Talk about ironies...before my trip I put up a post waxing fondly about tent camping, only to return to my tent one night last week and find my rain fly slashed, the door unzipped, and my gear moved around. Nothing was stolen, curiously, though there wasn't much in there worth taking (unless someone was really, really desperate for clean socks). I have no idea what happened. It wasn't an animal, since I don't think animals open zippers or swivel picnic tables around which is another wierd detail of the "crime scene." There were strange tire tracks leading into my campsite too.
I was kind of freaked, and being the only person in the campground, I didn't really want to spend the night there in case whoever it was came back. So...I decamped (literally) to a motel. An overeaction, maybe, but it seemed reasonable enough standing in the woods at midnight with a freshly ransacked tent.
Part of my reason for camping was to spare expenses...but I ended up paying for 2 nights in a motel...and will be on the hook for a new tent now, too. The rain fly is beyond repair, though the rest of the tent is fine, so long I'm guaranteed to camp in dry weather. Which is not a very safe bet in Michigan.
As for the fishing...Tuesday the 28th was cold (highs 50s), stopped at the South Branch Au Sable in the afternoon and found a decent BWO hatch in progress. Caught a few brook trout, though they were kind of picky. Lots of short strikes. A few cahills popped in the evening, though nothing rose to them. No hex.
Wednesday I fished the Manistee below M72. Isos, cahills, Dorsata stoneflies, and sulfur spinners were on the water before sunset with a little feeding taking place, though I held off casting to avoid spooking any good size fish before the hex came on. My patience went unrewarded, though. Hex showed overhead around 9:20--it was cooling fast, and just a few, sporadic feeders showed. I caught one 15" brown, missed a couple of other strikes, and by 10 of 10, the fun was over.
Thursday I went above M72, saw loads of hex in the air, but none on the water, and no rises. At least while scouting for fishing spots that afternoon I found some ripe blueberries--never seen them that early before. So still a landmark outing of sorts.
Friday afternoon I put the books aside and went up to Deward to see if afternoon clouds would bring on the olives and stir the brookies to feed. I've had some great afternoons there in midsummer with these little bugs, but this wasn't one of them. Just a few bugs out, with just a few trout brought to hand. In the evening I went below 72 again, stayed to 11, never saw a bug.
So the limbata fest was kind of a bust this year. Bring on the Huron river hex (autocadatra) and white fly action with smallmouth!
Friday, July 08, 2011
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Accommodations
On my getaways over the last year or so, I've done some reflecting on where and how I sleep and eat when I'm traveling in pursuit of fish or game.
Twenty years ago, my approach was very basic: A three-man nylon tent, my usual kitchen cooking gear packed into tote bags, a twenty year old sleeping bag, a Coleman white gas stove, and a big plastic jug for water. How far I've come. Now, I have a four man nylon tent, dedicated camp cooking gear that I carry in a plastic tub, a different sleeping bag now almost twenty years old, a Coleman propane stove, and a big plastic jug for water.
The setup I had two decades ago was perfect for a new college graduate barely making 30K a year. It also befitted the poor graduate student I became a few years later, and, including the slight modifications mentioned above, served well for the visiting assistant professor I was shortly thereafter. During the years after my career swerved into the (rutted, roadblocked) academic lane I was aware that other men my age were beginning to earn enough money to guiltlessly book motel or cabin accommodations for their trips, and to eat in taverns, diners, and supper clubs every day they were up. These were the same guys who were driving Explorers and had an aresenal of a dozen or so fly rods, not to mention shirts designed specifically for fly fishing. (Some might have also been the guys with 30k in credit card debt, for all I know.) This didn't particularly bother me, but it did sometimes give the the impression that I was simply treading water in some ways.
These days our circumstances are slightly more comfortable. I have stayed in motels more often over the last few years, and can usually excuse a couple of restaurant meals over the course of a weekend (But I got off the river late! And gee, I can eat those canned goods for lunch at home next week!) But by and large, I still travel as I always have. And I'm in no rush to change that.
When I bunk at a motel, I miss sitting outside in the evening, maybe with a campfire, and lounging over coffee and whatever in the morning listening to the birds and watching chipmunks dashing from site to site. It's pretty tough to find a diner serving food as good, or as healthy, as what I can pull out of a can or boil bag from Trader Joe's, and if I get a notion to grill some burgers, they'll likely be better than any from the local tavern. Going to sleep in a tent with the forest sounds around me beats trying to sleep (emphasis on trying) in a saggy, creaky motel bed. (This is true even when it rains--see my last fishing report in May.)
The motels I stay at do tend to be older and not-so-well kept. Some smell of mold, smoke, dust, or things I can't identify and don't want to try. Some have showers I can barely fit into, with rust stains resembling graffitti tags. I may be plugging my ears against high-volume TV, revelry, or fornication in adjoining rooms. The power might go out or the heater might not start. And a "cheap" motel up north these days runs about $50 a night. I can remember staying at some of these places almost twenty years ago when they were $30 a night and in better repair. They might still be a good deal if they'd been maintained.
My continuing preference for camping solidified on a cast and blast trip to Ogemaw and Oscoda counties on the opening weekend of grouse season last fall. After ending my first day fishing the Au Sable below Mio, I headed toward a state forest campground to set up for the night but had second thoughts when the weather radio predicted overnight thunderstorms. Dark clouds blowing eastward gave this credence. I'd camped plenty in the rain before, but at that moment I thought, "why bother?" and headed to a motel in Mio which had seemed tolerable a few years ago. The price was ten dollars higher now, and the room had most of the shortcomings mentioned above, and more pronouncedly than on my last visit. In the morning I departed for the Rifle River Recreation Area, where I caught a few trout, missed a few grouse, and pitched my tent for the night--which would be a night I savored. Cool but clear, still, and scented with new-fallen leaves and distant campfires. When I lay down in my sleeping bag I felt soothed, almost welcomed. I often do my best sleeping on what some people curse as the "cold, hard ground."
My preference for minimalist camping has been put to the test during the last few days by plans for an upcoming trip. Next week I want to fish the hex hatch in the Grayling area, the river TBD after I get there and have a chance to look things over. Seeing as I have a lot of work on my plate this summer, I plan to make this a "work-play" trip, fishing nights and working during the days. To facilitate this, my initial plan was to get a room a motel I know is clean and comfortable for a few days. Expensive, but not impossibly so, and I would have electricity, wi-fi, a desk, and air conditioning. Not to mention a shower.
But then...I started to scheme how I could camp and still find a congenial work setting. The Grayling Public Library has electricity, wi-fi, desks, and air conditioning. For showers I could jump in the river, like I always do (as a supplement, of course, to washing my face and other presentable areas in camp). And then I over breakfasts I could gaze on the river while coffee steeped in my french press and granola softened to the perfect state of not-quite-mushiness; after fishing I could sip a beer at my campfire underneath the stars, then zip myself into the tent to lay down for the night with only a summer bedroll between me and the earth.
Sometimes, sitting at the picnic table on my state forest campground site, eating chili or or stew out of a tin bowl, I've asked myself if I would still be traveling like a boy scout when I was 60. The answer I have lately is, "God willing, yes."
Twenty years ago, my approach was very basic: A three-man nylon tent, my usual kitchen cooking gear packed into tote bags, a twenty year old sleeping bag, a Coleman white gas stove, and a big plastic jug for water. How far I've come. Now, I have a four man nylon tent, dedicated camp cooking gear that I carry in a plastic tub, a different sleeping bag now almost twenty years old, a Coleman propane stove, and a big plastic jug for water.
The setup I had two decades ago was perfect for a new college graduate barely making 30K a year. It also befitted the poor graduate student I became a few years later, and, including the slight modifications mentioned above, served well for the visiting assistant professor I was shortly thereafter. During the years after my career swerved into the (rutted, roadblocked) academic lane I was aware that other men my age were beginning to earn enough money to guiltlessly book motel or cabin accommodations for their trips, and to eat in taverns, diners, and supper clubs every day they were up. These were the same guys who were driving Explorers and had an aresenal of a dozen or so fly rods, not to mention shirts designed specifically for fly fishing. (Some might have also been the guys with 30k in credit card debt, for all I know.) This didn't particularly bother me, but it did sometimes give the the impression that I was simply treading water in some ways.
These days our circumstances are slightly more comfortable. I have stayed in motels more often over the last few years, and can usually excuse a couple of restaurant meals over the course of a weekend (But I got off the river late! And gee, I can eat those canned goods for lunch at home next week!) But by and large, I still travel as I always have. And I'm in no rush to change that.
When I bunk at a motel, I miss sitting outside in the evening, maybe with a campfire, and lounging over coffee and whatever in the morning listening to the birds and watching chipmunks dashing from site to site. It's pretty tough to find a diner serving food as good, or as healthy, as what I can pull out of a can or boil bag from Trader Joe's, and if I get a notion to grill some burgers, they'll likely be better than any from the local tavern. Going to sleep in a tent with the forest sounds around me beats trying to sleep (emphasis on trying) in a saggy, creaky motel bed. (This is true even when it rains--see my last fishing report in May.)
The motels I stay at do tend to be older and not-so-well kept. Some smell of mold, smoke, dust, or things I can't identify and don't want to try. Some have showers I can barely fit into, with rust stains resembling graffitti tags. I may be plugging my ears against high-volume TV, revelry, or fornication in adjoining rooms. The power might go out or the heater might not start. And a "cheap" motel up north these days runs about $50 a night. I can remember staying at some of these places almost twenty years ago when they were $30 a night and in better repair. They might still be a good deal if they'd been maintained.
My continuing preference for camping solidified on a cast and blast trip to Ogemaw and Oscoda counties on the opening weekend of grouse season last fall. After ending my first day fishing the Au Sable below Mio, I headed toward a state forest campground to set up for the night but had second thoughts when the weather radio predicted overnight thunderstorms. Dark clouds blowing eastward gave this credence. I'd camped plenty in the rain before, but at that moment I thought, "why bother?" and headed to a motel in Mio which had seemed tolerable a few years ago. The price was ten dollars higher now, and the room had most of the shortcomings mentioned above, and more pronouncedly than on my last visit. In the morning I departed for the Rifle River Recreation Area, where I caught a few trout, missed a few grouse, and pitched my tent for the night--which would be a night I savored. Cool but clear, still, and scented with new-fallen leaves and distant campfires. When I lay down in my sleeping bag I felt soothed, almost welcomed. I often do my best sleeping on what some people curse as the "cold, hard ground."
My preference for minimalist camping has been put to the test during the last few days by plans for an upcoming trip. Next week I want to fish the hex hatch in the Grayling area, the river TBD after I get there and have a chance to look things over. Seeing as I have a lot of work on my plate this summer, I plan to make this a "work-play" trip, fishing nights and working during the days. To facilitate this, my initial plan was to get a room a motel I know is clean and comfortable for a few days. Expensive, but not impossibly so, and I would have electricity, wi-fi, a desk, and air conditioning. Not to mention a shower.
But then...I started to scheme how I could camp and still find a congenial work setting. The Grayling Public Library has electricity, wi-fi, desks, and air conditioning. For showers I could jump in the river, like I always do (as a supplement, of course, to washing my face and other presentable areas in camp). And then I over breakfasts I could gaze on the river while coffee steeped in my french press and granola softened to the perfect state of not-quite-mushiness; after fishing I could sip a beer at my campfire underneath the stars, then zip myself into the tent to lay down for the night with only a summer bedroll between me and the earth.
Sometimes, sitting at the picnic table on my state forest campground site, eating chili or or stew out of a tin bowl, I've asked myself if I would still be traveling like a boy scout when I was 60. The answer I have lately is, "God willing, yes."
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Huron River, 6/15; Bears in them thar 'burbs!
Planned a run to Cloud Creek last night but hit a traffic jam on the way out of Ann Arbor that took nearly half an hour to clear. By that time rain was falling too and the radio advised thunderstorms were on the way. So I changed plans and went to the Huron.
I got on the river at Dexter-Huron metropark around 6:30, and I was the only soul around. The light rain would have driven off the picknickers and frisbee players, but I found it soothing. Though the river was on the high side, I could wade safely as long as I stayed within 40 feet of the bank. I saw light cahills and several kinds of caddis in good numbers but nothing was rising. Tried several olive, black, and brown streamers and had four brief hookups, but didn't bring anything to hand. The fish felt like they had some weight to them, too. All the hits came in spots where willow branches extended well over the water. Around 8:00 the rain began falling harder and I headed for the car.
I'm looking forward to many more nights on the Huron, but I am absolutely determined to make a Cloud Creek run, and preferably several, this year.
Oh, and having mentioned Dexter, I should note that confirmed sightings of a black bear have taken place there in the past week. Super cool, in my book. I think there are plenty of places just west of there where bears could find suitable feeding and hiding spots. Of course, some locals are worried, but the possibility of anyone being hurt by the animal (assuming they don't try to feed it by hand) is negligible. Though it is certainly possible some bird feeders and garbage cans might take it hard. The authorities have asked residents to call 9-1-1 if they sight the bear, which seems a bit odd--is it illegal for bears to enter Washtenaw county? So far, no one has talked about relocating it; according to the most recent reports , DNR officials want to put a radio collar on the bear to track its movements. Hopefully those movements won't include a speedy northward ride in the back of a truck.
I got on the river at Dexter-Huron metropark around 6:30, and I was the only soul around. The light rain would have driven off the picknickers and frisbee players, but I found it soothing. Though the river was on the high side, I could wade safely as long as I stayed within 40 feet of the bank. I saw light cahills and several kinds of caddis in good numbers but nothing was rising. Tried several olive, black, and brown streamers and had four brief hookups, but didn't bring anything to hand. The fish felt like they had some weight to them, too. All the hits came in spots where willow branches extended well over the water. Around 8:00 the rain began falling harder and I headed for the car.
I'm looking forward to many more nights on the Huron, but I am absolutely determined to make a Cloud Creek run, and preferably several, this year.
Oh, and having mentioned Dexter, I should note that confirmed sightings of a black bear have taken place there in the past week. Super cool, in my book. I think there are plenty of places just west of there where bears could find suitable feeding and hiding spots. Of course, some locals are worried, but the possibility of anyone being hurt by the animal (assuming they don't try to feed it by hand) is negligible. Though it is certainly possible some bird feeders and garbage cans might take it hard. The authorities have asked residents to call 9-1-1 if they sight the bear, which seems a bit odd--is it illegal for bears to enter Washtenaw county? So far, no one has talked about relocating it; according to the most recent reports , DNR officials want to put a radio collar on the bear to track its movements. Hopefully those movements won't include a speedy northward ride in the back of a truck.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Drying Up
Ponds and marshes around much of Michigan are near-overflowing this year--good news for ducks, at least those whose nests didn't wash out. But funds for programs supporting waterfowl and other game habitat are running dry.
From the AP:
The controlling Republican caucus in the House has renewed its attacks on the two most important waterfowl conservation programs. It plans deep if not total cuts to the North American Wetlands Conservation Act, and big hits to the conservation titles in the Farm Bill, including the critical Conservation Reserve Program.... NAWCA saw all of its $47.6 million budget eliminated. Waterfowl managers said it is critical to the survival of waterfowl hunting because it is the major vehicle for protecting the nation’s dwindling base of wetlands. During the past 30 years, it has protected 25 million acres of waterfowl habitat leveraging $800 million in government funds into $2 billion in matches from private partners. The House bill was blocked by the Senate, and after long negotiations with the administration, the compromise that passed included $37.5 million for NAWCA.
Read it all.
So the debt crisis comes, literally, home to roost. On an outdoor bulletin board I frequent this news was met with consternation, even by some members with a conservative political outlook. Only a few responded along the lines of "We all have to share the pain." I'd be more willing to concur with that line of reasoning if wetlands hadn't "felt the pain" of our economic expansions so much. Seriously--habitat loses either way. In good times it's pressured by development. In bad times, it loses funding for protection and management.
I know something has to give somewhere, but cuts like this are especially short sighted. For one thing, as the article noted,
The $5 billion a year the nation spends on various conservation programs puts $14 billion back to the treasury in taxes from people who make their livings in the industries supported by those programs.
Besides, the growing demand for food and mineral resources is going to continue regardless of the recession (unless that proceeds to the point of global economic collapse), which makes the conservation measures we have in place all the more important. In other words, while these cuts may have some merit...we just can't afford them right now.
For me, the key question as we face the debt, or any public concern, isn't "How much do we spend or cut?" but "What kind of country do you want to live in?" Obviously a country spending half its resources paying off its creditors is not one you want to live in. But one without healthy wetlands, forests, and waters has little appeal to me. Neither does one where students go deeply into debt to attain a threadbare higher education.
Of course, other citizens have very different ideas about the sort of country they'd like to inhabit. Conversations on this point will never be simple, but it would be nice to see leaders and encouraging and, yes, leading one instead of reciting tunnel-vision alarums about spending, spending, spending.
From the AP:
The controlling Republican caucus in the House has renewed its attacks on the two most important waterfowl conservation programs. It plans deep if not total cuts to the North American Wetlands Conservation Act, and big hits to the conservation titles in the Farm Bill, including the critical Conservation Reserve Program.... NAWCA saw all of its $47.6 million budget eliminated. Waterfowl managers said it is critical to the survival of waterfowl hunting because it is the major vehicle for protecting the nation’s dwindling base of wetlands. During the past 30 years, it has protected 25 million acres of waterfowl habitat leveraging $800 million in government funds into $2 billion in matches from private partners. The House bill was blocked by the Senate, and after long negotiations with the administration, the compromise that passed included $37.5 million for NAWCA.
Read it all.
So the debt crisis comes, literally, home to roost. On an outdoor bulletin board I frequent this news was met with consternation, even by some members with a conservative political outlook. Only a few responded along the lines of "We all have to share the pain." I'd be more willing to concur with that line of reasoning if wetlands hadn't "felt the pain" of our economic expansions so much. Seriously--habitat loses either way. In good times it's pressured by development. In bad times, it loses funding for protection and management.
I know something has to give somewhere, but cuts like this are especially short sighted. For one thing, as the article noted,
The $5 billion a year the nation spends on various conservation programs puts $14 billion back to the treasury in taxes from people who make their livings in the industries supported by those programs.
Besides, the growing demand for food and mineral resources is going to continue regardless of the recession (unless that proceeds to the point of global economic collapse), which makes the conservation measures we have in place all the more important. In other words, while these cuts may have some merit...we just can't afford them right now.
For me, the key question as we face the debt, or any public concern, isn't "How much do we spend or cut?" but "What kind of country do you want to live in?" Obviously a country spending half its resources paying off its creditors is not one you want to live in. But one without healthy wetlands, forests, and waters has little appeal to me. Neither does one where students go deeply into debt to attain a threadbare higher education.
Of course, other citizens have very different ideas about the sort of country they'd like to inhabit. Conversations on this point will never be simple, but it would be nice to see leaders and encouraging and, yes, leading one instead of reciting tunnel-vision alarums about spending, spending, spending.
Thursday, June 09, 2011
Pere Marquette 6/6
Many northern Michigan trout streams strongly resemble each other, with banks lined chiefly by spruce, pine, cedar, and tamarack. The Pere Marquette, lying toward the southern end of the north, is an exception, with oak and basswood mixed liberally among the evergreens. These hardwoods add a lushness to the PM lacking on other streams. And last monday the river was as lush as it's going to get. When I was there about three weeks ago, leaves were still unfolding, the grass along the river wouldn't have been high enough to mow if it was in my yard. Now, the foliage is on full display and the grass is growing tall--the woods seem not just green but illuminated in green. From here it's all downhill--leaves will become bug-chewed and a few will whither long before autumn; the grass will sag under its late summer weight and begin to dry out. But on Monday the woods were supple and vivid, and I was especially grateful to be among them.
I reflect on the trees since I don't have too much to say about the fishing. In the afternoon I caught a 12" brown on a nymph and a 15" rainbow on a large stonefly. Near sunset the gray drakes came out en masse, but disappeared before 10 PM without falling. Back at the car I saw the temperature was still near 80, and it stayed there during my long drive home. As hot as it was, I wouldn't be surprised if the bugs delayed their mating dance/death spiral until dawn. But waiting them out was not an option that night. Maybe they were spreading over the river once again when I climbed into my bed around 4.
I reflect on the trees since I don't have too much to say about the fishing. In the afternoon I caught a 12" brown on a nymph and a 15" rainbow on a large stonefly. Near sunset the gray drakes came out en masse, but disappeared before 10 PM without falling. Back at the car I saw the temperature was still near 80, and it stayed there during my long drive home. As hot as it was, I wouldn't be surprised if the bugs delayed their mating dance/death spiral until dawn. But waiting them out was not an option that night. Maybe they were spreading over the river once again when I climbed into my bed around 4.
Wednesday, June 08, 2011
Muskegon River, 6/4-5
One item on my angling to-do list for a few years has been to hit the gray drake hatch on the Muskegon or Pere Marquette. On the Mo it's said to bring out some of the larger holdover fish, and of course on the PM it may be the major "big fish" hatch after the hex. Plus, I've needed to redeem myself after squandering the one good gray drake hatch I ever hit (as related in my last posting ...). With some warm days predicted over the weekend, I thought it was a good time to try.
Got on the Muskegon at Pine st. Saturday evening around 7:30. I could see the sporadic rises to caddis, mostly by planter dinks, that you always see there and did catch a few juniors on a tan soft hackle. A little after 8 I saw more consistent, quiet rises, mostly on the edges of current lines on the edges of riffles or behind large rocks. Some very nice fish were porpoising. My soft hackle got ignored, as did versions of the tan and olive caddis that were fluttering about. The only other bugs around in any quantity were black dancer caddis (Mystocides sepulchralis), flies I see on other trout streams later in the season that, in my observation, don't draw much attention from trout. Saturday night they were covering my legs and, as I found when I stooped and scanned the surface at eye level, were swarming the river. I put on the smallest black caddis I had, a #18 dry (intended to mimic the larger, lighter Chimarra aterrima that hatch in May), and drew a couple of short strikes with it. The trout continued to feed until well after dark but I couldn't connect. Gray drake spinners did appear high overhead around 9:00, but didn't fall. After leaving the water saw that from the knees down my waders were covered with what looked like green pustules--caddis eggs.
After scoping out a few other river sections Sunday morning, I drove to Parsley's Sports in Newaygo to look for a proper imitation of the little bugs. My hopes weren't high, but I did find a couple of what looked like aterrima emergers in a size 20 and bought two. Now all I needed was an encore of the hatch.
Which is what I got, sort of. Those soft rises along the current lines showed again just after 8, though in the volume of the night before. Twice I saw the larger fish porpoising. On the second or third drift with the little emerger I got a solid take from a bait-size planter--nothing it brag about, but an improvement on the previous night. I eventually took four fish in the double digits (the best 14") along with more planters. The rises had more or less ceased by 9, and my wader legs were only lightly pimpled with eggs when I left the river. Not a hallmark night, but a satisfying one for having figured out the hatch and been able to match it, even if it was a bit of a no-brainer in this case. I am looking forward to trying my new acquisitions later this summer when black dancers are out on the smaller streams I fish. Maybe the trout have more interest in them than I've assumed.
Next: Pere Marquette on 6/6
Got on the Muskegon at Pine st. Saturday evening around 7:30. I could see the sporadic rises to caddis, mostly by planter dinks, that you always see there and did catch a few juniors on a tan soft hackle. A little after 8 I saw more consistent, quiet rises, mostly on the edges of current lines on the edges of riffles or behind large rocks. Some very nice fish were porpoising. My soft hackle got ignored, as did versions of the tan and olive caddis that were fluttering about. The only other bugs around in any quantity were black dancer caddis (Mystocides sepulchralis), flies I see on other trout streams later in the season that, in my observation, don't draw much attention from trout. Saturday night they were covering my legs and, as I found when I stooped and scanned the surface at eye level, were swarming the river. I put on the smallest black caddis I had, a #18 dry (intended to mimic the larger, lighter Chimarra aterrima that hatch in May), and drew a couple of short strikes with it. The trout continued to feed until well after dark but I couldn't connect. Gray drake spinners did appear high overhead around 9:00, but didn't fall. After leaving the water saw that from the knees down my waders were covered with what looked like green pustules--caddis eggs.
After scoping out a few other river sections Sunday morning, I drove to Parsley's Sports in Newaygo to look for a proper imitation of the little bugs. My hopes weren't high, but I did find a couple of what looked like aterrima emergers in a size 20 and bought two. Now all I needed was an encore of the hatch.
Which is what I got, sort of. Those soft rises along the current lines showed again just after 8, though in the volume of the night before. Twice I saw the larger fish porpoising. On the second or third drift with the little emerger I got a solid take from a bait-size planter--nothing it brag about, but an improvement on the previous night. I eventually took four fish in the double digits (the best 14") along with more planters. The rises had more or less ceased by 9, and my wader legs were only lightly pimpled with eggs when I left the river. Not a hallmark night, but a satisfying one for having figured out the hatch and been able to match it, even if it was a bit of a no-brainer in this case. I am looking forward to trying my new acquisitions later this summer when black dancers are out on the smaller streams I fish. Maybe the trout have more interest in them than I've assumed.
Next: Pere Marquette on 6/6
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Day of Remembrance
Yesterday Americans remembered the sacrifices of men and women who died in the service of their country. Probably like most Americans, I didn't reflect too long on that sacrifice--Memorial day is for me as for so many a day to relax or catch up on household. I spent a lot of time in my garden over the weekend. But I was very moved by a reflection posted by Josh Marshall on Talking Points Memo about the importance about our connection to the dead, especially to deaths of service members. Thoughts about this came to me again last night when my wife and I went to a brewpub to unwind after the long weekend. A young couple sat down next to us at the bar, the man very lean with a close haircut. My guess that he was a soldier was confirmed when I overheard him saying "IED" or "unit" a couple of times in his conversation with the woman. He could have been one of my students who have been or are overseas in the service. The list of them is growing long. I'm grateful to those who have returned, and I pray for those still there.
May 31st is a different kind of day of remembrance for me. Though explaining this on the heels of the previous paragraph might seem to trivialize what we remembered yesterday, I have wanted to talk about it on the blog for a long time, and this is the day to do it. Plus, I can think of a few veterans who would appreciate the story regardless.
What I have to relate is really just a simple, routine fishermen's tale. But it's one that haunts me. Today marks the anniversary of one of the best--and worst--evenings of fishing I've ever had. If I could choose to relive one fishing event in my life, it would probably be a gray drake spinnerfall that happened twilight on May 31st, 1996, on a small western Michigan creek.
At the time, I'd just finished my first year of PhD study at Michigan State. I was taking a French class to meet a language requirement, but other than that I was doing a lot of reading, writing, and fishing. One day I made plans to head to the west side of the state once I'd finished my class in East Lansing and explore a few creeks named in a trout stream guidebook. By 2 PM I was bridge hopping, driving from one small stream to another to scout out conditions, but I was mostly unimpressed. The creeks were generally too small for fly fishing (claims of my guidebook notwithstanding) or too warm and devoid of cover. A little after four, having driven much farther from home than I'd planned to, I went to look at one more stream, and this one turned out to be a beauty. It was clear with a steady current and plenty of fallen logs for trout to hide among. Tall maples and oaks spread across much of the stream, but left enough space for short overhand or sidearm casts. And almost as soon as I walked to the bank, I saw two rises just downstream.
On went the waders, out came the rod. I couldn't raise the feeder I'd seen, so I tied on an adams and began working upstream. Nothing hit, but I hadn't been fishing long when I saw a steady stream of nymphs drifting by just below the surface. A hatch had to be starting, I thought, and it wasn't long before I saw rings dappling the quiet surface of a long bend pool. No insects were visible on the air or the water, so I wasn't sure what fly to use. When I did see a fly, I couldn't believe my eyes--a slate gray dun around size 14. It looked for all the world like a Hendrickson, but hennies should have been done here long ago. I put a hendrickson dun on anyway, and the game was on. I took three or four browns on it in nearly as many casts, then my fly went ignored though trout kept feeding. The nymphs were still drifting underwater, though; would the fish prefer an emerger? I tied on a hendrickson emerger, walked the bank upstream to get above the trout then swung my fly through the field of rises. First cast, fish on. I caught a couple more before the emerger lost favor, so I went back dowstream, fished the dun, and was back in business. I continued that pattern for a while until the feeding trailed off. I think in the course of that hatch I caught about 15 trout, all from the same bend. I kept a few, since the creek, according to my guide, was primarily a stocker fishery.
After eating the supper I'd packed I returned to the water and fished an assortment of nymphs and attractors, but didn't hook up. Maybe the trout were saving room for the manna about to fall from the sky--large, black spinners that began to cluster over the stream around nine. These flies were unfamiliar to me so I pulled out the mayfly field guide I carried in my vest and compared its pictures to the flies overhead. Gray drakes, I concluded. It was the right time of the season, and nothing else likely to be around then resembled them.
But the absence of gray drakes from my fly box overshadowing the satisfaction of identifying an unfamiliar bug. I'd never fished some place and time where grays were expected, so I'd never bought any. With some brown drake spinners and some brushy hendrickson spinners I figured I could make do, but I was wrong. Spectacularly.
The next half hour brought the first blanket spinnerfall I'd ever seen, and the heaviest concentration of feeding fish I have seen to this day. I started fishing maybe thirty yards below the bend where I'd caught fish earlier and worked to the top of it, rises showing literally bank to bank the entire way. I beat the water with my substitute flies and drew only a couple of short strikes. Going ignored by a handful of selectively rising trout is disappointing; getting the cold shoulder from scores of utterly ravenous fish is shattering, especially when you know exactly what the problem is but can't fix it.
Probably every fly fisherman has a story like that to tell. I could tell of other nights that unfolded similarly. This one stands out in part because of the sheer number of rising fish, but also because I encountered it relatively early in my fly fishing career. I was beginning just my third season with the long rod, and I think this experience impressed on me the intensity of satisfactions it could bring. I drove home frustrated, but also exhilarated by the desire to seek out more such occasions and to succeed where I had failed that night. The idea that failure is only preparation for future success may be true in many instances, but perhaps most so when it comes to fishing. Nothing stokes my determination like a good skunking, and this was the best I ever had.
I remember it every May 31st. And not infrequently the rest of the year.
May 31st is a different kind of day of remembrance for me. Though explaining this on the heels of the previous paragraph might seem to trivialize what we remembered yesterday, I have wanted to talk about it on the blog for a long time, and this is the day to do it. Plus, I can think of a few veterans who would appreciate the story regardless.
What I have to relate is really just a simple, routine fishermen's tale. But it's one that haunts me. Today marks the anniversary of one of the best--and worst--evenings of fishing I've ever had. If I could choose to relive one fishing event in my life, it would probably be a gray drake spinnerfall that happened twilight on May 31st, 1996, on a small western Michigan creek.
At the time, I'd just finished my first year of PhD study at Michigan State. I was taking a French class to meet a language requirement, but other than that I was doing a lot of reading, writing, and fishing. One day I made plans to head to the west side of the state once I'd finished my class in East Lansing and explore a few creeks named in a trout stream guidebook. By 2 PM I was bridge hopping, driving from one small stream to another to scout out conditions, but I was mostly unimpressed. The creeks were generally too small for fly fishing (claims of my guidebook notwithstanding) or too warm and devoid of cover. A little after four, having driven much farther from home than I'd planned to, I went to look at one more stream, and this one turned out to be a beauty. It was clear with a steady current and plenty of fallen logs for trout to hide among. Tall maples and oaks spread across much of the stream, but left enough space for short overhand or sidearm casts. And almost as soon as I walked to the bank, I saw two rises just downstream.
On went the waders, out came the rod. I couldn't raise the feeder I'd seen, so I tied on an adams and began working upstream. Nothing hit, but I hadn't been fishing long when I saw a steady stream of nymphs drifting by just below the surface. A hatch had to be starting, I thought, and it wasn't long before I saw rings dappling the quiet surface of a long bend pool. No insects were visible on the air or the water, so I wasn't sure what fly to use. When I did see a fly, I couldn't believe my eyes--a slate gray dun around size 14. It looked for all the world like a Hendrickson, but hennies should have been done here long ago. I put a hendrickson dun on anyway, and the game was on. I took three or four browns on it in nearly as many casts, then my fly went ignored though trout kept feeding. The nymphs were still drifting underwater, though; would the fish prefer an emerger? I tied on a hendrickson emerger, walked the bank upstream to get above the trout then swung my fly through the field of rises. First cast, fish on. I caught a couple more before the emerger lost favor, so I went back dowstream, fished the dun, and was back in business. I continued that pattern for a while until the feeding trailed off. I think in the course of that hatch I caught about 15 trout, all from the same bend. I kept a few, since the creek, according to my guide, was primarily a stocker fishery.
After eating the supper I'd packed I returned to the water and fished an assortment of nymphs and attractors, but didn't hook up. Maybe the trout were saving room for the manna about to fall from the sky--large, black spinners that began to cluster over the stream around nine. These flies were unfamiliar to me so I pulled out the mayfly field guide I carried in my vest and compared its pictures to the flies overhead. Gray drakes, I concluded. It was the right time of the season, and nothing else likely to be around then resembled them.
But the absence of gray drakes from my fly box overshadowing the satisfaction of identifying an unfamiliar bug. I'd never fished some place and time where grays were expected, so I'd never bought any. With some brown drake spinners and some brushy hendrickson spinners I figured I could make do, but I was wrong. Spectacularly.
The next half hour brought the first blanket spinnerfall I'd ever seen, and the heaviest concentration of feeding fish I have seen to this day. I started fishing maybe thirty yards below the bend where I'd caught fish earlier and worked to the top of it, rises showing literally bank to bank the entire way. I beat the water with my substitute flies and drew only a couple of short strikes. Going ignored by a handful of selectively rising trout is disappointing; getting the cold shoulder from scores of utterly ravenous fish is shattering, especially when you know exactly what the problem is but can't fix it.
Probably every fly fisherman has a story like that to tell. I could tell of other nights that unfolded similarly. This one stands out in part because of the sheer number of rising fish, but also because I encountered it relatively early in my fly fishing career. I was beginning just my third season with the long rod, and I think this experience impressed on me the intensity of satisfactions it could bring. I drove home frustrated, but also exhilarated by the desire to seek out more such occasions and to succeed where I had failed that night. The idea that failure is only preparation for future success may be true in many instances, but perhaps most so when it comes to fishing. Nothing stokes my determination like a good skunking, and this was the best I ever had.
I remember it every May 31st. And not infrequently the rest of the year.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Serving Two Masters
Yet another rainy day. Today it's really sheeting down too. Heavy rainfall is possible through Saturday. We had light rain on and off all of last week, and now that seems like a drought by comparison. I shouldn't complain much, considering the weather other parts of the country are having, but four or five days of sun would feel heavenly.
It would also bring closer the day when I can actually fish my local streams. The Huron is currently running more than four times the upper limit for safe wading (3290 cfs, as I write, opposed to 700). I want to go to Cloud Creek at least once this season, but I doubt it's been wadable at any point since the opener.
Maybe today's rain is especially depressing in contrast to the beautiful weather we enjoyed yesterday and the outing it inspired. By midafternoon the clouds were gone and the temperature went well into the 70s, this after predictions for clouds and low 60s. I absolutely had to get outdoors, and fishing was out, but it would be a fine night to scout out some duck hunting locales, so by 6:30 I was on the road to a nearby state park.
I couldn't have picked a better night to be in the woods. It was warm with only the lightest of winds, yet mosquitoes were sparse. Mayapples, wild geraniums, and anemones were in bloom, strewing patches of color across the dun carpeting of last year's leaves on the forest floor. In the dropping sun the trunks of trees facing a small lake glowed tangerine, then faded to a dull rose. A few sandhill cranes bugled and lone robins let out a few notes here and there, but otherwise it was very quiet.
The scouting went well. I found new approaches to one of the lakes I hunted last fall that will allow me to hunt it from different angles and in more wind directions. I hiked in to a pond I'd seen but not hunted last year and found it took fifteen minutes--I'm assuming that will translate to thirty in the dark. And at points, strangely enough, I found myself wishing that fall was here. Summer has barely begun!
Yet an instant later, while standing along the lake, it occurred to me that if I'd gotten an earlier start I could have brought my pontoon and drifted the edges of the lilly pads casting poppers for bass. At the very least I might have waded the shallows and perhaps located some bluegill beds. With duck season almost five months away, I suppose scouting isn't imperative.
Or I could have spent an hour scouting and an hour fishing.
Nothing complicates a simple pleasure like another one.
It would also bring closer the day when I can actually fish my local streams. The Huron is currently running more than four times the upper limit for safe wading (3290 cfs, as I write, opposed to 700). I want to go to Cloud Creek at least once this season, but I doubt it's been wadable at any point since the opener.
Maybe today's rain is especially depressing in contrast to the beautiful weather we enjoyed yesterday and the outing it inspired. By midafternoon the clouds were gone and the temperature went well into the 70s, this after predictions for clouds and low 60s. I absolutely had to get outdoors, and fishing was out, but it would be a fine night to scout out some duck hunting locales, so by 6:30 I was on the road to a nearby state park.
I couldn't have picked a better night to be in the woods. It was warm with only the lightest of winds, yet mosquitoes were sparse. Mayapples, wild geraniums, and anemones were in bloom, strewing patches of color across the dun carpeting of last year's leaves on the forest floor. In the dropping sun the trunks of trees facing a small lake glowed tangerine, then faded to a dull rose. A few sandhill cranes bugled and lone robins let out a few notes here and there, but otherwise it was very quiet.
The scouting went well. I found new approaches to one of the lakes I hunted last fall that will allow me to hunt it from different angles and in more wind directions. I hiked in to a pond I'd seen but not hunted last year and found it took fifteen minutes--I'm assuming that will translate to thirty in the dark. And at points, strangely enough, I found myself wishing that fall was here. Summer has barely begun!
Yet an instant later, while standing along the lake, it occurred to me that if I'd gotten an earlier start I could have brought my pontoon and drifted the edges of the lilly pads casting poppers for bass. At the very least I might have waded the shallows and perhaps located some bluegill beds. With duck season almost five months away, I suppose scouting isn't imperative.
Or I could have spent an hour scouting and an hour fishing.
Nothing complicates a simple pleasure like another one.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Ebb and Flow
I used to say that my "seasonal migrations" in pursuit of different fishing opportunities--to Baldwin in the spring for steelhead, Grayling for the opener, any number of locales for one hatch or another--gave a kind of continuity to my life. This may no longer be true, at least to the degree it was, and I've been thinking lately about why this is and what it means. Sometimes I've wondered if my passion for angling is flickering out.
I don't believe that's the case--it's been hard to think of much else for the last few weeks. But my fishing days have become fewer and farther between the last few seasons, and I haven't been able to fish some of the hatches or other events that I typically had. More work and home obligations have been dividing my attention. As both a practice and as an internal presence or force in my life, fishing has taken a back seat to other things.
This has become particularly apparent when I visit some fishing blogs, such as this one, or this one, or any number of those linked at the latter, or peruse the forums at The Drake. At these venues I run across anglers with a dedication I almost can't grasp now, though at an earlier point in time I might have aspired to it. When and how did I lose the spark?
A year or go this concerned me, and fueled a keen antagonism toward most of the things that were keeping me off the river (though not a determination to change this). Now, this is less the case. Fishermen are the last people who need to be told that change is a constant in life. Rivers change, fishing partners come and go, each season's progression of hatches and water conditions goes forward inexorably. Fish blogging becomes less and more interesting to bloggers and readers alike. To remain as obsessed about fishing as I was could have become a form of stagnation. To some the obsession might be an engine for change.
"The way the water goes is how the earth is shaped," says Jim Harrison. As the shape of life changes, for better and worse, anything in you that lives or flows will follow a different course. Sometimes you can and should change this. Sometimes it's best to let it carry you. For now, I'm choosing the latter.
I don't believe that's the case--it's been hard to think of much else for the last few weeks. But my fishing days have become fewer and farther between the last few seasons, and I haven't been able to fish some of the hatches or other events that I typically had. More work and home obligations have been dividing my attention. As both a practice and as an internal presence or force in my life, fishing has taken a back seat to other things.
This has become particularly apparent when I visit some fishing blogs, such as this one, or this one, or any number of those linked at the latter, or peruse the forums at The Drake. At these venues I run across anglers with a dedication I almost can't grasp now, though at an earlier point in time I might have aspired to it. When and how did I lose the spark?
A year or go this concerned me, and fueled a keen antagonism toward most of the things that were keeping me off the river (though not a determination to change this). Now, this is less the case. Fishermen are the last people who need to be told that change is a constant in life. Rivers change, fishing partners come and go, each season's progression of hatches and water conditions goes forward inexorably. Fish blogging becomes less and more interesting to bloggers and readers alike. To remain as obsessed about fishing as I was could have become a form of stagnation. To some the obsession might be an engine for change.
"The way the water goes is how the earth is shaped," says Jim Harrison. As the shape of life changes, for better and worse, anything in you that lives or flows will follow a different course. Sometimes you can and should change this. Sometimes it's best to let it carry you. For now, I'm choosing the latter.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Spots of Time, pt. III--Pere Marquette/Au Sable, 5/11-13
Those predictions for "numerous thunderstorms" overnight last Thursday were dead-on. As in Baldwin the night before, thunder boomed and lightning flashed long into the night. The rain fell even harder, as if the clouds were dropping lead balls instead of water. But again my tent kept it out and at some point I fell asleep in spite of the ruckus outside. In the morning, the skies were still cloudy, but the rain had stopped, and the radio assured me that little more was expected that day.
The Au Sable mainstream was running dark--not as dark as the PM had been the day before, but still murkier than I'd like. Wading the evening before had been difficult in spots, and it would be worse today. I expected the upper north branch would be clear and easier to wade, so I struck camp and set out for Love lls. Of course, I detoured through Grayling to pick up one of Goodale's fantastic cinnamon rolls tocap off my lunch under the pavillion of the Lovells township park.
I began working down the north branch from the Twin Bridges a little after two. It was cool compared to the previous days--mid 60s, maybe--and overcast. Not many bugs on the wing--a handful of caddis, some stray hendrickson spinners, and every now and then a henny dun on the water. I threw assorted nymphs and emergers and caught some of the dinky brook trout that abound in that stretch.
Toward three o'clock good numbers of caddis and hendricksons took to the air and more hendrickson duns started to drift by. But nothing was rising yet, so I decided to walk back upstream fish a fast run where I had had a few strikes but no firm hookups one more time. I switched to a black gnat wet, which during the caddis hatch sometimes outproduces the emergers I'd been using. I made a cast that swung the fly in front of one of the log trout shelters put up by TU or whoever when I got my first hit. This fish didn't come quickly skittering back to me across the surface like those I'd caught earlier. Maybe it was one of those high single or low double digit brooks that usually don't show until the hatch gets going, was my first thought. But when I pulled I didn't budge it an inch. Then along the line came several hard sharp taps--like a steelhead head shake (not a sensation I associate with the upper north branch). Holy #*&@, what have I hooked, I'm thinking. I found out quickly when, after short charges between several of the shelters, the fish heaved itself up onto the edge of one. It was an orange-bellied brown that at that moment looked longer than my arm.
It was a miracle the fish didn't actually make it over the top of that fish shelter ( I won't complain about the drag on my aging Battenkill anymore). But there was a lot of other wood in that spot and the fish was doing it dangdest to get in it. The current there was fast too. There was no way I'd land the fish on 5X where I stood. So I steered it around the timber and walked it downstream into some quiet shallow water. Once there it didn't take long to get it close to me so I reached for the net, only to have it run hard downstream toward yet another pile of timber. I chased it and once again waltzed it into safe water. There, it just bulldogged me---you know how it goes with big browns where you fight over that last 20 feet of line half a dozen times. In comes the fish, out goes the net, and sayonara trout. But eventually it came in and held long enough for me to scoop it up. I took it to the bank, cursing myself for leaving the camera in the car. At least I had my tape, so I pulled that out and measured the brown. 23 inches. Tied for my second largest stream brown, and certainly the largest caught in the middle of the afternoon on a size 16 fly.
During the fight, the hatch finally commenced and trout were feeding around me as I chased the fish all over the stream. A shame I was busy, since I'll bet some of those feeders would have gone 11", easy. (heh)
That was the only fish of (to indulge in some understatement) respectable size that day. But if you're going to catch only one, that's the kind to catch. It was a magnificent day on the water because of a few moments of tense combat with that big brown. Which was in keeping with the best parts of each day on the trip--the spate of stonefly action Wednesday, the last trout as darkness fell Thursday. Small spots of time when what this angler sought merged precisely with what the rivers offered. Yes, there were other times when I caught fish, and more fish at that, but somehow these added less to the contours of the trip as it remains in my memory. We release most of our memories as surely as we release most of our fish, and I suspect this is partly why it matters little to many fishermen whether they catch many fish or only a few. The mind does not have infinite creel space.
The Au Sable mainstream was running dark--not as dark as the PM had been the day before, but still murkier than I'd like. Wading the evening before had been difficult in spots, and it would be worse today. I expected the upper north branch would be clear and easier to wade, so I struck camp and set out for Love lls. Of course, I detoured through Grayling to pick up one of Goodale's fantastic cinnamon rolls tocap off my lunch under the pavillion of the Lovells township park.
I began working down the north branch from the Twin Bridges a little after two. It was cool compared to the previous days--mid 60s, maybe--and overcast. Not many bugs on the wing--a handful of caddis, some stray hendrickson spinners, and every now and then a henny dun on the water. I threw assorted nymphs and emergers and caught some of the dinky brook trout that abound in that stretch.
Toward three o'clock good numbers of caddis and hendricksons took to the air and more hendrickson duns started to drift by. But nothing was rising yet, so I decided to walk back upstream fish a fast run where I had had a few strikes but no firm hookups one more time. I switched to a black gnat wet, which during the caddis hatch sometimes outproduces the emergers I'd been using. I made a cast that swung the fly in front of one of the log trout shelters put up by TU or whoever when I got my first hit. This fish didn't come quickly skittering back to me across the surface like those I'd caught earlier. Maybe it was one of those high single or low double digit brooks that usually don't show until the hatch gets going, was my first thought. But when I pulled I didn't budge it an inch. Then along the line came several hard sharp taps--like a steelhead head shake (not a sensation I associate with the upper north branch). Holy #*&@, what have I hooked, I'm thinking. I found out quickly when, after short charges between several of the shelters, the fish heaved itself up onto the edge of one. It was an orange-bellied brown that at that moment looked longer than my arm.
It was a miracle the fish didn't actually make it over the top of that fish shelter ( I won't complain about the drag on my aging Battenkill anymore). But there was a lot of other wood in that spot and the fish was doing it dangdest to get in it. The current there was fast too. There was no way I'd land the fish on 5X where I stood. So I steered it around the timber and walked it downstream into some quiet shallow water. Once there it didn't take long to get it close to me so I reached for the net, only to have it run hard downstream toward yet another pile of timber. I chased it and once again waltzed it into safe water. There, it just bulldogged me---you know how it goes with big browns where you fight over that last 20 feet of line half a dozen times. In comes the fish, out goes the net, and sayonara trout. But eventually it came in and held long enough for me to scoop it up. I took it to the bank, cursing myself for leaving the camera in the car. At least I had my tape, so I pulled that out and measured the brown. 23 inches. Tied for my second largest stream brown, and certainly the largest caught in the middle of the afternoon on a size 16 fly.
During the fight, the hatch finally commenced and trout were feeding around me as I chased the fish all over the stream. A shame I was busy, since I'll bet some of those feeders would have gone 11", easy. (heh)
That was the only fish of (to indulge in some understatement) respectable size that day. But if you're going to catch only one, that's the kind to catch. It was a magnificent day on the water because of a few moments of tense combat with that big brown. Which was in keeping with the best parts of each day on the trip--the spate of stonefly action Wednesday, the last trout as darkness fell Thursday. Small spots of time when what this angler sought merged precisely with what the rivers offered. Yes, there were other times when I caught fish, and more fish at that, but somehow these added less to the contours of the trip as it remains in my memory. We release most of our memories as surely as we release most of our fish, and I suspect this is partly why it matters little to many fishermen whether they catch many fish or only a few. The mind does not have infinite creel space.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Spots of Time: Pere Marquette/Au Sable 5/11-13, pt. II
My hopes for the day's fishing sunk when I stopped at the M-37 access to look at the river. It was swollen from the previous night's rain, and I could barely see the bottom in shallow water. There were half a dozen parties waiting to take off in drift boats, and I suspect they had a good day if they were pulling streamers. But the river was too high for safe wading, at least for me. I'm pretty cautious when it comes to that.
With the main stream ruled out, I went to the little south branch of the PM which I'd never fished before. It does look like a miniature version of the PM fly water. Last week that resemblance extended to nearly flowing out of its banks. But since it was smaller and presumable shallower water, I decided to try it for half an hour to see if I could hang something on a streamer. The water was negotiable, but I got no strikes. Back at the parking lot I made a quick call up to Gates' lodge to inquire about water conditions on the Au Sable. Excellent, they said: just a little stain, but very wadable. So I went back to camp, packed up the tent quickly (i.e., threw it in the back of the car without folding it or wiping it down) and hit the road for Grayling.
Once there I wasn't certain about my next move. Weather radio predicted rain by early evening and overnight, but predictions for the amount of rain and time of its onset varied by the half hour. Should I pitch the tent before hitting the river or just get a motel room to ride out the rain in comfort? Or should I just plan to head home when the rain hit and come back when the weather improved? I punted and went straight to the river.
When I waded in at an access in the upper end of the flies-only Holy Water stretch, a heavy black caddis hatch was underway, with a smattering of rises visible. Caught a couple of very small fish at the access, then worked downstream, casting to active risers and fishing blind to some prime looking spots. Despite the plethora of bugs, the fish were tough customers. I made many nice, skittering presentations over active fish but got ignored more than not, and drew more short strikes than solid takes. Even the short strikes were exciting though, since I was fishing directly across the current from me for the most part and could see the trout gliding to the surface like long, bronzed bubbles to engulf--or burst beneath--my fly. Hendrickson duns were drifting by occasionally and many of those got eaten, but fish that looked at my parachute version refused at the last minute, save for one 9" rainbow. I did end up taking 4 or 5 browns that were 8-10" on caddis dries, and 4 lovely 10-12" brooks on an emerger. Interesting that the different species preferred flies at different stages of emergence. Around five a light rain fell for about 10 minutes, even though the sun remained out. It actually felt good, since the temperature was well above 70.
The sun returned strongly once the rain passed, and weather radio now predicted storms should hold off until late that night. I felt encouraged enough to pitch my tent. Once it was up I broke out the cooking gear and started my supper, but I no sooner began heating water for soup when it began to rain hard--again, with sun visible in the distance. The rain stopped, then started again and continued. Screw it, I thought, I'm headed into Grayling. Once at the edge of town the rain stopped, naturally enough. But I was there, so I shelled out for a burger at Spike's.
For the evening's fishing I went to another favorite access, where caddis once again were present in heavy numbers. I skittered a dry pattern near cover along the banks and took three fair size browns. There were also some risers I couldn't get to strike. A bit after 8 hendrickson spinners begtan gathering overhead--lots of them. I clipped off the caddis (which had gone ignored for half an hour anyway), tied on a spinner, then put the hook through the holder ring the just above the rod handle to keep it at the ready, and dry, while waiting for the bugs to fall. But when I reeled up to keep the line taut, the dacron loop on the end of the line that I use to connect the leader slipped off. Unless I could fix this soon, I'd be helplessly watching the trout rise to spinners blanketing the water.
The only obvious fix was to tie a loop in the end of the fly line, but that would sacrifice a good 6 " or so of the line tip, hardly ruining the line, but something I'd rather not do at all. But it occurred to me that I had another rod in my car. A 6 wt., it was heavier than I like to use for dry flies on the Au Sable, but it was the only option. And it turned out to be an excellent option because shortly after I began wading back to the access the sky suddenly clouded over. Rain began falling and when I reached the access I could hear thunder rolling from every direction. A bolt of lightning split the sky just to the north.
In the parking lot another fisherman was rigging up, but stopped his preparations and took shelter under the open rear hatch of his SUV. I took cover likewise, but uncased the 6 wt. and began hunting for a leader for it, hoping the storm would pass. But it continued, and after 5 minutes the other angler announced he was going to "get out of Mother Nature's way," packed up, and drove off. I retreated to the driver's seat of my car and shut the doors. The rain and the thunder weren't relenting and after a few more minutes I concluded I should follow Mr. SUV's example. I started the car and backed out toward the road, but once I got clear of the trees, I saw a large patch of clear sky to the west. It should reach me soon, I thought, and I might be able to salvage this night yet.
It didn't, but the rain did stop, so I pulled back into my parking space, left the car and trotted to the river as fast as my waders allowed. It had cooled off considerably by then and there were almost no insects over the stream now, but twenty or so yards down stream I made out two rising fish. I caught one on the third or fourth cast over them with a hendrickson spinner, though the remaining fish stopped feeding once I'd landed his buddy. It was nearly dark now, but I could see the ring of another rising fish maybe thirty yards further below. It was feeding hard against what amounted to the vertex of a near-right angle formed by a log jam jutting out from the bank. It took me four or five casts with careful mends to get a good drift into that corner, but as soon as I did the fish took and I shortly had a 12" brown in my net. I could barely see well enough to unhook it. When I reached my car it was near full dark, and the rain was beginning to fall again.
With the main stream ruled out, I went to the little south branch of the PM which I'd never fished before. It does look like a miniature version of the PM fly water. Last week that resemblance extended to nearly flowing out of its banks. But since it was smaller and presumable shallower water, I decided to try it for half an hour to see if I could hang something on a streamer. The water was negotiable, but I got no strikes. Back at the parking lot I made a quick call up to Gates' lodge to inquire about water conditions on the Au Sable. Excellent, they said: just a little stain, but very wadable. So I went back to camp, packed up the tent quickly (i.e., threw it in the back of the car without folding it or wiping it down) and hit the road for Grayling.
Once there I wasn't certain about my next move. Weather radio predicted rain by early evening and overnight, but predictions for the amount of rain and time of its onset varied by the half hour. Should I pitch the tent before hitting the river or just get a motel room to ride out the rain in comfort? Or should I just plan to head home when the rain hit and come back when the weather improved? I punted and went straight to the river.
When I waded in at an access in the upper end of the flies-only Holy Water stretch, a heavy black caddis hatch was underway, with a smattering of rises visible. Caught a couple of very small fish at the access, then worked downstream, casting to active risers and fishing blind to some prime looking spots. Despite the plethora of bugs, the fish were tough customers. I made many nice, skittering presentations over active fish but got ignored more than not, and drew more short strikes than solid takes. Even the short strikes were exciting though, since I was fishing directly across the current from me for the most part and could see the trout gliding to the surface like long, bronzed bubbles to engulf--or burst beneath--my fly. Hendrickson duns were drifting by occasionally and many of those got eaten, but fish that looked at my parachute version refused at the last minute, save for one 9" rainbow. I did end up taking 4 or 5 browns that were 8-10" on caddis dries, and 4 lovely 10-12" brooks on an emerger. Interesting that the different species preferred flies at different stages of emergence. Around five a light rain fell for about 10 minutes, even though the sun remained out. It actually felt good, since the temperature was well above 70.
The sun returned strongly once the rain passed, and weather radio now predicted storms should hold off until late that night. I felt encouraged enough to pitch my tent. Once it was up I broke out the cooking gear and started my supper, but I no sooner began heating water for soup when it began to rain hard--again, with sun visible in the distance. The rain stopped, then started again and continued. Screw it, I thought, I'm headed into Grayling. Once at the edge of town the rain stopped, naturally enough. But I was there, so I shelled out for a burger at Spike's.
For the evening's fishing I went to another favorite access, where caddis once again were present in heavy numbers. I skittered a dry pattern near cover along the banks and took three fair size browns. There were also some risers I couldn't get to strike. A bit after 8 hendrickson spinners begtan gathering overhead--lots of them. I clipped off the caddis (which had gone ignored for half an hour anyway), tied on a spinner, then put the hook through the holder ring the just above the rod handle to keep it at the ready, and dry, while waiting for the bugs to fall. But when I reeled up to keep the line taut, the dacron loop on the end of the line that I use to connect the leader slipped off. Unless I could fix this soon, I'd be helplessly watching the trout rise to spinners blanketing the water.
The only obvious fix was to tie a loop in the end of the fly line, but that would sacrifice a good 6 " or so of the line tip, hardly ruining the line, but something I'd rather not do at all. But it occurred to me that I had another rod in my car. A 6 wt., it was heavier than I like to use for dry flies on the Au Sable, but it was the only option. And it turned out to be an excellent option because shortly after I began wading back to the access the sky suddenly clouded over. Rain began falling and when I reached the access I could hear thunder rolling from every direction. A bolt of lightning split the sky just to the north.
In the parking lot another fisherman was rigging up, but stopped his preparations and took shelter under the open rear hatch of his SUV. I took cover likewise, but uncased the 6 wt. and began hunting for a leader for it, hoping the storm would pass. But it continued, and after 5 minutes the other angler announced he was going to "get out of Mother Nature's way," packed up, and drove off. I retreated to the driver's seat of my car and shut the doors. The rain and the thunder weren't relenting and after a few more minutes I concluded I should follow Mr. SUV's example. I started the car and backed out toward the road, but once I got clear of the trees, I saw a large patch of clear sky to the west. It should reach me soon, I thought, and I might be able to salvage this night yet.
It didn't, but the rain did stop, so I pulled back into my parking space, left the car and trotted to the river as fast as my waders allowed. It had cooled off considerably by then and there were almost no insects over the stream now, but twenty or so yards down stream I made out two rising fish. I caught one on the third or fourth cast over them with a hendrickson spinner, though the remaining fish stopped feeding once I'd landed his buddy. It was nearly dark now, but I could see the ring of another rising fish maybe thirty yards further below. It was feeding hard against what amounted to the vertex of a near-right angle formed by a log jam jutting out from the bank. It took me four or five casts with careful mends to get a good drift into that corner, but as soon as I did the fish took and I shortly had a 12" brown in my net. I could barely see well enough to unhook it. When I reached my car it was near full dark, and the rain was beginning to fall again.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Spots of Time: Pere Marquette/Au Sable 5/11-13, pt. I
So I did get fishing last week. The trip was a good if rain-soaked one.
Moderate rains had been forecast, so I set my sights on the Pere Marquette to indulge in some of its heralded early season streamer fishing. I always want to fish the PM more anyway. Took a quick, unproductive whack at the water near Green Cottage later in the afternoon on Wednesday, then headed to another stretch I could easily wade access-to-access for the evening. When I first got to the water, I saw a rise on the other side of the stream so I switched my plan from streamers to dries and respooled with a floating line. Tried some versions of the caddis and bwos that were fluttering around with no luck, and nearly regeared for streamers when a black stone fly landed on my hand. Maybe this was a hint, I thought, and it was. On my first cast with the black stone dry I took an 11" brown from under the alders along the opposite bank. During the next hour or so I caught five more, 9-13", and missed at least as many more strikes. I was getting hits in quiet, brushy runs, in fast riffles, in deep bends and behind a steelhead redd.
The stonefly bite shut off a bit after 8, by which time the wind had picked up considerably and taken on a chill. Gray clouds began to dim what was left of twilight. Hendrickson spinners had swarmed over riffles most of the night, but thinned after the weather soured. After one nearby thunderclap I reeled up and began wading as fast as I could to get off the river. Along the way I practically stepped into a pod of rising trout. Enough spinners must have hit the water to draw them out, though hey stopped feeding after I'd blundered into them. I waited to see if they would resume (not the brightest move with more thunder booming and raindrops beginning to sting my hands and neck, but fishermen will do dumb things for a trout), but they didn't. Shortly after I got moving again the rain hit hard though blessedly it stopped when I reached my car. Afterward I headed to Edie's bar for a couple of apres la peche Oberons. The rain held just long enough for me to return to camp, brush my teeth, and zip myself into my sleeping bag. And then it poured. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed almost constantly for an hour before the storm subsided to a heavy drizzle. When I awoke my tent was sodden but, miraculously, hadn't leaked. And the sun was out. Whatever discouragement I'd had the night before steamed away like the raindrops clinging to the grass. I had high hopes for the day's fishing.
Moderate rains had been forecast, so I set my sights on the Pere Marquette to indulge in some of its heralded early season streamer fishing. I always want to fish the PM more anyway. Took a quick, unproductive whack at the water near Green Cottage later in the afternoon on Wednesday, then headed to another stretch I could easily wade access-to-access for the evening. When I first got to the water, I saw a rise on the other side of the stream so I switched my plan from streamers to dries and respooled with a floating line. Tried some versions of the caddis and bwos that were fluttering around with no luck, and nearly regeared for streamers when a black stone fly landed on my hand. Maybe this was a hint, I thought, and it was. On my first cast with the black stone dry I took an 11" brown from under the alders along the opposite bank. During the next hour or so I caught five more, 9-13", and missed at least as many more strikes. I was getting hits in quiet, brushy runs, in fast riffles, in deep bends and behind a steelhead redd.
The stonefly bite shut off a bit after 8, by which time the wind had picked up considerably and taken on a chill. Gray clouds began to dim what was left of twilight. Hendrickson spinners had swarmed over riffles most of the night, but thinned after the weather soured. After one nearby thunderclap I reeled up and began wading as fast as I could to get off the river. Along the way I practically stepped into a pod of rising trout. Enough spinners must have hit the water to draw them out, though hey stopped feeding after I'd blundered into them. I waited to see if they would resume (not the brightest move with more thunder booming and raindrops beginning to sting my hands and neck, but fishermen will do dumb things for a trout), but they didn't. Shortly after I got moving again the rain hit hard though blessedly it stopped when I reached my car. Afterward I headed to Edie's bar for a couple of apres la peche Oberons. The rain held just long enough for me to return to camp, brush my teeth, and zip myself into my sleeping bag. And then it poured. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed almost constantly for an hour before the storm subsided to a heavy drizzle. When I awoke my tent was sodden but, miraculously, hadn't leaked. And the sun was out. Whatever discouragement I'd had the night before steamed away like the raindrops clinging to the grass. I had high hopes for the day's fishing.
Monday, May 09, 2011
Summer is Icumen in*
One more class to grade and I will once again be free from the classroom for three months. There will be plenty of other academic chores, not to mention house and yard work crying to be done, but somewhere in all this I hope there will be time for fishing, and blogging. Last summer was a wash for fishing. A handful of days up north, and only three or four for bass on the Huron. I've got to change that. Of course I'll have to devote some time to waterfowl scouting.
I was up north last weekend for the Michigan trout opener. Nice hendrickson hatches, few feeders. A few trout on streamers on Monday morning. This Wednesday I'm headed to Baldwin for a couple of days on the Pere Marquette, a river I'm always saying I want to fish more.
I'll tweet reports from the field, and have the writeup sometime next weekend.
*If you were sleeping through English Lit and didn't recognize the title of the post, here's a refresher.
I was up north last weekend for the Michigan trout opener. Nice hendrickson hatches, few feeders. A few trout on streamers on Monday morning. This Wednesday I'm headed to Baldwin for a couple of days on the Pere Marquette, a river I'm always saying I want to fish more.
I'll tweet reports from the field, and have the writeup sometime next weekend.
*If you were sleeping through English Lit and didn't recognize the title of the post, here's a refresher.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Empowerment
This situation in Japan seems worse at every turn. Nuclear plant failures have moved to the front of the headlines, with reports of new radiation leaks, explosions, evacuations and other problems emerging hourly. This of course is reviving conversations about the safety of nuclear power in this country, and has given some nuclear proponents fears that their agenda will stall again, just as it was (pardon the expression) gaining steam.
Their agenda may well have been doomed anyway, for reasons other than the disasters in Japan. Which is regrettable, I think.
I am a reluctant supporter of nuclear energy at best, and I think the complications attached to it are enormous, but properly managed, it probably causes less environmental harm (and harm to water systems in particular) than, say, mountaintop removal coal mining or "frakking" for natural gas.
Over at Talking Points Memo the other day, Josh Marshall had an interesting take on the fossil fuel vs. nuclear question. Nuclear power poses some alarming risks, he acknowledged. But--
...the proper and planned use of fossil fuels -- in other words, when everything goes just according to plan -- is creating what appears to be catastrophic damage on a planetary scale. What's more, setting aside global warming, there is a detailed scientific literature showing the number of deaths and chronic illnesses tied to the release of fossil fuel pollution into the air -- lung diseases, asthma, cancer, etc. Again, when all goes just according to plan.
Conceivably, he argues, nuclear may be safer in the long run.
But as in so many other cases, the least harmful course of action (assuming this is one) isn't the cheapest. And this is a cost conscious time--occasionally to the point of foolishness. So we'll likely keep burning the gas.
Their agenda may well have been doomed anyway, for reasons other than the disasters in Japan. Which is regrettable, I think.
I am a reluctant supporter of nuclear energy at best, and I think the complications attached to it are enormous, but properly managed, it probably causes less environmental harm (and harm to water systems in particular) than, say, mountaintop removal coal mining or "frakking" for natural gas.
Over at Talking Points Memo the other day, Josh Marshall had an interesting take on the fossil fuel vs. nuclear question. Nuclear power poses some alarming risks, he acknowledged. But--
...the proper and planned use of fossil fuels -- in other words, when everything goes just according to plan -- is creating what appears to be catastrophic damage on a planetary scale. What's more, setting aside global warming, there is a detailed scientific literature showing the number of deaths and chronic illnesses tied to the release of fossil fuel pollution into the air -- lung diseases, asthma, cancer, etc. Again, when all goes just according to plan.
Conceivably, he argues, nuclear may be safer in the long run.
But as in so many other cases, the least harmful course of action (assuming this is one) isn't the cheapest. And this is a cost conscious time--occasionally to the point of foolishness. So we'll likely keep burning the gas.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Some Break
Just returned from my university's spring break, which this year included no fishing. I spent nearly the entire week catching up on grading, and when I wasn't doing that I was doing my taxes. And I'm still far from done with those. Depreciation, amortization, WTF?
Hoping to get out Friday for a long hike with Kristine (basically a pretext for scouting duck hunting spots). I'm afraid that's the only cure available in the near future for my academically-induced stir crazies.
One sad note, fishingwise, sounded recently. The chair of a committee I sit on evaluating a pilot writing course announced we would meet on the morning of Friday, April 1st--which is the opening of Stockerfest. Sadly, I'm sure he's not joking. Guess I'll be joining the throngs on Saturday the 2nd, but I'll get there before 5, I hopefully will claim a good spot.
Later.
Hoping to get out Friday for a long hike with Kristine (basically a pretext for scouting duck hunting spots). I'm afraid that's the only cure available in the near future for my academically-induced stir crazies.
One sad note, fishingwise, sounded recently. The chair of a committee I sit on evaluating a pilot writing course announced we would meet on the morning of Friday, April 1st--which is the opening of Stockerfest. Sadly, I'm sure he's not joking. Guess I'll be joining the throngs on Saturday the 2nd, but I'll get there before 5, I hopefully will claim a good spot.
Later.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
At What Cost?
It's getting crazy here. Picked up a class for a colleague who's out sick this semester and am scrambling to get together a plan for that (apparently she didn't have one either). Plus some other work stuff has undermined that resolution to blog again, but not smothered it. I've had plenty of blog fodder on the mind.
The major topic in domestic politics lately is federal spending. An important one to be sure, though I'm not entirely down with the consensus view that spending that spending must be reigned in regardless of consequences.
The national debt is a serious problem, but I don't think the preferred tool for reducing it--drastic cuts across the board--is the one that can do the job best. In many cases I'd say it amounts cutting the nation off at the knees. Case in point: reduced funding for the Great Lakes Restoration Initiative.
Launched by president Obama in 2009, the Initiative promised 475 million dollars for cleaning up pollution, fighting invasive species, and other measures to improve the health of the lakes. Obama's new budget proposal reduces this to 350 million; the Republican budget plan would slash it to 225 million. Given the economic value of the lakes, this is incredibly short sighted. Why risk fisheries, clean water, tourism, for a small reduction in federal spending?
Of course, one could respond that everyone wants the cuts to fall on someone else. No question about that, but my point is that some of these cuts shouldn't be falling at all, or shouldn't hit as hard as they do. The question that keeps coming to my mind is, Why is weakening environmental protection or education or consumer safety measure acceptable, but imposing a slight tax increase unconscionable? There's no question of whether you're going to pay to address problems, or many of them, that the country and the world face. The choice is whether you want to pay up front or wait until a crisis point hits and pay a much dearer price, both in cash and in terms of overall well being.
With regard to matters like the great lakes, health care, infrastructure and education, to name a few, I'll gladly pay up front. There seems to be a consensus among economists that some kind of revenue increase is necessary, though the political class seems to wave this off, either because they've climbed into office on the mound of anti-tax rhetoric that's calcified on the republic over the last thirty years, or because they fear taking a run at it would shatter their own political fortunes.
Of course, there's plenty of popular resistance to tax increases. Their benefits are uncertain and distant, whereas their costs are clear and immediate. Yet at some point the costs of the cuts under discussion now will be of the second type, and they may be staggering.
The major topic in domestic politics lately is federal spending. An important one to be sure, though I'm not entirely down with the consensus view that spending that spending must be reigned in regardless of consequences.
The national debt is a serious problem, but I don't think the preferred tool for reducing it--drastic cuts across the board--is the one that can do the job best. In many cases I'd say it amounts cutting the nation off at the knees. Case in point: reduced funding for the Great Lakes Restoration Initiative.
Launched by president Obama in 2009, the Initiative promised 475 million dollars for cleaning up pollution, fighting invasive species, and other measures to improve the health of the lakes. Obama's new budget proposal reduces this to 350 million; the Republican budget plan would slash it to 225 million. Given the economic value of the lakes, this is incredibly short sighted. Why risk fisheries, clean water, tourism, for a small reduction in federal spending?
Of course, one could respond that everyone wants the cuts to fall on someone else. No question about that, but my point is that some of these cuts shouldn't be falling at all, or shouldn't hit as hard as they do. The question that keeps coming to my mind is, Why is weakening environmental protection or education or consumer safety measure acceptable, but imposing a slight tax increase unconscionable? There's no question of whether you're going to pay to address problems, or many of them, that the country and the world face. The choice is whether you want to pay up front or wait until a crisis point hits and pay a much dearer price, both in cash and in terms of overall well being.
With regard to matters like the great lakes, health care, infrastructure and education, to name a few, I'll gladly pay up front. There seems to be a consensus among economists that some kind of revenue increase is necessary, though the political class seems to wave this off, either because they've climbed into office on the mound of anti-tax rhetoric that's calcified on the republic over the last thirty years, or because they fear taking a run at it would shatter their own political fortunes.
Of course, there's plenty of popular resistance to tax increases. Their benefits are uncertain and distant, whereas their costs are clear and immediate. Yet at some point the costs of the cuts under discussion now will be of the second type, and they may be staggering.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Rules are Rules
Until they're changed.
The big news in Michigan trout fishing of late is the change to inland trout regulations. Several new categories of trout lakes and streams with different rules for each, more miles of gear restricted water (or that are gear restricted part of the year and all-tackle for the rest), more streams open year-round, increased size limits on a lot of kill waters. All this takes effect April 1st.
Until about 10 years ago, the regs were much simpler. Trout season was open from the last Saturday in April until September 30th except for a rivers or parts of rivers that got steelhead and salmon runs, you could fish with any gear you wanted except in flies only stretches on a handful of rivers. The limit was ten trout, then five, but the same on nearly every stream. Now you'll need to keep a copy of the regs in your vest and a lawyer on speed dial, at least if you plan to catch fish on bait and keep them, or fish after October.
A lot of people, or at least ones frequenting internet bulletin boards, are unhappy about the expansion of gear restrictions. Most gear restricted waters are artificials only rather than flies only, but it still irks people that they can't fish with bait wherever they choose. And they have a point. When fly-only waters were established, the rationale behind them was that since trout didn't swallow flies as deeply as they did bait, and since flies don't have multiple hooks as many lures do, released trout would stand a better chance of survival. Makes sense on its face, but recent studies show the difference of hooking mortality between the different methods is slight, and negated by the high natural mortality rate of stream trout.
Even so, the older assumptions seem to be writing the regulations--with the steadfast support of Trout Unlimited and other anglers' groups with membership dominated by fly fishermen. Thus, charges of elitism from garden hackle enthusiasts--possibly justified, seeing as a point some fly fishers offer in support gear restrictions is that on fly only waters, you don't see blue bait containers littering the banks and stuck in log jams.
My take? A resounding...meh. I fish with flies, rarely keep fish. I may do a little more extended season fishing, but not much. I don't see bait restrictions as the great civil rights issue of the 21st century, as some make it out to be, but I also don't see great value in most of the restrictions the new rules impose. I'll just keep fishing while the interest groups bloody one another.
But while I concede that science has pulled the rug out from under fly-only regulations, I would miss them if they went away, largely for sentimental reasons. When I first fished fly only waters, I felt like I was crossing a solemn boundary --take off thy boots, for that wherein thou wadeth is holy water. In doing so I sensed I was transforming myself from a guy who sometimes fished with flies into a fly fisherman. With that transformation, I felt, I incurred the responsibility to perfect my technique and so be worthy to fish these waters and stand with the generations of renowned anglers who came before. I took implicitly a pledge to spare every trout I caught, even off of fly waters. And whenever I went back to the hallowed fly only reaches of the Au Sable and Pere Marquette, I felt like I was returning to the keep of the life eternal that sustained the very best of mine--Antaeus to the earth.
Of course, I found out the experience on these waters wasn't as extraordinary as the lore of them would have it, and that even good fishing in large doses isn't enough to save your life. All the same, stepping into, say, the Au Sable at Burton's Landing and seeing the weathered wooden "QUALITY FISHING REGULATIONS IN EFFECT" sign gives me the feeling of returning home-or at least to A home, one of many that I need to feel I have a place on this earth. The symbol of a thing isn't the thing itself, though, and whatever turns regulations might take in the future, by this time I can find where I need to go without the signs.
The big news in Michigan trout fishing of late is the change to inland trout regulations. Several new categories of trout lakes and streams with different rules for each, more miles of gear restricted water (or that are gear restricted part of the year and all-tackle for the rest), more streams open year-round, increased size limits on a lot of kill waters. All this takes effect April 1st.
Until about 10 years ago, the regs were much simpler. Trout season was open from the last Saturday in April until September 30th except for a rivers or parts of rivers that got steelhead and salmon runs, you could fish with any gear you wanted except in flies only stretches on a handful of rivers. The limit was ten trout, then five, but the same on nearly every stream. Now you'll need to keep a copy of the regs in your vest and a lawyer on speed dial, at least if you plan to catch fish on bait and keep them, or fish after October.
A lot of people, or at least ones frequenting internet bulletin boards, are unhappy about the expansion of gear restrictions. Most gear restricted waters are artificials only rather than flies only, but it still irks people that they can't fish with bait wherever they choose. And they have a point. When fly-only waters were established, the rationale behind them was that since trout didn't swallow flies as deeply as they did bait, and since flies don't have multiple hooks as many lures do, released trout would stand a better chance of survival. Makes sense on its face, but recent studies show the difference of hooking mortality between the different methods is slight, and negated by the high natural mortality rate of stream trout.
Even so, the older assumptions seem to be writing the regulations--with the steadfast support of Trout Unlimited and other anglers' groups with membership dominated by fly fishermen. Thus, charges of elitism from garden hackle enthusiasts--possibly justified, seeing as a point some fly fishers offer in support gear restrictions is that on fly only waters, you don't see blue bait containers littering the banks and stuck in log jams.
My take? A resounding...meh. I fish with flies, rarely keep fish. I may do a little more extended season fishing, but not much. I don't see bait restrictions as the great civil rights issue of the 21st century, as some make it out to be, but I also don't see great value in most of the restrictions the new rules impose. I'll just keep fishing while the interest groups bloody one another.
But while I concede that science has pulled the rug out from under fly-only regulations, I would miss them if they went away, largely for sentimental reasons. When I first fished fly only waters, I felt like I was crossing a solemn boundary --take off thy boots, for that wherein thou wadeth is holy water. In doing so I sensed I was transforming myself from a guy who sometimes fished with flies into a fly fisherman. With that transformation, I felt, I incurred the responsibility to perfect my technique and so be worthy to fish these waters and stand with the generations of renowned anglers who came before. I took implicitly a pledge to spare every trout I caught, even off of fly waters. And whenever I went back to the hallowed fly only reaches of the Au Sable and Pere Marquette, I felt like I was returning to the keep of the life eternal that sustained the very best of mine--Antaeus to the earth.
Of course, I found out the experience on these waters wasn't as extraordinary as the lore of them would have it, and that even good fishing in large doses isn't enough to save your life. All the same, stepping into, say, the Au Sable at Burton's Landing and seeing the weathered wooden "QUALITY FISHING REGULATIONS IN EFFECT" sign gives me the feeling of returning home-or at least to A home, one of many that I need to feel I have a place on this earth. The symbol of a thing isn't the thing itself, though, and whatever turns regulations might take in the future, by this time I can find where I need to go without the signs.
Wednesday, February 09, 2011
Not too soon to think of trout season...
Or blog about it.
Obviously, I've avoided this site for a while. Seriously considered deleting it. But over the last five years or so I've done some writing here I liked and haven't had the energy to archive it anywhere else. And I thought someday I'd begin blogging again.
Actually, that day was just a little while ago. I started another blog on an unrelated subject, and it felt good to write again. It's been a long time since I wrote something that wasn't job related, and even that was perfunctory, brief, inconsequential. Comments on student papers. A portion of a grant app. Nothing one could mistake for serious exposition or reflection. Blogging on my other site made me realize keenly that I couldn't let things go on like that; it showed a light on the stagnation in my life.
So I return to my efforts here.
I've received a number of comments over the last year or so that I've neglected to moderate--sorry. Some were very interesting. Many were spam, and others I assumed were and deleted the notice without reading them. I'll be more diligent about handling those.
As for what's happened since last spring...still teaching at the university, still living with Kristine and Sully in Ann Arbor. Kristine still is in school, not working full time, though she has had steady freelance graphic design work. I am enjoying this winter. We bought snowshoes at Christmas and have been out three times, cross country skied once. It is nice to have more than a few inches of snow that actually sticks around for weeks at a time.
Continued duck hunting last fall. Went at least once a week, got a few birds, even. I think I was more rabid for that than I was for the last season of fishing. I think I spent less than a dozen days trout fishing last year, which may account for the lack of posting. I only fished the Huron three or four times. I spent last summer busy with everything but the outdoors. The saving grace was our community garden plot. Finally we got a sunny spot that would make tomatoes, beans, greens, and everything else we desired grow with abandon. We actually struggled to eat everything we grew, and we gave quite a lot away besides. We'll be back at it this summer, and I'll surely be posting about it.
Of course, trout are filling up my thoughts more and more with April approaching. The Stockerfest opener is on April first, and I don't have to teach that day. Reportage and photos of that f'sho.
Don't be a stranger. If you comment...it wont' be neglected.
Obviously, I've avoided this site for a while. Seriously considered deleting it. But over the last five years or so I've done some writing here I liked and haven't had the energy to archive it anywhere else. And I thought someday I'd begin blogging again.
Actually, that day was just a little while ago. I started another blog on an unrelated subject, and it felt good to write again. It's been a long time since I wrote something that wasn't job related, and even that was perfunctory, brief, inconsequential. Comments on student papers. A portion of a grant app. Nothing one could mistake for serious exposition or reflection. Blogging on my other site made me realize keenly that I couldn't let things go on like that; it showed a light on the stagnation in my life.
So I return to my efforts here.
I've received a number of comments over the last year or so that I've neglected to moderate--sorry. Some were very interesting. Many were spam, and others I assumed were and deleted the notice without reading them. I'll be more diligent about handling those.
As for what's happened since last spring...still teaching at the university, still living with Kristine and Sully in Ann Arbor. Kristine still is in school, not working full time, though she has had steady freelance graphic design work. I am enjoying this winter. We bought snowshoes at Christmas and have been out three times, cross country skied once. It is nice to have more than a few inches of snow that actually sticks around for weeks at a time.
Continued duck hunting last fall. Went at least once a week, got a few birds, even. I think I was more rabid for that than I was for the last season of fishing. I think I spent less than a dozen days trout fishing last year, which may account for the lack of posting. I only fished the Huron three or four times. I spent last summer busy with everything but the outdoors. The saving grace was our community garden plot. Finally we got a sunny spot that would make tomatoes, beans, greens, and everything else we desired grow with abandon. We actually struggled to eat everything we grew, and we gave quite a lot away besides. We'll be back at it this summer, and I'll surely be posting about it.
Of course, trout are filling up my thoughts more and more with April approaching. The Stockerfest opener is on April first, and I don't have to teach that day. Reportage and photos of that f'sho.
Don't be a stranger. If you comment...it wont' be neglected.
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