The saga of Frenchman’s Pond

John Voelker (Robert Traver) signs a copy of one of his trout fishing books.

Snow-covered trees and gusty breezes greeted the dawn, and sporadic flakes fell as the John Deere snow blower threw the snow into a nearby field. Cleaning my driveway of five inches of mushy snow gave me nearly three hours of uninterrupted time to think.

One thought came to mind. It was from a 1984 trip to the Upper Peninsula to fish the legendary Frenchman’s Pond with famous author John Voelker who wrote under the pseudonym of Robert Traver. I was eager to get to the pond, and had realized a personal dream that had been gnawing at me for many years.

Fishing “Frenchman’s Pond”; with Johnny Voelker was a longtime wish.

“The more you want something, the more you anticipate it,” Voelker said, sensing my impatience as we stopped to pick blueberries, chantrelle mushrooms and black raspberries. “That means Frenchman’s Pond will be a bigger thrill once we finally get there.”

We eventually slid down what passes for a trail to his secluded cabin on the pond. The two-track leading into it was a mix of boulders, corduroy trails, rocks and sand. His battered old fish car was bouncing from side to side as he tried to keep it between the trees.

Frenchman’s Pond glittered like a rare jewel amid a sea of cedar and spruce. Here and there a brook trout rose to an unseen insect, and my dream of visiting this hallowed water had become a reality.

It was like coming home after a long absence. I was speechless with the pond’s beauty, and Voelker wisely stood by quietly and allowed me to absorb the rare mood of the moment without interruption.

Frenchman’s Pond was Voelker’s private retreat. He had owned it for over 30 years when I first visited it over 25 years ago. It’s location is a closely-guarded secret, and the brookies are as shy and reclusive as the owner is to many people. We had traded letters, and I had interviewed him on several occasions, and it took a few years before the fishing invitation came.

John Voelker, a/k/a Robert Traver, delicately drops a dry fly on Frenchman’s Pond.

He knew I wanted to fish it, but by nature, he didn’t trust many people that lived below the bridge, and like it or not, I had to measure up. What his standards were for admittance to the pond were unspoken. Therefore the invitation to fish came as a huge and unexpected surprise.

“Why don’t you c’mon up and fish Frenchman’s Pond with me?” he asked one day. “The trout are notoriously camera-shy, but we may be able to hook one or two.”

An invite to fish the pond was like a special request to dine with the Pope or Queen Mum. It wasn’t something to ignore or refuse. To do so would have sealed my fate and kept me away for all time.

One didn’t ignore an invitation to Traver’s famous wild brook trout pond.

I was full of questions. Would the trout rise? Which flies and sizes produced best? Any tips on fishing the pond?

“Chances are good we won’t catch a fish,” he said. “And if we do get lucky or skillful, as you fishing writers are wont to say, the brookies will probably be small and take only tiny dry flies.

“Fish a long leader tapered down to 5X or 6X, and try No. 18, 20 or 22 flies. We don’t land many fish on such light tackle, but it sure is fun when we do.”

We fished from casting platforms built around the pond, and I changed flies frequently. Brookies rose whenever the sun went behind a cloud but only one came to my fly. It missed or I missed, and that was that. I figured the old Judge had educated most of them.

Voelker had several rises to his tiny flies but failed to hook up. We crouched low on the platforms to reduce our silhouette, made adequate presentations but the trout weren’t impressed.

“That’s what I like about brook trout,” Voelker said over a ritualistic sundowner of bourbon Manhattans during our U.P. cribbage championship game. “Brook trout are not impressed with who or what you are, or how much money you have, but they are responsive at times to a gentle and quiet approach.”

All of this happened many years ago but our time spent together is permanently etched in my brain.

It’s been well over 25 years since that trip, and it’s been many years since his death, but I returned two more times by written invitation to fish with the old master. I would never go back even though I know where the pond nestles like a rare diamond in a green forest.

John Voelker fished around his last bend many years ago, and one day I may report what he told me about the frailties of old age and death’s looming presence.

For now, on a warmer and snowy day, I’m satisfied with remembering this man of letters, writer of vibrant books on trout fishing, and masterful novels such as Anatomy Of A Murder. He taught me a valuable lesson that day, and it’s one I occasionally pass on to others.

Fishing For The Little Speckled Beauties

My several experiences fishing Frenchman’s Pond with the late John Voelker, a.k.a. Robert Traver, taught me many things about fishing for brook trout.

The Bard of Frenchman’s Pond always believed in a calm and delicate fly presentation, and he believed these great game fish respond best to a cautious and delicate approach.

I think of the old Judge often, especially when fishing a back-of-beyond beaver pond where getting to the thing is two-thirds of the battle. The other third revolves around finding a receptive taker. Some beaver ponds are sterile.

One man’s thoughts on brook trout

Voelker once wrote that the environs where brook trout are found are invariably beautiful but much of what man has created is not, and if Judge Voelker was right about anything, it was his thoughts that Man could screw up a one-car parade.

Brook trout fishing is occasionally too easy which is why gluttons and other fools who would take a limit of fish today, return to do the same spot tomorrow, and clean up what is left on the third day, should never fish such waters because it is inherently wrong. As wrong as it is, many fishermen subscribe to the theory that if the trout are there, they are meant to be caught.

Such thinking has sounded the death knell for many once-thriving beaver ponds and small streams. The fish simply are too gullible in tiny waters to pass up any chance for a meal.

Show me a beaver pond that holds brook trout, and if the word is spread around, it no longer will be a beautiful, unsullied, fish-producing piece of wonderful water. Sadly, many people subscribe to the “Me first” attitude where the first person in to a pond deserves the spoils. It reminds me of Genghis Khan’s philosophy of rape and pillage.

Hide-outs for fishing cars

I’ve been known to park my car two miles away and hike in to a beaver pond to hide its identity and location. I once fished a tiny pond that produced some 14-inch bookies, and the hiding place for my car was between two huge white pines where the boughs obscured my vehicle. I was never found in that location.

Many little jump-across creeks that flow out of a cedar swamp are destroyed; if not by human pressure, than by the worm containers and beer cans or bottles people leave behind. Such things weigh much less when carried out empty than when carried in full.

An early start

I began fishing brook trout at a tender age of 11 on some tiny Michigan streams. I began by using bait, and garden hackle threaded onto a hook with one split-shot above, was all it took to catch trout in those long-ago days.

It’s all that is needed to catch brookies today. The bad thing is that under-size brook trout love worms, and they will swallow the bait. Easily two-thirds of the fish caught on live bait are killed before they reach legal size.

These days, if the area being fished is too confined for fly fishing, I’ll use a number 0 Mepps Aglia spinner. Two of the three hooks are cut off, and far fewer fish are hooked too deep. A treble hook simply requires too much time to remove without killing the fish.

Beaver ponds are like rare jewels that sparkle in the distance when glimpsed through heavy conifers. They are generally small and very fragile ecosystems, where the removal of too many trout will cause it to decline into a silt and marl-bottomed pond with no redeeming features.

Some of the best brook trout fishing I’ve had came on the land of a friend’s friend. The man never invited anyone in to fish except my buddy, and he would run others off with threats of calling the police.

Bribing the gatekeeper

My buddy knew that his friend had a fondness for strong drink, and whenever we showed up, a pint of whiskey would change hands. He’d make some excuse to his wife about why we were fishing the pond, and our fishing trips usually began at dark.

We’d carry in our fly rods, waders, swim fins and a belly boat. Wading the edges of that pond was a death trap. We would set off into the darkness, sitting in the belly boat, and cast flies here and there along shore. My friend usually caught the largest fish because he concentrated on the deepest water near the beaver dam.

On occasion, we would speak to each other, but for the most part we silently fished in the dark. Most of those brookies were at least 10 inches long, and we caught a few 16-inchers. We would keep one or two of the smaller fish — if we kept any at all — and fished that pond only once or twice a year. The pond went out in a spring freshet when snow melt and heavy rain washed out the dam.

Beaver ponds are like that. They survive between being washed out, and once they are gone, the brook trout go with them. It’s while they are vibrant and still alive that they can be the things of which anglers dream of but seldom find.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors