Brush with identity theft serves as a real eye-opener: to how bad it could have been, and how bad it actually is

A few speeding tickets over time, two overnight parking citations (one of which I failed to pay, which resulted in a warrant being issued for my arrest)...that's about as close to legal trouble as I've ever stepped, I'm happy, relieved, and proud to say. I like cops for the most part, respect them for the job they do, so while I always joke that I "flirt" my way out of tickets and citations (yeah, as if...), the reality is, it doesn't require that from anyone. It's been my experience that a respectful "yes sir, no sir", or "yes ma'am, no ma'am" goes a long way. There are exceptions to this, of course, which have driven a national dialogue of late, but for the most part, if you don't give cops a reason to dislike or distrust you, then unless you really ARE doing something wrong, you'll be fine.

So imagine my surprise, when the cops got a hold of me last week.

"Hello Jared, this is Officer so and so," a stern-sounding man's voice droned in a voice mail message, "from the financial crimes department of the Eau Claire police. Just want to let you know that we have some of your checks here, and we're looking to get them back to you, also ask you a few questions."

I called him back immediately (feeling suddenly sheepish for my habit of screening calls), and met with him the next day. He informed me that someone had gotten hold of an entire book of my personal checks, and that in an unrelated home raid conducted by the police just two weeks ago, they had been found, and seized, along with some 15 other sets of stolen checks and similar contraband (ID's, debit cards, credit cards...), all of which were part of a burgeoning crime ring.

I was stunned, for a couple reasons. First off, I wasn't even aware any checks were missing. Secondly, I hadn't noticed anything strange coming through my account, no gobs of money disappearing (thankfully).  I combed through the entire summer in my mind, trying to remember when I last saw this particular checkbook and figure out how in the world someone got their hands on it. I don't write a lot of checks, don't have a lot of occasion to bring a checkbook out of the house. actually, but I do remember one day in early July, during a flurry of bill-paying activity, when this may have happened, and decided I must have either left it somewhere, or dropped it. But however and whenever it happened, my checks were found by the wrong person, and it was only pure luck that the cops happened to raid the house where that person happened to live.

What ensued was a real mess. I spent hours (and I do mean hours) at my bank, working with a CSR, trying to identify the full numerical range of the checks that were missing, how many bad ones had managed to slip through, and determining which checks, if any, were still unaccounted for. Ultimately I had no choice but to close down that account and start all over with a new one. It was a colossal pain in the ass, and over just a few stolen checks. I shudder to think of what someone goes through when their identity has been completely hijacked.

In the end, I was lucky. This individual, one of four living in the same house, all of them in on the aforementioned "ring", managed only to get a few checks through, totaling a small amount of money. Of course, that fact alone is unnerving: it would seem he was sly about it. Rather than try to pass one check and make off with a huge amount of money, he cunningly wrote a series of small checks for every day things, banking on the possibility that I wouldn't notice.

And I didn't, a fact which is even more unnerving (and sort of embarrassing). I keep close tabs on my finances (or so I thought...), but in that one or two-week period when the bad ones were being written (late July/early August) I failed to notice them coming through amidst the flurry of other debits. And what's more, the situation was on the verge of getting much, much worse: the cops had, in their possession, one of my checks that had been written out for a significant amount of money, which the perp was apparently planning to try cashing somewhere.

Luckily for me, his house got raided before that could happen.

There's blame to go around. 97% of it goes to the criminals, as it always does, and should. I'll take about 2%, willingly man up to the carelessness and inattention to detail that allowed it to happen in the first place. To that end, needless to say, I have tightened up my game significantly.

But I reserve 1% of the blame for the inattentive dubs who accepted these checks at the places where the criminal wrote them. Consider two photocopies I recovered from the cops:

The only legitimate thing left visible on these checks is my printed name. The handwriting and the signature are not mine. Please, that is not even CLOSE to the way I make my 'J'! Nice try, loser...

But what jumps out at me (other than the unsettled feeling I get seeing someone else's attempt to sign my name...) isn't what was written to try passing the checks, but rather what someone wrote to verify them, the telephone and driver's license numbers that appear around my printed name. At first I was outraged, assuming it had to have been two harebrained workers, at two different businesses, who went through the rigmarole of asking to see a driver's licence, but failed to see it wasn't my license.

But now I'm thinking it was the perp who wrote those numbers, in an attempt to get out ahead of the situation, maybe so he could just hand the check over and nobody would bother to question. That handwriting looks the same on both checks, although, strangely, it doesn't appear to match the handwriting used to write out the amount. Nor do THOSE two handwriting samples appear to match on each! Man, come to think of it, the only visually consistent handwriting sample between both checks is my forged signature.

But in any case, the individuals who accepted these checks should have verified more thoroughly. Any check where personal information is hand-written is a red flag immediately, and in this case, the first digit of the driver's license number is 'S', not 'G'. I'm not sure how it is other places, but in the State of Wisconsin, the first digit of a driver's license number is always the first letter of one's last name. That would have, should have, stuck out for anyone maintaining even the dimmest candle flicker of vigilance.

I work in a similar business (one that makes the notion that I'd ever write a check to Domino's pretty laughable...;-), and we don't accept paper checks at all. Rarely we'll make an exception, usually for a large business, school, or church group, for a large order, but we always verify. Whoever physically hands us the check has to present their driver's license number, or some kind of picture ID.

Of course, the truly frightening part of all of this, is that there's really no security of any kind anymore, even with the new digital chip placed on credit and debit cards. As far as I can tell, that chip merely adds another step to the transaction. I don't see how it provides any added security. It helps cut down on fraud, makes tracking easier, supposedly, but there is still virtually no accountability for the use of any card in a retail business, with or without a chip, still no need for a signature if the transaction totals below $25, and a pin number is requested only about 25% of the time. To avoid the hassle of pecking out four numbers, most people choose to run their cards as credit, which I've never thought was a good idea.

If it were up to me, running a debit card as 'credit' so as to avoid the PIN number would simply not be an option. A pin number should always be required. I understand that makes the card MORE vulnerable to fraud in the event of a major security breach (like the nightmare at Target stores a few years back), but it makes it impossible for anyone to USE the card who isn't supposed to be using it. It's a tough choice, but I think it's far more important to have some accountability right at the point of purchase.

It would seem, short of living out in the woods with a coffee can of gold coins hidden under your bed and a 12-gauge to guard them, that we are all susceptible to identity theft these days, all potentially vulnerable to the strong undertow of our fast-rushing society, a society that wants it all, wants it now, and wants it convenient, a society that allows hundreds of millions of people, and tens of thousands of financial institutions and credit companies, to travel on, and be connected by, the same information superhighway all at once.

If you really sit and think about that, and think about the "bad guys" out there, in whatever form they take - the lazy individual heisting his way through life pizza by pizza, or the organized crime syndicate with means and intelligence at its disposal, which at this very moment - best believe - is working on something major, and intent on getting it right the first time - it should scare the hell out of you.

It does me, and I'm normally unflappable...except when it comes to spiders.  ;)

Late season outing got me thinking about what fishing would mean in a zombie apocalypse

Wow, this summer really got away from me. Seems like just last week I was in Clam Lake, Wisconsin during the longest days of the year, throwing a little hissy fit as musky after musky threw my lure, in a twilight that lingered so long it was still seeping into my dreams long after I'd drifted off to sleep. Before I knew it, it was July 4. The next day was August 1. Thunderstorms came, bringing pre-season football along with them, and cooler temperatures, a few nights downright chilly. The first glimmer of color winked on in the tree canopy around Labor Day, and just like that, schools were back in session.

I've gone out fishing just once since Clam Lake, since June...that's not how I like my summers to go.

Although I had to work this evening, I managed to sneak away for a couple hours to that trusty spot on the Chippewa River. I figured, a) the weather's going to turn eventually, b) I'm going to be old someday, and sneaking away for a few hours won't be so easy. Better do all the sneaking away I can, while I can.

I'm glad I did it, glad I went out of my way to sneak away. It was a gorgeous Indian Summer Sunday - crystal clear skies, temperatures in the mid-80s, but low humidity, so it was comfortable. Not much in the way of fish action, unfortunately, but with the trees re-casting the sunlight in a bright amber hue, and the only bugs I had to deal with being those Asian lady beetles (harmless little chaps, if annoying...), I didn't much care.

I was the only one on the river. At first that seemed unusual, especially for a weekend, but then I realized it's a football Sunday, and late in the fishing season, to boot. It's less seasonal anglers to be found out here now, more die-hards. And fewer of those, even, with each passing day.

PICTURE PERFECT - Although the fishing wasn't so hot, the day could not have been more perfect for angling on the Chippewa River.

And it was glorious.  Everything about nature seems quieter in autumn. The bugs have fallen silent, the wasps that wreak so much havoc as summer wears on have died off. Many species of birds have already migrated to warmer places, although there were quite a few seagulls about today, more than I'm used to seeing, actually. It must have been some kind of aggregation headed south ahead of the approaching winter, But their chatter got me thinking about Lake Superior, where I grew up and where that shrill peal dropping down from the sunshine defines a summer afternoon as reliably as the sound of waves lapping the shore.

At some point, I spotted someone moving on the other side of the river, which was very unusual.  The riverbank is not nearly as accessible as it is on this side, which very well might be the reason it's mostly a hangout for homeless people. I spot signs of them throughout the summer months - raggedy sheets draped over low-hanging branches providing some shade, fire pits still smoldering in the early morning (though there are no established camp sites), beer cans surrounding what looks like a red cooler, always stowed beneath a partially fallen tree. Every once in a while, I'll see someone over there, and you can tell - by the way they move, or sometimes by the way they don't move all that much - that they have nowhere else to be.

It's roughly a hundred yards across, and I could not make out details of the individual, couldn't tell if it was a homeless person or someone just being adventurous by conquering the side of the river that is overwhelmingly shrouded in trees and thicket. But the sight of a lone figure ambling slowly along the opposite bank, on a day when this was the only other person I saw, and with everything seeming much quieter than usual, reminded me that tonight is the Season 6 premiere of The Walking Dead, on AMC.

Oh yeah, I'm a fan. Almost from the beginning, The Walking Dead pulled me into the unlikely world of the zombie apocalypse primarily with its strong characterization.

LONE FIGURE - Although not visible in this picture, a lone individual was walking along the opposite bank of the Chippewa River, as it flowed placidly through Eau Claire on its way to the Mississippi.

I got to thinking - since nothing was jumping on my line - about what it would be like to be in that world...any apocalypse, zombie or otherwise...and how I would fare if what I was doing right now - that is, reeling in, casting out -  was not just something to do on a Sunday afternoon, but the deciding factor on whether I went hungry.

It was not the first time I've thought about an end-of-world scenario, or myself in one, but it was the first time I ever considered it in the context of fishing, and what it would mean if this fine pastime suddenly became a matter of life or death.

If the shit hit the fan, if the bottom really dropped out of everything we know of - and expect from - our society, if suddenly all bets were off and it was every man, woman and child for him or herself, I would - with thought put into what I could realistically carry with me - loot a pharmacy, a gun shop, a sporting goods store and a library, in that order.

In the pharmacy, I would load up on antiseptic/first aid products, maybe some ibuprofen or acetaminophen. Anything to help ensure that all-too-common cuts and abrasions didn't turn into life-threatening infections. I'd also load up on as many disposable lighters as I could find.

The gun shop would be an obvious stop, of course, but some thought would have to go into what I took with me. A rifle, and a handgun, I'd say, and as much ammunition as I could manage. But I'd want to choose weapons that were light-weight and accessible, not burdensome, and accurate from a distance. To be perfectly honest, if I want to be prepared for some future end-of-world scenario, the time to research guns is now, not as the sky is falling down around me.

In the sporting goods store, I would take a tent, another rod and some fishing gear, and lots of insect repellent. I would secure a very sharp knife, and then another. Boots. Gloves. A winter coat. A winter hat. Sunglasses. A water proof watch might be in order. Maybe two.

I think I'd still want to keep track of time.

In the library, I'd seek out books to help me understand the natural world into which I was about to find myself flung - a book on fishing, a book on edible wild plants (critical), maybe a book on field dressing animals, navigating by the stars, anything having to do with phenology. Also, the most recent atlas I could find. There would be no more electricity. No more Internet. No Google. No smart phones. No information superhighway. Whatever I could comfortably carry in a duffel bag to read and learn from would become my gospel. (I'd probably throw a novel or two in as well.)

Then I would find a waterway and head north, north of the Great Lakes, at least. I would want to survive. The whole point would be to go on living as comfortably and safely as possible, but on the periphery of whatever the world had collapsed down into. North of those Great Lakes, I would find a high point somewhere, some bluff or ridge, ideally within walking distance of a lake, and I would set up camp, and I'd sit and watch, and be vigilant. I'd prepare for the winters, rejoice in the summers, try to forge a peaceful co-existence, if not a working relationship, with the wildness around me. I would probably keep a journal (so can't forget pencils, pens and notebooks), and if anybody in the future who happened to find it could read it (decipher my handwriting), they would certainly get an eyeful.

Seriously, people think I'm a blowhard on these blogs, wait until they got a load of my post-apocalyptic musings. ;-)

Not everyone I know and love feels the way I do about the end of the world. Some people don't want to survive it, don't ever want to find themselves alive and kicking after the calendar needs to be re-set. And while admittedly, it's easy for me to sit comfortably in front of my laptop with a cup of coffee and write about what I would do if it happened, and to claim a rage to live in the face of such adversity, I truly believe that if all this comfort and idle time were taken away, I would want to live. If I were still able to walk, talk, and fight, I think I'd want to try to survive, at all costs.

FISHERMAN...OR WALKER? - I spent the afternoon pondering how I'd fare in a post-apocalyptic world where fishing wasn't a way to kill a Sunday, but instead a matter of life or death.

For me fishing is very zen; it's meditative. I like catching stuff, surely, and as I've said before, I've gotten better at it just in the last few years; I've tailored my lures and presentations to the habits of certain species, with pretty good results. I'm not an expert, but that's okay. I don't pretend to be, and in this world I don't need to be.

But in a Walking Dead scenario, I would have to be. I would have to catch something, or go hungry. I could be like Daryl Dixon, I guess, subsist on squirrels and possums with my crossbow...but nah, I don't have a crossbow, don't know how to use one, and shooting guns, I think, would be more about protecting myself than acquiring food. My protein sustenance would almost entirely come out of the water, and I would HAVE to be successful.

This afternoon, in such a scenario, I would have gone hungry. :-/

But this afternoon I didn't have to worry. This afternoon, I could hit a drive-thru on the way home, which is what I did.

Fish sandwich, just so I could say I caught something.

Ironically, the homeless people might be better prepared for the end of the world than most of us.

Back at Clam Lake, Wisconsin, where it's one, two, three strikes you're out...(or feels that way, anyhow...)

This week found me back spending a few days on Lower Clam Lake, in Sawyer County, Wisconsin. My girlfriend and I had such a great time here last summer, we decided it was worth a repeat visit.

And we were not disappointed. No buyer's remorse (er, renter's...) here. The cabin was just the way we left it - gorgeous inside (full remodel in '09), seemingly no detail overlooked for those who aren't looking for too much 'rough' in their roughing it, but sporting all the sun-drenched woods-n-water splendor we could handle outside. For the price, it's really an astonishing slice of heaven, with loads of privacy. There is just one neighbor to the right, separated by a stand of trees, and nothing on the left for about 1000 feet. The property is largely concealed from the lake as well (creepers boating with binoculars need not apply), and on the other side of the water, nothing but woods. The lookout tower visible peaking over the top of the tree line in the distance suggests that's all government land over there, not likely to be developed any time soon.

Lower Clam Lake was also just as we left it, just as it's been for 10,000 years: 214 acres, 30 feet deep, nestled in these north woods, and evoking - for me - mysterious memories of childhood. I grew up forty-five minutes north of here, and the area around this lake harbors visual cues (a specific point of land; a unique bend of beach; power lines traversing the water) that lead me to believe - without being entirely sure - I came here once or twice as a kid - either to camp, or visiting a friend's family cabin.

Also seemingly right where we left it, still tied to a birch sapling stump halfway up the embankment, the plastic 'Aquatoy' pedal boat that against all odds garnered my fancy last summer, a cheesy vessel I found compellingly maneuverable when it came to fishing the shallows...when the wind wasn't blowing me a hundred yards down shore, that is.

Coming to unspoiled, primordial places like this, places that still bear a strong connection to the natural world (even with the modern accouterments I wouldn't want to live without), when you come matters a lot. Last year we came in early August, this time in June, and there were definitely some differences in the experience.

Being June, it wasn't blistering hot yet, and these are the longest days of the year, which means we enjoyed days that started early and ended late. It was a magical phenomenon, those hours of protracted sunlight and the high, pointed arc the sun took through the sky - rising northeast, setting northwest. There is nothing more gorgeous than light draped in the sky at ten at night, on a lake like this, in woods like these.

SUMMER NIGHTS - In June 2015, the light lingers in the sky over Lower Clam Lake long after the sun has set. This picture was shot at 9:57 p.m. The last remnants of daylight stayed visible for almost another hour. And bonus: Jupiter and Venus were carrying out their conjunction in the western sky. Later, after it turned dark and the two celestial bodies sank down toward the tree line, their light was reflected on the smooth, calm surface of the lake. 

But being June, and being cooler and more comfortable than the dog days to come, also meant the weather was sketchier. For the most part we enjoyed ideal conditions, but it did rain all of the first night, and into the second day, and most mornings I was out fishing in a sweatshirt for the first couple hours.

June also meant there were a lot more bugs; a lot more. It seemed we arrived on the heels of a major hatch, which created a continuous buzz (no pun intended) of activity around the cabin; there were dragonflies and water striders galore, moths, mayflies and butterflies, and plenty of fireflies (both green and amber colored, which I'd never seen before) all busily tending to the details and dramas of their short lives, and all pleasant enough to have around.

What weren't so pleasant were the biting black flies, ticks and mosquitoes. Ticks can generally be avoided with an ounce of prevention and common sense, but those flies are a fricking nightmare this time of year; they are relentless in their pursuit of a place to land, and painful if given a chance to tag you. And I may be used to them (they are the Wisconsin state bird, after all...), but all the rain we've gotten over the last couple of months has ensured a bumper crop of mosquitoes, and they were thirsty little suckers on Lower Clam Lake, attacking in numbers that no amount of campfire smoke, citronella or deet seemed to deter.

The worst part of the bug hatch was how it killed the fishing. Although there may be another reason for what amounted to quiet angling on this trip. Truth is, I can't really say the fishing was quiet; I can't say I saw no action at all. I saw some serious action, in fact. Fishing right from the dock, I had three strikes on my line over the course of three days - each one courtesy of a large, powerful musky - but for reasons that still frustrate, shock and shame me a little, I just couldn't close the deal on any of them...and as much I'd like to, I can't blame it on the bugs.

The first happened on our very first night. It was a gray and quiet evening when we arrived, prematurely dark for all the dense cloud cover. I'd avoided unpacking long enough to run down to the lake and throw a line in before the downpour looming on the horizon made its way to us, and to my excitement, it didn't take long for something to happen. I almost didn't realize anything had happened. It wasn't a violent smash of the lure, just that tell-tale tug you wait and watch for, could have been a little crappie for as much of an impact as it made at first, but once I'd set the hook, I found myself fighting a three foot musky.

He kept throwing himself out of the water, trying to throw the lure. Most fish freak out, but the bigger and more powerful they are, the more of an adrenalin kick it is trying to marshal them. This was a big boy. Not a monster, not now...but one day, maybe...?

I managed to get him up to the dock, even had my fingers positioned under his gills to lift him out of the water, but at the last minute, he thrashed, wriggled free of my grasp, and splashed back into the water. The heavily taxed line snapped and he was gone, my lure still in his mouth.

I cried out in frustration, but my heart was also racing with excitement and anticipation at that time. If this was how things were going to go, if strikes like this continued, it was going to be a great four days.

As it turned out, strikes like that did continue....but the four days weren't quite as great as they should have been.

The next afternoon it happened again - a much more violent strike that roiled the water, but this time, the fish knew something was up right away. Just below the surface, I watched him go into a kind of death roll with the lure in his mouth, but a moment later he let go and disappeared before I could set the hook. The entire thing happened in under three seconds. He was not as big as the first musky, probably in the 30-34 inch range, but still a powerful fish, whose fight I'd have enjoyed taking on.

My heart was racing again, only now with as much frustration as excitement. That was chance number 2 that I'd allowed to slip from my grasp. It didn't help that all I'd caught up to that point (and all I WOULD catch, as it turned out...) was a few measly perch.

A FISH IS A FISH...IS A FISH...*SIGH*...I GUESS I'LL NAME HIM SQUISHY - A new bug hatch and lunkers lurking around made other types of fishing tough going on Lower Clam Lake. This little perch, and another of his buddies, was all I was able to land.

Up until this point, I must confess, I wasn't sure they weren't northerns I was hooking but not landing. A musky and a northern look very similar at first glance, and I'm used to having northern on the line. But that second night in the cabin, I did a little research on Lower Clam Lake, and found pike are not mentioned as part of the fishery at all, whereas musky are listed as 'common'. I further studied the markings - more brown, less green...more stripes, less spots...

Now my heart was racing mostly with frustration. I'd had two muskies on the line, two (fairly) big ones, and I'd biffed it, twice.

Then, Day 3, it happened again.

Again! 

Out of the forest of vegetation visible beneath the surface of the water just a few feet off the dock, another big musky hit my lure, and this time took it for a thrill ride. This one was smaller than the other two, probably in the 26 - 30 inch range, but he was a musky. I wanted to catch a musky. Big or small (and still recognizing the northern pike as my first love), the musky is the fish of legend and lore in these parts, a kind of rite of passage for anglers. In fact, a world record musky (67.5 lbs, 60.25 inches*) is on display in a bar in Hayward, Wisconsin, not half an hour from Clam Lake (and where this very week they were celebrating MuskyFest).  I wanted to go home and tell people about it, share pictures, post pictures here...and I was given a third chance to make it happen, to keep from having nothing but fish tales.

DOWN THERE SOMEWHERE - It was right in that little forest of vegetation, illuminated by the sun rising behind me on the Day 2, that two of the musky strikes happened.

This time, I was mentally prepared, at least. I had pretty much abandoned all other fishing and focused my attention on what I knew was lurking in the shallows around the dock, and I strategized: I didn't overreact when the strike came, I just loosened the drag a bit and responded to his frantic zigzagging and spinning himself out of the water (which happened three times) by trying to keep the line taut, keep control of the situation. My job, at least at first, was to keep him from escaping and just let him tire himself out.

Unfortunately, that's not easy to do when the animal's power and fight is causing your rod to bend into a horseshoe. When he found his way under the dock and hunkered down, I had a problem on my hands: how to get him out of there without snapping the line or the rod.

I pulled in some line, and this got him shooting out from under the dock without too much effort. He flung himself out of the water a fourth time in protest, then tried to take refuge under the Aquatoy. For whatever reason, he didn't like that situation, so he shot back under the dock almost immediately, and in the process managed to wrap the line around one of the poles.

Holding onto the rod with one hand, teetering precariously on my haunches at the very edge of the dock, I reached out and rocked the Aquatoy back and forth, hoping to create a wake that would nudge him back around the pole. After several attempts, and against all expectations, this worked. He circled around, unraveling the line, and shot off, and wouldn't you know? Snap went the line, just like that:  #3  - third fish in as many days - gone. Lure in mouth.




SO CLOSE, AND YET SO FAR - The mighty muskellunge of the northwoods now haunts my dreams.

Nearly all of this trifecta of failure was my fault. I came to Clam Lake completely unprepared: a little medium action rod with open bail reel, 10 pound mono line and little lures for relatively little fish. It's ironic, actually: you walk into any bait shop, and the largest of the musky lures are the size of surf boards, but all three of these bad boys hit lures designed for other species - the first two on a cheap spinnerbait with a single Colorado blade, the third on a 1/2 ounce bass jig. The lesson: don't overthink it. Just cast out. You never know.

The musky tends to be the apex predator in any environment, which I theorize might explain why, in this little inlet, there didn't seem to be any other fish. I suspect if there are musky of that size (and potentially larger) lurking in those waters, claiming territory, as musky do, they've eaten or chased away all the other fish.

Don't overthink it, yes, but you do have to know your adversary. After that third fiasco, I drove into town (the town of Clam Lake), and bought testier line, some more leaders, and some large spoons, and a frickin' net (not bringing one was my biggest mistake...). My heart was still racing, but now anger had joined the party. I feared I had missed out on three - count 'em, three - golden opportunities, and would not be granted a fourth.

And I was right.

I fished all the rest of that night, and was up at 6 a.m. the next morning, on a mission. No luck. I worked different lures and different presentations, concentrating on the patch of vegetation where two of the strikes had happened. I fished spoons, top water frogs, went back to the spinnerbaits that had worked, the few jigs I had left. No luck. 'Check out' arrived promptly at 10 a.m. on Day 4 and we reluctantly left this beautiful hideaway.

No luck. No glory.

LAST CHANCE - On a morning so quiet I could hear the factory sounds of my own brain at work, I made one last vigilant push to catch a musky on Lower Clam Lake. No luck. No musky. No glory.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't frustrated when we left, to the point of being a little pissed off.  Part of this is a childishness I've dealt with my whole life. I'm crazy competitive (not in a good way), and a sore loser...and the pettier the thing is that I've lost at, the bitchier I become. I avoid board games and card games, if I can. Anything where I'm largely at the mercy of dumb luck. Successful fishing takes patience, knowledge and skill for sure, but at the end of the day, it's largely a matter of luck. You either cast out and hit where the fish are, or you don't...and those 50/50 odds have always tormented me a little.

And yet, as I pulled onto the highway that morning, I did have the self-awareness at least to be philosophical. I realized: what am I bitching about? No, I didn't land a musky, but I got to spend three days with nothing to do but try, in just about the only kind of place I'd ever want to be in the summertime. And anyone who is living correctly knows there's a built-in glory to be found in even a short time spent as close to nature as possible.

On a lake like this, in woods like these...

-----------

* Cal Johnson tells the story of his record musky, landed in 1949: Click HERE...

* Being too petty and competitive can lead to controversy like THIS...

Wow...maybe I'm okay almost catching smaller muskies. ;-)

On the longest day of the year, a little northern goes a long way...

The Chippewa River is still raging; there are currently fast-moving water advisories in effect. They're geared primarily toward floaters and boaters, but they also mean that the current at my spot just below the Xcel Energy dam is sure to be torrential.

I went back to Halfmoon Lake instead, on this, the longest day of the year. This is it - the pinnacle - the most daylight we're going to see - 16 hours at this latitude. The summer solstice happened at 12:38 p.m. this afternoon.

Now, the days get shorter.

It's all downhill from here, you might say, but tonight I didn't. Tonight, I didn't distract myself with long thoughts, I just stepped into the moment. That's what fishing is about for me, what it's really good for; the moment at hand. And there was a hell of a moment to step into this evening. I couldn't have custom ordered better conditions. Temperatures in the mid-70s, no wind, low humidity. And being the longest of the year meant the day lingered a while, eased its way slowly, a little reluctantly, or at least cautiously, into night. The further north you are, the more protracted this phenomenon is. Beautiful.

Other people had the same idea; the lake was pretty crowded, both on the water and along the shoreline. But with no motors allowed on Halfmoon (other than trolling), a certain peace and quiet is preserved. Specific things going on in the city of 65,000 surrounding the lake are audible - distant rock music from some open air bar, the occasional clangs and pounds of industry, the ever-present whine of highway traffic - but for the most, you hear only the bucolic sounds of nature and people's absorption of it, and into it.  Everyone was catching fish tonight - myself included.

PICTURE PERFECT - Conditions were ideal on Halfmoon Lake tonight; the longest day of the year seemed to linger around, reluctant to go.  I couldn't blame it.

I landed a northern, and that really made my night, totally brightened my mood. I love northerns; far and away, FAR and AWAY, they are my favorite fish to hunt and catch. Ever since that Big Missy business two years ago, the bulk of my angling time has been devoted to the species. They're listed only as 'present' in Halfmoon Lake (as opposed to 'abundant') so catching one there leans toward unusual.

But the fish I brought in was itself not unusual in the least. He was smallish, but a true blue northern pike nevertheless: aggressive on the hook, and ferocious in my hand, thrashing wildly, making hook extraction a tricky business, looking for any opportunity to get hold of a finger. You really have to be careful with northerns, even the small ones; they have teeth, not to mention a coat of protective slime on their bodies that shouldn't be handled, if at all possible, for their sake.

Pike are known for their bursts of speed, and this guy had that on lock. When I placed him back in the water, he didn't just swim away. Instead, he seemed to disappear in an instant, vanishing like a puff of smoke.

With the same crawfish crank, I caught a few decent bass tonight as well. They're aggressive too, of course, but not like the northern pike. Northerns are definitely my fish of choice. Someday I'm gonna plan a trip up north, way up north, where the trophies live.  Hunting for northerns in northern latitudes.

Halfmoon Lake is a suitable alternative when the river starts to swell

Last week I was at my spot along the Chippewa River, throwing a spoon, and twice had a northern come after it. The first one hesitated at the last minute and turned back. The second one hit the lure full on, but I didn't react quickly enough. He let go and disappeared.

Neither of these fish was the lunker I had on the line two summers ago, that I called Big Missy (funny, I'd come up with a better name now...), but they were decent sized, what you might call eaters, and both came shooting out of the darkness of the Chippewa River, out from beneath the rock and old street curb structure that lines the spot where I fish, with a speed and ferocity worthy of their species.

Last weekend, we got a lot of rain. We were on the northern fringe of the system that brought so much devastation to Texas and Oklahoma, and the Chippewa is almost at flood stage as a result. I figured it would be, but I headed down to my spot like always, hoping for a chance to perch myself somewhere above the rushing water.

No such luck. My usual spot was under at least five feet of water, and the current was so strong retrieval was almost impossible. In addition, the alarm was going off on the dam, a repetitive descending blare letting people down stream know more water is on the way and to not do something stupid, like trying to carry on business as usual.

I went to Half Moon Lake instead, specifically Braun's Bay, near Carson Park, where Hank Aaron (yes, the Hank Aaron), spent the early days of his career.

Halfmoon is small, 135 acres, and not all that deep, dipping down just 9 feet. But like the rivers (Chippewa and Eau Claire), we are blessed to have this body of water so easily accessible, right in town. And Braun's Bay has a nice park-ish feel to it, which I guess is a double edged sword. On the one hand, it's crowded as hell most of the time, not only by other fishermen and picnickers (and so forth and so on...), but water fowl. (Seriously, there's a resident population of ducks and geese who are not as wary of humans as they should be, and a couple hours shoreline fishing here has revealed that Canada Geese can be real assholes sometimes.) 

But being a park means Braun's Bay is managed. It's kept clean and landscaped. In the evening, as the sun sets, it's exceptionally nice. A calm settles over the water, the city of 65,000 surrounding it is hardly detectable, and you can almost always hear a barred owl on the other side of the water, calling into the gathering darkness. Motorized craft is not allowed on the water (with the exception of a trolling motor), and this adds to the peace and quiet....or preserves it.

I've caught my share of bass and crappie on Halfmoon Lake. All on the small to average side, but full of fight nonetheless. Although they reportedly exist in some numbers, I've never caught a northern, or heard of anyone who has, on Halfmoon...although I might just rent a canoe or kayak and see what I can find beyond the bay.  Kayakers are common place here. One morning last summer, I watched a kayaker ply her way through water like liquid glass in the stillest part of the dawn, and disappear with barely a ripple into the brightening mist. Standing on the little dock, I thought, I want to be her.

Hey, if I fished in a pedal boat, I can fish in a kayak. ;-)

PLENTIFUL - Bass are (almost)  a sure bet at Eau Claire's Halfmoon Lake, if you can put up with crowds and ornery waterfowl. A grasshopper crankbait seemed to be the preferred lure for this and several others, on an afternoon when the Chippewa River was threatening to crest.

2015 opens with the usual headaches and hazards, and a storm rains on the parade, but it still feels great to be out

Yesterday was beautiful in the Chippewa Valley of west central Wisconsin, one of the first days that felt legitimately like summer - clear skies, 80 degrees, no wind, no humidity and no (or few) bugs...which is more like spring, not summer, but still part of a pretty package delivered for the state fishing opener. All of these factors combined made it especially hard to shuffle off to work rather than the nearest waterway.

I consoled myself by saying that all those waterways were going to be snarled up on opening day anyway; more trouble than it would be worth. Might as well wait a day or two, so as not to have to brave the Black Friday-caliber crowds.

I went out late today, Sunday, thinking that by suppertime, my go-to spot along the Chippewa River would be vacant, the initial rush of anglers mostly dispersed, home to face the oncoming week.

No such luck. That stretch of riverbank just below the Xcel Energy dam was more crowded than I've ever seen it, in fact.  I don't really mind. At least, I don't feel like I should have some special claim to private space. I just wish hell that I did, because elbow-to-elbow fishing is kind of depressing.

I really got to get a boat.

On top of all the densely populated fishing space, I was greeted with the usual open-bail reel problems - line jumping off the spool, getting tangled - and in the water, the usual ceremonial feeding of lures to the river. There's a lot of rock and cement structure before the drop-off where I fish, and while this can be attractive to certain species, it's perilous to artificial bait users like myself.

To that end, I really should consider using live bait more often. I've done it before, but the results haven't been good enough to sell me on switching over completely. Besides, I like the challenge of casting out, tailoring my presentation and retrieve, figuring out what works and what doesn't. And I'm not a big fan of sitting there waiting for something to happen. I've seen people with three poles all propped up in a row. They lounge in a lawn chair by river's edge, sipping a beer, watching for the faint jiggle of a rod tip and prepared to spring into action. Groovy. But I can't sit still for that long.

It was a short outing tonight, on account of severe weather that rumbled through the area. While this was a drag, the approach of these storms was itself an interesting experience. As the sun disappeared and the sky darkened, I could feel the change. That is, I could actually feel the pressure drop - the air 'felt' different - and the temperature dropped significantly along with it. I think there's something about being out fishing that makes us more aware of these types of phenomenon, makes us, in the best of moments, more aware of everything.

As a general rule, the time preceding a cold front can be good fishing; the time after a cold front passes usually makes for poor fishing. I didn't really have time to take advantage of the pre-cold front though. I should have been out much earlier for that, but alas, had to work again.

I knew the storms were coming before I went out, but it must have been a fast-moving front, because when I checked the radar before leaving the house, the line of action was over the Twin Cities, an hour and a half to the west. I figured I'd have a solid hour, at least.  But by the time I reached the river, barely ten minutes later, the leading edge of the front was already visible. Within half an hour, the sun was swallowed up and I spotted the first mammatus clouds, which almost always precede a storm. Not too long after that, it was dark enough for the lights along the top of the dam to come on.

I was one of the last to leave the river, stubbornly staring down the approaching storm, wanting to get as many casts in as possible, fantasizing about telling the story of how I wrangled a big northern just as the rain started to come down in sheets. But that big northern never struck, and when I saw my first bolt of lightning, followed barely two seconds later by a clap of thunder, I called it. There were some dieharders still on the river when I left, and two guys who showed up about the time I was leaving. They told me the were going to wait/ride it out. I admired their nerve, if not their common sense. I can't imagine it worked out too well for them; the storm was vicious for a while. It rained like hell for half an hour, with peanut sized hail and straight line winds that really did turn the rain into sheets.

A short season opener, and no luck on the line, but also no complaints. I could stand out there for hours and not catch anything and not want to be anywhere else.  And I did.  And I have.

And I will.

Magnificent eagle nest cams come with a responsibility that should not be taken lightly or dismissed

Their names are Blair and Taylor. They are a pair of breeding bald eagles in Trempealeau County, Wisconsin, not far from where I am. For the last few years, their lives in and around a nest high atop a cottonwood tree have been monitored via live video stream by an elementary school classroom in the little town of Blair.

On the surface it would seem a golden learning opportunity, and an exciting one at that. For those of us whose elementary school years are just a decades-old dream at this point, and who probably never came closer to learning about wild animals than the pages of a World Book encyclopedia, the thought of having a full color, full sound, real time glimpse into the nesting/brooding habits of these birds, a glimpse that was largely unimaginable as recently as fifteen years ago, at that age, is especially fascinating. In other words, I envy these 3rd graders. The animals are completely unaware that they're being watched, so what the students (and the world) get to see is truly unprecedented - animals acting like animals, with no sense that they should act otherwise - no guard up, no defensive posture, not so much as a stitch of wariness to alter even their most primitive responses and interactions. It can be mesmerizing to watch, and the fact that it's the bald eagle makes it especially cool, considering thirty years ago, when I was a third grader paging through World Book volumes, the species was virtually non-existent in the lower 48. Since then, our national symbol has made an incredible comeback.

But while it's a miraculous age we live in, there's a caveat inextricably linked to the process of setting up and enjoying cams like this, a responsibility to a code of conduct, particularly when it's all being shared with young children.

As the students in Blair have found out, animals do not live in a perfect world. Mother Nature is pitiless. Not cruel...'cruel' is a human attribute...but pitiless. Things happen and there is no rhyme or reason, and the answer to 'Why...?' is always, 'Why not...?'

Granted, there are degrees to this. The Blair eagles have not had quite the same luck as the eagles in Decorah, Iowa, for instance, a truly remarkable live feed that got a boost a few years back with the help of The Huffington Post, and has since commanded a world-wide audience, with total views over 300 million.

Those two eagles have had a relatively stable existence. They have problems to be sure - several of their fledglings have not survived (2014 was an especially bad year), they endure wicked weather, harassment from owls, biting flies in June, the ever present risk of electrocution from power poles, and (I'd bet) a heightened stress from people who show up to view the nest in person - but for the most part they seem to keep things together during the nesting/brooding season, probably because there has been little interaction with other eagles. Most of their eaglets have fledged successfully.

In Blair, things are not so settled. According to a recent story by Betsy Bloom of the La Crosse Tribune, the male eagle has had to contend with a rival, and was for a time vanquished from the nest. This left the female with the chore of brooding on her own, as the new male would not help incubate another's eggs and wanted only to mate with her. As a result, she's been forced to leave the eggs unattended for long stretches of time in dangerously cold temperatures just to find food for herself. And what's more, she's not even the original female.

That's par for the course in the eagle (animal) world, cold and pitiless, and I wonder how all of it is being explained to the students in the classroom as it plays out. The folks involved with the Decorah, Iowa nest, the Raptor Resource Project, take responsibility in this regard. They do not name the animals, or any of the components of the animals' lives. The two nests that have been built over time are called 'N1' and 'N2', and a similar letter/numerical nomenclature is employed when referring to the eaglets.  This may sound sterile and kind of joyless, but it helps avoid the natural inclination we all have to anthropomorphize, which can lead to an emotional investment none of us have any business having when it comes to wild animals.

I have no reason to think the same sort of precaution isn't taking place in Blair...although already, they have named their eagles, Blair and Taylor, after their school system. A branch adjacent to the nest, where the eagles often perch, is referred to as 'the den'. And post after post on the website describes the goings-on as though Blair and Taylor are the friendly old married couple that lives next door and everyone's just doing a little back fence gossiping. To be clear, I'm not meaning to be too up in arms about it. I'm not such a jaded asshole that I forget these are kids we're dealing with. I completely understand that part of their classroom project should be about having fun. The website address is www.eagles4kids.com, after all...

I simply caution that it's critical the school kids in Blair, and elsewhere, understand exactly what it is they're watching, that by design, Nature is pitiless, but for this, a flawless plan emerges that should not be interfered with, a narrative that should not be altered to suit human sensibilities. It would be a grave mistake to indulge their desire to view the animals as classroom pets, or mascots...'Mr. and Mrs. Eagle' ruling the woods from on high. That would be dysfunctional, and could be potentially devastating, were something very run of the mill in the wild - but shocking to them - to take place on camera, before their eyes.

Misfortune has already been the rule this winter, and worse things could happen. The new male (also given a name: 'Mister') could attempt to dispatch the chicks after they're born if he's still hanging around (assuming the eggs hatch), they could at any time fall victim to opportunistic predators, it's not out of the realm of possibility for an older eaglet to commit fratricide, or they might simply perish under the care of what seem to be inexperienced parents.

Anything could happen, and really, we should expect that it will, and thus remain cautious about blurring the lines between 'us' and 'them'. A smart, well-adjusted - and yes, a little detached - view of nature doesn't kill the experience. In fact, it enhances it.

With the ability to watch these animals comes a responsibility to let the story tell itself, and accept the ending as part of the finest story ever told: the diversity of life on this blue marble.