Cane-cutter

Swamp rabbit, Sylvilagus aquaticus. Photos by Jessa. (Almost all of our photos from this trip, in fact, are Jessa's. Girl just doesn't like to share the camera.)

I caught one of these once, back in Georgia, or rather my hawk did. It was well over twenty years ago, and I can't quite remember whether it was Watauga or his successor Pocomoke; both were tiercel redtails flying at about 32 ounces, and accustomed to hunting grey squirrels. Occasionally, mostly at field meets down around Statesboro, we'd get a slip at an eastern cottontail. But one day, while hawking the wet back woods of a cattle ranch somewhere between Athens and Jefferson, my two-pound tiercel latched onto the hind end of a five-pound swamp rabbit, and the rodeo was on. The rabbit dragged the hawk around a small clearing, changing directions a few times, and I was sure it was going to throw the hawk before I could join the fray. But when the rabbit tried to duck under a log, the little tiercel let go of the cane-cutter with one foot and braced it against the log instead, stopping the rabbit in its tracks and gaining control long enough for me to make in. I can still remember how heavy that rabbit felt in my game bag, and how proud I was of that tenacious little hawk.

Bunches and bunches

Speaking of non-native plants...

Southern Louisiana's climate is subtropical, and bananas are sometimes used in landscaping. (People sometimes harvest fruit as well, but as the LSU Ag Center notes, "Most Louisiana bananas are selected for landscape appeal and cold hardiness and not for fruit; harvested fruit from landscape bananas may be sweet or starchy, depending on the variety, which is seldom known.") This "tree" decorated—and eventually outlasted—an auto-body shop. In contrast to water hyacinth, though, bananas rarely if ever become invasive here—subtropical is just too cool for them to grow out of control.

[The inflorescence, or "banana heart", from which the fruits develop.]

Water hyacinth and pickerelweed

This spot in Slidell is where Jessa used to fish with her family. Note the abundant water hyacinth, which is undoubtedly pretty but which would not have helped the fishing. Louisiana was quite possibly where this invasive species from the Amazon first found a foothold in North America; although other theories have been proposed, Eichhornia crassipes may have been introduced at the 1884 World's Fair held just across the lake in New Orleans. By 1910, water hyacinth had become a serious enough problem that a congressman from Louisiana, Robert Broussard, proposed importing hippopotamuses from Africa as a combined biological control agent and food source. The American Hippo Bill failed by a single vote.

Also present, and also blooming in purple, was a related aquatic plant, pickerelweed. Like its cousin, Pontederia cordata has become invasive in some parts of the world, but here it is native.

Dragonflies

 Eastern pondhawks (males blue, females green).

Four-spotted pennant.

McGehee cypress swamp

After our first visit seven years ago, I wrote, "More municipalities should set aside spots like this," and I stand by that sentiment. We present, again, one of our favourite city parks, in McGehee, Arkansas.

Hannibal's homecoming

Our latest trip started with a dream I had about my late friend Mike. I mentioned it to Karl, who said he had also been thinking about Mike and went on to say, "If I can figure out a way to get Hannibal back from New Orleans, the Coulsons are giving him back to me." Hannibal was Mike's last Harris' hawk, and had been bred by Tom and Jennifer Coulson; after Mike's passing, he was flown by Bob Noble and then by Karl before ending up back with the Coulsons.

Normally, Tom and Jenn could have simply put Hannibal on a plane to Lincoln or Omaha, but amongst all the other COVID-19 disruptions, the shipping of animals on airlines has been suspended. Jessa and I wanted Hannibal back in Nebraska almost as badly as Karl did, and since the Coulsons actually live in St. Tammany Parish on the North Shore, our home territory when we're in Louisiana, we volunteered to bring him home. Karl expressed some misgivings about sending us into what looked like a COVID-19 hot zone, but we assured him we'd take precautions.

And so it was that we made a rush, three-day weekend trip back to Louisiana, where we had a nice albeit fully-masked visit with Tom and Jenn, ate our share of Vietnamese baked goods and take-away seafood, and took a few photos which we will share in the coming days. Hannibal crossed not the Alps on an elephant but the Ozarks in the back of our Subaru, and is now settling back in at Karl's. 

[A few snapshots from Karl's garage as we got Hannibal fitted with fresh furniture. Masks at this end of the trip as well.]

Welcome home, Hannibal! I know Mike would be pleased.

Jessa's trout

Jessa and I visited Verdigre Creek last weekend, and I ended up using only two flies: On Saturday, a conehead streamer—essentially a weighted muddler minnow but with Platte River Special influences, fished downstream in the style I have found most successful here—accounted for a brown trout (flip-phone photo below) and numerous rainbows. On Sunday, a traditional unweighted muddler minnow pulled double duty, alternately fished downstream as a streamer and upstream as a makeshift grasshopper imitation; less successful, this second technique, but a change of pace, and rewarded by a couple of spectacular takes by rainbows.

I'm writing today, though, about a fish that I didn't catch.

On one of our earliest trips to Verdigre, some five years ago, Jessa fished with me. Now, her childhood in Louisiana had conditioned her to view fishing as a relaxing social occasion; the slow, stealthy approach required for trout-hunting on a spring creek isn't really quite her cup of tea. Nevertheless, under my tutelage she drifted a Glo-bug (salmon-egg fly) under a bank of milfoil and connected with a good rainbow trout—which, in true rainbow fashion, thrashed its way off the hook just before it was brought to hand. Jess took it hard, and thereafter left the fishing to Ellie and me.

But about two years ago, or maybe it was three, I prevailed upon Jessa to fish with me again. Once again, we fished as a duo, taking turns with the rod and the net, and once again she grumbled good-naturedly about the necessity of moving so slowly and keeping so quiet. (This from one of the quietest people you're like to meet.) I had caught a couple of fish and it was Jessa's turn with the rod when we spotted a couple of rainbows just downstream.

The setup was excellent, but presented a challenge. Whereas trout in this stream spend most of their time hiding under milfoil and watercress from anglers and predatory birds, these two were holding steady in the open, actively feeding in a small pool just below a bend in the creek. We could see them, which meant they would be able to see us, and the stealth that had put us in a position to fish to them would need to be maintained throughout the encounter.

I'll tell you true, I wanted a fish for Jessa quite badly, and our first offerings were not subtle. I had Jessa try another Glo-bug, and when that was refused after a couple of good drifts, a San Juan worm. Again, no takers. Surely a woolly bugger will produce, I thought—there are some leeches in the stream, and I figured that, even though Jessa's drifts had looked drag-free to me, trout will overlook a less-than-perfect presentation if some motion is to be expected from the prey item. However sound my reasoning, though, the trout appeared uninterested in the bugger.

So, time to re-assess. The good news was that we hadn't put the fish down: they still seemed relaxed, apparently unaware of, or at any rate unconcerned about, our presence. The bad news was that they had ignored several meaty offerings, substantial bits of protein (had they been real) that should have tempted a hungry trout. But then it occurred to me that we had watched them feeding, and that from our vantage point just upstream, we hadn't actually seen what they were eating, just the opening and closing of their mouths. The penny finally dropped, and I clipped off the bugger and tied on a small, very neutrally-coloured nymph.

Once again, Jessa's drift was good, and when the nymph was past the trout she lifted the line carefully and quietly from the water. (Trout-hunting may not be her preferred métier, but she's good at it.) On her second try, one of the rainbows opened its mouth and took the fly; Jess lifted her rod, and all hell broke loose. The set was perfect, and all the trout's aerobatics did not throw the hook. I don't remember if she put the fish on the reel or if she stripped the line in by hand, but I was ready with the net and Jessa had her Verdigre trout at last.

No vacancy

While looking through photos on my tablet, I found this one from a couple of years back that I never found a use for, but I still like the poignancy and Americana feel of it.

This is on US Highway 30 on the outskirts of Fremont, Nebraska, one of my regular fishing destinations. I don't know when the motel was built (my guess would be the early to mid-1950s) or when it went out of business, but I know a bit about its final days: the building was condemned in 2014, used for a training exercise by a local fire department, and finally burned to the ground, leaving only the sign to stand witness to its existence.



[Related article: the disappearing Vacancy/No Vacancy sign.]

"None of Us Are Free"

Possibly the song for our times. Written by by Barry Mann, Cynthia Weil, and Brenda Russell. This version by Solomon Burke with The Blind Boys of Alabama.

 

Golden

Pictured: a golden shiner caught whilst fishing for sunfish at a small lake in one of the Omaha suburbs. I must have landed a dozen of the distinctive minnows that morning. (Oddly, even though Ellie was fishing alongside me using very similar flies, she caught plenty of bluegills but not a single shiner.)

The golden shiner is recognisable not only by the gold-coloured scales of larger specimens (smaller ones are silver) but by the distinctive downward curve of the lateral line.

The golden shiner is very similar in appearance to a European species, the rudd, and apparently closely related as well, as the two species can hybridise where they occur together. Golden shiners are native to eastern North America but have been widely introduced elsewhere because of their popularity as bait; they are also kept as ornamental fish in small ponds.

The Fish Book put out by the Nebraska Game & Parks Commission states that golden shiners, though bony, can be good eating. Ellie and I were doing C&R, so I'll take their word for it.

Since it's been a while, let's have some music. From the 1987 film Athens, GA: Inside/Out, "Golden" by Dreams So Real.

Fly-fishing for bullfrogs down at the billabong

Ellie and I were checking out some new fishing spots near Kearney when we found this billabong; a creek that previously flowed into a pond had been diverted, leaving the gravel bed empty save for this one pool.

The grassy banks of the former creek loomed high over the billabong, and our unstealthy approach sent several bluegills and one tiny largemouth bass darting for cover, their appetites suspended. But when a small bullfrog (there were no big ones here) made a move for an errant fly that landed atop a mat of algae, Ellie took note and replicated my cast. She almost immediately had a frog by the lip—the first of many, as it turned out.

"It's all very well using a nymph," I sniffed at Ellie as I removed an elk-hair caddis from the lip of another frog (not the one in this picture), "but a proper gentleman catches his bullfrogs on a dry fly." Ellie doubled over laughing, but managed (just) not to fall in.

Snobbish considerations aside, the frogs were equally willing to take nymphs and dries—but the nymphs, for whatever reason, had better holding power and landed more frogs. (That's a pro tip right there, lads; write it down.)

And while occasionally a frog would go for a fly in the water, dapping the flies atop the algae was far more productive than actually casting. (Another tip, mates.)

Too effective, as it happened, because soon all the frogs in the billabong had been educated, and we had to go find another pond and catch some bluegills like proper fly-fishers.

Later on—different day, different pond—Ellie caught a big bullfrog on a dry fly.