A way up north there was this fellah, fellah I want to tell you about, fellah by the name of John Schmidt. At least, that was the handle his lovin’ parents gave him, but he never had much use for it himself. This Schmidt, he called himself Trout Bum John.
John was just that, a trout bum. If we could count wikipedia as a reliable source of information, he epitomizes every bit of their concise, albeit brief, definition.
As per wikipedia, “Trout bum is an affectionate nickname for dedicated trout anglers, particularly those who practice fly fishing. Use of the term is similar in tone and meaning to the antiquated term, ‘Surf Bum.’ The term was popularized by author John Gierach, whose first book, Trout Bum is an anthology of informal, narrative essays on fly fishing; and magazine articles he wrote before 1986.”
In order to better define his fanatical obsession for trout-y endeavors beyond wikipedia’s penchant for brevity, I must borrow heavily from an excerpt of John Gierach’s “No Shortage of Good Days.”
Trout Bum John was humble, not in the sense that the rivers often left him for want, but in the sense that he understood them, that they were bigger than himself. Their power and significance meant for reverence instead of conquest.
While Trout Bum John was just that, a trout bum, he understood the bigger picture, how all things come together to create the perfect opportunity.
The best testament to his character lies in one simple fact: John loved to teach.
This article serves as a brief introduction to him, only chronicling our first three floats together, as his life and subsequent adventures are far more deserving of a book than a 14 or so page feature.
For those skeptical of my seemingly outlandish boasts, I highly suggest you book a trip and find out firsthand.
DAY ONE
We met outside of a convenience store in the small town of Grayling, Michigan. For those privy to the rivers of the lower peninsula, it is trout mecca, a place all that claim to be in pursuit of trutta must one day come.
Grayling finds itself in a rather fortunate position. While the fabled waters of the Au Sable River flow through its heart, just a mile or so west of its downtown lies another celebrated river, the Manistee, who’s upper stretches run close to the Au Sable.
This embarrassment of riches only furthers this small municipalities well deserved entrenchment in the lore of Michigan’s fishing destinations.
Our venue for the day was a recently opened flies-only section of the Manistee. This was a well calculated decision on John’s behalf. These fish haven’t felt pressure in a good long while, perhaps making them all the more susceptible to our imitations crafted from feather and thread.
Spring was finally starting to deliver the good people of Michigan from the cold, unrelenting clutches of Winter. In the better canopied stretches of forest, snow still clung to the ground, trying its best to hold on to existence in the face of rising temperatures. It was a good day to chuck some meat at increasingly active fish.
John’s float plan took us away from some of the more heavily trafficked areas, something he attributed to the relative ease of being able to launch his SmithFly Big Shoals Raft pretty much anywhere he damn well pleased.
We staged the trucks and put in. The river was slightly high, but it made no difference, conditions otherwise were perfect.
It didn’t take us long to experience our first eat of the day. A well placed cast on the outskirts of some cover enticed an 18” wild brown trout just enough to storm out of the shadows and crush my tasty disco peanut.
Elation soon turned to concern as he quickly made his way towards a cluster of submerged logs in deep water.
“Don’t let him get into that cover,” TBJ shouted as he positioned our craft in an attempt to counter the feisty trutta’s bid for freedom.
“It ain’t going to happen,” I replied as I carefully watched the brown frantically dance over one log and under another.
John hovered over the spot as I kept the line tight, “think you can get him?”
I nodded in approval as I dipped the rod tip into the water, “I watched him the whole way, I might be able to get him out.”
You could have heard a pin drop as we worked in silent unison, slowly coaxing line and fish from the tangled mass seven feet below us. After a few terse moments he was free, and given the strain of the fight, we gracefully brought our wannabe runaway to the net.
With adrenaline flowing John shouted out, “Holy shit, I can’t believe we got that fish!”
It was indeed a gift to land that fish, an outcome that more often than not relies heavily on some heavenly intervention. In that moment, the fly gods smiled upon us, reaffirming our faith and trust in their desires. Every lost fish and slow day encountered in recent memory magically disappeared, our slates had been wiped clean.
The fight was ordeal for all, so we gave the wild brown time to recover before turning him loose.
A general feeling of ease permeated throughout the rest of our float, the odds were defied and we reveled in it.
Our confidence in this would be short-lived. As we made our way deeper into the outing another reason for euphoric expression presented itself: bugs. They were here, and risers wouldn’t be too far behind.
John paused the float before leaning back in the driver’s seat, “Have you ever fished dry flies in Michigan in the Summer?”
“Can’t say that I have,” I answered hurriedly, anxious to hear what John was about to tell me.
“Get ready,” he cooly replied as he scooped a bug from the surface, “Summers here are the stuff of legend.”
Along with the bugs, we found a cold beer resting at the bottom of the river. While it may have been slightly past its expiration, it tasted like victory.
DAY TWO
We were still slightly ahead of Michigan’s prolific spring and summer hatches, but the pull of early risers was too great to ignore. The early bugs were among us, and it was time to take action. Our venue would be the same as last time, but we would be one man richer than before.
John’s son Hunter decided to join us for our float and was itching to get his first dry fly eat of the season. H-town was a perfect reflection upon TBJ, a testament to his dedication to not only trutta, but to the ones he loves.
His youthful candor was much appreciated, adding a hilarious element to our already questionable crew.
As we staged the trucks John quipped that there were bears sighted in the area, rummaging around in the backyards of local residents. There wasn’t much concern, bears keep to their own for the most part, and encountering them would be extremely rare.
While we readied our gear and loaded the boat, Hunter set out on his own accord, picking up bits of trash around the launch. John smiled, knowing his son understood the importance of keeping our waterways pristine whether or not the litter was our own, “You know Hunter, the last time Mr. Mike found trash in the river, he drank it.”
We would begin our day with streamers, gradually switching over to dry flies as bug activity increased.
Our first few drifts were met with eager brookies, and we decided to drop anchor and explore some of the more intricate bends. I spotted a few browns lying in ambush underneath some healthy cover and switched back to some smaller streamers, but they snubbed their noses at me.
John and Hunter had luck with some more brook trout, and after getting our fill, we decided to set out in search of larger fish.
The opportunity came and went as I whiffed on a rather healthy-sized brown.
As our float drew to a close, and my frustration over a failed hook set mounted, we were met by a trio of cautious onlookers. The bears we spoke of earlier made an appearance after all, closely monitoring our every move as we floated by.
DAY THREE
While it is rare for one to ever tire of the various rivers of the lower peninsula of Michigan, it is rarer still that one would reject the opportunity to target the lumbering behemoths commonly known as carp.
The weather was warming and the annual migration of carp to the shallows of Saginaw Bay was upon us. It was time to do battle with the freshwater bonefish.
As fate would have it, this was not to be, an errant cold front moved through with near freezing temperatures the night before our trip, sending the hordes of carp back out to the depths.
Still, some of our best days have occurred during the worst of conditions, so we decided to make a go of it.
Our optimism for carp would soon be dashed as incessant winds and murky waters made sight-fishing all but impossible. The flats were empty, there would be no carp.
We turned our attention to the numerous bass that occupied the scattered marshes and associated cover. Eventually we grew more and more apathetic with each sub 3lb bass we landed.
As we made our way back conversation gradually returned back to the rivers and the upcoming hex hatch.
Unfortunately, this is where our story ends, for now. The hex was to be the final installment to Trout Bum John’s story, but the passing of a family member forced us to cancel. To be continued…
