by Dave Jankowski

Holy Waters seeks to bring care and community to life’s stream through the Project Healing Waters Fly Fishing program. Our Midwest programs are healing disabled veterans year-round by opening doorways to the catharsis of community, camaraderie and nature. We believe that helping disabled veterans is not a one-time event. It is about being their coach, mentor, friend and companion on a journey of healing. Holy Waters will bring this continuum of care to our Nation’s disabled veterans through a series of powerful online events, interactive story-telling opportunities and restorative healing gatherings in the Midwest and online.

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“It rides like a hooked fish in the current,” said Bald Eagle, as we headed north on I-75. A bit of wind had come up, and I slowed down a little to control the swaying. “Are you sure the truck is big enough for this?”, he asked.

“Sure it is. It‘s a half-tonner, and the camper can’t weigh more than five hundred pounds,” I said with more confidence than I felt. It was still early in my fly-fishing development then, and one of the first Fishwagon jaunts up north—kind of a shakedown trip for both the Fishwagon and me.

Finally I found a smooth ride at about fifty-five miles per hour. Car after car passed us, the drivers with their necks craned to get a good look at the Fishwagon. “See how they look at us with pure envy,” I said.

“If mouths open and brows furrowed is envy, you’re right,” Bald Eagle muttered.

Soon a guy in an SUV passed us making wild gestures. “He wants us to pull over,” said Bald Eagle, “Something must be wrong.”

I followed the SUV onto the shoulder. I was quick to hop out and see what was the matter. We met between vehicles, before he led me to the rear of mine. “Say fella, you’re sure putting out a lot of smoke from your exhaust there.”

“All the time?” I asked.

“Now that you mention it, just when you are going uphill. Maybe you are giving it a little gas then, eh?”

Giving it a little gas? Hell, I was flooring it. Hum . . . and that made it smoke! When I climbed back into the truck, Bald Eagle asked, “What’s up?”

“Nothing, that guy just said it smokes a bit when we go uphill.”

“A bit?”

“Well, a lot. You know, when I punch it.”

So on we went. I tried to gain speed prior to each hill so I could go lighter on the gas. Soon, a guy pulled up along side us in a brand new Hummer, looked at us and laughed, then passed and settled back into our lane, not more than two car-lengths ahead.

“Pass him quick,” said Bald Eagle. And I did.

“Now, Archer, punch it and smoke the bastard!”

We would smoke several bastards in the next two hours. It seemed that the road was full of them—what fun!

“Let’s ask Rusty for a fishing report, but first we’ll buy some flies,” said Bald Eagle. Rusty Gates was still alive then, and proprietor of his family’s fishing lodge.

We tie our own flies, but never would we ask the owner of a fly shop for a fishing report without first purchasing something—and it sure wasn’t going to be a new fly rod every time!

Rusty tied some of the finest flies anywhere. In those days of imports, Rusty and several of his employees and buddies spent the winter in the “Boardroom” above the garage next to the shop. They hole-up in there like a bunch of monks transcribing Holy Writ. With heavy snow falling outside, a wood burning stove in the corner, and a pot of chili slowly cooking on its top, they tied the hundreds of dozens of flies that would be sold during the fishing season in his fly shop.

Of course, he was more than happy to show us what was working and tell us the time of day to use them.

Only after the selection was made and money exchanged, did I ask, “Rusty, where should we go and use these flies? Where are the fish hitting?”

He looked at me, then out the window, then back at me. “Is that your vehicle out there, the one with the old beat-up camper on it—parked in front of my lodge?”

“Yup, its my new Fishwagon. And, I . . .”

“North Branch,” he interrupted, “way up on the North Branch.”

“Is that far away?” I asked.

“Yah, real far.”

So off we went, new flies in hand, headed for a destination that was sure to work. After all, Rusty himself sent us there!

After about a thirty-minute drive, we turned off the pavement and onto a bumpy two- track. A few turns and ruts later, we pulled into a primitive camping area with just three sites, a shared outhouse, and a water pump. A tent was setup in one so we took the one next to it and closest to the stream.

“It’s almost six o’clock, let’s eat first and then go fishing,” said Bald Eagle. “How are we going to cook?”

“We could use the gas stove inside or the charcoal grill out here,” I answered.

“Let’s cook out here. I’ll start the charcoal; you get the food. By the way, what are we having?” asked Bald Eagle.

“Bratwurst, baked beans, and cream-style corn—washed down with copious amounts of the Angler’s Ale you so graciously brought.”

Later, after a few healthy draughts, I asked him, “Why do the Venerable Fly Tyers call you ‘The Fishmaster’?”

“Whoever catches the most fish of the day is called ‘The Fishmaster’—sometimes that’s me,” he said.

I would later find out from other members of the Venerable Fly Tyers that it wasn’t sometimes him, it was always him. He simply knew how to find and catch fish better than anyone else. Most fly fishermen go through a progression: catch a fish, catch lots of fish, catch a big fish, catch lots of big fish. But Bald Eagle’s progression was off the chart. He had passed through all those steps long ago. Now, he just wanted to catch smart fish, educated fish, what he called “PHD fish.” A fish, for example, who chooses a lie in a corner of logs with two branches over its head. It sits there comfortably in a slow, steady current that funnels big bugs right into its waiting maw. It has plenty of time to look at them and it won’t be fooled easily. Casting is nearly impossible with any fast current between you and it. The fly must be put on a dime. And then, if you can even get the fly to the PHD fish, it better be a perfect imitation and not have the least bit of micro drag or you’ll put the fish down. While the rest of us would lose several flies and at least two leaders on a fish like that, Bald Eagle routinely catches it. “The Fishmaster” indeed!

After dinner we donned our waders, rigged our fly rods, and trekked upstream from the campground. Bald Eagle selected a spot where the river widened and was less cluttered with brush. I was new to fly fishing then, and he knew this would help my casting. Bald Eagle found a few small fish rising to a bug he called “sulphurs.” I tied on the number sixteen Robert’s Yellow Drake that he handed me and began casting across the stream to several rising fish.

After he watched me hook a fish or two, Bald Eagle moved downstream and left me to it. I hooked a couple more before I noticed a fish rising above me. It was tight against the bank, and in the same current seam that I stood in. At that time I only knew how to cast to fish across the stream from me, so I tried to wade across to the other side. But the water proved too deep. So I held my position and tried to cast to the fish above. I succeeded only in splashing the water over its head, and soon it stopped rising.

About then, Bald Eagle returned to check on me. I told him about my problem cast. He advised me to put on some extra tippet. “Cast to the side of the fish a bit,” he said. “Stop the cast high and let the fly gently float down above and in-line with the fish.” I tried a couple of times, but just wasn’t getting it.

“Let me show you,” he said. We traded places and he made a gentle upstream cast. His fly line touched down on the water lightly, about two feet to the right of the fish’s last rise. The fly then fluttered to the surface like a wounded butterfly, three feet above and two feet to the left of the line. I watched it drift … three feet … two feet … one foot … then the fish rose and confidently took the fly. Fishmaster indeed!

“Archer, there is another riser in the same seam, twenty feet above,” said Bald Eagle. “Why don’t you move up a bit and give it a try?” So I did. My second cast laid out perfectly, and after a brief fight, I held an eight inch brook trout in my hand. I took a long look, admiring its beauty and glistening colors. As I released it, I thought, “I wonder if it sees me as a tormentor or a liberator. It probably can’t make the connection that I tied the fake that brought it to my hand. But in the end, it must know that I released the hook from its lip and gently set it free.”

Then, I watched it sit at my feet for a bit. Perhaps it was just catching its breath, or maybe . . . it liked me!

Bald Eagle parted and waded downstream around the bend. I found more rising fish and was able to cast to them no matter their position: above, below, or across. After an hour or so, the fish quit rising. I fished the water, the likely lies that Bald Eagle had taught me might hold trout, but had no luck.

I wondered how my companion was doing, so I got out of the water on the near bank and quietly walked downstream. Around the second bend I saw Bald Eagle. He was releasing a good fish, a twelve-incher, a brown trout I surmised from the glimmer of yellow that I saw. Not knowing that I was watching him, he never the less put on a clinic. Over the course of the next half hour, I observed him do all the things that he once told me a great fly-fisher did. “Great fly-fishers move through the water with the patience and stealth of a heron, they make no wake. Every footfall is carefully calculated to find the fish and position to cast. They crouch, stay low, and slide along the backdrop of streamside vegetation. By minimizing their presence, they gain total awareness of their surroundings. They become predators, pure and simple. They cast infrequently, but when they do, it is always to a fish and right on target. They have already planned the fight, and quickly bring the fish into slack water away from any trouble or hang-ups. They gently net it and release it away from the water from which they took it.”

Later that summer, we returned to Gates Au Sable Lodge. The parking spot in front of the fly shop was open and I took it—it seemed to have my name on it. After purchasing a few flies we approached Rusty to ask him where we should go fishing this time.

“You’re back,” he said, “I thought I sent you and that camper to the North Branch.”

“That was three weeks ago.” I said. “Where should we go this time?”

“Try the South Branch by Chase Bridge.” He quickly answered.

“Is that far?” I asked.

“Yah, real far.”

After driving to Chase Bridge, we drove up the Mason Tract Trail and found a campsite at Canoe Harbor.

“It’s almost six o’clock, let’s eat first and then go fishing,” said Bald Eagle. “I’ll start the charcoal, you get the food. By-the-way, what are we having?”

“Bratwurst, baked beans, and cream-style corn,” I said.

“We had that last time,” he said. “Why are we having it again?”

“Because I like bratwurst, and I’m not allowed to eat it at home,” I said. “And here, there are no wives to tell us we can’t. Did you bring that Angler’s Ale again?”

A month later we were on our way north again. This time Bald Eagle drove, because my truck broke down at the last minute and was in the shop for repairs. With no camper, we decided to rent a room at Gates Au Sable Lodge.

After registering and buying a few flies, I asked Rusty, “Where should we fish—the North Branch? South Branch?”

He quickly looked over the parking lot, and then answered, “Why don’t you fish right out front of your room—best fishing on the river!”

Story by Dave Jankowski

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