Made it out Saturday for the small game opener. Bagged 1 squirrel in an hour and half or so of wandering between a few of my duck spots to see if they held water--and they do, though there's a lot of mud between the bank and the edge of the water this year. Saw a few other bushytails, but couldn't get a shot off. I wasn't prepared for having to shoot in a brief window of opportunity when a squirrel came into the open.
I guess I wasn't sure what to be prepared for, seeing as I've never really hunted squirrels before. My dad and I used to walk through the woods looking for small game of some kind, any kind, but rarely saw it, aside from the times we stumbled on some sweet pat covers. I did enjoy it though and want to do a lot more of it. A lot of hunters begin their careers with squirrels and move on to larger or more technical kinds of hunting--I'm regressing to it after sampling upland and waterfowl. Not that I'm giving up either, but I could come to very much appreciate slowly wandering through the woods mid morning, stopping here and there to listen, scanning the treetops to pinpoint the source of the rustling in the leaves or clatter of branches. Not the adrenalin or drama of waterfowling, but I think a range of moods and timbres will enrich in substance a hunting career that is, regrettably, foreshortened in time.
For this season, my hunting may not encompass much more than waterfowl and squirrel, or any other small game that wanders across my path. Ran out to Waterloo last Thursday to look over the spot I was considering for a deer hunt in November. Lots of trails running through it, but it would be hard to set up on one, especially for a complete newbie like me. Maybe another season. If I can become proficient with squirrels this year (and continue getting better at waterfowl), that's enough growth as a hunter to satisfy me for now.
Monday, September 17, 2012
Wednesday, September 05, 2012
What I wish I were doing
I'm so ready to shoot a waterfowl right now I'm calculating whether #2s or BBs would be needed to penetrate the frozen ducks at supermarket. Reading tales like this one doesn't help.
I'm actually planning to expand my hunting this year. Squirrels when the season opens in a week and a half, and just possibly deer in November. Possibly. Shot some slugs out of the 870 at the Sharonville range on Monday and decided I might need to wait on the whitetails until I can do better than 7" groups.
Whatever happens...here's hoping for more wild meat on the table this fall.
I'm actually planning to expand my hunting this year. Squirrels when the season opens in a week and a half, and just possibly deer in November. Possibly. Shot some slugs out of the 870 at the Sharonville range on Monday and decided I might need to wait on the whitetails until I can do better than 7" groups.
Whatever happens...here's hoping for more wild meat on the table this fall.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Head and Hands
Lately I've been enjoying the time at my cutting board more than my time at the keyboard, or with a book in hand. And I'm not even cutting up freshly caught brook trout in some wilderness camp. Just things like greens, chicken, onions. I've been enjoying my time picking and restaking tomatoes, stir frying fresh kale, experimenting with mixtures for a new favorite consumable, the protein shake. And the simple pleasures I've been savoring extend past food. Started lifting weights two weeks ago, and have liked feeling the simple operation of muscle, though mine are still mostly where they started. So much of our bodies we take for granted. Mowing the lawn, fixing a corroded drain fixture last weekend were quite satisfying, as was sorting out duck decoys and stacking them in new storage bins. After I finished these I felt satisfied--affirmed, even--as I rarely do with my job. Which didn't go well last week.
Some of the most tiresome parts of my job take place at the keyboard, so my recent preference for these simple acts may be no wonder. But the more interesting ones do as well--writing (not always pleasant but a top shelf pleasure when it works), taking notes on reading, even simply reading articles or e-books. Chatting with students (honestly, I think I my one-on-one conferences go better online than face to face). These things are expected of me not just because of my job description but because the kind of person I am. Intellectual, verbal, analytical. That's how people saw me for long before I started assembling letters after my name and that mark me now among people who know me (though "outdoorsy" usually comes to their minds too). So really, smart guy stuff ought to be a passion, and even before that a reflex. Menial labors (and gardening and cooking qualify as such, though they are often labors of love as well) should be necessary chores to be quickly dispatched before getting back to the real work, or at least to cerebral pleasures.
Now, I think that handwork gets short shrift in a culture that ranks white collar occupations above blue, and digital products over material ones. I have great respect for craftspeople, farmers, mechanics, everyone who can do things with things. That goes for people whose avocations result in fine things--trout flies, quilts, charcuterie, furniture, for example. The results of the manual tasks I've immersed myself in lately aren't that admirable. My cooking is rather slapdash, as is my lawncare. There are actually some important home maintainence tasks I've been letting go, and need to take care of before the frost comes. All the same, those I do work at are what makes me happiest at the moment.
I suppose my greatest pleasures--the outdoor sports, or simply spending time outdoors--are handworks, or at least pleasures of the senses, no matter how much reflection and strategizing they include. There was a time though when these things entered into the life of my mind. I taught courses on environmental literature. I devised writing courses where students explored watersheds, food, neighborhoods (which provide another avenue for my attraction to terrain). At the moment I don't have the option to teach those, which doesn't bother me so much as that the teaching I am doing seems uninspired and rote.
It has seemed less so, regardless of what I was teaching, when I held close and lived daily with ideas and evocations of those hand--and eye, ear, nose, and footfall--pleasures that give so much of my life its shape. Reading Thoreau or Rick Bass and their rest of their literary crew. Reading what others have said and disputed about them. Writing about nature literature and philosophy, or writing about my own outdoor excursions. Writing in Find the River. In doing those thing, hand and head join, and the rest of my work receives a charge from it.
Through busyness or laziness, I've let them slip apart, and it shows in disparate parts of my life. My question now is, how can I join head and hands again?
Maybe I've already answered that. Maybe I'm starting to do it. At least the question has formed, and even that is giving me a lift.
Some of the most tiresome parts of my job take place at the keyboard, so my recent preference for these simple acts may be no wonder. But the more interesting ones do as well--writing (not always pleasant but a top shelf pleasure when it works), taking notes on reading, even simply reading articles or e-books. Chatting with students (honestly, I think I my one-on-one conferences go better online than face to face). These things are expected of me not just because of my job description but because the kind of person I am. Intellectual, verbal, analytical. That's how people saw me for long before I started assembling letters after my name and that mark me now among people who know me (though "outdoorsy" usually comes to their minds too). So really, smart guy stuff ought to be a passion, and even before that a reflex. Menial labors (and gardening and cooking qualify as such, though they are often labors of love as well) should be necessary chores to be quickly dispatched before getting back to the real work, or at least to cerebral pleasures.
Now, I think that handwork gets short shrift in a culture that ranks white collar occupations above blue, and digital products over material ones. I have great respect for craftspeople, farmers, mechanics, everyone who can do things with things. That goes for people whose avocations result in fine things--trout flies, quilts, charcuterie, furniture, for example. The results of the manual tasks I've immersed myself in lately aren't that admirable. My cooking is rather slapdash, as is my lawncare. There are actually some important home maintainence tasks I've been letting go, and need to take care of before the frost comes. All the same, those I do work at are what makes me happiest at the moment.
I suppose my greatest pleasures--the outdoor sports, or simply spending time outdoors--are handworks, or at least pleasures of the senses, no matter how much reflection and strategizing they include. There was a time though when these things entered into the life of my mind. I taught courses on environmental literature. I devised writing courses where students explored watersheds, food, neighborhoods (which provide another avenue for my attraction to terrain). At the moment I don't have the option to teach those, which doesn't bother me so much as that the teaching I am doing seems uninspired and rote.
It has seemed less so, regardless of what I was teaching, when I held close and lived daily with ideas and evocations of those hand--and eye, ear, nose, and footfall--pleasures that give so much of my life its shape. Reading Thoreau or Rick Bass and their rest of their literary crew. Reading what others have said and disputed about them. Writing about nature literature and philosophy, or writing about my own outdoor excursions. Writing in Find the River. In doing those thing, hand and head join, and the rest of my work receives a charge from it.
Through busyness or laziness, I've let them slip apart, and it shows in disparate parts of my life. My question now is, how can I join head and hands again?
Maybe I've already answered that. Maybe I'm starting to do it. At least the question has formed, and even that is giving me a lift.
Monday, August 20, 2012
Am I Wearing a Sign
...that says I know absolutely nothing?
While I was in Bob Linsenman's excellent fly shop in Mio last week, I had an interaction of a sort I periodically do in fly shops that makes me wonder. Does this happen to anyone else?
On the stream Tuesday night, I'd seen a bunch of iso spinners gathering over a riffle at dusk. So I asked the clerk (not Bob) this:
"There were a lot of iso spinners out last night. Do they ever bring up a steady rise of fish later at night? Or will anything hit them if you fish them blind?"
"What you want to do," said the clerk, pulling an iso nymph from the fly bin, "is take one of these and sweep it across the riffles in the afternoon. They've been taking these really well." He spoke in a firm, fatherly voice of the sort that might instill confidence in the struggling tyro
"Right," I responded. "That usually works for me," I added, figuring I should toss in something to establish some trophy water acumen. The reason I'd come to the shop was actually to buy some of those. "But what I want to know is, do the fish hit those isonychia spinners in the evening?"
"The best thing," the clerk continued, holding up an ephoron soft hackle, "is to run one of these off a dropper behind it." He extended the fly toward me.
I declined, telling him I already had four of those, and just reached around him to get a couple of the iso nymphs. I wasn't going to push the point any further. All I needed was a simple "yes" or "no." Maybe his response to me was actually a backhanded "no," but why not answer the question directly? Was it one only the most ignorant newbie would ask and unworthy of an answer?
I don't think that was the case. Like I said, something like this happens from time to time. I will ask a fairly specific, sometimes technical, question about hatches, presentations, or something else, then receive a very general answer, such as you might get from some "Intro to Fly Fishing" kind of book, and that you would really want if it was your first or second season. My attempts to distinguish my question from that sort that requires that kind of answer don't seem to penetrate the clerk's awareness. I wouldn't go so far as to say it's insulting, but it sometimes makes me think twice about patronizing stores where that happens again (though rest assured I will continue to shop at Bob's).
This is actually I pattern I've encountered dealing with clerks in all kinds of stores, actually (though most often in fly shops), and also with tour guides. There are certain questions they are used to getting and answering. And those are they questions they hear when dealing with their customers, even if they're not the ones customers always ask, and they give the answers they usually give, even if they're not the ones sought. I think this comes from people working on autopilot instead of paying attention to their situation.
Granted, there are a lot of jobs that make this easy to do, and I'll admit that as a teacher, I've done it myself. But having caught myself, or been caught at it by students, a few times I've tried to listen to every question as closely as possible and give the kind of response that a fresh and substantive question deserves--even if I've heard the question a thousand times and it could probably be answered by reading the assignment a little more carefully. Doing that, regardless of where you work, is one important way of Being Here Now.
While I was in Bob Linsenman's excellent fly shop in Mio last week, I had an interaction of a sort I periodically do in fly shops that makes me wonder. Does this happen to anyone else?
On the stream Tuesday night, I'd seen a bunch of iso spinners gathering over a riffle at dusk. So I asked the clerk (not Bob) this:
"There were a lot of iso spinners out last night. Do they ever bring up a steady rise of fish later at night? Or will anything hit them if you fish them blind?"
"What you want to do," said the clerk, pulling an iso nymph from the fly bin, "is take one of these and sweep it across the riffles in the afternoon. They've been taking these really well." He spoke in a firm, fatherly voice of the sort that might instill confidence in the struggling tyro
"Right," I responded. "That usually works for me," I added, figuring I should toss in something to establish some trophy water acumen. The reason I'd come to the shop was actually to buy some of those. "But what I want to know is, do the fish hit those isonychia spinners in the evening?"
"The best thing," the clerk continued, holding up an ephoron soft hackle, "is to run one of these off a dropper behind it." He extended the fly toward me.
I declined, telling him I already had four of those, and just reached around him to get a couple of the iso nymphs. I wasn't going to push the point any further. All I needed was a simple "yes" or "no." Maybe his response to me was actually a backhanded "no," but why not answer the question directly? Was it one only the most ignorant newbie would ask and unworthy of an answer?
I don't think that was the case. Like I said, something like this happens from time to time. I will ask a fairly specific, sometimes technical, question about hatches, presentations, or something else, then receive a very general answer, such as you might get from some "Intro to Fly Fishing" kind of book, and that you would really want if it was your first or second season. My attempts to distinguish my question from that sort that requires that kind of answer don't seem to penetrate the clerk's awareness. I wouldn't go so far as to say it's insulting, but it sometimes makes me think twice about patronizing stores where that happens again (though rest assured I will continue to shop at Bob's).
This is actually I pattern I've encountered dealing with clerks in all kinds of stores, actually (though most often in fly shops), and also with tour guides. There are certain questions they are used to getting and answering. And those are they questions they hear when dealing with their customers, even if they're not the ones customers always ask, and they give the answers they usually give, even if they're not the ones sought. I think this comes from people working on autopilot instead of paying attention to their situation.
Granted, there are a lot of jobs that make this easy to do, and I'll admit that as a teacher, I've done it myself. But having caught myself, or been caught at it by students, a few times I've tried to listen to every question as closely as possible and give the kind of response that a fresh and substantive question deserves--even if I've heard the question a thousand times and it could probably be answered by reading the assignment a little more carefully. Doing that, regardless of where you work, is one important way of Being Here Now.
Friday, August 17, 2012
Au Sable 8/15
One of my favorite trips of the year is my late summer visit to the Au Sable trophy waters--it's given me some of the best days of fishing I had in some seasons. I've had some of those magical days when I can pull two or three trout from every riffle I ply with iso or ephoron nymphs. Flying ants falling into the river all afternoon and trout feeding on them in every smooth run, just like during a mayfly hatch. I've fished heavy midday hatches of BWOs, and ephoron emergences at dusk that ranged from good to spectacular.
Other times it's been a bust. Drifting all afternoon in my pontoon without getting a strike. Short strikers all day long. Or waiting in vain for the ephoron hatch. While I've never had a complete skunking, I've sometimes managed only one fish in the net.
Wednesday fell somewhere between feast and famine. Got on the river around 2:30, having spent morning and early afternoon working (I've become one of those people who takes a laptop into the woods...still beats working at home). Started at the riffle below Loud's rest stop, where I've had some very good days. Some feeders showed at the lip of the riffle and along the edges of the V falling down from it, and got some of them to strike on an ephoron soft hackle. Alas, they turned out to be chubs. After an hour I did pull a 12" brown out of a pocket below the riffle.
Next I went down to 2 Fish Flats (a private name for a spot that as far as I know has no public one), which yielded 3. Then it was One Fish (not sure what other feature to name it by), which lived up to its name precisely. I've wondered whether I ought to dub some hole Fifty Fish. One day years ago 2 Fish Flats very nearly approached that.
Ate supper in the woods, then went to a spot below Perry Creek to wait for the ephorons. When I got there a little after 7, some trout were rising to BWOs. The feeding wound down around the time I'd switched to a light leader, but I still fooled one rainbow. No ephorons emerged at sunset. I was waiting with the emerger tied on, and when I saw a solitary rise downstream, I thought I'd work it through the run anyway. The only subsequent rises I saw were when fish smashed my fly--three rainbows and one solid 14" brown. "Smash" is no exaggeration here--my fly would be gliding along with the current when I felt a hard pull, immediately followed by the sight of a trout thrashing on the surface of the river. There is nothing quite like that experience to draw you fully into a moment of your life. Buddhism offers that admonition to "be here now"; hooking and playing a substantial trout offers no other option.
Between the last day of my UP trip and the Mio run this week, August has been the best month of my season, meager as it was by the standards of most fishermen, including myself, or at least the self who used to get up north twice a month in summer. Almost makes seeing the close of summer worth it.
Back to school Monday. Into the maw of the working year once again.
Other times it's been a bust. Drifting all afternoon in my pontoon without getting a strike. Short strikers all day long. Or waiting in vain for the ephoron hatch. While I've never had a complete skunking, I've sometimes managed only one fish in the net.
Wednesday fell somewhere between feast and famine. Got on the river around 2:30, having spent morning and early afternoon working (I've become one of those people who takes a laptop into the woods...still beats working at home). Started at the riffle below Loud's rest stop, where I've had some very good days. Some feeders showed at the lip of the riffle and along the edges of the V falling down from it, and got some of them to strike on an ephoron soft hackle. Alas, they turned out to be chubs. After an hour I did pull a 12" brown out of a pocket below the riffle.
Next I went down to 2 Fish Flats (a private name for a spot that as far as I know has no public one), which yielded 3. Then it was One Fish (not sure what other feature to name it by), which lived up to its name precisely. I've wondered whether I ought to dub some hole Fifty Fish. One day years ago 2 Fish Flats very nearly approached that.
Ate supper in the woods, then went to a spot below Perry Creek to wait for the ephorons. When I got there a little after 7, some trout were rising to BWOs. The feeding wound down around the time I'd switched to a light leader, but I still fooled one rainbow. No ephorons emerged at sunset. I was waiting with the emerger tied on, and when I saw a solitary rise downstream, I thought I'd work it through the run anyway. The only subsequent rises I saw were when fish smashed my fly--three rainbows and one solid 14" brown. "Smash" is no exaggeration here--my fly would be gliding along with the current when I felt a hard pull, immediately followed by the sight of a trout thrashing on the surface of the river. There is nothing quite like that experience to draw you fully into a moment of your life. Buddhism offers that admonition to "be here now"; hooking and playing a substantial trout offers no other option.
Between the last day of my UP trip and the Mio run this week, August has been the best month of my season, meager as it was by the standards of most fishermen, including myself, or at least the self who used to get up north twice a month in summer. Almost makes seeing the close of summer worth it.
Back to school Monday. Into the maw of the working year once again.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Live from Mio, 8/15
Greetings from the Mio McDonalds...
The school year is bearing down on me--I'm back at it next Monday--and the trip to Mio I'd planned for the end of that week is off thanks to an abruptly called meeting. But I'm well along in my preparation, so yesterday I snuck off for a 2-dayer up on the trophy waters.
Didn't get up until about 6 last night, and after waiting out a rainstorm in the Paddle Inn and setting up my tent, I didn't get in the river until nearly 8. Which would be fine for catching the ephoron hatch, which was my objective in coming up, but none emerged. Not surprising since the temp dropped about 10 degrees and stayed there once it passed. Did see a few late isos on the wing, but none falling and no feeding. I did catch one planter brown and 'bow on a beadhead ephoron soft hackle.
I didn't want to leave things there, so I drove up to the south branch for a mousing excursion--hadn't done any night fishing this year aside from my pathetic hex hatch venture. I chose a stretch where I've caught some good browns at night before, but hardly recognized it in the low water, at least so far as I could see the river's features in the half-clouded starlight and feel where it touched my waders. There was a long stretch of exposed timber along one bank that in ordinary summer water conditions would be at least half submerged. When I walked over to that bank to retrieve my mouse after snagging it on the wood, the water barely covered my boots.
I did land a 13" brown when my mouse swung across a chute, but that was it. A long deep bend (which was still about knee deep) that was the spot I most wanted to fish turned up nothing.
Made it back to camp around 1. By then the clouds had cleared and I saw stars like I hadn't all summer. Too little time outdoors, and usually when the moon was strong. Cassieopia and the Little Dipper stood out like spotlights. Lightning flashed in the north from time to time, but the promised clearing had finally come and today is cloudless, still, and warm but not scorching. Looking forward to a good afternoon on the river.
The school year is bearing down on me--I'm back at it next Monday--and the trip to Mio I'd planned for the end of that week is off thanks to an abruptly called meeting. But I'm well along in my preparation, so yesterday I snuck off for a 2-dayer up on the trophy waters.
Didn't get up until about 6 last night, and after waiting out a rainstorm in the Paddle Inn and setting up my tent, I didn't get in the river until nearly 8. Which would be fine for catching the ephoron hatch, which was my objective in coming up, but none emerged. Not surprising since the temp dropped about 10 degrees and stayed there once it passed. Did see a few late isos on the wing, but none falling and no feeding. I did catch one planter brown and 'bow on a beadhead ephoron soft hackle.
I didn't want to leave things there, so I drove up to the south branch for a mousing excursion--hadn't done any night fishing this year aside from my pathetic hex hatch venture. I chose a stretch where I've caught some good browns at night before, but hardly recognized it in the low water, at least so far as I could see the river's features in the half-clouded starlight and feel where it touched my waders. There was a long stretch of exposed timber along one bank that in ordinary summer water conditions would be at least half submerged. When I walked over to that bank to retrieve my mouse after snagging it on the wood, the water barely covered my boots.
I did land a 13" brown when my mouse swung across a chute, but that was it. A long deep bend (which was still about knee deep) that was the spot I most wanted to fish turned up nothing.
Made it back to camp around 1. By then the clouds had cleared and I saw stars like I hadn't all summer. Too little time outdoors, and usually when the moon was strong. Cassieopia and the Little Dipper stood out like spotlights. Lightning flashed in the north from time to time, but the promised clearing had finally come and today is cloudless, still, and warm but not scorching. Looking forward to a good afternoon on the river.
Monday, August 06, 2012
Ontonagon/Houghton Cos., 7/29-8/3
My wife and I just got back from a week in Kenton, MI where we took a hiking/writing/fishing retreat. We've come here off and on since 1999, always staying at the Two Rivers Motel & Cabins. This time we spring for a cabin. Clean, cozy, and under $400/wk. It's been a long time since I've come back from a vacation feeling more relaxed and simply centered than I feel now. Which is good because my nerves were more or less in tatters before we left.
The weather was great--for things other than fishing anyway. Temps generally stayed in the upper 70s/low 80s and the sun never slipped from view We hiked 3-4 hours every day and had raindrops for only about 30 seconds on day one. Not even enough to wet my shirt. Cruised around looking for wildlife and checking out random sights otherwise, cranked out some decent prose in the intervals. Raspberries were everywhere. Thimble berries were a bit scattered and not quite at peak ripeness in most areas where we saw them.
As for the fishing...slow doesn't begin to describe it. Water temps made it a losing battle from the start. On the first night I went to Sparrow Rapids on the East Branch of the Ontonagon. The thermometer read 69. Took a few small (4-5") brooks and bows on nymphs and attractor dries. Saw literally a couple of caddis in the air. This was approximately the bug volume on every outing I made.
The next morning (Monday) I fished the middle Ontonagon above Agate Falls. Water temp ran 69-70. In the quietest sections a few trout were feeding on midges, at least I think. Landed a couple dinkies, briefly hooked a slightly larger one. Tuesday night I went to the Jumbo...Wednesday night to the middle branch...Thursday afternoon to the middle branch and bluff creek...in all cases the water temp was 70 or above. Probably shouldn't have been fishing trout at all in those temps, but wasn't set up to do much else.
Finally, on Friday morning, I went to a different spot on the east branch. Water temp: 64! And the previous night really hadn't been cooler than nights earlier in the week. Fished downstream with an olive wooly bugger and in an hour took four 9-10" inch trout, 2 brooks, 2 bows. Not a haul for the ages, but stellar for this trip. I even saw a very thin trico hatch, though nothing seemed to be feeding on it. When the sun cleared the trees my streamer twitched through the brush unmolested, so I switch to some terrestrial and attractor patters, with and without droppers, but took only trout in the sardine class.
Aside from finally putting some sort-of-respectable fish on the line, Friday's outing reminded me of why I love to fish trout. This season, plus memories of the last two, actually have me wondering about that sometimes. The silence of the stream, the cool, still morning, the beauty of the woods at the peak of summer lushness, and the chance to slow down the mind to take it all in. Not to mention trout on the line. In short, being in a solitary, beautiful place, seeking out some of the most vibrant creatures to inhabit the world. I guess every trout foray offers those things, but they get lost in a lingering fog of frustration, and among growing distractions in my life. Maybe I needed the time away from home and work and the internet (which was self-imposed...we did have wi-fi but I didn't use it) to be ready to appreciate fishing again.
I was hoping to exercise that appreciation two weekends from now, but the first email I read upon returning announced meeting that Friday which basically nixes the idea. So I look to September...
The weather was great--for things other than fishing anyway. Temps generally stayed in the upper 70s/low 80s and the sun never slipped from view We hiked 3-4 hours every day and had raindrops for only about 30 seconds on day one. Not even enough to wet my shirt. Cruised around looking for wildlife and checking out random sights otherwise, cranked out some decent prose in the intervals. Raspberries were everywhere. Thimble berries were a bit scattered and not quite at peak ripeness in most areas where we saw them.
As for the fishing...slow doesn't begin to describe it. Water temps made it a losing battle from the start. On the first night I went to Sparrow Rapids on the East Branch of the Ontonagon. The thermometer read 69. Took a few small (4-5") brooks and bows on nymphs and attractor dries. Saw literally a couple of caddis in the air. This was approximately the bug volume on every outing I made.
The next morning (Monday) I fished the middle Ontonagon above Agate Falls. Water temp ran 69-70. In the quietest sections a few trout were feeding on midges, at least I think. Landed a couple dinkies, briefly hooked a slightly larger one. Tuesday night I went to the Jumbo...Wednesday night to the middle branch...Thursday afternoon to the middle branch and bluff creek...in all cases the water temp was 70 or above. Probably shouldn't have been fishing trout at all in those temps, but wasn't set up to do much else.
Finally, on Friday morning, I went to a different spot on the east branch. Water temp: 64! And the previous night really hadn't been cooler than nights earlier in the week. Fished downstream with an olive wooly bugger and in an hour took four 9-10" inch trout, 2 brooks, 2 bows. Not a haul for the ages, but stellar for this trip. I even saw a very thin trico hatch, though nothing seemed to be feeding on it. When the sun cleared the trees my streamer twitched through the brush unmolested, so I switch to some terrestrial and attractor patters, with and without droppers, but took only trout in the sardine class.
Aside from finally putting some sort-of-respectable fish on the line, Friday's outing reminded me of why I love to fish trout. This season, plus memories of the last two, actually have me wondering about that sometimes. The silence of the stream, the cool, still morning, the beauty of the woods at the peak of summer lushness, and the chance to slow down the mind to take it all in. Not to mention trout on the line. In short, being in a solitary, beautiful place, seeking out some of the most vibrant creatures to inhabit the world. I guess every trout foray offers those things, but they get lost in a lingering fog of frustration, and among growing distractions in my life. Maybe I needed the time away from home and work and the internet (which was self-imposed...we did have wi-fi but I didn't use it) to be ready to appreciate fishing again.
I was hoping to exercise that appreciation two weekends from now, but the first email I read upon returning announced meeting that Friday which basically nixes the idea. So I look to September...
Friday, July 27, 2012
Dry Spell
A quiet month here. I have spent a lot of time behind the keyboard, mostly on very un-FTR material. I have written a couple of things about hunting I might put up later if I can put them more blog-friendly form.
I've only fished once since my last trip. That was on a daytrip to Kalamazoo to visit my dad. Ended an outing on Gull lake with three nice rock bass, also a mid-teens largemouth my father released. Not much more than I would have expected given the heat, though when we we pulling out, someone else loading their boat said they'd caught about thirty rockies.
So it goes.
I've intended to hit the Huron, but between work and domestic obligations I haven't. And here we're moving into some of the biggest events of the Huron's season, the hex and ephoron hatches.
Fortunately, my wife and I are headed north this weekend and I should be able to get back into the trout groove. Saturday we're going to Grayling to watch the start of the canoe marathon, then on to a cabin in the western U.P. where we'll spend a week on Sunday. Not primarily a fishing trip, but I should be able to get out a little every day. Stories and, yes, pics on return.
I've only fished once since my last trip. That was on a daytrip to Kalamazoo to visit my dad. Ended an outing on Gull lake with three nice rock bass, also a mid-teens largemouth my father released. Not much more than I would have expected given the heat, though when we we pulling out, someone else loading their boat said they'd caught about thirty rockies.
So it goes.
I've intended to hit the Huron, but between work and domestic obligations I haven't. And here we're moving into some of the biggest events of the Huron's season, the hex and ephoron hatches.
Fortunately, my wife and I are headed north this weekend and I should be able to get back into the trout groove. Saturday we're going to Grayling to watch the start of the canoe marathon, then on to a cabin in the western U.P. where we'll spend a week on Sunday. Not primarily a fishing trip, but I should be able to get out a little every day. Stories and, yes, pics on return.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Proactive Protection Against Parmalee Catastrophe; Clever Fishie
A piece of encouraging news from the Freep yesterday.
The Anglers of the Au Sable aren't what you'd call a go-along, get-along gang.
Dedicated to protecting the Au Sable River and its watershed, the 700-member organization has, at various times in its 25-year history, vilified politicians, shamed bureaucrats and sued the pants off those they perceived as threats to the river.
So in the latter half of 2010 -- when awareness began to spread through the Anglers' ranks that Enbridge Energy Partners, the company responsible for the 800,000 gallon oil spill in the Kalamazoo River that July, had another aging pipeline handling up to 22 million gallons a day that crossed under their beloved trout stream near Luzerne [as best I can tell, somewhere in the neighborhood of Parmalee bridge] -- you might have expected things to get prickly.
But they didn't.
Instead, through a series of meetings and discussions between Enbridge officials and leaders of the Anglers, a somewhat unorthodox partnership was born. One which has resulted in the company installing a remote-controlled shut-off valve at a cost of $300,000-$500,000 on the south side of the river, visits to Grayling by Enbridge CEO Patrick Daniel and surprising praise for Big Oil from hard-line conservationists.
Read the rest.
This group has done amazing things to protect the AS watershed, and it's nice to see them getting out in front of something like this. Much preferable to after-the-fact lawsuits.
In other news, it seems whale sharks have taken bait stealing to the next level:
Wonder if a small clouser might fool one of those--or would I have to cast a net full of them?
The Anglers of the Au Sable aren't what you'd call a go-along, get-along gang.
Dedicated to protecting the Au Sable River and its watershed, the 700-member organization has, at various times in its 25-year history, vilified politicians, shamed bureaucrats and sued the pants off those they perceived as threats to the river.
So in the latter half of 2010 -- when awareness began to spread through the Anglers' ranks that Enbridge Energy Partners, the company responsible for the 800,000 gallon oil spill in the Kalamazoo River that July, had another aging pipeline handling up to 22 million gallons a day that crossed under their beloved trout stream near Luzerne [as best I can tell, somewhere in the neighborhood of Parmalee bridge] -- you might have expected things to get prickly.
But they didn't.
Instead, through a series of meetings and discussions between Enbridge officials and leaders of the Anglers, a somewhat unorthodox partnership was born. One which has resulted in the company installing a remote-controlled shut-off valve at a cost of $300,000-$500,000 on the south side of the river, visits to Grayling by Enbridge CEO Patrick Daniel and surprising praise for Big Oil from hard-line conservationists.
Read the rest.
This group has done amazing things to protect the AS watershed, and it's nice to see them getting out in front of something like this. Much preferable to after-the-fact lawsuits.
*******
In other news, it seems whale sharks have taken bait stealing to the next level:
Wonder if a small clouser might fool one of those--or would I have to cast a net full of them?
Friday, July 13, 2012
Post of Evil x 2 (& Ominous Portents for Duck Season)
My 666th post on Friday the 13th! I've draped myself with crucifixes to prevent channeling some demon while I type (and here the camera on my laptop is broken...so sorry...)
Actually, I saw something yesterday that's even more troubling. Early in the morning I went to look at some of my waterfowling spots and found them either dry or super low on water. The pond where I planned to ambush some geese on the early goose opener now consists of a mud flat with scattered puddles, which may mean I don't hunt early goose at all. It shouldn't be a shock, I guess, given the dry winter and the lack of rain and high temps this summer. Opening day plans are going to change drastically unless we get September monsoons, and I won't hold my breath.
This in a year with a good hatch, too. Hope any ducklings reared in these spots managed to get to bigger water.
And as I sit blogging on the day of evil...I wonder if I could sell my soul for a weekly deluge?
Actually, I saw something yesterday that's even more troubling. Early in the morning I went to look at some of my waterfowling spots and found them either dry or super low on water. The pond where I planned to ambush some geese on the early goose opener now consists of a mud flat with scattered puddles, which may mean I don't hunt early goose at all. It shouldn't be a shock, I guess, given the dry winter and the lack of rain and high temps this summer. Opening day plans are going to change drastically unless we get September monsoons, and I won't hold my breath.
This in a year with a good hatch, too. Hope any ducklings reared in these spots managed to get to bigger water.
And as I sit blogging on the day of evil...I wonder if I could sell my soul for a weekly deluge?
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