#11 Bear Creek, Michigan

I awoke this morning at daybreak to the sound of steady rain and distant thunder. It would be a good time to go fishing. At times like this the lazy self starts negotiating. "This would also be a good time to stay in bed, sleep in." But if I'm going to do this 60 rivers thing I've got to get going. "Yes, but you could always get going tomorrow morning." And so it goes. Back in my running days the lazy self would start in about a block from home. The ambitious self might decide on a nice crisp 3 mile run, but the lazy self would always have other ideas. "We've had a long hard day already, let's just do 2 miles this time." So I drag my afflicted self out of bed, dress for the weather, and head to Cannonsburg, badgered the whole time by this irritating debate. "This is just crazy - getting up at the crack of dawn to go outdoors and root around in a mosquito infested spit-of-a-crick." Perhaps this is what Yeats meant by "a fire was in my head."

I arrived at Townsend Park just as a county worker was unlocking the gate. Under a steady rain I quickly suited up, lathered myself in deet, and grabbed my little 5' ultralight spinning rod equipped with a Flueger reel, a rig I bought for walleye fishing but which seemed like a good choice for a woody brook. The small box of lures I had looked to be 20 years old, rusty, and mostly too big for this stream. I settled on the smallest spinner in the box - a heavy faded yellow body with silver blade. My first cast upstream into a v-shaped opening between overhanging brush on both banks produced a strike and with it the lazy self retreated to his hideaway. The second cast produced a decent fish, perhaps 8 to 10 inches. It thrashed around on the surface in the tangle of brush below me and managed to wiggle free of the rusted broken treble hook. All of this occurred in a matter of seconds so I couldn't identify the type of fish. But it was dark and colorful, either a brown or brookie. I got hung up on my next cast to the same run and not wanting to disturb the hole clipped the line. This turned out to be a big mistake as I was out of spinners. I tied on a small Rapala but it was not heavy enough to cast with accuracy into such tight quarters. I fished the creek down to Ramsdell without getting another hit and then retreated to my car. If I am going to fish these small streams I have to go buy some little Mepps and Panther Martins. Even some heavily weighted streamers would work.

On the way back I stopped at the Grist Mill in Cannonsburg for some hot coffee and a hearty breakfast, with time to dwell on the morning's adventure. It is surprising how uncivilized a little creek like this can be so close to a big city. Once in the brush, but only yards away from a road and commercial development, this could be any number of northern feeder streams. I suspect that with some effort one could find hundreds of such streams with good access that would consistently produce nice trout, with the added bonus of not running into other fisherman.

Weather: 56 degrees, overcast with steady rain
Access: Townsend Park, Cannonsburg

#10 Grand River, Michigan

Roger Odell and I took a trip down the Grand with guide Phil Cusey (streamertwo@sbcglobal.net) in search of small mouth bass, or "Green Trout" as Phil would say. The trip actually started the night before as I sat on my basement floor rummaging through various piles of fishing stuff assembling a suitable bag of tackle for the day ahead. It occurred to me that my frequently used fishing and hunting gear is relegated to just 80 cubic feet of space, or about 1/10th the space I need amidst the usual basement clutter I don't use. The adjacent workroom houses various tools and bottles of old chemicals and the like that I have been transferring from house to house over the years. I may have used the workbench once or twice in the last 6 years but those projects could have easily been done on the kitchen table when Margie wasn't looking. And that's when it hit me. Why not jettison the so called "workroom" and turn it into my own personal outdoor activities center, complete with rod holders, tackle boxes, wader hooks, gun cabinet, boot tree, and outdoor clothing racks. Move the tools to my barn to join their buddies, leaving just one tool bag for minor household jobs. I promise myself to get this done by year's end (or just 50 more rivers).

We launched our trip at the Charlotte Road bridge just south of Portland on a cool but pleasant morning with the promise of improving weather. Blue Phlox were blooming profusely along the banks on a stretch of river that for its beauty and natural surroundings rivals famous rivers far to the north. With the exception of one distant barn, we saw no sign of fellow man the entire 6 hour float until the end where a lone homestead stood near the takeout. No other boaters, or fisherman, or million dollar "cottages" to muck up the experience. Just miles of scenic beauty in the Portland State Game Area only 30 minutes or so from Grand Rapids.

The fishing wasn't bad either with frequent action the entire trip using a variety of streamers. Nothing big, but then small mouth bass don't have to be big to enjoy catching. On this day the fish were bottom feeders, so we switched to sink tip lines which increased the hits. The hot streamers were a bronz colored "Tequilley" and rabbit strip crab patterns in olive and peach tied by Phil himself. He calls the peach pattern the "Peach Crabbler." In the afternoon a cream colored caddis hatch emerged and we noticed many fish rising to the floating insects. One fish caught on a streamer had a gullet full of nymphs. We were not equipped for nymph fishing but I'll bet that would have been effective.

I took both an 8wt flyrod Orvis had just replaced (see river #2) and the new 6wt Hexagraph flyrod which I had recently paired with an old F2 Rio Orbigo reel. The Orbigo has a midsized arbor and very smooth action. The handle of the Hexagraph is a bit thick in the middle and became uncomfortable holding after extended casting, so I switched to the 8wt which I found much more to my liking as the day wore on.

We enjoyed Phil's company and expert assistance, including the tasty grilled panini sandwich cooked up while Roger and I relaxed. I would highly recommend this trip for anyone who like me grew up in Grand Rapids but whose only knowledge of the Grand is what it looks like peering over city bridges. As with any river the Grand is not the same river beginning to end. And in this case, that was a pleasant surprise.

Note for return trip: this float covers two large oxbow bends returning just a few miles from where you start. The obscure takeout is on Erdmann Rd. It would be easy to pass the takeout spot as there are several islands at that point and if you got caught on north side you wouldn't see the launch. Remember that when you get to the rocky "white" water keep to the left and watch for the house which is next to the takeout. And be sure to take a nymph fishing rig.

Weather: 52 degrees in morning, warming to 68. Partly cloudy. Water temp 60.

Access: Charlotte Rd Bridge

Scouting report....

Did some scouting Wednesday as Margie and I celebrated 37 years of marriage by taking a day trip to do some shopping and visit Arrowhead Alpines nursery. Arrowhead specializes in dwarf conifers but also has a large assortment of unusual garden plants not found in most plant stores. Going east along M21 past Ionia we crossed Maple River and then Stoney Creek. There is a boat ramp at the bridge with access to the Maple. The river was not impressive looking at this crossing but is apparently substantial enough for boating. It might be worth trying in the Maple River State Game Area to the north. Just down the road is Stoney Creek which was much more inviting with big boulders and decent current on a stretch wide enough for flycasting. Looked to be a pleasent wade. There is also another fishable creek to the north called Fish Creek recommended by Jim Bedford in his helpful book titled "Flyfisher's Guide to Michigan."

We pressed on to St. Johns and headed south down 127, crossing the Looking Glass River. True to its name, this appeared to be a slack water river with no perceptible current. All of these rivers hold small mouth bass and could easily be fished in one outing. After lunch at Bravo on Lake Lansing Road we headed to Arrowhead south of Fowlerville. Unfortunately we didn't have enough time there as I had to get back to pick up the pontoon boat. We quickly bought some plants and headed home.

Yesterday I crossed the Rogue River and then Cedar Creek driving north on Algoma Avenue. I need to set up a two stream outing with Brian Merdzinski who knows this water well. On the way home I stopped at Townsend Park to ponder opportunities at Bear Creek which flows through the park and then along Cannonsburg Road on its journey to the Grand River. This is spinning rod territory with a short stretch between the park and Ramsdell that looks interesting. Time to go fish'n.

Wanderings of a Trout Bum....

Knowing Jon de Bleaux and having the benefit of his knowledge of Michigan trout streams would make my quest for 60 rivers a lot easier. This book, on loan from Jon Damon, is apparently the unedited journal of a truly remarkable spin fisher of Michigan trout streams. JdB finds only humor in the Orvis clad "feather" casters, preferring instead tossing "metal" deep into log jams to entice out the resident hogs and practicing his own practical style of catch & release, keeping the biggies and returning the small ones. He apparently liked eating fish.

Especially interesting were Jon's account of fishing familiar streams like Honey Creek, Tamarack Creek, and the Little South Branch of the PM - all streams I've already fished on my quest. But his best streams with reports of fantastic action were not named or were given fake names so as not to break the code of silence with his trusted fishing buddy, Mad Bill.

On trout fishing...."In the beginning I'll confess that I, too, was once guilty of lusting after numerous odd-ball creations. Such temptations are designed to make pure the breed. I know few men, weaned on trout, who have remained completely pure. Tales of temptation, like northerns long as canoes in the Canadian wilds, and salmon so powerful they can burn up a reel in a single run, have lured many astray. Verily, verily, I say unto you, narrow is the path to trout heaven and few are the men that ever find it, but wide is the road to the garbage fish and the multitudes swarm thereupon."

On bears and mosquitoes...."Bears are the unpredictable and excitable inhabitants of the north country I love. I find the black bear a fascinating animal and enjoy the idea of sharing his habitat and find our meetings nothing short of exhilarating. Were it not the black bear and the blood-thirsty mosquitoes guarding my streams, many of my favorite haunts would have turned into tourist parks by this time."

On you and me...."We have spawned a whole generation who cannot tolerate the quiet of the backwoods for more than an hour or two at a time. They must race back to civilization, people, and noise for their false security. Progress and civilization have ironically robbed a majority of our people of self reliance, leaving them as caged rats that thrive in a noisy, overcrowded world. I feel sorry for them and their weakness. We have sadly slipped a long way from the caliber of our forefathers."

Not a great piece of literature, but an interesting and entertaining read for those of us who like standing waist deep in moving water.

#9 Tamarack Creek, Michigan

The Tamarack is a big creek (at least below Howard City) which makes me wonder why some streams are called rivers and some are called creeks. It is comparable in width and depth to the Little Manistee River, holding a sizable population of browns, brooks, and rainbows. I was fortunate to have run into Mike Roberts at the parking spot. Mike is a fishing enthusiast and a frequent fisher of the Tamarack. He described several wading "loops" he makes above, through, and below Howard City. I hope to return soon to explore the section where Rice Creek flows into the Tamarack. According to Mike you can fish the entire stretch upstream to the park along M82. That would be about 3 miles of river, or should I say creek. Sadly, the fish I caught were nursery stock, probably planted just before opening day. There is something very troubling about the put-and-take fishery being practiced the world over.

On the way out of the parkway I stepped on the gas as I was late for dinner, and in fact hadn't bothered to tell anyone where I was. As the car picked up speed I heard a troubling scraping sound across the top of my car and in the rear view mirror I saw my antique bamboo rod sail to a stop on the pavement. I pulled the car over and ran to its rescue, too late to prevent the first car from running over the tip section. As it passed I noticed an 18 wheeler baring down on us (my rod and me), so I ran out and grabbed it as the trucker whizzed by giving a thumbs up. Surprisingly the rod was OK, which would not have been the case had it been graphite. Note to self: do not put rod on top of car when taking off waders.

Weather: Sunny, 81 degrees
Access: M82 at bridge west of US131

#8 Rice Creek, Michigan

I have a special fondness for Rice Crick. This little stream flows into the Tamarack near the intersection of US131 and M82. More importantly it is just a half mile or so down the road from the Korcal family farm - my mother's childhood home. The wooden bridge on Amy School Road has long ago been replaced with culvert tiles so that unsuspecting passersby do not even see the stream. Yet as I park the car and look around the memories of my first solo fishing adventure quickly surface. I am a 10 year old kid again, dropped off after Sunday dinner at the crick by an uncle who lingers for a bit to peer into the water on each side of the bridge, offering up some advise and recalling great catches of big trout from years past before heading back to the farm to leave a boy and his imagination behind. I am excited to be on my own, but a little nervous too. The old wooden bridge raises up above the road in three sections, with an approach on each side to a flat mid section, flanked on both sides by iron rails. The wooden planks have large gaps and when cars go over, sand and pebbles splatter the water below. It is a hot August day and the creek is low and crystal clear. Water bugs are "skating" across the top of the water and dragonflies are all about. Butterflies have clustered on the gravel road. Fish can be seen holding in pools above the reflective brown hues of their gravel bed, and for awhile I am mezmerized by their rythmic motion. I consider walking off the bridge down to the stream bank to get a closer look but that seems risky. Looking downstream a troublesome KEEP OUT sign hangs from a rusty old barb wire fence stretched across the stream. Ol' Ernie lives somewhere in that direction. Ernie was old as the hills, living amidst all manner of junk and old treasures. We would often stop there on the way to go fishing and although his place was one of the most interesting places in the whole wide world, in no way did I want to encounter Ernie alone. So I move to the other side of the bridge. Looking upstream to the east the creek seems more friendly. There is skunk cabbage and wild onions growing on the banks. Swamp rose are blooming amist the jewel weed and tall grass. Perhaps it is a little too inviting I think, deciding it best to just stay on the bridge. After all the best fishing hole was just downstream under that KEEP OUT sign and even I know how to float a worm downstream. I hear a distant tractor working a field and then a car comes my way in a cloud of hot August dust. With windows down the driver and the happy sound of 50s rock & roll greet me as he slows down to cross the bridge looking first upstream and the down and finally to me. "How they bite'n kid", he says with cigarette dangling from his lips. "Nothing yet", I counter. He smiles as his car slowly rolls over the bridge and then guns it as if the little encounter had stolen precious time. The music fades and dust settles, and I am alone with the sweet smell of the crick. I am content. The nagging worry of being left alone has been subdued by the wonder of my surroundings. There are hungry little fish down there that occupy my time. Mostly creek chubs and an occasional little trout. I grow tired of fishing and lean my pole against the iron rail. Kneeling down I peer through cracks between the wooden slats to explore the hidden places below the bridge, pushing sand down along the planks to watch it hit the water, accepting at a young age that fishing is about more than just catching fish. Fifty years have passed and here I stand, grateful for the opportunity but saddened by change. There is a housing development along the banks to the east advertised along US131 as waterfront property. Amy School, the one room school house attended by my mother and most of her fifteen brothers and sisters, is gone. The bridge is gone. Even the KEEP OUT sign is gone. I ponder for a moment how much I have changed, and the thought is overwhelming and better left undisturbed. I fish the stream up and down to the first house each way, which isn't far. To my surprise I turn a fish too big for this stream from alongside a sunken log. A big Brown, perhaps 18 inches. The wild tales my uncles told me as a child may have been true after all.

Weather: Sunny, 81 degrees

Access: Amy School Road

Some thoughts on fly-fishing...

Late last year I bought a very nice 6 weight flyrod from Harry Briscoe at the Hexagraph Fly Rod Company (www.hexagraph.com). These rods look like bamboo but are made of solid graphite. Packaged with the rod was Yeats' poem along with the following note from Harry: " In the mid-1950's my father took me to the mountains of northern New Mexico, and there in a small arroyo, I caught my first 'little silver trout' on a fly. Though I did not realize it then, that trout, like Aengus' trout, became the beautiful and mysterious object of what has been, and what surely will be, a life-long search. I see her every time I go fishing. I feel her presence in every one of her kind that fate and my good fortune bring to the end of my line. I have not caught her yet, but I have come close. I will keep chasing her because the pursuit is an adventure that takes me to exotic places, both far-away and close to home; places that bring me contentment and happiness. She has introduced me to many wonderful things, and many times she has provided for me those apples of silver and gold. But, as well as I know her, she remains a mystery. Now, I hope I never really catch her...but I want to hold her hands." Thank you Harry for lifting this poem from the wall of an old lodge in Ireland. The poem and your thoughts hit very close to home.