by Patrick T. Howard

My arms had erupted in squishy, bulbous blisters the color of honey. A yellowjacket sting from three days prior still itched the inside of my left thigh, and I could see bite marks from swollen leeches on the tops of my feet – I’d foolishly decided to enter the creek in only Chacos, too lazy to slip on wading boots. Pocked with raw mosquito bites all over, I felt incredible. 

I’d driven up from the red clay and longleaf Alabama pines to the northeast corner of Iowa for an AgArts residency. The midwestern sun was less oppressive, the air less choked with moisture, so it would be possible to spend much of the summer outdoors rather than slumped in front of a dusty window unit. I intended to make the most of this friendlier climate. 

The blisters came from wild parsnip, which burns the skin when three conditions are met: contact with the plant’s sap, moisture on the skin, and prompt exposure to sunlight. This reaction is called phytophotodermatitis, and the Minnesota Department of Agriculture says in bold to seek medical attention if one is exposed, which feels a bit melodramatic; it’s more unsightly than painful or dangerous, a dull prickling heat like a mild burn. I learned my lesson with this invasive species after tromping through its tall stems for a couple weeks and convincing myself I was immune (similar to my “immunity” to poison ivy – I have in fact developed the rash multiple times). I’d simply been a lucky fool and all my previous exposures lacked one of the requisite conditions for a reaction. I learned to be gentle whilst resting my arms as I typed on the antique desk, when I rolled over in the soft bed at night. 

I slept on the second floor of a century-old farmhouse along Canoe Creek, and in the evenings I could watch a bald eagle teach its dark-headed fledgling how to glide from tree to tree. This was my first trip to the Driftless Region, and I’d never been closer to my food sources. 

My childhood was spent on an exurban property we referred to as “The Farm,” a misnomer I’ve come to learn is not at all unique to my family – that we were full-timers remains my only claim to authentic rural experience. The place in the Driftless was different: chickens, geese, guinea hens and goats, acres of food and flowers surrounded by a tall wire-clad fence to keep out the ubiquitous deer and cottontails. At one point the hosting farmers went on a trip and I looked after the livestock for a few days; we agreed on 7:00 AM as a reasonable morning feed time (although I suspect it was usually much earlier) and – by a slim margin – I came to love those creatures even more than I loathed my iPhone’s alarm. 

I’m not a morning person, and an innocuous-looking plant by the goat enclosure consistently stabbed my shins with poisonous needles when I refilled the goats’ water, but every evening I tromped up the steep gravel road from the creek, fly rod in hand, and my vision would fall ever so slightly to the right, and I’d see one of those goofy bastards standing stock-still at the peak of a tractor tire set into the sloped earth of their pen, staring me dead in the eye. I’d crack up and be willing to feed them again in the morning. I never figured out what that vicious plant was.  

I wrote first thing in the morning, and after I was satisfied with my work I focused on trout, browns and rainbows. My first catch came from Canoe Creek, a beautiful farmland stream which ran beneath overhanging limestone bluffs covered in swinging vines, white and purple flowers, and I cast a foam hopper, nymph hung below, onto riffles formed by the rocky creek bed. A large brown with shining yellow sides rose and gulped it in the blink of an eye and I fought it, simultaneously trying to wear out the fish and preserve its strength for the tough summer weeks ahead. Eventually I raised it by the lip for a selfie, whooping a victory cry to the trees of the glade then quickly releasing the big brown back to the current. It was like a Thomas Kincaid painting, minus the saccharine sleaze. 

After that first hard-won fish, I explored further offsite to find trout; as a larger tributary of the Upper Iowa River, Canoe Creek was highly susceptible to rainfall and temperature change, transforming overnight from a warm, translucent flow of 70 degrees to a messy rush of cold chocolate milk – neither being ideal conditions for trout. Many of the smaller, more remote streams were better protected and more consistent, but I won’t tell you where I was catching.

High reed canary and that dastardly parsnip loomed over the water from narrow banks. Technical casting on short, lightweight rods, the width of the stream was often less than three feet. At one point a fat rainbow body-slammed me as it swam (unhooked) through my legs, thrashing back and forth against my knees like a pinball and scaring the hell out of me. 

I wanted to find native brook trout. Only one stream was left in all of Iowa: South Pine Creek. It happened to be less than 15 minutes from my resident farm, a total of two left turns after taking the first right out the end of the driveway. I watched YouTube videos of Scandinavian hippies trekking back to snag glowing full-beaked brookies in the fall and early winter – I was there in the thick of summer. Every source mentioned how difficult the access was, but that wasn’t even a thought – I’m still young, a little hike is nothing for native brook trout…

It was 96 degrees that day. I got Mexican food before an impulsive attempt, tall cerveza, queso blanco, and tacos which later combined with a several mile hike up and down rolling hills to produce a carb-fueled psychedelic experience – that’s all my own fault, of course. I recall sitting down in the pathetic shade of some trailside scrub tree on the way back from that miserable overgrown jungle, weeds so tall I could barely find the creekbed as I continuously fell multiple feet into the soggy potholes of the valley, this prehistoric riverbed where I saw no fish and cast less than ten times because it was so stagnant, shallow, and overgrown. It was as if the land rose up to defend these sensitive fish during the dangerous heat. I didn’t deserve a native brookie that day, and I never got one. 

The time I spent in the Driftless was the most creatively productive period in my life thus far. My body stung, peeled, and sweated, and yet my mind was sharp – I had the time and space to completely prioritize my novel. Over the course of thirty days I paced over smooth hardwood floors and hand-woven rugs, writing dozens of pages; I met farmers and fishermen, writers and bamboo rod-makers; I jumped off diving boards into ponds and sat in bars and listened to the birds. The Driftless – a place where one can’t help but connect with other living things – made me pay in flesh. I’d make that deposit ten times over again. 

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Copyright ©2025 by Patrick T. Howard.

Photographs are courtesy of Isabelle Stephen and Олександр К, Prince Prajapati, Strvnge Films, Arianna, Sean C Davis, Wes Walker, and Hidde Joustra on Unsplash.