From a weary world of blue-black skies and gathering darkness, I stood alone in the woods along the riverbank.

There hadn’t been much happening in any real sense as I walked the narrow angler’s trail, casting and reeling, hoping for a bite on my bait.

Other than a handful of fish too small for a big frying pan, there wasn’t much fishing action, except for one quick moment.

Now here’s a thing that I have noticed while fishing that makes trout and salmon certainly among the smartest fish anywhere, even while they are potentially about to be caught.

They seem to know exactly when to bite, and that is when I am least ready for them to do so. It usually comes, as it did tonight, when I have grown complacent with fish not biting.

Then, distracted by a bird song or a pretty flower or the like, I look away from my spinner or the shadowy place where my bait hugs the bottom of the gravelly creek bed.

At that very instant is when the fish decides to bite – often hard and quick.

Often, by the time I get to say “Oh, *#%!” and refocus my brain on the primary activity at hand, the fish has often spit out the hook and is already gone.

Sometimes I catch them, but more often in these circumstances, they get off the line freely, leaving me shaking my head and telling myself to pay attention.

So, the quick moment I mentioned occurred in just this way.

I had plopped my lure right next to a place where a tree was downed over the river, partially blocking and holding the water from flowing downstream while creating nice cover for brook trout.

After not even half a crank on my reel, a sizeable fish hit the lure.

Then, in what seemed like a few minutes, the fish rolled to turn its side toward the top of the water, giving me a fantastic view of the fish’s colorful side before it waved good-bye to me with its tail.

Off and gone.

That was it, in less than 10 seconds, I had and lost my one and only chance at a pan-sized fish all night.

I didn’t really care all that much that I had missed the fish.

I was tired and feeling ragged, having just barely escaped to the woodlands from “civilization” to get “out there” for at least a couple hours before sundown.

It had been a hot day and although it had cooled down a bit the closer to darkness it got, it was by no means cool. There temperature was still hanging somewhere in the mid-70s, and it was sticky.

I walked back to where my Jeep was parked and began to put my fishing tackle into the back. I reached for a cold can of pop, cracked it open and took a big drink.

Just after the fish had hit, a guy drove by in a pickup truck, passing through. He had come up the road earlier that night and he was now likely headed back home.

He granted me the nice courtesy of not stopping to ask me how the fishing was, which I returned with the favor of a wave and a chin lift. He waved back and kept going.

His was the only other vehicle I had seen all night.

After the dust had settled, I had opened the back door and was kicking my wet snake boots off. I noticed the sky east of me was rippled in interesting shades of blues, grays and white.

A threat of potential rain had curled the clouds into elongated swirls and long, blue burrito-shaped formations that hung low, not too far above the tamaracks and tag alders.

This is what I came out here for, not the fishing. It was to experience the peace, solitude and wonderment of the evening, which translated to me as decompression, recharge and relaxation.

I reached into the back of the Jeep to retrieve my camera. I took a few shots, framing up the clouds, the skyline and the lonesome road headed straight away from me, getting darker, in both directions.

I was standing next to my driver’s side door when I caught a quick motion in my periphery view. I turned my head in time to see a nighthawk twisting, cutting and diving through the skies just above the trees, feasting on insects.

He zigged and then zigged again before he zagged. His flight seemed haphazard and erratic, but I am sure that it wasn’t.

Ever since I was a little boy, nighthawks have fascinated me, and they have remained one of my favorite bird species.

I used to see them in similar solitary moments in our backyard when I was a kid. They would fly overhead with their two prominent white wing patches visible, often making a loud “booming” sound.

They also have a song that sounds similar in tone and cadence to a woodcock – voiced in a single note. In the case of the woodcock, that sound best resembles a peent noise.

However, the nighthawk I was watching made no sound at all. It was eerie in that way. It just flew quickly over the trees, scooping up bugs in its wide mouth and disappearing into the distance over the bushes.

As soon as the nighthawk left, another arrived to take its place.

Seeing this second bird immediately made me stop anything else I was thinking.

The realization was washing over me that this might already be the fall migration of the nighthawks, which takes them to South America.

Within only a couple more seconds, another nighthawk appeared and then another and another. It turned out this was a group of about six or eight birds headed south together, perhaps getting ready to join others.

In nighthawk migration, they can travel in flocks numbering hundreds of birds that funnel or “kettle” as they move like a dust devil south.

These were the only nighthawks I was to see on this night, with darkness falling quickly, but I read reports of larger flocks seen migrating over the next few days.

I finished packing up and got into the Jeep and headed down the road, the gravel making that familiar crunching sound under my wheels.

I hadn’t gone far at all when a large owl flew across the road from left to right. It moved slowly and was flying not far above the treetops. It looked as though it was going to land, but I couldn’t find it if it did.

I knew it had to be a great-horned owl, nothing else is that big in these woods at this time of year. I’ve seen them perched in dead snags along this road before. They sit up there keeping a keen eye peeled for rabbits to hop out into the road, of which there are many.

Along with the nighthawks, I often see and hear their cousins, the eastern whip-poor-wills out this way too.

They often will sit to rest along the edges of the gravel road, their eyes appearing back to me in the headlight beams as one or two oblong shapes glowing in a whisky colored rust.

I got to a big, sweeping intersection and turned left. I stopped briefly on a bridge to hear the water rushing in a cold creek below me. By now, if I would have tried to fish, it would have been too dark to see my line without a light.

Hardly any mosquitoes out, nor any animals. No deer, rabbits, bears – nothing.

My guess is they were still waiting out the heat of the day to die back while they laid under the branches of a low-reaching tree, hoping for some gentle breezes to cool them and to keep the flies at bay.

It’s warm and sticky enough that I opt for the air conditioner rather than the open windows on the Jeep heading home. Once I get to the blacktop, I do that so I can hear the radio better.

For now, still on the gravel, it’s uncomfortable otherwise.

Suddenly, right in the middle of the road in front of me, caught in the bright headlight beam, was a nighthawk or a whip-poor-will. The birds can look very similar, especially with only a quick glance.

I had only enough time to recognize the white wing patches, which identified this as a nighthawk. I didn’t hear any thud or thump, but the bird’s wings had been outstretched as it tried to get off the ground.

I turned the Jeep around to go back to see if I had hit the bird.

I had a sickening feeling, worrying that I might have.

After I circled back, it became clear to me that the bird had likely remained in the road while I drove over it and then it flew up into the night sky.

I was relieved. Hitting a nighthawk would have ruined the whole evening.

Instead, I was reminded how a weeknight trip to the woods, even for a little while, can provide much-needed respite and rejuvenation.

Here’s to the nighthawks, headed south already.

It seems like they only just got here.

Outdoors North is a weekly column produced by the Michigan Department of Natural Resources on a wide range of topics important to those who enjoy and appreciate Michigan’s world-class natural resources of the Upper Peninsula.