By John Bischoff
Growing up in Northern Michigan, the last Saturday in April was just as important to me as Christmas or the opening day of deer season. In my family, opening day of trout season was a “holiday.” I was lucky enough to share this holiday with my father, Bruce, and his brother, my Uncle Mike.
Each of us had spent our childhood on the same little crick (creek to the non-native Michiganders) that ran through the dark cedar swamp that separated the pastures of our family’s farm. This farm was where my relatives from generations before us had made their home. They couldn’t have known how many hours their descendants would spend playing and fishing along the little crick.
I would consider my father as somewhat of a Brook Trout aficionado: A master of small stream trout fishing. He loved brook trout so much that my little sister was named Brooke to honor these beautiful little fish.
We would spend many afternoons stacking rocks and moving logs in the crick to make the little waterfalls and deep pools the speckled little fish would use to seize their next meal.
We snuck through the tall grass and dark cedars chasing Brookies. They are part of our collective history, and are not only Michigan’s state fish, but is considered the first game fish of the United States.
I heard a story once that the Brook Trout got their beautiful colors and spots from a leader of a Native American tribe that had caught one. When he released it back into the stream, its sides became marked with vibrant oranges and brightly colored spots. As a result, they were held in such respect to some Native American tribes they wouldn’t eat them.
My family on the other hand were never too proud to put the brightly spotted little trout on our plates. Every opening morning, we would keep a few to be pan fried by my grandma in a pile of butter. For us that mean eating the fish with their heads on. I don’t know the importance or the significance of this, but that’s how they were always cooked.
One of the fondest memories I have as a child is jumping back and forth across that crick as the steam would rise off it in the warm early summer sun. The feeling of my ultralight fishing rod when a brookie flashed out from under a log to smack that little spinner or worm.
So, whether you are looking to make memories of your own or for your children, it doesn’t take much. Find a small stream in the most mosquito infested woods you can. Throw a worm on a small hook, sneak up to a log along the bank, making sure to not cast your shadow on the water.
Let that worm skim along the log, and your adventure will begin.
