Banjo Musings and Musky Travels

Blizzard Evelyn had driven us off the water.  Times of favorable weather were not forecasted it seemed as this huge storm had bombarded us with another foot or more of snow just the previous weekend. The local trout streams around Madison had blown out just after conditions were promising a caddis hatch along with the olives and midges earlier in the week.  Now Russ, and I were seeking shelter in a small town on some back road in Wisconsin.

Huddled inside the bar, we ordered a couple of High Life’s as we settled in.  

Talk began with jokes about April weather in Wisconsin and its “Sprinter” traditions.  Quickly stories of better days outside and fishy friends filled the conversation as the sounds of beer bottles and idle chatter fell away into the background.  The voice of Ronnie Van Zant on the jukebox singing Sweet Home Alabama was the furthest thing from our minds as we reminisced about the few fish that got away.

Slowly the background noise faded, replaced by the sounds of late summertime birds chattering in the nearby tree line.  A gentle breeze pushed subtle waves towards the riverbanks.  A quiet presence of their idle crash caressing the shoreline echoed in my ears.  Weaving his words as he has done with fan favorites like Imperfection, River Rat and most recently Steer True, Russell Pedersen of Horseshoes and Hand Grenades, a Wisconsin based “New Grass” styleAmericana band, welcomed me into his world.

I was wading with him into the Chippewa.  The river brushed at our waders as we stood knee deep, we gazed into the horizon, peering with squinted eyes as the sunset.  There, just thirty yards ahead of us she lay.  A beautiful musky, basking underneath a tree that had fallen across the water.  An aging scar crossed her face, giving her just another unique characteristic to her prehistoric nature.  This fat ol’ girl had no care of us as we gazed in awe.

The escape from our high-top table and midday fish fry at the Junction Pub drifted us in and out of the backwoods of Wisconsin several times during our discussion as new friends. Conversation came easy and the cold beer softened our tongues into grander tales of fishier days.  Road stories of friends and our own exploits in various destinations brought laughter and reminiscence.

Russell shared the beginning tales of his banjo days on the Croix while escaping from the college daze of UW-Stevens Point.

His memories of the cranes calling out into the early evening welcomed me into a transcendental journey alongside him into this story.  I listened as the loons made their eerie yet beautiful wavering call through the distant marshes that surrounded the waterways in Portage County. The crickets and other insects whispered me into this sweet lullaby as we pulled up our lawn chairs on the bank.

With a few clouds overhead, the stars were glimmering across the night sky and the moon shone bright. Shadows stretched the overhanging limbs into arms that coddled us in their cool warmth as we settled in.

Only as a guest in spirit, I felt as if he had taken me back to his old haunts on this night out in his memory.

He spoke of how he would take his spinning rods and throw a catfish rig out, letting it settle into the river channel.  Making sure that the gentle currents didn’t pull his line further out, he would set the rod up on the bank and tighten the drag. He would then ensure that the bell at the tip of his rod was secured and ready to chime its alert once the ol’ cats devoured the bait.

In the meantime, he would walk back up to his chair just underneath the oaks and settle in with a smoke and his banjo.

Pulling deeply in on the cigarette, the orange glow lighting his face up just underneath the brim of his ball cap.  Tuning the banjo, the sweet twang echoed out amongst the birds and insects.  As a novice, the sounds from the instrument at times were a little rough, but it wasn’t long before fine melodies accompanied his quiet evenings.

Honing his skills, Russ slowly mastered the claw hammer style play of the banjo and began writing his own tunes that he would share with friends back at campus in dorm room parties.  It was in these humble beginnings that other friends would join the music and their band grew organically.   Sounds of the banjo were joined by the upright bass, an accordion, a guitar, and even a fiddle to create the chemistry of Horseshoes and Hand Grenades.

The music would take these men across the nation, to share their stories with eager fans in venues like the Fillmore, the 9:30 Club and even The Troubadour.  But they remained true to their Wisconsin roots and would continue to play back home in small venues and even venture to Milwaukee to play the Pabst on occasion.

As easily as our conversation had flowed for the past hour or so, Russ took us away again into a late December excursion outside of his home in Eau Claire. 

Discussing the fears of our fellow man’s follies and the seemingly irreversible damage to our Mother Earth, Russ brought me into an unseasonably warm day in December. Climate change had seemingly held off the typical Wisconsin snows and colder climates that had welcomed past winters.   Thunderstorms threatened the evening forecast as the warm front moved in with driving winds and rain.  There would only be a few hours of decent weather before this nasty storm would drive anyone back inside the comfort of their homes and the warmth of a wood stove.

Predatory fish would be foraging with an active aggression that he could not pass up on.  Knowing that these fish would be prowling the embankments in search of small baitfish he felt the itch to get out there with Willow, his “fishing dog.”

After finishing up some tedious things around the house, he grabbed his gear and headed to one of his favorite spots on the winding river. 

Throwing on his boots and slinging his vest over his shoulders, he watched as Willow bounded across the muddy banks.  Occasionally she would stop and investigate by pushing her nose to the ground, sniffing at whatever evidence some little critter had left behind.  The small dog began to venture into the shallows, jumping up small baitfish, sending them into a frenzy as they attempted to escape to deeper waters.

Russ watched this play out time and time again as they made their way down the river’s edge.  Casting out one of his own streamers that he had tied on the top bunk of the bands tourbus, he hooked into a decent smallie.   

Bringing a bend to the rod, he gave in to a deep smile as he fought the bronze back.  With a full belly of bugs and minnows, the bass was brought to shore and netted with ease.  Freeing the hook, and kissing the fish,Russell released her and watched her return to her home and possibly be enjoyed by another angler next season.

Strolling further, Willow kept the lead and gave chase to whatever may cross her path.

A few minutes had passed since he had released the last fish and not much more seemed to be happening. Thoughts of returning home began to form, as he was happy to just have gotten outside to enjoy the day with his pup.

Getting ready to call to the springer, he saw things happening just a bit differently than previous explosions of tiny fish fleeing from his dog.  This time the water bubbled with a visible smack from a huge predatory Esox as it slammed into the small fish.

Excitedly Russ began his rhythmic cast and shot his line forward, just beyond where he had seen the commotion.  Stripping the line back, the neon fluorescent fly line sent droplets of water out to shimmer in the setting sun. 

Just below the surface of the water his pike bait danced with each pull of the line.  Mimicking prey, his streamer drew the attention of the large fish.  With a huge wallop, his line was pulled tight.  Fish on!

The large pike screamed across the river as it realized it had made a mistake and was now at the end of a line.  Several minutes passed as man and fish battled in a primitive state of ferocity. 

Threatening to take him deep into his backing, Russ hand braked the fish several times as he frantically fought to retrieve his line and net this beast.  After several runs, he managed to get this beautiful fish alongside. 

Touching this Northern Pike was a monumental moment and seta personal best for himself.  Having notched his rod at a 40” mark, Russ was able to get a rough measurement of the fish before releasing her back to the river depths.  Besting the mark on his rod, he was amazed at just how large and old this fish must be.

Giving thanks and wishing the fish well, he allowed her to swim freely as he slid her back into the Chippewa. 

His voice reflected the huge smile across his face as he finished his tale.  Reality set in and I realized we were back in the dim room of some old bar and not fishing a late winter afternoon.

Ordering just one more round, Russ and I talked of sharing the river together soon.  We parted ways that afternoon but we each knew that as warmer days arrived we would both be on the river chasing the next fish that would bite. 

Maybe he would chase after that scarred ol’ musky outside ofEau Claire.  There is always that one fish that we seem to have a special connection with and Russ was no different.  Fondly I remembered a bit of our earlier conversation, reliving his communion with that lumbering beauty.

“I love that fish.  I hope to see her again.  I’ve got an area code at least…”