John Pepin

“It’s often said that life is strange, yeah, but compared to what?” — Steve Forbert

During the early days of my youth, the last-Saturday-in-April opening day of trout season quickly became something I looked forward to as much as Christmastime.

My birthday falls on April 9 and by that time each spring, I was waiting anxiously for all the snow to be gone so my brother and I could get outside to pick nightcrawlers in our backyard.

We’d grip an old coffee can and a flashlight in one hand to free up our other hand for reaching and snatching worms seen lying across the dirt or grass. Once exposed to the light, the nightcrawlers would pull back swiftly into their hiding holes.

Rainy nights were the best as the worms would come out of the ground to avoid drowning. They were easier to catch then, which meant plenty of nightcrawlers for us to use as brook trout bait, but also enough for us to sell.

We kept the worms in an old boiler pan with a wood-framed expandable window screen placed over the top. We used Buss worm bedding or moss to cover the garden dirt we put the nightcrawlers in.

I painted wording on an old piece of 1-by-4 advertising nightcrawlers for sale for 35 cents a dozen. My dad let us nail the sign up to the front of the house, just above the flagpole.

That was all it took to attract customers, who would knock on our front door, prompting my mom to yell for us wherever we were.

We would use the money we got for fishing tackle or candy treats at the newsstand or dime store downtown. Our record picking session totaled 25 dozen worms on a single rainy night.

Like Christmas Eve, it would be almost impossible for me to sleep on the night before the trout opener. Often before it was even light outside, I would be gathering my fishing rod, hooks, sinkers and measuring tape to slip inside my wicker creel that had once been my dad’s when he was a boy.

I’d then fill my aluminum belt-held worm container. I was ready.

We would ride our bikes to creeks not far from our old mining company house.

In the western Upper Peninsula where we grew up, most any creek had brook trout in it, and we became good at catching them. Fish we were going to take home and eat were hung through the mouth and gills on a stick for easy carrying.

Before my brother, who is four years younger than I am, was born, I remember following my dad through the tall, yellow-green grasses and hawkweed behind my grandmother’s house to fish a little creek that my dad could easily step across.

My grandmother lived within sight of the gates to one of the iron mines in a town occupied by only a few hundred people, but equipped with a grocery store, gas station, church and a post office.

These days, my brother and I are separated by geography and an international border. He lives in Canada, while I live in the town where we grew up. We haven’t fished a trout opener together in more than 50 years.

Instead, I try to get outside to at least wet a line with a fishing buddy of mine who I have been fishing with for more than a decade. We used to work together as newspapermen.

This year, with conflicting schedules, we had to wait until the day after the trout opener to get out fishing. We met at our usual place, a little country store at the edge of a series of small lakes that dot the countryside.

Both of us are born creek fishermen, who love the taste of brook trout.

After driving to one of our favorite haunts, we found the creek was flooded many times over its banks with spring runoff. We took casts, but it was difficult in the strong current to even get our worms or spinners to sink very deep into the water column, even with sinkers.

We sought out smaller waters in the headwaters of other creeks but found similar conditions. At a few places, we did stop to cast but we didn’t get any bites.

As is usually the case for us, we were just happy to be out enjoying the sunshine, the fresh air and the wildlife. The conversation was good, too. It seemed like it had been years, not months, since we had done this.

We saw a belted kingfisher near one of the creeks and broad-winged hawks floating on thermals. We heard male spring peepers singing from a pond and we found a mourning cloak butterfly. A big doe and a couple ruffed grouse moved across the dirt road in front of us.

After a few hours, we completed a long circular route, which took us across a wide range of countryside types, including farmlands, riparian areas, wetlands, forests and fields. We also passed numerous camps, side roads and logging sites.

Back at the meeting place, we split up for the day.

I didn’t know the best part of the day for me was yet to come.

On my drive home, I was almost into the little mining community where my grandmother lived, when I approached a bridge over the creek I used to fish with my dad.

Two young boys with fishing poles were walking along the stream as I passed. The younger and more diminutive of the two boys had a smile on his face as he walked.

The older boy and taller boy, presumably the other boy’s brother, carried his fishing rod in one hand. In the other hand was a stick with a brook trout hung on it.

It was an immediate return to those days of my youth, as though I was looking at me and my brother out fishing — doing what we loved to do so much. They looked so much like us, they could have been us.

I felt my entire chest lift and expand, and a great swelling of emotion.

In a matter of a few short seconds, I was transported to a different space and time many, many years ago. I felt shocked and overwhelmed.

It was an experience I never expected.

I wanted to pull over to stop and talk with the boys and make further connection.

But then I reconsidered.

I wondered if doing that wouldn’t ruin the moment and pop the bubble of fascination that was swirling all around me.

Besides, I know my brother and I would have thought it was weird if some “old” man had approached us while we were fishing, babbling on about his brother and how he used to fish for brookies, too.

So instead I kept driving.

My mind was racing and the silence in the Jeep was resounding.

I kept thinking about how I had never had an experience like this before, one so clear, direct, relevant and poignant. It was like one of those dreams that when you wake up, it feels like those events had occurred in real life.

Over the past few days since this happened, I have thought many times about this brief sequence in time.

I still feel kind of confused by the whole event. I’ve been trying to attach some type of greater meaning to the circumstance, given the impact it had made on me.

I haven’t been able to do that.

However, what I have concluded is that I am very grateful and humbled to have been given the opportunity to pass by those two young anglers at that exact moment, to have this experience.

Life is indeed strange.

Outdoors North is a weekly column produced by the Michigan Department of Natural Resources on a wide range of topics important to those who enjoy and appreciate Michigan’s world-class natural resources of the Upper Peninsula.