Big Ole Lake

The wind changes, the air warms, insects begin to fly. They swarm. Now the fish will begin to feed again. Everything changes again. Watching summer turn to fall, in an instant.

The pines are tall here. Tall and thick and green. The ground is wet in the morning. It soaks your sandals. No rain for weeks, yet the ground is wet, the lake is high, and there are no complaints, no thirst.

It has been calm all week, but now the wind is up. When it dies, I will take out the canoe. There is a point across the bay, where a fallen tree points down into the water. A good place for bluegills, possibly northerns.

The wind blows through the pines and birch. If there is no magic here, there is none anywhere.

Big Ole Lake, 9/18/2009
The change in weather – drier, breezier – changed the way the fish bite. It takes longer for the lake to warm up. So they don’t start biting until later in the day. Even then, it’s not like the frenzy we experienced when we arrived last weekend.

Which is OK. There’s a trade-off. The current conditions could be described as perfect in terms of human comfort. What’s good for fish to feed is not always best for our pampered selves. Not that I’m complaining – I wouldn’t change a thing about this week.

We knew we were on the right path when we left the tar north of Grand Rapids, winding and roller-coasting through dense pine and birch forest, broken here and there by clear, deep lakes. The owner’s name was written on an oar nailed to a tree, as he said it would be, plus there was this:

NO TRESSPASSING —- Owner: Itchy Trigger Finger

That was OK – He was expecting us, so we felt safe.

There was a party in progess, which the owner had “warned” us about. He asked me if we were OK with that. I told him – I guess we get to go to a party – He said – That’s what I was hoping you would say. When we arrived, though, I declined the invitation to throw horseshoes (“had to get settled”) and unloaded the contents of our Malibu into the cabin. An hour later, it looked “lived-in.” After we had a little lunch, explored the dock, and figured out how to use the composting toilet, we joined the crowd in the garage. People had come out of the woodwork, and the woods, to play horseshoes and darts, drink a keg or two of cold beer, and eat deliciously fresh fried crappies and sunnies. We would never had expected to be greeted by so many laid-back, accepting folks on a northwoods vacations. The Grand Rapids classic rock station filled the air through night, and we didn’t mind a bit. I heard a few of them carrying on now and then, but we slept well. The kegs were empty the next morning. Almost everyone was gone, except for those (relatives?) in a couple of small cabins, and the Harley in front of our cabin. The rider came back to get it later. Smart guy.

We started fishing the next day. The bluegills were wild and ravenous. Highs were in the 80s, with little wind. The fans in the cabin kept us cool, though, with the windows wide opened to the lake. The magical compost toilet kept us comfortable as well. For those of us who have frequented outhouses, this was a miracle of modern technology. Because no matter how well-built or clean the outdoor privy, it’s still more than enough adventure at 2 A.M. for most of us. All you really want to do is satisfy a simple physical need.

The way a composting toilet works is simple: Waste is deposited in the container, peat moss is added, and the drum is turned using a crank on the front. A small fan suffices to evacuate odors. At some point, someone has to remove the compost and put it to good use. It’s kind of fun in a way, but some may find it it challenging when compared to conventional facilities. I feel it’s worth the effort, and it’s very, very green! Learn more at www.Sun-Mar.com.

Then there is the cleaning of 30 fish. If anyone would like to show me how to clean a bluegill in less than a few minutes, feel free to do so. It takes time, and stinks, but it must be done. The results are incredible when properly prepared in a frying pan. The fish of Big Ole, however, did not go to waste. I’ll return next year to this deep, clean and fertile lake, to catch a few more.