Campfire Tales

I was recently invited to an outdoor party by a good friend of mine by the name of Rick DeTroyer. Many of you may know Rick; he’s an accomplished metal artist, retired teacher from Pioneer High School in Ann Arbor and all around great guy.

Phil Walker was the host of this party and it was my first time meeting him. Rick and Phil worked together at Pioneer High School and are still good friends to this day. I met a few other retired educators from the Ann Arbor School District along with a current teacher at Community High School by the name of Ken McGraw.  
Rick and I were the first to show up at Phil’s house and he already had a nice spread of food waiting for us.

Phil had a wide array of wild game for us to feast on including: sliced roast duck breast, blue gill fillets with cocktail sauce and venison hamburgers. Slowly but surely more people showed up bringing their own dish to pass for all to try. It was a treat to be there.

It was nice to meet a group of dedicated educators who also have a love for the outdoors. We shared many stories of our outdoor experiences including a very funny story about a bear and the reluctant Grayling. One of the retired teachers discussed how he used to work on the Alaskan Pipeline many years ago. He and a friend walked about a half mile to a remote stream and finally caught a hefty Grayling. They decided to head back to camp when a bear showed up and wouldn’t let them pass.

The bear closed the distance and only then did the fisherman finally decide to give up his fish. They barely made it home alive, but the fisherman was not too happy about losing his prized fish.

It was fun to sit back and hear the stories of these guys who I didn’t know until that night. We talked about great fishing and hunting experiences and all the guys would suddenly get quiet and grin when asked where their secret locations were at.

I had a great time with these guys, but the highlight of the evening came when Ken McGraw recited a poem he just wrote titled Lord Pickerel. We all sat down near the fire while Ken took out a folded piece of paper. Ken slowly unfolded the paper while taking center stage as we waited with batted breath.

Ken proudly and loudly recited his poem before his captive audience and we were truly entertained. We all headed back to the campfire and continued to tell tall tales of years past and the hopes we have for our children’s future. It was a night that I won’t soon forget and hope to experience again.

Ken McGraw gave me permission to publish his poem for all of you to enjoy.

Lord Pickerel: A Fish Story

By Ken McGraw

It is not named Pickerel because pickerel swam in its depths, or because the lake
itself is shaped like a pickerel, although it is shaped like my wife’s beef and onion and tomato meatloaf, which is heaping and oblong miracle.

I know this from USGS maps of the lake, which reveal the marl and clay sediments
on the bottom, as well as the location of Francis Pickerel’s vanished cabin, even the trail he walked after an afternoon of mean, fruitless ploughing. See him dip his line
into the lake to catch tonight’s supper, this Lord Pickerel.

These maps also reveal the deepest parts of the lake, where an enormous Lake Trout Broods and remembers his tragic youth: When he was trucked into this absurd place as a mere fingerling, facing the constant danger of being swallowed whole by a Northern pike or largemouth bass-like all his brothers and sisters were.

Now, he is enormous and ancient, safe from any pike-the last of his kind, the lord of his lake. But he would make a miraculous meal: heaping and oblong. I have walked the windy, frozen roof of Pickerel Lake in February, cutting ice holes and staring into dark water. I have licked my cold, chapped lips with a desire to snare that huge old body. I have paddled Pickerel’s waters in June, dropping lines into the dark calm while listening to geese honk out their plans across the woods.

Soon, when the moon’s soft pull is perfect, I will return to Pickerel Lake, and I will cast my spell out into his slow-motion world of soft, black breezes. I will draw the miraculous one home to my cradling arms, and I will eat him, and then I will be Lord Pickerel.