Anticipation Beats Participation Every Time.

Snow-covered trees and gusty breezes greeted the dawn several days ago, and sporadic flakes fell as my John Deere snowblower threw the snow into a nearby field. Cleaning my driveway of 12 inches of mushy snow gave me nearly three hours of uninterrupted time to think.

One favorite thought came to mind. It was from a 1984 trip to the Upper Peninsula to fish the legendary Frenchman's Pond with famous author John Voelker, who wrote under the pseudonym Robert Traver. I was eager to get to the pond, and to realize a personal dream that had been gnawing at me for many years.

"The more you want something, the more you anticipate it," Voelker said, sensing my impatience as we stopped jere and there along the way to pick blueberries, chanterelle mushrooms and raspberries. "That means that Frenchman's Pond will be a bigger thrill once we get there. Anticipation of a fishing trip usually provides more joy and mystery than can be found when an angler actually fishes there."

We eventually slid down what passes for a trail to his secluded cabin on the pond. The two-track leading into it was a mix of boulders, corduroy road, rocks and sand. His battered old fish car was bouncing from side to side as he tried to keep it between the trees.

John Voelker, a.k.a. Robert Traver, signs a copy of one of his books.

Frenchman's Pond glittered like a rare jewel amid a sea of cedar and spruce. Here and there a brook trout rose to an insect, and my long-held dream had become a reality.

It was like coming home after a long absence. I was speechless with the pond's beauty, and Voelker wisely stood by quietly and allowed me to absorb the rare mood of the moment without an interruption.

Frenchman's Pond was Voelker's private retreat. He had owned it for more than 30 years when I first visited it about 25 years ago. It's location is a well-guarded secret, and the brookies are as shy and reclusive as the owner is to many people. We had traded letters, and I had interviewed him on several occasions, and it took a few years before the fishing invitation came, written on yellow legal paper in green ink.

Traver knew I wanted to fish Frenchman's Pond, but I had to wait for an invitation.

He knew I wanted to fish it, but by nature, he didn't trust many people from below the bridge, and like it or not, I had to measure up. What his standards were for admittance to the pond were unknown to me. Therefore the invitation to fish came as a major surprise.

"Why don't you c'mon up and fish Frenchman's Pond with me?" he asked. "The trout are notoriously camera-shy, but we may be able to hook one or two. Bet I can whup you in a game or two of cribbage, which he most certainly did."

An invite to fish the pond was like a special request to dine with the Pope or the Queen Mum. It wasn't something to ignore or refuse. To do so would probably have sealed my fate and kept me away from the secluded pond for all time.

I was full of questions. Would the trout rise? Which flies and sizes produced best? Any tips on fishing the pond?

His philosophy at 81 years of age came through on his first comment.

"Chances are good we won't catch a fish," he said. "And if we do get lucky or become skillful enough, as you fishing writers are wont to say, the brookies will probably be small and take only tiny dry flies.

Traver advised fishing a long and fine leader with a small fly.

"Fish a long leader tapered down to 5X or 6X, and try No. 18, 20 or 22 flies. We don't land many fish on such light tackle, but it sure is fun when we do."

We fished from casting platforms built around the pond, and I changed flies frequently. Brookies rose whenever the sun went behind a cloud but only one came to my fly. It missed or I missed, and that was it.

Voelker had several rises to his tiny flies but failed to hook up. We crouched low on the platforms to reduce our silhouette, made adequate presentations but the trout were not impressed.

"That's what I like about brook trout," Voelker said over a ritualistic sundowner of bourbon manhattans during our U.P. cribbage championship game. "Brook trout are not impressed with who or what you are, or how much money you have, but they are responsive to a gentle and quiet approach... sometimes."

It's been more than 20 years since that trip, and I returned two more times by written invitation to fish with the old master, but I would never go back even though I know where the pond nestles like a rare diamond. John Voelker fished around his last bend many years ago, and one day I may report what he told me about the frailties of old age and death's looming presence.

For now, on a cold and snowy day, I'm satisfied with remembering this colorful man of letters, writer of vibrant books on trout fishing, and masterful novels such as Anatomy Of A Murder. He taught me a valuable lesson that day, and it's one I occasionally share with others.

Some sage advice from the Old Master on fishing beaver pond brook trout.

"There is much more to fishing than catching fish," he said. "Learn to savor each day like a fine wine, listen to good music, fish often and keep few fish. Learn about life from brook trout because they are found only in cold, clean waters, and act as a barometer of our times. When brook trout disappear from our wild places, mankind won't be far behind."

Those were words that a person can live by, and now as I approach the elder statesman stage in my life, these words ring true. I find myself savoring the wild, releasing more fish, shooting fewer deer, and enjoying life to its fullest.

The good judge knew what he was talking and writing about, and he drained every last drop of goodness out of his life's adventures. I miss his sage advice, and the clever way in which he wrote good words that made people yearn for more of his books that described the magic of fly fishing for small but beautiful brook trout.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors