Two Hearted

There’s nothing but dust in the rearview as I navigate this sandy Jeep trail looking for the turnoff. I’d opted for what my cell phone GPS told me was the fastest route, and maybe it would have been on an ATV, but these sandy, washed out, unmarked two-tracks and a bad map keep turning me around. My phone has no service and the gas needle creeps closer to empty.

A wet spring following an exceptionally snowy winter has left massive puddles across many of the roads, as well as high water levels across the entire Great Lakes region. In my truck I may have tried to plow through some of these puddles, but I’m not in my truck. Fearing that my 25-year-old Ford pickup wouldn’t be able to make the cross-country journey, my mother in law generously insisted that I take her Lexus. But now I’m terrified of fucking up her vehicle which is so much nicer than mine.

At times I can see Lake Superior shimmering in the distance through the charred remnants of trees that burnt in a 20,000-acre fire here back in 2012, when I still lived in the U.P.

I first showed up on the north coast of Michigan a dozen years ago, hauling my meager possessions in my Cherokee, a few hundred bucks in the glove box. I was starting grad school at Northern Michigan University in a few days, and I had a pressing need to find a job and an apartment ASAP.

It didn’t take me long to fall in love with the place, and with this greatest of lakes. And I vowed to myself that the U.P. would be my home forever. When I took a job in Utah, I knew that it wouldn’t be long before I’d make my way back to northern Michigan. But that was before I met Amy, before I bought a cabin in the mountains and built a new life. Now, a bumper sticker on the wall of my barn in Utah proclaims, “My heart is in da U.P. but my ass is stuck right here.”

Despite my love for the Upper Peninsula, I’ve never been to the part of the U.P. that I’m headed. The U.P. that I loved and called home is 100 miles west of here along the Superior coast in Marquette. I’ve spent the last two nights camped there, visiting old friends I haven’t seen in several years and the places that made me want to spend the rest of my life there. Like any trip back, it felt rushed, trying to fit in as many of the old haunts as possible rather than having the time to really enjoy them.

I’d planned to leave there early this morning, but I got a late start after having breakfast with friends and casting for trout with a couple of them into the afternoon. It felt strange and melancholic leaving there so soon.

But I’ve wanted to fish the Two Hearted ever since I read Hemingway’s, “Big Two Hearted River,” in college, and this was my chance. The Hemingway story, too, oddly starts with the burned out remains of this U.P landscape.

That lake I see through the trees holds a great amount of significance to me, but I just can’t seem to find the road that will take me to it. I’m tempted to turn around, to turn onto a road I’d passed twenty miles back that would put me somewhere further upstream on the Two Hearted, but for some reason I’ve made it my mission to reach the mouth tonight—I just want to lay eyes on it, and then I can decide where to camp.

Then I find it, the actual road leading to the mouth, and a main dirt road I realize would have been my best bet for getting here from Seney in the first place.

A campground at the river mouth is marked prominently and bustles with people, which makes me feel somewhat ashamed for having gotten so turned around and on the verge of lost. I park and take my first look at the river. It runs deep and mellow, clear enough to see the stones at the bottom but stained a deep tobacco brown.

It parallels the lakeshore for a quarter mile or so, separated from the lake by a peninsula of dunes, before dumping into the lake which appears brilliant blue from here. I cross the river on a footbridge and walk out to the end of the peninsula where the Two Hearted finally seeps into Superior

by Colin Clancy

THREE WEEKS AGO, I MARRIED THE LOVE OF MY LIFE, AND NOW I’M TWO THOUSAND MILES AWAY, SPEEDING SOLO IN HER MOM’S CAR THROUGH MICHIGAN’S UPPER PENINSULA. AMY’S BACK IN UTAH WITH OUR DOGS, AND I’M BOUND FOR THE MOUTH OF THE TWO HEARTED RIVER WHERE IT DUMPS INTO LAKE SUPERIOR, HOPING TO FIND A PLACE TO CAMP WHILE THERE’S STILL A BIT OF LIGHT LEFT FOR SOME FISHING.

I’m tempted to set up camp here and string up my fly rod. It’s an idyllic location for it. But then I look back to the campground that’s full of people, and pets, and tents, and fifth wheels, and I know this is not quite what I’m looking for. It’s hard to leave this perfect campground and venture back into the unknown, but I’m willing to trade the immediacy of fishing here for the possibility of solitude.

I’d looked up another DNR campground on the river further inland, and I opt to head there. I pass through the burnt-out wasteland into thick forest that seems more like the U.P. that I know and love so much. It feels good to be cruising on this main dirt road with my Greg Brown CD on repeat like it’s been most of the time during this road trip.

I arrive at the Reed and Green DNR campground at in the golden evening light. I’m so glad that I moved on from the mouth, because this campground is exactly what I wanted—deep in the woods backing up to the river, with plenty of solace. Of the dozen campsites, only one is taken. I pull into the site furthest from the other campers.

Unlike Hemingway’s Nick Adams, I opt not to set up camp first but, instead, gear up to fish. The river is tannin stained brown but is quite clear. It runs calm and quiet, cutting deep through the clay soil, the river bottom sandy. Huge white pines tower overhead, mirrored in the glass-smooth, ink-dark water.

Birds sing like crazy as I navigate the thick brush and steep clay banks to try to find a decent spot to cast. It turns out there aren’t many. With no fish rising, I roll cast nymphs for twenty minutes before moving on to find another spot.

A quarter mile upstream I come upon the couple staying in the other campsite spin casting from a beachy section of bank, a steelhead on a stringer next to their cooler. I move past them, excited by this. I’d heard the steelhead were still running but being late May I wasn’t sure whether to believe it or not. I cast streamers until dark without success, but the new possibility of both brookies and steelhead—and two full days of endless fishing possibilities ahead—enlivens me.

I get back to the campsite with a powerful hunger and quickly set up my tent and a cot outside it. I get a fire going, pour myself a whiskey—a leftover bottle from the wedding— and heat up a can of spaghetti mixed with beans, a Nick Adams favorite.

I’ve been on this solo road trip for a week now and have been checking in with Amy a couple of times a day, but I warned her this afternoon that I’d likely not have phone service here. This will be the first night of our young marriage when I’m not able to at least text her goodnight, and I hope she’s not worried.

And I feel a bit lonesome, not in a bad way. It’s strange to be here, alone in the Upper Peninsula woods that I love without my wife. It still feels odd to think about that phrase, my wife. I look forward to seeing her several days from now at the airport near my parents’ house, 400 miles south of here, where I’ll pick her up on the way to celebrate my little sister’s wedding.

But before that, I have three nights to spend here in the Northwoods, and I intend to savor them. I doze on the cot, under the stars to the constant croaking of frogs, until the fire is out, and I retire to the tent.

The gentle patter of rain against nylon wakes me. I get up to make coffee and decide to drive around a bit to fish the river at a different spot. I’d always wanted to explore this part of the U.P. but never got the chance before I took the job that brought me out west.

Everywhere I go is tough wading, bushwhacking through thick brush and trees and navigating the steep clay banks. The forest dictates where I can cast, only to certain spots and not necessarily the ones that likely hold fish. It leaves so much water out there, unreachable.

At times it’s a total shit show. It feels like I’m constantly tangled, losing so many flies in tight trees and on submerged logs. The water itself is slow, mellow, and meandering. It would be a lot of fun fishing by boat, but I’m not on a boat kind of budget.

There have been no fish rising and no bites. Despite the difficulties, my spirits are still high as I debate streamers or nymphs, usually going with streamers with the thought that it’ll leave my chances open for both brookies and steelhead.

The rain continues to fall through the jack pine, white pine, and cedar, landing onto the forest floor of pine needles, ferns, and moss. This pleasant all-day rain just seems so fitting to the Upper Peninsula. The damp pine forest gives off my favorite smell, like a Christmas tree lot. And the place feels alive, too, with constant movement of birds, chipmunks, squirrels, and frogs.

Early in the afternoon I decide to find a place to gas up and get lunch. My attempt to get to Grand Marais is thwarted by a flooded washboard road, and I’m truly worried about running out of gas when I finally pull up to a rec fuel pump next to a tavern in Pine Stump Junction. Gassed up, dried out, and with a whiskey and burger in me, I head to High Bridge on the recommendation of a local angler.

The bottom here is rocky and the river full of riffles, with some more room along the banks to find places to cast. Despite the more promising conditions, the afternoon and evening produce more of the same with no fish rising anywhere and no action.

I cast and cast and wade and cast and work my way through a backpack of Faygo Red Pops and Two Hearted Ales. The cold rain becomes heavier and constant, and eventually I’m soaked even through my old Gore Tex jacket.

But still, I fish past dark, past when it’s too dark to see what I’m doing. In the rain, I hope that my next cast is the one, but it never is.

The rain keeps up all night, and in the morning I realize that my 20-year-old tent is no longer waterproof. I’m cold and wet, and all so is all my stuff.

I make coffee and drive south, heading for the Fox River 40 miles from here. No Hemingway-inspired U.P. fishing trip would be complete without a few casts into the Fox. Hemingway’s own fishing trips, and the

inspiration for his Nick Adams fishing tale, took place on the Fox, but he chose to name the piece after the Two Hearted instead due to the poetry of the more northern river’s name. It may be the literary history but is more likely my utter lack of fish on the Two Hearted, that make me eager to get to the Fox to try something different.

The rain lets up on my drive down, and the sun even peeks out a bit, but the Fox turns out to be just as difficult to fish as the Two Hearted. The riverbanks are incredibly thick and tough to access, not to mention that the mosquitoes here are atrocious.

Then I find a nice deserted campground on a winding stretch of river where the banks have been cleared for good casting. I fish here a while with no success, but it warms up a bit and there are a few bugs coming off the water.

I head into town for lunch and a beer, considering sticking around this evening to fish the campground stretch in hopes of a

hatch. At the bar the locals talk about the fish not biting because the water’s so high. I win $17 at Keno, which I take to be a good omen, and I head back to the deserted Fox campground with high hopes.

I sit on the bank and light the last of our wedding cigars, a Fuente Hemingway, and contemplate this last evening in the U.P. I feel no rush to get into the river, just waiting in hopes that the trout will start rising. The cigar keeps these early season mosquitoes at bay for the time being while I string up my spare rod as well so that I can switch between nymphs and streamers easily.

But the fishing, or the fisherman, does not improve. The mosquitoes descend in swarms. I try to ignore them, and I do for a while, but they become horrific I can’t stand it. When I make the decision to leave, I can’t get away fast enough.

I hightail it back to the Two Hearted, and as I drive north, I feel pretty damned discouraged. I question my choices. No fish. No bites. No rises. I speed, knowing that I have to hurry if I want to have a decent amount of fishing time left.

I get back to the Two Hearted at Reed and Green bridge an hour before sunset, my last night in the Upper Peninsula for who knows how long. I cast both rods—midges and nymphs, wet flies and dries, San Juan worms and scuds, wooly buggers in black, olive, and pink—just trying for anything with no signs of life. I’m fully aware that I’d be better off getting in more casts with one fly than wasting valuable time switching them out without rhyme or reason, but I’ve convinced myself that if I just found the right fly, matched a non-existent hatch, the fish would bite.

I question the decisions I’ve made since arriving at the river two nights ago. I’ve spent too much time driving around, too much time exploring—valuable fishing time wasted looking for places to fish. I desperately want to catch something, anything, as if landing

even one fish, even having one hooked for a moment, would give this trip some meaning that it doesn’t yet have.

Sunset comes and goes, and it’s that last magic twenty minutes before dark when things come alive. Fish start rising, splashing around me. Some are small, but some are big. And for the life of me I can’t get any of them to take anything. I’m frantically tying on different dry flies and making a few casts with each to see if I can get anything to take, but nothing does.

I keep casting as it gets darker and darker and the water becomes ink black, though still tannin brown where my headlamp’s beam penetrates it. The headlamp is now necessary for tying on new flies. Finally, once the night becomes pure darkness, I tie on a mouse pattern.

As I tie on the mouse, I know that I am beat, that the mouse will not conjure up some giant brookie from the depths. The mouse is my Hail Mary pass. It’s my half-court shot. It’s my three-dollar bet at the five-dollar blackjack table because they’ll let you play the last of your money even if you don’t have enough left to make the minimum.

Maybe it was stupid to come here in May. I could have come here in June, when the hatches are more prominent and the water levels lower. I could have come here in August for some hopper action. I could have done some research. I could have spent more time here, too. Surely I could have milked another day from my schedule, shortened the Marquette leg of my trip or planned to show up at my parents’ house a day later. Yeah, I had three nights, but really only two days of fishing when you think about it.

Maybe it was stupid to come here at all, to ascribe to the Two Hearted some kind of meaning, to expect some kind of Hemingwayesque, trout-on-every-cast bounty. Stupid to think that a solo trip back to the Upper Peninsula would give me some all-time fishing just because I want it to, because I miss the place every day, because I’ve slapped to the wall of my barn some bullshit sticker about my heart being in da U.P. Back at camp, I have a hell of a time getting a fire started with wet kindling, but once it’s going I get it raging. With the pouring rain yesterday I didn’t have a fire, so I have a whole lot of wood to burn up. I pour a drink that I don’t drink, lay down on my cot, and fall asleep with the fire’s intense heat warming me entirely.

In the morning I make coffee, quickly tear down camp, and drive back to the mouth of the Two Hearted. As I pass through the giant burn scar, I see plenty of young regrowth that I hadn’t noticed the other day. The campground is dead compared to two days ago. I calculate how much time I have to fish before I have to hit the road—a couple hours at best.

This spot is gorgeous and so is the day, sunny with a chilly but pleasant breeze blowing down from Canada. I wade out where the teacolored Two-Hearted bleeds into the endless pristine water of Superior. I cast streamers all around the mouth until my shoulder aches.

The breeze picks up—wind knots galore. I’m still skunked and there’s an impending need to get on the road. But I cast until it’s too windy to do so and I know that I am done. I sit down on a driftwood log and contemplate the long drive home. I long to be with my wife.

Whitecaps now crash across the lake, a constant roar of them. I pull off my waders and strip down to my shorts and walk out into Superior. The water is frigid, and I nearly turn back. But, instead, I dive in headfirst. The moment of immersion is one of pure shock where for an instant it feels as if the heart has stopped. Silence.

I make a long breaststroke. It’s been six days since I last showered, so in this dunking I feel clean, but it’s more than that. I swim one more stroke, feeling the pull of water against my arms. My chest skims the bottom as I open my eyes.

Gin clear water, sand, and rock.