Taking a crippled old dog out fishing

Mark Rinckey (with net) lands a Platte River steelhead for David Richey.

I was dreaming the steelhead dream, and my world was one of rushing river water, a jumping fish hanging in the sky with droplets of cold water hanging of its hard body, and there I stood: looking like a big doofus, with a broad grin on my face, and loving the experience.

Then I came out of my mid-day reverie, shook my head once, and the steelhead tugging me downstream was just a good dream at a bad time. The older I get, the more that some of the mistakes of my youth come back to haunt me.

Forty-one years ago, I fell off a fire escape, caught myself on one of the supports, and hung there 30 feet above a paved parking lot. I managed to climb hand-over-hand up the support to the edge of the fire escape, and pull my sorry butt up to safety.

Injuries have caused a weak left leg and weak lower back for me in past few years.

I’d broken two vertebrae in my spine, ruptured a disc, and when I slammed sideways into the brick wall after catching the support, the impact really messed up my back. Three months after back surgery, I slipped on some ice, fell on a piece of fire wood frozen in the ground, and broke the vertebrae above the first break.

That laid me up for a year, and even though I was writing magazine articles at the time, I had to do some from bed. I spent two or three months in a full-body cast, and finally, I was able to walk around. There’s an old adage about outdoor writers having to be tough.

I finally got back to work, fished and hunted while traveling all of North America for magazine articles. My back always hurt, but like is true with hockey players, football players, I had to play with pain – day after day.

Then some joker in a BATA bus pulled out in front of me, and although I had my lap and shoulder restraint on, I had no time to stop. The impact as the car T-boned the bus, banged up my chest and ribs. You guessed it: this car didn’t have an air bag. Some broken and fractured ribs happened even though the hospital originally told me there was nothing broken. It just took a couple of days to develop.

So, the last 10 years have had its way with me. My left leg has never really worked right, and was always weak. I compensated for the injury and weakness, and most people never knew there was anything wrong.

I knew, and hid the constant pain, and worked despite it. I retired from The Detroit News in May of 2003, and considered spending the rest of my life doing exactly what I did while working as a full-time staff writer – fishing and hunting.

Two years ago, the pain really started to increase. I had to take the occasional days off to rest my body, and then back I’d go again. Gradually, in the past two years, my left leg got very weak and wading rivers became nearly impossible. There has never been any “give up” in my vocabulary, but river fishing became more and more difficult for me.

I was at the point of forgetting about something that had been a part of my life for more than 60 years. I began trout fishing in rivers at 11 years of age, and now at 72, I was facing the grim prospect of never fishing a trout stream again because of bad legs and a bad back.

Here comes guide Mark Rinckey and my son David Richey to the rescue.

Well, I’m more than delighted to write and tell you that my steelhead fishing trip came true two days ago. My son David, of Sitka, Alaska, came home. I’d talked with guide Mark Rinckey of Honor, Michigan, (231-325-6901) and he felt they could get me out on the Platte or Betsie rivers. Frankly, they were a far more optimistic than me.

Rinckey says the warm autumn and little snow, has put a number of steelhead into the Betsie and Platte river. In the past 10 days, Rinckey’s methods for other anglers had produced limit catches some days and only a couple fish on other days. However, during those 10 days, they had landed one 18-pound steelhead, two at 17 pounds and numerous fish up to 15 pound. Me, I’d be more than delighted to catch any steelhead.

You see, my left leg doesn’t work well. For 41 years, it has been considerably weaker than my right leg. But, oh how I wanted to go, to catch one more steelhead, a game fish that I’ve fished for quite successfully for 61 years. I’d come to realize how much I missed the hiss of river current flowing around the end of a sweeper, and the sheer determination and dogged fight with a big steelhead was burning a hole in my heart/

We got to the river, and I pulled on my waders, took a few tentative steps on dry grounds, and I felt “I can do this.” I walked at my pace, and they helped me down a short dropoff to the water’s edge on the Platte, and we got into the water. Mark walked in front of me, David behind me, and we slowly crossed the river.

Mind you, it was the last day of November but the weather had been balmy. It was a bit cool but we were dressed for it.

He we go, getting The Old Man & his creaky bones into the river.

We got to a wide sweeping run against the far bank. Mark gave David some spawnbags, and he’d been here many times before, and hooked a steelhead right away and landed an 8-pound hen steelhead, all bright silver and glistening in the current. He fought it well, and soon the hook was twisted out and the fish was given its freedom.

We cast and cast, and Rinckey left me in the water near shore, and floated back and forth between my son and I. Eventually, it dawned on us that David had probably caught the only steelhead in that run or all the splashing had put the other fish down.

We crossed the river again with Rinckey leading and David following, and me in the middle. I got up and made my way back to the car, and felt great. I was fishing again, doing what I’d done for most of my 72 years. It was a wonderful feeling.

We drove to the Betsie River where Rinckey guided a client to an 18-pound buck steelhead a week before. He said this is where things will be tricky because the water was up, and the current strong.

“I’ll be on one side of you and David will be on the other,” Rinckey said. “If you stumble or the current sweeps your leg out from under you, we’ll have you.”

So, in this manner, we waded across the river in near chest-high water, got up on a shallow sand ridge, and walked downstream. Rinckey gave the instructions.

“David, go downstream 30 yards and cast right up next to the opposite river bank, and let it bounce downstream. This is where Ray caught the 18-pounder a week ago. He also caught two 15-pound here the day before yesterday. There are lots of fish in the river.”

He pointed out to me where to cast, and cast the spawnbag out to show me where the spawnbag was supposed to go. I’d fished this hole many times before. I could feel the splitshot bouncing along bottom, and suddenly the line stopped.

I snapped the rod tip back and was into a good fish. The fish ranged about 40 feet, stopped and Mark and I eased down through knee-deep water. I’d eased back the rod, moving the fish inches closer, and he responded by making another short run and a half-hearted leap.

“He’s hooked good in the corner of the jaw,” Rinckey said. I’d pump and reel, and then the fish would take back the six-pound line. We fought a back-and-forth battle for 10 minutes before I could sense the fish tiring. At just the right moment, I eased the fish across the surface to Mark’s waiting net.

The fish came to the net and my guide didn’t miss this fish.

“You got him!” Rinckey roared in my ear as David yelped with joy to see The Old Man do again what The Boy had seen done hundreds of times before.

The steelhead, a buck weighing 11 pounds, was lifted from the net and held up for me to admire. It was sleek, with that pinkish-red blaze of color along its sides, and I drank in its beauty before asking him to gently release it.

We fished that hole relentlessly for another hour, and Rinckey asked how I was doing.

“My left leg is really getting weak,” I said.. “I know we have to wade upstream, and I suggest we do so while I can.”

He whistled up David, and we began the upstream trek, one on each side of me. Sheer determination showed on their faces, and I suspect on mine as well. I climbed out of the river like an arthritic hippo, wobbled a bit on my unsteady legs, and then we walked through the woods and up the hill to our vehicles.

I was choked up with emotion as I profoundly thanked both men for making this trip possible. Who knows what the future may bring when it comes to my lifelong passion of steelhead fishing, but this trip was one of the greatest thrills of my angling career. I also want to give thanks to the steelhead for giving me another thrilling battle on light line. It was a day I will never forget.

How NOT to wade a steelhead stream

Larry Winans once posed for photos of an out-of-control angler.

Water is great stuff. It’s wonderful to drink, the right stuff for showers, great to wade in, fun to fish in, and a necessity when hunting ducks in the fall.

However, it is not fun to swim in at cold times of the year. Here’s what happened when I needed a story and photos on short notice for a newspaper story. It turned out to be a great column..

The Betsie River has strong currents in certain locations and dark water. High early spring  water complicates things even further because it dirties up once the spring run-off occurs. Seeing bottom can become nearly impossible.

Certain areas can only be waded with extreme caution. I knew where two early-spawning steelhead were spawning on a bed, and proper positioning had me in the key location to cast a wet fly. Time after time the fly passed their nose, and time and again the male and female parted to allow the intruding fly to swing past.

It may have been the 50th or 60th cast when the male separated early, moved toward the fly, and sucked it in. The hook was promptly set and the fish jumped once. It darted upstream, and fought hard until it began to tire.

The buck steelhead, his cheeks and gill covers the color of orange-pineapple ice cream, put his broad side to the heavy current and started drifting downstream. I was fishing a familiar area, one I knew like my backyard. Or, so I thought. I had forgotten to take in mind the higher water level and that brush could have washed in.

It was necessary to stick very close to the bank, and with the river swollen with run-off, I knew it would be tippy-toe as the fish tugged its way downstream. The first six steps took me into waist-deep water.

“Cool,” I thought. “This isn’t too bad. The bottom shelves up 10 feet from here.”

That 10 feet was a real treat. Five feet into it my toe bumped against a submerged log that had washed in on the high water, and with the water pushing hard on my back, over I went with a mighty splash. I never felt bottom again for nearly 150 yards.

The strong current turned me upside down, rolled me around, sent me feet-first and then rump-first, down around the bend. The fish was still on, tugging at my rod as it was held up out of the water, but a one-armed breast stroke just wasn’t cutting it. The river carried me another 100 yards around the bend, and as I came to a shallow gravel bar, I heaved my rod up on shore.

My waders were filled with water, and the current ground me into the gravel bar with considerable force, and finally I was able to get to my hands and knees and crab across the gravel to shore where I floundered like a beached whale. I grabbed a sapling, pulled myself to my feet, and bent over to dump out  some water.

My butt plunked onto the bank as I pulled my waders off, and emptied them back into the river. The temperature was in the mid-20s with a 10 mph breeze, and I had to get my rod and head for the car. Shivering had already set in.

My rod was pulled from the brush, and as I reeled in my slack line, the rod came alive in my hands. One hundred yards downstream the steelhead bolted into the air, flipped its tail like a farewell salute, and we came undone.

There was a steep hill to climb, and as I reached my car another angler stopped to ask about the fishing. He then noticed I was soaking wet.

“Fall in?” he asked. Here was a man with a magnificent grasp of the obvious.

“Nope,” I said, “a big steelhead took me water skiing. The problem was he couldn’t pull quite hard enough to keep me up on top. He got away, and all I got was a short but wet and wild ride down the river.”

It had been a neat experience. Mind you, but it’s not one I wish to try again anytime soon, but one that has carved a special niche in my memory.

Returning to an old, favorite steelhead stream

A nice steelhead for the Old Man. One is enough for me these days.

Decades ago, there was a place on the Little Manistee River that was almost like home. It had many shallow gravel bars where steelhead spawned, and rather than charging off elsewhere, my son David and I chose to returned to my hotspot from the late 1960s.

“If that’s where you want to fish, “I’m happy to tag along. “Show me a place you haven’t showed me before.” He and I had fished a good many spots but there were a bunch he had yet to see.

So I did, and it was like going back in time. And he fell in love with it just as I did 45 years ago. No, sorry, but I’m not revealing its exact location although I can get you fairly close.

Taking a big step back in time brought us to the Little Manistee River.

The river, between the 9 Mile and 6 Mile bridge, was running low, fast and clear that day as we stepped into the river. Strongly felt was the old familiar tightening of water pressure against my legs as we began wading slowly upstream in hopes of finding a leftover steelhead or two.

We poked along slowly, easing into the current, checking out gravel bars for the dish-shaped white overturned gravel from the fanning of a hen steelhead’s tail. The bed is slightly upstream from the white gravel at the tail-end of the bed. Some people wonder why these beds are white, and the quick and easy answer is this gravel has been turned over as a hen digs her spawning redd.

David, much younger than the old man, has speed to burn. I nodded for him to charge off in his personal quest for a lively steelhead while I walked slowly, stopped often, and looked for the near-invisible shadow of a fresh hen or the darker and blockier shape of a male.

I covered 200 yards, and stood motionless, looking near a fallen log that had toppled into the river. My vision, at best, is poor but I know what to look for and quickly found it.

First came the dark shadowy shape of a male holding in slightly deeper water along the edge of the redd. The water was four feet deep here, and I studied it for 10 minutes. The trick is to locate both fish before starting to cast to them.

I just fish for male steelhead. Hooking a female can ruin the fishing.

Make a mistake at this point, and hook the female, and she is gone and the males will vanish with her. I studied the bed, both sides of it, and finally found her holding next to a log 10 feet downstream from the redd. The female was bright silver in the sunshine, and she was very close to being invisible. At first I couldn’t see her, but then I spotted her shadow, and then she became instantly visible. It’s a matter of knowing what to look for, and any skill at spotting these fish comes from many years of experience.

She was in an impossible spot to fish, even if I was stupid enough to try for her. The male held alongside the redd, and in a perfect location. My line was lengthened, and reading the current speed and depth gave me the ideal spot to cast. My orange yarn fly drifted downstream along bottom, and the fish moved away from it.

The fly was lifted out, cast again, and again the male moved aside and allowed the fly to drift past. Time after time I cast, and each time the male slid away, but he was becoming agitated, and on the 20th or 30th cast, he grabbed the fly and the hook was pounded home.

That fish ripped off on a downstream run, ran past the hen, went between two fallen logs, and wheeled in midstream, splashed out of the water in a corkscrewing jump, and ran back upstream. He took 10 yards of line upstream from me, rolled on the surface, and headed back down and turned. He bulldozed into a submerged brush pile in front of me, and in less than a second tangled my line and broke off.

I moved back up to shore, sat down, tied on another orange yarn fly, and rested the spot. It took 30 minutes before the hen moved back into her holding position, and 15 minutes later, the male reappeared. This time there was something different: an orange yarn fly was firmly embedded in the corner of his mouth.

Hooking and losing a nice buck steelhead was exciting.

It took at least an hour for both fish to settle down, and I admired the day and the scenic beauty of this portion of the river. It seemed a great day to be alive. Upstream, I heard David talking to himself as a fish splashed. He was into a steelhead, and was telling the world about it.

My male with the lip decoration lay beside the female, and she let loose a jet of yellow eggs as both fish rolled on their sides, mouth agape, and he fertilized the eggs. I got a good look at the hen, and she was flat-bellied and had successfully spawned.

She headed into a log jam and disappeared from sight. She would now rest, and I had no problem casting again to the solitary male. This time he was more eager, and grabbed the orange fly on the second drift but he’d learned his previous lesson well. He darted into the brush, twisted around, and the hook pulled free.

Minutes later David came back downstream. He had landed a nice male and released it, and said he had covered over a mile of river and saw just those two fish.

Was it a perfect day? The weather was wonderful though a bit windy, and we each found a male fish to cast to. David hooked and landed his and released the big 12-pound buck, and I hooked and lost the same fish twice. Did we have a good time?

The answer was an emphatic “yes!” We fished several other areas that day, and never saw another steelhead. But, finding two males and hooking both of them, was just part of a perfect day. Fishing a spot I hadn’t fished in 30 years was a bonus, and it was nice to know that fish still hold in the same locations as they did more than 40 years ago.

David will soon be in Alaska running his fishing boat, and I’m here and lacking company. Perhaps I’ll return to that spot, but it’s more likely I’ll try another spot I haven’t fished in years. Going it alone doesn’t bother me, and sometimes I count myself lucky to still be able to fish for steelhead.

I’ll soon be 72 years old, but fly fishing is much like shooting pool. Once you learn how, it only takes a bit of practice to become proficient. I’ll never be as good at this type of fishing I was 40 years ago, but that’s just fine. One fish is enough to make me fall in love with steelhead all over again.

When Steelhead Go Wild, Part I

Sleet as hard as No. 4 buckshot pelted us as we waded into the lower Platte River.

It was late March, and winter wouldn’t die. It was 15 above, the water was 33 degrees, and the wind-driven sleet was as subtle as a body slam.

We chose a hole that was good when I was a fulltime steelhead guide years ago. The water curled to the far bank, bounced off a log-jam, and punched through the tail-out. A hooked fish would be downstream in a heartbeat.

We eased in, studied it, and it hit me: what I thought was bottom was moving around, constantly shifting positions. The slow submerged movement rocked me to my numbed toes.

“Whoa,” I muttered softly. “Paul, we just found steelheading’s Mother Lode.”

“Say what?” he asked. “It’s too cold to stand here and tell fish stories.”

“No, look!. Watch the water. This hole is wall-to-wall with steelhead.”

Paul Kerby of Mancelona needed little persuasion to fish. He knotted a Platte River Special to his six-pound tippet, shook out some fly line and cast above the huge pod of fish. The fly drifted down along bottom, and a lively six-pounder took the fly and Kerby buried the hook.

The fish bounced into the air like a kid on a trampoline, and began a long run downstream. Paul, a veteran of many such battles, stayed close so he could steer it away from log-jams or other obstacles.

“Later,” he said, running through thigh-deep water after the wild fish that was bolting downstream. Orange was hot because they were silver fish from Lake Michigan. An orange fly would imitate free-drifting salmon or steelhead eggs.

A Dave’s Special, another orange-colored fly that my brother George invented years before, was tied on (see sidebar). The fish were still milling around. The hole met their needs; it was six feet deep, 600 yards above the mouth and hooked fish would run down toward Platte Bay.

The line was lengthened, and shot forward so the fly landed six feet above the fish. The line was mended once to allow the fly to sink. It twitched and I set the hook. Suddenly, it didn’t seem nearly as cold as before.

We did a lively dance downstream. The trick was to stop it before it got into the fast chute of current near the boat launch. The fish, a bright buck, its cheeks and gill covers colored like orange pineapple ice cream, was a fat 10-pounder. Fortunately, it tired rapidly and was quickly released.

“Get him?,” Kerby asked as he followed another fish downstream.

“Yeah, a 10-pound male. Unhooked him and let him go. You?”

“Turned him loose. It’s too cold to keep fish. The only way to get warm is to follow them and wade back up. Doesn’t warm the toes, though.”

My next turn was like before. A cast with an orange fly, a sideways line switch, a hook-set and another jog behind a strong mint-silver steelhead.

We landed fish on a nonstop basis until 11 a.m. We quit, went to a local restaurant for hot coffee and chow. Kerby was in a pensive mood.

“How many fish did you land this morning?” he asked. “I hooked 26 and lost four so I landed 22 steelhead to 12 pounds. You?”

My score was just a tad higher with just two lost fish. My biggest, a broad shouldered buck with a kype like an arthritic little finger stuck on the end of its lower jaw, was 31 inches long and weighed 14 pounds.

“Hooked 27 fish and landed 25,” I said. “One that got away weighed 15 pounds. I stayed clos to ite, but it still took me into the brush and broke off.”

We traded stories and decided to try the Betsie River. We fished a mile of river below the old Homestead Dam and saw only two fish. We worked them hard but they soon disappeared into a deep log-filled hole.

We headed for the Platte River again, looked at each other, and he said: “You know, we’ll never have another day like this. We’ve landed 47 fish so far. Think our friends are home and will want to come out and play?”

Did I? The car, like a horse heading for the barn and a ration of oats, took us back to our hotspot. We didn’t see anyone earlier and no cars or anglers were around.

The fish were still there. If anything, more steelhead had moved in.

“Somebody has to do it,” he said, wading in. “Might just as well be us.”

TO BE CONTINUED….

When Steelhead Go Wild, Part II

The fish were still there. If anything, more steelhead had moved in. “Somebody has to do it,” he said, wading in. “Might just as well be us.”

The fish were like young baseball players: they often went for our first pitch. Kerby hooked up, and 10 seconds later I was into a bulldozing steelhead that ran at me, jumped clear of the water, and doused me with cold water from three feet away. It took 15 minutes to wear him down.

My philosophy is to beat ‘em up. I seldom keep spring fish, and want them to spawn, so a long battle saps their strength, builds up lactic acid and they may die later. If they jump, I pull them off balance. If they dog it, I get below and make them fight the rod and current.

If they run at an angle I pull from the opposite side. It breaks their spirit, and I can usually land fish within five minutes. They recover faster than those landed after a prolonged struggle the current and rod pressure.

The sleet quit but the temperature dropped. Kerby tripped while chasing our 91st steelie, got soaked and once he landed it, he quit. The number ’100′ never came up but we both knew what the day’s goal would be.

The 92nd steelhead was my smallest, and it took my fly so deep in its gills it would die even if released. It was stringered. Paul was soaking up car heat, and the wind began blowing upstream as it steadily grew colder.

The next six fish came easy, and were released. I was chilled through and shaking like an aspen leaf in a strong breeze, but would catch two more fish if it took all day. No. 99 grabbed a No. 6 Platte River Pink as it scratched along bottom. I saluted it with a snappy hook-set, and released it three minutes later.

The eternal fisherman question: Stick with the ‘old reliable’, or switch to a new fly?

New fly or old for Number 100? It was an easy choice; I’d use the same fly because my fingers were too numb to knot on a new one. My line flicked back over my shoulder and shot forward as I drove the fly above the school of fish that seemed to be growing larger as the minutes ticked by.

One cast, another and a third but no takers. Keep trying, give up or try a new fly? The body shaking was almost uncontrollable as another cast shot upstream, and stripped slowly with my left hand that had been wet all day. The fly ended its drift, and the line twitched and I set the hook.

This fish hit the air like an acrobat, tipped nose down, and sliced into the river like a high-board diver. The rod was up, throbbing from the run, and I stumbled downstream on leaden legs into the strong wind, trying to keep up. The fish slowed at the next small hole until I caught up, put more pressure on him, and he jumped again. This one, a chrome bullet of 12 pounds, leaped again before ripping off on a short run.

I caught up and sensed the fight was over. I was beat as it tried to tug the line under a bush, and I pulled it back and it rolled over in submission. I eased the rod back, and used my pliers to twist the hook free.

It was done. Two angers had caught 100 steelheads in one day. It was so cold, and I was shaking so hard, that it was all I could do to untie the small keeper fish and walk to the car. I opened the trunk, laid the fish on my raincoat, put my fly rod away and looked up to see the local conservation officer pull up.

“How’s fishing?” he asked as he looked into my trunk. “Can I see your license? Cold, huh?”

I nodded, too beat to talk. I fumbled out my license, showed it, and he nodded. “Cold,” he said, “it looks like the fishing wasn’t very good.”

“No,” I said, the cold and weariness showing, “it wasn’t good…”

He was walking back to his car and didn’t hear the rest of the sentence because it was lost on the keening wind “…it was absolutely wonderful. It was the best steelheading day of my life.”

STEELHEAD INFO SHEET

What: Steelhead fishing.

Where: The Platte River near Honor, Michigan. This stream flows into Lake Michigan’s Platte Bay north of Frankfort.

When: The best spring steelhead normally occurs in late March of early April and continues for two or three weeks in the river downstream from Platte Lake. Anglers can find some fish in the upper river (it opens April 1) into early May. The best fall action is in October and November, and it peaks with the Nov. 15 firearm deer season opener.

Equipment: Anglers must match equipment to the area being fished. Some spots are wide open to allow for traditional fly-fishing with a floating fly line or a sinking-tip line. Other areas are so tight that flies may be used but splitshot is needed to take them to bottom. Fly rods and reels with fly lines must have at least 100 yards of 20-pound-test braided Dacron backing.

Approach: Polarized sunglasses are needed to cut surface glare to spot fish in holes or on spawning redds. Whenever possible, walk the banks to locate fish. Once fish are found, the trick is to get close enough to cast a fly with accuracy. Start downstream from the fish and move up one slow step at a time. Watch, and if they begin darting back and forth it means they are spooked. Stop, and if necessary, stand motionless for 10 minutes until they relax before moving closer. Move too fast and all fish will leave.

Flies: No. 4 or 6 unweighted or weighted flies are used. Two fly types exist. They are attractor or imitator patterns. Attractor flies are tied in bright colors like orange or yellow while imitator flies look like dark Hexagenia limbata mayfly nymphs. Some of my Great Lakes Steelhead Flies limited edition hardcover books are still available, in an edition of 900 numbered and signed copies and in mint condition, are still available from me at: