The Life of Wunipaq

Wunipaq was born in the spring, one of many, many generations of the Anibish tribe. As an infant, he marveled at the colorful birds that visited his tribe and sang songs for them. Sometimes, creatures from the forest would enter his village to the delight of all the Anibish children. At night, he could see shiny specs in the sky above him. Some winked at him and some moved quickly across the heavens. He wondered if they were distant Anibish tribes, close enough to see him and wink at him, but so far away that their voices could not be heard.

In his youth, Wunipaq learned that all the creatures of the forest looked up to his tribe. The Anibish were well respected across the region for providing food and shelter for homeless travelers in the forest. Nothing was ever asked of these travelers, even when his tribe suffered from thirst or hunger themselves.

Wunipaq also learned to speak in his youth. His voice, like those of the others in his tribe, was carried in the wind. At times, their voices merged with those from other tribes and the whole forest was awash with the voices of the Anibish.

In his adolescence, Wunipaq learned how to make food along with the other Anibish children. They made their food from nutrients provided by the forest and it was this food called sugar, so freely shared by his tribe, which was food for so many travelers. He was proud of his place in the universe.

As an adult, Wunipaq wore the scars of time. He was not as supple as in his youth and he was unable to produce as much food as he had when he was young. His body seemed stiffer and he noticed some changes in his color.

In the final stage of his life, Wunipaq’s body turned yellow. Not the yellow of illness, but the brilliant hue of life celebrated. He and his tribe lit up the forest as they aged. Wunipaq was sure those distant tribes he saw in the sky as an infant could now see his tribe as they twinkled into the heavens.

One day, Wunipaq learned the true value of his place in the universe. One-by-one, then many-by-many, his tribesmen gave up their positions so younger generations could grow. They gently swooped to the forest floor. His tribe gathered there to wait for the winter. When the snow came, his tribe was covered and sheltered from the winter sun. The Anibish of Wunipaq’s generation slowly released their remains to the soil until they were no more.

In the spring, the snows melted and the water carried the sugars and nutrients down into the soil where his tribe could gather them together. In a few weeks, a new generation of Anibish would be born.

Royal Dun
　

Tenkara Tightwad

I have discovered a "new" method of fly-fishing this winter and I am looking forward to trying it out in the spring. Tenkara (meaning from heaven) is a Japanese method of fishing that is thousands of years old. Tenkara involves very simple equipment including an expandable rod, high-visibility lines, tippets, and a few sparsely tied flies. The line is about the same length as the rod and is attached to the tip of the rod. There are no reels or eyelets in Tenkara fishing.

Very few companies currently market the method in the United States. I won’t begin to give you all the information about Tenkara, because you can get that from going to sites like

www.tenkarabum.com or www.tenkarausa.com.

The idea is through softer landings and keeping your line off the water, the presentation is improved. My personal reasons for being enamored with the technique are cost, simplicity, and fun.

Conventional fly-fishing has become a ridiculously expensive pastime. Even entry-level fly rods, reels, and accessories cost well over $100. Now that I have retired, my income does not allow for those kinds of expenses although I have always been frugal (some people use the term cheap b_____d). Tenkara rods can also be expensive but you don’t have the cost of a reel or fly line. Even so, I found that even the lower-cost rods were too expensive for my budget so I went on a web search.

I ended up buying two Como rods (see photo). I purchased a new 5.4-meter (17 feet) rod for $18 and a new 3.4-meter (12 feet) rod for $10. They are very high quality, beautifully crafted instruments of carbon-fiber construction. The Como rods have all the characteristics of the expensive rods at a fraction of the cost. Okay, the Como rods do not have a cork or foam handle like the more expensive rods. The Como rods are traditional Japanese configurations, but the company does offer a handle that slides on the end of their rods. I bought one for $5.00 including the free shipping, but I may not even want to use it. These rods are exquisite!

Next, I needed some line. The line used in Tenkara fishing is either a high-visibility fluorocarbon or a furled (twisted) line like a furled leader in fly-fishing but longer. Tenkara uses ratings of 3 / 3.5 / 4, etc. rather than the lb.-test we are used to in the States. I chose a "heavy" 4.5 (roughly 15-17 lb.-test) line to begin with because the heavier weights cast easier in wind. When the members of the Chukar Harbor Ancient Order of Sportsmen see this, I anticipate a lot of wind.

High visibility fluorocarbon line is tough to find. I ended up buying some from one of the sites above at $25 for 65 feet. While that sounds like a lot, I was able to get five lengths from 10 to 17 feet out of it, so the average cost per line is about $5. Nevertheless, in keeping with my cheap ba … frugal nature, I intend to try other line materials in the spring.

Instead of spending another $5 each for spools to retain my lines, this tightwad went down to the workshop and made five line-holders out of some scraps of wood and a paint stick (see photo). I used two o-rings on each holder to retain the tag ends of the lines. Once I have a fly tied on, I can use the o-rings to retain the fly, wind my leader and High-Vis line onto the holder without having to remove the fly. Best of all is that they float.

 

The flies are sparsely tied to offer minimal air resistance. Tenkara is not for Humpys and hair bugs. Tenkara purists only use only one or two patterns tied on curved hooks similar to nymph hooks. I have found conflicting reports of Tenkara using primarily dry versus wet flies, but most people rave about Tenkara nymph fishing.

There you have it. Two rigs under $75 total investment and minimalist equipment that will all fit in a couple of pockets. I can’t wait to feel a slab bluegill on the end of a 17-foot lever! It's a little ironic though, that after 60+ years of using all types of fishing gear, that I am returning to what basically is … a cane pole

Royal Dun

Everyday Heroes

I have a new hero today. Every once in a while we are fortunate to meet someone who reinvigorates our human spirit. This happened to me the other day as I arrived at a parking area in the State Park near my home. I was on my way to do some ice fishing. As I was getting my gear out, I spotted another angler on the ice using a walker to get around.

At first, I wasn’t sure what to think. I watched him move slowly across the ice to a hole he had drilled. He sat down on the bucket he carried with him and started to fish. Except for the walker, he looked like any other angler on the ice with his back to the wind and hood over his head.
 

I admired the man for refusing to let snow and ice stop him. In fact, he saw the winter ice as a blessing, not a blockade. The winter ice provided him the opportunity to put fish in his freezer, to gather nature’s bounty, and provide for himself and his family like anyone else.
 

He reminded me of another individual I met while living in Mississippi. I drove to a nearby lake one evening to fish for Crappie. When I arrived, there was another man sitting on the fishing pier and I could see him pulling in a fish. I settled in next to him, said hello, and asked how the fishing was, and we engaged in the usual small talk.

As I was setting up my gear, he caught another fish, a sunfish of respectable size. When I looked over at him, he had grabbed the line and ran his fingers down it to the fish. He unhooked the ‘sunny’ and dropped it into a bucket beside him. He retrieved another worm from his bait box, threaded it on his hook, and cast the line into the water. He never once looked at his hands. He was blind.

He was tight-lining, a technique used without a float. He held his fishing line between his fingers and felt the fish bite. He had learned to tie knots, bait hooks, and catch fish without his sight. We fished together for a couple hours and he out-fished me at least two to one.

By the time his wife arrived to take him home, I thought about what I would do when I reach the age of infirmity or have some limiting condition.

I know … I’ll go fishing.

Royal Dun

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