Living in the middle of nowhere has its positives and negatives. On the up side, I have all the wide open spaces I could ever want, curtains in my home are optional, and locks on doors and cars are almost an unnecessary accessory. Unfortunately, all this freedom to roam means it takes me several hours of road time to get nearly anywhere, and my options are extremely limited (and expensive) at the local farm store that doubles as a hunting and fishing supplier. I honestly don't know how I ever managed to purchase anything before the inception of Amazon Prime, which I thought was the best thing since sliced bread...that is, until I discovered Mystery Tackle Box.
     I choose to ignore Facebook ads just as much as the next person, but the little banner that kept proclaiming my 67% discount on my first purchase just kept popping up over and over, and in a weak moment, I clicked on it. That one click led to watching a shameful number of Mystery Tackle Box unboxing videos on YouTube, which then led to watching videos of the lures in action, which then led to watching fishing technique videos, which ended in a particularly confusing video demonstrating the Walleye Whip/ Nae-Nae. Look it up, it's a real thing. But I digress.
     Long story short, I decided I was worth the $5 for the first month, partially in hopes it would curb the urge to binge at my infrequent stops to Bass Pro--how "I just need some new line and hooks" turns into "I need a credit line increase on my card," I have no idea. Must be something they pump into the air in those stores. Soon enough, my first ice fishing box arrived at my doorstop. I actually ran to the house, clutching my little brown parcel; since I am built for comfort and not speed, running is a big deal. Pausing long enough to haul out some photography lighting equipment, I grabbed my pocket knife and broke the packing tape seal. Let the unboxing begin!
     Now, I chose an ice fishing box because I live in Illinois, it is winter, and I'm bored with life and need an excuse to get outside. I have never ice fished before, and aside from a new pole and reel I got for Christmas, I have zero gear for winter jigging. The learning curve is steep with this adventure, so thank goodness for the little "What's Inside" card included in the box so dummies like me can figure out what exactly is in my shipment. Well, the little card and the Internet, of course.
     Right away, the 15/16 ounce Hatch Natural lure from Lunkerhunt caught my eye (and the tender pad of my thumb, thanks to its extremely sharp treble hooks). Blame it on my comfort zone of bass fishing, but this one seemed right up my alley, and I plan to give it one a go in warm water as well as cold. Past that lure, the rest were far more unfamiliar. A vertical jigger from Hildebrandt, a rainbow tungsten jig from Kenders Outdoors, and the Lucky John Baltic lure, covered in hooks on three sides, left me more puzzled, but that didn't stop me from weighing them carefully in my palm, holding them from the eyelet to gauge movement, and even squint my eyes to imagine what a fish might see in cloudy water. My box rounded out with some neon anise bombs, similar to my Wisconsin Mini-Mites for bluegill and crappie, and a pink Lindy Watsit jig in an alluring water bug shape. I think I spent a solid hour poking, prodding, and arranging my little box of joy, and I'm not ashamed one bit. Best $5 I have ever spent, and that includes the time I got an extra nugget in my 6-piece order from McDonalds. That's serious stuff.
     Spring will come, and my Mystery Tackle Box shipments will switch to bass as the temperatures rise. Unfortunately, Mother Nature isn't cooperating, and my ice fishing dreams are being stymied by unseasonable temps and open waters. I can't even carve out enough time to head up to the good old "hard water" of the Wisconsin Northwoods, but for the time being, my new additions are sitting right on the table where they belong, ready and waiting for a temperature drop which can happen at a moment's notice during the late part of an Illinois winter.

     Icy roads. Below zero wind chills. Barely glimpsing the sun as it rises and sets while I'm still at work. Spending most of my days indoors because I live in a state where the winter air hurts my face. Don't get me wrong, I love snowflakes and winter wonderlands just as much as the next person, but after New Year's Day, I'm ready for spring.
     Last fall, I started kicking around the idea of getting a boat. Nothing special, just enough to float myself away from treelines on the half dozen or so farm ponds that I frequent...a step up from the S.S. Pond Scum paddleboat (see exhibits A and B for the stories), if you will. I even toyed with the idea of a fishing kayak after enviously following a friend's fishing adventures on Facebook. I shared my plan with my dad, and my boat dream grew one step closer to reality when he proposed going splitsies on one; however, this wouldn't just be any old boat. We were now searching for The Boat. A 16', modified V, tiller-operated bass boat. One that could comfortably fish four people, complete with casting decks, slick compartment hatches, a live well, 30-horse Mercury motor, and trailer. "Fall is the time to buy; no one wants to winter a boat!" he proclaimed. We searched from Labor Day through Christmas, finding deals on Craigslist, the local shopper adds, and via text message from a fishing buddy in Wisconsin. Several times, we thought we had The One, but for one reason or another, it never quite worked out for us.
     I'm not saying our search for our ultimate boat is over, but I need somethng small in the meantime that I can manipulate by myself, something I can throw in the back of the truck and go at a moment's notice. Something without a trailer or motor. Something cheap. When a friend showed me Jon boat to bass boat conversions on YouTube, I was sold, convinced that I would join the Tiny Boat Revolution sometime in the spring.
     Apparently, I am terrible at judging timelines. On a Tuesday, I fell in love with the Tiny Boat idea. On Wednesday, the perfect boat crossed my path from Craigslist, a mere 15 miles from my house. On Friday, with the thermostat on my truck reading a flat zero degrees, I traded some of my precious bow fund money for a 12' Jon boat, frozen to the ground. We ratcheted it in the bed of my truck and I hauled it home, blasting the heater and thinking of warmer days on the horizon.
     I have a lot of work ahead of me from now until spring. Designing my layout has already begun, but I have to figure out how to keep down the weight so I can lift it in and out of my truck by myself. A winch and trolling motor are certainly in my future, and I'm currently in the market for a couple of gently used pedestal seats. I'm more concerned with the solo operation than the construction, but everything will work out in the end, just you wait and see. For now, my Tiny Boat is pushing me to finish up some jobs around the house so I can begin working in earnest with a clear conscience. Suggestions are welcome, donations are appreciated, and critics will be tolerated to a point as long as you're lending a hand during construction because I'm proud as punch that I managed to buy myself a boat, a truck to pull it, and a Yeti (not 110, but it still counts) iced down before topwater season hits.

     It's funny how life has a tendency to boomerang back around, how patterns tend to repeat themselves if given enough time. My grandparents started the tradition of vacationing in Wisconsin when my dad was a child, returning annually to the same fishing lakes to hook for walleye and pumpkin seed bluegill every August. Dad continued the sojourn with his family, and I got my first case of swimmer's itch in the chilly waters of Little Yellow Lake the week I should have been starting second grade. I distinctly remember how clear the water was, how I could see every fish floating below me as we spent hours out in the boat. That was the last trip north we took as a family before farming took over all our free time, and for better or worse, the fishing was replaced with livestock and hay, boats sold for tractors and barbed wire fence. But the lakes were still there, quietly waiting. They knew we would be back.
     This August has been a frantic blur of work sprinkled with a healthy dose of change. In the span of three weeks, I turned all my energy towards home improvement projects and preparing for the coming school year. My floors are refinished, walls are painted, and light fixtures are installed. Free time has been spent preparing for a new teaching partner and setting goals with students to achieve during the year. To save for a new bow, I started picking up extra work and can be seen moonlighting as the scorekeeper for the local junior high baseball team. My fishing holes have been neglected, my turtle trap is empty, and my shooting is far from perfect. One week into the new school year, and I needed to escape, recharge, and decompress.  With a cooler full of decidedly unhealthy snacks, duffle bags quickly stuffed with whatever clean clothes were nearby (and without toothpaste, as it turned out), and a fistful of state maps and atlases, my dad and I hit the road on our first father-daughter road trip as the dog days of summer stretched thin.  I think my blood pressure dropped ten points the minute the car turned north at 3:25 on a Friday afternoon.  We had no reservations, no itinerary, no checkpoints, no responsibilities--just a couple of poles and 60 free hours together.
      I had a sneaking suspicion that our destination-less trip would happen to lead to the lakes when, after three hours, we crossed the Illinois-Wisconsin border and made an immediate stop at The Grotto in Dickeyville, a regularly-visited site in my family on all trips northward.  If you have never been, go, absolutely go. The assemblage of shells and glass shards into a religious sculpture garden was just as fascinating as I remember as a kid, made even more meaningful when I realized the last time I had been there was with my dad, almost 27 years earlier to the day.  I am slightly taller, my dad is slightly grayer, but the little tourist trap was just as shiny and captivating as it was all those years ago. I smiled like an idiot the entire time.
     After our pit stop on memory lane, it was back to the open road. Four lanes turned to two and straight stretches grew further and farther between. Cute little town after cute little town passed as we headed further north, eventually stopping on the border of the Northwoods, where you truly can't see the forest for all the trees and corn is refreshingly absent from the view. Thanks to some great friends who had no problem with us crashing their weekend, we pulled into Little Spider Lake outside Arbor Vitae with rods and tackle boxes in hand, quick to jump from car to boat, wasting no time in getting to the launch. Oh, how my little soul loves the water!
     Everywhere we looked, there was fishable water--lakes, ponds, rivers, streams. We counted 35 boats passing us on the road in 30 minutes; I swear, the watercraft far outnumber the cars for our neighbors to the north. Cruising around on the Sea Nymph had me fishing with both hands--topwater baits cast into lily pads to scour for bass, neon green mini mites under a slip bobber for panfish. Frantic lure changes were made to jigs tipped with pork fat, to not waste time when we trolled from spot to spot. Leeches, Senko worms, swimbaits, and frogs all made their way out of my Plano cases in quick succession, a veritable kaleidoscope of fishing options to try in the clear deep water. It was like Christmas, and I couldn't have been happier. I caught perch, watched a bald eagle dive for prey in the water, was captivated by a loon surfacing 50 yards from our boat, crooning a haunting call over the water. We fished in the mist until it was too dark to see, milking every last minute out of the day as possible. Every cast may not have been perfect, but it was perfect for me. I could have been eight again, hair tangled in the wind and fish grime under my fingernails, back in the boat with dad.
     Somehow, he knew exactly how bad I needed this trip. The eight hours we spent fishing was worth the 16 spent in the car, the imbalance of time made right by quality time spent with friends, a new deck of antique fishing lure playing cards, and a shiny musky crankbait as long as my forearm, purchased from a hole-in-the wall bait shop, that is begging to be used, and soon. I hear winter comes to the Northwoods in October, and I need one more trip before ice fishing season. In the meantime, dad and I are planning a new adventure, maybe westward this time, perhaps creating a new tradition for the years to come. And we have pinky-promised to own our very own boat in the very near future, just you wait and see.

     I wish I could report that our scum-busting project was a success and the pond waters are now crystal clear. Unfortunately, our chemical treatment seems to have just slowed the scum down, not stopped it completely. Like a zombie horde, it slowly advances on the pool of open deep water near the dam, fed by fertilizer runoff from the cornfield to the west. On the plus side, the narrow pond neck, choked with weeds, makes for a perfect spot to practice flipping frogs, if that type of fishing is your cup of tea.
     I'm not the type of gal to admit defeat easily, and I know the fish are still in there, biting happily under the weeds. If I can just push through the frustration of dragging in clumps of vegetation with every cast, I know I can catch a doozie. But wait...what if there is a better way to fish here? What if I commandeer the paddler and try fishing offshore?
     I loaded up the little paddleboat one summer afternoon, the first I had free after spending a month on the road for work. Sunny and 75 degrees, with just a few clouds skittering across the deep blue sky, the pond couldn't have looked prettier (minus the green ring of slime around the circumference). Stocked with lures, soft baits, two poles, sunscreen, and an iPod, Pond Scum and I pushed off from the shallow water at the dock and paddled for the heart of the pond. 
     Since I was fishing alone, with no one to critique my efforts, I chose to cast for panfish instead of search for bass. I found a little crappie jig in my tackle box and, with furrowed brow, set to work. Colorado spoon first, followed by an electric lime Crappie Thunder soft lure, tipped with red sparkle crappie PowerBait. It may sound like the kitchen sink approach to fishing, but I thought it looked pretty appealing. Apparently, so did the fish.
     8-7-2, my final tally for the day. As I cast for hours from the little paddler, the fish just kept coming. Bluegill first, aggressively hitting on what felt like every other flip, bending my light pole in a beautiful arc as they dove and fought in the warm water. Crappie came next, silvery and spotted, some small enough the lure filled their maw completely, some large enough to make a nice-sized fillet. I even managed to snag two nice bass, probably due more to the frustration of the spoon than the temptation of the bait. To my mother: yes, I stood in the boat; no, I didn't wear floaties; and yes, I was just fine. Even better was that I finally ditched the my glove, proudly palming my fish and only getting spined once or twice by an uncooperative catch as I gingerly retrieved my hook from their mouths. Pink from the sun and with a permanent smile of joy, I headed to the shore at dusk, fish grime coating my hands and full-hearted from yet another beautiful summer day on the water, more convinced than ever that a boat is in my future.

            All I wanted to do was catch a crawdad, but those elusive crustaceans have evaded me, and I’ve about given up. However, my little trap has proven more than capable at snagging turtles, so my summer mission has changed from “let’s have a homemade crawfish boil” to “let’s eradicate the turtle problem in the farm ponds.”
            When I say my parents have a turtle problem, I mean they have a TURTLE PROBLEM. Little painted and box turtles, while harmless and fairly picturesque as they sun themselves on the banks and half-submerged snags, exist in numbers that are only found in zoos and other artificial habitats.  The real problem, however, are the alligator snappers that have moved in and taken hold.  We find them from time to time crawling through the yard, angry at the world and ready to lop off an errant toe or finger that strays too close for comfort.  Snappers in large numbers can also wreak havoc on fish populations, and without any natural predators to take care of them, our ponds have been blessed with more than our fair share of these prehistoric pains in the neck.
            Long ago, my grandpa used to butcher snappers as a delicacy during family fish frys.  I swear, that man would eat an iron skillet if it was battered and fried, but turtle was one of his favorites. In the summer, he kept a bucket and wire in the back of the truck to pick up any turtle unlucky enough to be crossing the road as we passed by.  Now that grandpa is gone, no one is interested in going through the work of cleaning a turtle, even though he left us a nifty instructional video to guide us along the way…not to mention the fact that eating turtle is strongly frowned upon by the IDNR (and the law).  I’m not about to shoot them in the pond, so catch and release is pretty much the only option I have left.
            A month into trapping and I’ve netted ten turtles: seven painted, two snapper, and one hybrid that didn’t look quite like either category but was super feisty and smelled like rotten fish.  They seem to like my bait of cheap hotdogs, particularly after they have marinated in the warm pond scum for about a day. Sometimes, little bluegill fry work their way into the trap as well, and I find their half-eaten carcasses floating among my turtles like the unwanted tidbits left on a toddler’s plate. My favorite turtle was the one that somehow passed through the pond overflow after one of our rare rains, landing in the scour hole pit installed at the bottom of the dam to stop the bank from eroding. Who knows how many days he had been there, but as I laid on my stomach with a dip net to fish him out, I could almost see his little turtle lips mouthing “it’s about freaking time, lady.”
            All my catches get carefully relocated to area creeks and streams, except for one particularly sassy specimen that I deposited in a friend’s backyard. I hope they all find a happier life away from Broken Arrow Farms, and I’ll continue baiting my Turtle Catcher Pro for the rest of the summer, checking it daily for fresh meat like a kid on Christmas morning.

     I am not a hot weather person. I envy those of you who can soak up the sun and turn golden shades of brown, living life as usual even when the mercury rises above 90 degrees and there isn’t a cloud in sight. My parents always tease that I come from “hearty peasant stock,” blessed with extra natural insulation that would make a finished show steer jealous. My skin is of the burn-and-peel variety; SPF 75 was made for me, and my typical response to the constant comments of “wow, you got some sun today” is “nope, that’s just my typical summer color.” I don’t tan, I just turn a darker shade of clear with new freckles popping up like morel mushrooms in April.
            My particular physical characteristics make my outdoor adventures a little more challenging, wearing long sleeves when everyone else is in tank tops, fishing from under a tree even though it increases the number of times I snag a limb, and avoiding touching people so they don’t notice my skin has the texture of a greased pig from all the layers of sunscreen I’m wearing. So when my buddy suggested we try night fishing, I was all in—moon burn isn’t a thing, and I’m naturally a night owl anyway.
            We set out at 6 pm with windows down and fishing gear loaded. I had spent the week at a conference, so when I got home, I took just enough time to ditch my suit for fishin’ pants and grab my tackle box backpack as I ran out the door, pulling on my boots as I beat a path for the pond. By now, my truck can almost drive itself the 13 miles from my house to the ponds on country blacktops, and I know it takes precisely 23 minutes to make it from one driveway to the other. Twenty-three minutes is forever when all you want to do is get outside and fish.
            Our fishing hole for the evening was another half-hour drive away, tucked in the heart of Hancock County where blacktop ends and gravel begins. We had our choice of four ponds to try, and after visiting with the landowners and a glass of sweet tea, we grabbed our baitcasters and topwater frogs and got down to business. I’m still struggling with my frog, and had been blanked on the last several outings with it because I just can’t seem to set the hook correctly. I blamed the fish, my friend blamed the pole, but now I had no excuse because both were new and primed for success.
            As usual, my buddy was catching fish hand over fist while my performance was fair to middling. I had one nice bass to his five, minus the mud I managed to get covered in when I dropped my catch at the pond edge. However, as the sun touched the horizon and everything turned that gold color that only happens on June summer nights, we moved to a new pond and my luck changed. Four hogs (by my standards), all in a row made for some of the best fishing I have had to date. I swear my scale is off, because one I would have wagered my truck title would scale five pounds was just a hair over three and a half. Regardless, they fought like monsters and made the night perfect.
            As the stars came out and the mosquitoes thickened, our luck turned cold at pond #3. It didn’t matter what we tried: topwater baits, Senko worms, poppers, soft crawdads…nothing. The only bites we had were ones that would itch the next morning, but it didn’t matter. I’m learning the best part of fishing is the act, not the outcome, and as we loaded up and drove home, I started counting the days until the next night fishing trip.

     I heard them coming far before I saw them. The tell-tale rustle of leaves in the tree line to my left broadcast the movement of some woodland creature, and as I continued to cast my line into the shallow water along the bank of Lake Argyle, I started guessing what might be working my way through the underbrush and hickory saplings.
     All of my fishing this season has been on private ponds with easy bank access and zero competition. Today's outing was different, and the whole family packed up and headed to the lake for some early Sunday fishing. As we jockeyed for space along the cattail-covered banks and competed for the best slab-netting setup, we quickly realized the fishing was going to be less than stellar. Our theory was confirmed by the half-dozen boaters trolling by, lamenting the lack of action on the water and wishing us luck with our bobbers and lures. The only part of the outing that was going as predicted was the heat and humidity, which had us shedding layers and reaching for sunblock before 9 am. 
     While I was on the cast, sweat, and repeat cycle, I started guessing about the animal headed my way. I was familiar with the incessant rustle of squirrels pestering me from the tree stand, and we had just released a juvenile raccoon just yards from my current fishing spot that had been robbing my parent's apricot tree at night. Last fall, I even had a coyote run practically into my lap before it scented me on the ground, but based on the amount of rustling I heard, I wasn't expecting something that large. Bowhunting had taught me the beauty of absolute stillness, so I sat tight to wait and see what was coming, since there was little to no chance of having a fish on anytime soon.
     What I never expected to see peeking up at me was a little brown face on a long, sleek body. At first glance, I thought the world's largest rat was headed at me, but as it emerged onto the bank with its mother and littermate, I realized I had a mink family on my hands...or rather, on my feet. Up to this point, I had only seen one other mink in the wild as it skittered across a gravel road, so I checked again; no hairless tail to indicate a muskrat, too small for an otter, wrong color for a weasel. The kits were blissfully unaware that they had encountered a human, and the mother was fairly unconcerned as well. As she surveyed me without fear, the babies ran up to my feet, sniffing my sneakers and consulting with each other in quiet mink chirps. I held my breath and quietly snapped photos, hoping they wouldn't notice my movements and run away or attack my ankles, for getting a rabies shot was not on my to-do list for the day. When they moved on down the bank, I reeled in my lure and ran back to the rest of my family to share the unbelievable experience. I believe my direct quote was "I don't even care if I get blanked fishing today, that was the coolest thing ever!"
     I probably shouldn't have said that last sentence, since I did turn up a goose egg for fishing for the day. Even after relocating to another lake, I was the only one who caught no fish; swimbaits and soft plastics just didn't compete with my mom's bucket of nightcrawlers. However, I don't really care; not only did I get to spend a beautiful day fishing with my family, but I scouted out two new fishing locations, experimented with a bunch of new baits, and had a once-in-a-lifetime experience to boot. Not too bad for a humid June morning.

     There is no denying the simple fact that I am not an overly lucky person. Now, Murphy's Law doesn't chase me around, torpedoing my every move, but Lady Luck just doesn't grace my presence very often. My sister can win $125 on a penny slot machine, and my friend can win a car off of a $100 raffle ticket, but my strand of luck tends to be more of the "oh, I found a peanut M&M under the seat of my car" variety. However, every desert gets rain eventually, and my patient adulting paid off handsomely this past week.
     June has been pretty challenging for me. Most teachers drop the mic and the grade book on the last day of school and run away fast enough to kick up dust in the parking lot.  Ag teachers, however, don't share the same luxury and spend most of the summer working and attending conferences and conventions. Until this past year, I had no problem with any of that, relishing the trips and hectic schedule. However, as the fish are biting and the Illinois weather is at its most beautiful, I'm foaming at the mouth to get outside, only to find myself stuffed into a suit in windowless rooms where I actually have to be professional and make decisions. Don't get me wrong, I love my job...but it's hard to take a #TrophyTuesday photo with a stack of financial reports.
     I was on week three of the travel circuit at our annual agriculture teacher conference. As a member of the board of directors, I had a little more responsibility than usual, and was more concerned that everything flowed smoothly than taking time to relax and reconnect with my Ag Ed family. On a whim, I tossed my name in for a door prize drawing of a Go Pro camera, knowing in my heart that it wouldn't come to anything, but the booth was on my way to my next meeting, so I may as well give it a shot. Folks...I won. I WON! Immediately, my thoughts turned to experimenting with filming my hunting and fishing (miss)adventures, so look for that on the horizon. I can't promise you will see anything good, but I can guarantee a laugh or two as you get to witness my flailings firsthand. As my friend so kindly pointed out, "now we can see all the deer you miss with your bow in real time!" Who needs enemies when you have friends, right?
     Winning the Go Pro turned my conference around. As I walked out the door after the last session with my suit coat over one shoulder and the camera under the other, I took a deep breath, knowing the only thing that stood between me and a long-overdue evening of fishing was a three-hour drive and a stop at Bass Pro. Maybe this is a sign that the 2016 hunting season will be a success, but for now, I'll kick off my heels and speed home, because I hear the bass are biting hard and I'm headed for the pond.

     I thought I was having hearing problems when my fishing buddy asked if I wanted to try dead lining for catfish. This comes from a tried-and-true, 100% bass fisherman who considers all other species subpar to the glorious largemouth. However, my sweet mother loves a good piece of fried catfish, so apparently exceptions can be made in the fishing world to bring back a treat for momma. The invite also made me realize that I have focused WAY too much on building a nice bass tackle box and was woefully unprepared for any other type of fishing. Folks, I didn't even have a single treble hook at my disposal. Pathetic, I know. Looks like I'm headed off to Bass Pro again!
     We set out to a friend's pond around 7 pm with two old poles and a bag of stink bait. As a kid, I had fished for cats with a regular hook, bobber, and chicken livers the color of pond scum that hadn't seen the inside of a hen for many moons. With this background, I was totally confused with the fishing rig we assembled: a swivel with two leader lines attached, one to a treble hook, and the other to a series of weights that I can't recall the name of, but probably should have paid more attention to for future reference. I learned to mash my wad of bait around the hook like the world's worst ball of cookie dough and cast into the water in a spot guaranteed to be teeming with whiskered beauties. And then the dead lining training began.
     Now, my buddy referred to this type of fishing as hand fishing, but where I live, hand fishing means sticking your unprotected digits into the murky depths, skimming along the bank to find a hole where a fish (or snake/turtle, if you are unlucky) may be tempted to bite on your wee fingers, hauling in a catch in the most manly of ways. I am not a manly fisherperson, so this type of fishing is NOT for me. What I did learn to do is also called dead lining, where you release enough slack in the line to hold it between your fingers, feeling for a bump in the line as a fish hits on (or takes) the bait. You then set the hook by jerking on the line, and then reel the fish in when you've made your catch. Sounds easy enough, but as usual, it takes me a while to get the hang of new things. We won't talk about that first cast that went directly into the weeds, or the number of times I set the hook on imaginary fish only to reel in a hook stripped of my bait.
     I couldn't believe how much more I could feel by not using the pole to fish. Not only could I feel every twitch as the bait skimmed the pond floor, but I felt bluegill tapping on my line in the water, as well as nibbles and strikes on the bait itself. My first catch was little more than a fry, probably all of 6" long and barely big enough to take the bait. I did far better with my second fish, a 2.5# female that took the bait all the way to her guts, so we had no choice but to clean her. I had no idea that catfish actually make noise, and as she croaked and flopped on the short walk back to the truck, I focused hard on not getting spined as I squeezed her slimy body, repeating "Do a good job! Do a good job!" with every step. My dad graciously gave me a lesson on cleaning catfish at 10:30 at night, and mom wound up with a nice hunk of meat for the pot, although I hear some people like the tail fin even better than the meat itself. I think I'll pass on eating fried fin chips, but I'm looking forward to my next night fishing experience to test out my new skills. Night fishing 2.0 is on the horizon, and I promise I'll be more prepared next time.

     Spending the last few days baling hay with dad has been fantastic. Dirty, loud, and hot, but every time our tractors met in the field and we gave each other a formal tip of the hat, my heart grew three sizes in true Grinch fashion. However, I don't want everyone to think I'm neglecting my mother in my adventures, so this post is dedicated to her and our scum-busting afternoon.
      Our ponds have fallen to the scourge of summer pond scum. I swear, this is no ordinary scum; there is scum growing on the scum in places. You can't cast anywhere without dragging in a pile of slime, weeds, or some mysterious green plant with the texture of fiberglass. My weedless frog even drags in weeds. For the sake of all pond life (and my personal sanity), it was time to do some aquatic habitat management.
     My mother is very proud of her trusty paddleboat, and nothing makes her happier than taking a spin in the S.S. Minnow with a kiddie-sized fishing pole, "trolling" for whatever is biting as she soaks up the sun. However, for our mission, we commandeered the paddler, now aptly named the S.S. Pond Scum, to attack the scooge (mom's term for scum) on a hot afternoon.
     Mom has a bad knee due to a series of unfortunate events, so she was the chemical brains and I was the paddling brawn, even though she protested "its summer, I can't science today" in a very convincing manner. Many people try to kill pond scum with regular herbicides and succeed in killing everything in sight, plant and animal. Careful to avoid a scorched earth approach to pond management, we used copper sulfate granules rigged in the most hillbilly fashion possible--a pillowcase, circa 1980, with a Shrek pool float stapled to the top as a floatation device, secured to a wooden rake handle with a rope attaching it to our boat. Classy, but effective. After testing our handiwork gingerly in shallow water, we set sail, dragging our sack of poison behind us.
     The whole treatment covered only a quarter of the pond, but took probably five times longer than necessary due to the fact that the scum was so thick it actually clogged the paddles under the boat, halting our progress and forcing us to paddle backwards until the clog belched out in front of the boat like aquatic roadkill. At one point, I hopped ashore and grabbed a pitchfork to physically sling scum out of the pond, despite the protests from my mom of "don't stand in the boat, you'll tip over and drown!" (Safety Alert: the pond was only 20" deep, so her motherly concern was appreciated, but ridiculous. It was a very "you'll shoot your eye out" moment).
     Time will tell if our experiment worked. I'm brainstorming ways I could rig a floating rake to at least get some casting lanes open, because the two-week waiting period is enough to kill me. However, the S.S. Pond Scum did its job mightily, and hopefully it will be ready to go for a night cruise this weekend. The crappie are calling, and I have sparkly red Crappie Bites and a new rod and reel that are dying to be used.