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In the late 1970s, years before the Internet, a young Rusty Gates started compiling a weekly report on the Au Sable River for anglers who patronized the family lodge near Grayling. He took the river’s temperature, checked fly hatches and kept track of the fish caught. He also took ... read on → Home Water, Holy Water: Rusty Gates & the Good Fight]]>

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In the late 1970s, years before the Internet, a young Rusty Gates started compiling a weekly report on the Au Sable River for anglers who patronized the family lodge near Grayling. He took the river’s temperature, checked fly hatches and kept track of the fish caught. He also took note of the stories people told about their fishing exploits.

As the years rolled by, Gates has become a well-known angler, fly tier and environmental activist, fighting gas well drilling on the South Branch of the Au Sable, and other threats to his beloved river. But more than that, he became an expert on Au Sable River fishing, so much so that when disputes between anglers erupted on river banks, they were quickly settled by which every fisherman said: “Well, Rusty says….”

Gates has spent more than 40 years soaking up river knowledge from his perch in the fly-shop and lodge of the family business on the banks of the Au Sable.

Now, he has put much of that knowledge into a book, Seasons of the Au Sable, which was published this spring and while it may or may not become a best seller, it will help fund environmental legal battles over river issues. All proceeds from the book go to the Anglers of the Au Sable, which celebrates it 20th anniversary this year.

The prime audience for the book is the thousands of anglers who consider the Au Sable their “home waters,” Gates said, adding that he hopes the book will enjoy healthy sales.

The book covers traditional fly-fishing topics such as fly hatches, stream conditions, water temperatures and places to fish, but it goes further – it tells the stories of people who fish the river. It’s the why of Au Sable fly-fishing, which is more interesting than tables of fly hatches.

For many anglers, a stop at Gates’ Au Sable Lodge, is a rite of spring and for fly anglers it’s a hell of a lot more fun that putting up the screens or doing yard work. The shop itself is a cathedral of fly-fishing. Like an old style tavern, Rusty stocks only the good stuff. Classic cane rods, reels that don’t fall apart, practical waders, and a bit of clothing. The focus is on flies and fishing, not style or trends.

Gates is usually behind the counter of the fly shop when you make your first stop there in the spring. With his wry grin, he dispenses fishing advice and judgments that live on the river on a daily basis.

Now, all those Rusty-isms are in book form for posterity. But the ever-humble Gates simply sees the book as a “snapshot,” not the bible of the Au Sable. The book has 12 chapters, each devoted to a month on the river, and humorous titles, such as Sleepless in Crawford County.

The book is a breath of fresh air blown into the high tech world of fly-fishing, with volumes written about techniques and new, exotic fly patterns. It harks back to an era of Red Ball waders and a hand full of flies, or as Rusty puts it – “before the movie.”

We all know what he’s talking about: The River Runs through It, and the ensuing Hollywoodization of the fly-fishing world, and the trend toward style over substance when it comes to fly-fishing. To borrow a phrase from an old Saturday Nigh Live sketch, “it’s better to look good than feel good,” or in other words, “it’s better to look fashionable than catch fish.”

You can see that part of Rusty in his shop. The fly selection is free of exotic species, and centers on the classic flies that work in the river. “It’s the dirty dozen,” he said. “A lot of these other flies are just variations on those.”

If Rusty seems to be a traditionalist who sticks to his guns, he comes by it naturally. His father, Cal Gates Sr., was a music educator who purchased the lodge in 1970 after serving stints at schools in Bay City and Oscoda. Along with his wife, Mary, they established the lodge and founded the tradition that continues to thrive today under Rusty’s care.

There were six children in the Gates family, and after high school, Rusty got away from the lodge for about five years, working for a propane gas service in Grayling by day and pumping gas at night to make a living. He eventually returned to the lodge, and took over its management.

“I was the only one who could stand up to Cal,” Rusty quips.

The elder Gates had health problems and died in 1982. Rusty and his wife, Julie, continued the tradition of his parents, he running the fly shop and lodge, and she running the restaurant.

Over the years, Gates’ lodge has been transformed from a white clapboard resort, to a rustic, natural wood series of buildings that have 17 rooms, a fly shop, and an executive meeting room. It attracts a steady stream of mostly repeat customers.

But while Rusty could have lived a quiet life as a successful businessman, doing what he loves, he didn’t. He has immersed himself in litigation aimed at protecting the environment in the Au Sable River Valley.

Rusty and his group, the Anglers of the Au Sable, have been tenacious in their fight to keep the river a pristine area for fly-fishing and other recreational pursuits. Those battles have seen Rusty in court more often than a New York lawyer, and have given him the education of an environmental lawyer.

Those battles and their ever-mounting legal fees prompted Rusty to write his book, the proceeds of which go to the Anglers of the Au Sable legal fund, which is being used to not only to stop gas well drilling on the South Branch of the Au Sable, but also to explore the contamination of Kolke Creek, a tributary of the Au Sable, by oil extraction in the area.

For now, drilling for gas on the Mason Tract along the South Branch has been put on hold by a federal judge in Bay City who ruled in favor of the Anglers of the Au Sable lawsuit that contended the U.S. Forest Service didn’t do an environmental impact statement.

The legal battle over Kolke Creek is unfolding in Circuit Court in Crawford County, and pits the Anglers against an oil drilling firm. The litigation stems from the discovery that oil is leaking into the creek.

Both cases have cost the Anglers of the Au Sable plenty of legal fees, and getting those fees paid is what prompted Gates to put down his fly rod for a couple of months late last summer and write the book.

Gates said the costs kept him in front of the computer working away.  “I really couldn’t have written the book without doing it this way,” he said.

Several other publishers had courted Gates, but when he was approached to do a book by Skip DeWall of the Ann Arbor Media Group, he knew he had a good match.

Knowing that fly-fishing books aren’t exactly cash cows, the pair hatched a plan to have publishing partners for the book. More than 275 partners have contributed about $22,500, which is enough to pay for the initial cost of printing 5,000 copies.

Gates said the worst part of the project was doing all the paper work involved, but said it was worth it because: “It gave me a chance to relive all those fishing stories.”

And having a fishing story to tell, sure makes life worth living. Just ask Rusty.

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Why would you do it? Why would you find yourself in the depth of winter in a cold dark shack, on a frozen lake no less, staring intently into a big hole in the ice? Big fish. REALLY big fish up close, that’s why. Fish that if you play your cards ... read on → Tales from the Darkhouse]]>

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Why would you do it? Why would you find yourself in the depth of winter in a cold dark shack, on a frozen lake no less, staring intently into a big hole in the ice? Big fish. REALLY big fish up close, that’s why. Fish that if you play your cards right, will be transformed into tales to be told — because you did it the old way, the way it’s been done for eons, with a spear.

There’s something completely fascinating about hunting big fish. And make no mistake, this is hunting. Maybe that’s one of the reasons I was drawn to it. I love to hunt. I also love to fish. In spear fishing, these worlds collide. The collision taking place in dramatic fashion mere feet away.

To the uninitiated, which until recently I counted myself, the traditional sport of spearing fish might seem undoable, to others somehow unsporting. Experience affords knowledge and in knowing what spearing is all about comes the stark realization that both misconceptions could not be further from the truth.

The truth about spearing fish – did I mention, these fish are BIG? – through the ice is that those who pursue it pursue it with a passion. This passion breeds a following which, as a result, led to the formation of the Michigan Darkhouse Angling Association (MDAA); the darkhouse referring to the windowless ice shanty used by spearmen. A group whose shared dedication and respect for the heritage of this deep winter pursuit has it intent on uniting spear fishers to see to it that, among other things, lawmakers and the public do not relegate their passion to a true thing of the past. With its ranks smaller in number than other more familiar fishing “user” groups, it’s no easy row to hoe.

Mistakenly, public perception often misaligns this form of spear fishing with the notorious alleged abuses of massive over harvest often associated with native tribal spearing of game fish during spring breeding seasons. Further, certain fish-specific special interest groups have stepped forward to assert that the practice somehow negatively impacts their chosen species of choice and its subsequent pursuit in warmer months. A closer look at fisheries science, and the methods employed by spearmen, reveals that hunting fish on “hard water,” in other words ice, does not in any way negatively impact the resource. More than anything this infighting amongst various outdoor interest groups merely leads to fracturing our already thinning numbers; pitting sportsmen against sportsmen. This at a time that conservation interests can least afford to be anything less than united.

Let’s also be clear, this pursuit is not a catch and release proposition. But then again, consumptive use of a natural resource is a fundamental truth of both hunting and fishing. A fact some might wish to avoid in certain circles. And as I mentioned, this is fish hunting we’re dealing with here. Spears are thrown much as a shot, be it an arrow or bullet, is loosed at game, with discretion and purposeful intent.

Spearfishers are quick to point out as well, that the concept of catch and release does have its place and does indeed bolster certain fish stocks. That said, it would be a rare fisheries biologist who does not concede that approximately 25% of all fish caught and then released, perish after the fact due to enduring the experience and inadvertent mishandling. A statistic that many sport anglers, regardless of species pursued, either choose to ignore or perhaps are blindly unaware of.

Here it’s a simple, honest equation; a fish taken is a fish eaten. However, given a fully regulated harvest, the overall ethical standards that purists bring to the sport and — last but far from least — the countless hours it might take your typical spearfisher to connect with his or her quarry, depletion of the resource is much more fish story than reality.

Spearing represents a truly selective harvest. “Look and Release” darkhouse anglers like to say, with only fish deemed to be the appropriate size being harvested, as the norm. A practice not at all unlike big game hunting. That other fishing activities afford the option to toss one back to live another day does not change the fact that aquatic science indicates that it is the length of the growing season and availability of a reliable food source that dictates the quantity and quality of fish found — not genetics. In that regard, taking a select number of prime fish through the ice, by traditional means, does not have an appreciable impact on how those very waters will fish when it comes time to fire up the outboards.

Yet spear fishers are concerned about the future of their sport. “We’ve managed to skip a generation,” said Tom Richards, of Cadillac. Richards, a noted spear maker and decoy carver, was referring to an appreciable age gap in the population who have not had the opportunity to share the tradition of spearing with a family member or perhaps a benevolent neighbor who, years ago, might have wished to pass the activity along. “Spearing used to be much more common place, but something not shared tends to fade,” said Richards. For those who view this pursuit as much a tradition as sport, it is a tough pill to take.

Mike Holmes, president of MDAA, explains that an additional factor in the fading gleam of spear points once seen on frozen North Country lakes is owed in good measure to modern advances in fishing technology. As materials improved over the years with respect to monofilament lines and other related fishing equipment following World War II, it became much easier to ice fish. Spear fishing declined as a result. Drying lines and the like became less of an issue, only small holes were needed as opposed to the larger openings spearing necessitates, fisherman became more mobile, easily relocating as needed to more productive spots and as a result more and more people began to ice fish in ways we see continuing today.” Estimates from those who study such things indicate that during the 1940Õs and Ô50Õs there were approximately 100,000 spear fishers in Michigan, far outstretching even the most rosy estimates of today’s darkhouse anglers.

A scan of state regulations indicates that at present only six northern states permit spear fishing. Yet regional spearing groups continue to make inroads, both with the public and its ever capricious opinions and, at times, with seemingly more arbitrarily swayed state legislatures. However, spearing licenses sales continue to add to state budgets bottom lines and cooperation between sporting interest groups is improving, according to Holmes. “We now have earned a seat at the table when it comes to fishery regulation issues and I remain optimistic,” Holmes said.

Optimism is important when you intend to voluntarily watch a hole in the ice for hours.  Entering a darkhouse, as I did for the first time this season, with Richards and several of his peers, I found out why. Spearing fish takes an investment in time. Something fewer of us can afford these days it seems.

A darkhouse experience is not all that dissimilar to entering a darkened movie theater to catch a show you’ve been anxious to see. As at the movies, once your eyes adjust to the blackness surrounding you, you begin to see your surrounding with an acute awareness.

When the show begins things change, and change quickly. One minute — or maybe its 50, maybe several days — you’re watching the rhythmic gliding circle of a handmade fish decoy, the next instant it’s the glittering of gold and bronze fish scales that catches your newly attuned vision as a large predator slips slowly, silently into the light of the hole — the light, and it is truly light, is provided by the ambient light surrounding the darkhouse, when contrasted against the black of your immediate surroundings, it’s as if you actually are viewing a bright movie screen. Only this time the show is real.

We were seeking large pike. Depending upon the locale and season, you might also have sturgeon, muskie, perch or whitefish as your quarry. Here, contrary to the slashing strikes most of us are familiar with when line angling for pike, it is more the norm on hard water to see a pike slip out of the depths to first inspect the decoy, or perhaps a large live sucker that some spear fishers tether without hooks in the water along with the decoy to add a bit more realism to their set ups. Unlike live duck decoys in a spread on a fall marsh, live fish decoys are legal. Additionally, these live suckers serve the purpose of acting in some instances as a warning sign that a spearable fish might be coming within sight of the hole. A sucker may be a sucker, but it’s no dummy. When it senses a predator nearby, its activity level increases Read here, it gets motivated and tries to swim away and in the process alerts the watchful eyes above the ice in the darkness that a good fish dinner might be close at hand.

Carving fish decoys goes hand in glove with this form of angling. While they don’t carry hooks, they do come in about as many shapes, sizes and colors as you might find on lures in any standard tackle box. After all, you could make the observation that a hook-and-line angler’s flavor of choice used to entice a strike is in reality a nothing more than a more active form of decoy. But there the similarity abruptly ends.

Richards and myriad other spear fishers take their passion for the sport out of the dark when it comes to handmade fish decoys. In fact the resurgence of interest seen recently within the high brow and often toney world of decoy collecting toward fish decoys is driving the price of these working tools higher each year. It also is inspiring carvers to new heights when it comes to decoy design and presentation. Several national decoy shows now feature fish decoys in competition and some observe that it may be the decoy portion of this vintage pursuit that will ultimately keep it alive and buoy awareness of the tradition among the general public.

I would like to think that it will be the pure, unvarnished adrenaline that races through you in the darkness when a big fish swims within a stone’s throw — make that a spear throw. Regardless of age, the adventure of it all has the power to motivate those who would otherwise not find themselves drawn out of their warm comforts, on a cold winter’s day in search of game. It also may be enough to motivate the quiet masses of sportsmen to stand up and let their voices and votes be heard when the opportunity presents itself to help preserve this ageless tradition.

Footnotes:

Some of the earliest accounts of spear fishing through the ice arise from Michigan’s past. In 1763 fur trader Alexander Henry observed in detail the technique of spearing through holes in the ice by the Chippewa Nation near Fort Mackinac. Lead-filled decoys were employed to lure trout to bag while the natives lay on their bellies in traditional huts, covered with animal skins for insulation, clutching short sticks with iron spear heads.

For more information on custom fish spears and decoys, contact:

Tom Richards, 190 N 29, Cadillac, MI 49601

photo: kurt kuban

If the Upper Peninsula had a heart, the Whitefish River would slice right through it, which is fitting, because the river shares many of the characteristics people admire about the UP. It is rugged, relatively wild and certainly scenic.

With their origins in Marquette and Alger counties, the East ... read on → The Whitefish River: Journey Through the Heart of the Upper Peninsula]]>

photo: kurt kuban

If the Upper Peninsula had a heart, the Whitefish River would slice right through it, which is fitting, because the river shares many of the characteristics people admire about the UP. It is rugged, relatively wild and certainly scenic.

With their origins in Marquette and Alger counties, the East and West branches of the Whitefish converge in Delta County, and the main branch continues a southerly course all the way to Lake Michigan’s Little Bay de Noc. Most of the land it traverses is public and part of Hiawatha National Forest’s western unit. And for this reason, in 1992, it was included in the National Wild and Scenic Rivers System.

The un-dammed Whitefish, which is one of the larger river systems in the central UP, provides excellent fishing, with good steelhead and Chinook salmon runs, and decent populations of brook trout, especially in the upper reaches. Brown trout, walleyes, smallmouth bass and even the occasional coaster brook trout have been known to ascend the river from Little Bay de Noc, which itself is a phenomenal fishery.

The Whitefish, which contains many sections of rapids and whitewater, is popular with canoeists and kayakers. In the spring, after the snow melt, the river runs cold and swift, offering a challenge to experienced paddlers. It is deep at this time of year and can be quite dangerous, so wet suits are recommended, especially in April.

Roughly 30 miles of the Whitefish system is navigable by canoe or kayak. After June, however, the Whitefish is a real crapshoot when it comes to its water level. If the level is low, a canoeist will be doing more walking than floating. The best bet is to call the U.S. Forest Service ranger station in Rapid River at (906) 474-6442, and ask a ranger if the water is up or not.

If it has been a particularly wet summer or early fall, as it was this year, October can be an excellent time to float the Whitefish, especially for hunters. The Whitefish corridor is loaded with game. Much of the river cuts through a deep valley, and there are relatively few public access points, so a canoe lets you get to areas that are relatively untouched by fellow hunters.

The number of game trails leading to the river is really staggering, particularly if you are in search of deer. There are also plenty of opportunities to shoot waterfowl and other winged creatures, such as grouse and turkey. And make no mistake about it, the Whitefish runs through the kind of thick forest that black bear just love.

Hunters should be warned, however, that there is much private land (mostly hunting camps) along the Whitefish, so it is essential to know where you are. A detailed map can be obtained from the ranger station in Rapid River.

If you are not a hunter of fisherman, or even a whitewater thrill seeker, the Whitefish still offers outstanding scenery any time of the year. And, if you are quiet enough, a float down the Whitefish should result in numerous wildlife sightings, including many bald eagles, ospreys, otters, and the aforementioned deer and bear. It is also a thrill to see the powerful salmon make their way up the river, particularly in shallow areas where their backs break the surface of the water.

Because it runs through deep forest, the Whitefish has its share of bugs. Between May and early July, blackflies, deer flies, mosquitoes and no-see-ums can ruin an unprepared angler’s day.

The East Branch

The East Branch of the Whitefish, which travels roughly 15 miles before its confluence with the West Branch, begins at the scenic Trout Lake in Alger County.

The East Branch has several access points, including at Trout Lake, on Forest Road 2236 (the old “Buckeye Grade” that was heavily used during the logging era), and at the public boat launch in Rapid River.

At the outlet of Trout Lake, there is an old log slide, and the river begins its southerly course through a wicked looking cedar-dominated forest. Right below the lake, there are a number of downed cedar trees, bleached white from the sun, which you must navigate through before the river narrows and picks up some speed.

As it meanders its way through thick, remote forest (that will keep you looking over your back), the river is generally clear of debris and runs over a solid limestone bedrock bottom, which is not unlike a paved road. Don’t be surprised, however, to run into the occasional logjam or beaver dam, though it is evident other canoeists have gone through with saws to open up the route.

The East Branch has five tributaries, including Dexter Creek, which has decent brook trout reproduction. Generally the river is cold and of high quality.

There are 11 miles of paddling between Trout Lake and Forest Road 2236, which takes about eight hours with good water conditions. This section is one of the most remote along the entire stretch of the Whitefish. It is another three-plus miles from 2236 to the confluence with the East Branch, which is generally faster water.

The West Branch

The West Branch begins its journey in southeast Marquette County and, after collecting water from a number of small feeder streams, widens to a modest size. All of its feeder streams, in fact, are designated trout streams and contain decent populations of brook trout.

The main access points to launch a canoe are located on County Road 444 not far from the town of Trenary, and on Forest Road 2236 a couple miles west of where the old logging grade crosses the East Branch.

As it winds through Alger and Delta counties, the West Branch runs over a hard limestone bedrock bottom with much gravel and cobble. Between U.S.-41 and Trenary, the stream contains a series of riffles and falls, which attract steelhead anglers in the spring. There is a state forest campground at Whitefish Falls, which drops about four feet.

From Trenary to 2236, the river moves along at a good clip, containing many riffles and rapids. This can be an exciting trip, with plenty of whitewater. It is also relatively short for those who don’t want to invest too much time. It takes about an hour and a half.

About 3.5 miles south of 2236, the two rivers meet in a deep valley that offers wonderful views from nearby County Road 509. This section has a section of rapids named Flynns Rapids, which concludes with a bend called “Deadman’s Curve” that can be dangerous in high water situations. Again, if the water level is down, expect to be doing a lot of walking (and dragging your canoe).

Mainstream

The mainstream of the Whitefish is rated a second-class trout stream. However, there are a number of tributaries that are fine trout streams, including Haymeadow and Chipney creeks, and to a lesser degree, Bill’s Creek.

It can be a blast for canoeists, though, and contains a number of named rapids/riffles, beginning with Johnson’s Rapids about a half mile below the confluence of the east and west branches, and followed by Black Rapids, Hales Rapids, Flowing Well Rapids, Bill’s Creek Rapids and another Johnson’s Rapids, most of which were named after old hunting camps (or so the legend goes).

As one approaches US-2 near Rapid River, the river gets marshy and really begins to widen and slow down. The final couple miles are marked by grassy islands, downed lumber and deep holes. It is very reminiscent of a coastal river you would find on the Pacific Coast. This area can either be a relaxing float, or a strenuous paddle, depending on what the wind is doing. Anyone that has paddled across a lake during a windy day knows exactly what I mean.

There is a public boat launch in Rapid River, which is a good take out point. If you put in at 2236 (on either the east or west branch), it is about 18 miles to the boat launch, a distance that takes about 8 hours to float. If that is longer than you had in mind, search a couple of the forest highways that jut west off County Road 509 for other access points.

The last time I was up, my companions and I found a great spot to take out just upstream from where Haymeadow Creek dumps into the mainstream. I’m not sure what the road is named or numbered, but when you get to a gravel pit, turn left and look for a small two-track that runs off to the right and down to the river. That little find shaved about three hours off our trip, which was really perfect – we had plenty of float time, but also enough time to fish and hunt. And we still finished before darkness descended.

Really, it all depends on what you are looking for. Because the Whitefish has plenty to offer. It is a classic UP stream that is a wonderful resource for a variety of sportsmen.

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Driving northeast on M-94 heading into Munising in late October, one will encounter a dazzling display of autumn colors. For when fall casts its spell on the wooded hills that shroud the hamlet on Lake Superior’s southern shore, they beam with so many shades of orange, one would swear they have ... read on → A Superior State of Mind]]>

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Driving northeast on M-94 heading into Munising in late October, one will encounter a dazzling display of autumn colors. For when fall casts its spell on the wooded hills that shroud the hamlet on Lake Superior’s southern shore, they beam with so many shades of orange, one would swear they have caught fire.

I know many people who head to New England each year for fall color tours, but I think they would be better served by heading north to the rugged Upper Peninsula. It doesn’t matter if you are driving on M-94, US-2 along Lake Michigan, or on some dusty forest highway, the UP doesn’t take a backseat to any place when it comes to colorful autumn foliage. And a few more tourism dollars spent within our state is always better than sending it elsewhere.

Besides, the UP has far more surprises up its sleeve than just the beautiful fall colors. You never quite know what you are going to discover once you get above the Mackinac Bridge. I was reminded of this yet again during my annual bow-hunting pilgrimage to Hiawatha National Forest in Delta County in October.

Look no further than to the breed of Michiganders affectionately known as “Yoopers,” who are certainly as colorful as the fall foliage. I have found them to be a hearty and considerate folk, who seem to revel in their differences from those of us who live below the bridge. (I believe the “affectionate” name they call us is Trolls.)

During my trip, I stopped at a store in Rapid River, a town that seems eternally stuck in the 1950s, and saw a poster with a picture of the Upper Peninsula. Across the top it read “The State of Superior,” as if to disavow all association with those of us who dwell below the Straits.

When I was in town, I was able to pick up a copy of the Detroit Free Press. One of the front page stories discussed how Detroit Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick, who at the time was locked in a campaign duel with challenger Freman Hendrix, had given up the “bling”(diamond-studded earrings, hip-hop image, etc.), hoping to appeal to the city’s middle aged female voters. Looking at the large photo of Kwame that ran with the story, I thought to myself ‘no wonder the folks up here think downstaters are a bizarre lot.’

Heck most Yoopers probably don’t even know what the word bling means. And in my book, that’s a good thing. I take comfort knowing there are still people who haven’t been sucked up into that giant vacuum known as pop culture. While I’m sure MTV has found its way into a number of Yooper homes, pop culture certainly isn’t pervasive in the UP. It’s like trying to put a square peg in a round hole. It just doesn’t fit up there.

Looking around Rapid River, with its dusty old storefronts, it is difficult to comprehend that it is in the same state as Detroit, with its urban ghettos and shiny suburbs. Kwame and the rest of Detroit’s problems seem a million miles away, except, of course, poverty, which has found its niche in the UP as well.

As it turns out, most of the people I have spoken to up there actually associate themselves more closely with the people of Wisconsin than those who live in Detroit, which makes sense geographically. If you want to test this theory, just try watching the Lions game at the Swallow Inn, the main bar in downtown Rapid River. If the Green Bay Packers are playing at the same time, the people at the bar will tell you to move on down the road, even though there are plenty of televisions there to watch both games.

The UP really is a different world than downstate. With its vast forests and spread out population centers, there is a certain Wild West feel that comes over you. Although it isn’t a lawless frontier, the long arm of the law doesn’t have the same reach up there. For example, in Grand Marais, the bar literally empties out when it is learned the state cop might be coming through town. Just the rumor of police presence causes a bit of a panic.

And of course this leads to some unusual activities by locals and visitors alike. Like, for example, the two guys I saw illegally “fishing” for salmon on the Whitefish River. They didn’t waste time with snagging or spearing, like most salmon poachers. You might say they were tag-teaming the giant fish as they swam upriver on their quest to spawn and die. One of the guys was in the river, corralling any fish he could find and forcing them towards his partner, who stood on the far bank with a shotgun in hand.

I guess I should have assumed they were up to no good when my companions and I had visited them the night before. When I asked them if they had come to fish for the abundant salmon, one of them said, “You might say that.” Little did I know their unusual technique employed a 12-gauge. As it turns out, the men were not Yoopers, but from Cadillac and Mancelona.

Like I said, you never know what you might find in the UP. I’m sure those of you who have visited on any number of occasions could tell similar stories. It may not be a different state, like some of the people up there might wish, but it definitely feels like a different country sometimes.

Personally, I could never see a Michigan without the UP. It seems in recent years, the word diversity has come to represent racial distinctions, but it also applies to the differences between the Yooper and downstate cultures. The fact is, a Michigan with the Upper Peninsula is a much more diverse place.

And a lot more colorful.

photo: john counts

You’re picked up at 5 a.m. knowing the rest of the neighborhood is asleep. How couldn’t they be? Day after Thanksgiving, who else is up at this time? The neighborhood is quiet. You rub your eyes, a bit cloudy. You probably shouldn’t have had that last holiday cocktail the ... read on → Winter Steelheading: We Do It Because We Can]]>

photo: john counts

You’re picked up at 5 a.m. knowing the rest of the neighborhood is asleep. How couldn’t they be? Day after Thanksgiving, who else is up at this time? The neighborhood is quiet. You rub your eyes, a bit cloudy. You probably shouldn’t have had that last holiday cocktail the night before. Next thing you know, you’re on the expressway in the backseat of a truck, gear stacked up in the flatbed behind you. It’s still dark. You begin to wonder, why do I do these things to myself? Why am I on the way to a frigid river with a fly-rod when I could sleep in, feast on leftovers and lounge about like everyone else? But as dawn slowly unravels in grey streaks through the windshield, you’re relieved. Getting out of town. Getting the hell out of town.

*

It’s sometimes difficult to keep in mind that we are part of something larger than our own lives. It’s common knowledge that most car accidents occur no more than a few miles from our homes or places of employment, an indicator that in our daily lives, we don’t get out much. It’s also strange to note that, according to a study at the University of Michigan, we spend 93 percent of our lives indoors.

We know by reputation that the day after Thanksgiving is when we’re supposed to wake up from our tryptophan-induced slumbers, get in the car and join the throngs at the local malls and shopping plazas, our heads ringing with sales and price tags, our arms loaded down with bags of merchandise. Our only solace, maybe a pretzel at the food court.

For the past two years, though, I’ve found myself very far away from the zipping of credit cards through machines and the parking lot war zones. Instead, I’ve found myself hip-deep in the cold waters of the Pere Marquette River, chasing the elusive steelhead. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

We are a culture of watchers. We have created so much material to look at that we cannot help it. We spend so much time looking at and watching things—televisions, newspapers, stock reports, PowerPoint presentations, computer screens, video games—it’s sometimes hard to remember that we are part of something more joined with the land and waters we glide past on expressways, or watch flow on the Discovery Channel. We know how to watch, but we don’t know much how to ‘do’ anymore.

This culture of watching has helped us craft a barrier between us and the natural world, a sad development that leads people of good intention to form perceptions of wild or natural areas as something to be locked up, put away. Let this mentality get away from its intellectual roots and filter down into the public at large, and we get things like the recent dove hunting ban. Who knows what might be banned next.

It’s commonplace now for the average person who doesn’t do anything in the outdoors, who forty years ago wouldn’t have much an opinion either way on hunting or fishing, to take a dismissive standpoint. They don’t do it, so they don’t care. It’s not part of their lifestyle, and doves seem so, well, nice. And, besides, their favorite Hollywood stars seem to be against all that kind of stuff, so it must make sense.

But no matter how high and thick we build the barrier, it is mostly in our mind. Whether we are standing in a paved parking lot or in the middle of a river, we are always part of the natural world. It’s just that sometimes we are watching and sometimes we are doing. Doing things breaks down that barrier, and allows the world to be not so chopped up into pieces, allows it to be more whole. Fishing is passage into that larger realm.

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Somewhere between Detroit and Bay City you realize your life is fringed by waters and you’ve been bordered in by water pretty much you’re whole life. You think about cell phone salesmen in Ohio who aren’t bordered in by water. You think of a Wal-Mart greeter in Missouri who’s never heard the word ‘trout’ or ‘steelhead’ before. You’ve fished pretty much every Michigan stream you can think of in the past fifteen years. You’ve had good days and bad days. You’ve caught some and some got away. Some days you just stood there in the stream thinking, casting and fishing because that’s just where you were and what you were doing. Other days, you intently worked the same hole, lost and changed innumerable flies, not even noticing the surroundings, that the sky was growing dark, or that it had started raining.

On the road, the sun is finally out and the dawn fog has cleared. Out the window, land passes. Billboards implore motorists to visit their local mid-Michigan RV dealerships, eat at fast food joints and worship Jesus Christ. A semi cuts you off. The expressway has a different kind of current. The whole world does, for that matter. People are probably just waking up, but you’ve been up for hours.

*

Just east of Ludington, Lake County is located on the cusp of where mid-Michigan segues into northern Michigan on the western side of the state. It’s also where the majority of one of the most notorious rivers in Michigan, the Pere Marquette, winds its way 67 miles from its origins at the “Forks” to Pere Marquette Lake. In those waters lurk some of the biggest, most challenging and adventurous fish to go after with a fly rod: steelhead.

For the less initiated, steelhead are rainbow trout who have headed out to bigger waters, lost their red bands of color, and grown to colossal proportions. Like salmon, they return to the spawning grounds in the river where they were born. According to the Pere

Marquette Watershed Council, the rainbows were planted in the P.M. in the early 1880s around the same time as it was also stocked with brown trout, and the beginning of the native grayling’s demise. There was soon a healthy steelhead run in both the spring and fall, and the state soon opened an official spring and fall season. So now, shortly after what I’ve heard is a pretty insane fall salmon season, steelhead become the object of the Michigan fly angler’s monomania on the P.M.

And this is why I’ve found myself wading deep, cold waters for the past two years on the day after Thanksgiving. We focused our steelheading around the town of Baldwin, where there are plenty of places to fish, just not too many places to actually get into the river. Most of the land abutting the fertile steelhead waters of the P.M. is privately owned, so, unless you want a shotgun pointed in your face, keep your feet wet.

Since the access is so limited, it’s not uncommon to see several other trucks parked at an area when showing up. There is plenty of river to fish as long as you don’t mind wading a bit. But, since the water temperature hovers around 30-40 degrees, be careful and prepared gear-wise. There may even be a foot of snow on the bank. You never know. But it’s all part of the fun.

*

Monomania. It’s no wonder that a man going after large water creatures is a recurring motif in American literature. It’s all part of the same elemental drive that pushes the salmon and steelhead from lake to spawning grounds. The rotting salmon carcasses on the banks of the river from the fall run are a visual and olfactory reminder of these raw elements of life. From pictures, you know why an angler gets monomaniacal about steelhead. They are big. They’re very big. So big that if you’re accustomed to summer trout fishing, you look at the pictures and can’t help wondering: you caught that in here? Thing’s as big as my leg! Size always matters when you’re talking about fish. So, you do a little research so you too can have your buddies snap a photo of you with a steelie as big as your leg.

You clear a place on the wall in your den for the photo, pick out a frame. You hear you got to go deep to get these guys in the cold water with either sink-tip line or split shot. You get out in the river and show them your stuff. You can certainly feel the cold. You’re moving slower, aren’t you? Well, so are they. But a strike from a steelhead reminds you why you’re out there in the cold when you could be dozing in front of the TV or rushing around a mall. Feels like a truck pulling away with your line. A few of these strikes, and something happens. You’re the one that’s hooked!

p.a.rech/palan.images

The Upper Peninsula isn’t a kind a gentle place. In spring and summer the fly hatches are erratic and most times non-existent. Spring is a non-event, and fall, well; it turns to winter all too quickly. So, why go? In the summer it’s for uncrowded trout streams, and in the fall ... read on → Grousin’: It Happens Every Year]]>

p.a.rech/palan.images

The Upper Peninsula isn’t a kind a gentle place. In spring and summer the fly hatches are erratic and most times non-existent. Spring is a non-event, and fall, well; it turns to winter all too quickly. So, why go? In the summer it’s for uncrowded trout streams, and in the fall it’s for miles and miles of open land without many other hunters.

When you look at the history of the Upper Peninsula, it tells the story. French Jesuit priests came, established missionary churches, spent a winter, claimed the land for France and went back to Montreal and Quebec. They were the carpetbaggers of the era.  It took the hardy Scandinavians, Italians and Cornish to come and actually live in the U.P.

I guess I can count myself as a tourist in the U.P., but I’m there as much as I possibly can be. As one writer once put it: You’re from the place where you spend the winter. I guess I’m just a Yooper wannabe.

Anyway, each fall finds me for at least a week in a small cabin, one of those old U.P. tourist cabins from the 1930s with knotty pine walls, and plenty of cracks to let the wind inside. It’s a true hunting cabin, although there is a television with cable. I try not to turn it on, as a way to get back into tune with myself and away from the media, of which I am a member.

The days are filled with grouse and woodcock hunting, and the nights with bourbon, beer and talk of “where the birds are.” This year I had a tremendous excuse to indulge in a bit of bourbon drinking. I was coming down with a sore throat, and our camp doctor, actually a real one, told me antibiotics wouldn’t help what I had, and he prescribed a bit of alcohol and aspirin. By week’s end the two stores in the small U.P. town we were staying in were out of Jack Daniels, my drug of choice, and Bell’s beer, which served as the cough medicine of my two sons and their friends.

There were birds though. But they weren’t in the places where they should have been. Also, we were fighting high winds that made the grouse skittish and they were flushing before we could get near them with the dog. It made for some frustrating hunts. We could hear them flying, but we could rarely see them because it was the second week of October and the foliage was still on the trees.

But when I look back at our hunt, it’s pretty much what happens each season – the only common denominator to our 15 or so seasons in the same area is that there’s never a typical year. The birds are either up or down, it’s been too dry, too wet or none of the leaves are down, so you can’t see more that 20 yards.

The only constant is the weather. For some reason, no matter which week we plan for an October grouse and woodcock hunt, we end up with a four-season holiday. The weather ranges from summer and spring like, to fall and winter. And this year was no different. We started out on an 80 degree Sunday, stripped down to our T-shirts and vests, sweating as we walked and followed the dog. We ended the week with about three inches of snow on the ground, trudging through it in our winter gear.

Although we had some success, it was a frustrating week. In areas where the cover was classic, we found few birds, and after trudging through the best stuff for most of the day, we were forced into an area none of us like to hunt – the thornapples. The area is a man and dog-eating maze of thornapple brush that tears up hunter and dog.

There’s no way to walk through the thornapples, so we try to hunt the edges of the thickets. But there comes a time when birds entice you too deep into a thicket, and there’s a thorn-filled walk out of the brush. This year I wore both hunting pants and a pair of chaps and they helped my legs not end up like pincushions.

The woodcock were thick in the thorns, and we averaged 18 flushes in less than two hours on several hunts, and we shot our limit several days.

There were some grouse, too. My son thought the week was a success when his English setter, Barley, pointed a grouse and he son shot it. It was Barley’s first real bird after two years of training.

And by the end of the week, we did have a decent supply of grouse and woodcock for a dinner for my four hunting companions and their families.

.  Dear reader, I’m going to digress here for a moment and talk about my granddaughter. Please, no moans. Bear with me because I think the little story makes a good point in times when the act of hunting is taking it on the ear from critics. When shown our take of grouse and woodcock, the two-year-old girl, Kaia, wasn’t grossed out, as you would think. When told by her father he had shot them, and that they would be dinner, she was excited.  She danced around and asked: “When are we going to eat the animals?” It was a good lesson in how we manage to live. I just wish more kids could learn the same one.

And what am I expecting next year? From all indications, the ruffed grouse cycle is on its way up, so there will probably be more birds. But as for what I can expect, I don’t know. Maybe with global warming, the trees will still be in full green and we won’t be able to see a thing to shoot. I do know there will be some hot weather, and some snow. And if the hunting isn’t good, I can just hope for another sore throat and a prescription that calls for house calls from Dr. Jack Daniels.

photo: kurt kuban

But fewer people know Hemingway, perhaps the state’s most famous fly fisherman, also had a real affection for the Black, ... read on → Land of Three Rivers: Black, Pigeon & Sturgeon Rivers form the Backbone of Pigeon River Country]]>

photo: kurt kuban

But fewer people know Hemingway, perhaps the state’s most famous fly fisherman, also had a real affection for the Black, Pigeon and Sturgeon rivers located in northeast Lower Michigan. In fact, Hemingway fished them often during his northern Michigan visits, particularly the Black, which at the time was considered the finest brook trout stream in the state.

Considering Hemingway’s huge presence in Michigan lore, the fact that his trips to these three streams aren’t more well-known only seems fitting. To this day, the Black, Pigeon and Sturgeon rivers don’t get the notoriety of some of the state’s more fabled streams like the Au Sable, Manistee and PM. Yet, they are all wonderful streams that offer outstanding fishing opportunities in an idyllic wilderness setting.

The three rivers parallel each other, running in a south to north direction, and they are all within a short drive of one another. Together they form the backbone of the Pigeon River Country, one of the true treasures of the Michigan forest system and one of the more remote areas left in the Lower Peninsula.

Of course, the Pigeon River Country looks much different now than it did in Hemingway’s time. In his day, the area had recently been logged over, and was known as the “Pine Barrens.” Fortunately the state took possession of large tracts of land due to unpaid taxes, and in the early 1930s the Civilian Conservation Corps helped the land heal. Not only did they replant by hand native pines on the land that had been ravished by logging and wildfire, they also helped un-choke the rivers of the debris leftover from careless logging practices.

Today, Pigeon River Country covers more than 100,000 acres of impressive hills, forests and wetlands, and is home to elk, black bear, bobcat and eagles. Certainly three of its finest features are the Black, Pigeon and Sturgeon rivers.

While the three are similar in size and share some characteristics, each has its own identity. That is especially the case from a fisheries standpoint. While all three are classified Blue Ribbon Trout Streams, the Black is known for its brook trout fishery, the Sturgeon is known for its brown and rainbow trout, and the Pigeon has a mix of all three.

The Black is perhaps the most unique of the three, due to the fact that it is solely a brook trout fishery. MDNR fisheries biologist Tim Cwalinski, who has been working on the Black and Pigeon rivers for the past five years, said the Black is probably the best watershed for brook trout in the state.

“It’s a really unique watershed, because it is brook trout only. That appeals to a lot of fishermen because brook trout are more aggressive than browns, not to mention a better eating fish,” he said.

The Black is a bit warmer than its two cousins, largely because it receives less groundwater seepage and is plagued by beaver dams in some of its upper regions. This can be both a blessing and a curse for its brook trout. The warmer temperatures mean better production of the aquatic organisms the trout rely on for food.

“In the Black we have as good growth rates as we have in the whole state,” Cwalinski said. “Number one, there are no brown trout to compete with the brookies. Number two, it’s not as cold as the other streams, which means there’s always a food supply.”

While the Black is known for its brookies, the quick-running Sturgeon is celebrated for its brown trout, which can grow to enormous proportions, including some 10-pounders.

The DNR was so impressed with the Sturgeon’s brown trout fishery, last fall fisheries biologists collected a total of 1,255 brown trout in the 6-20 inch range, so they could be used as brood stock for the DNR’s hatchery program. The DNR will begin stocking Sturgeon River strain browns throughout the state in 2012 or 2013.

“Last year was pretty exciting,” said DNR fisheries biologist Neal Godby, who helped collect the fish last fall. “This new strain of brown trout will diversify the state’s brown trout fishery. And these Sturgeon River browns are homegrown and local. They are genetically unique and disease resistant.”

In addition to its incredible resident trout, the river also gets runs of browns and steelhead from Burt Lake, which the Sturgeon empties into near the town of Indian River. So it really does have a lot to offer anglers. One note of caution, though. It is a fast running stream, especially downstream of Wolverine, and includes deep holes that can swallow up a fisherman. It can be particularly treacherous for wading anglers.

The Pigeon River, which is located between the Sturgeon and Black rivers, winds its way for about 43 miles through hills, meadows and some beautiful forest land before emptying into Mullet Lake. Although there is plenty of public access, the Pigeon offers plenty of solitude as fishing pressure is typically light.

It is a high-quality stream due largely to all the natural springs that feed it, and as a result is a fine trout producer. Brookies are plentiful in the upper reaches of the watershed, and larger browns and rainbows are found in the bigger water downstream.

However, like both the Sturgeon and the Black, the Pigeon is solely dependent upon natural reproduction. The DNR doesn’t stock them. As a result, angler success really depends on the particular year, according to Tim Cwalinski of the DNR.

“The populations of these three rivers go up and down. We don’t stock them, so they are susceptible to the conditions. Angler success really depends on Mother Nature,” he said.

This is where warmer water can be a curse, as trout smolt have a difficult time surviving when the temperatures get too warm. Cwalinski said larger fish are generally OK, because they will move to areas where the water is cooler, but younger fish are lost. So a particularly warm spring and summer could impact fishing for a couple seasons down the road.

So can over-fishing, which is also a problem according to fishing guide Mike Moreau, one person who knows the three rivers pretty well, particularly the Pigeon and Black. The Onaway resident spends about five days a week either guiding for other anglers or fishing himself. He is also a member of the Upper Black River Watershed Restoration Committee, and has coordinated restoration efforts in the Black River watershed. In addition to installing erosion control projects, he and other volunteers have placed woody debris in the river to provide trout habitat.

Moreau thinks the Black River in particular gets too much pressure, limiting the size of fish. He would like the DNR to create a catch and release fishery on part of the Black, similar to areas of the Au Sable and Manistee, so it could produce real trophies.

“The Black is a relatively small watershed with lots of access. So the question is, ‘How much pressure is too much?’ The brook trout in the Black have the potential to get as big as coaster brook trout. They’re the same genetically. Unfortunately, they’re being taken from the river before they can reach that size,” Moreau said.

The DNR has no accurate data on fishing pressure for the three rivers, according to Cwalinski, though he believes it is “moderate.”

“We are just weak when it comes to assessing angler pressure. We just don’t have the time,” he said. “My gut feeling is they’re not big rivers, so they’re getting enough pressure.”

Both Cwalinski and Moreau said they don’t mind that the Black, Pigeon and Sturgeon don’t get more notoriety, although they believe the rivers definitely deserve it.

“I like the remoteness of these rivers. I remember the first time I went into the Pigeon River Forest, I got lost – and I had a map,” Moreau said. “There’s not many places left like that in Michigan. I love it because it kind of feels like you are an explorer when you go out there, even now that I know them like I do.”