The Country on Fire.

I joked with Rick that his RX prairie burns are always one of the big deals in the Town of Hewett...and I wasn't joking.  With firetrucks lined up along Columbia Av and white and gray smoke lifting up into the sky, it's about all the action we get out here. Exciting stuff.  Rick and Toni Sturtz live on an old farmstead, which they have transformed into a wondrous home property-caretakers of the land until the next generation comes along.

There are few prairies anywhere in the central forest region of Wisconsin.  It's hard to imagine that a 1000 years ago, all of this landscape would have been covered by warm season grasses and plants.  The Sturtz's are doing their part to bring a little back and enhance the environment.  Over the course of years since flipping the fallow ground back to what it is today, it's steadily improved and more and more varieties of prairie plants find their way "home."

I've written and posted pictures of these RX fires before, so I think there was a different need to do so this morning.  CV19 has claimed over 100,000 lives in the US and shows no sign of slowing.  In Wisconsin, it's getting worse as we "opened up" 2 weeks ago.  24% unemployment. The murder of George Floyd by a Minneapolis police officer a week ago,  has now fanned protests and looting and violence across the nation.  (Knowing that protests & the violence are not the same thing, nor the people).  We are on fire in the US, literally and figuratively. There isn't anyone alive that knows how this will end, or if it will end.  3 months ago I had the same ache and anxiety, and it's returned today, but for a different reason. The racial injustice that has always been below and above the surface and those who willingly and purposely fan those flames as we are learning today.

Seems fire is a theme in this post.

So escaping all of that, Rick invited me help yesterday.  Of course-I'd be glad to.  Usually I'd have a big camera in hand, but it was replaced by some kind of fiberglass broom, used to stomp out any escaping flames heading sneaking to where they shouldn't.  The firemen had it all under control and I didn't have to do much 'sweeping."  The firebreaks were green, and the back fires worked like a charm.  The head fire really was subdued, but still blackened the majority of the field.  Successful in any regard.  I walked around in the black, made some pictures and took in the transformation of this property.

Our country is being transformed as well.  These past few months I've noted the very best in humanity in those who realize we're in this together (however cliche that is, it fits) and the very worst, as we are seeing now.  I don't think there ever will be a "normal" or a getting back to where we used to be. In so many ways we can't and shouldn't.  Like the prairie starting over after fire, so will we-we have to, to make this world better.

And then some pictures:

A Creek Runs Through It

The post title is an homage to one of my favorite books-"A River Runs Through It" by Norman Maclean.  His tale of brothers and a family, who's life intertwines with a river, with fly fishing and an obsession with both.  In my world, trout live in small creeks and streams and there are no large cold flowing rivers like the Blackfoot in Macleans book.  Flyfishing is challenging in the tree and brush sheltered waters around here, so bait or spinners are more common.  But trout are trout and they are different than other fish and maybe trout fishermen are too.

I'd been exposed to trout fishing only briefly as a young boy by my grandpa Schultz and Uncle Johnny.  We'd drive south a few miles from the cottage in Hazelhurst to the Rocky Run creek off hiway 51.  A hike back through dense forest about 1/4 mile lead to the stream.  Worms were tossed in a few holes and most of the time brookies filled the old wicker creel destined for Grandma Emmas cast iron pan.

In the early 80's I'd find myself back alongside trout water again.  I'd started my first teaching job in Neillsville and Bob Moore, a HS history teacher, kind of took me under his wing in all things outdoors in this unfamiliar neighborhood.   He showed me his best bow hunting spots and frequently we hunted together.  He also dragged me along to fish the tiniest of trout waters in Jackson County, west of Neillsville and taught me the ways of putting fish in the bag.

We bait fished-actually more like hunting.  We were camo clad and literally crawling through brush trying to thread a nightcrawler and line thru tangles and tall grass into the creek.  Doing so  without spooking fish or getting hung up was a challenge.  We'd move from place to place, give the fish a look at the bait, if no hit, then try the next spot.  Generally, we'd get our 5 trout limit and be back home by mid morning.

That was 30+ years ago.  Kids came along and time to sneak out myself to fish was limited.  Until now.  Of course the world has changed and I have a lot of time on my hands and returning to the trout streams seemed like a good thing-a diversion to a quiet unhurried place.  I tapped into our fish biologist Kramer at work and asked about what he uses and where he goes.  I'm sure, like all fishermen, he didn't tell me everything, but he got me started.  The creeks I'd fished with Bob Moore all those years ago were now sub-par, silted and shallow and holding fewer and smaller fish than years ago.

 So I'd be moving and exploring new water and exchanging worms for spinners. Casting would be different and not entirely easy in these tight twisty creeks.  With bait, you'd drop it with a split shot on the line in a likely looking spot, let the current drift it along and hopefully in front of a trout nose.  I suppose a spinner fishing is a bit like casting a fly-you're actively trying to place the lure as close to the fish as possible and coax a strike.

My first attempts a couple weeks ago  went okay, though starting out I was reminded of the 10,000 casts adage in musky fishing.  It seemed that was how many I tossed before finally catching and releasing my fist small brookie.  At least I must have done something right?  Immediately I caught a second and kept it for the frying pan.  The creek was small here at a road bridge, but did have a larger deep pool on the opposite side-perfect looking spot, but 5000 casts later, nothing.

 Trout fishermen get obsessive of their sport-I'm understanding that now.  That same little stream got it's claws in me when I hooked into a big brown trout a bit downstream, the largest I'd ever seen or had on a line.  It got tangled in a branch of course, but I managed to free it and work to a clear spot.  The next issue was getting him out of the water. The water was too deep to wade in and I really couldn't get to it as the banks were too high and straight down to the water.  So, I tried gently lifting him up and out which resulted in a big brown trout quickly swimming away downstream.  Damn.

I've returned to that spot again and several other streams Kramer had shared with me.  It seemed every time I learn something new, I became better at reading the water-where fish may be waiting in ambush.  My casting techniques improved and getting tangled with overhanging sticks is a bit less frequent. I'd return home with fish enough for a meal and a need to change out equipment that just wasn't working.  The open bail spinning real was shelved for an enclosed one-less tangles in all my short casts.  Asking other trout fishing friends, my spinner collection grew and narrowed to what seemed to generate the most hits.  A new net was needed as I tired of cutting the hooks out every time I landed a fish in the black nylon one.  Brand new hip boots are now left in the garage replaced by my old neoprene chest waders for it seems to work better to actually be in the water working my casts upstream at fish level-who knew?  I've learned that spring stocked rainbows taste bad and though fun to catch, get slid back into the water.  Brookies are beautiful and make great table fare so that's what I want now hitting my lures.

I haven't forgotten Brown Trout-that day one fish is seared in my mind-watching it plunk back into the water and swim away.  I've yet to catch another and I know they are there...somewhere.  I think I'm getting that trout fishing preoccupation with getting one on my line again and maybe this time landing one.

Like the brothers Maclean, Norman and Paul from the book, I'm starting to understand the ardent pursuit of a perfect pool, a perfect cast and perfect fish.  I don't know if  I'll ever get there, but now seems to be the time to try.

Of course now I'm too old to be much of a fisherman, and now I usually fish the big waters alone, although some friends think I shouldn't. But when I'm alone in the half light of the canyon, all existence seems to fade to a being with my soul and memories, and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River, and the four-count rhythm, and a hope that a fish will rise. Eventually all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood, and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters.
— Norman Maclean, (1976)

Coach Doug

Coach Doug

My cell pinged and I saw it was from long time friend Janet Capetti. A little unusual. She works in the Special Olympics state office in Oregon and we stay in touch mostly via facebook or over the years prior to or after a World Games.  If I happen to be a head coach, and an Oregon coach applies for an assistant position, I would always contact her for a reference.

This wasn't that type of call or message. It was simple, and short. "Hi Steve. Hope this finds you well. I'm messaging you to share sad news, and I'm sorry to do so. Our sweet friend Doug passed away. Not really sure what happened. Just know he passed "in his sleep". My heart aches. He was one of the best."

He was.  A shock to be sure.  He had a recent birthday and the picture above was still fresh in my mind.

Doug Trice was one such coach I wanted to know more about before the 2011 SO World Games in Athens Greece where I had been named head coach.  Janet connected with me and could not say enough good things about Doug-his personality, his involvement with Special Olympics, his coaching style and knowledge of the sport (track and field).  I didn't have to scour his resume to decide if he would be a good fit for our team, I trusted Janet's recommendation.  I called and caught up and it seemed the more we discussed Doug-the stronger he became as a candidate.

The closest thing I've ever had to a manger-as in hire and fire type manager, is being a head coach and being involved with selecting assistant coaches.  Yes...the application needs to be filled out correctly, the resume should be strong and there should be a feeling that the coach loves the sport they are applying for.  I also like to call and actually talk to these coaches.  You can get one impression on paper, but just having a conversation can usually bring out a more authentic perception of who they are.  Such was the case with Doug.

I asked if he was interested in the World games coaching position.  "I would be very pleased," he replied.

San Diego was our training camp site and the first chance to meet all of the coaches and athletes on the "Team USA" Athletics team.  Coaches each have a role to play-maybe as a event specific coach, like distance, or sprints or throws or as a more general coach.  In some cases I'd know that ahead of time, and in others it may take a day on the track to see where each coaches strengths are.

Doug had a quiet, restrained coaching style.  Technically, he was stronger in some events than others, but he was also humble enough to always watch and learn from some of the others.  That was his greatest strength. Athletes related well to him, as did all of us on the team.  He would do whatever needed to be done and at any time.  Doug was a consummate team player.

The 2011 World Games were held in Athens Greece with a couple days at the Isle of Rhodes for host town.  Volumes could be written here regarding the travel challenges, schedule, training and "hurry up and wait" that is the modus operandi of any Special Olympics event.  Doug was always composed through it all.  Our home during the games was THE Olympic Stadium in Athens.  Looking at the Olympic rings, touching the track, sitting in the marble trimmed stands...all hallowed ground for any track athlete and coach.

When Doug wasn't escorting, warming up or staging athletes, he could be found as a calming and reassuring force in our team "camp."  You could run ideas past him and could always get an honest reply.  He was a coach you could consistently count on.

I made this photo of Doug in Athens or Rhodes.  I loved this picture and I thought it captured him well. I think he liked it too. He had a gentle soul, a kindness toward all around him. He checked in with me frequently over the years asking about life in general, kids and grandkids (he was a grandpa as well by now).  I was most humbled to have him in my Special Olympics family. 

You will be missed Coach Doug. 

Run fast, turn left.