Land of Enchantment

The sign welcoming travelers to New Mexico declares "Land of Enchantment."  Most people who drive across the state will have a truck stop experience that adds a grain of salt to this motto.  If you like to fish and don't mind doing it the hard way, Northern New Mexico is exactly what the sign says.  Park at a public recreation area, follow the fence all the way to the end, then take a game trail west for a few miles.  You'll get to a section of river that feels absolutely private (minus the access fee and roving trespass enforcers).  Trout haven't been stocked in the river since the 1970's.  They have the native attitude.  Dodgy and darting from the shadow of your fly line.  They hover two inches under your best cast for long enough to drive home real criticism of the fly and how it was presented.  

Caddis are hatching.  They skate along the water, depositing  larvae into the oxygen rich riffles in a canyon north of Chama.  Stay in the shadows, throw a tight loop, and swing the rod tip downstream when the fish rises.

At the end of the day, you feel like your roll-cast is tuned.  A five-mile hike back to the truck at 8,000 feet puts an exclamation point on middle-aged office life.  On the upside, it earns without question beer and elk chops at the saloon in Chama.

North of the New Mexico border trespass rights are gold.  In Colorado the standard program is to hook up with an outfitter and pay a daily rod fee.  It feels like buying your first rock concert ticket.  You can't escape the feeling that this is meant to be free and maybe sneaking in wouldn't come up on the great judgment day.  It has the same  "you never know what's going to happen next" adrenaline when you pass through the gate.

Caddis

I woke them up at 4:30 a.m.. Pitch black and the birds starting to sing.  They didn't ask about the hatch.  Only for a promise to stop and get donuts before Wisconsin. 

Silence is golden so I try not to coach too much.  She hunkers down.  Intense, keeping the lawn-casting instruction loosely in the mix.  I occasionally interject: elbow in; mend down; keep your wrist straight.

They like standing on the bridge and watching swallows.  If a bird swoops near the water, there will be an announcement that the hatch is starting.  Time to use dry flies.

Score.

The View From Trout Lake

When this Boundary Waters tradition started two decades ago, the founding members  had one mission: get way back in there.  Lots of paddling.  Long portages.  Nothing cold to drink.  Just astronaut food, peanut butter, and filtered water.  Over time the Duluth packs have grown heavier.  Potatoes for breakfast, steaks for the last supper. and larger tackle packs.  

This year, the leader of the BWCA expeditionary force (aka Matt) floated the idea of applying for a motor permit. These are available in certain lakes on the wilderness periphery.   The main idea was to pack like we were leaving for a YMCA summer camp with lots of fishing tackle, steaks, fish tacos, large tents, and unlimited toilet paper or even moist towelettes.  

Every guy on the trip is over the hill.  With 40 years behind us, the wilderness option is still on the front burner.  Maybe a little Advil, but we all can crush it in the back country.  That said, we're old enough to start appreciating the easy way.  So the idea of hitting the pause button for a year was well received.  We could fish without fighting the wind in a canoe, explore a wide territory, carry live bait, and enjoy the benefits of coolers and ice.  Come June, we packed my truck to the gills and drove North to the jumping off place on Lake Vermilion.  Motors it was.

Gofar

The events depicted took place in Minnesota in 2016. At the request of the fisherman, the names have been changed. Out of respect for the fish, the rest has been told exactly as it occurred.

Five guys with desk jobs packed in an SUV headed north. 250 miles of blacktop in the rear-view mirror. Everybody with their coffee, thinking about the stuff we should have done before shutting down the laptop.  That’s pretty much it until truck tires start crushing gravel.  Stones pinging off the aluminum trailer rattle loose the pressure and deadlines.  Four days of no-cell-service freedom are an hour down Sawbill trail.  The air is impossibly crisp.  Oxygen clears every thought from your head but adventure.  It fuels humor aimed at every other man.  We are boys again.  Whipping sticks, skipping stones, laughing.

Paddle, portage, repeat.  You sweat for six hours getting all the way in.  Go far.  Go farther. Hundreds of rods, thousands of paddle strokes.  A cheap price for what lies beyond.

Koma Lake.  For three days the wavering song of loons and sharp screech of eagles will be intertwined with laughter and biting wit.

Day one starts with adventure fishing. Park the boats, hike through brush toward the sound of waterfall.  The first cast is like sidling up to a Vegas blackjack table.  You might leave with a broken rod.  Or the fish of a lifetime.  

Turns out there are smallmouth.  Broad-backed, bronze rockets that hit a lure like it just insulted their sister on the Jersey shore.  One after another.  Who caught the most. Who caught the biggest.  Points of order for Peter Pan and the lost boys.

On day two the storm rolls in.  Batten the hatches, make a tarp tent.  Skills that won't get you credit in the annual performance appraisal at work.  But make you feel solid on Koma Lake. Everybody in rain gear.  Time to watch the thunder roll.

Rain coming in sheets. Water gushing like a broken sewer main.  Everybody under the tarp tent.  Works like a charm. Congratulations all around.  Severe insults hurled in every direction.  Everybody laughing again.  This trip hits the stomach muscles harder than Crossfit games.  

And then its over.  Clouds float clear.  Dead calm sunset.

No one is in a hurry to pull down the tarps. They stand as a testament to prevailing.  We can do this.  Our DNA is not so far removed from the voyageurs that paddled before us.  Never mind that a hotel bed is two days away. 

And then everyone starts talking about Walleyes.  How we need to find them and seduce them with pink jigs and leeches.  Slip a stringer through each one and batter and fry them.  Golden fillets from pristine Laurentian water.  The market price is time and  sweat and patience that average billionaires can't afford.

And when the sun drops West over North country, we pan the gold fillets and set them over a roaring fire.  An uncommon feast.

On the morning of the third day, a chipmunk feasts on manna dropped from his heavens.

And likewise we partake in the last breakfast at Koma lake before turning south.  Refreshed by water and air and trees and laughter, outbound across portages and gravel and blacktop and jetstream.  Back to our homes. 

I Will Smoke More in 2016

During my teen years our family adhered to Protestant conventions that eschewed liquor of all kinds, rock music, and most television content, especially if there was kissing.  Accordingly our New Year's celebrations were not exactly the Gatsby and champagne kind. Unless a two-liter bottle of root beer and Uno cards are your view of fast living, in which case I have a 16-year backlog of confession material dating from 1982 until approximately the mid nineties.  I guess old habits die slow.  I skip New Year's parties.  Even during the years when I ate three meals at my desk most days and played just as hard.  Slippers, old whisky, Hemingway’s short stories, and John Lee Hooker are more my speed. 

About 20 years ago I succumbed to making resolutions on December 31.  It started with goals  of collegiate wrestling dominance and, later, scotch-fueled plans to run the Firm.  Like the confetti of Times Square, many of these ideas glittered in the midnight lights, drifted gloriously across the morning air and eventually settled in a ditch somewhere.  I learned that the best resolutions are the ones you keep and that the ones you keep are things you do anyway. 

In 2016 I plan to smoke more.  I recently acquired a Masterbuilt propane smoker by accident. The short story is that my three-year-old woke up at the usual time one Saturday.  A special hour of morning when it’s dark and my head feels like a small ice pick went through it. We were in a hotel for a family reunion.  There was a Cabela’s up the road.  I drank coffee from a styrofoam cup and waited for the store to open.  A long line snaked from the front doors at six forty-five. The guy in front of us mentioned a door-buster sale.  This is where they advertise a ridiculously low price on stuff for one day only.  There are usually a total of three of the advertised items in stock within the continental United States.  You show up, get mad that they don’t have the thing you went there for, then buy other things.  I was just there to entertain the boy.  He likes the big fish tank and the candy bar section.  I was in no hurry when the doors opened and the hoard rushed through.  I waited a minute for the dust to settle and then ambled in, took a right toward the men’s clothing section and ran into a display with two propane smokers marked 70 percent off.  Killer deal. I put one in the cart just as a sweating mob rounded the corner cursing because the advertised smoker wasn’t on display in the camping section like it should have been.  I got one.  A lady in blue flannel with a concealed carry permit got the other one.  I now have appropriate hardware for creating delicious meats.  I have enjoyed smoking: brown trout, salmon, steelhead, ring neck pheasant, ruffed grouse, whitetail deer, geese, and squirrels.  These are the animals I have shot or hooked this year (Fine, I haven’t smoked a squirrel yet. But I plan to).  Smoked game is perfect for snacking. It pairs well with red wine, white wine, beer of all kinds, and whiskies.  For these reasons, I am resolved to smoke more in 2016.  Starting now.

Yesterday I thawed two venison roasts.  As is customary in the smoking community, I made a brine.  Here is the recipe:

One cup salt

One cup brown sugar

Martin County Magic dry rub

Four quarts water.

Heat one quart of water in a medium saucepan. Combine brown sugar, salt, and about two tablespoons of the Martin Magic dry rub.  Stir until completely dissolved.  Reserve three quarts cold water in a stainless stockpot. Combine hot mixture with the cold water and place in the refrigerator.  When the brine is cool place the roasts in the stock pot and cover  overnight (24 hrs).

Remove roasts and pat dry.  Rub liberally with Martin Magic.  Place in refrigerator for 4 hours. 

Here is what they look like at this point:

I used pre-soaked hickory chips in the smoker and set the temperature at 275.  After one hour the internal meat temp was 130 so I gave it another 20 minutes to get closer to 145.  Here is the result.

After removing the roasts from the smoker, I wrapped them in plastic and let them rest overnight.