Fencerows: Dandelions and Violets
By John Luthens
Come the month of May, my yard is prone to dandelions and violets. The neighbors are civil, never coming right out and voicing their disapproval, but I can feel their sideways glances. They are hardworking and wonderful gardeners, edging their shrubs just so, mulching in the right places and manicuring their grass until it looks like the eighteenth green at Augusta National.
I’m kicking around the idea of getting a lawn service to spray the pesky patches of color into submission, but I keep getting sucked into the same valley every spring: Beneath the green hackle of my lawn, just like unraveling the finest crafted trout fly, all that remains are the burnt-in memories of dandelions and violets and the first worm of the trout season wriggling on the bare shank of the hook.
Dandelions, violets, and trout memories.
It was Barron County and I was still a child. The first dandelions and violets poked their noses out of the fresh earth, and it was time. The tent and sleeping bags were loaded alongside rods and reels and nets. Bacon was thrown in the cooler and half-buried in dirt that contained enough worms to wipe out half the North American trout population. My dad was a moderate environmentalist. He believed in keeping just enough fish to mix in for breakfast with the bacon. But it was my duty to pick worms for our first trout expedition, and by God I believed in being prepared.
The fence gate was nondescript, as was the frost-boiled road through the field beyond. It might have been corn or soybeans or hay. I grew up in farm country and there were a million fields and rutted tractor trails. But this one was special. I was on the brink of an upward fight into adulthood. This gated trail led to the brink of a trout valley that would keep me eternally young.
The tent was set on a grassy plateau. There was a dark tree line and a deep valley just beyond the glow of the fire. You could hear the river whispering far below. We went to bed early. I never slept much. Years have passed. I still can’t sleep the night before a trout fishing opener.
Morning found us swishing through ankle-high grass that was wet and cold with dew. The sun crested the horizon. The dandelions were still hibernating in the early chill, and everything was fresh and green. There was a smell in the air that morning that I have never been able to recapture. I get a hint of it when I pass a newly-cut hay field, or bend over to smell a wildflower, or maybe when I breathe in the rising mist of a fresh summer’s morning. But long ago, as we descended from field and into the valley of the trout, the world had its own particular scent of promise.
The river ran cold and winding in the bottom of the valley. My dad would go upstream and I would go down, or maybe I would fish up and my dad would fish down. I don’t remember. It’s not important. There was more water in that valley than anyone could fish in a lifetime. But the first hole, with the first rays of springtime sun cresting the rim and sparkling on the water; that one was mine. My dad and I had an unspoken pact. That first hole was very important.
It was a stretch beneath a stand of oaks. One of the trees had fallen across the stream and the water cut deep beneath. It was a timeless giant that had been there for as long as I’d fished the valley of the trout. It was probably there before I was born. I haven’t been back to that stretch in 30 years, but in my mind, I know the log still rests across the river.
Violets glowed purple in the shadows of the oaks and they had spread across the mossy surface of the fallen log itself. The scent of flowers and water mixed together and I forced myself to knot my hook on the leader with patience. That kind of water puts butterflies in even the most seasoned of trout-war veterans.
I have since fished for trout all across the country. I’ll say with sincerity that I can’t call my shots; knowing with absolute certainty that I will hook a trout on a particular cast in a particular run of water. But that log hole was different. As I drifted a worm slowly beneath the cut-bank, keeping tension and the line with shaking fingers, I knew what would happen.
There would be a slight tap, and I’d set the hook in an upward thrust. The tip of the rod would bend, and for a moment I’d think that I’d hooked the bottom of the log itself. Then the rod came alive and the trout came up in a splashing arc as I backed beneath the oaks and violets and gave a mighty heave. I wasn’t into playing out fish for sport back then. I just wanted the trout up on the bank as quickly as possible.
I remember vividly the picture of my first brook trout of the season. I’d rest the dark spotted fish on the log and it would flop heavy and smash into the violets and the moss with its square tail. As far as I’m concerned, there has never been any finer art created.
I’d climb back out of the valley, walking back to camp through grass that had warmed in the sun. There were now a million dandelions. They’d opened to a fresh, spring sky and it was shining yellow as far as the eye could see. My dad had the breakfast fire hot, the frying pan sizzling with bacon and waiting for my fish. I’ve eaten many trout, but never had a better view.
Of course, all this happened long ago. I’m older now, and I should listen to the neighbors when they tell me that dandelions and violets are nothing but nuisance weeds. I suppose, maybe, that I should call a lawn service to take care of the issue. I almost promise it will be the first order of business when trout season ends in October.
John Luthens is a freelance writer from Grafton, Wisconsin. His first novel, Taconite Creek, is available on Amazon or at www.cablepublishing.com or by contacting the author at Luthens@hotmail.com