John Pepin

“When she’s walking by the river or the railway line, she can still hear him whisper, ‘Let’s go down to the waterline,'” – Mark Knopfler

It’s a warm, summery day today – just like so many I remember from years ago.

When I was a kid, there was a place my parents used to take us to fish. It was downstream from a reservoir, where there were panfish and trout.

My dad used to like putting a big, juicy nightcrawler on his hook and throwing the line out as far as he could, using a bobber to help gauge the interest of the fish.

This place I am referring to, near an old steel-railed bridge, was suited quite well for this type of fishing. The water flow was so still you could scarcely tell it was moving.

The water was also deep, and there were numerous at least partially submerged logs that provided great cover for the fish to hide under.

We weren’t interested in keeping any of the panfish, which included sunfish and yellow perch, or the occasional bullhead. My folks only kept trout.

The sunfish and perch were numerous, and ready to squabble with each other to be the first to get to the worms we were dangling, drifting or dropping through the water column.

They would attack the bait worms aggressively, sometimes getting hooked within only a few seconds after a worm had hit the water.

Other fish would strike the worm almost simultaneously, tearing it apart from both ends and the sides. This would often strip or bare the hook in no time.

These attacks were so voracious that sometimes we could see pieces of the worm that fell from the hook sinking to the bottom, looking like a sauceless Beef-a-Roni noodle.

The pieces of the worms would then suddenly disappear as a fish grabbed them deep into the dark and shadowy water.

The shoreline at this place was covered in shattered pieces of slate. These jagged rocks, some of them very thin and flat, made good candidates for rock skipping, which was typically done by us kids once the fishing was over for the night.

I recall taking a break from fishing on one outing. I sat on a rock at the shoreline staring into the water. I saw something moving across the bottom of the river in shallow water.

I recognized the creature moving as a crayfish. It was somewhat smaller in size, as crayfish go, and was brown and orange colored overall. Others I caught had some turquoise coloring.

I discovered that the crayfish would use their claws to grab ahold of a worm if they had the chance. Once I dropped a couple of worms down to the crayfish on the river bottom, more began to gather.

They would also square-off against each other in skirmishes that were largely crayfish claw fights. Sometimes, we would see evidence of tough fights where the crayfish would lose one or both claws.

The river on the downstream side of the bridge looked similar, with the rim of the water body dotted with modest camps or homes. For some reason, we cast our fishing lines on the upstream side of the bridge only.

One of my best memories of this place was fishing here when I was in high school. I caught a rather large and yellowy brown trout from one of the corners of the water on an autumn afternoon.

Fallen leaves topped the water and moved like sailboats pushed by the wind from here to there. I caught the fish on a nightcrawler, and it fought hard.

I also recall fishing here because of the snags and broken fishing lines caused by hooking into those submerged logs. We wanted to cast near the logs to take advantage of the fish hiding there, but not close enough to get snagged on the stumps, branches or trunks of the trees underwater.

A good deal farther upstream, I recall a warm summer evening when me and a friend walked through the tall grass that was growing under a set of power lines.

We carefully negotiated a steep embankment down to the river. There, we fished some more deliberate waters flowing from the dam down toward the bridge.

This was a great place for catching rainbow trout on worms. I remember the 8-track tape I was playing in my car that night was Eagles’ “Greatest Hits 1971-75,” a favorite of mine back in those times.

I remember playing that same tape and Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Gold” while doing dishes in the kitchen back at home. That must have been the same summer.

Above the hydroelectric dam, the reservoir was popular with anglers, but more so with those who had boats to get out farther into the basin. We fished at the boating access site a few times, but I don’t remember catching anything.

My best memories from this place don’t involve fishing. Instead, they are about coming here in the fall when the dirt road to the boat launch, and another behind a locked gate, were covered in mostly yellow-gold maple leaves.

The Queen of Shebis and I walked from the boat launch to the metal gate through the woods one evening several years ago.

The water on the basin was calm and still. There were fallen autumn leaves lying across the surface of the water amid truckloads of driftwood that had floating into a back corner of the water.

I had my camera with me and took pictures of the queen, as well as the beautiful golden woodlands that formed an ornate and gilded roof over our heads that we walked under. It was a divine occasion I won’t forget.

The road behind the gate leads to the dam. We used to fish the waters downstream from the outflow for rainbow trout. The farther downstream, the better the fishing was in this area. I only remember catching one small perch close to the dam outflow.

This place is located upstream from the power line. I have no idea if there are trout in these waters anymore. A big washout more than two decades ago diminished fish populations.

I have other fall remembrances of the northern hardwood forests along this watercourse. Back downstream, the steel bridge is a place well-known for enjoying the colors of autumn.

It can be a great place for quiet reflection, if you’re fortunate enough to be there alone.

I recall driving and riding across this bridge many times before the road was shut down here in favor of a higher bridge and new section of roadway built nearby.

The old steel bridge was brought to Michigan from Pennsylvania and reconstructed in 1921. The river and the old bridge themselves are as much of a quaint photo and viewing attraction as the colored leaves.

One of the last times I visited the bridge, I walked down to the water over the slate that still covers the shoreline. I looked for the crayfish. I didn’t see any, but I did find one crayfish arm with a claw on the end of it, lying on the bottom of the river.

There were fishing lines with bobbers, hooks and some with lures attached, tangled over the power lines here, just like back when I came here as a child.

There’s a dirt road from this old bridge through the hardwoods, above the river, that leads to another boat launch. This one is also popular with anglers looking for access to the bigger waters here downstream.

The last time I was here, it was a few years ago in the wintertime.

I came here to take a hike on a frosty morning. I took pictures of the bridge with ice formed over the water and the whole Christmas-card-like scene.

I was alone and no one else was there. It was a crisp and gorgeous morning.

There was another summer day that I remember from this river, farther downstream from this bridge. There’s an even older bridge perched high above the water’s surface. This one is for railroad use.

I went there for the first time with a friend, another railroad fan like me. I took pictures there too and we marveled at the rail-less span positioned about 100 feet above. The bridge is over 500 feet long and is still used today.

I deeply appreciate living in an area with historic features around me to learn about and better understand. I also love the advantage of having nature so close at hand to visit whenever time allows – and sometimes when it doesn’t.

I’m tied tightly to the land and waters here. Even when I leave this earth, I know I’ll carry memories of this place wherever I go.

John Pepin is the deputy public information officer for the Michigan Department of Natural Resources. 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. Send correspondence to pepinj@michigan.gov or 1990 U.S. 41 South, Marquette, Mich., 49855.