The first time I saw a spring was the first time I fished with my friend Erick Johnson. He brought me to his favorite bend on a famous northern Michigan river, where he showed me a muddy depression covered in pine needles. He swept them aside to reveal a small dark pool of cold, clear water, watercress-framed, into which he sank a pair of stubby Coors bottles. Later, after a decent spinnerfall and a few good trout at last light, we drank those numbingly-cold beers on the bank, listening to the fish, still rising in the dark.
Protecting California's Medicine Lake Highlands
by Tom Hazelton - Tuesday, Oct 1st, 2024