(Posted August 30, 2009)
Most of my recent vacation was spent doing kid stuff. That’s what happens when you’re 54 years old (OK, almost 55) and you still have an eleven year old in the house. My wife Rene’ and I decided to take a week long vacation with our youngest son Jack in the Black Hills of South Dakota. So as not to bore the poor kid, Jack’s two cousins and his aunt and uncle from Lakeville, Minnesota joined the entourage as it wound its way across the states of Minnesota and South Dakota. We did the touristy stuff: stopped at the Corn Palace in Mitchell; drove the road around Badlands National Park; saw Mt. Rushmore; watched tatanka (bison), pronghorns, mountain goats and big horn sheep graze in Custer State Park. But the highlight of the trip for me was when Ernest Hemingway, Teddy Roosevelt and I went fly fishing.
Of course, the two other guys weren’t really there. I mean, Teddy’s been dead for almost a century and Ernest for half that period of time. But they were there in spirit, the preservationist president and the author who loved to trout fish, when I pulled on my chest waders and slid off the tail gate of my Pacifica onto the hard gravel of the access road leading to Castle Creek. The morning was cool, 43 degrees, perfect for trout fishing. I started wading the clear, fast running water of the creek, heading upstream towards the Deerfield Lake dam. I touched my hand to the water to reassure myself that the waterway was cold enough to support wild brook trout and browns. It was chilling; likely no more than fifty-five degrees, despite the clear sky and the ascending sun.
The creek valley opened into a meadow. I waded and offered flies of all sorts to the fish. Every now and then, I saw the black back of a brookie dart from the underside of the weeds lazily dancing in the current. Once in a while, a greenish backed brown would skitter off to another hiding place as I moved upstream. But the fish didn’t bite. No matter what I tossed into the water, the trout refused to be fooled. It’s not the first time I’ve been skunked. It won’t be the last. Still, the president, the author and the judge had a fine day on the creek. I was dog tired and sweating like a hog when I finally made it back to the car after my four mile trek up the canyon and back. I’d fished for five hours and had one strike. It cost me fourteen bucks for a daily license, a few bucks in gas, and a little excess energy to fish the creek that Col. Custer and his men named for the high spires and beautiful peaks surrounding the little meander back when they explored the Black Hills in 1876. Despite the lack of fish on the hook, the experience was priceless.
Come visit me at the Harvest Moon Festival in Ely on September 11,12 and 13.
Peace.
Mark
