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.

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.

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.