After taking a few days break from Trout fishing, it was once again time to scratch the itch. When 3:30 Wednesday rolled around, I shot out of my office faster than my boss could speak. “Good luck fi…” was all I heard as I hit the door. Average Joe Fisherman Scott must have wanted to chase trout as bad as I, because he was sitting in my driveway when I arrived home. He was kind enough to pack my gear as I changed into fishing attire (shorts and a t-shirt).
In need of spinners, we stopped at a local fishing store. Scott’s spinner collection was in complete disarray and he was able to find quite a few to add to his box. I on the other hand only needed a couple, a solid silver Blue Fox and a solid silver Panther Martin. I wouldn’t be purchasing them this day however, since the store was sold out. “Great,” I said to Scott. “We’re not even on the river yet and I’ve already run out of luck!”
The weather was cooler than it had been. The days prior touched or exceeded 90 degrees. It was only 80 this day, but the air was thick with humidity. The sky was grey and threatened rain and the mosquitoes were out in full force. On the trip north, I had said to Scott, “the river should be high and slightly muddy from the rains the night before.” When we walked down to the stream, we found it low and clear. “Further proof I really have no idea what I am talking about,” I thought.
Although the day was bleak in appearance, the fishing was anything but. Scott and I both handled several trout with several more being hooked. It never ceases to amaze me how far a trout can launch itself out of the water while trying to dislodge the spinner, almost saying, “Gravity? What gravity?”
Still fishing thirty minutes after both of us acknowledged that we should turn around and head back to the car, something off to the right side of the stream and under a log caught my eye. Pointing to it, I asked Scott, “What’s that?” He took a couple steps closer. “Look at that,” came the reply. Reeling his spinner to the end of his rod, he stuck it in the water to snag the thing that I still could not see. Finally, sticking his hand in the water, Scott lifted a very recently deceased 23 inch brown trout. The fish was so recently deceased that its color had not yet begun to fade. Looking for signs of damage, we were unable to determine what caused its death and chalked it up to old age. “What a shame,” I thought.
The large trout was absolutely beautiful. It was the kind of fish that haunts a fisherman’s dreams, the kind of fish that keeps him returning to chase trout time and time again. Walking back to the car, a smile crept across my face as I thought, “Where there’s one, there’s more!"
This post first appeared on The Average Joe Fisherman - Northern Michigan Edition, please read the originial post: here
