Frieze

The dead eye of a salmon stares up at me, as if to say "I've served my purpose here, what's yours?"

The answer is, I don't know.  I've fished this spot a lot lately, as it's some of the only ice-free water nearby, but the water is so low and clear as to nearly rule out the possibility of it holding steelhead, or at least where they would be reachable.

The sky and landscape are monotone and monolithic, carved from a single piece of gray flowing stone.  Even the cedars have muted their green, embarrassed to show their color when everything else is so dull. The wind is calm and even the river flows in muted tones, as if sound could break this sculpture.

I don't know why I've come back again, what my purpose is.  Maybe it's just to cast.  It's certainly not for the exercise.  The fishing has been slow.  I wade in, aiming for the only piece of dark water around.  After a few casts my line zips sideways and I'm tight into a small rainbow.  The water temperature must be perfect, as this little fish actually puts up a struggle against the 8 weight I'm using for steelhead.   The fish races back and forth, jumping repeatedly before finally coming to me.  I admire it, snapping a couple photos before releasing it.  Grow up, buddy.

I stop at the next dark pool, and on the first cast my line again zips tight, there's another merry go-round, and this time a small brown is landed, carefully recorded digitally and sent on his way.  There's a cold spot on my left leg- I really hope my waders aren't leaking.  That could make for a long winter.  I'm surprised by movement and a greeting from the bank.  My vehicle is the only one here, but another angler hails me with the usual "Any luck?".
As I answer, my line comes tight with a serious weight, and a long silver flash.  A few head shakes and it's off, and like any dedicated fisherman, my new companion groans audibly from the bank.  On my next cast, the line comes tight again, and this time we're off to the races.

It's not a huge fish, perhaps 22 inches, but very hot, porpoising and tail walking all over the place.  It zips downstream, and then disaster-  the line I had stripped in my hand wraps around the tools on my lanyard.  The fish continues it's frantic fight as I frantically fight to untangle what is a rather complex knot.  After some tense seconds I work it out and play the fish again.  As I grab the leader the fish- a very fat and energetic young steelhead- starts to roll, and out pops the hook.  Oh well, I was going to release it anyways.  My friend of the moment shoots the breeze for a couple of minutes before wandering on.

I fish for another hour, landing one more small fish, but the light is failing and I'm having a tough time reading my line.  The landscape, sky and river are starting to merge back together.  It will take the sunrise to sculpt them again.

Monday Morning Coffee- December 19

Oh, do I have to get up?  I guess we all do, it's a new week. Hi-dilly ho-dilly.  In case you haven't noticed, I took a week off while I worked on other things.  I did get out and fish several times, with mixed success.  One day I caught about twenty fish, including eight that were 12-20 inches, the next day I caught 2 little dinkers.  The fishing can be hot or cold this time of year.  I didn't get any pictures as it was raining quite a bit, and the dry bag I store my camera in has developed several bad leaks.  I don't know if any of you keep track of it, but the Jealousy Counter to the right has crept up steadily- I'll come close to 100 outings this year.  I'll have to do a favorite trips/year in review post maybe.

I know everyone is distracted by the holidays, but I'll try to get a couple of posts up this week- I'll be conducting an interview of a Michigan artist and post that, and I have an overdue gear review coming out too.

Other than that, there's not much to report.  Winter has definitely been delayed around here.  We have almost no snow (we should have a foot or two), temps were in the 40's last week, it's 40 right now.  Who says global warming is a bad thing?  I feel a little bad for local businesses- the ski resorts are unable to open, and the snowmobile trails are bare.  La Nina hasn't been kind to us so far.  The flip side, is that fishing has been tolerable, and so I've gotten out on a regular basis, even if it's just for an hour or two.  (Correction- I see that some of the ski resorts are open.  The miracle of snow making.  Last week when it was so warm, you could see through their base, but they must have burned the midnight oil when we it was cold Friday and Saturday.)

Well, it's time to get something done- have a great week!

The Angler's Year- December

"Winter Storm to Intensify as it Heads Northeast!"

this time last year

So goes the headline.  Good for them I say.  Let them have a rah rah start to the season.  I live in a snow zone, and at this writing (Dec. 2011) we are curiously lacking in snow.  Mind you, snow has been leaking steadily from the sky for two days, as if someone forgot to shut the clouds off, and it's slowly drizzling down while still failing to cover anything.  Normally, we'd have at least a foot by now if not two, so I'm not complaining.  I'm looking around my yard to make sure nothing is out that I don't want buried til spring, checking the bed of my truck to be sure I don't lose any tools (or gear) to the ice and snow.

I try to be upbeat about the fishing opportunities found each month, they are to be had.  But when December comes, there's no pretending anymore.  The cold is here, and it wants to eat your heart.  There are no good days anymore, just the encroaching cold and darkness, short days, the icy grip of the longest season.  December is as bad as it gets.  Here in Michigan, a lot of streams are closed until the end of April, the fish have gone dormant anyways, and the weather is typically horrid- cold, windy, lots of snow.  By the end of the month the ice fishermen will be out in force, which doesn't bode well for the fly fishing prospects.

I am, of course, a fear mongering hypocrite.  After all, I've fished six of the last eight days, and caught a couple of small (baby) steelhead, and a bunch of decent trout.  All on egg patterns while fishing for steelhead.  If you ask me, the first two weeks of December seem to be just as good as the November fishing, but it depends on how cold it gets, how fast.   This year, it has been unseasonably warm.  I may yet catch my chrome siren.

oh sweet siren, how I love thee...

I've had my chances and haven't done my part.  I've hooked up on at least three good steelhead so far this month, and each has come unpinned in the first couple of head shakes.  I lost five in one day last December.  Or to be more accurate, five in two hours.  I'm feeling a little snake bit on the fall steelies.   Why do I tend to hook up on spring fish and not fall fish?  I'm fishing the same patterns.  I think I'm doing the same things.  Or am I?

Perhaps, perhaps I'm sabotaging myself, as sub-consciously I surrender to this most amorphous of seasons, like being devoured by a jellyfish,  its tentacles drawing me deeper into catatonic lethargy.  It would be very easy to just hibernate right now.  To sleep, just sleep, and dream of warmer, happier times.  I remember things- green scents, the whine of mosquitoes.  I remember warm sand on my feet.  I remember rising trout, and tailing carp.  I remember wearing a t-shirt outside, all day.  I remember clear blue skies, with those high, comma shaped clouds, like Nike swooshes visiting from another realm.  When was that?  Oh well, sleep is good.

remember these days?

All that is gone, and until then we have to survive.  And we will, we always do.  Most of you are so caught up in the holiday season, that fishing is an afterthought anyways.  When we get a break, we'll read our favorite magazines, books, and blogs.  This is the time of year we start to get serious about fly tying.  My tying desk is a mess right now, with too many materials packed into too little space.  I'll have to do something about that.  Maybe after I get some more fishing in.  I'm going to make it a point to watch as many videos online as possible, learn some new techniques, new patterns, broaden my tying horizons.

There's a couple of warmer days coming up, so hopefully I'll get back out there.  My favorite steelhead river freezes up so solid that the locals ice fish for them.  The other rivers develop extensive shelf ice, making the fishing challenging to impossible.  When that happens, I'll sit down at my vise, and start plotting for the time when the rivers flow free, the mayflies hatch, and the trout look up.

a fate I can live with

I had thought of including a winter to-do list here, but I don't think I can do any better than Alex Cerveniak.  In addition to his own blog, he now  is running jaysoutdoornews.com.  This post has an exhaustive rundown of what you need to do before next season.

Double Jeopardy

I've managed to fish quite a bit the last couple of weeks.  Last Tuesday I fished with Koz, stripping streamers for browns, to no avail.  Wednesday I went down to the Boyne river in search of steelhead but found nothing but moldy coho's.  I managed to snag a couple even when I was trying to avoid them, and landed one so nasty I didn't bother to take pictures.  As I mentioned in this weeks MMC, while everyone was scarfing turkey and fixings I was in the remote back country throwing streamers for brook trout.  It was a cold calm day, slightly overcast, and completely deserted.  I didn't catch any fish this day either, but had several fish hit, including one 12 inch plus brookie that blasted vertically out of the water after my fly.  I was happy just to see these fish, in a season when most people are thinking of anything but Monsieur Fontinalis.

I don't have to catch fish to enjoy fishing, but after awhile it's nice to bring something to hand.  We all try to pretend we don't care, almost as if actually catching a fish is beneath us.    That's how we display our maturity as angler's right?  We're all grown up now, and don't bother ourselves with catching; we've found an aesthetic in the simple act of participating, going, doing, practicing our craft- "that's why they call it fishing..."

We'll keep telling ourselves that.  My itch this fall has been to catch a fall steelhead.  I've caught tons of spring fish, but November steelhead have this vicious reputation as slashing, striking, fighting machines, a fish so testosterized you may not want to put your line in the water.  As a matter of fact, you should just stay home and watch Matlock.  It's too cold for you to be out there anyways.

But not me.  I want one of these fish.  It's not really that hard, but I don't have any of the major Michigan steelhead streams close to hand- a lot of my local rivers get marginal runs.  Still, if you know where to go, there's fish to be had.  I decided to quit screwing around and focus on steelhead.  Sunday I drove north to a small ditch which hardly qualifies as a river, but gets a decent run of fish.  In the first twenty minutes I hooked up on a good fish which quickly took me to the cleaners.  It had been a warm weekend, but a front blew threw Sunday, and a cold north wind pounded across Lake Michigan, the roar of the surf drowning out everything else, despite the distance.

Yesterday afternoon, I drove further north, and fished near the mouth of another river.  In just a few minutes I picked up this fish- a lake run brook trout.  She was spawned out and very skinny.  She practically had stretch marks.

I flogged this series of pools for another hour, and just as I was getting ready to leave- I had said this was my last cast- I hooked into this guy.

That's right- a juvenile steelhead.  It put up a decent fight, and I was extremely happy to be able to take his portrait.  Today I went back to the same spot, and landed this fish.

Does it look familiar?  My best guess is that it's the same fish- same hole, same size, suspiciously similar "scars".

One Pere Marquette River guide says that when you catch a rainbow, you won't catch it on the same fly the rest of the year.  Mind you, I was chucking egg patterns, and this one hit the same pattern two days in a row.  Maybe eggs are too irresistible.  So what do you think- same fish?  Have you ever caught the same fish twice?  Let me know what you think.

I was a little tired tonight, and left the river a little early.  On the way home, I was treated to this spectacular sunset, which I had to share with you- enjoy.

The Angler's Year- November

November sunset

It lies there on your calendar, like a dare you don't want to take.  November is a clear demarcation in the year.  Spring was refreshing, Summer glorious, and even September and October had their share of pleasantness, but November throws down the gauntlet- from here on out, if you're going to fish, you're going to suffer.  November can be your Rubicon, or your Waterloo.

Don't let those die-hard jerks fool you.  Sure there's lots of space age materials and clothing available these days.  Sure the equipment and waders, thermals, fleece and polymers are so much better today.  But let's face the facts- the cold season has begun, and here in Trout Country, the weather will typically be gloomy, rainy, cold, or snowy.  You may get some 50 degree days, but I wouldn't count on it, and before the month is over we'll have a skift of snow, if not a  foot already.  At some point if you're out there, you'll have to expose some skin to cold air and icy water. At some point, if you're going to fish in November, you'll have rain runneling off you or wet snow piling up on your shoulders.

So what are you going to do- fish, or hibernate?

November's distraction

November continues a trend here in Michigan, in that many anglers are also hunters, and so they set down their rods and pick up their shooting irons.  November 15 kicks off what may be our grandest outdoor tradition, as about 750,000 hunters embark on opening day of deer season, an orange clad army taking to the woods in hopes of taming the local deer infestation.  Me, I'm a bowhunter, though I usually try to take my rifle out and shoot coyotes.  November 15 is the one day of the year I will never fish here.  Never mind the risk of taking a stray bullet, you're likely to piss off some hunter who practically had to bribe his boss to get the day off so he could hunt down by the river for that giant swamp buck he saw cross the road in August, and now you're here, lanyard rattling and whistling Dixie, scaring his buck into the next county, all because you wanted to catch a couple 8 inch trout.  Yes the man is armed, and there's always the chance he was drinkin'.  No sir, it just don't make sense.  If I was you, I'd say November 15 is the one day to stay home if you don't hunt.  (You can insert your favorite country twang into those last two sentences.)


Here's your opportunities in November. There's steelhead, steelhead, and St. Steelhead.  Sure, go fish for browns if you like.  Yeah, I know, there's chrome coho's to be had late.  Or better still, kype jawed, red-flanked male coho, pissed off that you had the gall to swing a chartruese and white fly past their face.  But you're back to talking moldy fish here essentially.  If you catch a silver fish, I say keep it- it will be bright orange inside, and smoke up nicely, and the DNR will plant more.  But if what you want is a big angry silver-plated, whale-tailed fighting machine, then swing something to Madame Chrome, because November is the month of fall steel, and aside from the more famous Great Lakes tributaries, you're likely to have the river to yourself.

So here we are, at the brink of the cold season.  As Julius Caesar put it "alea iacta est (the die has been cast)".  It's time to wade in.

Floating Away

We float on this liquid ribbon, Keith and I.  We float out of need- we've left jobs and families, obligations and bills, and left it in a hurry, for this, our chance to feel free again, to drift under somber skies, our time measured by a distinct lack of haste, a nonchalance in our approach to this whole adventure- neither of us have really packed right.  Keith had no idea the contents of his gear bags when we left, I had no idea what I had for food or cooking utensils.  People rarely starve or freeze in 24 hours.  It's nice to have food, but not necessary.  We've done this so many times now that there are no shortages or emergencies, only the inconveniences of short-sightedness- I've only packed one rod (which will come back to bite me) and Keith hasn't packed one at all, which he grumbles about as we drift and dig.

We talk and drift and dig.  We talk about our kids, our jobs, our frustrations, concerns.  We drift with the current, dipping a paddle to correct here and there.  I dig- Keith is definitely not in a hurry, but I find speed to be an ally in negotiating the frequent strainers and blow-downs.  This kind of kayaking is blissfully relaxing and we blow off more steam in two hours of paddling than we ever could any other way, any other how.

I portage three times on the float down into camp. Keith portaged two.  He's more aggressive than I am about making a path through downed trees- I've had several close calls in the last two years (including a partial sinking I'd rather not think about a couple weeks ago) and am much more cautious.  I'm more than happy to jump out of my boat and drag it around obstacles.

Michigan has so many hidden treasures, like this one- a nondescript stream, in a nondescript corner of the state, complete with its own wilderness areas.  When I cross the Mackinaw Bridge headed north, I automatically lose 20 pounds, my voice lowers, tears appear in my t-shirts at bicep level.  Yes ladies, it is a testosterone fueled dream, but not the one you're thinking.  I just feel rejuvenated, new again, ready to to take on the wilderness, the rivers, woods, weather, and fish.  I'm sure you have your own version of this vision- you unleashed, unhinged, ready to take all-comers, a bad person in the badlands.

portage

Keith is a couple of years younger than I am, and we make a good team.  I organize larger expeditions, 6 to 7 guys (no gals have joined us yet, but you're more than welcome), kayaking 30 or more miles of river in 3 to 4 days.  This isn't much in the world of paddling, but these trips aren't about paddling.  I do the legwork, picking the stream, inviting the crowd, putting together gear lists, setting dates, arranging rides.  I run my own business, and feel that I tend to be overbearing and this is where Keith comes in.  On the river I sit back and let things develop.  Keith is a natural leader, and when direction is lacking he takes over and initiates breaks, meals, reins in absurdity, and organizes the search for camping spots.  I sit back, and weigh in only when necessary.  Floating, just the two of us, none of this is necessary- we know where we are going, how long it will take.  All we have to do is get there, so we slide along, shifting in our kayaks, comfortable in the balance we've struck between boat and stream, more at ease here than in our lives.

 

This river is strange, disconcerting even, with steep, sandy birch-and-spruce walled banks, banks heavily eroded from consecutive 100- and 50-year floods.  It winds tightly, and several times we realize that we have floated for 20 minutes, only to end up within 20 yards of where we were 20 minutes ago.  The floods have mercifully cut off the longest one of these meaders- the break in the isthmus was a trickle last year, this year we float down into a raging boil that hits the far bank head-on, a tricky maneuver in our 12 foot boats.  Keith's boat is rather flat bottomed, but mine has a more complex hull, multi-chined, with a hard keel line, and all of these boils and hole-turns grab and twist my boat relentlessly.  As we near our goal we realize that the river is not slowing- the beaver dam is gone.  A six foot drop eliminated, and still the water is ungodly high.  We float through boulder rapids, neatly skirting the rocks that would claim us, laughing as we bounce and skim and then suddenly, Shangri-La appears- the inflow of another stream, this one gravel-laden, and immediately I am struck by the shiny gravel ovals- steelhead.  It bodes well.  We turn the kayaks around, push up against the bank, the inlet river also swollen, and we stagger ashore.

making the world safe for campers

 It is heaven, a heaven made of spruce, birch, trickling waters (from all angles), a triangle of land with our boats and our names on it.  We set up camp quietly, and then go look for fish, and fish there be. Fish everywhere.  Fish singly, in pairs, in pods.  I rig up, we rustle, and I mean rustle, some firewood.  Then I fish, while Keith mans my camera.  I manage to hook up on one fish, but it's a tough crowd.  Keith manages some shots, but the light, and my line fails us, and we retreat to the comforts of camp- a fire, freeze-dried food, and fleece.  We have The Campfire to End All Campfires.

rod building, caveman style

This is when Keith gets the brainy idea to build his own rod.  He has a spinning reel with him but no rod.  So he hacks down a little spruce tree and proceeds to strip it, fire harden it, he fashions eyelets out of fish hooks and duct tape and carves out a reel seat, all while I mock and goad him.  But if I've learned one thing, it's that Keith can be a very determined person.  He once built an awesome cook table out of a piece of burnt out pine stump with his survival knife.  He may actually succeed.  Eventually we fall asleep in our tents to the sounds of gentle rain, the insistent gurgle of the stream and the occasional splash of steelhead making more steelhead.

I awake to a loud splash.  The light is gray, with mist and drizzle continuing.  I roll out of my bag, brace myself against the morning chill and wander down to the take out to filter some water for coffee.  As I sit there blearily pumping, shapes emerge, water boils, dark shadows dart and chase- four buck steelhead are fighting, three feet in front of me for the right to tend an 8 pound hen on a redd.  I look upstream and see four more fish, another bed, 20 feet away.  There's more fish across the river along the far bank.  Is it really going to be this good?  I finish with the water quickly, put my coffee pot on and grab my rod.  How cool would it be to actually land a fish in camp, in my long handles?  But it doesn't happen.  I change tippets, change flies, I go back for my espresso when I hear the pot boil and return.  I give it a good go, but aggressive as these fish are, they aren't fooled by me, intent only on their purpose here.  I go back to camp, build a fire and start breakfast.

Eventually Keith rolls out, we eat, I completely re-rig my rod and Keith strings up the Spruce Goose.  Those fish in camp have me worried- hopefully we'll find some more cooperative fish.  Not too far out of camp I hook up on a small buck, 3 pounds.  He does his merry best, but I land and quickly release him.  I find a deeper pool under a cedar upstream, walking past a dozen fish out on gravel.  I can see the dark shadows in this pool, and on my second drift through, my line streaks downstream while I'm looking away.  This is a hot fish, and I have to jump in and give chase.  200 feet downstream I cross the river, barely avoiding a swim, all the while continually trying to turn this fish away from the various sticks and logs he seeks to hide under.  I'd like to show you this fish, but someone (me) forgot to check the camera settings.  He was beautiful.

the small fish of the day

Keith wanders on without me, and I negotiate the opposite bank.  I'm astounded by the size of some of these fish, a couple must be pushing 15 pounds, but these big ones are all sitting in places that would be impossible to get them out of, and I keep walking.  I land another small fish in the next run up, and then hear brush breaking and voices.  We have company, a guide out of Marquette, with three clients from downstate.  I fish with Keith for awhile, but he's not feeling good and wants to go back to camp.  I confer with these other anglers and decide to leap-frog them far upstream to give them space to fish- I've been wanting to explore the upper reaches of this area for some time now, and there's plenty of fish to go around.

 As I walk upstream I count fish.  Five, ten, twenty.  I've lost count at 44, all steelhead.  I come to a broad flat and count twenty fish ranged across it and I decide I must make a cast.  I flip my line out, into a dark seam of current that has some large fish next to it.  None take, but when my egg drifts behind a rock a large buck, a fish I hadn't seen, grabs it and we're off to the races, the fish cartwheeling and charging, trying to shake the hook.  He relents after a few minutes of this, a beautiful, dark colored fish and I snap a couple of pictures and send him back out to find a girlfriend.

I pass more fish and then come to another large pod. I count at least eighteen, but in the shifting kaleidoscope of water and fish, light and shadow, liquid and air, keeping count is impossible.  Right when I think I've counted them all fresh battles erupt, fish break ranks, charge and slash, wheel and regroup.  I stand mesmerized.  A couple of these fish might be 12 pounds.  I step in and give it a go, briefly hook up, hook up in the trees behind me twice and eventually just stand there and watch, out of breath from excitement, thinking "this can't be real".

there were over a dozen fish in this area, seven in this photo

I wander on, past pods and pairs of fish, skirting fish and places for different reasons.  These are too close to log jams- it would be over quick, and I'm using six pound tippet because of the clarity.  Those I'll try for from the other bank on the way back down.  It's noon now, and the sun is starting to burn its way through the fog and haze.  The river is dazzling amber, fish shine brightly on bright gravel, and the cedars and spruce seem to flouresce green in the fresh light.  I manage to catch another small buck, 5 pounds and then move up to the next open area.  Again I see them, twenty dark shadows hanging in the current, flashing silver when fights erupt.  I make several casts, hooking up briefly on a buck that somersaults downstream even after shaking the hook, but the rest of the fish are unperturbed.  I continue to cast, and after a dozen tries a hen, perhaps the largest fish there, drops back in the current, slides sideways with a dart and my line comes tight.  It starts with just a slow head shake, as she simply tries to get this irritating poke out of her mouth.  She swings across the current towards me and I strip line to keep tight on her.  She heads back across and upstream, and I choose then to enter the current to better put pressure on her.  I angle the rod sideways to turn her head and at first there is no effect.  She is about 34 inches long, and easily ten to twelve pounds, and so far she is only irritated, swinging first one way and then the other, trying to figure this thing out.  Suddenly she realizes that maybe this isn't a good situation, her head shakes become frantic, and she zips downstream, line peeling against the drag, the rod absorbing the impact of the run.  With six pound tippet I don't dare put any more pressure on.  She takes off again, faster, and now I'm forced to give chase.  There's a log jam spanning the river a little ways down.  We're not close to it yet, but this is a big fish, and I'm sure she has it in her to get there.  I put the rod to her, cranking steadily, giving out line (and clearing my knuckles) when she runs in short bursts.  I know that this fish is still fresh, she still just acts puzzled, but I'm wondering if this is really going to be this easy.  She is big, bright chrome fresh, and looks as big around as my leg.  She's only coming in because it's what she wants to do, not because I'm in control.  This is when disaster strikes- I'm cranking hard on the reel, putting on as much pressure as I dare, when there's an explosive craaackkk!! as my rod breaks in two places.  The fish stays exactly where she is, confirming my fear that she's still fresh and when I reel down on her with my broken rod the line parts instantly without the spring of the rod to buffer the tippet.

It all hits me then- my fishing is over.  That decision not to bring my other steelhead rod was a bad one.  You make these choices when kayaking.  You would think that I would be angry, sad, depressed even.  But standing there in the sun and river on a beautiful day in May I could only smile, happy to be where I was, watching wild steelhead dart and fight and breed around me.  It was a beautiful, serene, sublime moment, and I wasn't about to ruin it with anger or regret.  I took my rod down and explored upstream, counting fish, stopping to admire a school of several hundred spawning suckers.  Spring.

I wandered back to camp eventually, pausing to chat with the four anglers I had passed earlier, watching as they land a beautiful 30 inch hen, thick and heavy.  I pass on some intelligence on what's upstream, and head back.  After some brief words with Keith I stumble into my tent and take the Nap Of Ages.  Sun on the tent, birdsong and river noise inspire a deliriously blissful somnolence. 

loaded and ready to go

Keith and the Spruce Goose

When I awake Keith is packing.  His stomach is still bothering him and we've decided not to stay another night.  We load the kayaks and float away, making it a point to paddle as little as possible, the sun still shining brightly, frogs shrilling in pools hidden behind the high banks, mergansers and wood ducks whistling their alarm when we surprise them, geese honking in protest as two friends float past on this, the nicest day of spring.

Cardboard Kirk Retains Unaccomplished Title!

 Some time ago Rebecca Garlock of the Outdooress blog (and Most Holy co-deity of the Outdoor Bloggers Network, may Her Benificence shine upon us) and The River Damsel made a cardboard likeness of Kirk Werner of Unaccomplished Angler fame, and took said likeness fishing.  Despite what looked like some tough conditions they did manage to catch a steelhead. (See the Outdooress' post here and The River Damsel's post here.) Could it be that the Unaccomplished Angler isn't so unaccomplished after all?  Or rather, could Cardboard Kirk (aka CUA) be an Accomplished Angler, perhaps the alter ego of the real Kirk?

my steelhead sans Cardboard Kirk

We have some pretty darn good steelhead fishing here in Michigan, and an idea began to form.  What if I could get Rebecca to play a little where-in-the-world-is-Cardboard-Kirk, send him on, let him experience the fishing in other parts of the country, test out his fish catching potential?  So I sent a message to Rebecca, and lo and behold she was open to the idea.  He arrived in the mail (first class, of course) a few days later.  In the meantime I managed to pick up on the fact that Kirk was hoping (see his comment in the link) that CUA might just possibly be headed to Andros Island with Rebecca for FIBfest ( the Fishing Industry Bloggers fest hosted by Deneki Outdoors).  So imagine his shock and horror when CUA showed up, not in sunny, balmy Andros Island, but in my cabin in Northern Michigan.  Yes, it was still winter then (no one has objectively proven it's not still winter now), but right on the cusp of spring and the steelhead runs.  I was hopeful.

Then, a lot of different things happened.  I was sick for 2 1/2 weeks in April.  I was sick and working 12 hour days in April.  When I did get one evening (I skipped out of work early, no apologies) I was so excited to be actually going that- I forgot him.  And I caught a steelhead, albeit a small one.  Then, work and more work, I actually had workers staying with me, the excuses continue ad nauseum.  I started getting discreet inquiries from Rebecca- "Are you done yet?  Because other people are clamoring for the opportunity to fish with CUA."  Really.  Is the real Kirk Werner this popular?  But when a demi-goddess makes inquiries you jump to attention.  So I worked even harder, set a firm deadline for my job completion so that I could take a few days off and take Cardboard Kirk on a proper outing.  The idea was to spend a few days fishing several rivers, showing CUA the local sights and chasing steel.

at the Old Mackinac Light

So finally, on Friday I got to take a full day and go fishing.  I called my friend Coyote Luke of the Most Things Custom blog and we planned our day- 3 rivers in the Upper Peninsula and a scenic stop or two.  I picked up Luke early and off we went.  We stopped off to get some pictures at the Mackinaw Bridge and Old Mackinaw light before heading across.  We got to the first river, Cardboard Kirk in tow, and double bam, I had two hook-ups in ten minutes.  They both got off rather quickly.  This was going to be great.  One problem.  We were wading one of the very shallowest parts of the river and it was a raging torrent.  We tried a couple of more lies I knew, but wading was all but out of the question. 

CUA and Mighty Mac (bridge)

So we loaded up Cardboard Kirk and headed to the Brevoort River, perhaps the UP's finest steelhead stream.  It's twenty feet wide, crystal clear, and all sugar sand.  I've heard that it gets steelhead, but have no idea where they would spawn.  We found some gravel at a power line, and I managed to hook up on two fish in the hole below, but again they came unpinned in seconds.  Was it the fact that my beadhead eggs were barbless, or was something more sinister going on?  Was I being undermined, cursed even, by the presence of Cardboard Kirk?  We left the Brevoort river and turned the truck west under beautiful sunny skies on perhaps the first really nice day of spring here.  We soon came to another river I had heard of.  It was very beautiful, with dark tannic water rushing over boulder falls and rapids as it dropped through high dunes covered in hardwoods on it's way to Lake Michigan.  We explored this little river for some time, with Coyote Luke catching a couple of small brookies in some pools, but we soon tired of fighting the tag alders, and headed back.  It was a great day, a beautiful day, a day spent bumping down dirt roads looking for new water.  It was a fun day spent with a friend and a cardboard character, goofing off in some wild country fishing for wild fish.  As we headed home, it began to rain (again) and rained all night long.

Kirk gets some casting in

We had to stop and let Kirk fish

The next day I got the call from Phil- "We're going on a float, and bring Cardboard Kirk."
We floated the Pigeon river that day.  It was horrific.  The country was beautiful, but high winds were blowing down a river high and dirty from multiple heavy rains and six inches of snowmelt.  River conditions were treacherous to say the least, we didn't turn any fish, we did find some empty beds, and we did multiple strenuous portages over some ridiculous beaver dams.  All in all, I think CUA enjoyed himself, riding shotgun in the rear seat of the CC Drifter.  If nothing else it was a nice boat ride, and HE didn't have to carry the boat.

Cardboard Kirk helps with fly selection

CUA watches as we a clear nasty beaver dam

Sunday I was desperate.  The river gauges online were all reading high, but I had an idea.  I called up Terrance.  "Hey Terrance, I heard they're getting smelt in the UP, wanna go?"  Terrance is always up for a good adventure, and to my surprise his wife Kathy came along.  For those of you who may not know, smelt are a small schooling fish that moved into and at one time dominated the biomass in the Great Lakes.  They are delicious, and people used to fill garbage cans, even car trunks, with them when they ran in the spring.  Tales were told of schools so big running up the rivers that they would rise by a foot or more.  The typical way to fish them is with a dip net, though on inland lakes in the winter it's not uncommon to catch them on hook and line through the ice.  We went, stopping off first so I could try for steelhead.  No love.  We went and got some fire wood, drove to the river mouth and set up shop.  As soon as the boreal glow on the northern horizon began to fade we began getting smelt, and thus Cardboard Kirk got his first- and only, fish.  I returned north on Monday, hooked up on and lost two more steelhead, and then went and dipped another gallon of smelt.  The River Damsel has been mocking me for eating minnows.  The laugh is on her though, they really are that good.  While it may not have much to do with fly fishing, smelt dipping for me is a childhood memory of good times, the first chance to get outdoors in the spring, to bring home some really good fish.  The smelt disappeared in the 80's.  The DNR says this was the biggest run in 25 years, with guys filling buckets in two scoops.  I was glad to show CUA something unique to Michigan and Great Lakes culture.

Cardboard Kirk with Terrance and Kathy

an accomplishment, of sorts

So was my stint with Cardboard Kirk a success?  I'd say so.  No, we didn't catch any steelhead, but I don't think I can blame him.  Conditions were tough and have gotten tougher since.  The rains have continued, intensified, and now the rivers have jumped their banks and are flowing through the woods.  I think that Cardboard Kirk can truly be called Unaccomplished, at least in the state of Michigan.  Maybe now that he's gone I can catch some fish.

so long, my corrugated friend

Shop Talk: The Northern Angler and Brian Pitser

I'll never forget the first time I walked into The Northern Angler in Traverse City.  It was like....being home!  I let out a sigh of relief.  I was in my happy place.  I was there for several hours with a friend who was installing some displays.  Brian Pitser, the owner, was happy as all get out, as the longer we were there, the bigger my stack of tying materials got.  But here's the thing- it was like hanging out at a friends house.  The checkout counter doubles as a tying area, and Brian and Evan sat there and tied flies and shot the breeze, dealt with the couple of customers that came in and made an excellent pot of coffee that I went to work on.

What makes a great fly shop- is it price?  Selection? Cool hats?  Sure, and no.  I walk into some fly shops and walk straight back out- I can’t afford to be there and they want me to know that.  There are other shops who sell flies, but they sell so much beer and chips it’s hard to remember why they’re there.  Here’s what I want, and have found, in a fly shop.  I want a good selection of gear that I can afford, but still be able to drool over a Sage rod.  I want atmosphere but not a bunch of dusty deer mounts from 1927.  I want to be able to see and find what I’m looking for.  I want good advice.  I want a good cup of coffee.  The shop dog has to be friendly but polite.  I want a thorough selection of flies, even the ones I’ll never use.  I want to be able to find a decent selection of books.  They have to offer a decent range of services including tying classes, seminars and guide service.

 There's those other fly shops.  You've been there.  You walk in and can hardly see, there's an unhappy person behind the counter, there's a lot of dust and clutter and you don't DARE touch anything.  You've also been to the big and bigger box outdoor stores and found some of the things you need and no one to help you.

Back to our happy place.  Meet proprietor and guide Brian Pitser.  Brian gets it, he gets you- what you want and need in a fly shop.  In the space he has he's managed to pack in an incredible variety of gear, flies, tying materials, rods, reels and apparel.  The tying materials really stagger me, as I always seem to be able to find what I need, and Brian has assured me (before we ever talked about this post, I might add) that he can and will get me anything I need.  While he does stock high-end gear, The Northern Angler does not come across as high-end or stuffy.  It is always neat, clean, well-lit, well organized.

 They also offer a lot of services, not the least of which is guide service.  Right now the shop has 3 guides fishing the Upper and Lower Manistee, the Betsie, Platte and Boardman rivers and Grand Traverse Bay.  They pursue steelhead, salmon, trout, smallmouth bass and do sight fishing for carp that has to be seen to be believed- the water is so clear and such a shade of fluorescent aquamarine you would swear that you are stalking bones on the flats somewhere (I’ll finagle a trip somehow).  With casting and tying workshops and classes in the mix, there's always something going on to keep you coming back. The Northern Angler even has a shop dog.

Shop dog Casey- what a face!

 Brian had this to say about his shop and their philosophy:  “I’ve tried to build the kind of place that caters to the hardcore guys, but still welcomes the novice.  We all started somewhere.  Let’s face it- as fly fishermen we’re all a bunch of geeks, but we know we’re geeks here and so I try to make this shop as inclusive as possible.  Fly fishermen come from all walks of life, it’s not just a high-end sport, and so we try to welcome everyone.  I have a great staff here, and I am always here when I'm not out guiding.  I just want to earn peoples business, and you can only do that through good customer service.”  I can vouch that Brian and his staff walk the walk (or is it cast the cast?).  By the way- the coffee is that good, and he has mugs and not styrofoam.

The Northern Angler really is my favorite fly shop in Northern Michigan.  I don't mean this as a slight to other shops- there's plenty of good ones in the state.  I just feel that Brian has done an excellent job of putting together a shop that meets all of my personal criteria.  Too many local fly shops have gone the way of the dodo.  Everyone is shopping online, or going to the Big Boxes, but the soul of fly fishing is not found in those places.  Fly fishing is a hands-on, interactive sport, and fly fishing is always local.  You can get your gear online, but websites will never be able to tell you local conditions, hatches and patterns that you need to know to have success.  We need local shops and all that they bring, and The Northern Angler brings it.  Somehow I think The Northern Angler will be around for awhile.


 Visit their Website by clicking on the links below and look for them on the Friends of Fontinalis Rising sidebar.

The Northern Angler Fly Shop and Outfitters

426 W. Front Street

Traverse City, MI  49684

231-933-4730
877-627-4080
http://www.thenorthernangler.com

flyshop@thenorthernangler.com