Tag: Kansas

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Crawford State Park, Kansas, June 18-19, 2021.

Google Maps tells me that it’s 9 hours and 51 minutes and 617 miles to Crawford State Park, near Girard, Kansas, population 2,707. Google Maps is lying. The 617 miles is true enough, but map apps don’t account for gas breaks, walking the dogs, road work, slow traffic in the left lane, and side junkets and side bets, even if you drive a reasonable five miles faster than the speed limit for most of the distance. If Google Maps tells me that it’s 23 minutes from my house to my office in downtown Houston, that’s pretty close to right. On the other hand, if Google Maps tells me its 2 hours, 45 minutes from Houston to Austin, it’s short by 15 or 20 minutes after I stop at Hruskas for gas and kolaches. It took us about 11 and a half hours to drive from Houston to Southeastern Kansas, notwithstanding the map app’s 10-hour claim.

Pro Tip #1: If you’re driving from point A to point B and you drive the speed limit or a bit over, add about 20 minutes to the app time for every 200 miles you drive. Add another 45 minutes for lunch. 

We picked Southeastern Kansas because (1) I still needed to catch a fish in Kansas, (2) the reservation site claimed that Crawford is one of the most beautiful state parks in Kansas, and (3) the dogs could go. Plus it was Juneteenth weekend; you gotta celebrate Juneteenth. I made a reservation to camp three nights at the park. We stayed one night. 

Google Maps

This was our third trip to Kansas, fourth if you count a weekend trip to Kansas City in 2016 to see the Astros play the Royals (that whole Missouri/Kansas thing with Kansas City confuses everybody who isn’t from Missouri/Kansas, but I think we drove through Kansas City, Kansas, on the way to the airport). In 2020 we drove to Wichita in the dead of winter to get donuts, and last October we drove to Mead State Park and the Cimarron National Grassland. Cimarron National Grassland is sparsely magnificent, and standing on the Santa Fe trail in Western Kansas is one of those things that everyone should do, especially if they love New Mexico. Mead State Park is also very pretty; notwithstanding the internet, I thought it prettier than Crawford State Park. Kansas was bitter cold in February though, and our October trip was unexpectedly cold and fishless. 

Crawford Lake is smallish, about 150 acres, which makes it easier for fly rods, but it was bigger than I thought it would be. We were on the upper right-hand finger of the lake, out of the wind–the wind blew hard on the lake’s main body–but it was also hot. Really hot. Even in the evening when we got there, when it was supposed to be cooling, the temperatures were in the 90s, and I was sweat-drenched by the time I’d set up the tent. I thought about fishing when we got there, but by the time I’d set up camp I was too beat to take the kayak off the roof rack.

The park was packed with campers in RVs and tents, though everybody was reasonably quiet, self-contained, and polite–this was Kansas. Still, living outside with a crowd makes me feel a bit too displayed and on-guard. 

Pro Tip #2: Nobody camps at state parks on a summer weekend. It’s too crowded. 

Early Saturday morning I put in the kayak and fished for about an hour down the sheltered bank. I started out fishing a size 8 BBB fly, and used a 9-foot 7 weight rod and a floating line with a 9 foot leader and 16 pound tippet. At least I fished a 16 pound tippet until I broke it off in a tree. Then I fished a 7 foot leader with a 20 pound tippet–I’d left the spool of 16 pound in the car. I stayed in the protected finger of the lake where we camped. I didn’t catch any bass. but I did catch this typical Kansas sunfish. 

A typical Kansas bluegill. Photo courtesy of Nick Denbow, Western Caribbean Fly Fishing School.

Ok, I lied. That’s neither a sunfish nor in Kansas. It’s not me either. This is what I actually caught:

Clearly I needed the 20 pound tippet. In an hour I caught six of them, all about the same size, one after another. I tossed the fly close to the weeds by the bank and let it sink, and the blue gill would take it. 

I love catching blue gill. I love their aggression, I love their iridescence and colors when brought to hand. When the next overlord tells me I have to give up catching every fish but one, blue gill will like as not be the fish I choose to keep. Plus if I’d glued all six of my Kansas fish together I’d have had a pretty good-sized fish.

I was off the water in a bit more than an hour. Kris didn’t want to go out in the kayak, so we packed up the car and left. We didn’t want to suffer the afternoon heat and the crowd didn’t lend itself to park exploration. 

We didn’t go straight home. We were across the Kansas/Missouri border from Branson, Missouri, and Carolyn Parker of Branson’s River Run Outfitters had been on Tom Rosenbauer’s Orvis podcast the week before. It was only 70 miles away, so we drove to Branson. 

Branson is Las Vegas for devout Southern Baptists who don’t drink, gamble, or watch cavorting showgirls. It’s is in the heart of the Ozarks, and in lieu of neon the countryside is devastated by Branson billboards. There are shows, Dolly Parton’s Stampede, Presley’s Country Jamboree, Amazing Pets, The Haygoods, Legends of Country at Dick Clark’s American Bandstand Theater, illusionists and magicians and comedians, JESUS at Sight and Sound Theater (there’s an illusionist, magician, and comedian joke there, but for once I’m exercising restraint) . . . . There’s a big lake for bass fishing, golf courses, and a tailwater. There are lots of 50s diners in Branson, and I suspect a Golden Corral.

We originally thought we’d spend the night there, so we stopped at a visitor center–there are lots of visitor centers in Branson, but I don’t know if any are official. I asked the lady at the counter to suggest a hotel where we could take the dogs, and she said what kind of hotel, and I said a hotel with a bar. She told me there weren’t a lot of bars in Branson, but she called a hotel with a bar for us. The hotel was full–she said that on summer weekends Branson is packed, but I’ll always suspect that the hotel was full because of its bar. 

Kris wanted to stay and fish, but I just couldn’t do it. We didn’t have any trout rods; we could have used the shop’s rods but I was looking for excuses. The guys at the shop told us that the river was particularly high because of dam releases, so I used that as well. Bottom line though, all those Southern Baptists on holiday made me nervous.

Pro Tip #3: On a summer weekend, if you’re a devout Southern Baptist out for a good time, Branson, Missouri, is for you. 

We drove on to Bentonville, Arkansas, home of WalMart, where I had a decidedly un-Baptist Manhattan at The Preacher’s Son, an upscale place with ties to the Waltons built in a former church. There was no show, but I guess religion was the day’s motif. 

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Happy New Year! Late! 2021.

2021 begins our fourth year of chasing fish around the country. What a difficult year the third year was.

The kitten we found bass fishing. She wasn’t bass fishing, we were, and she had been dumped on the roadside. Somebody doesn’t know what they lost.

At the start of 2020, we had a great steelhead trip to Washington State, right on the cusp of the Covid outbreak, right when the first US cases had been identified in, you guessed it, Washington State. I remember seeing a young Asian woman in a face mask in the Seattle airport and thinking, isn’t it a bit over the top wearing face masks? Is that some Asian thing? Who knew it would turn out to be not an ethnic question but an ethics question.

We had a couple of trips to Kansas, one early in the year when it was freezing, and one late in the year when it was freezing. I think next time we’ll go to Kansas in the spring, when the tornadoes blow in. As I a child of the Plains I always loved going to the storm cellar when the storm siren blew. All the neighbors would come over and sit around in the semi-dark, in the dank crypt-like smell of the underground. There were almost certainly spiders. It was a fine old time.

We nymphed in Tennessee, and we nymphed in North Carolina, and we caught some redfish on the Texas Coast and some bass in local ponds. That was all good, but with Washington it only meant three new states, plus we still have to return to Kansas. We’re never going to finish at this rate. We’ll have to fish in the State of D.C. if we don’t hurry.

2020 had a pandemic, and also George Floyd’s death in Minneapolis. Someone asked me during the Floyd fallout if I thought there was institutional racism. I said yes, but thinking about it later I’m not sure it’s the right question. We share some pretty tragic civic history, from slavery to voter suppression to Jim Crow, and it seems to me the question is whether we can conclude that George Floyd’s death isn’t a continuation of that history. I suspect that if I were black my response would be yep, just more of the same old, this time from the Minneapolis police.

Personally in November and December I went through two months of radiation for prostate cancer, old man cancer, and the radiation left me randomly falling asleep, then I would sleep some more, and then sleep some more. The doctor told me to think of it as a day at the beach. Since I had to go in most days, it was a pretty lousy couple of months for fishing, even surf fishing on the the beach. I hope the radiation worked, but in any event it didn’t leave any side effects, except that now every time I stand up I immediately need to go pee. It’s going to be a pain in waders.

This is not a flats boat.

There was an election, nothing new, with claims of voter fraud, nothing new, and a violent insurrection at the capital that left five people dead, which technically happened in 2021, not 2020, but it felt like 2020 and it was certainly something new. I just wish we still had Mark Twain. Mark Twain could explain this nonsense to us. This nonsense deserves Mark Twain.

As for me, it’s just not plausible that the Democrats could pull off massive fraud without somebody telling their buddy at work you should have seen what I did today! I cast a million votes for Joe Biden! Ex-wives, ex-girlfriends, Deep Throat in parking garages, the Pentagon Papers, that whole raft of Donald Trump ex-advisor porn, Chelsea Manning, J.K. Rowling’s lawyer, Mike Fiers . . . The only reason the Qanon drivel gets traction is because it’s supposedly being leaked by an insider who can’t keep his mouth shut. At least that part , somebody not keeping their mouth shut, is believable. If there had been a massive conspiracy to falsify millions of votes, some conspirator would certainly have said something to somebody who would need to tell the rest of us, and Rudy Guiliani doesn’t count. Somebody is going to blab. Hell, I’ve just told you about my glow-in-the-dark prostate, which is really none of your business, and even worse, an imposition by me on you. I didn’t cast a million votes for Joe Biden, but if I had, you’d almost certainly know by now.

Kris on the Guadalupe

What’s worse, it’s the sort of thing one shouldn’t claim blithely, without hard evidence, and no, that bogus statistical study that concludes if the vote had been the same in 2020 as it was in 2016, Biden couldn’t have won. True enough, but stupid. That’s why the game’s played on the field. Claiming conspiracies without evidence, Sidney Powelling it, will likely get you sued, and worse, it’s a direct attack on democracy, and pretty sketchy under the Ninth Commandment as well. It’s why except for Texas Attorney General Ken Paxton none of the lawyers would go into court and say there was fraud; for a lawyer, lying to a court has consequences.

There are always irregularities in elections, elections are hard to run and unless you can show that the irregularities affect the outcome, it’s just noise. There may have been some noise in 2020, but there was no massive fraud. It would have shown up in court if there had been.

Meantime Happy New Year. We’ll all go fishing in 2021! We’re scheduled to go to Pennsylvania in May, and I think we’re going. Hopefully by then we’ll be vaccinated. We may drive to Arkansas tomorrow, and as long as there are plenty of places to pee on the route, that should be just fine.

This is a flats boat.
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What’s the Matter with Kansas, Part 2, October 16-19, 2020

Here’s a tip. If it’s in the 30s and the wind is blowing hard, and you pull into a Kansas campsite at 11 at night, angry with each other because of the wrong turn you made on the farm road, and because you couldn’t decipher the instructions at the park self-pay station, and because your companion doesn’t believe that this is the right campsite (or that if it’s not screw it, it’s a campsite); and you agree you’ll just sleep in the front seats of the van because it’s cold and dark and blowing and setting up the tent is just more than you can manage, well here’s the tip: when your companion says should we get out the sleeping bags? Say yes, and do it. The car seats will be ok, they recline and you’re exhausted, but by a few hours after you park, the inside of the van will be as cold as if there was no van at all. I froze all night, and woke with one of Kris’s sweaters wrapped around my feet, with a towel wrapped around my legs, and with a small dog snuggled for warmth as close as it could get.

Here’s a second tip. If you decide at the last minute to take the wee dogs along, and the wee dog who sticks by you is not the clean living chihuahua but the miniature schnauzer that daily collects a new layer of oily dirt and dog smells, give the dog a bath before you go. Sure, she’s a sweet dog, but after two days with the dog sleeping near you for warmth, three weeks later you’ll still conjure the smell of that dog. It was bad enough the first night, sleeping loose in the car, but the second night when it got really cold, the dog and I shared my technical skin-tight ultralight Mountain Hardware down mummy bag. In that bag there’s barely space for me, much less a schnauzer, except (because she was shivering) right at the neck. To make space for the schnauzer, I left the neck of the bag unzipped. My schnoz and that schnauzer shared too much space for too long.

Just give the dog a bath. Slightly rancid schnauzer is a smell that lingers. Take the time and give the dog a bath.

Mead State Park is not on anybody’s must-see list, but it’s pretty. In warmer weather it would have been a lot of fun to fish. There were shallow flats where in summer the bass and sunfish would cluster, except that the cold nights sent the bass and sunfish into shock and deeper water and they were nowhere to be found. There was bird life, and Kris got plenty of photos, flickers, eastern bluebirds, redhead ducks . . . The park was also packed with RVs, while we had the only tent. When we got back I asked my friend Schoonover whether he had an RV, and he said I’m old and white, of course I have an RV. I guess I’m supposed to have an RV.

We have a newish tent, and a newish propane stove. I’ve got all the backpacking gear in the world, but I bought the new tent and stove for car camping. Here is another tip, or at least an insight. When you wake up in the morning and the temperature has plummeted below freezing, you’re going to be jealous of those people with RVs. It’s hard to pack camp with numb fingers.

The dogs sat in the car and were no help at all with the packing.

There’s nothing wrong with cold I guess, and after the first cold night we had one extraordinarily beautiful day followed by an even colder, windier night. The next morning after breakfast it was overcast and spitting rain so we threw stuff into the car and drove around southwestern Kansas, to Dodge City and the Cimarron National Grassland. At 5 that afternoon, after it never warmed, we drove home, across the Oklahoma Panhandle, down through the Texas Panhandle, and then east and south to Houston. We drove through the night and got home the next morning by 9.

I was the only fly fisher at Mead Lake, but there were conventional anglers, and they weren’t catching anything either. I did have a safety plan. There’s always a spillway, and at the bottom of the spillway a bit of water where you can find sunfish. I was going to fish the Mead Lake tailwater! Here was the Mead Lake spillway. There weren’t any dry-land sunfish.

Mead Lake gets stocked with trout on November 1, and at dusk Saturday, in the prettiest light in the world, we watched rise forms across the center of the lake. I’d brought a sit-on-top kayak, the kind where sit-on-top actually translates as sit-in-a-puddle, and I tried to fish the rise. I don’t know what the fish were, maybe sunfish, but I’m half convinced it was early-stocked trout. I fished a small streamer, and got a tug, and got enough of a hit to see a quick flash of silver before the fish came off the hook, but I should have thrown out a foam beetle and let it sit. Even fishless though, it was pretty, and I fished until dark.

Here’s a fourth tip. In October Kansas gets cold, and the wind blows. Maybe June’s the time to go to Kansas.

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What’s the Matter with Kansas, Part 1, October 16-19, 2020

I’ve been busy this fall with work and other things, so even without the coronavirus, there have been reasons not to travel. We’ve fished for bass in freshwater and redfish in salt, but since early August all of our fishing has been close to home. I’ve studied maps, and concentrated on where we could reach driving. I’m not ready for airplanes, but I still want to fill in blanks.

And there are blanks to fill reasonably close to home. There are adjacent states I’ve been saving, Arkansas and New Mexico, and states a bit further that we can drive to without too much effort: Georgia, Kentucky, Missouri, Colorado, and Arizona, maybe South Carolina, maybe Utah. With the exception of Kentucky, I’ve been to all those states before, even if I haven’t been there to fish. What’s the point, though, of finally making it to Kentucky if I can’t visit distilleries? And New Mexico, one of my favorite places, requires visiting Texans to quarantine. Colorado is on fire. Then there’s Kansas, which is a peculiar problem that demands particular attention.

I can’t find a fly-fishing guide in Kansas, and I’ve spent hours on the internet looking. Over the summer I thought I’d finally found one, Paul Sodamann at Flats Lander Guide Service, so I called Paul. He’s a FFF certified fly casting instructor, and he’s taught a fly-fishing course at Kansas State, but he told me he’d stopped guiding. Zebra mussels have infested his local waters, and while the carp were still there, the mussels have so cleansed the water that the carp see you coming. Carp are spooky, and in the clear water he says there’s no reliable approach to spooky fish.

Zebra mussels and carp: America’s heartland has been invaded. See? Kansas is a complicated place.

Since I can’t find a guide I’ve focused on the least-populated Kansas places, and I will tell you there are plenty of least-populated Kansas places. In 2019 Kansas had an estimated population of 2,913,314, with 104 counties, and an average population density of 35.4 people per square mile. That’s a lot of land, and not a lot of people. And the population is not spread evenly. The ten most populous counties represent about 65% of the population, while the 65 least populous counties represent only about 10% of the population. There’s some weird symmetry in those numbers.

After map study we settled on the Cimarron National Grassland which is as far south and west as Kansas goes, with a stop at Meade State Park, an 80-acre lake just over the Oklahoma border, about an hour south of Dodge City. Meade State Park is 641 miles from Houston, or a roughly 12-hour drive. Cimarron National Grassland is about two hours further west, with a side trip to get the hell into Dodge. The description of Meade was of a good warm water lake, with bass, catfish, and sunfish. The descriptions of Cimarron said it had ponds, with bass, catfish, and sunfish.

Cimarron is in Morton County, Kansas. Morton County, Kansas, population 2,539, is not the least populated county in Kansas. That honor goes to Greeley, population 1,232, two counties to the north. Out of 104 Kansas counties, Morton ranks 91st in population. Urban as it is, one wonders, how do 2,539 residents support the communal things people need? A sheriff? A doctor? a high school football team? a high school?

It’s probably no surprise that Western Kansas is flat and rural, and that it doesn’t sport a lot of water or trees. The Cimarron Grasslands is located on the Cimarron River, which in Kansas is an intermittent stream, dry for most of the year. It was dry when we saw it. Even Middle Springs, a dependable watering hole on the Santa Fe Trail, was dry. Semi-arid, this is wheat country that depends on rainfall and aquifer irrigation, and every 15 or 20 miles along the highway there is a community with a co-op grain elevator, a farm supply, and a cafe. My friend Clark, a Nebraskan trained as a city planner, once explained it to me: the farming frontier communities are spaced by how far a pre-automobile farmer could reasonably travel to get to market and home again in a day.

Western Kansas is beautiful, but I may be unnaturally drawn to flat and sparse. It’s also In Cold Blood territory. Writers who trade in horror and violent confrontation should be drawn to Western Kansas. There’s nothing like isolated farmhouses to spur that creepy distrust of the stranger. But sparse as it is, isolated as it is, it’s not wild. This is industrialized agriculture, and everywhere there is evidence of cultivation and the massive machines and infrastructure that make it possible. In Western Kansas there’s rarely even the faux wilderness of uncultivated pasture. Every acre seems farmed. This is grain country, exactly what Kansas is supposed to be.

In 2016, Morton County voted 83% for President Trump, which is also what Kansas is supposed to be, and there was strong support of the President all along the highway. In every community there were Trump signs in yards and at businesses. At farm gates there were Trump flags. In contrast, yesterday morning on my run I counted 12 Biden/Harris signs in five blocks. Kansas was just like my neighborhood, but in reverse. instead of five blocks its political uniformity spreads across hundreds of miles.

On the drive from Houston I re-listened to a lecture by Thomas Frank, What’s the Matter with Kansas, based on his 2004 book of the same name. I haven’t read the book, and the lecture isn’t so much about Kansas as it is about conservative voters generally, with Kansas appearing mostly in the title as a bit of shorthand. If I follow the lecture correctly, the right on the left side of Kansas is no longer driven by economics; those Trump flags aren’t out there because of fiscal conservatism, but because of cultural divides. The Kansas Trump voters are now driven by anti-abortion, anti-gay, anti-antifa, and anti-whatever, not economics.

Maybe there’s some truth to that, but I suspect Mr. Frank misses part of the point of all those miles of wheat fields. Farmers are business owners, and the people who work for them and depend on their trade are deeply tied to the success or failure of their business. I’d guess their political convictions were developed more from Jimmy Carter’s 1970s inflation, followed by the 1980 Russian grain embargo, than from any deep seated dislike of what’s happening culturally in Chicago or Denver or Dallas, or for that matter Wichita or Amarillo. As much as there is to admire about Mr. Carter, he didn’t do much for Kansas farmers, and I’d guess 40 years on Kansas farmers still see government generally and Democratic government in particular as less a help than an intrusion, or a ruination.

This corner of Kansas was also the heart of the Dust Bowl, and Cimarron National Grasslands only exists because of government intrusion in the 30s, when a bit more than a hundred thousand acres of environmentally ravaged land was purchased by the government to add to the national forests, sans trees. Even in the photo above, the trees are imports, not natural parts of the landscape. There are also bits of the national grassland throughout the dustbowl plains, in Colorado, Kansas, and Texas, and it’s held as grassland in part to protect against a repeat of the Dust Bowl. In the urban mind, those Kansas farmers are always less cognizant of their dependence on the government aid they receive than they should be.

Meanwhile, we traveled to Morton County, Kansas, to fish. We may well be the only people hereabouts who can say that. We drove about 1400 miles and I didn’t catch a fish, not a bass, catfish, nor sunfish. Not a one fish, two fish, red fish, nor blue fish, of either the Republican or the Democratic variety. At least I get to think more about Kansas. What’s the matter with Kansas? We didn’t catch a fish.