Through the past brightly
Sit beside a mountain stream See her waters rise Listen to the pretty sound of music as she flies. Find me in my field of grass Mother Nature’s son Swaying daisies sing a lazy song beneath the sun — Paul Mccartney from “Mother Nature’s Son”
I’ve set my PC about 18 inches from our Christmas Tree, which, presently is lit up like . . . like . . . a Christmas tree. By tradition, Deb did all the decorating because she enjoys it so much. My wife is a Christmas super fan. She’d listen to Christmas music and watch “Polar Express” every day given the opportunity.
So I’m sitting here in the shade of, er, in the light of our Christmas Tree, with a frothy Guinness by my side and “The Kinks Are the Village Green Preservation Society” spinning on the turntable so I’m ready to go.
In the past few columns, we’ve been exploring my lifelong love affair with the great outdoors, from the little woods, fields and streams of my youth, where I captured turtles, frogs and snakes through clambering over icefields in the mighty Canadian Rockies with Debbie on our honeymoon.
Lying on my Therm-a-rest sleeping pad, stretched out on a massive boulder on an island deep in the Canadian wilderness, watching the Northern Lights, I am more relaxed and in tune with the Great Beyond, than if I was home, in bed.
Six months after Deb’s first trip to the Pigeon River, we were there again but this time with a half dozen friends, for the Trout Season opener, our Holy Day of Obligation. There was my good friend, Woody, the finest fly fisherman I’ve ever known, my sister, Julie and her soon-to-be husband Vern, along with old buddies, Mike and Dave.
Actually, it was probably a push between Elwood and Vern as to who caught the most fish. Vern was a spinner fisherman while Woody preferred flies.
Vern is one of the most amazing people I’ve ever known. I met him around 45 years ago when we were attending Michigan State and he was living with Dave, a dozen other freaks and two rock bands at the Knight House Co-op.
Vern only fishes a couple times a year these days due to his unrelenting obsession. He’s one of the best competitive archers in the country. I could probably write two full columns about the guy who went from college buddy to brotherin-law. Here are just a couple short Vern Tales.
Since trout fishing is generally a solitary pursuit, when on the Season Opener, we stake out our preferred territory and fish alone all day. As I was preparing to call it a day, I bumped into Vern and started comparing notes. Suddenly Vern casually pointed to the river.
“Check it out,” he said. “Right below that submerged log, there’s a huge hen Brown.”
I shaded my eyes and stared into the dark water for a full minute.
“(Expletive deleted) Vern,” I sputtered, shaking my head. “I don’t even see the LOG and you not only see the fish, you know what sex it is!”
I’m sure he was right.
A few years back, Vern was fortunate enough to get an elk license. These are limited and only available through a drawing. Some hunters never get one. Those that do usually take a guide and a big gun.
For my out of state readers, Michigan’s Pigeon River Country State Forest is home to the largest elk herd east of the Mississippi. Vern went out by himself and, naturally, bagged a big bull.
The local DNR dude, came out to tag it. “You’re out here alone?” he asked, looking around. Vern nodded.
Then the game warden stopped in his tracks and stammered, suddenly fully aware of the immensity of the situation. “You . . . you used your BOW?” he stammered.
Apparently, there’s no official record of anyone taking a Michigan bull elk with a bow.
Grudgingly, Vern allowed himself to appear on the cover of Woods-n-water magazine with an extensive interview inside.
I’ve got over 40 years of Vern stories. We’ll get to them.
And so it went.