Qanuk's Fall Pilgrimage

Qanuk was named after his great-great grandfather. The name had been in his family for as many years as anyone could count. Even when he was very, very young, he bore the name proudly. Everyone in his community spoke his name with great reverence and somehow he knew his family must be important. Qanuk was at that age when the memories your infancy become mostly lost. To Qanuk, his youth seemed lost in a great mist and he never thought much about it. What he was looking forward to were the changes about to occur in his life. So many questions to be answered, he thought.

Qanuk’s entire village was preparing for a great pilgrimage. All around him, his parents, siblings, and extended family were whirling around him getting ready. Qanuk himself seemed oddly at ease with all the activity. He felt as if he was in slow motion watching all that he knew moving around him in chaos. It was then that he heard his mother’s voice.

"It is time." She said in a quiet, gentle voice.

"Time for what?" Qanuk asked as he followed his mother’s voice through the village crowd. There was no reply. The villagers were moving in great numbers now. Qanuk called out for his mother, but the wind hid her voice. The villagers moved together, milling about as they traveled, taking time to greet their neighbors on the journey. As they traveled along, one villager bumped into Qanuk.

"Do you know where we are going?" Qanuk asked.

"Not yet." Came the reply. "But isn’t this grand?" The enthusiastic stranger was gone just as quickly as he had come; but Qanuk drew strength from the charismatic stranger. Qanuk somehow felt larger, more grown up than he had at the start of their journey.

The crowd was moving a little faster now. It seemed easier going with the wind at their back. Far ahead, Qanuk could see a beautiful place. There was a panorama of green grasses, brown stones, and a great, beautiful sea. Some of the villagers arrived ahead of him and he could other creatures running around greeting the villagers as they arrived.

"Qanuk! Qanuk!" the Inuit children squealed as they looked skyward. As the community arrived, the eskimo children ran, jumped, and laughed aloud. The laughter of sheer joy!

"How do they know my name?" Qanuk said aloud as he joined others of his community on the soft green grass.

"We are all named Qanuk." It was his mother’s soft voice carried by the wind.

"Why are we here, mother?" Qanuk asked.

"It is our calling." She said. "Each one of us holds the life-force that replenishes all life on this planet. Soon, we will harden the rivers and lakes, so these creatures can catch fish. We will cover the ground so they can track game. In time, we will melt and carry nutrients to the sea to feed the plants. They, in turn, will feed the fish and other creatures. Every creature and every plant is part of our great journey. Eventually, we will travel back to the sky and prepare ourselves again."

Qanuk tried to understand but before he could ask another question, a small, mittened hand gathered him up with many other snowflakes and threw them through the air. Qanuk and the others splashed harmlessly against the soft coat of another child and both children giggled and ran.

"We also bring joy." Qanuk said knowing his mother would hear.

Royal Dun

The Old Man in the Kayak

When the corn grew knee high, Willie and I would gather our gear and head for the back end of a small Bayou off the Owashtanong River. It was bass season. The bayou was a narrow, lightly fished, body of water about 50 yards wide and a half mile or so long. At its head, the water seeped out of a cattail marsh where the water was about 2-3 feet deep. Around the edges of the marsh water from 4 to 15 feet deep provided sanctuary for bass ... big bass. 

The trip along the dusty, gravel road to the undeveloped launch area was an adventure in potholes and discussion usually involved whose turn it was to get their feet wet pushing the boat into the water. Willie was 250 pounds and we usually needed him in the rear of the boat in order to float off the shallow landing so I usually ended up fishing in wet shoes. I didn't mind...it was bass season and Willie was always good company. Now that I reflect on it, maybe he was always cheerful because he didn't have wet feet from launching the boat.

Willie and I nearly always encountered an old man that appeared in his seventies or early eighties, paddling a kayak slowly along the edge of the marsh using a fly rod and popping bugs. Sometimes we beat him there, but not very often. I don't remember when we first noticed him or when he first began to recognize us. A flannel-shirted arm would rise in the distance and we would likewise return his silent greeting.

I don't think we ever did learn his name. When we talked about him, we always referred to him as the old man in the kayak. We even spoke to him a couple of times over the years when we would return at dark. He would be loading his kayak into his pickup truck always turning down our offers to help although it never seemed as if he struggled. He never offered to help us either, but I suspect that he knew we would manage just fine. We never considered it necessary for him to offer.

Over time, we learned that he was retired, lived nearby, and spent time on the bayou almost every day. Once, he showed us the bass bugs he used, mostly brown or black, and all of them somewhat ragged from bass attacks. Over the years, Willie and I shared the bayou with the old man in the kayak, never once encroaching on each other’s territory. He respected our presence as we his. Our watercrafts moved silently around the bayou as if dancing a slow waltz to the gentle music of the cattail marsh. Willie and I worked our surface lures, spinner baits, and plastic worms while the old man in the kayak worked his fly rod into the late evening. To us, he was as much a part of that marsh as the Great Blue Herons, Redwing Blackbirds, ducks, and cattails.

One year, after a few weeks had passed and the corn was almost waist high, Willie asked if I had seen the old man in the kayak. No, I hadn't. We both felt a little melancholy for not realizing his absence earlier in the season. The old man never did return to the bayou as far as I know. Once or twice after that, Willie or I would briefly mention the old man in the kayak and we would remark about how something must have happened to him or he certainly would be at the bayou. We both knew our silent partner was not returning to the dance although we never spoke of his passing. The bayou also felt his absence and the soft song of the marsh reeds became the old man’s requiem.

Years passed before I realized how much I learned from the old man in the kayak. Watching him over the years, I learned to move slowly and quietly on the water, use shorter and more accurate casts. He taught me to use dark lures in the late evening against a dark sky and to let the lure sit on the water for half a minute or so before moving it. From the old man, I learned to fish every little pocket in the weeds, and how to use a fly rod for bass. The old man in the kayak probably never realized what he taught me from a distance, but today I try to advise young anglers to practice courtesy and good stewardship on the water. I tell them to enjoy their time on the water, to honor it and the life it sustains. I owe that to the old man who may be watching over the bayou.

As time passed, Willie and I fished together less frequently. We both were busier at work ... or something. The trips to the Owashtanong bayou were never quite the same; the bass would still bite but something was missing. Eventually, my career drew me away from the area. I don't remember when Willie and I last fished together, but whenever the corn gets knee high, I think about him ... and the old man in the kayak.

Royal Dun

Sorry for the Absence

My wife and I decided to return to our hometown in retirement. We sold our home and moved at the end of June which has occupied every minute of time for the past month.

Since moving, I have become a painter and general handyman as we redo the new house to our taste. It is very much more difficult to move when you are in your 60's than when we were in our 30's and taking on the world.

Now that we are "home", look for my posts to increase in frequency as I rediscover my hometown waters after 25 years absence.

More later.

It's Time to Go Fishing

Spring. Early summer. What a glorious time to be outdoors! The weather is warm enough to be in short sleeves, but cool enough to keep from perspiring hard. The trees have leafed, the dogwood, forsythia, and wildflowers are in bloom, and a profusion of insects greets me on the streams. I find it particularly difficult to write this time of the year. I keep giving myself some choices; write something, do some of those "fix-it" jobs waiting around the house, or go fishing. Too many decisions for a beautiful, spring day. "The grass really needed mowing, too." I say to myself as I back out of the drive and head for...some where. I promise myself to keep notes so I can write an article. House repairs can be done on lesser days. That's how I rationalize my decision.

Do I turn north and fish the Namiwag or turn south and try the Wabimakade, the Negawi, or fish Hashawa Pond. Do I fish some body of water that I haven't tried yet? Do I go for bluegills? They're always willing to entertain me. Do I go for bass? Less likely to take them off their beds with a fly rod this time of year, but when I do, what fun! Trout? Trout are easy to locate, but fishing for them can be as much mental effort as physical. I don't know if I have the energy to match wits with wary trout; I’m having enough trouble deciding where to go.

How much time do I have? What an obscene question that is. Fishing should be an endeavor without time. The fish and fatigue will tell me when to leave. Darkness will force me to fulfill my other commitments if nothing else will. Time indeed. A few hours today, perhaps, but how many days are left? I own this moment only. Assured that I am living life to its fullest , I turn the wheels south.

Taking time to fish, to relax, to enjoy the earth is important. It is as important as keeping the house in repair. It is as important as sharing thoughts with friends. It is as important as work. It is important because I am trading a day of my life to do it. It really doesn't matter where I go. It only matters that I go.

Royal Dun

Fireside Chillin Again

Like so many areas across the country, we are seeing an early spring. Even the 15 inches of wet heavy snow only a couple weeks ago is completely gone. The ice is off all the lakes already. I was ice fishing only a few weeks ago. We never did have thick, hard ice this year and several idiots tried to drive on to the lakes to prove it. I check nearly every day, but the fish have not yet moved into shallower water, even with temperatures in the 40’s.

The state forest campground near home was opened today. The state crew also had to move a fallen tree that had fallen across the road at the entrance. I drove in to look around with the intent of enjoying a lakeside fire since the fish haven’t begun their spring activity. There were a number of branches in the road, so I spent the next hour or so clearing the roads. There was one tree too large to move that lay across the road near the rear of the campground, but I always carry a small bow saw in the car. It took only about 10 minutes to saw the tree into three pieces.

After that, I decided to see if the campground on the Namiwag River was open. It was. There were four cars in the campground already. The steelhead are running and the Namiwag is a popular river to fish for them. I spent about ½ hour clearing those roads as well. At the north end of the camp there was a major tree across the road. It was too large to tackle with my bow saw and will require some high cutting, so the state crew will need to get that one. As I finished, I picked up three beer bottles and put them in my trunk. Thirty cents deposit. It’s nice to get paid for doing a good deed.

I returned to the first campground around 4:00 PM, just in time for All Things Considered on NPR. I drove to the north end of the campground. The campground sits on a modest bluff overlooking the eastern shore of Saga`igan Lake. I broke up a pile of branches, built a fire, and set up my folding chair. I turned on the radio and settled into my chair looking toward the lake. Two Bald Eagles serenely flew over the lake as I settled in. Nice.

Life is good.
Royal Dun

Fireside Chillin'

This fall, we were able to enjoy camping well into September due to the sustained warm weather. On January 10^th, in 40^o weather, I fished one of my favorite stretches of a flies-only stream that is open all year! Go figure. Two light takes, no fish.

Long after our trout season closer gathering, I enjoyed several trips to my favorite lakes and streams only to decide against fishing in favor of building a campfire and mellowing out for a few hours. I would sometimes turn the radio on and listen to some of my favorite programs on NPR as I tended the fire and policed the campsite.

On January 12th, we received our first significant snowfall of the season, about 6 inches. It turned very cold up here for the first time this winter, but the weather forecast is predicting upper thirties by Monday. I'll have to check out a couple of my favorite fire pits.

　
Royal Dun

Don & Jean Ingle Remembered

The people of Northern Michigan have lost an articulate and ardent spokesman for the outdoors. Don and his wife, Jean, tragically perished in a house fire on March 9, 2012. Don played an active role in the preservation and enjoyment of the northern Michigan environment. He participated in many outdoor organizations throughout northern Michigan and was an articulate voice in both community activism and his extensive writing. But Don’s career as an outdoor writer was not his only career.

Don was the son of Red Ingle, a clarinetist with Spike Jones’ band. Unlike his father’s interest in comic showmanship, Don built a career in straight jazz, playing the coronet with the group Frank Assunto and the Dukes of Dixieland. In the 1990s, Don played with the Michigan Nighthawks, appearing at events around the Midwest. The Michigan Nighthawks produced three albums.

Don graduated from Michigan State University in 1952. In the 1980s, Don had his own outdoor show on channel 9. Don also wrote a column for the Big Rapids Pioneer in the 1980’s. Like Don, his wife Jean was active in the community working for Child Protective Services in Baldwin. They were the kind of people who deeply touched the lives of everyone who met them.

Don was a personal friend and mentor to me, but his enthusiasm, his energy, and his knowledge of the outdoors captivated anyone who personally knew Don. Anyone who met Don, even briefly, became a friend. That’s the way he was. That’s the way they both were. Don and Jean Ingle are already missed.

Royal Dun

Christmas Day

On Christmas day, I drove to a local river intending to fish for a couple of hours. When I arrived at the stream, there were no other cars parked along the road. I imagined most of the fishermen were home with their families for the holiday, visiting with their families, opening gifts, and having a big turkey or ham dinner.

While gearing up, I felt a twinge of guilt as if I was stealing holiday time from my wife. She has always understood my need for solitary time, even when I knew that it bothered her. Home was calling me but I needed a little quiet time to refresh my soul before I left. I walked alone down the path that follows the river downstream.

The path follows the river downstream through a cedar swamp and the old cedars have tolerated anglers for many years. The noble, old trees have lined the path with roots and stumps to slow the humans down and trip them up if possible.

Along the worn path of cedar roots and slouching branches I walked that Christmas day. The swamp took on the feel of a cathedral decorated with snow that fell on the emerald arms of its elders. Except for an occasional bird reminding me to watch my step, the only sound was the river singing the ethereal, ancient litany of its devoted processional. Eventually, the river’s voice will dissipate as it enters the lake, then into Lake Michigan on its long, now silent, pilgrimage to the sea.

As I walked along listening to the river’s inflections, I came upon a small memorial stone sitting beside the river. It was not there a few months ago. It’s inscription read:

"Your memory is our keepsake

With which will never part.

God has you in his keeping

We have you in our hearts."

On the stone rested an unlit, but deeply melted candle. Above the memorial, six small ornaments hung from a cedar branch. Nearby, another elder Cedar held a string of lettered beads that spelled "James".

I reached into the pocket of my jacket and retrieved two wooden matches left there from the summer camping season. I lit the candle and stood silently beside the river listening to its soft resonant song. I instinctively knew how much James must have loved this river and others like it. He must have visited this stream often, certainly to catch trout, salmon, and steelhead, but I wondered how many times he passed by here to pause and rest his soul as I was doing.

I was meeting James for the first time, but as with all outdoorsmen, we are eternal kindred souls. I knew how he felt about this place. I knew he was the river’s friend and guardian. As I stood there, my spirit thanked his for leaving the river so pristine and wild.

Next to the beaded string hung a small silver heart engraved with the name "Emma". The little streamside memorial told me that his beloved Emma cherished James. She must have shared and loved this river with him and she also knew its secret peace. I said a silent prayer for her accompanied by the river’s unending melody. I felt her loss and sensed her weeping deep in my soul.

I sensed that the stream was not for me today. Today it belonged to those who went before me. I blew out the candle and walked quietly back down the path. By the time I returned to the road, I knew where I belonged. I removed my gear and then drove home to my own beloved who was waiting patiently for my return on Christmas day.

Royal Dun