2021

Playing Canadians and Indians

Muddy had called me with an opportunity to join him on a bucket list trip for both of us. So, last week, we were in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan smelt fishing the remote shores and confluences of Lake Superior from an Indian Reservation. We stayed in a casino but spent long hours around a campfire along the shores of the big lake they call Gitchy Goomy waiting for smelt. The fish come in at night so we spent lots of time sitting nearby and waiting for them. Muddy, knowing his main job was to do something for my column’s “research”, would grin when I’d hold a pen and paper look at him and say, “C’mon, do something funny.”

The first night, the run was uneventful as the run didn’t happen but we tested the waters and watering holes with the locals and smelt campers until three in the morning. We shared the creeks with Canadians, local “Yoopers” and members of the Chippewa tribe. By the second night of smelting, the Canadians, Yoopers, and Chippewas all considered and adopted Muddy as a local institution of the great, northern Big Woods. They called me “Bill” which they said translates roughly to, “white man with peculiarly bad luck”.

Muddy is not a local but has been stomping around that area for years as a US Fish and Wildlife employee but yet this was still his first time smelt dipping. He also happens to, successfully, pretend to speak at least ten languages fluently, while still working on English and having conversational German skills. As it was, by day three when we showed up on the streams, all would call out “Muddy!” and run up to him to ask fishing advice, landmark and history questions. He’d answer them with jibberish that all would understand except me. The Chippewa elders were soon bringing their children to him to learn how to pronounce native words. (“Muddy, how do we say in Chippewa,” White man with bad luck?” He would answer, “Biillll, Biill, Bill. Very good class.”) Canadians were asking him how to build a snowman, Yoopers how to poach deer and the natives how to build a casino.

I had lost $50.00 at the blackjack tables in twenty minutes despite being up, roughly plus five, three decks into a six-deck shoe and called it quits. That was rough…

So, the last night, fifty bucks lighter but expecting a big run, my spirits were up. Muddy went off to show the natives how to do a smelt dance and presumably the Canadians how to play hockey leaving me with a bunch of Yoopers who had been sharing pungent, now legal, herb while dipping. I looked through the dark at the fun-loving group with glowing butts fishing and thought, as a retired Warden, what a “gold mine” I’d be walking into if I was still on duty. Just then, behind a new flashlight on shore, I heard, “You guys hold up your fishing licenses for me, eh!” My first time checked, ever! A shiny new, young, warden beamed right in on me, proudly displaying my 2021 fishing license. You there. Let me check your net! My lucky waders had leaked despite my expert patch job. Oh, the patch held up but water had gotten in from everywhere else, so it was a struggle to get up on the bank. “What’s wrong with my net, Officer?” I innocently asked as I tried to look cool while spewing water from various places in my twenty-three-pound waders. The warden sternly looked over my net saying, “It appears to be too big, sir, and you look like a rookie.” “What does a rookie look like?” I asked. “Try to look like that experienced, native looking smelter there, that’s an old pro” said the warden, pointing to Muddy. I said, “That’s my buddy, and I’ll have you know that I’ve been smelt dipping longer than him!” (It was true, I had Muddy by fifteen minutes and exactly one smelt). The officer continued very professionally; “your net hoop seems too big.” A new friend of Muddy’s who overheard the conversation spoke up on my behalf. “It’s not a round hoop, sir, so he’s good. A round net has a wider area than an angled one.” The warden tipped his hat back and suddenly his badge didn’t seem so shiny. Emboldened, I decided to continue the pushback. “Yeah, sir, I’m new but I’d never use a round net that was too big.” He replied, “Well, you’re fishing with Muddy, so you must be ok, have a good night.” The young warden turned and headed back into woods, presumably, back to his vehicle, crushed that he didn’t have a pinch. Chest out, I jumped back into the creek and thanked the guys. “We showed him, he’s just looking for a cheesy pinch picking on some legal fun-loving sportsmen!” I declared. “Yeah, said one of the Chippewas, I bet you even have a reservation permit for that camp fire don’t you.” “Yes…?” I answered weakly. “And while that light looks brighter than regulation, I’m sure you have the right size lens…” “Sure???”, I said, now nodding to Muddy the old high sign that it was time to retreat to the vehicle.

As we made it out to the truck and started packing, the warden was out there writing a guy up for not having a license. The warden smiled and nodded at Muddy. A light bulb went off, “Wait a minute, Muddy, there’s no limit to a dipping hoop size is there…?”

See you along the stream.