It was one of those fishing moments that donít come along real often.
I had just brought a big sheepshead to the side of the canoe when something hit my other line. It was even bigger, and the way it fought, heavy and hugging the bottom, I knew it was another sheeper. This one finally surfaced by the first one, and for a few seconds my two rods sliced the air like a conductor at Carnegie Hall. Only this was much nicer than Carnegie Hall.
Both fish ended up in the bottom of the canoe, one 26 inches, the other 21 inches.
Some people arenít real fond of freshwater drum, which is the fancy name for sheepshead. I like them fine. I want to try smoking some, and these two will work well for that experiment.
It was a fitting end to a fine fall day. The sun was setting on Wisconsin, and the hills stretched to the north, dappled in calico. Brownsville ended the procession, jutting out further than the others. Iíve always liked the looks of those hills. Theyíve been landmarks for many people, and they always convey a feeling of security and stability. The rest of the world can be going to heck, in fact it seems to be doing just that these days. But those hills arenít going anywhere, and for some reason I take reassurance in that.
Itís that way with the river too. I can throw in my canoe and I know there will be fish waiting. I can sense them. My wife wonders why if I can sense them so well, I donít sense a few crappies instead of those sheepshead. But thatís not the point. The beauty is in the sensing.
Thatís the way it was Sunday night. Further up the river a big flock of geese called to each other. They were settling in for the night, taking refuge in the refuge. Maybe some swans mixed in, some ducks too. It was a good sound to hear. They are noisy cusses, but it was music to my ears. It reminded me of where we are right now, the peak of a beautiful fall.
That peak hit me earlier in the day too. Five of us had hiked down into the Reno Valley. I walked with my nephew Alex and his girlfriend, Laura, while Cindy and her girlfriend, Sarah and the dogs took off at a brisk pace ahead of us. (Why do women walk so much faster than men?) We didnít meet a soul, which surprised but didnít disappoint me. The sun cut through the trees, which it couldnít do just a few weeks ago. Alex pointed out a huge bird circling high over a bluff on our right. Another bluff further on to our left jutted over the valley. A hawk high-tailed it over that bluff, heading south. The area is a major migration route for hawks.
ìDoes that bluff have a name?î Alex asked.
ìProbably,î I answered. I didnít know it. ìItís too far from my territory.î Thatís the way it is. Five miles from home and itís wilderness in hill country.
Alex pointed out a path coming down the hill. ìDeer trail,î I said. He knew that, but I had to sound like I knew something.
We came to a huge oak trunk that had been cut a few years back. I counted the rings, 135.
Laura at some unnoticed point had followed her womanly genes and sped off ahead of us. Now she waited by a fork in the trail to make sure we would find the way that the gals had gone.
ìI left a sign on the trail,î she said. ìI wasnít sure if you would see it so I waited.î
ìOf course we would have seen it,î I said even before I did see it. You have to show confidence on a good hike. She had drawn an arrow in the dirt, about 18 inches long, pointing to the right. I donít know if I would have seen that. I personally would have used three logs about six feet in length to make an arrow, like Melvin Miller taught us to do in Boy Scouts. But I didnít tell Laura that. After all, she had waited for us.
We finally caught up with Cindy and Sarah, who wondered what the heck had happened to us. Then we proceeded up the hill, a perfect hike on a perfect day followed by perfect fishing in the perfect place that we all call home.

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