By Thomas Buhr
I had moved to Florida from Michigan as a young boy, part of one of those early snow bird migrations, so I never really had the chance to experience the special types of fishing available here. But I would visit every other summer or so. As time went by, I would spend more and more of my vacation sampling the fishing I missed out on as a child. While I had messed around with fly fishing in Florida, my experience was limited to bream, shellcrackers, and the occasional largemouth bass on such venerable "lunker belt" waters as Lake Okeechobee, the Kissimmee Chain of Lakes, and The St. Johns River. The only trout within 600 miles was the spotted, silver, or speckled sea trout, actually not a trout at all, but a weakfish or croaker. It existed in huge numbers, at least in those days, and was easily caught by any number of methods. Hardly a substitute for the tricky coldwater variety I'd heard and read about. Always up for a fishing challenge but being completely clueless about "real trout," I decided to give fly fishing for them a try on my next trip which was going to be in June of that year, a time I recalled hearing when they might be biting.
I spent the first few days fiddling around a number of northern Michigan's Blue Ribbon Streams catching my fair share of six-inchers and tree limbs while learning the finer points of fly casting in tight conditions, or line tangling as I was beginning to call it. After a particularly annoying morning, I stopped at a mom n' pop grocery store to resupply my dwindling stock of cheap cigars (best bug repellent ever made, but Hell on your sinuses) and spearmint Lifesavers to get rid of the resulting "cigar mouth". Contrary to everything I'd ever believed the worst bugs in the world were not in the swamps and mangroves of Florida, but were on the very streams I was fishing on a daily basis. Not just hoards of aggressive mosquitos -- I could live with that -- but huge, buzzing, relentless flies, or perhaps some species of carnivorous humming bird, that packed a punch when they bit and left a welt for days. The buzzing or droning alone could drive one mad as the insects circled around your head looking for the drive-thru lane to a quick lunch.
The old man behind the counter, spying my Florida license plate, no doubt, and noticing I was trudging through his store in my still wet Red Ball waders, inquired as to how long I'd been "up here" on my fishing trip. After a short exchange about how hot Florida is in the summer, the existence of blood-sucking humming birds, and how all my trout were shorter than the cigars I'd just bought, he asked me if I ever kept any fish. I told him I didn't believe I logged my first legal one just yet, but should I ever be so fortunate I'd let the creature go on the principle that seeing them rise to a fly was too cool to kill one.
The old man smiled and gave out a little laugh. His pale gray eyes twinkled as he grew thoughtful for a moment.
"I got a spot for ya," he said with a broad grin. "It's called Carmen Creek. Special place, most of the locals fish it. I'll tell ya how to get there. Never mind how to fish it!" He paused. "But ya gotta promise to let 'em all go, and don't leave your garbage out there."
I promised.
He gave me directions. Rather simple ones in fact. It turns out I'd passed the dirt road on my way to his store. I'd passed it a dozen times actually. It's right off a major state road that almost everyone driving through northern Michigan would travel. Which one? Well, let's just say it's north of Grayling, south of Mackinaw, east of Traverse City and west of Alpena. Keep driving, you can't miss it.
"Just keep fishin'!" He yelled as I walked out of the store. "You'll catch 'em. It's a honey of a spot!"
The turn off was right where he indicated. I drove a little way down and saw the "two ruts" by the white pine and turned on to the trail. After about two minutes of scraping branches I came to a clearing and there it was, Carmen Creek!
It was small at the access, not much wider than the length of my Bronco. The water was tinted brown from the gravel base, but it was fairly clear. The current gurgled along in such a way that I kept thinking I was hearing a distant conversation. Its murmur was only broken by the slapping and popping of fish slurping flies. The air smelled sweet with wild flower blossom and pine. The first unusual thing I noticed, the first of many in fact, was that while the air was full of insects -- it was after all June -- none of them were bothering me. This was nice since I was still a little green around the gills from smoking about ten cigars during the morning fish.
I caught a trout on my very first cast, which I had laid out surprisingly well for a change. It was a chunky 12-inch brown which had kissed a sulphur just down drift of a funnel-flow between two fallen tree limbs. At the time I didn't know I was using a sulphur. It was another couple of years before I began to know the names of the flies I was fishing. This trip I had just stopped at the first fly shop off the freeway and said: "Hi, I'm up here fly fishing for trout. It's my first time and I need some flies that will catch them."
I left with a half dozen film canisters full of flies of all shapes and sizes with neat names like blue-winged olive, pale morning dun, and Hexagenia. I've still got a lot of them left today. Anyway, I just fished the ones that looked the "buggiest" and, up to the moment I descended the waters of the Carmen, I wasn't exactly matching the hatch.
But that all changed.
After releasing my first keeper, I cast to a fishy spot by a rock and another foot-long brown did a cartwheel while socking my fly. I released him and moved toward a set of riffles. In mid-cast I saw a big rise just upstream. I quickly fished my drift, just missing another strike, and set up to shoot line just above the spot. Now, to this point in my career, I'd never hauled or shot line under pressure. Throwin' at the dog in the backyard doesn't count. But this time I did, a sweet, smooth, green loop flowed away from my rod tip, and as it neared the target, the loop turned over gracefully and nestled with barely a ripple on the surface.
A hole about the size of a Sunday serving plate opened up under that fly as it touched the water. There was a flash of silver and then wall of spray. After about the fifth jump I surmised it was a rainbow, bigger than any trout I'd ever seen or imagined. The fish jumped and ran all over the stream for the next few minutes, but the line held and I didn't panic. After all I thought, my last two trout together were almost as big as this one! A big one indeed. It measured just over 27 inches. I unhooked it gently and held it in the quiet side-water for a while so it could get its bearings. The beast had jumped a dozen times at least. After a couple of minutes the fish wiggled a bit and I knew he was ready to be released. I let go and he held his position easily in the current, all silver, pink, and olive with dozens of black specs like freckles.
And then another strange thing happened.
The fish raised his head above the surface as if he was going to take a breath of air and winked at me.
Then he swam away.
Being relatively new to the sport, I didn't know what to think of this though I believed it not to be common since I'd never read about it in Field & Stream or any other popular outdoor magazine. But there were fish to catch, more and bigger fish than I'd ever been around before. I decided to delay contemplation to a later time and have at it.
I caught 37 more trout that trip for a nice round score of 40, more than twice as many as I'd ever caught in my life to that point. I didn't catch any more as big as the 'bow, although two browns, as golden as summer squash, made it to 20. Neither offered a gesture of felicity or contempt upon their respective releases.
I've fished this creek many times since then and would like to share some of its other unique characteristics.
First, I have yet to see another angler out there. Nor do I ever see any trash, litter, broken line in the trees or even footprints, although it's apparent that somebody must go out there. The best evidence is the two outhouses I've come upon while fishing the area. Both are about an hour's wade, either upstream or downstream, from the access site. One could quickly walk to either, however, in an emergency. The facilities are as clean as can be expected with plenty of tp. But there's more. I always find a couple packs of matches as well as sealed packs of Motrin, gum, Lifesavers, Tums, cold bottles of water, even a couple of cigars on a little stand by the commode. Sometimes there's even a spare line clipper. Although the only time I found one was when I'd forgotten to bring my own.
There is also the path in the woods that runs parallel to the creek, but perhaps the weirdest thing is the signs. The first one I noticed was on my third trip when I purposely used the path to move upstream and fish new water. I was pretty sure I'd caught every fish in the first couple hundred yards of the access site. After five minutes and three solid, but small-for-Carmen, browns -- 10 inches, I saw a sign by the side of the creek: BROOK TROUT WATER AHEAD. Sure enough. As I rounded a bend and hopped over a pair of fallen birches the creek narrowed, the water became faster and sparkled more as it ran smartly over rocks and stones. I was now fishing stretches not much wider than the backseat of my Bronco with a cool pulse of water so clear and smooth it appeared my dry was floating on air. The brookies were there too! Some I saw right off, others just appeared from nowhere to chase my streamer or slurp my dry. They weren't shy and while none was as big as the browns and 'bows, maybe 17 inches, they gave no quarter leaping for overhanging tree limbs and using every inch of the stream bed to cut me off. The squaretails had that great olive-orange paint job with blue and red spots and a multitude of, well, I call 'em squiggles, that remind me why brook trout are a favorite topic for wildlife art.
It was a while before I fished downstream from the access. When I finally did, I came in short course to another sign: STEELHEAD FISHING 9/30 TO LAST SATURDAY IN APRIL ONLY! Returning in October I found that the "steelhead water" of Carmen was every bit as good as the trout water. Most fish run about 30 inches, but I've hooked a couple I swear were better than 40. The creek opens up considerably in this section with holes and redds easily found. The last time I was there I noticed another sign: SALMON WATER 5 MINUTES, RIG PROPERLY, FALL ONLY! I haven't checked that out, but I imagine I will.
Carmen always seems to fish by the book. If it's time for Hendricksons, then that's what works. If you can't match the hatch exactly, then traditionals or secondary flies will still take quite a few fish. If it's early spring and the water is high and stained, although Carmen rarely gets too bad in either case, then nymphs and streamers are the ticket. You may not catch as many at this time, but if you work at it you always get your share, usually good size ones at that. Besides, the fishing is so good most of the time it's not all that bad to have a slow period where you only get one every six or seven casts. Gives one time to reflect.
Another weird thing about Carmen is the weather is always milder on the creek than anywhere else. It never rains as hard, snows as hard, blows as hard or is as cold, hot, or muggy on Carmen as it seems to be at other places nearby.
The forest is lush and the open meadow areas that intervene along the creek teem with wild golden oats and flowers of every hue. There are birds of all feather in the trees and little woodland creatures chit-chattering along the banks. Here all the frogs are healthy and I've even seen a few salamanders in back sloughs. At times I have to suspend my casting while some deer finish drinking or crossing upstream, usually does and young of the year fawns, but I did see two 12 point bucks last trip. Sometimes I come upon a red fox, or hold my cast while a turkey hen gathers up her chicks from a bankside frolic. I've seen a couple black bears, but they were friendly sorts. One even helped me fix a flat tire on my truck.
The only bummer about Carmen Creek is that I always eventually wake up. If you haven't guessed by now a place this good could only exist in my dreams. Still, I go there whenever I can. It's a honey of a spot! RWOL
© Copyright 1998- , Anglers of the Au Sable, Inc. All rights reserved. Last modified: January 29, 2002
