Matt Ray and Those Damn Horses...again...

Here is a bit of "Christmas Cheer" for the blogging world:  it's the first two songs of the set performed by my band Matt Ray and Those Damn Horses live at The Cabooze in Minneapolis MN when we opened for White Iron Band at their CD release show on 12/21/12.  (music starts at 1:09 / be sure to double click for full screen...)



Also, our friend Tommy the Beard posted his recordings of the ENTIRE set on Archive.org.  You can check that out HERE.  ;-)  Happy Holidays!

Chasing Ducks in Northern Minnesota in Oct. 2012 Part 2

Disclaimer - Over the 4 year run of my previous blog "The Ethereal Garage," I received some negative comments criticizing both my use of specific place names and  my overly detailed posts.  Here's the bottom line: duck hunting in the Arrowhead Region of Minnesota is NOT great, and despite the countless pages of glossy propaganda printed by a variety of conservation organizations AND the MN D.N.R. stating otherwise, it seems to be declining steadily.  There are no locations described in these posts that aren't commonly known, and if you want to drive north from the Twin Cities or Chicago, beat me to the landing on Big Rice lake, get to the blind before me, and freeze your a$$ off for 6 hours without seeing a single duck, have at it. 

Excluding the border waters, Pelican Lake near the City of Orr MN is the 11th largest lake in Minnesota with a surface area of nearly 11 thousand acres.  Its wide, shallow bays are filled with navigational hazards, and only a light steady breeze will produce dangerously large waves.  Though slightly more tarnished every year due changes in migration patterns resulting from unusual weather trends, the lake's long-standing reputation as a premier waterfowling destination attracts numerous duck hunters every fall...including me.  Though I have yet to enjoy a notably successful day there, the lure of big water and the potential to see a lot of ducks keeps me coming back.  Empty game bag or not, it's hard to return home from Pelican Lake feeling like the trip had been a waste of time.

By the morning of October 5th a nasty weather system that crossed North Dakota entered Minnesota and produced 10 or more inches of snow and school closures in the western part of the state, yet there was only a dusting in the Arrowhead - and winds gusting to 35 mph - when Lucy and I motored out of our driveway at 3:30 a.m.  Keenly interested in the progression of the storm, I checked the weather nearly twice an hour on Friday night, but between my 11:00 p.m. bedtime and 4:00 a.m. arrival at the landing, the N.W.S. changed the forecast, and the wind was blowing a full 90 degrees off from the expected direction - the calm and sheltered landing that I'd based the whole trip upon on was being pummeled by large waves.  After sorting through my reservations and setting aside some doubt, I decided that driving 60 miles back to a safer "Plan B lake" would be nothing short of lame, and I set about the work of carefully loading my canoe to handle a bit of chop.  Pushing off into the waves, I smirked at my loyal dog and said, "Rig for dive, Lucy!"  It was funny to me.

After what turned out to be an enjoyable 30 minute paddle in rolling waves with a light snow driven by an 18 mph wind (gusting occasionally to 30) at my back, a change in the silloutte of the treeline against the night sky signaled that my destination was near.  I quickly recalculated the position of the blind and orientation of the decoy spread to adjust for the wind, and as I set about dropping fake plastic ducks in place, the air temperature dropped slightly.  By the time the light of day slipped over the lake, it was a balmy 25 degrees...and then it really started to snow.  Unexpected outbreaks of bad weather often tend to push large numbers of ducks around, but unfortunately that wasn't the case on this particular outing.  There were some birds moving, but no more than on any other trip to Pelican Lake given the time of year, and I heard a tellingly limited amount of shooting from the other 5 or 6 parties within earshot on the bay.  My efforts to put some birds in the bag were further complicated by my nemesis the Mergansers who were flying around in great numbers and effectively running interference for the Scaup and Ringbills in the environment of limited visibility created by the snow and fog.  More than a couple ducks went safely on their way after being misidentified as Mergansers - my eyesight isn't what it used to be.

Around 8:00 a.m. the snow became heavy to the point that it started to pile up on the decoys, but the few ducks and mergansers flying around didn't seem to mind.  A couple minutes later, I had an interesting encounter with 10 or more Pie Billed Grebes, and later on a really nice walleye swam in within a couple feet of the rock on which I was sitting.  After a morning of sitting and chatting and sharing sandwiches with Lucy, a full hour without seeing a single duck passed, and my foot started to tap.  It wasn't long until I decided to "pull the plug" and pack it up.  Whereas the the trip to the blind with the wind at my back was fairly easy, the trip back to the landing - struggling into a fairly stiff breeze with good sized waves and difficult gusts - was challenging and a bit harrowing at times.  I had one large wave slosh some water over the side of the boat and another break slightly over the bow, but I made it back to dry land no worse for the wear.  With two ducks in the bag and a lot of good exercise under my belt, I was safe at home by 1 p.m. and already planning my next adventure...for that very afternoon.

Stay tuned! 

  

Chasing Ducks in Northern Minnesota in Oct. 2012 Part 1

From low earth orbit as viewed by a hopeful adventurer over the internet, Hilda Creek appears to be a fairly powerful stream as it flows north out of Oriniack Lake in Minnesota's BWCA wilderness and then swings westward towards its confluence with the Vermilion River. At 5 a.m. at the end of a 90 mile drive on Thursday October 4th, however, I found the creek to be a mere trickle quietly percolating through a vast filed of rocks. The 10 foot diameter culvert and high water marks on a nearby outcropping of ledge rock confirmed that at a different time of year or in an autumn with normal rainfall, my elaborate plans (the result of several hours worth of research and careful packing) would have resulted in a successful trip, but on this particular morning, my lovely Lucy and I turned back north up Forest Road 200 and put "Plan B" into action. The ducks inhabiting the expansive treeless flowage to the south of Gustafson Lake where Hilda, Gustafson, Color, and Norway Creeks come together would be safe...for now.

We headed east on the Echo Trail towards the landing on the Little Indian Sioux River to put in and travel south towards the northern limit of the BWCA's Southwest Region. True or not, I've been led to believe that renowned naturalist Sigurd Olson also used to hunt waterfowl on this stretch of river, and the strong feeling of being in a "vast and very wild place" that I've always experienced on that stretch of river makes that idea somehow more plausible. Scrawled jaggedly across endless sheets of moss, the tamarack and spruce trees that populate the bogs lining the channel appear unusually stunted given the latitude, and the total lack of development and abundance of wildlife provide the canoeist with a tangible air of remoteness very early into the trip. I made quick work of hauling my boat and gear down the steep bank, loaded Lucy, and pushed off upstream. Due to a "problem with the alarm clock," we were running 30 minutes behind schedule, and the 20 mile diversion to Hilda Creek set our schedule back further still.  Even at close to top speed we were a 30 minute paddle away from my favorite bend in the river, and time was not on our side.  As the first glimmer of daylight painted the eastern sky, I declared "Good 'nuff, Lucy!" and slipped up on the bog at a likely looking spot to unload gear and make my companion comfortable atop the bag of camo netting. As I've stated earlier, I use my dog to mark the blind as the reflection of her eyes from a headlamp is visible from a great distance and comes very much in handy when placing the decoys. As the last couple blocks were dropped into formation, a small flock of Ringbills passed overhead, and just as I took my place atop my bucket around 6:40 a.m.(a mere 5 minutes before legal shooting hours), half a dozen Mallards flew the same course. In what I've found to be a frustratingly common pattern, those few pre-dawn birds represented the bulk of the ducks that I observed that day.

 

Boat Sandwiches

Around 7 a.m. a small flock of Canada Geese passed by about a quarter mile to the south and made their way to what I gathered was a large beaver pond. I heard other geese greet them as they went down over the tree line. 2 hours later my fairly impressive spread of nearly 5 dozen decoys fooled a lone Ringbill, and Lucy made a nice retrieve to the shallow water on the other side of the river and back. On a slow day in the duck blind, the moment that the first duck goes into the game bag not only provides the satisfying affirmation that all the time and energy put into planning and executing the trip was worthwhile, but it also instills a feeling of hope that despite the mostly empty skies, there may be more ducks on the way. I enjoyed a "boat sandwich"..and then another...and within the hour that hope began to wane as it so often does. Lucy, who'd shared the last bite of each of my sandwiches, continued to scan the skies, and feeling the need for a bit of a stretch, we took a walk over to the clearing on the river bend near where we were sitting. We discovered the remains of a very old campsite, a moss covered fire ring, and - of course - some cracked bottles and rusted cans from an era long passed. After a couple more hours of sitting, boredom set in and paranoia got the better of me, and mildly concerned about the frequent vandalism of unattended vehicles parked along The Echo Trail and fear for the safety of the backpack and tote of unneeded gear left in plain view in the rear seat of my truck, I packed up and dug in with the paddle. Just before the bridge we met a canoe carrying two hunters and a black lab traveling back upstream to the area Lucy and I just left, and after a quick exchange of pleasantries, the sharing of my somewhat dismal report, a couple more paddle strokes, some scrambling up the hill, and a quick loading job, Lucy and I were on the road towards home. Just as we made the turn by Kabustasa Lake, it started to rain, and the nasty system of bad (very duck friendly) weather that was to menace our region for the next two days made itself known. Knowing that I had 4 more days of duck stuff in front of me AND an early October snow event in which to do it filled me with excitement, and I had BIG plans for Friday. 

More to come...

 

 

Canoe Camping on the St. Louis River in May of 2012

In what could be another chapter in a book about outdoor adventures entitled "My Original Plan was to," my annual May BWCA canoe trip scheduled to coincide with the opening of the game fishing season in Minnesota was doomed from its very inception. I obtaineda permit in late March, called Piragis in Ely MN to reserve an appropriate canoe in mid April, and set about planning and packing in early May. Unfortunately, on the Saturday before the entry date of Thursday May 10th, my lovely wife while digging through our oldest son's school folder discovered that he had not only an important field trip to Duluth on Friday, but also his spring band concert on Thursday night. Bah! For the third year in a row, my first “big” canoe trip of the year was foiled by circumstances beyond my control less than a week before it was to begin. Ever the optimist and quite accustomed to those sorts of last minute disappointments, I quickly formulated an exciting “Plan B,” and after a leisurely 9 a.m. alarm on Saturday morning and some coffee, cocoa, and doughnuts, mom shuttled “the men” and I to a lonely bridge crossing what the MN D.N.R. has designated as “Reach 18” of the mighty St. Louis River.

We found the water level right around the middle of its possible range and slightly lower than would be expected for a May canoe trip, and as we hauled our packs and borrowed Old Town canoe to the “landing,” I smirked with amusement at the amount of “stuff” a person is able to take along on a portage-free float down a river. With the considerable back-breaking restrictions of a “double portage” BWCA trip out of the picture, we had folding metal camp chairs, a big (heavy) bag of taconite pellets for the wrist rocket, several gallon jugs of Buhl Water, and a large cooler full of ice cold beer and sodas…and lots of ice. Dressed in standard issue “Team Krenz” cotton-free canoe gear including zip-off pants, fleece jackets, and Crocs (one of the few times it’s OK to wear those awful molded “gardening shoes”), we doused ourselves with sun screen, bid a fond farewell to mom (complete with the usual stern warning about “not killing her children”), and slipped our Royalex river canoe into the current. We offered up a brief pre-adventure “thanks for EVERYthing / please let us make it home safely” prayer – because I really don’t believe a lot of kids in America realize just how GOOD they have it - and we dug in with our paddles. “5 miles ‘til camp!”

Heading downstream towards the 40 acre plot of County Tax Forfeit public land near the confluence of small creek, the first three quarters of a mile of the journey is slightly anticlimactic as the river winds back to the main road just half a mile from the landing, but we made good use of that time by talking about canoe safety, efficient paddle strokes, and emergency procedures. At the first deep water corner that runs along a large berry field where the river finally heads south, we jumped two of the largest Canada Geese I’d ever seen. I don’t feel qualified to positively identify them as members of the Giant Canada Goose subspecies (Branta canadensis maxima), but there were both easily 15 pounds with wing spans approaching 5 feet. They were the first of literally hundreds of waterfowl we observed on the trip including four separate pairs of Canada Geese with young, Mallards, Blue Winged Teal, Hooded Mergansers, Red-breasted Mergansers, and Wood Ducks. For the first time in my life, I actually saw wood ducks roosting in trees…and on 4 or 5 separate occasions, no less. The bird count on that stretch of river was remarkable and alone would have justified the effort required in planning and executing the trip.

Slightly more than 2 miles into the trip, we encountered one of two areas of "fast water" on that particular stretch of river. Though fairly short and barely worthy of a "Class 1 rating," the speed of the current, abundance of rocks, and potential for tipping warranted some degree of caution, and at the top of the "rapids," I quickly rattled off some last minute advice...and then forgot ALL the lessons from the three other times we faced this challenge and chose the WORST possible route.

"DAD, I don't think this is the right..." Tyler started.

"NO, it's NOT. DAMMIT!" I interrupted.

"DaaaaAAD!" Riley yelled with annoyance as the canoe slid up and stuck fast on a rocky shoal.

We looked over to the opposite bank and observed the relatively smooth-flowing channel that we SHOULD have attempted, and I hopped out into the swift current to find safe and sturdy footing on rocks that ranged anywhere in size from tennis balls to basket balls. After a quick lift and a gentle shove, we were back underway, and the trip through that short stretch of river was unanimously deemed an "epic fail." We continued on our way with a few spirited rounds of the chant, "Which way next time? Keep LEFT! Yup!" Don't ask...certain breeds of canoeist are more prone to spontaneous singing than others.

As we passed the Embarrass River's point of confluence, 5 Mallard drakes all in brilliant spring plumage erupted from from under some willow trees, and we happily observed that the sand bar at the mouth of the river was for the most part above water. We made the decision to paddle on past to our destination, set up camp and do chores, and then head back upstream to fish that spot around 4 p.m. We arrived at our usual campsite (a primitive user-developed site known to us as "The Poison Ivy Campsite") without incident, and made quick work of hauling our gear up the sandy banks to the clearing. We found the area exactly as we left it after our last visit in August of 2009. The extreme need for solitude on any outdoor adventure is one of my primary trip planning considerations, and knowing both that few if any people ever camp at our favorite spot AND that we wouldn't be seeing another person for the duration of the trip filled me with a peaceful joy. I grew up spending my summers on Lake Vermilion, and I've watched sadly over the years as the lake turned into an over-crowded, over-developed mess forever diminished by excess boat traffic, poor fishery management, and the lasting scourge of several introduced species, and knowing that  the lake would be over-run with tourists that weekend while my sons and I would remain completely isolated from the outside world brought a broad smile to my face. We set up camp, gathered a respectable supply of firewood, and had some snacks. I stood knee deep in the sandy river enjoying an ice cold beer with the sun in my face while the rest of my crew had a lively chat while taking practice with their pellet pistol (Thanks, Santa!), and after about an hour of "milling about," we re-outfitted the canoe for fishing and turned the bow back upstream.

When we fished from the Embarrass River sand bar in the summer of 2009, the top of the bar was a good 12 inches out of the water - high and dry - but on this trip it was barely exposed. What had passed for sand on the previous trip was more like muskeg and muck, and it was clear that a number of the river valley's inhabitants had been spending a lot of time there - yuck.  In the interest of "packing light," we regrettably made the decision to leave our rubber boots behind, and I watched on with a bit of twisted pride as my sons - wearing only Crocs on their bare feet - tromped around obliviously in the stinky muck as they managed their fishing gear. This particular stretch of river is not known for its fish population, and yet in the couple hours we spent there, we managed to catch 2 small walleyes, and - surprisingly and to our collective great delight - a number of LARGE Suckers. I pointed out to the boys that I'd never caught a Sucker in my life on a hook and line and yet in one period of just a couple hours we managed to haul in about ten of them. Horsing a 4 or 5 pound rough fish out of significant river current from water that's nearly 20 feet deep on light tackle proved to be not only tremendous fun, but it also served as the perfect opportunity to demonstrate the proper use of the adjustable drag on a spinning reel. "Team Krenz" strongly advocates the practice of catch and release fishing, so ALL the fish went back into the water unharmed, and as the sun made its way towards the horizon, I prepared our "traditional" evening camp meal that the boys have come to call "chicken-y goodness." It's chicken flavored rice and sauce with a foil container of vacuume packed chicken mixed in. We ate like Kings...low rent, poorly nourished Kings. ;-)

With a sliver of sun still peeking over the horizon and sparkling through the trees, we packed up our gear, cleaned the vile black river bottom stank from our feet, and shoved off for camp. Riley and I had a long conversation about the possibily of making Sucker Balls on a subsequent trip, and we stopped to angle unsuccessfully at two different deep river bends before finally sliding our boat up on shore just below our tent. The boys tended to the fire while I unpacked the canoe, stowed paddles and fishing rods, and organized our gear around camp. The obsessive compulsive aspect of my psyche is generally well controled, but when it comes to producing a well ordered encampement, that crazy guy is given free reigin - on the evening of May 12th 2012, The Poison Ivy Campsite would have passed ANY inspection. We stayed up until nearly midnight sipping cold beverages and chatting, and in an as of yet unexplained move that resulted in somewhat serious yet still partially amusing consequences, Riley chose to lay down in the grass by the fire thereby exposing a small but apparently very sensitive area of his face to that particular campsites namesake. Hehehe. Thankfully, that minor inconvenience didn't manifest itself until a couple days later and upon turning in to our sleeping bags in the tent, we slept undisturbed until, well, until 6 a.m. at which point "nature called." In what has become a common and surprisngly still effective "sleep management technique," I "misquoted" the correct time as "barely 4 a.m!" and managed to trick the men into sleeping until nearly 9 a.m.

For most of my life I've been all about the "big breakfast," and filling our stomachs with a big lump of warm food before a long day of paddling has become a regular canoeing morning ritual . I made a pot of strong coffee in the percolator and served it to the boys in their tin cups along with cocoa mix before setting about the business of making pancakes as a pot of water for oatmeal boiled over the fire. I can see how the packaging would be inconvenient on a long trip, but on a quick overnighter, you simply can't beat the shakeable instant pancakes in the plastic jug for breakfast. We ate another simple yet tremendously satisfying meal, and after doing the morning's dishes, I returned to the clearing, approached the fire pit, and informed the men that I was NOT ready to go home. "Remember the times when you guys were toddlers and you were playing and having fun while we were visiting somewhere or another and when it was time to leave you had a big embarrassing fit? Well THAT is ME right NOW. Idontwannago!" Riley smirked an found the humor in that while Tyler became slightly annoyed. "C'MON, Dad...it's Mothers Day. We need to get home."
"NO!"

 After what always seems like the monumental task of breaking camp and loading the canoe was completed, we sent a text to mom and put out into the current. The remaining length of river is incredibly scenic and generally interesting, and we stopped at several places to fish for about 10 minutes at a time. Our final stop was a 30 minute rest at a large sandbar that sits in the middle of the second area of "rapids" on that part of the river, and we snacked on summer sausage and interesting cheese while fishing, plinking with the pellet gun, and exchanging fairly sharp though generally good natured barbs. Apparently my age and...weight...strike a couple of young hooligans as funny - I snacked on in spite of that. We actually remembered the correct path through that run of fast water, and as the road appeared around a nearby bend, we felt both a little sad that our trip was over by also quite happy that it had been such a good one. In a satisfying example of the seamless logistics of a familiar adventure, our lovely and smiling shuttle driver pulled up at the end of the guardrail along the bridge just as we hauled the last pack up to the side of the road. Mission accomplished.

Though no where near as adventurous as an extended expedition through the BWCA, our 32 hour trip down a particularly remote section of the St. Louis River was as solid a "Plan B" as any, and the fact that we paddled over 10 miles, camped out, and even caught a few fish in total privacy on one of the busiest weekends of the year for the State's waterways made our quick trip an unqualified success.  Though rendered unusable by extreme water levels and especially by horrifying numbers of ravenous biting insects for long stretches of time over the course of the summer, a well-timed and carefully thought-out trip down any part of the 192 miles of the St. Louis River never fails to provide an abundance of great experiences and lasting memories.  As for my loyal minions and I, we've reserved two more BWCA permits for the coming summer months - we're not easily discouraged.  Peace, and thanks for reading.  ;-)

A Flurry of Notes...

No, this is not a transparent attempt at "posting anything" to make it appear that this is still a legitimate blog but rather a semi annual post to keep a select group of people apprised of my musical shenanigans. Unbelievably, in the face of relentless "shameless self-promotion" resembling deranged carnival barking, I once again had an acquaintance and long-time social networking "friend" ask me, "So, are you in a band right now?" That question suggested a total communication failure on my behalf and, somewhat stunned, my reply was, "Yes...a band...ummm..." followed by a long pause. I eventually managed to muster a coherent response, but the whole episode made me wonder about exactly how effective different forms of social media actually are when it comes to promoting music on the local level. Of course I like to play to a packed room and make money, but my primary motivation in ALL my efforts is to make good, interesting music available to as many people as possible. Additionally, my part of Northern Minnesota currently has a vibrant and exciting local music scene going on, and I'd like to share it with as many people as I can reach. Anyway...back to the drawing board on the promotion end of things. Yikes. As far as my current musical endeavors are concerned, I'm currently involved with 3 bands:

The band I've played with the longest, Matt Ray and Those Damn Horses, started in my garage in the summer of 2008 when Matt, our friend Tim, and I started to get together to play music over a couple beers, and we played our first live show in the chalet at Giant's Ridge in January of 2008. It's a high energy acoustic string band that plays various selections from Americana and roots music, and despite 4 years together, we're still evolving and improving. My personal effort with that group has been the source of a thousand hours of "wood shedding" as I'm not naturally a very strong acoustic guitar player, but I like to think that I'm slowly rising to a point where I can almost hold my own against the other guitarists from the bands with whom Damn Horses occasionally share stages. Matt Ray and Those Damn Horses recently opened for the legendary White Iron Band at The Cabooze in Minneapolis in front of upwards of a thousand people (full video HERE), and we have a solid schedule featuring some fairly high profile shows and festivals for 2012. We're also honored to have been once again selected to take part in the Duluth Homegrown Music Festival. Our double CD is still available for download HERE.

My "other-worldly experimental" rock band Roxie Magistrate sprung from the joint songwriting efforts of my friends Selah and Derek in the summer of 2010. We played together for some time as a 3 piece before finally adding a more permanent rythem section. That band, despite a schedule that has been somewhat limited by my involvement in Damn Horses and Derek's tenure as drummer for The Tisdales, has also seen a fair amount of success including performances on WDSE's The Playlist broadcast from Duluth MN, a sweet spot at last year's Homegrown Festival, and an appearance at Bradfest in Two Harbors MN in August of 2011. We've been working with Rich Mattson at Sparta Sound to record our debut CD, and we hope to release that sometime this summer.

Finally, I recently signed on as the lead guitarist for Crazy Neighbors from Ely MN. Austin MN native Aaron Kaercher and his friends have been making great music together in the Ely area for several years while at the same time touring around the upper Midwest, and I jumped at the opportunity to fill this position. We have an exciting weekend coming up at The Gunflint Tavern in Grand Marais MN along with a number of other cool shows on the schedule, and our summer calendar is solidly booked with shows nearly every Tuesday and Thursday night in downtown Ely. If you find yourself in Ely on either of those evenings this summer, check us out at Northern Grounds on Tuesdays for "Tuesday Night Live" and on Thursdays at Rockwood. Good times are on the way...

Beyond all that, there were some murmurings from the guys in my old band Four Horse Johnson about getting together to record some new songs and possibly do a show or two, but the future of that remains uncertain. Also, I'm still in the long process of working my way up to a couple good sets of solo acoustic stuff, but I consistently seem to lack the time and energy to focus on my own songs. I'll go ahead an call that "no big loss" to the world of music and continue to chip away at it as time allows.

So, there you have it - fairly usless information that you didn't request. ;-) As always, I encourage EVERYBODY who reads this to both go out and take in a LIVE show at least once a week AND to promote music in your home by encouraging your children to learn an instrument...or two. I hope to see YOU at an upcoming show.

Bring Us Some Figgy Pudding...Or Not?

I came from a family that prepared with little variation a Christmas Eve menu based on long-standing traditions consisting of Lutefisk, Swedish meatballs, boiled potatoes, wild rice casserole, and a cheesy vegetable bake along with an elaborate relish tray and massive platters of traditional cookies and candies for desert. My mom labored for countless hours over the course of several weeks to make that desert happen, and it was truly a sight to behold. I would eat the Lutefisk mostly just to make mom happy - few things aren't palatable when drenched in drawn butter - and also because it earned me the right to openly snicker at those around the table of weaker constitutions who opted for the meatballs. My wife's family (in her words) tended to "jump around" where Christmas Eve dinner was concerned, and their meal varied form one year to the next and included split pea soup, beef ribs, big steaks, and (for several years running and much to my newly married amusement) mushroom, shrimp, and beef fondue with a variety of cold salads - eric liked that one. That meal also ended with an amazing variety of cookies and candies. BOTH families served lefse on Christmas Eve, but oddly enough never in my life has a single bite of that substance entered my mouth.

Coming from fairly different points of view and mostly disinterested in the observation of ridged traditions, my wife and I always face a bit of a conundrum in the weeks leading up to Christmas, and tonight at the dinner table she and our sons and I had "the talk." "So, what do you boys want for dinner on Christmas Eve?" she asked.  I groaned and got up from the table only to be humorously reprimanded, and as I sat down next to the fireplace and fired up my laptop, she cleared the dished while the boys offered their input. Ry has been advocating for steamed crab legs for a couple years now while Ty remains focused on Cornish game hens which we reminded him would be happening on Christmas Day.  I offered my usual long list of (to me) hilarious suggestions like Haggis (Scotland), Carp (Poland and Croatia), and Sheep Heads (Iceland) among others. I still hope one day to do a big seafood boil for dinner, and as I clicked around online during the conversation, this blog both piqued my curiosity about scungilli AND gave me a new idea - "7 Fishes" sounds great. After an initially gratifying reaction of horror and disgust to my more "unconventional" suggestions, they collectively chose to ignore my transparent attempt at derailing the conversation, and after a 10 minute discussion, we decided to peruse the lighter, more "hors d'oeuvre-y" approach that has been so popular in the past. What it "boils down to" is crab bisque, miniature baked ham and cheese sandwiches (made with "interesting" bread, NOT lunch meat, and gooood cheese), a huge platter of raw veggies and dip, big salads, and another as of yet undetermined side dish...or two. I'll likely also grill up a small number of bacon and duck roll-ups because I LOVE standing outside in the dark on Christmas Eve grilling with a beer while zoning out on my lights and luminaries.  It's an unusual and eclectic menu to be sure, but it's highly festive and "fun."  The boys and I also lobbied successfully for mom's "epic" cheesy egg bake for breakfast on Christmas Day.

I'll add the obvious disclaimer here that I'm the farthest thing from a gourmet and have fairly unsophisticated tastes, BUT they very day that my time-consuming musical avocation comes to end, the grill and the stove will be roaring to life right along with my woodworking machines. Happy Holidays! ;-)

 

'Til They're Black and Blue

    
I've been stuck on a recent strange dream that involved a certain MN musician of note putting my band up in less-than-ideal lodgings after a show in Minneapolis. She became VERY cross with me when I expressed my disgust about the Bed Bugs all over the room. "YOU have been brainwashed by the Petrochemical Industry to WRONGLY believe that our FRIENDS the Bed Bugs - our sisters and brothers - are BAD. Now roll out your sleeping bag and cuddle up with them...OR would you rather I put Rush Limbaugh on the radio for you?" I finally looked up "bed bugs" on an online dream dictionary and discovered this: To dream of bedbugs indicates that you are uneasy or annoyed about some situation or relationship. You are keeping these negative feelings to yourself instead of verbalizing it. Huh...I'm gonna need to mull that one over a bit. ;-) 

      

Dear Santa,

So, we haven't talked for a long time, and I"m painfully aware of the whole deal with your obligation to uphold "the list," but this isn't just about me, and it's been like ten years since there's been anything in my stocking, so...I think I'm kinda "due." My sons Tyler and Riley have taken an interest in the "shooting sports," and we've been talking about getting a new BB gun. I mean, that's admirable, right? Geez Lousie, some nerdy kid in the 50ies wanted a Red Ryder and they made a whole freekin' movie about it. Ok ok, it's more of a pellet gun, but it's pretty much the same thing, and we promise to be very careful. It will be used mostly for target shooting, and we won't shoot at any animals that aren't either delicious OR frighteningly overpopulated, covered with red fur, and destroying the bird feeder. What we'd like to see on our hearth on Christmas morning is an all black Crosman 1377 with a rifle stock, scope, and removable bi-pod. If we can work out some sort of deal here, I'd be willing to be considerably slightly less naughty in the coming year. Thanks.

Eric (and Tyler and Riley)

P.S. Maybe throw in 3 pairs of safety glasses while you're at it.  You're the greatest.  ;-)

  

The First Weekend of November 2011 - Part 1

Here in Northeastern Minnesota, a significant number of the people in my demographic are avid deer hunters. Though I love spending as much time out of doors as possible in the fall, that’s one activity in which I’ve never developed an interest, and despite the potential danger posed by the unsafe trigger-happy minority of deer hunters, early November is by far my favorite time of year to sit in the duck blind. Over the last 10 years, I’ve stumbled into the observance of a sort of tradition during the 1^st weekend of the firearms deer season, and once again the week after Halloween found me scurrying about my garages assembling the needed gear for a long weekend at a quintessential Minnesota wilderness deer camp. A friend of mine has a county lease and a rustic shack on the banks of what I’ll refer to for the sake of confidentiality only as a “Great Northern River,” and while he and his partner and their dashing young crony headed up for the weekend with ATVs in tow to search of big bucks, Lucy the Lab and I arrived at the landing at 4 a.m. and set out into the darkness in search of ducks with the promise of a hot meal, good sauna, and warm bed at the end of the long journey upstream. 

The River possess a number of characteristics that would suggest a living, breathing entity, and with the passing of each season come changes that affect the movement of fish, the habits of wildlife, and the safety of navigation. It was once a major artery of transportation for the logging industry that thrived around the turn of the last century, and innumerable sunken White Pine boles lay at the bottom awaiting their time to fill with the gasses of decomposition and partially rise to the surface. This was the first time in 2011 that I’d been on the River, and I had no idea where the year’s hazards lurked, and as I drove my small, heavily-loaded jon boat through the mist, I quickly came to the somewhat troubling realization that my powerful spotlight was useless in the light fog suspended just above the water. I continued on in total darkness on that moonless morning using only the reflection of the stars on the water to search for deadheads. My motor droned on, the tree lines loomed and then receded, and the miles slipped by. 

After about 30 minutes the sky opened up as my destination drew near. At a spot where a large wild rice-filled bay joins the main river channel, I cut the motor and slid up on the floating bog to unload some gear, debark Lucy, and prepare the decoy bags for business. Tossing out 4 or 5 dozen duck decoys in the dark is potentially hazardous and is best done with as little extra weight or important gear in the boat as possible. Lucy, who knows the routine very well, curled up on the bag of camouflage netting and kept an eye on me from shore, and the occasional glint from her eyes illuminated by my small headlamp provided a ready reference as to where the blind was in relation to where the decoys were being placed. At this particular spot a large mud flat of water two feet deep or less drops off dramatically to a maximum depth of nearly thirty feet, and that poses a number of problems where decoy anchor lines are concerned. After nearly an hour of setting, resetting, tying, and untying, I set about the back breaking work of pulling my boat completely up on the bog through knee-deep muck, and after some quick work with the camo netting and abundant dead grass, I left my concealed boat, carried my bucket and gun over to where Lucy was waiting, and poured a cup of coffee.  Five minutes into legal shooting hours, the coming day had more than announced itself, and I was acutely aware of the fact that I’d neither seen nor heard a duck all morning. 

To reveal a curious truth, I planned and packed for this trip with the full knowledge that, as in previous years, I would very likely come home with few or NO ducks, and that was just fine. For me the goal of that weekend was to hang out at deer camp, have miles of beautiful river all to myself, enjoy good company, and sit in the duck blind to the point that I was darned good and sick of it for the year. The migration patterns of waterfowl in North America are currently in an erratic state of flux, and while locations long revered as “hot spots” across the State have been reduced to “hit or miss,” more marginal areas like the River, though consistently “not too bad” in the past have become virtually devoid of significant numbers of ducks. I was prepared to take home only photos and memories, and the numerous Tundra Swans and occasional small flocks of Hooded Mergansers (some of the last waterfowl to fly south) revealed that the migration was coming to a close. Lucy watched all of these birds with great interest, and although I generally don’t shoot ANY type of Merganser, I decided that if that was the only duck I was going to see all weekend that one in the bag would be ok. As a single Hooded drake rocketed by high and outside, I drew a bead, and it crashed down on the other side of the river. Despite the 28 degree air temperature and 37 degree water, Lucy plunged in with great resolve, and after a long retrieve, she went to heal and deposited it in my hand…and then shook off all over me. 



Buck and Me in November 2004



A few cups of coffee, two sandwiches, and a couple pieces of pilfered Halloween candy later (standard duck blind time increments), I heard a motor in the distance, and about 10 minutes later a distinguished older gentleman in a well-worn Filson hat maneuvered his small boat carefully through my decoys. It was Ted, the owner of the shack, and his Chocolate Lab “Buck,” and they were making their last trip upstream to the shack for the year. "Good morning, Eric!" he said with a big smirk on his face. "Say, if you have a pile of ducks you'd like me to run to the shack for you, I'd be happy to grab them." I found this reference to the sad state of duck hunting on the River most amusing and laughed out loud, and we chatted for a couple minutes. I asked about the position of any deadheads on the river, additional hazards caused by the very low water level, and the whereabouts of the rest of his party while Lucy jumped annoyingly in and out of his boat in an effort to greet Buck. Standing to start his motor, the cheer briefly left his face as he solemnly spoke his parting words. "Be alert." To a person all alone miles from rescue without wireless capabilities and with plans to travel in the dark, those words carried great weight and served as a powerful reminder of the potential hazards inherent to my situation. "I will be. See ya in a bit..." was my reply. 

As the sound of his motor faded off into the distance, I stood in my somewhat shoddily constructed blind and looked hopefully for any ducks set to wing by his passing, but none came. As the sun crept higher in the sky and noon approached, I stretched out on the large mat of dead grass assembled for Lucy with the intention of grabbing a quick 30 minute nap. I dozed off quickly and slept for an hour or so until a few quiet but serious "ruffs" from Lucy brought me back to life. I slowly regained my senses and realized that she was "ruffing" AT something...a familiar sound...a sort of...burl...the kind made by...a duck? I poked my head around the blind to see an impressive Ringbill Drake bellied up to one of my prized hand-burlaped Herter's decoys, and I slowly reached for my gun. Now, one of the things I find most confounding about the art of shotgunning is my personal tendency to connect with difficult targets on the outside of my range while at the same time ineptly bungling the easiest shots imaginable. Suffice to say that this particular duck went safely on his way, and all I was left with was the very distinct feeling of being stared at...by a dog...which I was. "What?!" I asked indignantly. Lucy looked away. 

About an hour later I missed a surprise Mallard, and then a Green Winged Teal flew by followed by a couple more. By the close of legal shooting hours, I was both happy and surprised to have observed 50 or more ducks, and the three in the game bag - all retrieved by Lucy - made the day an unqualified success. After struggling in the mud for 10 minutes freeing my boat from the bog, I pushed out and started to collect decoys, and in the gloam of that early November evening, a phenomena known only to duck hunters in quiet, swampy places materialized before my eyes. I have no idea where they spent the day (Pelican Lake? Lake Vermilion? Voyagers National Park? Beyond ALL of those?), but literally hundreds of ducks in groups of 20 to 80 started to pour into the rice bay to spend the night. I learned a long time ago that, in the exact style of a Warner Brothers cartoon, those ducks were "un-huntable" and would have left the rice in the 20 minutes before the start of shooting hours the next day, but it was an amazing sight none the less. I felt blessed to have been there there to witness it, and as I collected my dog from shore and cracked the first beer of the day, I was overwhelmed by the joy that came from the great start to an exciting trip.  I adjusted my boat seat, cinched up my life vest, and turned my little boat upstream.

...down into a dream we go...

 

I've posted this song online before, but this is just such an amazing version...this lady has "mad ninja" chops in every department.  Wow...