North Woods River Runner

Sunday, August 28, 2022

A Lake That Gave Up Her Secrets

It was the third year in a row that my wife Cindy, daughter Jodi, and I had spent at Jung’s Birch Lake “Tranquility Cottage”. Born of necessity to get-a-way in the middle of the pandemic of 2020, we now use the week to reconnect. Because Jodi’s been going to grad school in Texas this last year, she came back to join us Up North where we could spend time making some memories together.

The days quickly fell into a rhythm. Being familiar now with the lake and surrounding area, I typically headed out to fish in the morning and spent time at the cabin with the ladies in the afternoon. During that time we’d read, journal, take walks, fix and eat dinner, go for a drive, or go get ice cream. The weather was pleasant during the day (70° ’s) and cold at night (50° ’s); a refreshing change of pace from what Cindy and I had been experiencing back home and from the triple digits of central Texas for Jodi!

I’d caught some fish in this lake each of the last two years; not a lot of fish, but some big fish. So each cast this year was made with hopeful expectations. Gordon Lightfoot sang in his song of Lake Superior and the Edmund Fitzgerald, “she never gives up her dead.” Likewise, Birch Lake doesn’t always like to give up her fish, unless the fisherman has a lot of patience, some ideas of where to start, and a little knowhow on the lures of choice. Any knowledge that I’ve gained has primarily come through intuition, mistakes, and sometimes just plain, dumb luck. When she does give up her fish, they are downright memorable!

The first full day of the week (Sunday) was my 56th birthday. I fished for several hours that morning with absolutely no action; until there was. While retrieving a deep diving lure, a fish hit just below the aluminum boat. I saw the flash, and instantly felt the pull. What I eventually reeled in was a 23” walleye. Although I’ve fished a lot throughout my life, for some reason this was my first walleye; and probably one of the last of the main freshwater game fish I had yet to catch. We postponed my birthday dinner of tacos and had walleye, dipped in Shore Lunch, and fried in butter. It was a memorable happy birthday indeed!

I Used My Grand-Dad Fagerlund's Old
Fillet Knife To Clean The Walleye.

On Monday morning the air was cool, and with hardly any breeze, the lake was like glass. I tried several different spots around our end of the lake, but didn’t catch anything until the sun began to heat things up. Using my Whopper Plopper lure, I caught a nice 18” smallmouth bass that exploded on it and jumped multiple times; all within sight of our cabin and dock. I released it and watched it swim quickly back under some nearby lily pads. It’s fun to catch a fish on that surface lure as I feel like Matt Nelson, the YouTube fisherman under the tagname of, “ndyakangler.” That evening Jodi and I fished together in a back bay for a while. I managed to catch a 20” pike; releasing it after a quick picture into the water from which it came.

Tuesday morning was slow going. I caught and released one small pike, but otherwise it was simply time in a boat; which was still worth every minute. Before heading in, I shared the last hour or so with a doe and her two fawns as they made their way along the shoreline.

On Wednesday morning I started the day by running the hills around the lake, jumping off the dock to rinse off, and eating breakfast. By that time I had formulated a bit of an adventure in my mind, so with the kayak that comes with our cabin, I set off with some of my fishing gear for a neighboring lake. It was like being the main character of an epic tale about a guy who trudges through Hell to get to a Heavenly secret lake. Indeed, it required a lot of grunt work, mud, slogging up and over beaver dams, and wallowing through a swamp, but it was well worth the struggle. Halfway to my destination I took a break to catch my breath, rest, and was actually able to get a connection so I could talk to my Dad on the phone. I told him he wouldn’t believe where I was (actually he could picture such a place because he knows me, has done that type of thing himself, and even looked up my location on a satellite image). The ensuing lake was choked with weeds, but I fished some of the sporadic open sections with a #5 silver Mepps. After an initial small pike, I managed to catch and wrestle in two twin northerns at a smidge over 25 inches. I elected to keep them as I truly do love the taste of pan fried pike. Before I headed back, I caught and released a couple of largemouth bass that were hanging out next to a beaver lodge. The final paddle across Birch Lake was against the wind, which of course had whipped up some small, rolling whitecaps by that time. I thought my arms were going to rip out of their sockets before I reached our cottage, but regardless, it was a classic way to end the day’s tale!

Thursday morning’s fishing expedition lasted no more than an hour. While fishing a small bay, a giant fish went airborne after hitting my Mepps. Spinner. It was hard to tell what it was exactly. All I really saw was a large body and a lot of water being thrashed about. It dove deep, but as I brought it close to the boat, after it had taken multiple runs, I could see that it was a muskie. I felt fortunate that I had my large, rubberized net. It’s safe for the fish, and a bit easier to handle them when they are in it. Make no mistake that with the combination of power, hook barbs, and fish teeth, it’s not what I would label as an easy task. It is, however, more manageable of a venture as it allows you to keep a fish in the water while using your multi-tool pliers to get the hook out. Actually, for this fish, which measured at 33 inches, I had to grab it under its jaw and lift it from the net. I find that it immobilizes them more than a gripper. This also allowed me to reach down into the muskie’s mouth to extract the treble hook while still holding it. I lifted it for a quick photograph and then eased it back into the lake, where with a flick of its tail, it disappeared. At that point, and after a fish like that, I quit for the morning. That fish was my fourth muskie in three summers, my second of the year, and although the smallest of all of them, I was more than satisfied with the experience!

My Plug Of Cedar
With A Prayer Of Thankfulness
For The Opportunity
Before Each Fishing Adventure.

That afternoon I took the girls to a nearby bay where they caught panfish and perch. They had fun, laughed, and enjoyed being out on the lake. We kept 6 of them that we ate that evening along with one of the pike from the day before.

I closed out the week with a 25 ½ inch pike on a cold and early Friday morning. I took a selfie with the fish and then released it as I didn’t feel as though I needed to keep it (we were already bringing home one of the two pike that I had caught on Wednesday for a meal later this fall). The interesting story of that last fish was that I was able to see the wake it made as it charged out from some lily pads before it actually hit my spinner. Talk about short lived anticipation! Knowing that something was about to happen, I waited only a fraction of a second for the actual strike.

All in all our week together was fun, relaxing, and just what any doctor with half a mind would have ordered. Fishing was just a portion of what we did that week, but to that end, it was an important facet of the overall experience. Thankfully, Birch Lake, in its tranquility and serenity, shared some of its secrets and gave up her fish. Interestingly enough, the brochure for Jung’s Birch Lake Cottages states, “The natural beauty of this 180 acre lake offers you great fishing for Musky, Northern, Bass, Walleye, and Panfish…” Indeed it does, and indeed it did - on all accounts, with fish that were truly memorable!

See you along The Way…

-----------------------------------------------------

CLICK BELOW FOR A VIDEO OF OUR WEEK:

To watch the video you may need to change the "view version"

at the bottom of the page.

Friday, July 29, 2022

The Connection: There And Back Again

I grew up in the “Tip of the Mitt”; in the Northern lower peninsula of Michigan. Although I no longer live in that territory, the pull to my roots remains. Obviously my heart is wherever my family resides, and the community in which I live and work, but the fibrous genetics that make me who I am were strengthened and nurtured under clear skies, upon sandy soils, within blue lakes, surrounded by cedar swamps and their translucent rivers, and amongst the pungent air of ferns and pines. And so it is these genes that drive me, like a magnet to iron, into the Michigan Northwoods once a year. It’s a few miles beyond the backdoor of where I lived, and a hop, skip, and jump from my soul; the cadence of which ticks steady like an internal metronome.

When my parents retired in the fall of 2001, they made the difficult, but desired, decision to move away from Michigan and closer to their grandkids. That meant that I needed to make the conscious effort to return and immerse myself in those things I still held dear. The first such endeavor was in 2006 when I took what I later labeled as my “Wild at Heart'' solo trip. It rained quite a bit of the time, but I fished, mountain-biked, swam, and had the opportunity to do a lot of reflecting on both my life, and the position within that life - all while camping in the woods.

Two years later I was able to talk three of my cousins into joining me. All of my cousins, on either side of my family tree, have that adventurous flair, but it was Brad, Brian, and Sean that found room in their schedule, and a connection to the rugged side of the outdoors to join me. Since 2008 we have continued to gather together, immersing ourselves among the woods of the North to camp and fish. Remarkably, we’ve accomplished this now for fifteen straight years. As a family growing up, my cousins had often come up with their parents to visit us and enjoy the expanse of what the Northwoods had to offer, but now after many years and experiences, it too has seeped into their DNA.

Typically our camping schedule ran along the lines of: fish, eat, sleep, repeat. In the beginning we drove that routine into the ground, leaving a gaping crater in the Earth. The tendency was heavy on the fishing and light on the sleeping, with meals thrown in haphazardly together when we had the energy. This was due to the type of fishing we did: decked out in waders, hiking miles to where we stepped into the river, and hiking back against a deep, strong current. We wanted to catch trout, and that desire just about killed us by most accounts.

Fortunately, over the years, we figured out what to do and where to go. We’ve never struck it rich consistently, but then again, that’s why they call it fishing instead of catching. Each of us have seen giant fish that we continue to dream about, either because of the experience we had hooking into them, the environs where it happened, or the missed opportunity; the later bordering more on the side of a haunting nightmare.

Brad With A Brown Trout

Brian With A Rainbow Trout

Sean With A Brown Trout
And a Brook Trout

Todd With A Brown Trout

Me With A Brown Trout

Those various circumstances tend to drive each of us, but we’re not so shallow that we have to catch big fish to be happy. We’ve been just as giddy catching a soft, smooth, and vividly marked brook trout that fits in the palm of our hand - and releasing it back into the cold water, only to have it stay fining against our boots just above the sandy river bed. It’s the kind of experience that makes you smile, take a deep breath of white pine and tamarack, and appreciate the moments. It’s the building block of what makes the surprise of hooking into bigger fish so memorable.

Often, one of our group members will momentarily disappear, only to show up again with an awesome picture of ancient white cedars, brilliantly green cinnamon ferns, or sparkling limpid water churning over a fallen balsam log. In other words, we pay attention to the details that foundationally make up our adventures.

Over the years, Brad, Brian, Sean and I have scaled down the maniacal tendencies, and have added a lot more time towards the preparation of meals, the out of the way places to swim, and the unique roller coaster trails to run. Each activity is as relaxing in its own way as the rest, although we do specifically kick back from time to time by talking and standing barefoot in a cold, freestone river or reading from a good book under the shade of a needled canopy. Don’t get me wrong, we still head out on extravaganzas that would make the common person whimper softly to themselves while curled up in a prenatal position, but we try to limit these to once a day, and they tend to be centered around experiences that we deem essential; like our day long fishing trip from the cedar grove up through the grassy flats, the drive up onto the ridge overlooking the tag alders and inviting stream below, or the hike into an out of the way locale where we catch, cook, and eat a small fish up off the creek and under the soft needled boughs of the tamarack - savoring the taste of each in more ways than one.

Chillaxing On A Hot Day

After Running The Trails

I suppose that’s the way of things; to morph and adapt as our experiences necessitate. We still like to push ourselves, but we also like to take in all that the trip can offer in a holistic manner. For this reason, we’ve had my son Todd join us twice, and have talked about having other family members share in our experiences. Our Grandpa Orlo used to head off into the wilds with a core of friends back in the early years of the twentieth century, and now we as cousins are following suit. Our camping trip is the kind of adventure that necessitates sharing; sharing the experiences and environs between ourselves and occasionally with others, either in person or through the stories that get told over and over.

Grandpa Orlo
(White jacket & Tie-second from the left)
With A Gang Of Friends (1930's)

Perhaps this is why we appreciate our annual trip so much and make the trek Up North to the headwaters of our spirit. It’s become more than a destination, and because of that, I capitalize “Up North” as a proper noun since it has its own specific point on a map in my mind’s eye. And due to our connection to that water, land and air on the map, we return there and back again. Our journey North recharges who we are, to do what we do, so that after a year’s amount of time, we’re ready to do it all again. In fact, we look forward to it.

See you along The Way…

______________________________________

GROUP PICTURES FROM

ALL 15 YEARS