THE BEGINNING Michigan winters are tough for me. The glow of hunting season has fully faded into the rearview, and the humid, halcyon evenings that bring long-awaited hatches lie still far ahead; impossibly out of reach, like a shimmering mirage teasing a parched desert traveler. The days are short, the air is cold, and the sun seems like a long-forgotten friend who rarely calls. This season of hibernal inactivity always leaves me restless and out-of-sorts. To add some spice