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.
Showing posts with label Fishing Legends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fishing Legends. Show all posts
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Pullback Outhouse Approved Reading Material: Fly Fishing with MacQuarrie
"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
Monday, January 4, 2010
An Ausable Legend Remembered
I hate to admit that some time ago fly fishing didn't really excite me. It may have been that I had no friends that were willing to trade the bikini laden beaches for buggy cedar swamps, or, the fact that my father's only outdoor activities revolved around bird dogs and Grouse hunting, but I first found my time with a fly rod awkward and frustrating. It was purely a trial and error affair, with a strong tendency towards catastrophic error. My leaders frequently looked as if they were donated for mice to attain their presidential fitness award for the rope climb. I often traded my cheap 5wt for an ultra light spinning rod and a Mepps bucktail. The complexities of fly fishing are far too great for a boys mind with no guidance other than literature. It was rare for my dad to take me to a fly shop, and even if we did go to one, it was necessary for them to also have a fine gun library for him to browse. I would inevitably end up following one of the shop guys around, pestering them with as many questions possible until they were ready to keel haul me, at which queue my Dad would drag me out before I touched anything. It was only logical to use a spinning rod that my simpleton mind could wrap itself around.
To my father, a fishing rod was like a babysitter. It allowed me to do something by myself instead of bugging him. So from the time I could walk, talk, and tie my shoes, a fishing pole became part of my life. A lot of my dad's buddies had ponds at their houses stocked with bluegill, catfish, and trout. These provided hours of endless entertainment whilst my dad and company polished off glasses of bourbon and talked of things a son should surely not repeat in front of his mother. I didn’t seriously discover fly fishing until I was in 6th grade, and it was only then from reading the likes of Jerry Dennis in my parents bookshop after school. This was also about the same time I started reading Hemingway and learned that Nick Adams and I shared the same backyard. So you can imagine what my vision of fly fishing looked like- classic, pure, old timey and exaggerated. It was like watching a bunch of hardcore porn before losing your virginity- you'll be very disappointed to learn that your director’s version of this event doesn't match the performers agreement (not to mention sound, set, and lighting arrangements). So a fly rod never seemed the logical choice. Nowadays, it’s hard for me to imagine a day on the water (or lawn, or parking lot) that doesn’t involve throwing some loops. Then again, I guess that’s the beauty in learning something for on your own- because there are no real rules and even elementary successes are monumental. It may be that very reason that I enjoy fly fishing so much. I didn't know this at the time, but Rusty Gates did.
First, allow me to disclose that I don't know Rusty Gates AT ALL. I've been to his shop twice and only one of those times did I actually talk to him. I wouldn't have guessed it then, but that single conversation would have a lasting impression on me.
It was summertime and on a whim I had decided to head up to Au Gres and see if I could catch a few Walleye off the pier. After fishing for the evening, I slept in a field, down a rural dirt road, not far from town. I was disappointed the only thing I'd caught that night was a channel cat. The next morning I left early so I would be home in time to take my girlfriend to an afternoon Tigers game. I stopped in town at a cafe and had some breakfast. It was a beautiful day. I continued after eating and got on Southbound I-75. Five minutes after getting on the freeway I decided it just wasn't time to go home yet. I'm not sure why, but I took the next exit, turned back North, and called a girlfriend that wasn't going to take it well. I wasn't sure where I was going, but I wasn't going back to the Goddamn city. Not yet. I found myself taking the Grayling exit an hour and a half later, and turned east headed downriver. Eventually I came to a stop at Gates' place and wandered in.
I didn't really know anything about who Rusty was before meeting him. To me, he was just another guy behind the counter in a fly shop. It took all of about ten minutes for me to completely peruse the store, and aside from a hello upon entering, he had yet to say another word. I stood looking in bewilderment at the hundreds of fly patterns in the center display case. Another guy walked in. Someone he knew. They immediately struck up a conversation and Rusty offered the guy a cup of coffee. I watched enviously as the man took the cup. I felt the little kid begging to be keel hauled screaming inside of me. He wanted to be part of what they were talking about, whatever it was. But I just listened, hoping to pick up a tip or two on where some fish might be had or something else of top secret order. They didn’t talk fishing though. Rusty was saying about how they'd found some sort of industrial waste dumped behind a factory that was leaching into the river. His voice didn't change in tone until after he'd explained all the facts, and then he followed it up with something like: "F#%$in' criminals" and it came out almost as a low growl. After his cup was empty, the man left and I was once again the only customer in the shop. I was scared to talk. By now I had noticed a copy of Gates' book and put two and two together as to who was behind the counter. Not that I knew anything about him, but just the fact that he'd written a book on one of Michigan's most prized trout waters was intimidating. I felt like if I said the wrong thing, I might get tossed out on my ear. He was watching me now and I could feel it.
"Anything you’re looking for?" It wasn't the growl.
"Nah, just lookin. How's the fishing?" I responded.
"It's Ok."
"Any pointers?" I think my voice may have even cracked.
"Under the banks. Use some of those." He pointed to a streamer that looked like some sort of bugger pattern.
I hadn't brought my fly rod with me this trip as I had just planned on fishing for walleye and heading back. How was I going to get around this? Here's a guy giving me a tip and I'm going to walk out without buying his fly. This is also when I learned to keep a fly rod in my vehicle at all times for such occasions.
"I actually don't have my fly rod with me." I replied.
He looked at me with a raised brow in a puzzled expression. I didn't expect what he said next.
"Why not?" He asked as if it was my brain I'd left at home.
"I don't know." I mumbled sheepishly. I felt like a student that had forgot his homework.
"So what are you fishing with?"
"Spinners." I admitted guiltily.
"Go East a couple miles and turn left to the bridge. You can fish there."
"Thanks." and with that I left like The Devil from Sunday Service.
I drove a couple more miles down the road and found the bridge where I could throw spinners to my heart’s content. But I didn't want to. I made a couple casts and felt ashamed; like it had been my factory they found the industrial waste behind. I went for a swim in the cold river with my dog and lay in the grass to dry in the sun. After a while I got up and continued along my journey towards Mio, hooking south and eventually taking M-18 all the way through Prudenville, avoiding the freeway, and eventually arriving home later that evening. It has only been a handful of times that I've picked up a spinning rod since.
I wanted to go back and tell him how I felt, I wanted to walk back into that shop and earn a cup of coffee. Only now do I realize that conversation was the spark that ignited my fire for fly fishing. Strange, it only took a few words. I never knew Rusty Gates well enough for that cup of coffee, but he must've known something about me. Maybe he didn’t know that fly fishing would lead me on adventures around the globe, and that it would become engrained in who I am, but I bet he was certain I'd never return without a fly rod again. I'm one of so many that thank you, Rusty. I hope that someday I might get that cup of coffee, as I'm sure your new shop is still on the Holy Waters.
To my father, a fishing rod was like a babysitter. It allowed me to do something by myself instead of bugging him. So from the time I could walk, talk, and tie my shoes, a fishing pole became part of my life. A lot of my dad's buddies had ponds at their houses stocked with bluegill, catfish, and trout. These provided hours of endless entertainment whilst my dad and company polished off glasses of bourbon and talked of things a son should surely not repeat in front of his mother. I didn’t seriously discover fly fishing until I was in 6th grade, and it was only then from reading the likes of Jerry Dennis in my parents bookshop after school. This was also about the same time I started reading Hemingway and learned that Nick Adams and I shared the same backyard. So you can imagine what my vision of fly fishing looked like- classic, pure, old timey and exaggerated. It was like watching a bunch of hardcore porn before losing your virginity- you'll be very disappointed to learn that your director’s version of this event doesn't match the performers agreement (not to mention sound, set, and lighting arrangements). So a fly rod never seemed the logical choice. Nowadays, it’s hard for me to imagine a day on the water (or lawn, or parking lot) that doesn’t involve throwing some loops. Then again, I guess that’s the beauty in learning something for on your own- because there are no real rules and even elementary successes are monumental. It may be that very reason that I enjoy fly fishing so much. I didn't know this at the time, but Rusty Gates did.
First, allow me to disclose that I don't know Rusty Gates AT ALL. I've been to his shop twice and only one of those times did I actually talk to him. I wouldn't have guessed it then, but that single conversation would have a lasting impression on me.
It was summertime and on a whim I had decided to head up to Au Gres and see if I could catch a few Walleye off the pier. After fishing for the evening, I slept in a field, down a rural dirt road, not far from town. I was disappointed the only thing I'd caught that night was a channel cat. The next morning I left early so I would be home in time to take my girlfriend to an afternoon Tigers game. I stopped in town at a cafe and had some breakfast. It was a beautiful day. I continued after eating and got on Southbound I-75. Five minutes after getting on the freeway I decided it just wasn't time to go home yet. I'm not sure why, but I took the next exit, turned back North, and called a girlfriend that wasn't going to take it well. I wasn't sure where I was going, but I wasn't going back to the Goddamn city. Not yet. I found myself taking the Grayling exit an hour and a half later, and turned east headed downriver. Eventually I came to a stop at Gates' place and wandered in.
I didn't really know anything about who Rusty was before meeting him. To me, he was just another guy behind the counter in a fly shop. It took all of about ten minutes for me to completely peruse the store, and aside from a hello upon entering, he had yet to say another word. I stood looking in bewilderment at the hundreds of fly patterns in the center display case. Another guy walked in. Someone he knew. They immediately struck up a conversation and Rusty offered the guy a cup of coffee. I watched enviously as the man took the cup. I felt the little kid begging to be keel hauled screaming inside of me. He wanted to be part of what they were talking about, whatever it was. But I just listened, hoping to pick up a tip or two on where some fish might be had or something else of top secret order. They didn’t talk fishing though. Rusty was saying about how they'd found some sort of industrial waste dumped behind a factory that was leaching into the river. His voice didn't change in tone until after he'd explained all the facts, and then he followed it up with something like: "F#%$in' criminals" and it came out almost as a low growl. After his cup was empty, the man left and I was once again the only customer in the shop. I was scared to talk. By now I had noticed a copy of Gates' book and put two and two together as to who was behind the counter. Not that I knew anything about him, but just the fact that he'd written a book on one of Michigan's most prized trout waters was intimidating. I felt like if I said the wrong thing, I might get tossed out on my ear. He was watching me now and I could feel it.
"Anything you’re looking for?" It wasn't the growl.
"Nah, just lookin. How's the fishing?" I responded.
"It's Ok."
"Any pointers?" I think my voice may have even cracked.
"Under the banks. Use some of those." He pointed to a streamer that looked like some sort of bugger pattern.
I hadn't brought my fly rod with me this trip as I had just planned on fishing for walleye and heading back. How was I going to get around this? Here's a guy giving me a tip and I'm going to walk out without buying his fly. This is also when I learned to keep a fly rod in my vehicle at all times for such occasions.
"I actually don't have my fly rod with me." I replied.
He looked at me with a raised brow in a puzzled expression. I didn't expect what he said next.
"Why not?" He asked as if it was my brain I'd left at home.
"I don't know." I mumbled sheepishly. I felt like a student that had forgot his homework.
"So what are you fishing with?"
"Spinners." I admitted guiltily.
"Go East a couple miles and turn left to the bridge. You can fish there."
"Thanks." and with that I left like The Devil from Sunday Service.
I drove a couple more miles down the road and found the bridge where I could throw spinners to my heart’s content. But I didn't want to. I made a couple casts and felt ashamed; like it had been my factory they found the industrial waste behind. I went for a swim in the cold river with my dog and lay in the grass to dry in the sun. After a while I got up and continued along my journey towards Mio, hooking south and eventually taking M-18 all the way through Prudenville, avoiding the freeway, and eventually arriving home later that evening. It has only been a handful of times that I've picked up a spinning rod since.
I wanted to go back and tell him how I felt, I wanted to walk back into that shop and earn a cup of coffee. Only now do I realize that conversation was the spark that ignited my fire for fly fishing. Strange, it only took a few words. I never knew Rusty Gates well enough for that cup of coffee, but he must've known something about me. Maybe he didn’t know that fly fishing would lead me on adventures around the globe, and that it would become engrained in who I am, but I bet he was certain I'd never return without a fly rod again. I'm one of so many that thank you, Rusty. I hope that someday I might get that cup of coffee, as I'm sure your new shop is still on the Holy Waters.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)