Trout
rambling the driftless
I grew up a stone’s throw away from that hidden gem of the Midwest, otherwise known as The Driftless. Well, maybe a stone's throw is an exaggeration; more like an hour's drive. I've been climbing up and down those dense hills since before it was a popular place to build a cabin in the woods on some rolling hill overlooking a small fiefdom.
To this day, I'm unsure what it is that calls me to those steep hills and bubbling streams. Maybe it's the fact you lose cellphone reception, could be the bushwhacking and hidden glens, those elusive trout that flash out of nowhere to snap at what you're throwing. I recently returned to one of those spots that I hadn't seen in probably two decades. A lot had changed, and nothing, at the same time.
If you were to ask me why I go there any free day or weekend I have, leaving my wife and kids to wander suburbia, if I told the truth, it’s probably something that is about half nostalgia, a draw towards finding those elusive trout that hide in the eddies, ripples, and generally seem to find the most remote corners of some overgrown an impassible stream that to return victorious seems like a feat and challenge that is hard to find these days.
The Driftless is unique because you have to work at it; you have to want it pretty bad in the middle of summer; otherwise, you would never put yourself through the agony of smashing your way through grass and thickets that are much taller than you, where you can’t see 6 inches in front of your face. It gives you that feeling of raw exploration and treading spots that very few others decide to tread.
It could have something to do with the twittering birds, bubbling and rushing creeks, always looking for the tell-tale swirl to indicate the existence of those hungry trout that otherwise dare not show you their existence. It could also have something to do with the required road trip, the endless winding gravel roads that twist and snake their way through miles of cellphone dead zones, from the deepest hollars to the highest hills.
There is always a prevailing sense that you will come around some corner, climb some height, push through the next brushpile, and find that Tom Sawyer paradise you’ve been searching for since you were ten, if you could only push a little farther, have a few more hours of daylight.
Rambling
The Diftless requires more than one type of rambling from those that dare to enter those hallowed gates. First, you had better map your route before you leave, because your cellphone will be of little use when you enter those forgotten, buried roads. Where the pavement ends, and the gravel begins, every twist and turn looks the same, and it wouldn’t be uncommon to drive 40 minutes to simply travel 15 or 18 miles from one overgrown stream to the next.
There is no four-lane highway to hurry you along; maybe a broken blacktop will offer some respite if you are lucky.
The other kind of rambling happens on your own two feet.
Summertime in The Driftless gives up her trouty goodness hard; not without paying the piper will you touch those riches. Your options are not much once you find a stream … you either get in it, I mean in it, or you slog and bust your way through an impenetrable green mass that is loath to let you pass by. It will stick, cling, trip, and generally avenge itself upon hapless wanderers who want to go forward.
Yes, indeed, you can find the trouty treasure if you put in hard enough; it’s there, hidden behind logs and blowdowns, up and down hills, through dale and thicket. You’ve really got to want it, though. Why would anyone put themselves through this sort of misery? I don’t know, yet I’ve been doing it for 30 years; it’s as much a part of me as anything, attached to my bones and very soul.
The journey.
For me, the Driftless is every bit about the journey as much as it is about the destination. It’s about the people who sit in the Jeep next to me for 3.5 hours through the rain and sun in the off chance the trout gods may have mercy on our forlorn and hungry souls, and shine rainbow and brook goodness upon our weary hands. Panther Martins, flies, grubs, tangles, knots, hunger, bug bits, pokes, prods, times you don’t know where you are or where you are going, if the mud road will swallow your tires or let you go.
We do it for the good times, the food, the challenge, the drive, the forgotten places that shouldn’t be forgotten; we keep them alive.
We want to finish a long day after hours and hours of struggle and disappointment with good food and fellowship. Knowing that the sun is setting and we are just about to point our noses toward home, that’s a good spot to be in. The cares and worries of this life will be left behind in the Driftless, out there where the phones don’t work and you’re worried about what will happen if you get a flat tire.
This is a good thing.