It Was A Good Day
By Neil M. Travis, Montana
The day was typical for mid-July in the pine barren
country of Northern Lower Michigan, hot and dry. The
smell of drying sweet ferns permeated the air, and
the only sound to break the midday solitude was the
dull buzz of the cicadas, and the hum of the occasional
horsefly. The Au Sable River flowed along toward Lake
Huron like an unbroken ribbon of oiled steel. Even the
canoe traffic had slowed to an occasional flotilla of
parboiled fun seekers. In the shade of the stream side
trees we waited for the twilight.
We had fished during the early morning hours, finding
an occasional brown tucked up under the protective
branches of one of the numerous cedar sweepers that
dominate this portion of the river, still sipping a
sporadic spinner left over from the proceeding evening,
or engulfing an errant terrestrial cast onto the water
by an erratic breeze. It was slow and easy fishing
holding only minimal expectations of finding a good
fish still feeding before the heat of the day pushed
them back into deeper water, or farther back beneath
the impenetrable cedar sweeps. Pockets of cool air
drifted out from the surrounding pine woods, the water
was cool against our waders, and the sun, though
increasingly warm, felt good on our shoulders.
Midday belonged to the silver horde of canoeists that
ply this river during the warmer summer months.
Originating from canoe liveries located in Grayling
and Roscommon vast armadas of these silver juggernauts
descend upon the river on a daily basis, and woe to
the angler that attempts to withstand this horde. The
wise angler watches with amusement their antics from
the bank while enjoying the relative coolness of the
shade and a cold drink.
Just slightly upstream from our vantage point the river
took a slight bend, and on the outside edge had carved
out a deep hole. In times past, perhaps spring runoff,
a snag had become lodged in the middle of this hole, and
for years it provided great amusement for those of us
gathered in the shade during the long hot summer afternoons.
During periods of normal water flow the only hint of the
snag was a barely perceptible bulge on the otherwise
smooth flow of the river. Canoes coming down the river
would invariably drift into this snag with hilarious
results, at least from our perspective. Since most of
the canoeists had no idea how to direct a canoe, or
how to read the water, upsets were common.
Under certain circumstances a canoe would strike the snag
at just the right angle resulting in the slight keel of
their aluminum canoe becoming stuck on the snag without
flipping the craft. Thus impaled most floaters were at
a lose to explain their sudden stop in the middle of the
river, or what could be the possible cause. It was rare
that floaters ultimately figured out the problem, and
succeed in freeing themselves without flipping their
canoe. Some thought they could just jump out and pull
the canoe free. The look on their faces as they plunged
in, only to disappear completely out of sight, was
certain to bring a rousing round of laughter from the
stream side audience. It was cheap entertainment, but
well worth the price of admission.
As entertaining as this was it was the setting sun
that really held our attention. Slowly, like a molten
spot of lead, the hot July sun would edge toward the
western horizon, and all attention would turn from
inactive observation to active participation. The
hour of the angler had arrived.
Castwell and I had a routine that varied little over
the several years that we fished this section of the
Au Sable together. From our campsite, we would head
for the river just as the sun began to touch the tops
of the tallest trees. It was a short walk down the
path to the river, and then upstream through a small
swampy area where a tiny hidden spring produced watercress
for our salads. Pushing through the alders we would emerge
at a spot called Green Cabin Pool, so named for a green
cabin perched on the far bank. On our side of the river
a large cedar log sat parallel to the flow of the river,
and it was on this log that we would sit perched like
herons awaiting the evening rise we were sure would come.
Thus it was on this day. We perched on our log smoking
our pipes, tinkering with our tackle, and watching the
water for the first telltale sign of the beginning of
the evening rise. The owners of the Green Cabin were
rarely in residence, but they maintained a grand piece
of emerald green grass that flowed down to the very edge
of the stream. Log cribbing ran along the entire length
of the property, and a small log dock where canoes or
Au Sable Riverboats could be secured completed the stream
side motif. The end of the property was marked by a medium
sized cedar tree, under which a choice brown or two often
took up residence during a good spinner fall. This would
be such a night.
Au Sable River browns were known for their picky nature,
each one holding a PHD in selectivity. This was especially
true of any brown over 12 inches long, and this stretch of
river held many such fish in those days. There was a goodly
number of 12 to 14 inch fish, and several fish that would
push 20 inches. It was these better fish that we were
constantly seeking to find, and if insect numbers were
heavy we could usually count on several of them making
their presence known. On this night, as the first spinners
began to fall, several better fish began to push their
noses through the surface film.
Castwell moved upstream so he could present his flies
along the log cribbing where several good fish were
known to set up feeding stations. I moved downstream
to ply the water from the log dock downstream to the
cedar tree. The spinner fall was a mixed lot of small
sulphurs, a few larger drakes, and an occasional
fluttering caddis. The caddis excited the smaller fish,
and they greeted them enthusiastically with showy and
splashy rises. As was the norm the larger and more
desirable fish selected the smaller sulphur spinners,
and totally disdained the larger drakes and the caddis.
This type of fishing involved more watching than
casting if one was to avoid spooking the better
fish. Like herons patrolling the stream bank
looking for an easy mark Castwell and I would
move slowly up and down until we found a good
fish that was steadily rising. Then we would
spend several moments carefully marking the
spot, and timing the interval between rises
before we would make the first tentative cast.
On this particular evening several good fish
began to feed with uncharacteristic abandon
along the entire length of the Green Cabin Pool,
and extending downstream into the water below. I
selected a good fish near the tail of the pool for
my first attempt, and was promptly rewarded with
a solid take from a wild Au Sable brown. Upstream
Castwell was similarly engaged.
The day was long spent when Castwell and I finally
hooked our flies onto the keepers on our rods, and
waded slowly for shore. We had both hooked and landed
several browns in the 16 plus category; and Castwell had
landed one solid 20 incher with large red spots the
size of a dime along his sides. The cool of the
evening had started to settle, and suddenly we
were both chilled. A sliver of a moon hung in
the western sky, and in the darkening woods a
barred owl called out, 'Who cooks for you, who
cooks for you all.' The warmth of the campfire,
and the thought of some warm food and the camaraderie
of our friends urged us away from the river. It had
been a good day, a very good day indeed. ~ Neil M. Travis, Montana
From A Journal Archives
|
