Open Source What?

The internet is an amazing entity. I've always had interests in the fine arts and not having a steady job has given me some time (in between looking for jobs) to check out some of the graphics packages that are available for free. You know what they say. TANSTAAFL. Well, the best things in life are free. Some cool software packages for 3D arts and such.

Blender: a cool 3D graphics/game creator. Open source. Free. Cool community.

gMax: another cool 3D graphics generator. There are tons of tutorials available.

Caligari: this was some software I used way back when I had an Amiga 4000. The environment is cool and pretty intuitive and it's free. I especially like the free-form modeling tools. v. 7.6 is the version I use right now.

Daz Studio: 3D Modeling software. Neat stuff. Some of it risky. Great for creating fantasy worlds.

GIMP: cool image manipulation program, sans the expensive Autodesk nametag. Neat painting tools. Fast. Also open source and free.

Thought you might like to know. The internet rocks!

Been some time...

The long days of winter doldrums are returning. My mother-in -law just flew back to Missoula. Snow has been falling since she left. She had hoped to don our snowshoes and trek through some winterscapes locally. I'm still underemployed, seeking to change careers. Oh yeah, we also had our 4th child. His name is Ian.

I've also picked up my paintbrushes again. It has been some time. I didn't realize how much I missed splashing paint and being creative. I've been looking at a lot of pastel and watercolorist websites in the hopes of entering some juried competitions. There are a lot of artists out there and they all think that a presence on the web is the next move for them to get recognized--or at least that's what I think they're thinking. Seems like we all get taken in in our quest for some magic bullet to solve all of our problems.

What is art, really? I have visited some sites and I wonder out loud why no one will honestly critique what some people pass off as art. Wussy art maybe. It's that touchy-feely PC tripe that doesn't want to hurt anyone's feelings about anything. Not even, "What exactly where you trying to say with that?"

Well, here's my attempt at fame.... And remember, I'm unique just like everyone else.

Boys and Pirates

I sat and marveled at my youngest child tonight.

My eldest has a dance class every Wednesday and Thursday. I usually get to stay home with the other two and we played pirates. Or I should say we plugged in some pirate music--you know the type with lots of "Aarghs!", "Shiver me timbers!", and pieces o' eight, and scurvy, and limes (which if you're in the know is a good cure for scurvy). With my wife gone, I blasted the music to my-neighbors-knocking-on-my-door decibel level . We danced and cavorted and wrestled and hit each other with plastic weapons. Finally, (after about 2 minutes) I got tired and sat down to watch. That's when it happened.

Boys seem to have this penchant coordination between imagination and thematic music. I know I had it. When I had the Superman the Movie soundtrack, way back when, I remember donning my cape, putting on my Superman Underoos and arranging my hair in an "s" shape, flying everywhere throughout my house. And here I sit watching my son syncopate to the rhythms, his golden locks bouncing along with his whole being, contained in this hypnotic farse. And I saw him lost in my smiling. It seemed that every grin that moved across my face for led him deeper into his trance, lost to an audience of only one. I saw my son in a way in which I will soon never see again or forget. So much of me, in some selfish way, wants to return to that unhindered time. A time before checkbooks and paychecks, fretting about the future.

Go get 'em Tiger.

Fall Fishing for Bows and Cutts

Don is a good friend of mine who lives in Missoula, Montana. He's rather large and has a great laugh, a scruffy beard, and often wears plaid shirts and blue jeans. He drives a beat-up 80s GMC. He's also native to the state. And that isn't too hard to tell, either. Most out-of-staters who can afford to live among the natives generally come from the left or right coasts and they drive shiny new cars. Most Montanans, knowing the weather will be at times quite brutal, are quite content to let their vehicles take the brunt of the seasons, of which there are only two: winter and road construction. My brother, who also lives there, says you can tell by the license plates where people come from as well. He sees them pull up to creek sides when fishing. Well-to-do fly fishers arrive in Escalades, Lexus crossover SUV's, and the other ne'er-do-wells--the natives and trout bums--drive up in their '88 Toyota Land Cruisers (of which I'm a proud owner of one) and rust-eaten pickups.

Since my wife is from Big Sky Country we try to get up there as often as we can. Sometimes that's in the Summer and sometimes that's in the Fall or Winter. Fall is my favorite time. Don, like all true Montanans, is an outdoorsman. So one Fall, I ask him, "when are we going to go fishing. You're a native. Take me somewhere where we can catch some trout."

He reflectively looked up into the sky as if to get permission from the fishing gods of the state (or maybe someone from the Department of Fish and Game) and said, "Yeah. I've got a good place. Can you be ready by 5:30 tomorrow morning?"

You know that you're with a fisherman when he says those magic words that equal "before daybreak." I told him I was on board and so we left the next morning.

We puttered up Highway 200 and talked about life and fishing and God. It was dark and driving through the canyon, which follows the Big Blackfoot, there really wasn't a lot to see. So we drove until the sun began to rise above the shoulders of Trapper Mountain. North of us was the gateway to the Bob and nearby a couple of lakes existed, Kleinschmidt and Brown's Lake. The latter was our destination.

We pulled up quietly and noticed that there were a few early risers with their lines in the water, some boaters trolling and us. We unhitched our boat, quietly slipped into the water, and puttered over to a promising looking spot near some downfall and tree limbs. My friend rigged up a small spinner and I did the same. I've got to be honest. It wasn't quite what I expected. I'm not that good of a fisherman and the idea of doing some spinning for trout kind of reminded me of going after bass, back in my homewaters of Missouri. I know that sounds kind of snobbish and it isn't intended that way. It's just that I'm in Montana, for crying out loud, and I want trout. So we trolled around for a little bit, probably about an hour, and we had the first fish on. It was getting close to noon and suddenly the action heated up all around us. I looked around at others on the lake and I heard laughter and splashing as trout after trout were being taken in. Granted, these are all stocked fish, but we had fun and we must have caught and landed a dozen or so each. We fished until about three when Don said, "I''ve got one more place for you." Then he gave me a little bit of lore. "The Blackfoot is a busy river in the Summer. There are a lot of rapids and canoers and kayakers as well as fisherman have to share the river. But after that first cold snap, the swimmers get off of it and that is the best time to hit it. The fish are looking to spawn and they are active. And if you get lucky, you'll be into some nice fish. I've got a plot of land up here by the river and we can get access."

One of the best things about being in Montana is that there are very few people crowding the waters. There are also abundant rivers and feeder streams that can keep any fisherman happy in three lifetimes and still the resource wouldn't be exhausted. You can go after 'Bows, Cutts, Bulltrout (although not intentionally), and Browns all in the same day. It is as close to heaven as I've been here on earth, speaking as a fisherman, of course.

We arrive at Don's place about 20 minutes later and he points me to an access point almost 200 yards from his property. "I'm going to go get the boat and hook it up and I'll be back in about an hour." He smiles at me then gets into his truck and in a cloud of dust motors off. Then I just stand there and listen to the music of the River.

The Big Blackfoot is an incredible River and arguably one of the most scenic in the state. Its headwaters are right between Rogers and Stemple Pass on the Continental Divide. From there it tumbles and flows wildly and playfull like a little child over boulders, digging out pocket water and flowing crystal clear as it hits the valley floor. Flowing through canyons, it finally reaches civilization in Milltown where it meets up with the Clark Fork of the Columbia river. Its native species of fish is the Bull Trout. But the habitat has been damaged because of dams and the like and the populations of this aggressive member of the Char family have dwindled putting it on Endangered Species list. As fry, this salmonid feeds on insects and as they mature their interests quickly move to other fish, and they often get them. They grow to enormous sizes and can top the scales sometimes in the 40 lb. range. Frighteningly beautiful fish.

At riverside I again pause to scout out where and how I'm going to fish. Being October, the water is a little and low, but it is clear and cold. I see a seam that look's promising out almost 10 yards away from me. I quickly tie on a tan Elk Hair Caddis and cast up from the seam and let the fly approach as quietly as possible.

Sometimes you get a connection that is just right. Your line lays out perfectly, the fly lands delicately and the trout simply sips and that's it. It doesn't get anymore complicated than that. I watched my EHC get taken. I lifted my rod and set the hook. It wasn't dramatic. It was a gentle sip and the fight was on.

My rod almost immediately bent over double as I saw the fish out about twenty yards when it made its first run. My heart started pounding and the adrenaline started running. My Trout Fisher Training took over. Turn the rod to 45 degrees. Tire it out gently. Don't horse it. Play the fish. It's a living thing. That's it, let it take another run. After a few minutes I had brought to hand a beautiful Cutt. Gently I held it in the water and knew I had to get a picture. My heart was still racing and my hands were shaking. It was like taking liquid gold from the water. With the fish still close I walked over the the bank and quickly took a picture and released it back into the water to grow even bigger. Boy was I grinning. The fish measured out around 20 inches. It was the biggest fish I had taken to date. The picture I had taken turned out OK. I was so excited that in the shot I had cropped the tail off. I didn't know if I wanted to fish anymore. It was, quite honestly, a holy moment. The sun was shining through the Douglas Firs and the water seemed to be singing again, and I felt like I was part of something really beautiful and fleeting all at the same time.

I did cast my line in the water again. I caught six more fish, all 'Bows, and they averaged around 14 inches and bigger. That almost sounds like it became boring. It wasn't, really. It was just that good of a day.

As promised Don did come back about an hour later. He looked at me, smiling. "Good spot, isn't it?"

My Kids and Fishing

Had some free time this afternoon and I took all three of my kids fishing. Now, I'm not hiding the fact that the real reason was so I could get my line in the water. But getting to spend time with them is more important. What tipped my scale was that my dad took me fishing, and it always seemed that I could never outfish him either. That wasn't the case today.

The wind has been blowing quite a lot and it has changed the beach where one of our tribs enters Lake Michigan. But there were still chromers frolicking. I had been reading and watching some videos on center pin reels and float fishing so I decided to try my hand at something like it. I used my spin caster (I know, I know. What's a fly fisher doing with a spin casting reel...) and kept the bail open as I threw some weighted spawn bags into the now formed lagoon. Several fish jumped again by the time I get my line wet. In fact, one of them did a complete gainer. I didn't have my camera to take that shot but it was amazing. Needless to say not even a bite. So, I grabbed my fly rod and helped my oldest daughter get some more practice casting. My other two children found some dead fish nearby. Overall it was a good time. I think with them, though, I'll go searching for Perch. I don't want to discourage them right away. But it is easy for them to have fun. I want to be like that. I want fun to bubble out of me for their sake. Dour is easy. Joy is sometimes hard to bring out. But being with them helps a lot.

Fall is here in SE Wisconsin. The weather has taken a decided turn for the more chilly and snow will be here soon as well. I was told that the steelies will continue to run until mid-October or so and some will even stay through the winter. All the tribs around here are milky and I'm still amazed that any sensible trout would dare venture through these waters. I miss those slick freestone streams in Montana, especially the Blackfoot.

Fly Rods, Reels, and Foofaraw

I've often wondered what makes a good rod a good fly rod. Fly shops can be some of the neatest and most depressing places on the earth. I build cabinets, so I'm not rolling in a lot of money. But like any good fly fisherman I'm addicted so I need lots of gadgets. How many zingers do I have on my vest now?

So, in Chicago there's this great Orvis store. I've been in there a couple of times very often drooling over the merchandise. Please don't misunderstand, I love good rods and good brand names. And if I make a purchase I will do so with thoughtful consideration. In fact, I love my Orvis rod. It's a great 9' 5wt. that I can pound some of the small streams around here with. But I've also got this Fenwick I've been fishing with for almost 15 years. It's big and it's got backbone--more than I thought. I just recently tussled with a 20+ lb. chromer and it held its own, proud to say. But I didn't pay a lot of money for it. In fact, my dad got it for me as a gift when the three of us (my brother included) all decided we wanted to fish with the fly. But it gets the job done.

You've got to admit, though having one of the cool rods on the water makes a statement. I see those statements all the time. In fact, we get so many guys from the Chicago area I almost feel threatened by an invasion and I've only been living in Wisconsin for about a year...is that normal? I almost feel that these are my home waters now and what right do you have to come fishing on our waters with your $3K outfit? Like I said, that's an odd feeling.

My mother-in-law gave me a bamboo rod one Christmas (she really understands me). I've fished with it one time. It was beautiful. I felt the ghost of Ernest Schwiebert standing right next to me. I didn't catch any fish, but I made sure that those around me were watching my bamboo get in some great action. And I felt in touch with the past. I was walking in the steps of Dan Bailey, Joe Brooks, Lefty Kreh, Bing Crosby, Schwiebert, et al. The list is endless. Nowadays, it's power fishing, trout bums, galore (I still secretly want to become a trout bum--I envy those guys).

So neophyte fly fisherman beware. You will plunk down mountains of cash for the simple pleasure of holding a piece of graphite or wood in your hands and you will lose sleep over the fact that you can't get out to the water fast enough.

Oh yeah, and wait till you decide that because you have spent so much money on that fly rod of your dreams you will now have to resort to tying your own flies.

I started this endeavor--you know fly fishing--almost 20 years ago. My dad got it all started when I was little. My brother and I went a lot--we cut out of work several times to hit a small, beautiful stream in Missouri where we grew up. I also married a beautiful woman from Montana. Of course she doesn't fish. I also watched A River Runs Through It too many times to count. But I guess the clincher was the fish itself.
Like Norman MacLean, the Montana of my youth was a mystical place. As a family we would travel to Glacier Park and camp and picnic. The clear streams flowing from the mountainsides were teeming with life. My first rig was a stick, some line, and a gold hook. One of my cousins said to me, "Just throw your line in the water. You'll catch something." I'm not sure if he realized what he was saying to me.
After a couple of minutes I did indeed have something. I caught a glorious little Cutthroat and I was caught myself with the magic and beauty of that fish. My mom took a Polaroid of my smiling, toothless, six-year-old face. From that point on I have loved fishing--especially for trout.

Thoreau wrote, "Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after." I partly agree, but I'm not a Transcendentalist. I do go fishing to catch fish, and more importantly big fish, but I also enjoy the beauty of the surroundings: the quiet of a pool, the chatter and singing of birds, the take of a trout on a dry. There's something immersive about the experience. In that way it does transcend reality and I'm thankful for it.

For the last few years I've been learning and practicing my dead-drifting technique. Never was I aware of the vast amounts of information regarding the various disciplines. I don't think I could go out on the water and point to a fisherman and say, "Oh, that's the Leisenring Lift." Rather, "Hey, that's a cool technique. I wonder if I could catch more fish that way." And that leads to questions and sometimes conversations and pretty soon it leads to shared stories and experiences. That's the good of the sport. Most fisherman love to talk about their passion. I do. That's why I'm writing of course. But I've also done it for a long time. Hopefully, some of my knowledge can be useful to others. I even have techniques that I like to use that others can benefit from as well. And I'm still learning. Especially in this area of the country, living on the shores of Lake Michigan. I've never gone after big fish before this. And I've had two encounters with Chromers. But I'll write about that later.