Every year it’s the same. Taking the boat out of the water has such a profound affect on me, and I’ve never quite figured it out. This year I waited later than ever, having taken it out on November 14th, as I see some low 30’s and high 20’s for the next week’s forecast, and the lake level is going to be let down soon. I’ve faced it, it’s time, but it’s just sad.

Forget the calendar year, my year ends when the boat comes out. I used to drink significantly before, during, and after taking the boat out to take away the sting, but now nowdays that’d give me a headache. Spring, summer, and fall are so alive. I’m tuned into green grass, flowers, verdant tree tops, and the ever present singing birds and wildlife that seems to be everywhere if you just look. Not to mention plenty of sunshine to brighten the soul and warm you to the core, or soft evening breezes slinking through window screens and caressing sunburnt skin.

Though I love Michigan’s changing of the seasons, November has always been sullen for me, looked like everything was dying, cold and dark. Plus, the holidays can really get me down, as my extended family has never really been that close, though surely we all care about each other. All the commercials on TV showing everyone together in a cozy house clinking champagne glasses and being “full of good cheer” never seemed to materialize during my years. I’m not just being negative, and I’m not alone in this - am I? I suspect there’s a large group of us who feel the same way, but put on the happy face for everyone else.

Anyway, on my way down the stairs to the boat something hit me. Since I had to go from the house to the launch site anyway, why don’t I take a left turn and try one more time for a few big bluegills. They had to be there. Drake was at the store, so it would be just me and my thoughts. Seemed fitting. I grabbed a couple of rods on the way out.

With the boat off the lift and started up, I idled out over the drop off then put her up on a plane. Though a little dangerous due to water temperature and the fact that no one could come and get me if I went over, I decided to stand up for the ride. The lake was calm and the ride was smooth. It was raining pretty hard, and I as I turned my head away I noticed how much I liked the sound of it hitting the side of my rainhood and the chest of my rainjacket, under which I had a goose down coat. Water ran down the front of the rainjacket, over my neoprene gloves and waders. I might have well been a duck, being quite warm despite the cold, wind, and rain.

I pulled up to the spot, anchored, and made my first cast. Looking away to fool with something, then up, I found my bobber had already disappeared. A fat 9″ bluegill was soon in the boat, bringing a smile to my face. For the next 2 hours I enjoyed using my hand tied micro jigs nad watching the full “C” shape bend these bluegills put in my 11 foot steelhead rod, as I landed a few over 20, short of my limit as always. I had some for me, and some to give away.

With my hands getting raw and cold from leaving my gloves off, I pulled anchor, stowed everything away, and headed for the launch ramp on a full plane to take the boat out for the year. I took the boat close to shore, looking at each of my friends houses, thinking of them and how we had run into each other on the water so often this summer in fishing boats, sailboats, kayaks, and the like. Pleasant memories flashed through my mind as I passed house after house.

Throttling back at the entrance of the canal, the cold wind changed to a warm soft breeze created only by the boat moving forward, and a pungent sweet smell of wet fall leaves concentrated by the narrow tunnel of the canal. I slowed down to let it sink in, fully.

With the boat on the trailer and driving away, I realized what a great day it had been. What nice things I had experienced. And I realized that even though I had a long standing tradition of feeling bad on this day, I didn’t.

Things can change. People can change.

It was a warm November day for Michigan, perhaps 60 degrees, intermittently sunny with a gusty wind from the south. I called my brother Dave and asked if he could interrupt his day for an afternoon of fishing. I knew the fish were biting from the day before, that I had searched for them by constantly moving along the drop offs for almost 3 hours before finding them at a canal mouth where the bottom contour had formed a peninsula. My theory was that even though there was no current coming out of the canal that the natural currents would wash cold water in and move warm water out into the lake onto the drop off where the bluegills would find it, yet still be in close proximity to the deep secure water.

Anyway, Dave put aside work deadlines for the day and came out to the lake. I had taken the dock out already, so I waded out to the boat, took it off the lift, and brought it to shore where Dave and Drake were ready to jump on. With everything loaded up, we were on our way to the canal mouth that had produced so well a few days before.

I always play that game. Should I take the boat out like everyone else, or leave it in and risk taking it out on a cold day when the snow is flying? Why does this bother me? Don’t I know how to dress for the cold? I’ve taken it out before when it was 20 degrees and the wind was blowing, and no matter how cold it is I end up sweating to death in the process anyway.

I guess it’s just the preparing for winter thing, and the fact that everyone else has taken theirs out and must know something I don’t. Anyway, I’m always glad I leave the boat in for as long as possible and get into some great fishing and solitude.

With the boat up on plane going downwind, I sensed an artificial calm warm feeling, and strange peace as we were actually travelling the same speed as the wind. This would soon end as we stopped and tried to set up anchor. As we approached the spot I had done so well on the day before, we idled the boat around, looking at the depth finder to get a mental picture of the drop-off countour, as the fish would be relating to the specific edge where shallow meets deep. We anchored up on the shallow edge, and planned to cast to the deeper water. The wind was howling. One anchor wouldn’t do. I like to anchor the boat with one anchor at the stern and one at the bow sort of squared off to where we want to cast, but on this day the wind hit the side of the boat and pulled two anchors allong the bottom, so we had to put both anchors off the bow of the boat to reduce our profile.

We started out using hand tied gold micro jigs tipped with Berkley Gulp grubs, that had worked so well the day before. Dave was immediately into a big bluegill. We concluded that the wave action caused by the wind was bouncing our bobbers, and therefore the micro jigs, in a wonderful, natural swimming motion which made this type of fishing both effective and relaxing. I cast out, and got one too. That’s the way it was, sort of one every 5 minutes kind of thing, and really that’s not too bad fishing. As usual, curiosity got the better of me, so I started changing things up a bit to see if we couldn’t dial it in a bit more. I tipped the gold jig I was using with a tiny chunk of nightcrawler, just enough to give scent, and was probably getting hits 3 to 1 to the Gulp Grubs. Thinking a little harder, I remember it was kind of a dark day last time, and wondered if the shiny gold jig was just a little too much for a bright sunny day, so I switched to a red head white rabbit fur micro jig and tipped that with the worm chunk. Bang. That was it.

We also found out that little bluegills were right up against the drop off, and that the big bluegills were quite a ways off the drop off, in 30 feet of water, suspended down 3 feet. With the pattern identified, we settled in for what was a great time catching a big bluegill about every 3rd cast. That’s some fine fishing in anyone’s book.

Drake had the time of his life again. We purposefully leave the livewell open because he loves to watch fish. This time, though, it wasn’t good enough to just get a lick of the fish and chase them around in the live well. Oh, no. He had to stick his entire face under water, try to catch the fish, and we laughed outloud to hear him blow out bubbles. Just when I thought he couldn’t get any crazier, he put both his feet in the livewell and almost all of his head, “fished” for a while, then pulled out and shook. What a nut. This went on for about 20 minutes, then he got tired and just laid down on the comfortable boat seats and watched us catch fish.

I watched him as I have done so many times before. A few times, without Dave noticing, I stared at him…hang on, here I go. I refused to notice the how the white around his face had increased. I refused to realize that just last year, and certainly the year before he would have still had boundless energy running from bow to stern, and demanding to lick every fish as it came to boat. I also refused to notice that ever so slowly his muscle mass on his fantastic body was decreasing. I didn’t want to think he’s getting older. I stuffed all this down as far as I could and held it there. I would think of it later, but for now I wanted to be on the boat with Drake and my brother, catch fish, and laugh.

And we did. We caught as many as we wanted, got everything together and headed for home. Drake rode up on the deck as the boat bounced across the waves, bending his legs with each wave with the grace of an experienced seaman. With the boat put away, Dave had to get going to an appointent later that evening. We both agreed it was a fantastic day of fishing, and are looking forward to going again in the next couple of days.

Now it’s later, and I can’t stop thinking of my thoughts of Drake when we were in the boat. As I write this I’m doing a fair job of fighting back emotions to get this all down in print. It strikes me that we’re in the November of the year, and it strikes me down that Drake is probably in the November of his life. I stop the math in my head. You know the formula, how many human years equal how many dog years. I purposefully start yelling in my brain to confuse the result. By now he has passed me, as I’m probably in the August of my life. Even though he’s supposed to be just a dog, it brings me to my knees to think of him reaching his end of December. I just cannot imagine what life will be like without him.

Every so often this happens. It’ll be alright. Drake is healthy, happy, and having a great life. I need to get real. As I’ve said before, how long he’s on the earth is not up to me, but how well he’s taken care of is. How did an animal become so important to me? Maybe because he’s crazy about me. Maybe it’s because he’s so smart, unquestionably genuine, loyal, and so much more. Drake’s not going to wake up someday and completely change what he thinks about me. Who can quantify all the reasons dogs are so great? Who can explain why they are so much better than people? Certainly my dog is a better human being than I am.

Oh well. I know he’s going to have a long life. And maybe it’s only July. All I can do is keep that tail waggin’, pat him on the head, rub his belly and massage his back, and every once in a while when he walks by me give him a pull on the tail just for the heck of it and pretend I didn’t do it.