By Stuart Fowler
Another Old Sage has left us. An. empty chair sits at the council fire.
The Elders weep.
I probably met Whitey in or about 1963.
I would have been but a small sprig of willow, running about the property at “Edgewater on the AuSable.” Whitey would have been a spry, young man of his 30s perhaps. Jeans, short top leather boots, red and black flannel, or white tee shirt, leather belt pulled one notch too tight.
Even then he carried the mantle of self-confidence and command about the property. Mentoring and tutoring young and old. Building on traditions and passing them forward for generations to come.
Whiskey, cigars, red meat, and trout were the name of the game. From the Great Stephan homestead, Babbitts camps, and traces and trail between.
He walked the waters, presented his offerings and was grateful. Grateful for the opportunity. Grateful for the companions of friends and associates. And for the AuSable, Manistee, Boardman, Pigeon, Sturgeon and so many other classic streams.
But the AuSable and Manistee held him tight … Like a babe in a mother’s arms.
A TWINKLE IN HIS EYE, SMIRK AND GRIN. He was always happy. How could he not be? The outdoors was his life blood, and passion. It’s what he lived for and what gave him purpose and life.
Whitey was always putting pen to paper. He was the laureate of the Sacred scrolls, that told of a time and place, hidden away in God’s country. That sacrificial place of healing and self-evaluation. The place where people lose themselves in these “Holy Waters.”
Principled in the truths and trusts of our woods, waters and wildlife. A purist of sorts in search of the perfect cast, in a perfect setting. The perfect float of a perfect balanced fly floating upright, wings high and dry. Followed by the “slurp” of another perfect trout.
Whitey was of the old school. The old guard. He shared the river with some of the greatest legends of the 60s and 70s. The ancestors of the ancient river men, boat builders and guides.
Camps, lodges, guests and caretakers all new Whitey up and down the stream. His wisdom and lore were wasted on many. But he was highly regarded, prized, and appreciated by far more.
My last visit to WaWaSum was exceptional. But when I left I knew, my friend was not long for this world.
Whitey at some 93 years and I at 66. I sat with him for some time, facing him square on, His hands grasped in mine. His voice weak, barely present, but clear.
We talked of the days when the adventure was grand, and the fishery unbelievably full and productive. River boats. Guides. Trips with my dad. Wanting me to take him one more time, on one last float.
I had the boat; I had the time. I would have willingly fulfilled that wish. But it was physically not possible.
It broke my heart, seeing Whitey in that shell. But staring in his eyes he was there.
Speaking of the old footbridge at Edgewater. And the island. He would go there in the morning for coffee and smokes. And he just wanted to see it one more time.
I’ll miss you my old friend. Good fishing on the big pond. Say hello to the Stephan brothers up there for me. And Bernie if you see him.
