After a day of research at the Grayling Library and the Crawford Co. Historical Museum last Wednedsay, I arrived at a favorite spot on the upper AS mainstream around 7:30. Saw little bug activity over the next two hours--some slate-wing olive spinners near 9, a handful of large and small stoneflies, caddis that I could have counted on my fingers. I did see some rises is quiet water behind logs at the edges of the stream and took three nice brookies fishing those areas. Missed a few other strikes, too. Faster water brought only a few dinks to my fly. The hits came on a #18 olive dun and a #12 isonychia dun.
The water was as high as I'd ever seen it. Grayling had been hit hard with rain in the morning before I got there, making wading precarious in stretches where it's usually a carefree proposition. It would get worse, too. In camp that night, after writing in my fishing journal, I pondered whether I should just go to be or stay up and have a beer. I decided on bed, which was a good thing, since about three minutes after I laid down, it started to rain fairly hard. I woke up a few times in the night and heard the rain then, too.
As of the next morning, the river hadn't risen much. I fished right below my campsite, starting with a streamer that took a small but respectable brown and moved a couple of others. A few SWOs appeared after 8 that attracted some feeders, though I kept my streamer on in hopes of luring a larger fish. Trico spinners showed around 8:45, and just before nine they hit the water and I rigged a dry fly leader. Feeding was not heavy. Fish would rise once, then go quiet for a while. Patiently working the sluggish risers I saw, I got two nice brook trout and had a few other brief hookups. After about 9:30, fished keyed in on the olives again and I took a couple more brookies.
It was a tough morning, and not only because of the unresponsiveness of the fish. The river ran faster than usual, thus creating drag and requiring mending faster than usual. I had to think more carefully about how to lay the fly on the water, since often the fly would begin dragging almost as soon as it hit. Usually I can let the cast fall and throw mends afterward. Slack casts, reach casts, pile casts were the order of the day.
That would be about as good as the fishing got. Thursday night I fished the South Branch down in the Mason Tract and got a single 8" brook trout for my troubles. Almost no insects came out.
Friday morning I fished below my camp again. The impact of the previous night's rainfall was evident, with the water higher and more discolored than the day before. I got on the water around 8, and saw that a good SWO hatch was already underway. Feeding was scattered and sporadic. I worked a shallow but brushy run where I had seen some splashy rises and go two hits--both while I was looking at something else! With the first, I turned back to see my fly emerging back out of a swirl in the water, and I never saw the second until the fish was on my line. When I felt a pull, I turned back to see a nice brown cartwheeling out of the water, and when he went back in my line went slack.
The tricos came out on schedule, but few hit the water, and mine did not interest any of the feeding fish. I switched back to the SWO and hooked a couple of dinks.
By 10:30, I could feel the scorch of midday approaching. I had to break camp and make it down to Roscommon to conduct an interview at 1 PM, so I called it a morning.
Although this wasn't a fishing trip per se, I did get a good amount of fishing in. I don't really wish I could have fished more while I was there--but I would not have minded a few more mornings trying to fool those finicky risers.
Tags: Fishing; Fly Fishing
Monday, July 31, 2006
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Tough Work
Wednesday I went back to Grayling, MI for a research trip. Seriously.
Yes, I had my fishing gear packed too, but I actually was up there to do some academic work. Grant funded, no less.
I'm doing a presentation at a pre-semester workshop for writing teachers at my university on using annotated maps as a writing assignment. In short, this asks students to find or create a map of some significant location, write a short overview introducing that place and its importance, then write short pieces in different styles about different features of that place. Students thus use different writing techniques to present a more well-rounded view of the place than a straightforward expository essay would, to link text to visuals, and to experiment with and coordinate different forms of discourse within a single exericise. At a minimum, it forces students to move beyond monotonous prose and the stale, formulaic essays that teachers have assigned since the days of quills and parchment, and which most students can (and possibly do) crank out in their sleep. Plus, these assignments are nearly impossible to plagiarize.
I'm going to use some examples from last spring's classes, though I don't know if these really show the potential of annotated maps. That was my first experiment with them, I assigned them as a brief exercise, and probably without adequate preparation. Some students gave very interesting accounts of their places by combining interviews, memoirs, tour-guide style recitations of fact, expository analysis, and brief narratives of significant or representative events that occur in their chosen place. Others offered four or five paragraphs of the abovementioned monotonous prose they use to discuss everything from childhood memories to the problems of sports doping. But I think there's potential.
To show what might be done with annotated maps on a larger scale, perhaps for a major research assignment, I decided to prepare one of the Mason Tract preserve along the South Branch of the Au Sable river. The place is rich in history, scenic value, and steeped in ongoing controversy due to surrounding development and oil exploration. A perfect subject for a complex treatment in which different voices, perspectives, and patterns of fact harmonize to create a focused portrait.
Did I mention the fishing is good there? Or usually is.
Once I got the grant, I decided to use some of it to visit the tract and write about that for my presentation. Tough work, I tell you. But I've never been one who refused to go the extra mile, or, with the right incentive, the extra hundred and fifty.
I'll give the fishing report a tomorrow or Monday. For now, a few sights from the Tract.
(A bend in the river)
(All that remains of Durant's Castle, a sprawling mansion that once stood along the South Branch. Construction finished in October 1930. It burned to the ground in February, 1931.)
(Cardinal Flower)
(The Mason Tract is protected, but not untouched. Periodic logging helps regenerate habitat for game animals)
(Sunset on the water. The first time I attempted at this shot, my flyrod got in the way. heh.)
Yes, I had my fishing gear packed too, but I actually was up there to do some academic work. Grant funded, no less.
I'm doing a presentation at a pre-semester workshop for writing teachers at my university on using annotated maps as a writing assignment. In short, this asks students to find or create a map of some significant location, write a short overview introducing that place and its importance, then write short pieces in different styles about different features of that place. Students thus use different writing techniques to present a more well-rounded view of the place than a straightforward expository essay would, to link text to visuals, and to experiment with and coordinate different forms of discourse within a single exericise. At a minimum, it forces students to move beyond monotonous prose and the stale, formulaic essays that teachers have assigned since the days of quills and parchment, and which most students can (and possibly do) crank out in their sleep. Plus, these assignments are nearly impossible to plagiarize.
I'm going to use some examples from last spring's classes, though I don't know if these really show the potential of annotated maps. That was my first experiment with them, I assigned them as a brief exercise, and probably without adequate preparation. Some students gave very interesting accounts of their places by combining interviews, memoirs, tour-guide style recitations of fact, expository analysis, and brief narratives of significant or representative events that occur in their chosen place. Others offered four or five paragraphs of the abovementioned monotonous prose they use to discuss everything from childhood memories to the problems of sports doping. But I think there's potential.
To show what might be done with annotated maps on a larger scale, perhaps for a major research assignment, I decided to prepare one of the Mason Tract preserve along the South Branch of the Au Sable river. The place is rich in history, scenic value, and steeped in ongoing controversy due to surrounding development and oil exploration. A perfect subject for a complex treatment in which different voices, perspectives, and patterns of fact harmonize to create a focused portrait.
Did I mention the fishing is good there? Or usually is.
Once I got the grant, I decided to use some of it to visit the tract and write about that for my presentation. Tough work, I tell you. But I've never been one who refused to go the extra mile, or, with the right incentive, the extra hundred and fifty.
I'll give the fishing report a tomorrow or Monday. For now, a few sights from the Tract.
(A bend in the river)
(All that remains of Durant's Castle, a sprawling mansion that once stood along the South Branch. Construction finished in October 1930. It burned to the ground in February, 1931.)
(Cardinal Flower)
(The Mason Tract is protected, but not untouched. Periodic logging helps regenerate habitat for game animals)
(Sunset on the water. The first time I attempted at this shot, my flyrod got in the way. heh.)
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
14 Yrs; Enough of the Earth; Origins
Today is my fourteenth wedding anniversary. I'm not surprised Kristine and I made it this far, really. I am often surprised at the shape our life together assumes. Insofar as I thought marriage meant "settling down," I was very mistaken. Things continue to change, grow; we still discover new thoughts and hopes in one another. Living with and learning from each other occasionally knocks one or both of us out of our comfort zone. But on the whole, I value learning, adapting, and discovery more than comfort.
We're not perfect and we're not always happy. We're not numb with familiarity to one another either, which shows that our relationship is a live thing, and that's enough to be very grateful for.
************************
According to Saturday's New York Times, NASA has revised its mission statement to de-emphasize research pertaining to Earth's environment. Since 2002, the agency stated that its mission was "To understand and protect our home planet; to explore the universe and search for life; to inspire the next generation of explorers ... as only NASA can."” Now, that mission is "to pioneer the future in space exploration, scientific discovery and aeronautics research."
A NASA spokesman explained that the mission statement was revised "to square the statement with President Bush's goal of pursuing human spaceflight to the Moon and Mars." Understandable, according to NASA scientist James Hansen, who was recently criticized for speaking about problems caused by greenhouse gas emissions. Climate change had been a research priority for the agency in recent years. Hansen commented that "“They're making it clear... they have the authority to make this change, that the president sets the objectives for NASA, and that they prefer that NASA work on something that's not causing them a problem," he said.
Read the Rest ************************
What is the attraction of fly fishing autobiography? What makes so many anglers want to excavate and explain their origins? Why do fly fishers turn their piscatorial beginnings into a personal creation myth? I ought to be answering those questions myself, having indulged the autobiographical impulse here. Maybe sometime over the long winter. For now, I'll commend another such literary efffort from an Alabama angler on his (apparently new) blog. Though he's making his journey in a different place and time, I see a lot in common with my own beginnings with the long rod. Check out Tennesee Valley Angler.
Tags: Relationships; Environment; Politics; Blogs; Fishing; Fly Fishing
We're not perfect and we're not always happy. We're not numb with familiarity to one another either, which shows that our relationship is a live thing, and that's enough to be very grateful for.
************************
According to Saturday's New York Times, NASA has revised its mission statement to de-emphasize research pertaining to Earth's environment. Since 2002, the agency stated that its mission was "To understand and protect our home planet; to explore the universe and search for life; to inspire the next generation of explorers ... as only NASA can."” Now, that mission is "to pioneer the future in space exploration, scientific discovery and aeronautics research."
A NASA spokesman explained that the mission statement was revised "to square the statement with President Bush's goal of pursuing human spaceflight to the Moon and Mars." Understandable, according to NASA scientist James Hansen, who was recently criticized for speaking about problems caused by greenhouse gas emissions. Climate change had been a research priority for the agency in recent years. Hansen commented that "“They're making it clear... they have the authority to make this change, that the president sets the objectives for NASA, and that they prefer that NASA work on something that's not causing them a problem," he said.
Read the Rest ************************
What is the attraction of fly fishing autobiography? What makes so many anglers want to excavate and explain their origins? Why do fly fishers turn their piscatorial beginnings into a personal creation myth? I ought to be answering those questions myself, having indulged the autobiographical impulse here. Maybe sometime over the long winter. For now, I'll commend another such literary efffort from an Alabama angler on his (apparently new) blog. Though he's making his journey in a different place and time, I see a lot in common with my own beginnings with the long rod. Check out Tennesee Valley Angler.
Tags: Relationships; Environment; Politics; Blogs; Fishing; Fly Fishing
Monday, July 24, 2006
Blue Beneath The Pines
Noonday sun beats down on a sandy plain thinly covered with grass and ferns and scattered with scrubby jackpines and shrubs. On a cursory scan, only the occasional harebell breaks the impression of sereness and brittleness.
You sweat; you pant. You doubt your memories of the cool, misty dawn. Dried lichens, grasses, and twigs crunch under your feet as you seek what little shade these small, open-limbed trees give. Momentary relief comes on a pulse of wind, then disappears with it.
It's July, somewhere in Northern Michigan.
This locale is neither comfortable nor scenic. In appearance, it's not unique, either, since you might have encountered like terrain in countless places between Saginaw Bay and Lake Superior. But this spot where you stand sweltering today is distinct from many of its counterparts, because unlike in comparable areas you've visited recently, the shin-high blueberry bushes clumped around the bases of the pines are laden with sweet, juicy fruit.
Wild blueberries, or huckleberries, are something I discovered only about ten years ago, and then only with prompting from Kristine. When she was growing up, gathering huckleberries was a highlight of her family's annual week at a cottage in Northeast Michigan. One week when we had gone up to the Pigeon River country, she pointed them out to me on our hikes. We picked a few to put on our cereal every morning, and on our last night filled up a few tupperware bowls with them to take home. Pancakes, muffins, a pie followed.
Since then we've kept an eye out for them on our summer Michigan trips. Sometimes they're everywhere (they were on the Pigeon River trip ten years ago). Sometimes you don't see ten in a week. Last summer we made a big score in a clearing along Lake Superior when berries were scarce in every corner we explored in the nearby woods. You can find them growing in almost any dry, sandy area, though they seem most abundant in areas like the one described above.
This year we saw few blueberries on our hikes, and doubted we would pick enough to take home. There were quite a few around our campground in Grayling, though the number of people dumping dishwater, walking their dogs, and (at least in the case of our neighbors) getting up to take a midnight pee among them discouraged us from picking there. I don't know what that particular jack pine flat had going for it that every other one in Crawford County didn't--maybe just the fertilizer that people and their dogs have left there over the years.
At any rate, by last Sunday, the last day of our trip, we were berryless and had all but given up on picking any. Over breakfast at a diner that morning, we debated about whether to look for them one more time or simply head home. We were packed and ready; it would be nice to get home early and unwind a bit, as we were both pretty beat from our week of hiking, paddling, and swimming. But we decided we'd rather be in the woods than on the road, so we decided to investigate a couple of areas of public land just outside Grayling before surrendering to the highway and the pull of the workaday world.
At the first one, we drove a couple hundred yards into the pines on a two-track and stopped. We could see blueberry bushes, and when we got out for a closer look, we saw clusters of berries on almost every one. In spot chosen at random and probably ignored completely outside of hunting seasons, we'd hit a fructose jackpot.
In about an hour and a half we filled a four-quart tub. They're little things, usually about the size of a dried pea, though that day we found many that were larger than average, say about the size of a cooked one. Their shrubs grew almost everywhere but the berries were thickest directly underneath the pines, which meant regularly scraping our heads or arms on branches or spiky needles. Some forms of nuisance I can gladly accept.
I grew up picking blueberries on a farm where they were cultivated, fertilized, and generally easier to pick. Those domesticated blueberries grew quite large, perhaps to the size of a cranberry, or several cranberries stuck together. They grew on tall bushes which didn't require me to bend down to pick. Even so, I much prefer picking the wild ones. Berries in the woods have no visible residue of chemicals; while you pick them, no percussion cannon fires every ten minutes to scare away birds. You do hear warblers and wild turkeys calling (we saw a flock of the latter strutting down the two-track when we returned to the car). In most years, you also get that thrill of discovery, of finding something the casual passerby never sees. But possibly my affection for these puny treats comes mainly from the fact that they grow in places that I love. Where, and how, we procure our foods can add a sweetness to that they have from taste alone.
Saturday, July 22, 2006
Hiking Sights; Mason Tract Cougar?
We took some nice hikes up north last week. Though we took relatively few pictures, I'll let some of those tell the stories.
We saw a few of these guys going nuts on milkweeds.
These too.
While walking on one trail, I felt something land on my hand. Glad I didn't slap at it reflexively, because it was one of these guys.
We actually saw quite a few mayflies (hexes, brown drakes, isonychias, march browns, light cahills, sulfurs, blue wing olives) in the woods, even on our tent, while we were in Petoskey. It's a shame trout don't live on trails.
Along the edge of Sturgeon Bay, Lake Michigan.
Wild garlic growing near Wakely Lake, outside Grayling.
A point in a weedy backwater of Wakely.
Nothing spectacular here, I guess. Mostly though, it's the myriad small things that make the outdoors seem so rich, and so engrossing to me.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Note this coda to this week's fishing report from Gates Lodge:
Rumor has it there is a cougar running around down on the Mason Tract. Fisherman first reported seeing a cat with a long tail.... coming out on the trail one night fishing late for hex. Same week, another angler reports something followed him for over a half mile as he's walking back to his car. Same general area.
Now the report is DNR has been baiting with dead deer carcasses in the area. Guess what! These deer are being dragged into the tops of trees! That's a cougar.... and at least we know he's being well fed. So if you hear strange sounds in the night, better start singing to let em know you are just another fisherman.
Yet another tantaling lead in the Great Michigan Cougar Hunt. Will this be the one who finally steps into a camera lens--or a trap--to resolve the dispute as to whether they live here?
Tags: Outdoors; Michigan
We saw a few of these guys going nuts on milkweeds.
These too.
While walking on one trail, I felt something land on my hand. Glad I didn't slap at it reflexively, because it was one of these guys.
We actually saw quite a few mayflies (hexes, brown drakes, isonychias, march browns, light cahills, sulfurs, blue wing olives) in the woods, even on our tent, while we were in Petoskey. It's a shame trout don't live on trails.
Along the edge of Sturgeon Bay, Lake Michigan.
Wild garlic growing near Wakely Lake, outside Grayling.
A point in a weedy backwater of Wakely.
Nothing spectacular here, I guess. Mostly though, it's the myriad small things that make the outdoors seem so rich, and so engrossing to me.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Note this coda to this week's fishing report from Gates Lodge:
Rumor has it there is a cougar running around down on the Mason Tract. Fisherman first reported seeing a cat with a long tail.... coming out on the trail one night fishing late for hex. Same week, another angler reports something followed him for over a half mile as he's walking back to his car. Same general area.
Now the report is DNR has been baiting with dead deer carcasses in the area. Guess what! These deer are being dragged into the tops of trees! That's a cougar.... and at least we know he's being well fed. So if you hear strange sounds in the night, better start singing to let em know you are just another fisherman.
Yet another tantaling lead in the Great Michigan Cougar Hunt. Will this be the one who finally steps into a camera lens--or a trap--to resolve the dispute as to whether they live here?
Tags: Outdoors; Michigan
Friday, July 21, 2006
Aluminum Hatch, Pt. 2
By the time we reached the first bridge below our put in, the river was opening up and widening, and we floated most of the rest of the way without incident, although sometimes my steering strokes roiled the water just slightly less than a depth charge. One one point, a group of paddlers resting on the bank shouted a warning that a newly fallen tree lay just ahead to the right. There couldn't have been three feet between the crown of the tree and the bank, and it took some hard paddling to align ourselves with the passage, but we glided through easily. The people on the bank cheered---people had been running into the tree all afternoon, it seemed. I felt somewhat redeemed.
That first bridge (at co. Road 612, for those familiar with the area), by the way, was tagged with the word TROUT in fat letters filled with red dots, like the side of a large brown. Unfortunately, I lacked presence of mind at the point to get out the camera.
The next day we continued downstream for Thursday's take-out, and shortly found ourselves imperiled once again. The river was larger, but so were the brushpiles, some leaving only the narrowest gap between themselves and the bank, or requiring quick turns to avoid the next one down. We sideswiped more than a few, and occasionally ducked as low as we could to avoid low hanging branches. We encountered some fishermen on this leg of the trip, most of whom we passed (on the left, per river etiquette) quietly, but we traversed what may be my favorite fishing hole on the Manistee, occupied at that moment by a lone fly fisher, steering frantically and turning the water to froth to negotiate the sharp, snag filled bend. I looked sheepishly at the guy once we'd cleared the debris field and apologized. "No problem," the man said. "Nothing is hitting anyway." There have been times when my own irritation at inept canoeists has been tempered by disinterested trout.
A handful of other contretemps befell us before take out, but we couldn't be blamed for the worst. Raindrops began to fall about twenty minutes before the end of the float. They grew slightly heavier, then it seemed buckets and vats of water were being emptied from somewhere in the clouds. Thunder boomed and lightning slashed the sky nearby. We paddled as hard as we could--thank God we were in open, log-free water--and pulled ashore as soon as we reached the campground which marked our take out. We hauled out, and took shelter under a large tree Not the smartest move, I know, but the best option we had. Until a couple sitting under the awning of their travel trailer invited us to take shelter with them. Bless them, bless them, bless them! They even gave Kristine a blanket to warm up while we waited. The woman turned out to be the cook from Gates' Lodge--I've probably eaten her pancakes a couple of times. We had a pleasant conversation with them while we waited for the livery van, which showed up precisely at the time we'd requested it.
So we survived, although my budding confidence in my canoeing skills (not to mention my sense of being at home on rivers) suffered a little. And I gained more sympathy for the aluminum hatchers who cause a bit of commotion while they try to get their bearings. One of my standing orders to myself is "Be prepared to learn anywhere, at anytime, from anyone." This time the lesson was a bit harsh, but you can count on my enrolling for the advanced course.
Tags: Outdoors; Rivers; Canoeing
That first bridge (at co. Road 612, for those familiar with the area), by the way, was tagged with the word TROUT in fat letters filled with red dots, like the side of a large brown. Unfortunately, I lacked presence of mind at the point to get out the camera.
The next day we continued downstream for Thursday's take-out, and shortly found ourselves imperiled once again. The river was larger, but so were the brushpiles, some leaving only the narrowest gap between themselves and the bank, or requiring quick turns to avoid the next one down. We sideswiped more than a few, and occasionally ducked as low as we could to avoid low hanging branches. We encountered some fishermen on this leg of the trip, most of whom we passed (on the left, per river etiquette) quietly, but we traversed what may be my favorite fishing hole on the Manistee, occupied at that moment by a lone fly fisher, steering frantically and turning the water to froth to negotiate the sharp, snag filled bend. I looked sheepishly at the guy once we'd cleared the debris field and apologized. "No problem," the man said. "Nothing is hitting anyway." There have been times when my own irritation at inept canoeists has been tempered by disinterested trout.
A handful of other contretemps befell us before take out, but we couldn't be blamed for the worst. Raindrops began to fall about twenty minutes before the end of the float. They grew slightly heavier, then it seemed buckets and vats of water were being emptied from somewhere in the clouds. Thunder boomed and lightning slashed the sky nearby. We paddled as hard as we could--thank God we were in open, log-free water--and pulled ashore as soon as we reached the campground which marked our take out. We hauled out, and took shelter under a large tree Not the smartest move, I know, but the best option we had. Until a couple sitting under the awning of their travel trailer invited us to take shelter with them. Bless them, bless them, bless them! They even gave Kristine a blanket to warm up while we waited. The woman turned out to be the cook from Gates' Lodge--I've probably eaten her pancakes a couple of times. We had a pleasant conversation with them while we waited for the livery van, which showed up precisely at the time we'd requested it.
So we survived, although my budding confidence in my canoeing skills (not to mention my sense of being at home on rivers) suffered a little. And I gained more sympathy for the aluminum hatchers who cause a bit of commotion while they try to get their bearings. One of my standing orders to myself is "Be prepared to learn anywhere, at anytime, from anyone." This time the lesson was a bit harsh, but you can count on my enrolling for the advanced course.
Tags: Outdoors; Rivers; Canoeing
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Aluminum Hatch, Pt. 1
Canoeists. You know the type.
I'm not talking about the skilled paddlers who steer their craft as confidently as the rest of us steer cars, and who negotiate rapids and deadfalls as gracefully as Michelle Kwan navigates a rink.
I mean the once or twice a year crowd, the ones who bob haplessly from obstacle to obstacle, alternately laughing and shrieking. The ones who travel in packs of at least three or four boats, carrying on shouted, profane conversations the length of the river. Sometimes their gear is mainly beer, and they leave a trail of cans in the river to prove it. To fishermen, their approach means either a pool ruined by splashy paddling or some frantic wading to get out of their path. When these yahoos approach, we say that the "Aluminum Hatch" has begun.
I often see them when fishing during the summer. Last week I was them, sort of.
We planned a couple of days of canoeing on our trip to give Kristine's hip a rest from hiking (though actually it didn't seem to bother her, which is a good sign). On Thursday and Friday, we canoed on the Manistee near Grayling, running a total of 55 river miles. I picked the Manistee since I knew it to be a gentle river with few of the swift and shallow runs you might find on the upper Au Sable.
Kristine and I have done some canoeing before, though our history with this sport is a bit chequered. We took our first canoe trip together during a weekend getaway while I was in graduate school. I myself hadn't canoed since I was 12, and had only done so before on a couple of father and son trips in the boy scouts. What I remember mainly from those is my father yelling at me to sit up straight and stop tipping the canoe to one side. Also seeing enormous trout in the river, and having no rod at hand. My father had done all the steering. I paddled, but for all practical purposes was simply along for the ride. Despite that, Kristine and I did fine. We got the canoe turned bass-ackwards a couple of times, but made it through without getting wet. It helped that the river (the Muskegon in Clare co.) was gentle and wide open.
A few years later, we took a day trip on the middle branch of the Ontonogan below Watersmeet. We were informed there were a few rapids, but nothing to worry about. We did in fact worry a little when we saw them, but shot them with little difficulty, the open slots being rather obvious, though going into each one gave us each some trepidation. Unfortunately we did careen into the alders along that narrow river several times, leaving Kristine with a few scratches. We had a few other minor collisions with some brush, and our steering difficulties, combined with the stresses of our first brush with whitewater, caused some frayed nerves. More to the point, I thought we were going to be divorced by the time we took out.
Later, we took a canoeing class from the local parks department. Shortly after that we canoed on an outing with Kristine's company. We put our new skills to good use, and navigated a narrow, brushy river easily. The same summer, we took a float on the Au Sable below Mio one day that and had no problems. As if you could on a very wide, open river with moderate current. I was getting pretty confident about our paddling; prematurely, as our trip last week showed.
Last Thursday the canoe livery shuttle dropped us off at Cameron Bridge Road on the upper Manistee. The river is about thirty feet wide there, with logs protruding frequently from the bank. These make great trout cover, but form a tricky maze for novice paddlers. We were no more than half a mile down the river before we'd slammed into the side of several of these, or found ourselves dragging beneath rough, low-hanging cedar limbs. All my steering moves seemed to drive us away from where we wanted to go. In less than half an hour, my mood had gone from cheerful anticipation to numb dread. It was going to be a long, long two days, I thought.
Tags: Outdoors; Rivers; Canoeing
I'm not talking about the skilled paddlers who steer their craft as confidently as the rest of us steer cars, and who negotiate rapids and deadfalls as gracefully as Michelle Kwan navigates a rink.
I mean the once or twice a year crowd, the ones who bob haplessly from obstacle to obstacle, alternately laughing and shrieking. The ones who travel in packs of at least three or four boats, carrying on shouted, profane conversations the length of the river. Sometimes their gear is mainly beer, and they leave a trail of cans in the river to prove it. To fishermen, their approach means either a pool ruined by splashy paddling or some frantic wading to get out of their path. When these yahoos approach, we say that the "Aluminum Hatch" has begun.
I often see them when fishing during the summer. Last week I was them, sort of.
We planned a couple of days of canoeing on our trip to give Kristine's hip a rest from hiking (though actually it didn't seem to bother her, which is a good sign). On Thursday and Friday, we canoed on the Manistee near Grayling, running a total of 55 river miles. I picked the Manistee since I knew it to be a gentle river with few of the swift and shallow runs you might find on the upper Au Sable.
Kristine and I have done some canoeing before, though our history with this sport is a bit chequered. We took our first canoe trip together during a weekend getaway while I was in graduate school. I myself hadn't canoed since I was 12, and had only done so before on a couple of father and son trips in the boy scouts. What I remember mainly from those is my father yelling at me to sit up straight and stop tipping the canoe to one side. Also seeing enormous trout in the river, and having no rod at hand. My father had done all the steering. I paddled, but for all practical purposes was simply along for the ride. Despite that, Kristine and I did fine. We got the canoe turned bass-ackwards a couple of times, but made it through without getting wet. It helped that the river (the Muskegon in Clare co.) was gentle and wide open.
A few years later, we took a day trip on the middle branch of the Ontonogan below Watersmeet. We were informed there were a few rapids, but nothing to worry about. We did in fact worry a little when we saw them, but shot them with little difficulty, the open slots being rather obvious, though going into each one gave us each some trepidation. Unfortunately we did careen into the alders along that narrow river several times, leaving Kristine with a few scratches. We had a few other minor collisions with some brush, and our steering difficulties, combined with the stresses of our first brush with whitewater, caused some frayed nerves. More to the point, I thought we were going to be divorced by the time we took out.
Later, we took a canoeing class from the local parks department. Shortly after that we canoed on an outing with Kristine's company. We put our new skills to good use, and navigated a narrow, brushy river easily. The same summer, we took a float on the Au Sable below Mio one day that and had no problems. As if you could on a very wide, open river with moderate current. I was getting pretty confident about our paddling; prematurely, as our trip last week showed.
Last Thursday the canoe livery shuttle dropped us off at Cameron Bridge Road on the upper Manistee. The river is about thirty feet wide there, with logs protruding frequently from the bank. These make great trout cover, but form a tricky maze for novice paddlers. We were no more than half a mile down the river before we'd slammed into the side of several of these, or found ourselves dragging beneath rough, low-hanging cedar limbs. All my steering moves seemed to drive us away from where we wanted to go. In less than half an hour, my mood had gone from cheerful anticipation to numb dread. It was going to be a long, long two days, I thought.
Tags: Outdoors; Rivers; Canoeing
Monday, July 17, 2006
Home Again; Vacation Fishing
Last night, I got back from a week up north with Kristine, absolutely the antidote for the axieties over a lost future discussed below. Hiking, fishing, swimming, paddling, berrying. I'll have a few stories and pics up this week, but for the fishheads, I'll start with a quick rundown of the fishing.
We began the week in Petoskey, and on a couple mornings there, while Kristine slept in, I snuck out of the tent early to try a nearby creek had heard some good things about. It was a truly beautiful piece of water, extremely clear, thick with downed brush, with heavy woods of maple and hemlock behind the bankside cedars. Nearly every bend contained a pool that was at least waist deep. On my first visit, I saw a handful of trico mayflies on the wing, as well a few small tan caddis. Fish were rising here and there, but targeting them was difficult. I had begun working downstream, but the narrowness of the creek made it hard to stand out of the trouts' visual range. Feeders would usually go silent as I moved into position, despite my wading as slowly and quietly as I could. I was able to hook and land a nice brown in a spot I was able to approach from behind the cover of an overhanging maple branch. That pool was littered with sunken timber, and to steer the fish away from some of it, I had to wade in, soaking the bottom of my vest. No matter. That rinsed away some mud dried on from a previous outing.
After releasing the fish, I turned around and worked upstream. I took another brown, a iittle over legal size, on a nymph drifted along an undercut bend just above where I'd entered the water. And that was the last fish of the day. I encountered several more rising fish, at least one of which looked sizeable, but I couldn't convince any to munch my flies. I'm not sure what they were eating. There were no more tricos about, and the rises were gentle ripples on the surface, not the splashes one would expect if trout were eating the caddis that fluttered about.
I returned the next day to try and crack that riddle and failed. There were fewer feeding fish, and fewer flies evident that day. While I took another small brown on a nymph, I never got another strike. Strangely enough, that makes me want to return there all the more. It is a lovely stream, and may be worth a trip next season.
On Wednesday, we drove down to Grayling, where we would spend a couple days canoeing and visiting some trails we had hiked in other seasons. While there, I took the opportunity to fish the trico hatch on the north branch of the Au Sable, the river that runs straight through the center of the Shu-niverse (bad, I know, but I couldn't resist).
I must have written in praise of this tiny insect at some point last year. Tricos can be frustrating to fish and sometimes near impossible to see, but they show up nearly every morning between mid-july and early September, the fish respond readily to them (if not necessarily to fisherpeople's imitations), and straighforward spinner or dun patters will do the job. After chasing the big nocturnal bugs of June that may or may not show on a given night (or may show in a different part of the river than you've chosen to fish), and may attract fish only in some weird crippled-emerger-trailing shuck form which you can't imitate, this predictable daylight hatch is a welcome change, even if it doesn't always bring up the largest fish.
I fished the North Branch at two different points last Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. On the first two mornings, the fishing was tough. The hatch was strong with lots of feeders up, but I only landed two respectable fish each day. Lots of missed strikes and brief hookups, but far more drifts over pods of ravenous feeders who didn't so much as nose my fly.
On Saturday, the hatch began later, and took longer to build to significant volume. But, perhaps out of frustration with having their breakfast delayed, the fish were more receptive to my efforts. In about an hour and a half on the stream, I landed six trout of at least legal size, and tussled with lots of others. Though I fished a number of spots, all the good fish I landed came from two runs. I caught them in the way I think I've caught 75% of the fish I've ever landed on tricos--on my knees, directly to the side of them, no more than twelve feet away.
This hatch requires you to consider your approach, and the way you relate to the stream, more than most. Occuring as it does in bright sunlight, when the water is low and clear, and after trout have been pressured by fishermen for three months or more, it demands that you minimize your profile and your disturbance of the water. It requires you keep your false casting (with all its showy, colorful motion above the fish) to a minimum, and to put the line on the water as gently as possible, with the leader fully unfurled. I've heard it said that if you want to be a really good fisherman, you should learn to master the trico hatch. At this point I'm no more than a senior apprentice, but I think I'd agree with that. Success in all sorts of fishing requires that you work on the fishes' terms. Many situations will accomodate some fudging, a little sloppiness for the sake of convenvience or fatigue, but almost never the trico hatch, that little white curse of late summer.
Tags: Fishing; Fly Fishing
We began the week in Petoskey, and on a couple mornings there, while Kristine slept in, I snuck out of the tent early to try a nearby creek had heard some good things about. It was a truly beautiful piece of water, extremely clear, thick with downed brush, with heavy woods of maple and hemlock behind the bankside cedars. Nearly every bend contained a pool that was at least waist deep. On my first visit, I saw a handful of trico mayflies on the wing, as well a few small tan caddis. Fish were rising here and there, but targeting them was difficult. I had begun working downstream, but the narrowness of the creek made it hard to stand out of the trouts' visual range. Feeders would usually go silent as I moved into position, despite my wading as slowly and quietly as I could. I was able to hook and land a nice brown in a spot I was able to approach from behind the cover of an overhanging maple branch. That pool was littered with sunken timber, and to steer the fish away from some of it, I had to wade in, soaking the bottom of my vest. No matter. That rinsed away some mud dried on from a previous outing.
After releasing the fish, I turned around and worked upstream. I took another brown, a iittle over legal size, on a nymph drifted along an undercut bend just above where I'd entered the water. And that was the last fish of the day. I encountered several more rising fish, at least one of which looked sizeable, but I couldn't convince any to munch my flies. I'm not sure what they were eating. There were no more tricos about, and the rises were gentle ripples on the surface, not the splashes one would expect if trout were eating the caddis that fluttered about.
I returned the next day to try and crack that riddle and failed. There were fewer feeding fish, and fewer flies evident that day. While I took another small brown on a nymph, I never got another strike. Strangely enough, that makes me want to return there all the more. It is a lovely stream, and may be worth a trip next season.
On Wednesday, we drove down to Grayling, where we would spend a couple days canoeing and visiting some trails we had hiked in other seasons. While there, I took the opportunity to fish the trico hatch on the north branch of the Au Sable, the river that runs straight through the center of the Shu-niverse (bad, I know, but I couldn't resist).
I must have written in praise of this tiny insect at some point last year. Tricos can be frustrating to fish and sometimes near impossible to see, but they show up nearly every morning between mid-july and early September, the fish respond readily to them (if not necessarily to fisherpeople's imitations), and straighforward spinner or dun patters will do the job. After chasing the big nocturnal bugs of June that may or may not show on a given night (or may show in a different part of the river than you've chosen to fish), and may attract fish only in some weird crippled-emerger-trailing shuck form which you can't imitate, this predictable daylight hatch is a welcome change, even if it doesn't always bring up the largest fish.
I fished the North Branch at two different points last Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. On the first two mornings, the fishing was tough. The hatch was strong with lots of feeders up, but I only landed two respectable fish each day. Lots of missed strikes and brief hookups, but far more drifts over pods of ravenous feeders who didn't so much as nose my fly.
On Saturday, the hatch began later, and took longer to build to significant volume. But, perhaps out of frustration with having their breakfast delayed, the fish were more receptive to my efforts. In about an hour and a half on the stream, I landed six trout of at least legal size, and tussled with lots of others. Though I fished a number of spots, all the good fish I landed came from two runs. I caught them in the way I think I've caught 75% of the fish I've ever landed on tricos--on my knees, directly to the side of them, no more than twelve feet away.
This hatch requires you to consider your approach, and the way you relate to the stream, more than most. Occuring as it does in bright sunlight, when the water is low and clear, and after trout have been pressured by fishermen for three months or more, it demands that you minimize your profile and your disturbance of the water. It requires you keep your false casting (with all its showy, colorful motion above the fish) to a minimum, and to put the line on the water as gently as possible, with the leader fully unfurled. I've heard it said that if you want to be a really good fisherman, you should learn to master the trico hatch. At this point I'm no more than a senior apprentice, but I think I'd agree with that. Success in all sorts of fishing requires that you work on the fishes' terms. Many situations will accomodate some fudging, a little sloppiness for the sake of convenvience or fatigue, but almost never the trico hatch, that little white curse of late summer.
Tags: Fishing; Fly Fishing
Friday, July 07, 2006
Present Moment to Shupac: Please Return at Once
It's one thing to regret the time that got away from you; it's another to regret lost time that's still in the future.
A couple of weeks ago, a poster on an outdoor bulletin board observed that Michigan's grouse season began in just 90 days. This set off an eager discussion of trips planned, hopes for season, etc.
When I thought about my own hunting prospects this year, I became depressed. I thought of all the obligations already on my calendar for prime October weekends. I thought of my increased teaching load which will have me on campus more often and bringing more work home. I thought of home projects that will need to be completed before it gets too cold. And I became angry at being cheated out of my season.
I feel this way about a lot of things. Already it feels like my summer is lost, with me having done only a fraction of the fishing and writing I'd hoped to. Now it seems like the start of classes is just around the corner, with loads of things to get ready before it comes.
I feel like weeks have been taken from me before I ever received them.
When I see myself thinking this way, I feel foolish.
There is a lot that's good about my life as it is. And as far as I can tell, there will be regardless of how many outings I get to take, or how heavy my workload is. (Or, more to the point now, how slowly my porch rebuild is progressing). Inadequate attention to these facts make it easier for the future to color the present with despair. Focused on potential losses, I cast aside gifts in hand.
It's time to go offline for a bit and take a closer look around.
A couple of weeks ago, a poster on an outdoor bulletin board observed that Michigan's grouse season began in just 90 days. This set off an eager discussion of trips planned, hopes for season, etc.
When I thought about my own hunting prospects this year, I became depressed. I thought of all the obligations already on my calendar for prime October weekends. I thought of my increased teaching load which will have me on campus more often and bringing more work home. I thought of home projects that will need to be completed before it gets too cold. And I became angry at being cheated out of my season.
I feel this way about a lot of things. Already it feels like my summer is lost, with me having done only a fraction of the fishing and writing I'd hoped to. Now it seems like the start of classes is just around the corner, with loads of things to get ready before it comes.
I feel like weeks have been taken from me before I ever received them.
When I see myself thinking this way, I feel foolish.
There is a lot that's good about my life as it is. And as far as I can tell, there will be regardless of how many outings I get to take, or how heavy my workload is. (Or, more to the point now, how slowly my porch rebuild is progressing). Inadequate attention to these facts make it easier for the future to color the present with despair. Focused on potential losses, I cast aside gifts in hand.
It's time to go offline for a bit and take a closer look around.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Floor Bored
Spent most--actually, all---of the long holdiday weekend putting a new floor on our porch. We were thinking we'd finish by last night, but we still have quite a bit to do.
These projects (and we have several more to complete this summer) reveal a sort of role-reversal in my marriage. I loathe pretty much all sorts of home improvement chores, mainly because I'm fairly inept at anything more complicated than simple hammering or bolt-tightening. If I had the money to spare, I'd gladly hire out every such task. Kristine, on the other hand, loves taking on these chores, even if she is learning as she goes. She is quite good at fitting things together, and improvising solutions to things that seem impossible at first glance (or, for me, after extensive deliberation). She likes to watch the home improvement shows on PBS, and daydreams about power tools she wants to buy. I tend to see home improvement expenses as an unfortunate diversion of resources from books, fishing gear, etc.
It's clear who's got their feet on the ground in this house.
But I guess we make a decent team. She does the planning, fitting, and finesse work, I do the heavy lifting, hammering, holding things in place while she does her stuff. And things get done, later if not sooner.
These projects (and we have several more to complete this summer) reveal a sort of role-reversal in my marriage. I loathe pretty much all sorts of home improvement chores, mainly because I'm fairly inept at anything more complicated than simple hammering or bolt-tightening. If I had the money to spare, I'd gladly hire out every such task. Kristine, on the other hand, loves taking on these chores, even if she is learning as she goes. She is quite good at fitting things together, and improvising solutions to things that seem impossible at first glance (or, for me, after extensive deliberation). She likes to watch the home improvement shows on PBS, and daydreams about power tools she wants to buy. I tend to see home improvement expenses as an unfortunate diversion of resources from books, fishing gear, etc.
It's clear who's got their feet on the ground in this house.
But I guess we make a decent team. She does the planning, fitting, and finesse work, I do the heavy lifting, hammering, holding things in place while she does her stuff. And things get done, later if not sooner.
Saturday, July 01, 2006
Looking for Something?
Following the lead of TroutGrrrl, I thought I'd perform a little search analysis for your edification and amusement. Or at least for mine. Partcipating in these little blogosphere crazes gives me such a sense of belonging!
It is interesting to see how people get here, as well as which posts draw them in. Here are the last twenty search queries that led people to my blog, with links back to the pages they hit, if I can find them. (Plus commentary, natch).
St croix river wi beer can island: Best visited in Summer.
Gum graft surgery recovery time: I think it was 2 wks. That's a memory I don't need need to relive.
Spiritus Gladius: I have a feeling this searcher wasn't looking for what he found here.
Brett Hankins hunting;
David Farbman wha: If you hunt with either of these guys, bring your tranquilizer gun and get ready to cash in! That post has been one of the leading draws here in recent weeks.
Tophy stretch waters nh: I had a good time there.
How to fly fish huron river michigan: The quick answer is: with almost any streamer you please, with popping bugs, or with dries during the fine hex and ephron hatches of late summer. This could have hit any number of pages, but what's really interesting is that the Google search page these terms generated had a bunch of links to info about Northern Michigan fly fishing.
Wild grouse: Hope this searcher finds more of them than I do. This is actually one of the most common seach terms bringing people to the blog. Nothing pertaining to trout comes close, strangely enough.
US forest service: I know I've referred to them several times, but I can't find my blog in the search results that led this visitor here.
Date of 2006 lovells mi bridge walk: I'm afraid all this visitor found was the writeup of my opening weekend trip this year. After I saw this, I went looking for the date myself and couldn't find it! I'll be in that area in a couple weeks, and will report back with the date. I'm here to serve.
Find a river: No. It's "Find THE River."
Huron river blog: Sometimes this is one, sometimes it isn't. Usually, as in this case, searches for "Huron River" something or other lead to my Blogger profile.
Northern michigan hex hatch: Not this year, I'm afraid. Of course, even last year's hex trip wasn't all that great.
Campfire tales native american: Another hit on this year's opening weekend story. Perhaps it's being retold around campfires.
History meme:Ancient history.
Psychologist moved to three rivers michigan:No psychologists here; just monks. Whoever this visitor was searching for is obviously not someone obsessed with climbing the career ladder.
Bechler river fly fishing: A searcher trying to find the river got a book review.
Huron river fly fishing: Of all the pages on FTR this might have turned up, the one it hit was my fisking of that business advice column a couple weeks ago.
Beck's Band: Another relatively common search path here. At FTR, months after the concert, the sidemen get top billing.
Treble hookers: I'm not sure what this vistor was looking for, but the post that came up was actually fishing-related. (Mr. Limbaugh? Is that you?)
Unknown Query: This is the freaky one. It comes up quite often, and it's always hitting a page from last spring about a visit to the Cabela's store in Dundee. I took the page down, and still they come. This is much spookier than the Paulding Light.
Tags:Blogs; Blogging; Searches
It is interesting to see how people get here, as well as which posts draw them in. Here are the last twenty search queries that led people to my blog, with links back to the pages they hit, if I can find them. (Plus commentary, natch).
St croix river wi beer can island: Best visited in Summer.
Gum graft surgery recovery time: I think it was 2 wks. That's a memory I don't need need to relive.
Spiritus Gladius: I have a feeling this searcher wasn't looking for what he found here.
Brett Hankins hunting;
David Farbman wha: If you hunt with either of these guys, bring your tranquilizer gun and get ready to cash in! That post has been one of the leading draws here in recent weeks.
Tophy stretch waters nh: I had a good time there.
How to fly fish huron river michigan: The quick answer is: with almost any streamer you please, with popping bugs, or with dries during the fine hex and ephron hatches of late summer. This could have hit any number of pages, but what's really interesting is that the Google search page these terms generated had a bunch of links to info about Northern Michigan fly fishing.
Wild grouse: Hope this searcher finds more of them than I do. This is actually one of the most common seach terms bringing people to the blog. Nothing pertaining to trout comes close, strangely enough.
US forest service: I know I've referred to them several times, but I can't find my blog in the search results that led this visitor here.
Date of 2006 lovells mi bridge walk: I'm afraid all this visitor found was the writeup of my opening weekend trip this year. After I saw this, I went looking for the date myself and couldn't find it! I'll be in that area in a couple weeks, and will report back with the date. I'm here to serve.
Find a river: No. It's "Find THE River."
Huron river blog: Sometimes this is one, sometimes it isn't. Usually, as in this case, searches for "Huron River" something or other lead to my Blogger profile.
Northern michigan hex hatch: Not this year, I'm afraid. Of course, even last year's hex trip wasn't all that great.
Campfire tales native american: Another hit on this year's opening weekend story. Perhaps it's being retold around campfires.
History meme:Ancient history.
Psychologist moved to three rivers michigan:No psychologists here; just monks. Whoever this visitor was searching for is obviously not someone obsessed with climbing the career ladder.
Bechler river fly fishing: A searcher trying to find the river got a book review.
Huron river fly fishing: Of all the pages on FTR this might have turned up, the one it hit was my fisking of that business advice column a couple weeks ago.
Beck's Band: Another relatively common search path here. At FTR, months after the concert, the sidemen get top billing.
Treble hookers: I'm not sure what this vistor was looking for, but the post that came up was actually fishing-related. (Mr. Limbaugh? Is that you?)
Unknown Query: This is the freaky one. It comes up quite often, and it's always hitting a page from last spring about a visit to the Cabela's store in Dundee. I took the page down, and still they come. This is much spookier than the Paulding Light.
Tags:Blogs; Blogging; Searches
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