John Pepin

“Deadlines and commitments, what to leave in what to leave out,” — Bob Seger

When I stepped out of my Jeep, the mud was thick and black — like Hawaii’s oozing basaltic lava — and the surrounding grass was covered with puddled water.

It was raining.

The drops of water plopped into the river, disrupting the rolling and glossy conformity of the river’s smooth surface. After falling from the sky in just a few seconds, these raindrops would now be on a southward trajectory.

My mind took the mental journey, following the river course downstream from here to where this stream would flow into a larger river and then another before than finally dumping itself out into the waiting waters of Lake Michigan.

The tributaries of this river system, like those of other basin drainages, are treelike or “dendritic” in their structure. That is why stream tributaries are referred to as branches.

The widest or thickest branch, that would form the tree trunk, is often referred to as the middle branch or the main branch of the river. I recall from my youth one tributary, not far from this place where I’m standing in the mud today, that had been named the north branch of the east branch of the west branch of a specific river.

The way names are derived for various things, from rivers to roads and streets to animals and birds and cities and towns, is interesting to me.

One of my favorite books on my shelf is the “Dictionary of American Bird Names,” which Roger Tory Peterson, of Peterson field guide fame, claims “no informed birder should be without.”

Here are a couple of quick facts from that fascinating and well-worn, little hard-covered book with the red dust jacket. Hairy woodpeckers are named for their “rather shaggy appearance, especially about the head.”

In some localities, white-breasted nuthatches are sometimes referred to as “devil down heads,” for the bird’s habit of moving head-first down tree trunks, in the fashion of a daredevil. “Nuthatch” comes from “nut hack,” after the bird’s occasional habitat of wedging a nut too big to swallow into a crevice and hacking at it with its bill to reduce the size of the nut.

Mourning warblers were named as such because “the markings on the breast suggested the black clothes of grief for the dead.” Two noted ornithologists lamented the name because they felt the mourning warbler “seems as happy and active as most of the birds.” The dictionary authors added: “Our only comment is, ‘Good grief.'”

These are the kinds of things that tend to run through my mind when I’m outdoors hiking or fishing or just sitting and admiring the beautiful countryside.

On this day, I was determined to get outside fishing no matter that the temperature was in the low 30s and the rain that was falling would soon turn to graupel and then blowing snow.

I dressed warmly and my rain jacket, hood and chest waders kept me from getting cold and soaked. I was nice and warm. The cold, brisk air felt refreshing to me as I moved through the leafless tag alders, out for trout.

Beyond the raindrops, the woods were surprisingly quiet, except for a couple male ruffed grouse that were almost continuously drumming their wings, somewhere atop their “drumming logs” in the surrounding underbrush.

Even as the snow was falling, I heard, on only a couple of occasions, the plaintive and crisp singing of a male song sparrow that pierced the relative silence. The weather might have been considered bad for fishing by some, but the fish were biting.

I was able to bring home a limit catch of five brook trout.

This is one of my favorite times of the year, just after the complete deadness of the landscape has been brushed over by some forest floor greenery and sometimes color – like the dazzling yellow of the marsh marigolds blooming today. The time when the trees have budded but have yet to leaf out.

This allows for seeing deep into the woods to find places I’d like to see and visit. Places that will be completely obscured by the green leaves of summertime in just a few more warm days.

I like to follow animal paths through the woods to find the places they bed down and forage. These tracks also often lead to places where animals go to drink, which often can result in me finding new places to fish or float or flop.

When I’m out fishing, I find that I tend to take a lot of people with me.

In my head.

I often recall days gone past of fishing with my dad or my wife, my brother, my kids or others. Those memories keep me warm, even when standing in the coldest of water or the heaviest of rain or snow.

I think this is a good way to help me remember so many good times while at the same time realize how much I miss fishing with all of them. Different fishing partners, different dynamics. Different stories, different things discussed. All of it, gold.

If I expand the activity beyond fishing, I can include a lot more people in my reveries.

No matter how many times I get to be outside enjoying the wonders of nature, I want more. I know there is unrivaled peace, love and music out there.

Even if I can only get outside as far as the backyard, there’s so much happening for my senses to engage it’s hard to stay indoors. I am really enjoying seeing the flowers we planted last autumn popping up out of the soil, pushing farther up and out every day, toward the sunlight.

Dandelions have bloomed in the front yard, reminding me of something a plant biologist once told me: The difference between a weed and a plant is where it is growing.

I can’t tell whether it’s the isolation of the pandemic, the cooler spring weather being seemingly reluctant to change or something else, but time, seasons, dates and days all seem to be out of place.

It seems so much earlier in the year that it really is. It seems like the trees and the plants and everything else is late, while at the same time, some things seem early. For some reason, it’s getting harder and harder to tell what day it is.

In some ways, it’s scary. It seems like winter just left while at the same time, I am sensing it will be Fourth of July before I know it. What happened to April?

It seems like I spend the wintertime harboring thoughts that I should have done more outside during the summertime. I think the same is true, to a lesser extent, for summertime.

The bottom line I read is that I need to get outside more often.

Back at the Jeep, I stamp the mud off my fishing waders the best I can. I reach for an ice-cold pop out of my cooler and I put the fish in there to stay cold. After I take off my waders and my rain jacket, I sit in the vehicle sipping my cola.

My muscles are sore from the moving around I did out there in the snow, but I feel great. I am rested and revived in my head and my heart.

I realize that I didn’t see another person out here in these woods all afternoon.

On my way back down the wet graveled two-track road, I drive slowly and look for deer trails disappearing into the tag alders on the river side of the road. I see several places I plan to hike into before the leaves pop out.

The calling adventure to find and see new things pulls me strong. I pledge to myself that I will get back out here as soon as I can put aside my obligations.

The woods, dark and deep, wild and wonderful, are calling.

I take another sip and drive on.

Editor’s note: Outdoors North is a weekly column produced by the Michigan Department of Natural Resources on a wide range of topics important to those who enjoy and appreciate Michigan’s world-class natural resources of the Upper Peninsula.