I’d like to introduce myself. They call me the Troutmaster. Not a name I chose, but rather one forced upon me without encouragement and carried forward with humility. This, not a badge of honor but a duty to serve fisherman, trout and lore. 

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.