You Can’t Make a Living
Memories of Fly Fishing and Hunting in Michigan Bob Bolton
I would like to dedicate this book to my wife Marsha and my daughters Lydia and Claudia. Their generosity and understanding allowed me the time to experience these pages
There are places I remember. Like memories of foggy mornings camping along the bank of a trout stream. The sound of a sassy red squirrel drives me out of a nice warm sleeping bag to breathe in the smell of morning. Some memories are so vivid I can feel the sun on my back and see the stream flow over golden stones next to sandy beige tail water where a baby rainbow waits for something good to pass. Memories come easiest early in the morning. It starts in that tiny little space between asleep and awake. The sun is peeping through the blinds, my wife beside me fast asleep and the dogs are sound asleep at our feet, not yet feeling the urge for their morning constitutional. Memories of so many places. This is one of the things that separates us from every other form of life I guess. The fact we can go back and relive that which we enjoyed before – and sometimes imagine things which haven’t even been yet. I’m lying here and at the same time I am on the Main Branch of the AuSable River. It is eight o’clock on a marvelous June evening. I tie on a Rusty’s Spinner, find a nice log near the middle of the stream that just fits my butt, light up a smoke, and wait. I only smoke when I fish. “Keeps the mosquitoes away,” the old Master had once told me, but truth is I just enjoy a good smoke. A small boy, say 4 years old, comes out of the cabin across the stream. “Whatcha doing mister?”
“Waiting.” “What for?” “Flies.” “Don’t bother the fisherman, honey.” Momma’s voice as she comes out of the cabin to shoo her son in for the night. “Got to go mister. Hope you catch some flies, nite!” “Nite, tadpole.” The sun slowly slips below the top of the pines as they change color from green to black. In...