Saturday, November 22, 2014

The irony of vermin

The end of the Wisconsin inland trout season and fall is classically a tough time for me.

Usually, when September rolls around, I find myself in a panic of sorts. I count the days left in the season and match them against my work and family schedule. Then I try to figure out when I can sneak out to the stream for a last ditch attempt at catching troutzilla.  Despite my efforts, it just never seems like there is enough time to fish all those streams I never got around to fishing earlier in the season, and I usually end the season feeling unsatisfied.

Except this year.  I won't say that I was glad to see the season close, but I will say that it didn't bother me the way it has in years past.  In fact, the entire season was a touch on the anti-climatic side of things, and that doesn't seem to be weighing too heavily on me either.

What does that mean?  What is the lesson there? there one?  In yet another departure from my norm, the answers to those questions don't really seem to matter.  I've been busy.  It's that simple.  I'm old enough to recognize that some years are like that, and frankly, fishing is something that will ALWAYS play an important role in my life.

So...what have I been doing with my time?  Oh, you know....among other things, I have been mouse hunting.  I started a giant re-organization of my garage, complete with a purge of a whole pile of stuff that I had no idea I was still holding on to, and certainly didn't need.  In the midst of this project, a small colony of mice was discovered inside my garage.  By the looks of things, they weren't too deeply entrenched, and were just starting to get themselves settled in, so I set to the task of taking care of the infestation.

In classic MacLoosh form, it didn't go exactly as planned.  Please see exhibit A:

Yeah, yeah.  Don't judge my messy workbench...

After some technical difficulties, I did manage to thin the population considerably.  There may be one still milling about, but I am on his trail and will have everything buttoned up before long.  As for the garage project, I'm pretty satisfied with the end result.

The irony in all of this, is that after a spirited battle with the local vermin, I stumbled upon S.C.O.F's  Tommy Lynch's recent Fur and Feather Matinee, where he ties a kick ass mouse pattern.  It is also coincidental that when I did actually go fishing last season, my time was spent swinging big streamers, poppers, and mouse patterns.

Meaty flies are my latest obsession.

As if to offer proof that imitation is the most sincere form of flattery, I set to the task of tying my own version of the white bellied mouse, and drew from my own recent experiences with the real McCoy when picking color.  Now, I have to wait for a very long time before I get to fish it...but I feel certain that when this baby hits the water...I'd better be holding on tight.

Perhaps most importantly, despite last season's lack-luster amount of time on the water, I am already getting stoked up for 2015.  It's gonna be good folks.  I can feel it.

Til later,


Friday, October 17, 2014

The old flame

I'm gonna do it.  So help me GOD....I'm gonna do it.

I have every intention of re-kindling a forgotten love.  It has been a long time, but I think that allowing this time between us to continue would be wrong on several levels.

What I am talking about here is the special kind of relationship that I never should have let go.  I'm confident that my life has NOT been better for allowing to let this romance slip away over the years.  We had this great know, the kind that just brings out the best in a person.

To make igniting this old flame even more rewarding, I have Mrs. MacLoosh's full support. (Gotta love that girl!!)

My beloved Cannondale in it's current incarnation as a single speed
I suppose we all have these things in life that we come back to again and again and again.  In my life, as most of you know, fishing has played a big role.  My love for it is something that never quite goes away. Over time, my fishing activity has ebbed and flowed in manic fits that on the surface probably appear as fads.   A fad it is not.  I have been a fisherman all my life, and I will continue to be a fisherman until the day I die.

Along these same lines, I find my bicycles and the sport of cycling.  In fact, my love affair with bicycles is even more deeply rooted into my psyche than fishing.  I have, what might be described as a "collection" of bikes.  If you were to line all of them up, to some degree they would provide visual cues to my own history.  A timeline of sorts. Cycling has not been a fad either.  It is more than just a few bricks that make up foundation of who I am.

Unfortunately, for the last several years, I have all but ignored my bikes.  Why?  I can offer a range of excuses from having blown a knee, chasing and attaining my "dream job", getting married, buying a house, having 2 kids, and so on and so on....   Each one of those things is not uncommon in most peoples lives.  I just happened to have been dumb enough to have believed the excuse that I was "too busy" to get out for a ride.  There always seemed to be something "more important" to do.  As a result, I lost touch with one of the great loves of my life.

Not coincidentally, my health has also suffered from lack of cycling.  It was inevitable when I gave up 50 mile weekend rides for a comfy spot on my reclining sofa that I gained weight.  I wasn't surprised, and frankly, it was easy.  Perhaps the easiest thing I have ever done. I mean really...watching TV and drinking a beer or two (maybe more...) on my limited down time was a hell of a lot easier than suffering through a ride on a windy, drizzly day.  When I thought about spending an hour with burning legs and screaming lungs, I shuddered, and then cracked another beer.

If ya gotta suffer, may as well do it in a place like this.
Military Ridge Trail at Blue Mound State Park.
While my physical well being declined, I honestly think my mental status has taken the brunt of the suffering.  Don't get me wrong, my wife, and kids have brought me more love and joy than I could ever have imagined, but in the back of my mind, there has been something amiss.  It came out in subtle ways.  Low self esteem here, a little depression there, and the nagging feeling that the best was already behind me.  Self pity sets in and It's a bit of a downward spiral that feels impossible to recover from.  As it turns out, the solution was right in front of me (well...hanging in my garage...): I MISS RIDING MY BIKES.

I'd love to tell you that I am a recovering cyclist.  That I eat right every day, fuel my body for daily, grueling training rides on my triumphant return to competitive bike racing...  But that would be a lie.

Klein.  Handcrafted science. The "new" kid on the block, despite the fact that it is going on 13 years old...
As I sit here in the afterglow of a wonderful fall ride today, my legs are cramping, my knees hurt, my ass is sore from an uncomfortable saddle and I am painfully aware that today's final mileage and average speed were a far cry from days gone by.  But at this time, I am quite OK with my efforts.  In fact, I feel pretty damn good about the whole deal...and at least I got out. In doing so, I might have accidentally awakened an old familiar feeling.

While I do harbor thoughts of entering an occasional bike race in 2015, I am going to be realistic about this.  I just want to ride more.  That's all.   Start slow, and maybe...just maybe...I can rekindle that old flame again.

The end of the driveway.  One hell of a long distance.
All I know right now is that the hardest part of a bike ride is making it to the end of my driveway.  If I can get that far, I might just have a chance.

Til later,


Thursday, October 2, 2014

Jimmy Buffet would approve

 "Now and then we had a hope that if we lived and were good, god would permit us to be pirates" 
                                                                                                                                    -Mark Twain

They are out there.  I know this because they have always been there.  Doing what they do, while most of us are caught up in the trappings of day-to-day survival in the suburban jungle.  Most of the time, we just aren't paying attention.  Or...more likely...those of us living our cozy suburban lives simply don't associate with them.

But...they are there.  Always there.  Proving that pirates are alive and well, and living among us. Sometimes hiding in plain sight.

This is especially pleasing to me since I have always loved pirate stories and the idea that people can live outside of the rules.

Last weekend, my son and I took our annual camping trip.  ManCamp 2014.  The rules are simple: (1) You do not talk about ManCamp. (2) You do not talk about ManCamp.  (3) No girls allowed. (4) No agendas allowed.  (5) Whatever happens, Happens.  And finally, (6) You do not talk about ManCamp.

So as we drove back to our campsite after a bike ride around the Trempealeau National Wildlife Refuge, we decided to check out a potential fishing spot below Mississippi River Lock and Dam 5A.

In doing so, we did not find the fishing area we were looking for. Instead, we were at a floating saloon in the fast water below the dam.  Complete with a bartender who's skin looked like it has been treated with formaldehyde from years of soaking up nicotine and alcohol.

Oh, and two drunk Amish guys who were fishing for panfish from one of the floating barges. (I did have to clarify to my son that NO, they weren't leprechauns--which opened up a whole sidebar conversation about whether or not the Amish were allowed to drink at bars...)

Gaining access to the bar was an exercise in balance.  Literally.  As my son crossed the railroad tracks and looked down the slope to the water, he asked (prior to walking the first plank) "Dad?  Is this safe?" With the grin of a man who just realized what we had found, I said "NO.  Not even a little bit.  Keep going and DON'T FALL IN".

As soon as we were in view of the back window of the bar, we were under the watchful eye of the bartender. I had the distinct feeling that she carefully watched to see who might be coming over the hill so as to give advanced warning if needed.  The bar, turned out to be several barges, lashed together with a shack on top of the largest one.  Each barge moves independently due to the turbulent current. Traveling from barge to barge was accomplished by crossing a piece of steel grate, old wooden dock, piece of plywood between them to create a "bridge" or simply just jumping.

As an act of courtesy, we went into the bar to ask if it was OK to look around.  Inside the bar was exactly like you would expect.  Dark. Dingy, Dirty, and with the character that only an outlaw saloon can provide.

 As we entered, the few patrons sitting at the bar stopped their conversations and watched to see how this would play out. The barkeep, already clearly uncomfortable with the presence of a minor at the bar, was curt and direct.

Me: Is it OK if we look around a little bit?
BarKeep: He got a life jacket?
Me: No.  Sorry.  He will be right at my side and I will be careful with him.
BK: Well I are already here...

At this point, I figured that I should buy a drink. All things only seemed right.

Me: Can I get a Bud Light?
BK: (Leveling a cold stare at me) Miller Lite or Busch Light.  PICK.
Me: (Suddenly feeling intimidated by her) ...Uh...Busch Light.

The bartender set a can of Busch Light on the bar in front of me--never said a word.

Me: Thanks.  Um...I don't suppose you have a rootbeer for my boy?
BK: (Leveling off on my son) Coke or Diet Coke.  PICK.
Gabe: (In an almost imperceptible whisper) Diet Coke. Please.
BK: $3.50

As we checked the place out and stayed long enough to watch a grain barge pass through the locks on the opposite side of the channel (and finish my Busch Light), it occurred to me that that we were at a modern day pirate bar.

This saloon exists on the fringes.  In a place (physically detached from land and metaphorically detached from the norms associated with land based civilization) where rules and regulations simply don't exist.  It appears to be run by people who are clearly not interested in attracting the mainstream public.  My hunch is that most of the local population knows it is there, but choose other, more homogenized establishments to have a casual cocktail.  I also suspect that what happens at the Dam Saloon stays at the Dam Saloon, and if those walls could talk--my gawd the stories they could tell...

I feel lucky to share this short chapter of my life.  Not only did I get a (needed) re-confirmation that pirates and pirate bars do exist.  My son also realized that he was visiting a place that is completely off the grid he has known all his life.  And...he loved it.

Because of the Dam Saloon...ManCamp 2014 goes into the books as the year I was able to take my son to his first pirate bar.  I am proud to have exposed him to the type of place he doesn't normally get to see.  (I also think his immune system is now just a bit stronger...) It gives me hope that places like this will continue to exist and with a little bit of luck, he will have an appreciation of the places most people wouldn't think of frequenting.

Maybe, when he gets old enough he will seek out other pirate bars every once in a while.  And wouldn't it be great if someday he introduces his own kids to the places nobody talks about.

Til later,


Wednesday, September 3, 2014

Sometimes it's not the fish...

More often than not, what you take away from the stream is much, much more than just the experience of catching fish.

Til later,


Sunday, August 31, 2014

Guilty Pleasures

Listen up.

I'm going to publicly admit this once.  Just once.  Then, I will disavow any knowledge of this post. Period.

I like disco.

I usually mask this weakness with other testosterone filled musical interests like Disturbed, Pop Evil, Volbeat and Bobaflex.  But the fact remains, when I hear certain disco music, I sing along. Ah hell, sometimes I even dance (if I've had enough dancing juice).  Here's the thing: I know you sing and dance along to disco too.  Deny all you want, be a hater if you think it will make you look cool, but I know there isn't a single one of us who doesn't occasionally (secretly) indulge.

So when my wife and I ended up in the custody of free VIP seating to see ABBAFAB (*THE* ABBA tribute band) open up for the Village People , we jumped at the chance.  As an added bonus, my parents watched the MacLooshkins for the night.  Hells to the Yeah!

To our surprise, my wife and I found ourselves so close to the stage for both acts that we could nearly touch them as they performed.  We also found ourselves having the time of our lives.  More fun in fact, than I have had at a live show in a LONG, LONG time. So after an evening as fun filled as Mrs. MacLoosh and I had, the need to share is overwhelming.

First out of the chute:  Me with the ABBAFAB girls-who by the way, put on an an amazing show! And yes, I'll freely admit, I was temporarily smitten with them (the dumbass grin on my face kind of gives me away...).

My wife was completely comfortable with this because she had her own little crush going on with a couple of the boys from the Village People.  Here she is rockin' a candid with Mr. Felipe Rose.

As final song, and after an excellent performance they, of course, played YMCA.  In a fit of pure genius, and I suspect after (literally) decades of watching drunk people do it completely wrong, they offered an "official" tutorial on how to do the hand moves.

Thankfully, I was smart enough to realize before the Village People started their set (but unfortunately after ABBAFAB's set) that my GoPro was in my truck.

I'm betting that the adrenaline junkies who invented GoPro cameras never imaged that a middle aged man would take their product and use it for something as "uncool" as a live tutorial on the proper hand moves for a disco song that is older than they are...but hey...the genie is out of the bottle.


Til Later,