Voices on a darkened river

I'd waded down through a deep, slow stretch during daylight hours because I'd seen a big brown raise to the surface like a lazy whale broaching the surface, drifted downstream and submerged. His approximate weight was at least 10 pounds, possibly a little bit more.

On another night, before a heavy fog, my late brother George caught a nice brown.

Home for this brute was an overgrown edge of brush on both sides  of the river. At its deepest point, the water was seven to eight feet, and a big stump was wedged on bottom in mid-stream. The current picked up some speed as it split and flowed heavily around the obstacle, and on my side, the water was four inches below the top of my waders.

The deep water grew slightly shallower but deepened in midstream as both current flows merged like the entrance ramp to an Interstate highway. The water then flattened out, and it was here I felt the brown would feed that night.

I wanted to cast a big bushy white mouse pattern, but the brushy banks and overhanging tree limbs made fly casting hazardous after the sun went down. If my fly hung up on the opposite side, there was little hope that I could wade across to untangle it, which I’d never do to avoid spooking the fish. I settled on a No. 9 Rapala in black-silver finish and 8-pound line with a spinning reel boasting a smooth drag.

One thing that years of after-dark fishing has taught me is to be prepared. When fishing for big fish, after sundown, it pays to use a large fly or lure, and line heavy enough to give the angler some semblance of equality. A light tippet is asking for a broken leader and a healthy measure of heartbreak.

The late July evening was dark, the moon that curious yellow it gets when atmospheric conditions are just right. The evening was warm and the river flowed with a hushed sound that could barely be heard. One step into the current told the real truth: here was water that could be dangerous to an unwary wader.

I stood silently just upstream of the submerged stump and waited for the sound of a big fish as it began feeding. The river was just a murmur, and I was content until with some unease, I felt eyes on me in the gathering darkness.

Suddenly, I could feel someone watching me in the dark.

The feeling was as subtle as an overturned 18-wheeler. Someone was watching me, and they were close. I could feel the intensity of eyes boring into my back. Now, I’m not scared of the dark but have learned to respect my instincts.

Whoever it was stood quietly nearby, watching me. My senses are fine tuned to such things, and it's something I've cultivated over many years. I had no clue whether this human presence was dangerous but after two minutes decided to push the issue.

"What's happening?" I asked in a conversational tone, my back turned to the stranger. "Fishing or going for a walk? Walking around here, if you don't know the river, could lead to an unplanned swim."

A chuckle was heard, and a voice from the darkness said: "I can sneak up on 99 percent of the people who fish after dark, and they never know I'm there. How did you know I was standing behind you?"

"I felt your presence," I said. "I felt you two or three minutes before I said anything. You fishing tonight?"

Still a conversational tone. Nothing confrontational. Just two anonymous anglers talking while waiting for a big brown trout to begin feeding.

"I'd planned to fish here," he said. "You beat me to it. I'll hit another spot down-river. What do you know about this spot? Fished it before?"

"Know it's got at least one big brown. Saw him earlier today. Guessed him at 10 pounds or so. How about you? What's your take on this spot? I figured this would be a key spot to stand and wait for him to start feeding."

"He weighs 10 pounds," mt sneaky visitor said. "I've hooked him twice in two years. Had him close earlier this summer but he got off. It's a big hook-jawed male with spots the size of dimes. He’s a native river fish, not a silvery brown from Burt Lake."

"It makes sense to wait him out for a bit," I said. "If he doesn't start feeding by midnight I'll work a Rapala through there. It's worked for me in this spot in the past."

"Good luck," the visitor said, and was gone without a sound. The man moved with all the stealth of a second-story cat burglar.

We shared a brief chat without me seeing him.

An hour passed, and feelings of wasting time washed over me as the mosquitoes found new spots to drill for food. A pesky skeeter was boring my ear when I heard the fish move. It wasn't a splash, but more like a heavy ripple a fish makes as he shoulders through the water before gulping down a hapless minnow.

I waited another five minutes before he moved again, and although I couldn't see him I knew where he was holding because my ears pinpointed him. I uncorked a 20-foot cast, and started the retrieve before the lure hit the water. That kept the line tight, prevented the hooks from catching the line, and began the lure working when it hit the water.

The lure swung in the current on a tight line, and I felt a solid strike, and I pounded the hooks home. The fish ran downstream with a heaviness that was easy to feel, and then back up, apparently not wanting to leave the pool. It jumped twice, took line three times, and slowly the battle began to turn in my favor.

The fish was in the heaviest current in this spot, and it took every bit of my concentration to focus on keeping him from heading farther downstream without breaking the line. I began steering the fish into a quiet back eddy near shore.

The Midnight Stranger was back, as silent as a hunting owl.

"Need a hand?" asked the stranger just as I felt his presence.

"Nope, this is between me and him. I've done what I set out to do, and that was to hook him. Landing him would be a bonus but I'd return him anyway."

"Want a look at him?" he asked. “Want me to light him up.”
A cloak of darkness surrounded me, the stranger and the river, and that's the way I wanted it.

"Saw him earlier today. Know what he looks like. Got a hooked jaw sticking up like a broken little finger. Big old male!

"That's him. He's a dandy. Go easy now. He likes to bore into that brush close to shore. Get ready, he's going to ..."

The fish took me into the brush about six feet away and weaved back and forth and then broke the line. I reeled in the slack line, and turned on stiff water-numbed legs to climb the bank.

I waded ashore to meet the midnight stranger. "Hey, c'mon up and shake hands. I'll buy you a beer down at the Meadows Bar."

"No thanks," he said. his voice growing distant. "I know who you are, and wanted to see if you can fish as well as you write. You measure up, and we'll meet again on the river and perhaps one day I'll introduce myself. Too bad about the fish, but that one is hard to land here. See you when the wind shifts."

“See you when the wind shifts!”

I've known only one man who used that phrase to say goodbye, and the voice didn't match that of the person who does use it.

I don't fish the Sturgeon River as often these days as I once did, and I've never ran into the Midnight Stranger again. I've had that feeling a time or two, and once I spoke: "C'mon down for a chat."

A soft chuckle would be heard, but we’ve never shook and howdied. It's been one of my life's big mysteries about his identity, and I've yet to solve it. I think about it at times like this, and feel that writing might bring an e-mailed response. Time will tell if he'll speak again after all these years.

Sharing a night on a dark river with an unseen stranger might be a bit spooky for some folks. It didn't bother me, but it would be fun to chat at least once with the guy. Until then, all I can do is write about the Midnight Stranger, and hope he responds with an e-mail. It would be fun to solve this longtime mystery.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors