eckermanmichigan.com Blog

   For some reason, I left out 2 1/3 days from the preceeding post. I gave Butch some bullshit excuse but I think I did it ’cause my brain was tired. It’s still tired but I have to finish one project before I can start on the next.

   During the week, Mark had wanted to take us to the ‘Bear Butt Bar’ for a beer and to meet the local people. There was a sign out front that said it was going to open on May 2nd and the last time I was in the area, I’d stopped in and the owner had told me they’d be closed until the end of May. I figured he’d changed his mind and opened earlier but that was not the case. When we pulled up there on the 3rd, it was closed and the 4 had been replaced on the sign out front. Anyway, I asked Mark if he’d be willing to take us to breakfast on the last morning, rather than buy us a beer, and he was all for it.

   This time when we walked into the Maple Ridge Restaurant, we seated ourselves in the ‘No Smoking’ section. Gail (Gail Will; the owner, manager, hostess, cashier, cook, dishwasher, and go-fer), came over with a smile and told us how happy she was to see us seated there. Gail took our order and on the way back to the kitchen, told everyone in the ’smoking’ section about our change in lifestyle. I wanted to attempt negotiations for a second loaf of bread, but a dozen turkey hunters came in and she was going to be busy for a while. While we were there, I saw she was talking to a real estate agent and already I felt as though I was losing a friend. I hope she gets everything she wants for it, but I also hope it don’t happen until I’ve been up there again.

   Saturday morning Butch and I took my Jonboat down from Webster’s bridge to Rogers’ for some trout fishing. This is the same area of river, that our father took us on when we were kids. He had learned the river from taking his dad and his father-in-law on fishing trips when he was younger. It’s no wonder my father hated fishing so much, he probably spent a good deal of his youth polling a riverboat with two old codgers fishing from it. The river then and the river now are two intirely different habitat’s though.

   “Yeeears agooo, the water in that river never saw a beam of sunlight until it broke out into Lake Charlevoix, and not long after that, there were two masted schooners lying in the estuary. There were holes with no bottoms and fish so big they couldn’t swim to the next. It was very cold, very deep, and extremly productive.” (various sources; some can even be believed).

   It’s not that way anymore. The monsterous cedar’s, the deep dark holes, and the cold clear water are all gone. As soon as we were launched, about 8am, we could tell it was different. There used to be a hole at the launch site that I fished just three years ago and it was gone. The water has a turbidity to it that reminds me of down state rivers, like the Rifle and a little bit of like the Rouge. I don’t think the gray hue is from septic sewage, it just reminds me of it. We traveled quite a ways before we came upon a likely spot. We were looking for trees that had fallen half way across the river and it’s branch’s were still attached. It doesn’t take long for a tree to create a hole when the bottom is sediment anyways, but the river is also used by canoests. The river produces more money with it’s boat rental’s than it does for worm’s at Tom’s Bait, so we can see the problem here. On this trip I brought along the Sonar too. I was curious how deep some of those old holes are and how many fish are in them. The water temperature was 51º when we put in and 52.8º where we pulled out, and it comes out of the planet at 42º constant. When our grandparents fished it, it would enter Lake Charlevoix at 42º. Sediment is another problem. There is a stretch of river not far from Webster’s bridge, that was all pure gravel, 4′ deep, and over 300 yards long. It’s now 8″ deep and all sand. The gravel was where the brookies and the steelhead would spawn and most of its gone. At the end of that straightaway lays the “Cedar Hole” where another stream enters the river from the West. In that hole is where I caught my first brook trout. My father told me of the many rainbows and browns that that hole had produced and of the days he spent there with his dads. Grandpa Griffin would be standing shirtless in a cedar swamp and the mosqueto’s would be having a freeding frenzy. Every once in a while, Grandpa would wipe them off his arms, leaving bloody streaks down to his fingertips. He said the two of them talked of the wars, from the Mexican, through the First War, and then the Second and involved personally, in them all.

   Neither one of us got squat out of that hole but the next one got Butch’s attention. We had finally jostled around with the chain anchor to get in the right spot, and Butch had a nice one on. I was stairing off into space while looking at my rod tip, when I hear “Shit, fish on!” Butch has his tip up, it’s bent over double and taking line. What a sight! A bright red streak heading upstream just below the surface until Butch changes his mind. It came straight up out of the water doing that wonderful dance they do and headed for the bottom. I hear another “Shit” and the line goes slack. We both laughed. Butch because if he didn’t he’d throw his rod overboard and me because I thought it was funny.

   Another problem we were having is watching all those holes go buy that we didn’t fish. Some of them you just can’t tell until your over them. We talked about taking one of those hand held G.P.S. units and mark every hole you see, and then save it. In one of those holes I caught a 12″ brown. I’d like to go on about how stealthly I persued it, and how I first gained it’s trust, and then set the hook. Nope, not that way at all. I never felt her and she was half way to the boat when I started reeling. We noticed each other about the same time, but by then she had swollowed the hook and it was a done deal. The second one was hooked fair and square but there wasn’t anything spectacular about bringing it in.

   The next day we went out again and this time we fished many of the holes we’d missed before. In one of them, I lost a nice steelhead. This time it was Butch’s turn to laugh. He’d been telling me to replace the fishing line I was using, from the first day we fished. There had been many instances where I’d get snagged on a limb and just give it a yank, and tie on another hook. He was using some fire line, or some such name and he’d retrieve the whole friggin’ log every time he hooked one on. Personally, I like to give the fish a better chance than not biting it at all. I’d prefer to use 4lb, but I can’t see stuff that small. Anyway, this one saw the error of my ways and just jerked it’s head real quick and the fight was over. By the time we got to the bottom of the river, I’d snapped off all the old nasty stuff, and was using the old good stuff. It’s got another season in it, and it’s fun to watch them swim away. Other than losing that fish, there wasn’t any activity. We lost a few crawlers to an unknown source and Butch and I had a great time and a wonderful ride.

   Thanks Butch, for all the wonderful rides.

   Butch and I go waaay back. Hell, he’s been like a brother to me all my life, so when this opportunity finally presented itself, I took it. We’ve been talking of the “High Holy Day’s of Obligation” (The Opening Day of Trout Season) for over 8 years, and we were going to spend it together again.

   He and I have been through some pretty hard times over the last couple of years but through it all, we made plans for this event. In the past, it wasn’t for this particular year, or this particular spot, only that we would be spending it together. On the last Wednesday of March this year, it became this particular year. With his first retirement check he drove over to Cabelas’ and started gearing up. From what he’s told me, he’d been working on this ‘wish list’ for Cabelas’ since last September. That’s when it started, it became larger as he watched all of those fishing programs, and started reading on the internet. He’s been laid up with R.A. (Rheumatoid Arthritis) and over the winter he ran out of medications while waiting for the Social Security Administration to make it’s judgement. All he could do was lay in pain, watch t.v., and dream of Spring. When Mark and I picked him up on the 26th, his tackle box weighed 35#. If he’d been coming up strictly for trout it may have weighed 15, but Walleye and Pike open on that day too.

   When we’d first started talking about the opener, it was going to be all trout, all the time, but Doug Frye had offered an invite to go Walleye fishing. Trout are a hellava lot more fun to catch, and the surrounds are infinitly more beautiful, but Walleye are way tastier.

   Doug stopped by Friday afternoon to talk about the following day and I offered to cook breakfast. He’d be here around 4:15, we’d have breakfast at 4:30 and be on the water at 6. It’s hardly daylight then, but pleanty light enough to walk and load a boat. We would have been there on time but half way there, Doug asked me if I’d loaded the crawlers, and I hadn’t. They were sitting right by the door where I’d put them so’s I wouldn’t forget. Just as we were about to leave the dock, Doug’s brother Ed drove up with his boat so we helped him off load his. Butch moved over to Ed’s boat and we headed out of Dutchman’s Bay at 6:15. Using crawler harness’ and jig heads with large minnows, we began trolling along the drop off. We kept to a 17′ depth and the water temperature varied from 48.9 to 49.7º and crystal clear. There was a breeze out of the Southwest that became much warmer than the water temp and pretty soon, we were overtaken by a fog bank. The visibility dropped to about 8″ and the thought; “We’re fucked” passed through our heads. The last time I was in a fog like that I was on a ship in the Mediterranian and we had lotsa radar to guide us. This time it was just me an’ Douggie somewhere between town and Holy Island, and two pair of Mk 1 eyeballs. We got a little nervous until Doug remembered his GPS and that it had a compass with it. He had used it to track a spot where we’d caught them last year, and brought that up from memory. All we had to do then was scan out and plot a course. After 3/4 of a mile with my hands out in front of me looking for other boats, we cleared it and found the spot.

   Butch and Ed were already there but they hadn’t had caught any walleye yet. Doug and Ed both had caught bass by then though. Doug had his first about 10 minutes after we started fishing and by then had caught 3 more. I don’t know where the Small mouth’s grow up, but Lake Charlevoix is where they go when they’re grown. The average weight of the 13 we got that day was about 4lbs. Other than the 20″ pike I caught, there wasn’t any walleye amongst them.

   The next morning, Doug picked us up at 5:30 and we were on the water at 6. We put in at the fleet landing in town and I remembered the crawlers. The air temperature was 34º and the water between 49.1 and 50º with a breeze out of the Southwest. Our tatict’s and bait were the same as were the results. Doug caught one bass, 5.4# and one about 3#. It was pretty obvious we weren’t going to catch anything that day, so we pulled out around 9. The rest of the day was spent putting everything on the front porch that was going with us tomorrow and figuring out a way to get it all on the truck.

   Mark had bought a bracket that fits into the Reese hitch and will extend the use of the bed out farther, or load a boat on top with the bow over the cab. My 10′ johnboat was 3′ short of using it that way, so I used it the other. I didn’t realize how much crap we had to take for a weeks worth of fun and fishing in the U.P., but it all got in there. Mark and I loaded it and Butch strapped it down. I do believe that if we’d gone over the edge on the Mackinac Bridge, it would still be a bundle on the bottom. If anyone ever needs to know what Butch want’s for his birthday, get him rope. At 9:30am, Butch, Mark, Annie, and I were on the road and headed for Eckerman.

   I had been a little concerned how Annie would take to riding that far, but after realizing she wasn’t heading for the vet’s office, she went to sleep. Butch I wasn’t worried about, I figured he knew I wasn’t taking him to the vet’s, but he didn’t sleep. Other than a trip to the Locks, he’d never been in the U.P. before. We were between Trout Lake and Eckerman when he said how much it resembled northern Canada. He went on two moose hunts with our Uncle Pete, many moon’s ago and was a little suprised.

   We arrived at the cabin just before Noon and were sitting around the fire at 1:15. I had a batch of real nice Maple left over from my last visit, so that fire would burn until we left. I made that comment to Butch at the time, and I believe he thought I was full of shit, but was nice enough not to say so. While Mark and I were unloading the truck, Butch grabbed the hatchet and started splitting some of the pieces into kindling. I’d been watching him work as we went back and forth, and when I’d unloaded the kitchen tub, I gave my torch to Mark. I told him to tell Uncle Butch, “Here’s the kindling” and hand him the torch. He did, and he kept of chopping. When I was all done, I went out, grabbed the torch and took it to the pile of wood I had, and lit ‘er up. Butch was proud of me. He told me he used to take a vile of gasoline with him when he went camping with the Boy Scout’s and always won the contest for boiling water. They didn’t have torch’s then. Hell, they were still using flint.

   One of the things I was worried about on this trip was with Annie. She’s a two year old beagle that has the outwordly appearance of a lazy hound, but her eyes are sharp and her nose is cold. I had to find out if she’d bolt the first time I let her off the leash, with only the memories of her baying off into the distance left behind. I figured what the hell, and let her go inside the cabin. She wandered out into the yard, sniffing everything and returning every time we called, so I felt pretty good about it all. Then she ran across the highway and ended her freedom for the rest of the trip. She came right back when called, but I havn’t taught her Stop and Down yet, so she went back on the leash.

   Another project I was interested in was of “The effects of luminis radiation upon apples and corn in a rodent infested territory”, and took steps to fulfill this endevor. One test station was set up adjacent to the “Old” outhouse and the other to the Zipp camping area. One could be viewed from the back bedroom window and the other from the kitchen table. Both were well within the distance needed to obtain a pesticide applicator and a decent position to carry out the operation, should the need arise. It arose not ten minutes later and Mark was given credit for his contribution to the study. After everything was unloaded, unpacked, and mostly refridgerated, Butch and I headed over to High Banks for some Trout fishing.

   Mark had decided to stay at the cabin with Annie, clean up the area some, and keep a fire. Butch decided that he’d fish from shore using slip sinkers and crawlers and I’d try trolling with plugs and lures. The last time I was here, Doug and I used blue and chrome little cleo’s and hit ‘em hard, so I had that on when I pushed myself out onto the lake. As soon as I turned on the Sonar though, things changed. From 3′ to 27′ feet, there is an evenly distributed markings of bait fish, probably fingerling trout. From 27′ to 45′, the echo’s came from the top 4′ of water and it was solid with fingerlings. Amongst them were larger trout riding herd on the mass’s and eating at will. I got rid of that Cleo and had a Rapala on in no time. It was an hour of trolling back and around before I had a hit, and it almost pulled the rod right out of my hand. I normally use a spin cast rig while fishing there, but this year I brought up one of those new fangled level winds and she didn’t stand a chance. Just before the season opener, I had re-spooled it with 6# Spiderwire so I wasn’t worried about it breaking this time. My only concern was whether it had hooked herself well enough. In any case, I let her have her room until she was tired enough to get it up to the boat. It was hooked twice, once deep in it’s gullet and another up-side her head. The one up-side her head is the one that buried itself into my leg, and with the help of Coumadin, it flushed itself out after removing the hook. The next pass I made to the other end of the lake, I held it up to brag, and Butch reached down into the lake and hoisted up a bigger one. I flipped him the “International Recognization Signal” and headed back out. Butch ended up with another one, about the same size as mine and we headed back to cook ‘em up. Mark had kept a fire going so we had a nice bed of coals to work with when we got back. I don’t think Butch had ever had fish cooked over an open fire and was a wee bit leary when I told him they were done. As soon as he put a fork to the meat, it all fell off the bones, and he knew what was what. As soon as the sun started to drop behind the tree’s, the temperature did to and I stoked up the coals in the stove and added a couple pieces of wood. It don’t take a whole lot of Maple to keep that cabin warm, but it sure feels good to walk in and have dry heat hit ya.

   Now Annie was really in her element. 3 guys sittin’ around shooting the bull with nothing to do but make sure she got petted. It worked out pretty good for everyone until it was time to go to bed. Her second best endearment, is her ability to keep couch’s and bed’s warm until you want to use one. That’s where the endearment part comes up a little short. Once she’s comfy, she’s there and it gets to be a challenge sometimes to move her ass over far enough to sit or lay. The first night, she slept with Butch; wrapped around his head and nuzzled up to his neck. The second night she slept with me, in about the same fashon, but I was getting up every 3 or 4 hours to put a log in the stove. I’d have to bother her every time I got up so she moved to my feet.

   Tuesday morning I got up at 0 dark 45 and it was 37º with no wind. The remains of last night’s campfire laid in three pieces, and it wasn’t very tough to get the fire going again. One piece of maple and those three chunks of poplar were soon lighting the yard and my path to the outhouse. (Plans are afoot to run electricity to the ol’ Shathouse and on morning’s like this it will be greatly appreciated. Nothing wakes one up faster than the contact of one’s nice warm ass to that toilet seat. Should one’s aim to the seat be off by just a little, the home boys shriek in protest and head to warmer environs, not to be seen for hours.) That finished and after a couple cups of coffee with Butch, we got Mark up and started our day.

   A month or so earlier, Butch and I were talking about his trip when the thought of coming up here presented itself. Once we started talking about that, I came up with a plan where we would fish a couple of the trout lakes that I’ve mentioned in the Eckerman stories and Butch was all for it. I figured we’d go to the furthest; Dutch Fred and Lost lks North of Seney, and then to the Belle lks, which are North of Newberry. The third day I figured we’d go up to Whitefish Point and then back to the falls on the Tequhamenon River, and fish High Banks the next day.

   Instead of cooking breakfast this day, I took the guys to the Maple Ridge Restaurant which is at the corner of M28 and M123. While I was up here earlier, I’d stopped there for a couple breakfasts and was warmly received and very impressed with the homemade Rye bread. On the morning that I was leaving, the owner gave me a loaf to take home, and she said if had quit smoking the next time I came in, she’d give me another one. Well, I hadn’t. I actually thought about taking one of those patch’s I’ve got and slap it on my arm just before I walked in, but I think my guradian angles made me forget. Anyway, we sat in the smoking section and she went on with her work totally ignoring us. Just when I thought she didn’t remember me, she walked out with a loaf of Rye bread and stood before me. “Have you quit smoking yet?”, “Nope, and I’m sorry”, “Me too” and she headed back towards the kitchen. She turned around and said “Ya thought I forgot didn’t you?”. I ended up buying that loaf and I told her we’d be back. Breakfast was terriffic. We were half way to Newberry on our way to Seney when I remembered the night crawlers.

   There’s a gas station/grocery store/deli/hardware/bait shop in Newberry that has a sign on the side of the building that says “If we ain’t got it, you don’t need it”, and they’re right. East Jordan could use a deli that nice.

   We turned right onto M77 and headed North 3.3 miles to a two track that leads off to the West. We had just pulled off the highway and rolled down our windows when the daily episode of “Michigan-out-of-Door’s” started. Off to our right, were piles of 10′ Jack Pine logs, and atop the second one a Bald Eagle launched itself heading down the two track. For the first 25′ or so, it was only 15′ in front of us so we got a close up, front row seat to see how one of those things fly. It’s tail feathers, that were a brilliant white and fanned out “Flaps down” as it flew, was over 3′ wide and it’s wing tips reached out farther than the two track was wide. When it had gained enough speed, it dropped down to within 3′ of the ground and then really began to pump it’s wings. We could see the muscle groups bulging as they carried out their functions and the feather tips moving as needed. All this while I’m franticaly looking for my camera and trying to keep the truck in the ruts. It slowly gained speed and distance and after another 50′, pulled up and banked to the left and gone. It took a couple more seconds after that to realize how big that bird was, and what a show we watched.

   Except for Annie needing to get out and walk a quarter mile to get her belly straight, the rest of the ride was pretty mundane. When I dropped off M77 onto the two track, I had a County Map book with me and I highly suggest anyone going in there to have one with them. A GPS would be better, a LOT better, but the book gives you a chance. From the coordiance’s given on the map book, count out how many miles it is from one given point to another, and set your odomiter to zero. When the odomiter gets close to your intersection, pay attention to where you are. If you’ve gone too far, turn around and go back to the original point and figure it again. I spent three days back there once and had no idea where the hell we were. Fortunatly we had a lot of food and beer and didn’t particularly want to get found, but still… Using that method we got to Dutch Fred lk just as it started to rain again.

   Mark volunteered to take the boat out and look around with the Sonar for whatever may lurk beneath. He drove around for quite a while until he found them in 28′ of water with some bait fish. The water temperature was 51º, just like it was at High Banks, but there wern’t nearly as many bait fish involved. We hooked up with some blue and chrome Cleo’s and bronze Crocodiles and later with crawler harness’s with bottom bouncers and no takers. While Mark was out there looking, there was a beaver watching him. He said he watched it swim out from the South shore, give him the once over, and swim off to the West beach where it lumbered off into the woods. After that critter dissapeared, two birds of unknown origin or species flew in over the tree tops and began to land. They appeared to be some type of goose but when they made their call’s it didn’t sound nothing like any bird I’ve ever heard. We spent the better part of 4 hours trying to figure a way to get aimed over the school of fish and not having to turn every 60′. Dutch Fred is a very small, deep, pond and trolling is a hard way to do it there. The wind began to blow harder and that little 10 footer just ain’t up to the challenge, so we wrote it up as “Inconclusive” and headed back to the cabin. On the way out, we didn’t have any more ‘close encounters’ but we did notice the vegitation. It’s mostly Jack Pine that’s growing out of dune sand, with lichen covering the areas between the trees. It looked like it was once all White Pine, with trunks that make those at Hartwick Pines look middle aged. After the harvest I figure they burned it all off and really sterilized it and it’s just now getting going again. It isn’t that way back on the East end, the area across the street from Zipp’s was clear cut 15 years ago, and a rhino couldn’t get through it now. When we pulled in from a day of all that nature interaction, there were a pair of partridge makin’ whoopie over the bait pile…er, test station and we got to watch some of that. Those birds look just like Indian’s dancing around a camp fire on heiratige night, and I attempted to get some pictures. When I got back to a computer and blew up the images, I found they were a little blurred, but those two were really goin’ at it.

   For our cullinary delight we had rice and green beans and Butch made strawberries for dessert. After that I think we all made Ham sandwich’s…I’m not much of a camp cook. We built up the campfire some and listened to it crack and pop while the frogs croaked and something very strange, called from the tree tops.

   Wednesday I woke up at 0545 and it was 42º and cloudy. It had rained some more last night but not enough to quench the campfire cold. There was one lonely log piece laying there all quiet and benign but it let off a wiff of smoke. I was on it like asprin on a headache. I reached over and grabbed a couple small pieces of maple and laid them aside the piece and had a fire in no time. Butch looked over at me and said “How the fuck do you do that?” “Ya gotta have faith Butch” I said, “He does the work and I give him the credit, nothin’ to it”.

   We had decided the night before to delay the trip to Belle’s lk, and go up to Whitefish Point instead. By then our back’s had had enough of that boat and Annie looked as though she’d appreciate a day off. It’s tough having to get up and move everytime the sunny spot disapeared from the beach she was laying on. Until Mark got up though we had some time to fish, so Butch and I headed across the street.

   Elliots fishin’ hole as improved greatly over the last couple of years, and if he’s reading this: “YOU’VE GOT A NICE HOLE THERE PAT”. Well, maybe I shouldn’t have put it quite that way, but you know what I’m talkin’ about. As a matter of fact, the whole area over there has made some astounding changes over the last 3 years or so. When he first bought the property, there was a junk yard/used schoolbus/more junk that covered 5 acres or so, and it’s been reduced to two small piles of landfill. The fishing hole in question though was only a small hole hidden by brush and protected by mosqueto’s. When I go across the street with the guys fishing, I stop at that hole and wait for them to come back out. That’s about as far as I can get through that jungle and now there’s a nice path leading to it, and a real nice clearing to fish from. I wasn’t going to fish this time, I was just dropping off Butch and start breakfast.

   Butch decided to use his bait casting rig with a three way swivel. A bell sinker from the bottom, and a lead with a leaf worm off the center. Now you have to remember, Butch has been spending most of his time watching fishing show’s on t.v. and even got to the point where he believed that crap. He kept seeing that dude that kiss’s the fish do his casting with one of those bait casters, so Butch figured he could do it too. Hell, back in the day, Butch did cast that well with one of those, and that was before someone invented a ‘level wind’ feature affixed. But that was many, many moons ago and as all those moons passed overhead, Butch wasn’t practicing. I’ve got a picture here of Butch’s backlash that’ll make ya sick. From what he’s told me, he had a couple more of those and when it did get into the hole, they wern’t biting. He did however, find material for two walking staff’s and that really made his day. He makes them with gnomes carved into the handles and he’s going to use the talent to make some side money.

   By 10:30 we were on our way to Whitefish Point. Christian’s and Jew’s have Jerusalum, the Muslems have Mecca, Mark has Whitefish Point. The museum there has been Mark’s focal point for the last 10 years and when he heard this was part of the trip, his whole demeanor changed. Mark’s not big on fishing, I think he fish’s just so we can share something so this trip wasn’t as exciting to him as it was to us, until now. Once we got there, Mark mumbled something about having to get to a bathroom quick and disapeared. By the time Butch and I finally made it to the museum, Mark had seen it twice and was escorting us around the place explaining everything. He stopped reverently in front of the bell and bowed his head, remembering everything he’s read about what happend and the people involved. As Butch and I slowly passed among the exhibits, Mark dissapeared again, and as we were entering the movie house, he was leaving. When Butch and I walked in, he was sitting there with the hostess in the front row discussing the movie. Butch and I watched the movie they have there and after walking through the gift shop, walked back to the truck. Mark continued on through all of the exhibits and learned alot more about the place as he went along. At the ‘Lifeboat’ shop, he met Tom Farnquest who was part of the expedition to retrieve the Fitz’s anchor when she lost it in the Detroit River, and again when the ship’s bell was exchanged with a memorial bell that was set it it’s place. He then went to the lighthouse itself where he learned the first lighthouse was built of stone, and didn’t have any foundation under it. As the sand shifted with the wind and waters, it began to collapse so it was re-built where it stands now.

   Now, as being a veteran NAVY man, I wonder why the COAST GUARD would build a lighthouse with no footings, but it was probably the fault of the Army Corpse of Engineer’s. I just know for a fact that the NAVY nor the MARINES would ever do such a thing. Maybe the Air Force might, them just being bus drivers and all.

   From there, we headed back towards the Falls. On the way up, I’d stopped at the gas station there and bought some gas. $3.19 a gallon. I thought that was bad enough, but on the way back, it was $3.39. It’s no wonder this area is almost all closed up.

   The view of the lower falls is something to see, even in the Spring when there isn’t much vegitation. I imagine that in the Fall, it’s absolutly glorious in its colors. The water is a rusty red from the tannic acid in the water, (Tannic acid is produced from decomposing leaves in a very wet invironment) and the colors changed as it flowed over the falls. There wern’t many people there, we saw a few that were at the museum and some bird watchers. Birds watchers are fun to watch. All gussied up in the bird watching outfits, carrying around binoculars that’re only focused in for one eye. They haven’t figured out how to focus the other one yet, but they sure look impressive doing it.

   The rest of that afternoon was spent hanging around camp and cleaning up the yard some more. John Paul and his wife were up, next door, and they’d been cleaning up all day. I felt a little guilty sitting there with leaves all around me and these two are preparing for ‘Better home and Gardens” to show up and start taking pictures. Butch worked on his walking staffs and after meeting John and his wife, made dinner for us. He makes a Sheppards Pie that puts mom’s to shame. Mom’s Shepard’s Pie was one reason I joined the Navy, and as soon as I heard they don’t cook that crap, I signed up.

   Thursday morning didn’t start until 0645 and it was 45º and clear when I did so. There wasn’t any wind, so Butch and I headed over to High Banks for some morning trolling. The water temperature was still between 49.7 and 50.2 with the fingerlings still in the same configuration as earlier. We added using a crawler harness with bottom bouncers to our arsenal of baits without any success. We spoke of going down to the South end and using crawlers with barrel sinkers and crawlers, but the wind picked up and we decided to try it another time.

   After a breakfast of bacon and eggs, Butch headed back across the street to Pat’s and Mark and I putzed around the camp. While Mark and I were taking a break, one of the rodents from the ’study’ showed up in the ‘test station’ and I made an application using the ‘pesticide applicator’. He smoked his last cigarette afterwards, as will be seen in the photo if it ever gets put in here. Something else that showed up while Butch was gone, was ‘Trout’.

   I don’t know if Trout is his first name, or his last, or only an alias but after meeting the guy, it doesn’t matter. He stopped in to see if we belonged there, as did a young man named Eric who stopped in later. The neighbor’s keep a very close eye on each other’s property there and they’re all very friendly. It’s hard telling how it would have went if I was a class A asshole though, there’s a LOT of forest up there.

   That night we did something I’ve never done before up there, we watched Survivor on t.v. Butch brought along a battery operated portable t.v. so we could check out the weather each morning. As it turned out, we didn’t use it until that night but it was fun doing so. We sat right next to the fire, listened to the frogs and those things that’re still calling from the tree tops and some shmuck getting voted off the island. C.S.I. was on next but the t.v. lost it’s allure and we turned it off.

   Friday morning I got up at 0515 with clear sky’s and 32º. Mark had reloaded the cabin with firewood so I stoked ‘er up some and did the same to the campfire. Butch and I talked it over, and with the price of gas going up again, and us being short of funds, we decided to head back home. The ride home was pretty quiet with each of us thinking about the days before, and Annie thinking about all the wonderful couch’s waiting for her when she got home.