Trout Creek, MI: Further Adventures in the Upper Peninsula

Nice U.P. brookie on a dry fly

Randy Berndt: THE U.P. Fly Angler

Behind the bar at Upchuck's:  Just when you thought you had run out of uses for old chainsaws.

IT WAS THE CHAINSAW behind the bar that struck my attention.  Inside Upchuck’s Bar in Kenton, Michigan, the décor consisted of mounted deer heads, hockey posters, and dark wood paneling straight from the 1960’s.  The chainsaw was a vintage two-man McColloch large enough to be repurposed as an apparel rack.  Hanging from the yellow and silver beast were t-shirts and fleece jackets with the official Upchuck’s logo. 

My fishing partner Randy Berndt and I were taking a break from an early-morning bushwhacking hike to a remote stream where we had pounded brookies on dry flies and worked up a thirst and an appetite.

We pulled into Kenton and bellied up to the bar for beers and burgers.  As we waited on the bartender to take our order, Randy saw me staring at the McColloch.

                “Owner’s been offered $2,500 dollars for the saw,” Randy said.  “As you can see, he didn’t take it.”

                “Don’t blame him,” I said.  “It really adds to the ambience.”

                This classy establishment beckoned because I was on my annual fly-fishing tour.  I had finished teaching my two five-week classes at the local college and with a few weeks off I pointed my pickup north with my sights on Michigan to fish with a dear friend, Randy Berndt.  Randy splits time teaching in Wisconsin and guiding in the Upper Peninsula where he operates the U.P. Fly Angler. 

                Catching native fish in an untouched environment and taking in some local culture can sometimes work wonders.  The bartender placed a Keweenaw Pick Axe Blond ale on a waterlogged coaster.  Tasting the local brews always adds to the experience.  This beer was good and cold.

                It was summer in the U.P., but there were no bikini-clad throngs or beaches nearby, making me wonder if the town is more active during warmer weather or during the winter months where several feet of snow bank the roadsides.  A couple bikers on Harleys were among the patrons.  It was easy to tell these guys from the locals.  Bet Upchuck’s didn’t get many tourists in January unless you counted deer hunters.  

                Three years had ensued since I had visited the Ottawa National Forest, 90,000 acres of one of the most spectacular wildernesses in America and home to an untold number of creeks and tributaries of the Ontonagon River system.  This area is Randy Berndt’s wheelhouse and he has a pulse on every trickle of water in the forest.  Because the area is so remote and often requires long hikes through almost impenetrable vegetation to get to the good places meant that we had seen no other anglers in two days.  We had some of the last, best trout water in North America to ourselves.  Randy and I scarfed down burgers and Ruebens, killed the remnants of our second beers and headed out. 

                Two days earlier, I met Randy at his home in Wittenberg, Wisconsin to begin a trip we had been planning for three seasons.  Randy and I struck up a friendship in grad school at Montana State in Bozeman where we spent more time on the Gallatin River than we did in class.  Unlike many friendships that fade away after you leave school, ours has blossomed over the years and includes reciprocating periodic visits to fly fish.  Three years ago, Randy started “living the dream,” and quit his day job teaching high school to become a fly fishing guide.  This is my second trip to the U.P. and one thing is obvious, Randy has grown as an angler and a human being.  He is simply an amazing guy. 

I followed Randy from Wittenberg to the U.P., a two-hour drive and stopped in Watersmeet, Michigan for a license. 

On the outskirts of Trout Creek, Michigan is a winding road marked by a sign that reads The U.P. Fly Angler.  Navigating a gravel road through a field of timothy waiting to be cut for hay in the fall and a copse of aspen and birch.  I view a neat collection of cabins built and maintained by Randy.  This camp would be my home for the next three days.  I backed my truck in front of the guest cabin, dropped my gear in the room.  I cracked open a couple of celebratory beers from the Yeti in the back of my truck, handed one to Randy and we began plotting our strategy of how best to fish the Ontonagon over the next two days.

                After a late-night campfire and many more beers.  I walked in the cool night air to my room.  I flipped on my headlamp, unpacked a book from my backpack and crawled into my sleeping bag I had placed on the top bunk of a three-bed arrangement.  Even though, I had driven 1144 miles to get there and it was well after midnight, I was still wired about the fishing the next day.  The book, I felt, would wind me down.  The silence of the room was deafening, literally.  I have never been to such a quiet place in my life, so a little music was in order.  I turned on the Bluetooth speaker and flipped through my iPhone for a playlist.  I crawled into my sleeping bag and read by the lamp strapped to my head with an eclectic mix of music in my ears.  Sleep came quickly.

                The cabin was toasty, but by morning, the temperature was forty-nine degrees, giving my deep-south-July-acclimated-body a shock as I walked across camp to the bathroom.  Randy prepared coffee and breakfast in his cabin as the sun began to shine on the aspens outside.  After breakfast, I pulled on a Simms Cold Weather flannel shirt, which is actually a jacket before putting on my waders.  Had it been possible to do so while remaining in my sleeping bag, I would have.

                Breakfast and dressing completed, Randy and I loaded our gear into his truck and followed a grid of paved and suspect, washboard gravel Forest Service Roads to our first destination.  The stretch of river Randy had in mind is accessible only by way of an extensive bushwhacking hike through some of the most magnificent scenery imaginable.  After ducking beneath low-limbed trees and wading through waist deep fern forests, the river beckoned.  It was breathtaking, but still a bit high and off-color due to a large rain event that had dumped several inches of rain in the area a couple days earlier.  The water, although a bit high, was still magnificent.  Randy studied the conditions and rigged up two different rods for us to fish, a stimulator with a nymph dropper and a small woolly bugger.  We walked into the nearest easy access from the wooded bank and slid into the water.  Water trickled between my boots from an area of soft water which led to a riffle around the bend as I cast the stimulator into the pool.

                Thimbleberries and moose tracks lined the trails and banks that led downstream.  Swapping my stimulator rig for the woolly bugger, I worked the pools and eddies of the flowing current.  Accustomed to bigger rivers and swinging currents, I found myself completely inept at hooking up.  The fish were there, but my sets came too late. 

                A half-mile down the river, I was back to the stimulator.  A large splash bruised the top fly and I finally had something to the net.  Randy reached in to the net and pulled out a nice colored-up brookie with bright, fully-intact fins.  This fish was wild.  We took some photos and slid the trout back into the water, watching it fin over the rocky shallows until it mustered the strength to head back into the current.

                Continuing downstream to our last destination of the morning, We caught rainbows and brookies all along the way.  Finally, with the knowledge only an experience wilderness guide has, Randy hopped out of the water miles away from where we entered.  We bushwhacked our way through a winding maze of thimbleberry, fern and virgin white pine until we finally made it back to the Forest Service road which led to the truck.  I was sweating under my flannel shirt and stripped it off with a vengeance as I peeled out of my waders and boots. 

“Better to have too many clothes than not enough,” Randy said.  I agreed as the noon sun warmed my soaking T-shirt and downed a bottle of water. 

“I’ve got to work on my streamer technique,” I said.  “You make it look easy.”

“All about rod position,” Randy said.  “Nice morning on the dry flies for you, though.  Love to watch you fish.”

I guess no matter where we are as anglers, we can always learn something new.  Randy’s knowledge and skill far exceed mine, but it’s nice to know he can learn something from me as well. 

                The afternoon and entire next day were spent exploring remote areas not fished since the last time Randy fished them, where I lost count how many we brought to net.  Of course, I blew it when a big fish came tight, but figured they could wait until next visit.  No beaches and bikinis in this neck of the woods, but that’s a good thing.  It keeps the tourists away.  Randy and I have already marked our calendars for next year’s reunion.  I can’t wait.