Barrier island kestrels

We spotted this kestrel hunting amidst the mostly empty houses of off-season Grand Isle, Louisiana. She eyed us warily for a moment and then got back to the business of scanning the ground below.

With far better taste in real estate was this one, who eschewed the town side of Grand Isle for the beach at the state park.

We watched her hover-hunting in the breeze off the Gulf almost the whole time we were there. This is just what she does, every day. This is her domain.

The battle

Alligators aren't the only predators cruising Bayou Lacombe. When I first spotted this pied-billed grebe (I confused the girls by calling out "peanut butter grebe!", an old nickname from my Audubon days), I thought it was trying to swallow a fish. The challenge was actually more difficult: a blue crab bigger than the poor bird's head.

But the grebe persevered, and, spinning this way and that in its exertions, managed over the course of several minutes to subdue and swallow its unwieldy prize. Jessa documented the fracas with her camera.

[Almost done...]

[There! One self-satisfied grebe.]

Later, we enjoyed some soft-shelled crabs ourselves, on po-boys. The grebe may have been an inspiration, but then again how much encouragement do we really need?

[Swimming off in triumph.]

American alligator

We weren't specifically looking for alligators on our most recent trip, any more than we were looking for any wildlife, but we sure did find them. Jessa's sister Heather was the first to see this smallish one on the lower reaches of Bayou Lacombe, close to where it flows into Lake Pontchartrain.

Heather also spotted this one on the way to Grand Isle, having determined that it was neither a trash bag nor a blown-out tyre (gator equivalents of the notorious "insulator hawk").

But the largest alligator we saw was our "house gator", a magnificent specimen who liked to bask most mornings next to the canal under the balcony of our rented flat in Slidell.

Heed the signs.

Blogging in the time of SARS-2

I started this blog with a question, "what am I going here?", and the question still stands twelve years later. To be honest, I've never had a single clear conception of who my audience is or what my blog's purpose should be, and my approach to writing it has no doubt shifted over time. But I'm still here twelve years on, long after many of the blogs that have interested me and inspired me have gone dormant, and so there must be some purpose after all.

In large part I write for myself. Whatever else this blog may be, it is in part a repository for photographs and other memories. It probably ends up being, to a certain extent, a record of whatever has held my attention at the time, but it should not be read too literally in that sense: while there is much of my personal life in Flyover Country, it is by no means a complete record, and obviously there are facets of my life, sometimes large facets, that are not reflected here.

I sometimes think that my true external audience may be "posterity", in the form of Ellie and any other children I may one day have, inshallah, with Jessa; in my cousins and hers; in our nieces and nephews. And I wonder on occasion what they will make of the gaps in the fossil record alluded to above.

Here we are, for example, four years into what may be considered "the Trump era", and not a word to this point—I know, I just checked—on the shitshow of cynicism, corruption, and incompetence that is the Trump Administration. For the record, I don't subscribe to the theory that Trump is America's Hitler; I see him as America's Mussolini, and hope he may someday meet a similar end. (We have plenty of filling stations...) My explanation for this otherwise puzzling omission is that some things are simply too big, too complex, too fast-moving, and/or too depressing to deal with in this particular forum.

Likewise with the current pandemic, designated "COVID-19", caused by a novel coronavirus known as SARS-CoV-2. This is decidedly on-topic for this blog; see previous posts "Stellaluna and Wilbur will kill us all: a review of Contagion" and "Spillover reviewed". [Note also my description of "SARS as a lucky escape, an epidemic that could have been so much worse than it was (and one that may yet get another bite at the apple)."] But, until now, I've avoided the topic as too big, too complex, too fast-moving, too depressing. Particularly depressing is the schizophrenic societal response to the virus, as people simultaneously over- and under-react to the new circumstances.

Today, as Jessa and I helped Ellie move from her dormitory to an off-campus flat, I saw a whiteboard message left by another departing student:

COVID BACKWARDS IS DIVOC
WHAT DIVOC IS GOING ON?

What, indeed.

While the pandemic is an undeniably real-life topic, I'm happy to say that there are other topics that also represent real life, and I hope that readers—my friends, blog neighbours, and even "posterity"—will not mind if Flyover Country focuses for the time being on some of those. New photographs, new memories...perhaps, if I'm lucky, an insight here or there.

We're recently returned from the Gulf Coast of Louisiana and Mississippi, so expect more soon. Thanks for reading, whoever you are, and be well.

A Pirate's life for me: a gear review

It was the handwritten note that did it. That personal touch converted me from satisfied customer to enthusiastic advocate.

"Thank you for your order & support of small business! Let us know how you like your patches."

Well, this review is by way of feedback, and the note is just one of the rewards of supporting a small business. They don't get much smaller than Pirate Fly Fishing. I already knew from my pre-purchase research that Pirate is two people: Justin West is the businessman of the pair, and Maddie Bonthron the designer. (She's also, I suspect based on the handwriting, the author of the note.) The Colorado-based business started in 2015 with a single product, the original Pirate's Fly Patch, and has stayed true to its mission of "bringing useful and good-looking products to anglers who are always on the move".

The Pirate's Fly Patch was designed to clip onto the visor of a vehicle, but I naturally fish out of the back of my wagon, and have scant need to fiddle with flies from the driver's seat. But the clips are perfect for the milk crate which keeps my gear organised in the car and serves as my centre of operations when fishing the lough. (My crate is not a plastic cube made for fishing and dorm-room storage, but an iron-and-wood antique from a local dairy; it actually held milk bottles back when those were still made of glass. However, I digress.)

The company's more recent fly patch, the First Mate, forgoes the clips in favour of hook-and-loop (Velcro) tape, plus a hole at the corner of the polycarbonate frame that can be clipped to a retractor. I intend to take advantage of this versatility: hook-and-loop tape for the hull of my kayak, and retractor clip for wading with my sling pack. And in addition to the high-quality slit foam it shares with the original, the First Mate has a pair of neodymium magnets, strong enough to hold tools as well as flies.

So much for "useful". As for "good-looking", Maddie's trout spots (bright yellow brown trout print on the original, and brookie print on the First Mate) take what could be a "merely" utilitarian item and make it beautiful. And fly-fishing is, after all, largely about aesthetics. (The colourful fly patches are a good match for my MFC fly boxes, nach ea?) Mission accomplished, then.

I heartily recommend either or both of these patches to any fly-fisher who may read this. I can't guarantee you'll receive a handwritten thank-you note with your order...but I wouldn't be a bit surprised.

Playing the hawk's game

Stekoa is normally a very co-operative hunting partner, following well and paying close attention to me and anyone else in our party. On our most recent outing, however, he was bolshie from the start.

We were working a riparian area, following a creek that feeds one of the Salt Valley Lakes, and we had had a successful hunt there just the previous weekend. I expected him to remember and follow with perhaps even more than the usual enthusiasm; instead, he took a perch overlooking the grass along the creek and proceeded to ignore me with an intensity that seemed quite deliberate. I of course worked the brush below him—when he is stubborn, it's generally for good reason, but in this case my diligent efforts produced no game—and then I tried to get my hawk back on the move. Still Stekoa sat.

Worse, he seemed to be paying more attention to the opposite side of the creek. On my side: open riparian woods with abundant quail and rabbit tracks in the snow. On the opposite side: just a few trees in a wide expanse of grass, an ideal habitat for mice and voles but marginal for anything else.

Mice and voles are an unavoidable aspect of hawking here, and I truly don't mind if Stekoa dabbles in mousing while we're afield, but it's not the reason I drag myself out of a warm house when the temperature is hovering in the single digits Fahrenheit. And on this particular afternoon, I'm afraid my temper began to fray about the edges, not that Stekoa would have known. I muttered dark threats and imprecations, alternating with what I hoped were encouraging exhortations to for crying out loud follow me down the creek in search of cottontails or even bobwhites.

And then he flew across to the other side.

My ire was not lessened by the fact that, despite the frigid temperatures, the creek right here was running clear, forcing me to backtrack to the road so I could cross at the bridge. And as I approached Stekoa, my suspicions were confirmed: the only tracks to be seen on this side were of small rodents. Happily, though, once I reached him he began to follow me, and in my wake he caught first a deer mouse and then a fat vole. Okay, some success and some warm calories for him.

The direction of our travels took us to a bend in the creek, where I was relieved to find that some combination of lower flows and deeper shade had produced walkable ice at this point. I crossed, and Stekoa followed. Now we were in rabbit country. Immediately we began finding sign; no quail now, but plenty of rabbit tracks and scat. Networks of tracks, in places merging into bunny highways. Tracks everywhere.

Tracks, but no bunnies. I worked through the woods, Stekoa tuned in to my efforts, but to no avail: the authors of the tracks were either underground or elsewhere, and we saw not a single rabbit where the previous weekend we had seen several.

As we continued downstream, the creek wound back and forth, now out of sight, now looping back toward us. And when we again found ourselves at the edge of the woods, overlooking a strip of Indian grass and little bluestem  growing along the creek, I realised I had a choice to make: continue an apparently futile search for traditional quarry, or play Stekoa's game and let him have some sport on mice.

I headed back upstream, beating the grass with my stick, and immediately had rodents on the move. Stekoa, watching from the trees at the edge, had numerous opportunities, and within just a few minutes had caught another vole and three more deer mice. He wasn't gently parachuting down on them, either, but launching himself from the trees, flying directly at me, and slamming decisively into the ground. Decent flights—more than decent, in fact. They were impressive, and I was glad to be reminded how versatile redtails are, how determined they are to survive, how thoroughly they seem to enjoy their work.

I was also starting to wonder just how long I should let this continue. Stekoa now had four mice and two voles in his crop, and while he was still eagerly watching my every move, I didn't want to push my luck too far. He launched again, flew at me, then rocketed past, his wings pumping hard, and veered back toward the trees. A rabbit had flushed, unseen and unheard by me, from the grass at my feet, and Stekoa bound to it at the edge of woods and riparian meadow.

Back at the car, as I finished field-dressing the rabbit, I raised my hand toward the cold, distant sun, laid it gently on the earth's snowy surface, and said my thanks—not just for the rabbit, but for the mice and voles; for the trees and grasses; for the chickadees and nuthatches foraging overhead; for the quail we hadn't seen but might next time; for all the life in these winter woods and fields. For all my relations—mitakuye oyasin. And I remembered again Sitting Bull's declaration that "When the buffalo are gone, we will hunt mice, for we are hunters and we want our freedom."

Ginger binger 2019

For the convenience of long-time readers (I think we still have a few) and newcomers alike, I've finally created a "ginger" label for easier access to previous editions of our New Year's Eve tasting of ginger beers and ginger ales. "Ginger binger 3" is the most comprehensive, complete with GB/GGA/DGA definitions; subsequent write-up have been limited to new entries, and this post will adhere to that format, so take a few moments to look back if you will; we'll be right here.

This year we (Jessa, Ellie, and myself) were joined by Jessica's sister Heather, a first-time ginger binger. And away we go...

We begin with a blast from the past. Our case of ginger sodas, for various reasons, is always a mix of old and new, and while we usually don't revisit a previous review, Ellie and Jessa insisted on one. I originally reviewed Dr. Brown's Original Ginger Ale in the second season of these reviews, and described it as "not a flavour standout". Ellie's verdict was far more blunt: "This one just makes me sad." Dr. Brown's actually does begin with a mild ginger bite—it is a DGA, after all— but the finish is nothing. "After the first sip, it's just water." I doubt Dr. Brown's finds its way into our box again.

On to the new...

Americana Honey Lime Ginger Beer has been a favourite of ours for years now, but it's taken us 'til now to encounter its straight-shooting, non-honey, non-lime sibling. Americana Ginger Beer, this one sweetened with pure cane sugar, has a nice golden/amber colour (though hidden in brown glass) and a fantastic flavour curve: smooth to start, but with a nice afterburn. (Ginger extract and other natural flavours, thank you very much.) Most similar, I thought, to what we still call Goose Island, but Jessa noted a similarity to Vernor's as well. By a narrow margin, the best of the new entries, and a very worthy stablemate to the Americana Honey Lime.

Australian Style Hot Ginger Ale appears to be a Rocket Fizz house brand, and as such definitely Australian style, not Australian, despite the prominent kangaroo. And like many American ginger sodas, it is miscategorised: a GA per the label, a GB in fact, with a GB's slight murkiness. It does have a good bite, but a surprisingly mild aftertaste. The most unique component, though, is a slight aroma of Play-Doh; when I mentioned this, Heather said with full conviction that it was actually closer to a green putty the girls' dad used on home improvement projects. Not unpleasant, but a bit odd, this—and certainly no match for Bundaberg or Buderim. Clear glass, cane sugar, natural flavours.

The most unique of this year's new entries, and perhaps the most eagerly anticipated, was Fever Tree Smoky Ginger Ale. In the bottle, it appeared to have a greyish cast, but it turned out to be a very golden ginger ale in a subtly tinted bottle. The trickery was quite unnecessary, as this GGA has a distinctive smoky taste, the ginger ale equivalent of lapsang souchong tea. This is a natural effect, as applewood-smoked water is used in its production. Ellie, who starting from her time in Oxford has become a minor gin aficionado, intuited that this would pair nicely with Hendrick's (which it did), but we rather enjoyed it straight as well—a campfire in a glass.

From the same source comes Fever Tree Spiced Orange Ginger Ale. If the Smoky Ginger Beer is lapsang souchong, then the Spiced Orange must be something like Constant Comment. It does have a prominent orange colour, scent, and flavour, along with heavy notes of cinnamon, but none of us felt that it made as good a stand-alone beverage as its smoky sister. (In fairness, it should be noted that Fever Tree's ginger ales are sold in small bottles, clearly intended as mixers.) All flavours natural, and sweetened with sugar, as is the Smoky Ginger Ale.

How in the world did we get this many years down the road without reviewing Jones Ginger Beer? Perhaps the brand's ubiquity caused it to be overlooked, and that's too bad for us. Like all of Jones' sodas, their ginger beer uses pure cane sugar and all-natural flavours; the result is a pleasantly musty GB with definite notes of like and lemon, reminiscent of a Caribbean brew. I shall try to keep a sharper eye henceforth.

And then the one that almost missed the boat. A friend from work kindly gifted me a bottle of Trader Joe's Triple Ginger Brew,—thanks, Karen!—but Jessa, apparently not realising I was saving it for New Year's Eve, thieved the bottle and shared it with Ellie and Heather in my absence. In the end, she redeemed herself by purchasing a new bottle—and what a bottle it is. Oversized (750 ml), green glass, fitted not with a standard bottle cap but a latching stopper. Extra points to Trader Joe's for presentation. And the brew? A lovely GB, cloudy and musty with real ginger root, sweetened with both sugar and honey, with diverse citrus notes from lemon, lime, and pineapple. A very good, very accessible GB.

And that's all for this go 'round. There are yet more out there, so watch this space...

"Crabs for Christmas"

Charm City nostalgia.



No steamers on the menu, but Jessa has crab soup waiting for me tonight, and there'll be crab imperial tomorrow.

Happy Christmas, everyone!

Home improvement

Jessa sent me the following text yesterday:

Little boy at Home Depot: "I LOVE this store! You can buy plants! You can buy WATERFALLS!" Kid's got his priorities in order.

Just for the day

At almost four hours away, Verdigre Creek is usually a weekend-long proposition—a long weekend, for preference—but for one reason and another we haven't made our usual pilgrimages this year. So out of desperation, Ellie and I recently made a day trip of it. We arose well before daybreak, drove through thunderstorms and torrential rains, and arrived to find that the weather had all been further south and the creek was flowing at normal levels.

At normal levels now, that is. Like much of Nebraska, especially northern Nebraska, Verdigre flooded this spring. Heraclitus was certainly on to something, and every time I've been back to Verdigre I've noticed slight alterations, but nothing so dramatic as this. One of our favourite spots, a dramatic S-bend above the bridge, had been rendered nearly straight, and more than one familiar pool was no more. But there were new pools, and gravel bars in spots that had previously been choked with reed canary grass. Better yet, there was fresh gravel in the creek as well, a boon to spawning trout. The creek's productivity was highlighted early on, when Ellie and I caught several small rainbows with parr marks, wild trout born of this very stream.

Later, Ellie was fishing to a big rainbow holding in a run below the bridge when a smaller trout darted out from under some watercress to take her nymph; it looked different from the start and, once netted, proved to be El's first brown. (Also wild; according to Game & Parks, browns were last stocked here in 1976.)

The drive back home to Lincoln seemed to go much faster than the drive up. That was down partly to more direct routing (in the morning, we had detoured to shop for on-stream provisions) and partly to better driving weather (the storms having passed to the east). But a good day's fishing—not to mention the prospect of good fishing in future, and the assurance that our favourite stream is still itself despite some changes in course—did its share to speed us on our way.

Farrell's Irish Gold

I don't think this is likely to become a regular feature here on Flyover Country, but I wanted to have a go at a fly-tying tutorial. This is my favourite hairwing streamer, Farrell's Irish Gold. I have fished it on the trout stream occasionally, but it really shines for lough fishing, especially in the autumn. It has become my go-to streamer for stillwater trout; they can't seem to resist this impressionistic baitfish.

Let's get started!

I generally use a 3X long streamer hook in size 8 (currently an Umpqua U301), but occasionally downsize to size 10 for crappie, and size 6 would be reasonable for larger trout. Spooled materials are black thread (I use UTC Ultra Thread in 140 denier; you want something on the strong side), orange floss (four-strand rayon from Danville's), and flat tinsel in gold (UTC makes a Mylar tinsel that's gold on one side, silver on the other; size medium is perfect for this fly). An orange-toned squirrel tail (more detail to follow) rounds out the materials list.

Start your black thread a bit behind the hook eye, taking touching wraps back to the start of the hook bend. (Incidentally, you could weight the fly with some lead or lead-substitute wire under the thread, but I prefer the slimmer look and improved versatility of the unweighted streamer. Split shot, tungsten putty, or a sinking leader can get the fly down just as easily. Or, don't go fishing without your bullets.)

Lay in a single strand of orange floss, about halfway from the bend to the eye, and tie it down with the thread; then lay in the tinsel—silver side up—over the floss, and tie it down with thread wraps, which should have your thread back at the start of the bend. Now take the thread back to the initial tie-in point; using open spiral wraps over the floss and tinsel, then touching wraps the rest of the way, will help to even out the taper, but it doesn't need to be perfect anyway.

Hand-wrap the orange floss over the black thread to the initial tie-in point. This is perhaps the trickiest part of tying this fly, as the floss is prone to fraying. Avoid catching it on the hook point or the jaws of the vise, but be aware that even dry skin may be enough to cause problems. Secure the floss with a couple of thread wraps and snip off any excess.

Next, wind the tinsel forward to the tie-in point. The tinsel having been tied in silver side up, the gold should now be showing. You'll want to pull the tinsel somewhat aggressively forward to create an open spiral that lets the orange floss show through; this is not a tinsel-bodied fly like the Mickey Finn or black-nosed dace. Again, secure with a couple of thread wraps and snip off the excess.

Now for the squirrel tail. I use locally-sourced (ideally, hawk-caught) red fox squirrel, Sciurus niger rufiventer; other species, such as chickaree (Tamiasciurus hudsonicus) in the Appalachians or red squirrel (Sciurus vulgaris) in Ireland or the UK, can be appropriate regional substitutes, but for this fly we really do want to keep to reddish-orange tones.

Snip a pinch of hair from the squirrel tail and tie it in, first using a couple of loose wraps to capture the square-cut base of the clump, and then tightening down to secure it. (Hence the strong 140-denier thread.) Keep making tight thread wraps to really bind down the hair and build a tapered head; I usually take at least one wrap behind and under the resulting wing to push it up a bit. Once the head is constructed, take two or three turns with a whip-finish tool and snip the thread off close.

A bit of head cement can make the fly a bit more durable, but I usually don't bother with this step. Because the fly uses just a single strand of four-strand floss, I find it convenient to tie Farrell's Irish Gold in multiples of four.

I typically fish this streamer on a sinking leader; an Airflo polyleader with a known sink rate lets me count it down if the trout are holding or cruising at a specific depth. While I use a Davy knot for dries and most nymphs, a loop knot imparts much more realistic action to streamers; I especially like the double figure-eight. And although I generally prefer a more moderate action, I keep a fast-action rod (the Three Forks model at left) handy for streamer fishing on the lough.

If any readers actually do tie this fly, I hope you'll let me know how it works out for you. Comments are always welcome.

Tight lines!