Fishing during the week, watching day turn to night.

As winter releases it's grip and the frosts of late spring subside, northern michigan enters a period of time that is not quite summer and a bit beyond spring. Technically, if going by our calendar, it is summer but the inconsistency of warmth and the need to be 'dressed appropriately' cause many to wonder if this really isn't another season, a vernal segue if you will. The days are long, the evenings relatively warm and the nights more dark and alive than at any other time of the year. Aside from the masses of mosquitoes, black flies, deer flies and noseeums, it's a fine time.

This fine time of year brings about an overwhelming urge for me to head to the river and find a stretch unoccupied. This is attainable in May but as the midpoint of June arrives, it becomes increasingly difficult (as it seems the urge has hit not only me, but every other person who ties a fly to a thin line and stands in a river waving a stick). That is unless you are willing to get out of work, head home to get a few things done, take off for the river, fish and then head home for a few hours of sleep-on a weekday. Even the lengths of river that are easily accessed from a bridge crossing are usually vacant and fishing is more often than not, amazing.

I forget time as I step into rivers with the sun in my eyes. It's ironic as this is the one point of day when time passing is the most physical to me-I can see the sun moving lower and the temperature changing. Everything is calm and relatively silent except for the sounds that should be there. As night gains time, the movement of the sun creates stretching shadows and mellow lighting as shades of orange, yellow, purple and blue begin to appear overhead. Eventually the direct sun can no longer be seen, any wind has turned into but a breeze and rings begin to appear on the surface of the water. Some rings are formed in calm water, starting as a dimple and growing to a series of circles. The current carries these circles downstream and they continue to spread until they are barely discernible. I try to focus on where the rings originated but often follow them instead. Thus begins the focusing portion of the night... Trying to figure out what a fish is eating can be a mystery at times. They feed as if they would eat anything and then you float a fly over them and nothing happens. As soon as the fly has made it's way downstream the trout begins to feed again. I usually make a few casts to see if any part of my fly is attractive to these fish more often than not, they are selective and want nothing to do with it. I once read about an entomologist that tried to quantify a trouts IQ and came up with 6, using the same scale that humans do. Many a time I have wondered if this is a conservative value. Quickly the fly is changed and I commence casting. This may happen several times and eventually I'll revert to my original offering but one size smaller, typically this one size is a length of 2mm. The fly floats over the same spot as before however this time, for whatever the reason, a circle is formed and my line is tightened. After a minute or two I hold in my hand a native brook trout with it's mottled green back, red and white fins and spots of red and blue with faint yellow circles around them. I sometimes look for someone to show this fish to but of course no one is there. I wish I could explain better the beauty of this fish but I can't. After letting it go I realize that day has turned to evening and now night is upon me. So I head for home and the comforts of my spot in bed, next to my wife. Probably the only other place that I would rather be on a weekday.

I've fly-fished for many years and have become more obsessed with it as the years have passed. I'm thankful for that. Through life you pick up many hobbies and enjoyments and it seems as though we continue those that truly stimulate our minds and that we love doing. My dad used to take my sister and I fishing when I was pretty young. He would suit up and head off into the night while we held down a few of the holes close to the car. As night progressed we would observe the forementioned circles forming on the water and hear the gulp of hungry trout. My dad would eventually return, tell a few stories and we would head for home. Eventually he gave me a fly rod and taught me the basics of casting. From there, as they say, the rest is in the past. Each time I fish I remember my dad walking down a narrow trail to some forgotten stretch of river, a mysterious, spooky and beautiful place. I think in a way that I enjoy fishing with flies so much because of these memories.