Monday, July 14, 2008
Genesis 1:28
"And God blessed them, and God said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it: and have dominion over the fish..."
I learned, over the course of two days on a beautiful river that "dominion" has nothing to do with bossing fish around. It doesn't even mean our gentle persuasion will have any effect.
The fish on the river on July 10th and 11th, 2008 could not be deceived, cajoled, petitioned, muscled, tempted or prayed onto the delectable-looking flies on the end of my tippet, at the end of my leader, at the end of my line, attached to the Battenkill reel, attached to my Winston rod, whose grip rested comfortably in my hand as I waded the river morning, noon and night hunting one fish large enough to keep, even if I would return it tired, but undamaged, to the stream.
The same could be said of the nine men and boys in our camp who waded the cool waters of the beautiful and pristine upper Manistee River.
When half the Illinois/Indiana group left from Michigan City on Wednesday afternoon, headed to Paw Paw to join the Michigan contingent, we all had high hopes of success on the river and the promise of something deeper and more abiding. The Illinois/Indiana team slept on comfortable beds that night, in my sister's home after going to Meijer's and buying the groceries for the camp. Ross, Joe and I made a friendly wager as to the cost of the full cart. I came nearest with a guess of $127. The cost was actually $148.00. This was still pretty reasonable when considering the food in that cart would feed the camp of from 7 to 9 people, 6 times over the next two and a half days. It was well past midnight when we returned to Scott's home and crashed in his guest-beds.
The next morning we out-of-staters had to get fishing permits so we drove back to the Meijer's which had taken our food money and then had a great breakfast at the Colonial Kitchen at the corner of Drake and West Main in Kalamazoo. This restaurant is a landmark in that town which is likely most famous for it's 6-egg omelets, the best of which, in my mind, is their chili omelet. It and the other items ordered by our group, did not disappoint.
Soon we were driving north on US 131, each dragging a pop-up camper and each loaded down with the rest of the stuff we needed for a successful outing.
We drove to the place where M72 crosses US 131 at Kalkaska where we turned due east toward the M72 campground which overlooked the river we were so eager to wade. We arrived about noon set up camp and ate cold-cut sandwiches for lunch. After lunch we donned our waders, rigged the rods, walked down the steps to the river where we were greeted by swimmers and canoers near the camp. Clearly the fishing there would prove fruitless.
Half the group went upstream and Scott Z. and I went down, under the bridge into the fly-fishing only section of the river.
Soon Scott Z. had moved out of my sight as I was determined there were trout in a calm section behind a dead fall log on the north side of the river. After 20 casts, or so, I decided I was wrong and moved a little farther downstream. I continued casting until my shoulder began to hurt and decided to pack it in for the afternoon to return later that night to hunt monster Browns with big, ugly flies.
I had had two fish rise to look at the Hex I was casting but neither were hungry enough to eat it.
When all but Scott Z. returned to camp, we learned that only Jim had enjoyed a little success when he hooked a dink on a roostertail spinner.
Ross started to cook dinner as young Joe started the campfire with only one match. Big Joe, Al and Cameron had left Thursday morning and were still in route.
As the sun began setting I became a little concerned about Scott Z. so the two Paw Paw people, Jim and Bret got in their truck and went searching. When the returned, they had him. We learned that he had taken a nap on a log on the river and lost track of time. He, like me, had had a couple of rises, but no takers. Ross, in the meantime, had completed the finest spaghetti ever cooked outdoors. It was the best I have had anywhere. We all ate until we couldn't eat any more.
About the time dinner was wrapping up, it was late and we were all too tired to hit the river again. We gathered around the fire to engage in that ritual ab aeterno, where men remember aloud, their past, share stories that entertain, inspire or terrify and where boys learn how to be men. That circle, as sacred to me as any prayer circle, forges friendships and families. It creates memories that keep old men warm when the snow is deep and the winds are howling.
We talked of prophets and pioneers, of grandfathers, uncles, deer camps, hiking adventures, marathon canoe trips, Indians, the Northern Lights, large bonfires, monsters, mothers, and great dogs. At one point Ross leaned back in his collapsible chair and said: "It doesn't get any better than this." He was right.
The next morning I arose early and started making breakfast: eggs any style, maple sausage and venison sausage provided by Big Joe and Al; all washed down will ice-cold milk and orange juice. I rousted the roustable (Bret slept in), fed them, watched them clean up and prepared to drive to a remote stretch of the river where we were not likely to fight campers playing in the stream. There were 8 of us attacking the section. Again, the majority waded upstream while Scott Z. and I waded with the current. It was early and beautiful but the fish were asleep.
I had been casting Hexes until I saw hundreds of Mayfly corpses washing downstream. Clearly, the trout were not longer interested in Hexes. Scott Z. had left his fly rod jammed in the top of his waders and was fishing with a green and pink roostertail spinner when he caught a Brookie all of 7" long. I found a bug in my fly box with a little pink on it and caught a little Brown on the first cast. For the next three hours Scott and I worked the river; casting in places that would have held trout in any other body of water in the world, where trout lived, anyway. We both came up empty and decided to call it a day and promised to return later that evening, after 7:00 PM. When we got back to the truck, of the others, only Cameron had caught anything; yet another tiny Brookie.
Lunch consisted of Johnsonville Stadium Brats on buns with all the fixin's. Nothing could have been better. We all ate more than we should have and settled into our camp chairs for an afternoon snooze. Young Joe went back to the river. He was determined to catch a carp he had seen and the rest of us talked in muted tones until we drifted into our naps.
Young Joe did not catch a carp even after throwing corn, bread-balls and a piece of Brat that was left over from lunch. Not even the carp were eating...
It was Bret's turn to make the BBQ chicken for dinner, along with the fresh corn-on-the-cob. It became quickly apparent that we had forgotten but buy BBQ sauce. There was a partial bottle in one of the pop-up campers but it wasn't enough. Jim added some ketchup and mustard to it but the taste was off so I suggested adding a little maple syrup and orange juice. The sauce became as near perfect as any BBQ sauce can get.
At 8:30 PM we went back to the river. Bret became our photographer as the rest of us tried one more time.
Joe, Ross and I fished for about an hour. I caught two dinks and that was it. Scott Z. had one on after dark and Jim had a big one go after his casting bubble but they fished longer... way past 10:00 PM.
Around the fire, Scott Z. told of two of his cases when he was a detective with major crimes. They were perfectly gross. I told of hunting the swamp at Nana's on Christmas as well as the story of Jack and the Bear. Ross shared an amazing experience where God's intervention literally saved his life. I invited Cameron and young Joe to share a memory or two and they both did.
Neither were practiced in the art of story-telling. Their tales were full of youthful vigor and crazy vernacular but both told stories which were the seeds of greater tales when they mature and have their own campfires.
Ross explained how it was legal to paint a true story with colors more vivid than they really were for the sake of entertainment, inspiration or terror. I quoted the William Fox quote at the bottom of this blog: "...of all the liars among mankind, the fisherman is the most trustworthy. "
I have complete confidence that both boys will become the best of campfire story-tellers.
The last campfire of a trip is always full of unspoken melancholy. All of us were eager for the comforts of our homes, with their soft beds and hot showers, but we also knew something special was drawing to an end; something that we would never be able to exactly duplicate.
Next year, when we head to Upper Peninsula and the Tahquamenon River, we will all be a year older. Of the old men, we will all struggle a little to remember new stories. The boys will be nearer that magic age of adulthood and, perhaps, more interested in girls than they are in trout. But they will go with us, nonetheless, because they will remember this year and how it made them better people and stronger men. They will remember how easy it was for the old men in our camp on the Manistee to remain faithful and righteous when no one was watching; how we had a great time without beer or bawdy stories. They will remember how the men, unabashedly, expressed their love of the Lord through their kindness to each other and the love we all felt for each other.
I started this blog today with a snippet of scripture so I will close with one as well. This one comes from the Book of Joshua and it gives me strength and courage when I need it. It may appear to have nothing to do with the fishing trip or the campfires or the camaraderie but it has everything to do with them all, when you stop and reflect:
"...Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the LORD thy God [is] with thee whithersoever thou goest." (Joshua 1:9)
It was around the campfires of my youth than I learned how to be a man. It was surviving in a tent during a storm that first taught me the value of prayer. It was listening to my father, my grandfather and various leaders talk of important and frivolous things without shame or fear that taught me to rely on the angels around me, whether they be angels from heaven or those dressed in dirty trousers and who haven't showered in several days.
I learned, over the course of two days on a beautiful river that "dominion" has nothing to do with bossing fish around. It doesn't even mean our gentle persuasion will have any effect.
The fish on the river on July 10th and 11th, 2008 could not be deceived, cajoled, petitioned, muscled, tempted or prayed onto the delectable-looking flies on the end of my tippet, at the end of my leader, at the end of my line, attached to the Battenkill reel, attached to my Winston rod, whose grip rested comfortably in my hand as I waded the river morning, noon and night hunting one fish large enough to keep, even if I would return it tired, but undamaged, to the stream.
The same could be said of the nine men and boys in our camp who waded the cool waters of the beautiful and pristine upper Manistee River.
When half the Illinois/Indiana group left from Michigan City on Wednesday afternoon, headed to Paw Paw to join the Michigan contingent, we all had high hopes of success on the river and the promise of something deeper and more abiding. The Illinois/Indiana team slept on comfortable beds that night, in my sister's home after going to Meijer's and buying the groceries for the camp. Ross, Joe and I made a friendly wager as to the cost of the full cart. I came nearest with a guess of $127. The cost was actually $148.00. This was still pretty reasonable when considering the food in that cart would feed the camp of from 7 to 9 people, 6 times over the next two and a half days. It was well past midnight when we returned to Scott's home and crashed in his guest-beds.
The next morning we out-of-staters had to get fishing permits so we drove back to the Meijer's which had taken our food money and then had a great breakfast at the Colonial Kitchen at the corner of Drake and West Main in Kalamazoo. This restaurant is a landmark in that town which is likely most famous for it's 6-egg omelets, the best of which, in my mind, is their chili omelet. It and the other items ordered by our group, did not disappoint.
Soon we were driving north on US 131, each dragging a pop-up camper and each loaded down with the rest of the stuff we needed for a successful outing.
We drove to the place where M72 crosses US 131 at Kalkaska where we turned due east toward the M72 campground which overlooked the river we were so eager to wade. We arrived about noon set up camp and ate cold-cut sandwiches for lunch. After lunch we donned our waders, rigged the rods, walked down the steps to the river where we were greeted by swimmers and canoers near the camp. Clearly the fishing there would prove fruitless.
Half the group went upstream and Scott Z. and I went down, under the bridge into the fly-fishing only section of the river.
Soon Scott Z. had moved out of my sight as I was determined there were trout in a calm section behind a dead fall log on the north side of the river. After 20 casts, or so, I decided I was wrong and moved a little farther downstream. I continued casting until my shoulder began to hurt and decided to pack it in for the afternoon to return later that night to hunt monster Browns with big, ugly flies.
I had had two fish rise to look at the Hex I was casting but neither were hungry enough to eat it.
When all but Scott Z. returned to camp, we learned that only Jim had enjoyed a little success when he hooked a dink on a roostertail spinner.
Ross started to cook dinner as young Joe started the campfire with only one match. Big Joe, Al and Cameron had left Thursday morning and were still in route.
As the sun began setting I became a little concerned about Scott Z. so the two Paw Paw people, Jim and Bret got in their truck and went searching. When the returned, they had him. We learned that he had taken a nap on a log on the river and lost track of time. He, like me, had had a couple of rises, but no takers. Ross, in the meantime, had completed the finest spaghetti ever cooked outdoors. It was the best I have had anywhere. We all ate until we couldn't eat any more.
About the time dinner was wrapping up, it was late and we were all too tired to hit the river again. We gathered around the fire to engage in that ritual ab aeterno, where men remember aloud, their past, share stories that entertain, inspire or terrify and where boys learn how to be men. That circle, as sacred to me as any prayer circle, forges friendships and families. It creates memories that keep old men warm when the snow is deep and the winds are howling.
We talked of prophets and pioneers, of grandfathers, uncles, deer camps, hiking adventures, marathon canoe trips, Indians, the Northern Lights, large bonfires, monsters, mothers, and great dogs. At one point Ross leaned back in his collapsible chair and said: "It doesn't get any better than this." He was right.
The next morning I arose early and started making breakfast: eggs any style, maple sausage and venison sausage provided by Big Joe and Al; all washed down will ice-cold milk and orange juice. I rousted the roustable (Bret slept in), fed them, watched them clean up and prepared to drive to a remote stretch of the river where we were not likely to fight campers playing in the stream. There were 8 of us attacking the section. Again, the majority waded upstream while Scott Z. and I waded with the current. It was early and beautiful but the fish were asleep.
I had been casting Hexes until I saw hundreds of Mayfly corpses washing downstream. Clearly, the trout were not longer interested in Hexes. Scott Z. had left his fly rod jammed in the top of his waders and was fishing with a green and pink roostertail spinner when he caught a Brookie all of 7" long. I found a bug in my fly box with a little pink on it and caught a little Brown on the first cast. For the next three hours Scott and I worked the river; casting in places that would have held trout in any other body of water in the world, where trout lived, anyway. We both came up empty and decided to call it a day and promised to return later that evening, after 7:00 PM. When we got back to the truck, of the others, only Cameron had caught anything; yet another tiny Brookie.
Lunch consisted of Johnsonville Stadium Brats on buns with all the fixin's. Nothing could have been better. We all ate more than we should have and settled into our camp chairs for an afternoon snooze. Young Joe went back to the river. He was determined to catch a carp he had seen and the rest of us talked in muted tones until we drifted into our naps.
Young Joe did not catch a carp even after throwing corn, bread-balls and a piece of Brat that was left over from lunch. Not even the carp were eating...
It was Bret's turn to make the BBQ chicken for dinner, along with the fresh corn-on-the-cob. It became quickly apparent that we had forgotten but buy BBQ sauce. There was a partial bottle in one of the pop-up campers but it wasn't enough. Jim added some ketchup and mustard to it but the taste was off so I suggested adding a little maple syrup and orange juice. The sauce became as near perfect as any BBQ sauce can get.
At 8:30 PM we went back to the river. Bret became our photographer as the rest of us tried one more time.
Joe, Ross and I fished for about an hour. I caught two dinks and that was it. Scott Z. had one on after dark and Jim had a big one go after his casting bubble but they fished longer... way past 10:00 PM.
Around the fire, Scott Z. told of two of his cases when he was a detective with major crimes. They were perfectly gross. I told of hunting the swamp at Nana's on Christmas as well as the story of Jack and the Bear. Ross shared an amazing experience where God's intervention literally saved his life. I invited Cameron and young Joe to share a memory or two and they both did.
Neither were practiced in the art of story-telling. Their tales were full of youthful vigor and crazy vernacular but both told stories which were the seeds of greater tales when they mature and have their own campfires.
Ross explained how it was legal to paint a true story with colors more vivid than they really were for the sake of entertainment, inspiration or terror. I quoted the William Fox quote at the bottom of this blog: "...of all the liars among mankind, the fisherman is the most trustworthy. "
I have complete confidence that both boys will become the best of campfire story-tellers.
The last campfire of a trip is always full of unspoken melancholy. All of us were eager for the comforts of our homes, with their soft beds and hot showers, but we also knew something special was drawing to an end; something that we would never be able to exactly duplicate.
Next year, when we head to Upper Peninsula and the Tahquamenon River, we will all be a year older. Of the old men, we will all struggle a little to remember new stories. The boys will be nearer that magic age of adulthood and, perhaps, more interested in girls than they are in trout. But they will go with us, nonetheless, because they will remember this year and how it made them better people and stronger men. They will remember how easy it was for the old men in our camp on the Manistee to remain faithful and righteous when no one was watching; how we had a great time without beer or bawdy stories. They will remember how the men, unabashedly, expressed their love of the Lord through their kindness to each other and the love we all felt for each other.
I started this blog today with a snippet of scripture so I will close with one as well. This one comes from the Book of Joshua and it gives me strength and courage when I need it. It may appear to have nothing to do with the fishing trip or the campfires or the camaraderie but it has everything to do with them all, when you stop and reflect:
"...Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the LORD thy God [is] with thee whithersoever thou goest." (Joshua 1:9)
It was around the campfires of my youth than I learned how to be a man. It was surviving in a tent during a storm that first taught me the value of prayer. It was listening to my father, my grandfather and various leaders talk of important and frivolous things without shame or fear that taught me to rely on the angels around me, whether they be angels from heaven or those dressed in dirty trousers and who haven't showered in several days.
The preceding photos are a visual example of fishing the Manistee when the fish are not interested.
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