For centuries, humans have been seeking retreats to the quiet corners of the world. Unencumbered by the trappings of modern society, one is given space for deeper thinking, contemplation, and recalibration. Like many, I too often fantasize and read stories about the simple life lived somewhere in a remote cabin.
The personal Walden that I find my mind returning to most often recently isn’t the romanticized log cabin somewhere deep in the woods, but rather a single room garage on a wide parcel of land containing a section of a pristine trout stream in the Driftless region of southwestern Wisconsin. This is a place that served as Phase 1 of my friend, Ana, family’s cabin. I refer to it as The Grove.
In the spring of 2018, the spring break of my senior year in college, I would devise a most soul nourishing road trip. I’d start by making the drive from Milwaukee to Dubuque, spending a night with my older sister, Lauren. Then I’d head northeast back into Wisconsin and spend the day and one night solo at The Grove. From there, I’d stay with my younger sister, Hannah, at her dorm room in Minneapolis, before heading up to Duluth to do the same with Dean. After that, I’d make the long drive from Duluth down to Appleton and spend a couple of days with my parents before completing the loop back to Milwaukee.
I love road tripping, always have. I yearned for the equanimity that sometimes can only be afforded by a long drive made solo. I wanted that time of reflection interspersed between focused visits with some of my favorite people and places. I wanted the time and space to recalibrate. And with any luck, I wanted to hold some trout.
After a great visit with Lauren and about an hour drive north through limestone bluff country, I remember leaving the pavement and entering the bumpy and iced over dirt path that borders a corn field leading to The Grove. It marked a physical departure from the city and roads that had filled my day-to-day for the past few months, back to something more elemental and unstructured.
I arrived to find the garage just how I had remembered it from my first visit in the summer of 2016. The accommodations inside of its walls were simple but not uncomfortable. There were a couple of beds and a cot to sleep on. A picnic table in the middle of the room provided a place to eat and tie flies. Mounted brown trout, caught from the creek that flowed through the property hung on tongue and groove planked walls. Deer head mounts in an assortment of rack configurations and sizes sat on the ground, patiently awaiting a position of prominence in the future state of the cabin. A kitchenette that contained a sink, coffee pot, and refrigerator made you feel like you were living the high life. The absence of a bathroom gave it a true camp feel that I appreciated.
I remember the contents of my trunk being sparse and unorganized. Of course there were the essentials; the fly rod, waders, and backpack. A small bag of clothes, a sleeping bag, and a pillow. My fly tying supplies that I keep in an old Plano tackle box. Food consisted of some bananas, muffins, a can of chili, and a six pack of Cutthroat Porters that I found at the Hyvee in Dubuque. I was, and still am, a sucker for trout related brews.
The fishing that afternoon was memorable. Not because of an abundance or length of trout caught, but because I was able to observe my first hatch of that season. Approaching a deep bend sitting directly beneath a steep hillside, trout were sipping something hatching from the rifle at the head of the pool. On hands and knees, I scoured the bank for a sign of insect life and found the answer crawling over patches of snow. Tiny black stoneflies, one of the first insects to hatch on Wisconsin trout streams each spring, dotted the snow like specks of ground pepper. I tied on the smallest pattern in my box and was rewarded with subtle takes from appropriately sized brown trout.
That night I would enjoy a couple of Cutthroat Porters and a bowl of canned chili while tying up a handful of pink squirrel nymphs, a legendary early season pattern in the Driftless region. In the morning, I would use one of those nymphs to bring what was, at the time, one of my better brown trout to hand. After that morning session on the creek, I rode back down the iced over dirt path and turned onto the pavement, towards Minneapolis.
Dean and I would make a return trip to The Grove later that year, in June of 2018. We loaded up my blue Santa Fe on a Friday afternoon with our gear, instruments, and a couple of grocery bags worth of food and drink. We arrived in the late afternoon, quickly unpacked our provisions into the garage, and headed directly for the creek.
The evening hatch and ensuing rises were delectable. These were formative years for both of our fly fishing philosophies, solidly living by our ‘Dry or Die’ fly selection mantra. We lived for evenings like these when trout leapt half moon arcs with a joyful gusto as soon as your fly met the surface film. Of those trout that were brought to hand, we saved a single brown trout for the frying pan that evening. Enjoyed with a side of ramen noodles as instructed in our lifestyle anthem, Trout Bum by Chasin’ Steel. Washed down with an unpretentious Stella and a Coke. It was glorious.
After dinner, we sat out on the driveway in lawn chairs while watching the sunset project roses onto the underside of clouds above the rolling hills. The only decision that needed to be made for the following day was what time to set the coffee for. Sleep tends to come easy and restful in this state of mind. The soothing symphony of crickets in the fields just outside the window didn’t hurt either.
We awoke the next morning to the timed sputtering of Folgers being brewed in the coffee pot and were on the stream around 5am. The temperatures that afternoon would reach into the upper 80s, downright uncomfortable for coldwater trout and humans alike. We took advantage of those early hours where the surrounding bluffs cast long shadows on each pool and water vapor covered the valley in an ethereal haze.
We both found our share of trout and solitude that morning, enjoying the stream to ourselves. Hopscotching each other at times and other times resting to watch the other work a pool with their dry fly. At a certain point, the stream could hide behind the sun no longer, and we gave the water its rest. We rode into the nearest town on the wings of Flatt and Scruggs tunes and headed directly to the Driftless Angler fly shop. We basked in the AC and the trouty ambience. We cracked jokes at the hyper specific fly pattern names that dotted the fly bins, and bought ourselves new hats.
The afternoon was lived at an unhurried pace; picking at our instruments, tying flies, and killing time before the evening hatch. Just like the previous day, we were back on the stream in time for some phenomenal dry fly action. And just like the previous evening, we saved the last two trout of the day for our meal. Pan fried whole with some oil, salt, and pepper. With a side of ramen noodles and a beer, you bet.
That night we sat out on lawn chairs again overlooking the valley below, watching the sunset fade and fireflies appear. We workshopped song names for our newly minted quasi-fictional bluegrass group, Brook Trout Revival. Tracks with titles like Home is Where You Hang Your Waders and Creek Chub Blues. Laughter and stories rolled on deep into the night under the crispest Milky Way we’d ever seen.
That evening marked the last that I would spend at The Grove. From the pictures that I saw last summer, all phases of the cabin have since been completed. It looks gorgeous, comfortable, and accommodating. But in my mind, it is still that single room garage where I retreated to untangle my college aged thoughts while chasing brown trout within walking distance of the cot I woke up in. And to this day I continue to visit it from time to time, in that simplified state, whenever I’m in need of an escape.
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