My sister Carol and her husband Paul were present for the entirety of Michigan’s 2022 sturgeon fishing season. The season takes place only at Black Lake, once a year, and this year lasted thirty-six minutes. It began at 8:00 a.m. and ended when the sixth sturgeon was on the ice at 8:36 a.m.
This event rarely lasts more than an hour, but it’s a big deal. Some five hundred sixty-five adult anglers registered for the hunt this year, in addition to who-knows-how-many supervised children. Folks pulled their fishing shanties out onto the ice ahead of time. With nine to ten inches of ice on the lake, people drove their vehicles right out on it. Some of the shanties are large, well appointed, and heated. In fact, more than a few of the anglers spent the night inside them.
To make sure everyone abided by the official start time for the season, Department of Natural Resources personnel paid unannounced visits to about one-seventh of what Paul described as a small city of shanties the night before. Folks could have their holes cut in the ice and their equipment—spears and/or hooks and lines—ready to go, but the season didn’t start till 8:00 a.m.
Sturgeon are an ancient species, dating back to the time of dinosaurs. They live up to a hundred and fifty years. They can grow to be up to seven feet and two hundred pounds. And their numbers declined so precipitously since the heyday of the fishery that sturgeon nearly disappeared. Not only is fishing for them very closely monitored, there’s even a network of volunteers that guards them from being poached during spawning. The sturgeon’s recovery is a real success story, thanks to the DNR, Native American communities, volunteers, teachers, schoolchildren, and everyone else involved in the effort to save them.
A festive, family atmosphere pervaded the goings-on at Black Lake, despite a temperature scarcely above zero. Some anglers used a team approach, communicating with friends and relations in other shanties by walkie-talkie. “Hey, Phil, a big one just went past us, and it looks like he might be heading your way.” “Thanks, bro, we’ll be ready.” Text messages apprised all participants whenever someone caught a fish and when the season was over.
Six sturgeon, and that was that for this year, except for the successful anglers. The lucky few delivered their catch to the check station in Onaway to be oohed and ahhed over, as well as weighed, measured, and checked for chip data. Each spring, DNR personnel and researchers from Michigan State University catch every sturgeon that leaves Black Lake to spawn. If a fish is a first-timer, they weigh it, measure it, and attach a chip to it. A fish that already has a chip has this year’s vitals added to its history.
Not much is known about the movements of these prehistoric fish. Every bit of chip data adds to scientists’ knowledge as sturgeon return from the brink of extinction. The largest fish that particular cold Saturday was a male that stretched sixty-two inches long and weighed in at sixty-seven pounds. Chip data showed it had swum up the river to spawn every other year for the last twenty years.
Sometimes the human interactions while the fish are checked are as valuable as the data. This year, the angler who caught the final sturgeon of the day was an eleven-year-old boy named Andrew. Carol and Paul were at the check station when the young man arrived. Andrew’s dad hadn’t quite brought their pickup to a complete stop before Andrew barreled out the door, grinning from ear to ear. He whipped around to the back of the truck, dropped the tailgate, and hauled out his prize, clutching it to his camo-clad body with both arms, its head pointed up and out and its tail near Andrew’s boots.
“Is this your fish?” Carol asked him. “It sure is!” he replied. “I caught it!” Still smiling, he lugged it into the check station to have its vitals checked. It was fifty-six inches long and weighed thirty-five pounds, which is probably around half of what Andrew himself weighs. A fisheries biologist named Tim suggested that they find out who was taller, Andrew or the sturgeon. Andrew stood up proud, and Tim held the fish up next to him. Andrew edged it out, but not by much. He smiled the whole time.
“This is a happy event,” Carol said, “and I don’t think there’s a happier boy in the state of Michigan than this young lad.”
11 February 2022