Michigan Trout Unlimited
MICHIGAN Trout
A Pilgrimage of Trout
24
by Rick Fowler
Spring 2021
“The trout appeared shortly before dark. They streamed in and through the channel, glowing white beneath the lamp. At first I could only watch in amazement. Hundreds of lake trout weighing six, eight or ten pounds paraded slowly through the channel, all within fifteen or twenty feet of where we stood above them on the wharf.” Jerry Dennis-LAKE TROUT NIGHTS I have often wondered what it would be like to view such a congregation of fish in a river as Dennis describes in his story. To actually experience the schooling of fish that were oblivious to the bystander with rod and reel in hand near the bank as they rooted for food, jockeyed for position, and nestled into a section of water they wanted to own. Then it happened. On a rather nondescript early fall morning as I approached a particular channel of the northwest Michigan river I fish so often, I would bear witness to this rare occurrence. Not lake trout. But browns! Not hundreds weighing upwards of ten pounds but a couple dozen beautifully colored brown trout, many in the one to two-pound range in my estimation. My headlamp illuminated a group near the trampled footpath I had neared the river on. They weren’t spooked and seemed oblivious to the light that would highlight them as I moved my head from side-to-side seeking out more of their brethren. I had never seen so many fish in this pool since my days of smelt dipping here more than a decade ago. I was giddy, euphoric with the anticipation of casting and catching such magnificent creatures, Why is it, when moments like this are experienced, there is no one there to share it with? How many times does the fish “of a lifetime” fall prey to an angler’s offering and yet once landed and released not a soul is there to bear witness to such an event? How many poles have been snapped, lines broken, and lures destroyed by a behemoth denizen of the water but all that remains is the solitary angler’s angst of what might have been and the realization that if they try to explain the moment, few, if any, would believe the experience because they weren’t there. It seemed as if these fish were on a pilgrimage of a sort akin to, as Jon Gluck once wrote, “Catholics having the Vatican and Muslims having the Mecca” to journey to. They weren’t in a rush but seemed to be skittering forward, ever forward as their dorsal fins popped to the top every
so often. I knew I should get a line in the water, but I continued to view their movements. Many were solitary travelers, often busting a run for a few feet when another fish got too close. Others were huggers, seemingly finding comfort and safety in numbers as they moved slowly from side to side, swimming in unison like ballroom dancers. Usually I don’t pack in two rods while fishing a river. One or the other is left in the truck. If I decide to switch up my presentation I will head back to my vehicle and swap out my gear. However, this morning I luckily chose to take both fly and spin casting gear with me to the water. I had a small Woolly Bugger already tied on to the fly rod and had shoved a few garden worms into my vest for the spinning rod. Now all I needed was to stop gaping at the spectacle below me and get fishing. After all, this was a once-in-alifetime opportunity that would most likely never happen in my presence again. A few yards ahead there was a mix of boulder-dotted rapids, shallow rocky-bottomed flats, and swirling pools which I believed might be holding bigger fish, but for now I wanted to test this water with these fish. I was going to school them with my angling ability or be schooled by them with their survival prowess. I made the spin casting rod my first choice. A nice, fresh red garden worm was soon twisting on the end of my hook as I set sail with the recipe a few feet above the squadron of browns still unfazed by my presence. Nothing the first cast. A second cast and a drift by their noses yielded nothing more than a glance from one of the smaller browns. A third and a fourth cast resulted in the same outcome. Nothing! What the heck? What self-respecting trout would not want a fresh, lively garden worm for breakfast? Not this group! I cautiously set the spinning rod down and readied the fly rod. There wasn’t a lot of room to cast where I was, but rather than risking splashing around to get closer, I flipped the Woolly as far as I dare upstream of them. I felt, rather than saw the attack. It was beautiful this hookup. The fish didn’t run far and within a minute or two I had my first fish with classic black and red markings—a brown trout. I flipped on my headlamp again and marveled at this creature, one of the many that were still swimming idly in the water. The fish was then gently released back to the
