In this I must be clear> These are merely suggestions to other fellow readers in the Fly World who would like some references that I have personally read AND are in my own collection. There are others I have read and borrowed from fellow fishing buddies that must be mentioned. Titles like Selective Trout by Swisher and Richards, What the Trout Said by Datus Proper, In the Ring of The Rise by Vince Marinaro and Trout by Ray Bergman to name a few. I have also made good use of my local library card and read a few excellent observations by Tom Rosenbauer- don’t hold it against him, he gets paid by the guys that also make dog beds, but his writing is often provocative and to the point. Such works like Orvis’s Guide to Fly Fishing, Reading Trout Streams, and Prospecting for Trout go down as highly recommended reading for beginners and experienced anglers alike.

Sometimes I have read a few of my books three, four, even a half a dozen times before something in it clicks within my mind. Whether it is because a certain event occurred on the stream and a sudden realization enlightened me, or because I finally got to a level or point in my angling that I was ready to accept or invite that information into my knowledge base. We as humans are funny creatures. We can repeatedly do the same manual maneuver over a thousand times (like with tying flies) and then , in an instant- KAPPOW!!- you suddenly see a better way. Posting hackle on a parachute pattern for example, the easiest way to tie it off is to actually wrap the thread around the post, thereby capturing the hackle feather and then whip finishing the fly. No more messing around with tying the tip of the hackle feather and most of its barbules to the hook itself. What an Epiphany that was!!! How many years had I been missing that one? And why didn’t it come sooner?

“The List” from the TU readers is as follows: TROUT by Ray Bergman, TROUT FISHING by Joe Brooks THE COMPLETE BOOK OF WESTERN HATCHES: AN ANGLER’S ENTOMOLOGY AND FLY PATTERN GUIDE by Rick Hafele and Dave Hughes, A RIVER RUNS THROUGH IT AND OTHER STORIES by Norman Maclean, STEELHEAD FLY FISHING by Trey Combs, THE CURTIS CREEK MANIFESTO by Sheridan Anderson, CADDISFLIES:A MAJOR STUDY OF ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT AQUATIC INSECTS-ENTOMOLOGY, FLY TYING, AND PROVEN FISHING TECHNIQUES by Gary LaFontaine, A MODERN DRY FLY CODE by Vince Marinaro, TROUT BUM by John Gierach, NYMPHS- VOLUME 1 & 2 by Ernest Schwiebert, FLY CASTING TECHNIQUES by Joan Wulff and finally THE RIVER WHY?  by David James Duncan. All are extraordinary, they have made huge impacts on many fishermen and women of all ages, just that some don’t particularly pertain to my neck of the woods. Allow me to explain.  When asked to embark on a journey of faith to Belize eight years ago to assist in the wedded bliss of a fellow angler, I did all the research on bonefish and the varieties of Crazy Charlie’s I could tie. I haven’t touched Mr. Fernandez’s insights on boney behaviour since. Last year, when prepping our family fall color trip to Colorado and staying near Estes Park, I read and bought several books on the multitude of rivers and techniques to fish that foreign landscape prior to going. The Best of a slew of “Fly Fishing Colorado….” destination books was “Where to Eat, Sleep and Fish Colorado” by Mark D. Williams and W. Chad McPhail. Hilarious, comical, informative, priced right, great budget/itinerary, awesome fishing, did I mention funny? They catalog summers of trekking up and down the Rockies while searching out the best honey holes, inventing great ideas for toilet paper dispensers and chuckling at Kum & Go gas stations. It is amazing what crazy things men can find humorous and creative in the same breath while on a fishing journey.

The novels and instructional books that have changed the game for me aren’t altogether completely different, it is more a regional taste. I would trade a Traver/Voelker novel for a Gierach book in a heartbeat, simply because it is in my backyard. LaFontaine, Hughes & Hafele for Swisher and Richards, Bergman and Maclean for Tomas McGuane and Jerry Dennis. I have also dedicated a certain section to the history of Michigan and its authors. If you are curious about Trout Unlimited and its origins, as well as how one acquired gas stamps to sell hosiery and fish the AuSable and Boardman Rivers during the 40’s and 50’s pick up a copy of For the Love of Trout by George Griffith, it is a truly remarkable trip. The Olde AuSable by Hazen Miller gave me a glimpse of a former logging boom-town I have only known the aftermath in my lifetime.

Michigan Authors

You can’t fish these waters without giving credit to Rusty Gates for fighting to keep them as they are today and hopefully shall remain for generations to come. It was in his ability to get you to sign up for a duty or task without you ever knowing you had committed to the job. We need more like him and his presence when we visit the shop will eternally be missed.  Seasons on the Au Sable recounts the many trips to the waters edge to see what was hatching, who got stuck in the two track getting wood and who managed to get that hawg out of that secret stretch of water nobody will tell you about. Josh Greenberg does an excellent job of recounting many of these moments, faithfully maintains the Lodge and has a hot cup of coffee waiting for you if you stop in for the latest river report. My other favorite Michigan author writes so eloquently of the little things we treasure in Northern Michigan- Jerry Dennis. From A Wooden Canoe, The Living Great Lakes and The River Home are all recommended, but if you have a child or a wife who asks sensible nature minded questions like- Why do leaves change color? or What kind of clouds are those? and you would much rather have a correct answer other than “Those clouds are cirrus-stratus/cumuli-nimbous.” Because there is much more to seasonal change and the climate of the Great Lakes and in the book It’s Raining Frogs and Fishes by Mr. Dennis covers a host of natural and other phenomenal acts of nature that I occasionally like to refresh my knowledge on.

You could search and find a million titles regarding all types of fly tying and tying techniques. The one I always go back to for reference is appropriately titled Fly Tier’s Benchside Reference by Ted Leeson and Jim Schollmeyer. A hefty book with 437 pages of varying posts, hackle, dubbing and other techniques, you may never exhaust it’s true potential. It may set you back a smooth C-note, but you will get every penny in return when you produce quality good looking flies that perform and outlast your previous attempts at awkward quill body wrapping. FISHBUGS by Thomas Ames Jr. combines magnificent photography and a touch of entomology to entwine a magical close-up look at the macroinvertebrates we seek for trout food. I have brought this book in to my college Macro-Invert professor and he continually uses it to show the stages of complete metamorphosis the giant stonefly goes through to reach adulthood. If you want to up your tying game or improve on your latin dialect, grab this beautiful coffee table book and see if you wife will let you keep it out, even if it is only at the cottage. NYMPHS- 1 & 2 by Ernest Schwiebert takes it to the next level. If you are looking for Ph.D in your Latin and want to know every family of mayfly or stonefly, this is your tome. Ernest was dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge and passing it on. A true giant among men, he is one of the many men I wished I might have had the opportunity to meet but his passing in 2005 makes him one of our most treasured contributors to our past-time. He was an architect by trade and held two doctorates in Architectural design & principles from Princeton, but his true passion was found in the rivers around Chicago where he grew up. A few stories recollect fishing the Pere Marquette near Baldwin and this is where I feel a connection. In the same order of science and nature, TROUT and SALMON by Dr. Robert Behnke is a must read for those learning the species and elevations/locales of our quarry. Amazing detail and color illustrations by Joseph Tomelleri, this is my go to reference for all ichthyology related questions when you want to debate the difference between Oncorhynchus mykiss gilberti and Oncorhynchus mykiss newberri (not that this may ever impact my Great Lakes fishing).

Environmental issues have been plaguing us in the Great Lakes region ever since we opened up our doors to the Atlantic Ocean via the St. Lawrence Seaway. Muskegon Chronicle reporter Jeff Alexander wrote a great book on its development and history- PANDORA’S LOCKS. In it we find how we had nearly become the nations largest seagoing system, we could move large shipments of various commodities halfway across the United States by boat and save millions of dollars in trade. But at what cost? We are only beginning to find out the price tag on environmental issues and we don’t see the end in the near future. Invasive seagoing lampreys that quickly modified to our sweet water and mussels that could filter liters of water a day had a brand new neighborhood to call home. It was similar to  a perfect storm, all the right pieces were in place, greed for growth and lack of ethical policy, a vast freshwater aquarium teeming with fish and life just waiting to be brought to near extinction. We had already wiped out Grayling and the Passenger Pigeon, Whitefish and Lake Trout were soon to be on that list.

Four Fish by Paul Greenberg recounts the trophic levels in the Ocean as we decimate each one, starting with the Salmon and alewives of the East Coast, everyone’s favorite table fare Chilean Sea-Bass, or should I say Patagonia Toothfish? Not a very palate pleasing nor menu selling moniker, so we edited a little. Then moving out deeper in the sea for great Cod depletion of the 1980’s, further out yet to find the last of the great Tuna fisherman and how we have built massive ships that can do everything from catching, cutting, deep-freezing and packaging our filet-o-fish before it even reaches shore. Read it if you dare, it is eye-opening, much like watching FOOD Inc. for the first time, we are slowly becoming aware consumers. How did we get this way? Well, first we had to go to war, a world war, not once, but twice. then we became a wealthy country, then we had educated young men with talents and not much to do with those talents after the war. So we built things. Great things. Huge superhighways, and massive dams large enough to drive several lanes of traffic over the tops of them. Some airplane pilots discovered they could fly up into the mountain lakes and drop rainbow trout into isolated and barren lakes in the Northern region of California. In An Entirely Synthetic Fish: How the Rainbow Trout Beguiled America by Anders Halverson, we see the development and the spreading of America’s most accepted fish hatchery trout- the rainbow trout. It was once indigenous to the McCloud River, and after early settlers risked their lives camping in hostile Native American territory to bring this fish to thier fishing ponds, it quickly became a sportfishing favorite and delectable campfire nourishment.

I believe everyone has read or at least seen the Robert Redford narrated version of Norman Maclean’s A RIVER RUNS THROUGH IT, easily a classic, and if you haven’t, I do suggest you give it a read. I rather enjoyed THE RIVER WHY? by David James Duncan as much. Taking a journey to find oneself in the Pacific Northwest while chasing steelhead and figuring out

enjoy a good read~

 life’s bait versus fly technical query is every young fisherman’s fantasy, throwing in a mermaid who can cast and catch a fish is merely a bonus. For other light-hearted stories I have enjoyed the writing of David Ames. True Love and the Woolly Bugger and A Good Life Wasted are fun and frivolous accounts of the guide life put to prose in a way we all can relate to. Thomas McGuane, THE LONGEST SILENCE and 92 in the SHADE> wow< I saw that 92 in the shade was made into a movie in the 60’s, it would be remarkable to see it adapted to modern times and share that fishing story with the world. McGuane has a writing talent like few others, you immediately are sucked in, and like all good writers, you don’t want to stop. Pick one of these up, throw a log on the fire and see for yourself.

Two game changers that have played the biggest active role in my angling success and failures- I only say failure, because without skunked days, I cannot improve on what I could have done to be more effective in my fly angling pursuit (let’s be honest, it’s called ‘fishing’ and if everyday was a bang-up hilatious-catch-a-fish-on-every-cast kind of day, would we really keep coming back?- I sure would)- The TROUT and The FLY by John Goddard and Brian Clarke look at the world through a trout’s

revisit old standards>

eyes, like many others, but in this edition- the third, they have revisited earlier theories, line color, mono-versus flouro, feather and hook dimples, and they have rettracted and edited previous thoughts or shown significant differences. These are the invaluable resources  for the angler to improve his odds on the animal that has a brain the size of a pea and a guesstimated memory of a mere 30 seconds. I have also been a big fan of the big take. Huckin’ meat some would say. Throwing wet tube socks is another great analogy. The pioneer of my day would have to be Kelly Galloup. When he teamed up with another Michigan angler, Bob Linsenman and co-wrote the  modern code of MODERN STREAMERS for TROPHY TROUT, many anglers took notice. Yes, it can be tiring slapping that 7 or 8 wt all day and hitting wood, snagging, dislocating shoulders or rotator cuffs, but when a 22-24 inch swamp donkey comes crashing out of the LWD and absolutely crushes your Circus Peanut or eternal favorite Zoo Cougar- your adrenal quickly reduces your sunburnt/aching shoulder to a non-existent numbness and you yell —>”FISH ON!!!”

It all begins with a collector’s permit that the teacher will get upon certification of training. The State of Michigan offers workshops at either Oden State Fish Hatchery or Wolf Lake Hatchery to properly train the teachers on regulation of pH, algae, fungus, water temperature, life cycle of the fish and a host of other incidentals. The DNR has had a tremendous growth in popularity of this program with little or no moneys used to advertise or promote its growth. Currently there are 154 schools in the state and more apply every year. Just ten years ago, this was merely an idea. Seems we really do want our next generation to connect to the outdoors and the wonderful resources we have here.

Our pick up destination is the Platte River Hatchery, near Honor Michigan. The ride is a pleasant one for early November, the air is crisp and many of the leaves have fallen. Hunter’s are eager for opening of deer season and I have spied a few salmon pairing up on the upper stretches of the Bear River  behind our home. This is one of the most spectacular times of the year to live in the Great Lakes State. Rolling hills with majestic golden views, inland waterways dotted with fire-lit trees along the background and sunsets that set the horizon aflame as they burn out. At the hatchery, we were lucky to get the nickle tour and see what a vast system they have set up from the weirs and the rearing tanks and the rows and racks of egg trays. This facility takes care of most of Northern Michigan’s stocking for Chinook and Coho Salmon reproduction and it is huge. If you can get a chance to visit this or any of the state fish hatcheries, as a family or a school trip, I highly recommend and promise you won’t be disappointed. We are given two scoops of eggs- roughly 200 green eggs and place them safely in my Glad air tight disposable container and safely wedge them in between a few ice packs in my trusty Fishpond cooler for the 1 1/2 hour ride back to Petoskey. It is exciting, I know we are not transporting bullion, but I do feel like we are in a Brinks truck with highly prized cargo, it is liquid gold. We need to make it back to Sheridan Elementary by 1:00 pm so that we can meet with the News Review and have the photos taken with the students and their newly acquired babies. The kids are beaming. They are all selected to represent various elementary schools based on thier academic achievements and it quickly becomes apparent who are the ones with a million questions and who are the ones with a story about whatever it is you are trying to convey. Ironic, I see a little of myself in each of them. I guess thats why I love connecting with so many kids through something I love.

A small handful of people have asked me – Why raise salmon? Why not Trout in the Classroom? It is true, many states, New York, Vermont, Connecticut, South Carolina and a few others, do raise trout in the classroom (TIC), many of these states have been doing so for nearly twenty years. The most common response I have heard is that salmon are more tolerant of environmental conditions, meaning, small fluctuations in temperature and pH don’t have an immediate nor detrimental affect on the species as would be the case with brook trout or brown trout. Another popular answer is that salmon spawn in the fall, while trout are spring spawners and that wouldn’t coordinate well with the school year. Last time I checked, only rainbows/steelhead (Oncorhynchus mykiss) spawn in the spring while the other two tend to be autumnal spawners. Another school of thought is the  expendability factor – for lack of a better term. Salmon do seem to have a minimal long term impact on an ecosystem. They usually die off in three years after spawning and return vital nutrients to the watershed.  The sensitivity issue seems to win most arguments, but that doesn’t mean we won’t see TIC in Michigan. We have hopes and may one day soon see a pilot program that can test the viability of its success.

This is the day we meet for the first time. I get to introduce myself and the lucky individuals who will be volunteering throughout the year. This past year we thought it would be wise to have 2 assistants that can either carry the program on if something should happen to me on the river (Heaven forbid) or if I get the opportunity to chase trout in distant waters in the future. I am fortunate to have two equally gifted gentlemen that have brought different aspects and points of view to the SIC/PALS classroom. The first is Spencer McCormack, who studied Environmental Sciences at Ohio State University. He has a way of connecting with the kids in a very simple and kind manner. They say in teaching others, especially children, you either have it or you don’t. Spencer has it. They listen and they tend to hang on his very next word. The other gentleman is Paul Wiemerslage from the Au Sable Institute of Environmental Studies. Paul has his resume dotted with names like Western Washington University and Bethel University along with the North Cascades Institute- he taps into that spot we all relate to as a child, the place we held secret and safe– a place on the water. It is a joy to have both of these men adding to this year, and I can’t wait to see where it develops.

Every year we glance back and reflect on what worked, what didn’t, timing throughout the school year, how can we make it better and how can we keep it simple. There is no need to re-invent the wheel so I am not going to go through all of our rough sketches or drawing board failures, but rather how we have perfected it to fit our kids and our school. It looks somewhat like this:

• November~ Egg Pick up> meet class and get acquainted with new students.
• December~ What is Trout Unlimited? watch TU 50th anniversary DVD and talk conservation, restoration and protection.
• January~ Fly Tying> bring materials and vises and teach every child how to tie their first woolly bugger!
• February~ What is a Watershed? Visit Tip of the Mitt Watershed Council and see a scale model of how non-point pollutants enter a stream. We also talk about invasive species and the Great Lakes.
• March~ Fish Dissection >Joined by DNR employee and we take a look inside what makes a fish stay bouyant, among other things.
• April~ Macro-Invertebrates> Kids love Bugs!! walking trip down to Bear River and classify stream quality by the number of class I, II,  & III organisms. ID and key insects to order (ephemeroptera, plecoptera, odonata, trichoptera).
• May~ Salmon Release- entire school walks down to the river as we bless the tiny salmon parr a safe journey. Field Trip to Jordan River National Fish Hatchery- students try their hand at catching a trout. Casting Clinic- five or six MVWTU volunteers come out and we teach the entire school the better methods of landing a fly in a hula hoop across the playground.
• June~ Bear River Clean-up> in coordination with local non-profit organizations such as Tip of the Mitt and Little Traverse Conservancy.

These programs have generally been one day a month for an afternoon. Michigan Department of Natural Resources has a web page for further information and questions regarding application dates and requirements http://www.michigan.gov/dnr/0,1607,7-153-10369_50075—,00.html The month of May is crazy because it is the nicest weather for us to do the things we can do outdoors without freezing in a foot of snow or sleet> Northern Michigan can be temperamental and we must be flexible in our scheduling. We have done our fly tying this month and the students absolutely LOVE IT!! They get to take something home and show their parents, something they made that isn’t an ashtray (do they make those in school anymore?) We have found having the materials pre-packaged in zip-locks ease in distribution with the narrow time frame we work with and keeping the 24 kids on task. I generally tie the first fly with the class watching and then they go to their seats and we walk through it step by step. I have purchased vises at garage sales and on-line, so we have close to a dozen. The students partner up and switch off for each fly they tie. Allow yourself plenty of time, newcomers have lots of questions, thread breaks frequently, they get confused on right hand versus left hand and clock-wise wrapping. Best advice- have plenty of assistants, be patient, have a couple bobbin threaders, you do the whip-finish on all flies, get a picture with each student with their finished fly and <Keep It Simple>

Tight Lines!

Koz

We had a great turnout! from beginners~

along with a few pro’s~

If you are ever in the Petoskey Area, swing on in for a Short’s Hanging Frank or a frosty Bell’s Seasonal Ale and join us for some Tying>>

We always have a great time sharing stories and planning our next venture on the water.

“If you had to choose one fly for all occasions, what would it be?” I posed.

Often thought about, we each pondered a moment and gave up our preference.

“The Woolly Bugger is by far the fly that catches the most species of fish.” One retorted.

“Yes, true, but an egg pattern catches everything, anytime.” The second pitched in.

“I would have to choose the Muddler Minnow.” They both paused briefly and uttered a resounding~

“Good call.”

Many flies adorn my boxes, from pheasant tail nymphs, copper johns, little black stones, hares ears, to Adam’s, Hendrickson’s, BWO’s and a slew of streamers, but during my childhood adventures, I recall a late Saturday afternoon in September to which I base my loyalty.

Each year growing up, I eagerly anticipated the opening of trout season and traveling three hours north to Grayling to visit family and further explore reaches of the Au Sable not yet known to a fourteen year old. Something magical and mystical happens on your journey north. The elevation changes, the trees become more coniferous, the air more decidedly trout habitat. You know when you are in Grayling when the scent of tall pine trees mingles with the fragrance of fish pellets on your hand. A quick walk along the river’s banks in bare feet introduces you to the prickly needles dotting the trails and, if you pay attention, a trout rising in the bend behind the hospital. There is a section of river below the Fish Hatchery on N. Down River Rd. that was dedicated to Children Only (under 16) and I waded its cool waters as much as possible. It was in this beautiful stretch of river that I began my soon to emerge lifelong love of all things trout and flyfishing. Dozens of brookies, a few browns, and a fair share of rainbows enticed me deeper into the art and beauty of my leisure. It happened on the last Saturday of the season, after a semi-haphazard roll cast to a half submerged tag alder that I became enamored with the mystical power of the Muddler Minnow.
A sudden vicious grab and take startled me to attention. My 8’6” 4wt. silver fiberglass Abu Garcia doubled while the matching metallic Ryobi reel screamed off line like never before. Panic was my only reflex, fingers fumbled and knuckles were beaten until I regained control of my line and managed a beefy twenty-inch rainbow to the bank. I couldn’t stop my knees from shaking and in delirium ran back to my aunt’s house to get my younger brother, Barry, and coax him in to returning to the hotspot. He initially tied on a Warden’s Worry and I kept with what I was throwing. Not long after and I was into another hefty ‘bow from the shadows of the fallen shrub, and again a third, all nudging the twenty inch mark. Barry became perplexed and inquired as to what the secret fly was and I cautiously relinquished one of my #12 Muddlers to him. Moments later he connected with the monster of the hole and we both freaked. After a run up and back down the river, he finally guided the 23 3/4” brute to the net. It’s girth and magnificent color made my fish pale in comparison. The season ended that day with my brother only catching the one and I with four between 19”& 21”, but Barry decided to cash in on an offer my father presented to us both. “I will pay for each of you boys to have one fish mounted, but only one.” His offer still stood and resonated in the corridors of my mind some twenty plus years later.

Each year growing up, I eagerly anticipated the opening of trout season and traveling three hours north to Grayling to visit family and further explore reaches of the Au Sable not yet known to a fourteen year old.

The introduction of the Muddler Minnow happened quite by coincidence at our cabin in Canada just the year prior. Evenings become very dark, pitch black would be more appropriate. So, our family gathers each night to play cards, bantering about the day and planning the next day’s events. “A hike up to Rainbow Lake or Lost Lake? How about that porcupine we saw scamper across the train tracks today?” In the midst of one such evening, a gentleman from across the lake showed up at our door to say “Heh.” Friendly enough of a chap, he soon found out I had just

begun to take to flyfishing and he offered a feathered combination from his worn bushman’s hat. “This here is a Muddler Minnow, eh. Its all you need up here for dem specks.” Apparently, across the border, brook trout become ‘speckled trout’ and lakers become ‘greys’. After that, the solo canoeist slipped into the darkness and cut a smooth ripple into a black hole. I had done very well on previous trips up to Camp Grayling, throwing the very trusted Panther Martin in yellow with red dots into the mouth of any tributary on our vast lake, but the art and act of enticing the trout with a fly- that was the beginning of the end. Our ventures took us to a beaver dam above a favorite waterfall we would often tease 7-inch brookies with our gold tru-turns adorned with leaf worms. The Algoma Central Railroad had slated to blow a dam that had become too large and posed a threat to the train tracks and the bridge below if it were to go on it’s own someday. Tales of beaver ponds as large as football fields and loaded with eager brook trout were the stuff of lore and fiction I had read in other anglers journals, a treasure of this magnitude had to be found. We trecked, sweated, hiked, and moaned about the weight of our gear and raspberry scratches from the bush. Bitten and swollen from black flies that somehow elude your attention when we finally discovered our personal Holy Grail.  This was like finding the Great Wall of China. Poplar, birch, beech and assorted pine with the engineering detail of an MIT grad. Multiple beaver families had amassed a complex network of mini dams that consumed more than a football field. I had on my lucky Mickey Mouse T-shirt, yet to discover the wonders of Simms and other industry standards we have today and as soon as my fly hit the water, it was spanked by a parr marked stunted brookie, then another, and another. I don’t believe any of the specks we caught that day broke the 8″ mark, but they were too colorful and I too enthusiastic to care. That dam was blown out shortly after our discovery, and we like to believe all those malnourished adolescent brook trout found a new home in our much roomier lake. To this day, I never had the chance to say “Thanks!” to the man who gave me that fly which caught well over 30 fish that day.

I have had the pleasure of fishing much of Michigan’s waters, some of Canada , and a trip to Belize for Bones. For most of my freshwater excursions you will be sure to find a Muddler in various mottled turkey colors and sizes in my box.  I am still waiting to catch a true ‘trophy’ fish, but will indeed need to have it mounted on my own dime. My father passed away last April, the week prior to opener, and I hadn’t yet taken him up on his offer.

Tight Lines,
Koz

[Age, wisdom and personal growth have brought me to the stage of appreciation, conservation and education of our limited natural resources. While in this day and age it wouldn’t be PC to stuff a creature merely to hang it on a wall. I rather take a few quick pictures and relish in the reward of releasing a creature that he/she may pass on their beneficial genetic make-up for the next generation. The memory of those moments, and others like them are more than enough to keep the spirit in me alive.]

As I am sitting at Christmas Eve service, my mind reflects on the past year. Some memorable fish, excellent trips with good friends, and stellar moments on the water. Coupled by bitter-sweetness in the loss of my father and the wish I had more time spent on the water with him. Then I think about salvation. I would like to believe if the rapture were to occur next week, I would have a better than average chance of ‘getting clearance’ — not because of the good deeds I have done or the quality of life I have led, or even the benevolence I have shown towards God’s wonderful creatures; but because I have spent countless days learning patience while casting my 3-weight at dozens of upper-class trout that would have no part of my offerings. Along with the many hours dedicated to helping and sharing my passion with family and friends the art of the fly, maybe this is the repentance for the multitude of hours I formerly squandered in dirty bars of my younger days?

This all began when I received a Christmas card a few weeks back. In it were the words, “Too bad every time we talk, all you can talk about is fishing. Like that’s all there is in life.”

Funny, but not. I have been dwelling on this for days. I know I should not let it rent space in my head, but then other things people have said pop into my brain. Things like, “I had to delete you from my ‘friends’ on Facebook because all you ever post is about fishing or rivers or tying flies.”

I was OK with that and have  not accepted friend requests because they didn’t have proper fishing credentials to be allowed in the circle, so they were permitted to deny my ‘friendship’ status. But the Christmas Card — that struck a chord, and it was becoming a tenant in my head. HAVE YOU MET ME?

Whenever I drive by an empty retail shop,  in my head, I already have the layout for a fly shop, where I can set up the TV monitors so we can have TU movie nights and extra tables for a Tie-One-On! fly tying nights. I have gone over countless inventories for the start up materials needed for a successful shop — it needs a good balance of high-end and entry-level equipment, it needs to have monthly events to draw in people and a warm staff and fresh coffee always brewing. On the flip side I would give up this life in paradise tourist town to live in the mountains along some stream with hopes of starting a lodge or B&B to invite others into my world of addiction. There, I said it. I have admitted I am addicted to all things FLY.

This all began when I received a Christmas card a few weeks back. In it were the words, “Too bad every time we talk, all you can talk about is fishing. Like that’s all there is in life.”

Last week it became all too clear. Channel 34 — Discovery, it was after work and I enjoy a diet coke and slowing down from the hectic pace of taking care of everyone else’s needs and desires. The program was on Addictions. These people were legit crazy. They had given away everything. They would work every angle, every minute, to find a way to their next high. I am grateful I am not like that  [or am I?]  I do think every minute about how to tie that Hendrickson pattern a little better or a stronger material for that upright wing, but will still float it. I go over and over in my head that one cast I sent in the cedar above that 20 incher that sent him/her for cover and how I could get a do-over. For the Meth/Crack/Cocaine/LSD addict — they are “Chasing the High”. A term used  to refer to the first time they used — often unattainable and the cause of their repeated search leading to death, delusion or confinement. I am on a search for that first time, however, I believe in the purity and beauty this addiction has rewarded me with a quality of life I would rather not replace. A short decade ago, I too was living on the streets looking for something — chasing a high that  would not have a beneficial direction for my life. I am thankful I found my way back to the Tying Vise — and making it my only vise, others are not so fortunate.

A newly made fishing friend from FB mentioned on his status something his wife said — and my wife completely agreed. She hinted that their family Christmas photo should be a postcard of her and the two girls and the Dad in the river holding a brown from the Rogue in Rockford. He jokingly said that was cool. I do envision a family photo of my troop, all in waders in the middle of the Thompson or the Blue Rivers, with heavily padded and flocked trees in the background. Someday.

My wife is a blessing, as is my entire family — truly. She doesn’t totally understand the addiction thing. She can have a glass of wine and leave it on the coffee table 1/2 full She is kinda crazy like that. Chocolate and shopping are the only things that might be considered her vices. I only qualify shopping as her addiction because few ‘normies’ actually plan on going shopping at midnight on Thanksgiving and shopping all evening into the next morning with pre-arranged intervals of juicing up with Redbull and Monster drinks. Who would chase sales and deals for nearly 18 hours on end? INSANE! or is it? I have worked all day and gone Hexing into the wee morning hours for nights on end, and when that was over — it became Mousing Time. In the end, it is all about your passion. What is your passion? I am very happy to have found mine swimming in the swift currents of any river that is cold and cool enough to dangle that carrot before my face….

I remember feelings, brief moments and impressions. Most memories run together. Many things that I did over and over, like playing cards with grandpa, I can only really recall as a composite of all the events in one memory. I remember playing cards, but each memory of playing seems attached to the same game. In fact each little memory came from many of the games I played with him. I’m sorry I can’t hold those memories together chronologically and remember details. So much of the wonder of Ginger Quill was in the details.

Grandma Fishing on the Au Sable

So many memories come back to me with smells, and Ginger Quill had distinctive smells. Even as we arrived up north in the forest we could begin to smell the pine. We drove with our windows open in those days because we had no air conditioning and mom and dad both smoked. When we arrived and stopped the car at Ginger Quill the smell was intense — pine, fur, and balsam. It was not overpowering, and at the time we were probably too young to pay attention to it. It made an impression though. Walking into the main cabin you smell the cedar walls, the pine floors and the fireplace smoke; again, it was not overpowering, but soothing. There was the smell of fly dope in dad’s tackle box, the smell of waders in the tackle room and the oil and gas where the small outboard engines were kept. The smell of pine in the bathrooms and those little football shaped gel bath oil beads and bubble bath beads.

There were the sounds of the wind through the trees, the low, not quite rumble of the river, punctuated by the trickle of water over a tree limb. The endless assortment of birds and the occasional large gunshot from Camp Grayling. The water pump coming on and the constant hum of the generator. The sound of canoe paddles striking the sides of canoes, a pole crunching into the gravel riverbed and riverboat chains being dragged over the rocks or being picked up and dropped into a boat. Mostly the sounds at Ginger Quill were quiet, soothing and peaceful.

I remember running like crazy around the dining cabin to the gazebo or down to the main cabin dock, stopping with a scream after encountering a large snake sunning itself on the sidewalk or the dock. We went screaming to the first adult we could find yelling “rattlesnake, rattlesnake, rattlesnake.” Those poor snakes. Few were poisonous and, in all the years I spent at Ginger Quill, I never really saw a rattlesnake.

I remember swinging wildly on the gazebo swings and peeling the bark off the swings to get at the sawdust left behind by boring insects, constantly being reprimanded by adults. I remember peering down into the water inside the boathouse seeing the large trout swimming in water brilliantly lit by the sun.

I remember playing with those large medicine balls and the exercise pins and climbing on the fireplace rocks. I remember chasing bats in the “Boy’s Cabin” with tennis rackets and snowshoes. I remember the rough stucco walls scratching my skin. I don’t, however, remember girls at Ginger Quill. I remember the caretaker’s daughter Bonnie Borchers and grandma, but I must have been there alone most of the time or with my brother, Geof, or cousin, Chris Olson. I do remember sleeping with Barbie Defoe once but it was at the small Defoe cabin and I was about five.

I remember chasing  Bonnie around and pulling her bathing suit top down and how upset she got. I wasn’t sure why she was upset but the fact that she was made it all that much more fun. Somehow grandma found out and we had a very serious talk. Most talks with grandma were serious. She sat on the daybed and I on a straight back chair. Next to me was a large green bottle as big around as I was and almost as tall. I came away from that talk more confused than ever. I still didn’t know what the big deal was but I did know I was not to do it again. I think I was ten. It could have been the beginning of my…. Oh, never mind.

I remember sitting on the main cabin lawn on bright blue chaise rockers drinking Squirt out of brightly colored anodized aluminum tumblers. Gnats swarmed around our heads and occasionally flies would take a chunk out of us. Grandma would often complain about all the canoers but when they tipped over in Ghoul’s Hole, she invited them to dry their things on the lawn and fed them lunch.

Map of Camp Ginger Quill

I remember poling upstream being very difficult, but easier each year. I remember one foot on the dock and one in a boat as the boat went out into the river so I fell into it — the cold Au Sable. I remember holding on Dad’s neck (feeling the rough stubble on his neck and smelling his Yardly aftershave) as he swam across the river at the dining cabin. My cousin Chris and I canoed down from Stephans bridge often but once we met Trish Hayes and another blond girl on our way down. I fell madly in love with that little blond girl but never saw her again, except in a few dreams. I was probably twelve. Chris always found friends on the river.

Grandma often had us clear rocks from her garden path and paid us a penny a rock. I played canasta with grandpa most every night for 1/10 of a cent a point. I always won or he let me win. I didn’t care at the time. I’ll always remember him yelling “YIP” with delight when he had a red three and collected 100 points. I would have to excuse myself to organize my cards on the window seat at the end of the Main cabin living room. I would always hold my cards to the end and call “canasta” all of a sudden, catching grandpa by surprise. He would then take me back to his safe and give me several crisp unused one dollar bills.

Grandma always read to me. She made Christopher Robin, Winnie the Pooh, and Alice in Wonderland seem like real people. They were my friends. She would play classical music and sing. I remember the fishing log and the old whaling log books. Tying flies that would never catch a fish, the dark river at night and the gloop of a fish rising unseen. The chipmunks, the tapping of woodpeckers and Bucky our pet deer and the sadness we felt upon hearing he’d been killed.

I remember being sent out with Bonnie and Butch Borchers to pick wild blueberries. Somehow my bucket had more leaves and twigs than berries and Bonnie’s bucket was full to overflowing, each berry perfect. I remember getting into trouble. I was probably goofing off when I should have been picking. I remember fishing among the trees across from the Boy’s Cabin. The current wasn’t too strong and there were always fish rising there. Never caught anything, though. I caught my first fish right off the main cabin dock. I remember my first guided fishing trip. One of the Wakeley boys (18) was my guide. I felt like a man, a real big shot. Didn’t catch anything as I remember but a really big one got away. I remember the huge infestation of green worms.

I don’t ever remember sleeping better than I did at Ginger Quill. Probably the cool nights, comforting surrounding, soothing sounds, the hard work and play each day or maybe the sense of love and peace.

On occasion I went fishing with Dad. I sat in the center of the boat in a specially-made boat seat with a back support. I don’t remember fishing much nor do I remember Dad catching many fish. I do remember sandwiches, soup and cookies though. I remember peeing over the side of the boat into the river. Everyone did that. So I thought. One day when several of the women saw us off at Stephans bridge, I had to go to the bathroom, so I started peeing off the bank into the river. I was unceremoniously grabbed and carried, trailing urine, to a nearby bush. I didn’t understand why it was OK some of the time and not others, but the point had been made.

I remember our caretakers, the Borchers — the large woman named Zoe with her friendly smile and bright demeanor and her husband, Al, who was somber and stern, along with their children, Bonnie, and her kid brother, Butch.

Butch could cast a fly line like a grown man and didn’t think much of our skills. Bonnie was smart and more mature than I. Her parents were very strict with her. She was a talented accordion player. Zoe and the kids were very Catholic. Al was not. I remember seeing Al in the hospital when he was dying of cancer. He was so thin Zoe could pick him up with one hand. He converted to Catholicism just before he died so his funeral was a high Catholic Mass. We all went but of course were lost because it was very long and all in Latin. We joked about the priest saying his father played dominoes, or what sounded like that. I remember feeling very sad.

My closest high school friends Buzz Berger, Jim Knake and Mike Gruber and I took a one-week canoe trip every high school summer from Ray’s in Grayling down to the back waters. We had tents and sleeping bags but spent at least four days in the “Boys Cabin.” We all became big smokers on those trips. I remember the caretaker coming in to check on us as four cigarette butts flew into the fireplace in formation — as if he cared if we smoked or not. Those were great trips. We slapped our paddles on the water just to make noise. Mike broke a paddle and tried to tell Ray’s that it had dry rot. Mike bought the paddle. We fished for breakfast but came away hungry. Those were great “coming of age” trips for us. Sleeping in wet sleeping bags after tipping over, waking up in a driving rain storm. Mosquitoes as big as humming birds and enough of them to carry us off. I remember seeing Buzz’s arm outside of his sleeping bag so covered with mosquitoes that you could hardly see his skin.

My first hunting trip was in the Ginger Quill woods. Grandma let us do it because she knew we wouldn’t hit anything. Dad and I went bow hunting for deer. Never even saw a deer. Probably making too much noise. Did take a shot at a flying squirrel though. I was shaking so much I missed him by three feet. Later that day we went partridge hunting with shotguns. Didn’t find any partridge but saw twenty deer. Last hunting trip of my life.

I remember the few times we went to Ginger Quill during the winter. We were up north skiing. I went once with Aunt Cynthia and Uncle Dwight, along with cousins Chris and Cathy. Another time Dad took us up with Andy the Swede, our exchange student that year. We drove to the corner store one cold wintry day and the road was packed solid with snow and ice. When we got on the main road Dad started showing off and tried to scare us by jerking the wheel and sliding a little. We slid a lot and got stuck in a snow bank for two hours.

The main cabin lacked insulation so the fireplace and heater had to work hard to keep us warm. The river was magnificent. This river was like a black ribbon slicing through the snow-covered landscape. The snow was perfect, covering every inch of the ground in a pure white blanket. The evergreens burdened with their heavy load of snow still stood full upright with contrasting dark green and white and the hardwoods stood naked, small patches of snow clinging to their branches. And still the steady roar of the river brought the water right up to the snow’s edge. Everything was either land or water, even man made structures. The dock, save its lack of trees, was just another part of the riverbank. Of course we ran all over and messed it up.

My college fraternity (TKE) formal was held at Ginger Quill. It’s a faint memory now but I do remember it was unlike any other formal before and since. It was my senior year at Alma and we wanted something unusual. There were probably a hundred college students doing all the things college students did back then and loving it. We pulled all the furniture back in the Main Cabin and created a dance floor. We snuggled by a warm fire and we drank beer. We necked in the woods until the mosquitoes got to us and we sang on the dock to canoers who paddled by. In the end they cleaned up and put everything back where it belonged. I remember my cousin Jill down on the dock singing “howja, howja, howja like ta bite…..” although that could be one of those memories that comes from hearing about it and not actually having been there.

More recently my wife Kathy and I were on the river. We stayed at Gates’ but waded from Ghoul’s Hole to Wakeley’s and the next day canoed from Burton’s Landing down to Wakeley’s. On our canoe trip we met one of the new owners of Ginger Quill. They invited us in and we spent the night there. It was an overwhelmingly emotional experience. Much had changed, but the spirit is still there. People are still being touched and they are caring for it. I feel blessed to have had Kathy with me to share the visit, as she had never seen Ginger Quill when we owned it. We didn’t sleep as well as I had remembered, but I was pretty emotional. We stayed in the corner bedroom at the end of the living room.

The sounds and smells were the same.

I swear I heard Grandpa yell “Yip.”

The main cabin at Camp Ginger Quill

For us, as children, the long ride from Bay City was almost over when we heard the gravel strike the underside of the car near Roscommon. (I-75 had not yet been built.) Our father, Fred, would make a short stop at Jack’s Rod and Fly Shop to pick up flies and leaders. We would always stop on the bridge over the South Branch to say hello to the Au Sable. From then on we would search for glimpse of a deer and for the small Camp Ginger Quill signs nailed to trees or posts, along with what seemed like a hundred other signs, indicating when we should turn. Once we were on the Ginger Quill road and starting down the hill, we would honk our car horn announcing our arrival. Grandma and Grandpa Smith would welcome us on the back lawn, usually just as the sun was going down. We children would pile out of the car and dash down the sidewalk to the river. The river held great excitement for us. It was like seeing our best friend after a long absence. Our parents had to drag us off the dock.

We usually slept in bunk beds right by the rear entry door. We all remember rolling over and scratching our arms on the rough stucco walls. On a typical day the grandchildren would awaken when the caretakers brought in fresh firewood at 6 A.M. The footsteps up the back steps, the creaking of the screen door spring, and the closing of the door were enough to wake us. We were up quickly and would run along a direct path behind the tackle room, through the woods, and up to the “Dining Cabin” for breakfast. Zoe Borchers’ Au Sable River Pancakes (balls of pancake batter, deep fried and covered with honey butter) were our favorite breakfast. Our ages were compatible with the caretaker’s two children, Bonnie and Butch Borchers, and we got along very well. We would stay occupied at the “Dining Cabin” until the adults were up and ready for breakfast. They would have coffee at the “Main Cabin” but, when ready, would call the “Dining Cabin” on a private phone system, to indicate they were on their way down for breakfast, stopping at the “Boys’ Cabin” to pick up any guests who might be there. While the adults were at breakfast the “Main Cabin” was being cleaned and the beds made or changed.

Lunch was packed for those going out fishing with a guide. We will always remember Zoe’s wonderful cookies. Lunch for the others was normally served at the “Main Cabin” and was usually very light. I remember having fruit, sandwiches and cold soup on the front porch looking out at the river.

The grandchildren were allowed access to the older green Au Sable river boats and would pole them as far upstream as Knight’s Bridge, and then fish or float down to the “Main Cabin.” We could pole in easy water and avoid the deep water at Ghoul’s Hole by staying in the channel just upstream of the “Main Cabin.” We would often fish in tennis shoes and bathing suits and we all loved swimming from the “Dining Cabin” down to the “Main Cabin.” To this day I have a recurring dream of the current carrying me past the “Main Cabin” and then downriver.

Dinnertime was usually set ahead of time. As evening approached and the fishermen returned, naps were over and everyone was cleaned up, the adults would relax on the front porch with a drink or two before dinner. A large cast bell would ring at the “Dining Cabin” indicating dinner was ready. We would all stroll up for dinner. Meals would rival those served in the very best restaurants. As a child all I can remember is the Baked Alaska, but we ate many wonderful things. I especially remember the miniature canoe and hand carved duck decoys that decorated the dining room. We would also watch deer graze in the meadow by the gazebo. It was normally dark when we walked back after dinner but the walkway was lighted. The evenings were peaceful.

The living room seemed to glow even when there was no fire. When the sun went down there was little to do but play cards, read or talk around the blazing fire. We would open the upper doors to the porch and could hear the river over the crackling fire. Our grandfather loved to play cards, and canasta or cribbage was his games of choice. He was very competitive, but I think he let us win. I remember being introduced to Christopher Robin and Winnie the Pooh and Alice in Wonderland while trying to stay awake on the down sofa. If you happened to be captured by that sofa, it would envelop you and put you to sleep in minutes. Television made a very late appearance at CGQ but was normally only used to watch an occasional Tigers game. Even the telephone was located outside in the tackle room.

Henry B. Smith Jr. owned several companies and was on the board of directors of the bank. To us, however, he was just Grandpa. He was a kind and gentle man who was very generous to family. He loved the Au Sable and he loved trout fishing so Ginger Quill was very much an extension of his personality. He always seemed happiest there. We often played cards together and watched Tigers games. He collected stamps and coins and showed some talent as an artist. He delighted in sharing his interests with us.

Our Grandmother, a very beautiful and elegant woman, would read to us and play and sing to us at the piano. She loved the woods and spent most of her time nurturing the garden she planted around the “Main Cabin.” She created a nature trail and filled it with Michigan’s most beautiful wild flowers. She also created a tree farm and planted thousands of trees throughout our property, much of which was seen only by her. She loved taking us through the woods to teach us about her trees, her flowers and her birds. She was a magnificent woman and much of the magic that is Camp Ginger Quill came directly from her. She also holds the Ginger Quill fishing record; a 24-3/4 inch brown caught just below the “Main Cabin.” The men who fish there never quite got over the fact she beat them and she was always there to remind them.

The Hottentots, a group of men who gathered at Ginger Quill on the 1st of May for the opening of trout season, held a one-day fishing contest to see who can catch the longest fish. The winner gets his name on a loving cup and gets to keep the cup for that year. He is also responsible for choosing the invitations for the next year. The invitations normally have the Ginger Quill logo, the date and the words “Happy Hottentots.”

The gathering of the Hottentots was quite a party. Although trout fishing was the number one priority, the Hottentots knew how to enjoy themselves. They all had a small paddle they would bang on the dining table to the beat of their song, “We are the Happy Hottentots,” bang, bang, bang, bang, etc. Missing a beat of the song could result in an unwanted swim in the river. It was usually a little difficult for the younger generation to be accepted as members, as the fathers weren’t sure they wanted their sons to see them having that much fun. The transitions took place, however, and the Hottentots remain active today although somewhat subdued. Catch and Release has forced them to fish below Wakeley’s Bridge or on the North Branch.

Camp Ginger Quill is indeed a very special place. It has affected everyone who has ever been touched by its spell. We in the Smith Family will always miss CGQ and treasure every moment we ever spent there. We are all pleased that Ginger Quill is still touching people’s lives.

Michael Delp is a writer of poetry, fiction, and nonfiction whose works have appeared in numerous national publications. He is the author of Over the Graves of Horses (1989), Under the Influence of Water (1992), The Coast of Nowhere (1997), and The Last Good Water (2003), in addition to six chapbooks of poetry. His latest work, As If We Were Prey, is now available. He teaches creative writing at the Interlochen Arts Academy and has received several awards for his teaching. More about his work is available at his website.