"I have fished through
fishless days that I remember happily without regret."
- Roderick
Haig-Brown
They say that no freshwater fish has as much fruitless time wasted on
it by fly fishermen than a steelhead.
I must confess that those words bring me a measure of comfort after the
recent lack of success on my latest outing for this elusive steelhead.
Following my move to Michigan, and in concordance with my enduring
philosophy to take advantage of fishing opportunities wheresoever I may find
them, I was able to wheedle a guided fly fishing trip on the Muskegon from my dad. And so, a few days after setting foot on
Kalamazoo ground, I found myself in a shallow river boat on the Muskegon River
in Central Western Michigan, clutching a fly rod and choking down snowflakes
the size of quarters. The wind whipped
the snow sideways and played hell with my fly line, my hands froze in claws
around the cork handle, and it was 8:30 in the morning.
And I thought to myself, some crazy people out there don’t enjoy this
sort of thing.
Ok, so I make fun. I realize the
complete and utter ridicule that I deserve for having such a skewed set of
priorities and neglected desire for comfort, for having a passion for a hobby
that is so unkind to me back. I have to
make fun of myself, because the alternative that remains is only to question my
own rationality.
After a few hours, the sun came out from the clouds and kissed our poor
angler souls. It was like a kiss from
mom after you fall down and hurt your knee – no real practical or physical
comfort, but enough psychological help to keep you hobbling along.
The Muskegon is neither a particularly large or small river and is
neither clear nor muddy. On this day it
was dark, shadowed by high banks with plentiful trees providing shade. The weight on the end of my line ticked over
the bottom, wiggling the rod tip and giving me endless hope and endless
disappointment with imagined fish strikes.
And what I realized on the Muskegon is that I could fall in love with
this land they call Trout Country, with the firs and the spruces and the eagle
and the deer on the shore and the roiling pools pregnant with the promise of
trout. I could fall in love with these
rivers that are so different from and so similar to the lakes in Minnesota that
I already love. These rivers that
chuckle and whisper and hiss at me in tones loving and mocking and teasing that
I could spend every day for the rest of my life on, like this dour man who
guides me on the chase for steelhead.
I had one strike in an eight hour day of fishing – possibly one of my
worst days, success wise, that I’ve ever had.
But for one second I felt the tug of the life of the river, connected
directly to me by that thick green line.
And before I overcame the surprise and the beauty and the gift of it, it
was gone.
I met no steelhead this week. I
intercepted no fish from the lake, coursing with strength and motivated ‘m by
instinct older than the river itself.
But I’m pretty sure that I’ll be back.
