South Haven Generations

(This was has been languishing (seasoning?) a while...maybe it's still appropriate.)

Another Fathers’ Day just passed, and I had a very satisfactory one.  The day was low-key and relaxed, I spent some time with my local girls (while keeping in touch with my East Coaster), I fished, and I even caught a couple of decent bass.   I had a pair of muskies tracking my glide bait, and when my muskie lake got too crowded for my taste, I transferred my boat and attentions to my favorite local lake.   I was pleased to find that the construction situation there has been a blessing in disguise, in that it seems to have actually limited the overall use of the lake.  So I was able to stay out and enjoy myself later than usual without too much marine traffic; and when I got home, there was my trusty dog, a cold beverage, a spaghetti dinner, a new baseball book and a thoughtful, hand-written Fathers’ Day note!  Please let me re-phrase; it was a truly satisfactory day.

Moreover, it was a day off work and I had some time to think!  The best part about parenting or a Parent’s Special Day is the realization that your children are doing well; indeed, that they’re flourishing.  Both kids are embarking upon interesting, productive summers that have the potential for shaping their lives, and they’re both doing so with the necessary confidence and tools to get the most out of their experiences.   So, on this day, I felt contentment, and overall pretty confident that I’ve done a good parenting job (so far); and I had few distractions from these thoughts.

But what distractions I did have simply provided reinforcement for my line of thinking.  There have been a few recent health issues affecting family, friends and co-workers.  But extra visiting and mobile support systems kicked in (seemingly automatically, although I know that everybody sacrifices in these situations), all seem to be in good hands currently, and we generally seem to have the collective resources and ability to handle situations as they arise.  I know we can’t necessarily control outcomes, but we can certainly manage the process to the best of our abilities.  Simply knowing this is empowering, and I admire the grace so routinely exhibited by others in our everyday lives.

But, back to Fathers’ Day; in fact, back to Mothers’ Day.  My mom doesn’t especially enjoy Mothers’ Day, and so I’ve learned to down-play this occasion.  This year, I probably down-played it too much, though, and that didn’t feel right.  So I had decided to make it a point to acknowledge her on Fathers’ Day, for surely I wouldn’t be the father I am without her guidance and efforts; and since my dad has passed, why shouldn’t I acknowledge her at this time?  Of course, on this day she was travelling to care for another; she was hot and tired, and our conversation was rushed; and these words were left largely unspoken.  Crap and shith; I missed the opportunity.

About the same time as all this, my work environment had experienced the loss of a long-time leader; it was especially rough on a good friend of mine, from who I’ve learned a lot.  I was able to spontaneously share these thoughts.  Based on their spontaneity, I think they’re genuine:

“My closest experience with this was with my Dad.  In the end he left my Mom in good shape and his pain was gone.  I’ve not a single bad thought about him, and while I miss him; he’s not in pain.  He’s more alive in my memories than he was physically able to be for many years.  All is good with me and my Dad.”

So, regardless of whether you are a mother, father, son or daughter; I hope you are fortunate enough to distill your most meaningful relationships down to their foundations of pure trust, respect and love.

What’s this got to do with South Haven?  I recently took this particular friend’s wife, daughter and father-in-law out for a morning of salmon fishing out of this small Lake Michigan port.  Three generations, on my boat at the same time.  Because I’m the youngest of the youngest, this has rarely happened for me.  It was a beautiful day with a few beautiful fish, and I’d be hard pressed to say who (aboard Numenon) enjoyed it the most.  All I can say is that I had a great day.  It was a high-light in a season that so far has featured some really nice fish! And while I’d have loved to share it with my parent(s) and child(ren), I can’t help but realize that they’ve all prepared me to share, and to recognize, such fine moments. 

“Thanks!”

Kings captured by the youngster; photo by the grandfather.

Little Rhody Road Trip

An arranged long weekend; my girls in Providence and Boston; and a full tank of gas; it was clearly time for a quick road trip to my home, Rhode Island.  I've barely been back for the last 20 years.  I spent a good chunk of my youth planning to escape; and now I can foresee a future where I end up back there (or closely nearby.)

We arrived in Providence at about 11:30 AM, having taken a final highway named for a Woonsocket-born actor of the 30s (really; is that all they could come up with?), but since M had plans until 6:30 or so, and K's train didn't come until that time, either, A and I had some time to poke around.  We could have chosen to go south to the beaches, or east to the Cape; but we'd had enough driving.  We chose to go a few miles north, to my home town, Cumberland.

The remembered route home, along the Blackstone River, was closed to traffic (since 2004?) and so we could not enjoy the winding trip past the old textile and nut and bolt mills.  I couldn't race over the railroad hummocks and throw our stomaches into our throats.  We were instead shunted into Central Falls.  The roads here are old; narrow and tortuously winding; many of the bridges and underpasses are single lanes.  Honk as you approach, cross your fingers, and go through if it appears to be clear.  It usually works, but when a truck, clearly too tall to go under a railroad bridge attempted to anyway, we had to back-track.  We went past Macumber Stadium, where I played American Legion Baseball.  The field looked the same, but a foul ball to either side would now deposit the ball on Prison Land (the barbed wire was impressive), and a homer to right would land on the roof of a closed mill.  Forget parking one to left or center; 360 feet down the line to left (I did hit the wall once for a triple), and well over 500 feet to dead center.

We did find a pleasant (new-to-me) access to the Blackstone River, so we took a short walk here.

We quickly found an unexpected campground in Central Falls!  It was pretty well deserted, this entry provided free samples of native poison ivy, and the Blackstone River smelled somewhat familiar; but what a beautiful day!

I've got The Granite of New Hampshire in my muscles and my brains, but I suspect that it's dissolved in Blackstone River water.

The Blackstone was running low and clear; clearer than I'd ever seen.

From here we went to see the old homestead; but first we stopped at what was once my maternal grandparents' home.  This neighborhood was remarkably familiar; many houses were still the same color they were in the 70s!  My grandparents are buried across the street, and we quickly found their tombstone.  I can't exactly say I paid my respects, but it is a good thing to at least know where these things are.

My maternal grandparents' house looks pretty much exactly the same as when they sold it in the early 1970s.  (It's white instead of gray.)  This is where I famously ate a whole chicken at the age of 3 or so, and learned how to ride my bike.  Since a baseball friend's family bought this house from my grandfather, I spent a lot of my time here in my early teens, too.

From here it was off to the house of my childhood.  We took the back way there, and we encountered a fair amount of "new" development.  My favorite house (the one with the porch roof built around a fully grown tree) was gone, but the nearby "Piggery" was still there, unlike The Pond.  Both were important portals to my fishing life.  Many bass (and some impressive 'gills) were caught from each.

They've added a wing to the house I grew up in and paved the driveway.  A little fancier paint job and extremely well-kept, but otherwise totally familiar.  My pond, fields and woods are mostly gone to development now, but it looks like a nice place to live.

At this point it was time to look for lunch; both A and I wanted an authentic R.I. grinder.  We took a tour through the various burrows of Cumberland and turned around at the high school.  We found a sub shop from my high school times and sat down for lunch.  It was about here when I realized that I didn't really want to encounter somebody I actually knew.  But the demographics of the place seem to have changed, and it was the middle of a work day; so I never actually realized this concern.

My parent's sporting goods store is apparently still owned by the original buyer.  He moved it kitty-corner across the parking lot.  The neighborhood had a new tattoo parlor, but was otherwise familiar.

The original Sportstown was across Mendon Road from a Rhode Island Icon; Del's Lemonade.  This was probably The Original Gatorade, and many Little Leaguers were motivated to great performance heights by the prospect of a post-game Del's.  These were sold in different sizes; the 5-center was small, the dimer was adequate, and the 25-center was a giant reward.  I'd usually pick up a pack of Topp's Baseball Cards, too; awesome gum and 10 cards or so for a dime.

There's no reason to suffer from scurvy in Rhode Island.

We had to stop!  We shared this drink.

We couldn't resist the commemorative cup.  I'm enjoying an 800-center!

On our way to the local State Park (Lincoln Woods), we stopped at Ann and Hope.  It's no longer open as a department store, but the building seemed to be in good repair (for a former mill of such age.)

The original department store?  Now it seems to host flea markets.

The Dividing Line on a foot-bridge over the Blackstone River.  Access to the river was much easier!

The inviting Blackstone.  But if you look carefully, there's a sheen and an absorbent boom by the factory downstream.  There's also a property of seemingly deserted semi-trailers to the right.  So things are better; but they could be better, yet.

As our designated meeting time approached, we wandered down to Providence.  This city seems to have cleaned up pretty well and was more vibrant and accessible than I remember.  Plus, there are now fish in Narragansett Bay, and there seems to be so much more to do!

Upper Narragansett Bay, from Providence's India Point.  The windmills are new-to-me!

The Providence Waterfront at the head of Narragansett Bay from India Point; this area now has easy access.  The Hurricane Barrier is kind of behind the bridge.  This area hosts seasonally excellent striper and blue-fishing.  The current was ripping, but there didn't seem to be much going on, here, fishing-wise.

There is some concern that the greeting "What Cheer, Netop?" will become common practice within the family.

Who can argue with a heritage that includes participation in "a lively experiment"?

I've always loved the understated beauty of the Rhode Island flag and motto.

Rhode Island's Capitol; The Minuteman (ready in a minute to defend his state and religious freedom) stands watch atop.

My maternal grandfather has his own government building in Providence.

Entrance to the Powers Building.

By 7 PM we were all together and in the truck, bound for our hotel in Middletown.  After a nice informal meal of local pizza, we were well poised to "do" Newport the next morning.  Katie and I made a quick trip to the Goat Island Causeway, where some folks were squidding.  But we were all tired, so we were soon in bed, awakening to our first (and only?) Rhode Island Dunk Do' of the trip.

It was a beautiful morning, and we spent the day wandering around Newport, doing the Cliff Walk, checking out beaches, shopping and eating.  

My girls, on the rocks.

A little time in downtown Newport made me all artistic-like, so I took this picture of the green bike against the green wall.  There's no other purpose to this pic other than I like the colors.

What's a trip to Rhode Island without going to Newport Creamery!  Drinking three "Awful Awfuls" used to get you a 4th one for free, but a single "Junior" is enough for me now.  Make mine Coffee, please!  And I love their trademarked slogan.  It is, after all, a drink.

The evening had been planned around the rising of the Super Full Moon.  We picked our spot and enjoyed each other's company as we waited, freshened by a comfortable sea breeze.

We set up for a view of the Super Full Moonrise.  We were positioned perfectly, but  a fog bank at sea muted our experience.

The moon got a little more impressive as it rose, but for A, it's all about the horizon.

The next morning it was another good Middletown meal; but then off to Boston to drop K off at her summer digs. I was pleased to see her accommodations seemed nicer than expected.  At 11:28 AM we said goodbye, got on I-90 West, and headed home.  With a pleasant stop near Buffalo for the night, and two easy border crossings, we were home by 2 PM the next day.  That gave us enough time to clean up, rest a bit, reflect on this weekend, and prepare for the week ahead!

Just a small example of the artwork that adorned the entirety of our most excellent hotel near Buffalo, NY.

All this was made somehow better and more enjoyable for all, because there were no fishing plans.  It was all relaxation, with no anticipation or trepidation.  Of course, how could I not day-dream of some Block Island squid-hounds, the local hot fluking, or a trip to the Cape Cod Canal, an iconic tackle store, or (dare I even say it)  for Cape Cod/Massachusetts Bay bluefin tuna?  I can go back for those when the timing is more appropriate.  I suspect there will be many more opportunities to do so.

***The trip was also made better by my new ability to text-message and share pictures with my brother.  He finally got a 21st Century phone!

O (-fer) Canada!

"O (-fer) Canada!"

-or-

"In Which I Make a Huge Effort at Considerable Expense and Get Skunked"


#majormuskieslumpellunge

That text from a few weeks ago pretty much summarizes my current fishing status.  Muskies have occupied most of my fishing time and attention, and I'm really not having much success.  Although my muskie  "career" started hot last season, it's been about a year since I've captured and photographed a muskie.  I've bagged one (1) so far this year and managed to lose her between the net and the camera.  Since then a single nice pike and a few disinterested followers are all I've encountered.

This pretty-nice-pike-for-here hit a Depth Raider cast along a steep weed edge.  I thought I'd figured something out, but subsequent efforts have resulted in 0.0 fish.

My work schedule recently crystalized for the next few weeks and so I knew that I was doing something on July 20th.  I decided that if Jason, my friend and Muskie Mentor (formerly at C's), wanted to join me, we'd tackle Lake St. Clair.  He was quasi-committal, but when I found on Friday a facebook post from a Lake St. Clair muskie guide with a new opening for the 20th and shared this with Jason, he jumped right on it.  He'd fished with "Mike" before, and the guy's a known, blue-collar fish hound.  In a snap, we were booked for Sunday at a discounted rate!  A little extra money than doing it ourselves; but that money was paying some insurance that we'd be fishing properly for the day.

Now Lake St. Clair is just a little over 3 hours away, and it is a world-class muskie and smallmouth lake.  I've not yet fished it!  It's big water, shallow and easily roughened by wind, and the highways around Detroit can get awfully busy.  I've simply been intimidated by her, and there are so many other, closer, easier choices!  But things looked good for our trip; no real weather or wind to speak of, Mike was on some nice fish, and our very-early morning commute would avoid traffic issues.

With the alarm set for 2 AM (a personal record), my Passport and Canadian (Ontario) Fishing License in hand, and a few snacks and drinks in the cooler, I was ready to meet Jason at 2:30 AM for the ride to our anticipated hookup with Mike at his designated 5:30 AM.  There was already a fair amount of traffic at the Clinton River Cut-off ramp when we arrived a few minutes after 5 AM, but by 5:50 or so were aboard Mike's Tuffy boat and cruising nicely at 44 mph across a flat Lake St. Clair.  We ran about 26 miles directly east to near Mitchell's Bay.  Water temps here were in the low 70s and Mike explained that it was the water clarity (or reduction there-of) that made the muskie fishing here so good.  When the main lake warmed and bloomed, fishing would be good elsewhere; but for now, the Canadian shore-line offered the best fishing.  He'd taken a giant on Friday, and 10 on Saturday (I'd seen the pictures!) and so with a lot of excitement, I made my first cast at 6:45 AM.

Mike didn't have anything but "Big Rubber" aboard the boat.  We were all throwing walleye-colored baits; I had a Medusa, while Jason and Mike threw slightly larger Pounders.  I've been throwing a walleye-colored Medusa for over a year now, without a strike or follow; but this seemed to be the place and time for such baits.  It was nice to find out I was casting and retrieving these baits in accordance with these guys' expectations; I'd never fished with anybody else who had actually fished for muskies!  K and A, yes; but whatever they knew or expected was from me; I'd not yet been in a "Muskie Learning Position" while on the water.

Although conditions seemed perfect (overcast, low clouds and a little ripple on the water), the first spot in about 17 feet of water yielded nothing.  We made a short move to (perhaps) some cloudier water, and our next drift yielded most of the action for the day.  First Mike and Jason had small followers; neither was enticed by the Figure-8.  Jason got crunched by a low-30s fish (which was apparently too small for pictures) and soon thereafter I had a follower of about the same size.  Despite my anticipation and watchfulness, she revealed herself to me at an awkward moment at the end of my retrieve; and I totally flubbed a Figure-8 attempt.  But it was still early in the day, and we were all sure there would be more chances.

Mike got the next chance, and he unceremoniously deposited an approximate 47-incher in the net.  It was the biggest muskie I've ever had in the boat, and should make anybody's day; but it was just another day at the office for Mike.  I was lucky to get a couple of shots of her before she was released.

This girl inhaled a Pounder Bulldog; a bait that stretches to over 18 inches long.  We were going big!  Most importantly, note the greenish water.

The guide caught this fish, and he wasn't overly impressed with her.  At 47 inches or so, it's the biggest Esox I've ever been in the boat with, even though she was pretty thin.  Mike and I tied in a sense for the day, each with one hit and a follow.  I just didn't hook up with mine.  Who knows what I missed!  Jason, in the background, caught a smaller one, successfully Figure-8'd a nice one (but then lost her boat-side), and also had a couple of follows.  So we got four bites and raised a few more; a pretty epic day of muskie fishing, but a dismal day on Lake St. Clair (?!?!?)

We made a few more moves along the Canadian shoreline around the Thames River outlet, but as the day cleared off and the breeze disappeared, the fishing shut down.  The highlight of the day might have been the fish Jason Figure-8'd.  I saw the whole situation develop at his feet, and that mid-40s fish inhaled his Pounder.  I'll long retain the memory of the muskie's head flaring to engulf the huge bait.  The hooks didn't stick, but that seemed OK.  We also saw a professional trolling boat take a really nice fish nearby; the fish were here.  And casting looked like it was a lot more fun than the local trolling customs.

It seemed less OK when, shortly thereafter,  I swung and missed on my only hit of the day.  A faint but distinct "tick" at the end of the cast; but not quite the "thunk" that would indicate a sure take.  It might have been a smallmouth, or perhaps a small muskie.  It also could have been the biggest muskie in the lake.  Oh well, I was doing things properly; it must just be a matter of more time on the water.

By now it was 11 AM or so; and we didn't see or feel another fish for the rest of the day.  We kept swinging for the fences at known big-fish locations; but the water was a good 10 or 12 degrees cooler and much clearer as we moved away from the south and east shores.  We fished hard until 5:30 PM or so; and then we "enjoyed" our trip back to the launch.  Holy crap, the Michigan side was crazy and lumpy from boat wakes; the Canadian side had been so nice and peaceful (much more so than I had expected.)

Mike had given it a good effort and had burned a lot of gas.  He'd given us a long day and lots of opportunity.  I'd gotten oriented, learned some local landmarks, and developed some confidence and ideas for future trips.   Despite my skunk, I'd fish with him again; and I definitely hope to fish with Jason again.  He was a good companion for a very long day, and he's used to The Grind that muskies offer.

We'd discussed the legality/appropriateness of driving the boat into Canada to fish; this didn't seem to be an issue for Mike, and while it might be common practice, I'm not sure it's correct.  And while Numenon could have done everything Mike's Tuffy did for the day, she would have been slower and less comfortable.  So when Jason and I go back, we may declare ourselves in Windsor, grab a hotel near the Thames, and spend a couple or few days tucked into the southeast portion of the lake.  The muskies are there! 

Big Effort?  Yes.

Fair Amount of Money?  Yes.

Personally Skunked?  Yes.

Did I want to do it again, first thing Monday morning?  No.

Was I ready to go by Monday, Lunch?  Absolutely!

Spanish Reflections

“I don’t always choose to fish for mackerel.  But when I do, I prefer mine to be Spanish.”

A pair of large Spanish.  Destined for the table?  Or for the next day's bait?

Thinking back on the season so far, it’s hard not to further appreciate the Spanish Mackerel that I encountered in Marathon.  I went looking for pelagics; and when conditions were tough, Spanish were there, both inshore and offshore.  To get right to the point, let me simply acknowledge the following traits that make them worthy, interesting quarry.  Spanish Mackerel are:

• ·       Abundant
• ·       Willing biters
• ·       Fast!
• ·       Great match for light tackle
• ·       Sizeable enough for the outcome to be left in doubt
• ·       Can be caught in a variety of ways
• ·       Attractive
• ·       Toothy
• ·       Good to eat, if you so choose
• ·       Great bait for bigger predators; a fine food chain fishing opportunity
• ·       Docile in hand and very releasable
• ·       Comingled with lots of other catchable fish

Would I plan a big trip around them?  Probably not; their environment offers too many other options and distractions.  Would I trade them for my Atlantic Mackerel in New England?  Thankfully I don’t have to; these smaller tinker mackerel make awesome bait for stripers and blues.  If they were bigger, I’m sure I’d be listing these same traits for them, too.  But, at their size, they really are bait, and not quarry.  Will I keep them in my back pocket and fall back on them as an insurance policy to save (or make) a difficult day?  Absolutely; what a fall-back proposition!

What about Kings and Ceros?  They’re awesome!  A King on a kite bait is a memory not to be forgotten (is there any other kind?), and Ceros provided some scorching runs and explosive strikes in February.   But these larger predators are a little more fickle in their location and generally less abundant (at least in my limited experience.)  So I love them, and I look forward to more; but just not with the current fondness I feel for the Spanish, and the confidence I have in their conquest.

Kites and Kings!

Cero!

I trolled up this Spanish on a Rapala X-Rap.  I love the colors in this pic!  Check out the teeth, but also check out the Spanish Reflection above the right nasal nare...

Perhaps I can see it more clearly than it really existed, but I was part of this mackerel.  It is part of me.

Festival! Festival!

"Here for the Festival, are you, Friend?"

So asks a rather creepy citizen (IMHO) of a strange planet (IMHO) in a rather cheesey episode (IMHO) of a cheesey sci-fi show (IMHO) from the 1960's.  But at least he was SO creepy and SO cheesey that he somehow stayed with me; and now I get to celebrate the coming of his Red Hour every year (sans debauchery), because I live in Grand Rapids!

Bilar from Beta III!  And the Web!

So let it be heard, across time and across the universe; "Festival!  Festival!"  Because Grand Rapids is home to the Festival of the Arts every June.

While "Festival!" was a welcomed addition to the calendar when the kids were young, at this point I'd just as soon avoid the crowds.  But this year's Festival was unique because it coincided with the Gathering of the Gars!  Longnose Gar, unworldly fish, are prominent June spawners here in West Michigan, but this year the Grand River was packed with the largest aggregation of spawning gar I've ever witnessed.

One hole, dozens of gar.

Actively spawning gar.

They were neat to see and fun to watch.  I'm sure the channel cats, fresh off their own spawning activities, were chowing down on their eggs, and I'm certain to be looking for the gar next year.  Maybe I'll be ready with a nylon rope fly.

Falling off that Ladder

Remember that ladder I wrote about in September 2012?  The “Judgment to Value” Ladder?  Historical and ongoing interactions with a couple of folks had convinced me that I needed that ladder, and I thought I had gotten myself a good one.  I thought I was using it properly and successfully.    Well, I’ve fallen off that ladder.  Maybe I slipped, or maybe I was pushed off, but regardless, I suffered a hard landing.

After the shock of the experience wore off, I was able to conduct an inventory; and I believe I’ve incurred only bruising and that nothing’s permanently broken.  I’m better off than a former co-worker who once literally fell off a roof while wearing steel-toed boots; while he landed on his feet, when he toppled from his momentum, he basically cut off all his toes.

My recovery should be much quicker; and I feel that I’m prepared to climb back up.  I’ve got the necessary skills, and I’ve found a certain peace in finding and appreciating the occasional good that everyone offers.

If you can’t expect to fool all the people all of the time, I guess I can’t expect to actively value everybody 24/7.  At least now I don’t need to hold a grudge, place anybody in a permanent box, or let the actions of others control my feelings.  I’ve got more important things to tend to.