#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