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History
Mining guano.
The word “guano” originates from the Quichua language of the Inca civilization and means “the droppings of sea birds”. Incas collected guano from the coast of Peru for use as soil enricher. The Incas assigned great value to guano, restricting access to it and punishing any disturbance to the birds with death.
Bat Guano has been harvested over several centuries along the coast of Peru, where islands and rocky shores have been sheltered from humans and predators. The Guanay Cormorant has historically been the most important producer of guano; its guano is richer in nitrogen than guano from other seabirds. Other important guano producing species off the coast of Peru are the Peruvian Pelican and the Peruvian Booby.
In November 1802, Alexander von Humboldt studied guano and its fertilizing properties at Callao in Peru, and his subsequent writings on this topic made the subject known in Europe.
The high concentration of nitrates also made guano an important strategic commodity. The War of the Pacific (1879 to 1883) between the Peru-Bolivia alliance and Chile was primarily based upon Bolivia’s attempt to tax Chilean guano harvesters and over control of a part of the Atacama Desert that lies between the 23rd and 26th parallels on the Pacific coast. The discovery during the 1840s of the use of guano as a fertilizer and its Chile saltpetre content as a key ingredient in explosives made the area strategically valuable.
In this context the US passed the Guano Islands Act in 1856 giving citizens discovering a source of guano the right to take possession of unclaimed land and entitlement to exclusive rights to the deposits. However, the guano could only be removed for the use of citizens of the United States. This enabled US citizens to take possession of unoccupied islands containing guano.
By the end of the 19th century, the importance of guano declined with the rise of artificial fertiliser, although guano is still used by organic gardeners and farmers.
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Treasure hunting
{Geocaching is a high-tech treasure hunting game played throughout the world by adventure seekers equipped with GPS devices.}That being a fairly common and accepted definition I want to toss out a few treasures one may seek and find in the Superior National Forest.
The first would be to get tot the top of stairway portage at 430 in the morning. Once there you can sit through a three hour sunrise so vivid in a myriad of details I can’t take it all in. I know, I have had to return many times to gaze out over Rose Lake if just to look down on the backs of soaring eagles and turkey vultures. On one morning I was struck with the thought I could roast a hot dog on the end of a stout stick with the solar flares of brilliance from just one sunbeam.
On the west shore of Little Kekekabic lake rests a downed an ancient cedar tree. Tie off to its watery end and sit there until you catch at least one lake trout with edible flesh so orange in color you can taste it. Just the amount of effort to arrive will have you spend a quiet afternoon in a lake, compared to all the mighty water you will ford to arrive at that puddle, it will seem as though it’s your special water.
Try a brisk fall foggy leaf turned morning paddling along the north shore of McFarland Lake. Not once have I been able to crook my neck far enough over and keep the kayak or canoe upright and be able to see the summit of its southern shore. When you take the last bend you can shoot like grease through a goose into Pine Lake. Massive rafts of mergansers in the fall before freeze up will watch you arrive as they fish the flow through.
How about seeing the seven natural wonders of my little world. Portage from Pipestone bay to Back Bay and then stay along the southern shore and don’t stop until you get to Wind bay. Boreal forest, pristine blue water, glacial erratic rocks laid down from the Canadian Shield, air, pure fresh clean air, islands big and small, a skyscape so vast about midnight you can grab a star, and the only noise, is your own paddle strokes.
Maybe it’s just my lucky timing or maybe it’s just the moose’iest place, but if I could guarantee a moose sighting I’d send you to Jasper and Kingfisher Lake. Every trip in there at least one of the big hairy critters along those hillsides has appeared and my best one time total was one massive racked bull with six cows attending. I saw a herd of moose with some amazing headgear.
This year when I’m not fishing I’m pictographing. Gonna start with something easy, South Hegman Lake. Hope to see you there. The trout whisperer
pardon the interruption but the mother ship is having technical difficulties..will post more when there glitches get repaired
When you get into guiding there are costs. Some I just don’t count on. Some expenses I hardly ever run into. But once in awhile I hit a cost over run that the tax man no matter what, won’t let me write off.
There is an Irish PHRASE:”Iocfaidh mise don gach rud” PRONOUNCED: “uck-igg misha dun gock rud” and its meaning translated to English is as follows. I will pay for everything! I have never heard that on any of the camping trips I’ve been on spoken in Gaelic, English or the Superior National Forest.
To make matters worse, after the trips conclusion, my client said he lost his wallet when it was time to square up for the trip. I uttered a phrase in English I really shouldn’t’t repeat or translate.
All four days he borrowed lures, his tackle box within easy reach, and my favorite scotch couldn’t’t compare to his southern mash, not to mention dug my candy stash out first, and ingested with guiltless abandon.
He offered me our minnows when baiting up, but wasn’t to sure he should fillet the fish at the end of the day since I was so much better at it.
He paddled his half of the canoe when he wasn’t amazed by the scenery just before each rocky point. Then his paddle went to full rest and we glided past with his oratory about how lucky I was to be able to come up into the bwca and see all this anytime I wanted.
He strolled about, I set the tent. He went swimming, I got the firewood. During the entire trip I remember thinking at least I don’t have to swat his mosquitoes.
On the third day he wanted to make sure this would be an annual trip. Could he book me right now for next year? Not knowing what the fourth day wasn’t going to produce I said we’d have to see if the timing is right for you and my schedule works out, but that might be okay.
On the fourth day at the take out, I loaded all the gear while he searched for agates. Then, when he didn’t pay me, I heard in my own head,”Iocfaidh mise don gach rud”. The trout whisperer
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For other uses, see Lamprey (disambiguation).
Lamprey
Fossil range: Late Devonian–Recent Pre??OSDCPTJKPgN[1]
Scientific classification
Kingdom: Animalia
Phylum: Chordata
Class: Petromyzontida or Hyperoartia
Order: Petromyzontiformes
Family: Petromyzontidae
Subfamilies
Geotriinae
Mordaciinae
Petromyzontinae
A lamprey (sometimes also called lamprey eel) is a parasitic marine/aquatic animal with a toothed, funnel-like sucking mouth. Translated directly, their name means stone lickers (lambere: to lick, and petra: stone).
in a medium sized covered roaster set four pounds of beef roast…thick sliced or whole makes no diff…….slice four sticks of butter over the beef and add to this four large soup spoons of minced garlic…bake covered at 350 for one hour and forty five minutes….holy smokes it melts in your mouth
clouserflyfishing.com
the clouser minnow………
Last month the ice along the shore of Lake Superior was grinding like a giant slushy. To day it’s tinkling along as far as I can hear, much like the sound of a slowly moving set of tinkling wind chimes. Thin little bits of ice. Long glassy plates of translucent ice and I am pretty sure this past week I’ve seen every possible ice configuration that could form on a line, short of the lines, used on the ascent of Mount Everest.
You ever try to figure out what color ice is. At one angle its black or silver white. I’ve seen ice blue as any sky. Driven over Black ice, ground through gray ice, and ice with hues of pink from a rising sun. Ice on fire from the ball of orange setting sun. Ice, has a hard color to get my mind around.
Every cast, minus a fish, is laden with slivered shards. My rod guides in the low 30 degree air temps act as line scrapers. Then I have to set the nine foot rod down, clean and clear the tip, wind it all back up, and cast it out again, minus the ice, clear as this crisp air. No color, colored ice.
Why this all becomes ice’ingly important is Lake Superior is doling out salmon candy to those patience enough to bobber fish the open water. I get the accidental looper or steelhead and their fun to catch, but this time of year, at least to me; they taste abit like a popple tree. It’s the salmon I want. Silver sided, coming out of the lake, and oh what an orange glow coming out of the oven.
These past few mornings have been magical. The skip jacks, as we call the smaller salmon start to hit right after the sky goes pink in the east. The bite lasts until the big lakes winds come up for the day. Then the slammin salmon day is over.
Today it ends with me being blessed with two beauties. Neither weighs over three pounds. If I kept track of how many line cleanings to catch one, the average in ice scraping would border on the ridiculous to some, but fore me. I probably knock as much ice off the end of my nose in any given morning.
Two geese flute back and forth to each other as they swim past me. I can’t see any ice forming on the big birds. I wipe my nose of my jacket sleeve and wonder how they can be swimming in that liquid refrigerant.
I lay the salmon in the back of my truck in a cooler. Strikes me as very funny that the fish really don’t need to be in a cooler. It’s also amazing looking at the sides of the salmon; suddenly match the very color of the ice. Ice for today, at least, is the color of salmon. The trout whisperer
Somewhere in the future a baby will be born. Boy, Girl, no matter, and I have no preference. This little person will grow up and wonder hopefully as I have, For instance,
I wonder if I like cigars, like my grandpa did. Then from my comfortable perch in heaven I will hit the “oh that’s a given” button. Since its heaven, I will also hit the” but no smoking till your old enough, switch”.
Since my cigars probably got me up yonder earlier than necessary, I can from a distance still be a great grandpa, right? I can’t erase all the photos of me making smoke, and I really don’t want to. I may be the exception, but whoever invented a fine rolled stogie will always have my respect. Wonder who invented cigars?
But the little tyke of the future will also question things like, should I use a Mcginty, or one of those ancient Mickey Finns. Since the Irish lineage must persevere I will gently, with a mere wisp of my angelic wings tip the balance to the Mcginty of course.
The fly will sail forth and light softly at the head of the pool and as my second generation offspring lifts ever so slowly on the rod tip, the progeny of some Wiley strain of brook trout with a skewed eye will snap at the fly.
The fish dives and the rod responds with bowed arc and it’s on. I will be jumpin around in my white robe trying not to make to much ado but cheering with every fiber of me being for a solid hook set.
One sturdy fish with a staunch regard for nothing but light flour and real butter after a serious tussle throwing water and snagging some underwater obstacle, but with deft care by the rod holder in playing the fish ultimately to the net gets my feet back on my cloud numbered nine.
Now if it’s my grand daughter who brings the fairest of trout to creel, the man in her midst must now be a gentleman by congratulating her in all haste. I mean a big fuss over the rod handling and fly selection with special aplomb on the knot selection that held that nineteen inch fish.
Here is where she softly tips her cap, and just loud enough for all to hear, “my gramps taught me that knot before he went to his trout pond, up above”. Um, I think I’d send a small breeze across the rivers surface for her perfect testimonial about then.
If it be my grandson, well then he best light one for both of us right then and there. Nothing like fine tobacco to settle my nerves and the quicker the better after a nineteen inch kyped jawed male the likes of which I saw once in all my years of brookie fishin on earth. Up here, I catch twenty inchers all the time. No, really, you can’t lie once you’re up here, honestly.
With me hopping and flying all over the porch up in heaven it would surely draw a crowd of eternally winged fishing fans. They all ask almost at once what the fuss is about and I would say how my great grand child just put the touch on one of the finest brook trout ever reared from a wild one spotted egg in the darkest streams still flowing in the boreal forest.
Oh, can you hear that heavenly sigh? The music plays, they all congratulate me for inspiring my earth bound kin with the desire to fish.
I float just abit off my cloud and humbly announce it was all I could do; I mean it was “his will”, as I point to the big office with the trumpets pealing, up the golden road next to the biggest set of pearly gates in heaven.
Right over by the pond guarded day and night by retired game warden angels with the twenty four incher brook trout swimming in it. I wonder if God owns a nine foot five weight? The trout whisperer
troutwhisp