FENCEROWS...Fishing with the Grizzly
By John Luthens
It was raining lightly at 4:00 A.M., with the occasional arc of lightning dancing across the dark western sky. I debated calling Dennis to see if he wanted to chance the weather. But I knew that he was already standing in his driveway on the edge of the Northern Unit of the Kettle Moraine State Forest.
He would be out with a coffee mug in hand, sniffing the wind and enjoying the early morning shower. He’s a better judge of moving weather fronts than most weather forecasters, and it was his boat, and besides, if the Dennis decided we weren’t going, he would have called me. That’s the way a fishing trip with the Grizzly works.
I woke my son from a deep summer slumber that a bear would be proud of in the coldest of winter months. Granted, a bear knows nothing of the rigors two months of summer vacation can bring about. I don’t believe my son even remembers what it is like to get up for school at this point-it’s a distant disturbing memory-but all hibernations must end eventually.
Besides, we were going fishing. It’s not like school-or work, for that matter, when 4:00 A.M. is not a happy time. 4:00 A.M. fishing is in an altogether different time zone.
We didn’t need to pack much, because the Grizzly already had rods waiting and rigged with slip bobbers. “I have more than enough,” he said the night before. “Bring your son, and be at my place by five. We’ll hit Long Lake for some big bluegills.”
True to form, Dennis was standing in his driveway, outside of the town of Kewaskum, when we pulled up. I introduced my son, because while I’ve known Dennis for many years, this was my son’s first introduction to the Grizzly. My son was understandably impressed.
Dennis is known as “Grizzly” in the circles that I run in, because he looks like a human version of a great bear. He is short and stocky, with powerful arms and a silver-gray beard. He knows the ways of the outdoors better than most.
His basement walls are lined with turkey fan mounts, deer heads, and various pheasants, grouse and fish. In the spring and fall turkey seasons, it is not a question of if he will get his bird, it is a question of how many pounds and how long the spurs will be.
We accuse him of having a turkey barrel hidden back in the woods, with the rim lined with corn and oil. When the turkeys roost on the barrel edge to feed, they simply fall in the barrel and can’t get back out.
If there’s such a thing as a deer barrel, then the Grizzly probably has one of those secreted away in the swamp too.
He heats his house with his own split wood, and makes a potent homemade grape wine. He knows the Kettle Moraine lakes and forests well. If he says the big bluegills are hitting, they probably are. He would also give you the shirt off his back if you asked him.
“Grab a couple of baseball caps off the wall,” said the Grizzly to my son. “You’re in charge of the crickets.”
Dennis produced two small, mesh wire cages with lips around tops but no covers. Crickets were crawling all along the mesh, and it became my son’s job to keep the ball caps over the top as we drove.
“They’re a little sluggish in the morning,” said the Grizzly. “But they’ll start dancing around as soon as the sun hits ‘em”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever fished with crickets,” I said.
“If you ‘aint got bugs, you might as well stay home,” said the Grizzly.
“All right then-keep the ball caps on tight,” I said.
We drove into the Kettle Moraine with the Grizzly’s boat and rods in tow, and my son in the back seat, holding the crickets and slowly learning the humorous banter of fishing trip rides. Dennis can joke and laugh with the best of them, and soon my son was laughing along with us. We toned the humor down a notch or two-but my son is twelve, so he likely knows things from school that the Grizzly and I have never heard of. So we didn’t tone it down much.
The Northern Unit of the Kettle Moraine straddles Fond du Lac and Sheboygan Counties. The rain had sunk the trees into a green tunnel over the roads. Horseback and hiking trails branched into an endless maze. The Ice Age Trail stretches through the area, and State Forest camping sites abound.
Some of the best fishing lakes in southeastern Wisconsin are situated among the rounded hills of the Moraine. The Grizzly named them off as we passed:
“Auburn Lake has some real nice northern -it’s secluded and a sure bet. Mauthe Lake has a great swimming beach and a good fishing pier. The bottom is nice and sandy –great for bluegill and big bass.”
Then there was Crooked Lake, and I can’t remember what was special about it, because I got distracted. The Grizzly was telling how to fish it as we drove through the small town of Dundee.
We were almost to our fishing destination of Long Lake, but I wasn’t so much distracted by that, as I was by the small town sign advertising a corn roast and pig wrestling. I’ve been to a corn roast, but I’ve never witnessed pig wrestling. I was fascinated.
“They have four-man teams,” explained the Grizzly. “It’s a lot of mud, and the team that guides their pig into a corral the fastest wins. If anyone gets too rough with the animals, they get disqualified. After the wrestling, the fire department comes in and hoses everyone down.”
“They have four-man teams,” explained the Grizzly. “It’s a lot of mud, and the team that guides their pig into a corral the fastest wins. If anyone gets too rough with the animals, they get disqualified. After the wrestling, the fire department comes in and hoses everyone down.”
Oh my, how I love Wisconsin. It’s a wonder I ever get fishing at all with those kinds of festivities popping up along the way.
We eventually launched the boat on Long Lake, where the state record carp was taken a few months back. As we motored for a sheltered bay, the Grizzly pointed out the shoreline where he’d taken a seven pound walleye from the ice a few years back.
“Scuba divers say there are some monster walleye sitting in the deep end of the lake,” said the Grizzly. “There’s no trolling allowed on Long Lake, so I would imagine in the summer you’d need to fish for them strictly at night, probably with a leech or crawler.”
The bluegill fishing wasn’t non-stop, but the ones we got into were nice sized fish. We’d anchor up on a break point, and cast to the shallows before the drop. Most of the fish came in about 15 feet of water.
The author’s son lost a rod, but came away with some nice fish.
We took enough for a nice meal-I mean my son and the Grizzly did. I couldn’t seem to get the hang of the cricket thing. Maybe my mind was still preoccupied with pig wrestling.
It was in the flurry between fish, or maybe he was trying to hook on a cricket like the Grizzly showed him-right behind the neck, but suddenly the rod slipped out of my son’s hand; down it went in 19 feet of Long Lake water.
My son got silent, and I got silent. But the Grizzly just laughed so hard that it echoed off the lakeshore tree line.
“I can’t tell you how many rods I’ve seen dropped into the water in my lifetime,” he roared.
My son looked relieved, like he had just survived a close encounter with an angry bear. To his credit, he offered to dive in to try and find the rod.
Of course we wouldn’t let him, and now my son has learned another part of fishing with the Grizzly. He’s only twelve. He’s got a lot of years ahead of him to listen to the Grizzly’s good-natured jokes about that lost rod.
I’ve got go. The bluegill fillets are ready to come out of the fryer-and I want to see if pig wrestling is on the Olympic coverage channel tonight.