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.

Police Report

1400hrs May 23rd, 2010- A tan Toyota pickup towing a small unidentified camoflage vessel was observed traveling south on I75 at a high rate of speed near the town of Grayling.  State Troopers pursued the vehicle for almost an hour when they lost contact after being led down a sandy logging road near the intersections of King Road and Sunset Trail.  Recovery efforts for the disabled police cruisers is ongoing.  The pickups occupants was said to be one English Setter with priors of cardiac larseny and one unidentified male believed to be in his mid twenties wearing long underwear, shorts, and flip flops.  They are considered armed but not dangerous and known to frequent fly fishing shops and boat launches  Both are wanted for questioning in connection to a recent outbreak of terrible luck throughout the Northern Michigan area as well as the shortage of Whiskey.  If you have any information as to their wherabouts, please contact the MSP.

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. 

Pullback Outhouse Approved Reading Material: Fly Fishing with MacQuarrie

 Gordon MacQuarrie is most widely known for his "Old Duck Hunters Association" stories published between 1927 and 1956. The ODHA was a fictitious organization created by MacQuarrie for literary purpose and the president of this club was based on his father-in-law with whom he frequented his time in the outdoors with. "Fly Fishing with MacQuarrie" details sixteen short stories based upon MacQuarrie's adventures with "Hizzoner" along the mighty Brule River in northern Wisconsin. The Author's quick wit is ever present in this peek into fly fishing history. Steeped in tradition, MacQuarrie has the ability to dance the pen with the same mastery as the line with which he strings the rod of choice. Detailed are perspectives on life, love, and the pursuit of fish from "back in the day". Humor provided unequivocly by MacQuarries cast of characters that are so thoughtfully related the reader may believe they're disguised amongst the home team. A true classic piece of literature that is sure to please the reader who has "read it all", this collection is a sip of fresh water.

"A few decades back, before the days of high-modulus graphite rods, when chest waders with zippered flies were the stuff of science fiction, there lived a cadre of men who nurtured and advanced the art of fishing with the fly.  These men fished for trout in a time when few anglers had even heard of fly fishing.  They covered their skin with citronella oil to fend off mosquitoes and black flies.  They kept their cat-gut leaders soaked in water to make them pliable.  They wrote about fly fishing and they went by the names Haig-Brown, Wulff, Traver, Maclean and MacQuarrie.

Of them all, Gordon MacQuarrie may be the least known as a fly fishing author.  Like them, however, he was a master storyteller as well as an accomplished fly fisherman.

MacQuarrie did not scribe "how-to" articles.  Instead, he drew the reader into streamside angling ventures, telling an absorbing but instructive story as he did so, always in a light-hearted style."
-rear jacket excerpt

Fly Fishing With MacQuarrie
Compiled and edited by Zack Taylor
ISBN 1-57223-025-8
Willow Creek Press
Minocqua, Wisconsin

       

Chroming Cleveland

Chroming Cleveland from H.C. Foster on Vimeo.


Another "no budget" film from the hole.  Making my fishing buddies world famous, one cheap film at a time.
Here's a little taste of life on the Alley!  Some of you locals might recognize a few spots... shhhhhhh!

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?