The Bridge at Gregg’s Crossing

Something from the tackle box:

       God blesses those people who refuse evil advice and won’t follow sinners or join in sneering at God.  Instead, the Law of the Lord makes them happy, and they think about it day and night.  They are like trees growing beside a steam, trees that produce fruit in season and always have leaves.  Those people succeed in everything they do.  That isn’t true of those who are evil, because they are like straw blown by the wind.  (Psalm 1:1-4 CEV)

       A good fishing spot isn’t necessarily one where you always catch fish.  In fact, a good fishing spot can be a place where you hardly ever, or even never, catch any fish at all.  A good fishing spot can be a place where you go with a cane-pole just to watch your bobber float on the surface of beautiful water surrounded by lush green trees sheltering chirping birds and fuzzy critters beneath a clear blue sky with white puffy drifting clouds floating around as a backdrop to that hawk making his ‘lazy circles in the sky!’ – Whew!   

       In short, a good fishing spot is a place to contemplate how wonderful living life in God’s magnificent creation really is, despite all of the other flies you may have in the ointment of your life, as many as those may be.  It’s true.  I’ve know this fact about good fishing spots since I was a kid and had such a spot within bike riding distance from my house. 

       I grew up in very rural Barry County, Michigan, on the corner of Price and Thornapple Lake Roads, a couple miles outside of the nearest town.  If you went one mile south on Price Road, a gravel affair with only one other farmhouse in that whole mile long stretch, you came to the corner of Price and Brumm Roads.  If you then turned west on Brumm Road, another gravel country lane, and went a short half-mile, you would come to a place called Gregg’s Crossing, one of those old one-lane wide iron framed bridges paved with wood planking.  It was the kind of bridge that was built all over rural America around the turn of the last century to accommodate the weight of steam powered tractors, motor trucks, and all the other new heavy metal farm equipment that was rapidly replacing the old wooden stuff of the 19^th century. 

After all, it wouldn’t do to shell out several hundred dollars to purchase a new Frick Eclipse Steam Tractor just to have it collapse the old wooden bridge, designed for your one-horse buckboard, on the way from the freight depot to the farm.  No Sir!  Tax dollars would be spent to provide new iron bridges for the modern farmer, bridges capable of safely bearing five or six tons of weight at one time! – But I digress. 

       By the late 1960s, when I was old enough to bike off on my own for an afternoon’s fishing adventure on the Thornapple River, the old iron bridge at Gregg’s Crossing was obsolete and slated for eventual removal.  It was rusty and ragged, it shook when you drove over it, and some planks were missing here and there, which meant that you wanted to proceed very slowly and carefully when you crossed, whether on foot, a bike, or riding in a truck or car.  When two vehicles approached the narrow bridge from opposite ends at the same time, the local driver would always give the right of way to the out-of-towner - just to see if he made it across!  It was a shambles – and it was beautiful!

       It was a beautiful bridge in a beautiful spot, at least it was to my eleven year-old way of thinking.  While not a huge river, and generally well behaved, the Thornapple has enough of a flood plain to keep farming operations several hundred yards away from it’s banks in most places along it’s meandering route.  This created an immense, if narrow, ribbon of primeval forest winding all the way through the cultivated farmlands of the northern half of our county.  It was, and remains, a treasure. The old iron bridge at Gregg’s Crossing was certainly no more attractive than many a thousand other quiet and scenic fishing spots to be found in rural America, but it was an easy bike ride from my house, which made it magical for me.  Being far enough out of town, that stretch of Brumm Road hardly got any traffic at all, a couple of vehicles a day at most, and to sit in the shade of those silent trees fishing undisturbed beneath that bridge, was to be at one with all that was still good and unspoiled in God’s creation – and to hear His voice in what noise there was. 

       If it sounds wonderful that’s because it was.  The bridge at Gregg’s Crossing was special, and you would think that a kid with a fishing spot like that, within a fifteen minute bike-ride of his house, would spend every free summer hour that he had wetting a line in the water under that bridge. – But I didn’t – for a number of reasons.  I liked to watch cartoons on TV.  I liked to swim in our pool.  I liked to play in the hayloft of our barn.  I had other quiet places I could go to and think, and even fish, that I could get too easier than making the bike ride to that bridge.  All of these factors contributed something to keeping me closer to home on most summer days than the bridge at Gregg’s Crossing, - but one factor played a bigger role than all the other deterrents lumped together, - a dang mean dog!

       As I mentioned earlier, there was only one other place on that mile long stretch of Price Road I would take south from my home to get to Brumm Road, the Spratt farm.  Now, the Spratts were good folk and good neighbors, I have nothing but love in my heart for any and all of them, living or dead, that I’ve ever known.  But, - when I was a kid, - they kept the meanest, nastiest old collie-shepherd mix that was ever left un-tethered in a barnyard, to run loose on their place!  And that dog hated a kid on a bike.  That dog would crouch on the front porch of the Spratt place and watch me coming on my bike all the way from the stop-sign a quarter mile to the north!  You could see him waiting, and all you could do was try and pick up enough speed before you got to their driveway to get past the place without getting nipped.  And it wasn’t that easy to do, let me tell you!

the point of no return!

       That dog would time his launch off the Spratt front porch so that his full-tilt mad dash down their lane would bring him out into the road right as your bike was reaching their mailbox.  From there he would badger, bark, snap and bite at your peddling feet, until you cleared the end of the barnyard a good hundred yards further down the road.  That dog was not fooling, he meant business, and he was good at what he did!  Your only hope of escaping without torn jeans or a bleeding ankle, was to peddle like hell so that he had to run on a line parallel with your flight to keep up with you.  If he couldn’t slow up enough to angle in and bite, then you got away with no more damage than short breath and a sweaty t-shirt.  I did not make that ride south on Price Road without feeling well up to it, for it was not an undertaking to be gambled on when feeling weak or unprepared. 

       To take any other route to the bridge at Gregg’s Crossings added over four miles to the trip.  So, when I did make up my mind to fish that spot under the bridge as a kid, I had to run the gauntlet. I sure did hate the rotten mutt I had to deal with in getting there, but that was just the price one had to pay for the rewards that surely awaited the young fisherman daring enough to make the trip.  Looking back, I have to say that it was always worth far, far more than the trouble it took to go fishing at that spot under the bridge at Gregg’s Crossing, – even though I don’t recall ever catching a single fish there. 

 

Something to take home in your tackle box:

       Once it got too dangerous to cross in a car they closed and took out the bridge at Gregg’s Crossing, and it has never been replaced.  That was a good many years ago now.  Approach the old crossing from either end of Brumm Road today and you’ll have to turn around and go back the way you came.  The few people living down there who had need of the bridge now have to go a couple miles out of their way to get into town.  But they had pretty much been doing that for some time now anyway, as the longer way around had been paved years before the bridge was taken out, so it really didn’t make that much difference to their lives.  Property owners at the Brumm Road dead-ends, on both sides of the river, won’t even let you go down and look at the old crossing anymore.  If you want to see my old fishing hole now, you’d better have a canoe.  So it lives on in my mind as a childhood recollection; a little piece of heaven on earth – that one had to pass through a little piece of hell to get to!

Vintage Fishing

Something from the tackle box:

       The Lord gives strength to those who are weary.  Even young people get tired, then stumble and fall.  But those who trust the Lord will find new strength.  They will be strong like eagles soaring upward on wings; they will walk and run without getting tired.  (Isaiah 40:29-31 CEV)

Vintage Fishing

The fish are rising,

     down by the chapel,

          in that special time between supper and sunset.

It is my favorite time

     to fish the shallows there,

          going out to where the water almost tops my waders.

I take an old fly-rod,

     about as old as I am,

          an Actionglas gleaned from a second-hand shop.

I like the feel of it,

     buttery soft in its flex,

          no need to horse it getting the line to loop out on a cast, aft then fore. 

And an old Martin reel,

     just as aged as the rod,

          a century and half of fishing experience between the rod, the reel, and myself. 

We three are getting older,

     yet not too old to fish,

          each of us approaching our seventh decade of life with this fishing season.

But when the bluegills are rising

     to a little cork popper,

          down by the chapel in the lowering light, - I feel like I’m only ten.

And my rod and reel

     are brand new from the hardware store,

          and God has just blessed us with the joy of catching our very first fish together -

Again.

Something to take home in your creel:

Blessings upon you all.  M.J.  

A Beautiful Morning on Tinker’s Creek

Something from the tackle box:

       Later, the Lord said to Elijah, “Leave and go across the Jordan River so you can hide near Cherith Creek.  You can drink water from the creek, and eat the food I’ve told the ravens to bring you.”

       Elijah obeyed the Lord and went to live near Cherith Creek.  Ravens brought him bread and meat twice a day, and he drank the water from the creek.  But after a while, it dried up because there was no rain.  (1Kings 17:2-7 CEV)

 

working down towards the bridge

       Yesterday was the Memorial Day holiday and, for the most part, I had a very enjoyable time.  Kathy and I spent the entire afternoon at a backyard barbeque hosted by my son Nate and his wife Tracy.  My daughter Andrea and her fiancée Chad were there, along with my Grandkids, Nolan, Gwen and Lydia.  The food and company were great, and Nolan got to show me the new fishing rod he received for signing up for Cub Scouts.  I helped him rig it up and we practiced casting in the back yard.  It’s a sweet set-up for a six-year-old and he will be catching fish with it in company with his grandpa as soon as school is out for the summer.  But, as enjoyable as the afternoon was, what I really want to tell you about was my morning.

       After a Friday and Saturday up at the cottage Kathy and I came home so that I could do the church service on Sunday morning.  Which is fine, except that there is no point in making the five-hour drive back up just to spend one more night and then come home on Memorial Day afternoon to be at work bright and early on Tuesday.  This meant that the holiday proper would, of necessity, be spent around our home rather than on the lake.  This is also fine, especially with the BBQ option at my son’s place on the table, except that I had really wanted to get some more fishing in up north before my lake got too jet-ski/power-boaty for my taste, which it often is on weekends after Memorial Day and all the docks are in.  Oh well, - what would be a good plan B? 

       I know!  Since we don’t have to be at Nate’s house until around noon, I’ll get up early and spend a couple of hours fly-fishing on Tinker’s Creek before we get ready to go.  I should have the fishing all to myself.  This is the opening weekend of Bass season, and almost all of the live-bait trout fisherman, who clog things up on the trout streams in May, will have tossed all of their red-worms out in favor of crawlers and crank-baits to use at the local Bass hot-spots for the rest of the summer.  Good thinking. 

it really was glorious

       What a beautiful morning.  I awoke at six o’clock and was parked near the banks of Tinker’s Creek putting my hip-waders on by six-thirty.  The sun had just cleared the eastern horizon and the sky was nothing but bright morning blue in every direction you could look.  I was right about having the water all to myself, as there wasn’t another soul around to compete with the morning songbirds for my ear. 

       The only fly in the ointment was that, after watching the surface of the water in my favorite spot for several minutes, something I always do before getting in to fish, it was obvious that nothing was feeding off the top right now.  Oh well.  I decided to get into the water upstream, near the overhanging apple tree, and take about an hour to slowly work my way down to the honey-hole near the covered bridge.  Maybe they’d be rising by then.

a gray adam's fly

       What a joy it was to get in and play out line from my sixty year-old Conlon Rod.  The breeze was so gentle that I didn’t even have to take it into account when making my casts.  Upstream, downstream or cross-stream, the little gray Adam’s fly I had tied on turned over perfectly within a foot or two of where I’d aimed it.  Problem was, I was aiming it at nothing!  Not a sign of a rising fish anywhere.  Cast as I would to likely spots, it seemed I was destined to just enjoy the beauty of the morning without a trout to say “hello” to. 

       About half-way from the old apple tree to the covered bridge, right at the spot I’d caught my first trout of the season two weeks earlier, I made a cast to a good spot between two clumps of brush on the west bank.  I didn’t expect anything because I hadn’t been seeing anything yet.  But, by golly, the first rising fish I saw in the half-hour of slow work I’d put in so far, was the nice little brown trout that rose to my Gray Adam’s fly!

       She jumped and flipped and generally worked against me pretty hard, but she was small and I soon had her in my landing net.  She went about nine inches or so, and it looked just like the fish I’d caught in the same spot two weeks earlier.  I like to think that it was, as I’ve become a catch-and-release man in my old age, at least as far as trout steams are concerned. 

what a beautiful creature

       After a quick photo-op, and taking the fly out of her lip, back in the water she went. She was just barely hooked through a sliver of membrane at the front edge of her mouth that was about as thick as the 4x tippet I was using.  I don’t know how I ever got her close enough to net.

       Another fifteen minutes of fishing got me down to the bridge, where I like fishing the best, and here things changed.  I saw a couple of fish that were coming right out of the water after flying insects, jumping at a pretty regular clip, right under the bridge.  There was just enough clearance between bridge and water to turn a fly over right in the shade and I figured I was a cinch to come into more action, - but then I heard Mickey Mouse start to whistle. 

my ring-tone

       The ring-tone on my cell-phone is the tune from “Steamboat Willie,” the very first Mickey Mouse cartoon shown in theaters back in 1928.  It’s a snappy little tune that usually makes me happy when I hear it.  Not so much, right at the moment though. 

       “Hello.”

       “Hey there, pastor Mark.  I know it’s kind of early, and it’s a holiday and all, but I was wondering if you were going to be in the office at all today?  If you are, and you could spare me a little bit of time later on, I sure would appreciate it.  I’ve got something I need to talk with you about and today seems like my best chance to do it.”

       “Oh, hey there Tony.  Yeah, I know we need to go over a few things before next Sunday comes around.  Look, I’m tied up with family stuff all this afternoon, but if you could meet me at the church in about two hours time, that would work for me.”

       “Well, I really need to be on the road by then myself.  That’s why I called so early.  Figured we could get this done over breakfast.  My treat.  Otherwise it will have to wait until next Saturday.  And that’s really pushing it, don’t you think?”

       “Yeah.  You’re probably right about that.  Give me half an hour and I’ll meet you at the C&R diner.  Have my coffee waiting.”

       “Will do!  See you in half an hour.”

       “Bye, Tony.”

       “Bye, Pastor.  And, thanks!”

       Well, - OK, - duty calls. – “I’ll see you later my beautiful little red spotted fish friends.  I sure do look forward to getting to know you a lot better the next time I come here. – And I’m hoping that it won’t be too long!”   

Something to take home in your creel:

       Some folks joke about their pastor only working one day a week, and then only for the morning.  But most of those who do joke about it also know it’s not true.  The ones who think that it is true – don’t joke about it – they gripe about it. 

       In fact, quite the opposite is the truth, especially for small-church pastors, and most of our parishioners know that.  We almost all have scheduled days off, and even when we’re at work we may have stretches of time, maybe even days on end, when we don’t have much that we have to do, but we are always “on call,” pretty much around the clock, all week long, even on our days off, - and you’d be amazed how often that phone does ring. 

       It’s not so bad though.  Most of us who do small-church ministry really don’t mind it that much.  It’s part of our calling.  In fact, we like it.  If you need me, just call me, and I’ll be there for you.  Why?  Well, - because I really do care.  Almost all of us do!  We are there for you in Jesus’ name.  Just remember that even Jesus had to get away from it all now and then, - in fact, - pretty regularly. 

       Lots of folks who read about Elijah living by the creek, getting fed meat and bread by the birds twice a day and drinking crystal clear water from the stream any time he got thirsty, think that it sounds like a pretty good deal!  They think; ‘Why, even though it wasn’t much, all he did was sit there and collect sustenance for doing pretty much next to nothing. I sure never had it that good!’  And they may even think that it’s pretty much akin to the deal that their pastor gets for what he or she does for them. – Well, just keep in mind that it is possible, – even quite possible, – to dry a good small-church pastor’s stream right out – by taking unfair advantage of that 24-7 availability that they give you. 

First Trout of the Spring

Something from the tackle box: 

       Dear friends, God is good.  So I beg you to offer your bodies to him as a living sacrifice, pure and pleasing.  That’s the most sensible way to serve God.  Don’t be like the people of this world, but let God change the way you think.  Then you will know how to do everything that is good and pleasing to him.  (Romans 12:1-2 CEV)

The evening of May 17, 2016

       This afternoon I had an hour or so in-between other things to do and sat down with a book of short stories I’ve been working on.  I read a story by written by Charles Gaines, about a sporting trip that he and some friends made to go hunting and fishing in Louisiana, in a book of articles from old issues of Men’s Journal.  It was a good story, and I especially liked the parts about fly-fishing for redfish in the brackish swamps and bayous along the coast.  It sounded like a great time to me.  And it put me in a hankering mood to get back out on the water with one of my own buggy whips.  We don’t have any brackish water to support big redfish in Michigan, but we’ve got plenty of coldwater streams that support pan-sized trout – and I hadn’t caught one yet this spring!

       I have given it a couple of tries since the season opened two weeks ago though, at my favorite stretch of fly-fishable running water, Tinker’s Creek.  But, as of earlier today, I had been frustrated in the attempt to gather anything into my landing net.  Not that this is the most important thing about getting out to fish for trout, both attempts were otherwise completely satisfactory in my experience of them, just no fish to take a picture of, that’s all. 

       My fist outing had been on the last Saturday of April, opening day of the trout season, bright and early in the morning.  I’ve fished Tinker’s Creek on opening day for the past couple of years and haven’t caught a fish yet!  Which is OK.  Mostly I go to talk to all the other opening morning fishermen, of which there are always quite a few, all fishing with worms.  Unlike some fly-fishermen, I don’t have anything against worm workers on the trout streams.  I used to be one myself, and understand that the trout do not belong to just those of us who prefer to fish the way I now do.  Anyway, I had a good morning, met some nice people, and even watched a couple of them haul in decent brownies on a baited hook, but no fish for me.

the honey hole where I started fishing

       My second outing was just last week.  Same spot, but this time I had it all to myself.  We’d had some rain, the water was running a little deeper and faster than I would have preferred, but it was not un-fishable – barely.   I started out at my favorite spot, a deep honey hole right next to the covered bridge on the upstream side.  This is the same spot I’d talked with and watched the worm fishermen catching fish on opening day.  But, with the water running so fast and high, it was probably a little too deep for any fish down there to take notice of, let alone rise to, my fly.  So I spent some time watching the water upstream where the stream widens and runs a bit slower and flatter. 

the spot I ended up fishing

       Sure enough, I saw something making ripple rings just above the spot where the water starts funneling down over rocks on it’s way to the bridge.  I got out and walked the shore to a spot where I got back in upstream of where I saw the signs of feeding, as I much prefer working a fly downstream over upstream, just my personal preference.  I thought I had it figured out, as on about my third cast that fish rose to an ant pattern I had tied on – and he continued rising to it – four more times over the next five minutes. – But he would not take hold of it!  Each time he would ruffle the water around it - and let it float on by without hauling it under!

right between those two clumps of brush

       Another fly-fisherman walked up looking for a good spot to get in the stream.  He asked me how I was doing, and I told him what was happening.  I said, “Watch this.” And sure enough, on my next cast the same thing happened again!  He just laughed and walked on down-steam to the other side of the covered bridge.  I never did get a hook into that fish’s lip – at least that night.

       Today, after reading those stories of catching redfish on the fly in Louisiana, I was primed and ready to go out and get that fish.  But I also remembered that my lovely wife had mentioned something about something that was going on when she got home from work, probably something that I needed to be around for, so I resigned myself to putting the fishing off for another day.

       Well, Kathy got home at six, and reminded me that what she had going was meeting of the coalition of local library representatives working to pass and upcoming County wide millage proposal to support those local libraries.  A meeting that I had nothing to contribute towards.  I was free to go fishing all evening long if I cared to! 

elk-hair caddis fly

       I was in Tinker’s Creek by six-thirty!  The water conditions were about the same as they had been a week before, as we’d had a bit more rain, and so I didn’t even try the honey hole by the bridge.  I went upstream and saw those feeding rings on the surface of the water right at the same spot I’d had that fish rising to my fly just a week earlier.  I went upstream a bit further to get in and started to work my way down-stream towards my fish.  I was fishing with my favorite pattern, and elk-hair caddis, tossed out with an old Conlon fiberglass rod that is within a year or two of being 60 years old, almost as old as I am.  I love the honey-soft feel of casting with the really old fiberglass rods of the 1950s and very early 60s. 

there she is, first trout of the season

       Today that fish wasn’t messing with my head like he had been last week, at least not quite as bad.  About a half-dozen casts to the spot between to clumps of bushes on the bank and she took it and ran. – But only for about two feet or so before she jumped out of the water and spit it out. 

       OK – I’d had a look at her. - Not too big, to be sure. -   Probably only nine inches on the outside. – More likely closer to eight. – But it was a trout!

       Quite often, if you get a fish on your line and then loose it, you might as well move on to another spot for a bit.  After winning a fight, a trout will often tear off for another part of the stream to rest and recuperate, while all of the thrashing will have spooked any other fish in the vicinity off from feeding for a while.  But this fight had been so brief that I decided that, perhaps, things would settle back into shape pretty quickly. 

       I’m glad I stayed there.  In about two minutes that same fly got another hit in the same spot.  I’m pretty sure it was the same fish!  This time she was hooked good.  She jumped and spun a few times, showing some nice color, but she was all mine.  I netted her, set her on the bank with my rod, took her picture, removed the hook, and then gently put her back in the water to swim off to resume whatever trouty social life she may have. 

Something to take home in your creel:

       Back in my worm-fishing days I used to keep every trout I could for the frying pan.  I loved trout, pan-fried in butter and garlic, back then – and I still love it today! - But, since I’ve gotten older and become a fly-fisherman, I’ve changed my usual means of coming by pan-fried trout.  As a general rule I’m a catch-and-release man now.  Whenever I catch a trout in a local stream – I set it free – and then go buy a couple of farm-raised trout fillets from a pretty decent fish-market in our area.  That way, I get my pan-fried trout – and – I get to go back and perhaps catch that same little beauty, in that same spot on Tinker’s Creek, all over again!

A Stop at Dave Kober's

Something from the tackle box:

       Solomon sent the following message to King Hiram of Tyre: .… Send me a worker who can not only carve, but who can work with gold, silver, bronze, and iron, as well as make brightly-colored cloth.…

       Hiram sent his answer back to Solomon: .… I am sending Huram Abi to you.  He is very bright.  His mother was from the Israelite tribe of Dan, and his father was from Tyre.  Not only is Huram an expert at working with gold, silver, bronze, iron, stone and wood, but he can also make colored cloth and fine linen.  And he can carve anything if you give him a pattern to follow….. (from 2 Chronicles 2 CEV)

       At least twice a month, from April through October, I make the trek from Lake Odessa up to my cottage on Long Lake in Cheboygan County.  It’s a longish drive of about five-hours, but I don’t mind.  I go up M-66 to Kalkaska where I pick up US-131, then up to Boyne falls where I cut over to Old 27 on Thumb Lake Road, then up Old 27, past Mullet Lake, to just south of Cheboygan where I pick up the series of twisting, turning back roads that take me on to Long Lake.  It’s a beautiful drive almost anytime of the year.

       Now, I could get up there in much less time, under four hours, if I were to cut east to the freeway going north out of Lansing, or west to the freeway going north out of Grand Rapids, but I don’t do that unless I need to get up there quick.  I Hate freeway driving!  (And, yes, that capital “H” on “Hate” is there on purpose. I really Hate it!)

       I prefer traveling on what has come to be known as the “Blue Highways,” after the blue lines on old Rand McNally maps that indicated two-lane paved roads with traffic going in both directions.  So what if you get stuck behind a combine for three miles, I just roll down the window and breath, it’s better than the race track anxiety of going north on I-75.  It also allows for frequent stops just to putz around along the way.  I can stop for a cup of coffee at a small town diner, look into an antique shop, or pick up an old fishing rods at a yard sale, or any of that kind of stuff, whenever I want to.  It’s the best way to go up north.

       There is one particular relaxation stop like this that I make at least once every year, and sometimes twice, Dave Kober’s place.  It’s a bit of a detour for me to get there, where M-66 crosses M-115, just south of Marion, I have to turn left and take a ten mile drive out of my way to get to Dave’s place, but it’s worth it – every time. 

       You see, Dave is a craftsman who carves and paints wooden fish decoys, which I find very interesting.  Now, Dave doesn’t just fool around with this, carving a fish every now and then, he does it full time for a living.  A Dave Kober fish decoy is considered a piece of genuine folk-art by many collectors around the United States and beyond, which allows Dave to do pretty well carving his fish decoys.  You can even find his work on display in a couple of museums around the country.  He’s that good. 

the display room of Dave's shop

       But I’ll let Dave tell you himself.  Here’s a paragraph from his own literature:  Dave learned the art of decoy carving as a young boy from his grandfather Lester Ballard and Uncle Mike, who were avid fishermen and spearers.  They both saw his talent and encouraged him to keep carving, which Dave did over the years while working in the Environmental Construction business.  He traveled extensively all over the country on business and carved and fished when time permitted.  Dave gave many decoys to friends over the years who admired his creations.  A few years ago when people began knocking on the door of his home asking for fish decoys, he retired from his job of 25 years and went to his first love – carving fish.

the working part of Dave's shop

       Dave’s shop is something to behold, a work of art in itself, filled up, inside and out, with his own work as well as fishing related paraphernalia he’s collected over the years.  I can’t help but smile every time I pull in his drive and see it again.  Walking inside, I feel like it’s a place I could stay and relax in all day, if I didn’t have to get on up to my own place, but you have to remember that it is a shop. 

       Now, you can pick up a small ready made Kober decoy at Dave’s shop for a pretty reasonable price (I own three myself now), but if you want to special order a fish carving, done to your specifications, you’d better give Dave a call first and find out how long the waiting time on his backlog of work orders currently is.  I’m not kidding.  He’s that busy. 

Dave himself

       But, as nice as Dave’s work is, that’s not the real reason I enjoy stopping by his shop once or twice every year.  The real reason is that Dave Kober, as busy as he gets filling his orders, is still one of the nicest people you’ll ever meet, possessing a ready smile, a quick firm handshake, and the willingness to spend a reasonable amount of time just talking to the people who come and visit his shop.  If you like stories about hiking, hunting, fishing, and camping, Dave can tell a story with the best of them.  And he will, given half a chance.  He will listen to your story with interest, and a smile on his face, but don’t be surprised when he tops it.  I like that about Dave.  His place is one of my favorite stops on the road up north. 

Something to take home in your creel:

       I love being at my place up north, it’s my little patch of Eden, but if I didn’t have to go up north to get there, it wouldn’t be the same.  As the Welsh poet and writer, Gwyn Thomas, said; “The beauty is in the walking…we are betrayed by destinations.”

If you would like more information about Dave Kober and Kober Decoys, go to his website, koberdecoys.com, and you will find a good sampling of his work.   

The Springs Revisited

Something from the tackle box:

       The LORD said to his people: "You are standing at the crossroads. So consider your path. Ask where the old, reliable paths are. Ask where the path is that leads to blessing and follow it. If you do, you will find rest for your souls." (Jeremiah 6:16a NET bible)

       Back in November I posted a story titled, “The Springs.”  In it, I described the marvelous Retreat Center that was the hosting site for my training classes in providing Spiritual Direction.  The story centered on my review of the small spring-fed fishing lake maintained on the property by the owners and staff of this wonderful place, which, weather permitting, I took advantage of whenever I had an hour or two before or between sessions.  It truly is a beautiful place to reconnect and commune with God, and get in a little fishing too, if that is helpful to the endeavor for you.

       Well, just two weeks ago I finished up my second year of study with the Sustainable Faith School of Spiritual Direction under the tutelage of Sibyl Towner and Linda Holmes, and I made my last trip to The Springs as part of that process as well.  It was a sweet and wonder filled two days.  Let me start with the fishing stuff and get to the more important aspects of my trip to end this story. 

       When we arrived Sunday evening, at the end of a five-hour road trip down from Michigan to southern Indiana, my wife and I took a walk around the grounds to stretch our legs and relax before joining my seven fellow cohort mates for dinner with our teachers and the staff of The Springs.  At the end of our stroll through the woods and fields of this 150-acre patch of God’s creation, we came out of the wooded hills on the other side of the pond from the Towner home.  There we found Dick Towner, co-owner and chief grounds keeper of the Springs, trying his hand with the fly-rod.

       “Hey there, Dick!” I called out.

       “Why hello there, Mark,” he replied as he turned to greet me.  “I heard you were bringing your lovely wife along with you this time.  So nice to meet you Kathy!  I was just out here trying to snag something to show off to you when you came up to the house.  We’ve been catching some really nice big bluegills this spring.  Much nicer than what you were catching and wrote about last fall!  Say, I really enjoyed the write-up you did on us for your blog.  It really pleased us to read it.”

       “It was my pleasure, Dick, and I meant every word of it too.  Kathy and I will go to our cabin and clean up, and then come down to the house for dinner in just a few minutes.  I’ll talk to you then.  And you can be sure that I will be out here at the crack of dawn to find out for myself how honest you’re being about the fishing!”

       “You’ll see!”

       It was a lovely dinner with everyone that night. Dick reiterated how much Sibyl and he appreciated the story about The Springs I wrote for my blog, and how nice the fish were that had been rising to the rubber spider so far this spring!

       I was down by the pond shortly after sunup the next morning to check it out.  I had been to The Springs for class in both January and March but hadn’t fished, as it is too cold for rod fishing but not enough ice to go out and drill holes this far south.  I wasn’t as optimistic as Dick was about the prospect now, as I hadn’t seen anything much rising to the surface in Michigan yet, but all the other signs of the spring season did seem to be running about two weeks ahead of Michigan down here near the Ohio River, so I wasn’t without hope.  I had brought along my very best rod, a sleek looking, Ron Barch custom built, 5-weight graphite number.  It was a bit more rod than I like to use for bluegills, but I remembered that I had hooked up with a couple of pretty decent bass last fall and didn’t want to be outmuscled if that should happen again. 

       Dick hadn’t been lying to me!  In less than an hour’s fishing that morning I hauled in a half dozen nice hand sized or better gills, the smallest at 7 inches and the largest pushing 10!  The next morning was a repeat performance with the addition of a nice largemouth bass that vindicated my rod selection for this trip.  I felt as happy as Delmar did in the movie, O Brother Where Art Thou, when he said, “Come on in boys! The water’s fine!” 

Something to take home in your creel:

Sibyl breaking bread for us

       All fishing aside; my trips down to The Springs over the last two years have been a tremendous blessing to my life.  To be able to study and learn more about practicing the art of Spiritual Direction under the likes of Sibyl and Linda means far more to me than all of the fish I’ve caught incidental to that undertaking put together.  I will treasure this experience of drawing closer to God, and learning how to help others do the same through Spiritual Direction, all the rest of my days.

       As well, I will remember and treasure the time spent at The Springs with all of my fellow cohort companions from year 2; David, Deirdre, Tim, Jeanne, Ron, and Laura.  I will especially mention my good friend, Anna, who roped me into taking these classes with her, and who kept me company on the long ride down from Michigan so many times over the past two years.  I love you all so very much, and I hope we can all get together again – at The Springs!

 

a foot washing before parting ways

To learn more about The Springs, go to: http://www.thespringsindiana.org/