Beiträge von LenHarris

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When are you coming Rev?

NOT guiding.....
Fishing.

Len

It MUST be huge........

Law requires

They taste NASTY.......

If the mountains in the background look familar....They should......

They are the Alps.

I recently was a guest of an angler from the Munich Club.

I had a wonderful time.

I fished ALL day and only injured 2 trout while there and we GRILLED that evening.

I trout fish the most.

In the last 5 years.....

I average 1,500 trout a year.

I average 30 trout a year taken.

Middle road is the BEST in my opinion.

10 years ago............

I kept maybe 300 trout a year.

The catch/release movement has had some effect on me also.

and no scales?

What type are they called?

What would that carp weigh?

Len

Has gone to an extreme.

The majority of trout/pike/bass anglers are STRICT catch and release anglers.

It is so far one way nowadays that if you keep a fish you are frowned at when you leave the waterway.

Even injuried fish are released.

If the fish are BLEEDING they go home with.

I fish for the excitement of the catch and to eat fish.

I am NOT a believer in mixing Golf and Fishing.

To injure fish for the sheer joy of the catch is NOT fishing.....It is playing.....

Perfect sized Pike/Hecht for pickling.

Pickled Pike

* 1 cup white vinegar
* 3/4 cup white sugar
* 3 bay leaves
* 4 whole cloves
* 1/2 tsp. whole allspice
* 1 tsp. whole mustard seed
* 1/2 tsp. whole black peppercorns
* 1/2 cup sweet white wine
* 1 cup pickling salt
* 2 qt. cold water
* 1 lb. skinless pike, bones removed, cut into 1 inch chunks
* 1 1/2 - 2 cups additional white vinegar
* 1 medium onion, thinly sliced
* 1/2 lemon, thinly sliced

First day:
Combine 1 cup vinegar, sugar, bay leaves, cloves allspice, mustard seed and peppercorns in a saucepan. Bring ingredients to a boil and reduce heat. Simmer for 5 minutes. Cool. Add wine. Pour into a plastic or glass container. Let pickling syrup sit at room temperature for 4 days.

Mix pickling salt with cold water; stir thoroughly to dissolve salt. Pour over cutup skinless fish and refrigerate 48 hours.

Third day:
Rinse fish with cold water and cover fish chunks with vinegar. Refrigerate for 24 hours.

Fourth day:
Drain fish and discard vinegar. Loosely layer fish, onion and lemon in glass or plastic containers. Completely cover with pickling syrup and cover tightly. Refrigerate for five days, stirring once or twice during that time.

Ninth day:
Pickling is done. Pickled pike may be stored covered with the pickling syrup in a closed container in refrigerator for up to 5 weeks. Makes approximately 2 qt.

River is very small.

Flows into Wisconsin River that flows into the Mississippi River.

This is the typical carp for my area. But....this is a VERY large one.

Basic Instructions for Smoking Fish

The following are very generic steps that you can use to smoke your own fish. This is not the method that we use, but the principals are much the same and you may want to experiment a little with some different ingredients to create your own brine. You should always start with the basic brine solution that is listed under Step 1, and then add what you like to it.
You can read how we smoke our fish at The 3 Men's Fish Smoking Process.

Step 1

Brine your fish with this basic brine solution:

* 1/2 cup non-iodized salt
* 1/2 cup sugar
* 1 quart water

Stir until completely dissolved
Place fish in the solution, being careful to insure that the fish is completely covered with the brine and place in the refrigerator.
Thick chunks of 1" or more should be in brine 8 to 12 hours.
Thin chunks of less than 1" 6 to 8 hours is sufficient.

Step 2

Remove fish from brine and rinse each piece under cold water.
Gently pat dry and lay pieces on paper towel to air dry for one hour.
(After one hour you will notice the fish has a glazed film on it. This is called the Pellicle which is a normal and desired result of the brining process). When the fish is sticky to the touch it is ready.

Step 3

Smoke fish for about 2 hours at 200 F.
Use your favorite wood chips or chunks when smoking and experiment to find the taste that best suits your taste. Hickory, Alder, Apple and Cherry or combinations of these work well.
Add wood chips about every 30 minutes if necessary (depending on how much smoke taste you want.

To cut down on smoking time, remove skin from fish before putting in brine, then place fish in cheese cloth after the brine process (this helps get rid of fish oils faster and cuts your smoking time by about 1/4).

If you are feeling adventurous, try these alternative brines, which also work well:

Brine 1

* 1 quart water
* 1/2 cup non-iodized salt
* 1/2 cup sugar
* 3 ounces rum
* 1 ounce lemon juice
* 3 cloves garlic
* 3 Tbs. Pickling spice
* 1/4 Tsp. Lemon pepper
* 3 bay leaves

Brine 2

* 3 cups water
* 1 cup soy sauce
* 1/3 cup brown sugar
* 1/3 cup white sugar
* 1/3 cup kosher salt
* 1/2 teaspoon onion powder
* 1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
* 1/2 teaspoon pepper

I also ONLY eat them during very cold water periods.

I have caught fatter carp but not so long.

The dam i fish at is the first dam on a small waterway. The carp and hecht school up below the dam in january and february. I fish many different methods catch carp and hecht in february.

Kurt Gowdy Fiberglass Rod.

8 feet long.

The carp pool up below the dam in winter in my hometown.

They will take almost anything with yellow in it.

I caught this when it was 10 degree out.

Size 6 mickey finn.

Very slow retrieve. Fly was weighted with a wrap of tunsten.

Was about 40 minute battle.

The only reason I landed it was because of the fish being so cold. On a warm day i would have lost it for sure.

A Mickey Finn streamer. On a fly rod.

http://lenshomewater.tripod.com/id4.html

The Stream Of Time

The alarm clock was ringing in my ear. I couldn't
figure out why that thing was squaking in my ear at
3:00am. I sat up and reached across the bed to turn
the infernal thing off. I turned off the alarm and
laid down to go back to sleep. My bride of 35 years
then elbowed me. she said: " Get out of bed you old
fool." I responded: I am retired now, I thought we
threw that alarm clock away!" She said: "Len is
expecting you at 4am." It then dawned upon me.."I am
going trout fishing today!" I sprang from my bed.
Sprang is a relative word. As sprang as 62 year old
recently retired school teacher can sprang.
Today was the day. I was going to re-introduce
myself to my childhood passion. *Trout * fishing. I
quietly left the bedroom and brewed a pot of coffe. As
the pot brewed, all the memories of my childhood
fishing rushed over me. The day i was bitten by the
trout fishing bug. It seemed just like yesterday. I
have played that memory over and over again in my head
many times. It usually happens when the first cold
snap hit in late september.
My dad rolled me out of bed at the crack of dawn.
My Uncle Sig is already in the car waiting. The gear
is packed and all that is left is to get me dressed
and get me in the car. My dad hurries me...tells me
that we need to get on the water before it gets too
sunny. We are on our way. My dad turns the old buick
westward.
My dad and Uncle Sig are giddy with anticipation.
They are talking about old outings they took together
when they were young. My dad tells me about the first
time he went fishing with his dad. I had heard that
stories lots of times and smiled as he told the
story...The fish he had caught had grow again from the
last time he told the story.
The road gets long and I nod off. All of a sudden
my dad and uncle are almost shouting. Here is the
bridge! My Uncle Sig exclaims. My uncle exits the
buick and and gets down on all fours and crawls up to
the bridge's edge. He peers over the bridge and then
he crawls back and comes running to the car. Uncle Sig
is really fired up. He says: "Young man there are a
couple nice browns under that bridge with your name
written on them!"
My dad places me downstream from the bridge. My
uncle Sig is in the sneak position again. He crawls to
the edge of the bridge to aid me into placing my cast
properly.
My dad directs my cast with the aid of Uncle Sig.
It seems just like yesterday. The beautiful brown
trout takes my offering on the first cast. My dad and
uncle are cheering me. The battle seemed infinite. I
landed a smallish brown. My dad and uncle made me feel
like that trout was the biggest and most beautiful
trout they had ever seen. A farmer in truck drove by
at the same time and gave me a thumbs up as he drove
across the bridge.
Man did I ever get side tracked. I got to
get in the car and meet up with Len. The time is
just screaming by. It screamed by just like all those
years of teaching had. I had NEVER gotten a change to
go back to that bridge. Teaching and family had just
washed away any chance of getting back there.
I met up with Len and we got into his truck
for the trip to the BRIDGE. I did NOT remember the
exact area of the bridge. I was 6 years old the last
time there and I had slept the way there . I just knew
a general area of the bridge. As Len drove to the
bridge I tried to describe what the bridge looked
like.
I told Len the story about my first outing with
my dad and uncle. I described the bridge to a tee. The
way my uncle had hung off the bridge on his belly to
direct my first cast. We searched and searched the
area. We could not find the bridge. We stopped and
looked at the map to see if there was a place we were
missing. I was so sad. I could not find that bridge...
it had disappeared. I could not talk with my dad or
uncle. They both had been taken by the stream of time
to where all good anglers go. We finally gave up on
the Bridge and turned around and decided to hit some
close water.
Len slowed the truck...and said: "Peter
is that it out in the field?" I said: " No, it can't
be. It isn't the way I remember it. It was on the main
road and it didn't look like that." Len told me that
the county had straighten the road about 30 years ago
and made a new bridge. That bridge out in the field
had to be it.
Len could see my disappointment in my face. I
got out of the truck and strung up my rod. I asked
Len if I could fish the stretch alone. I wanted to
try to re-capture some of the magic of my ancient
memories. Every thing looked different. I thought to
myself that this couldn't be the bridge. I carefully
approached the bridge hole.....I placed my first cast
directly in the feed lane. A brown trout came up and
took my presentation. I knelt down to net the
brown...the memories rushed back....the bridge ruins
jolted my memory.
Don't let The Stream Of Time wash you away before
you have found that bridge.

Written by Len *spinner* Harris
Inspired by Peter G.

Family Man
by: Len Harris, Jr., Spinner (Wisconsin)

Lenny Harris was a family man with five daughters and one son. He loved the outdoors and though his daughters showed no interest in learning the ways of a woodsman, Lenny was blessed with an anxious pupil in his son, "Len Jr."

Junior began his training at an early age, his father taking the time to bring him squirrel and pheasant hunting, northern fishing, long trips in the small rowboat to check bankpoles, and along on dad's favorite outdoor pastime, trout fishing. Following his father up the streams like a caddy, junior toted whichever rod dad wasn't using, be it the "new fangled spinning rod" or the old bamboo fly rod. Behind father isn't always the easiest place for a five year old to be; it doesn't take much water to come up to his chest. Whether on the bank, or in the stream, junior was oft reminded, "Keep the tips out of the trees, and the reels out of the water." Many trips the boy yearned to use the poles he carried, watching his father Lenny catch trout after trout. Countless epic battles were etched into his memory before that fateful day, the day Len Jr. was to become a trout angler.

Not wanting his son's first trout to be a "gimme," or an easy fix, Lenny scouted hard for the right place for his son to experience trout fishing. He wanted this day to be special, he thought, "Too easy, and it won't mean anything to the boy." He decided on a long deep hole, not crowded by too many overhanging trees; a hole the locals called "booger gut." It was perfect.

The way was long and hard; they marched over hill and dale, wading here, through high grass and thick willows there, Junior always taking care with the rods, handling them the way his father had shown him. Timed for the late afternoon, the moment found them heading west, steeped in deepening shadow. The young boy tired, and wanted to quit, asking his father, "Can we go home now?"

"No, it's just a little farther. Enough carrying, today is your turn. Time for you to catch a trout."

Little Len's eyes lit up and a surge of energy overtook him, the "little farther" seemed like an eternity. Then the willows opened up, and the river lay before a man and his son. The young one began to get giddy, and father sat him down explaining, "Fishing is like life, if it comes too easy you will not appreciate it. I am not promising you a big trout here. I am not sure we will catch anything, but when we leave here, you will have experienced something special. Trout fishing. Fishing, not catching."

Because he had scouted the water, Lenny knew that fish schooled at the head of the pool. He had seen trout working it in the previous outings there. The two sat and watched the pool, teaching young Len this was something special, something to be savored, something unhurried. He had watched his father catch countless trout, and carried those same trout for miles on the stringer, a stringer that today already suspended many nice trout. The biggest was an 18" brown trout that junior had been admiring all day. Getting more and more anxious, he thought, "Now it is my turn to put a trout on that stringer."

His father, wisely deciding that a fly rod would be too difficult for a five year old, handed junior the spinning rod. "Len, which lure do you want to use?" There was no doubt in junior's mind he wanted to use the same one father had used to catch the big one. "Ok Len, get it out of the box and tie it on." Junior retrieved the spinner from its resting place in the box and took care to tie it on exactly like he had been taught. It was a small French spinner, a Mepps with a red bead, a brass bead, a brass blade and no tail. Little Len checked the knot, and bit off the tag end, just like his dad.

The boy had been taught to cast the spinning rod already, but father was worried about his casting into tight cover, and asked,"Is it ok if I cast the first one for you?" The youngster didn't want to be a baby, having his dad cast for him, but the father persuaded him, saying, "Let me cast the first couple times for you, then you can do it yourself." Junior always listened to his father.

Lenny cast the spinner upstream of the hole, and handed the rod to his son. "Keep the rod tip up, and if the fish is taking drag, stop reeling or you will ruin the reel and lose the fish. Now, you may not catch any fish, but later, when you get older, there will be lots of trout for you to remember."

It was barely ten cranks of the reel handle later, and the trout hit. Junior did not need to set the hook like he had seen his father do so many times, the trout was crazy, swimming upstream like its tail was on fire.

"DAD, DAD" the youngster shouted, "ITS GOING TO PULL THE ROD OUT OF MY HANDS!"

To which his father patiently replied, "hang on, keep the rod tip high, don't reel."

The trout came about and charged right at them. "Reel in and reel fast, tip up." The trout turned, and coursed side to side staying deep within the pool, finally running straight under the bank. The line stopped throbbing.

"I think I lost it dad."

Lenny explained to his son, "The fish has buried itself in the bank, let's try to get it out of there, grab your line and back up 2 or 3 feet, holding the line tight. If it takes off again, let go right away."

The trick worked, and the trout put up two more long runs before it yielded to the boy. "Let it tire some more before you bring it in. Keep constant pressure and reel when you can. Don't horse it." Junior followed the instructions, but the fish came easily toward shore. Both fishermen were eager to see the fish, and it obliged, surfacing not 20 feet from them. The two responded in unison, "Oh my gosh, it is huge." After glimpsing its captors, the fish resumed fighting for its life.

"Stay right there, and keep the tip up high," Senior waded into the pool up to his chest, and netted the fish. He pulled the net close to his chest, trapping the trout, or rather the half of it that fit, in the net. He quickly waded out, placed the fish near junior and said, "Unhook it. It will be a fine addition to our stringer." The boy proudly unhooked it, put it on the stringer, and marched it back to the car. The trip passed in an instant.

The father and son took a moment to take pictures of the day's catch. Junior had to stand on the picnic table to get at a level where he could take dad's picture, then off to the gas station, to show off the spoils of the day. The locals wowed about the largest fish on the stringer, a brown trout, some 23 and ¾ inches long, as measured by a plumber with a folding wooden yardstick. Next it was home to show the womenfolk, none of whom believed little Len had caught the fish, (and didn't care much about fishing anyway, it was for boys). Little Len couldn't wait to get the pictures back from the shop; he couldn't wait to show them off. He carried one with him for twoyears, until it finally gave out and fell apart.
Len Harris, Sr. with that memorable stringer of fish
Len Harris, Sr. as he appears on the wall of "Junior's" living room wall, reminding him of what it means to be a Family Man

I was looking through some old photographs and came across the picture of my dad, holding those fish. Even though this happened 40 years ago, the memories were as strong as if it had happened just yesterday. I was there again, walking through the streams of southern Wisconsin with my dad.

Lenny Harris died while deer hunting at age 41. He left behind a family of six children and one wonderful wife (Jane). Jane steered the Harris ship for many years alone and all of the Harris children moved on to adulthood because of the wonderful job my mom had done.

Both of the rods and a photo of my dad with that stringer adorn the wall of my living room. (1961)

The photo hangs on the wall at my mothers home also.

I Miss You Dad...

Thank You Mom...

All are good for rainbows

14 of them.

Can you name them?

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