Picked up this old book "Muskie Mania" by Ron Schara.
Picked up this old book "Muskie Mania" by Ron Schara.
Posted by TBC Press on 04/23/21 Michigan 2021 trout opener and the Lower Peninsula inland walleye and northern pike seasons open Saturday, April 24. In Upper Peninsula waters, the walleye and northern pike possession seasons open Saturday, May 15. Michigan’s muskellunge possession season on all Great Lakes, inland waters, Lake St. Clair, and the St. Clair, St. Marys and Detroit rivers opens Saturday, June 5 (remember that catch-and-release fishing for muskellunge is open all year). The possession season for bass opens statewide Saturday, May 29, except for... READ MORE
A mighty musky
Speaking of Detroit River Fishing ...
On Monday morning my buddy was walleye fishing in a boat no more than 200 hundreds yard from the dock where my brothers and I caught those perch last week.
One of the guys he was with hooked into this 40-inch-long muskellunge and boated the sharp-toothed monster with nothing more than his 10-pound-test walleye tackle.
Immediately after this photo was taken the fish was released back into the river.
13 hours on the river today. Only saw one musky. I think they are spawning, so I'll get back to em mid april.
I am tired but damn it was beautiful.
For those of you who don't know what muskellunge are... this is them. They are basically freshwater barracuda, related to pike and pickerel.
These aren't my photos but I got them to talk about this.
On Wednesday I am heading out with my 9wt fly rod in hand to try and tangle with one of these behemoths. While I might only catch one the size of the smallest here, they certainly get as big and bigger than the biggest, in the river I'm heading to.
Lately I have been focusing on tiny fly tying but here we see the other end of the spectrum. I tied these monsters today in preparation for my trip
Maps at Home with Matt Baker and Al Angler’s map of Lake St. Clair
A map of Lake St. Clair might not seem to fit on a site all about Detroit. However the lake is a significant piece of Detroit history as it led to the narrow “strait” off of the lake where we now say Detroit. Cadillac’s 1702 map of Lake St. Clair is one of the earliest cartographic depictions of Detroit. Lake St. Clair is sometimes called the “sixth Great Lake” because of its size and…
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🎨🖌💦🐟After the lure!🎨🖌💦🐟
🎨🖌💦🐟One of the few who can go fishing!🎨🖌💦🐟
Sam didn't know if he believed in God anymore, much less an afterlife. He hadn't seen anything to the contrary when he was Blipped.
The first fingers of doubt crept into his mind when his mother died. Every time someone told him after her funeral that she was in the arms of the Lord, or she was needed in Heaven, he wanted to snap that Darlene Wilson was needed here. That she died because no one took her seriously and dismissed the heart attack that killed her. Some frat boy with a stethoscope insisted it was all in her head. When she collapsed, she was dead almost before she hit the floor. He'd been nineteen years old. Old enough to be a man, but young enough to sob like a lost child when he came home from LSU for the summer break at the faint whiff of his mother's perfume that lingered on the ratty afghan thrown over the back of the couch.
His father, at least, lived long enough to see him graduate from college. He'd been so proud. But the pain from pancreatic cancer had already begun to etch lines in Paul Wilson's face. The jaundice that yellowed his eyes. Losing weight from an already slender frame. The call from Sarah, saying the end was near. Sitting next to the hospital bed set up in the living room of the house, facing the the windows that looked out on the water. He promised his father he'd look after things somehow. While clutching at the cold, frail fingers that had taught him to mend nets and clean fish. He could still remember the moment his father's last breath passed his lips. Just at dawn when he would have taken the boat out. More platitudes at the funeral, which went in one ear and out the other, only this time they mouthed about his father's pain being gone. Being at rest in the arms of the Lord. But Sam had no patience for a greedy God who took the best people home and left the rest to mourn and live as best they could.
His hands convulsed, crinkling the paper around the spray of yellow gladiolus and white lilies Bucky picked out at the florist as the church appeared through a break in the trees. He hadn’t visited his parents’ grave since... before Sokovia. Becoming a fugitive hadn’t lent itself to visits home, and then the Snap. He kept meaning to after the Blip, but he’d always found some excuse to not make the relatively short drive to the church. He always told himself he didn’t need a grave to remember his parents, anyway. Gravel crunched under the tires as the truck turned from the paved road to the church parking lot. Bucky parked under a tree and turned to study Sam's impassive face. 'Want me to come with you?'
Sam swallowed hard, but didn't answer. His throat was too tight to allow words to travel through it. He climbed out of the truck and pushed the gate open, picking his way through the cemetery until he came to his parents' grave in the far corner. He knelt on the scraggly grass, under the shade of a live oak and undid the brown paper wrapped around the yellow and white blooms, then arranged them in the vase built into the headstone. He sat back, and rested his wrists on his bent knees, watching a droplet of water skid down the waxy petal of a lily. He didn't turn at the sound of footsteps behind him. It could only be Bucky. If Sam had wished it, Bucky would have prevented God Herself from entering the cemetery. Bucky folded himself to the ground down behind Sam and scooted forward until he cradled Sam in the vee of his thighs, sliding his arms around him. Sam let himself slump against Bucky and inhaled deeply. The ever-present, heady, musky mix of damp earth and decaying leaves that he could almost taste steadied him, throwing him back to his childhood. The afternoons repairing nets on the porch with his father while his mother worked her magic among the rows of their vegetable garden. It gave him the sensation of being with his parents that he experienced nowhere else. Not even on the boat. 'This is Bucky,' he murmured. Bucky nodded once at the headstone, lifting his hand in that three-fingered wave he did. 'He is a pain in my ass.' He felt Bucky's smile against the back of his neck. 'And my partner. Boyfriend.' He leaned against the warmth of Bucky's chest. 'I should have come out to you when you were alive to hear it. I've been thinking that if I'm gonna be Captain America, then I had to be honest with you. Even now.
'I am the man you raised me to be. You taught me to help out when I could. To do what was right. To make this world a better place. Regardless of the consequences, because it was the right thing to do. And I've been doing that for as long as I can remember. Who I love doesn’t change that. And if I’d told you when you were alive to hear it, it would only mean that you knew something else about me. And I would still be the person you raised to be a good man. And there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t wish I’d been completely honest with you.’ He gently disentangled himself from Bucky and rose to his feet. He stood, head bowed, hand resting on top of the headstone for a long moment, then walked back to the gate.
Bucky remained seated on the grass, waiting until Sam was well out of earshot, then pulled off his sunglasses. 'I know I'm probably not what you pictured for Sam. I'm not what most people would envision for their kid. Used to be, but that was a long time ago. Another lifetime.' He fiddled with the sunglasses for a moment, gathering the next words he wanted to say. 'But I love him. And for reasons I can't explain, he loves me.' He got to his feet, and pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. ‘You would be proud of him,’ he said quietly. ‘I know I am.’ .
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Each moment of our lives presents an excuse to pursue control. We sit in its grips and seek it while occasionally becoming validated by perceived successes at the practice. The idea of control is the biggest lie that the universe has ever sold us. But without its presence, who are we? I have often wondered why societies failed attempts at control result in such destruction and separation. My only guess is that it brings us down to size and allows us to descend further towards chaos. Our imperfections give our perfect world its imperfect equilibrium, and I believe that it has to be that way.
My attempts at deciphering control from the acceptance, the true from the false, the power to the power-less has led me right here, writing this all out for you. They may call this a manifesto of sorts. They will call me crazy, perhaps mentally ill, they will not remember their part, but they will remember the name, place, and time of the day when I finally broke down and said, "what am I to do?"
The evening began normally enough. I was sitting in a dive writing out my arduous truths while purposely sipping on a margarita that was far too sugary. My weathered glass stained a displeasing opaque brown. It was here where I began to consider my own mortality. At my misery's behest, I requested another. I downed half the glass before placing the drink on a crinkled, disgraced, and damp napkin that read: Cabalo Cantina, Just Like Paradise. While analyzing this feeble attempt at memorable marketing, the barkeep waltzed up to me and stared with an invasive gaze, his brow acutely furrowed. He looked as if he had just seen a ghost or witnessed something traumatic. He rotated himself towards the illuminated bar where bottles upon bottles of liquid relief occupied the splintering walnut shelves. Taking down a sorry excuse for top-shelf mezcal, he proceeded to grab a set of tumblers and swiftly pour two generous shots. He pushed one my way.
"Drink up, buddy. We're gonna need it."
He threw back the drink with an exaggerated gulp; it was almost like he wanted it to hurt. He winced, removed his Cabalo Cantina apron stained by bitters, rolled up the apron, and spiked it on the ground with surprising force.
"I can make ten times in a week on the trawler than I can here in a month. The tequila here is shit anyway."
Nobody batted an eye. He started through the tacky, Christmas light-infested archway and out the tinted double doors. Briefly, I was reminded of my father. I wished I had remembered what he looked like, but all I remember is that he, too, worked on a boat. He caught tuna deep in the unforgiving waters of the Atlantic. Thankfully, these thoughts were quickly supplanted by the view of the drink in front of me. I followed the dearly departed's lead with a shot of my own before returning to my notepad. If this is paradise, I would hate to see what hell is like.
After two more margaritas, I noticed the illuminated clock branded by some obscure Mexican beer company that I had never heard of: 12:50 PM, last call. I didn't need it; better to cap the night off at home anyway. I decided to exit the fluorescent arch and start my walk home. As the doors sealed behind me, I turned left to head to my flat. With my notepad carefully tucked against my breast pocket, I wobbled down the sidewalk. The street danced with a hand from the dimmed lights overhead, which created a greasy, orange hue. I made my way towards the day's end.
As the pavement moved beneath me, the streets became less illuminated and more littered. I began to pick up the familiar putrid stench that coated the air. It was musky, thick, and sour. The smell reminded me of last year's charter out of Chatham; towards the end of the trip, the men became more offensive than the dead fish. Vagrants, beggars, tramps, and drifters proceeded to voice their typical pitches in hopes of finding a generous passerby. I didn't have anything to give them, but I would tell them to get lost if I did have some money in my pocket. Tonight, I stayed quiet, however. We were all in the same boat, one which appeared to be taking on some serious water.
Since I'll be gone by the time this reaches curious eyes, I have particular freedoms that I don't have while wasting away in the outside world. The only thing that is truly mine in this world is my secrets. Even though therapists, social workers, and the like have told me that I am only as sick as my particular omissions. Even if I wanted to share them (which I don't), I wouldn't know where to begin. The darkness harbored under the surface of those truths is a prison, far worse than the one that I would be sent to if they only knew. I have never been known for my veracity; I prefer to live in the realm of the obscure.
To understand the breadth of my circumstances, I provided a bit of a picture in the aforementioned "memoir," It is strictly for your eyes only, and I hope that it adds some context. For those not privy to my life story, I would like to acknowledge that I believe myself or my story to be unique in no way. Despite how much I would like to think that my experiences are so different in contrast to those around me, it simply is not the truth.
As I approached my apartment, I engaged in my predictable anticipatory sigh before entering the lobby. Whenever I get home, I remember what my life is and what it is not. I am reminded of the loss, both monetary and personal, that has occurred at my hand. I try my best to accept present circumstances for what they are, but living in the moment has never been my strong suit. The best that I can do at any given moment is to give in and recognize things for what they are: shit. Luckily, I always have some writing to do; it's what keeps me busy.
At this very moment, I am staring blankly at my laptop screen, which continues to mock me for all of my literary atrocities. Perhaps if I don't end up in prison, Oxford will have something to say. Strange sensations overcome me when I'm with myself at night. I don't become tired, but there's a particular energy that overcomes me, but for whatever reason, I am unable to move. This type of paralysis brings the only semblance of normalcy in my life.
My body feels like it needs to run away. I become stimulated and overwhelmed by feelings I cannot describe. I want to rise up and move, but Newtons' third law has other plans, so I remain still. I have come to embrace this purgatorial, dream-like state that overtakes me. I see visions of the past that seem manufactured specifically for my broken mind to consume. I call them my "could have been," the way that I wish things would have gone. I close my eyes and see a young boy.
He looks and sounds like me, even has that 2-inch scar above his right eyelid, but he is not me. He is smiling, he is talking, he is with his father, and he is happy. I can see him resting on the edge of a broad, aluminum dock. He seems comfortable watching all of the boats set sail in search of that next big haul. He sits next to his father, a slender man of 40 or so who looks far more seasoned than his age suggests. The two have considerable space between them, yet they appear to have some bond I cannot relate to. For the first time, I can see some communication beginning to form. I can hear his father as he turns to his son and says, "my boy, if you will listen to anything I ever say, make it this. There is nothing in this world that is certain. Many men consider themselves experts of their crafts, leaders of enterprise, and patriarchs of their family, yet they practice utter ignorance towards the truth." The eerily familiar boy looks back at his father with interest, "what is the truth then, dad?" A strenuous pause ensued. The tired old man brought himself upright and looked at his trawler docked several feet away. "Nobody really knows anything. Nobody really knows." The man handed his son a tattered notebook with a tan leather casing, "there are more truths within these pages. These are for you, son. Read as much as you see fit, read until you no longer need to, and then begin to forge your own beliefs."
The boy stayed silent while accepting this unexpected parting gift from his father. He remained dockside, salty waves kissing his narrow, swaying feet. He opened up his new notebook, the first page read:
He stands within the confines of his vessel
Between himself and normalcy is a one way mirror
The room is soundproof
Bustling passerby are aware of his existence, yet they are unable to make a connection
It is not their fault - he understands this
His only weapon is his voice.
Howls for an attentive ear. Anyone
Only to realize that relief will be found in his silence
But only until it kills him.
Reflection allows him to see the truth.
That the vessel is of his own design
He accepts that.
Maybe it is never too late.
The little boy, who now seems more familiar to me, remains locked in place, confused, and not understanding much of his father's writings. He feels ashamed and stupid and reads the poem once more. After his second attempt at reading this vague prose, he hesitantly peeks up, expecting his father to still be somewhat visible in the distance. He is not. The crawler has made its way, the silhouette of the faraway ship begins to mingle with the horizon. Now, it is only the red masthead light that is visible. The boy becomes angry, tears out his father's words, crumples up the paper, and tosses it in the ocean, sure that it will never be seen again. He sits back down on the dock's edge, starting at the next page that simply reads: Just Another Day in Paradise. I wake up. I remember that boy now.
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