Walleyes and brook trout make good eating for the elderly.

Fishing seems to be one of those pastimes where some people need a reason to go fishing. They need a jump-start, and oddly, since the birth of salmon fishing in this state, the reason many go is to catch big fish.

I've nothing against catching big fish that can stretch my line on 100-yard runs, but it's not necessary to catch a big fish every time.

There were a few days during my 10-year guiding career chasing browns, Chinook and coho salmon, and steelhead, that things just didn't work out right. I remember taking two gents out for spring steelhead, and both men limited out the first day and wanted a new challenge.

The river was full of suckers. Fish to six pounds, and these guys had never caught one so I asked if they thought these fish could be caught on flies.

They didn't think so, so a friendly little wager ensued, and I caught the first sucker on a fly. It was landed, and I taught both men how to roll an orange fly along bottom. The suckers were protecting their spawning bed, and they hooked one sucker after another.

One man tossed a sucker 20 feet up the bank where it flopped around. I asked if he planned to keep that fish, and he said no. I sent him scurrying up the bank to retrieve the fish and put it back in the river. He sulked a bit, and I got him aside, and explained that his behavior only encourages others to do the same thing.

I told him those suckers hatch, grow, and get eaten by game fish such as bass, perch, muskies, northern pike, walleyes and all species of salmon and trout. I also said that spring suckers from clean water make great eating when canned and made into fish patties.

He got right into that program, and although I probably cleaned two-dozen of them for him, I was happy to do it. I didn't mind him keeping them if they would be properly used. He also apologized for his earlier actions.

Need an excuse to go fishing? Here is one that will help the environment.

Walk some of the streams and try for stream trout. Perhaps you'll bump into one of the Skamania steelhead that continue to pop up on rare occasions, but use the fishing trip to wade the river and fill your landing net with worm boxes, discarded line, beer cans, juice bottles and other stuff left behind by slobs.

Want another reason to go fishing? Take a kid with you. He can be young or old, a neophyte or an older and experienced angler. Choose what you both wish to fish for, and go out and enjoy the day and the outdoors. Any fish caught would be a bonus.

I have a couple of elderly ladies I share my catch with. If I know they want fish, and I hadn't planned on keeping any, I will keep one for each of them. A channel catfish I caught last week went to a neighbor, and she was delighted with fresh fish.

I never give them more than one fish each, and sometimes I take turns giving them a fish. They know that many days I put all the fish back or keep an occasional fish for Kay and I, but this they accept because no one else they know is giving away fish.

It's something I do that makes me feel good and makes the women feel good. Both have sons who seldom fish, and they eat what they catch, so the Good Samaritan strikes again. One lady can still clean her fish but the other cannot so I fillet, bone and skin her fish.

Some days, like yesterday or today, are wonderful days to hit the river. No need to worry about big fish or other anglers because most of the stream fishermen are now waiting for the water to cool  that will trigger other fall salmon and trout runs.

I like not having to share the water with others although I readily do so if I encounter another loner like myself. We chat, and invariably he is like me -- a person happy to be able to wade a river, cast a fly or spend a few happy hours alone with the whisper of the wind, a just-right  breeze and the quiet gurgle of water washing around a sweeper and sending soft and lovely river sounds in my direction.

That is a good enough reason for me to go fishing ... anytime.

Big browns like this come along often.

There are times when I've had my act together. One special night on the Sturgeon River between Indian River and Wolverine was a very good example, and it occurred after the major insect hatches had ended.

I'd waded down through a deep, slow stretch of water during daylight hours because I'd seen a big brown raise to the surface like a lazy whale broaching the surface, drifted downstream and submerged. His approximate weight at 15 yards was at least 10 pounds, possibly a little bit more.

Home for this brute was an overgrown edge of brush on both sides of the river. At its deepest point, the water was seven to eight feet deep, and a big stump was wedged on bottom in mid-stream. The current picked up some speed as it split and flowed heavily around the obstacle, and on my side of the river, the water was about four inches below the top of my waders.

The snag-filled hole was the perfect spot to find a big native brown trout.

The deep water shallowed up a bit on my side but deepened in midstream as both current flows merged like the entrance ramp to an expressway. The water flattened out, and it was here I felt the brown would feed that night.

I wanted to cast a big bushy white mouse pattern, but the brushy banks and overhanging tree limbs made fly casting a bit hazardous after sundown. If my fly hung up on the opposite side, there was little hope that I could wade across to untangle it. I settled on a No. 9 Rapala in black-silver finish and 8-pound line with a spinning rig and a smooth drag.

One thing that years of after-dark fishing has taught me is to always be prepared. When fishing for big fish, after sundown, it pays to use a large fly or lure, and line heavy enough to give the angler some semblance of equality. A light tippet in such places is just asking for a broken leader and a healthy measure of heartbreak as well.

The August evening was dark, the moon that curious yellow it gets when atmospheric conditions are just right. The evening was warm and the river flowed with a hushed sound that could barely be heard. One step into the current told the real truth: here was water that could be dangerous to an unwary wader.

I stood silently, just upstream of the submerged stump and waited for the sound of a big fish as it began feeding. The river was just a murmur, and I was content until, with some unease, I felt eyes on me in the gathering darkness.

It's a spooky feelings one has when they feel someone looking at you.

The feeling was as subtle as a freeway crash. Someone was watching me, and they were very close. I could feel the intensity of their eyes boring into my back.

Whoever it was stood quietly nearby and was watching me. My senses are fine tuned to such things, and it's something I've cultivated over many years. I had no clue whether this human presence was predatory and dangerous but after two minutes of feeling his presence, I decided to push the issue.

"What's happening?" I asked in a conversational tone, my back turned to the stranger. "Fishing or going for a walk? Walking around here, if you don't know the river, could lead to an unplanned swim."

A chuckle was heard, and a voice from the darkness said: "I can walk up on 99 percent of the people who fish after dark, and they never know I'm there. How did you know I was standing behind you?"

"I felt your presence," I said. "I felt you two or three minutes before I said anything. You fishing tonight?"

Still a conversational tone. Nothing confrontational. Just two anonymous anglers talking while waiting for a big brown trout to begin his evening feed.

"I'd planned to fish here," he said. "You beat me to it. I'll hit another spot down-river. What do you know about this spot? Fished it before?"

"Know it's got at least one big brown. Saw him earlier today. Guessed him at 10 pounds or so. How about you? What's your take on this spot? I figured this would be a key spot to stand and wait for him to start feeding."

"He weighs 10 pounds," the sneaky stranger said. "I've hooked him twice in two years. Had him close earlier this summer but he got off. It's a big hook-jawed male with spots that look the size of dimes. He's a river fish, not a silver one from Burt Lake."

The unseen stranger knew about the fish and where it held in the hole.

"It makes sense to wait him out for a bit," I said. "If he doesn't start feeding by midnight I'll work a Rapala through there. It's worked for me in this spot before."

"Good luck," the visitor said, and was gone without making a sound. The man moved with all the stealth of a second-story cat burglar.

An hour passed, and feelings of wasting time washed over me as the mosquitoes found new spots to drill for food. A pesky skeeter was boring my ear when I heard the fish move. It wasn't a splash, but more like a heavy ripple a fish makes as he shoulders through the water before gulping down a hapless minnow.

I waited another five minutes before he moved again, and although I couldn't see him I knew where he was holding because my ears pinpointed him. I uncorked a 20-foot cast, and started the retrieve before the lure hit the water. That kept the line tight, prevented the hooks from catching the line, and began the lure working as it hit the water.

The big brown came to me with a hard strike in midstream.

The lure swung in the current on a tight line, and I felt a solid strike, and I pounded the hooks home. The fish ran downstream, and then back up, apparently not wanting to leave the pool. It jumped twice, took line three times, and slowly the battle began to turn in my favor.

The fish was in the heaviest current in this spot, and it took every bit of my concentration to focus on keeping him from going farther downstream without breaking the line. I began steering the fish into a quiet back eddy.

"Need a hand?" asked the stranger just as I felt his presence.

"Nope, this is between me and him. I've done what I set out to do, and that was to hook him. Landing him would be neat but I'd return him anyway."

"Want a look at him?" he asked. A cloak of darkness surrounded me, the stranger and the river, and that's the way I wanted it.

"Saw him earlier today. Know what he looks like. Got a hooked jaw sticking up like a broken little finger. Big male!

"That's him. He's a dandy. Go easy on him now. He likes to bore into that brush close to shore. Get ready, he's going to..."

I didn't want a light on the water. It was just me and the fish, and the stranger.

The fish took me into the brush about six feet away and weaved back and forth and then broke the line. I reeled in the slack line, and turned on stiff legs to climb up the bank.

I waded ashore to meet the midnight stranger. "Hey, c'mon up and shake hands. I'll buy you a beer down at the Meadows Bar."

"No thanks," he said. his voice growing distant. "I know who you are, and wanted to see if you fish as well as you write. You measure up, and we'll meet again on the river and perhaps one day I'll introduce myself. Too bad about the fish, but that one is hard to land here. See you when the wind shifts."

I've known but one man that said goodbye like that, and the voices didn't match.

I don't fish the Sturgeon River as often now as I once did, and I've never ran into the Midnight Stranger again. I've had that feeling once or twice over the year, and once I spoke: "C'mon down for a chat."

A soft chuckle would be heard, but he never responded. It's been one of life's big mysteries about his identity, and one I've yet to solve. I think about it, and feel writing might bring an e-mailed "hello." Time will tell if he'll speak again after all these years.

Sharing a night on the river with an unseen stranger might be a bit spooky for some people. It didn't bother me, but it would be fun to shake and howdy at least once with him. Until then, all I can do is write about the Midnight Stranger, and hope he responds with an e-mail. It would solve a longtime on-the-water mystery.

This silvery fish was caught one night about midnight on the Sturgeon River.

The night was dark, the moon almost non-existent, as three of us stood quietly talking alongside the river. The water chuckled and gurgled as it swept under a big sweeper that formed a hole where my late twin brother George and I learned to trout fish back in the early 1950s.

We listened for the slurp, splash, and sizzle of a broad-bodied trout trout hazing minnows in the shallows. A few small fish fed the first night but none of them were the big brown trout that nearby Burt Lake once held. Those fish moved up-river in July and early August, and held in deep holes before spawning in October and November. For me, this trip was a reunion of sorts.

It's been said that a person can never go home. That's not true because I returned to my Home Stream -- the Sturgeon River in Michigan's Cheboygan County -- for two days. Well .. really it was for two nights of after-dark fishing for the brown trout I caught 55 years ago as a 15-year-old and hoped to catch now.

It was like coming home to one of my favorite holes on the river.

I was joined by two Hoosiers -- Les Booth and Ed Hauser -- on this trip back to yesteryear when I caught brown trout to 11 pounds here, but the stream has changed, and Private Property signs are more common. Fortunately, a number of years ago, I was befriended by a sweet lady, the daughter of the late Russ Bengel of Jackson, who was the last Michigan waterfowl market hunter of ducks and geese. This late and wonderful man also befriended me more than 25 years ago, and now his daughter has granted me permission to fish what is now her Home Water. Russ was a kind and generous man as well, and donated large sums of money to Ducks Unlimited, paying back what he felt was a debt for the waterfowl he killed as a youthful market hunter.

The first night of fishing meant more listening for moving fish than fishing but fly rods and spinning rods stood at ready. We just needed to hear some fish moving, and we'd start fishing. A few small trout splish-splashed around but not a big fish moved.

The next night was somewhat different. A cloudy sky blanked out the stars, and we began hearing a few fish working the tail-out of several pools. We used big flies that more resembled mice, huge moths or injured fish. We'd time their rises, and one whist-whist of a back cast and forward cast, and the fly landed like a small bird hitting the water. Les had three strikes, Ed had three and I had three hits that memorable evening.

The difference between one night and the next can be dramatic.

My vision problems prevent me from seeing well at dark, and I pitched a seven-inch Jointed Rapala in silver-black and a chartreuse-orange Rebel that also measured seven inches. I worked the tail-out of each hole with determination, and one big fish (it may have been a husky brown trout) slammed the lure so hard it nearly pulled the rod from my hands. Bing-bang, and it was gone, leaving me breathless. There's something about strikes from big fish once the sun goes down that takes your breath away for a few moments. The other two strikes were complete misses.

Ed, fishing a downstream pool, hooked a big and powerful fish, and had him on for several long seconds before it too shook free. Les, like me. had three hits but no hook-ups. One might ask if any of us did anything wrong, and the answer would be no. Big trout trout don't hit flies or lures if the anglers makes a mistake with their presentation.

For me, this was a return home. It's where I sprinkled twin brother George's ashes in the river after his 2003 death from cancer. I spent hours both nights thinking of my brother, remembering his first steelhead from one of the holes we fished, and drifted back to yesteryear when life was much different than it is now. Most of all, it was a return to the river of my youth. Perhaps next time the fish will lose and we may win a round.

One can always dream.

If you decide to go:

*The Sturgeon River flows north into Burt Lake. Try fishing the downstream end closest to Burt Lake. I prefer fishing from White Road (the end closest to M-68) and on downstream. Much of the land along this water is private. Be courteous to landowners, and pick up your trash and that of others. The summer brown fishery will begin in four or five weeks, based on my more than 55 years of experience on this stream.

*This river is extremely swift, and anglers should wade downstream through a likely spot during daylight hours to determine where they can and cannot wade. Some holes are lined with clay, and an angler who gets caught on a clay ledge will go swimming. There is a great amount of stumps, sweepers and other debris in the river.

*A few big brown trout from Burt Lake move into the Sturgeon River in mid-summer. They are not easy to catch, as our two-night fishing trip would indicate. The fish move upstream in small schools and often can be heard splashing as they move up. Don't slosh around, make noise or shine a light on the water. A light flashing across your fishing spot will put the fish down.

*If a fog starts rising off the water, head for the sack. The browns stop hitting when a fog comes off. I’ve caught these fish under a bright full moon.

*Fish safe, and avoid the river during daylight hours if you wish to maintain your sanity. You may be upset by hordes of canoers, kayakers and tubers, most of whom are out-of-control once they start downstream. If local legends are true, there is one spot on the river where the current flows at 22 miles per hour. The current is swift and heavy, and log jams and sweepers are common. Use special care when fishing at night, and pay attention to where you wade. There are a few treacherous spots when an after-dark swim is not recommended.

*The biggest brown trout that I know of was caught by the late George Yontz, once the owner of Hillside Camp, three miles north of Wolverine, Michigan, on old M-27. The fish weighed 13 ½ pounds on certified scales. There are big native stream browns, and silver-sided lake brown that that move up the river in the summer. The silver fish are fresh-run from Burt Lake while the darker golden-sided trout are natives. Count yourself fortunate if you have a big fish on. There are some walleyes in the river as well.

*Approach each fishing location by land. East quietly into the water within easy casting distance, and then stand there and listen. If big brown trout are there, you’ll hear them moving just under the surface. Cast minnow-imitating lures across and downstream, and fish the lure on a tight line. Once it finishes its drift, jig it up and down two or three times before reeling it in.

Casey Richey (left) and his son Shane, with his former state-record brown.

All things are relative. A trophy brown when I was a kid was the 11-pounder that George Yontz of Wolverine caught from the Sturgeon River in the late 1950s.

Frankly, over many years of trolling Lake Huron and Lake Michigan for brown trout, I've landed many that were big enough to put a hefty strain on my rod, and would tilt the scales to weights from 11 to 19 pounds.

The brown trout is a mystery fish to many anglers. A five-pound brown on the Holy Waters of the upper AuSable and Manistee rivers is a trophy fish. Fish one of those back-of-beyond jump-across creeks, and catch a brown trout measuring 12 inches, and it too is a trophy.

Brown trout numbers have dwindled somewhat in recent years around the Great Lakes. Previously, browns of 20 to 25 pounds were common catches, and the current state record fish was caught two years ago from the Manistee River below Tippy Dam. It weighed in at 41 pounds, 7.2 ounces.

Big brown trout are around but they are difficult to hook and harder to land.

Big browns are where you find them. Most harbors on Lakes Huron and Michigan produce some big fish. For many years, Thunder Bay at Alpena was home to some of the state's biggest browns and the area continue to produce some big fish.

Some very nice fish have been caught trolling in Hammond Bay north of Rogers City, and the area near AuGres off Whitestone Point has produced some very nice fish as well.

Huron Bay at Baraga and L'Anse on Lake Superior also produce good numbers of brown trout in the past. Another Upper Peninsula hotspot for years has been along the Michigan's shoreline from Escanaba and Little Bay de Noc south to Menominee. Ten-pound fish were common catches here, and I've caught some 11 and 12-pounders near Escanaba.

Lake Michigan's Grand Traverse Bay, including both arms of the bay, have produced some huge browns. My son David hooked a huge fish on a Rapala years ago, played it with a gentle hand, and lost it when the lure broke apart. Three of us saw that fish, and our closest estimate to its weight was 25 pounds. In higher waters of yesteryear, the Acme Reel along US-31 was a real hotspot.

Harbors at Frankfort, Onekama, Manistee and Ludington also produce big brown trout on occasion. Even some of the southerly ports such as Saugatuck and South Haven have delivered good numbers of browns.

Some key fishing methods for Great Lakes brown trout.

It's possible to cast spoons off breakwalls or piers at these harbors, and a blue-silver, green-silver, orange-silver, all silver, copper, brass, pearl or other color 1/4 or 1/3-oz. Devle Dog spoons work well. Experiment with sinking time, retrieval speeds and vary between casting straight out off the pier or casting parallel to the pier if no one is in the way.

Trolling produces very well, and the trick is to work in and out of shallow water during the spring months. Years ago, Jack Duffy pioneered this offshore fishery, brought me in on it, and between us, we pounded the big browns for many years. The methods that follow worked for us, and they continue to produce.

We always used 6-pound line, and trolled two types of lures: wobbling plugs (X-4, X-5 and U-20 FlatFish to be exact) or minnow-imitating plugs like the Rapala, Rebel, Long-A Bomber or FasTrac. Hot colors were silver, silver-black, chartreuse-orange and gold-black in the latter category. FlatFish colors were silver, silver with red spots or pearl.

FlatFish required a very slow trolling speed, and we'd test lures next to the boat to see if they tracked straight. If so, slowly release line until the lures at least 100 yards behind the boat, and put them into rodholders. Some anglers prefer trolling off in-line planer boards.

Minnow-imitating lures can be trolled faster than FlatFish, but tie a loop knot to the lure's line tie to open up its wiggle. Again, let two lures out at the same time and speed for about 100 yards, and put the rods in rod holders. Adjust reel drags so a brown can take line on the strike.

Big browns almost always rip off an additional 50-75 yards of line on the strike. Reel the other line in to get them out of the way, and play the fish gently. Often, browns will strike and run toward the boat. Reel fast and hard, and you may be pleasantly surprised when you catch up to the fish when it is about 25 yards behind the boat.

Great Lakes browns grow to be the largest but some big ones come from rivers.

Browns occasionally jump, and most often will roll on the surface. Once they get close to the boat, be prepared for one or more last-ditch efforts by the fish. Watch its head, and if the head cocks to one side or the other, he is planning another run. Let the fish go, and don't try to pressure them on 6-pound line. A big fish will break the line like sewing thread.

Try trolling near the edges and tips of piers, along the mud line where river water meets lake water, and off a river mouth. Gravel or rocky bars in six to 15 feet of water can be good spots, and the key to good brown trout fishing is an abundance of alewives or smelt.

Catching big browns these days is not easy but my nephew, Casey Richey of Frankfort, set a new state record a few years ago. His record was broken last year with a massive fish from the Manistee River. The big fish are around, but scoring means putting in a lot of time.

Fish smart, play big fish with a soft hand and good luck!

A beautiful sunset with a big pike in hand is a wonderful outdoor experience.

There is a driving need for some people to delve deeply into their inner being, and learn basic lessons about how to enjoy their outdoor life. Everything in nature lives, and it dies, as shall we when our day comes.

Fishing and hunting has been a major part of my 71 years, and there is something buried so deep within my being that I can't remember when it wasn't there. There is this need -- a deeply felt need -- to taste the sweetness of the outdoor life as often as possible.

It's not enough for me to just go fishing or hunting. I've never had to force myself into the outdoors to experience this. My life just needs to sample some part of the outdoors every day, regardless of weather.

I try to immerse myself -- body and soul -- into all of nature’s complexities.

Sportsmen seldom speak of little birds. Song birds cannot be hunted, as we all know, but I enjoy watching them at the bird feeder. I'm not sure I know, nor care, how many 50-pound bags of sunflower seeds are purchased each year to feed them. Numbers really don't matter.

I sat along the banks of the Betsie River two days ago watching a hen steelhead spawn with three males that seemingly took turns darting in to squirt milt on a golden spill of released eggs. I didn't view that hen as an object of angling desire, something to hook, land and take home. Instead, watching those fish was symbolic of all good things in nature that tug ever harder at my need to become even closer to it.

There is something about wild animals, birds and fish I find fascinating.

Nothing stirs my soul more than the roaring thunder of a spring gobbler making himself loudly known to every hen within earshot. He stands as the epitome of spring sounds that make me smile, feel alive and in tune with nature.

What can be more relaxing on a golden spring day when the temperature soars to almost 70 degrees, and we sit on the ground under a cedar, and drink thirstily of this delightful scent. We hear the peenting of male woodcock impressing a hen, listen as a ruffed grouse drum-rolls out his love song on a fallen log. Sometimes we even nap on such a warm day, and it's not laziness but a complete surrender to spring.

Become one with nature and live a life of outdoor pleasure.

I yearn for a day on a jump-across creek, bubbling from deep within a cedar swamp, and seek Robert Traver's little speckled beauties as he did on his pilgrimages to Frenchman's Pond. I love to burrow into such dense swamps, fish between tree roots in deep little pockets, and catch one or two brookies with white piping along their fins. That day will come on the last Saturday in April when the statewide trout season opens.

I need to feel the cold, firm and smooth skin of a brookie in my water-moistened hand. There is a burning need to look upon the stark beauty of tiny red and blue haloed spots that glint in filtered sunlight like rare jewels. There are times when I keep one or two for a long-awaited lunch of picking pink meat from the bones, and knowing I should have let these trout live. I've escaped the nagging need to eat a brook trout for eight or nine years although I fish for them often, but the old craving for one or two is tempting my taste buds.

Deep within me is another urge which I will put off for a few more weeks, but then I'll succumb to fishing bluegills on their spawning beds. I won't take many, because filling a limit is something that disappeared from my angling life many years ago. Instead, I need to feel that sideways pull on my fly line as a pug-nosed 10-inch bluegill swims in tight circles in the clear water. Holding a slab bluegill in my hands, and admiring the fish momentarily before freeing the hook and the fish is what my twin brother George and I used to do. I'll do it again, and hope he is watching me catch a fish or two on his behalf.

Nature brings about urges, and like eating brook trout, we back away to save our fish.

Old friends, people who enjoy what I enjoy, and feast ravenously on the bounty of the great outdoors are fun to spend time with. We find that as time passes, and as we mellow, spending time on the water or in the woods is a blessing. We enjoy the day whether we catch fish or not, and in some cases, talking and recalling past trips are more meaningful than catching fish.

Perhaps it's the weather, the time of year when spring gives birth to a new season, and casting about in search of different reasons and ways to spend time outdoors, is what appeals to me. I cherish days spent fishing with my son, David, and they are most important to me.

I look at him, and see myself as a hard-charging younger angler who is willing to pause along the way, sniff the ripening fragrance of newly sprouted leeks, and think of leek soup. David seems to understand The Old Man and his moods, and we can go for long periods without speaking, because we know that nature is silently speaking to us.

Spring is a gift, and I hope to pass it along to like-minded people who realize there is more to fishing or hunting than catching and killing. There is life, and a love of nature, for any who wish to pause long enough to look, listen, smell, taste and touch.

Spring is what keeps winding my outdoor clock.

John Voelker (Robert Traver) signs a copy of one of his trout fishing books.

Snow-covered trees and gusty breezes greeted the dawn, and sporadic flakes fell as the John Deere snow blower threw the snow into a nearby field. Cleaning my driveway of five inches of mushy snow gave me nearly three hours of uninterrupted time to think.

One thought came to mind. It was from a 1984 trip to the Upper Peninsula to fish the legendary Frenchman's Pond with famous author John Voelker who wrote under the pseudonym of Robert Traver. I was eager to get to the pond, and had realized a personal dream that had been gnawing at me for many years.

Fishing "Frenchman's Pond"; with Johnny Voelker was a longtime wish.

"The more you want something, the more you anticipate it," Voelker said, sensing my impatience as we stopped to pick blueberries, chantrelle mushrooms and black raspberries. "That means Frenchman's Pond will be a bigger thrill once we finally get there."

We eventually slid down what passes for a trail to his secluded cabin on the pond. The two-track leading into it was a mix of boulders, corduroy trails, rocks and sand. His battered old fish car was bouncing from side to side as he tried to keep it between the trees.

Frenchman's Pond glittered like a rare jewel amid a sea of cedar and spruce. Here and there a brook trout rose to an unseen insect, and my dream of visiting this hallowed water had become a reality.

It was like coming home after a long absence. I was speechless with the pond's beauty, and Voelker wisely stood by quietly and allowed me to absorb the rare mood of the moment without interruption.

Frenchman's Pond was Voelker's private retreat. He had owned it for over 30 years when I first visited it over 25 years ago. It's location is a closely-guarded secret, and the brookies are as shy and reclusive as the owner is to many people. We had traded letters, and I had interviewed him on several occasions, and it took a few years before the fishing invitation came.

John Voelker, a/k/a Robert Traver, delicately drops a dry fly on Frenchman's Pond.

He knew I wanted to fish it, but by nature, he didn't trust many people that lived below the bridge, and like it or not, I had to measure up. What his standards were for admittance to the pond were unspoken. Therefore the invitation to fish came as a huge and unexpected surprise.

"Why don't you c'mon up and fish Frenchman's Pond with me?" he asked one day. "The trout are notoriously camera-shy, but we may be able to hook one or two."

An invite to fish the pond was like a special request to dine with the Pope or Queen Mum. It wasn't something to ignore or refuse. To do so would have sealed my fate and kept me away for all time.

One didn't ignore an invitation to Traver's famous wild brook trout pond.

I was full of questions. Would the trout rise? Which flies and sizes produced best? Any tips on fishing the pond?

"Chances are good we won't catch a fish," he said. "And if we do get lucky or skillful, as you fishing writers are wont to say, the brookies will probably be small and take only tiny dry flies.

"Fish a long leader tapered down to 5X or 6X, and try No. 18, 20 or 22 flies. We don't land many fish on such light tackle, but it sure is fun when we do."

We fished from casting platforms built around the pond, and I changed flies frequently. Brookies rose whenever the sun went behind a cloud but only one came to my fly. It missed or I missed, and that was that. I figured the old Judge had educated most of them.

Voelker had several rises to his tiny flies but failed to hook up. We crouched low on the platforms to reduce our silhouette, made adequate presentations but the trout weren't impressed.

"That's what I like about brook trout," Voelker said over a ritualistic sundowner of bourbon Manhattans during our U.P. cribbage championship game. "Brook trout are not impressed with who or what you are, or how much money you have, but they are responsive at times to a gentle and quiet approach."

All of this happened many years ago but our time spent together is permanently etched in my brain.

It's been well over 25 years since that trip, and it's been many years since his death, but I returned two more times by written invitation to fish with the old master. I would never go back even though I know where the pond nestles like a rare diamond in a green forest.

John Voelker fished around his last bend many years ago, and one day I may report what he told me about the frailties of old age and death's looming presence.

For now, on a warmer and snowy day, I'm satisfied with remembering this man of letters, writer of vibrant books on trout fishing, and masterful novels such as Anatomy Of A Murder. He taught me a valuable lesson that day, and it's one I occasionally pass on to others.

"There is more to fishing than catching fish," he said. "Learn to savor each day like a fine wine, listen to good music, fish often and keep few fish. Learn about life from brook trout because they are found only in cold, clean waters, and when brook trout disappear from our wild places, mankind won't be far behind."

Those are words worth remembering, and that the old Judge uttered them with a hitch is his voice, meant they came from his heart. The Bard of Frenchman's Pond had spoken, I had listened, and took his heartfelt advice with me when we drove away.

I remember Johnny Voelker (Robert Traver).. I remember the man, his little sayings, his attitudes about brook trout and the waters where they are found, and I'l never forget the old-timer, his Parodi cigars, his lively method of writing, and the waters he most loved to fish.

He was a one-of-a-kind man, and one I'll never forget. He still stirs my imagination.

The Shack building and some of the members of the Traverse City Fly Club.

An important piece of local angling history has gone missing, and it disappeared several years ago. Where it is or who has the original book called “The Shack Diary” remains a complete mystery.

The Diary was more like a ledger than a real diary. Several Xerox copies exist, in whole or in part, but the original last owned by Jeanne Winnie Ball of Traverse City appears to have done a runner or someone put the five-finger discount on it.

This piece of legendary lore was kept by the late Art Winnie, a Traverse City barber and famous fly tier. Winnie’s daughter, Jeanne, found the Diary among some of his scrapbooks years ago.

It was a gentleman’s fishing-hunting club near Traverse City on the Boardman River.

The Shack, located on the Boardman River near Keystone and about five miles from Traverse City, seems to have sprung up from the logged-over land in the early spring of 1913. There were 10 founding members:

• Charles Alley
• John Corcoran
• David Core
• Carl Erickson
• Ed Gilbert
• Pat Hastings
• Charles Longnecker
• Charles Quick
• Bert Ward
• Art Winnie

The purpose of the Traverse City Fly Club, who owned the Shack, was to provide a place where the men could go to fish, and during the fall months, do some duck hunting, especially for mergansers that threatened to eat the river trout.

Bert Winnier (above) with a nice catch. Second fish from right was a grayling.

The Shack, as one observed noted, was “held together with chewing gum and cardboard.” Actually, based on photos I have, the Shack looked rather substantial although its location lacks any degree of beauty or aesthetics. Pine stumps, slashings and woody debris on land and in the water made foot travel a bit risky.

It seemed that fishing in those days was quite similar to what we experience today. Fishing can be wonderful today and rotten tomorrow, as the Diary so eloquently stated on many handwritten pages.

It seemed the Shack founders enjoyed their company, and a lengthy roster of guests were noted amid jotted observations that so-and-so left dirty dishes and others didn’t clean up after themselves. In that respect, some things never change … some people work and others do not.

Winnie cleans fish in the Boardman River in this photo of the Shack Diary. It has disappeared and an Important link to the past is gone.

It’s certain that most of the lengthy list of guests hailed from Traverse City but some came from many points around the country, including one visitor from Washington, DC. Guests include:

R. Anderson
Toots Armstrong
Mr. and Mrs. J. Bechtel
Harold Brown
Dr. A.W. Bruley
Walter Chase
David Core
Mark Craw; legendary conservation officer
John Farwell
Bill Foot
Walter Hanson
Remington Kellogg
Ray Lather
Dick Lawson
Charles Luick
D.J. McMeechan
Art Moore
J.B Moore
Theron Morgan
Donald Roxbury
Gus Ruff
Clayt Sardie
Jay Smith
Walt Thirlby
Harold Titus
George Winnie

If any names are misspelled, let’s blame it on faded handwriting and poor Xerox pages.

The record keeping was rather shoddy, and it seems that many dates were ignored or no one wanted to keep records that year. Some pages stated that fishing was bad while others boasted of large catches.

Members and guests of The Traverse City Fly Club also spent some of their time planting trout at various points near The Shack, and other nearby creeks as well as the Boardman River. Getting to The Shack was apparently an adventure in itself.

Getting to the Shack was an adventure. Most of the trees along the river had been cut during the timbering era.

The trail in was a corduroy trail of small tree trunks laid across the muck. One step off the trail, and it was a cold, stinky, wet walk into camp.

The Shack Diary continued, in fits and starts, until 1933 when the Traverse City Fly Club dismantled The Shack and relocated it to Rugg Pond in Kalkaska County. The photo on the cover of The Shack Diary was an original photo of  Art Winnie as he cleaned some fish.

The story doesn’t end there. A number of people borrowed The Shack Diary from his grand-daughter Judy Weber [ (231) 275-5654 ],  and all of them returned it except for one. My twin brother George had the Diary for a short time, and I saw, handled and read it, and then it was returned by him.

The late outdoor writer for The Record Eagle -- Gordie Charles – graciously turned over his notes about this and hundreds of other local stories that he wrote  for the newspaper and various magazines to me upon his death. By giving me these files, he asked me to appeal to my readers concerning the whereabouts of The Shack Diary.

If anyone knows anything about the whereabouts of the original Shack Diary, kindly contact me at:

Dave Richey
PO Box 192
Grawn, MI 49637
eMail me dave@daverichey.com

Or call Judy Weber at (231) 275-5654.

The Shack Diary needs to come home to rest.

This angler caught this 18-pound brown trout from Little Bay de Noc.

Anglers for centuries have touted the mental and sporting values of trout fishing. But what is it we love so much that makes many anglers dream all winter about catching these lake and river game fish? Why, for goodness sake, would any person count down the days to the opener?

Why are 10-inch trout prizes to be cherished? Why should people spend good money to buy fine tackle just to catch a small trout and then release it? Or, on the other hand, why would anglers gloat over a 10-pound brown trout or a 14-pound steelhead?

What is it about this game fish that stirs our cerebral juices, captures our thoughts and engages our soul on a day like this, one day past the general statewide trout opener? It’s just one of many questions that trout anglers attempt to rationalize as they tour Michigan’s greatest trout lakes and streams.

Sometimes one would think there are more questions here than answers.

What follows are just a few of today’s idle thoughts that have made me wonder about my 60-year trout-fishing love affair. There are many thoughts that arise from trout openers I’ve enjoyed since the early 1950s.

Think long and hard on trout, and make a list of some of your favorite trout fishing thoughts. One often will find that the experiences, sights, sounds, and other sensory perceptions are far more important at the end of a fishing day than the fish we’ve caught. Here are just a handful of reasons why trout captured my soul more than a half-century ago.

• These beautiful, colorful and fragile game fish are the canaries in our environmental coal mine. They are a key barometer of our times. What harms trout can't be good for humans, and when these species are gone forever, can our civilization be very far behind? It’s something to think about.
• Brook trout are the prettiest of all. They come in four sizes: tiny, small, legal-size and lunker, each with an array of spotted beauty that hints of wild places that stir our senses. With their tiny blue spots, and white piping along the outside edge of orange fins, brook trout take first-place in any fishy beauty pageant. I look at a trout, all smooth-skinned, and painted up in all their finery, and the sight takes my breath away.

Trout fishing is easy, hard or nearly impossible based on personal restrictions.

• Trout respond well to a careful approach and a delicate delivery. Fancy waders and top-of-the-line rods, reels and nets do not impress Michigan’s char and trout clan. They feed when hungry, fast when not, and nothing we do can or will change this pattern.
• Trout inhabit some of the state’s most beautiful places. They live in a land of towering pine and spruce, beaver ponds, impenetrable cedar swamps, sparkling streams, gurgling meadow brooks, remote Upper Peninsula rivers dotted with waterfalls -- all such places are home to lake and stream trout, and humans are nothing more than infrequent visitors to their world.

As such, it behooves anglers to put back more trout than we keep. Conservation of wild trout means joining and backing such organizations as Trout Unlimited, who fight for our fish and their special environment.

Their needs include clean water and an environment that is friendly to the fish. They are truly game fish worth fighting for.

• I fish because of soft dimpling rises, blanket hatches, selective trout, wild places, stream-side camaraderie with other like-minded fishermen, wild fish and the history and romance of trout fishing. Trying to outwit these game fish is for the thinking angler, not a gluttonous fisherman intent only on a full creel.

Anglers should fish for trout for many other reasons than to just catch fish.

• One last and untapped trout bastions are our inland lakes. Such waters produce robust fish, and for those who learn lake-fishing secrets, the rewards can be many and great. Huge trout are taken from inland lakes that seldom, if ever, see a bait, fly or lure. These lake-dwelling trout are a thrill to catch, and doing so requires specialized skills.
• My familiarity with trout forces me to fight for them and to proceed in a manner that gives each fish every advantage and opportunity to escape. Trout fishing means much more than a limit catch. This sport is and always should be a major challenge.
• Seldom are trout kept. Trout deserve to be caught more than once, but on occasion I will keep a few small but legal ones for the frying pan. My thoughts are that big trout should be allowed to spawn and reproduce, and small ones should be released as gently as possible to avoid harming them.
• There are places where brook trout live that rarely see a fisherman. These fish are naïve, easily caught, and some anglers take advantage of this small failing. Often, in such areas, the area may be over-fished in one day by a greedy angler. Catching a limit, day after day, doesn’t prove an angler is a good one.
• For years it’s been my practice to fish those back-of-beyond spots where brook trout hold at the base of a root-flooded cedar. Such black swamps have produced numerous sightings of bear and deer as I slip slowly from tree to tree, dapping a fly or single-hook wee spinner in the water between tree roots. The fish come hard to fly or lure, are easily hooked, and quickly released without taking them from the water.
• I have a problem with those who regard trout fishing as a social event. The fish are not impressed by our homes or the cost of our cars, so why clutter a stream with people who are there only to impress clients or other fishermen with fancy creels, fly rods and vests?
• People go through three trout fishing phases. 
  • The FIRST is to catch as many fish as possible; 
  • The SECOND is to catch the largest trout possible; 
  • The THIRD is to exact a challenge from trout and tackle while giving the fish every chance to get away.

Trout fishermen go through distinct trout-fishing phases.

• I'm in Stage No. 3, but can remember as a kid passing through stages 1 and 2. It's easy to remember the heavy catches, huge fish and the bragging of yesteryear, and I'm ashamed by the number of big trout taken during my earlier years. But those days are long gone, and my efforts now are far less than my heavy catches of 30-50 years ago.
• For 10 years, guiding trout fishermen was my life and a major way to make a living. The hours were long and hard, the weather sometimes bitterly cold, and although memories of those days with large numbers of browns and steelhead still linger, they foster no strong feelings that make me want to return to that way of life. It was a tough way to make a living, pay bills and put cooked groceries on the table.
• I fish for trout now because I want to, not to prove anything to myself or to others. I fish because of the tremendous enjoyment it brings, and the challenge of hooking trout from difficult places with tackle that gives every edge to these game fish.
• I now fish for trout because fishing can sooth a troubled soul. It energizes tired fishermen, and it provides me with something I deeply love and something to look forward to in beautiful areas where it's not necessary to rub shoulders with other anglers. It offers me peace and solitude in a world of turmoil and unpleasant things.

That's me. A guy with simple ideals and needs that continue to make me very happy. And just think: an eight-inch brook trout can make me feel great for weeks on end.

No amount of money, big house or fancy ride, can do that for me.

Running water, cold water, wild places and wild fish, are why trout make me feel good in a way that I’ve tried to explain but find it impossible to convey any better than this. So, if you’ll excuse me now, I’ve had my say and now have a date with a trout river.

Perch, smelt & walleye fishing can be good in various locations.

The best description of an ice fishermen is so old it should have long grey whiskers. It states that an ice fisherman is a jerk on one end of the line waiting for a jerk on the other end.

Chuckle, chuckle.  Yuk. Yuk.

If so, count me as one of the half-frozen brethren. I admit to enjoying the sport, and each year look forward to taking to the ice in search of tasty fish. However, we are now closing in on the end of frozen-water fishing sport even though another two weeks of fun may still be had.

Folks might wonder why anyone with a normal intelligence quotient would sit on the cold ice in bone-chilling Arctic winds and swirling snow while facing possible frostbite. Is it necessary?

The answer is yes and no. One can choose to sit out in the cold or use one of the new fold-up portable shanties on the market, light a Coleman catalytic heater , and fish in shirt-sleeves. We do have a choice.

Good ice fishing in northern counties

For me, sitting on a frozen lake breathing fresh air is far more relaxing than sitting in front of a television, watching sleep robbers on the tube, eating buttered and salted popcorn and getting fat.

Ice fishing is fun. It can offer wholesome outdoor entertainment for the entire family, and each year more people discover the rejuvenating aspects of fresh air, outdoor exercise and great winter sport.

There is a camaraderie to this sport. Forget your ice strainer, and a neighbor will loan you theirs. Run out of bait, and another angler will step forward and offer enough to get through the day.

If it’s a bitter cold or windy day, sitting out on the ice is a nasty experience. A Clam ice-fishing shanty is a life saver.

Sharing is a human quality, encountered often on the ice. A friend who recently achieved senior status and earned the right to buy a cheaper license, learned about sharing while walking onto the Tawas Bay ice.

A vehicle leaving the ice stopped as he walked across the frozen wasteland. His new friends invited him into their car, drove him the half-mile back to their shanty, unlocked the coop and left him with a warm, fuzzy feeling. The had helped a perfect stranger without expecting anything but a "thank you" in return.

These last two weeks of safe ice remind me of past winter fishing trips. It's easy to remember the days when fish bit well, but often it's the little things that mean more to winter anglers. Here are several examples of mine.

Cautious approach

Years ago, when lake trout were first making news in this state, three of us fished the west arm of Grand Traverse Bay. We hiked offshore from M-22, and drilled six holes through the ice.

The first two holes went through 12 inches of clear blue ice. The next two holes, moving farther out over deeper water, went through 10 inches of ice. The fifth hole went into eight inches, and the last hole, just 20 yards away, zipped through just one inch of rubbery ice.

We were lucky that day. Grand Traverse Bay has strong undercurrents, and one inch of ice is like walking on cellophane. We withdrew from that hole in an exaggerated spread-eagled duck-walk with our hearts pounding. We drilled the last hole through eight inches of ice over 120 feet of water, and began catching lakers of sweetened jigs and tip-ups.

The water was so clear the creamy spotted lakers rose from the depths with a luminous glow as they twisted and turned below our feet. Those fish fought like caged tigers, and my memory of them and the quality eating they provided, remain with me today.

Frostbite

Another time while participating in a Michigan Outdoor Writers Association winter meeting at Sault Ste. Marie, we jigged for walleyes on nearby Munuscong Bay in bitter cold temperatures driven by a strong north wind. Several walleyes to 20 inches were caught, Swedish Pimples and it wasn't until our return to shore that someone asked about those "funny-looking" white patches on my cheek, ears and nose.

Anyone who has stared in awe at the famous Richey schnozz, and how my ears stick out like a taxi cab going down the street with both doors open, can understand why they were frostbitten.

My nose, like Pinocchio's, sticks out so far it suffered hours of subzero cold. It didn't take much for my ears to attract the cold either. The fierce pain experienced during the thawing-out process was remembered long after the walleye fishing had been forgotten.

Take kids fishing

Years ago when my four kids ranged in age from four to eight years, they often accompanied me to North Lake near Millington. The lake was filled with bluegills and sunfish, and the winter fish were always hungry.

It was a time when the Old Man could teach them how to fish, and we often spent several weekends each winter in pursuit of fine catches. Once they tired of jigging a tiny teardrop jig baited with a wax worm, they could skate, go sledding or build snowmen.

Once the physical exertion ended, and they settled down to fish, many 'gills would dot the nearby ice. They helped me clean the catch at day's end, and never were far away when it was time to tuck into platters of pan-fried fish.

Pike action

Some fine winter memories were born on Manistee Lake at Manistee when it delivered jumbo pike through the ice. One day, with temperatures in the low 30s and 12 inches of ice underfoot, me and two other fishermen were fishing with sucker-baited tip-ups off the Manistee River mouth near East Lake. It proved to be a day we would long remember.

The pike, some silver and fresh from Lake Michigan, were in a feeding frenzy. Red tip-up flags were popping in the air at almost every tip-up site, indicating fish, and we spend long hours battling pike to 18 pounds.

The fish would make long hard runs, and the braided Dacron line would sizzle through our fingers. Each and every pike would fight until it could battle no longer, and many took 15 minutes of back-and-forth scrapping before the fish could be landed.

There is something savage about a big pike, and when it is time to lead a trophy fish to the ice hole, an angler must take his time and do it right. The long slender snout should be positioned just under the ice hole, and a three-pronged gaff would be lowered under its chin.

Once gaff and fish were properly positioned, the gaff was brought up and sunk into the pike's lower jaw, and it would come splashing out.

Each fish, long and glistening and tooth-studded, was a victory. Those trophy pike were among the hardest fighting fish to land that has been my pleasure to hook through the ice.

Walleye flurry

Once, several years ago, the late Al Lesh of Warren, several others and I made a snowmobile trip across Lake St. Clair to a point about a half-mile off Ontario's Thames River mouth.

The first two spots were unproductive, but the third location was charmed. I lowered a Swedish Pimple sweetened with a shiner minnow within inches of bottom, jigged it twice and set the hook into a walleye.

We fought a rugged battle, that walleye and me, and eventually it came up through the ice hole and was landed. Moments later, another walleye met the same fate, and soon everyone in our party was hooking the tasty fish.

Six anglers limited out that day. Walleyes to eight pounds were landed in what ranks as one of the most exciting flurries of activity I have experienced on the ice.

And people wonder why we dunk bait or lures through an ice hole? They shouldn't; anyone who has ever tasted winter success will always look forward to the next ice-fishing trip with anticipation and excitement. Good bets this week should be Big Glen (at the narrows) and Higgins lakes.

Anyone looking for daily updated fishing reports north of US-10  should contact Curly Buchner .

Magic in a box: ice flies & jigs.      This angler unhooks a nice walleye.

Color, size and a bit of bait makes all the difference in success. Just experiment.

Sometimes just making the lure “shiver” in one place is enough to make fish bite.

Use lures of the right size for the species of game fish you’re trying to catch.