When Things Get Western

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 some spice to an otherwise bland dish, a few buddies and I began the tradition of a winter float, fish, and camp foray each February. While the fishing portion of this trifecta is often slower than service at my local DMV, the scenery is spectacular, the catch-up is welcome, and the camping, always headlined by a roaring fire, stiff drinks, and wild game prepared out-of-doors, provides just enough adventure to get us all through to warmer days.

The make-up of our group varies from year to year, with those in the circle coming and going as schedules dictate – sometimes my boys, Kyle and Blake, have even joined in. This go round it was tough to pull the gang together. Kyle and his wife recently moved back to Montana, and Blake was busy helping a buddy renovate his house. Work obligations, kid's events, and previous plans served to thin the rest of the ranks. It was down to Ozzy and me. A much smaller cohort than usual, but perfect in its own simple way.

Ozzy and I count many outings together, bouncing here and there – chasing fish, birds, deer, and the ever-elusive meaning of life. Road trips, campouts, stalks, and floats. Campfires and commiseration. And we've navigated a lot of life's turbulent waters by each other's sides, usually with fly rods, double guns, or old lever-actions dutifully in tow.

Despite being the sole keepers of this year's flame, we were determined to keep the brumal tradition burning; both desperately needing a break from the monochromatic monotony of a long, gray winter. And Ozzy makes an ideal travel companion – up for anything, prepared like his Boy-Scout merit badge depends on it, virtually unflappable when things go sideways, able to whip up a fire faster than I can crack a beer, and one of those friends that can dig into the deep conversations or be perfectly comfortable in the silence. It had been far too long since we'd ventured out together, the last time coming this past November at deer camp, nearly three months ago.

The setting for this cherished annual outing lies in a glacier-carved valley marked by steep hills, snappy riffles, and deep, blue-green buckets of cold, clear water, tucked quietly away in Michigan's northwest lower Peninsula – a scenic thirteen-mile stretch of the Manistee River. A run that feels as close to the western waterways of Colorado, Wyoming, Montana, or Idaho as anything else I've found on our side of the Mississippi.

Formed by glaciers around 12,000 years ago, the Manistee River rises in the sand hills of southeastern Antrim County, near the town of Alba, and makes its 190-mile journey to Lake Michigan following a southwesterly course.

For centuries the Manistee served as a vital spiritual and sustenance-providing waterway for the Odawa and Ojibwe peoples, before becoming a major logging artery in the 19th century. The river's relatively large size, stable flows, and dearth of cataracts or other difficult passages made it ideal for the transportation of lumber. During this period huge numbers of white pine logs, some as large as six feet in diameter, were floated down to the port at Manistee, and eventually on to the lumber markets of Grand Rapids, Milwaukee, and Chicago. Its water flowed free until the construction of major dams, including Tippy in 1918 and Hodenpyl in 1925, between which our winter route lies. Despite modern-man's short-sighted efforts to tame this ancient haunt, you can still sense something wild, vital, and sacred in the pulse of its currents, the folds of its hills, and the trace of its primordial paths.

Ozzy arrives at my house a solid seven minutes ahead of our scheduled meet up, adding another feather in his "good-travel-companion" cap – which at this point more closely resembles a war bonnet. We load gear, hitch up the raft, and swing through the local gas station to air up the trailer tires which, like us, have sat in sad dormancy for months.

The long drive provides an opportunity to catch up in a way that abbreviated texts or sporadic phone calls never can. Lost in conversations the scenery blurs past so quickly we're nearly to the put-in before we take notice. I switch to four-high to navigate the last mile or two of rutted, snow-slicked backroads, then, at the launch, we unload the raft and gear, repack, and still manage to shove off by mid-morning, giving the temps a chance to climb a couple notches and the fish the opportunity to shake off some of their cold-weather slumber – or at least that's the idea.

THE FISH

With our mounds of "essentials" safely stashed in the back, we drag the raft through the shallows around the island. I hop in the middle seat and Ozzy starts up front, streamer rod rigged, and filled with a pent-up enthusiasm that always marks the first of any float. We glide through the initial sweep of current, gently pulling us into the far bank, I heft back on the oars, feet planted firmly on the crossbar, and remember muscles that have rested idle since our last outing. It feels good to stretch them again. The air is crisp and quite, save for the chatter of fussy water, the dip-and-pull of the oars, and the zip-zip of fly line. I pour steaming coffee from the old, green Stanley, light a cigarette, and watch Ozzy do his thing.

The day is overcast with a slight breeze, hovering in the twenties – a cold snap that brought us back to reality after an unseasonably warm week just before. The drop in temp doesn't bode well for the fishing, but neither of us care. Turning trout is never really the point. In fact my wife has taken to calling this the "boy's winter camping trip," and that's pretty accurate. Fly rods merely provide the excuse. But Ozzy hasn't resigned himself to that fate yet. He's eagerly working the water; testing the riffles, buckets, and drop offs; the woody covers and sneaky seems.

While this stretch of river can grow busy in the warmer months, attracting canoes, kayaks, and float tubes, the fishing pressure is relatively low by Michigan standards, owing to its semi-remote location, spaced-out access points, and lack of truly wadable water. Winter finds it virtually empty, sitting, as it does, above the dam which inhibits the migration of salmon and Great-Lakes steelhead, the species that attract larger, more raucous, crowds. But we're not here for that. We've come for the resident browns and rainbows, and to seek escape from the cacophony of noisy lives, angry politics, and bumper-to-bumper traffic that clutter our every-day.

The float to our camp spot is only about six miles, but we take it slow, picking the water carefully apart and doing our best to be present in the beauty of the moment. We stop here and there to gaze over hoarfrost-covered trees that guard the hills like sparkling citadels, re-pour coffee, or light a Marlboro (in Ozzy's case a pipe). About an hour and a half in we have yet to move a fish, which really isn't unexpected, but Ozzy insists it's time to switch up, and climbs behind the oars while I slide up front and rig my rod.

Given the slow action so I far I elect for a reverse-psychology approach, foregoing my trusted mini black Sex Dungeon (specially tied by Ozzy with just the right amount of flash added in), and instead grab a barred, articulated number whose color resembles a burnt tangerine. Why not? And then, surveying the water, I intentionally cast to spots where a summer fish would never park – attempting to worm into the piscine mind of a cold, sleepy trout – focusing on the shallow, pillowy water on the inside bends. I remind myself to slow down my retrieve, pause frequently, and add in a few twitches here and there. Not the fast, aggressive strips of summer that have, over the years, become muscle memory.

The trick seems to work, my fourth cast comes tight on a nice 15-inch brown. We scoop him in the net and celebrate. This is exactly one fish more than I expected to catch on the entire trip.

I tell Ozzy it's time to switch up again, but he waves me off, "you just got up there, dude, keep fishing." So, I do, and 10 minutes later land another brightly jeweled brown, nearly a carbon-copy of the first. This is too good to be true. Two nice fish in 10 minutes on a winter float during a cold snap? I can't believe my favorable fortune. Now I insist more firmly on switching spots, but Ozzy holds his ground, and I remain up front as we push off again.

Clearing the ice from my guides, I launch a lazy cast to some slick water mid river, make two long, slow strips, pause, then twitch. Suddenly, without warning, the biggest trout I've ever laid eyes on tears up from the dark and smacks my fly in a brutal ambush that feels far too aggressive for this lazy winter day. WHOA! To my now-wide eyes, and in the heat of the moment, he looks close to 30 inches. I hold my breath, strip set, and he's pinned good, flashing a bright side profile that nearly stops my heart, before diving deep. "HOLY SHIT! Good fish, dude. GOOD FISH!" I can barely get my words out.

"Don't horse him, give him some line," Ozzy screams.

It's a solid fight, but definitely not what it would have been in warmer months where this fish would have taken us well down river before punching our ticket. In these conditions I'm able to stop him, or at least slow him down. Straining the seven-weight to make sure I keep just enough pressure on the line, I let him burn some frenetic energy before easing him towards the boat and awaiting net.

Now at this point I need to come clean about the fact that I had also employed my reverse-psychology tactic when it came to net selection for this adventure, forgoing my bigger boat-net, knowing it would doom us to a fish-less finish, and instead selecting a more modest choice, one with a smaller 20-inch basket. Even that seemed too presumptuous.

But as Ozzy reaches to make the scoop, we realize we are seriously under-gunned. My small-net strategy may have rewarded us with a great fish, but it perilously compromised our chances of actually landing it. Oz stretches out and slips the basket under, but the head of this now-writhing leviathan barely fits, and he darts away with a splash of newfound vigor.

But he's still on.

I regain my composure (or at least try), exhale the breath I had been holding in, fight him a little longer, then ease him once again toward the raft. This time Oz's scoop somehow folds the golden, spotted apparition into the ridiculously undersized rubber mesh.

The entire world goes black and silent for a brief second.

I come to, and my ears are ringing. HOLY HELL! The valley walls now echo with the screaming, laughing, high-fiving, and general mind-losing of two grown men, while I gently rest the netted fish in the water, and struggle to bring my nerves under control.

I nimbly lift him for a few pictures, try again to breathe, then lay him across the net handle for a quick measurement: 26.5". My biggest brown to date, besting even my most healthy specimens from some of the more famous western rivers. A lifetime fish anywhere, but a special trophy in Michigan on a cold winter day with my buddy.

With unsteady hands I send him back to the deep, blue depths, shake my head in disbelief, and light a much-needed smoke.

It's difficult to know how to behave in the moments that follow catching what is surely the best brown I will ever lay hands on. It's simultaneously climactic and anti-climactic. Like hitting a home run in the fourth inning of game three of the World Series, and then they just hand you the pennant on the spot. I'm obviously thrilled, but it all seems over too soon.

I'm not sure what exactly I thought should come next, but there had to be something.

Perhaps I expected the skies to open and the voice of God to thunder "well done my good and faithful servant," or something similar, then add "I just needed to make sure you were paying attention," with a sly wink, before disappearing back to his celestial fishing boat in the clouds.

Instead, we simply sit in dumbfounded stupor. Laughing, because no other reaction seems appropriate, and our nerves are shot. The adrenaline dump leaving us jittery and slaphappy. I attempt to text the picture to my boys and a few buddies (particularly those that had washed out on this trip), but I'm greeted with the "SOS" symbol that is the hallmark of this float. Whatever.

With a shrug, we finally switch seats. There's nothing left to do but keep fishing until we reach the campsite. I notice Ozzy has elected to use my rod and ugly, rust-colored streamer, versus his rig. I smile and nod. Not long after he lands a feisty 13-incher, and then loses a solid 18, right at the boat. The guides are icing more frequently now and there's a palpable bite to the breeze that's ever-so-slightly picking up, and, just like that, the bite window slams shut. But we can't complain, five solid fish in less than an hour is far more than we'd expected, and soon we'll be at camp.

Back-rowing into a sandy shallow-water depression on the peninsula that hosts our campsite, I drop the anchor, hop out, and we offload gear. Tents and sleeping bags, camp supplies and coolers. We stomp down the snow where we pitch Ozzy's four-season tent then stake it down tight before unfurling sleeping pads and mummy bags. We dig out the old fire ring, thrown together several seasons back, then grab camp saws and climb the tall ridge in search of firewood like we do every year. Tonight we'll celebrate around the fire with venison back-straps cooked rare over coals, goat-cheese risotto simmered on the camp-stove, bitter, dark chocolate to finish, and something warm from a flask to wash it all down.

We keep the blaze burning until the wood stack is finally depleted sometime late in the night. Continuing conversations from our drive and reliving the thrill of the day in a constant play-by-play, while sorting through the pictures and watching the logs burn down to glowing embers, before finally turning in for the night. It doesn't get much better.

THE RAFT

Faint light is starting to filter into the tent. I force my eyes open and roll over. I must have slept hard because the last thing I remember is my head hitting the camp pillow. My sleeping bag is warm and comfortable, but I need to pee, so I shrug out of my cocoon, slide over to the door, slip on my boots, and unzip the rainfly. We've gotten snow overnight and it slithers off the nylon as I work my way outside, rubbing the sleep from my tired eyes. I stumble a handful of steps and relieve myself, then turn toward the fire ring to get some coffee brewing on the percolator, still a little fuzzy.

I can sense something is off but can't exactly pinpoint it in my pre-caffeinated state. I scan the scene again and that's when it hits me: our raft is gone! Like gone, gone. Adios.

"Holy shit, dude, the raft is gone!" I shout.

"What? No way," Ozzy croaks from inside the tent.

"No, man, it's fucking gone. I'm serious."

Now I can hear him rustling around inside, unsure if I'm playing a bad joke, but convinced enough by my tone to come take his own look.

We scan the nearby shoreline to no avail, then come to terms with what needs to be done. We'll have to climb the ridge and follow the river until we, hopefully, turn up the delinquent watercraft and then figure it out from there.

If it's hung up on our side of the river, things are manageable, we'll just need to secure it and then hike all of the gear from camp over, reload, and resume our regularly scheduled program. If, however, it's come to rest on the other side, we've got a more serious issue. The nearest crossing is six miles distant, then we'll need to cross and travel up the opposite shoreline, another six miles, and figure out the gear. It's a fifty-fifty roll of the dice.

We load power bars, water, knives, rope, and fire-making equipment into a makeshift pack and start the climb through boot-deep snow. Finally reaching the ridge we follow the river the best we can, all the while scouring the shoreline. We've traveled about a half mile when we reach a large peninsula that sweeps out, creating a giant horseshoe bend. From this perch we'll be able to look over a lot of water.

Ozzy is in front and cuts the corner for a quick glance at the stretch on the other side. He stops and yells, "There it is!" A wave of relief washes over me as I hustle ahead to see for myself. And sure enough, there it sits, snow covered, missing both oars, and loaded with our waders and all the fishing gear, but in a spot that never figured into my fifty-fifty math: directly in the middle of the river, barely clutched by the tiny top branches of a fallen tree. Fuck! Now what?

This is big, deep, and heavy water and the raft is precariously perched roughly 150 feet from either shore, bobbing in 15 to 20-feet of dark water. We don't have nearly enough rope to attempt to snag it (not that that option would be very likely anyhow), and even the greatest swimmer would never be able to make it out there in the heavy current and freezing temps without trading his life for the effort. Things just got real western.

The wind gusts and nudges the raft from its resting place enough that we collectively gasp, ready to race down the shore and slide down the ridge to grab it. But the current gets hold and pushes it back. Enough wind and it looks like it could dislodge at any moment, then who knows what. We decide it's best not to be out of site of the raft for too long, but we still don't have a plan.

It's barely 9 AM on Sunday morning. Maybe we can find someone to drop in at the takeout and motor up to us? We rack our brains but come up blank. The other option is to find someone to put in at the top, float down and free the raft. And they'd have to bring us some oars, otherwise we'd be in just as bad of a pickle as we are now, with no way to navigate the six miles out. But who would have the gear needed, the know-how required, and the dedication to leave the warmth of their Sunday morning, drive to hell and gone in bad weather, then float down on a somewhat dicey rescue mission for two knuckleheads?

"I'm gonna call Jason," I announce. Oz nods. He knows it's our best hope. But first I need to find cell service. Together we climb higher, to a more open spot, where I have one bar.

The phone rings.

"Hey buddy, what's up?"

"Hey Jay, uh, what's your day lookin' like?"

"I just poured my coffee. Betsy and I are supposed to do a college visit at MSU with Tess, then meet up with some friends for dinner. Why, what's going on?"

"Ozzy and I are in a jam."

I explain the situation, and Jason flips into what I can only describe as "Jason Mode" which is to say a man with a mission.

"I'll grab my gear, toss the canoe in back of the truck, and be on my way in ten. The roads are pretty shitty, but I should be able to get there in about three hours."

"Whoa, hold on, I don't think this is a safe one-man mission, dude. Let me call Steener and see if he can come with. And Jay, thanks brother, we owe you big time."

"Don't mention it."

We rush off a call to Steener, another mutual friend with well-documented outdoor skills, considerable canoe experience, and more loyalty than caution. He also happens to be Ozzy's best pal since either of them can remember. He doesn't hesitate.

THE RESCUE

With our rescue set in motion we need to hustle back to camp, pack everything up, and shuttle it to our lookout perch, hopefully before the raft comes unstuck. And then all we can do is wait. It's a helpless feeling, and I'm damned embarrassed at our mistake.

It takes two sweaty, round-trip hauls to retrieve all the gear and drag it up to our lookout. After the perspiration evaporates, we're instantly chilled, and a cold north wind is gaining momentum, pumping fresh snow into the system and tearing at our exposed skin. We build a fire to stave off the cold, finally brew that coffee, and raid the snacks. We've got at least four hours before our friends get here, we might as well settle in and get comfortable.

We spend the time reliving the highlight reel all over again and digging into more thoughtful topics, like the value of good friends when things get bumpy. The stranded boat is a perfect metaphor: sometimes you can identify the trouble, but there just isn't anything you can do yourself. And as tough as it can be to swallow, you have to rely on those closest to you.

Just at the thought a band of mergansers rush up stream in flight. That can only mean one thing: our friends must be close. We scramble to the other side and squint upriver. We can barely make out a low-slung canoe gliding down in our direction.

"How we doin, fellas?" Jason's familiar voice booms over the water, "which one of you was little spoon last night?"

"Haha, hey brother, we're good, but sure glad to see you two," I holler back.

They round the horseshoe and deftly approach the raft, giving one good push with the paddle and setting it free into a back eddy, before escorting it to a shallow gravel stretch near shore, where, miraculously, we find both paddles wedged in a wood jam.

We scramble down with the gear and grab them in big bear hugs.

"Thanks so much guys, we really owe you."

"Yeah, yeah, pass me one of those rods," Jason quips, "I'm fishing my way out."

We shove off and follow. All I can do is smile, shake my head, and light a smoke. It's damn good to have friends like these when things get western.