An Afternoon of Fishing

Summer in mid-Michigan when the living is easy

Red Cedar River as it passes through Williamston

As a fishing spot, this stretch of the Red Cedar River which borders McCormick Park in Williamston, is not ‘hot’—at least not on the few occasions I’ve cast a line out onto its waters. But it’s convenient, being only a few blocks from where I live, and has the added benefit of being scenic.

On a recent late afternoon, having felt the urge to fish, I assembled my gear—fishing pole, bucket, a few worms… some replacement hooks and an extra bobber, plus (most important of all) a folding deck chair—and put them in the back of the vehicle. Properly equipped, I then drove over to the parking lot next to the river and carried the gear and chair to a spot on the bank. After settling in the chair, I put a worm on the hook and, just like that, I was fishing.

While my casts were satisfactory and the current took the line slowly downstream, the worm attracted little interest. I had a few bites but couldn’t manage to set the hook. My guess—based on past experience—was that the bluegill doing the nibbling was small and unable to open its mouth wide enough to swallow the bait. Lucky him, although I’d have certainly tossed him back into the river had I been fortunate enough to catch him.

To the west of where I was fishing is a deck that juts out several feet into the river. It has a wooden floor and rails, but on three of the sides is wire mesh, installed there presumably to keep people, notably youngsters, from accidently falling into the water.

This deck connects to the walking path that winds in circular fashion around the park and is a favorite place for strollers to pause and look down at the river. On occasion I’ve seen young boys fishing from it—fulfilling its main purpose. I tried fishing there once, and might do so again, but I prefer quieter spots with less traffic.

At the entrance of the deck is a sign that lists the various fish that allegedly can be found in the Red Cedar. It includes a picture and the name of each of them. I have no reason to doubt the accuracy of this information. I happened to be strolling by when a young fellow, fishing from the deck, hooked a pike—one of those on the list. I paused and anxiously watched as he reeled it in, only to see the monster break loose, leaving this still innocent angler with a combination of adrenaline rush and anguish. I know how he felt since this happened to me once, many years ago, while fishing on the Boardman River south of Traverse City. I, too, almost landed a ‘big’ one.

I’m sure that there are also Rock Bass and Largemouth Bass lurking somewhere (as indicated), and a few Back Crappies, too. I certainly believe the less desirable fish, namely carp, suckers and bullheads also call this river home. I would be delighted to land a bass and even happy to catch any of those less desirable ones. Still, I believe my best chance of success at this spot, during these dog days of summer, can be found with the reliable bluegill.

While I study the bobber for movement, I enjoy the ambiance of the setting—my consolation for this lack of action. The tall, leafy shade trees and the brush crowded underneath them are resplendent in their different hues of greens. They form a thick wall of cover along the opposite shore, stretching eastward to the point where the river begins to bend.

They give the appearance that the area across the river is a wild place. But it’s an illusion. I know all too well that dozens of residential homes along with the school buildings and grounds lie behind them. Still a little pretend is not all bad.

The illusion is easily dispelled when I look to the west where a few homes rest atop the high slopes, their lawns descending down the edge of the shore. Still further, not all that far away, is the bridge with its steady stream of passing traffic. And behind me, beyond the park, is St. Mary’s Catholic Church.

Human presence on this day is all too near. But no matter. I am not looking for a wild place, only a locale close-to-home.

As I study the bobber, I am lulled by the river’s surface. Thanks to the slant of the afternoon sun, it has turned into a mirror. The scenery from the opposite shore is reflected in the water. Only the red-and-white plastic globe, attached to my fishing line, and the gradual movement of the current, mar the duplication of these images.

Also to the west of where I’m sitting, on my side of the river, is a buffer of native grasses and flowering plants that have been planted. Many of the latter are in full bloom, including what appear to be Black-eyed Susans.

A sign, explaining the purpose of the buffer, notes that these grasses and plants are able to thrive even with the periodical flooding that occurs. Buto of more importance, it seems, this strip of land prevents the resident Canada geese from leaving the river to wander on to the lawn of the park and, in doing so, litter it with their droppings.

The sign also requests that people not stroll in the buffer and, by doing so, injure the vegetation. I can see that, as with other such requests of being cautious, not everyone honors these common-sense rules. Still, most do.

After a couple of hours, I decide to return home. While I haven’t any bluegills to clean, time spent holding a fishing pole is rarely wasted. There’s always plenty to see and much to think about, those details and contemplations providing the ingredients for another ‘fishing’ story.

Note: This story dates back to 2017 but could have been written yesterday or eight years earlier than it was. Fishing, with all that can accompany this act of leisure, has a timeless quality. As does sitting on a riverbank, taking it easy on a warm July afternoon in mid-Michigan. I went fishing earlier this spring, sitting in the same spot. While the green foliage was not as lush, the rest of the details were the same. And my outing had the same result—no fish caught. Fortunately, my grandson Andrew had more success where he casts his pole and generously supplied his grandmother and I with some of the surplus. So a fish fry and no messy cleaning. Can’t beat that ending.

Steve Horton is a mid-Michigan journalist.