Summer Wind

Last winter, the State purchased a rather large tract of land which the upper reaches of my favorite brook trout stream flow through. They still haven’t demolished the half dozen buildings still setting at the heart of the property, so its public land surrounded by barbed wire. Walk way in fishing. Couple the two together, and throw in the fact that most people still don’t know the State bought it, and you have a real shot to be the first person back there in a while.

You park at a steel gate and hike a half mile or so across an open field frequented by elk and whitetails before the elevation begins dropping towards the river. Then its a mile or so of tag elders and swamp. In waders on a hot summer day, its a bitch.

I’ve been singing a blues song that I I learned the lyrics to from an old rock further downstream. I sing it as loud as I can to scare the bears away.

Oh Black River what you done to me.
Got my line downstream and water to my knee.
Oh Black River what you done to me.
I’ve forgotten all my worries and my troubles are all gone.
I’ve forgotten all my worries and my troubles are gone.

Sometimes I just sing the first line over and over.

But then you get to the old outbuildings and forget about looking over your shoulder for bears.

I’m staring through the still intact windows of the main house. Even though its public property, I feel like I’m trespassing, and any second I expect the apparition of one of the dead owners to appear behind the foggy glass with a double barrel shotgun to see who is walking across his property. I stop singing and walk faster.

Another 50 yards through the woods, I can hear the water growing louder with each step. And there it is.

Each cast. Each drift. Each step along the river feels like the first ever. Its 1671, and I’m alone in the northern Michigan wilderness. This is the place Ive been waiting my whole life for. The fishing is good, but not so good I don’t have to work for them. But its still good enough that I know I’m spoiled.

I’m on my way home from the river, speeding down a bumpy backroad through butterfly filled meadows and gloomy cedar swamps. Its Sunday evening, and I’m off the water an hour and a half before dusk. Sure, I’m probably missing out on the best fishing of the day. I guess I’ve never been one of those extreme fly anglers who wouldn’t dare spend an ounce of daylight not fishing, but thats okay, I live here. I can come back tomorrow.

American roots is playing on NPR, and the theme this week is old school honkey tonk and rockabilly. The DJ went from Glen Glenn, to Dale Watson, to Gilian Welch. I’m chewing 3/$1 laffy taffy. The summer wind is whipping through the car. My head is clear. And life is good.