TR: SW WI

I didn't know how long a drive it was to the agreed upon meeting place in
Mount Horeb and I didn't feel like checking a map, so I hit the road at
about 5:00 a.m., assuming that I could just about make it to the Mississippi
river in three hours.....and, having been in the neighborhood twice in the
last couple of months, I was pretty sure I didn't have to go that far.



I hate driving on freeways. But, for the first hour or so (where the hell
are all those people going in the middle of the night, anyway?), it was too
dark to see anything anyway and besides, I'm already intimately familiar
with the landscape as far as Madison. U.S. Hwy. 18 used to be a cozy two
lane road. You could pull off at any of numerous intersections with other,
even smaller, roads to admire the view, take a leak or just dawdle without
anything resembling a legitimate excuse. Now, it's just another four lane
controlled access slab......but it gets you to Mount Horeb in a hurry.
Mount Horeb looks pretty much like the vast majority of small towns in
southern Wisconsin.....and much of the middle third of the country, for that
matter. I've never actually researched the matter, but I think that the
territorial legislature, back in the early nineteenth century, must have
decreed that no living green thing shall be seen within some specified
distance from the downtown business district......moot at this time of year,
but it does make a difference in the summer. The rest of the town may have
been attractive at one time, but Dutch elm disease took care of that. More
distressing is that these days a population of as little as a couple of
hundred seems to be sufficient justification for urban sprawl.



I arrived an hour early, found the Blue Sky Cafe, discovered that it wasn't
open, and found a stool and a cup of coffee in the bar next door, which was.
Half a dozen locals were already there, playing bar dice, reading the paper,
and chatting. I didn't bother to ruminate on what brings so many people to
a tavern at that hour on a Saturday. Drank coffee and read from
"Extraordinary Popular Delusion and the Madness of Crowds" till the cafe
opened.



Armed myself with DeLorme's atlas of WI and got a table for three. Wayne
entered a few minutes later.....ROFFians are uncannily easy to identify for
reasons that I think I'll let someone else speculate on.....armed with a
DeLorme atlas of WI, and we introduced ourselves. We had barely arrived at
the stage where the fight or flight reflex was put to rest when in walks
Joel, carrying a copy of.....well, you know. Spent the next hour or so
enjoying a very good breakfast, planning the day's fishing, and failing to
come to a conclusion on the perplexing question of how three such refined
gentlemen come to find themselves embroiled for years on end in the doings
of a more or less worldwide collection of execrable miscreants. And then,
it's off to the stream.....another hour down the road.



Roger's Branch, in Grant county, is, to my admittedly unpracticed eye,
pretty typical of southwestern Wisconsin trout streams. Roughly 20 feet (3
meters) wide and knee (.43 me..um..heh, heh...never mind) deep, on average,
it flows alternately through woods and cow pasture, with the latter
predominating. The gradient is low to moderate. There are a few riffles,
but it is mostly slow runs and largeish pools. We stopped to look at the
first bridge we came to. With the air temperature at about 35F and the
water not much warmer, we were quite surprised to see that fish were rising.
Closer examination eventually resulted in the unanimous conclusion that they
were actually hitting something just below the surface, but there could be
no doubt that they were actively feeding. But, the water was high and
discolored as a result of the saturated ground and heavy rains on Friday, so
we decided to go upstream and look at a smaller tributary, Borah creek. It
looked pretty much the same except for the addition of four cars on the
bridge. We talked to some guys who were just getting out of the stream and
learned, after Joel lubricated them with a bit of brandy, that they had
caught a few rainbows and even some brookies.



Well, it was obviously too crowded there, so we went back down to Roger's.
Wayne let Ralph the dog out of the car and the four of us scampered merrily
down to the stream..those of you who have met Wayne and Joel will understand
what a jolly sight THAT was! We proceeded to flog the water dutifully for
an hour or so with every bug in our collective arsenal. That is to say,
three of us did. Ralph gamboled about collecting a rather impressive
quantity of mud on his legs and belly. Not surprisingly, at the end of the
hour Ralph had a lot more to show for the experience than the rest of us,
although Joel DID have a more or less frozen finger...the result of an ill
advised altercation with a router coupled to a combination of cold air and
water.



Time to regroup.



Which is to say, we went back to the cars and drank Joel's brandy and Wayne'
s beer. Which is to say that the distinction between an orderly retreat and
a rout is still an important one.



After a leisurely consultation and careful perusal of several copies of the
DeLorme atlas, it was agreed that we should proceed northward (back the way
we had come, though by a somewhat different route) and try our luck at
another stream. Well, actually, I said, "Shut up. Follow me", and they
did...and we didn't get lost or anything..HAH! After stopping in Fennimore
to stock up on gasoline, cigarettes and candy bars (we still had plenty of
beer and liquor..despite Joel's profligacy), we drove up to the bottom
center of page 33 to look at Castle Rock creek...which, by the way, goes by
a different name on page 33 so tough ****...where we bumped into another
group who were just getting out of the stream. Joel (whose MO is by now
predictable) gets them liquored up and they spill their guts. Yeah, they
caught lots of fish..couldn't keep the filthy things off...got boring..going
home now.

"COOL!" thinks we..."we're gonna catch fish!"

Me and Joel sprints for the creek while Wayne and Ralph stay at the cars
doing some sort of Zen Voodoo ****......which, as it turns out later,
actually works. Joel gets ahead of me on account of I spy a particularly
greasy looking spot of mud and, on stopping to investigate, I plant a foot
in it and, predictably, launch both feet skyward at about mach two and land
on my ass in a huge wet mass in which it is impossible to distinguish
between the cow **** and the legitimate mud. Needless to say, I was so
charmed by the experience that I just sat there for a while admiring it all
while Joel began beating the water to a froth, Wayne ambled amiably up to
see what the fuss was all about, and Ralph simply curled his lip in disgust
before trotting off to add to his own, evidently more refined, mud
collection.

O.k., so, mindful of our brilliant success in the morning, we continued to
do exactly the same thing for a couple of hours with exactly the same
result. The fish continue to tease us by going after non-existent bugs.
Ralph is getting dangerously heavy. Wayne is doing something entirely
inscrutable with a scandalously enormous pompon tied halfway up his leader.
I'm getting uncomfortably crusty in the warm sunshine. And Joel is about
fifty yards downstream staring balefully at a large pool that, as far as I
can tell, has never done him any harm. This is not good. "**** it," sez I
to Wayne, "we are snakebit......let's go back to the car". I move. Wayne
follows, muttering something that I can't hear and assume that I don't want
to. We pass Joel, giving him a wide berth.....discretion being the better
part of valor.....and then stop when we see yet another fish rising within
three feet of the near bank and no more than ten feet from where we stand.
Wayne looks at me, gives me a sort of apologetic half shrug, and steps down
to the bank while stripping off some line. I see he's got some gigantic
rubber legged nymphy looking abortion.......something like Jeffie would
use......on the end of his tippet. Oh yeah, THAT should do it! Plop goes
the bug......and DOWN goes the pompon! Well, what the hell? ZOOM goes the
leader! Holy ****......fish on! HOLY ****! (I got a look at the fish).
Wayne, not yet entirely sure of what is going on, is blasé. He gets a
glimpse of the fish. "I think it's a carp", sez he. "HOLY ****!", I reply
laconically. Joel scuttles over......"Whazza?" "I think Wayne's got a fish
on," I observe. The battle rages for several minutes while I, having gotten
Wayne's camera from him, scramble for a good angle and Joel shouts
instructions......whether to me or Wayne, I cannot tell.....and it hardly
matters anyway. I've gotten several good looks at this fish from my vantage
at the top of a bank five feet above stream level. This is a LARGE trout
which has by now been positively identified as a nicely colored rainbow. I
make it 22 inches, minimum, and more likely between 24 and 26. Joel thinks
differently. Joel is drunk and insane. Wayne looks frightened. I
sympathize. Ralph......well, Ralph probably doesn't give a **** and nobody
is thinking about Ralph anyway.

Wayne says he wishes he had a net. Joel says he doesn't need one.......just
steer it near the bank and he'll grab the leader. No sooner said than done.
The fish thrashes about for a while, breaking the surface long enough for us
to get a good look at it twice. Wayne thinks he's foul hooked it, but no,
both Joel and I confirm, it is fair hooked but the tippet has gotten wrapped
around its head. Joel pulls and........BINK! goes the tippet. The fish is
gone......without touch of human hand......or hero shot. "Nice fish", quoth
Joel. "HOLY ****!", I muse. Wayne has got a sort of glazed look in his eye
and he's breathing is labored. I'm getting frightened.

Well......this was probably the biggest stream resident trout I've ever seen
outside a petting zoo. But, it's gone. We head back for the vehicles.
Brandy, congratulations, felicitations, plans to get together again, blah
blah. Sunday's weather promises to be ugly. Joel and Wayne are undecided
about whether to stay another day or head home. I have an appointment to
keep with the mustard museum. I am out'a there. Nice drive home, etc.,
etc.

Wolfgang
who had a wonderful time, made all the better by excellent company.....as
always.....thank you, gentlemen.