The trip usually starts around 2 in the morning – earlier if Jeff has his fish Nazi way – and takes a toll on everyone involved.  But during the moment you never think about your lack of sleep, or worn limbs – you only think of the gratification that can come from a trip such as this.

After riding in the warm truck for a few hours, it’s hard to muster the courage to leave the sanctity of the vehicle, purposely open the door, and invite the bitter cold in……especially at 5 in the morning.  But we do it.  Many layers are worn underneath our breathable waders, and you better make sure you have some damn good socks on because 30 degree water tends to take its toll on feet; before you know it, they’re more like solid stumps then they are appendages used for walking.

With gear packed, backpack cinched up tight, and fly rod in hand we make our way down the snow-covered path to the place where the silverheads roam: the Pere Marquette river – which has scenery made for a National Geographic nature special, and is one of the main reasons for going head-to-head with the frigid temps.

After a few minutes of listening to the crunch of snow under your wading boots, and the feel of the arctic blast against your face, you finally arrive at the river.  Here you are rewarded with the sound of tranquility:  the constant lapping of water against rock….against wood….against gravel; the sound of water traversing its way to the big lake, providing a needed method of transportation and seclusion for the spawning that is about to begin; providing a hiding place for steelhead.

As the minutes pass by, the dark mysterious form of the river slowly becomes visible and reveals its true beauty.  Fly rods are in-hand, casts begin to be made, and anticipation begins to mount.  Every cast could be the one, and each of us strives to make this cast the cast.  Any frustration that settles in immediately begins to fade as the rising sun begins to reveal the dark forms making their way upstream into the shallow abyss located in front of you.  The day is truly starting to take shape, and any thoughts of cold……or sleep…..or lack thereof, are gone; the only thoughts pertain to the fish, the cast, the moment, and what needs to be done to capture it and keep it forever.

Finally, after clearing eyelets of ice for the 40th time, and after about 100 casts, it happens: one of the silverheads take your offering and explode to the surface to rid themselves of it.  Breaking the surface of the water, the burst is spectacular, and the fight is instantly intense.  Fishing line begins to rip downstream, frozen fingers fumble to adjust your drag, and the fight is definitely intense.

With the fight out of the fish, the net touches the winter stream, and one of the purposes for being there is in the net.  Pictures are taken, high fives and congratulations are given, and cold is the last thing on the anglers mind.  The hooks are removed, and today’s quarry is placed back in its rightful home – back in the peaceful stream, in the middle of the wild forest, in the middle of a perfectly wild place……in the middle of a small piece of heaven.

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