A Creek Rediscovered.
There was a rush of warm moist air as the door swung open across the tall wet grass that was engulfing the ends of the bridge. The sun had been up for two hours already, and the bugs were flying. Mosquitoes swarmed at my face as I swatted with both hands and shut the door all at once. After spraying myself down with DEET real good, I made sure to put the little bottle in my fishing bag which was wedged behind the seat under my waders. For just an instant I thought about how lucky I was to have the DEET, this chemical magic that generations of anglers did not have the luxury to enjoy. I was thankful and hopeful for the day. For now it would rest in my pants pocket. I made sure by patting my ass twice to be sure that it was fact in my pocket, because I suspected I would need it again before I returned. I popped the trunk and got out. It was hot already, and I rushed to get into my moist waders. I had used them three days earlier when I first found this spot, and the dank aroma spoiled the pleasant morning air. I thought maybe the mosquitoes would smell it too. For years I had known about this stream, but had never taken the time to find an access to it. The creek was retrieved from my memory once every year as I crossed it on my way to the annual gentlemans retreat, where we would spill beer and chase largemouth bass from our rented pontoon boat. I always felt bad about making the trip up north without fishing for trout. I didn't like feeling bad, so I finally stopped to fish it on my way up and now, again on my way back home, as it wasn't too far off my normal track.
Back in college, we found its end while hiking and fishing upstream from the campground for browns. It was a good sized tributary of a larger Michigan trout stream. Back then on a sunny day in June, the size 6 Muddler Minnow was the chosen fly. I can still see it clearly in my mind. Curtis skated the fly across the confluence of the creek and the main river, and after a few feet of stripping and rod twitching, a brown of 16 inches came to eat the fly from the surface. It splashed and ran, but succumbed eventually and was landed. It was all an act of beauty. I still remember the feeling of jealous admiration when he held it out for the disposable camera I pulled from my vest. Its glistening yellow body and purple spots seemed wild and magical. It was one of the first brown trout I had ever seen caught and released. It was a beauty, matched equally by its surroundings. After a victory high five and a grip and grin, we fished on up the main river, looking for another trout. I remember wading across the creek, as the main river was too deep, and seeing the trout flee away in front of me with each step I took. It seemed like a magic river, filled with fish, taking cover under the overhanging foliage at first sight of my presence. I noted this creek in my mind. I stashed it away. I liked it and hoped to fish it again.
Three days earlier, on Thursday evening, I found an access, and fished it, or more accurately, scouted it. I did catch a couple fish, but it was the fish that swiped and missed my fly that I was really excited about. This brown was big, pushing 20 inches or more. It was resting under a tangled tree root across the river from me, that was being eroded by the current and would eventually fall into the river. The river was running a bit high with a slight stain. It was about 2 feet deep in most spots with deeper holes and cuts along the bends. I was standing on a high bank 4 feet above the water, with a grassy meadow behind me. It was easy to cast the small black woolly bugger across the stream, which was only 20 feet wide at this spot, as it made a big bend around the sandy inside bar I was standing on top of. The main difficulty in fishing this spot was the tall grass which caught on my line as it dangled at my feet. I managed to get my fly into the wood across the river. I stripped it a bit and then again. I saw the big dark shape emerge from deep under the bank as it darted toward my fly. On seeing the fish, I paused the fly and waited for the take. Then when it had closed within an inch, it turned away back toward the roots of the tree. Out of desperation I stripped again and he came back to strike, but turned away at the last second and dashed back into the dark undercut bank below the tree. I was pumped and made two more casts but he didn't show again. I had an address to check on my next trip. I knew it would be on my way home in a few days.
And here I was on Sunday morning after a long weekend of beer and bass, ready to try again. I had found an upstream access to the same creek I had fished 20 years ago. It was still filled with trout, like I remembered it. It’s not all that remarkable considering it was right in front of me the whole time, just waiting for me to rediscover it. I had high hopes and a big fish on my mind. This was gonna be my lucky day.
I locked the car and started wading through the tall grass that came up above my waist. The river was just up ahead where I could find the trail. I walked for 10 minutes before stopping to fish a bend with a deep hole where I could stand on a high inside bank just upstream of the beginning of a sharp bend in the river. Since realizing I was fishing for a big fish, I opted to tie on a bigger fly. My choice was a size 4 yellow rabbit strip streamer with a nice flared collar and a neatly trimmed deer hair head. It was about 3 inches long. I still had on a light 9’ leader but I figured if I cut it back a few feet it would be thick enough to manage casting the bigger fly. I threw it out into the water away from the grass and began paying line down the river into the shallow inside bend until I had enough to make the cast across to the other bank where it got deep. I lifted the rod above my head and the line flew behind. I powered my arm forward and sent 20 feet of line and leader into the sand across the stream. A twitch of the rod had the fly dancing toward the lip of the hole. The fly was weighted and sunk just slowly enough to make it under the roots and into the dark void below the slowly falling tree. It was perfect. I twitched twice and made the fly dance as it exited the hole. Behind it was the trout I had hoped for. In just a second while that trout closed on my fly I saw some of my worst fishing mistakes replay in my mind. I saw the time I lifted the grasshopper from the jaws of a trophy between some old decrepit dock pilings just above CCC bridge. I saw the same fish from 3 days ago, deny me when I paused my fly. I snapped out of it and made one good strip of line to keep the fish interested. The big brown reacted with a quickening of pace like I had hoped. I wasn't going to make the same mistake twice. I kept stripping in short bursts of line. He chased, closed, and bulldozed my fly like he was a linebacker making a sack, but he missed the tackle and my fly bounced toward the surface in a slurry of water. I realized it instantly. This was not about eating but rather about defending his home. He was not going to allow that intruder any access to his brokedown palace. The water boiled and the fish turned back to the void. I couldn't believe that in two outings, I still could not hook this fish. I was convinced it was the same fish, and no one could tell me otherwise. This was now personal. I would have to come back with new tactics. I walked to a couple more holes but couldn't focus and didn't catch anything. Sweaty, anxious, defeated, I walked back to the car . I would settle with nothing for now, but felt that the stakes had been raised. I consoled my pride by reminding myself that having an encounter like this was better than a pure skunk, which had happened more than I care to admit. This small consolation did lift me enough to enjoy some measure of the long drive south. The rest of the drive was filled with visions of the flash of his yellow flanks in the sunlight and the bully behavior he gave my fly. I wondered what I could have done differently. I would be back again someday soon but, in the meantime, I would spend the miles of thinking about how to do it right the next time. I imagined that in a perfect world, or in my dreams, I might wade the whole length of it, and catch browns out of every hole, many of which I imagined were so remote they never saw a fisherman or a fly. I might make it to the end where it spilled into the main river to that spot I remembered from 20 years ago. I wondered if it would even be possible to walk the whole length of it. Surely, there would be obstructions like a swamp or private property. I imagined tying the same fly with a second hook to nail that fish like I should have the first time. I imagined fishing it from the opposite bank and just dappling a dry fly across the entrance to the void. I could show up at night and try a mouse. I could come back in the fall when food would be a top priority. I had hope and someday I knew I would have more time to fish this old stream. I thought, that if I kept at this place long enough, it would eventually reveal its secrets.
I locked the car and started wading through the tall grass that came up above my waist. The river was just up ahead where I could find the trail. I walked for 10 minutes before stopping to fish a bend with a deep hole where I could stand on a high inside bank just upstream of the beginning of a sharp bend in the river. Since realizing I was fishing for a big fish, I opted to tie on a bigger fly. My choice was a size 4 yellow rabbit strip streamer with a nice flared collar and a neatly trimmed deer hair head. It was about 3 inches long. I still had on a light 9’ leader but I figured if I cut it back a few feet it would be thick enough to manage casting the bigger fly. I threw it out into the water away from the grass and began paying line down the river into the shallow inside bend until I had enough to make the cast across to the other bank where it got deep. I lifted the rod above my head and the line flew behind. I powered my arm forward and sent 20 feet of line and leader into the sand across the stream. A twitch of the rod had the fly dancing toward the lip of the hole. The fly was weighted and sunk just slowly enough to make it under the roots and into the dark void below the slowly falling tree. It was perfect. I twitched twice and made the fly dance as it exited the hole. Behind it was the trout I had hoped for. In just a second while that trout closed on my fly I saw some of my worst fishing mistakes replay in my mind. I saw the time I lifted the grasshopper from the jaws of a trophy between some old decrepit dock pilings just above CCC bridge. I saw the same fish from 3 days ago, deny me when I paused my fly. I snapped out of it and made one good strip of line to keep the fish interested. The big brown reacted with a quickening of pace like I had hoped. I wasn't going to make the same mistake twice. I kept stripping in short bursts of line. He chased, closed, and bulldozed my fly like he was a linebacker making a sack, but he missed the tackle and my fly bounced toward the surface in a slurry of water. I realized it instantly. This was not about eating but rather about defending his home. He was not going to allow that intruder any access to his brokedown palace. The water boiled and the fish turned back to the void. I couldn't believe that in two outings, I still could not hook this fish. I was convinced it was the same fish, and no one could tell me otherwise. This was now personal. I would have to come back with new tactics. I walked to a couple more holes but couldn't focus and didn't catch anything. Sweaty, anxious, defeated, I walked back to the car . I would settle with nothing for now, but felt that the stakes had been raised. I consoled my pride by reminding myself that having an encounter like this was better than a pure skunk, which had happened more than I care to admit. This small consolation did lift me enough to enjoy some measure of the long drive south. The rest of the drive was filled with visions of the flash of his yellow flanks in the sunlight and the bully behavior he gave my fly. I wondered what I could have done differently. I would be back again someday soon but, in the meantime, I would spend the miles of thinking about how to do it right the next time. I imagined that in a perfect world, or in my dreams, I might wade the whole length of it, and catch browns out of every hole, many of which I imagined were so remote they never saw a fisherman or a fly. I might make it to the end where it spilled into the main river to that spot I remembered from 20 years ago. I wondered if it would even be possible to walk the whole length of it. Surely, there would be obstructions like a swamp or private property. I imagined tying the same fly with a second hook to nail that fish like I should have the first time. I imagined fishing it from the opposite bank and just dappling a dry fly across the entrance to the void. I could show up at night and try a mouse. I could come back in the fall when food would be a top priority. I had hope and someday I knew I would have more time to fish this old stream. I thought, that if I kept at this place long enough, it would eventually reveal its secrets.
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