The Suburban Sportsman

One of the great merits of being a fisherman or a hunter is that you experience things few others rarely do. While fishing, I’ve inadvertently swam with dolphins, come toe to toe with 14 -foot alligators and fought sharks twice my size.

However, occasionally angling exploits can have the opposite effect, exposing fishermen to detestable sites that no one should witness. And as the herd of naked elderly men meandered down the beach towards me, I knew I was having one such experience.

The day began inconspicuously. After loading up my car with my walleye gear, beach towel and lunch, I headed toward Mazomanie State Natural Area (a pristine conglomeration of islands along the Wisconsin River) to enjoy the unseasonably warm April weather.

I had noticed Mazo during a hiking excursion to nearby Ferry Bluffs and its islands struck me as a potential honey-hole. They had deep, undercut banks, easy access to the main river channel and plenty of structure current breaks along their outside edge. Additionally, narrow sandbars ran between the islands and the river’s southern shoreline so I could easily wade out to my destination. Little did I know the dark secret these waters held.

Upon arriving at Mazo, I quickly glanced at the warped, wooden state park sign to ensure that fishing was allowed, and then proceeded out to the islands.

Fishing, as expected, was phenomenal. Walleyes were more than obliging, and some smallmouth even joined in the fray. Then, everything went downhill.

I noticed several silhouetted figures approaching in the distance, their figures blocked by the suns glare off the sand and water. I sat up to give the tradition fishermen’s wave, and was horrified by what I saw.

Not 25 yards from me were ten 60- to 70-year-old men, naked as the day they were born. I snapped out of my sun-baked daze, threw on my shirt and began packing…Then the dreaded question came.

“Catching anything?” asked one of the nudists.

“Shit,” I thought to myself, “These are talkative nudists. The men’s locker room taken to some terrible extreme.”

I panicked, and did the only thing I could think of. I bolted. Like a bat-out-of-hell I sprinted through the ankle-deep water, up the beach, past the woods and into my car.

After arriving back in Madison, and doing a more thorough search on Mazo beach, I found out that it is an infamous nudist gathering spot during the summer months.

You know, for all the complaining I do about jet-skis, I’d take them any day over that terrible sight.

Flatlander.

My college roommate, Zach Lawson, first introduced me to the term. Apparently a derogatory word, “flatlander” is used to describe yuppie, weekend warriors from Illinois who supposedly rape and pillage Wisconsin’s lakes and rivers. My first reaction to the expression was laughter. Flatlander, really?!? I never knew Wisconsin was overrun with mountains?

My humor transitioned into disbelief as I found out that the people who hated Illinois the most,were those in area’s dependent on Illinois tourist dollars. (Sorry for the economic boosts, Door County, Rhinelander and Minocqua)

However, attempts to rationalize my new label merely manifested more malice. I soon realized flatlander is a scarlet letter amongst Midwestern anglers, and bore the cross at my weekly fishing-team meetings as well as at every bass tournament I ever fished in. My Illinois plates were bulls-eyes for those yearning to unleash their geographical prejudices.

“Go back to your corn!”

“If it wasn’t for Chicago, Illinois wouldn’t even be a state!”

“I’m surprised you’re not using a Zebco!”

Their words were like salt rubbed in an already gaping wound.

Somehow, I persevered, and am now living amongst my former tormentors. A flatlander disguised as a cheesehead.

Several years later, I have learned to embrace the flatlander tag. It is no longer a catalyst for discomfort, but a reminder of the things that make the Illinois outdoors experience fantastic. We have arguably the nation’s best Canadian goose hunting. Southwestern Illinois is home of one of two “golden triangles” of whitetail deer. And my personal favorite, Illinois has year-round fishing on most bodies of water.

The latter of these reasons is particularly pertinent as we transition into spring. While my Wisconsin friends must either wait until May, or head to the nearest river to pursue game fish, I can hit the shores of my favorite lake to chase whatever species I desire.

So rather than suffering under my flatlander nomenclature, I’m going to seize the angling opportunity Illinois’ laissez-faire legislation presents and partake in ice-off fishing. Cheers to Illinois!