I never got a good look at the deer. All of a sudden, it was standing there, 50 yards away. (It is true that last fall, on the fifth day of the season, I had an inappropriate relationship with a buck.)

I was looking the other way when I heard a crunch. I turned. (It was a critical lapse in judgement.)

When I realized it was an eight pointer, I raised my rifle but forgot to take the safety off. And when I pulled the trigger, nothing happened. (Though I legally stated the facts as asked, I may have misled some people.)

The buck looked up then bolted before I had a chance to do anything about it. (This is now between the people I care the most about; my hunting buddies, our bartender, and my Buck-Monkey.)

I’m so bummed, I don’t even want to talk about it anymore. (Even deer hunters have private lives.)

Fawn bleat, crack, crunch… multiple deer! Instincts take over. Brain begins to battle physical reaction of muscle twitches. Twitches become spasms. Brown moving – one deer. Flash of white contrasted against the hunter green of swamp balsam and cedar – that’s two: doe and fawn. Spasms become convulsions. Arms flail miserably into air while heart pounds out of chest and eyes rotate independently. Could this be all – only two small deer? Man, I can’t hold rifle up; no feelings below waist yet sweat bleeding from forehead.

Get a grip! Fingers, aching – gun, damn cold. Sphincter, unreliable. Deer, turning to leave – jeez! But wait, something catches my eye between head snap and spastic writhing. My God, nice buck! Good eye to scope – side of tree and arm prop rifle to steady bounce. Breathe in, exhale halfway and hold. Squeeze… stop! No good – too much bounce. Start over; breathe in, exhale and hold deer accommodating – squeeze, a little harder, more, more… BANG!

Nice buck, wide fork. Never a doubt…

Mental Note: Must ask doctor about these convulsions.

“How can you tell? It’s impossible to see through the smoke,” I wheeze, following the lighted haze from the kitchen like a firefighter breaking into daylight. “For God’s sake, put some clothes on Chew,” protests one of the morning flock, “I’m loosing my appetite.”

“Give me a minute, I’m trying a new recipe. Who would have thought WD40 could slow the cooking time this much,” pronounces Chef Chew. “Maybe if I just put a little more wood in the firebox…” Clank, rumble, more smoke.

Now, everyone appreciates a good morning breakfast on opening day, but the Surgeon General has warnings about this kind of activity. Typically, most of the members of the Wasted Ammo Think Tank and Hunting Camp take a pass on the breakfast thing and go about pleasantly preparing for the morning hunt after rising. Some of the very shrewd have actually been known to prepare the evening before, although this is generally frowned upon as it can prove to be dangerous.

For example, last season the whole camp prepared for their hunt the night before opening day. Everybody was dressed and ready to go by 4:30 AM. This is where we made a mistake. Having nothing to do but consider eating Chef Chew’s pancakes, most of the members took large portions by mouth – not the generally recommended serving method. By the time the flour, egg, milk and unidentifiable ingredients settled into the stomach, unpredictable side effects appeared. Lines at the bathroom door caused a near panic state. Others simply passed out and missed the first twelve hours of opening day. Those who could walk spent most of the morning chasing Chef Chew around camp and threatening very specific acts of hostility towards him and his ancestry.

To the accomplished hunter, advanced preparation is unnecessary and may even cause one to think about things like where they are going to hunt on opening morning. This type of needless preparation is best left to chance – you know, like being in the right place at the right time and other such hunting stuff.

Grand Marais was a welcome sight that Friday night in early August after some six hours of driving and listening to Tracker’s endless feature-function-benefit diatribe. “Listen,” I said. “How about we just check into the motel, you buy me dinner and a few drinks and I’ll share my years of belly boating experience with you. In fact, I’ll throw in a few fly fishing tips too.” 

It worked every time.

The plan went smoothly as we tipped Old Ezra until the wee hours. “Let’s get to bed and start early for Cogitation Pond. If you drive, I’ll navigate and we should arrive about 9 AM,” I said.  It’s important to note here that map reading sounds easy and may even appear elementary to the novice, but the skill required to doze for a few hours then awake with the keen sense of location is a practiced art.

For example, once Tracker John and I had the occasion to drive from Minneapolis to Duluth to attend a weekend boat show. Had I not awoke after a three-hour meditation, Tracker would have had no idea we were just outside of Fargo. At first, Tracker began to claim we had wasted time going the wrong way and that if I had been awake and reading the map and such hogwash, we would have been to Duluth already.  Once I explained that this circuitous route allowed us the chance to stop at a few local landmarks like Ellen’s Tap and House of Electrolysis, and that this could actually be considered a shortcut to Duluth in some sense, Tracker became appreciative of my map reading and he seemed eager to pay for the extra tank of gas required for such a high level of fun and excitement.

“Listen,” I said. “Cogitation Pond will be a lot easier to fish this time with our belly boats.”

“Yup, that sure was a long portage last year with the canoe,” Tracker chimed. 

Mentioning to Tracker that if we should be attacked by the bear that hangs around the boat landing this trip, he won’t need to run that quarter-mile holding the canoe over his head and I won’t be forced to run ahead of him clutching our fish. Tracker was excited!

Cogitation Pond is loaded with trout: rainbows and squaretails. It’s the kind of place I can take Tracker and be assured both of us will catch trout. The only snag with Cogitation is that it’s overpopulated with bear and moose – a kind of magnet for ill-behaved wildlife. But I explained in advance to Tracker that this was only a mild inconvenience and that if he took the precaution of bathing beforehand, we wouldn’t be as likely to run into the problems we experienced last year.

I should explain here that Tracker’s composure is not what it once was when it comes to coping with big game. I guess the whole problem started in Boy Scouts while camping at the Wilderness Site. (That’s what they called the remote campsite set aside for the scouts who could not pony-up the five dollars required to secure a site closer to things like safe drinking water. It meant that you didn’t get fed, slept in bear infested woods and swam for your merit badge in water occasioned by icebergs and leeches). We long-since reconciled our differences about the bear looking for the Kit-Kat bars I stashed in Tracker’s sleeping bag. I simply explained it was an act of Christian Giving on my part and that it was out of a life-saving necessity to beat the bear over the head with a club as it mauled Tracker’s body. That a few strikes went astray was unavoidable and should be expected given the circumstances.

Setting camp deep inside Cogitation Swamp was fairly uneventful. After demonstrating to Tracker how easily my belly boat inflated using my portable electric air compressor, Tracker proceeded to inflate his tube with Bob’s high-tech manual bicycle pump. It gave me ample time to further instruct Tracker in the Art of Belly Boating while I enjoyed several cold ones.

The anticipation left Tracker nearly speechless as we approached Cogitation Pond via our lucky shortcut through the swamp. Carefully checking our backside for the boat-launch bear, we reached Cogitation as expected. I expertly launched my craft and paddled to deeper water as I watched Tracker assemble his gear. It was a painfully slow process to observe and not unlike his tee-off routine made famous at the Boggy Swamp Golf and Sailing Club.

During Tracker’s first wet-run, it became apparent that he was approaching the weight capacity of his craft. “Are you sure water is supposed to dribble over the top of my waders when I paddle?”, Tracker asked.

“It’s important that you try to remain upright in your tube at all times. Most boats take on some water. Perhaps you should have purchased the bilge pump accessory from Bob,” I explained.  Tracker agreed.

“My safety strap seems to have malfunctioned,” Tracker exclaimed. “…yes, indeed, it appears to have ripped in half – some sort of structural deficiency I suspect.”

“Luckily for you, I have a spare strap which should work. I’ll be glad to loan it to you in exchange for one of those Diving Green Caddis. In a #16 please,” I added.

“Oops! How unfortunate! How deep do you think it is right here?” Tracker asked.

“Why?”

“I believe my right swim fin has detached itself and has sunk to the bottom.”

“Oh, it’s probably no more than 30 or 40 feet deep”, I added.  “By the way, Tracker, weren’t you the one who got that diving merit badge in Scout Camp?”

Now, I would never begrudge a friend in need, but with only one swim fin Tracker was out of luck. He could only paddle his belly boat in circles. I contemplated the hopelessness of the situation and quickly realized that I could only be of assistance to Tracker by providing some entertainment – the entertainment one receives while watching another man fish. “Well, no sense in wasting all this daylight. I’ll just check out the Monster Hole and maybe your fin will resurface …you know, like drowning victims do a day or two afterwards,” I reasoned to Tracker.

The plan had all the probability of working when out of the corner of my eye I saw movement on the shoreline. As my good eye focused, I realized I was spotting a large cow moose feeding. “Hey, Tracker, look at the moose!”  

In retrospect, I should have been more coy in announcing our company to Tracker having forgotten about his composure problem. “Perhaps, we should paddle to shore,” chirped Tracker as he watched the moose enter the water and swim directly toward us.

Not wanting to upset Tracker anymore than possible, I agreed with his recommendation. We paddled and reached the safety of shore as the moose drew to within 20 yards. “Of course moose have poor eyesight, and with your arms flailing miserably in the air like that, it probably thinks you are a bull moose. By the way, what’s that smell?”  I asked.

“Bob told me to use this new bear repellant. It’s called Bears-Get-Off and it supposed to work by simulating the odor of a bull moose in rut. Bob said it’s common knowledge that bear are afraid of moose,” Tracker explained. Note to self: I need to have a little talk with Bob.

“Look, it’s leaving,” squealed Tracker as the cow vectored and swam away from us.

“Tracker, maybe you’d like to sit down? You know, just until you get some of your color back,” I offered.

A sharp eye or even two can keep a seasoned outdoorsman out of trouble I always say. But the real art of avoiding trouble is in delivering the proper caution when one’s good eye detects trouble. “Bull moose dead-ahead! Easy now Tracker. Just because that bull has a rack that makes a beaver dam look like a pile of match sticks, and is swimming directly towards us, doesn’t necessarily mean it intends to kill.”

It only took a couple of minutes to revive Tracker after the original fainting spell, but by then the bull made our shoreline just 20 yards away. I believed it to be only coincidence that it charged, snapping small pine trees like twigs. But concerned for Tracker’s mental health, I felt we should err on the side of safety. “Perhaps we should deploy the boats and swim out of here,” I delivered in a calming fashion. (Tracker later claimed I said something about “everyman for himself”. But I have since reconciled that misinterpretation to Tracker’s fragile mental state at the time.)

I complemented Tracker on his ability to dive into the water without the boat and yet manage to fly back out of the water and into the boat in one fluid motion. The moose followed into the Pond.

As we paddled for our lives, Tracker began an elaborate series of wild wolf calls. (I really wasn’t sure what kind of sound they were at the time,  but later Tracker told me that they were wolf calls; reasoning of course, moose are afraid of wolves and that I shouldn’t confuse the sounds he made with anything like pathetic human shrieks.)

“Here’s a plan,” I injected, as the bull gained on us and I overtook Tracker. “Why don’t you let the moose have its way with you while I paddle out of here and get help?” Having keenly reasoned we were witnessing bull moose rutting behavior, this seemed quite logical to me. 

“Sure, leave your best friend to die alone,” objected Tracker. (What would happen, I thought, if by some remote chance, we should survive the attack? Tracker would tell everyone that I abandoned him. They may even believe him and no one would ever want to go fishing with me – a fate worse than death itself, I reasoned, and turned back.)

The moose was clearly alarmed by my brave and aggressive move to save Tracker. Within a few feet of us, the bull vectored and swam away. “Take hold of my rope,” I instructed. “By the way, a truly prepared belly boater always carries a spare rope. Nylon is the best type but you could use twine or something too. You’ve probably noticed that contrary to popular belief, no matter how much water gets into your waders you do NOT sink to the bottom.  A seasoned  belly boater knows this and does not panic. Perhaps you would like to call it a day?”

I towed Tracker back to the landing. He was very heavy once on land.  As he resumed respiratory and other bodily functions, out came the last words he spoke to me that day: “For sale – one belly boat”! 

Tracker can be quite a funny guy from time to time.

“We’re finished with the project and able to demonstrate quite clearly one of the most significant contributions to the Science of Fishing in the 20th century,” I answered, in a reassuring yet understated sort of way. 

Mr. O’Beeker spent most of his life on the Brooks Range in Alaska as a trapper and hunter. Marriage and a new teaching certificate forced him to move to Northern Wisconsin just two weeks before the start of our seventh grade science class. It took some time for him to become acclimated to his tame surroundings. His wife, we were told, exhibited great patience as he learned to eat and bathe indoors. Surprisingly, he adjusted rather rapidly to trapping the only game around his new home – muskrat.

As science teachers go, Mr. O’Beeker was one of the best. Tracker John and I typically received nearly passing grades and actually excelled in the Wildlife and Biology portion of his curriculum. In fact, he considered us his very best students. We achieved this ranking during one of the first classes as he demonstrated the proper techniques for skinning, stretching and curing a muskrat pelt. It was later determined that most of the random fainting and sickness experienced by the other students were largely due to their inexperience with such things and also having never smelled a bloated muskrat. O’Beeker was most grateful for our glowing testimonials during his indictment by the School Board.

“Looks pretty good boys, what’s it supposed to do again, I mean, incase anyone asks?” We couldn’t understand why O’Beeker was so painfully slow in grasping the obvious and imminent scientific contribution awaiting mankind. 

The theory was quite straightforward. Fish communicate with each other, often relaying messages to their brethren that fisherman were upon them and to avoid biting the hooks and such. All we needed was to record their fishy commands and break the fish language code. We hypothesized that this would be very useful in determining things like when and where to fish, if the fish were big, small, hungry, and such. Afterwards, we could sell our invention to a well known outfit like Zebco Corporation and make a great deal of money. We might even be able to skip the whole middle school thing.

The experiment was fairly simple and required mainly an aquarium with a trout, some wire, a microphone, an amplifier and an oscilloscope. We had nearly everything except the oscilloscope. Mr. O’Beeker was surprisingly eager to lend it to us from the school’s science locker. We were merely instructed to return it “in one piece”, noting he made no lofty demand for it to be returned in working condition.

“Okay Tracker, we are going to need plenty of power for the audio amplifier.” With a nod of self-assured affirmation from Tracker, we were “okay-to-go”.

“Tracker, you just hold the microphone in the water while I plug the amplifier cord into the electric socket. According to our theory, we should be able to see the sound waves on the oscilloscope”, I explained. “Miss Keaster, if you would be so kind as to adjust the amplifier knob? Ready? Here we go!”

Not even NASA got the first unmanned space flight off the ground on the first attempt. Setbacks should be anticipated in all great experiments. It was quite a surprise to learn that the microphone wasn’t waterproof. Equally unpredictable was the fact that it took the paramedics nearly fifteen minutes to arrive. If it hadn’t been for O’Beeker’s mouth-to-mouth training, Old Miss Keaster may have suffered even more brain stem damage than resulted from the initial electrocution. For reasons unknown, O’Beeker was quite upset.

Tracker still feels that with a few adjustments, more competent supervision and a little better insulation, the fish would have survived.

“Now, members of dis goot church, vee must vork to get dee children into our congregation. Vee must find a vay to engage our yute so as to instill zee goot Lutheran vays in our young people. I have an idea. Vee must start a Boy Scout troop!”  announced Pastor Johansson that Sunday morning in September.

With that proclamation began the most historic recruiting effort undertaken since World War II. The only problem was that the elderly members needed to reach out beyond the congregation since all of their children were long since grown. So. they resorted to all manner of creative advertising: grocery store bulletin boards, rummage sale signs, wanted posters. Brilliantly, they even reached out to Junior High School guidance counselors for recruitments.

“Okay Tracker, let me do the talking when we get to the office. I’ll simply explain that the gas was already “turned on” in the science lab and given the inherently safe school surroundings, we could not have been expected to know the lab was a dangerous place to use open flame devices,” I cautioned to Tracker as we were marched by Mr. O’Beeker to the guidance office. Tracker and I are still impressed with the power of a natural gas explosion. Equally impressive was O’Beeker’s ability to use a fire extinguisher with one hand while maintaining a strangle hold with the other.

“You know what you two boys need? You need good morals. You need to learn the difference between right and wrong, good and evil, kind and unkind…” droned Mr. Strateman, the middle-age guidance counselor with chronic high blood pressure. I want you to go to this meeting at the Lutheran Church of the Good Life on Monday night. You will become Boy Scouts. Now get out and don’t come back!” Tracker and I liked Mr. Strateman and admired his knack for getting his point across without ever using two syllable words.

“Welcome to the first meeting of Troop 132. My name is Oren Skarr, I am your Scoutmaster. You may call me Oren. This is Mister Succowitzski. He will now lead us in a little prayer followed by the Boy Scout Pledge.” All twelve of us, recruited in similar fashion from throughout the city, stood at what we considered attention as Mister Succowitzski prayed and we learned the Boy Scout Pledge.

“You will call me Succo and you will listen to me. When I tell you to do something, you will do it. Do you understand?” It was obvious that Succo, a high school senior for three years running, was the drill sergeant in the outfit. We later learned Succo was avoiding the Vietnam War draft by claiming to be a Boy Scout Counselor.  However, Succo and Oren were the only ones in uniform and we were impressed with the various colorful emblems, kerchiefs and such. Tracker wanted to go home right up to the part where Oren explained we were going to prepare for our first camping exercise scheduled the next weekend at a place called Wolf Isle. 

“Each of you will need a sleeping bag, eating utensils, flashlight and a change of clothes. You will be supplied with food and a tent. Further, each of you will receive a Boy Scout Handbook which you will study in its entirety by this weekend. This is a Wilderness Camping Experience so we will minimize the use of modern tools and creature comforts. We’ll be roughing it, boys. By the way, bring a fishing pole because Wolf Isle has a pond nearby,” explained Oren.

We were excited.

The eight mile march to Wolf Isle began at the church Friday at 5 PM. My little brother Bucky bothered Tracker and I until we promised to recruit him and bring him with us to camp. Oren was extremely pleased with our recruitment effort and honored us before the march by naming the three of us as the first squad of Troop 132. We were to be called “The Woodchuck Squad”. He explained good names like “Eagle”, “North Star”, etc., were reserved for more befitting squads. Further, I was nominated by Oren as the Squad Leader. Tracker and Bucky took to the news in a positive fashion frequently saluting with hand gestures unfamiliar to me.

“We will now march as you recite the Troop 132 Official Boy Scout Marching Chant. Ready? Here we go,” announced Succo. 

• We are stupid yes we are  (we are stupid yes we are) 
• Succo leads us very far  (Succo leads us very far) 
• We leave home as little kids   (we leave home as little kids)  
• And return with blisters big   (and return with blisters big)

That Succo was a real joker. But obedience was mandatory. For example, Tracker didn’t like the Boy Scout Marching Chant at first but Succo had Big John Larson, a portly 200 pound eighth grader sit on Tracker for five minutes as punishment. Tracker grew to like the chant. Big John was grateful for the opportunity to rest a while and never really noticed the little bump upon which he sat made screaming noises. Oren would occasionally interrupt the punishment and explain to Succo that he would need to leverage our obedience by more psychological means. The troops somewhat silently agreed amongst ourselves that we too would use more psychological means to impress Succo, if we made it through the Death March.

“A knowledgeable Boy Scout would depend upon his compass before he led the troops astray,” I casually mentioned to Succo about 10 PM after realizing we should have arrived at Wolf Isle camp two hours earlier. Some may have considered my remark risky because of Succo’s intolerance for even the slightest criticism, but I was confident in exercising my newly acquired leadership skills and the troops felt closer to me for it. The unusual salutes continued by Bucky and Tracker. Others joined in. I made a mental note to reread the chapter on “Hand Signals” in the Boy Scout Handbook.

Near midnight, we made camp. Tents were set expertly using very creative means to secure them. Oren made no mention of bringing rope and took responsibility like a true leader. “You boys continue to make camp. Succo has our wall tent setup and we need our rest. Don’t let the sound of our Coleman heater bother you. By the way, doesn’t our new lantern shine brightly compared to your flashlights? Mister Succo, I believe our hot cocoa is coming to a boil on our gas cook stove so we’ll see you boys in the morning.”

As Tracker, Bucky and I climbed into our nearly dry sleeping bags and listened to the gentle rain fall upon our canvas pup tent, we made plans to strike out for the Pond at daybreak. Visions of trout danced in our heads.

“Well, it isn’t exactly a Pond, so to speak, but more like a holding pond actually,” advised Succo. “Legend has it that if you fall in, you will die. Good luck boys. If you don’t come back, your gear is mine.”

A squad of inexperienced Scouts may have crumbled under the advise from Succo about fishing Deadman’s Pond. However, I explained to the troops this was simply a juvenile maneuver designed to distract us from fishing what must be a terrific fishing hole. 

Tracker John lead us quite expertly to Deadman’s Pond. Actually, it was rather easy because we were downwind from the Pond which made it easy to navigate. I explained to the troops that an accomplished fisherman knows that often times good trout water smells like a sewage treatment plant. The troops seemed skeptical but followed my lead, saluting vigorously all the way.

Bucky was the first to make it to Deadman’s Pond. “Look, there’s a sign! What does it say?” asked Bucky, challenged in the reading department but making good progress since acquiring new glasses. With his new spectacles, Bucky could see the craters on the moon and the rings of Saturn on a good night. Bucky was good to have in the squad because we often used his glasses to start campfires on a sunny day, discovering they worked almost as well as matches.

No Trespassing – Paper Sludge Holding Facility – Wisconsin Tissue and Cheese Company

“It’s amazing what grown-ups will do to keep kids away from their fishing spots. Tracker, just get your wire-cutters out and we’ll be through the razor-wire fence in no time, ” I instructed.

We had no problem finding grubs to use as bait. They were all over the ground and we quickly tied a few onto our hooks and proceeded to cast from shore. “Wow, the fish must be hungry, my hooks keep disappearing,” exclaimed Tracker. “Hey guys, I got one!”

Tracker fought the trophy for nearly an hour. It was big. We were unable to identify the exact species, but we were able to convince Bucky that some species of fish have legs and two heads.

With trophy in hand, we decided to head back to camp before Succo claimed our gear as his. Tracker had suggested that we could cook the trophy for Succo and Oren as a gesture of goodwill and respect for our leaders. We were excited about the opportunity to try Tracker’s new peel and eat recipe.

It was a long 8-mile hike back to church after serving dinner to our leaders. We got a slow start due the frequent requirement to reference the Boy Scout Handbook chapter on “First Aid”. The Woodchuck Squad felt honored to be able to simultaneously demonstrate direct pressure, artificial respiration and the Heimlich maneuver on Oren and Succo. Oren and Succo were quite heavy to haul back to church, but due largely to the Tracker’s clever use of hand-weaved grapevines, we were able to drag them with little problem. The troops stopped from time to time to loosen the tow ropes so as to not deprive our leaders of air and to minimize further brain damage.

Pastor Larson Johansson was overjoyed to see us. Tears seemed to fill his eyes as he jumped up and down. “You know vhat you boys need? You need goot morels. You need to learn zee difference – a betveen right und vrong, goot and evill, kind und unkind. Bork bork bork…”

We were quite familiar with the rest of the sermon.

But there is still a place, filled with big browns, rainbows and brookies, where I can fish and my only company is the aquatic type – a creek, where nature has placed branches and parts of dead trees and guarded its child with high banks of overhanging grass. The clear water and sand bottom give the appearance of sterility. But the big trout love it and the modern day trout fisherman finds it impossible to throw a spinner or perform a textbook back cast. Even the wormers can’t get close enough to the undercut banks to drop their bait and follow its path downstream. Only the very patient know the methods to fish the most difficult creek, and those who do will be honored with a match game against the smartest trout on earth. 

High noon and mostly sunny, I work my way cross-country through a marsh foregoing the easiest and only path formed by the impatient fishermen before me. The trout have patterned the fishermen and the high alarm sounds when that path next to the bank is walked. Footsteps are the jungle drums of the trout tribe. Tens years have passed since I have been here, so my memory serves as compass. It is little help because of the new vegetation. A decade of wood growth can make a world of difference. I only hope the stream hasn’t evaporated because it was never more than five feet from bank to bank. Many a creek has disappeared in the North Country because of mans’ relentless cabin and road building. With anticipation, I make my way wielding my 7-foot 3-weight like a delicate machete through high grass and thick brush. My only companions, deer flies and mosquitoes, walk with me. The humid air is filled with the aroma of decaying vegetation and swamp gas.

The Eastern Meadow Lark gives me my first clue that I am on the right course. Strangely absent in numbers found here twenty years ago, he is another reminder of how our human progress has made the wetlands endangered. A Belted Kingfisher, perched high in a root-rotted poplar, tells me the creek is no more than fifty yards away. If Kingfishers are present, so are the fish! They will eat chubs but much prefer a little brookie. My heart beats rapidly with anticipation. Later, I will worry about finding my way out of here.

Slowly and silently I approach stream’s edge, crouching in the tall prairie grass and ducking under dogwood-clumped branches. The bank is a full five feet above the stream and, as expected, runs gin-clear and cold. I plan my strategy as I park my sweaty self, reach for a refreshment in my pack and listen to the birds. I delight in hearing a slurp and seeing the telltale ring of the feeding trout. To me, this time – my time, holds the most cherished outdoor memories. The world is placed into proper perspective and all things in life have the clarity of the stream of which I watch below.

Gently, I  unroll a new leader out of my vest and tie line to it. My choice is a 7.5-foot 5X and I decide to tie a clear chunk of 2.9 lb. tippet material to it. Another slurp in the bend upstream hastens me to tie a #18 Adams to this affair. I am a true believer in “matching the hatch”, but the fisherman knows full well that, most of the time, no particular bug is present in numbers so prevalent that they can be considered a “hatch”. I follow my instincts and select a fly that looks to my eye as if it naturally fits the size of water and type of creek bottom. Unless I can see a bug floating on the water or in it, I usually start with a general-purpose fly. The Adams looks like just about everything including a mosquito, so many times I’ll try it first before anything else.

Easing into the water, I position directly in midstream to face up-current. A straight portion of the five-foot wide stream, lined with boulders on each side, is in front of me. A deep cut bank downstream and behind me is flushed with a sand cloud as I make my way into position. The most delicate step produces a billow of disturbance downstream and that is too bad. There is no other way to fish this boy than to get in the water and work upstream. The trick is to do it very, very slowly. I will work a thirty-foot section at a time and not move for thirty minutes!

I begin to whip cast this delicate affair no more than a rods length in front of me, careful to avoid splashing the water with line. I am fishing merely the leader and my tippet. There is never more than two feet of fly line out of my rod – just enough to allow the leader and tippet to do the work. In three casts, I am rewarded with a surprising attack by a large fish. He rolls on my fly but doesn’t take it! Quickly repeating the presentation, he attacks again. Still, he is only window-shopping. A third presentation and this time he rolls on it like a dog on a dead carp. I present a fourth and fifth, but he will do nothing now. 

The Redwing Blackbirds chatter among themselves as they watch my feeble attempt to lure Mr. Big. As the audience watches, I realize my mistake. I was duped by modern marketing messages into believing I needed floatant applied to my fly. Once a big trout has a taste of that goop, he will not go back for seconds. To any skeptic of this theory, I invite a taste himself.  Quickly, I attempt to rectify my mistake and tie on a fresh #18 Adams. I know the trout wanted it; he tried it three times! I will give him ten minutes before I cast again. My hope is that he will forget.

Again I present the fly. But he will not budge. I am forced to move slowly ahead another five feet – three, four and five casts. The sixth is the charm. Another large fish rolls on my fly and quickly retreats at light speed upstream. This time I see it was a big Brown – at least twenty inches! The routine continues until a little brookie feels it is safe to rob his big cousin of the treat. The brookie is ten inches and fat, but he goes back into the water. I am hunting Browns today.

After three hours, I have gone around two bends of the meandering creek. I will cut across the marsh once more to give the big guy another chance. Before repeating my stealthy approach of three hours earlier, I again take refreshment of now warm barley hops and ponder my last chance before calling it quits. No mistakes this time. I will position in the stream and cast ahead with a #18 Female Adams. The Female Adams has the addition of a yellow egg sack tied in back. I doubt the trout know it’s an egg sack, but I think they like the yellow. It is stylish and trout like style if nothing else. They may also give extra credit to the fisherman considerate enough to think in this detail.

But as I approach my spot, I see a fellow fly fisherman has jumped my claim. We greet with the age-old, proverbial “How’s the fishing?” He begins to explain to me that he has had trout roll on his fly all day and has caught a few twelve-inch Browns. But the engaging story is that he just lost the biggest fish he has ever had on. The massive trout slurped his fly and immediately ran upstream. No sooner had it taken out twenty-feet of line, than it button-hooked and ran past him downstream. Unprepared for such trickery, he lost track of his line and the trout broke him off at the 10-lb. portion of the tapered leader! “I think it may have been a 30-incher,” he stammered. 

We spend time on bank to take refreshment, exchange stories and pawn a few flies. The trout slurped, the blackbirds cackled and the fishermen laughed.

Everything – just like it is supposed to be.

As far as I could tell, here was the best hole in this stretch of the creek. Just two hours before, I had painstakingly fished this hole and worked my way through the babbling riffles and all the way downstream of the meandering Cook’s Run. In fact, this is where I entered the creek those hours ago. At the time, I hadn’t a clue that this would be the feature brookie hole having never fished this portion of the creek. With thirty minutes remaining before sunset, I hiked back to the start to get even with Mr. Squaretail and his guardian Mr. Dogwood. These two join forces to prevent the casual fly fisher from an easy cast into the hiding spot of the elusive brookie. The fourteen inch brookie rolled on my fly and on my very next cast, the overhanging dogwood kept my hand-tied as a souvenir. What I needed was to set the record straight.

As the sun played its third set, I noticed the brookies slurping the surface as sparse duns floated with their pale green mast unfurled and held straight together. Ephemerella Dorothea they’re called by entomologists and Latin speaking fly fisherman, but to me they’re little sailing boats, steering a course with the current in a journey where only a few make it thirty yards before the subsurface toothy devils make them disappear.

The mayfly journey is fraught with peril. Life in the silt bottom for a year, then off to the races as you grow from nymph to adult in your incomplete metamorphosis until the big day comes. With an exact prescription of time and temperature and sun and wind, nature’s most delicate winged creation attempts its maiden voyage as it sheds its pupal shuck on surface. Flight, sex and propagation is often a 24-hour stem to stern affair. If Mister Squaretail doesn’t get you on the way to the surface from your wintry incubator at stream’s bottom, he probably will as you wait to dry your wings and break the surface tension. The meadow birds perch nearby to grab you in-flight if the Spotted One doesn’t get you. Your cruel reward for cheating death is another end-of-life sacrifice for the Hungry One as you lay egg on water at the end of your adult day. To wit, you cheat death and fly with fleeting life to freefall to your demise on the water surface; eggs sprinkled upstream of the site your kind has chosen since the evolution of your species. Your God who swims consumes your dried body but has no interest in your eggs, just your life. He’ll deal with your progeny shortly.

I peer into the world’s smallest fly box with hope that I have a little dry look-alike to entice the cold water sharks. Only my #20 Adams sits waiting its turn. Tied years earlier for practice more than play, I’ve since learned to stick with the fly I can actually tie to my leader. The #20 Adams requires a 2-lb. tippet and the precision of brain surgery to thread. I realize that a 10-foot leader will grow to 12 feet with the new tippet material, but this is a good thing. I’m upstream of the run and hole with the setting sun nearly behind me. The long leader will keep me away from the keen eyes of the Speckled One. The three-weight, seven foot rod will show well with a sneaky roll cast  to Master Dogwood’s foil.

With Adams to tippet I hoist my right arm to the prelude of the silent roll cast. Line lifting from the riffles I bring down my arm in judgment to all things final in fly fishing. The Sentry to the Royal Highness strikes first. The boys will not be hungry tonight I think as I delicately handle the world’s most ferocious nine-incher. The Elder has taught him well. Run for the deep current, figure-eight while rolling and twisting then make a mad dash to the sunken brush. Will this be the entire repertoire of family tricks? Trout to net. Brookies flop all the time. I have figured fully fifty percent I lose between net and creel. 

With only ten minutes remaining before dark, I must hurry. Both fisherman and Brookie understand there will be no sport after sunset. Unlike his fat and lazy distant cousin the Brown, the Speckled Trout does not bite after dark. What he does no one knows. I suspect he retires to his cut-away grass covered bank. He has a roof over his head and all the security he needs. He dreams in Technicolor of his breakfast at sunrise – caddis larvae and little green things only the Wormy-Marked can identify.

I put down my best roll cast, pulled at the last second to create a little slack so the drift can be setup just above the pool. The splash tells me that it’s His Honor. He displays his white underside and shows his sunset hue as he wastes no time to engage the fight. Straight to the deep current and a quick figure eight. He holds for a second as if to contemplate the exact angle to the submerged brush and maybe to gage his competition’s skill. Then it comes – a mad rush to the brush. I know what’s on his mind, so I brace to keep him from it and anticipate the move. But he knows me too well. I am the impatient one he has bested earlier and he has a plan for me. Just as I pull rod to side and lower my angle, he abruptly turns directly towards me and kicks on the afterburner. The combination of my lower angle and the fish induced slack causes my Adams to take wing.

He flaps his square tail and leaves me with my mouth open and feeling just a touch luckier to have fought Old Squaretail a little bit longer this time. 

The sun sets and the wilderness of Iron County feels even more beautiful tonight.

That moment between deep sleep and awareness is a precious, fast thing. Waking in the Cabin of Iron County with the new found knowledge, lost once in the night, that a morning of Brook Trout hunting awaits is a glorious feeling. Enthusiasm remembered from youth redevelops, providing ample energy to rise from slumber into the cold of a predawn, spring morning. 

An unexplored stretch of the Paint River awaits the new three-weight. Just enough early morning light shines through the cabin’s hazy-glassed east window for a quick fly-tying resupply. This time I will tie a few caddis imitations to arm my three companions. The morning in Iron County rarely brings a Mayfly hatch, common to more southern areas, so the Caddisfly is the Brook Trout and fisherman’s mainstay until the warmest part of the day restarts the mayfly activity. The companions agree the Diving Green Caddis pattern should be just what the fly fishing doctor ordered. With a white sparkle yarn wing over a few wisps of partridge underwing adorning an olive rabbit dun body and two winds of a brown neck hackle, the Diving Green Caddis takes merely a few short minutes to tie. The aroma of fresh brewed coffee mixes with the audible heckle of my companions. Coffee and kibitzing combine to unsteady the hand. 

The Caddis is always a good bet anytime of the year and anytime of the day. Unlike his more primitive and much heralded stream-living buddy the Mayfly, the Caddis is considered to be a more advanced insect. He undergoes a complete metamorphosis from egg to larva to pupa to adult. We fisherman meet-up with him in his nymphal stage as he leaves his little stick house or his handmade sand palace. The Speckled One meets him earlier and often as he grows in his little worm house and then feasts on him as he ascends from the bottom to his winged mature state. The fisherman fools the Slippery Devil with winged imitations of the emerging adult. Little expertise is needed by us as we fish wet, semi-submerged or dry. The brookie figures it’s a caddis and he’ll eat it without much fanfare.

Blustery winds and 30 degree temperatures side with the Brook Trout this morning. I remind myself to be patient as I work down current . Extreme caution is required to provide ample room between fish and fisherman. Again, I take to the 10-foot leader and slowly pitch across stream, allowing the #16 Diving Green Caddis to start a float. I pull him down-under after a ten foot run to allow him to look “emerging” as he reaches his downstream end, rising rapidly from the bottom as the current accelerates the movement provided by the line drag. I “pan” for strikes from the 2-foot depths of the rocky bottomed Paint. This technique works to entice the laziest, foul weather brookie from his midstream hiding spot. Usually, the brook trout holds behind a rock or a stick peering upstream for his breakfast. When it’s cold and rainy, he is not inclined to move far for his food. My panning technique brings the fly to his face. It is my trickiest, last ditch effort to persuade the Speckled One to give me a try.

The persistent roll cast, retrieve and concentration keeps my thoughts off the biting cold and rain. As a doe crosses creek not more than 10 yards from me downstream, I’m reminded that I am not alone in this weather. She pauses to give me a quick glance, then curiously looks to her downstream side and continues across. For a moment, I ask myself if she is giving me a clue that these few rocks ahead are holding the day’s game? I too would be eager to point out a meaty alternative if I knew that it was not my time to be hunted.

I approach her suggestion with renewed enthusiasm and the stealthy concentration borne from it. From my three-weight blooms a fancy crossover roll cast to stream’s center, calculated to follow the drift to quarter upstream of the promising boulder. The 10-inch Sentry strikes hard. He takes his signature run to the deeper water with a figure-eight and a gallant leap. Not often does the Brookie jump, but when he does it’s in acrobatic style! He doesn’t jump out of desperation as his cousin the Brown. Nor is it an unconscious habit like his native cousin the Rainbow. With the clever Brook Trout, it is always a calculated, knot producing strategy which works much of the time. To the fly fisherman, it’s a moment to hold your breath and see what happens.

With a perpetual wiggle he comes to net. My intention to dine high this lunch wiggles away in a blurry flop out of the net and into the stream. I reformulate a new, spontaneous plan designed around the Senior member lurking in back of the boulder. Trout, like most animals, have a hierarchy. The younger set take to the upstream side of the rocks and logs, while the mature members of the family hold with less effort behind. If you get a strike ahead of the structure, make sure to go after Big Brother. He has had a chance to view the game a little, but in his senile ways he will quickly forget if you give him a little time.

I take rest at stream’s edge, with self doubt for my middle-aged endurance of the elements, just long enough to catch the brief, low-flight splendor of the Bald Eagle making his way along the stream – a kindred spirit who no doubt has witnessed my loss and shares regularly in the same frustration. But alas, back to the Senior Member and into the stream I wade with partially thawed feet.

One, two, three and four passes of the #16 Diving Green Caddis. The fifth, and my best, is a roll cast to stream center using a stacking technique to bring my fly as close to the bottom as possible. I start the pull and lift as Mr. Caddis rises on his mock emergence. I pull to break water with fly along side the eddy of the rock’s lei side. Too much for His High and Mighty!

With an attack uncharacteristic of the otherwise sluggish, cold weather brookie habits today, he snaps at my caddis. With the preplanned mindset to shake the life out of whatever is hanging on to his food, he circles the rock. Through the slack water behind the boulder and one circle around it, he cannot lose the invisible competitor. He changes direction in the blink of an eye and runs upstream to his challenger. My slack is taken up in a jerky response good enough to hang on to this one, but my frozen fingered reaction would have been surely too slow for a larger fish. Fat as a football, this 11-incher goes to creel to feed four of us this lunchtime. The battle, as old as cat gut and bird feathers, is the only cure for thawing the frozen fly fisherman.

Brookie action! My spirits are lifted and I’m eager to rendezvous with my companions to plan this evening’s strategy.

I bend closer to the wall to see the detail in the old photograph and to listen closely to the long-since silenced whispers of the fisherman passed. Antionetti explains, “This was taken nearly fifty years ago right here. That’s my Dad and my Grandfather. I’m sure you’ve caught larger trout, but back then we could catch a stringer like that on nearly any stretch of the Net River.”

It was upon hallowed ground that I was identified as the Troutmaster.

Through the door to camp from the black and cold of the November hunting night, came one neighbor after another. Neighbors considered friends by the Antionetti host; neighbors considered brethren by their only qualification as eager companions to share in the rite of the Antionetti deer-feed. Neighbors from Iron Mountain. Neighbors from Negaunee and Marquette. Neighbors, as we, from Menominee. The neighborhood of Nine Miles South of the Baraga County Line was vast. Neighbors had to visit from away – far away.

“We understand you keep the fly rod in the trunk of your car and stop at the creeks between appointments? Everyone says the Troutmaster is a salesman who travels the U.P., but we expected you to be a bit older. What was your biggest brookie? I bet 15 or 16 inches? A 17-incher maybe. Bigger? Oh, of course you don’t want to brag, but let me ask, was it bigger than the one on the wall?”

No time to reply, only to extend my hand with introduction as one new neighbor after another approaches with an accompanying pronouncement from host to each that I am the Troutmaster. Purposefully, by host and audience, I am not allowed time to reply – the downbeat of interruption metered perfectly to deny my response. I am here to entertain. I see the glow on each neighbor’s face as they are introduced to the Troutmaster like that of a child on Christmas Eve. A legend in life to be enjoyed by all in attendance – a once-in-a-lifetime camp treat.

“I bet you’ve fished every creek in the U.P. haven’t you? I remember talking to one of my buddies a few years back who told me stories of the Troutmaster, but I never expected to meet you. You been hunting up this way long? We didn’t know the Troutmaster was a deer hunter but we should have expected it.  Let me get you some more venison and a beer.”

Look around. Camp table from 1930, built by Grandpa Antionetti. Woodstove salvaged from an old C.C.C. camp and cared for through generations. How many deer-feeds have been served from it? Only north-wood’s time can yellow the pine beam rafters long ago cut, dragged and sawn on site. The pleasing gleam of varnish applied when host Antionetti helped his father one long-ago weekend, “spruce-up the place a little”. The sad picture, clinging to the knotty-pine wall like a fisherman to his last good dry fly, taken of a contented Dad Antionetti with stringer of trout and pipe in hand just a week before the ticker ran down.

Am I to deny the existence of Troutmaster? Could I steal story, fantasy, hope and lore from the lovers of the outdoor and the keepers of dreams?No, not I. 
Not the Troutmaster.