Fichigan

Small Stream Trout fishing in Michigan

Archive for the category “Survival”

Hess Lake

The other guys

Feral made a pitch to ice fish on Hess Lake last Sunday and I blame myself. If I hadn’t foolishly mentioned ice fishing in the previous post I could have done something more constructive like planting corn early. The mere mention of Hess Lake brought back memories from 20 years ago and slaying crappies – one after another. Can a lake change in twenty years?

Feral set the meeting time for 8:00 AM and I had to imagine his other fishing buddy, Chuck, a lake expert, shaking his head. Crappies, if I remember right, bite at night, in the dark. On the other hand, if we could find them, and drop minnows into their midst, it could be workable. My job was to pick up some pike minnows for tip-ups, Chuck and Feral would get wax worms and crappie minnows. I found a bait shop open in downtown Newago at 7:30, bought half a dozen pike minnows and mentioned Hess Lake to the store owner. Reading his expression was difficult, but not impossible. He had just sold me six pike minnows and now he didn’t want to be discouraging.  I mentioned crappies and pike. He struggled to think of something good to say.  I said I fished Hess lake a long time ago.  He said Hess was a great crappie lake twenty years ago. I knew he wasn’t lying.

Feral, Chuck and I had all found the same internet post about where to fish. Four hundred yards out from the boat landing, veer right. As it happens, two other ice fishermen headed out on the ice minutes ahead of us and it appeared they read the same post. Hess Lake is 755 acres, huge, so if these guys turned around, it probably seemed like we were following them. We ended up on the same acre, OK, 1/4 acre, but they were cool about it, even talkative, which is always a good thing.

If you can imagine 755 acres of ice and a total of five guys fishing on a Sunday morning you may understand a reality that slowly dawned on the five guys.

It actually started well, one of the other guys pulled out a crappie right away, within seconds of dropping a line. Great, right? Feral and I set out a few tip-ups for pike (one fish equals a whole meal!) and then started working on finding crappies, bouncing from hole to hole. I caught one decent crappie, 9 inches, and Chuck caught another. Not much shouting from the other guys but they were toughing it out. Tiny perch were biting, trending smaller as the hours went by, whereby the smallest perch might have brought some honor if we would have pre-thought having a smallest fish contest.

Chuck with a small mess of crappies

Luther scores big

About four hours in I started thinking about what I might put in a fichigan post. One idea was getting a ticket for loitering on Hess Lake. That had possibilities, DNR watching us with binoculars and wondering what we were doing out there. And not really wanting to walk the 400 yards to see if there was evidence of fishing (an actual fish).


Feral, ice dancing

When we finally decided to call it the other guys stopped over to chat and commiserate. I mentioned fichigan, posting a photo of them, and then blaming them for the fishing. That got a laugh. I give them a lot of credit: as we were leaving they set up some ice tents. Fours hours of tough fishing and they were just getting started. Sometimes the fishing does a one-eighty so it is possible they did OK. Really.

Cold Snap

Michigan has a long gap between the last day of regular trout season and the start of the next. I usually turn to indoor hobbies when winter arrives though Feral and I have ice fished a couple times over the last few year. Once on Leverentz Lake with his buddy Chuck, an expert on lake fishing, ice of not. A few days ago I tried to paint Feral and Chuck from a photo but my attempt at watercolor turned somewhat muddy from over painting. I may try painting this again in hopes of doing a better job. I will say this about the painting – it looks cold out there and it was. Feral and I set up tip-ups for pike and Chuck concentrated on panfish and perch. Chuck caught a mixed dozen. Feral and I got zip but enjoyed watching Chuck work his magic.

Feral and I used to write letters back and forth in the winter, snail mail, hyping the distant trout season. We’d add a photo or two from the previous season. Fun getting a real letter instead of email. I may start that up again. If he reads this post I may get an invite to ice fish, ideally on a sunny day with temperatures more toward freezing rather than the zero temps we have now. A nice mess of bluegills, crappies or perch would taste pretty good about now. A trout dinner is along way off.

The Tick

Last summer after a trip to a local trout stream I found a tick buried in my leg. I picked him off but a day or two later while showering I felt a tiny bump while washing my bottom. I figured I missed a tick and tried to see in the bathroom mirror but could not twist my body enough. I took a hand mirror and tried to double mirror the area but that was not working either. Then I remembered my camera phone! I took a photo and zoomed in and yikes! My immediate thought was “this is a photo no man should ever have to see.” Then I thought: I should send this to my wife, see if she recognizes this part of my anatomy. Fun right? I was tempted but thought better of it and decided not to hit the send button.

About two hours later my wife arrived home from work and went upstairs to change out of her work clothes. She came back downstairs wearing an outfit guaranteed to stop cold any possible thought of intimacy. I can only describe it as the cardboard box of woman fashion – absolutely no indication whatsoever of womanly curves and attractions.  At first I thought “what is going on.” Then I thought, “oh oh, I must have sent her that photo.”

It didn’t come up in conversation but later on it occurred to me there may be a huge market for woman’s “don’t even think about it” clothing. Hows this: A boxy sweatshirt with an electric carving knife emblazoned on the front. Stovepipe pants made of canvas ( lined with soft felt for comfort). House slippers resembling rhino feet. A warm snood with spiky hair curlers. I’d get the message. Might be a turn-on to some guys though.

Mike

I have held off doing a post about Mike, one of the trout camp regulars, mainly because he is more of a philosopher than a fisherman. After the sun sets, around the campfire, Mike is the guy with astute observations and philosophical ideas about the world. We try not to hold that against him. I am not saying he is not a great fisherman, of the people I fish with he is maybe the best underhand flip caster and my understanding is that his biggest brown trout surpasses my own, which I also try not to hold against him.

At some dark point in his life he started showing up at trout camp with golf clubs. Or a sketch pad on which he would draw Botticelli nudes. He briefly tried bass guitar, harmonica, and bongos but traveled to a different drum so it comes as a surprise he felt uncomfortable jamming with Rock Bottom and the Out of Tuner’s, the original “different drum” trout camp jam band.

I find myself revisiting some of the camping trips and stretches of trout water Mike and I fished together. Back when the steelhead were first introduced to Michigan streams Jake Lucas, our grandfather, took us on weekend trips to the Little Manistee / Indian Club in the spring. According to the the legend on the back of the photo below, Mike and I were good for a seven pounder each, Jake caught two eight pounders. Sound fishy?

Thinking back, seems like Mike was always Jake’s most apt pupil. And Mike was tough. He would go ice fishing or smelt dipping with Jake, deer hunting, Mike was game for whatever came up. And no complaints, which was a hit with grandpa.

I recall a trip up to the Pine River in Lake County, just Mike and I, whereby he waded without waders on a cold day that turned miserable. We fished upstream from the canoe landing off Edgetts Road. I was bundled up pretty good but cold rain started coming down. I kept asking Mike about heading back and finally he agreed. He had to be freezing! We decided to cut across country through some bad brush fraught with nettles and various prickers and by the time we got to the vehicle he was scraped up good but no problem. No complaints. So that is how I think about Mike, whether he is sketching a nude, is buried in a book, talking philosophy, or taking an afternoon nap. He’s tough. He paid his dues. He doesn’t have to prove anything at trout camp.

Fall Trout Camp 2017

In early September I start googling weather predictions for Vanderbilt, Michigan in hopes of cold weather for the trout closer, with rain. Maybe I jinxed it. This may go on record as the hottest September ever with temps in the 90’s. Global warming? Camping was tough. The only way to cool off was diving in Pickerel lake. Or setting up a lawn chair right in the water. Feral devised a minnow trap so we had bait for fishing. Pickerel lake has bass, bluegill, perch, and planted rainbow trout. We caught bass and perch, but minnows are a top bait for most everything.

Minnow trap from a gallon water jug

We did catch a few stream trout. Natch caught a couple dinner size browns, Feral maybe no, I caught a small brown and a fat rainbow about 17 inches. We worked the streams early AM but that didn’t help much. Normally big brown trout come up the Sturgeon and Pigeon rivers in the late fall to spawn… but it takes cold weather and rain.

Luther with a rainbow trout

Natch took “most bass” honors

Feral tried partridge hunting with his 22 but failed to see any on a 5 mile hike down the road and around the lake. He later commented that he should have taken two beers instead of his 22, he would have shot just as many.

Feral strikes a classic hunter pose

We stayed up pretty late every night and had a couple good guitar/mandolin/bongo jams. I learned a new song on guitar for the closer, “Everybody wants to rule the world.” Somehow the lyrics seem fitting for the political chaos going on, even though the words are pretty abstract. Feral did some impressive triple picking on the mandolin. Natch provided some rhythm which was impressive too, considering he was going back and forth drinking bottled White Russians and Bud Light all night. It may have been a political statement whereby he effectively diluted USSR influence on US politics. Regardless, the man has an iron stomach.

We packed up on Monday, a day ahead of schedule. We couldn’t face another afternoon of the blistering heat!

 

 

Free Tent, Campsite 2, Leverentz Lake

Big Leverentz campground was full except for a tiny site sandwiched between others and campsite 2 which overlooks the parking area but offers some sense of remoteness, like the corner table in a restaurant. I brought a guitar and a mandolin and when Feral and I camp there’s a pretty good chance we’ll knock down a few beers and jam. Having a remote spot is good since there’s less chance we’ll disturb other campers. Conversely, other campers sometimes stop by to listen and sometimes we get surprised by very talented musicians that want to jam.

I stopped at a garage sale earlier in the week and found a pretty nice camp cot for ten bucks. I have one already so I called Feral to see if he was interested. He was so when I packed for the trip I grabbed an old tent large enough for two cots so he could try it out. The tent is made from thin nylon material and I had a vague recollection it may not be good in the rain so I checked the weather report before heading north. Weather dot com said 20% chance of rain and which I took to mean a 20% chance of rain rather than rain 20% of the time.

The fishing on Levernetz was good, pike and bass. Late afternoon it clouded up and around six some light rain went through. Feral and I set up a tarp between trees to provide a shelter for our camp chairs. The rain stopped and we cooked some hot dogs over charcoal to get something warm in our bellies. Beer was good, and we had plenty. We jammed till about midnight and from this high point on a hill we could see other campfires die out as we delved deeper and deeper into our catalog of obscure folk and rock songs. Then the rain hit. We packed up the instruments and ran for the tent.

My pillows were wet and I had a small puddle in the middle of my sleeping bag. This must have been from the earlier rain. Not a good sign since it was now pouring. Feral fared slightly better. The top corner of his bag was damp but the main body was dry. A puddle had formed near the door so we had to climb on to the cots and remove our boots carefully. I managed to get comfortable because one half of one pillow was dry. I fell asleep but woke up an hour or two later because the beer pressure was rising. My left arm was soaked which explained why I was a bit cold. I went out to find a tree and when I returned I lifted the sagging bulges from inside the tent and was rewarded by the ploosh sound of water cascading over the tent walls.

I woke up at 7:00 and was not shy about getting up (and letting Feral sleep in). He heard me rustle and asked if it was time to get up. Yes. Feral had a tough night. Water dripped constantly on his head. The rain had stopped and we had planned to break camp early as we both had things planned for Labor day. So we packed up quick. If you are fast there is a nice cabin tent at campsite 2, Leverentz Lake that is just the thing in dry weather.

Gold in Them Thar Streams

I thought Feral was the champion of get rich schemes until Natch showed up at trout camp with gold panning equipment. Theory has it there is gold in all Michigan streams. Who’s theory, I don’t know, but we gave it a try knowing any glittering specks found on the bottom of a pan were worth $1244.00 per ounce, or about two cents a speck.

Natch dug a bucket of gravel out of a stream famous for trout. We knew from years of experience that trout like gold lures so it stands to reason that if trout like the color gold, the river probably had some. I watched from the bank as Natch filled a five gallon bucket with gravel and tried to carry it out of the stream. Not sure what the bucket weighed but the steam water level rose a notch up his waders with every step. Physically, Natch was a foot shorter by the time he reached the bank, and a good eighteen inches shorter by the time he reached the truck. I offered to help lift the bucket up to the truck bed but thankfully he was too much of a man to accept my offer.

We took the bucket back to our camp at Leverentz Lake and he didn’t mention panning for two days, or about the time it took to spring back to his normal height. To sluice gold you need some clean water so he backed his truck down the boat landing. Natch’s panning kit had three pans of various sizes and he passed them out and gave us some instruction for use. He showed us how to whirl water so the gold chunks would get caught on the pan’s built in ledges while the worthless rocky stuff flew out the sides. He made it look simple but for some reason all of my gold must have went out the sides with the worthless stuff. After one pan the novelty started wearing off.

Feral seemed like he was catching on, developing a rhythm and masterly technique. He called us over to view his pan. I could see a faint line of black sand at the bottom edge of the pan but nothing shiny. The reason he was excited was he was sure he was doing it right and if there had been any gold in the pan it would surly be laying right in the midst of the black sand. Uh huh, ok.

Feral lasted longer than I, but it was Natch who was determined, by sheer will, to find gold. He slowly emptied the 5 gallon bucket of rocks and gravel and when there wasn’t any more sludge to filter he lifted that bucket like it weighed a feather and put it right back in the truck. In retrospect, I am not sure if his main goal was empty the darn bucket or find gold, but I would not be surprised if he’s carrying a small vial of gold next time we meet.

Folks that Share Their Bluegills

Chuck and Rita on Shelly Lake

Chuck and Rita on Shelly Lake

There’s two kinds of people that share bluegills. The ones trying to get out of cleaning some because they didn’t catch enough for a mess (um me?) and then there are the wonderful people that open a bag of fillets, start cooking, and invite their friends. Feral and I lucked out last night up at Little Leverentz.

I had fished once with Chuck Raison on Leverentz and met his wife his Rita once also, but yesterday it turned into guided adventure fishing two new lakes for Feral and I, topped off with a gourmet meal: deep fried cajun batter bluegills, butter fried wild mushrooms and fresh corn.

gourmet dinner

Feral said Rita was a cook and that was an understatement. We almost didn’t have fish with the meal because we started eating them the minute they came out of the fryer. I mentioned in a earlier post that Chuck is a lake expert, which means two things – being adventurous enough to find new lakes and knowing what to do when you get there. So our fish dinner was compliments of his and her expertise.

Chuck with a bluegill

Chuck with a bluegill

We started the day fishing a small pond down by Brohman which had small gills and soon left there to fish Shelly lake, also near Brohman. This lake is a hidden treasure with nice campsites and I can see Feral and I hitting this lake for over-nighters in the future. Lots of bass and bluegill. It was the middle of the day however and the sun was taking its toll on us so we headed back toward Baldwin to camp and to fish Little Leverentz. It gave me a chance to grill chuck on some of his fishing tactics and of course then there was the cook out. Thanks from Feral and Luther!

Sleeping with the Fishes

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There’s a hiking trail at the end of my street that loops around through some woods and if the weather is decent I get some exercise with a long walk. The woods have aspen, maple, lots of oak and even some sycamore. So it’s a nice walk and I stop sometimes to enjoy the view. This year the weather is all messed up with December temperatures in the fifties here in Michigan so I am getting some extra walking in. The leaves are down of course and the landscape is gray and visibility has opened up. On my walk yesterday I spotted a fish hanging from a tree about 25 yards off the trail.

It didn’t make any sense of course. My first thought was someone is sending a message. I have been watching Dexter re-runs on Netflix and killers leaving calling cards is apparently common. Not to mention the mafia which I learned about by watching the Sopranos. So looking at the fish hanging from the tree I was hesitant about approaching it. On the other hand I didn’t want to call the police since it could be a child’s prank. I decided to investigate which I felt was my duty as a human being. As I got closer I could see it looked like one of those talking rubber bass that were popular with sportsmen a few years back. I half expected it to start talking as I walked up but could see a hook in it’s mouth holding it shut. I backed away and continued my walk but on the next loop I stopped again and decided I had better investigate further.

When I turned the fish over I could see the side was slit open and there was something stuck inside. It was a plastic pill bottle and it looked like a note inside the bottle. So I pulled out the bottle and read the note. Go Fish was the header and below it were several signatures and dates. I had stumbled on a Geo-cache. If you are not familiar with the term, there is a sport where folks hide treasures and post GPS coordinates. Geo-cache hunters look up coordinates online and go find the treasures. Geo-caching is a harmless fun sport but I found myself a little disappointed the fish didn’t start talking, possibly spouting out an eerie encrypted message I would need to decipher using all of the detective skills I’ve picked up watching TV.

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The Fisherman’s Theory of Relativity

Relativity

Einstein’s theory of relativity states “there is no one true movement or frame of reference when speaking of events of the world.” A popular example is a man sitting on a cliff watches a cruise ship motor by at 20 miles per hour and on the deck a man rolls a bowling ball toward the bow at 20 miles per hour. To the man on the cliff the ball moves forward at 40 mile per hour but for the men on the ship it only moves at 20. So movements are relative.

That’s all well and good but that leaves the rest of us, especially fishermen, wondering just what is the practical application? Let’s just say I was able to get Feral to participate in a similar experiment whereby I have him overhand cast a #13 Rapala Floater forward at 50 miles an hour while standing on the bow of my bass boat also traveling 50 miles per hour. In the interest of science I’ll hunker down below the plexiglass windshield to lessen the drag co-efficient. I theorize that for approximately five seconds – time will literally stand still for the the lure, in effect actual time travel, then suddenly reappear a moment before Feral screams. A second theory postulates that a man standing on a dock watching this unfold would find it hysterical.

I ‘m not sure Feral would willingly participate so I have come up with a second experiment involving cannons of which Feral has some expertise. In this experiment a man (Feral) is shot out of a cannon mounted on the front of my bass boat. I will need to confirm human velocity from cannons and match the speed of the boat but the idea is we synchronize our watches before Feral slides down the cannon barrel. My theory is that when I discharge the cannon – time will literally stand still for Feral, i.e. Time Travel, for about five seconds as he travels forward at the same speed as the boat. I theorize also I will need to repair the boat’s plexiglass windshield unless he hangs up on the cannon proper, after which, the real excitement begins. If his watch was not destroyed in the blast or subsequent reentry into earth time proper and my theory is correct, his watch will be ticking five seconds behind mine and we will have concluded the first of many fun filled time-travel experiments. And that of course will be “step one” in our quest to find a single unifying theory of the universe.

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