He was older than the rest of us college guys. His last name was Miller, I never knew his first name, and we called him Lurski. Standing less than six feet tall and not being a threat to squash any scales that might get caught under his feet, his slight build bent more towards wiriness rather than bulk.

Lurski had "adopted" a friend of mine named Ed and his brother Fronch, whose real name was Frank, but that is another matter. My association with Lurski arose out of my friendship with Ed and his brother.

The tie that bound us together was a love of trout fishing and drinking a beer or two in celebration of the fact that, while fishing, we were not in school, or in Lurski's case, at work. He was a draftsman for a local steel fabricating firm, but that was only a sidelight. His main purpose in life was to pursue brook trout, and he was a master at his craft.

The first time that I fished with him was on Opening Day in 1964. This hallowed Last Saturday in April found a group of us camped along the Big Manistee River east of Grayling, Michigan. We had driven up in two cars. Ed's "Lena", a ‘57 Chevy of dubious reputation, carried Ed, Fronch and I. Lurski's ‘53 Chevy which he had dubbed "The Speckled Beauty", brought him and Tom. Tom was the intellectual of the group, which meant that he had actually read the required reading in college literature classes rather gleaning what he could from Cliff's Notes, like the rest of us. He was also a forestry major which, to me at least, seemed an odd pursuit for an intellect.

We camped along the Big Manistee River north of Cameron Bridge.

The weather that Friday evening, before the magic of Opening Day, was almost balmy, at least for late April. A gentle southwesterly breeze promised a warm night. As the sun settled across the river, silhouetting lone pine trees in exclamation points of deepening shadows, the five of us settled into a well rehearsed camp routine. A supply of firewood, consisting of old pine stumps from the long ago lumber era, was gathered and stacked within easy reach of the firepit. Tents had been pitched and sleep bags unrolled. Clothes duffels had been safely stored inside the tents . A cooler of iced beer was close at hand and ready for use. Back in those days it was Pabst Blue Ribbon, usually referred to as PBR. There wouldn't be any drunkenness however. The morning would bring more important adventures and we would need a clear head.

We talked over that campfire. Regaling each other with tales of our fishing prowess. Humorous derision and loud guffaws interrupted the telling of boisterous fishing tales. As we chatted each of us readied our fishing gear. None of us had much money, except maybe Lurski, but then he was married and had two children. Ed, Fronch, Tom and I were college students and each of us had to scrape together the money for the trip. At least Lurski had a regular income that was far more substantial than our meager earnings.

As I recall, Opening Day dawned cloudy and warm. The conditions were perfect for fishing. In the predawn darkness each of us dressed, donned our waders, trout jackets and gathered our rods and other gear and began to make our way along the stream. Fronch took Ed's car a few miles farther upstream to test those waters. Ed was close to his Lena and she to him. That blue and white Chevy seemed almost human at times. Fronch, being a brother of Ed, was accepted by Lena as part of the family and she seemed to accept his guiding hand with only a mild reluctance, so away he drove.

Ed planned on fishing the area downstream from the campsite while Lurski and I headed upstream. He had fished this river before and knew of some deeper runs underneath overhanging cedar trees. The undercut banks, with channels tunneled out among the roots of the cedar trees by the river's current, harbored a mixture of brown and brook trout. The brookies were what Lurski was after. He thought I needed some help and advice fishing the river, as it was all new to me so, I was allowed to tag along. It was very unusual for me to fish with a partner on Opening Day, but Lurski's stories about the honey holes in this stream and his prowess at dredging out the trout hidden in the deeper recesses of water drew me like a magnet.

We made our way in the dark along a faint trail that paralleled the stream, cutting across the river's bends to shorten the walk and saving time. In short order my guide turned left, and wound his way through the tag alders. Being more diminutive in size and knowing where he was going, Lurski had no trouble maneuvering through the brush. My six foot three inches didn't allow me the same luxury. I stumbled frequently over unseen deadfalls and roots, muttering "bad words" as I went.

In short order we stood on the river's edge. It was still dark, but the unmistakable sounds of the current gurgling over unseen rocks and tree debris quickened my heart.

We were at the river's edge. The skies were cloudy and the air was warm. The air smelled of fish, or at least it seemed to.

We would be using nightcrawlers for bait and each of us were well supplied, storing our wriggling worms in bait boxes which adorned our midsection with a belt. Baiting his hook Lurski, who could see catlike in the dark, cast his offering into the deepening run at the head of that first bend in the river. My eyes, not being able to decipher the mass of brush alongside of over the stream, I hung back for a time and watched.

"There's a hit", Lurski murmured, almost as if to himself. A quick snap of the rod and the fish was one. It proved to be a brown trout of about ten inches in length. With a quick unhooking, the fish was promptly returned to the water.

I wanted to wait until the dawn began to grey a bit, offering some light so I lit a cigarette and watched my partner fish. Working his way slowly upstream he continued to catch trout, all small browns, and returned them all. It was still too dark for the brook trout, his favored fish, to be active.

As time inched along the gathering light began to etch the surrounding trees and brush into almost recognizable shapes. It was time for me to get into action so I doused my cigarette and moved off upstream to fish the next bend.

Hiphopping around each other. Lurski and I continued to fish upstream, always staying within sight of one another and bantering back and forth. The brown trout were cooperative. They weren't large, but plentiful. I kept several that were over ten inches, but my guide continued to return his fish. We had fished for two hours like this and nary a brook trout between us. This seemed to distress Lurski and his mutterings became more frequent.

Lurski was a bit ahead of me, having just moved around my position. He was just below a point where the stream narrowed considerably. The tag alders from each shore almost touched in midstream and the current quickened as it flowed downstream through a run of unknown depth. The spot literally screamed, "Trout reside here!". Lurski's first cast brought an immediate take. His rod snapped back with the hookset and the fish was on. It was no lunker by any means and in short order my friend brought the fish to net. His shout of, "Yahoo, it's about time." Told me that he had finally landed a cherished brook trout.

I had never fished with him before and Ed had warned me an odd quirk in our friend. He demurred when I asked him for more detail. "You'll find out.", was all that he would tell me.

I was about to find out.

I moved down to his side and Lurski proudly held his fish out for me to see. It was indeed a brook trout of about nine inches in length. "I thought I'd never catch one this morning because the browns have really been on the prowl.", he said. With that, and even before unhooking the fish, Lurski held it up and bit the fish directly behind the head. He sank his teeth deep into the flesh.

Me eyes opened wide! This was a new one to me.

A broad smile broke upon his face and he laughed aloud. It seems that an uncle of his, long deceased, loved brook trout and also bit into his first brookie of the fishing season as an offshoot from a traditional ritual back in Poland from whence he had emigrated back in 1909. He could give me no more details, nor did I inquire further.

We continued to fish and we were successful. That brook trout was the only one that we caught. The rest of the fish were brown trout going between 8 and 15 inches. It was that lone brook trout that made the trip truly memorable.

This wasn't the only time that Lurski ventured into the outrageous. Perhaps a more telling tale took place the following winter. It was on of those late January Sunday afternoons. I was at Ed's house and we had planned on taking our girlfriends for an afternoon drive out in the country. The snow was too deep right then for much rabbit hunting and the ice fishing was in the midwinter doldrums, so an afternoon with the girls seemed like a good idea.

Shortly before Ed and I left his house in his trusted Lena to go pick up the girls, Lurski drove up in his ‘53 Chevy, "The Speckled Beauty". His boisterous greeting, "Yahoo", told of his presence even before he turned the corner of the house and headed towards the back door.

"What's going on?", he inquired.

"We're just leaving to go pick up the girls and go out for a ride in the country.", I informed him.

Lurski, always a man for ideas, thought that this would be a load of fun and offered to drive. Ed and I, felt that it was about time that Kathy and Sue finally met our good buddy, agreed. So, after picking up the young ladies at their respective homes, we were off for our drive.

The day was sunny and a fresh snow that had fallen the previous evening draped the landscape in uncounted sparkles. Lurski headed the Chevy northward towards familiar territory west of Cedar Springs. Along the way he regaled the girls with ever more outrageous tales of life from another viewpoint.

This included a treatise on phlagelance. Of course, Lursky being Lursky he would never use any such $5 words and merely make reference to farting. While driving along a back road, probably Little Pine Island Rd. which ran north and towards the Rogue River, someone in the car farted. No noise was forthcoming, but a definite change in air quality signaled the event.

"Who farted?, Lursky asked.

"Is anyone going to claim that fart?" His odd request puzzled the girls, but Ed and I, having experienced the man for a few years understood where he was coming from.

"You know", he continued, "That's a fine fart and it needs to be claimed." Seeing the growing embarrassment in the girls Lursky warmed to the task.

"That's a fart of high quality and needs to be claimed." By this time neither Ed nor I could hold ourselves together and we began to laugh. The girls followed suit, enjoying this bit of tawdry talk.

Lursky continued his monologue. "Okay, if no one is going to take credit, I will. There are laws ya know. It violates every sacred credo of farting to let a nose raiser such as this to go unclaimed. If you don't mind, I'll claim it." His words were directed at the Kathy and Sue and by now he was pleading for permission to incorporate this, by now, legendary fart into his lexicon of farts to remember.

"A good fart cleans out the lower digestive system and prevents acne.", he went on. Where the idea of phlagelistic endeavors being an acne cure came from I have no idea, but there it was.

In his uproariously funny manner, Lurski put his stamp of ownership on the, by now, air depleted fart. Kathy and Sue were, by now, holding their sides and tears were dripping from their laughing eyes. They were not offended, having sound possession of a sense of humor. Both of them had known Ed and I long enough to understand that we had some rather unusual friends.

It was about this time that we found ourselves on a rather deserted stretch of roadway near the Rogue River. Lurski wanted to take a look at the river as it wound its way through the snow covered bottom lands. With the sunny skies he figured there might be some fish feeding in the shallow feeding channels that lay along the road.

The five of us piled out of the car and walked to the river's edge which was right next to the roadway. Of course we all tried to impress the ladies as to what we were doing and why, none of which really sank in, but they were attentive and feigned interest, which was nice.

It was here that Lurski outdid himself with innovative ideas.

"You know, I've always wondered what a bullet hole looked like in a car." Where his mind came up with these ideas only he knows, and maybe even he has no clue. The more he talked about it, the more we realized that the idea had been spinning around in his head for quite some time. "You know how they shoot up a car in the movies, I always thought that was cool."

The girls' eyes were getting wider as he continued.

"One bullet hole wouldn't hurt The Beauty. I think it'd be kinda neat, give her a mark of distinction." he said.

With that Lurski brushed past the four of us heading for the trunk of the car. Opening the trunk with an ever ready screwdriver, the trunk lock had been removed so a key was useless, our excited buddy pulled out a .22 caliber rifle. It was a single shot model of nondescript features that he always carried in the trunk.

The girls were now in a state of semi-shock, albeit a very humorous state of shock. They couldn't believe what they were seeing. Ed and I of course, knowing Lurski well, understood that he intended to shoot his car.

Loading the single shot bolt action rifle, Lurski, by now getting excited himself, mused over the best place to shoot his beloved Beauty. "I think through the panel between the back door windows and the rear window would be best, don't you.", he asked. Laughing at the thought of a bullet hole through the care, Ed and I agreed. Once the man had his mind made up, and he obviously did, it would have been useless to disagree.

Gathering together alongside Lurski, the four of us waited and watched. The girls, getting into the spirit of the event, were giggling and laughing and offering their advice. Lurski pretended to listen, but he knew what he wanted to do, how to do it and where.

Bringing the rifle to his shoulder, he again checked the area on the other side of the car for any danger. Only trees and brush lay on the other side of the road. Taking careful aim, and with a sly smile on his face he squeezed the trigger. The "Pop" of the diminutive .22 reported and quickly faded into the distance. All of us rushed the few feet to the car to observe the results. Indeed, there it was, a bullet hole. The lead had gone clean through both sides of The Beauty. The shot was perfect.

"Nice shot Lurski", I said, through wales of laughter from the five of us. "You are amazing."

Except when catching brook trout, I had never seen Lurski so happy. His car now carried a true beauty mark and she wore it proudly.

The tales of Lurski could go on. As my college education progressed, I saw him less and less. After moving from Grand Rapids to Kalamazoo and Western Michigan University all contact was lost. Ed would see him now and then as he remained in Grand Rapids. My connection with Ed also faded.

It was a few years later that I ran into Ed again while fishing the Grand River in front of the 6th St. Dam. We greeted each other as old friends do when they've lost touch with each other, shared some stories, and laughed. I asked him if he ever saw Lurski anymore. Ed's eyes dropped a bit before he raised them and said, "He's gone. Last summer he had a cerebral hemorrhage and died."

The shock tore through me in a shudder. Ed didn't go into the details of Lurski's passing. There was no need to. We were young and thoughts of dying were far away and we wanted to keep them there.

He was a fine fisherman, that Lurski was. I'm sure that even now he is driving his "Speckled Beauty" around someplace in search of brook trout. She always starts, never leaves him stranded, and wears her bullet hole proudly as do all fishcars wear their beauty marks.