Steeped in Americana tradition, opening day signifies the endless possibilities a new fishing season has to offer, and puts to bed the limitations the winter doldrums imposes; in with the new and out with the dusty confines of the old. Albeit regulations and closed waters are necessary and our obligation as stewards to the blue waters in which we wade, that should be without saying, but opening day means that the new waters we have spent the winter dreaming about, can now become a reality. It is time to step up to the line, go to the waters edge, and pursue those lofty dreams.
In some way Bob Weir’s lyrics summed it up the best when he sang ” the race is on and it looks like heartache, and the winner loses all…” fitting words for the times when brush-busting through a mosquito-pricker filled swamp in search of the holy grail and finding someone else had the same idea.
Opening day has a different and personal meaning for each of us; the one thread we have in common is that it is the end of anticipation and based in the ritual of getting out, than having a stellar day catching fish. To some it means satisfying the pent up urge to go to the water-because they haven’t been to the water since fall closure, or perhaps work-if you have a guide service, and to others it means the act getting together at the camp or cabin. Past and present, the meaning of opening day for me has been about getting together with friends or family. The early season trips with by brother or friends into the Minnesota bush where lake trout and large post-spawn northerns feed in the shallows with reckless abandon, or the many seasons at Chad’s place on an unnamed Michigan river-John Voelker waxed lyrical about this particular tightedged , brookie-filled, cedar lined water. This year it was about making notches in the cribbage board, Marilyns coffee cake, an extra nip of late night scotch, tying a last minute rendition of an old pattern, and an entry into the history books-the year I caught the big one.
This opening weekend was spent with my nephew Nater-Potater on the upper Manistee and later a branch of the Boardman; his first opening day with a fly rod in hand. The first hour of the afternoon was spent fine tuning his presentation, rehearsing on the water tactics, and stealth; which he fell into it like old hat from a previous trip we took to the Appalachian’s. After a few hours of fishing apart, I paused to sit on the river bank and observe from a distance. Unaware of my presence, I watched him work the water with tight little casts, effortlessly move to a new position, and with timeless grace cast to a fallen log. The moment the caddis touched the water, a Brook Trout raised from the log and nabbed his fly. Like a perfect moment handed from the ethos, I watched as he set the hook and with inherent sense, reel in a beautiful opening day brookie.