The Night Hunt

I had recently gotten into fly fishing, a family of brothers that I grew close to in high school invited me to take part in a steelhead fishing trip on the Pere Marquette river. We fished five fishless days, something that I will never forget, and for reasons unexplainable I was very attached to.  It could have been I had never been on a drift boat, or a river so clear and gorgeous, or that I couldn’t wrap my head around what fish of such size were doing in such a place?

             Whatever it was, this was my inauguration into fly-fishing. I ditched the idea of any other type of fishing, enthralled by the constant flow of the river and confused by the nature of the fish we were pursuing. For days after this trip I laid in bed seeing the passing river, with darting steelhead through my mind like counting sheep. Although our trip had the misfortune of a few break offs and no pictures with a silver trophy, I was lured into the promise of the upcoming season.  Talk of streamer fishing, mayfly hatches, and even some spooky night fishing with flies that imitate mice, all of which was far over my head, but I couldn’t wait to try it.

            A few months later, I found myself accompanying the same group of brothers and their father to the South Branch of the Au Sable River. Arriving at their house I was shocked to find nothing was ready. It must have been 5pm, as we gathered supplies to camp while waiting on the oldest of the three brothers to get home so we could depart on our two and a half our trip. I was told to relax, we are night fishing, and we will get there, set up camp, and still have plenty of time to fish. I had no clue of what they are talking about, I wasn’t exactly good at fly-fishing, and now they expect me to do so in the dark? They told stories of large trout enticed to the surface on a skated fly representing a small mammal. Again, all seem to belittle my understanding of what I considered fishing.

            With camp set up in the dark we drive a bit up the Mason Tract, a place completely new to me, and for the first time seeing the canopied two-track my mind began to question the sanity of my friends. Just like the first time getting into their drift boat, I was along for the ride. We strung up our rods in the dimness of the backdoor light on their SUV. The moment was seized by my buddy’s father, who proceeded to hand out wooden tipped cigarillos, which previously appeared as celebratory stogies on a walleye fishing. The irony behind the gas station cigars, mixed with his quirky enthusiasm, turned into tradition, and eventually friendship folklore.

            Making our way up the trail from where we parked, we all followed the older brother, as he seemed to know where we were going among the darkness. I carried with me a brand new Redington 5wt combo set I purchased prior to the trip with Hay bailing money. A single mouse tied to the end of a 3-foot leader of very strong tippet, and a hand sized trout net the same family got me for graduating high school. We gathered along side a cedar tree on a shallow bank. I continued my doubt, questioning the rivers depth, speed, and how the hell to fish this set up. “It’s never more than waste deep, there is big brown trout and all you have to do is just plop that fly on the water and let in sort of dance its way down stream.” Okay? I thought as the older brother stepped into the river. We were going to let him wade down a bit before sending the guy behind him. Like a crowded first hole on a golf course we sat waiting, eventually it was just me and the father and he continued to tell me this is the best way to catch big brown trout. I think all of them could sense my doubt and caution for such a sport. It was my turn to enter the river; the two of us lit a wood tipped cigarillo for good luck.

            I made my way downstream.  The glare from the night sky etched out my two friends further down stream of me. Across the river was a wall of cedar and pines that I thought if I stared long enough into a witch, or some sort of ghost would lure me to whatever is in the dark forest, the last thing I was focused on was fishing. Not ten minutes into my wade I hear from just up river. “Hey Brian you got that net?” I look behind me only to see a faint red dot making its way around the bend towards me. I chuckled as I put my cigar out seconds after leaving the rivers edge. I hollered back with the promise to  net whatever he has on his line. The glowing pale fly line is darting it way down river, and is now parallel with me. Knowing that is its either zero or hero for me at this point I reach for the net and scoop towards my feet all in one motion.

            As we make our way to the bank, we keep our headlamps off, even as I notice the fish’s tail folded over the side of my net. Suddenly the doubt and spook was gone, I became a believer as I turned on my headlamp on to see what was the biggest trout I had ever seen. As we took pictures of him holding up his trophy the half lit cigar hung form the side of his mouth, further tying reality to myth. That picture has escaped our possession. Lost somewhere in cyberspace, but forever burned in my memory. Knowing what I know today, that fish had to be every bit of two feet long, give or take an inch or two for ego purposes. Two years later I would become a believer once again.  

Driving up US 131, with my girlfriend of the time in the passenger seat I had her convinced to venture to the South Branch so we could camp and I could attempted to mend my passion into her life. In my mind I pictured some brief time spent fishing, a fireside dinner, and me off into the night to throw mice. I’m sure in her mind she was caught between, why the hell am I doing this? And I guess whatever makes him happy? Regardless I made the turn in Kalkaska and we were headed east.

            I spent over an hour hiking back and forth from the truck to our campsite along the river. We spent an hour or so upstream of camp casting at finger sized brook trout. Something some people take very serious, and I save for kids and girlfriends. After the boredom hit both us, I offered to head back to start a fire and think about dinner. We had the perfect campsite, there was an open yard mowed out leading down to the river. We had just finished dinner as the sun was setting, and a group of anglers made their way down the hill towards the river.

            A father and his two sons, one of which joined the dad along the downstream trail. What seemed to be the younger of the two sat down on the bank a cast length away from our fire and proceeded to wait. Once it got somewhat dark he would wade out. Spend a few minutes casting, then turn on his headlamp and return to the bank to sit. All the time I grew frustrated as he was ruining my riverside romance.  I chuckled to my girlfriend, alluding to the fact that he must have no clue what he is doing and that’s why his dad and brother left him at this bank. I had thought he would get in and wade downstream, so after an hour or so of watching him switch back and forth between wading out a few feet and flashing his headlamp I walked over to talk to him.

            “Yeah we are from Cleveland, and last year I caught a giant brown right here.” I wished him good luck, and thought of him as an innocent fool to think that fish would appear again. Soon after my chat with the kid two headlamps made their way back up the trail. Their flashing head lights blinded the two of us sitting fireside, Explaining that downstream was a bust, and they are heading back to camp with a weekend of fishing ahead of them. I smiled as their lights disappeared, reached into the bottom of the cooler and pulled out a few beers. I looked over and told her to enjoy that and then its time to wader up. No more than fifteen or twenty minutes passed since the family of anglers left, and excited to get out and throw some mice I walked over to the same bank the kid was sitting on. Just a few warm up cast I thought, as I was in flip-flops and pajama pants.

            Standing on the bank I cast out into the middle of the river. Seconds after, my fly was met by a loud smack of a swirl. I lifted and cast back ten feet above the swirl with lightning speed, knowing the fish missed the fly. A second swirl, one that could be described as the noise a clogged toilet makes when finally flushing down. In disbelief that I just hooked into a fish, I was reminded of reality by the pull and force of the fish. I screamed up to my girlfriend to bring me the net! As the fish is racing back up stream I am took off my pajama pants with the thought that I will have to jump in after this beast. As she arrives with the net, confused why I am in my underwear fighting this fish, it begins to make it way into my efforts.

            Turning on my headlamp to net the fish alongside the bank I am taken back by its size. I yelled at her to run up and grab the cooler. Seeming how it has a tape measure of twenty inches on its lid. I pulled the fish out and laid it gently along the top of the cooler. Its long hooked jaw pushed out a few inches passed the edge. It must have been around midnight when I let that fish swim off, laughing and jumping with joy in disbelief of what just happened. “Should I still put on my waders?” She asked, absolutely not, I replied.

            Was it the same fish that kid from Cleveland had caught last summer? Was it simply coincidence? Luck? Pay out for hiking all the gear down to the river? Regardless I was never so ready to explain to my friends how I had championed night fishing and spent the rest of the weekend pretending to like wine at her family’s lake house.

Years later I found myself fishing a different river with a new friend, an entire summer had passed and Dakota and I were well on our way to figuring out trout fishing in Northern Michigan. I had just returned from Cape Breton Island, and the late summer air was hot and humid. Hatch season was long over and fishing during the day meant small flies and sun burns. Dakota had mentioned doing some exploring to a new piece of water either of us had fished. The plan was to arrive at dusk so we could see what we would be fishing in, and then proceed to spend the night throwing mouse flies.

As we hiked around the sunset was engulfed by thunderstorm in the distance to the south. Flashes of lightning made their way just over the trees as we talked around about heading home. Seeming how we didn’t have cell signal to check to see if this storm was going to miss us or not. All was kept at bay by the northern sky being lit with stars, so we began to fish.  Standing alongside side the banks of this stream I joked with Dakota about slowly stripping the mouse back up the near bank. A stupid tactic, as its assumed mice are not strong enough to swim upstream. But it wasn’t before I finished mentioning that, the sound of a bowling ball being dropped into the river drew my attention to the end of my rod. The line went tight and the rod bent in half, Dakota claims I let out a noise like I was either having sex or blew out a knee as the fish pulled its way upstream. Out of the corner of my eye, as I am trying to wrangle this fish I see Dakota cannon ball into the river, net in hand. The fish is upstream and bulldogging me hard on the bottom. I yell, “What in the fuck are you doing!” In my mind I was picturing all the steelhead I have seen lost at the net while fishermen get tangled at the feet by the escaping fish. As I am yelling I feel the fish begin to turn and make its way back down river.

I was sure at this point my dreams of a trophy are gone, the line is going to wrap around Dakota, the fish will shake off, and our other fishing buddies are going to laugh us out of the bar. But Dakota is a wild child, and the same disregard for normality that led him into the river led him to what appeared to be a nosedive towards the fish. In my head this felt like minutes, but it couldn’t have been more than 30 seconds and Dakota plops the net on the bank with a fish flopping around in it. I turn on my light to see the largest trout I had ever seen. I am so excited I reach over the net to grab Dakota and hug him like he just through the game wining touchdown pass.

“Hurry take a picture!”  “Ah dude, I cant my phone is soaking wet.” I felt on top of the world as we watched that fish swim off. I begin to break my rod in half to hike out. Dakota was confused as he thought we were going to fish all night. And I explained there is no sense in trying to top that. This was truly a moment of bliss and luck below those stars and distant flashes of thunder and lightning.

Since that night I haven’t much fished the dark besides hatch season. In-between those three stories are a lot of fish and fishless spooky nights. Trying like hell to figure it out. Be it a size-less half lit cigar fish, a mystery pajama fish, or being caught off guard by the biggest fish of my life. I respect the night hunt, I love the night hunt, but I’ll never tame the night hunt. 

Small Town USA

Small Town USA 

For those of you who don't know where Webberville, Michigan is... Don't worry it's right next to Fowlerville, and just up the road from Dansville. Or ya know a few exits before the Outlet mall... "Ahhh yeah I may have passed it before" and with the biggest smile I render. "I'm sure you have"

Going through chemotherapy I have bounced a million thoughts around my head with hopes of being able to write about the ones that stick. A recurring thought is my desire to share what it's like being from Webberville, ya know exit 122? before the exit with the big blue barn gas station thing. "Ya ya ya, I've seen it". My hopes are to bring light to my upbringing here and close the book of cliches and stereotypes. I have found the answer.

When sitting in a hospital room for six hours a day while drugs are being pumped into you, the mind tends to drift. I try to stay busy between reading, writing, naps, and whatever's on the golf channel. I am currently in the beginning of Cycle 3, of a 4 cycle plan. Each cycle 21 days, five of which I receive chemo. Throughout these five day periods I have mastered the art of ordering from the hospital menu.

It took until day 5 of cycle two for me to focus enough to notice the availability of milkshakes. I go for strawberry, with hopes to muster up enough gumption to try cappuccino before cycle four is complete. Seems a bit at odds with my blue collar upbringing and approach to this treatment, so I'll stick to strawberry.

I'll be the first to admit, that strawberry milkshake is worth the drive. Even as it spends a frustrating amount of time in a folded up cardboard box during its journey from the cafeteria to my room, its ability to maintain ideal viscosity and temperature yields a flavor that demands reordering. A taste that registers and provokes emotion. Puzzled by my affection for this 8 ounce treat I am lured to questioning it's greatness.

It wasn't until I returned home on day one of cycle 3 that it dawned on me. My house is relatively close to exit 122, and from the window on the north side of the house you can gaze out at the lights of the highway, a giant warehouse and other lights from the industrial park. Above all of those lights, trees, and highway stands a bright sign all too familiar. Out of that north window it might as well be lady liberty... The Golden Arches. There it is, that's my answer. McDonald's Milkshakes.

I can remember when that franchise was built, oh boy had we made it as town! Since it's gone under many transformations, in hopes that it provides to the needs of its clients. None more tragic than the installation of Mccafe. A necessary means to prevent you from going to Starbucks or Biggby. Well it was with this churching up of coffee that the abandonment of what I will refer to as pre-Mccafe milkshakes took place. Ya know before they put it in a see through cup, and added the fancy straw and 25% of it whipped cream. SOMETIMES A CHERRY! I dissent. But there it is, this hospital shake is the closest thing I have found to that beautiful, seemingly endless shake in a giant soda cup.

Yep, that's what it's like being from Webberville. Whenever I want I can drive 30 seconds to a burger and fries.

No, my pairing of these distant shakes stretches far beyond the confines of convenience. Truth is these shakes may not taste alike at all. But that flavor sticks out to me for reasons associated with childhood. It has been sometime since you could order a 2 pound shake from McDonald's, and whether or not that's something I really care about or is just flat out hilarious, I'm glad that flavor brings me back to a place. That place being where I grew up, where I made friendships I still have, and a place to be proud of. Ya know all that cliche bullshit.

Now if I can just figure out why McDonald's coffee tastes like hunting and fishing.

Poem.

4/1/2021

Early Morning Walk

Birds now sing while the grass turns green,

Overhead a flock of geese can be seen.

I clap and I yell as if they can tell,

Surely a good dog will take and follow,

For it feels like spring, gone is winters sorrow.

Sorting Through Guilt

As I drive to Ann Arbor in my mind I bounce back and forth between which sequence yields the most enjoyment. A sip from a  cranberry juice box washed down with black coffee from a styrofoam cup. Or the opposite. Anything to boost my six hours of infusion. For the first time I was placed in a hallway room with curtains between patients, and I listened to a recurrent old timer next to me explain his retirement job of driving cars for a dealership. "Just enough spare change to go fishing" but the nurses go the extra mile to make sure those curtains prevent me from seeing him. So I sit in silence.

In college I felt a need to expand my vocabulary, which resulted in some poor writing. So much so I often found myself confused by a professor's red notes of exhaustion, caught up in the thought of tail pipes.

More so than not, I have struggled with decision making. Fueled by the same vain and struggle to get previous girlfriends to say I love you first. And confused when they struggle to say it near the end. These thoughts have had some time though.

Enough time now where I spend as much romanticizing over a landscape as I do thinking about bettering relationships. Like how will these realizations maximize my potential as a father someday? Husband? A friend? Brother? Son?

Over the past few weeks I have had the opportunity to continue these thoughts out in my mind. And point to obvious catalyst in preventing me from reaching those aforementioned goals. Upon a brief discussion with a friend, he asked if I recall the theme behind Catcher and the Rye. Which made me chuckle at why we are friends. As I currently am attempting to read through some Harrison. Which I bought in college.

All of this makes me truly appreciate DNR fishing reports.

Bonus Poem

2/8/2021

Side walks filled with salt,

Seems unfit for a walk,

The birds just seem yet to talk,

The yards void from emotion,

Snow plows and ice bring endless commotion,

Soon it will be spring again,

Until then it’s February in Michigan.

Down Home

-The piano begins a slow paced tempo similar to a waltz. A tune to warm up footsteps that make their way to the floor partner in hand. Soon the fiddle joins in, and matches tempo. A sure sign that things are to heat up. It's at this time I glance over and take the initiative and insist we try our whits among the locals and experts that carve this dance hall floor. A bit embarrassed and nervous, we slide into the final set.-

It's morning in West Mabou, on Cape Breton Island. Not only my favorite place to get away to, but home to my grandparents and their surrounding family. As the sun peaks up in late July I am awakened by the sounds of crows muddling about in an adjacent hillside hay field. Most days on the island this time of year are spent doing what the weather gives you. If the sun is hot and the wind is right you head for West Mabou beach, a place so hauntingly beautiful that when there time seems to stand still. Only to be measured by the shifting tides. If the sun doesn't shine and family knows you're around you prepare for a drive around the island to visit. Depending on the household you can expect hot King Cole or Red Rose tea, to be served with cookies and perhaps some homemade cheese. Other visits might include a cold beer while waiting for a cousin to finish boiling pounds of crab that were pulled that morning a few hours off the coast.

Regardless of who you are visiting, you can expect to be treated like royalty. Not because of your travels, or differences, but because the people there are beyond the salt of the earth. Always willing to take time out of their day to discuss time passed, and agree upon the weather. Yes when there I feel as if the interactions I have with my family members are perhaps the most genuine and honest I have come by.

-The music is now shifting from a slow waltz to an up tempo quarreling of noises that when played at the same time couldn't be closer to perfection. Another fiddler joins along with a guitarist. Forcing my partner and I into our attempt at a square set. It's the last set of the night and I am up here out of curiosity, a few whiskies, and my desire to be part of what's around me. Her on the other hand, perhaps she thinks I know what I'm doing, along for the ride and thrill of something new. The dance hall is now shoulder to shoulder, groups of four couples all attempting to stay on pace with each other and the music. You can only hope at least two of the four couples in your group are locals. Otherwise you quickly fall out of tune, and the entire hall can notice.-

 I quickly get my things in order trying not to wake anyone else. With only a week on the island I have to squeak in my own adventures outside the normal visits and beach days. This time I was luckily enough to sneak my waders and a few fly rods. A two hander suiting for throwing a long cast on the world famous Margaree river. In search of Atlantic Salmon. Another geared up for Striped Bass in the tidal waters of Mabou Harbor.

A few days prior when in the area my father and I stopped off at a little shed in front of a few houses, located in the heart of the Margaree river valley. The Tying Scotsman. A fifteen by fifteen foot fly shop with one wall having all the materials needed to assemble classic Atlantic salmon flies. The other fancy rods and gear. The back wall sat a table with a computer, phone, and a short silver haired man focused on his vise as he tied the days flies. He gave advice as needed to get out and fish the river, only looking up from his vise when my questions warranted an answer he wouldn't give any old tourist. To this day that's my favorite fly shop.

I was unable to connect with any salmon that morning. But my jaunts about the valley were indescribable. From the lower pools in a vast meadow, to some of the middle pools that were rocky, fast, and gin clear. Having the opportunity to fish there has me longing to return, with no expectations of catching fish. I hurry back to our place in West Mabou, it's just before noon and a mix of fried eggs and bologna are being prepared. (Far from the bologna that is sold in slices) Along with some fresh cinnamon rolls from the bakery in town, we meet at the table on the porch to gather our thoughts for the day. Gazing out at the foothills of the Cape Breton Highlands, we are all in agreement it doesn't matter what we do. 

-The music has shifted once again, a rhythm that forces you to follow the others in your circle. A brief look at each other we laugh as if how the hell haven't we gotten kicked to the wall yet? As the tones shift so does your partner, circling in a fashion, stepping and shaking with the others in your group. Sharing a brief dance with the female adjacent to you and your partner and the circling starts again. Once completed I locked arms at the elbow with her, and began to spin along with the fiddle. Even I am taken by my ability to fit in, her smile and laughter assure me I'm doing fine.-

It being noon, we’re tossed between going to the beach or hiking the old Mabou Coal Mine trails along the rocky coast. I chose to take on the trails as I recall from my previous visit, the last quarter of the trail you can slip out of the timber on a bluff overlooking the coast. An image that is burned into my memory, one of raw beauty and perspective. Arriving back at our cottage we decided we should probably go visit with my great aunt Christy down in Mabou Harbor. Her little home sits at the base of a mountain, overlooking the harbor straits and West Mabou beach. Inside she sits eager to have company with her little white dog on her lap. Over my few visits to the island I loved our seeing Christy. To me she defined the harbor, wife and mother of fisherman, she was an amalgam of grace and wisdom. I can still hear her voice describing her life on the island, through family, friends, culture, and season. If I stumble upon some King Cole back here in Michigan all I have to do is close my eyes and I'm in the harbor listening to my grandmother and her sisters laugh.

It's time to head back to get dinner plans in order, which are usually pretty loose as there is a few hours of sunlight left. And the beach is only a few kilometers away. Which means a few of us want to get down there to jump in and watch the sunset. On this particular trip we were lucky to have lots of sun, so I did my best to spend every sunset on the beach. I'd bring with me my fly rod and a beer to walk down toward the harbor straights. A large break wall of rock separated the beach from the harbor. At this particular time, about an hour before dark the tide begins to retreat back to the ocean. Taking with it schools of striped bass that flock to the shallows of the harbor to feast of bait fish. Carefully I traverse the rock wall to a knee deep pool that is formed by the break wall amidst the current and changing tides. It is here one can safely cast out fifty plus feet in search of whatever the tide may hold. I keep it simple and bring along a few different sizes and colors of Clouser minnows, a simple combination of flash and bucktail that entices just about any fish with an appetite. The takes are evident, violent at first, and leave you wondering what the hell could be on the end of your line as you stand knee deep in ocean waters. The fight can be long and these fish like to test your drag and make long runs towards the flowing tide. Once close enough, they take to the hand like a smallmouth, usually hooked perfectly in the jaw to make for an easy release to try for another.

It isn't long before my sister comes calling for me as we need to rush home and get ready. I relish my time in the tides, and I believe it shatters all other intentions I have in fly fishing. A few flies, a beer, and willing fish. Being in an unrealistic location, I somehow relate it to my first experiences fishing in my grandparents pond for bass and bluegill. An act so simple that it pulls you from reality and instills a love and curiosity of the places around you.

-All four instruments are now joined in a melody so jovial, the entire crowd of 200 plus jammed in this tiny dance hall all join with the beat.. As the entire place harmonizes the groups of four begin to head towards the stage partner in hand.  Forming a line of shouldered partners who skip their way down the center of the dance floor towards more on coming partners. Just before colliding you split off and circle around into two large lines standing across from your partner. As the lines step off to the music the wooden floor beneath begins to question is integrity, as it buckles and sways along. The music calls for a few approaches of these lines. The first two remain locked as both lines meet in in the middle of floor and belt out a "yeeeeeeee ahhhhh!"  As the music picks up it's tempo the lines separate and you join hands with your partner. I greet her with a few spins and some foot movements that can only be contributed to my relatives of the island. By now I'm sweating pretty good, but so is everyone else in the hall so I don't give any worry.-

Back at the cottage, my mom and grandma are frantically getting ready as a decision is made by rumor of a dance up the road in Brook Village. A dance hall known to draw large crowds, from old time locals who value these summer night dances as much as Sunday morning mass. This hall has a cash bar, which tends to draw more of a crowd. A place like this is a full on experience of what Cape Breton is about. And if of age, most of the locals suggest dances like these compared to the ones without alcohol, as they are more conducive to families with young children. I do enjoy the slower paced dances because it gives you  more of an opportunity to understand the different sets and how the dances are to be done properly. But much to the locals' advice it is in no comparison to being thrown into the fire on the right night at Brook Village. Little to my knowledge it was going to be one of those nights.

We met up in town, my mother, grandmother, sister, brother and sister in-law. We arrive at a ladies house by the name of Theresa-Glencoe's. Not to be confused with another Theresa, my great aunt that would be joining us as well. Theresa-Glencoe was a childhood friend of my grandma and her sisters, close enough to be another sister. Her name Glencoe refers to the town she is from, up the road from Mabou. Thus differentiating her from my aunt. Although in their 80s both of these ladies defined fun on the island. And when together their laughter could be heard from over the mountain. My aunt Theresa is known for her great storytelling and ability to make anyone laugh, and if spotted at a dance hall often locals will try and get her on the floor as she is a bit of legend when it comes to step dancing. 

On our way to the dance, we are in no rush listening to the laughter between my grandma and aunt's. It's not a big deal to get there super early because the sets usually build in intensity from start to finish. Finding a place to sit is of importance however. They get as much satisfaction watching the dance unfold as they do participating. Upon arrival the hall is somewhat sparse, with only a few dancing along to the musicians. Until more arrive us younger folk camp out in the shadows of the parking lot to the likes of a flask and a few beers brought from home in hopes to muster up enough courage to get out for a set or two.

The hall is now filling, and it's hard moving around unless you are part of the dance floor. It's in between sets and I take my grandmother to the floor for a slowing waltz with a few faster steps sprinkled in. On my way to the floor I glance at the entrance to see a glowing young woman entering with a group of middle age to elderly women. I was confused as to what such a beautiful girl was doing at this dance. Up until this point I always associated these dances as tradition and something to enjoy with my family. Never a place to stumble upon someone of her stature.

For five or so minutes grandma and I danced, but my mind raced back to my brief glance with this young lady. With only the slightest hopes we would cross paths during this dance. On our way back to our seats I slipped out the doors to locate my brother who is out in the parking lot half drunk with locals, and not aware of his cheesy adoption of a Cape Breton accent. I smirk at their convo, just enough to warrant a pull from his flask. I go back into the hall and fight off the now shoulder to shoulder crowd. I make my way to the back corner where my mom and grandma and aunt are sitting. And who's right next to my mom. The girl who I saw in the entrance. I instantly felt a lump of nervousness in my throat. As I lean into my mom's wave, she shouts over the crowd and music. "This is my son I have been telling you about." She is far more gorgeous up close, I smile at her, with redness in my cheeks brought on by far more than whiskey.

Sitting down next to her we talk. Turns out her grandmother is from Jedique. A few towns over, and is good friends with my Aunt Theresa. In fact the previous night Theresa was over visiting with them and left quite the impression, so much so that she referred to her as the life of the party. As we found our middle ground in conversation, I kept noticing her group giving her looks and hand gestures that she took initiative in getting us on the dance floor.

I could tell that she was hesitant and perhaps outside of her comfort zone, but as the piano began it's prelude I stood up, held out my hand and insisted she join me for the final set.

-Joining hands and circling back to our original group of four couples. We are both overwhelmed with laughter as we try to keep up. Which is made easy once captured by the sound of the fiddles. The final reels of the set. The piano is repeating a few chords in a rhythm that seems tribal. Giving partners no choice but to assimilate with the beat. Now the guitar joins along, strumming at the same pace and you feel as if you are in for a wild finish. "Hold on tight" I joke with her, as the fiddles burst into the melody with the sharpness of thunder heard directly outside of your window, it fuels the floor into a craze of steps and hollers! "Yeeeeeeee ahhhhh!" it's now deafening as we glide along. Spinning and stepping I catch a glimpse of my brother and sister in the crowd giggling as I try to impress this beauty.

The music continues to sway up and down as the floor follows suit. I have kept pace adding some steps I've seen renowned dancers do. Perhaps at this point she mistook or at least my feet for a local. Swinging around forming lines, and circles, the set winds down... with one final build of tempo. Like watching the grand finale of a firework show the music builds. Hand in hand I spin her around with the intent to leave a memory of this dance. Suddenly the music comes to a sharp halt, only to be met in a blink of an eye by the two fiddlers rising to their feet playing sounds so intense the entire hall is in sequence, while the melody proceeds to rip your heart out. For the next 30 seconds we lock hands and elbows side by side and swing along at a dangerous pace. And as fast as it began it was over. We ran outside to catch some fresh air and cool down. While laughing at our attempt to keep up with the rest we exchanged a hug and said our goodbyes.-

-For Aunt Theresa. September 10th, 1933 - February 6th, 2021. May your stories live in infamy, as the cool winds approach a summer evening on West Mabou Beach.

December 2020

"Under my thumb, the girl who had me down... Under my thumb." It's 4:30 am I roll over to hit off my alarm. I'm still not sure why I set a 60’s Rolling Stones song as one of my alarms. But it seems to work. Unfortunately I didn't have time to make  breakfast to prepare for a day of hunting, nor did I reach for my favorite coffee mug. No, I simply got in the passenger seat with my mom driving and we were off to Ann Arbor.

So far this fall has taught me a lot; where to find birds, how to read the dog, and most importantly how to find time between a 40 hour work week to get outdoors. All of these things are important when trying to maintain a lifestyle that is centric to owning a bird dog. And it wasn't until recently that I realized perhaps I was doing too much in pursuit of the changing season and all it's opportunities.

It's now, 5:53 am. I'm the first person to walk into this bottom floor reception in a wing of the main hospital at University of Michigan.

 "Just a moment sir, we have a few things to prepare before we open at 6." 

Well at least I'm the first person here I thought, And right at six am, after an awkward few minutes waiting for them to finish their conversation about how the day will go I get called up.

"Here you go, you will need to drink this and another one at 6:30 am." 

Barium Sulfate, I don't have a damn clue what it is. But in smoothie form and berry flavored, it must be tolerable. Wrong. A few slurps into it I start looking up on my phone what I am drinking. It'll make my insides much easier to see when reading the CT scan results.

6:30 am rolls around, and I am handed another smoothie and taken into a room to change into a gown and prepare for an IV with some nurses. Once being set up for that I am directed back into the changing room where there are a few chairs to wait. With an IV in my right arm and a shake in my left, I sit down. Within a minute a man is being directed to complete the same task. He changes into the same gown as me, and walks slowly across the hall to get an IV.

"Man... I really thought I had this shit beat."

Already feeling out of place, a faint sense of vulnerability creeps into my throat. "Yeah, I hear ya."  But I had no idea. Feeling dumb and awkward after such a response I sat in silence trying to finish my second smoothie, while watching across from me this man with his hands over his eyes and elbows on his knees.

"Elijah" he gets up slowly as the nurse greets him.

"How are you doing?"

"Well I am here, that's all that matters."

I didn't have much time to compartmentalize this interaction before a nurse came for me. And it wasn't 20 minutes later I was on my way out of this part of the hospital, and excited to get something real to eat! Coming out of the waiting room, Elijah was a few places ahead of me. Back in regular clothes he was accompanied by what I guessed to be his daughter. I heard a small chuckle as she leaned her head and arm around him and walked.

-The reason I was getting a CT scan was to monitor the growth/spread of a testicular tumor. Since this day I have had surgery to remove the tumor and am waiting for the next game plan to handle this disease. In a short time frame of a couple of weeks I had been diagnosed, examined, and operated on. All thanks to the University of Michigan's Health organization. I know that I have a bit of a battle in front of me but with the help of these professionals and most importantly family and friends I have no doubt or reason to fear anything.-

In the elevator back to the main floor. It's me, Elijah and his daughter. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a winter hat. I noticed it's logo, "Harley Davidson." Now perhaps this is just a random hat, but I would like to believe that he once had a Harley. Or maybe still has a Harley. And maybe riding it or dreaming of riding is his passion. Regardless, the door opened and I left the hospital. The entire way home I thought about this and his statement to me. I couldn't help but to think, what does he wish he could do?

A day away from surgery I get home to my two year old Golden Retriever, who is eager to get outside. We have spent every moment of free time this fall up at our cabin outside of Mio, Michigan. Chasing Ruffed Grouse and Woodcock. The two of us even planned and executed a trip to Minnesota to meet friends and hunt wild Pheasants. Needless to say Cabot was ready as always to get out and hunt.

Within a 30 minute drive we accessed some state land where I have had brief encounters with some pheasants. The sun was out, it was 35 degrees and two days into December. I couldn't ask for a better scenario. Over the next two hours we hiked around every part of this particular property. And wouldn't you know it, Cabot flushed three roosters. All of which caught me off guard, being either too far from the both of us or knee deep in a cattail swamp. Regardless, I felt an all time high finding those birds.

Everyone has something they are passionate about. Be it work or hobbies, finding a way to make a difference within those passions is what drives us to success. I write this today because I let all of these things get in the way of addressing symptoms.  I was too caught up in what tomorrow holds. However through this, I hope to bring light to this subject and make it easier to talk about.  

Since all of this, I haven't told many people, however within the small group I have shared this with. Five have told me they know men this has happened to. I can't speak on their behalf, but I know I fell victim to not opening up about this until I knew what it was. Moving forward this must change, regardless of stigma, taboo, pride, or a few more miles behind a bird dog.