Looking forward to the trout opener

Sometimes I enjoy big-water fishing off the beach

Michigan’s trout opener hits the waterways the last Saturday in April. Grear up for another great year of fishing. photo Dave Richey ©2012

My memories of the general-season trout opener are strung out now over 60 years, back to those days when my late twin brother George and I would have a visual race. It was to see who would be the first to spot the Sturgeon River glinting through the late-April sunlight.

Spotting the river first was as much fun as hooking a fish. We would count down the days to the opener, and in those days, a desperate anticipation overcame us. We were ready, and had been primed for the opener for many lean months.

It became a visceral thing. We could feel it coming, and each check mark on the calendar brought us one day closer to when we could fish our beloved Sturgeon River between Wolverine and Indian River in Cheboygan County.

We could sense the thrill and excitement deep in our guts

We could easily remember the first cold chill of the river current gripping our skinny little legs. We’d pick the brain of George Yontz, the steelhead guru of Hillside Camp, three miles north of Wolverine on old M-27.

We had fresh six-pound line on our reel, sharp No. 6 or 8 Eagle Claw gold hooks, and carried our treasured jars of Atlas salmon eggs. They sold for a buck a jar in those days, but salmon eggs produced better than worms or other bait.

Those early days meant a limit catch of 10 trout per day, and the Wolverine Hatchery and its hatchery truck planted fish just before the opener. It took years of catching lots of small trout in Phase 1 of our trout-fishing education before we arrived at Phase 2. That was when we’d had enough of the tiddlers and wanted more than a flip-flopping small trout.

We were primed and ready. It was an adventure for us

We wanted bigger fish, and it wasn’t long before we were catching our fair share of steelhead. That phase of catching big fish stuck with us for many years before we graduated to accepting the challenge of meeting and greeting our trout in tough places where catching any trout — large or small — was a difficult challenge.

Many opening days have passed with the speed of an old man racing headlong through life, each year passing even faster than the previous one. To think that 60 years have gone by, and I’ve been out there for every opener to capture the moment with fly rod, spinning rod of camera, is a testament to my devotion to these grand game fish.

There have been a few openers where the Blue Wing Olives and Hendrickson’s hatched well, but more often, the opener produced high winds, rain, and very often snow, and the fishing wasn’t worth beans.

Art Neumann of Saginaw always handled the countdown

However, trout fishing isn’t all about catching fish. It means meeting old friends, discussing past openers, learning who had fished around their last bend, who was ill and couldn’t fish, and where the hot-spots might be later in the day.

For 23 years I covered the opener for the newspaper, and that usually meant very little fishing. Sometimes, if the action was good, I could shoot photos and write my copy, and still have time to fish for an hour or two.

Trout fishing also was George’s love, and we shared so many wonderful days together on so many Michigan streams, and each one brought both of us a sense of peace and tranquility. We often didn’t talk because twins know what the other is thinking. It’s true in many cases, and especially for us. We didn’t need to speak.

George and I could always communicate without talking

Many times I’d nod my head, George would spot the Hendrickson lift off the surface, and we both marveled at this transformation from a nymph to a flying insect. Sometimes a grunt and a look would indicate a mink running the bank or the flash of a trout under a sweeper.

We spent so many years greeting the dawn somewhere on a trout stream. We both loved the Holy Waters of the AuSable and Manistee rivers, but sometimes we would be on a steelhead stream or fishing a back-of-beyond beaver pond. Tiny cedar-shrouded jump-across creeks and brook trout were on the agenda at times, and occasionally we would fly-fish trout lakes.

Trout fishing, unlike a sport where a score is kept, was much closer to being a deeply religious experience to us. It was something we felt strongly about, and although in George’s later years he would rather fly fish for bluegills than trout, he never lost his love of trout, trout fishing and the places where these game fish live.

It’s up to me to carry on that tradition alone or perhaps with my son, David. But even that is out of the question this year as he heads for Florida to fish for tarpon.

I still enjoy fishing alone, do so often

It’s OK, because sometimes fishing alone puts a person in a much different mood. We become more humble, easily satisfied, and we thrill to the magic of a rise, and we always are blessed to just be there for one more trout opener.

And just think, we have less than two weeks before the state-wide season opens on the last Saturday in April. I don’t know where I’ll be, but it will be on trout water, somewhere. Bet on it!

Me and Max fish the AuSable River

Besides trout, Max Donovan loved to hunt ducks and geese

Max Donovan, consumate outdoorsman and mentor, admires one element of the beauty of waterfowling. photo Dave Richey ©2012

Some 55 years ago, my long-time mentor — Max Donovan of Clio — took pity on the scrawny blond-haired kid with glasses, and took me north to fish the mainstream AuSable River for trout.

“We’re going to be fishing near a place called Wa-Wa-Sum,” Max said. “It don’t make no difference what fly is hatching today. We’ll be using the Adams, a No. 12 or 14, I suspect.”

Now, a bit of background history. Max was a hemophiliac, a bleeder. He would bleed for a week or more if he nicked his chin while shaving. He also was, at the time, the oldest living hemophiliac who had part of a leg amputated. His “wooden leg,” as he called it, worked quite handily and he could wade well at the time.

He also had forgot more about fishing than many know

The drive proved a lesson in history about the inventor of the Adams fly, which we would soon be using. Max had it down pat.

“This here is my favorite fly and I can catch any kind of trout on it that rises to the surface to feed,” and after having shared many fishing trips with Donovan, I knew he could do it. “This fly looks like many other flies, and drift it drag-free over a feeding fish, they will take it like they were starving.

“OK, Len Halladay of Mayfield (just north of Kingsley), invented the Adams fly in 1922 to fish on Mayfield Pond and streams such as the Boardman River. He named the fly after his friend, Judge Charles Adams of Ohio.”

The fishing was perfect on a great day

Some feel the Adams closely imitates some mayflies and stoneflies. The fly, born at the Mayfield Hotel and first used on Mayfield Pond, has been imitated but Halladay’s original creation, is a wonderful catcher of trout.

“Now, listen up, don’t you worry about me,” Donovan said after his Len Halladay-Adams one-sided discussion. “I’m heading downstream. I know this stretch of water well, and know where the deeper spots are. I know where the trout hold and where they don’t.

“Got any Adams flies,” he asked, knowing full well I didn’t. “Here are a half-dozen. Lose them all in the trees and it will be a long day. Watch your back cast, don’t pitch the flies into the trees, and find a feeding fish. There will be a quiz later about what you’ve learned while fishing alone.”

His lecture on the Adams fly was forgotten as I headed upstream

Off he went, with a little hitch in his git-along, and he would drill casts under over-hanging branches to fish water most anglers could never reach. I watched him fish around the bend and out of sight, and then headed upstream along the bank.

I was looking for rising fish, and soon found some. I’d work into position, cast so the No. 14 Adams landed a few feet above the rising trout. I mended the line like Max had taught me, and soon hooked a 12-inch brown. Into my creel it went, this being well before the catch and release restrictions.

Mind you, this was in the days of yore, long before this stretch near Wa-Wa-Sum became catch-and-release. For me, at the time, fishing was a philosophy of catch-and-keep.

The fish were fairly easy, and I caught several and put a few down with a sloppy cast. One was a beautiful 14-inch brown, and being young and needing praise from the master, the fish was kept.

Time dragged on as the sun started lowering into the west, and I fished back downstream to the end of Thendara Road where we had parked.

There was just enough rising trout to keep me interested

A good fish rose just upstream from the road-end at Wa-Wa-Sum, and I worked him patiently. I erred on the side of caution on my approach, and eventually worked myself close enough to the fish to drift a fly. I switched to a No. 12, a larger fly, and knew I’d have but one or two casts.

The brown moved to the fly, tipped up and sipped it off the surface. The fish jumped once, settled into a midstream scrap, and he was finally landed.

Some clapping was heard, and Max stood by the car watching, and offered a “Good job. Let’s take a look at him.”

Max had a way of making me look better than him

He said he never caught a fish but I didn’t believe him, but I showed off five fish including two really nice ones. He studied them and me, asked it I’d had a good day, and he was told that it had been a wonderful day.

Then came the quiz. “When did Len Halladay invent the Adams? I had forgotten about the date and the quiz.

“That’s great,” he said. “In view of your exceptionally good luck and my poor luck, and because you failed the test, I’m going to let you clean all those fish. We will eat them tonight as we think of our trout fishing day, Len Halladay, the Adams fly, and how you really made me look bad.

“For that, you also get to wash and dry all the dishes. My bum leg is getting a bit tender, so I have get off it, and because I’m all gimped up and can’t get away, I suppose you’ll torture me to death about your fish-catching prowess.”

Somehow, I knew I’d get stuck with the cooking and dishes. But that was the price of admission to learn about trout fishing and fly-tying history from the master.

Bless him. He’s been gone for nearly 30 years but it’s amazing how many memories I have of me and Max fishing and hunting. All are treasured, and will be trotted out occasionally. Stay tune for another at some future date.

A good reason to go fishing

Walleyes and brook trout make good eating for the elderly.

Fishing seems to be one of those pastimes where some people need a reason to go fishing. They need a jump-start, and oddly, since the birth of salmon fishing in this state, the reason many go is to catch big fish.

I’ve nothing against catching big fish that can stretch my line on 100-yard runs, but it’s not necessary to catch a big fish every time.

There were a few days during my 10-year guiding career chasing browns, Chinook and coho salmon, and steelhead, that things just didn’t work out right. I remember taking two gents out for spring steelhead, and both men limited out the first day and wanted a new challenge.

The river was full of suckers. Fish to six pounds, and these guys had never caught one so I asked if they thought these fish could be caught on flies.

They didn’t think so, so a friendly little wager ensued, and I caught the first sucker on a fly. It was landed, and I taught both men how to roll an orange fly along bottom. The suckers were protecting their spawning bed, and they hooked one sucker after another.

One man tossed a sucker 20 feet up the bank where it flopped around. I asked if he planned to keep that fish, and he said no. I sent him scurrying up the bank to retrieve the fish and put it back in the river. He sulked a bit, and I got him aside, and explained that his behavior only encourages others to do the same thing.

I told him those suckers hatch, grow, and get eaten by game fish such as bass, perch, muskies, northern pike, walleyes and all species of salmon and trout. I also said that spring suckers from clean water make great eating when canned and made into fish patties.

He got right into that program, and although I probably cleaned two-dozen of them for him, I was happy to do it. I didn’t mind him keeping them if they would be properly used. He also apologized for his earlier actions.

Need an excuse to go fishing? Here is one that will help the environment.

Walk some of the streams and try for stream trout. Perhaps you’ll bump into one of the Skamania steelhead that continue to pop up on rare occasions, but use the fishing trip to wade the river and fill your landing net with worm boxes, discarded line, beer cans, juice bottles and other stuff left behind by slobs.

Want another reason to go fishing? Take a kid with you. He can be young or old, a neophyte or an older and experienced angler. Choose what you both wish to fish for, and go out and enjoy the day and the outdoors. Any fish caught would be a bonus.

I have a couple of elderly ladies I share my catch with. If I know they want fish, and I hadn’t planned on keeping any, I will keep one for each of them. A channel catfish I caught last week went to a neighbor, and she was delighted with fresh fish.

I never give them more than one fish each, and sometimes I take turns giving them a fish. They know that many days I put all the fish back or keep an occasional fish for Kay and I, but this they accept because no one else they know is giving away fish.

It’s something I do that makes me feel good and makes the women feel good. Both have sons who seldom fish, and they eat what they catch, so the Good Samaritan strikes again. One lady can still clean her fish but the other cannot so I fillet, bone and skin her fish.

Some days, like yesterday or today, are wonderful days to hit the river. No need to worry about big fish or other anglers because most of the stream fishermen are now waiting for the water to cool  that will trigger other fall salmon and trout runs.

I like not having to share the water with others although I readily do so if I encounter another loner like myself. We chat, and invariably he is like me — a person happy to be able to wade a river, cast a fly or spend a few happy hours alone with the whisper of the wind, a just-right  breeze and the quiet gurgle of water washing around a sweeper and sending soft and lovely river sounds in my direction.

That is a good enough reason for me to go fishing … anytime.

Unseen midnight stranger on a darkened river

Big browns like this come along often.

There are times when I’ve had my act together. One special night on the Sturgeon River between Indian River and Wolverine was a very good example, and it occurred after the major insect hatches had ended.

I’d waded down through a deep, slow stretch of water during daylight hours because I’d seen a big brown raise to the surface like a lazy whale broaching the surface, drifted downstream and submerged. His approximate weight at 15 yards was at least 10 pounds, possibly a little bit more.

Home for this brute was an overgrown edge of brush on both sides of the river. At its deepest point, the water was seven to eight feet deep, and a big stump was wedged on bottom in mid-stream. The current picked up some speed as it split and flowed heavily around the obstacle, and on my side of the river, the water was about four inches below the top of my waders.

The snag-filled hole was the perfect spot to find a big native brown trout.

The deep water shallowed up a bit on my side but deepened in midstream as both current flows merged like the entrance ramp to an expressway. The water flattened out, and it was here I felt the brown would feed that night.

I wanted to cast a big bushy white mouse pattern, but the brushy banks and overhanging tree limbs made fly casting a bit hazardous after sundown. If my fly hung up on the opposite side, there was little hope that I could wade across to untangle it. I settled on a No. 9 Rapala in black-silver finish and 8-pound line with a spinning rig and a smooth drag.

One thing that years of after-dark fishing has taught me is to always be prepared. When fishing for big fish, after sundown, it pays to use a large fly or lure, and line heavy enough to give the angler some semblance of equality. A light tippet in such places is just asking for a broken leader and a healthy measure of heartbreak as well.

The August evening was dark, the moon that curious yellow it gets when atmospheric conditions are just right. The evening was warm and the river flowed with a hushed sound that could barely be heard. One step into the current told the real truth: here was water that could be dangerous to an unwary wader.

I stood silently, just upstream of the submerged stump and waited for the sound of a big fish as it began feeding. The river was just a murmur, and I was content until, with some unease, I felt eyes on me in the gathering darkness.

It’s a spooky feelings one has when they feel someone looking at you.

The feeling was as subtle as a freeway crash. Someone was watching me, and they were very close. I could feel the intensity of their eyes boring into my back.

Whoever it was stood quietly nearby and was watching me. My senses are fine tuned to such things, and it’s something I’ve cultivated over many years. I had no clue whether this human presence was predatory and dangerous but after two minutes of feeling his presence, I decided to push the issue.

“What’s happening?” I asked in a conversational tone, my back turned to the stranger. “Fishing or going for a walk? Walking around here, if you don’t know the river, could lead to an unplanned swim.”

A chuckle was heard, and a voice from the darkness said: “I can walk up on 99 percent of the people who fish after dark, and they never know I’m there. How did you know I was standing behind you?”

“I felt your presence,” I said. “I felt you two or three minutes before I said anything. You fishing tonight?”

Still a conversational tone. Nothing confrontational. Just two anonymous anglers talking while waiting for a big brown trout to begin his evening feed.

“I’d planned to fish here,” he said. “You beat me to it. I’ll hit another spot down-river. What do you know about this spot? Fished it before?”

“Know it’s got at least one big brown. Saw him earlier today. Guessed him at 10 pounds or so. How about you? What’s your take on this spot? I figured this would be a key spot to stand and wait for him to start feeding.”

“He weighs 10 pounds,” the sneaky stranger said. “I’ve hooked him twice in two years. Had him close earlier this summer but he got off. It’s a big hook-jawed male with spots that look the size of dimes. He’s a river fish, not a silver one from Burt Lake.”

The unseen stranger knew about the fish and where it held in the hole.

“It makes sense to wait him out for a bit,” I said. “If he doesn’t start feeding by midnight I’ll work a Rapala through there. It’s worked for me in this spot before.”

“Good luck,” the visitor said, and was gone without making a sound. The man moved with all the stealth of a second-story cat burglar.

An hour passed, and feelings of wasting time washed over me as the mosquitoes found new spots to drill for food. A pesky skeeter was boring my ear when I heard the fish move. It wasn’t a splash, but more like a heavy ripple a fish makes as he shoulders through the water before gulping down a hapless minnow.

I waited another five minutes before he moved again, and although I couldn’t see him I knew where he was holding because my ears pinpointed him. I uncorked a 20-foot cast, and started the retrieve before the lure hit the water. That kept the line tight, prevented the hooks from catching the line, and began the lure working as it hit the water.

The big brown came to me with a hard strike in midstream.

The lure swung in the current on a tight line, and I felt a solid strike, and I pounded the hooks home. The fish ran downstream, and then back up, apparently not wanting to leave the pool. It jumped twice, took line three times, and slowly the battle began to turn in my favor.

The fish was in the heaviest current in this spot, and it took every bit of my concentration to focus on keeping him from going farther downstream without breaking the line. I began steering the fish into a quiet back eddy.

“Need a hand?” asked the stranger just as I felt his presence.

“Nope, this is between me and him. I’ve done what I set out to do, and that was to hook him. Landing him would be neat but I’d return him anyway.”

“Want a look at him?” he asked. A cloak of darkness surrounded me, the stranger and the river, and that’s the way I wanted it.

“Saw him earlier today. Know what he looks like. Got a hooked jaw sticking up like a broken little finger. Big male!

“That’s him. He’s a dandy. Go easy on him now. He likes to bore into that brush close to shore. Get ready, he’s going to…”

I didn’t want a light on the water. It was just me and the fish, and the stranger.

The fish took me into the brush about six feet away and weaved back and forth and then broke the line. I reeled in the slack line, and turned on stiff legs to climb up the bank.

I waded ashore to meet the midnight stranger. “Hey, c’mon up and shake hands. I’ll buy you a beer down at the Meadows Bar.”

“No thanks,” he said. his voice growing distant. “I know who you are, and wanted to see if you fish as well as you write. You measure up, and we’ll meet again on the river and perhaps one day I’ll introduce myself. Too bad about the fish, but that one is hard to land here. See you when the wind shifts.”

I’ve known but one man that said goodbye like that, and the voices didn’t match.

I don’t fish the Sturgeon River as often now as I once did, and I’ve never ran into the Midnight Stranger again. I’ve had that feeling once or twice over the year, and once I spoke: “C’mon down for a chat.”

A soft chuckle would be heard, but he never responded. It’s been one of life’s big mysteries about his identity, and one I’ve yet to solve. I think about it, and feel writing might bring an e-mailed “hello.” Time will tell if he’ll speak again after all these years.

Sharing a night on the river with an unseen stranger might be a bit spooky for some people. It didn’t bother me, but it would be fun to shake and howdy at least once with him. Until then, all I can do is write about the Midnight Stranger, and hope he responds with an e-mail. It would solve a longtime on-the-water mystery.

Spring is big brown-trout time

Casey Richey (left) and his son Shane, with his former state-record brown.

All things are relative. A trophy brown when I was a kid was the 11-pounder that George Yontz of Wolverine caught from the Sturgeon River in the late 1950s.

Frankly, over many years of trolling Lake Huron and Lake Michigan for brown trout, I’ve landed many that were big enough to put a hefty strain on my rod, and would tilt the scales to weights from 11 to 19 pounds.

The brown trout is a mystery fish to many anglers. A five-pound brown on the Holy Waters of the upper AuSable and Manistee rivers is a trophy fish. Fish one of those back-of-beyond jump-across creeks, and catch a brown trout measuring 12 inches, and it too is a trophy.

Brown trout numbers have dwindled somewhat in recent years around the Great Lakes. Previously, browns of 20 to 25 pounds were common catches, and the current state record fish was caught two years ago from the Manistee River below Tippy Dam. It weighed in at 41 pounds, 7.2 ounces.

Big brown trout are around but they are difficult to hook and harder to land.

Big browns are where you find them. Most harbors on Lakes Huron and Michigan produce some big fish. For many years, Thunder Bay at Alpena was home to some of the state’s biggest browns and the area continue to produce some big fish.

Some very nice fish have been caught trolling in Hammond Bay north of Rogers City, and the area near AuGres off Whitestone Point has produced some very nice fish as well.

Huron Bay at Baraga and L’Anse on Lake Superior also produce good numbers of brown trout in the past. Another Upper Peninsula hotspot for years has been along the Michigan’s shoreline from Escanaba and Little Bay de Noc south to Menominee. Ten-pound fish were common catches here, and I’ve caught some 11 and 12-pounders near Escanaba.

Lake Michigan’s Grand Traverse Bay, including both arms of the bay, have produced some huge browns. My son David hooked a huge fish on a Rapala years ago, played it with a gentle hand, and lost it when the lure broke apart. Three of us saw that fish, and our closest estimate to its weight was 25 pounds. In higher waters of yesteryear, the Acme Reel along US-31 was a real hotspot.

Harbors at Frankfort, Onekama, Manistee and Ludington also produce big brown trout on occasion. Even some of the southerly ports such as Saugatuck and South Haven have delivered good numbers of browns.

Some key fishing methods for Great Lakes brown trout.

It’s possible to cast spoons off breakwalls or piers at these harbors, and a blue-silver, green-silver, orange-silver, all silver, copper, brass, pearl or other color 1/4 or 1/3-oz. Devle Dog spoons work well. Experiment with sinking time, retrieval speeds and vary between casting straight out off the pier or casting parallel to the pier if no one is in the way.

Trolling produces very well, and the trick is to work in and out of shallow water during the spring months. Years ago, Jack Duffy pioneered this offshore fishery, brought me in on it, and between us, we pounded the big browns for many years. The methods that follow worked for us, and they continue to produce.

We always used 6-pound line, and trolled two types of lures: wobbling plugs (X-4, X-5 and U-20 FlatFish to be exact) or minnow-imitating plugs like the Rapala, Rebel, Long-A Bomber or FasTrac. Hot colors were silver, silver-black, chartreuse-orange and gold-black in the latter category. FlatFish colors were silver, silver with red spots or pearl.

FlatFish required a very slow trolling speed, and we’d test lures next to the boat to see if they tracked straight. If so, slowly release line until the lures at least 100 yards behind the boat, and put them into rodholders. Some anglers prefer trolling off in-line planer boards.

Minnow-imitating lures can be trolled faster than FlatFish, but tie a loop knot to the lure’s line tie to open up its wiggle. Again, let two lures out at the same time and speed for about 100 yards, and put the rods in rod holders. Adjust reel drags so a brown can take line on the strike.

Big browns almost always rip off an additional 50-75 yards of line on the strike. Reel the other line in to get them out of the way, and play the fish gently. Often, browns will strike and run toward the boat. Reel fast and hard, and you may be pleasantly surprised when you catch up to the fish when it is about 25 yards behind the boat.

Great Lakes browns grow to be the largest but some big ones come from rivers.

Browns occasionally jump, and most often will roll on the surface. Once they get close to the boat, be prepared for one or more last-ditch efforts by the fish. Watch its head, and if the head cocks to one side or the other, he is planning another run. Let the fish go, and don’t try to pressure them on 6-pound line. A big fish will break the line like sewing thread.

Try trolling near the edges and tips of piers, along the mud line where river water meets lake water, and off a river mouth. Gravel or rocky bars in six to 15 feet of water can be good spots, and the key to good brown trout fishing is an abundance of alewives or smelt.

Catching big browns these days is not easy but my nephew, Casey Richey of Frankfort, set a new state record a few years ago. His record was broken last year with a massive fish from the Manistee River. The big fish are around, but scoring means putting in a lot of time.

Fish smart, play big fish with a soft hand and good luck!