Looking at the stretch of Michigan's Jordan River I was wading, it was tough to believe it was teeming with wild brook trout. The shallow, ultraclear flow wasn't very wide. It was fully lit by the August sun, and there wasn't a dark hidey-hole in sight. Here and there, a few branches lay clumped together on the sandy bottom, creating meager eddies and slight depressions. I could see every leaf on the riverbed, but I hadn't seen—or spooked—a single trout. So when my first cast of a beetle behind a midriver stick was met with the sip of a brookie that seemed to materialize out of the ether, I was shocked. Holding the tiny fish in my hand, marveling at its ruby spots and amber fins, I realized that a wild brookie's ability to camouflage itself is uncanny, and that I don't chase them nearly enough.