Back To School

Brown Trout

It starts in August. The giant yellow Blue Bird and Thomas Built buses rise from a three-month hibernation to begin their diurnal shuttle routines. Just a few at first, but then more and more buses awaken each week until the end of September when the metamorphosis is complete. The nation is back in school.

I should be used to this by now. I was a student for over twenty years and a teacher for twenty more. But participating in the autumn ritual as a pupil or professor is substantially different from chaperoning as a parent. You begin by stocking their backpacks with pencils, paper, Pokey-somebody cards, and all the other items those all-grown-up-now children say they need. They hop on the bus and you smile. You are young; life is long; the autumn of your year is exciting. Then — with little or no warning — you’re checking and rechecking the oil, the tires, and every other part of the late model used car that you’ve commissioned to take your oldest on a ten-hour trip to a new kind of school and a different kind of life. They hop in the car and you frown. You are old; life is short; the autumn of your existence is frightening.

And so it was that my wife and I were set to accompany and assist our oldest son on his return to Michigan State University, when one morning in July I received an inconvenient invitation: “We will hold a workshop with key academic and administrative personnel on Friday, August 26. Your attendance is required.” The sophomore Spartan would drive south with his mother on Thursday; I would remain in Houghton to prepare for Friday’s untimely obligation.

On the evening of their departure my youngest son was away practicing with his band, so I — overwhelmed by solitude and loneliness — retreated to my office to wallow in sadness and self-pity. “Stop whining you big sissy. Let’s go fishing.” I was certain those words came from the southeast corner of my office, but the only thing there — animate or inanimate — was my new Sweetgrass bamboo fly rod. I had never won an argument with a fly rod, and this wouldn’t be my first. Fishing different water and spending several hours in the car seemed like the perfect prescription for my condition, so my sassy rod and I headed off to a distant river I hadn’t fished in over two years. If the rod kept quite, I deemed, I just might think my way through this sadness.

The drive to the river would take over two hours, but if I didn’t dawdle and dally I should have an hour or two to fish. Here at the 47th parallel in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula we see nearly sixteen hours of daylight each day from late May through mid July. But now — in late August — the sun lingers for only thirteen hours and sheds three minutes a day from the length of its stay. The endless-summer begins to wane.

Neither of my boys is a fly fishermen. Both have fished, though, and at times they’ve done so with enthusiasm. But fishing in general has been a small part of their lives, and fly fishing in particular has played no role. Until this year. Back in May my oldest son asked if he could join me for a few days during my spring camping trip on the Escanaba River. I happily agreed.

Strong winds and few rising fish set the stage for disappointment on our first evening. But just before dark the winds subsided, his casting improved, and a few fish rose within range. He cast to one and it took.

Fish on. Tight line. Ping. Fish off.

“That’s okay, son. Until you do this a few times you can’t know how to fight a fish on a fly rod. I told you this would likely happen.”

He flashed an uncomfortable smile as I tied on a new fly, and his hands shook slightly as he took the fly and began to search for another fish. We spotted one within range and he cast.

Fish on. Too much slack. Fish off.

“That’s okay, son. This is how it usually happens. The first fish breaks off. The second fish gets off because you give it too much slack. Now you are ready to land one.”

He smiled more uncomfortably and his hands shook less slightly as he cast yet again.

Fish on. Line out. Line in. Line out. Line in. Fish in.

Back To School

I relived that night two or three times during the long drive to the river. His life will get more busy and full with each new year, and our fishing trips will be few and far between. But after the final exams and before the summer internships, we’ll wade side-by-side again. I know we will.

I made it to the river around 8pm. Far more bugs were in the air and on the water than I had expected, and, more important, several trout were eating the bugs from the surface. Some of the fish were large, and, because I had only used my new bamboo rod on a small local stream, I was thrilled by the prospect of hooking my first forceful fish with this wobbly wand.

Six fish on, six fish in, and each experience was spectacular from hookset to net. Most of my rods bend toward the tip; this rod bent nearly to the handle. Why had I waited so long? With this magic caduceus in hand, I would never lose another fish.

My wife would not return from East Lansing until Saturday, and my youngest son was planning to spend the weekend with friends. So when I was released from Friday’s momentous meeting, I gassed up the truck and set off for the river. Although I had landed every fish I hooked the night before, some had dismissed my offerings. And one of those was large.

Far fewer bugs were in the air and on the water when I returned, but the largest fish was rising. On the previous evening all of the trout had taken a small caddis, but this brute displayed no interest in that fly. I eventually spotted a small dark mayfly on the water, extended my 5x tippet with a foot or two of 6x and tied on a size 18 parachute Adams. Bingo.

Although I knew immediately that the fish was huge, I was stunned when I saw it jump. Well over 20 inches in length; probably over 25; maybe close to 30. This monster had likely eaten trout that were larger than any I had ever caught or hooked on a dry fly. When it erupted from the water its body looked more like a steelhead’s than a brown trout’s.

Ping. The sound rang out while the fish was still in the air. I stood motionless and felt ill as I watched my fly-less line float down the river. Dejected, I decided to reel in and head home, but another large fish rose about ten feet below the spot where the giant had been feeding. I tied on another small Adams and cast.

Fish on. Too much slack. Fish off.

“That’s okay, son. This is how it usually happens. The first fish breaks off. The second fish gets off because you give it too much slack. Now you are ready to land one.”

I, too, was back in school.

Tim Schulz

Author - Tim Schulz lives in Houghton, Michigan where he teaches electrical engineering at Michigan Tech. In his spare time he explores the ponds and streams of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula in search of the madness and magic that exists only where wild trout are found. Most of his adventures are inspired by a small-town attorney who’s writings taught him that “so many of the other concerns of men are equally unimportants — and not nearly so much fun.” You can see some of Tim’s photography on his blog Madness and Magic.