On a balmy autumn afternoon that more recalled days of June or July, along a delightful stretch of river that spoke and giggled as it rolled, I encountered a unique forest specimen the likes of which I don’t recall ever having seen before.

I was out fishing on the last day before the last day of trout season.

I had pulled my Jeep into an old state forest campground that had long since been closed and no longer maintained.

I was looking for one of the campsites now overgrown that I recalled included a path to the river where the cold waters slipped into a deep and wide pool surrounded by a thick growth of trees.

I couldn’t remember whether it was campsite 11 or 18, but it didn’t matter now as all the numbers were gone, like the water hand pump, the pit toilets, the glass-encased display boards and the fee pipe.

Really, the only remnants were the elongated, looped dirt campground road, a few decaying wooden post markers and a stairway that I recalled from my earliest childhood wound down to the riverside.

I think if I walked across the road and pushed through the bushes, I’d likely still find the directional sign for the campground toppled over and broken on the ground.

Ruin and decay are seldom a pretty picture – especially compared to the glorious images painted in my mind from days long ago when this location was a sunnier place, a weekend forest oasis for the tired and the seekers of respite from the rip and roar and spattering of society.

As it turned out, I drove past the old campsite, whichever one it was, because with the encroaching wall of trees inching closer each year toward reclaiming the campground, I no longer recognized the place I was supposed to pull in to stop.

I had driven past it and found myself back at the start of the loop where I’d first driven in. So, I turned back onto the main road, crossed a country bridge over the rippling river and pulled over to stop.

I needed a couple minutes to reboot, to figure out what my next move was.

Of course, I could have decided to go in either direction on the road to wind up at any number of beautiful and secluded destinations I knew.

I chose not to go back through the campground and instead continue down this much wider dirt road to travel through the forest understory, along the serpentine course of the river.

I put my hands on the steering wheel to go. When I looked through the windshield ahead of me that’s when I saw it.

At the far end of the hood of my vehicle, there sat a bright fresh-grass-green-colored bug that looked like a grasshopper.

I noticed immediately there was something about the way its legs were positioned that didn’t look right. It had either been injured or it wasn’t a grasshopper.

Either way, I expected the bug to be gone as soon as I put the Jeep in gear and started moving forward.

Instead, the bug didn’t budge as the vehicle picked up speed. As I had soon gone a mile and then another, I wondered whether the bug was dead and was somehow stuck to my hood.

But then I saw it move. It kind of jumped slightly and changed position as it did. Perhaps it was working to firm up its hold.

I kept driving and the bug stayed put until I stopped at the next bridge on the road, which was about 6 miles past my last stop.

I have had bugs sit on the hood before, but they always flew off when I slowed down or stopped. I anticipated nothing different from this bright, eye-catching hitchhiker.

I went to the rail of the bridge with my fishing rod and fumbled with a tangled line.

I made a few casts and caught a chub that I tried to wish into being a trout, but the spell didn’t take.

It really was more like a late spring day than early fall.

The sounds of bugs and birds were all around while the trees shimmered with the wind animating the leaves in incandescent glows of red, yellow and orange.

In some places, the smaller creeks were dead tired and worn out this late in the year.

It was as though they had been deflated of all their life and then laid out over the rocks and grasses – their shapes conforming to the ground beneath them.

But here at this bridge, this river flowed in a more direct and determined manner, with the depth dropping off over a sand ridge into a dark and invisible bottom.

I put my fishing rod back in the Jeep, closed the back hatch and got back in behind the steering wheel. I started up the car and put my foot on the gas pedal.

I looked through the windshield and saw that the bug was still there.

This time, I was certain it would fly off when the vehicle began moving. But it didn’t.

It repositioned itself a few times, but it remained on the hood for another 4 miles or so until I pulled over to stop at another bridge.

This time, instead of going for my fishing gear first, I went to look at the bug. I often pay especially close attention to grasshoppers and their allies, not just because they make tremendous trout bait, but because I love these types of insects – the grasshoppers, crickets and katydids.

With the close-up view, it was immediately clear that this was not an insect I had ever seen before. It was more like a katydid than a grasshopper, which would explain why its legs looked positioned oddly.

The sharpest distinction this insect had, other than the bright green color overall, was a copper, metallic helmet that covered its head and encircled its eyes. It looked kind of like a deep-sea diver’s helmet. It was so cool.

I decided to go for my camera to get a picture to help me be able to identify this creature more easily when I got back home. But I never got my camera or a picture.

The bug made its way across the expanse of the hood and likely leapt into a wall of like-colored green bushes along the passenger side of the Jeep.

A couple days later, sitting in my study, I thumbed through my trusty grasshopper identification guide more accurately titled “The Orthoptera of Michigan: Biology, Keys, and Descriptions of Grasshoppers, Katydids, and Crickets.”

I looked at all the pictures. It wasn’t one of the slant-faced or tooth-legged grasshoppers nor any of the cave or camel crickets, not any of the conehead, long-tailed or meadow katydids.

Despite the seemingly apt descriptors, the bug I’d encountered wasn’t an armored or shield-backed katydid nor a sword-bearing cricket.

An Internet search for pictures of Michigan bugs, sorted by the color green, also failed to render any results that conclusively identified my friendly new vagabond friend. So, the search continues. It’s not everyday you see an insect you’ve never seen before.

I was concerned that perhaps it might be some type of new invasive species just arrived from a foreign land.

But I checked the online rogue’s gallery of those species and found nothing resembling this insect, with the possible exception of only a nominally passing comparison to the emerald ash borer – which looks vaguely grasshopper-like with some green coloring. Nope. Nothing like what I saw.

This little guy or gal was sleek and slender and looked kind of like it was too delicate to be a big, thick grasshopper.

This was one of those times when I felt at a loss or great disadvantage with my knowledge and identification skills sorely lacking. I don’t have another lifetime to wait to see another one of these things. I also don’t think returning to the place where I last saw it and whistling or calling for it would do any good either. In the end, I may have to be satisfied with this inconclusive result.

I’m kicking myself a little now because I was more focused on fishing than bugging that day. If I’d had taken just a couple more minutes, I might instead be in possession of a nice, clear photo to feed into a search engine or show an entomologist.

On the other hand, I should be very satisfied with having gotten outside to experience another day in nature. Had I done otherwise, I would have entirely missed my opportunity to enjoy the 10-mile encounter I did have.

So much to see and do, so little time.

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.