Lord of the (alleged) flies
How they stack up on the water
By Kevin ShortThe following events and situations may or may not have actually occurred. This may or may not be a totally fictional piece in which the names may or may not have been changed to protect my ass.
After spending four days bobbing around the Bays de Noc, Kerry and I headed west for a visit with the guys and gals at St. Croix Rods in Park Falls, Wis. We spent a pleasant afternoon musky fishing on one of the 14,000 lakes that dot the landscape of upper Wisconsin. That's right, 14,000 different lakes in the state of Wisconsin; way more than any man could fish in his lifetime.
We had a great afternoon, but no musky. There were seven of us in three separate boats and we probably made the obligatory 10,000 casts throughout the team without a single nip. We're on for a rematch with the muskies next year.
We left the North Country and headed south for a little side trip and some scouting at one of the venues we will be visiting next season. I'm not saying which state the venue may or may not be in. It might have been on the 2008 schedule. It might be on some sort of a direct route from Park Falls, Wis. to Mayflower, Ark. You might get your map out, follow along, and use a little imagination.
There might be only one campground close to this venue. It might be a nice enough looking place as you drive down the dirt — not gravel (actually it was sand with some pretty good potholes in it. I thought I was going to have to get in the BassCat to get through one of the holes) — road.
It's a field.
With 6 trees in it. Maybe 6. I didn't take a hard count.
That's cool. In a barren, grassy field kind of way, cool. Kind of.
We pull up and locate a likely looking grassy spot to drop the Lance.
Wow, there's a train. Wow, it's pretty close to the alleged campground.
We get busy unloading the camper, which usually takes us around 15 minutes.
Hey, another train. Dang those are close. And loud. I can not only hear it, but feel it too. It's rumbling through the grass. Seriously.
It was pretty cool that afternoon, so we left the windows in the Lance open to enjoy some of the fresh air in the grassy field. Just two busy little bees in a grassy field, getting things set up in and around the camper.
Wow, another train. They sure have a lot of trains around here. Holy crap, that's two trains; one going each direction.
After getting things squared away in the Lance, I'm outside working on getting the boat uncovered and ready to head to the alleged river and the flies descended upon me like a plague of... well, like flies. Like the flies of a thousand camels had infested the BassCat. Damn, I knew it was dirty from being on the road for a month, but come on already.
I killed 23 and never moved. They were like Elvis — freakin' everywhere. Where did they come from? The things were paired up and doing the fly nasty on the BassCat (But not for long. I cut dude short on that one). This is crazy.
Wow, another train.
Kerry went to visit with the supposed individual who was in charge of the alleged campground to pay us up for the night, check-in, that sort of thing. She asked the supposed person about the trains "Oh, yeah. You get used to them after a few days. In fact, you wake up in the middle of the night if you don't hear one."
I'm not really liking the way that sounds.
And how 'bout those flies, are they always this bad?
"You mean the gnats? They're not so bad right now."
Wait a minute; I read "The Lord of the Flies". Gnats? Gnats? These ain't no stinkin' gnats. We don't need no stinkin' gnats.
I kill 11 more "gnats" in the camper. Death to the nasty infidels who try to invade my Lance!
Wow, another train.
We last until around 10:00 p.m. with the windows open in the grassy field with six trees (maybe six). At that point, we've been in the alleged campground for five and one-half hours and we've heard a total of 17 trains go by. Countin' them off with hash marks on the marker board. We close up the camper and kick on the AC. Thank you RV Products for the air conditioner in our Lance.
By the next morning, there are 32 hash marks on the marker board. Those are just the ones I kept track of in my mind. I'm sure I slept some time during the night and missed a few. (We found out later that there are supposedly and allegedly upwards of 100 trains that pass by each 24 hours. That's one every 14 minutes. Think it was actually closer to one every 20 minutes. Like it makes a big difference.)
I head for the alleged body of water. Kerry heads off in search of another campground in the area. At the end of the day, I've traveled approximately 90 miles up and down the alleged body of water and Kerry's traveled 80 miles on land. I've found some pretty good looking water and she's found ... not much more than we have at Fly Meadows. She has found one place, but she thinks it might be too far from town.
We roll back into the Meadows as a train rumbles by. I kill 16 flies between the truck and the camper. Another seven die trying to invade the Lance. I look out of the Lance at the BassCat and the flies are having a party. I realize that the boat is dirty; I've been in it for almost a month solid without a sure 'nuff cleaning. I leap out the door of the Lance, fly swapper in hand, and declare jihad on the flies. Twenty six die in the short-lived fly-fight.
Wow, another train.
We give up on counting trains and killing flies. What difference does it make? We can't stop them from rolling by ("Feel the Rumble" should be the tagline for this place) and we can't kill them as fast as they're training new flies for the war.
The horror. The horror.
Wow, another train.
Kerry drops me in the water the next morning for a short day on the alleged river after which we plan to drive south to somewhere in the next state. Somewhere where they don't have trains. Or flies.
I click off another 80 miles of looking at the body of water and meet her back at the ramp.
The first words out of her mouth; "I can deal with the trains or the flies. Today the ants and the grasshoppers showed up. One at a time, or even two, would be fine. But all four is just too damn much. I want you to go with me and look at this other place that I found."
Yep, I know when to get in the truck.
Wow, another train.
We roll out of town about 10 miles and pull into a small county park. Pretty nice. Hey, there are other people camping here. I pull up to one who appears to be friendly.
"How you doing?" I asked.
"Good. How you doing?"
"Good. You guys been here long?"
"Just got in last night and set up the rig."
"You hear any trains last night?"
Dude looked at me like I had just landed from another planet in a pink truck pulling a pink boat with "Team Realtree" down the side of both.
"Are you dreamin'? Ain't no trains around here. Only thing I heard last night was a few acorns falling on the roof."
I turned to Kerry "Make us a reservation here."
We roll back to Fly Meadows to retrieve the Lance and hit the road.
Wow, another train. At this point, I'm developing a slight tic when I hear the whistle blow.
I'm not sure that we shouldn't get Olympic medals for Lance loading that afternoon. Locked, loaded, dumped, hooked up, and down the sandy pothole trail we went. We left Fly Meadows at a high rate of speed just as — you guessed it — wow, another train rolled by.
Feel the Rumble.
For more info on Kevin Short or to contact Kevin, check out his Web site at www.kfshort.com.
