The Old Man and the Sea

Photos by Kelley Duffey

Rubber hit the road.  The three amigos were going on a fitchin' adventure.  Kelley Duffey, my lovely girlfriend, and her sassy brother Sean had made the trek with me to the Yoop.  The first voyage of the new year and it felt right. 

We had spent the morning bumming around the cabin taking walks, tying flies, soaking in the wonders of the winterland. We were hoping and waiting for the little bit of sun to warm whatever open water we might stumble across in the post noon hours.  Over the past couple of years Upper Michigan has allowed for winter angling on a select few of it's streams, and coincidentally two of these beauties are right around the way from our humble spot in the woods.  I had yet to chuck bugs into either of these streams during the extended season, and was simply giddy to get on with it. We were off come mid-afternoon.  Perhaps a little later than we should have, but so the weekends tend to go.  A beer here, a viewing of a picked deer skeleton there, food...it all adds up and sometimes the prime fishing hour just slips away.  Better during the winter than during the hendrickson hatch, if you will.

 

A medium sized ride later we arrived at my super secret bridge, and if we didn't find a frozen river to the nearest bend in either direction.  Snow and wading shoes didn't allow my usual, venturous nature to take hold of the situation. With a humph and a cuss we moved up to the not so secret bridge. By golly a car just happened to be there waiting...weird, eh?  The water was open and that sufficed as a quick remedy.  We deciphered the assailant, who had stolen OUR back-up bridge, had gone down stream.  The obvious tracks in the snow that jutted from the back of his rig and meandered into the pine forest had to be what gave it away. 

We began a hilarious rig up session turned revealing of Kelley the Mossy Oak Marshmallow Girl. Papa Duff had handed her down some neoprene beasts that were guaranteed to keep the cold out.  My laughter faded when I discovered my own waders had turned into a strainer, but that's neither here nor there.  Sean casually sipped the upscale bottle of Seagram's 7 we had picked up in case of medical emergency. The love birds threw snow balls, giggled and tied on behemoth buggers.  At last, we were ready for battle. 

"You guys are going fishing?!"  The voice came from our backs as we walked toward the bridge. 

We all whirled back like a choreographed Michael Jackson video to see what in the hell was going on.  It was our villain. To our surprise he had no fly rod, vest, or waders.  The man was decked out in what looked like his best attempt at trapper garb and a can't do attitude. 

"You can't fish here, it's the middle of the winter!", he yelped out.  The man, looking to be in his seventies and very set in his ways, remained at high voltage. 

"Yea, we are.  We're going fishing, why?" I manged back to him. 

"Well that's the South Branch, it's a designated trout stream, you can't fish there!"  At this point we didn't know if the guy was going to shoot us, eat us, or both. 

"Sure we can there is a fly fishing only, catch and release season that is open on this very river.  I'm reading the regulations right now," I offered. He had none of it.  It appeared that the trap line was found empty that day and a good old-fashioned argument was just what the doctor had ordered. 

"I've been fishing that stream for fifty years, and I ain't never heard of a winter season.  It's a designated trout stream!"

"I'm sorry sir, I don't know what to tell you, but there IS a winter season.  I'm reading it right now in this DNR book, do you wanna see?"

"No I don't wanna see, trout is all that's in there.  You can't fish it until April!  Fifty years I've been fishin' here." 

Having never fished the stream in the winter I began to second guess everything.  I was getting flustered.  There he was standing in his snow shoes yelling at us like a crazy and repeating himself like a songbird.  Though to him we were the crazy ones.  It was one of those moments that happen only in the weird world of sport. One that will surely be looked back on again and again.  I gathered myself before any choice words flew, and the hockey rat came out of me. 

"Sorry, but I just don't know what to tell you, we are headin' out."

One last appealing jolt from the mad trapper rang out, "How you gonna wade that thing?!"

"Well...it's freakin' open!"  I allowed myself a little animation on the rebuttal, but did kepp it PG for the kids.

"Suit yourself, harrumph."

Ah, the last word.  He nailed it.  I smirked a smirk and made sure my streamer hadn't shrunk a hook size. We turned and headed for the stream.  A great laugh was shared after we heard him pull away.  Quickly we forgot the scene with a couple pulls of the sacrament and the awesome visuals we got as fluffy snow began to fall around us.  It didn't matter that we froze our tails off and didn't catch a thing.  We had our story and a sweet time in the inspiring wilds. It was a familiar feeling having that old line move swiftly through our guides...when they weren't iced up.