Hunting for Bluegill

I was standing on the edge of a well manicured pond, one in a group of nine spaced around baseball diamonds and soccer fields. Knee high in new growth cattails the wind was blowing in my face, (that’s the trouble with fishing in the spring in open fields) casting a bead headed soft hackle hare’s ear, that’s a mouth full, a weed brushed up against my leg. The distraction or rather the holly shit being scared out of me (do to my imagination of an eight foot long water snake) caused me to miss the take of a bluegill or a crappie or I guess I’ll never know. Distractions seam to always happen at the worst times, when ironically fishing, supposedly is to distract us from life.
Fly-fishing for bluegill or perhaps I’ll leave it at pan fish, seeing how this time of year you never know what you going to get, this time of year being spring and not to sound like Forest Gump, can be just as complicated as fishing for brook trout in the high country. I like discovering new ponds and lakes, as long as the body of water fits the idea of what I expect a pond or lake to look like. Cattails, clean water, maybe a blue sky, (even though overcast days can sometimes be better) no wind would be nice and oh yes the occasional bite, I guess you could call me a fair weather fisherman. Fair weather or not I do enjoy fishing whether I catch fish or not. If I can catch one short bluegill I walk away feeling successful. The nine ponds are nice; the choices alone make the short drive well worth it, if one pond seems inactive then just try another.
My youngest son and I took our canoe to a small lake east on I-70 from our home near Kansas City, Missouri. Maple Leaf Lake is about two coffee cups away, or 45minutes. It’s a small lake about 140 acres and shaped like a maple leaf, hints the name. The sitting is picturesque, large lily pads during the summer tall waving grasses in late spring that surround it and green meadows that flow into the arms of the lake or rather the stems of the leaf. The conservation department had recently burned off some of the fields and wild flowers had taken over the charred areas. I don’t pretend to be an expert but find there are two ways to fish for bluegill one is sub-surface the other above. Dry flies; my favorite the foam beetle, are probley the most exciting way to catch a fish. A bluegill has a small take from the surface; a slight sip, then pound for pound an assume fight. Bluegill seem to feed in the evenings on top water making small rings, if you cast to these rings even if you’re a tad late you’ll usually pick up several small fish. Then it’s just a matter of persistent casting to pick the occasional slab. My other method is using a nymph or a wet fly, a slow retrieve with the sudden fast strip will often induce a strike.This particular day with my son was in early spring, it was during the middle of the week and there were very few people on the lake. We caught one fish after another, I would reel them in and take them of the hook and hand them to Tyler, who is five, he would pitch them back into the clear green water. Tyler would marvel at the mud and silt kick up by their ferocious escape. After many hours Tyler came to the reality if we kept throwing them fish back in the water how’s were we goanna eat em. So I set out to catch one more fish hopefully a heaver, we eventually settled on one rather puny fish that I found myself somewhat hiding from the other fisherman. When we arrived at home Tyler sat at the kitchen table while I cooked his two tiny fillets. He enjoyed it.

The Perfect Beer

It was the beginning of the floating season, Memorial Day weekend. Carl, one of my closest friends, and I had backpack into the Buffalo River located in northern Arkansas to a place called Horse Shoe Bend. The nights were still cool, the days warm, and the water cold. With the humidity low this time of year the sky was a deep shade of blue. We sat on the banks of the turquoise waters of the Buffalo watching the patched up well used canoes and their passengers float past. Many would stop and jump from the cliffs into the deep pool that we our selves would on occasion take a dip in or jump from the cliff to cool off in its brisk waters. The sun was warm and we had been soaking up its rays for hours, it had started to take its toll. We had water that we filtered from the river and though it was cold and refreshing to swim in; it tasted almost lukewarm when drank. A group of guys and girls in an assortment of canoes and rafts landed on shore. An older man paddling a sit-on-top kayak with a cooler well attached to the top followed just behind them. No doubt part of the group, he stuck out a little; he was older than the rest. The thick aluminum bottles were lifted from the ice water inside the faded red Coleman cooler. The old worn out hinges squeaked and the lid made a pop when it fell shut. The man turned and walked straight towards me and Carl. He was an aged man with dark weathered skin, flip flops and a worn out full brimmed kaki hat; his shirt was worn unbuttoned with a pack of smokes that sagged down his shirt pocket.” You fellows thirsty?” he said with a southern draw, we reached out and graciously accepted the cold full body bottles of Budweiser. The bottles were frosty; the cold metal stung my hands and the rim of the bottle stuck to my lips. Refreshing beer flowed into my mouth; I swished it from cheek to cheek as if it was a fine wine, then swallowed, held my breath just for a moment and exhaled a sigh. Carl and I look at each other and with a nod agreed that it was the best beer we had ever had. We drank it slowly enjoying every sip.

North Fork

An adventure can’t happen with out the funding, witch means work and unfortunately fun isn’t fun without the excruciating confines of work. Sometimes dreams have to be pushed aside to make a living. So were is the line, the line between work and being a backpacking bum. The lure of the trail the smoke permeated clothing and the solitude of being somewhere beautiful, alone with my mind. The trail draws my thoughts. And my thoughts wonder how can I make a living and still do the things I love.
The North Fork River flows pool after pool with fast moving shuts of white water, followed by up turning eddies, followed by wide stretches of slow moving water. I’ve thought about this trip for months, and though it’s not a backpacking trip it is an adventure. I’ve done research, read fishing reports, check water levels. Ask the question, where does a wild Missouri rainbow trout hide?
I’ve grown to appreciate a long drive even if it doesn’t pay off with a plump rainbow trout at the end of it. Jason and I had booked a canoe trip on a stretch of the North Fork River with a population of wild trout. From the western side of Missouri it was a six hour drive. This would ford at least two coffee stops. Quick Trip's coffee is often reliable, though I find the small hole-in-the-wall gas station to be much more colorful and often their coffee has that brewed at home taste. On occasion you save a pot from its demise snatching it just before its thrown away it can be a little thick but since I'm a coffee hound I choke it down anyway. We arrived late into the night at a steep and dusty red gravel road. At the bottom was the River of Life Farm, a canoe and fly fishing resort. It was early spring and there weren’t many other campers. We found a camp site that sat next to the river and set up our tents.
This was as exploratory trip, part canoe trip and part fly fishing trip but mostly a chance to get away. We woke that morning and met with the owners to arrange for our boat. We got on the river early and as soon as possible I started making casts to likely places that wild trout hide (where ever that is). I found my self doing more talking than fishing and before to long more drinking than talking. It had been a while since Jason and I had the chance to have a couple cold ones. The river was stunning it was wide and a dark tea color; so wide, that when the boat was riding the current on one side it would have been hard to cast to the other. We explored a cave that was just up the side of a bank, we made several other stops one to eat lunch but most just to relive our self’s. It was relaxing, and the weather was perfect it didn’t even bother me that I hadn’t caught a fish. Before I knew it we were being shuttled back to camp, where we made dinner over an open fire. The next morning I waded into the cold water wearing my waders. The vegetation was green and the air was moist, there was a slight fog just above the water, with out noticing it I had stepped though a patch of mint clover growing along the banks, the smell was invigorating.
I casted a woolly bugger under over hanging trees and cut banks, but the only action was a few missed subtle bits. there was the occasional bump and nudge but most likely it was just a weed or log on the nutritious bottom. I never did net a fish that weekend but to me the trip was a success, it was a beautiful place and I hope to go back soon.



I didn't catch one so I thought I would at least post a picture of one I had caught previously.

Camp Coffee

It was late morning and I hadn’t had my coffee yet, and a perfect place to set was just up the trail. The Buffalo is well known for its historical homesteads and this one sat on a small bluff that over looks the turquoise water of the Buffalo River. The homestead is halfway between Kyle’s Landing and Horseshoe Bend, one of my favorite places to camp on the ORT. There will be a barn, with dark stained wood slats; behind it, the bluff and a short grassy area that perches you directly over the river. Inside the barn, a fire ring, though I don’t think I will be staying overnight. The loft floor above is sagging and the names and dates of people that have visited are written on the wall with charcoal sticks. There’s a door in the back that faces the bluff, outside it’s a short walk to the cliff.
Now, the important part, coffee. I like a percolating coffee pot; mine’s black with speckles, over a small but hot fire I would have it hung with a couple of branches notched Ray Mears style. But lets get real, I’m not about to lug that soot covered pot with me on the trail even though I do have an aluminum pot that’s pretty light. Nor do I want to start a fire mid way through my hike. How I like to get that fresh ground coffee taste comes with a little prep work at home, very little. I take a coffee filter, put a table spoon of grounds in it, and tie a thin string around the top and throw it in a zip-lock bag. Through the door is a faint trail that will take me to my perfect spot. I’ll unroll my Therma-Rest mat, sit up my Banana Boat alcohol stove and boil a cup of water. Lying against my pack I sip a cup of joe and enjoy a peaceful day.

Klepzig Mill A Mid Summers Hike

I am inpatient, and on occasion put myself and others in situations; not bad situations I mean not really bad, but could have been avoided if only I slowed down a bit, took my time and thought things out. It was mid summer, and to say it was hot would be just stupid, it was summer. This was my first mistake.
We got started on the trail a little late and had to camp next to a small creek; we needed water and a clear place to set up a camp. The current river section of the Ozark trail is one of my favorite portions, not for its beautiful vistas on top of Ozark Mountains but for its unique shut-ins at Klepzig Mill, (Ill explain latter.) Most of the trail is heavily wooded and in the middle of summer heavily over grown. It was dark and the forest was even darker the clearing on a small rocky sand bar was lit by the moon and was an inviting place. We shoved small stones to one side to expose a sandy surface, digging out were our hips and shoulders would go we made our self’s ergonomic beds. There were four of us on this trip, and a couple of first timers, one was my son. Blake’s a fit little man broad shoulders and a strong chest, and he never seizes to impressed me, he never even complained, he was a trooper.
The next morning finding the trail proved to be difficult; before the others woke up I had scouted up and down the creek looking for the trail and where it picked back up. I retraced my steps, then turned 180 degrees and approached the creek again; still, the trail was no were to be found. Looking at the map the creek seemed to run along the side of the trail in a westerly direction and stayed nestled next to it for several miles. It was sticky; muggy even at eight o’clock in the morning so wading through the creek for a little while seemed like a good idea, my second mistake. After a hard day of hiking we arrived at a nice little campsite, small pine trees surrounding a few cut logs a fire ring built of rounded river stones and a brown aluminum folding chair, a nice touch I thought. We took our packs off and sat.
Tiny flesh colored bumps irritated the skin of my legs and ankles, Blake’s leg were also ravaged by bites. Bronson, my cousin seemed to have faired rather well. Jason the fourth person in are group, (a good friend of mine) was with furious anger clawing at his bites making groaning sounds tearing at his skin as if he was on some kind of acid trip gone bad. Jason’s legs were plagued with thousands of little bloody volcano’s of misery. He paused from the clawing and awkwardly look up to notice Blake and I staring in horror, he gazed at Blake then at me, growled and returned to his deformed limbs. “Poor Jason” I whispered, then lend into Blake and said “look away son, and act natural”.
Passed our camp the trail continued, this took you across Rocky Creek and through the shut-ins to Klipzig Mill. Large tan, chunks of granite with gray and pink ribbons that had pockets of tea colored water formed a playground of places to explore. One fall about five feet high had swift moving water; however the pockets were calm kiddy pools of fun. We lay in the cool water soaking are insect bites. Blake played in the pools for hours floating with a pair of goggle, inspecting the bottom for fish.
The hike back was uneventful though long and tough. We arrived at my car and jump in; our first stop, itch cream for our legs. I was hoping to show Jason how fun hiking could be, he has since never returned to the trail.

Snow Creek

Sorry about the shaky video work on this one, it was my first time on skis and I didn't think I be putting it on my blog. My sons grandma gave him and I passes to go skiing at snow creek, a ski resort in northern Missouri. We had a blast

The Bufflo River

This is a solo trip I took in late January to the Buffalo River in Arkansas.

Hemmed-in Hollows

Through a thicket of bamboo the trail opened to a large bluff. Bellow the tall sandstone lie a body of water that seemed to flow in from above the pool and then stop, the water then continued its flow beneath the dried river bed. Bronson and I had found an oasis. There were a couple of other campers up on top of the cliff. The lower ends of the cliffs were about fifteen feet tall they gently climbed in height, at the other, a modest sixty feet. From the top the views were beautifully, there were pillowing limestone chunks of rock that made for a great platform to jump from and to plunge into the deep turquoise green pool. At this time of year the water was to cold for swimming however, later we would see one of the other hikers take a dip.
Pumping water, purifying it from the pool, I look up at the valley in front of me, our camp fire amidst a soft blue smoke that the lowering sun illuminates. The evening draws near.
We set our tents up just in time; darkness falls quick deep below the mountain tops. Sitting around the campfire I pass a flask of whiskey to Bronson, he takes a sip and with a retch he scours “smooth”.
I unzip the tent and staggered out to a cloudy morning. It’s to much work to start a fire, despite the fact that I’m cold. Lighting my stove to boil some water seams so much easier, tearing open a package of oat meal I add it to my bright green bowl purchased at Wal-Mart. A teaspoon or two of instant coffee goes into my mug add some water and stir it with my Gerber pocket knife. Setting the knife next to the bowl and the mug frames a perfect picture; I reach for my camera.
Crack!! A loud ear piercing shock wave explodes.
Boom!! A low rumble follows.
“Bronson wake up” I say loudly.
Crack!! “Wake up I yell,” we need to get out of here. We began breaking down are tent and folding and rolling it as quickly as we could. Our packs were unorganized and over stuffed with gear improperly stowed in their dry sacks. We had quickly packed up but not fast enough, the storm let loose and began dumping sheets of wind driven rain, soaking as to the core. We scrambled to get are emergency rain gear on. We were covered in thin plastic shells that did little to protect us from the rain and didn’t really matter, we were all ready drenched. We threw are packs on and moved quickly for cover. We waited a few moments amongst a stand of trees making are self’s small, crouched down we realize how bad things really were. I tried not to let on how miserable this was about to get, I needed to keep Bronson’s spirits up. Crashes of lighting began to move away the rain however did not. The trail turned into a shoot, a miniature river carved into the side of the mountain and carving deeper with every passing minute. Water, small pebbles and sand rushed threw are shoes. This was our trail; it climbed over 1,100 feet in a very short distance. Either side of the trail was over grown with small trees, weeds and thick boot sucking mud; the rocky center of the path proved to be the least resistance, despite the torrent river of erosion that flowed amongst are feet.
Hazy skies and thick wooded hills made it hard to see ahead. Through the haze there emerged a dark softly rounded mountain top, “think god I told myself, the top”.
Bronson too saw this and ask.
“Is that it?” I hesitated. As I climbed closer I noticed another peak just past the first one.
“No” I carefully say.
“When? “ is all Bronson could muster out, but I knew what he was thinking, I was thinking it too.
“Soon” I say. Not having a clue makes me push harder up the mountain, though this is not the case with Bronson, he steadily falls behind. Over each false summit I turn to see his dark silhouette drop behind the horizon. I push forward, stopping on occasion, Bronson catches up, we wait for Bronson to gain his breath.
“Bryan when are we goanna get up this mountain”, Bronson gasps.
“I’m sorry” I confess.
“Blankin stupid mother blankin mountain, I blackin hate this stupid thing” he talks to him self. “I like to blank n put gosh dam dynamite under this son of a bitchin thing and blow it the blank to smithereens “I never heard Bronson swear so much, he was at his wits end, he was pissed. He went on for several minutes, catching his breath every so often, telling me what he would like to do to the mountain. My favorite being the one were a single bulldozer would come in and run the mountain to the ground, or how they ought to have a ski left to take worn out hikers to the top. Soon he’s too worn out to go on complaining and hiking at the same time; reason wins, talk won’t get him to the truck, so he continues walking.
Just then I saw a radio tower or maybe it was a satellite tower what ever it was they don’t put those things down low they put them on mountains, the top of mountains, “dam it” I said a loud, “ that’s were we better be.” I turned to Bronson, but by this time he had drop out of sight I waited. He was in shouting distance; I explained to him that I was going to march forward quickly because the end should be just around the corner, and with that, I arrived at my truck. I stopped at the back and took my pack off. Ripping the plastic rain poncho, I could feel the humidity escape, the rain had stopped. I took my jacket off, soaked, I took my shirt off also soaked, I took my wet shoes and threw them in the back of the truck with all the rest of it. Just then Bronson came up the trail, walked passed me and threw his pack in the back and stood by the passenger door, waiting for me to unlock it. I unlock the doors and with no preparation he stumbled in and sat down. I put my sandals on, stepped in and started the engine. Bronson sat hunched over panting, I handed him a bag of no bake cookies that my mom had made us to take on are hike; seeing how they literally weighted a pound ,we left them behind. He turned and looked up at me with his mouth half opened, panting and the glasses on his face completely fogged over he took them from my hand and devoured them. I laughed very hard and mustered out an “I’m sorry”, he looked at me with a grimaced expression and mumbled “umm.”

Day Dreaming

The preparation of an overnight hike or an extended kayaking trip; to me, can in some cases be more captivating to the sole, distractingly mind numbing to the every day, then the hike it’s self. It some times can go on for weeks if not months, stretching a weekend trip into a month long expedition of prep, planning, and day dreaming, this is how I make a little go a long ways. Extending the thrill by amercing myself in pre hike prep is a pastime I come to rely on. Counting ounces, sorting gear, logging their weight, on a gear weighting spread sheet occupies my mind. My beat up 1999 Honda civic has caught an almost forgotten piece of equipment, my mind in the car can go to thoughts of campsites, river crossings or meal ideas, seeing the crossing in my head helps me remember things like sandals. Things like driving directions are usually the last thing I think of. In the woods, I never seem to loose my way, finding the trail head, is a much different story. Weather forecasts never seem to get better, at first glance a weekend forecast might be a 10% chance of rain and temps in the upper 40’s, though the next time I look, 40% chance of freezing rain and temps in the 10 degree range. Most often it’s a slow decline, sucking your spirit out as you watch your chances of a late season hike slip away, but its part of the adventure right.
Beneath towering pine trees, dried needles lay amongst the forest floor weaved together. Smothering out the under brush, the needles created an open oasis, setting the mood with their rusty orange color against an amazing blue sky. Logs to sit on and native stones brought up from the near by stream give inviting places to prop your legs and lean your gear after a long days hike. A well used fire ring built with care, rounded river stones charred in soot, a worn smooth cedar log placed thoughtfully close to a massive pine tree. Thick chunky pine bark makes a surprisingly nice back rest. The smell of pine and cedar saturates the air. These places are what make hiking so beautiful and serene. Three pieces of flat limestone stacked neatly will do fine for a table. A shiny aluminum home made alcohol stove sat on a velvety green liken covered stone boils water for dinner. Simplicity, with out the need for gourmet meals, life becomes easier. Water patting well polished slabs of stone dampen the clanging sound of a titanium coffee mug and a spork. Mixing noodles and freshly collected water from the near by river that admits a refreshing cool air in late spring; the sun drops behind the hillside and the bluish shade of the forest floor looks pretty amongst late blooming purple bells.
Worn, but not worn out, used and supple, the crisp fabric, the crinkle of new; gone, my light blue Golite backpack leans against the smooth bark of a beech tree. Orange, green, and blue dry sacks with their well organized content inside placed next to the pack. Hammock strung from tree to tree, filled with a down quilt, small pillow, and ready to be dreamt in, hangs invitingly. Smoke meanders in a stream that flows through the small openings in the forest canopy. The bluish gray smoke softens the silhouettes of the pines against the backlit evening sky.
Tid-bits of information stored in are minds like photographs slightly distorted; none of us want to forget the places we’ve seen, the sounds we’ve heard, though we don’t know witch will stick, witch will stay and witch will slowly, unnoticeably slip from are minds. So I breathe deep, take it in, and try to notice the little things.
I dip my paddle into the lake and pull my boat forward. The sun hasn’t yet risen but the deep dark night lightens to a light blue. The stars fade into the morning sky. My breath condenses into tiny ice crystals and my stocking cap is pulled down tight over my ears. The island I camped at the night before shrinks behind me and the one in front is still far from sight. I dip my paddle into the dark emerald water and pull my kayak through its glassy smooth surface breaking its mirror like reflection. Soon my hat and jacket will have to come off, the mid days sun will be warm.
The planning of an adventure or the thought of what to anticipate supersedes the experience it self, or some times the memory is more beautiful. The pain of sore feet or the discomfort of a cold night, those memories fade and the good ones stay. Trips that are short don’t have to be. The memories and the dreaming and the trip its self all add to the experience.