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One of the ailments whose cure won't be found at the nearest pharmacy is cabin fever. Some might question whether it's a real, or imagined, condition, but Minnesotans and others who live where land and waters are ice and snowbound for months know better. It's real.

There are ways to cope, things to do both outdoors and indoors that help make the dark, cold months seem a little shorter. Things like ice fishing, snowmobiling, skiing, sport shows, tinkering with your fishing tackle, all of which make the wait for budding trees and green grass a little more tolerable.

Some people emulate the birds and migrate, even if only for a week or two, to warmer climates to ease the wait. Those who aren't in a position to do that must settle for the comfort of knowing that longer days and more direct sun will steadily rot the snow away, and gradually work the magic of melting the ice caps that have locked our lakes away since November or December.

But I have a place that is not a migration away. It's just a short expeditionary distance to where the water is running free and an angler can cast a line, expectant that a fish may take his offering and make a thrashing battle of it before being brought to his waiting net. That place is the bluff country of Southeast Minnesota, a place where lakes are a rarity compared to Central and Northern Minnesota, but where rivers and creeks abound.

Over many thousands of years these waterways have cut through hundreds of feet of rock and soil on their way to join the Mississippi, forming what seems like an upside-down mountain range. Where the Rockies rise up from the plains and the foothills, the rivers and streams in bluff country have cut downward to erode valleys, whose limestone walls give much the same mountainous sensation of grandeur and elevation.

Because you can't see over the tops of the bluffs from the valley floor, the rolling farm land beyond disappears, and might as well be a figment of your imagination. Some of the slower, shallower and low-gradient streams may carry a sheet of ice during part of the winter. But the major waterways remain open, fed by groundwater that is above the freezing point, and moving too rapidly for icy temperatures to halt them. They continue to do their work, moving nutrients and providing oxygenated water to the fish and aquatic creatures that live under their rocks, in weedy patches, and in their slower, silty places.

The fish in these streams are not the crappies we'll be pursuing in our lakes soon after ice-out, the walleyes that will be the object of everyone's desire in mid-May, or the bass that will be our targets come Memorial Day. The fish here are trout, chiefly because the springs feeding these streams are colder and more constant than the waters that support those other species. Each fish has its niche in "the circle of life," and this is the trout's niche.

This is a trip my son and I have been able to take during his March college breaks. It's an escape for him from the rigors of the classroom, and me from the office. For both of us it's an escape to open water and to fishing. One emphasizes "fishing," rather than "fish," because only the attempt is guaranteed. The result depends not only on how well prepared and skilled we are, but also on whether the fish cooperate.

"Cooperate" is probably a bad choice of words, because fish do not cooperate. Their life is focused on one end, and one end only: survival. If we present a lure that instinct and experience have led a fish to accept as good, or needed, then we stand a chance of catching it. Chance, because there are no guarantees in fishing. Luck, so-called, is usually the intersection of preparation and opportunity, and we can at least control the preparation part.

We timed our trip, during the boys high school state hockey tournament week, just perfectly. Perfect for fishing in March means sunny skies, and temperatures above, or near, the freezing mark. We got in our two days before the storm front brought more snow and rain to much of the state.

We caught fish with effort and thought, rather than easily or at will. This is how I like it. When I hear of the 50-fish day, I can't help but feel that the numbers game overshadows the importance and appreciation of each fish. I like a day when we catch fish often enough to be confident that we're doing the right things, and when there are one, or several, very good fish to test us.

This was the kind of trip we had. We caught brown and rainbow trout often enough that we felt rewarded, but not spoiled. My son landed the largest stream-caught rainbow of his brief fishing career. We saw many wild turkeys, saw and heard ducks and geese in migration northward, and when things were slow, lay back on the bank and absorbed the warmth of almost-spring sunshine.

We talked about plans and hopes of the sort common to fathers and their young adult children. I told my son that one of the hopes of an angling parent is to see his children out-fish him, and that I appreciated his having given me that opportunity! I even meant it!

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