Cap' N Mikes Holy Smoke

Down at the far end of the Saturday Ferry Plaza Market you can find Cap 'n Mike and his wife Sally

still, after nearly 30 years of farmer marketing, selling their world famous smoked salmon.  Cap N' Mike had been a Methodist minister for years but heard the call of the wild, got his captain's license and took ship, poles, bait and hooks to sea at the famous red-triangle region (famous white shark feeding ground) of Bodega Bay, located 44 miles north of San Francisco and just across the inlet from Tomales Bay, home to Hog Island Oyster.

Bodega Point, Sonoma County

"At my first farmers market in Redwood City, I didn't have labels or fancy packaging.  No prices even.  I just guessed at what each piece was worth.  I tossed my first batch of smoked fish on the table and it was gone in just over an hour.  And it's been fun ever since.  I found my wife and a world of friends at the farmers markets. Bringing the best fish to the best people, it's all about loving what we do."

The story goes that back in the 1990's Sally was a customer at the Marin County Farmer's Market and apparently had "her eye on the 'salmon dude.' Turns out he had his eye on her, too! They got married on Bodega Head."  Holy Smoke keeps it simple but the best, showing up – nothing more than tent kiosk at the Market – as rated one of the top ten seafood restaurants in all of San Francisco by many sources.  

The specialty is the lox sandwiches, put together with ACME brand bread (also a vendor at the Market), homemade cream cheese, the thinly sliced smoked salmon (lox), red onions and sometimes capers.  The quality comes from the passion.  "When the salmon calls, you've got to answer.  That's exactly what I did.  Who would have thought that almost 30 years later, I'd still be doing it and enjoying it.  Bringing the freshest fish right out of the cold North Pacific and slowly, over Alderwood coals, making the best smoked fish there is!"

First mate gift box, on its way to Quarry Lane

 

Under the Sourdough Rim:
A Midwestern

Council Bluffs, Iowa, had seen its share of 'overlanders' since the great rush to gold in San Francisco had motivated men from around the planet to pick up stakes and travel, in any way possible, to

find the El Dorado at Sutter Mill near Coloma California.  For those not willing to take the miserable route through South America and up around the Cape by ship, the trek over land was as trying.  The jungles of the lower continent might have held malaria and sweltering heat, but the 'overlanders' encountered lack of any water, paths incomplete and which often lead to nothing more than animal trails, or Indian tribes so varying in degree of malice that every native had to be seen as danger before friend.  The Watts

Boys had passed through one of the stop-over points along the Great Gold Rush Trail not on the way West, but back East where Major Shan Cordon waited with thirty-five of his finest high-plains men for the gold load the Boys had heisted from the Golden Eagle, a ship thought to be deserted in San Francisco Bay, but was a stockpile instead of creek gold found at Yosemite flats.  The Boys had feelers

all along the Trail, both ways, as a result of many promises they made out West of riches returning.  They caught wind of Cordon's men and found their route north along the bluff lines until they reached the Mississippi, then north through Wisconsin to what had been a town famed by its sawmill and timber industry.  The Boys, consisting of only nine, started as thirteen; all had healthy horses, three mules packing the gold, seven rifles between them, and each with at least one pistol, all as fresh as the day they were stolen.  Rudy Watts, one of the namesake of the clan, third born, sickly, but certainly the meanest, had fallen ill before they had split from Council Bluffs north, and needed a hideout.

Old man Watts knew the country from scouting expeditions he had made as a boy with his uncle who served as surveyor for the Steamboat packets of the early days.  The bluffs, he remembered, were tall and riddled with limestone fixtures perfect for small caves.  One, in particular, stood out, down at the base of Sourdough Bluff.  "Would you believe it, boys, uncle Prescott always said there was but one place to stop in Onalaskee, Wisconsin, that is the old brew caves of A. Knecht."  This sounded a bit on the unbelievable side.  Rudy here was sick with something in his guts that had him holding his lower side permanently, with the white fever and looked like he was dying, and here there was talk of a cave that was used for beer storage.  This was the same kind of talk that found them cornered at the Bay back in San

Francisco by a crowd of forty-niners twice their number and which put them back out on the run for what looked like a lifetime instead of spending that seized gold right there at San Fran on the booze and impressing women.  "Well, now, the ways I see it," said the elder Watts, we will most assuredly need a long term hole-up.  There's the river and Canadee not far off north if need be in a bad pinch.  For the time bein,' he said, we poke around in those caves we knows about and there will be the shelter, and yessir, it will be stocked with kegs of fine brew."

Trail of Columbines

"The point has changed little since those early days, and the silhouettes of the islands and the vistas across the water are much the same as they have always been.  I can sit here and dream of the past, for in the fleur-de-lis is a living bridge between the voyageurs and me."
    –Sigurd Olson, from Listening Point

Red Columbine, Aquilegia Canadensis

The Red Columbine had crossed its own bridge some 10,000 to 40,000 years ago during what is called the Pleistocene.  Like a roving band of animals who continuously seek suitable habitat, the Columbine, stemming originally from Eastern Europe, spread across the Bering land bridge from what is modern day Russia down through Alaska, on into the North American continent where it can be found today along the ridge line trails here in Greens Coulee.

End of Loggers Loop Trail, Greens Coulee Park Trails

Enwrapped as we are by these networks of coulees that used to be nearly all farming, it takes little time to move from the modern world to that of the past, the voyage of time Olson describes above.  This is the story for a majority of the La Crosse area: neighborhoods need look little further than over their collective shoulders to see the bluffs, their foothills, and relics of connected fields, to see living

history.  For Olson, his transformative moments occurred over and over again as he took canoe and paddle out onto the great northern lakes surrounding his shack at Listening Point.  As he felt the connection to the robust French Voyageurs of old, – cusping his hand-carved paddle, gliding over the mostly unchanged crystal waters – and spotting the fleur-de-lis flower as a reminder of French descent, we might find in the vision of a columbine the toil of the farmer as she stakes out a fencepost or he herds the dairy cow back down the lush green grazing slope, a log held over his shoulder for the night's dinner fire.

The Tao of Food

There cannot be an easier of piece of meat to eat or cook than the sushimi grade ahi tuna steak.  Our store had it for the first time that I have ever seen. Considerably expensive, I bought only one steak of the Ahi, and another of the more usual kind, the blue fin.  The color of the steak coming out of the package is a ruby red, the same color seen sometimes at the center of the rawest of thick cooked steak.  

The butcher at the store had mentioned that this would not even have to be cooked, could be eaten raw, but that he would not necessarily recommend this.  I did nothing more than unpackage the Ahi tuna, laid down a thin layer of a garlic pepper seasoning, then drizzled both of the broad sides with olive oil so that it would not stick too severely on the medium / high grill grating.  Once the Ahi tuna (yellow fin), is set onto the heat, you can just about visually track the gradual slight browning of the surfaces as it approaches closer to the center, but the center, at least two-three inches thick, stays ruby, tender, and capturing only a hint of heat.  Knowing that the Ahi is edible raw, the cook can experiment with virtually any amount of cook time, depending on taste.  I pulled mine off after just

under two minutes per side.  As you cut into this type of raw seafood, seeing that intense red, there is a strong impulse to wonder whether this can be edible, although you know it us from all of the various sushi tried in the past.  I cut it into long half-inch slices.  When eating, the combination of the crusted and seasoned crust, and the barely touched center, is a great contrast.  The sky would be the limit as to what sort of crust preparation or type of sauce could be drizzled over the top of the sliced Ahi... one of the more wonderful meats to savor and respect for its strong taste and easy texture.

Southern Truss

"In this tiny shelf of sand just off the shore is part of the story of the north, part of the story of all the beaches I have ever known.  While no writing is done upon it now, the day may come when sandpipers will once more dance before its ebb and flow."
        – Sigurd Olson, from "Wilderness Beach"

An old bridge can be many things – the ones like the great Black River crossing at Lytles Landing, the northernmost tip of Brice Prairie, is made easy to pass.  It is but a network of metal, rusted likely beyond any possible cleansing, raised up for safety against the flow below and sturdy against the wind above.  The bridge itself was constructed in 1927 by the American Bridge Company, one of the most prolific bridge builders of the 20th century, founded in 1900 through the J.P. Morgan-led consolidation of 28 of the largest U.S. based steel fabricators and constructors. The total length of the bridge is 1,212 feet, made of spans, girders, and warren through trusses.

Story, though, includes depth and calls for brief pause. Lytle's was a result of a railroad right of way beginning in the late 1800's.  La Crosse, if anything, is itself a story of transportation, beginning by river and canoe, moving on to the prairie schooner, which graduated to steamboat, and then onto the most prolific connector of the east to west: the railroad.  Just as the breweries provided a firm back-up to the fading of the timber industry, the railroads would serve a similar purpose as steamboats lost their  glory days on the Mississippi.  "At the time the railroad bridge was being built, the workmen stayed in a home close by.

Soon a railroad hotel was built there.  A water tower also constructed near the bridges.  A man named Jim Andrews was the bridge watcher for a number of years.  It was also his duty to see that the water tank was filled.  Water for the tank was pumped by a windmill.  This railroad facility became a favorite spot for fishing, trapping, and hunting waterfowl."

Having stopped on the southern truss to look onto the confluence of the main channel of the Black River and its many other backwater offshoots, it's easy to see this is a thriving natural place.  Fisherman lay down sharp casts over thin rapids below the bridge.  Turtle heads slowly bob upstream above surface seeking shallow footholds of sand.  Hawks cry in the short distance and deeper in the refuge, hundreds of species of early migration birds sing again as if against the lingering late spring thaw.  Behind the truss, just off the point of the landing itself, an old piece of sheet metal, no doubt planted there, bobs up and down with the current to deter any offseason boat landings.

Downriver, it would be the eventual impoundment of the Black River that would, at the request of the Federal Government in the 1930's, allow for the safe expansion of the Mississippi as a navigable nine foot channel.  The fear then was that the Great River would slowly divert and absorb back into the Black if it was not dammed, so a spillway was created and Lake Onalaska has become a hub for recreation, including a bike trail that now offers a gradually approachable story leading back through time when things were certainly different, but not the presence of the river, not the woods, and not the bridge. On the plank of this small southern truss, just above the shore of the river, is part of the story of Blue Collar La Crosse.

Rocky Arbor State Park

Early May weather at full force here in the Dells on a saturday afternoon – long splashes of open sky, then, as quickly, cloud cover, leaving unpredictable patterns of shadows along the pine ground-covered  valley here at Rocky Arbor State Park.  The Dells are blessed with a similarly driftless landscape as La Crosse, but in more dramatic flourishes.  Rocky Arbor, just off of the first exit into the Dells on Hwy. 12, is just about the most efficient way to get a quick glimpse of this drama as you can find, minutes away from the commercial jungle of the tangled Dells Parkway and downtown.

The layered rock structures that enclose the small marsh valley (and miniature stream), was created by some 500 million years of geological tinkering.  With a bit of assistance from a geological imagination, one can picture a time in this region when sand grains deposited by rivers into shallow seas covering this area.  As the seas receded the sand compacted into sandstone.  Forward some eons, and the Wisconsin River, a larger survivor of geologic time, cut out the gorges we now see in the dynamic and exclusive landscape.  Considering such vast stretches of time, we are left simply to create our own narrative for how those odd gems of lone standing stones, seemingly sculpted by a larger than life cake knife, were created...but down along the bottom portion of the return hike, through the almost prehistoric looking lush swamp, stands such a stone, budding trees out of its top and sides as if on display for the sake of both nature lesson and visual entertainment.

Up above our very own neighborhood, here in Blue Collar La Crosse, a similar stone, not buried down in swamp, but nearly floating up at the top of the sandstone ridge line reminds us of the regional heritage we share as we follow the corridors of the history of ice, water and rock, that constant panorama that defines our place even moreso than any interstate highway could.

Recipe of the Day

It is far easier not to make your own marinara sauce for weeknight spaghetti, but so very worthwhile to

take the time to do it.  To make your own is a bit like eating time (not thyme), because, as you taste the ingredients, you know that it was you who planned and prepared each of them.  Although

this batch, a simple recipe from Giadas Family Dinners, was made with a nice selection of whole canned tomatoes, you could see how the next step in eating time would be to first pick your

own vine ripened garden tomatoes and quickly pulling them inside to use as the base of the sauce, then adding from there what it is you like in a good Italian-style taste.  For this batch, I pureed two oversized cans of whole plum tomatoes along with a batch of fresh basil (from the small herb

garden?), and set aside while sautéing diced onions and garlic in plenty of olive oil.  This batch didn't call for it, but I wanted to incorporate hamburger, just not in meatballs necessarily.  I peppered the pound of meat with some salt and Italian seasonings and simply cut the meat into long and imperfectly shaped slabs to cook – instead of meatballs, these were literally squares.  I poured the blended tomato puree into the pan with the sautéed onions and let that simmer for as long as necessary for the sauce to thicken and to take on the desired taste.  On the side, at the same time, I wanted to make a French

recipe for mushroom toast; sautéing quartered parts of mixed mushrooms, including standard button and mini portabellas, while broiling slices of French bread.  When the slices came out toasted, I rubbed cut garlic along the surface instead of garlic powder, for that subtle taste.  After I mixed a bit of cream into the mushroom pan, reduced it, and added a drop of lemon for zest, I poured that over the toasts, which absorbed the cream, but platformed the soft and aromatic mushrooms, a perfect compliment to the homemade marinara.  Next step, for next time: make your own linguine pasta – a true taste of time itself.