Beyond the official property, the Black snaked through boreal forest. Matt could hurl a rock east and it would cross the stream four times. In some cases, only a few feet of earth separated the stream. These slower sections contained mounds of sand (known as boot-eaters) and thicker mats of algae. But most of the river up here in the highlands was gravel and slate. A half-mile upstream a series of waterfalls cascaded over grooved slate, framed by jack pine and hemlock. The river followed a series of steps and a thirty-foot drop-sheet before sluicing into a wide pool contained within angular cuts of gray and black slate. This was Matt and his father’s swimming hole and bathtub. Fat brook trout finned in the clear depths, although Matt had noticed a decrease in their numbers over the years. He often observed them six feet down, pressing right up against the rock shelf where it met the gravel bottom. The skill required to catch one of these taunting trout was beyond reasonable acquisition. They scattered when a fly line was cast upon the pool, no matter how careful. A fisherman had to approach from upstream, standing on the thirty foot slate sheet and spooling out line, letting the current take the fly to pool’s edges.

Upstream from the falls the river narrowed, bullied into chutes by fantastic slate formations. Higher up than even that the river disappeared into a tangle of alder, and beyond that the mist-shrouded bog and cliffs of the Hurons. Matt always figured this portion held the biggest fish, but no one dared push back into that jungle. Black flies were a nuisance in this part of the U.P. thanks to the moisture from Lake Superior and all the standing water. Mosquitoes were almost as bad. These obstacles, when combined with spiders in the alders, made exploring the upper river a challenge.

All was not well for the Black, however. Matt had noticed sediment piling up on the streambed where it hadn’t been years previous. The bigger fish were few and far between these days. The water had also grown warmer to the touch. Jumping into the pool had always been a heart-exploding experience no matter the time of year. The past few seasons it was not the freezing head rush it used to be. Submerged boulders that had once been slime free now donned a thick, mucus-like substance. He’d heard reports of climate change affecting the U.P. moose and thought the same thing may be affecting his beloved river. Visitors had also noticed the evening frog choruses growing weaker and inconsistent.