Ripples from the past

Journeyed early a.m. to a small stream that played the leading role establishing my fishing passion. It was where I first 'angled' for Trout with Dad at the ripe old age of 9.. busted my chin wide open [if you've ever noticed the scar on right side below my lip] tripping and falling full force on a sharp snag in the dark, requiring my first 9 sutures in life.. aged 18.. evolved into catch & release fishing with pinched barb spinners in my early 20's, born from the luxury of not having Trout to care for after a late night during mid week.

It's a tributary of the Big Manistee in one of the to few remaining areas escaping the 90's. Drove without much difficulty to a section where a huge Beaver Dam was erected during my mid teens, somewhere near 1980. Fishing was unreal there for a few seasons until the Beaver were trapped out or ran short of near food supply and left. Things degraded terrible almost immediate. Stagnant silt filled restricted pools, the old structures do huge damage. Flows slow and sand builds, water temps go into a warming trend.. fishing really suffered. I only went there once every few seasons, more as a pilgrimage than anything. It was slowly healing but overall still a sad state of affairs. Yesterdays trip provided a real treat! I'd stayed up late rigging an old st Croix 6'8" glass rod, loading line on a little 2 3/4" SA System 4 and putting together a fly box. Turns out the fly box was a waste of time, I tied on a #10 Muddler and caught a fish right off the bat 7:00 a.m. Somewhat surprised to see it was a Brooktrout.. Not at all uncommon but this stream has always been pre-dominate Browns. Fish started coming quite frequent and were all Brooktrout.. Beautiful little jewels with varying shades of vermillion to a vibrant orange sherbert painted on their bellys, clean twin parallel white and black lines on sharp edged perfect fins.



They were quite snappy, rose to and chased the Muddler with relentless intent. I was re-educated on just how much fun these small fish could be given half a chance, and harder yet, locating them. I laughed out loud many times and loved how they would rise to a fly on impact, rolling on it in an assertive calculated grab. The little glass rod was ideal for this fishing.

The Creek is shaping up nicely. Water is moving again, pools and runs are forming. Most important a lot of residual sand has washed through baring nice clean gravel. Unsure of an accurate temp but it felt colder than anything I've been on in a while. Guessing low to mid 60's.

There is nothing I have found that will humble a person quicker than casting fly line on one of these small intimate little tribs. Not that many years ago I would have left frustrated that I could do no better after clumsily crashing line around for an hour and seeing a few fish spook from the pools. A wide open setting where it's the norm to stretch a cast 30' or more, with the room for a moderate backcast, is so much simpler.. it never seemed like it should be though. Truths realised in practise. Next time I may have to step it up a stiff notch and try fishing dry.

They say time heals all wounds. I'm not sure I believe that but after nearly 30 years it has touched this small corner of my life and local in a very positive way.