his King.
Faron took a lot more pictures than I did (I wasn't really in the mood once I started puking) so maybe he will get some more photos for me to post at a later date.









Here's me with my king.
Easily the smallest fish, he was pretty easy to find at the bottom of the cooler.








Big or no,
he sure did make for a tasty dinner.









Charter fishing is not really fishing.
Oh, some fishing does go on, but it is the skipper and the mate who do all that. That's what you pay them for. All you do on a charter is reel fish in. If there aren't any fish to reel in, then all you are left with is pretty much an 85 dollar an hour boat ride. I booked this trip before I knew that I was getting my boat. I probably wouldn't have gone if I hadn't already committed a non-refundable deposit. I would have spent the money fishing around home.

I function better as my own skipper, and my rates are more reasonable.

Old Friends

"The man with the boots does not
mind where he places his foot."

-Irish Proverb

"My optimism wears heavy boots
and is loud."

-Henry Rollins

I've had these bad boys for 25 years. My dad bought them for me in 1983 to replace a crappy pair of Moon Boots. To this day probably one of the nicest things he has ever done for me and that is saying a lot.

I have lost track of how many sets of laces and liners I have gone through.
If you click on the photo and look at the toes you can see that they're shot.

I'm not sure why it is that our footwear tends to personify us more than any other article of our apparel. When soldiers lose a comrade they will march past his empty boots and salute. Of all the outrageous excesses of the Marcos Regime it was Imelda's 1060 pairs of shoes that everyone (at least in the states) remembers.

The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.
And without good footwear, you're going nowhere.

Good boots are like good friends. The better they are, the more you can count on them. They can be taken for granted without being insulted by it. But then again boots are inanimate objects and don't have feelings.

What the @#$!$% am I talking about anyway?

I've gotten a lot of traffic (Like double) lately from people looking for fish house designs but none of these freeloading sunkinthaditches comment on my posts. Is nobody commenting because the quality of my posts is crap, or is the quality of my posts crap because nobody comments? I guess either way if I had to ask it isn't a good thing. According to my stats my most loyal reader is the vi@gr@worm robot who hits my RSS feed like 6000 times a day when he's not busy lighting up my custom 404 page with obscene (and non-existent) URLs.

Sorry this post melted down. I really had high hopes for it, too.

But then again what do you care, whoever you are?
You weren't reading this anyway, were you?

Sweeter than Two Below, Honey

Well, we survived the big saturday fishing trip, and we brought home some fish to boot.

Unfortunately my camera was not so fortunate and died out on the lake so I only managed to get these two photos. I put us right on top of the fish as you can see in the second photo of my friend Roberto and his first crappie ever, plus the first keeper ever pulled up in my home made fish house. All said and done we kept 1 decent crappie plus three others I would have tossed back if we weren't trying to piece together a modest meal for Roberto and his kids. A little fruit off the tree is good incentive for planning another trip.

Oh yeah, I also got me a small walleye, who got sent back to grow some more. All in all it was a great trip, I even talked on the phone to one of the guys who canceled, who seemed a little dismayed to hear that not only had we NOT frozen to death but in fact we were so warm in the fish house that we had to shed clothes to stay warm, and that the fishing action was, well, active.

Some more pictures maybe later of when we got back to Roberto's house and his kids saw the fish.

...And then there were 2

Fishing plans for tomorrow were originally for 6 guys in three houses. Yesterday the two other guys with fish houses canceled because of the weather. One of the ride-alongs was similarly convinced not to go. That left me and two ride-alongs, one of whom was gracious enough to bow out, even though I could tell that it really was in his heart to go.

We Few, We Happy Few.

What's he that wishes so?
My cousin Westmorland. No, my fair cousin:
If we are marked to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God's will, I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It ernes me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires:
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:
God's peace, I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more, methinks, would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more.
Rather proclaim it presently through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart. His passport shall be made
And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is called the Feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a-tiptoe when the day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall see this day and live t'old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say "To-morrow is Saint Crispian":
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars
And say "These wounds I had on Crispin's day."
Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he today that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now abed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

Henry V (IV, iii)

Deerless

Better luck this weekend, guys!

Session Start Wed Nov 07 14:52:48 2007

carsonkip: In case you didn't hear Miskowic and I are deerless
terry: I had not
carsonkip: well we will try it again this weekend
terry: How was it - were there any to be seen that you passed on?
carsonkip: I saw 3 Fri
carsonkip: they saw me and went elsewhere
carsonkip: thats it
terry: I saw a dead buck on the side of 610 on Saturday
carsonkip: they are really starting to go now
terry: Sorry I didn't make it up there with you guys before deer hunting
carsonkip: my dad saw a 4 point in his backyard Sat too
carsonkip: well I only made it up twice myself
carsonkip: don't work too hard but make lots of $
terry: OK then
carsonkip: c ya
terry: bye

*** "carsonkip" signed off at Wed Nov 07 15:02:27 2007.

Cybertaxidermy

Miskowic caught himself a pretty big walleye out on the pond a few weeks back. Right around that same time Chris was taking pictures of his thumb and Miskowic accidentally got into the background. It was my job to correct this injustice for all to see.

Another example of better living through Photoshop.

The BWCA gets Wikified

The Dharma Bum has started a wiki site for the Boundary Waters Canoe Area. The wiki site "...is meant to serve as a resource for anyone who wants to learn more about the area, about camping and canoeing there, etc."

Go check it out:

http://www.bwcawiki.org

Treestand Confession

Chris weighs in:

Date: Wed, 9 Nov 2005 07:39
Subject: what I got

"OK, so I'm sitting in my stand opening morning and I hear some crashing in the brush behind me, and I know this is a deer. I stand and ready myself. Good news - I saw the deer before she saw me and she will cross my shooting lane. I calmly raise my rifle, aiming down the part in the trees. Then there was another crash Through the brush - I thought to myself, "This must be a buck." Indeed it was, not huge but the largest one I've seen hunting, complete with a well-developed 6 point rack. Well my composure faded as quickly as the doe did into the brush. I followed the buck with my weapon across the shooting lane without taking a shot. If I see the above-mentioned animal again I have a plan - One that doesn't include me choking due to a sudden case of buck fever."

Antler Envy

Miskowic & Cashman each got a buck this year:

Miskowic's deer



Cashman's Deer

These were taken from Miskowic's camera phone.
Not only does Cashman always get a bigger deer than Miskowic, he even gets bigger pictures of deer than Miskowic.

No word yet on how Chris did.

Where Heaven & Earth Meet

Click to enlarge (Opens in a new window)


Words mean little in the north country. When hunting grouse, an unnecessary word can cost you a shot. It was Sunday, almost noon, almost the end of our weekend excursion. We advanced up a little road with caution, careful to make as little noise as possible. For a brief moment in time we had been able to tune out the outside world. We had replaced the mundane daily tasks of our lives with the excitement of keeping a canoe upright and the serenity of gazing at a distant shoreline. We had challenged our senses to identify shapes in the underbrush and to feel a tap on the line. We had experienced the adrenal rush of flushed birds and the tranquil peace of laying on our backs and gazing at the night sky. We had slept on the frosty ground, drank hot black coffee from tin cups, cooked meat over an open fire, used our compasses in real life situations and howled at the moon. None of these things necessarily in that order, of course. But now it was Sunday, and each man was starting to feel the outside world tugging him back. Each of us had lives that awaited our return: Household chores, Monday morning blues and joyful reunions with wives and children.

Q: So what of this fatal moment in a trip, when our inner mountain men must relinquish their hold on us?

A: We faced the moment as neither a mountain man nor a civilized man but rather as some sort of hybrid.

Such were my thoughts as I made my way up that twisting, claustrophobic little road with my two best friends flanking me. We encountered a set of gateposts and stopped to consult our maps. We advanced into unposted private land. Ahead was a clearing and some blue. The road emptied out onto a undeveloped lot that according to our map was the only access point to a small lake. Respectfully we lowered our guns and made our way to the shoreline. We did this not as hunters but rather as pilgrims, for in front of us was a vision, of Heaven meeting the earth.

A sheltered little bay reflected the sky and the fall colors. The campsite behind me had probably been there for a thousand years, with different men calling it home. And they would have been crazy not to. The blustery wind that had harassed us on Fourmile lake was reduced to a shocked gasp, as though we had stumbled across one of the wood's secrets. The wind weaved through the pines and the stubborn Birches like a busybody at a party, shushing us to secrecy. I closed my eyes and felt the clean air on my face and inhaled the scent of the woods. They smelled sweeter here than anyplace else I had been all weekend. As I entranced myself with the tranquilizing colors of the lake I felt my worries and troubes slide off to one side like butter in a hot skillet. Unencumbered, I reveled in the moment. My inner mountain man had been turned loose for a little longer.

We had stumbled across a site that was the quintessential wilderness to us, a place where earth and sky meet water, where a man and a campfire make a welcome part of an elemental foursome. I turned away with a certain degree of melancholy, because allthough I had felt the exhiliration of discovering this beautiful and unique listening point I also felt a certain amount of guilt, knowing that I had trespassed in order to make that discovery. Our only judge and jury that day were the trees, and they were not returning a verdict to us. Left to interpret my own case I would like to think that the end justified the means, as long as I don't repeat the crime. But I let myself off with a warning. Even though I know that this place exists I do not feel as though I can go back, and that is perhaps the most bitter punishment of all.

As we made our way back to the truck we maintained our silence. We weren't hunting now and could have spoken at any moment. But each step away from that stunning vista was another step closer to our exile from paradise - back to civilization and our 'normal' lives. In an hour we would be eating our last lunch as we broke camp. In two we would be creeping along the edge of Superior, returning to our normal lives like a slumbering child returns from his dreams.

Banjo Moon

I am still working on my "official" report of what happened on my recent fall trip with the guys. I have lots of pictures to sort through, resize and post. I attempted a couple of panorama shots, one which worked great (The campsite) and one which I am not happy with (The lake). I also got one tremendous shot of the moon which still makes me grin every time that I look at it. It's my wallpaper right now.

Fourmile Lake -
Click to enlarge (Opens in a new window)


This is the lake that we stayed at.
This photo set was taken in the morning on Sunday, October 16, 2005. It's knit together from 6 different photos that I took from a tripod. I had a really rough time of tring to match up the middle shots to the end shots, which is why the sun looks like it does. I hope that you like it, because I have already put as much work as I am willing to put into it.

Fourmile Lake - Our Campsite -
Click to enlarge (Opens in a new window)


I got really lucky with the campsite. This photo set was taken on Friday, October, 14, 2005 while Mike and Chris were setting up the camp. It consists of 5 different photos (again, taken from the tripod) that went together practically like a set of Lego's™.

Money Shot!
Click to enlarge (Opens in a new window)


OK, So I am not a professional photographer, so when I take a picture like this, it is a big deal to me. I am posting it with no watermarks in case you want to download it, or whatever. There are probably only four people who read this blog anyway so I'm not worried. If you do decide to use this photo for something online, please be sure to give me credit!

More photos and some writing to come soon!

Two more days

The guy's annual fall trip is set. We met this past Sunday and poured over a map of Superior National Forest and picked our spot. Meals were planned, to-do lists were created.

The plan is to be at our campground by early afternoon. We are bringing a canoe and some rods to try to coax some walleye out of the lake. The shotguns are coming with too, for self-defense against any ruffed grouse that we may stumble across. Guitars will be packed for doing the cowboy thing around the fire at night. I am looking forward to seeing the stars without the interference of city lights. I am praying for some good northern lights. I cannot wait to breathe some air that hasn't been breathed before.

We meet at my house early Friday morning and leave from there.
Somehow I don't think waking up will be a problem like it is on a regular work day.

All the difference

A fresh blanket of snow today. Just a smidge; an inch, no more. still, enough to foul up traffic. It hasn't really melted yet so today the world is a silver lining to a sky full of clouds.

I think that the most picturesque snowscapes that I have seen have all been up around the north shore. I remember a grouse hunting trip with my friends on an old logging road a few miles west of Isabella, at the tail end of a lake effect snowstorm. About 6 inches of the stuff had come down. It started wet and as it slowly turned cold the snow began clinging to the trees, powerlines and virtually everything that it touched. It looked as if God had cast the likeness of the world in silver and given my friends and me free run of it. We began walking down a promising trail that quickly forked. According to our maps it rejoined, so we parted ways. My friends and the dog continued to the south and I went alone to the southeast.

The sky was clearing as we did this, and as I walked alone I looked up at the trees that towered above me. It was if I had wandered into the world's largest cathedrel, for in every direction that I looked I saw a more breathtaking stained glass window than the last, filled with the blue of the sky, the dark green of Norway pines and the golden glow of sunshine, framed behind the snow-covered branches. This was no man-made temple yet I worshipped there all the same, silently thanking God for the scene around me. Beauty of this kind is no accident.

As I slowly walked along the sun began to gradually warm the branches above me, starting a secondary snowfall in the woods as the trees began to groggily shake off the sediment. Chickadees and red squirrels were on the move now, quickly getting back to the daily business of winter foraging.

As the two roads slowly rejoined the dog came to greet me. A few more steps around the bend and I was reunited with my comrades. As we plodded back to the truck I wondered to myself what their experience had been like. I had no doubt that they had seen the same sunlight, blue sky, evergreens and snow-covered branches, but I wondered if they had really seen these things as I had.

As we pulled away to find another trail I thanked God again, this time for a safe hunt and for good friends with whom to share the beauty of the woods. We'd shared an experience, even if we had walked down seperate paths. I will always treasure the memory of taking the road less travelled that frosty late autumn morning.