Perfectly Mobile

This morning it is cool, not like the previous day.  The clouds are close, shrouding the conifers, slithering through the forest.  There is barely a breath of wind yet the fog's movement is constant.  The river makes a large oxbow around our camp here and it can be heard on both sides- the soft pops and gurgles as it moves through the branches of drooping tamarack and cedar.  A thin wisp of smoke curls from the coals of the previous evenings fire and blends with the fog.  The dark tannin color of the river is dull today, even in the shallows where the light can penetrate it fully.  The golden hues and mellow auburn's of yesterday's sunny afternoon have vanished, replaced by a dark ochre in the flat light.  Even the white foam lines appear to take on a dull, muted, yellow, hue.  A fine mist from above sends me looking for my Gore-tex and I set out upon my morning camp chores. 

Everything is damp this morning, the weather having moved in sometime during the night.  I poke at the coals and lay some dry pine boughs over the fire.  From the larger tent I hear the stirring of nylon and zippers as Greg's head protrudes from the hatch, surveying the situation.  A well known real estate broker from Charlevoix, he was my best friend, Spencer's, Dad.  This was his trip.  It was an honor to be invited.  He'd been doing it for over a decade and guarded its identity with monk-like devotion.  After my inaugural trip he pulled me aside: "Ok, If anyone asks how the trip was, you tell em the bugs were terrible, we didn't catch any fish, and we'll never do it again."  Perhaps there was something to it that only a handful of people ever cared to paddle this section of river.   

A respected wrestler in his high school days, he was compact in size with the build of a brick shit-house.  A lightening quick take down was his signature and once his opponents height advantage was taken away he would drive them into the mat, like a cowboy breaks a horse, until they were too winded and too tired to carry on.  Ferocity manifested.  His demeanor towards camp life was much the same; calculated, planned, and relentless.  Dinner consisted of multiple regimented courses he would lament over at every encounter during the days paddle.  "Salad, Potatoes Au Gratin, New York Strips over the fire, and the coup de grace- fresh pan fried Brook Trout! MMMMMMMM!" you would hear him exclaim as he rounded the next bend and paddled out of sight, his canoe loaded with enough gear to clear no more than 3 inches of free board. You could tell he was always thinking about it.  For him it was not enough to simply "go down the river".  No, for Greg, one needed to do it as a total expert, executing flawless woodcraft and incorporating downriver navigation with the joy of angling in a symphony exhibiting character, humor, and camaraderie. 

The pine boughs began to crackle over the coals as each of them took to flame.  Slowly I fed the tinder  chunks of larger fuel as the grasp of heat overcame the damp morning air.  Greg was already taking stock of the foodstuffs, on this, our last morning of the 3 day trip.  "Gonna be an easy paddle out."  he announced. "You guys eat like Ethiopians at a Golden Corral."  I smiled behind the smoke of the freshened fire at his early morning wit.  He reached into one of the plastic totes and produced a Ziploc of instant coffee.  "Ground betwixt the loins of Nubile African princesses!" he exclaimed as he approached the newly invigorated flames with the bag and a pot of water.  At this, laughter erupts from the tents as the rest of the expedition members listen in, struggling to draw themselves from the shelter of bug netting.  The camp is awake now.  In the time before this, it was still and quiet except for the rivers sound.  Now it would be busy as each man set out about his business.  There is not much talking that is unrelated to work at hand.  Everyone knows their part.  While breakfast is being prepared, there is constant movement as each piece of gear finds its way from living mode to moving mode.  The fog closes in.  We are a well oiled machine as each member of camp performs their duty; sorting, packing, and loading it all into the boats. 

Breakfast is a spartan intermission.  In the shadow of the cedars we stand around the large pan cradled by embers, eating with primordial vigor whatever food remains mixed with scrambled eggs.  Words are few- mostly gratification to the cook who must now catch up in his own packing routine.  Greg prepares his gear for voyage like a surgeon before the first cut.  Methodical.  Seamless.  Intuitive.  It feels like a race.  Each team wants to be the first to splash their vessel.  The goal; not even to be the first downriver.  It is enough simply to be the first standing in the river, boat pointed confidently downstream; ready to go.  A living testament to preparation, organization, and teamwork.  Masters of the nomadic lifestyle.

At first touch the river is always colder than yesterday.  Here, it is only knee deep and after a few minutes the pain is dulled.  Now it is the time for final preparations.  Each team prepares their craft, affecting personal touches to its configuration.  Gear is shifted around to better balance the boat.  Today we have placed a grid of sticks to hold our cargo above of the keel, allowing any rainwater that accumulates in the bilge to be channeled fore and aft for bailing purposes.  Spencer and I run a tight ship.  Leaves, sand and debris that find their way aboard are policed at every point of stoppage.  Our lass is clean and organized.  Essentials are always close and the rest stowed securely for transport.  We coexist as a singular unit in our little floating world, embracing the challenges and enjoying the simple pleasure of paddling- a constant process of assessing, planning, and executing. 

Now, all the boats are layed up side by each, shifting as one in the current, tied off to an overhanging cedar branch.  Everyone is ready, but like the late risers in their bug net cocoons, there is again hesitation to leave the comforts provided by camp.  Once the crew has pulled out, we will not return until the next voyage.  It is a place we are all fond of and to go around the bend is to sever the ties.  To leave our coniferous mistress.  In this moment before action takes hold, we linger and take in our surroundings.  Once departed, the world is no longer stationary as we make our way downstream.  It must be done though, and like the sun rises, the first boat will pull out, followed by the second and the third in twenty minute intervals until only the smoke curling from the smothered fire bears witness we were ever there.  Spencer and I are the last to pull out.  We linger the longest.  As the fog shifts, we too move along silently.  Mobility, perfected.

A Waterfowlers Commute

Then, there is only the sound of the expansion joints passing beneath the tires in a steady rhythm.  This time is special to few- most would rather stay within the warmth of their chambers, their minds wandering through the unconscious, bodies still.  The rig hustles West on Route 6.  Every overpass brings with it a streetlight, growing brighter and briefly illuminating the cab of the pickup as it approaches and passes under the bridge- gone in an instant.  A cup of gas station coffee rests in the console and the steam rises, mixing with the smoke of a lit Parliament cigarette.  Hanging from the rear view a braided duck call lanyard swings with the rhythm of the highway, occasionally tapping off the dash with an audible "CLACK!"   The lights of distant farms dot the indistinguishable horizon along with the occasional opposing headlight reflecting in his eyes.  Winter is closing in, but the truck smells of mid November.     

It is during this time that a mans mind can take the path of the unconscious, his body at home behind the wheel as if he were still supine in his bed.  As the pickup speeds off toward the marsh, his mind races  into the abyss- towards what is privy only to him.  While this may resemble the common daydream, it would be foolhardy to treat it as such- first, because it is not yet day, and second, because daydreams are the work of school children and liberal politicians (both of whom seem to have a knack of getting them paid for by someone else).  The hour he spends driving to his sanctuary is as significant as the first minutes of light over the marsh.  A clearer image; with depth and contrast, emerges from the throws of the night.  In this sight he finds whatever answer he might seek without ever really knowing the question.  The road is empty.  It is a simple hour.  There is no music, no fanfare.  There is only the lights, the coffee, the cigarette and him.  It is here though, in the truck that smells like mid-November, that he cares not for reality.  He must let go, for come mid-December, when the marsh is frozen, he may just discover faith.  The rig hustles west on route 6.

Smitten by the Mitten

Apologies to the readership for the lack of posts lately.  Well, to be perfectly honest, I'm not sorry in the least, I hope you'll understand why.  Here is the result of a much needed trading of keyboard for cork-  sometimes you have to go off looking for something, anything, to get yourself lost in.  Sometimes you end up somewhere you've been a thousand times, yet, for some odd reason this time you've managed to dig yourself in deep.  The beauty of the whole game is evident when the best plans are reduced to shreds.  Here is a little bit of the latest romp through the great lakes state-

R4PB Trout Camp Video Diary from H.C. Foster on Vimeo.

Drop the Gloves

Where I'm from, 30/30 means: "Its time to break out some Winchesters." 

Well apparently MUCC feels the same way.  Fighting the good fight the way us anglers know best- 30 species in 30 hours. 

Watch, remember, donate or write.  Get active, get serious, and get on it before its too late.  Don't let this resource be something I can only tell stories to my children about.  You think an oil spill is bad?  Just wait.  Oil doesnt swim. 

The Local Fix

There is something magical about the "local" fishing spot- a favorite piece of water that is closest to where we lay our head. For the fortunate angler, this place may be as grand as a blue ribbon trout stream a few steps out the back door, or it may be a golf course pond full of chubby bucketmouths. Either way, the truly dedicated angler measures his or her domestic satisfaction in direct relation to the proximity of fish-holding water (not that it improves any other domestic relationships).

The advantages of living in close proximity to water are obvious: less travel, more gravel.  More importantly, this makes it easier to fulfill impromptu urges to fish.  Every piece of water is different. They all have little quirks and unique characteristics that make them special. Having an intimate relationship with a river takes enough time as it is- long travel times only exacerbate this. An overlooked justification is the skunk factor. A good skunking doesn’t hurt so badly when you only drove 5 minutes instead of 5 hours. It happens, and when it does, the faster one can return to their home and commence a remedy, the better.

I believe there are 3 types of anglers- those that took up fishing because they discovered they lived so close to quality water, those that have no other option but to travel long distances to fish, and those that choose where to reside for the sole purpose of being as close as possible to a quality fishery. I can brag that I've been all three.

Growing up in Michigan's northwest Lower Peninsula on the shores of Lake Michigan, fishing became part of my life because it was so readily abundant. Everywhere you looked; there was a plethora of freshwater game fish to pursue. There was everything from trolling deep water for Lake Trout, Salmon, Walleye and Whitefish to the shallow back channels and reed flats where Northern Pike and Small Mouth Bass call home. There were little farm ponds full of dinner plate Bluegills and last but not least, there were rivers full of trout. I had no other option but to enjoy this wonderful resource. Sure, there was golf- but after making a hole-in-one at age 13 (honestly) I had in my mind reached the pinnacle of my golfing career. I discovered, no- fishing discovered me- because I resided in an area surrounded by such extensive and diverse habitat.

When I left my home in Northern Michigan for college in Tucson, Arizona, proximity to fishing was not the first thing I thought of. Without a better cliché, I was a fish out of water. Literally. This is a point in my angling journey that I wish I could do over. I failed to pursue the opportunities to fish more in Arizona, New Mexico, and Colorado. I wish I could chalk it up to hormones and cheap booze, but since those still play a part in many of my decisions, alas, I cannot. Living in such an arid landscape, I sufficed by fishing back in Michigan every summer and spent my winters chasing coeds around the campus of UofA. Neither thirst was really ever quenched.

My college career also brought me back to my home state for a few years as I finished my interventional cardiology program, yet far from the angling that I longed for. My "local" water was still a 45 minute drive away and it was disheartening that many of these waters surrounding Detroit were polluted and trash filled with low fish numbers. One positive that came from this was my interest in rough fishing with my fly rod- however; it only came as a necessity because the closest piece of trout water was more than a 2 hour drive away.

Within the last year I was fortunate enough to find a job with a company that allows me to work from a home office, extensive travel, and also gave me the option of moving wherever I chose in the Midwest. I knew that wherever I moved would have to satisfy my fishing addiction much more bountifully than just Carp and Bass fishing. Lakewood only seemed the logical choice. Lots of hospitals for work, cheap rent, a great bar scene and last but not least, its proximity to great Steelheading. These shots were taken this morning 5 minutes from my pillow with two other anglers that are also completing their "local water" cycle. Zach and Dave are both anglers that I can find on almost any morning somewhere on the river. There is nothing better than starting your work day with a couple hours of flogging water.  I'll see you boys in AM.

So, which category do you fit in?