Long Leaders and tight Roll-Casts

Trout Season is upon us. The foliage along the banks and trail into the river resemble shades of cilantro and lime green.

 Fiddlehead Fern fronds emerge from the soil and fill the air with a scent that can only be Northern Michigan on a favorite stretch of cedar toppled headwaters. Daytime temperatures dance near seventy degrees and intermittent hatches of our early season bugs have arrived.

Casting, Stealth and Luck.

 Black caddis, small and mid sized mayflies, and millions of midges have taken to their adult stages while securing the next generation. Many of our smaller streams that have been forbidden now yield some spectacular fishing. We must be careful. This resource cannot be exploited or we shall push it near extinction. But, we must go out and relish this time of the year, some days can be stellar- 30 or 40 fish, although only a few will break the 8″ mark. You never know when a fish from a few prior generations and double that measurement may come to hand. Go forth, breath in the air, practice your tight roll cast, tie on a #16 rubber-legged stimulator, extend your leader a few feet and have a blast. The renewed vitality of spring and all of its promises remind me of an even more important message~

It’s the feeling of satisfaction that comes from limiting your kill instead of killing your limit.

It’s communing with nature where the chief reward is a refreshed body and a contented soul, where a license is a permit to use, not abuse, to enjoy- not destroy our trout waters.      ~Art Neumann

Blue Haloes

I feel refreshed and rejuvenated, although the day was not a banner day by the books, I know the river is alive and she is ready to play.

If you are anything at all like myself, most of us were knee deep at the end of a cool running riffle, a gentle breeze at your back in the early evening with the sun prepping purple and golden hues upon the horizon. The fragrance of freshly muddled watercress from your path into the stream and genuine cedar sachet wafting through the air as we eagerly await the first bug to take flight and the dimples on the river’s surface soon thereafter.

Many of you may already know me, our paths have crossed either on the stream of life or actually in the water doing some great work for the benefit of our cold water denizens. My name is Brian Kozminski, my friends call me ‘Koz’ — Miller VanWinkle TU ex-officio – lifelong advocate for all cold water streams in North America and GreenFish Ambassador — promoting proper techniques for catch and release. I carry the message of Cold, Clean and Clear everywhere I go. I have been in the service industry my entire life, which allows me the flexibility to volunteer at school for first grade daughter (Simone), spend time with the family (Lesley Koz) and our two labs (Roxy & Stella), while managing to get my waders wet once in a while. Hospitality has taught me how to interact with guests and make new acquaintances. From Bar Tending to Serving to Management, I have met some of the best individuals from all over the Mid-West and many of those have been anglers. If I have made your acquaintance at one of the restaurants I have worked, we probably have made the riparian connection and the passion that immediately follows.

I have met hundreds of people who have never even heard of TU, or what they do; soon they become aware of such issues as water withdrawal, Asian Carp, Fracking, Pebble Mine, wild versus farmed salmon and dam removal to mention just a few. Hopefully, in meeting so many new individuals, I have persuaded them to go home and look up their local TU and get involved with various conservation efforts or to begin a lifelong passion of fly tying or fly fishing, while crossing another item off the bucket List. Trout Unlimited also has great programs like Stream Explorers (Junior TU membership) Salmon in the Classroom and Trout in the Classroom (where permitted). I have been involved for the past 3 years with our local elementary schools SIC and would like to share what the children and teachers of this learning event have benefitted.

I belong to a very exclusive and private club of anglers who may lynch and stone me if I were to mention any specific details about some of the rivers we frequent. In order to protect myself and family, the names of such rivers may be changed to the Bugs Bunny River or the Warner Brothers section, in order to keep the tone light and comical. I believe they are both in the Nunya watershed system. It is a delicate balance for me, I love to share my joy and love for the outdoors, my father taught me to give it away at an early age, but I also know I need to protect what is sacred, or it won’t be for very long. Sometimes these sacred places need to be shared in order to protect or restore them to a once better place in time, otherwise, it would be like caging an injured animal just to watch it die. Then what are you left with? An empty river, devoid of life and beyond salvage.

My background is like many; fell in love with trout with my first brook trout caught on a yellow and red Panther Martin in Grayling many decades ago, discovered untouched waterfalls in Canada teeming with ’specks’. Grew up, went to college, started my career at a members only club in Grand Rapids, and fishing became less frequent. Many years later, I re-discovered what it was that truly made me ‘happy’- water between my legs and the eternal chance that I may dupe that picky trout rising to miniscule bwo’s upstream of me. I submersed myself, began tying flies with tenacity, chasing salmon and steelhead sometimes 5 days a week. Being a bartender does have its advantages if you don’t stay and entertain all hours of the night. I had the perfect life, fishing by day, working at night, making great money in the heyday of the 90’s when people had the tendency to be less frivolous, and enjoying every minute of it. Soon, I met my wife to-be, and after we married, she suggested we move north to Petoskey, I told her my bags were packed and ready to go. We do live in paradise. In a little over an hour, I can be either on the Manistee, the Au Sable, or a myriad of smaller rivers in the tip of the mitt or in the UP.

I am not a teacher – although have taught a few how to tie a fly and many newcomers the nuance of a good roll-cast.

I am not a ‘guide’ – although have taken a few fortunate individuals fishing who were high bid at local charities such as Habitat for Humanity, Women’s Resource Center, Crooked Tree Art Center D’Art for Art and a few others.

I am not biologist – although I have taken a few classes and love macro-invertebrate studies.

I am not a writer – the closest correlation I have is that I work in a place where Hemingway allegedly scribbled on bar napkins for a few novels. But this wonderful opportunity came along, my wife and others said “It is totally you! You should do it.” So here we are. I hope to keep many items the same, we look forward to many more river/guide reports, I may dabble a bit on some conservation/environmental topics to keep myself abreast of current events and add a little flavor here and there. I hope you will join me on this journey and pass this on to your friends, fishing buddies and family. I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a Wonderful New Year!!

Tight Lines & Tighter Loops,

Koz

If you’re not familiar with this part of the country, you should start by knowing that we’re talking about an area of over 20,000 square miles that straddles the boundaries of four states: Wisconsin, Minnesota, Iowa, and Illinois. You also should know that we’re talking about an area of the country that offers some outstanding fly fishing opportunities for large fish on dependable hatches.

In a mad dash from Michigan to the mountains of Montana or Wyoming, one can easily pass through the Driftless Region — which is an area with strong enough trout fishing to make it a fine destination all by itself. In any event, with snow just around the corner due throughout Northern Michigan, T|N|T will make it more of a priority in the next few months to get you thinking about angling destinations near and far.

“Hope,” as Dickenson writes, “is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.”

Capt. Tony Petrella

If you want to teach your wife or girlfriend how to shoot, simply put her into a pair of borrowed waders that force her to waddle around like a penguin. Then make her lurch around for six hours in a frigid steelhead stream in early March, sublimely confident the whole time that all of this is a wonderfully exhilarating experience that every woman should be absolutely thrilled to share with her man.

On the drive home that evening, you will have visions of a warm fire and cuddly mate. She, on the other hand, will have revenge in her eyes and murder in her heart. Lock the gun cabinet before you pour a drink, then swallow the key. Better yet, throw it far back into those raging flames that mirror your mate’s soul. There’s danger afoot, Watson!

And, guys—you can believe me because I was there. Been that stupid. Done that insane deed. Talk about being blissfully unaware of the female psyche! Brother. And Kate already knew how to shoot!

In retrospect, I think the only thing that saved me was that by the time we got home from that foamy torrent called the Little Manistee River, Kate was utterly exhausted. She did, however, vow to never again set foot in a steelhead river.

Twenty-nine fishing seasons have glided past our waders since that frosty day with good friends Dan Cogan and Dave Arnold. And, although she has kept that vow against steelhead as devoutly as a monk eschews speaking, Kate has logged hundreds of days astream and has caught thousands of trout.

All of which is astonishing, considering that although she was raised only a few blocks away from Lake Erie, her previous fishing experience was limited to dangling a worm off a pier while sitting next to Dad. The perch ended up on the dinner table; the sheephead were dug into the garden. Trips to Metropolitan Park meant netting minnows in the creek and never straying out of sight.

In fact, there wasn’t much straying at all from the safe haven in the suburbs. Theirs was a picture-book house of brick-and-boards, a house with friendly neighbors, and trees, and a big backyard. But even in those bucolic days of Ike and a skinny rich kid from Boston who would be President, Mom didn’t want her chicks wandering far from the nest. She worried about Kathy and The Twins even as a momma duck fusses about her brood, counting and herding and counting again.

To this day, Kate loves telling about her most memorable outdoor excursion. “Once when we (Kate and her sibs Steve and Vicki) were all pretty young, we convinced Mom that we should have a tent out in the back yard. Dad threw a blanket over a clothesline and pinned down the edges somehow. The three of us thought it was great fun, but Mom must have worried about wolves snatching up her babies. It was barely dusk when she started scraping a spoon across the porch screen to scare us. She wanted us back in the house. End of camping trip.”

I can only give thanks that Jennie never knew what her eldest child has endured at various times over these past 30 years. The list of outdoor atrocities committed against my wife begins with blackflies sucking away her very lifeblood and gets worse from there.

Perhaps it’s that stubborn Slovene streak in her that absolutely forbids whining or complaining. I remember a night years ago when we were being assaulted by mosquitoes in a swarm the size of a Kansas grasshopper plague. Finally, I couldn’t stand any more torture. “I’m getting out of here,” I yelled. “This is murder!”

From upstream, I heard a grateful sigh. “Thank God,” Kate said quietly. “Let’s go! I can’t stand it either, but I didn’t want to be the one to quit first!”

Kate’s first “boots” had three-inch heels and came from Jacobson’s. Her lipstick matched her nail polish, which matched her outfit. Now, she calls herself a “River Rat” and shops for function. Vintage wine has given way to a never-ending search for the ultimate in high-power bug dope. And Jim Beam whiskey. The only “line” she cares about is the one on her fly reel. And she cleans it far more religiously than I do mine.

Kate Reels One In

She hides herself in the streamside vegetation as if she’s stalking an elk. And no winged or floating trout food is safe from capture in her little fishnet so that I’ll have more patterns to tie when we get home. Sometimes when I sneak up on her she’s cussing herself like a Drill Sergeant for making a sloppy cast.

About the only thing she won’t do is go out on the flats boat with me for snook or redfish, let alone tarpon. “Nope,” she says firmly. “Those big rods are too much for my bad shoulder. I’m not gonna screw it up and then miss trout season.” End of discussion.

Inevitably, people ask who catches the most fish. I truthfully answer that we take turns. Kate changes fly patterns like a runway model sheds her clothes, which sometimes gives her the edge. But I cast into trickier spots to fish that don’t often see a fly. So, it evens out. When they ask who catches the biggest fish, I also truthfully answer that Kate caught a Michigan brook trout that weighed in excess of five pounds.

She caught that deeply-colored monster in a “secret” little creek our old friend Al Rockwood took us to, a special place with casting spots cut out of the trees and weeds at each “beat,” much like an English chalkstream. The fish was lying in a deep pool formed by a wing diverter, and I had passed a dry fly over it just minutes before Kate let one of Al’s “Sweezle” streamers swing through.

I was proudly releasing my third 21-inch brown trout when I heard her whooping. Leaving my rod propped against a pine tree, I ran back upstream to find out what the commotion was all about.

Kate was kneeling on a little footbridge, her rod bent like an elbow macaroni. Al threw me the net and said he’d take pictures. All four of us performed our assigned tasks perfectly, and today that fish hangs next to the liquor cabinet. But only in an original painting by Kalamazoo artist David Ruimveld.

I still can feel Kate trembling as we held that big fish, and her urgency to release it back into the dark water lest it die from being exposed too long. When asked later why she didn’t keep such a trophy, she looked puzzled for a moment, then quietly replied, “because I didn’t want to be the one to kill it.”

We have yet another photo of Kate, proudly holding her very first trout. She’s wearing a vest that looks like an apron, and a big, floppy, blue hat. She’s also wearing a million-dollar smile. I don’t believe that five-inch brookie was smiling, but I’m positive it was greatly relieved to be ever-so-gently released back into the Au Sable River and the bosom of its family.

“I never knew they were so beautiful,” Kate said. She wiped perspiration from her brow in the heat of that unseasonably warm May afternoon so long ago and practically whispered the words every man longs to hear. “I understand, now, why you love it so much. You’ll never get an argument from me any time you want to come fishing!”

Capt. Tony Petrella formerly covered the National Football League and National Hockey League for the Palm Beach Post and the Atlanta Constitution. He now splits his time as a hunting and fishing guide in Michigan and Southwest Florida. His web address is www.tightloopsflyfishing.com.