Returning To My Home River

Show me a trout fisherman worthy of the name and I'll show you a person with a home stream. Such rivers are where our dreams of trout fishing first began, and it's where we often return for temporary relief from a troubled life.

The Sturgeon River between Wolverine and Indian River had been my childhood stomping grounds. I learned about steelhead fishing at an early age, starting in 1950, and although the area has changed somewhat, it doesn't keep my memories from going back in time.

Some years ago, bored to death, I bumped down a two-track trail that led to a paved road that had once been a hotspot for the Richey twins and a neighbor kid over 50 years ago. I rounded the bend, eased up near the Sturgeon River, and stared in disbelief. Someone had bought the hilltop overlooking the river where we used to camp.

This Sturgeon River angler tries his luck for spring steelhead.

Disbelief was mingled with self-pity last year as I looked at what man had done. Our campfire pit had been replaced by a basement. Nearby trees that had once supported our clothesline during our three-month summer camping expeditions had been bulldozed aside to clear a building site.

My cherished hilltop view of the river had been cheapened by a spanking new house. The river, far below looked the same but somehow the home atop the hill was as out of place as a fox in a hen house. The two things didn't blend well.

 I stood for long moments, thinking of other trout fishermen who return to their home stream only to have their dreams dashed into an ugly nightmares. I'm a sentimental slob, and one tiny tear slid down my cheek as I turned away from what had once been a pristine site.

I rolled down old M-27 looking for landmarks. There stood the old ghost town of Rondo, and just to the north a quarter-mile were the tall pines where I once hid my car to keep other anglers from following me to some steelhead hotspot. I saw where the old restaurant had stood, and the old Hillside Camp, once owned by George Yontz was still there, but the bait and tackle shop was boarded up and closed. It was a testament to what damage that I-75 had done to a once prosperous area businesses.

The Sturgeon River in Cheboygan County has fast water and many gravel bars.

I remembered the old Snow Hole and Snow Cabin that is now owned by friends, and it was a welcome sight. The Snow Hole stood out in stark relief against the green cedars across the river. The pool had changed very little over time, and the cabin stood like a sentinel overlooking the river as it had many years before.

The tiny island in midstream brought back many pleasant memories of a day when steelies came to my bait, jumped mightily, and dashed upstream and down before bowing to rod pressure. My sorrow from seeing my old campsite gone was replaced with one small part of my childhood that hadn't changed.

A sucker fisherman sat waiting patiently for a bite, and probably wondered what I was doing without a rod, and we chatted briefly. He said fewer and fewer trout were being caught from the Sturgeon River these days since the DNR stopped planting fish. He nattered, seemingly happy to have someone to talk to, and then I excused myself to get my waders and a rod from the car.

I had some spawnbags, and rigged up with six-pound monofilament, a No. 8 hook and a marble-sized spawnbag. I flipped it upstream, held the rod high, and felt the bait bounce downstream along bottom. Two more casts without a bump, and then on the fourth trip through the hole and near the edge of the tail-out, a fish came to me hard. I saluted it with my rod tip, setting the hook, and hoping it wasn't a sucker. A male steelhead in spawning colors bounced halfway into the air. I had a fine time with the hook-jawed male before gently releasing him.

A silvery female came to a yarn fly rolled along bottom, and she too was released to continue her spawning chores. It was a welcome return to the river.

Memories are about all we retain from a lifetime of fishing and hunting. Without pleasant memories of bygone days, we are nothing; and because our environment and those things we count as precious and sacred seldom remain the same, we must recount and relive those good memories as often as possible.

Doing so is what keeps most men sane during the winter months.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors