There’s a mirror near our front door.  It’s the last thing I see before heading off to the river, and I normally give it a quick glance to make sure everything’s in order. Two shoes? Tick. Crumpled sweatshirt? Tick. Counter-cultural Rastafarian neck-warmer that nobody ever notices, cool hat, glasses, etc. Tick. I nod to myself, smile at the absurdity of it all, and head for the door. That’s me in the mirror.

We drift quietly to the lee side, set the anchors, and slip over the aluminum gunnels into the cool turquoise water. Crystal clear. Rocky bottom. Surface slick as glass. Smallie haunts. But being a day short of the smallmouth season opener, we wade instead to shore and dive into the dense, hardy cover that keeps this thin spit of island from blowing away in the Lake Michigan winds.