I never wanted to leave northern Michigan.

Three years ago when the factory I worked at was shut down, a victim of free trade agreements and an economy bursting at the seams, I was forced to make one of those important decisions in life. I could stick around the area I grew up, where I was finally learning to appreciate all it had to offer-  the only catch being that I’d have to settle for making minimum wage working for golf/ski resorts and slowly lose my house- or, I could look for work elsewhere and lose my house on my own terms.  When I would run into guys from the shop around town or the unemployment office, I’d always proudly proclaim that I was leaving. “No way to make a living here, anymore.” I’d declare, as if I knew what I was talking about. Yet, when no one was around, I was almost constantly hoping that an opportunity would pop up before the move actually happened, allowing us to stay where we were and still hold onto the lifestyle we were used to.

Obviously, nothing did.

Most of our possessions that seemed so important only a few months prior became garage sale fodder. What really mattered, was packed inside cardboard boxes and then stacked in the back of a rusty moving truck before being towed nearly 900 miles to eastern New York.

The homesickness began seconds before I hugged my neighbors and told my wife and kids I’d see them in three weeks. It took everything I had to restrain the boulder of emotion that was balling up in my throat as I hugged the guy who would always come over and snowblow our driveway for us when I was working long shifts.  Just cause he wanted to be a good neighbor.  The boulder grew even larger as I gazed across the street at my house for the last time. It wasn’t a mansion by any means, but it was the perfect place to raise my kids and enjoy a small backyard campfire on northern Michigan evenings.  It was a white tri-level with burgandy shutters, and impeccable landscaping- if I do say so myself.  We had plans to add a two story, two car garage with a breezeway connecting it to the house the following Summer.  It sat on a decent sized lot which backed up to a small pond and thousands of acres of state land.

As soon as their waves goodbye were out of sight in the big black mirrors sticking off the cab of the U Haul, the wind picked up and blew that boulder just enough that it started rolling down the mountain.  It picked up steam as I drove past various places on the way out of the area.  But they weren’t just places, they were memories.

Cliches told me that the homesickness would go away, but it turns out the only cliche that holds it’s own is that absence makes the heart grow fonder.

I had always known I had it good where I was at.  I was 20 minutes north of the “Holy Waters” of the Au Sable, 30 minutes from it’s North and South Branches, the Manistee, the Jordan, the Pigeon, Sturgeon and Black which were so beloved by McGuane.  Then there were dozens of small to medium sized inland lakes- all of which were flanked an hour in either direction by Lake Huron and Lake Michigan. Yet, I gained a whole new level of appreciation for the area once I finished unpacking all those cardboard boxes at our new apartment, and joined the hustle & bustle of the Northeast- both on the waters and off. Which is why nearly every hour of vacation time I’ve had since the move has been set aside for trips back to my homewaters.

Of course it’s always nice to see the people, too. But I’m not ashamed to say I’d much rather hang out with my old fishing spots. It’s not like you can keep up with your favorite brookie stream on facebook.

From the time I got my first bb gun and a push button zebco, I was pretty much always in the woods until high school, when I suddenly began spending most of my time on a skateboard. After school ended, my future father-in-law took me under his wing. He was an avid outdoorsman who kept his family’s stomachs full of wild game and supplemented his income by trapping, and selling firewood. It was kind of a weird transition in my life. I didn’t want to be seen as a hick by the kids I hung out with as a teenager, but I loved every second spent learning to hunt, trap, and fish.  There was just something magical about it all; sorcery that to this day seems to grow more and more powerful.

I haven’t set a trap or snare in the 3 years since the move. I haven’t hunted in almost 2. And I haven’t ice fished or touched spinning gear in 4. It’s not that I don’t enjoy them anymore; it’s just that about 4 years ago, fly fishing came along.

I don’t know what it is about fly fishing that allowed it to take precedent over all of my other outdoor pursuits. It’s one of those things that has transcended being just another hobby.

It’s become who I am.

I don’t ever think I could explain why I do it, though. But there was this time a few years ago on the South Branch of the Au Sable, on a bend pool between two riffles where I usually found myself every evening after the plant shut down, right up until I drove over it’s log strewn waters with everything I owned on the way to upstate New York.

It was hex hatch time and I was in the habit of not stepping into the water till the bugs were falling. There was a bank side cedar tree just below the bend that shot straight out over the water’s surface for a few feet before it grew towards the blue northern Michigan sky. It made a nice bench seat where I could chain smoke cigarettes to kill the time and feel sorry for myself about how life was working out in between checking out the different bugs that would occasionally flutter off the water’s surface. The evening was like pretty much every other during that week, right up until a subtle movement caught my eye on the opposite side of the river. I was alertly trying to decipher what I had just seen, when a young deer materialized from behind the brush, looked both ways, then started drinking the cool water from the river. The hunter in me said to just sit still and enjoy the show, but I couldn’t help but want a picture of the moment. I carefully slid my camera out from the chest pocket of my waders, and then slowly stood up to get a better angle when the brush just behind me suddenly burst into motion.

As I watched both deer disappear, I realized that there was a fawn laying down in the heavy grass only three feet away from me the entire time, without me having a clue to it’s presence. My standing up was too much for it to hold it’s position any longer, and running for it’s life also sent my thirsty deer somewhere in the direction of Otsego County.  I stood there, amazed that that little spotted deer had the nerve to sit motionless next to me for so long.  How long would it have stayed had I not stood up?

I was back the next evening, at the same spot after experiencing a good spinner fall the night before. I had planned on waiting for the Hex to fall again, but there was a decent Iso hatch materializing and a decent fish was rising with enough frequency that I couldn’t help myself. I started my stalk about 30 yards downstream when my thirsty friend from the night before popped out of the woods right next to me. I don’t know why, but she didn’t run. She got even closer before lapping up a few ounces of the South Branch. We locked eyes for a while before she lost interest and started browsing her way along the bank. I eventually grew bored with watching her and got back to stalking my fish.  Suddenly, she decided that the mid-Summer heat was too much, and waded into the stream just downstream of me. Six feet off the bank she stopped, gave me a funny look, and then dipped her entire head under the film, then came up with a big clump of seaweed. She kept a close eye on me as she repeatedly chomped the slimy, forest green vegetation.  Then there was a magnificent rise to my left, and both our eyes, and our attention, were drawn away from each other.  She went back to scuba diving, I went back to working the fish.

While I was hunting, I had always thought I was so close to nature- especially during those moments leading up to the kill, and the first few minutes after; but during that moment on the South Branch, fly fishing a few yards upstream from my curious friend, I was as one with nature as I’d ever been.