My Rainbow Trout
This article was originally by Hugh G. Nicholson and published in 1920.
Modern preface by Fiscian.com: No additional information is needed for the modern reader to enjoy this story. Wall eyed pike is just an older name for walleye.
For many years, when “the fever struck me,” I was a wanderer over several of the northern border states and portions of Canada for rod and reel fishing. Then, quite by accident, some ten years ago, I ran across Burt Lake, Michigan. I now go there every year for two weeks or more, as the fishing is always good, and of more or less variety.
From the hotel across the lake it is about five miles to the mouth of Maple River, which is well stocked with brook trout, running well as to size. Early in the season it is nothing unusual to get a two pounder, while later they run smaller, but you get very few below the keeping size. Then early in June the trolling in the lake is excellent for wall eyed pike. This year I spent the first half of June there, and on four successive days caught the limit for my boat by four o'clock in the afternoon, their weight averaging three pounds.
At the other end of the lake from the mouth of Maple, the Sturgeon River empties, after following the line of the Michigan Central for miles. This stream is alive with rainbow trout, but that does not mean you will bring home many at night. The best I have ever done, with my guide, was twenty-six. Both Maple and Sturgeon are nice clean streams for wading, and are the easiest trout streams to fish that I have ever run across. Then if you get tired of wading at any time, you can troll in the lake for pickerel or wall eyes, still fish for perch or rock bass, or cast for both large and small mouth bass.
Mind you, you get this all easily from the one hotel. There is also occasionally a large rainbow landed from the lake, and just often enough to let you know they are there, a musky or a white fish.
Your stay would not be complete without an introduction to the head guide, Harvey AuFrance—good old fat Harvey, and his Ford of 1913 vintage, “Nancy Hanks.” The wind shield is cracked into four pieces, it has not had a bath since it was made (I am not speaking of Harvey), and its collection of rattles and groans are numerous; but if you start away in it, I can assure you that you will get there and come back. These trips to the trout streams over the sand trails, through the pine woods and over the desert plains are wonderful. Harvey, with his jolly talk, and the feeling that today I am going to get the big one for which I have waited so long contribute their part to the joy of living.
When I left Burt Lake for home last June it was with a sad heart, as I still had caught nothing looking like a trout that weighed over two pounds. After getting home, I dreamed of those beautiful sunsets from the hotel, imagining I could see the dancing of the brilliant northern lights, could hear the singing of those darned mosquitoes on Maple, hear Harvey tell of how he had landed a “Bull Moose” or see the fading out of Colonial Point as its outline was lost in the deepening night. It grew on me so that in August I decided to go back once more and have a try at the rainbows as they were going back up Sturgeon. It seems that in late May they come down stream into the lake, and go back up the last two weeks in August.
There were four of us in the party the day in question. We left the hotel at eight a. m., with Harvey, in Nancy Hanks. It was twelve miles over to the point we wanted to fish, “The Chicken Farm.” About four miles from the hotel we came to a point at which some men were rebuilding the road. The sand was at least twelve inches deep and Nancy went right after it. In a moment or so something snapped, and I yelled to Harvey that something was broken. We stopped and gathered a strut rod from the road, that had been dragged off. I asked Harvey if we should not go to a shop and have the car fixed. He said “No, the old thing will run as long as I have the engine and the steering wheel left.” So we put the rod on the running board and went on. Soon we were going through the trees, and when Harvey yelled “low bridge,” everybody ducked, or was whipped in the face with the limbs. Finally, after a wild ride, interspersed with numerous yarns, we reached the river, and by ten o'clock were all rigged up to fish.
Just at this point the stream has a recorded current of five miles an hour, and at every bend, and they are numerous, there is a good hole. By creeping up carefully we would often see two or three big ones lazying around in the water, seemingly standing perfectly still, except for a slight waving motion of their tails. I picked out a nice place where I could see a big old fellow, and for nearly two hours let my hook drift down and against his nose. Occasionally he would bunt it away, and once I thought he was going to take it; but he merely pinched off the head of my worm.
It was now twelve o'clock and time for our dinner. We always have a basket from the hotel to which we add hot coffee and fried fish. Harvey is some cook, and a man usually tries himself when it comes to eating his fried trout, with the other good things that are on hand.
Well, I hated to leave that big trout, so I cast out once more and let it drift down into place, laid the end of my rod over an overhanging limb of driftwood, and tied the butt to a small cedar tree about the size of my thumb, using a stringing chain. When I told Harvey what I had done, he said, “Oh, hell. I will eat all the fish you catch that way.”
I said “All right. We are going to try and fool that old rascal anyway.” We ate, rested and told stories, and at the end of an hour. I said, “Well, I am going down now and get my fish.” Harvey said—well I can't write what he said, or this could not go through the mails. Anyway, he didn't expect me to catch the fish.
Just before reaching my rod, I saw it take a strong bend and heard the reel sing, so I knew there was something doing. I got there and couldn't untie my chain, so I had to cut the tree with my knife. By that time all of my line, 60-yds., was out, and the fun began.
He was headed for Burt Lake and was making time. No trouble for me to follow with that current at my back and him to pull me on. I began to reel in, and as I tightened on him he spiraled through the air some four feet from water. When I saw that circle of silver, I knew I had a good one. He went first this way and that, with me following, constantly down stream and gaining a little line all the time. Several times he mixed me up with snags and logs, and I don't know yet how I straightened out the kinks and unwound him. After probably ten minutes and some two hundred yards down stream, I snaked him up to the shore in about eight inches of water, put my foot under him and kicked him out. I then reached into his gills and took him up to where the others were.
George Sutherland said, “Well, Nick, he is worth coming all the way up here for.” Harvey said, “Well, I will be damned; it he had gotten on my hook I can see how I might have landed him, but I don't see yet how in the hell you ever did it.” I knew then Harvey had no respect for me as a trout fisherman; but I am not mad and I am going back again. Are you going to join us?
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Rainbow Trout
- Weight—7 Ibs.
- Length—24 & 3/4 inches
- Girth—17 & 3/4 inches
- When—August 25, 1919
- Where—Sturgeon River, Wolverine, Mich.
- Rod—Revenoc, Steel fly, 9 & 1/2 ft.
- Reel—Revenoc Double Multiplying 60 yd.
- Line—Revenoc Japanese silk, 18-lb, test.
- Lure or bait—Worms, Carlisle Hook No. 2.