Bogged Down

     It was our 8th year heading to this "Up North", Michigan destination.  Of course what requires many hours of driving to get to now, used to only be a step out the back door growing up.  My sisters and I were raised there, playing in the rivers and lakes of Northern Lower Michigan, and driving the two track roads of the nearby state forest with my parents often led to out of the way places where adventures started.  I love my sisters, but the cousins from my Dad's side of the family are the closest thing I have to brothers.  Friends from high school, friends from college, guys I hang out with from church, or that I teach with are all connections I can or have related to in one way or another over the years; great guys and great relationships that could easily start up from where we left off from no matter how much time has gone by.  I have grown up with my cousins, however, and since we were young kids we have always gone "all out" when we've gotten together.  Along with my sisters, we would race along the lake shore where they and my Grandma lived, ice skate, sled, ski, swim, run, bike, throw apples in the orchard, shoot old bottles with BB guns or wrist-rocket sling shots, play with the animals in the barn, fish, sail and a host of other adventures.  A good visit was an exhausting visit, whether we came south to the lake or they came north to the farm and woods; either way it was the best of both worlds.
     The "Twins", Brad and Brian, were the cousins we hung out with when we were younger, but in my mid teens Chad and Sean were born and joined the ranks. 

The Seven Cousins - 1982

My Dad's side of the family was small; just he and his sister Cherie and their Mom; my Grandma.  Now, two generations since, we've exploded in numbers.  The cousins number seven between my sisters, Becky and Karen, and I and then the four boys.  By the time you add the spouses, the seventeen kids and then the dogs it's become quite a crew when we get together every few years.  Traditionally my own family has been able to carry on with our visits to the lake each winter and summer, only occasionally missing out when life's schedules get in the way.  In addition to that is this trip "Up North".  It involves Brad, Brian, Sean and I at this point; four guys for five days.  It's a lot of fun.  It's a lot of work.
     Yes!  It's finally here.  I do what I do all year...slowly wearing down until I get back here...  Here is where I rejuvenate and recharge.  Like scales from a blind man's eyes, the to-do lists and pressures fall away and leave vision. (From my 2014 journal)
     To describe what we do wouldn't make much sense to most people.  When the five days are complete, we're pretty much exhausted, but ironically refreshed at the same time.  It starts with the planning (See blog-post "Prepping for an Adventure"-February 1st, 2015) and then the packing before moving towards the drive. 

Once we arrive back in my boyhood town, we do a majority of our shopping at our favorite little "Save a Lot" grocery store owned by a high school friend and his brothers.  Usually our trip also involves a quick stop at "Jay's Sporting Goods" for fishing spinners and any other last minute, outdoor necessity and "Glen's Market" for "real" maple syrup and Bush's Baked Beans. 

These are the details that you may or may not be interested in.
     I'd love to describe what we do and how we do it from there on out; like how we drive the gravel and two-track roads to where we set up camp.  Once that's complete it's all about the cooking, cleaning, wading while fishing, hiking, running the trails and swimming to cool off and bathe.  I want to write on those things but quite simply I get bogged down in trying to even start.  It's been a week since we returned and yet this is all I've managed to crank out.
     The way this entry started, and how it's ending, may remind you of some junior high kid.  The kind of kid who has to write a 500 word essay; realizes that he's suddenly at 475 and then scraps his creative ideas and wraps it all up in two run-on sentences.  It was not my intention to mimic such an endeavor.  Partially because I've struggled, at least at this point, to put everything we do into words; partially because I think it would be better to break the whole into parts that could be written about throughout the year until we meet again; partially because some of it must remain secret.  Not secrets that remain unmentionable and hidden in silence to anyone outside of our family, although that's some of it.  It's more of a secret due to this idea of giddiness from exhaustion.  How do you explain what we do? Who would understand?  You can try in generalities without revelation I suppose.
     Take Sunday, July 19th for example.  It was Sean's birthday.  We started early.  After 5 1/2 to 6 hours of sleep (our average) we were up and getting at it.  I mention this not to be heroic, it's just what we do...and what the sun, red squirrels, chipmunks and birds allow.  Brad made coffee for himself and his brothers on a cool little "Emberlit Camp Stove" you feed little sticks into that fuel a flame.  With waders and vests on, and a pole in hand, we headed out on a trail that rides the river downstream so we could fish back.  It's about a 3 mile hike in. 

The Twins & I - Pushing Water

In addition to our regular gear, Sean was hauling eggs, sausage, cheese and potatoes (all prepared and ready to go) in a backpack.  I also had a backpack on that was filled with plates, frying pans, utensils and my flint and steel to make a fire.  Each of us carried our own fresh water from base camp's artesian spring. 

Once we found an ideal site under a canopy of large white cedars, the rest of the crew hiked down and fished up to me.  In the meantime, I had collected wood, started a fire, and started cooking breakfast.  I've dreamed about doing this for the last couple of years and it finally came into fruition.  I was able to cook out like I do all winter and combine it with trout fishing with the brothers of cousins.  These are two of my favorite things to do.

      Once fed, we fished.  To say we fished sounds easy and slightly boring.  We don't keep track of time much when we're in the bush, but as near as we can figure we were "out there" for at least 9 hours.  I run marathons.  I love running and doing strenuous activity over long periods of time.  I enjoy the feeling you get from that and then having nothing left afterwards.  When we returned that afternoon, however, I had moved beyond that frame of reference. 

Talk about being bogged down!  While fishing the river that day and even reflecting back a day later, I was elated.  There were some moments though, I must admit, that were touch and go that last hour or so as we were hiking back.  Not just for me; for all of us.  It was a warm day, our energy was depleted, and camp was still a ways away when we broke down our poles and started trudging back.  I say trudging because we still had on our waders and boots.  This is part of why our waders only last a few years. 

Sean, Brad & I - Resting in the River

When the top section of Brian's pole came up missing, I think it was Sean who voiced, "If it was me, I'd want someone to help."  We back-tracked as best we could; and retraced our trail through the goldenrod, bee balm, and bracken fern.  It was, unfortunately, to no avail; and so it was in this condition that we collapsed back into camp.  The good thing was that it was only in the afternoon; and in the far North, on the far western edge of the Eastern Time Zone, that means it would be light for quite some time yet.  I sat for a while before I could muster the energy necessary to reach down and take my boots off.  Brad and Brian jumped in a vehicle to run to a nearby store for fresh ice we needed for our coolers and to get a new pole.  I fell asleep face down for about a half hour, woke slightly discombobulated, but regained my wits enough to start a fire and begin preparing food with Sean as the boys rejoined us.  We jumped into the refreshingly cold river, behind our camp, to rinse off and revive the body.  For supper that evening we made tinfoil dinners.  I've made these a lot over the years with family and friends, but I think that time was perhaps one of the best.  Inside the double wrapped foil we added potatoes, sausage, onions, sauerkraut, mushrooms and zucchini.  Writing about it makes my mouth drool.  Our emotions warranted flashbacks of Bill Murray eating at his psychiatrist's house in the movie, "What About Bob?”  To top it off, we had a little strawberry cheesecake the Twins had picked up for Sean's birthday while they were in town.  It was heavenly.  It was what we needed.  Isn't it amazing how good food can taste when you've been outside all day and you're tired?  That meal was great regardless!

     As darkness fell, we lit our Coleman Lantern that hung from the branch of a nearby white pine.  We still had to clean up and repack things in our vehicles before going to bed.  The following day was going to be another big day, in another favorite spot; high on a ridge overlooking another snaking river.  Were we exhausted?  Yes indeed; but we've been doing this type of thing, as a pack of cousins, since we were old enough to run around.  Reflecting back on this year's trip and the past 8 years, it's rather mind boggling to think of the time honored tradition of running ourselves ragged until we're simply bogged down with permanent grins etched on our faces.
     See you along The Way...

The Great Lake

"The Greatest of the big lakes, Superior astounded the men who visited it in those early years.  The lake is known for its coldness year round, as well as its clarity.  When Laman visited Superior he watched as boulders passed slowly beneath his canoe.  Curious as to how far down they were, he tied a rag to a line and lowered it into the water.  After reeling out a hundred feet he finally hit bottom, while noting he could still make out 'every fold' in his marker.  Even today, despite all of man's efforts to pollute it, Superior's crystalline waters still surprise visitors."
(Michigan's Columbus: The Life of Douglass Houghton by Steve Lehto, 
Momentum Books-Royal Oak, Mi. 2009)

**This entry is retro...from a family vacation we took exactly two years ago today when we traveled to my Aunt Cherie & Uncle Bob's cabin in Canada, on Lake Superior's North Shore.

     I swam in the water with eyes wide open.  I looked down into the depths as if with a mask, but instead with my naked eyes.  I saw the rocks with their contours. 

Some had distinct, sharp edges at random and unique lengths and angles.  Others were worn smooth by the lapping waves and grinding ice of a year forgotten.  I can see these underwater.  Some are within toes reach.  Some are beyond the touch of my deepest dive.  Some are seen at, or below, that scary zone that exists more in my consciousness than the water itself.  My vision of the rocks beneath me in the water are made more vibrant by the bands of white, red and pink veins running through the speckled gray and white

granite.

The stripes act as beacons or soundings, leading to mysteries yet unknown underwater, underground or beyond the murkiness. 

The temperatures exhilarate in a refreshing way that heightens the senses.  It's cold, oh yes it's cold, especially when you push deep.  Yet, with the warm air and pulsating sun, the water beckons me over and over.  Surprisingly I obey.  It is not surprising that I would obey, but rather that I can, or that the water allows me to.  Typically it shocks the system and freezes your muscles and body into apathy, submission, and forgetfulness.  For some reason at this moment in time there is a chink in the armor of this mighty warrior.  Submersion is by invitation only it seems, but apparently the sword has been lowered, and it is waving me in.  I expect to have to tip-toe, inch by inch over the rocky or sandy bottom, but amazingly I can slip into the embalming liquid with hardly a gasp.  In fact, I run and jump off the rock island "launch pads" to cannonball and dive.  I laugh.  I can't help myself, and find myself partaking again and again.  My son and daughter join me and express the same wonderment and realization.  I yearn, indulge, and love a good baptism in to the Great Lake Superior.
See you along The Way...

Beyond The Lodge

     St. Peter Sandstone, worn by moving waters, appears exposed under the thin layer of soil that supports the foliage of the forest canopy.  Its exposure faces the Illinois River in the form of bluffs and canyons carved over the passage of time.  It's in this setting that adventurous get-a-ways have taken place at Starved Rock Lodge in Utica, Illinois. Often it was Cindy and I over a weekend in the spring; when we were both teaching and

before we had kids.  Sometimes it was a chance to reconnect, while grandparents watched the kids.  Two years ago we went as an extended family with our kids and my parents.  This past Thursday our family of four went for a simple overnight stay at the lodge.  It was just what we needed to connect and bond.  A little bit of hiking, sightseeing, resting, swimming, sleeping, eating and reading/writing in the classic, big-logged Great Room.
     Paths, trails, and staircases take you from the lodge to places with views from the vistas, as well as steep descents into cool canyons and the river's edge.  Man has followed these trails for thousands of years; from ancient Native American cultures to the present.Todd and I ran these trails Friday morning.  It's was a great workout and became one of Todd's "Top Five Runs" ever.  Somehow I knew he'd love it.  He loved it as much as Cindy and Jodi enjoyed visiting in the little cafe while
we were out, and as much as all of us did chalking
up a quick, yet memorable family outing, out beyond the Lodge.
See you along The Way...

Thanks for Nothing

"I've noticed that many of the people I've really enjoyed fishing with over the years have turned out to be sturdy peasant stock from Michigan.  I don't know what it is about the anglers from that state, but you can spot it: some kind of casual facility with difficulty, or belief that suffering is the only promise life keeps, so that when things go even a little bit right, it's like a gift."
(Standing in a River Waving a Stick by John Gierach, Simon & Schuster - New York 1999)
  
     Last Thursday, July 2nd, my Dad and I headed North; North to the Westfield, Wisconsin area where I had gone solo a month ago.  We drove as the sun rose and soon found ourselves in the cool waters of an awesome creek.  I say that it's awesome because of its ingredients.  It has a light, golden colored, sand bottom.  It's that sand that sifts with the currents to create drop-offs that descend in to dark bends.  As you fish them, you wonder what's down there; down beyond what you can see.  The banks are lined with what can only be described as a horticulturist's bucket list.  Trees, bushes, plants and grasses; all are native foliage in breathtaking environs.  It's what brings me back when I have the extended opportunity.  

      The sun was still at enough of an angle to provide some areas of shade as we started.  Otherwise, the sky was bright blue and the air cool enough to allow us to wear a long-sleeved shirt.  It's the shade and dark skies that are best for the brown trout that primarily reside in this creek.  My Dad caught a beautifully marked thirteen inch trout within the first hour.  I managed a little eight and nine inch brown, and then that was it for both of us.  It was slim pickings for six to seven hours of fishing after that.

      We fished with passion.  We fished with effort.  By the end we didn't have much strength left, and what we did have we needed to hike out and drive back.  It's not often you go and get totally skunked, and it's not often you go and get nearly skunked.  But, sometimes when everything looks marvelous and appears perfect, it's not what you need to catch trout.  I suppose it's an oxymoron; lots of energy expended in a setting to die for; cast after cast made for nothing more than practice in very cool temperatures for July; only a few trout caught and seen with time spent in the water.  Sure the winds were out of the East by Northeast, and sure we know the proverb that says:

"Wind from the North, do not go forth.

Wind from the South, blows bait in their mouth.

Wind from the East, fish bite the least.

Wind from the West, fish bite best."

Sure we know that it's more about the pressure than the wind, and sure we know that wind is created when two air masses, of different pressures, collide.  I'm also sure I've heard someone say, "A bad day fishing is better than a good day working."  But I'm also sure those people have never fished with us before, because although it's more than enjoyable, it's always a lot of work; with or without the mosquitoes.  I'm sure that the unknown person, who took my camera during the Fourth of July fireworks, two days later, feels a little remorse.  It's the camera I was using from school, that captured our fishing adventure, and had ten or more awesome nature shots on it, along with several images of my Dad in action; not to mention a couple of videos including the one of my Dad catching his brown trout.
     Luckily we had a couple of pictures taken with a phone.  The others, though lost, are at least etched into my brain: the rising sun, the white pine needles, little bank-side flowers, new growth on the tamarack, water trickling over a sand and gravel bar, several of Dad casting for the hope of a strike, in addition to a few pictures of an awesome sunset.  

      It's in that memory of spending some time together; together on water that's downright spooky it has so much unforeseen potential; that I give thanks.  Although we hardly caught a thing and in the end my camera was snatched from me and came up missing, I can at least say, "Thanks for nothing!"  A friend of mine commented on our experience by saying, "Luckily you can rely on your optimism to get you through."  Perhaps, but even more it's probably that gift of having come from sturdy Michigan stock; stock that can make light of a situation no matter what state I'm in.
See you along The Way...