For my cousins and me it was a pipe dream really, but one we have often considered and held in high regard. To achieve that wish, this particular summer would have to be unprecedented during our annual camping trip in Northern Lower Michigan. Still, it was a wish whispered softly on a slight breeze just beyond the outskirts of Sparr, one of the area’s smallest little towns; a perfect setting to allow that wish to play itself out.
We started the morning well before first light thanks to the booming calls of a barred owl in the tree branches above us. The deep, muffled call was thundering in its stark contrast to the silence of the night. So clear was it that you could tell when it turned it’s head and replied to an answering owl somewhere further up the valley. Despite the darkness, and being at least a mile from a lake, a loon then laughed out loud once; perhaps sounding the warbling cry to remind everyone willing to listen as to who was the true bird of the North.
CLICK BELOW FOR A VIDEO OF A
BARRED OWL BOOMING ABOVE MY TENT AT NIGHT
(TWO SEPARATE CALLS)
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Up early, my cousins went through their traditional coffee routines. I myself jumped in with a cup of hot chocolate. Topped off with some apple slices, we hit the trails along the area’s ridges to run a few miles; apparently figuring that by burning energy early we’d settle into the day and the hypnotic rhythms of the woodlands. We revived afterwards with a quick dip in the cold river, followed by a breakfast of eggs and sausage.
Adding in a much needed nap to help us catch up from the end of the week and traveling, the early afternoon found us primed and ready as we assembled our gear and drove out to a small creek that runs through a nearby swamp. With the four of us fishing together, and the flowing water little more than 10 to 12 feet across in a narrow, shallow channel, we simply took turns. This type of fishing takes patience and sometimes it’s difficult to feel as if you’ve gotten into any flow and connection, but you also get to share the experience together and be present for any action, scenery, or humorous one-liners.
After having been cousins for a lifetime and on this particular trip for 14 years in a row now, it truly is about the commoradary at this point. Which is probably why we don’t mind coming to this particular stretch of water to fish for trout. You don’t come here to catch and register trophies. Heck, you don’t even come here for nice sized native brook trout that tend to be on the smaller side of either the trout or salmon family anyways. You come to this creek knowing full well that the trout are little, but the setting has backwoods adventure written all over it.
The hike in was tedious, but then again, every place we’ve ever fished requires some trudging; either to get to it, or to walk back from it. Of course that doesn’t count the effort spent walking in a river with waders and pushing against the current. In addition, there is the sound of small, shy birds and water gurgling around submerged logs and stumps. Bordered by spruce, balsam, white cedars, tamaracks, white pines and the ever present tag alder, as well as birches, red pines, and the clumping red maples with their ruby colored petiole stems, the locality conveys an impenetrable swamp if it weren’t for occasional small glades of smooth sawgrass; the result of old beaver ponds now filled in with silt and sediments. Standing in the creek, surrounded by that scene, and enveloped alongside all of those varieties of trees, you felt loved and comforted as if wrapped in one of those soft, weighted blankets you see advertised.
The Hike In
Within that setting, each of us caught and released a couple of brook trout. Only one or two were at the length of nine inches, and most averaged eight. In other words, the brookies were small, but they were beautiful. Once you had wet your hand in the moving water and slid it up under them you realized just how soft and smooth they really were.
After we started catching a few, the dream took hold. We each elected to keep one fish. Just one. Upon having one brook trout apiece, we hiked back into a grove of tamaracks. It was poetic, since tammaracks themselves have some of the softest clusters of needles of any pine, being a deciduous conifer that actually loses its needles in a splendidly golden display each fall. Grabbing a few dead, dry cedar branches I started a small fire while the others cut and stripped off the leaves of some tender alder shoots. We slipped the brook trout onto the sticks and held them over the heat from the flames; no butter, no breading, no spices. Just the trout, cooked on and over the very nutrients they had been living in.
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MY COUSINS AND ME
COOKING TROUT DEEP IN A SWAMP
It didn’t really take too long for the fish to cook. Once they were deemed finished, we ate them whole right from the stick; skin, fins, and meat. All that was left was the bony structure and even that returned to Mother Earth as ashes. There would be no waste.
And so just like that our dream was fulfilled. Deep in the swampy shadows of Sparr, we were able to submerse ourselves within the environs that each of us cousins hold sacred. Once the very roots of my existence, this Northwoods territory is one we long to return to each year. Held in such high regard, it humbly honored our wishes and provided us with the opportunity to catch, cook, and eat trout all in the tight confines of the lowland woods. With thankfulness we then started the long hike out, knowing full well that we had been blessed in so many ways.
Remember campfire songs of yesteryear? Nonsensical lyrics that concluded with the phrase, “Same song. Second verse. A little bit louder and a little bit worse!” It was the kind of activity that easily whipped kids up into a frenzy as the song progressed.
It was sort of like that for me as I hit the same river as I did last week, but this time with my friend Andrew. Originally there was to be one trip with four of us. Some bad, inclement weather changed things up on us, however, so one friend had to drop out, and while the other two still were able to go, it required two different dates and two separate trips. It was actually my wife Cindy who said that I had the time, so why not just go twice in back to back weeks. I didn’t question it, and the rest (as they say) has become history.
Andrew’s only two years older than my own son and less than half my age. In fact, his Dad and I actually attended the same college together for a couple of years. But since Andrew joined our teaching staff four years ago, he and I have hit it off. Over the course of this last school year we’ve probably run a couple hundred miles together throughout midweek runs. You tend to get to know one another when you’re running and talking to someone on a fairly regular basis.
Cindy again provided the necessary driving for us and our gear to be dropped off. The weather over those two days was humid and borderline soupy; closer to what one might affectionately refer to as, “Jungle Rot.” And while jungle rot may perhaps happen more to a person’s clothing and shoes under such conditions, it’s probably not far off from the truth of what could happen to a person’s own body if left unattended for a long period of time. Still, time out on a river’s wilds is time out, and one doesn’t complain when subjected to such circumstances. In addition, it was supposed to rain. While planning things out the night before over a phone call it was Andrew himself that quoted me directly saying, “Like you’ve always said Rhines, you can endure anything for 24 hours.” Yesh! You can’t back out of anything after apparently saying something like that. While I’ll admit that I don’t remember the exact time or place I said that, I won’t deny that it sounds like something I’d utter offhandedly; being mindful that real-life situations do exist that nobody wants to experience. This adventure, fortunately, was not one of those situations.
We hadn’t paddled for long when we pulled off the main channel and into a jungly, backwater bayou. It wasn’t deep, but when the sun chose to show itself for a brief period of time and help bake things a bit, it looked both inviting and promising. Fish were indeed surfacing around us, but we didn’t hook into anything but submerged logs. After some time, we decided to exit the sloughlike area so I paddled slowly while Andrew switched up his lure. As we approached the divide where the main currents of the river started, I put down my paddle and cast up alongside the bank using my trusty old #5 silver Mepps spinner. What I got in return was a chunky 30.5 inch pike. He fought, and pulled, and was magnificent. He did have a few war wounds on him, whether from an eagle or bigger fish I do not know. Andrew took a quick picture for me and then I slipped the pike back into the water. While it would have been nice to have had the pike for dinner, we still had a ways to paddle, and oftentimes it’s just as rewarding to get a picture, return them to the water, and know that right now that fish is somewhere in that river hugging a bank, with its toothy pike grin, waiting to zip out after some unsuspecting prey.
A 30.5 Inch Pike Caught & Released
We continued onward at that point, and although we did stop to cast and fish one outside bend, the clouds were returning and billowing and so we pressed on towards our goal, hoping to set up camp before any rain started.
By 5:30 p.m. we had our tents up and quickly set to work to gather firewood so that we could get it covered and keep it dry. Then we went fishing. Although we didn’t catch any fish per se, we did snag into some underwater structure that we decided to take care of. While Andrew hung onto his pole; attached to a lure that was attached to a “lure eating tree,” I went back to get my canoe. Unfortunately in dragging it past my tent, I bumped it against one of my frame poles causing a slight tear that I’ll have to repair later. It happens, even when you’re trying to be careful.
We spent the better part of the next hour dragging sticks, branches, and logs out from one particular hole, all while dancing around a rather large fishing spider that was literally running across the surface of the water. It was large enough that it actually made paddling noises and created a wake while scurrying for the grasses on the nearby bank. It was really cool, but I won’t lie that it also gave you the heebie-jeebies. Once we had finished, we were soaked between the slight sprinkle, sweat, and water flung up onto us from the river. In addition, I thought that I’d be nice and tidy things up by rolling one of the large branches further up onto the bank. What I got in return was a branch, weak and muddy from being submerged for years, that snapped and whipped black muck across my legs, shorts, arms, face, and my bright yellow Joe Robinet “Exploring” T-shirt that I’d gotten for Christmas. Perfect!?
Back in camp, Andrew worked on cutting up our food for dinner while I tried to coax the fire to life. It was slow going with the damp air, but eventually our two paths converged and we set the food in the coals to cook. I then promptly grabbed my towel to try to clean up before the jungle rot truly did set in on me. Fortunately the river water was relatively warm, so I was able to perform a submersible push-up in a shallow, sandy section of the river, clean off, and avoid a catastrophe!
Back at camp in cleaner clothes, I realized to my disdain that I had forgotten the ketchup; a staple for most tinfoil dinners. Luckily the food was delicious anyways, as well as necessary, to replace the energy we had been burning. While it did sprinkle and rain off and on, we managed to miss the outright thunderstorms that went racing through to our South, and so I was able to read a couple of short stories from Patrick F. McManus before we tucked away for the night. I had started the tradition with Justin the week before, only this time I read “Skunk Ladder” and “Mean Tents.” I felt like they were relevant. I concluded the evening in my tent by again reading a chapter from Sigurd Olson’s book entitled, The Lonely Land, but not before having to help along a giant wolf spider next to the zippered door of my tent. Apparently it had wanted to join me inside. I thought better of it, however, and encouraged it on its way back into the grass.
I woke early, but managed to fall back to sleep a bit longer before getting up and continuing to read; all to the sounds of the birds and last night’s rain dripping off from the trees. I reread a section from The Lonely Land when in 1955 Sigurd Olson and 5 of his buddies paddled canoes down Saskatchewan’s Churchill and Sturgeon-Weir Rivers, following the ancient trail of voyagers and Hudson Bay’s fur traders. I love the section where he details how at the base of Trout Lake Falls, three of his companions hook into three monstrous pike all at the same time; each fish weighing in at over 20 pounds.
Andrew and I came out from each of our respected tents by 7:00 and had our camp packed away and covered in a tarp by 8:00; just as the rain started again. We grabbed our poles and waded through the tall, wet grass to the river. We were soaked before we even saw the water. Not much luck was had, other than a 20 inch pike that I caught and released, and so after a while we went back to cook our skillet during a break in the rain. Again Andrew cut up the food while I worked on the fire. It needed encouragement to get started. We both laughed that at least it was only affecting the two of us. If we had been cooking for the entire Gulo Adventure Clan of teaching colleagues, there may have been mutiny due to the time it took to get anything resembling a consistent flame started, let alone a breakfast cooked.
Andrew Fishing In The Rain From A Sandy Point
The Bald Eagle In The Dead Tree Showed Up Three Different Times To Look Out Over The River & Our Camp
Afterwards we fished a nearby hole again, but this time from a different vantage point. As I stood back and watched, Andrew used a top water rubber frog, working it from the far bank out over the pool, amongst the dimpling raindrops falling upon us. After a spell he started seeing action. Three different times a big fish took a swipe at his lure, but each time the hook was set it would pull out from the mouth of the fish, keeping us from seeing exactly what it was or its size. Actually, on that final third strike, the hook was set, but unfortunately his line snapped and both the fish and lure were never seen again.
With permission, I stepped forward and cast a few times to the pool before concentrating on a drop-off from the bank on my right. About the second cast, I felt the push of water that I mentioned in my last blog entry, and so I turned to Andrew and quickly said something to the effect that he should watch because something was coming. It came alright, but by that time I had almost reeled the lure to the tippet of my pole, and was running out of room. Sure enough the strike came, but it missed, turned, and disappeared back along the bank.
No mystery as to what it was. By its Latin name it’s known as Esox lucius. Esox refers to a large, long nosed, freshwater fish of the Northland. Their body is torpedo shaped, long, and perfect for their predatory tendencies. Lucius can mean light, but in this case it more closely refers to a wolf (wolf in Greek = lukos). This explains why a pickerel, or pike, is sometimes called a water wolf. Once you see the voracious teeth you’ll understand.
Regardless, on my ensuing cast back to the pool I rendered nothing. Next I split the distance between the pool and the original bank. This time the Esox pike hit hard and solid. My pole was doubled over and the fish raced around in the water around my legs. In reality, it was a hot minute. I decided I wanted my fish gripper to grab the pike by the jaw, but it was attached to the backside of the backpack I had on, and I couldn’t quite reach it. At the same time Andrew was both choosing and tying on a new lure while simultaneously receiving a call from a school he had recently applied to North of Milwaukee. Andrew had resigned from our school this spring, became engaged, and was stepping out in faith hoping to hook a job teaching band this fall near the area his fiance’ Meg had already found a job. Was he receiving an acceptance call? Was he getting the job he had interviewed for?
I interrupted the moment by calling out, “Andrew! Can you get that gripper off my backpack? I’m a little busy here attached to this pike!” He shook himself back into the present, ran over, and got it for me. I probably should have just lifted the fish with my hands, but I also needed my pliers to get the hook out. I clipped on the gripper, snapped the line and extracted the hook of the Mepps from the pike, all while Andrew took a few pictures for me. I then ran the pike back and forth through the water, forcing fresh water through its gills until it pulled from my hands. It swam three or four feet away, sat there fining for a few minutes, and then pushed off into the pool. While standing there in the falling rain, all I could think about was that the moment had been awesome. The pike had measured at 31.5 inches and had a wide back that would have been hard to even get my hand around. Esox lucius indeed!
A 31.5 Inch Pike Caught And Released
I checked my own phone at that time and saw that Cindy was starting out to come pick us up. It was almost noon, and we were still nearly an hour’s paddle away from the take out area. Eek! A miscalculation on my part! Andrew and I quickly grabbed our poles, launched the canoe into the river, loaded our gear, and started paddling; all in a process that took only 30 minutes. Not bad!
The skies continued to drizzle, but the scenery was great regardless. We came skidding up to our designated spot by 1:30. Cindy pulled in at that time as well, in my old silver Jeep. We loaded the canoe and gear, and then headed home; none the worse for wear after quite an adventure. And what an adventure it was; a memorable one forever embodied with rainy-humid weather practically leading to jungle rot, and the ever surprising Esox lucius.
See you along The Way…
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PS - And that afternoon Andrew found out that he had gotten that job! Congrats friend...
Drying Out My Gear (Back Home) And Preventing "Jungle Rot"
