The fisherman's larder:
Three chubs and a cheese board
Josh Crumpton explores the spring creeks of the Midwest and finds camaraderie over a cocktail-bar cheese board
I WAS sitting on a tailgate next to a cow pasture, doing the tally. I had been on five creeks in three days and only managed to catch three fish, not one of them longer than my thumb. It was a rough end to a long summer.
I dug into my cooler and handed out some Spotted Cow beers I picked up earlier in the day. You can't buy New Glarus beers outside of Wisconsin, including the famous Spotted Cow. They tried Illinois once and pulled back, because they would rather keep Wisconsin stocked than be everywhere. You can haul it home; you just cannot buy it there, and somehow it tastes better if you drink it where you bought it.
On paper, I had just experienced three bad days of fishing. But sitting there with the cold beer and my new friends, I felt like I had won.
New Glarus Spotted Cow, available only in Wisconsin.
Technically, this trip started six days ago in Madison at the three-day Outdoor Writers Association of America (OWAA) annual conference, which this year doubled as the kick-off of the organization's hundredth year. OWAA started in 1927, out of a meeting of the Izaak Walton League in Chicago, and one reason the founders gave for building it was to eliminate untruths from stories of the outdoors. Ding Darling was a member. So were Sigurd Olson and Joan Wulff.
I went to breakouts. I saw old friends, some of them I only get to see one week a year. I did the old Wisco Disco, which involves lots of Midwest nice, tons of talking, eating cheese curds — both squeaky fresh and fried — and drinking. I stayed up too late drinking Spotted Cow and an unreasonable number of Wisconsin Old Fashioneds, made with brandy and Squirt, and somehow tasting different everywhere I went.
When the conference broke, I pointed the car west into the coulees to join Travel Wisconsin and four other writers to tour the Driftless.
I stayed up too late drinking Spotted Cow and an unreasonable number of Wisconsin Old Fashioneds
The Driftless is the piece of the upper Midwest the glaciers went around instead of over. Nothing scraped it flat, so it kept its shape: steep hills, narrow valleys cut through limestone. Rain soaks into those hills instead of just running off them, and the limestone seeps the water back at the bottom. It’s cold right through August, creating spring creeks; thousands of miles of them, most small enough to hide under a fence line.
Stocking up on Hippie Stompers, hoppers and pheasant tail bugs at the Driftless Angler in Viroqua.
There are brown trout, and the kind of water people put next to the famous western spring creeks. Vernon County alone holds sixty-five classified trout streams, covering about 250 miles. Most of that you can walk into, some by public bridge, some through easements the Department of Natural Resources has worked out with landowners, and the rule is about as simple as a rule gets: Keep your feet in the water, and you are standing on public land.
It is country an angler can wander. Fish a while, get out, eat somewhere good, talk to whoever is there, drive to the next valley and do it again.
Cool mornings standing in a spring creek. Afternoons topping out in the seventies, maybe the low eighties at worst. If you live in Texas in August, you will drive a long way for this.
I had been to the area once before, for about 24 hours, teaching for the National Wild Turkey Federation and the Natural Resources Foundation of Wisconsin. My students caught fish. I put them on the water, worked their casts, talked them through the drift, and never got a line wet myself, because that wasn't the job.
Three days this time. My own rod. Nobody to teach.
Paddling on the Kickapoo, without rod.
We started on the Kickapoo. It holds trout, though fishing wasn't the assignment that day. We paddled past amazing limestone cliffs; it was odd being on the water in the Driftless without a fly-rod. But my feet got wet, so I am counting it anyway.
Then the creeks.
I slid down banks on my heels, crawled over log jams, and got into every one of them the same way, past cows: fence, ditch, a strip of trees, then water. The creeks were small, sand-bottomed, and about as pretty as water gets.
The creeks ran at sixty — cold enough to notice and not cold enough to hurt
Fifty-eight degrees at seven in the morning. The creeks ran at sixty — cold enough to notice and not cold enough to hurt.
I fished hoppers mostly, banging the banks, dropping them tight to the grass and letting them fall in like the real ones. When that quit, I went to Hippie Stompers, then pheasant tails underneath, then emergers when I convinced myself the problem was subtlety. It wasn't. I went back to hoppers.
Josh attempting a rather good-looking, yet turbid creek.
It was hard fishing for everybody. A few guys got trout, not many, and none of them mine.
What I got was three creek chubs. Two inches apiece. Rising to a size ten hopper like they had somewhere to be.
On the first night of our trip, we stayed at the Hotel Fortney in Viroqua. It was built in 1899, red brick on the corner of Main and Court, and the Wrobel family has been bringing it back since 2020. The tables in the lounge are old room doors.
On the ground floor there was a cheese shop, The Rind. Not just any cheese shop; it's a labor of love with a fantastic selection.
Chris and Sarah Clemens run it. Sarah met me at the counter. She cut samples and put them in front of me one at a time, told me where each came from, who made it, and why it tastes the way it does. I have been fed by a lot of people doing a job. She wasn't.
The foggy mornings that cover the hillsides that store the cold spring water were on the counter in front of me, cut into wedges
Talking with Sarah made me realize I had walked past cows and driven past cows many times since arriving in the Driftless, without thinking about where they fit. The hills are too steep to plow, so they are covered in grass and the cows graze it. The foggy mornings that cover the hillsides that store the cold spring water were on the counter in front of me, cut into wedges. The terroir served up, packaged, ready to travel.
I bought five kinds of cheese: a washed rind Piedras, a raclette, a five-year cheddar, an alpine, a delicious one by Rollie called Red Rock cheddar, and carted them around looking for the right moment to share them with the group. I had imagined it would be streamside. I pictured it being right here as I drank this beer at the tailgate. But I had left them back at the hotel, which is how one of the most memorable moments of the trip unfolded for me.
We spent the last two nights in La Crosse. On Pearl Street, in the old commercial district, I found the Starlite Lounge. Low light, turquoise-blue vinyl, a martini list, and a stage for a jazz band. This was our final night of the trip, so I rallied the troops for a cocktail hour.
And I snuck the cheese in.
Cheese smuggling at the Starlite Lounge in La Crosse.
Five cheeses: Red Rock cheddar, a five-year matured cheddar, a raclette, an alpine and some Piedras.
Sardines from the tin.
All of it. Five cheeses, a tin of Ortiz tuna, sardines, crackers, mortadella, spread across a cocktail table in a bar. Renegade. Guerrilla. Five outdoor writers working through martinis and contraband dairy. I have been on other press trips, paired up with strangers, touring around. I am always waiting for that moment the group clicks, when things come together. And here it was, we had made the turn. Wet wading boots in the car, sardine tins beside the martini glasses, red light of a Bing Crosby-style cocktail lounge. A David Lynch moment.
Nobody talked about the fishing for long. Our conversation turned toward other trips, other water, where people were headed next. I came out of it with a Baja trip on the calendar and a brookie mission in Wyoming.
I looked at the spread, stabbed a sardine, placed it on a wafer, and thought about my three chubs. I sulked for a moment, but true to an angler's form, an optimistic thought took shape in my mind. Where there are chubs, there are likely big browns.
I sulked for a moment, but true to an angler's form, an optimistic thought took shape in my mind
I'm back in Texas and the heat is consuming. Inspired by Wisconsin, I wanted to create something new, something I can carry through the season. The birds came out of Arkansas last season; down the same river I had slept beside the past week. The Wisco Disco and Old Fashioneds inspire the sauce. I sit with the Supper Club Mallard plated in front of me, forever dedicated to my adventures with Dave, Tim, Scott, and Charlie.
The sunset paints the dining room of my hill country home rose and then orange. And I think to myself: Five creeks, three days, and a few chub the size of my thumb.
I'd do it again.
Supper Club Mallard
Mallard breast with brandy Old Fashioned sauce, wild rice, and watercress. Serves 2 generously, or 4 as a first course. 20 minutes active, plus overnight salting.
Ingredients:
Duck
- 4 wild mallard breasts, skin on if you plucked them
- 2 tsp kosher salt
- Black pepper
Brandy old fashioned sauce
- 1 small shallot, minced
- 1/3 cup brandy
- 1/3 cup dried tart cherries, or 1/2 cup frozen sour cherries
- 2 wide strips orange zest, peeled with a vegetable peeler
- 2 tbsp fresh grapefruit juice
- 3/4 cup duck or chicken stock
- 5 dashes Angostura bitters
- 2 brown sugar cubes, about 2 tsp
- 1 tsp cider vinegar, if the sauce needs it
- 3 tbsp cold butter, cubed
- Salt
Wild rice
- 1 cup wild rice, lake-harvested if you can get it
- 1 tbsp rendered duck fat, or butter
- 1 small shallot, minced
- 1 tsp thyme leaves
- Salt, black pepper
Watercress and pickled onion
- 1 small red onion, halved and sliced thin
- 1/3 cup cider vinegar
- 1 tsp sugar
- 1/2 tsp salt
- 2 big handfuls watercress, thick stems pulled
- Squeeze of lemon
- Olive oil, salt
First course, if you want one
- Alpine cheese
- Pickled vegetables. Okra, beans, beets — whatever is in the door of the refrigerator
- Rye crackers or dark bread
Method:
The night before
1. Pat the breasts dry. Salt them on both sides, set on a rack over a plate, leave them uncovered in the refrigerator overnight.
2. If the breasts are skin on, score the fat in a crosshatch 1/4 inch apart. Cut through the fat only.
3. Pack the sliced onion into a jar. Warm the vinegar, sugar and salt until the sugar dissolves, pour it over, and let it cool. Refrigerate. It is ready in an hour and better the next day. It keeps two weeks.
The wild rice
4. Bring a saucepan of salted water to a boil, enough to cover rice. Add the rice.
5. Simmer uncovered until the grains have split open along the seam and curled back but still have chew. Start checking at 20 minutes. Lake-harvested rice can be done in 20 to 25 minutes; paddy-grown takes 45 to 55.
6. Drain. Return the empty pan to medium heat with the duck fat, add the shallot, and cook 2 minutes, until it is softened.
7. Return the rice to the pan. Add the thyme, season with salt and pepper, and stir 1 minute to coat. Cover and hold off heat.
The duck
8. Take the breasts out of the refrigerator 30 minutes ahead. Pat them dry again.
9. Skin on: lay them skin down in a dry, cold, heavy skillet. Set the burner to medium-low. Cook 6 to 10 minutes without moving them, pouring off the fat into a heatproof cup as it collects, until the skin is deep brown and firm and the fat under it has fully rendered. Flip and cook 1 to 2 minutes more.
Skinless: heat 1 tbsp of duck fat or butter in the skillet over medium-high until it shimmers. Sear 2 minutes per side.
10. Pull the breasts at 130 deg F on an instant-read thermometer, taken in the thickest part. Move them to a plate or board and rest 8 minutes. They will carry over to about 135 deg F.
Note: Duck is a red meat. Past 140 deg F it turns dry and livery. Pull at 130 and rest.
The sauce
11. Pour off all but 1 tbsp of fat from the skillet. Return it to medium heat, add shallot, cook 1 minute, stirring, until it is softened.
12. Take the pan off the heat and add brandy. Adding spirits to a hot pan on the burner can flare up. Return it to the heat and simmer 1 minute, scraping the browned bits off the bottom, until the liquid has reduced by about half.
13. Add the cherries, orange zest, grapefruit juice, stock, bitters, and sugar cubes, crushing the cubes against the side of the pan with the back of a spoon. Simmer 4 to 5 minutes, until the sauce has reduced by about half and coats the back of a spoon.
14. Taste before you add the vinegar. Grapefruit brings its own acid and the sauce may not need any. If it does, add it a few drops at a time. Take the pan off the heat and stir in the cold butter a few cubes at a time until it is melted and the sauce is glossy. Season with salt.
15. Taste it again. It should read sweet first, then bitter, then sour. If it is bitter, crush in more sugar, a corner of a cube at a time, until the front of the sip is sweet.
16. Remove the orange zest strips. Leave the cherries in.
Plate
17. Drain a pinch of the pickled onion and toss it with the watercress, lemon, olive oil, and salt. Do this at the last second; it wilts fast.
18. Spoon the wild rice onto warm plates in a low bed a little wider than a duck breast.
19. Slice the rested breasts against the grain, about 1/4 inch thick. Fan the slices across the rice with the cut faces turned up.
20. Spoon the sauce and the cherries over the duck.
21. Pile the dressed watercress and onion to the side, leaning into the duck.
PHOTOGRAPHY: JOSH CRUMPTON
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Josh Crumpton
Josh Crumpton brings 30 years of fine dining and wine industry experience to the outdoor world. Having worked alongside world-class chefs and served as a sommelier, he now applies that culinary expertise to hunting, fishing, and camp cooking across the American West. Based in Texas, he bridges the gap between haute cuisine and authentic outdoor pursuits.
