It is topwater time. Magic time.

I am standing on the shore of Hall Lake in the Yankee Springs Recreational Area, casting my trusty tan-and-white Pop-R into the mirror-smooth water.

In a scattering of small boats, a handful of other fishermen are similarly engaged across the lake. A boat is nice, but on this mellow evening, shore fishing will do just fine for me.

I make a cast, watching the lure as it arcs through the air and splashes down, rippling the mercury-like surface. My fishing line settles down after it, tracing a hair-thin trail over the water. I wait a few seconds, enough time for any nearby bass to make a first play, them begin my retrieve, twitching my pole the way one does with this kind of lure—twitch, sploot!…twitch, sploot!…

If ever there is a time when I’m likely to get a strike, it is now. I do well with topwater fishing, “well” meaning, in my case, that from time to time I actually catch a fish. Other kinds of lures just don’t produce for me. I know, because I own every conceivable kind of lure there is. People mistake my tackle box for a pole barn with a handle on top. Look inside it and you’ll find a galaxy of stickbaits, spinnerbaits, plastic worms and grubs, lures of every size and denomination, all sharing one common characteristic: they repel fish lips. At least, they do in my hands.

My fishing buddy Jack refers to my fishing technique as “dredging.” I find his terminology lacking in refinement. I prefer to think of what I do as “un-fishing.” During most hours of the day, un-fishing is my customary practice, one I have honed to an art form.

But at topwater time, I fish.

Hmmm…the Pop-R isn’t producing. Might be time to try something different. A crankbait, maybe? I try one, make a few casts…mmmph. Nothing.

Okay, a Jitterbug. Yes, time for a Jitterbug, definitely. Topwater time isn’t complete without using one. And, what the heck—let’s just take off the shoes and socks, and gain some yardage out of the fact that I’m wearing shorts.

I wade out into the lake, out to where the water is above my knees. After a few casts, I feel something bump into my leg and something else tickle the top of my right foot. Looks like I have visitors. Small fish are showing up, evidently to investigate the new source of cover that has entered their territory.

Ignoring them, I continue to cast. Time passes. The sun slips below the treeline. The boats are coming in.

The mosquitoes are coming in as well, and they’re setting up drilling operations on my skin as freely as if they’d been granted mineral rights. It’s time to leave. There will be other topwater times this summer, hopefully many of them.

With its abundance of lakes and rivers, Michigan brims with both fish and opportunities to catch them. And topwater time is the great equalizer, when anyone can eventually catch a fish who wants to—even an un-fisherman like me.

Whip…swiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiisssshhhh…splash!

My white jitterbug hits the water.

It is my first cast of 2008. I begin reeling in, taking my time, enjoying the wobble, the bubbling splash of the lure; hoping for a strike but not holding my breath. If you’re me, you never hold your breath waiting for a fish to hit. You’d die of asphyxiation. Still, one can hope. Hoping is a harmless pastime, and we all need harmless pastimes, particularly me when I’m waiting for a strike.

Whip…swiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiisssshhhhh…splash!

My second cast lands near the lily pads. I’m standing on the east bank of the Flat River in Lowell, a couple hundred yards up from the famous Showboat, casting toward the middle of the river. My Shimano Stradic spins out the Spiderwire like it’s made of silk and greased with the nose oil of a butterfly. My setup makes it easy for me to cast 100 feet—and since I don’t catch fish, I go for distance.

Feels good. Yep, feels good to finally chuck a lure out into the water. And this time of day, half an hour before sundown, is the time for topwater fishing, my favorite.

I make a few more casts with the Jitterbug, then switch to a speckled brown Pop-R. I change lures the way a fashion model changes shoes. If a lure doesn’t work after a few minutes of casting…on to the next. I’m impulsive and unscientific in this respect, being guided mainly by one simple bit of logic: if I’m not catching fish with the lure I’m using, I’ll move on to the next lure and not catch fish with it. That way, all my favorite lures get a chance to not catch fish.

This little Pop-R here, though, has one of the better track records among my lures. I toss it out into the river, let it sit a few seconds, then give it a twitch. Sploot! Reel in a little line…twitch again…sploot! And so it goes till I’ve retrieved the lure.

Where to cast next? Hmmm…think I’ll try over there.

Whip…swiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiisssshhhhh…splash!…WHAM!

Huh? A bass has just hit my lure! I jerk my pole upward to set the hook—there’s nothing elegant about my technique—but my reflexes are too slow, and the bass is gone. He never really took the lure in the first place.

But that’s okay. I didn’t come out here this evening with high expectations. I’ve just wanted to finally inaugurate my 2008 fishing season. Fishing isn’t all about fish anyway, not for me. It’s also about a lovely sunset casting melon- and butter-colored reflections on the water. It’s about the feel of the summer air, and the dance of pearl and indigo wavelets, and the wink of lights flickering on along the shoreline like gems in a glittering necklace as twilight deepens into night.

Michigan is blessed with an abundance of water. It’s a sportsman’s paradise and a fisherman’s dream—a place where even a guy like me, endowed with a wealth of fishing ignorance, has his moments. And the moments are good ones, the stuff of memories, good indeed.