Bonding Over Brookies.

Yesterday we took the younger son and his girlfriend flyfishing for brook trout on the North Branch of the Ausable. The single day's drive was brutal, the sun was penetrating, the air was hot, the water was low, and the fishing was so-so. But the experience was priceless. The girlfriend, being a flyfishing greenhorn, naturally caught the nicest fish of the day. The son, full of pomp and hubris, naturally was skunked. Your correspondent held his own, but acknowledged that his pace to wade a stream was not quite that of the young folk ("SLOW DOWN! Flyfishing is not a scavenger hunt, son!"). Perhaps fishing colleagues would observe our tendency toward the phelgmatic, though. Our heart skipped a beat when a very nice brown cruised through the pool we were working. He was searching for a cool shady spot and was having none of our offerings.

After five hours of hard fishing, we pulled off our waders and paid a visit with Grandpa and Grandma; caught up with local happenings (forest fires, song birds, and variae), then dined at one of the storied dives of Northern Michigan - the Whitehouse Diner in Clare.

A wonderful day spent with people we love!

So It Begins...

This year, dedicated to the proposition that one should actually catch some fish on Opening Weekend, we set out Friday morning for a preemptive strike on North Branch of the Au Sable River (the always-open Flies Only section). We calculated that landing a brace of trout on Friday would demonstrate to the River Gods that we were no Gee-Gaws and were worthy of their plaudits and favors for Saturday.

Friday afternoon on the North Branch was spectacular. We waded to one of our favorite spots at the tag end of a Hendrickson hatch, and fish from parr to ten-inchers, both brookies and browns, were enthusiastically feeding. After catching a half-dozen or so from both species on a Borchers Special (a size 14 is the go-to fly on northern Michigan streams), the hatch and the feeding suddenly stopped. The early-season "Gentlemen's Hatch" has the quality of a fire hose being opened and closed at half-hour intervals for a few hours in the afternoon. Finally, the hose was closed off for the day, and we switched to offerings of bead-head nymphs. The action was slow. Our colleague retreated to the comfort of cabin or "Spike's Keg O'Nails" (he had taken the hatch full force earlier in the afternoon and was suffering from flyfishing shell-shock) while we committed to further fishing downstream until dusk.

In an hour we were rewarded for our persistence. Squadrons of spinners descended from overhead, Emphemerella Subvaria bombers delivering their payloads of peach-colored egg sacks to the water's surface. We had never experienced a Hendrickson spinner fall this intense, and we will never forget it. Nor will we forget the robust brookie fooled by our Rusty Spinner. With the landing of this beauty we declared Opening Weekend a success. Off to Spike's to tell Homeric tales of the Great Spinner Fall!

Saturday, the "Opener-Proper", was the quintessence of such days with cooler, cloudier, and windier weather. And it fished as such; it was very slow. Where were all of the fish that had made the water boil less than a full day past? An Au Sable Lesson: where there are few bugs, there will be few fish. The was no great hatch this afternoon, and correspondingly few spinners in the evening. The fish appeared content with light underwater snacking. A full-day's fishing yielded a handful of fryers taken on soft hackles and bead-head nymphs. We did catch a moment, looking down the river, where we experienced a spiritual convocation of great fish and great flyfishers past. Another memory, and we thanked God for our lives and this blessed storied place.

No Opening Weekend seems complete without a Damn Cold Rain, and it arrived on Sunday morning. As if the melancholy of facing the last leg of Opening Weekend is tough enough, Sweet Lord, this too? "Perfect for streamers!", was heard in the camp to rally morale for fishing in the cold and wet. We breakfasted on omelets, bacon, toast, and coffee, collected our gear, and then went to visit an Au Sable Shaman for guidance as to how to spend our afternoon streamer fishing the Main Branch. From memory he traced a map of an historic location, where a massive rock with a TU plaque honors the vision of founder Art Neumann. A nearby path led us down to a place with swift runs and deep pools, where, the Shaman said, lay some damn big fish. The river banks towered over us like the cathedral canyons of western rivers. Across the river was the landing of the Ginger Quill Camp where Ernie Schwiebert studied nymphs over Scotch.

After two hours of hard fishing, with only a handful of hits to show for our efforts, this correspondent called it a day, and closed out the Opening Weekend.

It's Worse...

The Huron River is running at 1400 CFS at the Ann Arbor gauging station. A true river blow-out. We'll see how things are in a few weeks...

Yuck.

The Huron River is running at 700+ cfs, and effectively unwadeable. The water at the Zeeb Road Bridge was a sinister looking roiling flow. The good news is that the smallies have plenty of places to spawn. We will tune in toward the end of June; this condition is not going to change quickly.

Preserving Our Flyfishing Heritage.

Tom Deschaine, Kelly Galloup, Jerry Kunath, and Jerry Regan contribute to Michigan Dry Flies, devoted to preserving and promoting classic and historic Michigan fly patterns (pictured is the "Lacey Stephan").

What Happened At The Opener.

Our anticipation for this year's Trout Opener neared delirium by Friday morning, and we struck out for Grayling at noon after putting in a few hours' toil for The Man. The weather was warm, the sun was bright, and the weekend's forecast for the Ausable and Manistee River areas was for high temperatures in the upper sixties with a less than likely chance of rain. It promised to be a very good Opening Day with good conditions for hatching mayflies and rising fish.

We landed on the banks of the North Branch of the Ausable at 4pm, met our First Platoon of comrades, and commenced dry hackle offerings thrown among the rocks and riffles of fifty-six degree water. The platoon's reconnaissance told of a few fish taken earlier in the day but with action now at a lull. In the next two hours our efforts came to nought, but no matter, for two more solid days of fishing lay ahead. Surely, we thought, things would improve. We sounded recall and headed for Penrod's, our base of operations. We joined the Second Platoon and sought refreshment at Grayling's version of The Russian Tearoom - Spike's "Keg O'Nails" Pub: anybody who is anybody in Crawford County is in Spike's for Opening Eve. We had a wonderfully creamy pint of Guinness, and watched various mating rituals between semi-sober fisherman and the domestic and imported brood mares. Further liquid inspiration followed back at camp, summoning rousing declamations on the glories that awaited us. We also learned that the words for "prairie" and "fire" sound very similar in the Ojibwa langauge, and our Resident Fish Scholar postulated various theories on the future of Michigan salmonids and the Return of the Grayling. He was remarkably coherent even after a substantial helping of a brand-new bottle of Scapa. Hemingway would have been proud to have his company.

With the dawn of Opening Day the stragglers of our Band of Brothers arrived at camp, just in time for a superb breakfast. The group was surprisingly ambulatory given the fervor of the previous night's bacchanal. We girded our loins, packed up our gear, and as we headed toward the cars...

A great KABOOM! heralded the arrival of a fierce and nasty squall line into Grayling. We hunkered down for driving wind and rain for the better part of a hour. The temperature plunged twenty-five degrees. This is not good, we thought. Had one of us sinned against God? Should we stone that transgressor and bring the rest of us back to righteousness and reasonable fishing? No one offered themselves up in sacrifice and we concluded that the sinner was amongst the outsiders from our group. If he had any conscience he would tear out his eyes with No. 2 sized streamer hooks and beg our forgiveness, as well as that of God's. The rain abated, and we set out for the CCC Bridge on the Manistee, where we commenced fishing.

"Slow Fishing" does not do justice to our experience for the next four hours. The sudden and severe change in conditions had put our little friends into a coma. Between bouts of cold, soaking rains and biting winds, our group of five (a sixth was an early casualty to storm-induced demoralization and skeedaddled back to Alpena) landed two fish. One of the fish was identified as a brook trout only after undergoing magnification by reading spectacles. The Master Angler of our group, one with whom we had presumed God was obligated to provide at least one fish per outing, was skunked. This had, in effect, defined the day as a disaster, the flyfishing equivalent of The Apocalypse. We slunk back to Grayling to lick our wounds and to hope for a better Sunday.

No such luck. The Fish Scholar peeled off for home Sunday morning, so demoralized that the prospect of finishing his chorelist at home seemed more appealing. After the remnants of our party reconnoitered the Main Branch of the Ausable and found conditions inimical to even fair fishing for our last day, we headed to Dam Four on the North Branch. Alas, another four hours produced no landed fish and precious few strikes in forty-eight degree water. We surrendered in the midafternoon, struck camp, and headed home.

What is there to be learned from such a Last Saturday in April?

The best laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley - Robert Burns

Just Around the Corner...

Things are shaping up for Da Openur. Now the last-minute scramble to ready the tackle and gear!

A Quest Finally Concludes?

We're always looking for perfect flyboxes to have in the vest while fishing. Perhaps even finding the One Box that will hold all of the streamers, nymphs, pupae, emergers, duns, adults, and spinners that we could possibly need for Opening Day. There have been several failed systems, with results such as having the one particular box holding exactly the fly we need left warm and cozy on the cabin table, or watching a flotilla of boxes drifting downstream after spilling from our vest. The Flambeau Blue Ribbon Fly Box may, finally, be the One Box. It contains three Vertical-Friction Foam (VFF) Technology™ panels (gasp!) for smaller flies and one streamer panel. It's compact and waterproof. Stayed tuned for an after-action report on its performance. If the Flambeau Blue Ribbon box lives up to its potential, prepare for a sudden flood of used flyboxes to appear on EBay...

Why Do You Fish?

I fish because I love to; because I love the environs where trout are found, which are invariably beautiful, and hate the environs where crowds of people are found, which are invariably ugly; because of the television commercials, cocktail parties and assorted social posturing I thus escape; because, in a world where most men seem to spend their lives doing things they hate, my fishing is at once an endless source of delight and an act of small rebellion; because trout do not lie or cheat but respond only to quietude and humility and endless patience; because I suspect that men are going along this way for the last time, and I for one don't want to waste the trip; because mercifully there are no telephones on trout waters; because only in the woods can I find solitude without loneliness; because bourbon out of an old tin cup tastes better out there; because maybe someday I will catch a mermaid; and, finally, not because I regard fishing as being so terribly important but because I suspect that so many of the other concerns of men are equally unimportant - and not nearly so much fun. - John Voelker

The Voelker Foundation keeps his ideals alive through law school scholarships, writing competitions, and trout habitat restoration activities.

Perfection?

It's becoming harder to tie tippet to leader as the years accumulate and one's eyesight develops limitations. Much time is lost in midstream by fat-fingered tying of surgeon's knots (it always happens during a hatch!). So we will experiment this year with loop-to-loop connections, with lots of 16" tippet segments pre-tied with Perfection Loops. And we also have a tool to thread 6x tippet through the eyes of size 18 dry fly hooks...

Simplicity.

Our flytying skills are, shall we say, rustic. Accordingly, we'll keep our spring flybox very simple. "Syl" Nemes is the great champion of soft hackle patterns, and his DVD on tying them has encouraged us to have plenty of Partridge & Green, Pheasant Tail Soft Hackles, and Midge Soft Hackles on hand for the last Saturday in April. Borcher's Special, a truly superb pattern for the Au Sable, is also an essential. Henrickson Duns, BWOs, Hare's Ears and Pheasant Tail nymphs, and the odd streamer will round out our Opening Day Flybox.

And a Man's Fancy Turns To...

Enough politics! It so ruins the digestion. We will, for now, put aside our lance and shield and defer battle with the dragon. So we shall turn to fishing. This weekend we attended the Midwest Flyfishing Expo in Warren, Michigan. It was a badly needed tonic for a weekend of rain and gloom. Good exhibitions on casting & tying, and a good turnout . There was a very fine demonstration on the double-haul (we will definitely make this part of our repertoire!); we had a delightful conversation with Au Sable legend Jerry Regan, and an inspirational one with volunteers with Project Healing Waters about the efforts to use the holistic powers of flyfishing for physical and spiritual recovery for wounder warriors. We finally saw a copy of Voelker's "Anatomy of a Fisherman". It includes a superb color photo section of the fishing retreats of the 1950s Upper Peninsula. Definitely required for the library.

Fear Not!

It is only four months to Opening Day. In the meantime, let us tie.

He Can't Be All Bad?

Our "progressive" fisherfriends may become apoplectic to learn that Vice President Cheney is quite an avid and accomplished flyfisherman. Maybe it's just a clandestine program to scout out new drilling sites for Big Earl.

Brutal Opener.

Perhaps the forest fire that swept south of Grayling on Thursday was an omen; certainly the howling storm that followed on Friday night, "Opener Eve", was a precursor of what proved to be a tough and brutal Opening Day of trout fishing. The night's rain, coupled with a 25-degree drop in temperature and howling winds made The Last Saturday in April a very slow day on the Manistee. One nice fish did repeatedly rise and slash at a #8 Light Spruce, providing the only excitement for the day. The next day on the North Branch of the AuSable provided some relief, with a small ensemble of brookies and browns willing to play along.

The comraderie provided by fellow fishermen, however, was superb.

A Heinous Crime.

You know who you are. There are some acts that are beyond despicable, that are fundamental injuires and insults on God's Loving Order of the Universe. You who stole from the Saline Public Library their precious copy of Sparse Grey Hackle's "Fishless Days, Angling Nights" have committed such a crime.

Gather at the River.

Project Healing Waters helps disabled vets of all ages, using flyfishing as a tool for rehabilitation and healing. God Bless their work. You can support them here.

Fishing the Pere Marquette.

A tough eight-hour wade in the Flies Only section produced a few fiesty rainbows on a variety of dry flies. It was very tough fishing. The monster browns laid in the deep pools and watched the entertainment. The author also received two full-immersion baptisms in the legendary river. Alas, a Padron Churchill did not survive the first dunking.

Fishing in Hemingway Country.

Bill had poured out the drinks.
"That's an awfully big shot," Nick said.
"Not for us, Wemedge," Bill said.
"What'll we drink to?", Nick asked, holding up the glass.
"Let's drink to fishing," Bill said.
"All right," Nick said. "Gentlemen, I give you fishing."
"All fishing," Bill said. "That's what we drink to."
"Fishing," Nick said. "That's what we drink to."

- From "A Three Day Blow", by Ernest Hemingway

Just back from a brief but glorious vacation on Little Traverse Bay. Fished the Boyne and Maple. The Boyne was tough fishing - little room for even a roll cast. I landed a few brookies on terrestrials. A Logistical SNAFU put me away from the Blue Ribbon trout section of the river. The Maple was visually spectacular, but the extended drought has brought the river to the lowest level in locals' memory. The fish were very skittish; only a few could be enticed from their log burroughs in the deepest pools by ants and hoppers.

Fontinalis Paradise.

A few weeks ago I fished a river in NW Michigan (that will remain nameless) that possessed the most spectacular brook trout fishing that I have ever experienced. The water was cold and clear (Coke Bottle Blue Pools!) and the myriad of sunken logs and sweepers was quintessential brookie habitat. It was nonstop action for three hours. All the fish measured under 10", but they were healthy and full of fight. The river revealed what the Michigan brook trout fishery could be throughout the state.

(you can purchase this lovely print by Homer at AllPosters.com)