Waterlandliving.com

This little guy appeared as intrigued by us as we were by him—“we” being my friend and fellow storm chaser Kurt Hulst and me.

Kurt and I were on a photo expedition near the Otto Audubon Sanctuary last Saturday, braving the cold in order to take advantage of the afternoon light weaving its magic over the Barry County State Game Area. You’d be hard put to find a more photogenic place in this part of Michigan. The region is a crazy quilt of rolling farmland and forested hills pockmarked by scores of lakes and wetlands and laced with streams.

Where whitetail deer are concerned, the area is Utopia. Just minutes prior, we had stopped to photograph a small herd convening in a snowy field. Now, a little farther down the road, we returned the stare of this lone yearling as he scrutinized us from the top of an embankment scant feet away. His picture seems a fitting way to cap off the year of 2008 in the Michigan outdoors.

It has been a year rich in experiences, leaving me with a storehouse of images residing both in my memory and my photo archives. Join me, and let’s backpaddle together through the seasons.

It wasn’t so very long ago that autumn transformed our landscape into a living kaleidoscope. Scarlet maples, gold and purple sassafras, coppery oaks…the forests resembled vast, Impressionistic canvases, drawing the eye like a magnet. Yet the fields also yielded portraits of their own—pictures of gentler glory and deeper texture, with purple exclamations of asters set against the quiet, burnished beauty of the prairie grasses. At a time of year when brilliant hues dominate the landscape, shifting one’s view to close-up yields rewards of a different kind.

The summer is both a revelation of greenness and a paradox of light and dark. Blown into full foliage by the long, bright days, the emerald canopy of the trees blocks out the sun rays that first warmed the forest floor out of hibernation and into bloom. Now the season of the hepaticas, wild leeks, and spring beauties is past. Lemon-like fruit hangs at the juncture of the May apples’ twin, umbrella-like leaves, the forest’s understory has filled out, and the woodland is a warm, shadowy cathedral infused with ambient green light.

But the sun that brightens the sky also energizes the mighty weather machine that cloaks the land in storm shadow. Summer is when squall lines sweep in from the west and northwest before advancing cold fronts, driving long, menacing arcus clouds across Lake Michigan and bringing high winds, lightning, thunder, rain, hail, and relief to the hot, muggy landscape.

Winter, autumn, summer…the progression of the seasons begins with the spring, and with Michigan backroads that lead us out of the winter into the first unfolding of warmth and wildflowers, the return of the songbirds, and the advent of bass fishing. This final image originally appeared in my first post for Waterlandliving.com, in celebration of the arrival of spring in Michigan. Now, standing at the cusp of 2009 and looking back, I’m also looking ahead. Winter has gotten off to a fierce start, and plenty of cold, snowy days lie ahead. But beyond them lies the promise of spring, when golden light coaxes the maples into bud and makes us glad we live in a state so richly blessed with natural beauty.

Last night, after playing a gig at Gun Lake Community Church, I emerged into the parking lot to see the silvery disc of the Snow moon flying high above the treetops. Filtering its radiance through a veil of cirrostratus, it reminded me that the snowy months are at hand.

“Hunter’s moon,” observed Ken, the tenor sax man, but he miscalculated by a month. The Hunter’s moon occurs in October. After September’s beloved Harvest Moon, the Hunter’s moon is probably the best known of the different full moons.

Folklore has a name for the full moon of every month. Thirty days from now, the Winter moon will grace the Michigan skies. In January, through rifts in ragged clouds and howling snows, the Wolf moon will light the northwoods night. February will bring us the Ice moon. In March comes my personal favorite as a storm chaser, the Storm moon—and so on through the ensuing months and seasons: Growing moon, Hare moon, Mead moon, Hay moon, Corn moon.

But that list is just one of many variations on full moon names among different cultures and mythologies. The Farmer’s Almanac, for instance, lists the following moons, beginning with January: Wolf, Snow, Worm, Pink, Flower, Strawberry, Buck, Sturgeon, Harvest, Hunter, Beaver, and Cold. The names in this list all have Native American roots, and reflect a keen awareness of times and seasons.

But beyond their practical application as a simple calendar vitally linked to soil, hunt, and trade, the moon names for me capture something of the mysterious beauty of the moon. The poet William Blake expressed it enchantingly:

The moon, like a flower

In heaven’s high bower,

With silent delight

Sits and smiles on the night.

Last August, sitting on the shore of Gun Lake, I watched another of countless sunsets ignite the sky and then fade into twilight. It was a sight that will never grow old for me—fiery clouds dimming into a molten smolder, lights flickering on around the shoreline like shining jewels in a necklace.

As dusk deepened into night, the Corn moon rose in the east, golden and majestic, like a Gypsy’s earing. The moon trail on the waters paved a shimmering path to the far shore, changing from yellow to silver as the moon ascended her ladder in the heavens. While the grown man in me knew better, the child in me wanted to walk that shining path to its far end, then step off it into the sky and stride up and onward toward that gleaming disc. Haven’t you yourself felt at times a similar longing—something inexpressible and poignant that comes not from logic or reason, but from a place inside where the sense of wonder and mystery dwell?

The Moon When Horns Are Broken Off of the Choctaw Indians has come and gone. In another month, the Oak moon of Medieval England will greet us with her cold embrace. The moons of winter have arrived. But the Planter’s moon of colonial America is not far in the offing, when warmer winds return to breathe life upon the land.

I recognize this light. It is the mellow light of a late-summer afternoon, the slanting rays that gild the landscape of golden September. Streaming out of the soft blue sky past shining cloud rims, this is the light that burnishes Michigan’s fields and forested hills as lush August gives way to the wise, ancient autumn.

September is the golden month.

Now—when the soybean fields turn yellow and the green-clad corn changes to flaxen—now is when the hidden processes of the leaves start to show, when their mysterious, light-activated alchemy lends an aureate glow to the trees.

Have you noticed the goldenrods? They are everywhere, lining the roadsides and dotting the meadows with splashes of buttery brightness. I remember goldenrod from my childhood; it was one of the more entertaining plants that grew in the field next to our burn barrel in Niles, Michigan. The yellow flowers ripen into fluffy, cream-colored seed heads that make fabulous tinder and a cheap form of incendiary amusement for nine-year-old-boys superintending the burning of trash.

Not everything about September is golden. The pokeberry, fecund with dark purple berries set against exuberant, emerald leaves and ruddy stalks, stands like a harlequin against a mellow backdrop of gilded fields and aging corn.

Yesterday I took a drive down the backroads of northern Barry county, south of Middleville toward Hastings and then west through the Yankee Springs area. The coffers of September were open, glowing beneath an azure canopy daubed with delicate cirrus. The first autumn-gold leaves hung from the roadside trees like Spanish doubloons, tall rows of yellowing corn stretched into the distance, and goldenrod crowded the verge in boisterous clusters. Tiger-orange monarch butterflies flitted among the plants, girding themselves for their remarkable southern migration.

In a spot where the curvy road wound between a green-and-yellow hillside of alfalfa on my left and an army of corn on my right, I pulled aside and grabbed my camera. This is a time of year in Michigan, from now through October, when nature overflows with images worth capturing. One good location is all you need, and I had found such a spot.

I snapped photos to my heart’s content, a strange luxury for one brought up on film photography. Digital single lens reflex cameras are a marvel! But a decent picture can still require a bit of work. There was no way I could do justice to a solomon’s seal growing by the field edge without getting down to its level.

The result was worth the effort. For me, it is the crowning touch of the day, and a fitting emblem of September gold.

Tucked away in the southwest corner of Woodschool Road and 108th Street lies one of Barry County, Michigan’s best-kept secrets. The eighty acres of forest, wetland, and upland field deeded as a gift to the Grand Rapids Audubon Club by Dr. James Maher in the late 1970s are miles away from anywhere—and that’s just fine. Seclusion is a good way to keep places like the Maher Audubon Sanctuary from being loved to death.

Out of the way doesn’t mean poorly maintained, though. The trail system here is well conceived, with solid boardwalks and two benches where one can pause, rest, and look. And this unique Michigan landscape invites plenty of looking. I’ve been coming here for at least ten years, and I never cease to marvel at the beauty of this many-faceted sanctuary. Season to season reveals different aspects of the place, emphasizing its rich biological and ecological diversity. According to the Grand Rapids Audubon web page for Maher Sanctuary, “Yellow-breasted Chats have been found near the marl pond. Screech Owls have been found roosting in several locations. Common Snipe may be found ‘winnowing’ over wetlands in spring. Some of the best sightings here are plants, not birds.”

Being a plant man myself, I’m certain that last statement is true. I’ve got a pretty good eye for high-quality habitat, and the Maher Audubon Sanctuary is prime, a fascinating tapestry of hardwood forest, upland, prairie fen, and shrub swamp, through the heart of which flows Caine Creek. I’m struck by Calvin College biology professor Fred Warner’s assessment of the sanctuary following a botanical inventory conducted in 2002: “I cannot overemphasize the beauty and conservation significance of this parcel…sections of this property have likely been unaltered from presettlement times. A notable element of this survey is that a total of 67…species have not officially been recorded for Barry County.”

All that to say, when you visit the Maher Sanctuary, you may wish to bring a wildflower guidebook, and you’ll definitely want to keep your camera ready and your eyes peeled.

For an easy route to the site, take Alden Nash south from I-96 to 100th Street. Head east half a mile, then turn south on Baker Road to 108th Street. Turn west on 108th and look for the little parking turn-off with a sign board on your left about a quarter-mile down the road.

You’ll find the trailhead right next to the parking area. Plan on an easy walk of roughly one mile. How much time? It’s up to you. You can easily walk the entire loop in half an hour. But what’s the rush? Slow down and open your senses. That’s why you’re here, right? Places like this reveal their treasures to the patient. So pause and savor the spiced wetland air…the striking, crimson blossoms of the cardinal flower and the spikes of its cousin, the great blue lobelia…the primal ratcheting of sandhill cranes…the red berries of Jacks-in-the-pulpit at summer’s end…the play of light on Caine Creek, filtered through a canopy of maple leaves. Cross the stream, ascend a hill, and you’ll find a bench with a view—an overlook of the broad fenland stretching below.

A little farther, and another boardwalk takes you across more wetland, then ushers you onto the last stretch of trail, past a small pond and through the woods back to your car.

Take one last, savory breath before you climb inside and head home. One for the road to tide you over till next time—because there will be a next time. Trust me, you’ll be back.

This is the time of day I love—this time right around sundown when the lake waters turn to glass, and the forested shoreline, gilded by the sun’s failing rays, glows gold against shadow-green before deepening into the twilight.

It is topwater time. Magic time.

I am standing on the shore of Hall Lake in the Yankee Springs Recreational Area, casting my trusty tan-and-white Pop-R into the mirror-smooth water.

In a scattering of small boats, a handful of other fishermen are similarly engaged across the lake. A boat is nice, but on this mellow evening, shore fishing will do just fine for me.

I make a cast, watching the lure as it arcs through the air and splashes down, rippling the mercury-like surface. My fishing line settles down after it, tracing a hair-thin trail over the water. I wait a few seconds, enough time for any nearby bass to make a first play, them begin my retrieve, twitching my pole the way one does with this kind of lure—twitch, sploot!…twitch, sploot!…

If ever there is a time when I’m likely to get a strike, it is now. I do well with topwater fishing, “well” meaning, in my case, that from time to time I actually catch a fish. Other kinds of lures just don’t produce for me. I know, because I own every conceivable kind of lure there is. People mistake my tackle box for a pole barn with a handle on top. Look inside it and you’ll find a galaxy of stickbaits, spinnerbaits, plastic worms and grubs, lures of every size and denomination, all sharing one common characteristic: they repel fish lips. At least, they do in my hands.

My fishing buddy Jack refers to my fishing technique as “dredging.” I find his terminology lacking in refinement. I prefer to think of what I do as “un-fishing.” During most hours of the day, un-fishing is my customary practice, one I have honed to an art form.

But at topwater time, I fish.

Hmmm…the Pop-R isn’t producing. Might be time to try something different. A crankbait, maybe? I try one, make a few casts…mmmph. Nothing.

Okay, a Jitterbug. Yes, time for a Jitterbug, definitely. Topwater time isn’t complete without using one. And, what the heck—let’s just take off the shoes and socks, and gain some yardage out of the fact that I’m wearing shorts.

I wade out into the lake, out to where the water is above my knees. After a few casts, I feel something bump into my leg and something else tickle the top of my right foot. Looks like I have visitors. Small fish are showing up, evidently to investigate the new source of cover that has entered their territory.

Ignoring them, I continue to cast. Time passes. The sun slips below the treeline. The boats are coming in.

The mosquitoes are coming in as well, and they’re setting up drilling operations on my skin as freely as if they’d been granted mineral rights. It’s time to leave. There will be other topwater times this summer, hopefully many of them.

With its abundance of lakes and rivers, Michigan brims with both fish and opportunities to catch them. And topwater time is the great equalizer, when anyone can eventually catch a fish who wants to—even an un-fisherman like me.

This sign has always been one of my favorites. It is found at the Airport Sand and Gravel Company on State Rd, just outside of Hastings Michigan in Barry County.

I like it so much that I am thinking of having our FOR SALE signs redesigned. I need something a little larger than what I have now and this just may work. I only wonder what the various townships would say.