There was one summer of fishing on the Au Sable in the early Seventies that I recall with great fondness. I was twelve at the time and remember excitedly waiting for the end of the school year so I could then venture north from our home in South Bend to Grayling with my brother Tom and our father. As usual, we would meet our Uncle Ed and camp at Keystone Landing on the banks of the Au Sable.
That particular summer I was assured by all that I would soon witness one of the miracles of nature: slender, juicy, bright green worms hanging from birch trees like Christmas ornaments, intermittently dropping into the water and then being eagerly slurped by ravenous trout. I was also assured by my brother that even I would catch trout, although they were sure to be smaller and less numerous than his.
Before going north to fish, there was of course, the preparation stage. As such, my father and brother feverishly began tying green worms in a variety of sizes and shades of green, using standard patterns and their creative imaginations to tie flies that seemed (to me at least) to grow larger as the trip approached while their stories about the worms and the fish that would feed on them became even more exaggerated. In addition to the fly tying we also had to gather all of the fishing and camping essentials: sleeping bags, tent, reels, rods, fly lines, waders, lantern, stove, and massive quantities of food. The odor of deet, dry fly floatant, mold (courtesy of our old canvas tent and sleeping bags) permeated our gear. However, far from being offensive this agreeable amalgam of familiar scents meant only one thing: we were going fishing!
Finally the day to leave arrived and we were off to northern Michigan and to my father’s favorite river. After inhaling the undoubtedly toxic brew of deet, etc. for five hours, we approached the river. Our excitement grew when the first green worms fell on our car’s front windshield as we slowly wound our way into Keystone; I imagined our car to be a massive trout slurping worms as we moved down the dirt road to our camp site. The gentle murmur of the water grew more distinct as we neared the river. When we stopped, Tom and I raced to see who could get the first glimpse of our beloved Au Sable.
My brother, having been endowed with much stronger and swifter legs than I, beat me as he always did. Once there, we paused for a moment to soak in the sounds of the river and birds, the pungent smell of pine, and the promise of good fishing to come. Then our father yelled at us to get our butts back to camp and help set things up.
When he arrived at our camp, Ed told us of trees dripping with green worms and trout with insatiable appetites that were nearly impossible to spook. While the truth was less impressive, we did have a great week of fishing. Once in the water, we would each stake out the birch trees along a stretch of river and patiently present our artificial green worms hoping for a strike. Often we were rewarded with a beautiful brown, brook, or rainbow trout at the end of the line. I remember one particular day when I was between my brother and father who were both intensely fishing to several rising trout below stands of birch trees. As I feebly cast my fly periodically, I began to study them and their technique. As my brother’s fly came to the end of its drift he would gracefully lift his rod and shoot the line back behind his body which formed a perfect loop. Then, with equal grace, he would quickly bring his rod forward, shooting the fly line out; it would suddenly stand still as it reached its maximum extension and then softly fall upon the river’s surface. My father handled his rod with equal skill and would often shout words of encouragement to me regarding my casting. I remember feeling an interior warmth being with them that I could not properly define at the time, but now know to be a shared love of the river, of its beauty and solitude, and, most importantly, of one another.
As with all of our trips to the Au Sable there were countless stories told and retold of fishing past and present. I vividly recall Ed joining us around campfires after long days of fishing and telling exaggerated stories — I now know with the veiled intent of riling my brother. Tom would question the veracity of my uncle’s recollections while Ed sipped his whiskey, weakly defending himself, and then laughing heartily as Tom argued the “facts” of my uncle’s stories.
Even more than the fishing itself, these moments of camaraderie, of sharing stories, and sharing quiet time on the stream, are what made these times so special. It did not matter what the hatch du jour happened to be; what did matter was that we were together to share life and one another. Let’s go fishing!
For years my uncle pestered Tom to write about his recollections of the great green worm hatches that occurred on the Au Sable when my brother and I were growing up. Tom never got to write this story as an avalanche killed him while he was climbing Mount Hood in May 1998. I am certain that Tom would have written a much richer recollection than mine, so I apologize to him. I did, however, attempt to embellish some of the story, and I’m sure he would approve. RWOL
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