August 23 2007, Belle Isle, Detroit
I am at the “Fishing Pier” on this gigantic island that sits here in the middle of the Detroit River with Canada a mile away on one side and Detroit a mile away on the other. This pier is actually a concrete and wood bulwark that lines couple of hundred feet of shoreline. A fenced railing provides safety and something against which to lean fishing rods.
Joe Brown fishes here from beneath the shade of a willow tree 50 feet away. His two rods lean the railing and he watches from the relaxation of his folding chair. “Well, it’s relaxing,” he says. “I like catching fish too, but it’s more to do with it being relaxing.”
At the downstream end of the pier is a picnic shelter with tables from which drift smells of the grill. A dozen women and children chatter and laugh while four or five men – that’s all of the anglers on this long pier – stand along the pier with their rods. I see nobody catch anything while I’m here talking with Joe.
Joe’s outstretched legs are crossed, and his bright-white-soxed feet are out of his leather sandals. He leans back in his chair at the same angle that his fishing rods point towards the Canadian skies across the river.
This Belle Isle a huge island – perhaps 100 times bigger, no, 200 – than Richmond’s Belle Isle. A multi-lane, streetlamped, 25-mile-an-hour bridge transports visitors. There are many giant fields and performances spaces, a museum, historic buildings, a huge swimming beach with sand, a golf driving range and pitch and putt course, ponds, playgrounds and picnic shelters, and even a model yacht basin. And of course there is the still-active and well-heeled Detroit Yacht Club with its slips filled with sailing and motor vessels. And of course over near the beach is one of those pretzel-spaghetti water slides.
Joe Brown comes here once or twice each week for a few hours. The day before yesterday he
caught “a real nice catfish – two catfish – and some bass and perches.” I ask him how big the big catfish was. “About a foot long,” he says looking up from the brim of his hat. He wears sunglasses so dark that you’d think the lenses were coated with black paint. It’s the direction he points his face that tells me whether he’s looking at me as we talk.
I’m using a dropshot rig – casting it out as far as I can. Joe explains that there are rocks in close that will hang you. I use plastic worms, plastic leeches, even plastic gobies, but no fish. At one point I do get some bites, but they’re just tiny pecks that I am certain are from tiny fish.
Later I will drive all the way around this island and will see the other fishing piers that are actually piers rather than shoreline bulwarks. The “South Pier” is the biggest freshwater pier I’ve ever seen anywhere. And the most formidable. Its flooring is 2x10-foot concrete slabs, and its “railing” is made from real four-by-twelves. The entire thing sits on a series of steel pilings. And the pier is long. It stretches 65 feet out and then makes a right angle and goes another 320 feet. When I walk it there will be no anglers on it. Same with the “North Pier” on the other side of the island. Same construction, similar size, no anglers.
But this handful of anglers – including Joe Brown – that are at this “Fishing Pier” seem to be comfortable. I’m a hundred feet down the pier when I hear, “I got one!” It’s Joe. He’s left his chair, is at the railing, and has brought in a fish. “A small one,” he concludes. I go over and see that it’s a smallmouth – perhaps 9 inches. Joe doesn’t know the difference between smallmouths and largemouths and I show him how to line up the back of the jaw with the eye to determine which one it is. Then I toss the fish back into the Detroit River.
Joe puts on another worm, casts, and walks the 50 feet to his shade chair. I continue to throw a fishless dropshot rig.
I had started my conversation with Joe by asking him about himself, but he said he is not comfortable giving personal information and asked that we talk only about fishing. He is extremely polite and articulate, and is appreciative of my gift of a copy of the book, Take Me Fishing. He complies willingly to my art direction for photographs. But he never removes his shade hat nor his sunglasses. And his answers to my fishing questions are as simple and brief as possible. I depart without catching anything. Joe stretches in the shade, chair and eyes pointed towards his fishing rods and the Canada skyline.
I am at the “Fishing Pier” on this gigantic island that sits here in the middle of the Detroit River with Canada a mile away on one side and Detroit a mile away on the other. This pier is actually a concrete and wood bulwark that lines couple of hundred feet of shoreline. A fenced railing provides safety and something against which to lean fishing rods.
Joe Brown fishes here from beneath the shade of a willow tree 50 feet away. His two rods lean the railing and he watches from the relaxation of his folding chair. “Well, it’s relaxing,” he says. “I like catching fish too, but it’s more to do with it being relaxing.”
At the downstream end of the pier is a picnic shelter with tables from which drift smells of the grill. A dozen women and children chatter and laugh while four or five men – that’s all of the anglers on this long pier – stand along the pier with their rods. I see nobody catch anything while I’m here talking with Joe.
Joe’s outstretched legs are crossed, and his bright-white-soxed feet are out of his leather sandals. He leans back in his chair at the same angle that his fishing rods point towards the Canadian skies across the river.
This Belle Isle a huge island – perhaps 100 times bigger, no, 200 – than Richmond’s Belle Isle. A multi-lane, streetlamped, 25-mile-an-hour bridge transports visitors. There are many giant fields and performances spaces, a museum, historic buildings, a huge swimming beach with sand, a golf driving range and pitch and putt course, ponds, playgrounds and picnic shelters, and even a model yacht basin. And of course there is the still-active and well-heeled Detroit Yacht Club with its slips filled with sailing and motor vessels. And of course over near the beach is one of those pretzel-spaghetti water slides.
Joe Brown comes here once or twice each week for a few hours. The day before yesterday he
caught “a real nice catfish – two catfish – and some bass and perches.” I ask him how big the big catfish was. “About a foot long,” he says looking up from the brim of his hat. He wears sunglasses so dark that you’d think the lenses were coated with black paint. It’s the direction he points his face that tells me whether he’s looking at me as we talk.I’m using a dropshot rig – casting it out as far as I can. Joe explains that there are rocks in close that will hang you. I use plastic worms, plastic leeches, even plastic gobies, but no fish. At one point I do get some bites, but they’re just tiny pecks that I am certain are from tiny fish.
Later I will drive all the way around this island and will see the other fishing piers that are actually piers rather than shoreline bulwarks. The “South Pier” is the biggest freshwater pier I’ve ever seen anywhere. And the most formidable. Its flooring is 2x10-foot concrete slabs, and its “railing” is made from real four-by-twelves. The entire thing sits on a series of steel pilings. And the pier is long. It stretches 65 feet out and then makes a right angle and goes another 320 feet. When I walk it there will be no anglers on it. Same with the “North Pier” on the other side of the island. Same construction, similar size, no anglers.
But this handful of anglers – including Joe Brown – that are at this “Fishing Pier” seem to be comfortable. I’m a hundred feet down the pier when I hear, “I got one!” It’s Joe. He’s left his chair, is at the railing, and has brought in a fish. “A small one,” he concludes. I go over and see that it’s a smallmouth – perhaps 9 inches. Joe doesn’t know the difference between smallmouths and largemouths and I show him how to line up the back of the jaw with the eye to determine which one it is. Then I toss the fish back into the Detroit River.
Joe puts on another worm, casts, and walks the 50 feet to his shade chair. I continue to throw a fishless dropshot rig.
I had started my conversation with Joe by asking him about himself, but he said he is not comfortable giving personal information and asked that we talk only about fishing. He is extremely polite and articulate, and is appreciative of my gift of a copy of the book, Take Me Fishing. He complies willingly to my art direction for photographs. But he never removes his shade hat nor his sunglasses. And his answers to my fishing questions are as simple and brief as possible. I depart without catching anything. Joe stretches in the shade, chair and eyes pointed towards his fishing rods and the Canada skyline.
Photo: Joe Brown on Detroit's Belle Isle
