"If this works it's going to be insane." Admittedly there's a trace of doubt lacing my pronouncement. I'm in a canoe with my buddy Ozzy, paddling upriver in the middle of what can be best described as "the boondocks." Even though the calendar is ready to flip to July, it's the first warm evening in recent weeks, and we're chasing Michigan's famous hex hatch – targeting big, nocturnal fish on unproven water. It's literally a shot in the dark – or worse, I worry, a fool's erra

Day One: I'm startled from my sleep – something is licking my face. Given the high-desert setting – home to black bears, mountain lions, bobcats, lizards, northern scorpions, and the occasional prairie rattler – and the fact that we elected to cowboy camp at the trailhead last night, I'm mildly alarmed. And only mildly because I haven't had my caffeine fix yet. Swiping in the general direction of the wet tongue, I pry my eyes open to meet my fate. And there stands Reba, Rich'

PART ONE: THE BEGINNING Michigan winters are tough for me. The glow of hunting season has fully faded into the rearview, and the humid, halcyon evenings that bring long-awaited hatches lie still far ahead; impossibly out of reach, like a shimmering mirage teasing a parched desert traveler. The days are short, the air is cold, and the sun seems like a long-forgotten friend who rarely calls. This season of hibernal inactivity always leaves me restless and out-of-sorts. To add s

“ OH SHIT!" The words erupt without permission after two quick strips and a metallic flash engulfs my streamer. The rod pulses wildly as line burns out from under calloused fingers. I'm pretty sure I'm into one of the monster smallies this water is known for, until I get another look and realize I'm attached by nothing more than a thin clear thread to a trophy brown. This unexpected brown came from marginal waters when we were chasing smallies My buddy, Jon Osborn (Ozzy) and

Nestled within the Manistee-Huron National Forest in the heart of North West Michigan’s Blue-Ribbon-Trout-Stream country...

"The first rule of this river is that you don't talk about this river. At least by name." That's how the text read. "Understood." This...

"OH SHIT!" The words erupt without permission after two quick strips and a metallic flash engulfs my streamer. The rod pulses wildly as line burns out from under calloused fingers. I'm pretty sure I'm into one of the monster smallies this water is known for, until I get another look and realize I'm attached by nothing more than a thin clear thread to a trophy brown. My heart is instantly in my throat and I can't breathe. Everything else in the world stops. My mouth is dry.