Blog Opener

About a year ago, I told myself I'd launch a blog. Didn't for various reasons, but it's a good time to revisit that ambition. Another fishing season is approaching, and since my obsession with fly fishing was to provide the general pivot point for the blog I planned a year ago, I began mulling the blog project again. Today I found Blogger in between some other projects and resolved to wade in, so to speak.

It's two more weeks until the trout season opens in my state, but today is Opening Day for my blog.

So what's this going to be about? About fishing, yes, but also about whatever else comes across my mind. Most days, that includes politics, religion, literature, education, the environment, pop culture. Regarding fishing, I plan to write more about the interior experience of the sport--the satisfactions and insights it brings--than about technical aspects. If you want to learn how to cast further, or what patterns to use on particular rivers, you should look elsewhere. I teach in a university, and so get summers off. Once or twice a month in that time, I take a fishing trip, and when I do, I'll report on it here, and maybe reflect a bit on it in the days that follow. Otherwise, I'll sit here and noodle about whatever when I find the time. I'd love to hear from anyone who shares some of my interests, or who simply takes the time to read this and is pleased, angered, confused, or otherwise moved.

Between now and the trout opener (last Saturday in April, the 30th this year), I'll spend some time laying out the basics of me--what sort of politics, religion, etc. interst me. Perhaps offer a little angling philosophy to better frame what follows. To avoid plunging too far into self-analysis this first time out, I'll offer a story of my last outing, which took place around the end of last week on Michigan's Pere Marquette River.

For about the last five years or so, I've made an annual spring trip to Baldwin, MI to fish the steelhead run in the Pere Marquette (PM). Steelhead are a large, migratory rainbow trout, native to the Pacific Northwest and planted in Michigan in the 19th century. They spend most of their time in big water (the great lakes in this part of the world) and run up rivers to spawn in the spring (there's a fall run too, but that's another matter). The PM gets one of the best runs in Michigan, plenty of fish, though the fishermen probably outnumber them on some days. This trip usually inaugurates my fishing year, and drives home for me the fact that spring really is here. Seeing robins in your backyard is one thing, but it's hard to connect with it intimately. It's like watching something on the screen. But fishing the steelhead run literally immerses you in events of the changing season--snowmelt-swollen waters, sex-crazed fish, birds calling for mates and scouting for nesting materials. True, I could immerse myself in comparable things in a walk around local woods, but for various reasons that doesn't happen a lot.

I fished April 7-9, landed four steelhead ranging from about 5 to 9 pounds. Two came on black stone flies, two on orange salmon egg patterns. There were a lot of fishermen up there, but I managed to avoid the crowds most of the time. Once I was a kind of glad when I didn't: at the end of a long downstream wade, I came to a popular spot near a walk-in access. There were maybe half a dozen fishermen working a long, deep bend. The only open spot was near the head of the bend, so I stopped and cast there, and hooked a fish on my first cast. Normally I don't care about showing off, but it was neat to walk in and hook up, particularly when most of the people there had gone without a hit for a long time, or so I gathered. Ended up landing a nice female.

The next morning I went back to that same spot about an hour before daybreak--had it all to myself. I could hear some fish thrashing in shallow water, digging or defending spawning beds. I cast into the deep holes just behind some of the beds, and landed two fish (out of five on the line) in about three hours. The first came to net while stars blazed sharply in the sky. It was the smallest fish of the trip, about 5 lbs., but also the most memorable. Fighting a large fish is more exciting in the dark, when you aren't sure what obstacles are out there for it to run to--more a matter of faith and hope. And brilliant starlight overhead puts a special seal on any catch.

Heard later that the next access downstream--where I most often fish mornings up there--was packed with people. Folks camping on the bank all night, shoulder to shoulder conditions around the best holes and many people walking away skunked. And barely a mile away I had solitude for nearly three hours, with plenty of fish for the taking. There are times, as on the day before, when a little company adds to the experience. But nothing matches the pleasure of good fishing in solitude.

In case anyone's interested, all fish landed on that trip were released to continue spawning.