Fichigan

Small Stream Trout fishing in Michigan

Estate Sale Sculpture

Graceful Ballet by Joan Coderch

Trying to fill my days to trout season took a strange turn. I went to an estate sale last Thursday and saw the above porcelain sculpture. It had a 250 dollar sticker on it and I kept going back to look. I knew nothing about porcelain figures but it was so beautiful I was tempted. What stopped me was thinking maybe these are sold at Pier One and pretty common. What did I know? I finally tore myself away and left.

The next day I woke up and decided to go back. I stopped at the credit union and picked up a couple hundred in cash. It was still there and as luck would have it all items over 100 dollars were 25% off. Still, I knew nothing about it. I carefully lifted it up and saw a maker mark on the bottom, Lladro, Made in Spain, so I googled Lladro ballerina with my cell phone and found one for sale in a specialty shop in Florida for 1800 dollars. My instincts were good! The estate sale folks had the original box which was custom designed to protect it for shipping so the trip home was stress free.

Since buying it I have been looking up Lladro figurines online. This one is pretty special. It is a retired model “Graceful Ballet” with a gloss finish, 17 inches tall, by the artist Joan Coderch. The photo hardly does it justice. Now I am thinking I need to find an equally impressive Lladro because I have two daughters. I found a couple online that might compare but they cost thousands of dollars. My girls may have to draw straws.

Winter Reading

One way to get through winter (waiting for the next trout season) is catch up on reading. Here’s a few suggestions…

If you long for the days when American’s thought the British had a monopoly on crass self-important, egotistical men with power you should read Larry McMurtry’s Barrybender series starting with Sin Killer. A pompous English Lord drags his family and servants on a hunting trip to the old west at a time when the American Indians were not buying Manifest Destiny. Lord Barrybender gets chiseled down to size. At times hilarious, at times horrifying, an amazing read.

Not sure why it took so long for me to read Frank Herbert’s Dune. Considered the greatest science fiction ever written it is a very accessible human story in a world of spectacular imagination. Like a lot of science fiction publishers wanted nothing to do with it. First published by Chilton, the folks that bring you car repair manuals. It is my goal to find a Chilton copy of the novel at a garage or estate sale.. A true prize. Then read it all over again.

There is a new category of fiction that blends science fiction and fiction with in your face humanity. The Underground Railroad by Colson Whitehead should be required reading for all high school students. It follows a African American girl as she flees slavery. The depiction of slavery is one thing, how whites use her in a live museum diorama to show how the trip to America on a slave ship was a pleasant experience is quite another. You will learn, make that feel, more about black history. All in the confines of masterful storytelling.

IQ84 by Haruki Murakami is another work of fiction/science fiction that left me stunned. A young boy in middle school picks an outcast, unathletic girl to be on his team when no one else wants her. Their lives become entwined in a parallel world where no deed goes unanswered. One of those books that makes you rethink what we are doing here.

A book I kept putting off for a lifetime, The Diary of Anne Frank. I was afraid to read it knowing it was a true story with a tragic ending, a basis for nightmares. Instead it was uplifting to watch how a young girl could put aside the horror of captivity and continue her studies and writing without dwelling on her circumstance. When the diary stops you realize the true horror of the holocaust isn’t the tragic image of the death camp survivors, but rather the loss of of people that could have made a real difference in the world.

Craigslist Guitar

Ventura V-29 Guitar

The long cold winter that sandwiches Michigan’s trout season gets filled with a variety of activities including jamming with some buddies. Denny, a trout camp regular, has a pole barn set up on his property with a working wood stove and a PA system to handle scads of microphones. Denny has a wide reach of friends – many of them musicians like himself that jumped aboard the acoustic locomotive that swept the country in the sixties and seventies. Denny’s monthly jam sessions are a place to talk music, guitars, and play classics. There are no rules other than come prepared to share a few songs. It’s about the music but it also a nice place for show and tell if you have something to share. Hence this post about a craigslist guitar.

Last fall, about the time winter blew in, I was thinking about finding a cheap camp guitar. I have a very nice Martin and worry about theft when camping. It has never been a problem but figure there is some wisdom toting something less expensive around. So I started checking craigslist hoping to find a bargain. I purchased the Ventura V-29 in the above photo for $225.00 from an old gentleman with a living room full of guitars. He was selling off a few to refresh his collection. I sat down and played the Ventura and was struck by the workmanship, bass response, and pretty amazing volume.

Back at home I played it and played it some more but was distracted by a mid-range twang that had me second guessing the purchase. The guitar top had a slight bow that was throwing off intonation and it occurred to me a new bone saddle to replace the guitars (cheap) adjustable saddle might make a real difference to tone. It would take an expert Luthier to carve a new saddle to fit the oversize slot of the stock saddle – and correct the intonation – while still keeping the guitar’s action (playability) low. It would be a true engineering feat.

A search for a Luthier in West Michigan turned up North Coast Guitar Co located downtown Grand Rapids on Wealthy Street. Google reviews were all very positive so I took a chance and set up an appointment. The owner, Russel Olmsted, listened to the idea and was not intimidated by the challenge – recognizing it was a real challenge. A week later I picked up the guitar and was amazed by his work. The intonation was dead on and the sound opened up. $125 very well spent.

So I took the upgraded guitar to Denny’s jam session and sat between Denny playing a Martin HD28 and Corky who plays a high end Taylor. My $225 dollar guitar with the new $125 dollar saddle held it’s own in such esteemed company. The only problem now is I don’t want to take this guitar camping. I’m afraid it might get stolen.

Mail Order Rockets

If you’ve ever scoped the back pages of a comic book from the sixties you’ve seen ads for products that appeal to young boys:  X-ray specs, 1001 insults for everyday use, two-headed nickles, Joe Atlas body building so you can kick the butt of the bully that stole your girlfriend. The list is extensive and there was something for every boy. Including my little brother.

Feral was the engineer and physicist of the family by age ten. If paper route money wasn’t going for comic books it was used to test the laws of physics and good sense. Explosives were of great interest including cannons and rifles. Small combustion engines. By age ten he had a better understanding of how most things work than most men I know at age sixty. When an ad for rocket engines showed up in the back of a Batman comic he was on it like John Glen.

We had just moved into a small upstairs apartment in a very old neighborhood. The houses sat right next to each other except where a driveway might flow to a garage behind a house. A house fire on the block would likely take the whole block in an hour. Not urban planning at its best. My divorced mother was raising three boys and a daughter while completing her education. We were often left alone to find our own excitement.

Feral watched the mailbox like a hawk until his package arrived. The rocket engines, two included, looked like CO2 cartridges used in high powered BB guns. A flash pan was suspended below the cartridge by a wire frame. The rocket scientist needed to fill the pan with lighter fluid or some other flammable substance and light it to ignite the rocket engine. Once the cartridge reached a certain temperature the rocket engine ignited which would then propel anything it was attached to forward. The rocket could not be pointed vertically to the stars, but rather horizontal to the earth else the flash pan fluid would spill out.

We were suspicious about whether they really worked. Feral asked a neighbor boy, Buddy, if we could clamp a rocket in a vice in his dad’s garage. The garage was about fifty years old and made of wood that was dry as paper. The vice was bolted to a bench a few feet from the double swing-out door. On a side note, I had made the mistake of mentioning the rocket project to my mother, and she was concerned, but not enough to kill the project.

We clamped the rocket in the vice and filled the flash pan with gasoline and touched her off. And waited. Flames licked the rocket cylinder for maybe a minute while we shook our heads, sure it was a hoax. Then magic – a slow roar as flames shot out of the rocket cylinder about 4 feet stopping just inches from the tinderbox garage door. Our enthusiasm was dampened somewhat by the realization we could burn down the garage. Buddy freaked out of course. I opened the garage door so it wouldn’t catch fire and we waited for the flames to die out. There is no way to turn off the rocket. It lasted several minutes and Feral was satisfied with the test.

Afterwards I went back home, next door, to our upstairs apartment and found my mother in the living room where she was crouched down refinishing a piece of wood furniture. As a practical but somewhat thoughtless joke I pretended I burned my hand. My mother jumped up, grabbed my hands, turned them over, turned them over again, and looked in my eyes. Then she slapped me so hard I may have seen stars. I received the “don’t cry wolf ” lecture after she cooled off, about a year later. (This is the only know instance of my mom hitting one of her kids.)  In my defense, my sad humor may have been caused by the nervous underlying realization we could have burned down the whole neighborhood.

Feral still had the second rocket engine. He related this story to me years later. He mounted the rocket on the top of a plastic model car. One with axles and wheels that rolled well. He and a friend took it out in the street, lit the engine, and watched it take off at rocket speed right down the middle of the street. Then it veered to the right and slid under someone’s parked car where it lodged against the curb with the rocket engine still burning. This rocket was identical to the first so flames were shooting out four feet. I understand there was some panic involved this time also since automobile gas tanks and rocket flames do not co-exist well.

Again, there was not much Feral could do. No off switch on a rocket engine. I would need to confirm this but I believe he and his buddy didn’t wait around to see what happened next. They were, of course, just kids.

Burnt Clutch Camp

Section 4 lake

For a while there Feral Tweed, Natch and I set up remote camps in the Pigeon River State Game area which had the advantage of avoiding campground fees of 15 dollars a night, which adds up quickly into real money if we camped for several days. I mean, that could be beer money. We found some great spots to camp off old two tracks including one on Grass Lake Road near Section 4 Lake, an off the beaten path round bowl of a lake that in theory holds fish. The camp spot was open and large enough for several tents and room to park a couple vehicles.

Every year I sent out emails, with a map, to people I thought might come up and this always included Mike and Denny. Mike had a pop-up tent camper, an early model with the two slide out beds and a hand crank system to lift the roof. Leveling the camper was always a chore. Mike carried some special boards to put under the jacks to make things easier but no matter where he set up true level was a fleeting idea. Mike and Denny usually camped at a state forest campground, often at the Pigeon River campground on the main blacktop coming in from Vanderbilt. So we were surprised to see Mike’s Subaru wagon hauling his pop-up camper to our remote spot.

The camp area is elevated above the road grade a few feet so the entrance had a small hill. Mike surveyed the camp and decided to back the pop-up trailer in which made sense since it would allow him to guide the trailer into a somewhat level spot and be able to pull out easily. Mike pulled up past the entrance, cut the wheel and we all watched as the trailer made the appropriate angle into the entrance and edge up the small hill. Then stop. We could hear the engine revving so stopping made no sense. Pretty soon smoke started pouring out from under the car. Mike was riding the clutch unaware of what was happening. We observers started exchanging glances and I think it was Feral that shouted for Mike to hold it. Meanwhile Mike had done a pretty good job of fogging the camp area for mosquitoes.

To us onlookers it was surreal. Mike had a long history of driving stick-shifts. It seemed like he was content to burn up the clutch. He had to know he wasn’t moving. When he finally cut the engine the damage had been done. Not to the car, to Mike. A man can’t make a spectacle at trout camp and go unpunished. The jokes about driving and naming the camp spot after the event were almost routine starting at beer o’clock. I wish I could say Mike was gracious and self-deprecating about the affair but instead he blamed Feral and I which made it even funnier. I mean, how was it our fault? To our disbelief he said we picked the spot knowing he would burn up his clutch.

When we saw he was so touchy about it we backed off. Honest. If it was anyone else, me for instance, it would still be on the table. Out of respect for Mike we buried the thing quickly. As a footnote, Mike and Denny didn’t camp near us for years after that. I don’t know if this played a part in their decision but from then on we always made a special point of driving over to “their camp” to say hi and hang out a bit. I am not sure why I am writing this post but if anything bad happens to me in the next few days in may involve a curse from the grave. For the record, if I ever burn out a clutch at trout camp you won’t read about it here.

Fall Trout Camp 2018

Natch fishing backwards

If there’s a story about trout closer 2018 it’s that we needed cold weather to get fish moving up the trout streams and it happened, at least on the Pigeon River. Feral and I fished the Sturgeon twice, saw one brown trout about 18 inches and a couple small ones and that was it. Feral was so discouraged he went bird hunting (partridge) for a good part of the closer. Lots of long walks with a vintage Montgomery Wards 20 gauge pump he picked up somewhere for two and a quarter. He was determined to add a couple birds to our annual trout dinner. Didn’t work, scarce birds, but fortunately Natch and I went over to the Pigeon River where we found some pretty good fishing.

First trip, funny story. Natch and I were on a sandy stretch of the Pigeon and he caught a nice brown about 16 inches. I took the lead and caught one 19 inches. He took the lead and stopped at a pool too deep to wade and told me to make a few cast with my lure figuring maybe a trout might like what I was throwing. So, standing behind me, he made a long cast back downstream to where we had just fished. See the photo above. 21 inch male hook-jawed brown. Now that I think about it, that story isn’t so funny. Two days later I caught another brown about 19 inches on a different stretch of the Pigeon and Natch pulled out another 21 incher. That’s a disturbing trend.

Luther with 19 inch brown trout

Denny came up for one night. We were happy to see him. That was last Friday and it started raining that evening about the time we started thinking campfire for warmth. I had pitched a screen tent in case of rain so we set up lawn chairs in there and drank beer to get warm. Natch brought some home brew whiskey kind of thing which I tried and liked but held off. Natch is ten years younger and has an iron stomach. I am usually surprised by the variety of things he can mix down there. Denny headed home Saturday. I think he’s been too accustomed to camping in a heated trailer with Mike, our departed and missed brother.

I fished a second stretch of the Pigeon with Natch on Saturday. We jumped in the river off the Shingle Mill pathway and fished upstream to the Elk Hill Equestrian Campground. It was a long and treacherous journey that produced a couple fish (my second 19 incher) but it was brutal walk back to the car across low ground with tight saplings and heavy grass, and a hill made for mountain climbers. If we ever try that again we will be spotting a car at the campground. Lesson learned.

Natch suits up, just off the Shingle Mill Pathway

Feral picking out a good lure on the Sturgeon

On Sunday Feral said he was bird hunting again so Natch and I decided to fish another stretch together. So far we had been catching plenty of fish and there was one more section of the Pigeon we were thinking about, with some dread. Downstream from Tin Bridge. There’s no fisherman’s path along the river. You bust your way through saplings and pines and tall grass that hides stumps designed to trip you up or put holes in your waders. The grass is waist deep and woven so tight you tear grass when walking through it. By the time we made it downstream to a bend that looked promising we had to drink half a bottle of water and eat a nut trail mix snack just to see straight.

Natch spent part of the walk in figuring out how to get me out if I were to have a heart attack. The answer: tie two logs together and lay me on top, push me off, and hope I float down to the next campground. No real chance of me making it but I appreciate the thought. Seriously, if you get hurt back in there it’s time to make peace with the world.

Natch’s second 21 inch brown

We hadn’t fished but one or two bends before Natch hooked up with another decent fish. It came from under a grassy bank. From then on I was determined to catch something over 21 but it never happened. I did catch a nice rainbow, about 16 inches. It was surprising because brown trout seem to take over and dominate streams. I should mention while Natch and I fished Tin Bridge, Feral fished the Pigeon where it crosses Sturgeon Valley Road and pulled out a 16 inch brook trout. So there you go, exceptions to the rule.

Luther with a Rainbow

Natch and I were gone so long Feral decided to drive over to Tin Bridge and look for us. We were a couple hundred yards downstream of the bridge when I heard a whistle. Knew right off it was Feral. He joined us and took the lead.

Luther and Feral below Tin Bridge

Natch stayed back and took some photos. I was hoping to see Feral catch a really good brown – this was it, the end of the season, last stretch. Didn’t happen but the closer was everything we could have imagined. Productive fishing, some great campfires (Natch brought a chainsaw), a fish dinner cooked up with cajun fish mix, beer, fall colors getting traction. Good conversation, lots of humor. Doesn’t get any better.

New “Songs” tab

I’ve added a new tab at the top of the page for songs which may or may not have anything to do with trout fishing although the first song has a lot to do with it. I re-wrote lyrics to the old classic song Ghost Riders, laid down some guitar and vocals with free software and convinced Feral to lay down some lead with his electric mandolin (after we polished off a twelve pack). Surprisingly coherent considering. Feral triple picks the mandolin like a mad man. Will add other songs over time.

Trout Fisherman wins Bass Tournament

Luther heads to Reeds lake

If you read the post “My short history of Bass Tournaments ” posted in October of 2011 you’ll see I have some bass tournament experience. In the late 1980’s a neighbor, Dave Hedburg, invited me to fish a few tournaments and taught me plastic worming. He eventually partnered up with a semi-pro named Dick Courser but by then I was starting to enjoy competitive fishing. So I started fishing open tournaments, alone, with a 12 foot aluminum boat, a 1950’s Minnkota trolling motor and an ice chest live well. And did OK. But that was a long time ago. I went back to my roots, trout fishing, which I’ve have been doing since age 10.  I am good at trout fishing small streams. Lake fishing is a different animal.

Mid-Week Therapy – Grand Rapids Division of West Michigan Bass held another tournament last night at Reeds Lake. I fished there a couple weeks ago and did a post (scroll down to see it). Met some great people and had a blast, but caught only one keeper which I even hated to mention because Reed’s Lake has a lot of bass, including some lunkers. Fast Forward to yesterday.

I always figure everyone has a shot at big bass. Winning the tournament is a different story. Many teams in this division bring in 5 fish bags consistently. My goal for the tournament was two keepers, hopefully one of those a big bass.

Right away, things started happening. One hour into the tournament I had 5 fish including one I guessed at 4 to 5 lbs. I have two live wells in the boat, and only one of those works but the pump is so noisy I brought a bucket to keep refreshing the water. I put the big bass in the forward live well figuring if I caught another good one it would be easier to figure out which bass to cull from the rear live well. Every ten minutes I filled the bucket and poured it into each live well – I wanted these bass healthy and weigh-in was a long ways off.

I wormed the docks and fished the flats out past Rose’s restaurant. Fishing alone is a two-sided coin. A partner can bring in some fish, but if you are alone you can move at your own speed, in my case painfully slow, with plastic worms (Culprits and Berkeley Power Worms). Normally you can feel a tap as the worm drops but that was the exception, not the rule. Most fish were caught letting the worm sit on the bottom and tightening the rod just enough to see if anything was happening. Spooky fish, is all I can figure.

So two hours to go and the search was on for bigger bass (to cull the 14/15 inchers in the rear live well). And the bites slowed down. It took an hour to get another one, but it was huge, over five pounds. I culled the smallest fish and put this in the front live well with the other nice one. Then I lost a really good bass which was a good lesson. It went straight up and jumped out of the water, shaking off the hook. From then on I held the rod tip down in the water and reeled hard to keep the fish from jumping.

Fifteen minutes to weigh-in I was fishing the docks on the park side and felt something touch the worm. I couldn’t believe it, another huge bass. I culled a smallest bass and added this one. Plenty of time to park the boat by the ramp.

I weighed in right away. I grabbed what I thought was the biggest bass and it weighed 5.490 lbs. Then I pulled the other 2 lunkers out of the weigh-in bag and laid them on the ground in order to make sure the one weighed was the largest. It was, but it was close. The total five fish bag weighed 19.220 lbs. Pinch me. I never imagined a haul like this. And I forgot my camera!

Screen capture, tournament results

So what explains the difference between the two Reeds lake tournaments? There was another tournament there on Monday and maybe, just maybe, the fish released from that tournament were still holding in the general area. Not to discount the win, it took some skill and luck, but that might explain it… My best night of bass fishing ever.

Jordan Lake

COTM -South (Case of the Mondays) Tournament Directors

It was one of those perfect nights to be out fishing a bass tournament. Cloudy sky, calm water, good people. I didn’t imagine for a second I had much chance of winning the tournament, but winning big bass is always possible. Big bass pays about $60 depending on how many boats. There were eighteen boats entered. Eighteen experienced teams that know the lake. For my part, fishing alone, I figured just relax, experiment a bit, try some lures that I know catch bass. Find something that works.

First thing I noticed was it didn’t look like Jordan Lake. Someone had moved the boat launch a quarter mile west so nothing looked familiar. At take-off I motored east along the north shore and figured out what happened. I wasn’t going crazy after all.

I fished the north shore, not far from the boat launch, concentrating on some emerging vegetation in murky water. I tried a variety of lures including a spinner bait, a pop-r, a rattletrap, a jig and finally had a nibble on a culprit worm. It took 40 minutes to catch the first fish which was under size (bass have to be 14 inches). I kept tossing the culprit which has a lot of swimming action, but eventually traded that for a Berkely powerworm, which has swimming action but adds scent. I boated three more bass on the powerworm but only one was a keeper, about fifteen inches. Then the fishing died. Had another tap on a worm but didn’t connect. If there is good news, I feel like my worming skills are back up to speed.

With one small fish I started thinking about my overall chances, not a good thing. I headed back to the dock at about 9:00 (tournament ran until 9:15). At Reeds Lake last week I waited until everyone else had trailered their boats before loading up myself, mainly because a one-man trailer loading process is tricky and feels like it is taking forever, while others wait. So at Jordan I trailered the boat about 10 minutes early, then released my one keeper bass. I know, I should have weighed in. At least I wouldn’t be listed on the WMB bass website as last place. In the future – no more wimping out! I could have finished as high as 12th place. An improvement over Reed lake.

A note to trout fishing readers – this is a fun diversion, more trout stories soon. If we could just get some serious rain…

Reeds Lake Bass Tournament

It’s been decades since I fished a bass tournament so it is safe to day I’m not up on the latest lures and techniques. As a much older guy without a workout routine another concern was stamina. Don’t laugh – 3.5 hours of standing and guiding a boat with a foot pedal while fishing is not easy. A third concern was backing my bass boat down the ramp without destroying my neck. So I had a couple reservations but signed up anyway.

West Michigan Bass, a local club, has tournaments all over west Michigan. Week nights and weekends. If you are a member ($40/yr) you can fish any of the tournaments. You can also join/fish a division which has lakes in your local area. It is all well organized. Their website westmichiganbass dot com automates membership and explains the rules, and posts the results of tournaments next day. Check out their website – it is really well done.

So last night I fished a Reeds Lake tournament. Reeds lake is located in the middle of East Grand Rapids and has a nice public park. There’s no beach but residents have a nice spot to just relax and enjoy the lake. The public boat launch does not include parking so you need to launch your boat then find a spot on the street for your vehicle and trailer. I arrived early and it was not hard to find a parking spot.

I received a few comments when I launched my 1980 Nissan bass boat. (In the foreground of the top photo). I think the boat is older than most of my competitors and may have been a novelty to them. The boat still looks good and is fully functional. I did carry a bucket, though, in case the live well pump failed. It did, glad I had the bucket.

I started out fishing a cluster dock in front of Rose’s Restaurant. I caught a small fish, just under the size limit and tossed it back. Then fished a weedy flat, more docks, then returned to Rose’s. I never fired up my 90HP Nissan outboard, but should have, just to clean out the cobwebs. I caught one keeper. 2.6 lbs or so, and weighed in at the scales as proof I didn’t get skunked, and actually finished the tournament. The West Michigan Bass website this morning shows: L. Rude placing 14th out of 18 boats in the “Midweek Therapy – Grand Rapids – Evenings” division. I actually weighed in more bass than four 2-man teams so there is some small consolation in that.

I’m a bit sore this morning but feel good about getting out there and competing. WMB ran a great tournament – so a sincere thanks to the guys that organized and ran the sign-up and weigh-in. It couldn’t have been more professional. I have my eye on a Jordan Lake tournament coming up, been years, but that is another great West Michigan bass lake. May go trout fishing in the mean time, more good exercise and a trout dinner reward.

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