Oct 3 2012 7:52 pm
He was a large man with a white beard, I suppose not unlike Santa Claus but less jolly. He wore a new red Tom Raper RV mesh backed baseball hat, a blue flannel shirt, and brand new deep blue denim overalls.
He was a pilot and a flight instructor in single engine airplanes but not anymore. He was also learning how to fly helicopters but then he crashed one during his final lesson to become a certified helicopter flight instructor. He had trouble getting into and out of the boat, perhaps from the helicopter crash. I don’t know that for sure but it seems like it could be true.
It was the end of the day and we were floating down the wide, slow river and the maple trees were yellow and orange and red and there was no wind and we were the only ones on the river and I wasn’t rowing, just drifting and there were some birds singing a little bit and you could hear the water running through some of the log jams and it was warm in the sun.
He had a deep, sonorous voice, a beautiful voice, and he sang softly here and there throughout the day, just little snippets of songs mostly, but as we were slowly drifting down the river at the end of the day through the bright maple trees he started to sing again. He sang out in his full baritone, “Were you there, when they crucified my Lord?” He sang it slowly and it was beautiful. And I’m not exactly what you’d call a spiritual man but a beautiful song is a beautiful song and this guy could sing.
And so we drifted and he sang slowly and Jesus got all the way laid in his tomb and he was just about to get raised up when a big dog came tearing down the far bank barking as loudly and as fearsomely as he could. The man didn’t stop singing and the dog didn’t stop barking. And then someone up on the hill started yelling at the dog to “shut up” and to “get back up here” and he was screaming at this dog and the dog was barking and our man was still singing and it was all quite disorienting and I started to push on the oars a little bit to get us down river.
The man continued to sing and he jumped up an octave to really belt out the last three “trembles” and he held the last one with some vibrato high and loud and the dog was still barking and the person up on the hill was still screaming and I was pushing us faster and faster.
For the last line of the song the man dropped down to his original baritone and sang it slowly and held the last note until it faded to a whisper and then he stopped and it was quiet in the boat but the dog was still barking and the person on the hill was still screaming and I was still pushing the boat down the river.
Aug 26 2012 8:03 pm
Todd let mail pile up. He let it pile up on his kitchen counter, next to his computer, he even let it pile up in the mailbox. Sometimes when he was retrieving the garbage can he would take the mail and throw it directly into the garbage can and wheel it right back into the garage. He’d only pay his bills when someone called him or when the city hung a paper tag on his front door saying that the water would be turned off the next day.
Jason had a brass letter opener and an old clerk’s desk. It sat in the hall just inside his front door next to the coat rack. He brought his mail everyday to this desk and opened all the pieces he had to open with his letter opener and he would file them into the wooden slots inside the desk. They were arranged chronologically; the first slot to the left held the most recently opened pieces of mail. Jason could always tell the difference between junk mail and important mail and he never opened the junk mail by accident. He took this to be a clear indication of how in-tune he was with the world.
Todd and Jason fished together when they could. They were brothers and they were good anglers. But Jason fished with Todd mainly because Todd was his little brother and Jason had certain ideas about how families should interact and one of these ideas was that brothers are supposed to fish together. Todd fished with Jason mainly because he knew his brother thought they should fish together and he felt guilty turning him down.
They fished a small river and took turns rowing. Todd always caught more fish.
Jul 30 2012 7:31 pm
We saw five or six lake trout or steelhead or coho or maybe big browns working bait against the inside of the break wall in Frankfort a few weeks ago. They were in about four feet of water and they would cruise along tight to the boulders and dart away and then back, occasionally turning on their side and slashing forward in a silver arc. I never saw anything like this in Ludington. I’m sure it happens there too, but I never saw it.
The two lane road from Thompsonville is in pretty good shape and rolls through old pine plantations, stands of big aspen, and some cedar swamps. It’s easy to hit seventy five miles an hour and it’s just long enough, about ten miles from there to here, to tune out. I was using the big dune buggy as a landmark. It sat exactly across the road from my turn. They wanted six thousand dollars for it. Someone must have paid them because it’s gone now. The other day I shot past my turn and hit 31 before I knew anything was wrong.
The roads to the upper Manistee are all gravel, dirt, chatter, and sand wallows. They eat trailer lights, wheel bearings, and license plates. The dust has worked its way into everything on my boat. It’s not easy to love, that river, mainly because it’s hard to get to. The lower Manistee is fine, I guess. It actually has boat ramps and paved roads and lots of smallmouth. But it’s big and everybody rips around it in their sleds like gasoline is going out of style.
I’m having a hard time tearing myself away from the Pere Marquette. Not like I have to, but I feel like I should. Not that I’m some old salt on the PM, far from it, but it only takes getting thrown into something big and intimidating to make me appreciate the human scale and the familiar.
I’ve moved twelve times since 1997. I’m pretty fucking sick of moving. I seem to be circumnavigating some point in Ohio, and not entirely on purpose. At least the last two moves have been in the right direction: north.
I’m still guiding. You should book a trip. I’m also working on a movie about cedar drift boats and mousing for browns with the hardest working guide in Michigan, Center City Philly Croff. Everybody relax.
May 27 2012 12:46 pm
Cardiac Arrest stopped at a diner somewhere just west of the Palisades Parkway at three in the morning. It was one of those glass and steel and vinyl diners, the kind that get wiped down a lot but never cleaned. Everything is always greasy.
He’d been up early fishing and drinking and doing a reasonable amount of recreational drugs for the past several days. He was strung out and sun burned. He’d kept himself awake for the drive with amphetamines and cigarettes and Mountain Dew. Surely the caffeine in the soda pop was overwhelmed by the amphetamines and completely unnecessary as an alertness aid, but he liked the mechanical action of drinking out of those wide-mouthed liter bottles and he liked the taste of Mountain Dew. He really liked the last half of the soda, when it was flat and warm and got really syrupy. The best cigarettes were the ones after that last bit of soda.
Cardiac Arrest walked slowly through the parking lot and climbed the long concrete ramp to the door using both handrails, sliding his hands one at a time with each step. The handrails were greasy, but he didn’t care.
There was one woman working behind the counter. It was not Ellen Barkin. Cardiac Arrest did not have a large folding knife. He did have a pistol, though, which was stuck in the waistband of his pants, but he probably wouldn’t ever use it.
There was one man sitting at the far end of the counter eating pie. He was wearing a dirty blue Dickies work shirt and dirty blue Dickies work pants. He had big brown dirty work boots on. He looked up at Cardiac Arrest for a moment and then went back to his pie.
“No. Thanks. I’ll just have a water please. Where’s the bathroom?”
Cardiac Arrest was wearing a sweatshirt and some lightweight fleece pants that were tucked into some wool socks which were crammed into some old sneakers that were untied. He dragged his shoelaces through a lot of grease and urine in the bathroom.
“Miss? I’ll have whatever pie that gentleman at the end of the counter is having.”
Dirty Dickies looked up and over at Cardiac Arrest. “Why would you do that?”
“Well I don’t know, you look like a smart guy.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Nothing, nothing, I’m only trying to say that I bet your pie choice was sound. That’s all.” As Cardiac Arrest sat down on his stool his gun fell out of his waistband and clacked loudly on the tile floor behind him. He scrambled to grab it and put it back in his pants before the waitress noticed. Dirty Dickies noticed. He put some cash on the counter and pushed himself up off his stool and walked out of the diner.
The waitress brought the slice of pie. It was key lime, which struck Cardiac Arrest as kind of odd, because he knew it was going to be key lime before he woke up that morning. He muttered to himself, “Well, anybody that knows anything knows that.”
When he finished his pie he put some money on the counter, pushed himself up off his stool and walked out. Dirty Dickies was waiting for him in the parking lot. “You are one goofy mother fucker. I think you were trying to say I look dumb.”
“Hey man, I wasn’t trying to say anything like that. I’m a little strung out and I just figured you knew what you were doing in terms of pie. I guess that’s kind of weird, but I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“I know you have that gun, but I also know you’re not going to use it.”
“You don’t know that.”
May 9 2012 3:43 pm
The river looked like very strong tea. Sand plumes roiled over the steeper drop offs. The sky was sky blue. The sun was yellow. The wind blew hard sometimes and felt like wind. The boat went down the river just like a boat should.
The wind was blowing and I was in the bow fishing and then there was a loud but muffled clapping sound in the woods and I looked up thinking it was weird gunfire or maybe a turkey flying but then I noticed the big tree just in front of us on the left start to fall. Fred started back rowing and the tree crashed down not more than ten feet in front of us.
The guy was well dressed, and drunk. He took his tie off at some point during the evening and I only ever served him one drink directly. The bar was crowded like a crowded bar. Our faces were about a foot away from one another and we were both yelling like you do in a crowded bar with a loud band playing.
He was asking me to explain his bill. He was looking at the credit card slip. I asked him if he wanted an itemized receipt, but he asked me again to explain his bill. I said I didn’t know what he was talking about. He demanded that I explain his bill. I asked him if he wanted an itemized receipt again. He told me to not be a bitch. He had crazy eyes and he spit a little when he said bitch and then halfway sucked in his lower lip behind his front teeth after he said it, like some sort of weird challenge. He was drunk and had crazy person drunk eyes. He looked at me and said, “Don’t be such a fat bitch. You're a fat bitch.”
I punched him hard in the nose, really hard, and I knew quite distinctly that something cracked in his face. He fell backward into the crowd and slowly crumpled to the floor, at first to his knees and then, as people moved out of the way, he slumped backward awkwardly with his feet under his ass and his left shoulder on the floor. Blood was pouring from his nose and he was blowing bubbles in it with every sleeping breath. I know bartenders should never punch patrons, but I am an animal and the chemicals coursing through my body made me do it.