Recently, I accepted an invitation to travel north of the Mason Dixon line to a land far far away known as Michigan with long time friend Chris Smith, Paul Bryant and his son Conner, to fish for king salmon (Chinook). The time of the year was right for the salmon to be running up a tributary of Lake Michigan and we were up for the catch.
The drive there was fairly uneventful except for a slight detour through Louisville, Kentucky. In the age of GPS units, detailed maps and very well labeled roadways, we seemed to lose a fairly notable stretch of highway known as Interstate 75. About an hour later and lots of good natured ribbing, we were again heading in the right direction to the far far north toward the foreign continent.
We arrived at Bruce’s Deer camp at around 6:00 am and unpacked the truck and threw our sleeping bags on top of some foam mats on top of bunk beds and caught up on some sleep. We awoke around 10:00 am, and went out to get license and tackle.
With high tech gadgetry in mind for hooking some fish, our guide changed our thinking a bit and led us to the low end of the fishing technology section, which basically consisted of treble hooks and large split shots weights. The treble hooks had a piece of yarn (UT orange in color) attached to them. This was to give one the illusion that you were actually fishing. Come to find out, this time of year the salmon are not actively feeding and the fish have to be snagged with the treble hook or to use the Yankee term “tight lined.”
It did not take long to get the hang of the technique and we were “catching” salmon pretty quickly. A couple hours later and we were leaving with our three fish limit per person. The hike back was much more strenuous as it consisted of dragging the 45 pounds each of fish up the bank and then up the 205 stairs leading to the parking lot (special thanks to Conner who counted each one of the steps each time.)
We made a quick stop at the public cleaning station to process the fish and to save the $3.00 per fish cleaning fee that the numerous commercial fish processing operations charge in the area. We quickly fell into a routine of having the kids scrub the fish to remove any mud or leaves that may have collected (remember the drag up the stairs). While I filleted the salmon, Chris and Paul would trim and bag them up for smoking and freezing. When we arrived at the deer camp, Chris would start two batches smoking. The smell of very fresh smoked salmon is a very pleasant treat.
Chris’ brother Bruce and his two sons and four nephews arrived early Thursday morning to do some deer hunting, and quickly let us softies know what they thought about us doubling up with the foam mats. However, I have to report that they sure were comfortable while they lasted.
The name calling was intense and battle lines were drawn. We were the hillbillies and they the yankees. Somehow if Blue and Grey uniforms could have been found, it could not have been more perfect. Somehow in all this, I was also giving the nickname