A mayfly landed upon the rim
Of my Tilley hat near the brink of the brim
And it rested there while I mowed the lawn
And it made me think of days, now gone
Of fly fishing, of the line and the flies
The anticipation of the hoped-for rise
Of a fish, of a trout, now the take and the tug
as I stand in the midst of the stream’s cool hug
between lush banks of the far north land
Where I stop to give thanks for the place where I stand
For the fish and the stream as clear as glass
Oh, I’d rather be there than mowing the grass.
Two weekends ago on a foot bridge over the East Branch of the AuSable I stood with my 5 year old grandson Michael as he held a split bamboo fly rod and let a small fly dangle downstream. A brook trout took the fly and Michael reeled it in, his very first trout ever. His second trout came a couple casts later.
By David W.
Do you have an Up North story, poem, anecdote, lyric? Did a ghost visit you at your campfire? Did Bigfoot stare at you through the brush?
Tell us about it!