THE MYTHICAL WALLEYE



Dale Strochein was right! The bass bite was on fire!

A few years ago I made an early May trip to Door County, Wisconsin for a couple days of fishing. I was slated to fish with several of the top guides that work the area. Though a salmon fisher at heart, I learned long ago to let "guide’s choice" be the order of the day. If the man says perch, don’t say bluegill. If the guide says striper, don’t argue for bluefish.

So when J.J. Malvitz, new to the guiding business but a lifelong Door County resident and fisherman said, walleye, so we went walleye fishing. The waters of Green Bay on the west side of the peninsula have a reputation for serving up walleye to visiting anglers, numbers at times and most certainly good sized specimens. Perhaps I should have asked J.J. to go brown trout fishing. The walleye prevailed, we were skunked.

My next trip was with Dale Strochein, once one of the top professional tournament walleye fisherman on the circuits, now proprietor of the Wacky Walleye Guide Service working out of Sand Bay Beach Lodge just south of Sturgeon Bay. I guessed guide Strochein would say, "walleye."

Wrong! Captain Dale said, "Conditions aren’t right for walleye. We’ll fish smallmouth bass."

I should have, could have, demanded walleye despite the guide’s wishes. The results would have been the same. Obviously, no walleye and no bass, either. He blamed it on the weather. I blamed it on the weather as well. It was miserable. "Come back again, sometime," Dale invited.

I watched Strochein’s FaceBook posts that winter as he showed picture after picture of him and his clients icing big walleyes and piles of whitefish. I checked my calendar, he checked his and a date was made a week or two later.

This time Strochein’s prediction was half right. "We’ll catch whitefish this afternoon, then towards sundown, the walleye will get active and we’ll go after them."

I finally nailed a mythical Green Bay walleye. Twenty seven incher!

We did catch whitefish.

On the way in after dark, I mentioned something about Green Bay’s walleye seem to be somewhat mythical. "Are 12 or 14 point bucks mythical?" he asked and continued. "No, of course not, but they aren’t easy to come by, either. Our walleyes are trophy fish, they don’t come easy. Come back again sometime and I’ll show you.

Yesterday, I came back. That evening at dinner the Hall of Fame angler said, "We’ll fish smallmouth tomorrow. That’s our best shot at success."

My reply, "There goes my shot at the mythical, Green Bay walleye!"

Dale was half right again. The bass fishing was terrific with one after another being hauled to the boat all morning. The wind died, the water calmed. "One last spot to try before we head in," Dale said.

He stopped on a sunken rock island a mile or so off Sister Bay. A few casts later, I got a solid strike. This fish felt different. This fish looked different under the water. This fish was different. It looked almost mythical!

Where There's a Will...

Where there’s a will, there’s a way is a popular expression perhaps coined by fishermen. If there are fish swimming in a lake, fishermen will figure a way to get their hook in front of them.

This was proven to me on a recent trip to Nebraska where I had the chance to fish Lake McConaughy near Ogallala. It’s a huge lake (largest in Nebraska) and surprisingly, it was built by private enterprise instead of the government. The purpose for the lake is two-fold, to produce hydro-electric power and provide water for irrigation. Recreation such as fishing, boating or water sports was down the list and the management of the lake still puts hydro-power and irrigation before recreational needs.

To recreational users, that means the water level in the 35,000 acre lake fluctuates annually and sometimes drastically. Boat ramps built for normal water levels sometimes terminate high and dry when water levels fall below target levels. In other areas, boat ramps are non-existent.

The fishing trip I made on Lake Mac, as it’s know locally, originated at Van’s Lakeview Fishing Camp. (www.vanslakeview.com) There, they’ve come up with a unique answer to how to deal with the fluctuating water levels in the summer.  They do have a concrete ramp to launch boats in the traditional way, but when the water drops low enough to make the ramp unusable, they have a trio of specially modified trucks to put your boat where it needs to be.

They have a gently sloping, sandy bottom bay adjacent to the camp. Just unhook your trailer and go park. They will hook up and back your boat into the water 20 or 30 yards - whatever it takes to make it float. At the end of the trip, the process is reversed.  In between, fish for walleyes, pike, hybrid stripers, smallmouth and all the other species for which the lake is famous.

DON’T ASK ME WHY

I’m a destination traveler and I’m good at it. If I need to be at a place four states away where the ducks are flying, a fishing hotspot in Minnesota or where ever I’m heading for whatever reason; expect me to start early, travel swiftly and arrive on or ahead of schedule.

That’s an admirable attribute, I suppose, but there’s another type of traveler. There’s the person who has a destination in mind, but meanders in that direction apparently with no particular schedule.

These are the people who stop at a sit-down restaurant instead of breezing to the drive-through window at lunch time. These are the people who stop to read historical markers erected to commemorate obscure events or places less important than where I caught my first fish. These are the people who know where the world’s largest ball of twine is located (Cawker City, Kansas) or where you can find a statue of the Jolly Green Giant (Blue Earth, Minnesota). I’ve seen the sign for the Spam Museum dozens of times and still have not walked through the doors.

This week I’ve been traveling the western half of Nebraska, supposedly in search of sport fish and panfish swimming the fertile waters of Nebraska-land’s lakes and reservoirs. They are there, I’m sure. I’m also sure the weather in this area is not always winter-like and usually more on the verge of becoming drought ridden, than over-saturated.

My fishing partner and I were to be on a tight schedule. Get up early, catch some fish in Swanson Reservoir in the morning and then drive 240 miles to end up at Merritt Reservoir for a late afternoon excursion to investigate the fishing there. Then off to the next places, the next day.

The wind, the rain and even a brief May snowstorm changed our breakneck schedule from one only a traveler like I could understand, to one where we might as well sit down for lunch, because our afternoon outing was scrubbed long before midday.

I looked at a historical site overlooking a cow pasture proclaiming a pioneer era church once existed where the cattle now grazed. Then we found a modern replica of one of the world’s wonders. Have you heard of Stonehenge? Just outside Alliance, Nebraska is a nearly exact replica, precise in size and scope with one slight twist.

It’s made from junk automobiles. It’s called Carhenge!

I stopped, stood among the monoliths, amazed. One question immediately immediately popped to mind.

WHY???????

Visit www.carhenge. com for more details - if you happen to need more details....http://www.carhenge.com

OPPORTUNITY LOST AND FOUND

One of the missed opportunities of my life occurred by the time I was 21 years old. By then I was an outdoor lover and a young man who craved to hunt and fish for exotic (to me) animals and fish in far off places.

The greater prairie chicken certainly filled that bill. Once an abundant game bird on America’s Great Plains and prairies, their numbers actually increased when the white settlers first homesteaded across the land. That turned out to be only a minor bump the bird’s history. As more and more of the native grasslands were converted to agriculture, their habitat dwindled as did their numbers.

While they were abundant, they became an important wild game meal for protein starved settlers. In many areas they faded into history; in others, they now are listed as game birds with stable populations that allow a regulated harvest.

Little did I know at one time this history was played out right here in Newton County. Much of the county was a part of the historic tall grass prairie and as happened elsewhere their numbers increased temporarily, then dwindled to extinction.

But the extirpation didn’t happen here until 1973. In 1974 DNR biologists failed to hear or spot any prairie chickens on their leks in McClellan township, just south of Lake Village.

Leks are also known as booming grounds. It’s an area where male chickens go each spring to display, strut and vocalize to impress female prairie chickens. The same leks are used year after year dating back as far as anyone can remember. Though the DNR purchased 640 acres as a Prairie Chicken Refuge, the final lek in Indiana was actually on what was then the Karlock Ranch, now a part of The Nature Conservancy’s Kankakee Sands property.

In 1951, when I was just two years old, there were 17 active leks across the northern part of the county. Historical accounts of early life in Newton County, when market hunting was a common occupation, accounts of game harvested and sold always included prairie chickens.

Had I known of this as a young man in high school, I’d have been there, sneaking to one of the last remaining active leks, hiding hoping  to at least spot one of Indiana’s disappearing bird treasures. There was once discussions of reintroducing them on the TNC lands, but I haven’t heard of movement on that plan in years.

That’s why I was so intrigued on a recent trip to Nebraska. While eating lunch with Carol Schlegel, tourism director for Red Willow County, headquartered in McCook, my interest peaked when she mentioned their Prairie Chicken tours, held each spring.

In late winter, they park a specially designed trailer "blind," a converted stock trailer, on a prairie chicken lek a short drive from town. In March and April, when prairie chickens come to do their spring ritual, the trailer is in place and is simply a part of the landscape. Just before dawn, the participants sneak to the trailer, hunker down and wait for the birds to come display. According to Schlegel, most mornings at least a dozen males and an indeterminate number of females come to show off and often display within a few yards of the trailer.

The program started in 2014 and the number of participants doubled last spring with travelers from across the country and several countries from around the globe attending. Reservations are required. It’s actually an easy, two day experience. The night before your turn in the trailer, you attend a program learning about prairie chickens and what to expect in the morning. Then an abbreviated overnight stay (I recommend the Horse Creek Inn), then off to the lek in the morning. Check out www. prairiechickendancetours.com.

THE END

IT'S ALL IN THE HAT

  I am a firm believer in “fishing hats.”  They don’t have to be adorned with flies and spinners like Colonel Blake wore in the TV Series, MASH.  They don’t have to have a stupid logo on them that proclaims the wearer to be a Master Baiter. But they do have to have plenty of Mojo.  Never underestimate the power of Mojo when it comes to a fishing hat.
 
  Other than Mojo, they need to have a couple of other features. A good fishing hat sports a brim to shield your eyes from the sun. A great fishing hat sports a brim that is dark-colored - preferably flat black in color - on the underside.  Hat color matters little other than in hot, sunny weather I choose lighter colors. As a matter of preference, my fishing hats are not camouflage. I have a hatrack full of camo caps, but those are for hunting, not fishing. If they have Mojo, it’s hunting Mojo, not fishing Mojo.

  Personally, I favor baseball style caps. Available nearly everywhere, if they were good enough to shield the eyes of Babe Ruth, Hank Aaron, Willie Mays and other baseball greats, they are good enough for me. I’m not saying John Wayne’s Stetson, a Mexican sombrero or other head dress style wouldn’t be as good or better, but I’ll stick to a baseball cap.
 
  Regardless of the style, they have to fit well. I’m often offered hats from a variety of companies who dole them out as advertising fodder. I own some farmland so I get seed corn hats. I buy insurance so I get insurance company hats. I write outdoor blogs so I get hats from outdoor products companies. But anymore, when offered a new hat, I slap it on my noggin and if it doesn’t feel “right,” I just hand it back. Some hats land on your head feeling as broken-in as your best walking boots, others are like trying to cram a square peg into a round hole.

The black underside of the brim makes the
hat on the right a better fishing cap. 

  But don’t overlook the Mojo.

  You can wear the best looking, best fitting hat on a fishing trip that was supposed to be next thing to fishing in a barrel and have the fishing fall flat. Immediately, if I’m wearing a new hat, it becomes suspect.
 
  On the other hand, if the trip goes better than you expected, admit it, the hat had the Mojo to put you over the top. So wear the same hat on the next trip and the next and don’t give up on it until it gives up on you.

LUCKY SHOT

 I have lots of experience in taking fish photos. They are called “hero shots” where the lucky angler who has caught a photo-worthy fish stands, gripping and grinning, fish in hand and the photo is snapped.


   Most hero shots look, well they look contrived. Sure it’s a lasting tribute to both fish and angler of the size of the fish and the smiling face of the fisher-person. On the other hand, it’s a picture of a mope with a dead fish-or nearly dead.

   Professional photographers leave little to luck. They understand what’s going on. They prepare the scene, adjust the lighting and leave little to chance. Amateurs rely on luck.

    I’m somewhere in-between. I don’t rely on my photography skills to earn much money each year, but plenty of my photos end up in print. Sometimes a bit of luck helps out even us “semi-pros.”

   This was one of those times.

   Liz caught a nice lake trout on my boat and she handed her dad the camera to do the classic “grip and grin” photo. Since we were in the “photo” mood, I grabbed my own camera to take a happy-snappy of my own.

   The first time I pressed the button, the fish, still lively, waggled a wiggle. In the tiny view screen on the digital, I could see the fish wasn’t properly displayed. So I told Liz to hold it up once more for another shot. She complied.
 
Back at home, downloading the photos from the camera to the computer and able to see the photos in large size instead of a tiny LCR on the back of the camera, I realized Lady Luck had given me a blessing.

   The second photo showed a bored young lady with an apparently dead fish and an apparently fake smile staring at the lens.  The first photo, however, showed a beautiful young lady with a real smile coping with a lively fish.  A million times better in my book! Don’t you think so, as well?

TREMBLORS

I got a Facebook post this morning from a longtime friend who now lives in Alaska. She had experienced her first earthquake.
   I’ve been to California many times, Alaska a couple times and have spent time in other areas that are earthquake prone. I’ve never been in one of these areas when an EQ occurred, but I’m not an EQ virgin. I’ve felt and lived through many of them right here in Indiana, not exactly a region many regard as a hotbed of EQ activity.
   The first one I remember occurred while I was in college at Purdue. I walked into the room of one of my fraternity brothers and sat down on his sofa. Once I was comfortable, I noticed the water in my friend’s large aquarium was sloshing back and forth. Apparently, I’d bumped it when I entered. Except it was swishing back and forth heavily enough that I should have noticed bumping into it. I didn’t.
   In less than a minute fellow frat-bros started coming down from the upper floors saying, “Did you feel that?”  It was a 5.7 earthquake. Okay, I didn’t feel it, but the fish in the tank certainly did.

Thankfully, my earthquake experiences, though frequent, have all been minor.

   Fast forward a few years. I was running Bass Lake State Beach near Knox, IN. I was to go to a two-day meeting the following day so I hopped on my 100cc Kawasaki motorcycle to put-put down to the bank to get some folding money for the journey. Halfway to the bank on S.R. 10 circling the south edge of Bass Lake, the bike almost slid out from under me. Wowser!
    I slowed through that stretch of road on the return trip but saw no oily spots or other reasons for the near-crash.  That evening on the news the talking heads revealed we’d had a five point five at the time of my incident. I was nearly a statistic!
   These were, apparently, single jolts where the substrate deep below the surface adjusted to the pressure put upon them in one snap of the finger movement. The next one was different.
   I was sitting in a friend’s house in southwest Indiana when the whole house started shaking. It lasted long enough for me to ask him, “Does your house shake like this often?”  “No,”  he said, “only when they are blasting in the coal mines.”
   A blast would be a one-time shake. This one went on long enough for us to have a conversation! Five point six was the official report.
   To give you an idea of how earthquakes work, I have one more experience to relate. The rocky substrate deep below the surface shifts and the energy released radiates out like waves created by tossing a rock into a pond.
   I didn’t feel this one, but my wife did. She was on the phone, talking to one of my sisters living  100 miles away.  In the midst of the conversation, my sister interrupted the flow of the conversation saying, “Oh, I think we are having an earthquake.”  They talked for a few seconds and then my wife started feeling the vibrations underfoot as the waves moved out from the epicenter. I was driving at the time and felt nothing. Another five point something had occurred.
   These were all “minor” quakes and I’m not belittling those who have suffered major quakes. It’s a tough world out there with storms, quakes and other natural disasters awaiting us foolish humans who think we are above or immune to nature’s fury.