As I drove east from Grayling along M-72 towards the South Branch of the Au Sable, I knew it was a little late in the season for the stream’s epic hatches; but knowing I was going to get to sit on that leaning Cedar again had me feeling about the same as a teenaged boy feels after throwing a fresh box of condoms in his glove box on the way to watch a movie at his girlfriend’s house while her parents are at their weekly bowling league.  I really didn’t care if there weren’t many bugs, or if there were no targets to cast to, I just wanted to feel to the silence of the South Branch flowing around my boots and the silky roughness of cedar bark against my back.

Minutes later I was making the right turn into the Mason Tract, a generous gift of 1500 acres along the South Branch left in trust to the State of Michigan by the late George Mason.  I couldn’t help but admire the plume of dust in my rear view mirror the tires on my silver Subaru were stirring up as I sped south along Canoe Harbor Rd.  I felt happier and happier as I passed one empty access spot after another.  I couldn’t help but sigh as I realized that I was gonna have the whole South Branch to myself.

I pulled into a sandy parking spot and hurriedly jumped into my waders, strung up my rod, and secured a fresh fly to some 5X before starting the short hike down to the river.  Wispy clouds were moving overhead at a good clip above the trees, but there was no wind moving through the tunnel the river had carved through the forest.

Instead of cutting down to the water straight towards my bench, I paralleled the stream for 50 yards or so.  The plan was to slowly work my way up to the bend pool where I could sit on my little piece of heaven.  I picked up two small brookies, then after releasing the second, looked up to see another angler working his way down.  I’d like to take this opportunity to apologize to the fishing gods for the four letter words I telepathically sent their way at that moment, but I couldn’t help but be a little selfish.  The stranger stopped fishing, and slowly waded down to where I was pretending to retie a new fly on.

He wore old rubber hip boots, an olive vest with a large chunk of wool on his left breast, and carried a six-sided fly rod.  Underneath his vest was a green and black flannel shirt, held together in it’s center by five big, white buttons. His greasy, slicked back hair was dark brown mixed with black and streaks of silver. Looking back on the encounter, it was like he had walked straight out of the 1950s.

“How’s it going?” He asked.
“Good, just picked up a couple brookies.” I said.
“What’d you get ‘em on” he asked, before mentioning he was having a hard time getting any action.
“An ant, you need a couple?” I asked.
He had one of those looks in his eyes that said, “why didn’t I think of that,” before politely declining.
He laid the vintage looking bamboo fly rod across an overhanging bush, just feet downstream of where I had watched a small deer fully submerge it’s head to munch on some aquatic vegetation a few years earlier, and then mentioned that he fished the same spot the night before.

“Oh yeah” I said, trying to not show how badly I wanted the conversation to end so I could go sit on the cedar sticking out from the bank five yards behind him.
“Yeah. There was a big brown feeding on the seam that flows around that log. I threw everything I had at him, and then finally got him to take, but he spit it before I could set the hook. After that, he was gone.”

I didn’t really hear what he said since I was too busy looking at the spot where I’d wait for the sun to set, but his voice quickly came back into focus as the words, “I’m hoping I’ll see him again tonight” rolled off his tongue.  I simultaneously realized we were both jockeying to fish the same water.

“You fish this area often?” He asked.

“I used to spend a lot of time here before we moved to New York three years ago. This is my first time back. Some great hatches on this stretch earlier in the year, especially the Iso’s”
“An Iso is what that big brown last night finally took!” He interrupted
“No kidding? Yeah, I’ve seen some great hatches along this stretch. I always used to sit on that cedar tree right there.” I said as I pointed over his right shoulder.

Well, I better head downstream. I’m parked about a mile down, or so. Where are you planning to fish?”

I knew he was lying for two reasons. The first being that there were no cars between us and M-72. The other being the way he looked at the log on the opposite side of the bank when he said it.

“I’m heading another 50 yards upstream, why don’t you fish here and see if that big brown comes out again?” I said.
“You sure?” He asked.
“Yeah!” I said, trying to sound genuine and altruistic all at the same time.
“Alright then! I’ll just go sit on your cedar tree and wait for him to come back out!”
“Good luck!” I said as I started to wade towards the bend.
“You, too! Hey, what was your name again?” He asked
“Alex, Alex Cerveniak”
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Alex.”
“Nice to meet you too, uhh, what was your name?” I asked.
“George” He said.
“Nice to meet you George, maybe we’ll bump into one another again someday. Hopefully I’ll hear your drag peeling out when you hook that brown tonight.”

I could hear him whispering “Alex from Gaylord” to himself as I waded around the bend.  Just as I made it to the top of the riffle above the bend pool, the shallow water started to noisily riot around my boots.  A good fish rose just as I turned to look back at him sitting on my tree, but George was gone.