Weekend on the Escanaba
A short story by Luke Abendroth

The gravel road twisted through the jack pine forest. Some trees spanned a hundred plus feet high and three feet in diameter. There had been a lot of logging in the area, leaving only the trees on the horizon.

He kept driving further away from the pavement and civilization. He had been driving for an hour in silence. Nothing but the sound of birds singing and the call of a chipmunk in a nearby jackpine came to his ear. Everything was to his liking so far. Every year he ventured out into the wilderness seeking solitude from society.

With nature’s call, he pulled his rusted out Chevy over to the side. The once magnificent vehicle had lost its shine and most of its paint from the hot sun. The strong steel fenders were totally eaten away by rust caused by the harsh, salted roads of winter. It’s hard to see the once forest green paint and the shiny chrome bumpers. A long time ago, the hub caps fell off on the rough country roads of Marquette County.

In the box, he reached to grab a beer out of the cooler. The frozen cubes chilled his fingers and arthritis cramped the wrinkled, wind beaten hands. Long hours working in the mines had slouched his back permanently, wrinkled his face, and crippled his fingers. After a few tries, he thrust the Igloo out of the truck and dumped its contents on the road. He managed to get a beer but at the cost of losing all the ice.

On the road again, the once wide gravel road turned into a narrow two rut road as he passed Smith’s private road turn-off. A few minutes later, squinting, he saw the Escanaba wind its way along the road for some time, flowing smoothly southward. Some time later, he came upon his ancient camp site. The rock laden fire pit he had constructed as a boy was just as he had left it the year before, and the place he parked the truck had stayed branch free.

The motor rumbled to a halt and he opened the driver’s door with a loud creak and a slam when he go out, only to deposit more rust upon the forest floor cover. Nobody was around. He felt like the only person to have set foot here. He took a deep breath and filled up his lungs with fresh country air. He was alive again — reborn.

After a few minutes of surveying the site, he began to unload the few essential items he had brought with him. The yellow tent from his youth now shared patches of duct tape covering rips and holes from branches that had protruded through the vinyl walls which kept him dry. He staked the A-frame tent all around to keep it from wandering with the wind. His pillow, covered in a holey flannel pillow case, matched the ancient sleeping bag he slept in. He rolled it out diligently and set his bed for the night’s rest. He locked the cooler in the Chevy and hung the iron cauldron he used for cooking above the fire pit.

Shakily, he carried his oak chest out of the truck that contained his fishing gear. The heavy lid was shut tightly with a large brass clasp and a matching piano hinge. The metal was tarnished from abandonment and the oak board’s finish peeled from being kept outside in the bright afternoon sunshine or pouring rain. Inside, he had meticulously placed his waders next to his boots, lined up perfectly with each other. He pulled out his waders and carefully set them down so that he could step into them without having to sit.

He balanced himself by grasping a nearby maple and pulled up his neoprene pants. Sliding his feet one at a time into the worn boots, he bent over with a shrill pain in his back and knees to tie the boots. Tying a perfect bow on the first boot, he double knotted it for a secure hold. The second boot wasn’t as easy. His hands worked even slower as he loosely held the laces, and tossed them into a knot that didn’t hold. The hands he had relied on for a living now gave way to cramping. After massaging the hand for a few minutes, he finally got enough strength to finish the knot. He tied on a fly to his rod, and poured a few drops of Cortland Dry-Ur-Fly on it. After an hour of tedious preparation, he grabbed his Payne rod, its reel filled with yellow floating line, and headed towards the Escanaba River. A box of his flies accompanied his jacket full of fly drying solutions and leaders. He took some hooks, extra reel, and fishing pliers. The brown waders covering his bare legs were tied tight to keep the cool stream water out, and his boots were laced with a tight knot.

Huge pines, reaching into the clouds, wound a few hundred yards to the river. There, old branches were barren of needles from a shortage of light. The branches overlapped each other, creating a dark tunnel effect with only a tiny dot of light at the end. Layers of ancient pine needles covered the ground like a wool blanket and suffocated any chance of undergrowth.

Once the river came into view, he could see the rocky edges covered with thick quack grass. On the far side of the river, a steep sandy bank made climbing out of the river a challenge. At the water’s edge the river depth was shallow, sloping down to a depth up to a person’s armpits. Tiny stones covered the ground, letting sea weed grow between them to provide for fish. For miles, he knew, the river twisted and turned, varying in depth and width.

He stepped into the river with a shiver. The cold water covered his legs up to the thigh. His line was let out, leaving enough to sway in the breeze and hit the calm water without a sound, leaving only a tiny ripple. He struggled with tying his favorite fly to the leader, taking many attempts to move his tired hands to make the knot. It was a moderately sized hook with a red string and colorful peacock feathers for wings. The body was covered in clumps of deer hair. He slowly picked up his tip and with a few quick moves of his arm, dropped the line onto the water with ease. Not once in an hour did he snag a close group of bushes and small trees or bend his writst. Like the hands on a clock, his arm moved from the ten to the two, letting out precious line.

Hours passed as he walked down the winding stream, occasionally getting out when he came upon a deep hole. Time seemed endless in his quest for peace and solitude. During his travel out to the stream, he didn’t miss the beeping car horns on the street or the shouting people wandering the sidewalks. A few blue jays flew by and a young robin stopped to sing a song to break the silence, with a chippy, later in the afternoon, gnawing on an acorn.

After many hours of fishing before nightfall, he hadn’t gotten a single bite on his fly. It was now worn ragged from use and sank in the water from neglect to put on the Cortland’s. The sun was finally setting on the horizon, leaving him miles from camp. Without a flashlight, he started walking toward the camp, knowing the way by heart. Making his way back to camp, he started to gasp for air more heavily.

With the many miles that he fished that day, this sudden tiredness stopped the man for rest and he thought nothing of it. After his rest, the old man started walking again, going a few more feet before he started to feel nauseous. This only lead to a sharp throbbing pain in his chest. Harder and harder, the pressure pounded on his chest as he fell hunched into the river. His face tensed and veins in his neck and forehead flared out, pushing the skin outward. Crawling helplessly toward the riverbank, he began to yell for help in vain on the slight chance there was someone in the area. I don’t want to die yet, he thought. I still have some life to fish this stream a few more times!

Nobody was around to call the paramedics and he was too far into the woods for them to make a difference. He slid his sweat beaded face up on the river’s muddy bank. There he lay motionless as his eyes finally closed on his white face. His mouth plowed up mud because he could no longer control it. He could see the figure of a boy holding a fishing rod. The boy was swinging it back and forth in the air, hoping to land the fly on the river’s surface. Instead, the boy walked over to a nearby bush and pulled the taut line until it was free. The boy turned, showing his face to the old man. He stared straight at the boy’s face; he knew this boy.

One of my favorite nymph patterns is the Red Fox Squirrel Nymph, originated by Dave Whitlock. It is a generally skinny nymph, with a dark thorax consisting of fur from the back of the fox squirrel, and a light abdomen consisting of the soft fox squirrel belly fur, which is usually ribbed with gold tinsel. The tail is made of fox squirrel guard hairs.

Variations on the original are numerous. Often, a little matching antron (or other soft sparkly fiber) is added to the thoracic and abdomenal mixtures. Some folks even vary the respective hues with synthetics and natural furs to more closely simulate some local bug. And, for larger sizes, a turn or so of partridge or grouse hackle seems helpful.

The original, I believe, included an underbody of wire lead to give it a little weight. Now, it is not uncommon for it to have a bead head. The smaller patterns that I often tie have no weight at all added.

You want to use 2-3x long hooks typical of many nymph hooks, sizes big (8) to quite small (18-20).

Long ago, I remember an article by Whitlock that included a drawing of a freshly tied specimen, with subsequent drawings of its' metamorphosis to a very fuzzy nymph, and finally just a piece of thread and wire lead on a hook. All brought on by too many fish bites. That happens a lot with this fly.

End of One Season and the Beginning of a New One
by Tom Young

Well for the most part our inland trout season has come to an end. That doesn't mean we have to put our fishing gear away. There are many opportunities here in this great state of Wisconsin.

Fly fishing on lakes right now can be fantastic. Bass are gorging their bellies for the upcoming winter as are pan fish. I have found that timing and location is the key for fall fly fishing. You might just be surprised and have the best day surface fishing for bass and gills on top. Concentrate your fish finding to any existing weed beds, lilly pads, dropoffs, points, and bays. Give it a try, you might just hook your biggest fish of the season yet.

Great lakes tributary fishing is another option. If you have never tried this before, I urge you to try this. We are talking huge fish. King salmon average 15 to 25 lbs.. When was the last time you caught a fish that weighed that much? Coho salmon average about 8 to 12 lbs.and can strain your tackle. Brown trout average 6 to 15 lbs.. We’re not talking the Waupaca River here. Fresh fish I have caught have cartwheeled in the air. It’s like trying to bring in a wild mustang.

And the elusive chrome steel head. They can become a very addictive fish to fish for. They average about 6 to 15 lbs.. Fresh fish out of the lake are shiny like polished stainless steel. that’s why we call them “chromers”.

A small sample of flies I use for each species would be:

Egg patterns on strong very sharp hooks. some very bright colors and some dull colors. sizes vary from tiny, about a size 14, to large, size 10. usually you have to put a split shot about a foot above the egg to get it to the bottom, just enough so it drifts naturally along without hanging up to much on the bottom.

A Polar Shrimp is another good fly pattern. Used as a wet fly, swing it through pools and runs or to sighted fish. Yes, I said sighted fish. Wear polarized glasses, as they are a must. Many times you will be able to see the fish if you know what to look for and you are observant. This does take some practice and experience.

Many types of nymph and streamer patterns will work that you already have in your fly box. Spey patterns tied with marabou or hackle are known fish catchers. And my favorite of all time is the Coffey Sparkle Minnow-the Angel of Death.

Watch the water levels. If it rains and the water comes up, fresh fish will come in. This type of fishing lasts until the rivers freeze up. An 8 wt. rod with a floating line should be all you will need to get started. Good luck, and watch your knuckles when the fish is burning the line off your reel faster than you can say "anyone got any band aids?"