Fly anglers tend to elevate their sport to religious status. They will speak of the sanctimony of stepping into a stream and the reverence of a river. No doubt this is due to the long literary heritage of a pursuit that has always sought to elevate itself from the mere catching of a fish. To this day casting a fly carries a certain differentia from other fishers. You tend to accept that you are doing this for a higher purpose.
All of this had brought me now to Seney, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. The most famous of all trout fishing stories took place here. Ernest Hemingway wrote of Nick Adams coming here to fish the Big Two Hearted River. It was instead the Fox River that the character fished. The Fox River, as well as the Two Hearted River thirty miles east, both remain largely as they were in Hemingway’s story, and it is not difficult to imagine oneself as a modern Nick Adams. Thousands still journey here annually to savor such an experience.
Seney is actually probably a fraction of the town Nick Adams experienced. The railroad he arrived on is still here, but there is little else remaining of the raunchy lumbering town of a century ago. There are possibly a hundred full time residents, and the remaining commercial activity has located along the state highway. In its heyday though, Seney was likely the most infamous town east of the Mississippi.
As I explained my plans to the proprietor of the Fox River Motel, he groaned under his breath, yet he willingly accepted my payment. It was the last weekend of trout season and the weather was astonishingly midsummer like. It was one of those days which seemed was ordered by a higher power. I would fish the Fox tomorrow, the east branch of the Fox on Friday, and wrap up the season on Saturday on the Two Hearted River. All now seemed in place for my religious experience.
Following breakfast at the Golden Griddle the next morning, one’s only option in town for that meal, I drove across the street to County Road 500, which parallels the Fox River for about fifteen miles. After passing several promising turnoffs, it dawned on me that no one else was on the river this day. At the state forest campground, I opted to make my stand. The stream here was exactly as Hemingway depicted it in his story. The casting lanes were narrow, and the currents ran strong. While I was using flies as bait, as opposed to Nick Adam’s self-dug worms, modern regulations were the culprit. There was no doubt that this was the river I had sought out, and my sojourn to this shrine was rewarded with a pair of well-earned brook trout.
Friday arrived with another perfect weather forecast, which seemed to be another sign. It appeared inevitable that casting on the East Branch would be fruitful. Regarded as Michigan’s best brook trout stream, the inaccessibility of the river is somewhat responsible. After several miles of tumbling along two-tracks, I reached my chosen spot. It was a large open meadow, with a level stretch of river riffling through its grasses. It was a perfect casting spot here, though the high sun would make these wild fish wary. The temperatures rose dramatically and gave rise to an unexpected consequence, the mosquito hatch. Ill prepared, I soon acquiesced to the cutthroats and returned to Seney.
The early culmination of the day allowed for a stop at Andy’s Bar, the last tavern in this town which once hosted dozens. Conversations came easily here, and once more I was revealed as little more than the latest Hemingway reader to end up here. It was all taken in stride granting that my tale had many times been told. They were glad to accept my payment at this establishment too. After quenching my thirst, I walked back to my room.
Early the next morning I fled the sleepy hamlet for the Two Hearted River. It was about an hour’s drive away, a journey it would’ve taken Nick Adams two or three days to make. My destination was a private spot near the Reed and Green bridge, which is actually on an unnamed road. Armed with bug spray, I reached the end of the trail at the river. It was yet another day pulled from somewhere in mid-June. The poetic beauty of the river’s name is matched only by its scenic splendor. If nothing else were to happen today, standing here right now would still be enough for me.
Barely had my first cast hit the water when a brook trout struck my fly. Brook trout do not strike hard like a rainbow, which I would’ve expected the fish to be. It was just a tug, nothing you dare over respond to. Still there it was a moment later, sliding from my hand back into these revered waters. Over the next two hours, I caught and released nearly two dozen more of these, a day unlike any other I have experienced before or since. There was nothing I could do wrong.
Now my revelation was complete. Whether it was a self-fulfilling prophecy, or somebody was smiling down on me that day will forever remain a mystery. Having fished all of these rivers before and since, that solitary afternoon remains an singular anomaly. It has cemented my belief that fly fishing is a sport which is aspired to as much as it is practiced for its virtue. As trout inhabit of the most beautiful of locales, it is not difficult to imagine they may have been sent from that better place.
