Lessons Learned On The Water

It’s a lake once removed from the one on which we rent a cabin.  My Dad had been there on his own before, but on this day we loaded a canoe and two kayaks for him and me, plus three nephews.  Throughout the week on the main lake we had been catching some fish; most of them okay to decent by most accounts.  But on this newer lake, there was the hope for some pike or muskie, with the prayer that they’d be big.  The lake itself isn’t big water, but it’s water.  And although it's choked full of weeds across most of it, it apparently retained the necessary habitat that warranted an investigative fishing adventure.  It’s a lake that’s bordered by white pines instead of cabins, so it has that going for it as a wild flair.

Myself, Matthew, Max, Rowan, And Dad

After unloading the vessels, and loading up our gear, we split up; going in various directions.  I was in one of the solo kayaks and decided to work my way along the shoreline while casting into the soft stemmed bulrush.  Eventually I fished my way past an inlet creek to the eastern side of the lake.  It was at about that time that I had a big hit on my spinner bait lure; the one with the extra trailer hook that I like.  The fish was strong, fought hard, and when I got it up to the side of the kayak I was greeted with the toothy grin of a 30 inch northern pike.  In the distance I saw my Dad with Max and Matthew in the canoe down by the outlet, and Rowan in the other kayak was on the shoreline opposite from me.  Using my fish gripper, I lifted the fish up behind me and managed to get a selfie with part of it.  I elected to keep it, but without a dispatching club, I simply ran the rope stringer through its mouth and tied it onto the side of my kayak.  It was so chunky that it kept jerking my kayak around while I continued to fish.

Within several casts after that, I had a huge muskie follow my lure.  It must have been between 40 and 50 inches as it slowly cruised under my kayak, turned, and disappeared down into the weeds.  As I was positioned in my seat down next to the water, it was what you’d classify as up close and personal!  I froze, taking short little breaths, and after a brief wait, cast several times in the direction it had finned away, but to no avail.

I fished for a while longer and then got another hit from a pike, this one a 25 inch fish.  Rowan, upon seeing me with some action, paddled over to me and took a picture of me holding it up.

On a whim, not usually like me, I decided to keep this pike too.  Perhaps in the back of my brain I pictured a family fish fry, since we all enjoy the taste of fish and especially pike.  As I untied the first pike I had caught, and started to put the rope through the gills of the 25 inch pike, the 30 incher jerked and ripped the stringer from my hand.  Like a shot I saw it spiraling free down into the depths, I plunged my hand down into the water and managed to grab the very end of the yellow nylon rope.  With big eyes I looked at Rowan and said, “That was close!”  As I began to run it into the gills a second time, both of the pike simultaneously thrashed.  In the midst of the sudden turmoil within the close confines of the kayak, the wet stringer slipped from my hands again before I could recover!  The last thing I saw was the white bellies of two big pike and the tip of the yellow cord disappearing into the black deep.  I said a few frustrated words and sat there dumbfounded; unfortunately more dumb than founded.  There was absolutely nothing I could do but mutter to myself and stare at the water.  What had just happened?  Two prized fish were on a stringer down on the bottom of the lake and out of my sight.  I felt sick to my stomach.  Feelings of shame, guilt, embarrassment, and frustration flooded over me.  What I had done was so stupid.  I knew better than to have done what I had just done.  I switched out to my Red Eyed spoon lure, with the large treble hook on it, and ran it over and over through the water, hoping against all odds that I’d be able to snag the stringer and bring them back up.  All I could think of was the waste.  Taking something to eat is one thing.  Allowing something to suffer was another.  I felt as if I’d been selfish to think that I would need both fish.  In the midst of my casting and retrieving, two more muskies followed up to my kayak; somewhere in the 30-40 inch range.  They were tauntingly eerie in the way that they slowly cruised past me.

A bit later, when my Dad and the boys paddled up, I recalled the tragedy to them.  Literally as I was in the middle of retelling the details of my loss, the two pike and yellow stringer suddenly surfaced a mere 10 feet off my bow, splashed, and dove back down again.  I continued casting to snag them and hoped they would repeat their performance, but that would be the last I would see of my stringer of pike.  My Dad practically had to pull me off the lake when it was time to quit.  I didn’t want to leave!  As I helped load the kayaks, I rationalized that the 25 inch pike probably had a chance of pulling off the stringer, but there was no way that the 30 inch would.  Either it would stay tangled down in the weeds for a snapping turtle, or somewhere a yellow stringer would soon decorate one of the local eagle nests.  A blue ribbon for a prized find.  Finders keepers, losers weepers.

The rest of that afternoon I was depressed.  I sat on the swing outside of our cabin and talked to my sister for a while.  When it rained briefly, I took a 40 minute nap.  Afterwards, the family gathered at our cabin for a pork roast we had cooked in a crockpot, I read for a spell, and then we capped off our evening with ice cream in the small town not too far away.  It had been a day.

Making The Most Of An Otherwise Difficult Day

The following morning I took a walk down to the public boat launch and back to help clear the cobwebs from my head.  I felt like I needed to do something to get out of the funk I was in after the previous day’s disaster.  After breakfast, a couple of us went on a morning boat ride with my Mom in the resort’s pontoon raft.  While out we saw several eagles roosting in trees along the shoreline.  And then together with my parents and niece Maggie, we drove to a coffee shop where my wife was already working on some school work for her Master’s Degree, before we headed out to a cranberry bog and farm.  It was a great little trip on back country roads where we talked, saved turtles trying to cross on the blacktop, and munched on some of the packages of dried cranberries that I had purchased.

By lunch time my Dad had had about enough.  I think he felt like it was time to get me back in the saddle again and out fishing.  Time was a wastin’!  With the rest of the family busy with their own activities, we strapped his canoe onto his trailer and headed back over to the smaller lake; the scene of yesterday’s accidental crime.

After launching, we worked our way around the lake, pitching various lures to and fro.  Dad worked from the stern and I manned the bow.  Between the two of us and the gunwales, in the bottom of the canoe, was my brand new, rubber meshed, landing net.  It had a big hoop, extendable handle, and was the very one that Matt Nelson (aka: NDYakAngler) uses on his YouTube channel.  It’s nothing more than an Ozark Trail special from Walmart, but I secretly hoped it would help land a big fish!

After working our way from one side of the lake to the other several different times, and drifting in the slight breeze, I had a solid strike between mats of underwater foliage; in what appeared to be a deeper channel.  The fish swung our bow around, made a run, and then double backed under the canoe; with the sound of my pole’s tip slapping underneath us as the reel drag whined.  My pole was aimed out over the port side of Dad’s olive green, 14 foot Wenonah, but my line and the fish were somewhere over off the starboard.  The canoe spun under finned propulsion as Dad tried to guide us with his paddle.  Gradually I gained an advantage, saw it was a muskie, and managed to scoop it into my net on one of its numerous passes.  It was my third muskie in as many years at that point, but the first in my net.  Dad handed me his fish gripper so I could hook it onto its jaw, lift it, and have him take my picture.  It was a great scene and a great memory that would now be etched into my brain.  Who would know that somewhere in the waters behind that awesome snapshot, two pike were probably tangled in the weeds down below the surface?  I extracted the lure, eased the great fish into the cool water, and released the gripper; working its body back and forth until the 39 inch muskie slid off from my fingers.  A fish and experience like that helps to ease the pain of a mishap.

For the next half hour or so we continued to fish.  Dad caught and released a small pike and I had a trailing pike and muskie; neither of which were interested in actually hitting my lure.  We headed to shore, packed up our gear, and drove back along the dusty two track road; smiles etched on our faces.

That evening, with our family gathered around, we had an excellent dinner of tacos before several of us headed out for a sunset pontoon raft ride.  We had an osprey and eagle fly overhead and were able to get a great picture of them both.  The capstone of the evening, however, was the loon that surfaced as we slowly motored with hardly a ripple.  It was only 10-15 feet off the side of us, and actually made its wild tremolo call several times with us right there next to it.  It was exhilarating, and each of us found ourselves in awe of the spectacle.  It’s a sound that encapsulates the Northwoods.

So too the Northwoods can be an opportunity to catch a big fish.  Having a Northwoods experience as I did, surrounded by the actual Northwoods, is memorable.  It brings clarity as to what really lurks in the deep.  Being blessed with the encounter of a muskie, after such a heavy loss and painful learning experience, is nothing short of a gracious gift.  It’s one of the many lessons I’ve learned while out on the water.

See you along The Way…

____________________

Morning At The Cabin

An Osprey

A Bald Eagle

Dad

Mom

A Loon

Generating A Generational Gathering

 

Sandwiched between Christmas and New Year’s, and on the backside of a small town in southern Wisconsin, I gathered two other kindred generations and headed out.  First we crossed a frozen lake, and then we climbed the far bank, before making our way up into the woods.

I’ve been there before, but this was my first venture into that locale with my Dad and son Todd.  Although I’ve taken each of them out individually to the woods, and on multiple occasions, it was our first outing all together.  For that reason they each knew the routine, quickly began packing down the snow, and set about collecting and cutting up some firewood.

Our Three Walking Sticks
All Carved By Dad

With the snapping sounds of the crackling flames, and the tantalizing smells of the sizzling food cooking in the skillet, we settled into the rhythm of a day camp in the woods.  We wouldn’t be there long, but we would be there long enough; long enough to generate meaningful conversations between father and son, and grandpa and grandson.  While my dog Kora settled in on her blanket, we sat and talked as I added various ingredients.  The food was typical, meaning that it was what I always cooked.  It’s become what’s expected.  I can appreciate that, even as the one who cuts and prepares it all beforehand.  When you’ve eaten several helpings of it outdoors, and in cold temperatures, you’ll know what I mean.

After indulging in the breakfast, and rinsing it down with some hot cocoa, we cleaned up, packed our gear, and erased any evidence of being there.  Being stealthy is important to keep such places sacred.  It’s why I’m always mixing it up as to where I go.  I suppose it’s like having a random generator that allows me to arbitrarily choose from any one of my special get away places.  In such circumstances I liken my decision making to being, “Crazy like a fox,” but I suppose it’s better described as, “Sly like a fox.”  Either way I’ll lose you if you try to follow me, and still manage to enjoy a great day in the woods.  And should you be so lucky as to be invited to join me, I’ll welcome you into the secret location with open arms; although on more than one occasion I have been known to wander in circles first to confuse people with directions or have them turn off the location on their phones.  As I said, it keeps places special.

For that reason, I’ll always hold that morning special.  Such an outing, in a sacred place, doesn’t happen often; and when it does you mark it.  Generating a time when you can gather generations of your family together for an outdoor experience can be memorable, especially when you each share the same spirit of adventure.  Perhaps that’s why I smiled to myself as I walked with my dad and son back across the lake, watching our shadows in the snow covered ice under the glare of the rising sun.

See you along The Way…

Simply Put

Simply put, it was a hike in the woods.  I had the day off from school and the morning free to get outside.  I didn’t need anything else other than that to motivate me.  The ground held a thin layer of snow, the air temperature was in the mid 20’s, and the skies were overcast and gray; although by the afternoon they could have been classified as partly cloudy.

My destination was familiar; as familiar as any place you have consistently visited over many years.  It was the kind of place that becomes chronicled in your memory bank once its existence is known.  I have many locations like that; whereabouts lodged in my mind that occasionally come to the forefront at seemingly random times.  Often it’s when I least expect it, but need it most.

I can remember teaching a lesson at school decades ago.  I was talking to my students, and writing something on the whiteboard, while at the same moment in my mind, I was wading and looking at a specific bend in a blue ribbon trout stream up in Northern Michigan.  I was engaged with my class, I knew what I was saying, and yet simultaneously I was trying to read the currents of the water to figure out where I should pitch my lure.  Some might categorize this as daydreaming, or if they gave me credit, perhaps they’d say I was multitasking.  But it was deeper than that, or at least different.  While fully engaged in one situation, I was mentally engaged in another.  Simply put, it was transcendental.

Since that moment in my classroom, I’ve mentally camped, hiked, fished, snowshoed, and cooked-out thousands of times; often while taking part in a different activity.  It’s allowed me to partake in an out-of-body visit to my most memorable destinations that are scattered throughout the Northland.  Simply put, it’s these mental trips that help bridge the gap between now and the times when I can actually get there in person.

With that being said, the familiar destination I was hiking to that particular winter morning was not as important as who I was going out with.  My Dad was joining me.  In true dad fashion, he often walks the streets of his neighborhood, the aisles of the supermarket with my Mom, or the trails of a local preserve so he can be in the shape needed to partake in such an excursion.  At 81 ½ now, he’s still got it.  Simply put, our hike gave him an excuse (as if he needed one) to put some gear together in his pack; equipment to carry on his back to add to our outing.

He arrived at our house before 9:00 that morning, and as he parked his car, he texted Mom that he was here safe and sound.  I said goodbye to my wife Cindy, and then we loaded our packs and my dog Kora into the old Silver Jeep.  We drove, and talked, and after reaching the dead end road where we would park the vehicle, set off with packs on our back and walking sticks in our hand.  An open vista, overlooking a wide valley, is where we started before descending into a valley and the forested bottomlands of a frozen river.

The total round trip distance was something like three and a quarter miles.  We set up a day camp, gathered firewood, and on a high bank overlooking the river, made a fire.  I had prepared all of the typical breakfast food ahead of time, and hauled in my iron skillet to cook it.  Classic!  Although it wasn’t any more classic than sitting around the fire afterwards, drinking hot chocolate, and talking about life.

I’m continually amazed, and often wonder, how he was able to be the Dad he was when his own Dad had died when he was so young.  In addition to his Mom (my Grandma), who was it that helped to guide and mold him into the person that he is?  What experiences did he have, and what men stepped up to model how life was to be lived?

Questions like that were the centerpoint of our discussion.  Some of the stories were familiar.  Some of the stories were new.  I need to sit, hear them again, and write them down so that I don’t forget them. They’re important.  Not just in how he grew up, but for me personally; the first generation on the flip-side of a difficult circumstance.  It will be worthy of a journal entry or blog post in the future.  It’s where the boot meets the trail so to speak, when his story becomes my history.

After burning through the collected hickory logs, we put out our fire, donned our packs, and together with Kora, hiked on out.  It was about that time that the skies became partly cloudy, and the sun glistened off the prairie that’s on the backside of the woods that hugs the river.  It was an awesome setting for a memorable experience.  Simply put, it’s another outing chronicled in my memory bank where I can easily access it, and revisit it as often as I like, while doing something else.  At least until we can actually get out into the woods again.

See you along The Way…

Dad Hiking Through A Marsh (Mon: 1-17-22)

Starting A Fire From Flint & Steel

The Dursten Cup Was A Gift From Todd & Emeris
For Christmas - The Spoon Is From Africa

Kora & Dad Enjoying Each Other's Company
And The View Of The Woods

The Remains Of A Green Ash Tree
And Trails Left Behind By The Green Ash Borer

The Hike Out Together

Newton's Apple Remembered

     It's interesting how one thing can lead to another; either due to a direct impact or through indirect influence.  In the early to mid 1660's, the Great Plague swept through Europe and on to the British Isles.  That led to the temporary closing of the University of Cambridge in England.  And although it was a tragic, scary time period, a young scholar named Isaac Newton took full advantage of the time off from the university to pursue his studies independently. Among the insight he gained from tests he conducted on various theories and principles, he also experienced revelations in regard to the concept of gravity.  It was a concept that was apparently inspired from watching a falling apple. That experience led to thoughts of acceleration, which in turn, became the fundamental basis for his Second Law of Motion.

     I thought of this story of Newton on Saturday.  I thought of it as a figurative idiom.  It was the second day in a row that I had an opportunity to head out to the woods.  

I am fortunate indeed; and while working hard all week, I look ahead for such periods of time when I can escape and relax by playing hard too.  This time I went out with my Dad.  It was the first time I'd had an opportunity to take him out on one of my winter outings.  Only a year ago he had had hip replacement surgery.  In the midst of continued cold weather, I took him to the spot where my winter wanderings all started.

     When I say, "where my winter wanderings all started", I am referring to my life here in the Stateline.  If I go back before that, anything I did probably came from, or involved, my Dad in some shape or form; back in the "Old Country" on our little farm in Otsego County Michigan.  Hopefully as the years go by I can look back and say, "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree."  I can't say that Saturday's outing led me to any thoughts on gravity, but I did think about how time accelerates the older we get.  I suppose that's why I try to take advantage of any and all opportunities when my Dad and I do get together.

     As we hiked, we talked.  We've always been able to do that.  We joke that some of our best father-son conversations were while we were cleaning manure out of the stalls in our barn; that was often a cold weather activity.  Not an activity that was necessarily in the dead of winter, because the snow was too deep to haul it out over to the garden, but we usually did do the cleaning in the late fall or early spring.  Such a chore made for a captive audience.  We would clean the pens at that time for several reasons.  One was that it probably didn't smell quite as bad then as it would in the middle of the summer.  Plus you didn't have the flies.  Another was because it would allow the animals to have a clean pen going into the winter; when they were inside more than out.  Sometimes it was because the manure had built up after a long winter indoors.  We usually cleaned on a day with nasty weather; a day when you couldn't do anything else.  It was for these reasons, coupled with the ingredients of the 4 or 5 tined pitchfork, our wheelbarrow, and some good, old fashioned grunt work that gave us the opportunity to talk.

     Beyond our conversations when cleaning the barn, we also talked while working outside.  It was the kind of work that would eventually lead to play.  Because of our location in the "Snow Belt" of Northern Lower Michigan, we often had family and friends stay at our house for “get-a-way” weekends in the winter. We would usually sled/tube or cross country ski; adults and kids alike.  To prepare for such outings, we cut brush and trees off the hills and along the trails.  It was tough work.  It was fun work.  It was work to talk to.  Our hill was well known, and historic, as a place to gather youth groups, cousins, and friends throughout the winter months.  It was the fruition of my Dad's dreams.  He even installed an old tow rope, from a nearby downhill ski resort, through holes he augured through cedar posts.  People would use them as a hand hold to climb back up the hill.  When you worked to create something like this you enjoyed it all the more.

     We had miles of cross country ski trails snaking through the hills and valleys behind our house.  To groom them, my Dad and I would snowshoe them first.  The front person would break trail while the one behind would overlap the middle track creating a "three track wide" trail.  Where trails merged, or came down a steep incline into a curve, we often would stomp down more snow to allow for error while skiing.  More than once we would return from packing the trails on snowshoes only to be greeted by our guests who had just arrived.  With a change of clothes and the transition from snowshoes to skies we'd be off again; this time with a whole entourage.  Those adventures led to some great times and memories.  It's hard to erase a classic wipe-out at the bottom of a run from memory, especially when you witnessed it or lived it.

     It was these thoughts that ran through my head as my Dad and I hiked along last Saturday; thinking of the past while talking in the present.  We watched the dogs often, and that reminded us of Teddy, Susie, King and Cricket, and later Kelly and Dolly; all good dogs.  They were all dogs we had up north that loved romping in the snow, as Kati and Kora were doing that day.

Eagle Wing Print

     With the fresh snow, visible signs and tracks were everywhere. There were prints from voles and their low bellies, mice with their dragging tail and tracks packing down whole areas under the seed heads of the rattlesnake master prairie plant.  An owl's print was left where it grazed the snow with its left wing and then dug in with its right as it made its attack.  A coughed up pellet was the only other sign that it left.  Further on it became evident why we had seen 4 or 5 bald eagles in the trees ahead of us, when we came upon the carcass of a raccoon.  The snow was packed from their feet and marked with their great wing tips as well.  They all left stories in the snow.  Cold winter days are like that; they resurrect visions of the past while creating new ones.  I enjoyed the day with my Dad; hiking, talking, listening, solving world problems and spending time together.  He's good at that.  Newton would have been inspired and proud.  Dad's a solid tree for this apple to have fallen from long ago.  
     See you along The Way.