 |
This web page brought to you by the Sierra Club. You can view the original page on the Sierra Club's website at http://www.sierraclub.org/sierra/200607/profile.asp |
|
 |
| According to lodge owner Rusty Gates, gas drilling near the Au Sable will ruin the fly fishers' experiences: "This is their head time, and they don't want people messing with it." |
At the fly-tying station in Gates's busy shop, a young man bends over a deer hide in fierce concentration, snipping tan-colored hair with scissors, then wrapping it in pale yellow thread around a barbless hook. "For the Trico hatch," Gates says by way of explanation, as though I have any clue what a Trico is. (I learn later that Tricorythodes stygiatus is an insect that hatches July through September in these parts, usually in early morning.)
"I came to work at 6 a.m. because it's warm out," says Gates, who also owns and operates the adjoining Gates Au Sable Lodge with his wife, Julie. "I knew guys would want to have a cup of coffee and get on the river." Several mornings ago, he knew the opposite: He could sleep in because it had dipped to 34 degrees the night before, so the hatch would come later in the day. "Everything we do during the season is dictated by temperature: air temperature, water temperature. Then, of course, you've also got to know the insect cycles to know what flies to use."
Featured in the book Fifty Places to Fly Fish Before You Die, the Au Sable is a sanctuary and vacation destination for thousands of devoted anglers. A stretch of the main stream outside the lodge's dining room is even called the "Holy Water." The name was bestowed by Gates's father, a fanatical fly fisherman who had fished the stream with his kids since the 1950s, quitting his job as a high school music teacher in the '70s to take over the lodge so he could be closer to the source of his true happiness. The river's effect has been practical as well as restorative: George Griffith, whose love of angling led him to found the conservation-minded Trout Unlimited in 1959, had a home along this part of the Au Sable.
Unlike the mighty and wide rivers of Montana and Argentina, the Au Sable is human scale: It's wadable, with a bed of firm sand and small to medium-size limestone gravel that camouflages the dappled brown and brook trout; it's narrow enough so that anglers can stand in the middle and comfortably cast into the shadows on either bank. And, in Gates, it has a flesh-and-blood guardian angel.
Gates, 50, is not your typical advocate for the wild. Anglers who have been making the pilgrimage to the family lodge for decades (Gates took over in 1983, after his father died) say that as a younger man, Gates barely talked and avoided people as much as possible. He wasn't antisocial, just shy. "I was laid-back. If someone said something to me, I'd take three days and then respond," he jokes. He discovered his voice defending a quiet stream.
The Au Sable is a catch-and-release, artificial-flies-only haven. In the 1980s, some residents banded together and challenged the restrictions in court. "We wanted this to be a sports fishery--enjoy catching the fish but put them back--but some locals felt that these regulations took away their right to keep what they caught," Gates says. As the fight heated up, he realized that most of the anglers who visited his lodge year after year didn't live in the immediate area. So he founded the Anglers of the Au Sable as a way to organize them into a voice for the conservation of the river's habitat. His efforts paid off: The Holy Water continues to give fish reprieve from the dinner table. Today Gates is still president of the group, which has nearly 900 members around the globe.
Chosen as Angler of the Year in 1995 by Fly Rod & Reel magazine for his conservation efforts, Gates has had many flies named for him: One, Rusty's Spinner, is tied to look like the mahogany, Hendrickson, and brown drakes--all mayflies. Rusty's White Not utilizes reddish-brown deer hair and a parachute-type wing made from the white belly hair of deer to impersonate another mayfly, which Gates calls a "White-Gloved Howdy."
Tall and thin, with a trim salt-and-pepper beard and mustache, Gates is professorial when he talks aquatic psychology to his customers. "We look at this as a PhD river," he tells a couple from North Carolina one morning. They'd read his name in a book and want advice on how best to suss out the Au Sable. "It's not stocked, so we have wild trout, and wild trout are much more leery and harder to catch. If you learn how to fish this river, you can fish anywhere in the world." As they look at the exotic array of flies, he points to one and suggests that the Black Ghost Marabou would be good today: "Put it up in the quiet stuff and then bring it out to the flow."
After the couple leaves with some Marabous and maps, Gates says that he has two rules of thumb: Don't offer unsolicited advice--let the customer ask the questions so as to gauge angling abilities and needs; and don't get fancy--use names for flies that regular folks can pronounce. "People come in here wanting to spout Latin, and I respond, 'Oh no, I haven't fished with a Hillbilly or a Rat-Face McDougal in a long time.' I prefer the common names."
On the days I visit the shop, it's mostly peopled by men. They buy gear and share intelligence--about what's hatching, what flies to use, and whether the weather will hold or turn. It's all fishing, all the time. (Gates's dog, Buster, chimes in only when a distracted customer steps on him.) Gates says that fly-fishing used to be a guy thing but not anymore. It's still a way for dads to connect with their kids, however. He tells me about a father and son who wandered into the tackle shop the day before. "They were new to fishing and didn't know the area; they were asking a lot of questions," he says. "I told 'em to think about where they'd want to be to get out of this hot sun and how this stream leaks cold springwater all along the edges, where there's also shade."
Gates is a character whose enthusiasm attracts those who share his quirky affection for fly-fishing. One repeat guest, who's been making the trip for 35 years from out of state, compared the excitement of fishing the Au Sable to "hard moves on a rock climb" or "a first kiss." He also likened the stream to a woman: "It's always changing, and I can never figure it out."
When I first arrived at the lodge, close to 11 p.m. after a three-hour drive from Detroit, I met another Au Sable character. He was standing in the shadows outside the room next to mine, dressed like a soldier in camouflage fatigues and a floppy canvas hat. He smelled of bug spray and made me nervous. My citified street sense kicked in, and I tried to avoid him, but he called out a hushed greeting and offered that I must have had a long day. "Mine's just beginning," he said cheerfully. He was waiting for a buddy to pick him up for a night out--on the Au Sable. "It's the best time to go," he assured me. "You've got meteors and coyotes yelping and other amazing things. Plus the fish are jumping like crazy tonight." They didn't return until after 3:30 in the morning.
Gates later tells me that the man is a friend. After many years as a lodge guest, he had come to the Au Sable--uncharacteristically mid-season--as a form of therapy, to help ease his grief after a family loss.
In The Longest Silence: A Life in Fishing, Thomas McGuane writes that "the best angling is always a respite from burden." But those who love to fish the Au Sable and want it protected have increasing burdens to bear.
The threat today comes from a Traverse City, Michigan, company that wants to drill for natural gas. Savoy Energy has leased subsurface mineral rights from both the state and federal government and has also secured a drilling permit from the Michigan Department of Environmental Quality. The company is determined to begin its search about a quarter mile from the Au Sable's south branch. The proposed site is on federal forestland next to the Mason Tract, a swatch including old-growth forest and 11-plus stream miles donated to Michigan in 1955 by the estate of prominent industrialist George Mason. Savoy plans to set up shop on adjoining federal land and drill at an angle to reach the gas underneath the tract. Originally 1,500 acres, the Mason property grew to 5,300 after the state consolidated and added a patchwork of 40-acre parcels. The only structure on the tract is a slate open-air chapel, used for weddings, picnics, or simply quiet meditation (visitors canoe in, since it's pretty much inaccessible any other way). A plaque on the chapel, placed there by the state, reads: "Here may the fisherman receive the same inspiration which led George W. Mason, a true sportsman, to bequeath to the public this land and this sanctuary beside his beloved river." It's a safe bet that Mason would not be amused to know that a natural-gas drill rig, pipelines, and a production facility are planning to move in next door.
The ordinarily unflappable Gates becomes agitated when we start talking about the drilling threat. "Look, the key to this thing is that this area has precious recreational value. The prime time for fly fishermen is the first three hours after dark and the hour before dawn--when the woods are utterly silent. We'll be able to hear that production facility; it will ruin the experience. That's what this whole thing is about."
At a public meeting on the issue near Gates's home in Grayling--population less than 2,000--500 people showed up. Most everyone railed against Savoy's plan, including the president of the local chamber of commerce, Tim Zigila, who publicly supported the anti-drilling position of both the state Sierra Club chapter and the Anglers of the Au Sable. Later he tells me, "This was an easy call for the chamber. Drilling will be bad for business up here. More than 70 percent of our county is either state or federally owned. Our opposition to drilling is not necessarily an environmental issue; it has to do with quality of life and the fact that it's inconsistent with recreation--and we're a big recreational area."
Michigan senators Carl Levin (D) and Debbie Stabenow (D) and representative Bart Stupak (D) followed up the public outcry with letters opposing the drilling permit. Stabenow's letter, addressed to Leanne Marten, supervisor of Huron-Manistee National Forests, said, in part, "Michigan is blessed to have areas in our state, such as the Mason Tract, that are protected and provide beautiful natural settings for people to visit and enjoy. We have a responsibility to safeguard this area for future generations." Bumper stickers emblazoned with "Sportsmen for Bush," once popular in Gates's neck of the woods, started disappearing from the backs of pickup trucks.
Gates and the Anglers of the Au Sable's board members--several of whom are lawyers--didn't believe for a minute that the stream's character would be unchanged if drilling were allowed. They were up in arms over what they saw as a violation of their right to peace and quiet on public land. Last summer, the Anglers joined forces with Tim Mason, George Mason's grandson, and the Sierra Club and filed a lawsuit against the U.S. Forest Service. The suit contends that the Forest Service did not seriously explore the environmental threats posed by Savoy's project or consider alternatives to drilling so close to the tract, thereby violating the National Environmental Policy Act.
"This place is sacred to us," Gates says. "Even though the drilling would occur outside of the tract boundary, it's still too close to the river. What they want to do here would change things forever, and we are going to fight them tooth and nail."
When asked whether it was tough to team up with the Club, an organization not wholly embraced in America's backcountry, Gates laughs. "I know they're called tree huggers and such. We think of ourselves as fishermen trying to improve habitat and save what's left." But, he adds, "I can't imagine why we never aligned ourselves with these guys in some of our other battles. To tell you the truth, I just didn't know the Sierra Club existed."
The collaboration has been a headache for the Forest Service, which now must defend its permitting decision in court. Marten did not return phone calls. Her spokesperson simply said, "No comment."
Before I leave the Au Sable Lodge, I stop by the tackle shop one last time and notice that behind the cash register and above Gates's head hangs a photo of a verdant pine- and poplar-lined path through the forest. The caption is addressed to the Forest Service and reads: "This path leads to the River where we regenerate our souls. Where do you see a gas well in this picture?" It was produced by the Anglers of the Au Sable.
Gates shows me a check some guy just dropped off as his membership fee for the Anglers. The suggested amount is $25, $50, or $100; the check is for $3,300. Gates shrugs and says, "He heard about the fight and wants to help. This is where they fish! This is their head time, and they don't want people messing with it."
I pick up a few books on fishing and then drive to one of the Au Sable's access points. I take off my shoes and socks, roll up my pant legs, and wade into the river. The water is cool and pleasant, the pebbles smooth and easy to maneuver even barefoot. I walk to the middle and see not a soul up- or downstream. A small trout flits by like a shadow. The wind comes up and ruffles the water in long patches. The foliage sways and swooshes in the sudden breeze. Mourning doves offer their melancholy notes, but besides these sounds there are no others. As I stand midstream, it begins to sprinkle, then picks up the pace; it is wondrous to be out in the Holy Water, surrounded by rain and green and free of any human noise or trace.
A few months after my visit, a federal judge in Michigan stopped Savoy in its tracks. Without holding a hearing on the matter, the judge blocked the company from clearing land until he issues his final decision, undeclared by press time, on whether drilling will be allowed. I hope he's a fly fisherman.
Marilyn Berlin Snell is Sierra's senior writer.
For more information on the Anglers of the Au Sable, visit ausableanglers.org.