Early April

Another gray day.

One of those relentlessly depressing cloudy days among a week of relentlessly depressing cloudy days. The type of day when it requires an effort to recall the last time you saw the sun. Winter is ebbing away in long slow time draining weeks. These are the final oppressive days of slush and cloud that drive marginal Michiganders south forever.

We’re fishing the PM in early April, drift-boating along making desultory casts into the murky water with overly large flies without any real expectation of hooking a fish. The day is moderately warm, probably in the mid-forties, windless, a contrast to yesterday.

Winter had us in full icy grasp yesterday. Floating the Manistee below Tippy in cold, windy, and nasty weather where dampness cut through every layer of modern miracle clothing until I swore nothing would ever warm me again.

And to emphasize the point I stumbled on frozen feet and sat in water just deep enough to flood my waders. The final run to High Bridge were two of the longest, coldest, most miserable hours I could remember. Enough of a taste of hypothermia that I was willing to risk eating at the same restaurant that had given me near terminal diarrhea two days earlier. Any hot food was preferable to non-stop shivering. Even a day later I still felt cold. And out of place.

I am not a steelhead fisherman. Oh, I do it. And usually enjoy the day if I’m with friends, the weather cooperates and there is good food and scotch at the end of the day. Big fish fever has not infected me. Yet.

So I was not unhappy to be on the PM. I liked the river and knew it well. But I was not in the mood.

It wasn’t entirely the ugly day, or Steelhead fishing, or the dunking or the effects of a minor food poisoning. It was me. The great lover of security was "in between", looking at the possibility that 10 years of steady, hard and moderately lucrative work was about to end. Trying to decide if it was time to move on from the familiar and begin the disconcerting, humbling search for new employment. I didn’t like being "in between". I didn’t want to look for a new job. I didn’t want things to change.

"Tough," the random, capricious gods replied. "Contemplate this. Life is not a constant."

Just what I did not want to hear.

At heart I am a trout fisherman. I like the stealthy approach, a quiet wade, time to admire the stream, grasp its message and become immersed in the ritual of the sport and a day on the river. Steelhead has never captured my soul that way.

Snarg, my long time fishing companion has made trout fishing his one true love. It was no surprise then when we finish this day on the PM he proposes that we change location for our final day North.

"I’d like to see the river, maybe fish Pine Road."

"The River" referred to only one place in the entire world.

"Kind of a drive, cross state, don’t you think?" I ask, knowing it won’t daunt him.

Snarg points out that neither of us is having a particularly good time and a change of venue might perk us up.

I agree, hoping that it isn’t my personal predicament that is causing the bad weather and general malaise. So we ignore Horace Greeley’s dictum and follow our hearts east.

It isn’t exactly sunshine and 70’s when we start out in the morning but the sky is higher and softer. The drive is a long one, a hopscotch across the state, empty fields and ramshackle homes, abandoned cars and farm vehicles adorning barren farms, TV dishes new and decrepit, and lonely stands of trees. We skip breakfast for an early start and Stewart sandwiches don’t make for a satisfying lunch but the day feels right. The conversation is lively, anticipatory. The jokes are freer, the laughs unrestrained.

Pine Road is a mess. Dirty snow is piled into high banks obscuring our view. Everything is locked up tight, no chimney smoke, no snack or advice at Rusty’s. The semi-plowed road is slick and bumpy, rattling the car and our teeth as we drive for the turn. Snarg has multiple plates in his ankle from a spill on Mt. Hood some years ago. We decide the icy stairs to the river may not be our best approach.

Whirlpool road is open. We park along the roadside and begin to suit up. The day has warmed considerably and for the first time in two days I leave clothing behind, in fact, decide that a sweater and long sleeve shirt under my rain jacket is sufficient and a warm vest and gloves tucked into my fishing vest will serve as back ups.

I choose the easier path, heading downstream while Snarg, the stronger by far, plods upstream. The rod is feather light after wielding steelhead gear for a few days. I quickly fall in love with fly casting again and amazingly my casting, rusty as it obviously is, flows smoothly and hits the target more often than not.

I’m fishing wet, not likely that a trout will rise through 37 degree water to strike at a dry, controlling the drift with fingers that are not painfully cold and stiff, a remarkable change. And I can feel my feet.

The current guides me onward, a friendly push to see more river. The gentle caress of water is familiar, like the touch of a long time lover. Do I dare assign such human characteristics to a river? Can the "feel" of different rivers be recognized as if they are distinct living creatures? This day in April they can!

The ominous creaking of bare, lifeless tree limbs takes on a near musical tone on this new day and the chirp of wintering birds announces a sea change.

A leafless bush provides a target for my casting. But something puzzles me. The complex interweaving of branch and twig, an indefinite tangle only seconds ago now stands in sharp red relief against the brown grass behind it. But the world has been soft, cottony gray forever. Then the dock beside the bush emerges from the background and amazingly I need to squint to protect my eyes.

It is called "sunshine" and it gladdens my heart quickly and lays a light, warm hand on my chest and face. The land is emerging from a long winterís sleep and me along with it.

And miracle of miracles, a fish snatches my nymph as it swings by the dock. It is a brown of size, probably hit on the nose by the biggest "meal" it had seen in months. No epic battle here, the river is too cold, the fish sluggish. Nonetheless it is a trout, a gift of the season.

By 5:00 p.m. the sun is setting turning the sky into a quietly reddening mist fading into an early night. The Whirlpool is black and thick as the water seems to congeal in the cooling evening as we strip off waders, wipe our rods dry and organize our gear for the ride south. Reluctant to leave we watch the shadows reclaim the river.

There is always sorrow when we leave the Au Sable, torn from the river we should have been born to.

Today has been a little different.

We had been granted the first fruits of the new year, a preview of spring and of the river days to follow. The best is yet to come.RWOL

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