Fall Back

When I came back to Bethel this fall, I made the decision that I was not going to go fishing for as long as possible.  I simply could not afford it - I knew I would be taking eighteen credits (including two labs, one of which is chemistry), in addition to other responsibilities like D group, COW and mentoring.  

As it turned out, I didn't have to make that decision consciously.  I was way too busy to even have time to think about fishing.  My daily routine consisted of dragging myself out of bed at 6:30, going to class, doing homework until dinner, eating dinner, going to whatever event I had that night, and doing more homework afterwards in bed for my six hours of sleep before getting up at 6:30 again.  The weekends had some respite; I could usually fit in one or two events with friends on Friday or Saturday nights.  But fishing was not and remains not a priority.  

Which is fine, right? Fishing is a hobby for people with free time... right?  It's something that I can't afford right now.  So I made the decision and stashed my fly rod out of sight on top of my wardrobe.  

They say that when drug addicts relapse, it starts with something small which then tips the avalanche, to come flooding down the mountain like an oncoming storm.  Two things triggered my relapse.

The first was when I went up north with Michael, Jonathon and Elijah over fall break.  I brought my fly rod and got up one morning to hit the Baptism river for trout.  I wasn't really expecting to catch anything, but the river was there; this is what I do.  

And I didn't catch anything.  But that isn't really how it works.  If fishing was measured on material success, I would have given up years ago.  The early morning river in the fall air, winding through those basalt cliffs cloaked in the taiga of northern Minnesota - well, who wouldn't want to spend the rest of their life there?

When the salmon rose behind my woolly bugger my heart almost burst.  It left a nice wake, following for several yards before turning away in wise disgust.  And I knew then that I could not simply leave my fly rod on top of my wardrobe for the rest of the semester. 

The second thing that triggered my relapse was a girl.

Not a girl that I know very well.  But we were both sitting with a mutual friend, and she stayed after our mutual friend left and we talked for a while and eventually we got around to her involvement in the school swing dance club.  

As soon as I started asking her questions about it, it became very apparent where her passions lie.  I live for that moment - when a person tells you what they enjoy and you don't merely acknowledge it, you inquire - you show that yes, you care about what they care about, and you want to know more.  There is something about a person sharing a genuine passion that I love.

And she leaned forward with her blond hair framing her face and she proceeded to tell me all about swing dancing and why she was in love with it, as her eyes lit up and her voice got faster.  And I saw how people must see me when I talk about fly fishing - nerdy, obsessed, but oh so passionate.  

I did two things because of that talk with her.  The first was that I got up early that same week before class and picked up my fly rod and walked down to the dock.  And the second cast I hooked into a small pike, thrashing in the dirty cold fall water.  

And the second thing I did was that I went swing dancing on that Tuesday night.

To the roots and the lily pads

I've done a lot of different types of fishing in my time.  I've sat on a five gallon bucket in the middle of a frozen lake and jigged for crappie while the wind howled around my shoulders.  I've trolled for salmon in Lake Michigan and for red snapper in the Gulf of Mexico.  I've used suckers to bait for pike and I've drifted the river for catfish.  I've fly fished for tiny trout and I've thrown huge lures for musky.

But I was born and raised a bass fisherman.  And sometimes it does the heart good to return to the roots.

So tonight after work, I grabbed the kayak and headed down to my neighborhood pond to tangle with Ms. Bucketmouth.

I say "Ms." because all of the biggest fish are female, whether it's a pike or a largemouth or a brown trout.  Fitting, really, that I spend my time trying to impress girls when I'm on the water as well as off.

I have gotten quite good at fishing these small ponds from a kayak.  There isn't much to it, really.  Choose a spinnerbait because it stays shallow above the coontail and the milfoil and the blades flash in the murky water.  Cast it parallel to the lily pads, where the fish hide and wait for food to swim by.  Retrieve.

The evening pond is a different beauty than the morning pond.  In the morning, mist rises from the water in a weightless veil remiscent of some southern bayou.  The water is quieter in the mornings, and sounds different - primarily ruled by the trilling of the red winged blackbird, and a rooster or occasional loon in the distance.

In the evening, the water talks to me in its thrumming, vibrant voice of life.  That voice is the voice of the herons croaking and the bullfrogs booming and the bass breaching the surface in preparation for their nighttime binge.  Sandhill cranes flock over the forest and fill the air with their plaintive, repetitive calls.  Bluegills sip bugs from the surface with a sound that is clearly distinguishable from the bass; more of a smacking kiss, and less of a boiling rush.

I can see my lure coming through the water, despite the murky tint.  Flashing gold blades falter in their steady pace as I pause the retrieve and give the rod a twitch.  And, as so often is the case, the short hesitation is enough to trigger a following bass, which gulps the falling lure and then is cartwheeling across the water.

She rockets out of the weeds with her gills flared and her mouth agape, walking across the water with that endearing tail walk.  As any good bass fisherman does, I bow to her as she jumps - dropping the rod tip in deference to a falling fish's potential to fall on taut line and break it.  The rod arcs again as she crashes back into the water, quivering with energy as she swaps sides before racing towards me and going back under the kayak.  I have to quickly maneuver the rod around the tip of the kayak to prevent a break off.

When at last I have her in hand, played out and gasping next to the kayak, I lean down to her and whisper at her.  The Native Americans believed that animals were sentient, relational beings who were to be respected and taken seriously.  They often did what I did tonight, as I usually do with fish I catch.

"Thank you, fish.  Go with peace.  And don't tell your friends that I'm here."

She has a hole in her lip from where someone has caught her before.  As I'm the only person that ever fishes this lake, it was most likely me.  She disappears into the water beneath the kayak and flips her tail, splashing me one last time in defiance.

The water is calm now after the disturbance of fishy acrobatics.  Darkness is falling and my family is waiting for me at the house to eat dinner, so I dig in the kayak paddles for the dock and head in for the night.

It can be good to get back to the roots every now and again.

Michigan Pre-Summer fishing: Largemouth heaven

Hello all,

The fishing here in Michigan has been good to me so far.  Although the only fish that I've really managed to get into have been the largemouths, they have been both plentiful and large.  Really can't complain on that front.  Since I've been fishing almost every day and they get mixed up, I'll break down my past week by body of water instead of day.  I recently bought a kayak up at Dick's in Grand Rapids and I have no complaints on that front - I've taken it out every day for the past four days and it has always behaved admirably.  Only thing is that it's a little slow, but that is a sacrifice I am more than willing to make for the traded stability from the dihedral hull.

Kalamazoo River - Floated this river a couple days ago.  Didn't catch anything, but I attribute that to the fact that I was more focused on maneuvering and covering water than working over fishing spots.  I'm also not a river fisherman, and I'm the first to admit I have very limited experience with working over river structure for fish.  I did see them jumping though, and I hear that the Kzoo is an excellent smallmouth river.  There are also good catfish and northern; if I am to beat my current pike record this summer then it will come out of either the Kalamazoo River or Gull Lake.  The river ultimately empties into Morrow Lake reservoir, which looks like it would be excellent fishing but for the oil spill a few years ago.  Due to the oil spill (which is still being cleaned up) and the fact its a river, I don't see fishing the Kalamazoo as much as the local lakes, but it's a nice option to have.

Gull Lake - So many things to say.  I got out on Saturday morning with dad before work and we worked over some points that I put us on.  I didn't do so well - one largemouth and one rock bass - but dad hooked into three pike in the mid-twenties inch range (plus a snake pike and some more rock bass).  Nothing huge but approaching that medium size and a good sign for where we might move up to those 8-12 pound fish that I'm looking for.  They would have been good eating size if we had been keeping fish.  Gull Lake is ultra clear and gets a lot of fishing pressure, so we were using very natural-looking lures.  Dad took most of his pike on the Livetarget perch, an expensive brand name but a lure with a lot of detail put into it.

Eagle Lake - This is a lake in the state park that I work at.  Rumor has it that muskie were stocked in it in 2009, but only time will tell.  Would be nice if they survived and are big size now.  I fished Eagle today in the yak but had no bites - didn't really surprise me, as it is the first day after a cold front moved through.  Bluebell skies and high pressure make for poor fishing.  I will be going back sometime during better conditions.  Supposed to have both bass and pike up to about 6 pounds.

Neighborhood pond - Somewhat surprisingly, the smallest body of water that I've fished here has given up the largest fish.  I fish this when I only have an hour or so, or if I'm too lazy to drive somewhere.  Only about thirty acres, but has lots of lily pads and supports a very healthy bass population that almost never gets fished.  I hooked into a four pounder a couple days ago, and landed a five and a half pounder the day after - the biggest and second biggest bass of my life so far.  I wish there were pike (my favorite fish) but I can't complain, and it's really a miracle to have such a little piece of heaven only a hundred yards from my house.



Those are the places I've hit so far, and I'm thinking that they'll be my main destinations for the rest of the summer.  There are a few places I want to try at least once - Campbell Lake, Mill Pond, and wade Augusta Creek for brown trout with the fly rod - but no hurry.

I also haven't really been using the fly rod much lately.  Most of the bass I've caught have been on spinnerbaits or soft plastics, with a few on spoons and crankbaits.  I was planning to on Saturday (my one day of the week that I'm able to get out on the Ranger) but it was just too windy on Gull to really be enjoyable.  Hopefully next Saturday I get to make some use of it.  It's just a pain to cast the 8 weight out of the kayak or the canoe or from shore.

Nicholas and I got out tonight on the neighborhood pond and got into some bass.  I was so proud of him tonight watching him - I still remember his struggle with his fungal infection last summer and how sick he was and how far he's come, and I thank God for him still being here.  He was a little rusty with the spinning reel and casting at first, but he picked it up fast.  We took the canoe out around the pond and he ended up catching six bass in an hour - not bad for a novice! Of course that pond is a honey hole.

I'll try to get into some pike soon, and get my fly rod going again.  I'll also try to keep you posted.  Until next time...

Tight lines,

Bradley

Getting 2013 started

Well, the ice here in Minnesota finally melted a few weeks ago.  It was an unusually long ice cover and messed with the spawn schedule but I guess our lakes could use it after the drought we had last year.

As always, spring fishing is... interesting.  It's hard to find fishable water, being without a car or a watercraft of any kind.  That leaves me with Valentine, which has minimal fishable shore.  So I've just kind of been messing around and getting back into the rhythm of using a fly rod.

I have thrown a spinning rod  a little bit.  Picked up a travel size rod from Dick's the other week and threw a spinnerbait on the end, but I lost the spinnerbait last night and will need to pick up another one.  I had a nice bass on that broke my ten pound test braid.  What can you do.

So I still haven't caught any sizeable fish this year - just been messing around with bluegills and crappies mostly. Looking forward to picking up a kayak.

Hoping to get back into the pattern of blogging a little more this year.  Later.

Pursuit of Steelhead

"I have fished through fishless days that I remember happily without regret."

- Roderick Haig-Brown

They say that no freshwater fish has as much fruitless time wasted on it by fly fishermen than a steelhead.

I must confess that those words bring me a measure of comfort after the recent lack of success on my latest outing for this elusive steelhead.

Following my move to Michigan, and in concordance with my enduring philosophy to take advantage of fishing opportunities wheresoever I may find them, I was able to wheedle a guided fly fishing trip on the Muskegon from my dad.  And so, a few days after setting foot on Kalamazoo ground, I found myself in a shallow river boat on the Muskegon River in Central Western Michigan, clutching a fly rod and choking down snowflakes the size of quarters.  The wind whipped the snow sideways and played hell with my fly line, my hands froze in claws around the cork handle, and it was 8:30 in the morning.

And I thought to myself, some crazy people out there don’t enjoy this sort of thing.

Ok, so I make fun.  I realize the complete and utter ridicule that I deserve for having such a skewed set of priorities and neglected desire for comfort, for having a passion for a hobby that is so unkind to me back.  I have to make fun of myself, because the alternative that remains is only to question my own rationality. 

After a few hours, the sun came out from the clouds and kissed our poor angler souls.  It was like a kiss from mom after you fall down and hurt your knee – no real practical or physical comfort, but enough psychological help to keep you hobbling along. 

The Muskegon is neither a particularly large or small river and is neither clear nor muddy.  On this day it was dark, shadowed by high banks with plentiful trees providing shade.  The weight on the end of my line ticked over the bottom, wiggling the rod tip and giving me endless hope and endless disappointment with imagined fish strikes.

And what I realized on the Muskegon is that I could fall in love with this land they call Trout Country, with the firs and the spruces and the eagle and the deer on the shore and the roiling pools pregnant with the promise of trout.  I could fall in love with these rivers that are so different from and so similar to the lakes in Minnesota that I already love.  These rivers that chuckle and whisper and hiss at me in tones loving and mocking and teasing that I could spend every day for the rest of my life on, like this dour man who guides me on the chase for steelhead. 

I had one strike in an eight hour day of fishing – possibly one of my worst days, success wise, that I’ve ever had.  But for one second I felt the tug of the life of the river, connected directly to me by that thick green line.  And before I overcame the surprise and the beauty and the gift of it, it was gone.

I met no steelhead this week.  I intercepted no fish from the lake, coursing with strength and motivated ‘m by instinct older than the river itself.  But I’m pretty sure that I’ll be back.

Inaction

A girl passed out today in one of my classes.

I should have seen it coming, to be honest.  She was talking to the professor about how she was going to the nurse's because she couldn't see very well, and she took a few steps away from him and swayed and collapsed in one motion.  I was the closest person to her in the room.

I was the closest person, and I did nothing.

Correction - I didn't just "do nothing".  I started to reach for my knife.  The quick disturbance and the crash and the sound all triggered my reflexes and before I knew it my hand was already in my pocket and I was looking for someone to protect myself from.

What  want to know is, what kind of person instinctively reaches for a weapon instead of jumping to help?  I let her crash to the ground - sure, it wasn't a conscious decision and it was just a split second reflex, but who has instincts that cause them to protect themselves instead of others?

Not a great person, that's who.  A selfish person and a paranoid person and a person that can't be counted on to act when the situation demands.

But the worst thing is that she's pregnant.

And I did nothing to catch her as she and her child crashed to the ground in front of me.

Why My Major

Something that I have said, and will continue to be able to say, is that anyone who knows me at all knows my enduring passion for fishing, be it fly fishing or ice fishing.

I can't really tell anyone when this started, or even if there was a real point when it did start.  John Green once wrote that falling in love is like falling asleep - "slowly at first, and then all at once".  Falling in love with fishing, as less romantic as that sounds, was much that way for me.  But while I can't tell you when it happened, I can tell you why it happened.

I fell in love with fishing because my father took me fishing.  Sure, I can tell you about how I love the scenery and the nature and being in tune with God and feeling the pure connection to the fish and everything else that I love about it.  And I have told you about that, and I probably will again.  But at the end of the day, my passion for fishing would never have started if I didn't have a dad that was willing to wake me up at the crack of dawn, lash the canoe to the minivan, and head off bleary-eyed into the day on his one day off per week.  

When I came to college, I did not know what I wanted to do with my life.  I was thinking about history, or maybe psychology, and environmental science.  Now, I have a double major in biology and environmental science, and I know that I can't see myself doing anything else in the world.

This planet faces a plethora of immense and almost unimaginable perils.  Pollution, acid rain, mining, logging, overfishing, poaching, overharvest - the list goes on and on.  I could say that I want to fix the world's problems, but to honest with you, that isn't it.

Because, frankly, I don't believe that we can fix the world's problems.  I don't believe that it is possible for humanity to make a herculean effort to coexist, shift all of our energy to some renewable and environmentally friendly system, and eliminate our system of greed and dysfunctionality.  I believe that this planet will implode and we will be as dust on the wind long before humanity ever fixes its problems.  And I don't really believe that my efforts will make that big of a difference on the long term scale.  

But I believe that maybe, I can buy the planet a little time.  Maybe I can keep these beautiful rivers and blue skies around for a little longer, long enough so that one day, my own son can go fishing with me in a canoe and even eat the fish he catches without worrying about mercury contamination and paper mill waste.  

Because even if the truth is that I will accomplish nothing, that this world will succumb despite all of my efforts, and that nobody will ever remember me, the truth is that not trying will only ever prove them right.

"And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light."