eckermanmichigan.com Blog

01 Oct

   At 4:30 when I got up to relieve my bladder, the light in the cabin was on and there was some serious yelling was going on. “Get out of my bed you asshole” was one of the things I heard and wondered what in hell was going on in there! Later that morning I got up the nerve to ask Wade what it was all about. Evidently it got pretty drunk in there that night, and Wade ended up climbing into the wrong bunk. It’s not something I’d recommend doing with Carl’s bunk, but since it wasn’t me doing it, I thought it was pretty funny.

   I slept in until 7:30 that morning, which is about as late as I’d gotten up in years. I’d been there 11 days and I still wasn’t ready to end it so I guess it showed. I was sitting there by the fire when I heard a familiar chattering coming from one of those little red devils in the trees. The day before, B.B. had spotted it, and since I wasn’t hunting any more he took a try at putting it out of our misery. There was some fast and furious shooting, but the little bastard got away. This morning, he was standing in the grass about 100′ away and reminding me who was the boss. It didn’t take long for me to retrieve my .22 and have a seat back by the fire. When he showed himself again, I put my cross hairs on his chest and squeezed off one round. He dropped like a rock. I suppose I should feel bad for killing something I wasn’t going to eat, but frankly, I didn’t. It wasn’t the one who’d been giving me such a hard time back at the pine, but he was a relative and it saved me the walk. After retrieving the carcass and hanging it in the tree next to the cabin, I started to pack all my stuff.

   Jan had told me before she left not to forget anything this time. I always seem to leave something there, either from neglect or just a reason to come back. I’d made a point of keeping everything in order at the end of each day, so packing didn’t take nearly as long as it usually does. As the guys got up, they would start to pack their stuff and before long, it was just me packing my truck. They gave me a hand taking down the tarp and the tent, and by the time I had it packed they had swept and cleaned the cabin. I’d told Don that I would make the place presentable before I left, and I’d like to thank the guys for all the help in doing so. All I had to do was swab the deck, turn out the lights and lock the door.

   Jamie had got out a box of clay pigeons and a thrower, so the last thing we did was to have one more trap shoot. We’d all been doing some shooting, so all I had left were 12 rounds and I put them to good use. My precentage dropped some, but it was better than it had been in earlier years, so over-all I did pretty good.

   We all headed out at the same time, Carl in front, Jamie behind him, then me, and B.B. coming up behind. B.B.s allways the last one to leave, and always takes his time getting home. It’s not that he doesn’t want to get there, I just think he loves where he’s at and what he’s doing. As I drove South following Jamie, I thought about the great 11 days I’d just spent, the people I’d spent it with and what I was going to do when I came up next year. It’s always been that way, and with a lot of luck, it’ll continue for many years to come.

   Now I’m sitting here, listening to the Monks boogie down, and how to put it all together into this story. My daughter Katrina is going to do the hard part, she’ll check all the spelling and the grammer, put the pictures in with all this and post it. Without her and all her help this would have just ended up in a note book off in the corner. I’d like to thank her and all the guys who came this year, ’cause without them none of this would have happend.

30 Sep

   The last day of trout season. 7 years ago, on this very day of the week, I was there for this event. Actually, it was the REASON for this event. Don’s been an A-1, Mod-1, Number 1 trout fisherman all his life. In my family, we celebrated the opening day of trout season, and closing day was usually a day of mourning. Most of us would meet at Grandpa’s, on Union Lake and either spend the day on the end of his dock or in the kitchen getting hammerd on Whiskey Sours or Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer. Now I spend opening day fishing Walleye with Doug on Lake Charlevoix, but next year things will be different. My brother Butch has moved back to Michigan. After a long wandering period looking for whatever it was he was looking for; but what I think he was looking for can be found in the headwaters of the Jordan. In honor of Don, and Butch, and my Grandpa, I decided to head over to Highbanks and spend the last day fishing for trout.

   When I got up at 6am, it was of course, still raining. Not long after everyone got up, Jamie’s future brother-in-law, Wade Belford, drove in on his Kowasaki. Wade is another nice guy that has joined the long list of nice guys that this place seems to draw. Back over the years it was Don, Doug, Jamie, and B.B.. Jerimiah, and Bubba, Denis, Mike Anzel, Carl and Brian. Dan Cox, Kent Seymore, Dave Crandall, and “Beagle”. Pat Elliot, “Tooth”, Hunter, Bo, Maggie, and lastly Salley. What a great group of souls to gather with in celebration of another year gone by.

  B.B. helped me put his jonboat in my truck, along with all the gear I’d need, and soon they were off to explore the trails. They were going to head East towards Strongs, and then Northeast towards Monocle Lake and a ridge that runs adjacent to it. From that ridge you can see out over Lake Superior and across to Canada. They would stop at High banks to see how I was doing, and showing me that they didn’t drown in that little mudpuddle mentioned before. I would have thought they were crazy to ride in such lousy weather, but I was about to set in a boat under the same conditions, and I knew I wasn’t crazy.

   It poured all the way to the lake and was still raining when I put the boat in. The weather guessers had told me it would rain until noon, and then clear off some. Must be “clear off some” means “pour some more” up there, ’cause that’s what it did. The guys stopped by and after a couple of beers and some discussion, decided to head back to camp and dry off. Those guys were absolutly, no bullshit, soaked! I’d been sitting inside a waterproof invronment, with the only thing outside was my nose, and these guys had been going through brush and as many water holes as they couldn’t avoid. They sure were having fun though. I’d caught two small ones by then, and after they left I headed out for one more try. I trolled for another hour or so, going through every lure in the box and decided to give it up. I caught two more, and both of those were only 10″ each, so I put them back.

   I arrived back at camp just as they were pulling in, and with our firewood almost gone, we went up to “Firewood b us” for some more. B.B. and I, being the old guys, got to stay out of the way and helped haul the cut wood back to the truck. When Carl picked up that chain saw, he almost laughed. He normally uses a saw with a 36″ bar, and this one was 12. It was pretty obvious that Wade and Jamie worked in the woods a lot because they were always working near Carl, but never in a position where anyone could get hurt. For anyone who’s never done such work; it’s a lot harder than you’d think. It didn’t take long to get the truck full, so we were back in pleanty enough time for B.B. and I to get across the street.

   The other three had decided to head over to Curtis to a famous bar there, but Brian and I have always been fond of the world renouned “Last weekend in September, closing of trout season, trap shoot”. It’s a competition that I’ve mentioned in earlier renditions of this week long event and Brian and I wanted to have one more go at it. I must say, it was the most successfull trap shoot that we’d both been in, and we tied at 100%. There’s nothing like going out a winner, and it’s even better when you can do it with a great friend.

   Steak and pizza pockets were served for dinner that night, which only proves that it’s not the meal that makes the banquet it’s the company you have enjoying it. Most of the evening was spent in the cabin, because as you can guess, it was still raining. When I left the cabin around 9:30, it was 84º and rising, and I could hear the guys still laughing as I drifted off to sleep.

29 Sep

   It was 28º at 5:30 when I woke up and I decided right then that the next time I went camping, I was going to bring an electric blanket. Over the summer I had bought a nice 14′X14′ walled tent which was on sale at K-Mart. When I got it, I had visions of the old days where I’d camped with my Uncle during a couple deer seasons. It was very similar to this one, but unbeknownst to me, this one had roof vents. They’re a great idea in the summertime, but not so much in September and October when I’d planned on using it. Doug had brought up a fair sized tarp to put over the thing, but unless it reaches down to the ground, it isn’t much help. Next summer I’m going to install some velcro strips attached to visqueen and seal them up. I knew it would be toasty in the cabin, ’cause Jamie had it up to 112º when I’d gone to bed the night before. After getting the chill out of my bones, I headed out, broke the ice in the wash basin and did up yesterday’s dish’s. What I lack in my cooking abilities, I make up for in the “Housebitch” catagory, and I’m glad that I can at least do that.

   The guys got up about around 9 and after figuring out what we were going to do that day, made ourselves some breakfast. Jamie brings along his cast iron frying pan and has his bacon cooking down to an art form. Jamie has a one burner stove, which he set’s on medium low and then he cut’s the strips in two and after placing them in the frying pan. With his fork he works on them one at a time until each one is done to perfection, then moves on to the next. There’s something hypnotic about watching him work and on one of the days, I almost forgot to cook the eggs. He also cooked up some sausage paddies and Brian did up the toast, which turned into another great breakfast.

   By the time we finished it was almost noon and the guys headed off to Hurley I think, and I went out to the tree for one more day hunting. The bait pile looked as though a small bear had been by, because there was only one log moved off the pile and another moved over. By then it was beginning to look like my luck bear hunting had totally run out. I had brought my bath towel with me this time and I tied it to the limb I was sitting on, in the hopes that maybe that would help. It didn’t. Within a half hour I began to wonder if this was going to be the culmination of four years of waiting, and three months of preparing. It really didn’t matter though, what I wanted to do, I was doing. For another couple hours I sat in that pine, watching the Whiskey Jacks fly in and out of that pile, with bits of granola bars in their beaks. Chipmonks running about trying to stay out of the way of the Jacks, and avoid getting eaten by the Kestrel hawk that was sitting in a tree next to mine. The red squirrel was still at his post making his presence known to anyone within 100 miles, and listened to the Ravens with that haunting cooing and clucking call that I’ve come accustomed to. All of that and that pain in my ass from sitting on it too much. I enjoyed, no, relished in the thought that it was I who was doing it. It was I who had come up week after week, bringing my family and friends to join with me in this adventure. And it was I who was just hurting too much to go on with it all. I glanced over at that red squirrel and waved my arms until he was worked up into a frenzy, and climbed down out of that tree.

   Carl Johnson was there along with the other two when I got back into camp. Carl had been coming up for 4 years and he’s come to be a regular attraction to this yearly event. He’s a logger, and he looks like one. 6′ tall, ruggedly handsome and has a sense of humor that catch’s you off guard but leaves you laughing for months afterward. His first comment to me was “Honda’s don’t float” when I walked up to him and from the looks of him, I could see he was right. After he’d come in, all the guys had gone for a ride and they tried to get through a mud puddle that turned into a little more than they bargained for. It didn’t look deep from the top, but once in and the water started to come over the seat, he knew that wasn’t the case. Jamie had rode back to town and bought a couple quarts of oil for Carl’s Honda quad runner and they changed it right there on the spot. Those guys talked about it like it happend every day, so it probably has, but it would’ve been enough for me. Later, I started to talk to Carl about his job and he summed it up with the following; “Every tree is a potential stump”. I chuckled a bit and thought of all those ‘tree huggers’ that read this blog every day. I knew that was going to make it in.

   After a bit, we went next door to see our bear hunting neighbors that had been so successfull the week I’d been up to bait with Doug. Not all of them had come up this time, just three of the guys and two had their wives. It was a whole lot more civilized over there this time, but it was great seeing them again. Two of the men are guards at the Ionia Penitentary and they told us some stories that arn’t going to be involved in this story. There’s two things I can tell you about them and one is that they’re gentleman, and the second is NEVER GO TO THAT PRISON! I suppose all prisons are alike but I know of one where two guys really enjoy the art of submission. If you want to hear the details, come up across the bridge and we’ll fill you in.

   Jamie made some mac and cheese and we sat around the fire until it started to pour again around nine, and that’s when I went to bed.

28 Sep

   Believe it or not, it wasn’t raining out when I got up that morning. I had listened to the radio forcast; transmitted by the National Weather Service from a tower in Newberry, that said we were supposed to, so I was a bit suprised. Listening to that station and it’s computer generated voices, is almost too funny to listen to. (Maybe by the time I get this story moved into the story section, I’ll have figured out a way to portray what those voices sound like.) Anyway, after listening to that for a while, and making some entries into the cabin journal, I decided it was time for Jamie to get up. So, around 8am, I got my CDof those crazy Monks and played it for Jamie. After two minutes of it, I hear “What the hell is that?” coming from the bedroom, and I told Jamie, “It’s your alarm clock, time to get up.” Not long after that B.B. came in from his trailer and we cooked up some breakfast. By 10 we were on our way to Sunken, Lost, and Dutch Fred lake.

   It had been 26 years since I’d been to two of those lakes and Dutch Fred I’d never been to. My brother Jim and I took my son Jon looking for that lake once when Jon was 5 or 6 years old. We didn’t have the advantage of having a GPS unit or even a county map book. We had a great time looking for it, even though I ended up sitting on my car frame in the middle of a pond, in the middle of nowhere. For years after that, Jon wouldn’t think he was having any fun unless we were axel deep in some hole. As the years went by I looked for ways to get back into that area, and when my settlement came in from Social Security, I figured I’d found it. Not long after that I got on the internet and had a topo map made, just for that region and my hopes were born anew.

   Now it was 10am and we were on our way towards Seney. Brian had brought along his GPS, I had my trusty county map book and Jamie was at the helm. Along with Jamie’s jonboat, Brian brought his shotgun, and I loaded on my .22, just in case I saw some squirrels. Just as I remembered it, the two track started about 4 1/2 miles from the intersection of M28 and M77. One of the things I’d been worried about was whether I’d be able to recognize the landmarks. From what I could tell from the areas around Don’s, the topography can change in a hurry and chances were pretty good that they’d have changed there as well. When I went there the first time, back in ‘73, we didn’t have any map at all. A friend of mine and I were just up there ‘two trackin’ and taking it as it came. When we found Lost Lake, we were. It wasn’t until a few years later we found out the name of it, and where it was on the map. The next time we went up, we took along the map and would measure out by the squares provided on the map, how far it was between intersections. This time I did the same thing, and I figured along with Brian’s GPS, we had it made. I figured we were very close to the turn off to Sunken Lake and had Jamie make a left onto the two track we’d found. We’d traveled about a half-mile when I started having my doubts. Although the area looked the same as it did, I remembered it being closer to the turn off and we were still going. I let it go on for a little while later and then started voicing my doubts. Jamie asked me what condition I was in the last time I was there, and when I told him, he started calling me the “Peyote pilot”. “Maybe you need to get back into that condition Mike”, he said, but I told him maybe not, it wasn’t the 70’s anymore. We turned around and headed back the way we came, and not 50′ farther down that two track, we came to one I abosolutly remembered. We made another left and just as I remembered it, the lake was only an eighth of a mile. Except for the opening near the water, it looked just as it did the last time I was there. The only thing different was the bear camp someone had set up and they had all kids of farm impliments laying adjacent to the trail. These guys were serious about tearing up the roads. According to regulations, the only thing you can use to drag the roads were material laying alongside, naturally. Some branch’s, maybe a log or two, not something you’d use to plow, drag and plant 40 acres of corn. We’d noticed that some of the trails were tore up, but didn’t think these guys would go to such lengths to do it. The lake looks as though it were formed by a meteor; it’s almost perfectly round and a steep hill completely surrounds it. It’s not as deep as I’d remembered it, but most of the lakes, along with the Great Lakes, have dropped significantly over the last 15 years or so. It’s full of bluegill and bass but what with those guys camping on it, we decided to give it a pass and move onto the next one.

   As I remembered it, the two track intersected the main trail about 2 miles up from Lost Lake, and sure enough it was there. For some reason I recalled the forest the trail went through as almost primordal, and it wasn’t. It was a mature wood, but not virgin like I thought. (Once again, we must remember the ‘condition’ I was in at the time). There was no mistaking the condition of the trail though. Then it was mostly inpassable, we had to use the come-along three times to get down it, now it was in pretty good shape. When I started thinking I’d screwed up again, we passed an old bear hunting cabin that had some guys sitting out in front of it. I remembered thinking then how in hell they got back there to build it, and it looked about as decrepit as it did now. Not far from there, I could see blue peeking through the trees on the left side and I knew I’d found it. The first time Mark Stevens and I saw this lake, it was in September, just like it was now, but it was sunnier and warmer. It was our habit when coming up to a lake, to put the canoe in, and if we caught some fish, we’d spend the night there. While we were taking the canoe off, I noticed a sign on a tree that said “This lake has been poisoned of all fish”, but when we looked out over the lake, the surface was alive with motion. Whatever was still living in that lake ate bugs, and they were having a feast. The sign looked to be a couple years faded so we figured they’d killed off whatever was there and planted it with something else. We paddled out into the middle of it and threw a couple crawlers over the side to see what we could see. What we saw were 12″ to 14″ brook trout and they liked worms as much as the bugs. I thought I’d just died and gone to heaven. As quickly as we threw bait in, we caught ‘em so it didn’t take long to get four for dinner. Truely, it was UNBELIEVABLE. The sun went down as we were eating so we thought we’d give it another try in the dark. All we had were a couple of flashlights, but we wern’t worried about anyone running into us so we pushed out into the black. Once again we threw our crawlers out there and we started getting bites. Well, we thought they were bites. I could feel my rod tip moving, but I didn’t feel anything on the line, so we turned on our flashlights to have a look. There were ten million bats flying over our heads and hitting the rod tips, thinking they were bugs. What a sight! We shown our beams up into the sky but it never made it very far. It was almost a solid black cloud over our heads and we got our butts back to shore, quick. The next morning we caught our breakfast and then continued on with our trip. This time, I brought along a fish finder to see if they were still there, and where they might be. Jamie and B.B. took the boat out with the sonar and I sat on the beach trying from there. None of us caught any and from what they told me, very few showed up on the graff. The lake is about three times the size of Sunken, and it’s a lot deeper. They measured it at 51′, so that would explain why the State planted them there. B.B. registered it on his GPS unit and he had to call it Lost Lac. It seems just about every county has at least one Lost Lake and he’d allready listed two of them. It was from that spot where we ran into some trouble.

   Since I was doing the navigating, it was up to me to read my map book and come up with a course to get us to the next spot. Up until then, I’d been working on my somewhat tainted memory, and now we were moving into some ‘uncharted territory’. This is where Brian’s GPS saved our ass’s. Just before we’d arrived at Lost Lake we passed an intersection that I didn’t register. When we left the lake I saw a two-track that led off to the right and figured that was the one to take. We were going to go East and a little South to Dutch Fred lake to check out that one too. Brian kept looking at his GPS and it showed that we were going East by North and I couldn’t figure out what the deal was. Brian even began to wonder if there was something wrong with his unit, and I began to wonder if there was something wrong with the map. Turns out I was right. Along with a record of where we’d been on his unit, it also gave the Lat/Long of where we were on the planet. On my map, there’s printed coresponding numbers for the same thing, but our numbers didn’t match up. When he read me his numbers, the map told me that we were many miles South of where we actually were. Jamie got out his map book and checked out the numbers; his looked to be a lot more like the real world, but didn’t show as many two-tracks as mine did. We drove around and around, making guess’s and a few “what the hell’s” when we came to a bridge over a little creek. We’d given up by then with Dutch Fred lake and were trying to get back to 77. From the map, we were pretty sure we were just South of 77 where it travels in a NW/SE direction and all we’d have to do is get across this bridge. From above, the bridge looked as though it might handle foot traffic, if the people were young and small, but underneath it was all held up by thick steel “I” beams. The only problem with getting across it was a post that stuck up at our end. After the guys checked it out, they told me that there was a padlock securing it to the foundations, but since we wern’t in any kind of emergency, we let it be. It wasn’t far from there where my .22 came into play.

   We were on our way South again when a partridge flew across the trail and landed in a tree a way’s back in the brush. When we got to the spot, we started looking for it, and Jamie saw it first. My .22 was closer than B.B.’s shotgun so Jamie got that out. As he was removing it from it’s case, I told him “It’s sighted dead on”, so that’s exactly where he aimed it. The birds head hit the ground at the same time the rest of the bird did. It was a 75′ shot and as clean a kill as I’ve ever seen. After some more driving and figuring and guessing, we went by a road that looked as though it needed to be gone down.

   Within a quarter mile, we pulled up to Dutch Fred Lake. When I’d looked up Lost Lake, Dutch Fred was also listed as one where those brook trout had been planted. The wind was right in our faces, so Jamie drove around to the other side to get into the Lee. Unlike the other two, this one has cabins on it. Not all the way around, but there wasn’t anyone at any of them so it was no problem driving on the beach. This time I got into the boat with Jamie and Brian stayed on the beach. We had made up some venison burgers the night before so he was going to re-heat a couple as we fished. I turned on the Sonar and started to make our sweeps looking for fish. When the depth read 42′, we found ‘em, and that hole was just FULL of them. As we made our first pass, I got a hit that almost pulled the rod out of my hands. I set the hook, and as it started to take line, the boat got pushed over with the wind, and the motor cut it. For a second there I had all kinds of visions passing before my eyes and then all I saw was the end of the line dangling in the wind. “Dear sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph” I thought and asked Jamie if he wanted to eat Lunch. I knew they were in there, they wern’t going anywhere, and I was starved. We went back in and had lunch filling B.B. in on the action. After we finished, we headed back out, and within 10 minutes, the motor cut my line again. We still had a ride back to do, and it was starting to get late, so we called it a trip and headed back. All the way back I thought about those lakes and how happy I was to finally get back. I also started thinking about how I was going to get back there again. If anyone out there want’s to go, I’d be more than happy to get them there, but I’m going too. If anyone wants to use B.B.’s GPS for directions there, look up: Dead Fred Lake.

   That night, we decided to head over to the Bear Butt Bar for a coupla beers and a coffee. The guys had the beer, I had the coffee. We were there shooting the bull with the bar maid when a nice old lady came in with her husband. Neither one of them looked like they needed another beer, and her husband looked like he didn’t need to be out at all. My suspecions were validated when the lady told me that he’d allready had 3 strokes, and I don’t think he was very far from his fourth. Another woman came in with her new puppy and showed it around to all the other patrons. It’s not often you get to see a guy who’s about to have a stroke and a new puppy in the same night. After a second round we called it a day, and a night, and headed back to camp.

27 Sep 

   When I got up for the 1am piss call it was pouring, when I got up again at 6:30 it was just raining. I was going to go back to bed and see if it would be just drizzling when I got up again, but I knew better. Lake Superior makes it’s own weather because of it’s size and the amount of water in it, but you’d think after a given amount of time, that damned lake would just dry up.

   After doing all my “housebitch duties” in the cabin, I went back out to my tent, put on “The Benedictine Monks of Santo Domingo De Silos” and cranked ‘er up. Boy, when those Monks get to jammin’, even the devil himself can feel the spirit. The only other CD I listen to for my ’spiritual enlightenment’ is “Exile on Main street” by the Rolling Stones, but the Monks are the best. I wrote the first two days entries into this story, listening to those guys that morning. I had just finished up my writing when B.B. came in with a dead Hawk in his hands.

   I had seen the bird earlier that morning as it flew down the highway looking for something to eat. It looked as though it and a vehicle had a tie in getting to the dining room. I took some pictures of it and Brian took it off into the bush to it’s final resting place. When I’d seen it before I remember thinking how nice it would be if he’d find that damned red squirrel, but now I knew it was going to be up to me.

   Jamie Crandall came into camp around 3pm, pulling his trailer with a motor cycle and a quad runner on it, and his johnboat on top. I had heard that he might not be coming this year and was happy to see that he had. Jamie’s been coming up here long before I even knew Don and just couldn’t imagine what a year would be like without him. Every year, Jamie spends most of his time exploring new areas and if I don’t go along, I get to hear about them we he gets back. This year, I had a spot in mind that I wanted to see and I knew he was just the guy to get us there. For a little bit there, on his way across the Mackinac Bridge, it was doubtfull whether he’d make it or not. About half way across the bridge, one of the straps he used to secure his motorcycle came undone and he almost lost it over the side. When his trailer passed over one of the expansion joints he felt the jolt as the bike lost it’s footing and he could see it in his rear view mirror. Problem is, you CAN’T stop on the bridge. Ever since this 9 – 11 thing, the authorities get mighty upset when they see on their monitors, someone coming to a dead stop anywhere on the bridge. I have no idea why the terrorists would waste their resources there, but the bridge authorities act as though they would. He limped along, taking it real easy and hoped it just wouldn’t fall over completly, and really screw things up. Once he got to the North side, he pulled over and after jostling the machine around, got it back into position. After he got that squared away, he came upon another issue that us ‘regular guys’ will have to deal with.

   There was this guy handing out flyers at the rest area that bares a problem we’re having here in Michigan. Last year, or maybe two years ago, our Governor passed a law allowing dove hunting in a couple counties in Southern Michigan. An affiliate of the National Humain Society is trying to revoke that law. The flyer showed a ‘white paper’ that the Humain Society has published, outlining a campaign to eliminate ALL hunting in Michigan. They feel that revoking the law would be a good start. Personally, I felt like wiping my ass with that ‘White paper’ and sending it on to that august orginization, but decided that maybe I should just mention it here instead. In any case dear readers and voters, make sure you get to the polls this November and show them how you feel.

   My back and my butt were hurting way too much to set in that tree that day, but I took the guys back with me to replenish the bait pile. There hadn’t been any activity so I didn’t feel quite so bad about not hunting the day before. When we got back to the cabin, Jamie started carrying wood into the cabin for it’s woodstove.

   You can always tell when someone is heating their homes with wood up here. It’ll be 30 below zero with 30 mile per hour winds, and the windows and front door will be wide open. I know that for a fact, I used to be one. It always gave me a feeling of independence to be able to heat my own home, and the warmer it got in there, the better I felt. Unfortunatly, with independence comes the price you have to pay for it and the price gets pretty hot sometimes. Anyway, before long Jamie had it up to 85º in there and rising. It was suppose to get down right cold that night, but I had more blankets in my truck and decided to go that route instead of sweating my butt off.

   Late in the afternoon, Jamie and B.B. rode across the highway and down the trail a ways for some bird hunting, and I opted to try it closer to the cabin. Brian picked the right spot and I didn’t, ’cause he got one.

   Later that night, I talked to the guys about heading West towards Seney and a couple lakes I use to fish 30 years ago. It was one of the things I really wanted to do this year, and after explaining where it was and why, they agreed to go. I went to bed that night happy with the thought that I’d finally get back to Lost Lake.

26 Sep

   Tuesday morning Don, B.B. and I went over to High banks for some early morning fishing. We’d noticed that the earlier your there in the morning, the better the fishing was going to be. That, and Don had to head back home that afternoon to return to work the next day. Brian had brought up his johnboat and Don had decided to fish from shore, so Brian and I tried some trolling. I tied on my crocadile and B.B. used a green and chrome cleo to see how that worked. After the luck Doug and I had, I was sure that we’d get into some good fishing again. The lake was beautiful that morning, with the sun poking through the trees and casting beams of light through the mist that was rising off of the water. (I’m hoping to get a picture Brian took to use when this goes into the story section) We couldn’t see Don from the other end of the lake, but we had radio’s with us to keep in touch. After two or three pass’s through this hole we were fishing, Brian’s drag started to sing. Whether it’s Blue Marlin or just bluegill’s, any time that sound starts, it gets your attention. I reeled in my line as fast as I could, grabbed the net and watched the show. After taking twenty or thirty feet of line, Brian tightend up the drag and started to get it back to the boat. It’s sides were still blood red when it broke the surface the first time, and after almost screwing up with the net, Brian led it into it. We let Don know we’d got one and he told us he’d been having some luck too, but they were undersized. After catching and releasing a few more small ones, the action really dropped off and I started paying more attention to what was going on around us. That Osprey that I’d seen when fishing with Doug there, was back and we saw it land in one of those huge White Pine that line the lake. Every time we’d troll by, he’d look down and watch us go by. Brian noticed that there was a hatch going on and decided to head back to shore and grab his fly rod. It felt good to get out of that little boat and stretch out some but before long we were back out there at it. When we left, I took Don’s crawler rig with us and dropped it overboard when we were out about a hundred yards. We figured the water was deeper and maybe we could get it out of the weeds. We’d just got down to the other end of the lake when Don asked us to come back and do it again. That crawler wasn’t even wet yet and he had a fish on, and it was a beauty too. I had some luck with a crawler too but it wasn’t a fish that I got with it.

   While we were at the beach, I decided to try trolling with a crawler harness. The one I used is chartruse and it had floats on it, to keep it up out of the weeds. It had worked well for Walleye back on Lake Charlevoix, and they wern’t hitting on spoons so what the heck. Your suppose to put a small sinker on the rig to get it down, but far enough from the hooks to keep it up off the bottom. I forgot to use the sinker so it was traveling just under the surface of the lake. When we traveled by that huge pine with the Osprey in it, it was just too inviting for that bird to ignore. With the sound of a bowling ball hitting the water at 40 miles per hour, Brian and I jerked our heads back to see that bird heading back for altitude. Out of reflex, I’d set the hook but he’d let go of it by then, thank God. It was the only rod I had with me, and I’m pretty sure he’d have won that fight. Both fish were 16″, so they were both happy, and I got a hellava story to tell, so I was happy as well.

   Don left early that afternoon, and Brian and I headed up to “Firewood be us” and gathered some firewood. This was the same spot we’d gone to the year before, but when we were there, they were still just cutting lanes into the forest. Now it was all clear cut and we wern’t sure if we were in the same neighborhood or not. All that was left were the tops, and not alot of that. The guy that lives across the street from the entrance to this area sells firewood, and it was pretty easy to tell where he got it at. 15 years from now, that area is going to be FULL of woodcock and partridge and I’d like to invite all those ‘tree huggers’ back for some bird hunting with me. Me and B.B. ain’t as young as some of the guys who’ll be coming up soon, so we just cut enough to keep warm for a day or two and let it go at that.

   Later that afternoon, B.B. and I went across the street and tried some woodcock hunting in an area that was ‘clear cut’ 15 years ago and we both scored one each. It was nice to see I could still hit something with that 16ga. side by each. We were both one for one, and both birds found! It started pouring again around 9:30, so after shooting the bull for awhile, Brian and I went to bed.

25 Sep

   I got up Monday morning to the sound of rain falling on the tent roof. I don’t think there’s anything more soothing than the sound of a good downpour when your warm and dry inside. After listening to the Monks ‘gettin’ down’ and some writing, I started on dinner. Last year I made some meatballs and had been thinking about those things ever since then. Instead of using gravy this time, I brought along some “Jack Daniels bourbon brand” and mixed it all up. Don had some ‘majic ingredients’ in the kitchen so I threw a bunch of that in there, along with half a pint of some ‘Black Jack’ that I’d bought in Strongs the day before. I’m not real sure if food tastes better up here because of where we are, or because we’re usually starved when we get around to eating, but it’s a fact that it is. Don and I finished off the skillet breakfast from the morning before and we headed over to High banks for a little morning fishing.

   While we were there, the subject of bear hunting came up; whether it was better to hunt over a bait pile or with dogs. Actually it was the going argument of bait pile verses dogs. Hunters who use a bait pile look down on those who use dogs. They figure running hounds after those bruins is almost un-ethical, and those that use hounds figure that anyone who hunts over a pile, is just plain lazy. Personally, I think they’re both right, and wrong too. Ask any hunter who uses hounds; how many times they’ve arrived at a tree with the dogs at the bottom and just the leaves at the top. This is after spending all that time and gas dragging roads and then looking for tracks the next morning. Once the tracks are seen, they release the hounds and listen to them as they howl off into the swamps. Once they can hear either the hounds stay in one spot, or see on their tracking devices that the dogs are stationary, they head into the bush. These guys arn’t running through the woods as we know them down-state, they’re heading through countryside that is almost inpentratable. While they’re trying to get through this crap, they’re worried about how many dogs have been mamed or killed during the chase, or if it’ll still be there once they arrive. Don told me of many instances where they’ve spent an entire day trying to get to the dogs only to find out the bear moved from one tree to another and then snuck off. He told me of one time where when they arrived, one of the dogs had been dis-embowled, and how they washed and packed the intestines back into the dog and carried it out. He told me of one instance where they spent over 8 hours running after the pack to only end up 1/4 mile from where they started. They just never know how it’s going to turn out, but that’s the excitement of it. Guys like me though just can’t do that type of hunting. Hell, I was having a hard enough time just carrying the bait back there and then sitting in that pine! I spent about 6 weeks traveling 2 hours each way taking the bait up, and then scouting the area to see if there had been any actiivity. Once the hunt started, I had to devote 6 hours a day sitting in that tree listening to some damned red squirrel tell everythng within a mile that I was there, and have an extra guy waiting in camp for that shot to ring out. But, if you walk into a bar or a restaurant and there’s hunters there, the guys with dogs will be on one side of the room, and the guys who hunt over a bait pile will be on the other. I wish I could set in the middle and listen to them both, for they all have some great stories to hear and lessons to be learned. The other lesson I learned that day was that fish don’t always bite in the rain and Don and I only caught one small one each.

   About 1 I headed back to the pile to see that nothing had even come close to eating that stuff. About an hour after getting into the tree I could hear the hounds baying off in the distance and began to wonder if the dogs were the reason there wern’t any bears around. Obviously the dogs didn’t bother that squirrel any, ’cause he was right there with me until 7:30 when I climbed out of the tree and headed back to the camp. With aches and pains I limped out of the bush, mumbling how I was “getting too old for this crap” and saw that B.B. had just arrived.

24 Sep

   Doug and I woke up about 5am to the sound of Maggie whimpering and moving around in circles again, but without the snorts. I don’t know if the bear was actually in the camp or not, but from the sound of Maggie, it wasn’t far off. Doug had received a phone call from his mom the night before telling him that they had to go down to Flint the next day to take care of some family business. It seems that every year, Doug’s stay in camp is shortend for one reason or another, and I don’t think he’s been there for the entire event since Eckerman 1. He had packed all his supplies and gear by 6:30 and I was disapointed that he wasn’t able to see all this through. Every year, we spend a lot of time conversing about the next years trip and we look forward to all the things we want to accomplish, and every year he gets screwed out of it. I think if I had to put up with as much crap as he does, I’d find something else to do during this week. After he left, I put on my CD of “Gregorian Chants” and wrote up my notes until 8, when Don got up.

   Don had made bacon and beans for dinner the night before, so he got that out along with some corned beef hash, a dozen or so eggs and some cheese and made a skillet breakfast. Talk about a heavy duty ‘get er done’ breakfast! My cardiologist would have had a conniption if he saw what I was eating, but if he’d been there, I’da been fighting him over who got seconds.

   It had been raining on and off all night so our plans on doing some stream fishing was out of the question. Normally at this time of year, the brookies travel up the rivers and creeks for their spawn run, but with the rain’s, there wasn’t any chance of getting to them. I’d been hoping to get over to Pat’s fishing hole across the street but I guess it just wasn’t meant to be. Instead, we grabbed our brooms and started sweeping out all the hornet and fly carcass’ that littered the floor.

   Around 1pm, Don walked back with me to bait the pile and then to make a commotion on the way out again. The day before when I got back there, the bait pile had been torn to shreds but on this day there wasn’t any sign anything had been around. This time I moved around to the right side of the tree and see if I could find a comfortable spot, stay out of the way of that damned hornet and maybe fool the red squirrel. The limbs were all in a more convient location and I figured I’d finally get some time in hunting. Within a couple of hours, my age and medical condition started being a factor again. It was amazingly quiet out there that day and I could hear things that I’d never heard before. There were a family of ravens that would fly by to see if the bear had tore up the pile yet. If it had, they’d swoop down and see what was good to eat along with the chipmunks, red squirrels, and whiskey jacks. The ravens stared making a sound that resembled that of doves; one of them started coo-ing, like they do. I saw a couple what I think were wrablers and two types of birds I havn’t found in the book yet. My little buddy, the red squerril didn’t show up, but the Kestrel hawk did and I got to watch him take out one of the chipmunks from the bait pile. I came down out of the tree around 5 and Don had some fish chouder ready, he’d made for dinner. He said he used salmon for the fish, and I think it’s about the only way those fish could be used for something good to eat. I catch them here in the Jordan river, when they’re 12″ long and then they’re pretty good. But when they get huge all they’re good for is fertilizer.

   After dinner Don took me for a ride to Hulbert. We drove up 123 to the East/West road and headed East, then South on Hulbert road to 28, and then 28 back to 123 and the cabin. I think Don was dissapointed in me for not staying there until after dark and wanted to show me how much activity there was at sundown. We saw more than a dozen deer, two wolves, and all sorts of little critters crossing the roads. He made his point that there were all sorts of things going on, but that didn’t make me neither younger nor healthier. I went to bed that night in the hopes that things would improve, in both the hunting and my stamina.