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
Friday, April 6, 2012
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
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 10th, in 40o 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
Saturday, March 10, 2012
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
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
Friday, March 9, 2012
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:
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
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
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