The Dowagiac River originates somewhere north of Dowagiac, Michigan. It starts as a creek and winds south over Pucker Street dam and into the St. Joseph watershed. It is a scrubby stream from what I have discovered of it, not much like the pure waters of the Muskegon, Pere Marquette, or Au-Sable to its north..

Having grown up learning to fly-fish on the Muskegon River I am tempted to think of how good I had it as a youngster.

If I close my eyes I can still feel the anticipation as I turn off of Pine Street onto a two-track in my boxy, 1984 Volvo 240 to a favorite spot called Charmical Flats. I can remember each step down a high ridge to the place where the sky clears and the glistening flats lay open in front of me. I can feel the swarm of the cinnamon caddis while wading cautiously away from the bank tying on a #18. I can feel the pressure of the water closing around my canvas waders and the cool temperature of the superb trout habitat. I can feel the warmth of the late evening sun on the back of my neck. I can hear the hiss of my fly line as I lay out my presentation to the wild rainbows below the surface. I can feel the breeze and see the caddis-flies bouncing on the surface around me. The anticipation has built moment upon moment. Then it happens, in a flash my fly-line goes from a drag-free drift to a tight arch bending through the guides of my six weight. On the end a silvery rainbow trout tries to dance away. I can feel the energy of the beautiful creation as I slide my hand over her gills. She is cool and very clean as she bursts from my hands back into the current.

Yes, I can’t help but think about the privilege of learning to fish on such a wonderful river, but the Dowagiac is now my home water. It is the closest water to me that holds the finest of all fish species; trout, therefor I love it too.

I spent five hours exploring a quarter mile stretch on Monday. Taking mental note of holes, runs and undercuts. Toward dusk my line was taught with the weight of a nice brown. Holding him in my hands admiring the beauty of the fading brown and red halos I realized there is something mystical about holding a wild trout in your hands. There is a relationship, one of respect. One that recognizes man has just proven his top spot in creations chain, and one that shows he had to work hard to make it happen. As he twitched and raced back to the far side of the small stream the Dowagiac felt a little more like my river.