It was 4:30PM when I slid into the front seat of Max’s rig. My merino wool long underwear and thick hiking socks were already wet from a morning of fishing and when I closed the door my waders pushed a waft of stale, soggy air up past my face making the rabbit strip and schlappen streamers that hung from the visor dance.
By the time we reached the gated dirt road that cut downward into the thick deciduous forest I was feeling the familiar hum of excitement and nerves that thrums in my veins whenever I’m headed to new water.
The SUV tumbled down the road straddling washouts and exposed boulders with a bouncy energy that matched the sense of adventure that was brewing. The forest was thick with life, an American jungle bursting with birdsong and the fluorescent buzzing of insects that mingled with the Blind Faith and humid air pouring through our wide open windows.
Max stopped the rig in what felt like the middle of the road and threw it in park. He chuckled when he told me that for months on end he’d walked all his guests down into the Bush Country before learning that the gate could, in fact, be unlocked.
Through the chartreuse of spring growth the Ausable glittered like a red carpet. I wiped a trickle of sweat from my forehead with the back of my sleeve and thanked my lucky stars for his recent discovery.
I followed Max down a faint trail toward the water. His thick reddish beard and big frame reminded me of a Norse warrior, and when we waded into the tannic water of the ancient river I was struck by the timelessness of our pursuit. When we reached the far bank, we emerged baptized, cleansed of the trappings of our lives, free of the weary yokes of modern existence.
The first trout came at 7:30. The sun had melted into an orange pat of sunshine that slid across the cast iron surface of the water which sizzled with tan caddis, March browns and the occasional indistinct pale yellow mayfly. The hatch had brought the fish up and they were rising in splashy playful takes.
The fifteen-foot leader that Max had built let the double-dry rig flutter to the surface delicately and bought me enough time to slide the line and leader butt out of the strike zone. Though I am not sure it would have mattered much. The trout were un-pressured and eager to consume the smorgasbord that was being served up.
The brown that tackled the size 10 Ausable Bomber was well fed and coaxed my click-and-pawl Abel to sing its nickel-bright aria. Max and I laughed like kids as the trout zipped around us, dodging his net.
The evening stretched languidly onward without the anxious twitch of time ticking in our minds. Soon we were picking our shots. We switched out flies when they got soggy, fielding untested patterns like scientists suddenly gifted with the perfect conditions for experimentation. We called out rises to one another, and I laid down presentations here and there, each time almost knowing that it would result in a take. I decided then and there that Max must be part Viking, for he’d walked us right into Valhalla.
Seldom in my fishing life have I reeled up my line feeling completely sated, but as night fell, Max and I hung up our rods without hesitation. We waded back to reality shaking our heads in disbelief as fish continued to rise in the increasing darkness, sometimes so close we could have scooped them up in our nets.
We could have stayed. We could have gorged ourselves on our good fortune, but something inside both of us wanted to leave the water as we’d found it: happy, unspoiled, and bursting with life.
Max prodded the SUV back to life and up the gravelly wash toward the gate, and we hummed along to his stereo blasting into the cool night. Down inside my boots I wiggled my toes in the wet numb wool of my socks, and smiled.
Keep the mood going with this playlist, inspired by — and evoking — the vibe of this post. Enjoy!
Editor’s Note: Shoutout to Max for making this whole thing happen. I am sure he’d be willing to take you to the Bush Country as well. You can find him on Instagram.
Sometimes all the stars align. Nice story.