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 c
onsider 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.
onsider 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
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