Think I'm In Love - Part#1 In The U.P.

I had a day.  Not in the typical sense of it being bad, overwhelming, or more than I could handle.  I literally meant I had a day!  I had about 24 hours to myself before I promised to meet up with family.

The day before leaving, I spent a few hours looking up some possible get-a-way locations in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula (U.P.).  Once I had narrowed down the possibilities, I called the Ottawa National Forest Visitor’s Center.  I was able to talk to a representative named Karl who answered my list of questions; everything from out of the way places to camp, to rules on collecting firewood, and his thoughts about local trout fishing.  He was super helpful & encouraging, which energized me to start packing!  I could hardly wait to explore a new area I had never been to before.  Granted, I had driven by the general area about a dozen times or so over the course of my lifetime, but I had never veered east to the actual rivers and woods I planned to immerse myself in while camping and fishing.

Early the next morning I rose with the birds and grabbed my running gear for a 5 mile run through the town near our home.  The run was cold and drizzly; a bit atypical for the later part of May, but I cranked it out.  Once back home, I said goodbye to Cindy as she left for work.  I showered and cooked up a respectable breakfast; the kind of breakfast that’s perfect for the iron skillet that sits permanently on our stovetop for just such a purpose.  It was the kind of breakfast that would either make you really sleepy 20 miles down the road, or stick to your ribs until you reached your destination hours away.

Despite the constant rain up through Wisconsin, I drove with purpose and made good time.  The Visitor’s Center was scheduled to close at 4:00 and I needed to get one of the few remaining maps that Karl had said were left.  Like a good salesperson imploring a scarcity marketing tactic, he had convinced me that I needed to get that “collector’s edition” of a map.  I love maps!

After a quick stop in Eagle River, Wisconsin, I made the final push and arrived at the center with time to spare.  Karl, who I had spoken to the previous day, produced the map for me to purchase.  I broke out my reading glasses and we spread the map out on the countertop.  Together we poured over it so I could pinpoint various features and ask questions that came to mind as I looked at the squiggly blue lines of rivers and twisting gray roads marked as gravel, dirt, or the two tracks “not maintained for passenger cars.”  Gleaning as much information as I could gather was my purpose, but it worked inversely.  The more I gained and stored in my brain to recall later, the more giddy and anxious I was to get going as soon as possible.  With a wave and a promise to swing by later to let them know how it had gone, I headed out, trying to drive away respectfully and not squeal tires in excitement!

Actually, under the suggestion from Karl, I drove the short distance west to Sylvania Outfitters and talked to the owner, and apparent local legend, Bob.  He gave me a brief history of the local Watersmeet Gneiss metamorphic bedrock which had recently been determined to be the oldest in the United States.  You could tell he was proud of the distinction over rocks found in Wyoming and the Canadian Shield of Minnesota.  I thanked him and bought an Ottawa National Forest Sticker.  I was in the midst of the maiden adventure voyage for my “new” 2004 Jeep Liberty, so I needed to start the usual collection of fun, out-of-the-way stickers I like to have outline the back window of my vehicle.

Within minutes I was driving the dirt roads of the National Forest.  It felt good.  It felt right.  Curvy dirt roads have a sensual attraction - especially through thick coniferous forests.  I pulled into the small campground of choice a little after 4:00.  Only a handful of sites were there, and only one was occupied on the opposite end.  For all practical purposes, I had the area to myself and it felt perfect.  I chose a site that was under a grove of red pines.  From there the river was still clearly audible.

What the campground lacked in people, it made up for in blackflies.  I tried ignoring them while I unpacked some of my gear and set up the tent.  Hiking back into the woods, I found a few dead maple trees that I bucked into manageable lengths for an evening fire.  I stacked the firewood behind a massive red pine.

Since the late spring days were gradually growing longer, I still had time to go fishing at a nearby creek I had seen on my drive in.  The creek felt more personal and intimate than the larger, faster moving river next to the campground.  I put on my waders and began walking alongside the bank; careful to watch my footing and avoid both the vibrations that would scare the trout, as well as the numerous beaver slides between the water and clumps of tag alder, dogwood, and willows.  The large rodents had clearly been busy.  As busy as a… Well, you know!

The terrain was sublime, with plenty of room between the creek and the thick forest of spruce, balsam, birch, and tamarack that lined each side.  Two things stuck with me as I made excellent cast after excellent cast on this, my inaugural trout fishing trip of the season.  The first was that the temperature was quickly plummeting; which sent the blackflies packing!   In fact, they completely disappeared, never to be seen again.  The second was that although I wasn’t hooking into any fish, I had seen a few, and that was encouraging.  I knew it would be tough fishing with the falling temperature, winds out of the north, and the rising air pressure.  When you stand in such a beautiful setting, however, you really don’t care what an ichthyologist (fish biologist) or a meteorologist may say about how weather affects the fish.  I don’t tend to think much about such things anyways, focusing instead on nature’s vivid elegance.

Periodically I looked ahead; expecting a moose or black bear to walk out of the brush at any moment.  Such a spectacle would have been natural and proper in such wild terrain.  And although it was possible, I’m not going to lie that it probably would have surprised the heck out of me!  Still, I smiled to myself at the likelihood and continued walking and casting undeterred.  I was already falling in love with this creek and forest and we had just met!

As I started to consider heading back and cooking dinner, I saw movement a few creek bends up in front of me.  I wondered to myself what it was.  It didn’t really match anything I could picture, and yet its motion was constant.  After a minute of two, a man sitting in a canoe came into focus.  He had been fly fishing with a streamer and casting ahead as the current carried him along.  I gathered that it was his truck I had seen parked in the woods just off the dirt road where I had started.  We talked as he paddled, and I hiked on the bank beside him.  Apparently he had had about as much luck fishing as I had, but he admitted that he had done well in the past.  I didn’t doubt it.  We told stories of big animals we’d seen before and fishing trips of the past.  I asked him questions about the area, and for being a local, he appeased me and answered them as best he could.  Just before I got back to the bridge and gravel road, I came upon a wood turtle.  He seemed pretty chill and didn’t seem to mind my presence, but then again, maybe it was the nippy temperature that was slowing him down.  You know, being a cold blooded reptile and all.

For dinner I boiled water in a pot for rice while slicing up a yellow pepper, mushrooms, pineapple, and a big tomato that I cooked together within my camp skillet.  It was more than I could eat, but with a yeoman’s effort I attacked and polished off a good amount.  The leftovers were packaged and thrown into a small cooler, before I washed down the meal with some hot chocolate.  The temperature, while continuing to fall, was now dipping below 40°.

Unlike when I had camped this past winter, and the temperature had bottomed out at a flatline zero, I knew my sleep system was going to work perfectly to keep me comfortably warm.  I was counting on it.  In fact, I was looking forward to it!  I was in my tent by 9:30, but wrote in my daily journal for a while before falling asleep around 10:45.

I woke at 4:00, listened to the waterfall at the river for a while, and then slept again from 5:30 until 7:00.  According to my thermometer, it had gotten down to 32.4° during the night.  But I was comfortable despite forgetting my pillow and having to use my fleece pullover stuffed inside of its own sleeve. I got up and boiled some water on my campstove.  Down on the rocks beside the waterfall and river, I ate a breakfast of oatmeal topped with granola, raisins, strawberries, and a drizzle of honey.  Finding myself easily captivated by my surroundings, I felt like it was darn near perfect.  And while I’ve been to some beautiful places, and have witnessed some spectacular vistas, I think I was falling in love.  The constant roar of the water and rising sun shining off tree tops began to stir me to get going and move.  I wanted to begin exploring!

After cleaning up my dishes, and straightening up my site, I looked over my new map and headed off up a national forest dirt road.  Within a few miles I stopped to check out a small creek.  I considered fishing it, but thought I might have a better chance further downstream as it gathered volume.  I decided instead to take a little detour and go look at a tiny body of water called “Corpse Pond” - while wondering what the long forgotten story was behind its name.  The two-track trail off the dirt road started out promising, but eventually petered out to little more than a foot path.  Several times I got out and sawed up a couple of downed trees to allow my blue Jeep through, but it was of no use.  Between the narrowing brush and squadrons of mosquitoes attacking as a united front, I quickly realized that if I continued any further, my desired destination of Corpse Pond was going to come into fruition when I became its poster child namesake!  I pictured an unlikely autumn hunter stumbling upon my remains out in the middle of nowhere beside a shallow swale, chock-full of algae.

With a shudder, I backed up, turned around, and made my way back to the dirt road; with the windows down to suck out the blood thirsty skeeters.  I checked on the same small creek a couple of miles down, and although there was a nice clearing to access the water, the creek itself was clogged with beaver dams and choked full of brush.  I'd be next to impossible to fish it.  It would have to remain a sanctuary for small brook trout to survive and flourish unencumbered.  In the end, I elected to head back to the creek I had fished the night before.  It was wider, deeper, and I had much more yet to explore.

At about that time the wind picked up considerably, which in turn pushed the mosquitoes for cover.  Neither hide nor hair was seen of them for the remainder of the day - which was a godsend!

After pulling on my waders and putting my pole together, I yanked my fleece hat down over my ears, zipped up my coat, and put on my polarized sunglasses.  Doing so allowed me to see through the reflective surface of the water and into the depths below.  As I had found the evening before, with the edge of the creek clear of brush, I was able to carefully walk the bank instead of wading against the current and tippy-toeing through the dark, deep bends.  I love those deep cut bends as they are mysteriously alluring, but they can be downright scary too!

Within the first couple minutes of fishing I came upon the same wood turtle I had seen the night before.  It was in a different spot, but the same section of river bank.  He was eating earthworms, and undaunted, allowed me a close up picture while he ate.  Ten minutes later I had a solid hit from a fish.  The brook trout went airborne; dancing on the liquid silver surface of the creek.  Wild trout have so much spunk no matter what size they are.  As I reeled it towards me, I peered over the high bank and into the dark water; wondering how I’d scoop it into my net.  Fortunately it leapt again and took care of the issue by throwing the spinner and its hook.  I was just happy I had seen a trout.  Maybe they’d start feeding as it gradually warmed.  A few minutes later I caught a spunky 10 inch brookie and elected to keep it.

Catching and holding that native trout helped put the wax seal on finding a special area to camp and fish.  Surreal was the word that resonated in my soul, since I hadn’t even known of its existence until a couple of days ago.  The area definitely had the kind of vibes that grabbed my attention and I was intrigued by its aura!

After fishing for another hour, I began repeating the mantra of, “just one more bend.”  I knew the end was near.  It’s the kind of thing that a person who fishes hears echoing in their head when they’re absolutely loving what they’re doing and never want to stop - but know that they need to soon; it required a reaction minus the stomping and whining.  Very soon I was going to need to put the hammer down to hike back, pack up my tent and gear, possibly cook a lunch, and then drive another 80 some miles further North to meet up with my cousin Brad and his son Jack.  I looked ahead and saw a series of beautiful bends.  I promised myself that I’d stop there, break down my pole, and begin the trudge back.

Just before I reached that stopping point I had another solid hit.  I could tell the fish was bigger.  I worked it over to the bank and lifted it within my soft rubber net.  Native brookies are absolutely beautiful!  The green, worm-like marks across its camouflaged back belie the beauty found on the remainder of this trout’s sides and belly.  A brilliant white streak trims their orange and black fins.  Yellow spots speckle their flanks beside blue halos that surround pink dots.  I decided to end my exploratory fishing then and there.  I added that 12 inch brook trout with the one I had caught previously and knew that I’d share it the following day with my cousins; cooked somewhere special I was sure.

Before hiking out, I paused for a moment and tried to take a mental snapshot of where I was and what I was experiencing.  I was both speechless and spellbound.  Here within the loving embrace of the Northwoods, beauty ran deep.  From soft needles on a tamarack bough to the delicate flower petals of a forget-me-not or serviceberry bush.  I held that beauty to my heart.

Forget-Me-Not

Serviceberry (a.k.a. Juneberry)

Closing my eyes, I pictured the layout of my location on the map I had purchased.  If I remembered correctly, I thought there was a trail marked a little ways into the wood from where I stood.  I debated whether I should walk back the way I had fished in; along the many twists and turns of the snaking creek, or if I should hike into the wall of green and hope that I’d stumble upon that unknown path.  I chose the latter, and risked wasting time wallowing through underbrush and getting lost.  What I found surprisingly took me back to the Jeep within 15 minutes.  It was well worth the gamble.  The whole trip was playing out that way.

CLICK BELOW FOR A QUICK VIDEO OF

A WINDY DAY ON A BEAUTIFUL TROUT CREEK:

Once back to my site I carefully packed away my gear and then thought about whether I should just get on the road, or cook the final meal I’d been looking forward to.  I elected to fry up the beef stew meat, boil water for some noodles, and then combine these with a can of cream of mushroom soup.  I ate beside the river’s waterfall again and then saved the rest as leftovers to be eaten on a later date.  On the way back to my campsite I picked up a bag of various pieces of garbage that had been left behind by others.  It was the least I could do to feel as though I was giving something back to the forest.

Looking around the site as I stepped into my Jeep, I felt contentment creeping through my body.  I had spent just shy of 24 hours in the Ottawa National Forest and yet I already felt as if I had known her my entire life.  I think I was in love.  In fact, I was sure of it!

See you along The Way…

Fringed Polygala

New Growth Of A Balsam

Skunk Currant

Wood Anemone

Marsh Marigold

When The Fish Wouldn't Bite - Much

Over the course of 4 different outings stacked almost back to back over 2 different weekends, the fishing was bleak at best; especially under the intense heat that the Midwest was experiencing at the time.  Still, the winds were out of the south to southwest, so regardless, I proceeded while hoping for the best.  Typically if I have an open chunk of time, and am excited about the opportunity to escape to water somewhere, I’m what others often refer to as “fair game.”

On The Way To The River - Cows : )

   The first outing began on a Saturday morning.  I launched my kayak into a local river and began the arduous task of working my way upstream.  I fished as I went; often from my kayak, sometimes while standing at an inside bend to reach the outside bank, and on several occasions when I tossed my anchor out to hold me stationary in the otherwise strong current.  My anchor is somewhat sad and humorous at the same time, but it works.  To lock it in at the correct depth, I press down on the nylon anchor rope with my foot to hold it firmly against the floor of my purple kayak. While using it, I can easily remember back to when I retrieved the window counter-weights from our first house; when we remodeled to add a sliding glass door and deck out into the backyard.  The window weight anchor is a bit clunky and unconventional, but as I said, it works. And at 16 pounds, the 4 rusty iron tubes do the trick to hold me fast.  That day I caught one lone white bass and that was it.  I had been hoping to get hooked up with some river pike, but after many hours of fighting the current, I turned around and began the paddle back.  Fortunately such an adventure constitutes more than fishing!  I also enjoyed the many different wildflowers, and the scenery as the sun reflected off the water in a thousand shards of sparkling light.

Blue Vervain

Cardinal Flower

Fluff Left Behind From An Eagle
That Took Off In Front Of Me

Woodland Sunflower Along The Banks

Labor Day weekend allotted me the opportunity for three more days to fish, so I decided to cash in on the choice to step into moving water.  It was too hot to do much else.

On that Saturday I woke early and drove 50 some miles through the dark to begin trout fishing at daybreak.  The waxing gibbous moon still hung in the southwest sky, and it felt good to once again visit a small creek I hadn’t visited in several years.  I took my time, but it was tough going in water that was choked with weeds due to the lower water levels.  I managed to catch 4 to 5 brook and brown trout.  The biggest and first fish was a 10 inch brown trout.  Each fish in succession was noticeably smaller than the last by at least an inch, until my final fish wasn’t much bigger than the lure itself.  All of them were released of course, and while doing so I remembered that it had been several years since this creek had produced much.  I like it though, and I can’t remember ever seeing anyone else there, so I give it a chance from time to time.  I saw signs of other people who have fished it though, so perhaps that’s the difference.  Fortunately such an adventure constitutes more than just fishing.  That may be why I hiked back to my Jeep to try another section of the creek with a bit more water, but not without stopping first to smell the native flowers and take some pictures.  Their colors were brilliant and spectacular.

Highbush Cranberry - Viburnum

Sandpiper

Goldenrod

Purple Aster

Unfortunately the second stop yielded nary a fish, so on one last ditch effort I headed to a nearby bigger river in search of pike and smallmouth bass.  I managed to catch one bass, but almost became a permanent fixture of the area after getting bogged down in what amounted to a silt trap.  If you’ve ever stepped into one, you know the fear that can rise up within you.  I wallowed against the current through waist deep muck and water up to my chest for about one hundred yards; falling ungracefully once, but somehow managing to keep from filling my waders with water and sinking into the depths.  Once I reached a sure footed riffle, I took a picture of myself and upon the next immediate cast, my braided line became a tangled birdsnest.  Game over!  It was time to hike out and drive home.

On Sunday I started fishing in the midmorning on a locally large river; under the shadow of a fairly new sports stadium.  At this point I was only slightly desperate and willing to catch anything willing to hit the lure that I was casting into the bends.  Several times I had small fish follow my spinner up to me, but none were hooked.  I made my way up to an old railroad bridge turned bike path, and positioned myself there under its shadow to avoid the intense heat.  While the fish eluded me, I did spend a lot of time saving clams that were stuck in the shallows of the quickly receding water.  I enjoyed seeing them cleaning the water as they were filter feeding and pushing themselves along with their pseudo-foot.  Each one was carefully picked up and tossed into a little deeper water.  As I performed this conservation minded effort, I identified three different  species of the double shelled mollusk.

A Clam Pushing Along With Its Pseudo Foot

Seeing as though it was lunchtime, and more importantly that I was hungry, I zipped home for an hour or so to refuel, regroup, and refocus my efforts.  I decided that the rest of my day would be about exploring a few other local areas in addition to fishing.

I elected to return to the same big river that I had been on that morning but in a different area next to a boat ramp.  I walked and cast into the water from the shoreline until I got to some soupy muck that simply became too much.  With the walking all but impossible, and the number of downed trees lodged in the shallows threatening to snag my lures, I turned around and made my way back to the Jeep.  Although I had nothing resembling a hit, the potential was there, and I made a mental note to return at some point with my kayak to better access some of the backwater areas.  Just off the main current there had to be some toothy pike patrolling the perimeters for unwary bait fish.

My final destination for the day was below a dam that fills a raceway to a hydro plant.  Other people were scattered in various areas of the river - either fishing, swimming, or exploring.  Ironically I saw my neighbor and his daughter off in the distance moseying along in their canoe.  I found out later that they had paddled up to the dam to check it out while enjoying the opportunity to spend time in the cool water under the intense heat.  Later that evening they camped on its bank farther downstream.

I couldn’t believe how low the water was.  Mounds of gravel sent shallow trickles into a myriad of channels that would reconnect in sapphire pools before spilling out and continuing on its journey.  What a picture it painted!  All I could think about was how cool it looked.  How had I missed out on this location all of these years?  I’d been here before of course, on both sides of the river, but had somehow failed to realize the Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer opportunity held within its banks during the low water of summertime.

As I walked out onto a gravelly point, an osprey watched from the top of a dead tree above me.  At one point I actually stood in the middle of the river.  I was barely waist deep in what had always held me with a slight sense of dread.  Rightfully so of course as this river can oftentimes roar with a vengeful power that will pierce you deep with fear when its water runs deep and fast.  Today was not that day.  Although there was the continuous sound of water pouring over the dam, I waded peacefully in the tranquil water.  I fished in old running shoes and shorts, a baseball hat pulled down tight on top of sunglasses for my eyes; the rest of my skin laid bare to the power of the sun and some of our last hot days of the summer.

Standing In The Middle Of A Major River

Despite my best efforts, I didn’t see or catch anything, but I was excited about the area and figuring out how to fish it.  Fortunately such an adventure constitutes more than just fishing.  I’d be back to explore its mysteries.

Monday was Labor Day.  I stopped for some night crawlers before daybreak to supplement casting with lures.  Surely I could catch some panfish, catfish, or something with fins using worms!  I returned to the spillway I had been to the previous afternoon.  The area had transformed overnight.  Whether from rains far to the North, or dams releasing more water, the gravel bars had disappeared.  You could still walk to various areas below the spillway, but with a good foot to foot and a half more water than 12 hours prior.  I fished for quite a few hours; some of that time again under the watchful eye of the osprey.  A toad and leopard frogs kept track of my movements as well; basking in the warm stagnant pools up off the river but down in the crevases of the gravelly banks.

An Osprey Takes Flight From A Dead Tree

I did foul hook a channel catfish, but with the higher water washing more food into the river, the hope for an early morning feeding frenzy was off, even after trying almost every lure in my arsenal as well as a crawler on a bobber.  A clam was the final act of my fishing for the day.  Apparently it had closed down over a hook as my spinner was reeled over it.  I had to work hard to get the hook out before releasing the mollusk unharmed.  Fortunately such an adventure constitutes more than just fishing.  It’s at times like this that you take on a different perspective of such an escapade.

I Caught A Mollusk On A Spinner

The Clam Was Released Unharmed

On my hike out, I ran into a neighbor who had lived next door to the first house that Cindy and I bought in Rockford.  Having finished fishing for the day, we talked while standing in the water and caught up with what the various members of our families were up to in the 17 years since we last saw each other.

Four outings, during 4 days, in four locations, with 4 different experiences.  The commonality throughout it all was that it was both hot as blazes and the fish wouldn’t bite.  If you look at the outings collectively, I kept from being skunked.  But it was nip and tuck on most days, and it wouldn’t be anywhere close to being considered productive; in regards to fishing anyways.  In terms of exploration and experiences it was significant.  Fortunately such adventures constitute more than just fishing!

See you along The Way…