Karl Seckinger

Karl "Trout Whisperer" Seckinger is an outdoor enthusiast and resides in northeastern Minnesota.


Posted by: Karl Seckinger Updated: April 9, 2013 - 10:04 AM
I had to listen to the fact man, and when it went beyond what I could tolerate I got up, and left. “All who wander are not lost” is about the quoted words and the last part of that line should be added that “some truly are” and for good reason. If you must have a sidewalk, you can’t come with me. If it’s all black and white in your world, my grey spaces would find you, alone. In my head it’s nice to know those unicorns and dragons, the good dragons and the bad have just as much a chance as mermaids and a yeti. After too many facts some try, some succeed in others and its spoils the broth. My primordial soup has a much thicker sauce. I have laid in summer grass with eyes closed feeling the warm sun go across my face and through the meadow and maybe heard the foot falls of mischievous elves. Sat in a breeze just after sunset, air is misted in a coolness and out of my peripheral vision, was that a bit of fairy light darting back into the taller grass as to be almost unseen by me? A dark shadow crosses my path behind me and I swiftly turn in the pine coned trail to listen for a branch to crack, a limb to sway and the hair on the back of my neck goes stiff. Something was there, something massive soundless and watching me, eyeing my whereabouts, but what. I bend, I look, I search only to find no tracks, in the moss to reveal its earthen or other nature. From a rock promontory in a sunny bright day, high up in a cliff I watch the birds soar, these talon’d falcons float as I drift off mentally with them into an aerial wonder. From below me comes a low guttural growl. My mind slams my body back to the solid rock I sit atop and I scan below as the feeling of sound, a sound perhaps admonishing me to the fact that I may not be a welcome visitor. Its echo chases again up the rock face into mine. Ghouls, souls of animals, water phantoms, things not yet discovered by the scientists, luckily for me untrained to even look for. I like my woods and waters, there’s much more to mine. The trout whisperer

made in China

Posted by: Karl Seckinger Updated: March 20, 2013 - 11:02 AM
During World War Two, many records were kept, including one that caught my eye. From the vast resources of the USA, and the USA alone, Total vessels sunk, one thousand five hundred and fifty four, in the various oceans, due to various actions. Over 500 of these ships were rated exceeding one hundred gross tons. That’s allot of stuff and that’s a lot a stuff on the ocean floor. What’s even more unimaginable is that many nations to include, but not limited to, Britain, Japan, Canada, Italy, China, Germany, Australia and so on and so down the line, lost an unfathomable number of ships airplanes and so on, that rest forever in Davey jones locker. No mention of a ship being sunk during the war in any of our inland ten thousand lakes however. So why all the snagging losses below me in so many waters of azure blue. Case in point, Whitefish lake, superior national forest, in one day, on one afternoon of fishing, myself, with two others guys drop the anchor only never to see the light of day again. By the end of that day we donated two anchors. Were sure something down there latched onto them and kept them locked to the bottom. And when you cut the anchor line not once but twice, and lose all that rope, it’s just salt in the wound to boot. It’s called jigging, it’s been shown to be very effective to catch walleyes over certain rocky drop offs and reefs. Whitefish lake is a honey hole of rocky reefs and what the jig manufactures don’t tell you is it’s a heck of a way to get your very own pet rock if you can hoist one to the surface which I’ve never been able to do so I lose yet another one. And the last one I lose is the only color working today. Makes me pause, makes me wonder, so if I know where all the good junk in this oceanly wet world is, why is it I just snagged and lost the last lure I had today fishing in an inland lake. I’m not going to take up scuba diving in the ocean any time soon but I may start in some of the more plied waters of Minnesota and get some of not only my tackle, but maybe some good stuff others have accidently donated over the years and I don’t mind if it was made in China, I just want it back. The trout whisperer http://flyrod58.wordpress.com/


Posted by: Karl Seckinger Updated: March 12, 2013 - 12:30 PM
My fingers are tired now. My eyes have had enough, so I shove my chair back and stop tying, just one more. It’s always, just one more, when you’re on a good roll and then I know, okay it’s really time to quit. I think about this specific fly, and remember. This little blue dun pattern looks nothing like a mayfly to me, but one stocked lake of rainbows loved them one day last summer. So did a kid. The kid I had with, was a paid for, fishing day, as a birthday present, from his father. Junior had a new everything. Rod, reel, fly line, flies, vest, chest waders, net, you name it, he had it. Dad wasn’t coming with tho, he had some other appointment. We started on a Friday afternoon casting in my yard across open mowed lawn. Dad dropped him off, dad left. I had him set his gear up and I told him, showed him, how. I did the ten and two thing until he stopped snapping the lawn behind him. No sense ripping flies off for no good reason. Two hours later dad appeared, loaded son up, and left. The next week he was to be delivered extremely early on Saturday morning and he was promptly dispatched in my yard. His Older brother basically tossed him and his stuff in my yard without even shutting off the car. When we got to the lake, the surface looked as soft as saran wrap and pocked marked everywhere you looked with rising trout. We couldn’t start legally fishing for a half an hour so I unloaded the boat, loaded our gear and poured myself a cup of coffee. I asked if he wanted some, nope, no thanks. He was visibly excited, seeing all the rises. I wanted him to ask me anything, but he didn’t. He was a young fellow in many respects, but no more would he be considered a boy, and I asked questions that he one word answered. He was polite, but nervous. I decided no more questions; I was going to give him only directions. That seemed to relax him. When we got in the boat I started the little motor, headed into a bay and dropped the anchor. I told him to watch me, for a few casts, so in his legs; he’d get the hang of what it feels like casting a fly in a moving swaying boat. On my first cast the dun rests. Rings move out and around the faux, the slurp of the trout was text book. So after I released that huge massive eight inch rainbow I had him stand on the casting deck. He gathered himself, He ten and two’d, worked the length into the line, chose his spot and released at the four pm position. The fly as I watched went in semi slow motion, maybe because I was hoping so hard, it lighted as if it was an emerger bound for heaven. I told him that was a perfect cast, as good as I had ever seen; he looked at me and said thanks. The trout set the hook for him. When we were done fishing, I gave him every blue dun I had. The trout whisperer.


Posted by: Karl Seckinger Updated: March 8, 2013 - 10:11 AM
One day it occurred to me to build a wooden boat. Having only built bird houses from scraps in the past I knew I was out of my pay grade but I started reading, bugging folks who knew and finally found one, who had done it. He gave me a class in chine logs and I settled upon a hard one. Little did I know. Then I bought a boat load of fine brass nails. I bought water proof plywood. That is a bunch of hooey by the way. It may shed some rain but you get it wet long enough it soaks up any form of moisture. I learned about gunnels. That’s just one man’s way of saying gunwales. I wasn’t after whales though. Knees were necessary as was a keel. Thwarts and ribs would succor to the skeleton I never wanted sent to Davey jones locker. Then since I hadn’t went the soft chine route I ended up purchasing the fiberglass, the resins, and several epoxies’. And after many headaches, and seemingly endless hours of indoor use, if you ever wondered about the loss of brain cells, from sniffing glue, this stuff would be the express ticket. Now a major component to my vessel of choice was weight. I wanted a wood boat I could portage or toss on top of, or in the back of my truck, all by myself. So with wood and glass and many sanding episodes, I weighed, reweighed, sanded, sanded, weighed, and sanded for many nights after work and having two friends walk in on me and ask what in GODS name are you doing. I said, standing on a bathroom scale, with a boat over my head, I’m weighing my boat. So spring finally came round and my sixty seven pound friend was to be tested. I found a still pond, christened my yacht with a glass of seven up and set it to water. My boat floated. I could push pole it, I could paddle it, and with settled oars it rowed quite nicely. Not a leak to be seen anywhere. I went from what if, too, well I’ll be. With me and two bags of muskrat traps I plied many a creek. Over the years I’ve hunted many small creeks jump shouting ducks. Wild rice’d it once all by my lonesome and this past fall, I retired it. There’s nothing wrong with the boat, I just wanted the pram in all its memorized glory while it’s still in recognizable form to finish its days more as a conversation piece than one day looking up saying to myself, I wore it out. The boat today albeit is small, is upside down covered almost entirely in snow. It looks today like it’s resting to me. And after all the work I put it through over twenty seven years, it is well deserved. The trout whisperer http://flyrod58.wordpress.com/2013/03/08/anchored/

little girls

Posted by: Karl Seckinger Updated: March 5, 2013 - 11:24 AM
In Minnesota to have a keeper, or a jumbo perch, it needs more than seven full black stripes. Not many would argue a muskie should be over 55 inches. Walleyes oughta be over ten pounds and not to many five year olds care. This one went about forty pounds and forty some inches I guess. A keeper in any case and I like fishing with kids. Some kids I fish with are over fifty years old, two hundred fifty plus pounds, and some kids are young. But the kids who don’t care about weights and tape measures give me a much better day on, and then eventually off the water. This weekend we caught a bucket load of perch that in the end, we filleted plenty. But we dumped back down the holes according to one little red faced darling, we dumped back hundreds of millions. And with her hundreds of millions estimation told to her mom during dinner, I think she will grow up to become a fine angler. She liked lunch. She loved her dad. I was a good guy. When she wandered around from ice hole to ice hole, the shuffling noise from her blue pink snow suit made me smile. Shuffle, big deep breath, a couple of looks down the hole, and more big deep breaths. She tugged fish out of the ice water. Flopped down on them and towed the line hooked to the rod through the snow to her dad who unhooked the fish, sorted out the mess, decided if it was keeper, most of the time. Sometimes she told her dad, that’s a keeper, in louder fashion. So he would add it to the bucket. She would take her hood off and every time she walked by him, he would put it back on. She asked how “waxies” got there name. Her dad and I didn’t know. She just said oh. She asked if the other people fishing were catching fish. They were quite a distance away so her dad said he wasn’t sure. Then she asked me and I said I don’t know honey. She looked at me and her dad and said she thought they were catching tons of fish. Walking back in the afternoon that March sun was on your back warm. Her hood was off, her dad put it back on and we adjusted some gear, stowed her, and towed her off the lake. In the truck driving home she didn’t last long. Out like a light with her hood off. The trout whisperer