The 30th Short Story
My Fabulous Michigan Fishing Adventures
"My Fabulous Michigan Fishing Adventures"
ANDY'S LESSONS FROM LIFE
My 30th Short Story
Thank you so much for continuing to enjoy my short stories. There are plenty more for your reading pleasure. Like so many others, this one turned out to be longer than anticipated. It's hard to wrap up oodles of fun times fishing in anything shorter!
"My Fabulous Michigan Fishing Adventures"
“Be ready for the unexpected on any fishing trip but try not to let it ruin your fun.”
--Andy Skrzynski
I truly enjoyed getting together and chatting with Bonnie’s and my families during our annual visits to Michigan. Be that as it may, nothing filled me with more anticipation than the numerous adventures conceived by my unflappable, yet humorous, fishing buddy of all times, Dave Roza. I eagerly awaited our fascinating reunions -- without fail.
My nephew always had an intriguing fishing outing planned for my arrival, no matter the time of the year. Usually, my lovely wife and I visited Michigan during the summer to escape the scorching Texas heat. On occasion, we’d travel to the north land during the spring or winter -- not our preferred seasons to visit our old stomping grounds.
In my humble opinion, there’s a reason some people think of Michigan as the “mitten” state, and it’s not just because the outline of the Lower Peninsula is shaped like a hand. It’s pretty darn chilly for 9 months out of the year.
On many of our trips to the northern portion of the Lower Peninsula, Dave and I hooked up with his buddy, Ken. Whenever the three of us drove after sunset, we’d keep our eyes peeled for the bookoo deer grazing along the shoulders of the roads.
When we traveled with two vehicles, Ken often led the way in his Chevy Astro minivan with over 300,000 miles, while we trailed behind in Dave’s Ford pickup. As Ken spotted deer along the way, he flashed his blinker -- left or right -- depending on which side of the road he located the skittish animals.
During my first fishing trip, my nephew and I met up with his buddy, near Gladwin. The three of us used his neighbor’s pontoon boat to fish Lake Lancer, after the opening day of bass season.
As it so happened, I was the only one who had any luck that afternoon, if you can call it that. Catching a small catfish and one bluegill only led to ribbing from the unrelenting pair of cronies on board. I would have been better off not catching a thing, like them.
Never discouraged, we moved on shore and fished a small cove laden with lily pads, later in the evening. Fortunes definitely swung to their favor.
While I watched them catch a few 19 to 20-inch bass from the other side of the cove, I caught absolutely nothing. Dave stopped casting for a moment and hollered, “Uncle Andy, what are you using?”
I should have known better, but I held up my rod and line for him to see. “A Texas-rigged worm.”
They both laughed and Dave yelled back, “No wonder you can’t catch anything. You’re in Michigan. These bass have no idea what a Texas rig is!” Their cackling grew so loud, people on the other side of the lake probably heard their obnoxious raucous.
Halting his annoying behavior for a second, Dave cupped his hands around his mouth. “Use a Hula Popper. That’s what they're biting!”
Unfortunately, my tackle box was void of such a top-water lure. Besides, I didn’t want to appear like I cared for his advice. After all, I was the older and wiser of the bunch. Guess I’ll keep chucking my worm. I’m sure they’ll hit it, eventually.
Like a stubborn fool, I continued my act of futility with nary a strike. Worse yet, the weighted hook kept snagging the tough stalks of the lily pads.
I had a devil of a time, spending more effort unsnagging and untangling my rig, than actual fishing. While they loaded their stringer with keepers, my claim to fame consisted of the scrawny catfish and a bluegill from earlier -- not exactly the kind of fishing haul to brag about, especially around those two goofballs.
While my virgin fishing trip with my nephew could be classified as a bust at best, I was much more hopeful the next year. Dave suggested fishing Lancer again, which was fine by me. At least I had a little experience to call upon this go around.
Dave was super excited to show off the new boat he purchased just for such an occasion. It proved much easier to maneuver in the tighter spots along the lake's shorelines and coves than the cumbersome pontoon during the prior trip.
After a bit of trial and error, the two of us figured out that the pike were hitting spinners with bright chartreuse, green, and orange skirts as long as you nicked the outer edge of the vegetation, near or above the water’s surface. We had boated a few small to medium-sized northern pike, when Dave suddenly hooked a beauty.
Keeping his line taut, he carefully coaxed it in while it put up a valiant fight, and I helped net it. When done unhooking and releasing it, my nephew grew rather perturbed with his tangled reel, and eventually tossed in the towel. It was the second reel to go on the fritz for him that trip.
Well, I couldn’t exactly leave my buddy without something to fish with, so I picked up my spare rod and extended it toward him. “Here, use this one. I don’t need it.” I always brought two from Texas -- just in case of such a predicament.
Dave chuckled as he grabbed it. “You sure this thing works here in Michigan?”
I snickered. “Better than yours, obviously.”
We both laughed as he tied his favorite spinner to the end of the line. When done, he stood and whipped the rod. The entire rig flew from his hands, out over the water, before splashing and sinking to the bottom. I stared in disbelief. “That’s no way to treat a friend’s rod. When I said I didn't need it, I didn't mean for you to throw it away!”
Obviously embarrassed, he quickly quipped, “My hands were slimy from that pike.” Without the slightest hesitation, he turned and dove into the lake.
I hollered, “What on Earth are you doing? You’re crazy!” Having dipped my hands in the water to lip a couple of my catches, I knew darn well that water was way colder than I’d ever want to jump in on purpose.
Ignoring me, he dove deep to the bottom, and a few seconds later, burst through the surface, gasping while he held my rod high. “I found it!”
I shook my head. “You’re an idiot! Get out of that water and dry off as fast as you can.”
After his heroic rescue, I never doubted my nephew’s resolve. Not that our relationship required such a thing, but the bond between us strengthened to the core that day, for sure. As our experiences together increased over time, our friendship continued to grow, helped by the never-relenting ribbing and pranks we always showered upon each other.
Dave’s creativity and our adventures grew more interesting with each annual visit. During our next reunion in April, we drove further north and east of Gladwin to the quaint town of Oscoda, near the AuSable River.
The excitement within me began to build the closer we got. I can’t wait to catch some steelheads! Not wanting anything to get in the way of this opportunity, I even brought my own waders on the plane trip to Michigan.
We stopped at a local Oscoda tackle shop and bought some bait while discussing the best techniques to approach our adventure. To our dismay, the friendly owner frowned. “You just missed the run. It was great for the past couple of weeks, but they’ve moved on.”
My heart sunk. He’s got to be kidding. Unfortunately, he wasn’t chuckling one bit.
I could tell the cobwebs were churning in Dave’s head, and he finally grinned. “Don’t worry, I’ve got another plan.”
Oh no, what does he got up his sleeve this time? I stared at him with my “yeah, sure” kind of look and held the door open. “Alright, I can’t wait. Let’s get hopping.”
As we retraced part of our trip back south my nephew refused to tell me what he had in mind but kept assuring me we’d have fun. After a while, he turned into a narrow driveway and stopped out in the middle of nowhere.
What is he up to, now? I peeked at my watch. It was near midnight. I scrunched my face. “Where on Earth are we at?”
“This is the Sugar River.” A sly grin creased his lips. “Come on. You’re going to love it.”
“Uh, huh, sure I will.” Slowly crawling out of his car, I met him around the back. He lifted the trunk lid and grabbed what looked to be a miner’s light. He flipped the switch and lit the lamp. “Here, you can use this one.” He lifted it above my head and placed it over my stocking cap.
The temperature felt to be in the lower 40s and dropping. He snatched my waders and extended them toward me. “You’re going to need these.”
I turned around and shined my light across a little river behind me. “What are you up to?”
“Here, take this. We’re going spear fishing.”
My mouth flopped open. “We’re doing what?”
“We’re gonna gig some suckers?”
Visions of creepy, black bloodsuckers, with crimson fluid dripping from their mouths, flooded my mind. “Why on Earth would I want to catch bloodsuckers? They're nasty!”
“Not bloodsuckers, you dummy. They’re small carp.”
“Oh. I’m sure glad you cleared that….” Before I could finish my sentence, a pair of bouncy headlights approached from up the gravel road. I gulped. Who on Earth would be way out here in the boonies at this hour? We’re gonna get mugged!
The dueling banjo scene from the “Deliverance'' movie filled my noggin with fear. A green pickup with some kind of “DNR” emblem pulled up beside us. I had no idea what DNR meant, but a rather attractive woman, sporting a neatly pressed, green uniform, stepped out of the truck. “Good evening, gentleman. What brings you out this way tonight?”
Dave spoke up. “We were planning to do a little spearfishing, ma’am.”
At that point, I hadn’t a clue if what we were about to do was legal or not. Unsure, I stood on pins and needles, awaiting the stranger’s response.
“Ah, no problem. Let me explain some of the rules so you don’t get yourself in trouble.”
At that point, I figured she was some sort of game warden. Breathing a sigh of relief, I listened to her every word. After the very polite woman explained all the ins and outs of our intended activity, she bid “good luck” and departed down the road.
I looked at my nephew. “I thought our goose was cooked for sure.”
“Ye of little faith. Do you think I’d get my uncle in trouble?”
I smirked, “Yeees. Trouble is your middle name. By the way, what does DNR stand for?”
“Department of Natural Resources.”
“Hmmm, ours are called Texas Parks and Wildlife officials back home.”
He pointed at the river with a grin. “Come on, let’s go spearfishing!”
Off we went, wading in the water with our miner’s lights aglow and our 3-pronged giggers poised for action. For the first several yards, I watched as Dave searched for a target. Within a couple of minutes, he speared one and held it high. “Now, that’s how you do it. Let’s see what you can do, smarty pants.”
I scanned the waters, and before long, a shadow, then another, caught the corner of my eye. As I turned my light toward the movement, two suckers swam side-by-side. With careful determination, I thrust my pointy weapon. Water splashed in my face as I retrieved my catch.
To my amazement, both carp were stuck on the end of my spear. My eyes grew large. “Aha, see if you can beat that! Two at a time -- on my first try!”
With a look of surprise, my nephew chuckled. “Ah, piece of cake. That was just beginner’s luck.”
I couldn’t really argue and really didn’t care how it happened -- just that it did. We continued fishing throughout the night, slowly wading the cold waters of the narrow Sugar River, a short drive from Gladwin.
Encountering a fallen tree on a few occasions, we’d crawl over or around the obstruction and continue our chilly trek several miles deep into the woods. Dave arranged it with Ken to pick us up at a bridge on the other side of the trees, but hid buddy never showed.
By then I was chilled to the bone and a bit exhausted from slogging through the water and climbing over obstacles. The orange glow of the rising sun began to peer through the trees to the east.
With no ride at hand, we reluctantly trudged more than a mile back to Ken’s mobile home. To our chagrin, the joker was still sleeping. Don’t that take the cake!
Despite the unfortunate walk at the end of that expedition, I had a blast. Dave was batting a thousand and had never let me down.
The next year arrived, and my gracious nephew had a different plan. I wasn’t convinced I'd enjoy his idea but wouldn't think of turning down an adventure with my best Michigan fishing buddy. After he returned home from work, we headed Up North.
The heart of winter had set in, and the area lakes were frozen over good. We picked up my nephew’s buddy, Ken, near Gladwin and continued our trip to Higgins Lake.
We arrived at our destination well after dark, and the wind had picked up across the area. After parking near the shoreline, we unloaded our fishing gear, a cooler, an augur, two lawn chairs, and a small pop-up tent.
We carried our stuff across the frozen surface almost the length of a football field. Dave immediately began drilling a hole in the ice, while Ken and I raised the tent.
After my nephew finished hollowing out two fishing holes, we secured the tent over the area and placed the cooler, fishing gear, and lawn chairs inside. Since the tent was so small, only two of us were able to fish at a time.
Ken volunteered to take the first shift outdoors. He ducked behind the tent, out of the cold wind, while Dave explained the ins and outs of fishing for smelt.
We used miniature fishing rods with little, white wax worms on tiny hooks. Everything about the whole ordeal was downsized and made me feel like I was experiencing some “Alice in the Wonderland” fantasy world. The only thing real was the wind and cold temperatures.”
There was no mistaking the unpleasant elements at that moment. Being a warm-blooded Texan after so many years, I was chilled, even under the cover of the tent. Ken must be freezing his jewels off out there!
Dave and I kept baiting our tiny hooks and catching the thin, little smelt and tossing them in the cooler for bait to be used the next day. After 20 to 30 minutes, Ken hollered, “My turn!”
As much as I hated to, I looked at Dave and whimpered, “Let me take this next shift.” I removed my line from the water and crawled out of the tent. Tucking behind the side out of the wind, I mumbled to Ken. “Good luck and make sure Dave gets his butt out here when it's his turn. I don’t want to turn into some stupid icicle!”
All three of us continued to rotate in and out of the flimsy shelter throughout the wee hours of the dark. Finally, as dawn raised its head over the horizon, we packed up the tent and placed it into the truck, ready for the trek of over a mile to the deeper portion of the lake.
Under normal circumstances, that wouldn’t seem so far, but we were carrying several tip-up rods, a cooler full of smelt for bait, and an augur, to boot. If that wasn’t bad enough, the ice was so slippery we had to shuffle our feet as we walked, or we’d end up busting our heads open.
Close to halfway to our intended destination, my knees started screaming bloody murder. They did not like that shuffling motion one bit. I trailed my buddies by a good distance in no time at all.
Not that they would ever notice. I could have fallen through the ice, and it would likely be an hour or so before they’d begin to worry. Worry probably isn’t the right word. It would have been more of a curiosity thing on their part.
As my knees continued to groan, I could picture the ensuing conversation between those two goofballs as if it were playing out right there in front of me. “What ever happened to your Uncle Andy?”
“I dunno. Maybe, we should check on him after we catch a few lake trout.”
Yep, that would be those two so-called friends of mine. Bored of hearing myself whine; I finally sucked it up. Quit your bellyaching. This is an adventure! Have some fun! I ignored the pain and picked up the pace.
When my companions finally reached an area, near another fisherman, Ken began to drill holes while Dave positioned the tip-ups. The other angler appeared to have already hauled in a couple of nice lake trout that looked to be well over 20 inches.
My arrival was greeted with all the welcoming you’d expect from a couple of cranky badgers. “Well, look who finally showed up?”
“Naw, it can’t be your Uncle Andy. What happened? Did you get lost?”
I let them give it to me, because anything I’d say at that point would only invite more harassment. Looking over Dave’s shoulder, I stepped beside him. “Show me how you’re setting up the trip lines.”
As he moved to the next hole, he demonstrated each step, including the last one where he set the rod to trip, when the fish bit the bait. We drilled 15 to 20 holes, moving a little closer to the other fisherman who seemed to have found the perfect spot.
Such encroachment required a touch of respect and a dash of daring, so as to improve our own chances while not pissing off the fellow who had claimed his spot well before we arrived. Each move closer drew more glances from our fishing neighbor.
In fact, I was getting a bit nervous that we may have been overstepping our boundaries of fair competition -- if there ever was such a thing when it came to fishing. It got to the point that every time he reached in his cooler for bait, I kept an eye on his hand as he retrieved it. Who knows if he might keep something in there to fend us off.
We continued to play the cat and mouse game of positioning throughout the afternoon, to no avail. When we finally gave up, we had caught exactly NO fish at all, while the wiser fisherman walked away with his limit in tow.
Catching nothing was frustrating enough, but now I faced the unwanted task of shuffling back across the frozen lake. My knees already ached from the trip there. Standing on them for most of the day certainly didn't help matters.
As we divided up the equipment to carry back to the truck, my so-called friends merrily proceeded across the ice, while I painfully lagged behind. My excruciating tiny strides would best be described as wimpy baby steps.
In no time at all, both of them were well ahead by almost the length of a football field. A few seconds later, the put-put of an idling snowmobile engine slowly approached.
A stranger's voice called out, “Looks like you could use a lift. I’ve got an empty seat.” He patted the vinyl pad behind him. “Hop aboard.”
My heart leapt for joy as I turned and thanked him with glee. We introduced ourselves, and once I got settled into my spot, I pointed at my buddies. “See those two guys? Make sure you buzz right by them, would ya?”
He chuckled. “You betcha.”
My friendly savior revved the engine, and the snowmobile jerked forward, racing across the ice in no time at all. As we flew by Dave and Ken, I waved with a huge grin. “What’s taking you guys so long? See ya back at the truck, if you don’t get lost!”
Their jaws hit the ice as they shrunk smaller and smaller into the distance, while we zoomed toward shore. I bid farewell to the friendly Samaritan and put all my gear in the back of the pickup.
Thrilled with my fortunes, I leaned against the front bumper, when my buddies finally got closer. They were jabbering up a storm as they approached.
I cupped my hands around my mouth and hollered. “What took you guys so long? I’ve been waiting for a half hour. Man, you guys are slow!”
They both shook their heads and Dave smirked. “You could have at least stopped and grabbed the keys to warm up the truck for us.”
I laughed. “Why? Are you guys cold?” I shrugged. “Maybe, if you didn’t take so long, you wouldn’t be freezing to death.”
Despite all of our ribbing, we all had a blast. No matter the adventure, we always made the best of whatever came our way.
Many years have passed, and each trip to Michigan brings another fabulous outing with my wonderful nephew. Dave and I are about as close as any uncle and nephew could ever be.
I love him for his ingenuity, determination, and humor, and will never forget his generosity. Live a great life, my friend, but never forget! Even after I’m dead, I’ll figure out a way to keep playing pranks on you, whenever you’re out fishing!!!
**********
That's it for now. I hope you enjoyed the latest of my experiences.
Thank you so much for your wonderful support!
Andy Skrzynski
ANDY'S LESSONS FROM LIFE
My 30th Short Story
Thank you so much for continuing to enjoy my short stories. There are plenty more for your reading pleasure. Like so many others, this one turned out to be longer than anticipated. It's hard to wrap up oodles of fun times fishing in anything shorter!
"My Fabulous Michigan Fishing Adventures"
“Be ready for the unexpected on any fishing trip but try not to let it ruin your fun.”
--Andy Skrzynski
I truly enjoyed getting together and chatting with Bonnie’s and my families during our annual visits to Michigan. Be that as it may, nothing filled me with more anticipation than the numerous adventures conceived by my unflappable, yet humorous, fishing buddy of all times, Dave Roza. I eagerly awaited our fascinating reunions -- without fail.
My nephew always had an intriguing fishing outing planned for my arrival, no matter the time of the year. Usually, my lovely wife and I visited Michigan during the summer to escape the scorching Texas heat. On occasion, we’d travel to the north land during the spring or winter -- not our preferred seasons to visit our old stomping grounds.
In my humble opinion, there’s a reason some people think of Michigan as the “mitten” state, and it’s not just because the outline of the Lower Peninsula is shaped like a hand. It’s pretty darn chilly for 9 months out of the year.
On many of our trips to the northern portion of the Lower Peninsula, Dave and I hooked up with his buddy, Ken. Whenever the three of us drove after sunset, we’d keep our eyes peeled for the bookoo deer grazing along the shoulders of the roads.
When we traveled with two vehicles, Ken often led the way in his Chevy Astro minivan with over 300,000 miles, while we trailed behind in Dave’s Ford pickup. As Ken spotted deer along the way, he flashed his blinker -- left or right -- depending on which side of the road he located the skittish animals.
During my first fishing trip, my nephew and I met up with his buddy, near Gladwin. The three of us used his neighbor’s pontoon boat to fish Lake Lancer, after the opening day of bass season.
As it so happened, I was the only one who had any luck that afternoon, if you can call it that. Catching a small catfish and one bluegill only led to ribbing from the unrelenting pair of cronies on board. I would have been better off not catching a thing, like them.
Never discouraged, we moved on shore and fished a small cove laden with lily pads, later in the evening. Fortunes definitely swung to their favor.
While I watched them catch a few 19 to 20-inch bass from the other side of the cove, I caught absolutely nothing. Dave stopped casting for a moment and hollered, “Uncle Andy, what are you using?”
I should have known better, but I held up my rod and line for him to see. “A Texas-rigged worm.”
They both laughed and Dave yelled back, “No wonder you can’t catch anything. You’re in Michigan. These bass have no idea what a Texas rig is!” Their cackling grew so loud, people on the other side of the lake probably heard their obnoxious raucous.
Halting his annoying behavior for a second, Dave cupped his hands around his mouth. “Use a Hula Popper. That’s what they're biting!”
Unfortunately, my tackle box was void of such a top-water lure. Besides, I didn’t want to appear like I cared for his advice. After all, I was the older and wiser of the bunch. Guess I’ll keep chucking my worm. I’m sure they’ll hit it, eventually.
Like a stubborn fool, I continued my act of futility with nary a strike. Worse yet, the weighted hook kept snagging the tough stalks of the lily pads.
I had a devil of a time, spending more effort unsnagging and untangling my rig, than actual fishing. While they loaded their stringer with keepers, my claim to fame consisted of the scrawny catfish and a bluegill from earlier -- not exactly the kind of fishing haul to brag about, especially around those two goofballs.
While my virgin fishing trip with my nephew could be classified as a bust at best, I was much more hopeful the next year. Dave suggested fishing Lancer again, which was fine by me. At least I had a little experience to call upon this go around.
Dave was super excited to show off the new boat he purchased just for such an occasion. It proved much easier to maneuver in the tighter spots along the lake's shorelines and coves than the cumbersome pontoon during the prior trip.
After a bit of trial and error, the two of us figured out that the pike were hitting spinners with bright chartreuse, green, and orange skirts as long as you nicked the outer edge of the vegetation, near or above the water’s surface. We had boated a few small to medium-sized northern pike, when Dave suddenly hooked a beauty.
Keeping his line taut, he carefully coaxed it in while it put up a valiant fight, and I helped net it. When done unhooking and releasing it, my nephew grew rather perturbed with his tangled reel, and eventually tossed in the towel. It was the second reel to go on the fritz for him that trip.
Well, I couldn’t exactly leave my buddy without something to fish with, so I picked up my spare rod and extended it toward him. “Here, use this one. I don’t need it.” I always brought two from Texas -- just in case of such a predicament.
Dave chuckled as he grabbed it. “You sure this thing works here in Michigan?”
I snickered. “Better than yours, obviously.”
We both laughed as he tied his favorite spinner to the end of the line. When done, he stood and whipped the rod. The entire rig flew from his hands, out over the water, before splashing and sinking to the bottom. I stared in disbelief. “That’s no way to treat a friend’s rod. When I said I didn't need it, I didn't mean for you to throw it away!”
Obviously embarrassed, he quickly quipped, “My hands were slimy from that pike.” Without the slightest hesitation, he turned and dove into the lake.
I hollered, “What on Earth are you doing? You’re crazy!” Having dipped my hands in the water to lip a couple of my catches, I knew darn well that water was way colder than I’d ever want to jump in on purpose.
Ignoring me, he dove deep to the bottom, and a few seconds later, burst through the surface, gasping while he held my rod high. “I found it!”
I shook my head. “You’re an idiot! Get out of that water and dry off as fast as you can.”
After his heroic rescue, I never doubted my nephew’s resolve. Not that our relationship required such a thing, but the bond between us strengthened to the core that day, for sure. As our experiences together increased over time, our friendship continued to grow, helped by the never-relenting ribbing and pranks we always showered upon each other.
Dave’s creativity and our adventures grew more interesting with each annual visit. During our next reunion in April, we drove further north and east of Gladwin to the quaint town of Oscoda, near the AuSable River.
The excitement within me began to build the closer we got. I can’t wait to catch some steelheads! Not wanting anything to get in the way of this opportunity, I even brought my own waders on the plane trip to Michigan.
We stopped at a local Oscoda tackle shop and bought some bait while discussing the best techniques to approach our adventure. To our dismay, the friendly owner frowned. “You just missed the run. It was great for the past couple of weeks, but they’ve moved on.”
My heart sunk. He’s got to be kidding. Unfortunately, he wasn’t chuckling one bit.
I could tell the cobwebs were churning in Dave’s head, and he finally grinned. “Don’t worry, I’ve got another plan.”
Oh no, what does he got up his sleeve this time? I stared at him with my “yeah, sure” kind of look and held the door open. “Alright, I can’t wait. Let’s get hopping.”
As we retraced part of our trip back south my nephew refused to tell me what he had in mind but kept assuring me we’d have fun. After a while, he turned into a narrow driveway and stopped out in the middle of nowhere.
What is he up to, now? I peeked at my watch. It was near midnight. I scrunched my face. “Where on Earth are we at?”
“This is the Sugar River.” A sly grin creased his lips. “Come on. You’re going to love it.”
“Uh, huh, sure I will.” Slowly crawling out of his car, I met him around the back. He lifted the trunk lid and grabbed what looked to be a miner’s light. He flipped the switch and lit the lamp. “Here, you can use this one.” He lifted it above my head and placed it over my stocking cap.
The temperature felt to be in the lower 40s and dropping. He snatched my waders and extended them toward me. “You’re going to need these.”
I turned around and shined my light across a little river behind me. “What are you up to?”
“Here, take this. We’re going spear fishing.”
My mouth flopped open. “We’re doing what?”
“We’re gonna gig some suckers?”
Visions of creepy, black bloodsuckers, with crimson fluid dripping from their mouths, flooded my mind. “Why on Earth would I want to catch bloodsuckers? They're nasty!”
“Not bloodsuckers, you dummy. They’re small carp.”
“Oh. I’m sure glad you cleared that….” Before I could finish my sentence, a pair of bouncy headlights approached from up the gravel road. I gulped. Who on Earth would be way out here in the boonies at this hour? We’re gonna get mugged!
The dueling banjo scene from the “Deliverance'' movie filled my noggin with fear. A green pickup with some kind of “DNR” emblem pulled up beside us. I had no idea what DNR meant, but a rather attractive woman, sporting a neatly pressed, green uniform, stepped out of the truck. “Good evening, gentleman. What brings you out this way tonight?”
Dave spoke up. “We were planning to do a little spearfishing, ma’am.”
At that point, I hadn’t a clue if what we were about to do was legal or not. Unsure, I stood on pins and needles, awaiting the stranger’s response.
“Ah, no problem. Let me explain some of the rules so you don’t get yourself in trouble.”
At that point, I figured she was some sort of game warden. Breathing a sigh of relief, I listened to her every word. After the very polite woman explained all the ins and outs of our intended activity, she bid “good luck” and departed down the road.
I looked at my nephew. “I thought our goose was cooked for sure.”
“Ye of little faith. Do you think I’d get my uncle in trouble?”
I smirked, “Yeees. Trouble is your middle name. By the way, what does DNR stand for?”
“Department of Natural Resources.”
“Hmmm, ours are called Texas Parks and Wildlife officials back home.”
He pointed at the river with a grin. “Come on, let’s go spearfishing!”
Off we went, wading in the water with our miner’s lights aglow and our 3-pronged giggers poised for action. For the first several yards, I watched as Dave searched for a target. Within a couple of minutes, he speared one and held it high. “Now, that’s how you do it. Let’s see what you can do, smarty pants.”
I scanned the waters, and before long, a shadow, then another, caught the corner of my eye. As I turned my light toward the movement, two suckers swam side-by-side. With careful determination, I thrust my pointy weapon. Water splashed in my face as I retrieved my catch.
To my amazement, both carp were stuck on the end of my spear. My eyes grew large. “Aha, see if you can beat that! Two at a time -- on my first try!”
With a look of surprise, my nephew chuckled. “Ah, piece of cake. That was just beginner’s luck.”
I couldn’t really argue and really didn’t care how it happened -- just that it did. We continued fishing throughout the night, slowly wading the cold waters of the narrow Sugar River, a short drive from Gladwin.
Encountering a fallen tree on a few occasions, we’d crawl over or around the obstruction and continue our chilly trek several miles deep into the woods. Dave arranged it with Ken to pick us up at a bridge on the other side of the trees, but hid buddy never showed.
By then I was chilled to the bone and a bit exhausted from slogging through the water and climbing over obstacles. The orange glow of the rising sun began to peer through the trees to the east.
With no ride at hand, we reluctantly trudged more than a mile back to Ken’s mobile home. To our chagrin, the joker was still sleeping. Don’t that take the cake!
Despite the unfortunate walk at the end of that expedition, I had a blast. Dave was batting a thousand and had never let me down.
The next year arrived, and my gracious nephew had a different plan. I wasn’t convinced I'd enjoy his idea but wouldn't think of turning down an adventure with my best Michigan fishing buddy. After he returned home from work, we headed Up North.
The heart of winter had set in, and the area lakes were frozen over good. We picked up my nephew’s buddy, Ken, near Gladwin and continued our trip to Higgins Lake.
We arrived at our destination well after dark, and the wind had picked up across the area. After parking near the shoreline, we unloaded our fishing gear, a cooler, an augur, two lawn chairs, and a small pop-up tent.
We carried our stuff across the frozen surface almost the length of a football field. Dave immediately began drilling a hole in the ice, while Ken and I raised the tent.
After my nephew finished hollowing out two fishing holes, we secured the tent over the area and placed the cooler, fishing gear, and lawn chairs inside. Since the tent was so small, only two of us were able to fish at a time.
Ken volunteered to take the first shift outdoors. He ducked behind the tent, out of the cold wind, while Dave explained the ins and outs of fishing for smelt.
We used miniature fishing rods with little, white wax worms on tiny hooks. Everything about the whole ordeal was downsized and made me feel like I was experiencing some “Alice in the Wonderland” fantasy world. The only thing real was the wind and cold temperatures.”
There was no mistaking the unpleasant elements at that moment. Being a warm-blooded Texan after so many years, I was chilled, even under the cover of the tent. Ken must be freezing his jewels off out there!
Dave and I kept baiting our tiny hooks and catching the thin, little smelt and tossing them in the cooler for bait to be used the next day. After 20 to 30 minutes, Ken hollered, “My turn!”
As much as I hated to, I looked at Dave and whimpered, “Let me take this next shift.” I removed my line from the water and crawled out of the tent. Tucking behind the side out of the wind, I mumbled to Ken. “Good luck and make sure Dave gets his butt out here when it's his turn. I don’t want to turn into some stupid icicle!”
All three of us continued to rotate in and out of the flimsy shelter throughout the wee hours of the dark. Finally, as dawn raised its head over the horizon, we packed up the tent and placed it into the truck, ready for the trek of over a mile to the deeper portion of the lake.
Under normal circumstances, that wouldn’t seem so far, but we were carrying several tip-up rods, a cooler full of smelt for bait, and an augur, to boot. If that wasn’t bad enough, the ice was so slippery we had to shuffle our feet as we walked, or we’d end up busting our heads open.
Close to halfway to our intended destination, my knees started screaming bloody murder. They did not like that shuffling motion one bit. I trailed my buddies by a good distance in no time at all.
Not that they would ever notice. I could have fallen through the ice, and it would likely be an hour or so before they’d begin to worry. Worry probably isn’t the right word. It would have been more of a curiosity thing on their part.
As my knees continued to groan, I could picture the ensuing conversation between those two goofballs as if it were playing out right there in front of me. “What ever happened to your Uncle Andy?”
“I dunno. Maybe, we should check on him after we catch a few lake trout.”
Yep, that would be those two so-called friends of mine. Bored of hearing myself whine; I finally sucked it up. Quit your bellyaching. This is an adventure! Have some fun! I ignored the pain and picked up the pace.
When my companions finally reached an area, near another fisherman, Ken began to drill holes while Dave positioned the tip-ups. The other angler appeared to have already hauled in a couple of nice lake trout that looked to be well over 20 inches.
My arrival was greeted with all the welcoming you’d expect from a couple of cranky badgers. “Well, look who finally showed up?”
“Naw, it can’t be your Uncle Andy. What happened? Did you get lost?”
I let them give it to me, because anything I’d say at that point would only invite more harassment. Looking over Dave’s shoulder, I stepped beside him. “Show me how you’re setting up the trip lines.”
As he moved to the next hole, he demonstrated each step, including the last one where he set the rod to trip, when the fish bit the bait. We drilled 15 to 20 holes, moving a little closer to the other fisherman who seemed to have found the perfect spot.
Such encroachment required a touch of respect and a dash of daring, so as to improve our own chances while not pissing off the fellow who had claimed his spot well before we arrived. Each move closer drew more glances from our fishing neighbor.
In fact, I was getting a bit nervous that we may have been overstepping our boundaries of fair competition -- if there ever was such a thing when it came to fishing. It got to the point that every time he reached in his cooler for bait, I kept an eye on his hand as he retrieved it. Who knows if he might keep something in there to fend us off.
We continued to play the cat and mouse game of positioning throughout the afternoon, to no avail. When we finally gave up, we had caught exactly NO fish at all, while the wiser fisherman walked away with his limit in tow.
Catching nothing was frustrating enough, but now I faced the unwanted task of shuffling back across the frozen lake. My knees already ached from the trip there. Standing on them for most of the day certainly didn't help matters.
As we divided up the equipment to carry back to the truck, my so-called friends merrily proceeded across the ice, while I painfully lagged behind. My excruciating tiny strides would best be described as wimpy baby steps.
In no time at all, both of them were well ahead by almost the length of a football field. A few seconds later, the put-put of an idling snowmobile engine slowly approached.
A stranger's voice called out, “Looks like you could use a lift. I’ve got an empty seat.” He patted the vinyl pad behind him. “Hop aboard.”
My heart leapt for joy as I turned and thanked him with glee. We introduced ourselves, and once I got settled into my spot, I pointed at my buddies. “See those two guys? Make sure you buzz right by them, would ya?”
He chuckled. “You betcha.”
My friendly savior revved the engine, and the snowmobile jerked forward, racing across the ice in no time at all. As we flew by Dave and Ken, I waved with a huge grin. “What’s taking you guys so long? See ya back at the truck, if you don’t get lost!”
Their jaws hit the ice as they shrunk smaller and smaller into the distance, while we zoomed toward shore. I bid farewell to the friendly Samaritan and put all my gear in the back of the pickup.
Thrilled with my fortunes, I leaned against the front bumper, when my buddies finally got closer. They were jabbering up a storm as they approached.
I cupped my hands around my mouth and hollered. “What took you guys so long? I’ve been waiting for a half hour. Man, you guys are slow!”
They both shook their heads and Dave smirked. “You could have at least stopped and grabbed the keys to warm up the truck for us.”
I laughed. “Why? Are you guys cold?” I shrugged. “Maybe, if you didn’t take so long, you wouldn’t be freezing to death.”
Despite all of our ribbing, we all had a blast. No matter the adventure, we always made the best of whatever came our way.
Many years have passed, and each trip to Michigan brings another fabulous outing with my wonderful nephew. Dave and I are about as close as any uncle and nephew could ever be.
I love him for his ingenuity, determination, and humor, and will never forget his generosity. Live a great life, my friend, but never forget! Even after I’m dead, I’ll figure out a way to keep playing pranks on you, whenever you’re out fishing!!!
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That's it for now. I hope you enjoyed the latest of my experiences.
Thank you so much for your wonderful support!
Andy Skrzynski