Unseen midnight stranger on a darkened river

Big browns like this come along often.

There are times when I've had my act together. One special night on the Sturgeon River between Indian River and Wolverine was a very good example, and it occurred after the major insect hatches had ended.

I'd waded down through a deep, slow stretch of water 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 at 15 yards was at least 10 pounds, possibly a little bit more.

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 deep, 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 of the river, the water was about four inches below the top of my waders.

The snag-filled hole was the perfect spot to find a big native brown trout.

The deep water shallowed up a bit on my side but deepened in midstream as both current flows merged like the entrance ramp to an expressway. The water 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 a bit hazardous after sundown. If my fly hung up on the opposite side, there was little hope that I could wade across to untangle it. I settled on a No. 9 Rapala in black-silver finish and 8-pound line with a spinning rig and a smooth drag.

One thing that years of after-dark fishing has taught me is to always 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 in such places is just asking for a broken leader and a healthy measure of heartbreak as well.

The August 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.

It's a spooky feelings one has when they feel someone looking at you.

The feeling was as subtle as a freeway crash. Someone was watching me, and they were very close. I could feel the intensity of their eyes boring into my back.

Whoever it was stood quietly nearby and was 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 predatory and dangerous but after two minutes of feeling his presence, I 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 walk 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 his evening feed.

"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," the sneaky stranger 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 that look the size of dimes. He's a river fish, not a silver one from Burt Lake."

The unseen stranger knew about the fish and where it held in the hole.

"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 before."

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

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 as it hit the water.

The big brown came to me with a hard strike in midstream.

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, 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 going farther downstream without breaking the line. I began steering the fish into a quiet back eddy.

"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 neat but I'd return him anyway."

"Want a look at him?" he asked. 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 male!

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

I didn't want a light on the water. It was just me and the fish, and the stranger.

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 legs to climb up 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 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."

I've known but one man that said goodbye like that, and the voices didn't match.

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

A soft chuckle would be heard, but he never responded. It's been one of life's big mysteries about his identity, and one I've yet to solve. I think about it, and feel writing might bring an e-mailed "hello." Time will tell if he'll speak again after all these years.

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

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors

Coyotes: Our noisy, unseen neighbors

Wiley Coyote, the cartoon character, is always being banged up and fooled by the Roadrunner. In true life, coyotes are anything but as stupid as they are portrayed in those cartoons or by people who produce such idiotic stuff for kids.

The coyote of today is well acquainted with humans, and although they usually avoid a face-to-face confrontation with humans, they have learned to live in close proximity to us. They are our noisy but rarely seen neighbors. I heard my first yodel-dog tonight as I walked back to my house. They’ll tune up again about 11 p.m.

A good example of how these animals have become our wildlife neighbors is rather amazing. My wife and I looked out behind the house ;ast womter, and tracks led between the garage and the railing for our back deck. The tracks showed where the animal sniffed around under the bird feeder, and then walked across the back yard, around the end of the house, and cut down to the road and crossed.

The ‘yote was casing our joint looking for a plump kitty-cat.

This happened at night. We didn't see the coyote, but I checked the snow on the back deck for tracks. Apparently this coyote’s curiosity would take it only so far.

People misunderstand coyotes. However, we may be the best thing that ever happened to them. We clear land, plant crops, and game animals and birds come to those crops. We manage to provide a place where coyotes can check around for a somewhat steady food supply.

Do you have a house cat that has turned up missing? If so, the cat is probably gone forever. A coyote will eat anything, but one of its favorite meals is house cat. The bigger and fatter and slower, the better.

Turn Tabby loose to wander around all night, which should never be allowed, and it's likely the little puddytat will wind up a blood-smeared mess. The first coyote that spots the cat will have it for a meal unless the pet can make it up a nearby tree. Free-roaming cats are a nuisance and destroy game and song birds.

Coyotes have learned to live near humans. We don't bother them unless we spot one or two animals running together and are prepared for a shot.

It's rather up in the air right now, but only man and wolves, are natural enemies of the coyote. A wolf will kill any coyote or fox it catches, but so far there doesn't seem to be many wolves in the Lower Peninsula although they have been documented in recent years. One was caught in a trap several years ago, and one or two other wolf tracks have been found, but it's doubtful we have many wolves below the big bridge.

We have a few wolves in the northern Lower Peninsula but many coyotes.

Coyotes fear wolves, if they coexist in the same area, but fox and coyotes avoid the larger predators whenever possible.

There is no shortage of coyotes in the Lower Peninsula. They are common around Detroit, which I assume still holds a tenuous grip on the title of Michigan's largest city (it has dwindled from over 2 million in 1980 to about 900,000 in 2010. Many nights I've stepped outside, and listened to coyotes howl and yap while listening to the whine of tires traveling down the many expressways.

There are, near where I live, at least 10 coyotes that live on whatever they can find. These animals are resourceful, and the mother and father of a litter will raise their pups. The little ones yap at night during all seasons, and it's not uncommon to hear five or six in one area and another five or six a half-mile away.

A man I know shoots two or three coyotes every winter. Another kills a dozen ore more. One might wonder why. For those who know little about coyotes, consider this: They are the most active predator of wild turkeys. They can and will kill dogs and cats, and are very effective at killing and eating whitetail fawns in the spring shortly after birth.

Last spring I went for a walk to check my food plots, and found two dead fawns. Or rather, I found what remained of them. In each case, there were tiny fawn hooves on the ground and a ball of wadded-up deer hair. That was all that remained of the baby deer.

The spring fawn-drop is when many deer are killed.

If I could find two dead fawns, without really trying, I suspect it would be quite easy to find more if I really went looking into some of the bedding areas. Coyotes are curious and inquisitive animals, and they've learned to live next door to humans and prosper because of it.

And just think: some of those animals are just outside our door. It would have been a treat to see the animal but daylight sightings seldom occur.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors