Everyone in the fishing industry is familiar with “ICAST”-it is the biggest trade show specific to the sport fishing industry. It is held every summer in Florida, and it is here where all the manufacturers officially reveal their offering for the upcoming season. What many don’t know is that there is a precursor to this show, it is called “X-CAST” and it is held in February at a different clandestine location each year. Only certain invited manufacturers are there, and this is the show where insiders get a true “sneak peek” at what is coming up. I was lucky to be sent there as a representative for my company since this year it was held relatively close to my house at the Super 8 Hotel and Convention Center in Motley, Minnesota.
What is revealed there is typically kept under wraps until the big reveal at ICAST, but since my readership is only around 250,000, I figure I can let a few things out to get you all fired up for next year. There were many impressive offerings in all categories, I’m simply highlighting what I thought was the most extraordinary. Keep in mind, most of these new products won’t actually be available to consumers until sometime in 2025.
ELECTRONICS
Of course this category is what will get the most attention. Forward facing sonar has become status quo for most anglers in the past couple of years. Since its introduction, it has enabled anglers that who previously could not catch a Velcro ball while wearing wool gloves to not only be competitive but in some cases dominate fishing tournaments across the country. But for many it is just not enough to be able to spotlight every fish in the lake, as driving around from spot to spot looking for a school is time consuming. Fortunately, a new company, “Hi-Tek Fishexposure” has partnered with Space-X to cut down on the time from when you launch your boat to that first hook set. New technology allows Star-Link satellites to pinpoint concentrations of a particular fish species in a lake by scanning for DNA signatures. The satellites upload data to servers and receivers about every 4 hours. Now, even on a new lake, all you need to do is flip on your Fishexposure display, select “Bass”, and it will highlight large concentrations of bass on the built-in map with 1” contour increments. There are also settings for walleye, muskie, paddlefish, and many other popular freshwater species. The receiver, with a 14” display, will retail at a reasonable $4999.99, plus a small monthly subscription of $199.99. I think of how often I toss and turn in bed the night before a day on the water, constantly going over in my head where I should start. No more; I’ll sleep soundly knowing that my Fishexposure will point me towards the fish once I get to the ramp.
LINE
Just when we thought fishing line couldn’t get better, along comes Flourofuse, a new company out of Switzerland. The engineers there have figured how to use their particle accelerator to fuse hundreds of micro fluorocarbon strands into one filament, creating the thinnest, strongest line ever made. When finished, the line’s molecular structure is an analog of water, making this line 100% invisible underwater. Not “less-visible”—INVISIBLE! No more hassle with having to tie a fluorocarbon leader to the end of your braid, as this line, besides being 100% invisible underwater, has zero stretch. Since it is expected that all bass fishermen will only be using spinning rods going forward, Flourofuse only comes in one size, diameter equivalent to 8 lb. mono. But the breaking strength is around 60lbs, making this line essentially unbreakable and usable on a wide variety of rods. One caveat, this line can’t be cut with a regular scissors or knife. To demonstrate, President Klaus Vonn Trap took a break from his chocolate bar and pulled out a red-handled pocket knife. After studying the various blades and tools housed within, he folded out a special cutting blade made of obsidian. It cut through the line like it was chilled mayonnaise. Klaus assured me that they would be offering their own brand of obsidian line cutters, suggested retail around $199. Think of it, a line with unsurpassed sensitivity, yet it is invisible and unbreakable. Available at fine fishing tackle retailers late in 2024, retail price $229.99 for a 50 yard spool.
This is an underwater shot showing the invisibility of Fluorofuse; there are 5 strands in this picture:
HOOKS
Back in the day there were really only two choices of hooks: either Mustad or Eagle Claw. While fine choices back then, neither were really all that sharp, and the selection of styles was limited. We were all relieved when the Japanese companies brought out high quality hooks in the 80s. Now we had cutting points, needle points, saber points, the list goes on. Safe to say they were sharp, and came in a wide variety of designs and sizes. But all of us bass anglers are always looking for that one thing to give us an edge. Luckily, Yanagita Hooks has taken the premium hook category to new levels. Their Surodoi hooks are forged one at time with an aluminum-titanium alloy, finished with their proprietary “Tru-coat” finish, a new non-caloric silicon-based kitchen lubricant. It creates a surface 500 times more slippery than any other substance, allowing penetration with less than 4 ounces of pull applied. This all adds up to a hook that is light weight but virtually unbreakable and “un-dullable.” 
Hook sets are hardly needed-when you get a bite, just start reeling! Yanagita president, Mike Yanagita, was taking a 4/0 hook and repeatedly dragging the point across a piece of granite, hard enough to leave lines on the ancient stone and then easily piercing it through a piece of dried humpback whale skin. Surodoi Hooks will only be available on line at yanagitahooks.com, where you can order their stock models [$99.99 for a pair] or use their “forgery” portion of the website to tweak existing designs, or even create your own. We’ve all had a time where we wish that a particular hook was just a little longer, or had a slightly different bend. Now the sky is the limit. Custom hooks will sell for $79.99 each. All Surodoi hooks have a lifetime guarantee for sharpness; if your Surodoi somehow becomes dull you simply need to mail it back to Tokyo and they will send you a new one, no charge.
BAITS
Since forward facing sonar is apparently now standard equipment on all bass boats, tackle manufacturers will continue to offer more and better selections specific to this style of fishing. Finesse style plastics rigged on sonar-reflecting jig head is what everyone wants. Biospark will lead the pack this year with their nano-powered plastics which pulse and twitch for up to 10 minutes thanks to the Nano-lithium battery strip found within each bait. Wait until you have fish spotlighted on your screen, then simply rig the bait on a jig head, give it a good pinch and it will become activated. The fins moves, the gills pulse, and the tail waves back and forth enticingly. The colors on these are truly amazing, and when in the water it is impossible to tell the difference between a Biospark bait and an actual minnow. 
Once the bait is wet, the built-in micro scent pods activate, releasing a combination of amino acids and pheromones that will further commit any interested fish into eating it. Biospark baits will be initially offered in three sizes [2, 3, and 4 inch], and four colors [golden shiner, gizzard shad, rosy-faced dace, and stickleback]. Future designs will include goby, crawfish, and nightcrawler. These baits will be packaged individually and sell for $29.99 each, or buy the bulk pack for $499.99. If that sounds steep, rest assured that they come with a guarantee—if you return a Biospark bait that has been used but has no bite marks on it, you will receive a 10% discount on your next order!
For anglers looking for something better in the jig head department, Metälürjigs from Calgary has you covered. No one uses lead any more, and many of us are now looking beyond tungsten. Their new Sharpshooter heads have a head made of osmium. For those of you without a Periodic Table at 
hand, osmium weighs twice as much as a lead head the same size, and 25% more than a similar sized tungsten head. I talked with their rep, Brett Hart, who told me that due to their density, the osmium heads show up on a sonar screen like a laser pointer. He showed me a jig head in a commonly used weight, a 3/16 oz. It was smaller than heads I use for chasing bluegills and tommycods in the pond. He dropped it into my hand, it landed in my palm with an audible “thud”, and it almost hurt. He said, “You rig this with a Biospark Minnow, and pitch it into a school on your scope, it shows up so well you can pull it away from the small fish, get it in front of the big boys. When they hit, man it is like nothing you’ve felt before!” Sold in 3-packs in 3 sizes: 1/8 oz. [$75.00], 3/16 oz. [$90], and 1/4 oz. [$120].
Boats
Fiberglass bass boats will continue to dominate the market for the foreseeable future. No one that I spoke with had any plans to change the hull design of existing boats, with the exception of Ocean Woods Boats that had their new 25 foot QBH on display. Sporting twin 350s on the back, top speed is claimed to be around 120 MPH! Many lakes have a 40 MPH speed limit, but just think, the QBH goes from zero to forty in about 5.5 seconds, leaving those losers with their puny single 200 HP in your wake! While talking with Ocean Woods rep Matt Hooper, another attendee stared wide-eyed at the boat we were next to and said “That’s a twenty-footer!” Matt calmly replied “Twenty-five.”
An interesting trend from all boat manufacturers is the layout and storage. Since technology is creating opportunities for bigger and bigger limits of bass, let’s face it, the livewell found in most boats won’t have the capacity for a truly big bag. Where it used to be that a 20 lb. bag would guarantee a top three finish on any lake, nowadays that might not scratch top 10. We’ve been seeing 30 lb. limits becoming more common, and with all the new technology available, it is only a matter of time before we start seeing 40 lb. bags. Where to put all of these giant bass? The average bass boat livewell is around 31 gallons, and this is not enough space for a huge bag! Vinny Vega from Marcellus Boats thinks that the solution is to replace much of the storage with additional livewell space. He took a break from his five dollar milkshake to say, “Most of these guys are using one or two rods, and all the tackle they use will fit in a shirt pocket. Why dedicate all of that space for storage, let’s instead turn it into additional live well space—let give those big gals some room to roam!” Marcellus Boats feature roomy 57 gallon livewells, and additional space has been converted to coolers where anglers can store their energy drinks, KFC, and spare batteries for their GoPro cameras.
This only the tip of the iceberg. It is truly a great time to be an angler, especially a bass angler. There was so much more to see at X-Cast, like the spinning reels with 25:1 gear ratio, or the rods made of extruded magnesium filaments, but you’ll have to wait for the big reveal at I-Cast this summer to see it all. True insiders have indicated that if you think this is good, wait for 2026. You might not have to even leave your couch to catch a derby-winning bag!
]]>It was always cool in there, and the expected fish smell permeated the air. Not a “fishy” smell, but the smell of fish. Some of you will understand what I mean. There were always beers, Raniers if I recall.
A small boom box sat on a dingy shelf, and someone had Jimmy’s “Songs You Know by Heart” playing in it nonstop. Before this I was aware of Jimmy Buffett, but not too familiar with his music. Songs like “Son of a Son of a Sailor” really resonated with me. And it turns out that I really am the son of a son of a sailor.
I dove deeper into his catalog, and Jimmy’s music and lifestyle got me thinking I should live a pirate’s existence…traveling south and seaward ‘til my money ran out, set up shop in some unknown port. Figure it out from there. I really think that if I had heard “The Weather is Here…” a year or two earlier in my life I would have given ‘a new life in the palm trees’ a shot.
This picture is what hooked me. The guy could really cast!
But in reality, I never had what it would take to pull any of that off. I tried to be a big-time traveler and saltwater fly-fishing guy, but it turns out that is a bad persona to take on for someone living in Minnesota that doesn’t have any money.
My Abel reels I ordered in “Caribbean Camo”, trying to live the Buffett life
I’ll never be a twelve-volt man, nor will I be a cowboy in the jungle, and I don’t expect I will know what it’s like to see the lights of St Thomas 20 miles west. That doesn’t mean that I don’t think about those things, as I now think of myself more like the guy from “Altered Boy” who, like Walter Mitty, lives out an imagined existence of excitement and danger while sipping on Singapore Slings in some tiki bar. And my occupational hazard is truly the fact that my occupation is just not around. click the link for the most underrated Buffett Song Altered Boy
All rods I built for saltwater were under the “Margaritaville Rod company” brand
We named our first daughter “Savannah” – in homage to Jimmy and his daughter Savannah Jane. It took some trickery on my part to make it happen. When it was time for daughter number two to be named, I made a plea for “Delaney” but that was thoroughly shot down. Still think it would have been a good fit.
I never wanted to be able to play guitar any better than to strum and sing Jimmy’s songs. Most of his songs are easy enough, probably why I will never get beyond the skill level of “advanced beginner”. Oh well, come to a campfire at my place, I can pull off a reasonable version of Jolly Mon along with most of the rest of his catalog.
Most people aren’t aware of Jimmy’s music beyond his songs about margaritas and cheeseburgers. Hard to make short list of “must listen” songs, but “He Went to Paris”, “Twelve Volt Man”, “Manana”, “Distantly in Love”, and “That’s What Living is to Me” will give a listener a good idea of what he is all about. His stories of travel and escapism inspired millions.
What John Denver was to the Rockies, what Gordon Lightfoot was to Canada, what Jerry Jeff Walker was to Texas, Jimmy was all this and more to those mysterious calling harbors, to the palm trees and the south seas, and to all of us who dreamt of living that life.
Be good and you will be lonesome
Be lonesome and you will be free
Live a lie, and you’ll live to regret it
That’s what living is to me
That’s what living is to me.
What’s better than a beer? Free beer? How about a surprise free beer? Like there you are, minding your own business. You might be a little hot, a little thirsty. Suddenly, without warning, you are presented with a beer. Maybe you are at a friend or relative’s house. Maybe it is some random event. “Wait, there’s beer?!” Suddenly everything is looking a little brighter.
The other night Savannah and I are at the weigh in for a weeknight bass league. I’ve fished in these things before, it is a good group of guys. We had no complaints this night; we weighed in a decent bag of bass. But then I noticed a cooler conspicuously placed in front of the weigh in table. Someone opened it, and like the Arc of the Covenant or the briefcase from Pulp Fiction a heavenly glow was cast over the surrounding area as the contents were revealed: a full load of ice and Coors Light Tall Boys. I don’t regularly consume light beer, but you know when you’re a little thirsty on a hot day, a heavy craft beer doesn’t work as well as an ice cold light lager. Beer never tasted so good. There’s never been a magic cooler at weigh in other years. I don’t even know who provided the beer, but I hope I can look forward to this at future events. Savannah is too young to drink, I’ll be sure to have a Dr. Pepper for her at the next one.
This is in contrast to a recent night at Target Field to watch a Twins game. 
I expect to get beer here, and I also expect to get bent over when I pay for one. Their trick now is they ask you to select the tip amount before they tell you how much the beer is going to be. I had a Lift Bridge Farm Girl and then later a Summit Saga. Both were delish, and while I caught a glimpse of how much I was being charged, I blocked it from my memory.
Another memorable surprise beer happened in Mexico. It was about 20 years ago near Los Barilles in the Baja. Sarah and I rented an ATV and we took it up an arroyo that led to a small canyon with a stream. We go as far as we can and here is a guy next to his ATV that has a cooler on the back of it. In broken English he asks me if I want a beer. “Yes I do!” I replied. “These guys don’t miss a chance to make money off us gringos”, I thought as I was reaching for my wallet, ready to pay any dollar or peso amount the guy said. In more broken English “No—no money.”
Pacificos are pretty good no matter what, this was the best one ever!
He opened the cooler and handed me a Pacifico. It was then I realized this guy was a tourist like me, and his wife and kid were playing in the waterfall just around the corner. “Mucho Gracias!”
In the late 90s, the early Wisconsin Trout Season was new, it started on March 1. 
In those days I started to get twitchy for fishing by the end of February, so even though the season wasn’t open yet, I headed over to the Rush River on a Saturday the week before it opened. Just to have a look around, check things out, see how the river was looking for the upcoming opener. So I looked off all the bridges, thought about all the fish I would catch next week. I drive down the dead end below El Paso and there’s a few pickups parked there. This is a popular camping and hangout spot. The people from the trucks were Wisconsin’s version of cowboys, youngish local farm types, looked to be doing some steak grilling and beer drinking. 
I wave as I go by, and when I circled back a few minutes later one of the cowboys help up his beer with one hand and pointed at it with the other while looking right at me. The universal sign for “you want a beer?” If you go over there today you can probably still find traces of the skid marks I made when I hit the brakes. I joined the group for a few, and it turns out I had hung out with some of them the year before when I was camping with some friends for the May trout opener. I don’t remember much more about them except that one of the gal’s name was Rhiannon, I bet her mom is a big Stevie Nicks fan. Pretty cool for them to let me join them, what with my Minnesota plates and all.
I’ve been known to be the giver of a surprise beer. For a number of years I lived in a crappy apartment in Mounds View. I was out in the parking lot working on something on a blistering hot summer evening. Is there anywhere more depressing than the parking lot at crap apartments on a hot day? Doubt it. I don’t remember what I was working on, probably something on the jon boat or its trailer and I needed a big wrench. There was some other guy working on something in his garage, he looked like he would have tools. I went over and asked if he had a big crescent wrench I could borrow. Without a word he handed me what I needed. After I completed whatever task was at hand I went inside and got a cold beer out of my fridge. Went back to where the guy was working and handed him his wrench back along with the cold beer. He looked at me like I had handed him a thousand dollars. He only nodded at me as he cracked it open. Not sure to this day if the guy could talk.
Another time I was at the Brule with my Frenchman friend name Michelle. This was back in the 80s and I was still trying to figure out how to catch fish there. We were at the McNeil’s parking lot, planning our next move and a couple of guys show up that may have been as clueless as us. It was an unusually warm day for October, and these guys had parked down by The Horseshoe and ended up at McNeil’s. Michelle offered to give them a ride back to their truck. These guys were surprised by the generosity, even more surprised when he gave them each a beer for the trip. “Are you guys for real?’ one of the guys said before he took the first big swig.
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been looking more forward to watching them than I had looked forward to Christmas morning a few weeks prior. No way was I going to miss my heroes Virgil Ward and Roland Martin to see some movie. Well I got my way and was dropped off at my grandparents’ house to watch my beloved shows. I remember that old Virgil was fishing for white bass, I don’t remember where, but I’m sure he was catching them on a Beetle Spin or a marabou jig. Speaking of Virgil Ward, how many remember his catchy theme song? I still know the whole thing— “♪From the lakes of Northern Canada, to the Gulf of Mexico…♪” And there is no way I’m not watching until the very end to see his aquarium demonstration of the lures they used. My family returned from the movie and proceeded to mock me for missing out on a great movie to watch some dumb fishing shows. The mocking continued for decades, and to this day if you mention this movie to my mom she will bring this up. That put into play my longest running lifetime ban. I have never watched that movie, and I never will no matter how many people tell me how great it is.
Those early fishing shows weren’t that great, but to be honest a lot of the current ones aren’t much better. Nonetheless, on weekends in the winter when I typically don’t have anything going on I’ll tune in to a couple hours’ worth of mostly locally produced shows. Some are good, with anything done by the Lindners setting the gold standard. Most are pretty average, just checking the boxes, but some are just plain awful.
None are as memorable as a movie that was shown to my entire grade when I was in kindergarten. I can still remember my excitement when Mr. Suzuki announced that the movie about to be shown was about fishing. In the movie, a few guys were on a muskie fishing trip. They were unsuccessful [I can relate] so they switched it up and started fishing for smallmouth bass instead. At some point a muskie grabbed one of the smallmouth as they were bringing it in. I don’t remember any more details as it was over 50 years ago, but it is safe to say that the movie left a mark on me. I wonder if a version of this old movie, shot in the 60’s, still exists.
One of the best known of the local shows [when I say local, I mean “midwestern”] is John Gillespie’s Waters and Woods. Don’t worry I’m not going to slam his show too much. It is impressive that he has a new show virtually every week, and he lives the dream of getting paid to go fishing. Each week he has a local guide to take him out, sometimes his daughter accompanies him.
No secret that the key to the success of his show is his sponsors, and he definitely lets you know who they are. He is almost always fishing with lures from one of his sponsors, and always takes a break to eat some Johnsonville products. He used to be sponsored by Frabill Nets, not sure why he isn’t anymore, but I miss those days as you could count on him screaming “GET HIM IN THE FRABILL!!!” every time a fish was boatside.
While I don’t love the show, I find the predictability of it to be amusing. His excitability is unmatched, but maybe my favorite thing I’ve seen from him was a blooper from his show where he missed a muskie strike and proceeded to fill the air with a string of expletives that would have had Paul Fabian taking notes. The camera man thoughtfully panned to the others in the boat to catch their looks of shock. Poke around on Facebook and you might find it.
Next time his show is on, you can play “John Gillespie Bingo” using the bingo card here. You could also make it be a drinking game, but I don’t really recommend getting that drunk before 10 AM, even on a weekend.
Most other shows are what kids today would call “mid”—not great, just checking the boxes, using a bunch of B-roll footage, more or less following John G’s formula.
Some are really bad, like how did you get on TV?
And I know bad TV—I watch a few hours of wrestling every week, I watch The Masked Singer, and I have been known to watch public access shows, like this one where you get these two dudes reviewing snacks:
And this show, where a guy puts together jigsaw puzzles:
I even watch shows put out by a local square-dancing club. In these shows, the women all seem to be way into it, but the men…hit and miss. It’s fun to watch the men and try to pick out which guys are truly into it, which guys are tolerating it, and which guys are thinking about where they can get rid of a body.
Any of these are far more entertaining than most of what I see on Bally Sports on any given Saturday morning. [I’m looking at you, Skunk Boy]. Why do I continue to hate watch? I know… it’s because I’m jealous. A memorable moment of awesomely bad fishing video was on a different, short-lived and forgotten show that had the hosts ice fishing for bluegills. At some point they had a close-up, slo-mo shot of the host releasing a seven-inch bluegill back into the icy water while John Williams type music played to add to the drama. My daughter happened to be walking by, she even laughed at how ridiculous it was. “Wow, you let a sunfish go. Awesome”. If you’re getting called out by a ten year old girl, it’s time to rethink your business plan.
Another thing, these TV fishing guys are supposed to be experienced, so why do so many act like a teenage girl that just spotted Harry Styles at a Starbucks every time they hook a fish? Calm down fellas, act like you’ve been there before. This one guy who does a muskie show comes unglued every time they hook one, scrambling around to get a different camera going and still scoop the fish in the net in less than 10 seconds. And [side rant] speaking of muskie fishing, if you are an experienced angler you don’t need to measure a 37 incher—just make a good guess and get the fish back in the water! 
I didn’t set out here to take a giant shit on all of these shows, but it does seem like the bad content outweighs the good. One good episode I saw recently was the Lund Boats TV show [produced by the Lindners]. They were on a trip in Canada. This fishing was good, of course, lots of pike and lake trout, and the production values were top notch. No one said anything stupid, no one spazzed when they hooked a fish, and none of the anglers had a radio face. What I liked best was the shore lunch they made. It was lake trout cooked on a fire. I’ve eaten my share of lake trout cooked this way, I could taste it just by watching. But they somehow had no silverware, so they ate their fish as well as baked beans using spoons for utensils. As in Five-of -Diamonds type spoons. I liked this because I once had this same scenario play out when I was guiding in Alaska when we didn’t have silverware in the lunch box. At the end of the program one of the guys had his self-inflating life vest inflate for no reason while they were landing a fish. That’s good stuff.
When criticizing these shows, I have to remind myself that awful as I often find them, most are still better than my fishing show, which consists of mostly average videos on YouTube. Check out my channel, maybe I can get my view counts into triple digits:
Or, check out “Flyfishing for Smallmouth Bass”, a “straight to DVD” video I made with my friends Pete and Chris. Doesn’t seem possible that it was 20 years ago that we made this. I’m my biggest critic, and I say considering what we knew and what we had to work with it turned out pretty good, even though we apparently used a potato for a camera. This was before YouTube was a thing, but you can see it there now. I don’t expect anyone to sit through it all, but at least check out the awesome intro:
Like most people I now get most of my fishing content on YouTube. There is no end to what is out there. Some is well done and entertaining but a lot of it is crap. But truth be told, I don’t even care much about what actually gets caught–the number one thing I am doing while watching is trying to figure out the spot. It has become somewhat of an obsession. This is especially true with videos shot around here, but even if the host is fishing somewhere I know I will never be and fishing for fish I don’t care about, if I see a bridge, a boat landing, or a water tower I am compelled to figure out where he is, and I will spend an hour or more on google Earth to do it.
The other day I was watching one of the “spinner fishing for trout” guys. This particular spinner guy [who has about 500 videos of him doing this] makes it a point to keep his spots a secret, which is a good idea. I can still sometimes figure it out. One of the times that I was unsuccessfully trying to home in on which creek he was on, the only clue was a bridge that was briefly shown. But then later on there was a scene where he is fishing near a barn that had “God Bless America” written on it. A google image search for “God Bless America Barn Wisconsin” gave me the result I was looking for—a picture of that very barn and the town it was near. It then took 5 seconds on google maps to find the exact spot where I’m sure that I too can catch 8-inch brook trout on spinners. I was so proud of myself. I know, get a life Chris.
Enough with the bad…here are some YouTube channels that won’t disappoint:
Uncut Angling—This guy is well known for his videos of him fishing around Manitoba. There is probably no one better at creating original fishing videos that don’t follow the traditional script of how these things usually go. Virtually all his content is great but a few of my favorites are “Fidget Spinner Muskie”, “Pike Smash Youtube Play Button”, and “Someone I Used to Know”, which is the strangest yet most awesome fishing video ever made.
Darcizzle—Pretty blonde chick in a bikini catches awesome fish in Florida. How can you go wrong with this? There are other “hot chick catches fish” channels out there, but what brings me back to Darcy is her fish cleaning videos. Watching her turn a wahoo, tuna, cobia, or other catch-of-the-day into fillets ready for the grill is a thing of beauty. Then watch her dufus husband cook the day’s catch.
Bindy Vang—Just found this guy. Good content of mostly local bass fishing. He catches some really big bass, and I like that I can usually figure out where he is fishing on local waters. He could probably cut back on the usage of “Bro” by about 80 percent though.
Lost Lakes—Not really a fishing channel, but Jon takes you along on canoe camping trips through the backcountry of Ontario. Great scenery, great camera work [especially considering he is usually alone], great narration. And he catches fish along the way.
]]>But the pair of big black birds circling the point across the lake were something else entirely. I know that around the Canadian border ravens become more common than crows, and this is what I suppose they were. But these were really big– too big, possibly bigger than an eagle. And as they circled the point, the calls they made were unnerving. Nothing like the “caw” of a crow, the sounds were screeching drawn out croaks, as though to make sure that every creature on the lake was aware of their presence.
I kept quiet from my vantage point two hundred yards across the bay, and the travelers I had in my charge knew enough to keep still and silent. We were three quarters done with our journey that had begun at a clandestine location outside of Atikokan. I never thought I could become a smuggler, but here I was, tucked under ancient white pines with a man and woman who were essentially strangers to me. They watched the huge birds with me, whispering back in forth in their native language. I don’t know what they were saying but the look in their eyes showed their fear. And these people have seen things in their homeland bad enough for them to leave with nothing more than a few possessions, and then give all of their money to a stranger who arranged for me to take them through the wilderness to cross the most remote section of the largest unguarded border in the world.
Traveling by canoe along a route that my ancestors have traveled since long before there was a border, we had crossed the imaginary line last night, and by this time tomorrow I planned to load them into a van that would be waiting at a trailhead. This was where we would part ways. For now we were preparing to break camp at a campsite known only to me. I carved it out of the timber a few years ago, and it is able to conceal not only a tent but a canoe as well. There’s not much canoe traffic this time of year, but I was doing a final check to make sure the coast was clear when the birds showed up.
Figuring there must be something along the shore holding their interest, I fished my binoculars out of my pack to get a closer look at the sinister pair. To the naked eye it looked like a typical rocky point on a shield lake—a smooth rock shoreline gave way to a stand of sparse bulrushes with a couple of boulders. One of the boulders didn’t look right, I realized that I was actually looking at a dead moose that had floated up there. Likely a casualty from the moose season that ended the week before. That explained why the pair of birds were circling, and I pulled the binoculars away to study how the birds were behaving. They took turns swooping down low over the moose and then soaring higher than the treetops and letting out their disturbing calls.
Then there was movement in the trees. I pulled the binoculars back up and focused in on the mix of birch and fir that was along the shoreline. At first I thought it was a bear, coming down to take advantage of the dead moose. But this was far taller than a bear. Then I saw the antlers. Some smaller trees parted and then what at first I thought was a moose stepped to the water’s edge. I’ve seen hundreds of moose in my time up here, but what I was seeing now didn’t make sense. Sure it had antlers, and it was tall like a moose. But it was mostly without fur, and the color was all wrong, more of a sickly pinkish gray than the dark brown you would expect of a moose. I could see its ribs. And its front legs weren’t really legs, they were more like long, gangly arms. Arms that ended in long bony fingers. Even though I was about 200 yards away I could see the glint of fangs. It stepped from the trees to the water’s edge. It paused and looked up at the circling birds. It let out a scream that hung in the air. One of my travelers let out a whimper, and I turned put a raised finger across my lips. I knew we were out of sight of what any typical animal or person could see, but this was far from typical.
I flashed back to many years before when I stared wide eyed at my grandfather as he told stories around the campfire. Flames flickered and birch logs crackled as he described an evil spirit called the Wendigo.
Many generations ago a lost hunter turned to cannibalism to survive, and his evil deed transformed him into a horrific beast. A beast that roamed the wilds with an insatiable hunger for flesh. Human or otherwise. While this story terrified me as a child, I never gave it any thought as an adult, as the elders had many tales of spirits and such. But here I was, miles from the nearest road, two strangers in my care, looking at the impossible. I subconsciously reached to feel the outline of my revolver tucked into the back of my pants.
The beast had now waded into the water and its claws began tearing at the moose carcass. It ripped off huge chunks of flesh, hide, and bone with ease, shoving them into is gaping mouth where they were crunched and swallowed. The water around the moose carcass was soon tinged red with blood and the pair of giant birds took roost in a tall pine above the beast. The carnage continued as the creature consumed impossible amounts in minutes. I heard one of the travelers whisper “Monstoro”. I didn’t need translation to know what it meant. They had every reason to be scared now. I’ve had face to face standoffs with wild bears, with big city gangs, with angry fathers. At least with those you have an idea of what you are dealing with. My grandfather never said how one would deal with a Wendigo.
With most of the moose consumed, the monster let out another scream. I was back to looking through binoculars, which was a mistake as the beast’s face and chest were covered in blood, and flesh clung to its claws. An image I will never be able to erase. Despite having consumed the better part of an adult moose it was still gaunt in appearance. It took a last look around and I stopped breathing when its gaze seemed to focus on our location for a moment. It slowly turned towards shore and then disappeared into the brush. This cued the black birds to come down for what was left. One bird rested on the moose’s hindquarter and picked away at intestines, the other rested on the head and feasted on the eyes and torn-open neck. After a few minutes they flew up silently, circled over our location and then headed in the general direction the Wendigo had gone.
At least they went in the opposite direction we were headed. We sat in silence for a time, then I pulled out a map. I showed the travelers where we were, where the Wendigo had gone, and where we needed to go to complete the journey. I showed them my gun, which I had kept hidden from them until now, hoping it would ease their fears. It didn’t do much to ease my fears. It was a .357 revolver, enough to stop a bear, but what would it do to a Wendigo? I suspected there needed to be some version of a silver bullet to stop an evil spirit. I gestured to them to pack their belongings, which they did quickly and quietly. I calculated that if we traveled lightly and quickly we could be out by nightfall. I decided to leave the tent and everything else not essential.
We slid the canoe down the bank, climbed in and pushed off. The woman sat on the floor in the middle, the man was at the bow. I paddled from the stern with intensity, we had about ten miles to the end of the lake. At the end of the lake was a portage trail of about a half mile that would bring us to the next lake. We had done a number of portages already on this trip, and after the morning’s events I was dreading having to be on foot. There was no other way out.
A light wind was at our back, allowing for relatively quick travel. The man was paddling as best he could, but it was marginally helpful at best. The woman kept her head down and did not move. Usually on this kind of trip I try to hug the shoreline to keep a low profile, but now we were tracking right down the middle of the lake. I was making a beeline for a height-of-land where I knew the portage was, and we continued along in silence.
The paddle down the long lake was uneventful, and it was early afternoon when we reached the portage. Once ashore we took a short break and ate some jerky, and then it was time to make the portage. It would be easier now since I had abandoned most of the gear. On earlier portages I had the travelers hide out while I scouted ahead to make sure we would not meet anyone on the trail, but there was no time for that. I think they understood me as I tried to explain the importance of moving quickly and quietly. I pointed to the trail and then to the packs and paddles. They took the cue and I put the canoe up on my shoulders and we plodded along through the forest.
It took less than an hour to get to the next lake. There was a forest fire here several years before, and the charred remains of a few old growth pine stood in stark contrast to the young aspen, birch and spruce that had grown in the void left by the fire. This lake was smaller, with many bays and points, and we were soon back to making progress in the canoe.
We came around a point midway down the lake. I looked to the end of the lake where we would find the next portage and stopped padding. Maybe 300 yards away was the remains of a burnt pine. Roosting in the tree were two birds. Big, black birds. The man in the bow saw them too, and muttered something to the woman. She looked up for the first time and stifled a scream. We had to go past them to get to the next portage, so I kept paddling down the middle, not taking my eyes off the birds. As we got closer it was obvious they were watching us too, their heads pivoting as we passed them. I kept looking back over my shoulder at them, but they held their position. I didn’t know what the presence of the birds on our route signified, but based on what I saw this morning it couldn’t be good.
By the time we were at the end of lake where the next portage was, I could barely make out the tree anymore. I thought that perhaps we were in the clear, but then we all heard the unmistaken sound, the same sound we heard the birds making this morning. Even though they had to be over a mile away there was no mistaking it. The long, drawn out croaking continued for a minute, then it was silent again.
I paddled towards shore so hard that the bow slid two feet onto the bank. “Go! Go! Go!” I yelled. The travelers seemed shocked at my yelling, as I had not said anything to them in the few days we had been together that wasn’t a whisper. They both scrambled out of the canoe, grabbed the gear and headed up the path. I again wrestled the canoe onto my shoulders and followed. We still had another lake to cross after this portage, then it was down a creek to where we were to be picked up in a remote parking lot at the end of a forest road. We would be early, but maybe I could get a cell phone signal and get a call or text to the driver. Or maybe we could hitch a ride with a tourist. Any concerns of being intercepted by authorities has now taken a back seat to getting out of here and away from that thing that for all I knew was making its way south toward us.
Since we were closer to an access point, this mile-long portage was well traveled and we made good time. The first half was up a slight incline, then it went down much more steeply to the next lake. We reached the top, and paused for a quick rest. I set the canoe down to catch my breath. The crest of the trail allowed a good view of the valley ahead. It also allowed a good view of two huge, black birds that were circling above the tree tops. The woman was not able to stifle her scream this time, and this prompted the birds to start up with their ominous calls. In the distance we heard another sound. It was a scream, a scream that could have only come from the horror we had seen this morning.
While I felt a certain amount of responsibility to the travelers, my concern for them was waning. “You better keep up!” I yelled as hoisted the canoe back onto my shoulders. I headed down the steep trail as fast as I could, and I could hear the travelers behind me, stumbling, but not falling too far behind. With the canoe on my shoulders I couldn’t see if they were carrying the paddles. Didn’t matter, I keep a spare strapped to the supports in the canoe. The steep path made a switchback and was able to see that the man was indeed carrying a paddle and pack, the woman was crying hysterically, carrying nothing. The path here was steep and rough, with many large rocks and roots creating potential tripping hazards.
The birds were circling overhead us now, their croaks echoing off the hillside. We heard the distant scream again, although this time it didn’t sound so distant. It was not possible for us to move any faster, but I took care to be sure-footed. I could see we were nearly to the bottom of the hill. Once there it would be level ground to the next lake, which was now only a few hundred yards away. I made it to the bottom of the hill where the well-worn path went through a series of large roots and then turned to dirt. Once to the dirt I flipped the canoe off my shoulders and let it land on the hull. The travelers were coming up fifty yards behind me. I grabbed the bow of the canoe and started dragging it, hoping the man would catch up and grab the stern. I started to yell at the couple to hurry but I was interrupted by another scream from the beast. It was coming from our right and I could now hear branches breaking and what sounded like breathing and snarling. There was no reason to think that the lake would offer refuge from this thing, but it seemed like a better option than facing it here on the path. The man was almost caught up to me, but he stopped to see where his partner was. She had tripped on a root and was now screaming, not sure if it was in pain or terror. Probably more terror, as the Wendigo had broken through the brush along the trail and was now 50 feet behind her. She looked back at it and let out what she meant to be a scream but came out as a yelp. The beast was on her in seconds, and it picked her up over its head and slammed her to the ground. The man dropped to his knees, watching in horror as his partner was torn apart and devoured.
I resumed dragging the canoe as fast as I could, not looking back. The beast let out another shriek, then there was a scream that I presumed to be from the man. I tried not to think about the snapping and crunching sounds I could hear from behind me. The next lake was now in sight, and even though my entire body wanted to quit I was now running. The shoreline was sandy and I ran right into the water, allowing the canoe to float past me. I hopped in when the back seat was even with me, and in one motion pulled the tag end of the knot that held my spare paddle in place. A few quick strokes and I was twenty yards from shore.
The screams of the beast continued, and the black birds that had been watching the bloodbath from treetops now were starting to swoop around me, getting closer with each pass. The Wendigo was now on the shoreline and it let out the loudest scream of all. It stepped in the water to its knees but stopped, gesturing with its long arms and howling at the sky. Not knowing what to do next, I pulled out my revolver. At the end of this lake was the outlet stream that would lead me to a bridge. For the moment I felt safer where I was.
The birds were getting ever bolder, and I could feel the wind as one of them swooped in on me from behind my shoulder. It wheeled around over the bow and came right back at me. It reared back at arm’s length with its wings spread and its talons coming right at my face. Taking advantage of a perfect opportunity I pointed the gun barrel at the bird’s center and pulled the trigger. Black feathers flew and the now silenced bird landed in the water and strangely sank out of sight. The other bird flew up high and then quickly descended, coming right at me. I had the gun raised, but the bird did not offer a good target and it flew past my head. Sensing weakness, it circled around and attacked, pecking me on the back of the head with its massive beak. I had to be careful not to tip as I tried to fend it off with the paddle. More determined than ever the bird came back at me. I fired twice, missing both times. With three rounds left in the gun, I knew I better choose my next shots carefully. The bird came from behind me again, this time it wheeled around quickly, planting its talons on my chest and pecking at my eyes. My attempts to fend it off with a fist were not successful and it got ahold of my eyebrow. I could feel flesh pulling away from my skull, and I pointed the gun right at it and even though I thought the barrel was pressed right into it I still missed. I resorted to using the gun as a bludgeon that I slammed into its neck. This had a noticeable effect, it let out a deep croak and let go its grip. I was not watching the Wendigo at this point, focused on the dark feathered assailant. I could hear it though, as it let out shrieks and screams louder than a siren. The remaining black bird, shook up some from the pistol whipping, flew in a crooked path now, obviously having difficulty maintaining its course. I felt confident I could take it down with one of my remaining rounds. It came straight at me, I let it peck the top of my head as it went by. It circled around again, and once more I let it get me with a good peck to my temple. It made another loop around, and I was ready when it followed the same path of attack. It came right at me, and I was looking down the barrel right at the bird’s head when I pulled the trigger. The raven’s head disintegrated in a cloud of black feathers and blood and the headless body landed at my feet, wings still flapping, talons still grasping.
The shrieks of the Wendigo suddenly stopped. It stood motionless, staring out at the lake, not necessarily at me. I set the gun on the seat next to me, there was still one round left. I used the paddle as a shovel to lift the dead bird over the side and into the lake, where it too strangely sank out of sight. The Wendigo, while still a fearsome looking beast with its face and claws covered in blood and flesh, had lost its menacing posture. I pointed the revolver at it, right at its head. I was confident I could hit it, not confident that my one remaining bullet would kill it. For some reason I thought about the old saying, that if carrying a handgun for bear protection you should save the last round for yourself. Pretty sure the old saying applies here. I lowered the gun and watched the beast. With its long bony arms hanging at its sides it turned towards shore and with two big steps it was crashing through the timber, heading away from the lake, away from me, away from my exit point.
I sat quietly for a minute, trying to take all of this in. I could no longer hear the sounds of branches breaking. Was the Wendigo gone? Apparently they can’t, or won’t swim. The ravens must act as seers or scouts for the Wendigo, once they were eliminated it was like a switch was flipped.
I thought about the hapless travelers. I knew it was pointless to go back to where I had last seen them. What would happen to me when I left the lake? It was now late in the afternoon. I slid the revolver with its one bullet into the back of my jeans, picked up the paddle and headed for the outlet creek.
]]>Try this sentence:
“Something just gave a how’s your father to your hell rod, you better grab it off the guthrie stick and give it a brent burns because I think newman is giving you a mouth party, and do it quick because a couple of gussucks are coming.
To make sense of this and more, read on.
Guthrie
This was from my grandpa, Phred. It was used to refer to another fisherman in a derogatory way, probably one whose fishing skills are suspect. “Look at that guthrie, doesn’t he know there are no fish there?” Classic moves that would identify someone as a guthrie include using a spinning reel upside down, using a Zebco reel, not changing the water in your minnow bucket, fishing where there is zero chance of catching anything.
All of our fishing was done at popular shore fishing spots where you are likely to interact with other anglers. When I think back on some of the locations and tactics we used, we may have been the biggest guthries of all.
When asked about the origin of the word, Phred never really had a good answer, only that someone he had known many years before had used the phrase. It should also be pointed out that Phred’s real name was Ray. He would refer to all males as Fred, including a two-year-old me. I started calling him Fred back, and it stuck. For reasons unknown to me, the “Ph” spelling was used 100% of the time.
We still use this phrase. Guthrie can be broken down into several sub categories such as Gussuck [see below], dipshit, jabroni, or fucking asshole depending on the situation.
Guthrie sticks in plain sight as we fished the Harvard Hole in about 1973
Guthrie Stick
Bank angler’s version of a rod holder. At is simplest it is a forked stick. And this is fishing at its simplest—walk down to the riverbank. Bait up with a nightcrawler. Cast it out. Prop up your rod on a guthrie stick. Wait for a bite.
Sometimes fresh cut, sometimes pulled from a pile of driftwood. In recent years we have taken to using store-bought models [about $4 at Fleet Farm] that can be adjusted for height. Often used by persons that would be referred to as guthries. Phred would never admit that we were guthries, yet why did we employ guthrie sticks so often?
I sometimes see Jeremy Wade using Guthrie Sticks while in pursuit of a “Rivah Mahnstah”, so maybe a name change is in order.
A bunch of Gussucks
Gussuck
This comes from Alaska, it was understood by us fish guides that this is the Native word for “white man”. Research shows that it is indeed accurate, possibly a variation of “Cossack”. We would often refer to each other as “gussuck”, and back home became a word used to refer to any random person, not necessarily in a negative connotation. A gussuck isn’t necessarily a guthrie, but a guthrie is probably a gussuck. Make sense?
Mouth or Snagged
I’m steelhead fishing on the Root River in Racine, early 90’s. I hooked a fish right by a foot bridge, and I immediately hear a voice above and behind me say “mouth or snagged?” It should be said that in a place like 1990’s Root River there are so many fish around that it is inevitable that you will snag, or “foul-hook” a fish once in a while. This means the fish did not bite your fly but somehow ended up getting a hook stuck in a fin or other body
A rare photo of Chris and Gunnar. Two steelhead from the Root that were “mouth”, not “snagged”. We kept these two fish
part. It is not legal to keep a snagged fish, so my new friend on the bridge was probably just hoping for me that it was hooked in the mouth. I shouted back up at the guy “I’m pretty sure it’s a biter!” I wasn’t keeping any fish no matter what, but I was at least trying to be friendly. He said again “mouth or snagged?” “Mouth!” I responded. “Mouth or snagged?” he repeated. Now I’m annoyed, and I take my attention away from the hooked fish to check this guy out. I quickly realize this guy is sort of like a cross between Rain Man and Forrest Gump, and he is now walking across the bridge away from me, still saying “mouth or snagged, mouth or snagged” over and over in a sing-songy voice that I can hear to this day.
From then on we used the phrase “mouth or snagged” to refer to any slow individual we may encounter in our travels—“That guy behind the counter has a little bit of “mouth or snagged” going on.
Milk Man
We’re trout fishing on the Whitewater River. It is wintertime, late 1980’s, perhaps the first year that Minnesota had a winter trout fishing season. Gunnar and I hadn’t fished much together yet, and he was still pretty new to trout fishing. At some point he was getting frustrated by something and said something to the effect of “For all the good I’m doing here I should have stayed home and fucked the milkman”. What? OK Gunnar whatever you say. A bit later I walk up to where he was untangling his line from a streamside bush. As I passed by to hit the next riffle upstream I said, “Say hi to the milk man for me”. And just like that we had a new saying. We came to use the milk man sort of like our version of the Domino’s Pizza “Noid”—an evil specter who was always looking for an opportunity to screw things up for us. If we had a bad trip, we would say something like, “Wow the milk man was in full force this time.” We’re older and wiser now, and have mostly figured out how to leave the milk man behind.
Gunnar Grip
Pity the fish that gets caught in the Gunnar Grip. With precision and just the right amount of force, who needs a net when you have the Gunnar Grip! Famously came into play when he tailed a giant Kispiox steelhead for me. More frequently used on small, unfortunate pike often encountered while bass fishing.
How’s Your Father
Originally a line from Austin Powers, Man of Mystery where he says “I like to give my undercarriage a bit of a “how’s-your-father”.
This became sort of a catch-all for whenever something needs attention or adjustment, as in “I think the campfire could use a little how’s-your-father”, or when you are getting a bite, as in “something just gave my bait a how’s your father”.
Brent Burns
Brent Burns was a player for the Minnesota Wild. Tall and gangly, he was a fan favorite, definitely one of my favorite players. He played with a lot of
heart and enthusiasm. And a big slap shot that he wasn’t afraid to use from the blue line. It would sometimes seem like the slap shot came out of nowhere. When in doubt, shoot the puck at the net is a good rule of thumb for hockey, and Number 8 was a big fan of this rule. It should be noted that he had the hardest slap shot during the skills competition at the NHL All-Star Game in 2011.
Somehow I made the connection of a Brent Burns slap shot to a big hookset while bass fishing. Most of the time when a bass bites you know it. Other times the bite can be subtle. You’re working your bait through deep weeds… It that a fish? Did I feel a peck? Am I just dragging weeds? What is going on? Is this a fish? Skip all that, when in doubt, set the hook hard, like a mofo.
“What was that all about?” Gunnar might ask after I do a particularly violent hookset not resulting in a fish. I shrug and say “Brent Burns”.
I’m the captain for my daughter’s bass fishing team, and on tournament days I spend most of my time watching their rod tips for bites. I have tried to explain this premise to them. Not sure if they really understand it, but they do know if I yell “BRENT BURNS!!!” that they better set the hook like they mean it.
Mouth Party
From the great film “Borat! Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan”. Borat enjoys sexy time, especially if it is a mouth party with his favorite American, Pam-ella. Anytime we miss a suspected bite, we will confirm that there indeed was a “mouth party”; in other words, a fish had the bait in its mouth, it wasn’t weeds, and we just missed on the hookset. Like when a “Brent Burns” does not result in a hooked fish.
Five Dollar Pontoon
One of the most consistent ways of catching largemouth is casting around and under boat docks. We do it often enough, mostly in tournaments, but my daughters like fishing this way too. You should see how good my girls can skip a plastic worm under a dock. Most docks have a pontoon boat tied up to it, and getting a cast or two under the pontoon is mandatory. Usually the dock owner pulls their pontoon in forwards, with the bow facing shore. This mooring arrangement requires precision casting: you have to hit the space in between the outboard and the actual pontoon. This is generally not a problem, but we always look forward to the rare pontoon owner who is thoughtful enough to back his pontoon in to the dock. In this situation you have the whole front of the pontoon to cast under. After pulling a couple of nice bass out from under a dock parked this way, I remarked that we should thank the pontoon owner by taping a five dollar bill to it. Even if we don’t set out to fish docks, if we see a Five Dollar Pontoon it is hard to resist sliding up there to skip a couple under.
Skylar sends one under a dock at a tournament last summer
Gunnar Dock
We’re working along a line of docks and the next one in line is short; like one straight, 8-foot section, no boat tied to it, and the end of it is less than a foot deep. I kick the bow mount into “high” to blow past this waster of my time. Gunnar makes a Hail Mary cast as were flying by, and of course lands his jig three inches away from the dock where it is immediately eaten by a four-pounder. To this day I still don’t bother casting at a Gunnar dock, when out with my daughters they know this and will say something like “You sure you don’t want me to make a cast at that Gunnar Dock?”
Herman Muster Feet
Fresh fallen snow with temperatures above freezing can result in an interesting situation if you are wearing felt soled wading shoes. Each step can add a layer of snow to the felt, reminiscent of Herman’s big boots. Makes for awkward walking and comedy on the trail.
Newman, with his long face, tried to steal my Mag Wart
Long Face
The classic joke about a horse walking into a bar was popularized by a bit on a local radio station in the 90’s. In the bit, obnoxious but funny local radio personality “The Chucker” interviewed comedy legend Buddy Hacket. The punchline from the joke, “Why the long face?” was adopted as one way to address the many northern pike we catch in our outings.
Newman
Another name for pike. From Seinfeld, as in “Hello, Newman”. This was Jerry’s greeting for his sworn enemy. Jerry would try to be civil when Newman showed up at his door, but you can hear the contempt in his voice when he greets his portly neighbor with “Hello, Newman.” I treated pike with something between tolerance and amusement until I started fishing bass tournaments. Get bit off 3 times in a row by pike and the hatred will build. “Why the long face?” turns into “Hello Newman” with a side helping of Gunnar Grip on days when the pike won’t leave us alone. Also acceptable to use when you do get bit off…make a fist and say in a hushed shout, “Newman!”
Putting the Hell Rod to good use on the Minnesota River in about 1988
Hell Rod/Hell Fishing
It started with one of my first “custom” rods. I built it in my apartment when I lived in Brainerd. I was proud of it at the time, but it was really a piece of shit. I still have it and it hasn’t gotten any better with age. Shitty 1980s fly rod blank from 3M, and shitty craftsmanship combined to be what Gunnar one day referred to as a “rod from hell”. I initially intended it to be a fly rod/steelhead rod, but it soon was relegated to strictly “hell fishing” detail.
At its core, Hell fishing is still fishing with crawlers on a river. But to really get into the spirit of it you can’t be using a plain old spinning rod. You best have a spinning reel mounted to a fly rod, preferably one that is of limited usefulness otherwise. We catch all kinds of fish doing this, mostly redhorse, carp, and channel cats, but we get smallmouth and walleyes too. We cast about 99 % of the time on the river, Hell Fishing makes for a nice break in the day.
If you’re going to be on the water with me, best study up if you want to understand the nonsense.
Other phrases for another time…
Ridge Runner
Pressure bite
Sinker bite
Seven footer
Should we have caught one by now?
I got a pick up
Hey Dan
Chin Music
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You fly tying nerds take note that I used flat tinsel ribbed with oval tinsel for the body, instead of taking the easy route and using sparkle braid.
This was a favorite fly of mine when I was kid. Probably because even then I had all the material needed to tie one, and even with my limited tying abilities and crude equipment the fly was recognizable as a Mickey Finn when I was done. And I actually caught trout on them on occasion. Yellow and red seems to be a popular color combo, and anglers that spin fish for trout seem to favor the Panther Martin spinner with the yellow and red body [ I have recovered four of these from streamside branches this year alone]. There’s also the “Five-of-Diamonds” spoon, and many streamer and popper patterns use this color combo. I have a yellow and red Eagletail muskie lure hanging on the wall on which I once caught a memorable fish on Wabedo Lake
I always liked the name, but I never gave any thought to the origin of the name of this pattern until recently- never made the connection between this fly and the phrase “slipped a mickey”, referring to giving someone one a cocktail with ingredients meant to incapacitate whoever consumed it. Apparently at some point in time someone thought this pattern was quite deadly, and it was even known as “The Assassin” for a time. John Knight, the Solunar Tables guy, wrote an article of the effectiveness of this fly pattern in the ’30s, and it became a fly shop staple soon after.
This and many other “classic” streamers have fallen from popularity in recent years. Streamer fishing nowadays equates to something along the lines of “slinging triple articulated meat”. That’s cool, I like fishing for big trout too. But streamer fishing can be unbeatable for catching numbers of trout, especially if you use a moderately sized fly. For some reason, it pleases me that Umpqua still has the Mickey Finn in their catalog.
This book once belonged to my grandpa
At the same time, this pattern is featured on one of the color plates in Ray Bergman’s “Trout”. It is on Plate 16, titled “New Wet Flies”.
I still like tying and fishing with the old patterns, and when I pulled up to a new stream reputed to be full of brook trout I decided “why not” and tied the fresh yellow and red streamer on. It wasn’t long before before I was hooked up. Not a brookie, but a respectable brown trout had completely inhaled the thing. 
The next three were also browns, but then the brook trout took over. I’m not one that gets all misty eyed over our native brook trout, but this was a fun change of pace.
My Grandpa Phred, whom I often written about, often proclaimed how he preferred catching brook trout over browns. But we mostly fished the Kinni, where browns outnumber brookies by about 1000 to 1. We still caught brookies on occasion. “Why are there no big ones?” he would lament. I don’t think he realized, or at least accepted, that brook trout just don’t get that big. Especially when you keep every 9-incher you catch. In those days brook trout were “absent” from the Rush River. Until one day I caught one in between the bridges at Martell. It was about 8 inches long, I let it go. Once back at the car I reported to Phred that I had caught a brook trout. “The hell you did, there’s no brook trout in here!” “Well that’s what it was”. Not sure if he ever actually believed me. Brook trout are fairly common in the Rush now, as improved water quality has allowed them prosper. I once even caught a tiger trout in the Rush; this is pretty much the unicorn of the trout world, it is a hybrid between a male brook trout and a female brown trout. Phred caught one in the Kinni once, he cooked it for me for dinner.
Back to the action on this new stream. I don’t remember ever talking to anyone about this place, even though it isn’t all that far away. Considerable stream improvement has been done here, making this narrow stream very fishable. On the section I fished, maybe a mile of it, the stream is about 90% “live”–almost all of it was capable of holding fish, and almost all of it fishable.
I was working my way upstream, casting the Mickey straight up and stripping back faster than the current. In some spots this was tricky as the little creek moved along pretty good in places. At some point I decided to head back down to my starting point and explore downstream. Once I got to my starting point I tried casting downstream into the run. I hooked a good brown right away and realized how I had making this be harder than it had to be. All I needed to do was roll cast it down and across [not much to the “across” part, the stream was mostly about 10′ wide].
just lettin’ it hang down there…
Strip it, let it hang, work it with the rod tip. It didn’t matter, they loved it, and I was delighted when I realized I had lost track of how many I had caught. Many fish I caught while kneeling on the soft grass bank. On a couple I was actually sitting. The valley this creek flowed though is typical of the driftless area, steep hills running down to a narrow band of tillable land. There was a hint of green showing on the branch tips, but the fields were still drab. I caught a couple, and missed several others that grabbed the fly while I left it hanging in the current as I did a scenery check.
Fishing from the bank has an advantage I never realized before–when you’re standing in a stream, there is almost always noise from the water flowing around you. Not necessarily a lot , but it is always there. Fishing from the bank eliminates this ambient noise, and really lets you hear the birds, which are active everywhere now, but perhaps not as much as in this valley. The ever present blue jays and cardinals appeared to having their own version of the red vs. blue debate. Red winged blackbirds sang their song of spring, and many other unidentified songs mixed it up. I heard the bugling of cranes and the whistle of wood ducks. Gobbling turkeys, cackling pheasants, even a grouse was drumming. Where else can you find all of these birds in one place?
I was getting pretty hungry and stopped to check the time. I remember thinking that if it was after 12, I would head back to the truck. It was 2:10. Time flies and all of that. I still had the Mickey Finn tied on, although it was looking a little ragged, the tinsel was coming unraveled after too many encounters with little pointy teeth. I know I would have caught even more fish had I scaled down the size of the fly, as I missed many, many hits. And I suspect I would have caught some bigger fish had I gone with a bigger, heavier fly. I’ve got no complaints, Mickey Finn served me well. Got back to the truck and decided to drive up the county road to scope out some other parking areas. I left my waders on in case I saw something good. Found a couple more access points, but the cold pieces of greasy pizza leftover from the night before that I was cramming down my face were tasting mighty good. That was enough trout for one day.
This is the “after” picture, Mickey is looking pretty ratty now
No one had been in there yet this year, no tracks in the shin-deep snow. First spot, nada. Second spot, well this one now has a huge willow tree lying in it making it very difficult to fish. Gave it a good try, no fish. Now I get to the ace spot. Can’t miss. Easy, open riffle, deep enough to hold a bunch of fish. I catch them here every time. I scoured it for half an hour, not one fish. As I hike out, I think about the book “Who Moved My Cheese” that was popular about 20 years ago.
Maybe it is still popular now, but it was 20 years ago when I read it. I don’t remember all of the details, and I’m not going to re-read it, but as I remember it described a group of mice who led their lives always going to the same place where they could get all of the cheese they needed. At some point in the book, the never-ending cheese supply dried up and disappeared. Some of the mice continued to go to the same place, hoping the cheese would re-appear. It never did, these mice ended up in downward spiral of despa
ir. Meanwhile, some of the other mice, the more ambitious ones, dared to look elsewhere for new cheese. As I remember, they had to travel farther, and work harder to find it, but they did indeed find new cheese and lived happily ever after. So the moral of the story is that when you lose something, whether it be employment, relationship, favorite fishing hole, cheese—let it go, and go find some new cheese.
Trout are my cheese.
I’ve written before about how good the local streams were “back in the day”. In the mid 90’s the “R” River was THICK with big browns. One September day in about ’98 I said goodbye for the season to all my trout friends, happily finning around in the crystal clear canyon pools. Came back in the spring to stick hooks in their faces, you know, just to say “Hi, how was your winter?” and they were gone. Like 90% gone. After a couple of years the stream rebounded, but has been different ever since…perhaps more fish, but smaller overall. A lot more brook trout. A lot more Subarus parked at the bridges too.
The “K” River has long been a favorite of mine. Historically is has held crazy numbers of wild browns. Walk the banks and you would see trout everywhere-even flat, non-descript sections would have trout scattering. You’d come to a corner hole and you could see 50 in there. Spring 2015 came around and the fish were gone. Walk the stream bank and there were no fish on the flats, come to a corner hole that used to hold 50 and there would be two. Two trout where there used to be 50. The stream rebounded some by 2019, but going by results there last week it seems like the stream is nearly barren again. Not sure who moved my cheese, or where they moved it to, but a search for new cheese was in order.
Acting on 20-year-old intel, I decided to head farther east to a stream “filled with big fish” according to the report from decades ago. With tools like Google Earth and the Troutroutes ap, finding and exploring new streams is easy if you have the time.
When I got there I found the stream to be a bit bigger than expected, it can be hard to judge the size of a stream when using street view on Google Earth. After getting suited up I stepped in and started working my way upstream, nymphing with a beadhead. For all I knew, this stream’s trout population was similar or worse than my “home streams.” But it looked good. Real good.
There is a certain satisfaction that comes with arriving at a new stream, analyzing the water, and catching a fish right away. I’d be lying if I said I caught a fish out of every likely looking spot, but most pools and runs gave up a fish or two, and a couple of spots had a whole bunch in there. Definitely cheesy.
Despite no other anglers around on this fine spring day, there were signs. You could argue that even if I didn’t catch a fish that I found enough tackle left by other anglers to make the trip worthwhile. That blue Rapala is worth 7 bucks alone. I was not impressed with whoever lost the jig worm thing—it had about 50 feet of braided line trailing off it which is quite a menace to songbirds and other animals. I disposed of the line, the jig is headed to my wall of shame.
Fished for about 4 hours. Caught 15, maybe 20 trout. Mostly browns, a couple of little brookies. No big ones, the longest one wouldn’t made it past the end of a ruler. To someone who doesn’t trout fish, this might sound like a colossal waste of time. Drive a hundred miles, walk up though unknown waters and woods to catch 20 fish that if you weighed them all in a sack it wouldn’t be more than five pounds. 
I like catching big trout, but guess what—I figured out that trout fishing, to me anyway, isn’t about catching big fish. That’s what muskies and sturgeon are for. Here’s what I like–put me on a stream where I can hook up a couple times an hour, not see another angler, not hear anyone trying to save lives with their loud pipes. White pines on the ridges, silver maples and alders vying for space along the banks, critter tracks in the mud. End the day with chapped hands and no worries other than figuring out where my waders are leaking from now.
Since this story is about cheese, and these streams are in America’s Dairyland, I tried hard to come up with a good punchline about Wisconsin and cheesy trout. Couldn’t find one, so I’ll leave you with this picture of an unknown fish from a Wisconsin steelhead trip in the 90’s. The streams were so cheesy back then I even caught what we decided was a “cheesehead”. Photo courtesy of Trout Camp News
I’ve seen every documentary about the Loch Ness monster and all of his cousins ever made. Shows about “Champ” from Lake Champlain or “Ogopogo” from Okanagan Lake in British Columbia will always get me to watch. There is even the legend of “Peppie” from Lake Pepin right here in Minnesota. When I lived in Northern Minnesota I heard from more than one source of an alleged thing that lived in Farm Island Lake by Aitkin. Every winter it supposedly would show up at someone’s spear hole and scare the hell out of them.
Now I won’t go so far as to say that I’ve actually seen a version of Nessie, but I’ve seen some things.
My kids say there is no such thing as monsters. I disagree. Check out a tiger, a great white shark, a grizzly bear, an anaconda. These are all monsters as far as I’m concerned. They will all kill and eat you.
Same for crocodiles. I saw one once. This was an American crocodile, not known to be as vicious as their Nile or Aussie cousins.
This one was in the Flamingo Marina. Sarah and I rented a canoe to take out into Florida Bay. “Is that a crocodile I just saw?’ I asked the gal at the concession. “Oh yeah, that’s Sarge, just stay away from him and he won’t bother ya.”
Not my picture , but this is a croc at Flamingo
I’m pretty bold when it comes to approaching various creatures, but I’m going to go ahead and steer clear of the 12-foot-long friendly dinosaur living in your marina, especially when I’m in a canoe. Sure enough, we quickly and quietly paddled by while Sarge glared at us from fifty feet away, avocado eyes and his algae covered scutes barely showing above the dark water.
Another time farther north along the Gulf Coast a giant manta ray coasted silently past, just above the bottom in the clear water where we were staked out for tarpon. My friend John, who is as cool as they come, said in his understated way of talking “Wow man, that’s some Discovery Channel shit right there…”
A guide once told me there are no giant manta rays in Florida
The thing was as big as the boat, and I was fully puckered until it was well past us. It looked super sinister, perhaps deserving of its nickname “Devil Ray”, but we all know they are harmless. But what if it jumped and landed on your boat…?
Now this next sea monster isn’t so easily explained. It wasn’t exactly a monster, but could be perhaps better described as a freak of nature. I was much farther north, on Big Boy Lake near Remer, Minnesota. I was out with a couple of friends, mostly fishing for bass, mostly catching pike. My friend Dan was driving his Tuffy boat from one spot to another, I’m sitting on the front deck. He happened to be looking back at the wake when something caught his eye. He cut the throttle and went into a hard turn. He was looking back, yelling something and pointing to where the boat has just been. “What’s going on, what did you see?” I yelled. “I don’t know… I think it was a…a…a…muskie?” [He later said that what he saw was WAY too big to be a muskie, but it was the only thing he could think of at the time] That’s all I needed to hear, the boat was coasting to a stop and I had already stood up and was casting a black Eagletail in the direction he was looking. Muskies are known to come up in a boat wake, so this isn’t unheard of. What is unheard of is the thing that came up next to the boat. It was a turtle. A snapping turtle.
We’ve all seen big snappers before, I’ve seen hundreds, maybe thousands of snappers in my life. I’ve been known to grab one on more than one occasion. This thing was so much bigger than any other snapper I’ve ever seen, it was like a different animal. It was over two feet across, and its head was the size of a football. It dove back out of sight almost immediately, not before we could all point and yell “AAAAIIIGGGHHHHH!!!! Look at that!!!!”. Let me say again, all of us in the boat are very familiar with snapping turtles, and we all got a good look at this one.
Wes Prewett’s Alabama record 200 lb Alligator snapper. This is the size of what we saw that day.
If you look at a picture of a full-grown example of the common snapping turtle’s southern cousin, the alligator snapper, you get an idea of the size of this thing. Our northern snapping turtle, called “common snapping turtles” have a max weight of 75 lbs. Coincidentally I had a magazine back at camp that had a picture of the Minnesota state record snapper, which was around 75 lbs. That night I dug out the magazine and we laughed–the thing we saw was easily twice the size, probably more. Alligator snappers often achieve triple-digit weight, and reports of them up to 400 lbs. are out there. Was what we saw a lost alligator snapper? They are known to be as far north as Illinois. Maybe someone transplanted one. Or just due unknown circumstances did a common snapper greatly exceed its normal lifespan of 100 years? I was on this lake with my kids last summer. When we were swimming I couldn’t help but wonder if this creature was still prowling the lakebed.
To this day Dan and I will reminisce about that day and what we saw. Ask him, his story is the same as mine.
Next sighting was even farther north. On Lake Chauekuktuli in Alaska. Tikchik Lodge alumni know this lake. It’s nestled in the Taylor Mountains, 23 miles long and 900 feet deep, it is one of several big deep lakes in the headwaters of the Nuyakuk River, which feeds the Nushagak River. It’s a 20-minute boat ride from the lodge, and is home to abundant lake trout and char. On the day of the sighting the weather was very uncharacteristic for Alaska-bright sun, no wind, temp in the 70s. I had two guests in the 18-foot Lund, we passed through a connecting river known as the Northwest Passage and were headed across Chauekuktuli to fish in front of the Allen River.
Me on a different day on Lake Chauekuktuli. Look like good monster habitat?
Enjoying the glass calm boat ride, I was about half way across when I saw something come to the surface right next to the boat and immediately dive down again. We were moving along pretty fast, and I remember thinking “Whoa, that was a big snapper”. I can still picture what I saw—the back end of a big turtle as it dove away. The Boy Lake incident was still semi fresh in my brain, having happened just a couple years before, and as I’ve said before, seeing big snapping turtles isn’t that unusual. This thought was quickly replaced with the fact that there are no turtles [or any reptiles] in Alaska! I cut the throttle and circled back. The guests wanted to know what was up, said “I don’t know, I saw something…” I circled around slow, looking for any other signs of life. Whatever it was didn’t show itself again, so we continued towards the north side of the lake, and I looked back over the glass surface of the lake as we went, hoping to spot whatever it was re-emerging from the depths.
Back at the lodge that afternoon I cautiously told the boss about what I saw. “Was it a seal?” he asked. I don’t think it was a seal. A seal would have been a hundred miles from the ocean and would have has to swim up some serious rapids to get there. I still don’t know what it was. A loon or an otter? I would have seen them pop up for air. Another misplaced giant snapping turtle? A swarm of burbot? Or an unknown creature. There have been sightings of large creatures in many Alaskan other lakes.
Now its going to get weird. Or weirder. The previous stories all could have a logical explanation. Not this one. Closer to home this time, I was fishing from my float tube on Little Falls Lake in Wisconsin. This is a 200-acre reservoir with a max depth of 20 feet. Not a big lake. At one time it was a great bass fishing lake, and I used to fish there a couple times of year, usually with friends. On this day in May I was fishing solo, and the lake was fishing really well. I caught a bunch of bass, and a few were five pounders or bigger. If you don’t know, a float tube is basically an inner tube with a nylon cover and seat. You propel yourself along with flippers on your feet. No matter how hard you try, there is no going fast. A typical day of fishing this lake will have you starting at the access and then fish around the lake counter-clockwise. It takes the better part of a day to fish all the way around. I found myself straight across from the access and rather than coninue the loop all the way around I decided to call it a day and cut scroos to the access.
A typical Little Falls Lake bass from back in the day. No sign of a dolphin in this picture. Or is there?
Takes about 15 minutes to go across and I was admiring how torn up my thumb was from all the bass as I slowly flippered along. Something caught my eye in my peripheral vision. I faced the direction I had seen it, towards the upper end of the lake and I thought how if this were on the ocean I would be certain that I had just seen a dolphin. Now, as I am looking right at the spot, a dolphin surfaces in classic “dolphin style”—head, dorsal, back, tail, moving from right to left, about 150 yards away. WTF. I know what you’re thinking, and this lake does not have sturgeon. It does not have muskies. And it definitely does not have dolphins. So, what did I see? Or…what happened to make me think I saw what I saw? At the access there was a guy I knew, I told him how I had just seen a giant “fish”. “Probably a carp” he said. It wasn’t a carp, I’ve seen a million carp. It was way bigger than any freshwater fish. This lake was drained a few years ago to rebuild the dam, and I’m pretty sure that if the remains of a dolphin or plesiosaur turned up on the dry lake bed it would have made the news. I can’t explain it. I read a lot about weird paranormal things, stuff like parallel dimensions opening up, time travel, all the crypto zoology stuff. Let me be clear, I don’t think there was actually a dolphin or other giant creature, but for some reason my brain thinks I saw it. When I tell someone this story, I don’t expect them to believe it, I don’t expect you to believe it now; I don’t even believe it. But the image of that dolphin still lives in my brain.
Maybe this is why I’m not quick to dismiss when someone says they’ve seen a bigfoot, or an alien, or Jesus, or a ghost. I wasn’t there. Who am I to say what you saw? Just like you were weren’t there that day on Little Falls Lake. I’ve had two different guys tell me about muskies they’ve seen that defy explanation, they were so big. Muskies in the 7 – 8 foot range. These stories come from sane men that are believable in every other way, have caught a lot of what most would consider to be “big” muskies [more like 4 – footers], and would have nothing to gain by telling me their tall tales. I wasn’t in the boat with them, I don’t know what they saw.
I was just finishing this up when there was a knock at the front door.
I open it and there’s this cute little girl scout.
And she was so adorable, with the little pig tails and all.
And she says to me, “How would you like to buy some cookies?”
And I said “Well, what kind do you have?”
She had thin mints, graham crunchy things, raisin oatmeal, and I said “We’ll take a graham crunch.
How much will that be?”
She looks at me and she says, “I need about treefiddy”.
]]>All of the Covid hype last spring had us convinced that while we should participate in outdoor activities, we should do so close to home. Once my 2019 license expired in March, I made the tough decision to pass on fishing across the border this year. I’m personally not too worried about Covid, but figured keeping my Minnesota plates on this side of the river would be a good move this year.
But something has been bugging me. For a while, long before this Covid thing showed up.
You know the Jimmy Buffett song called “One Particular Harbor?” He sings of a place, maybe in the south Pacific or the Caribbean, where no matter what is happening in the rest of the world, there is shelter and relief and calm in this hidden bay. Love that song. As it turns out for me, there’s this one particular river. You know the one. It flows north. Presidents have fished there. Wild trout and salmon abound. There’s something about this place, a feeling you don’t get from other rivers. The way the river sounds. The way the woods smell from the aspen leaves.
I used to go up at least 3 or 4 times per fall, and the comradery with friends was as much a part of the fun as actually catching the fish. But times change, and what used to be a trip I would make several times a year became once a year, and now in 2020 I realize I hadn’t walked the red clay trails since 2017.
I made my first trip up here in the spring of ’88. Took a few years before I ever actually caught anything, and a few more before I really had a clue. Now, 30 plus years later, it is somewhat likely, but still a long way from a guarantee that I’ll bring a wild steelhead to hand on any given day.
So I decided- Covid be damned, I’m heading up. And if I was going to do it, I wasn’t going to settle for a day shot or a weekend. No, I wanted a midweek, 2-day shot. Getting time off from work was no problem, getting time off from home was a little trickier, but I was granted a 2-day pass. I also bought a short-term Wisconsin license, the first time since I turned 16 that I didn’t buy an annual license.
Gunnar is almost always up for these trips, and we left my driveway at 5:30 am. There was a time when we would have left at 3:30 am to ensure being on the river at first light, but I’m getting too old for that shit. They’ll have to bite when we get there.
The days we had slated out for our trip coincided with the onset of winter. Forecast for the trip had highs in the mid-30s and plenty of opportunity for snow. We’ve seen worse. We’ve done this enough to know how to dress for the cold, and the inclement weather might discourage others.
We found ourselves at a familiar parking spot at about 8:30 am. Dashboard temp on the Ram said it was 33 degrees. The snowfall from the night before weighed heavy on the boughs of the spruce and pine, as well as covering the ground. I was suited up and ready to go in a few minutes while Gunnar took a bit more time.
Ironically, he often complains of other fishing partners putzing around with their gear, taking forever to get ready. Well apparently it takes a while to find just the right balance of Marlboro lights, Funyuns and spawn bags to bring down to the river as he sifted through all 6 duffel bags he brought with. No worries, I was in no particular hurry. And the waiting gave me time to contemplate days spent on this river.
In the early 90s I was lucky to have my friend Scott Schumacher allow me to accompany him for a couple of days. This was the turning point for catching fish with any consistency here. Turns out there are no secret flies, no secret rigs, no secret colors of yarn, no secret spots. Instead, he showed me where to park, where the trails go, the kinds of spots to fish, and where exactly in those spots that the steelhead were likely to be. Every corner, every hole, every run has a name, and someone catches fish out of every one of these spots. I know this is one of the many reasons for this river’s allure. Walk up to group of steelhead anglers from this area and say “Sauna Hole”, “McNeill’s”, or “Bachelors” and you’ll have everyone’s attention. These spots were probably named before anyone on the river today was born, and will continue to be known as long as the silver fish with the pink stripe make their migration.
As I said, I used to go up several times a year, maybe 3 or 4 times in the fall and sometimes once in the spring. Somewhere along the way I realized that the spring fishing up there didn’t do it for me. Get up there too early in the year and you might find the snow to be neck deep, get there too late and all of the fish are on the spawning gravel. Then the 3 or 4 fall trips turned into one fall trip. And then this fall I realize it was 2017 since I last was there, and maybe 2015 since I had been there with Gunnar. When you are young and hear from men with families talk about how hard it is to get away it doesn’t make sense. It makes sense now.
After 5 minutes or so Gunnar’s vest was balanced and we were heading down the snowy path.
We often bring multiple rods down to the river. I usually bring two, he brings two or three.
My rods to choose from include:
Nymph rod, 9’ #8, rigged with floating fly line and strike indicator. There is no more lame way to fish for steelhead than this. We pretend we’re fly fishing but in reality we’re just bobber fishing with a fly rod. It takes the least amount of skill too; just roll cast your ping pong ball sized cork up there and watch the bouncing ball. And repeat. In clear water conditions, this works well. I still hate it. As a protest to this stupid way of fishing, the rod I have rigged for this is my shittiest eight weight, and the reel hanging on it is nothing special. We first saw the effectiveness of this technique when we snuck up on a legendary Brule steelheader [you know who you are!]. We knew he had a fish on before we could even see him in the run, as we could hear his fancy clicker drag reel squawking like a crow every time the fish took off. We helped him land the fish, and he actually seemed a little embarrassed. When I went to unhook the fish for him the reason for embarrassment was obvious. At first I thought his split shot had slid down to the fly, but no, turns out he tied his nymphs on little jig heads. Now all the fancy Euro-nymphers have special hooks to fit special brass beads to tie up fancy jig nymphs.
Drift rod. 9’ #8, rigged with a running line and slinky, yarn fly on the end. This has become old school, not many guys do this anymore, but it was what dominated in the 90s. For some reason it doesn’t seem to work as well as it used to, but I still like it; get into the top end of a run, pitch your rig up and across and feel the slinky tick through the rocks. If it stops set the hook. It’s usually going to be a snag, but those times when that snag pulls back…
Swinging rod, 9’ #8 rigged with a sink tip line. Arguably the most satisfying way to hook a steelhead, as there is nothing like the WHOMP! when you are swinging a big black bunny leech in a tailout and a big chromer grabs it. Plan on a lot of time in between grabs if you decide to fish this way though, and I wouldn’t bother unless conditions are prime: clear water, good numbers of fish around, 40 degree or warmer water, and not too many other anglers frothing the water. Pretty easy way to fish—cast, mend, let it swing. Contemplate your existence. Look at the birds. Look for a squatch. Notice how the sky up here is the bluest blue there can be. [Sidebar—I used to think that the sky really was bluer up there, maybe due to the big lake. Turns out that no matter where you are the sky actually looks bluer in the fall. Google it.] I remember one trip when I landed three big ones swinging flies. I was talking pretty smart around the campfire that night. Probably didn’t catch another one that way for two years.
Spinner rod. Haters are gonna hate. And they can suck it because this is one of my favorite ways to fish for steelhead. Turns out I would rather catch a steelhead on a spinner than nymphing. I like spinner fishing because it seeks out active fish, I never cast to the same spot twice. Cast. Step. Repeat. You have to pay attention; you have to keep the blade spinning, keep it down in the strike zone, but not too deep or you’ll get snagged. I attribute all success I’ve had on swinging flies to what I’ve learned by catching them on spinners; a steelhead that will grab a spinner just might grab a well-presented fly instead.
Gunnar’s quiver is a mix of long spinning rods, and a few fly rods. He cares even less about what people think about his fishing techniques than I do, so the fly rods don’t get a lot of play. My favorite is his Loomis GLX fly rod with an Abu Garcia Diplomat fly reel from the 1980s on it. It is stupid how many steelhead he has caught on the $30 reel. Diplomatic Immunity? It’s just been revoked. If you ever find yourself in a situation where you must produce a Brule River Steelhead or face dire consequences, you would be wise to subcontract the work to Gunnar. Drive him up there, but stop at the Bait Box in Superior so he can stock up on flatfish and spawn bags. Send him down the river with a flatfish on one rod, and bobber/spawn on the other. Follow with net and camera because some shit is about to get caught.
On this session I had my slinky rod and nymph rod, Gunnar had 2 spin and 1 fly. We fished through many favorite spots without much to show; I caught a 12” resident brown on a moss green yarn fly and that was it. Despite the cold and snow there were a few other anglers out.
We decided to change to a different section of the river, so we headed north, down to a favorite parking spot along the gravel road that goes to the mouth. The snow concealed the trail that neither of us had been down for a few years and we ended up bushwhacking until we ran into the river. We worked our way up without any action until in a non-descript shallow run [I’m sure there is a name for this spot, but I don’t know it, and I have yet to check The Map] I had a savage strike on a spinner. It was so hard and fast that my line pretty much broke on impact, it was as if I had been bitten off by a pike. I speculated this out loud, Gunnar pointed out that there was only two feet of line hanging off the end of my rod tip, so how could it have been a bite off? I concluded it must have been a bad spot in the line. While I rerigged, Gunnar got busy with a flatfish and came up with a nice chromer on his second cast.
After fishing all day without much action and then running into two fish in succession convinced us we had run into a pod of chromers fresh from the lake. It must have been a pod of two, because nothing else happened. We hiked out before dark and headed back to town, dodging deer all along the way, with one really close call in town. We secured lodging for the night and walked down to the bar. As a younger man I would sometimes stay here until after midnight. On one wild night we somehow forgot to pay our tab. I realized this the next morning on the river. “Did you pay the waitress? I didn’t. Uh-oh.” We sheepishly showed up around noon, “Hey, we did a bad thing…uh…last night…” The barmaid on duty was already reaching for our tab. We left a big tip.
This night it was pretty quiet, we chatted with the few locals that were there. When a Neil Young song came on the radio Gunnar asked the barmaid to turn it up. We then all talked about how awesome Neil Young is instead of listening to the song. The guy next to me told me a tale that involved a Neil Young concert and a Scarface style pile of cocaine. And then someone’s phone rang; the ringtone was John Cena’s theme. You can get bacon cheeseburgers anywhere, you gotta go to a small town bar for this kind of entertainment.
We didn’t bother getting up early the next day, waiting for the temp to crest the thirty-degree mark. After our brief flurry of action in the lower river the night before we decided to head back to that general area. Proved to be a good decision, as we each caught a nice one in the bottom end of a long run. I caught mine on a shiny new Vibrax, and it provided an epic battle, the whole time I was thinking about the “bad spot” in my line the day before. I was surprised when I finally got it to hand that it wasn’t bigger. We taped it at 25”.
There is a certain amount of relief that comes with catching a steelhead [or muskie or other trophy fish], after a dry spell. I’m pretty sure that the last time I caught a good-sized steelhead here was five years ago. And after another day of not catching one I was starting to think that maybe I should stick to crappie fishing. I always seem to be able to catch a boatful of those without trying too hard. Now I was all grins, and didn’t give a shit if I caught another fish or even made another cast.
We fished down through a few more runs without incident, other than a dead porcupine on the river bank. Not sure what did it in, but there were quills scattered all over the place. Snow was starting to fall as we climbed up the steep hill back to the truck. I wasn’t really keen on staying until dark, nor did I want our next sesh to be a death march to get in and out of. We decided on a parking spot higher up that’s pretty much at the level of the river. There were four cars parked there already, but we knew where most of them would be. There is a popular hole 5 minutes from the parking spot that had a conclave of center pin anglers working it. This is what we expected, so we kept going up the trail. It was snowing steady by this point, making the trails greasy but at least we could see tracks from other anglers; they were all heading towards the parking lot. We settled into a nice corner hole that I have fished many times before. This spot looks great but I’ve never hooked a thing here.
I had my nymph rod with, and I started working the top of the run with a version of a “Superior X-Legs Nymph” that has been tied on to the 4x tippet since the last time I was up here. In 2017. Same fly, same tippet, same knot. After a half dozen casts my giant orange indicator was yanked under. I set the hook and a big bright steelhead flew out of the water. I took it easy while fighting the fish, what with the three year old tippet, but actually landed the fish in less time than the one on the spinner that morning. Even though I caught it on my least favorite way to fish I was plenty pleased with myself and I took a seat on the bank.
Gunnar jumped in where I had been standing and hooked up right away. Turned out to be a 20” brown; a nice fish, one that would be the fish of the year in the driftless streams.
It was now late afternoon and the snow was really starting to come down. Leaving now would get me home before eight.
That Superior X-Legs is still tied on my nymph rod, hanging on pegs in the garage. I bet I can catch one on it next year. Without re-tying.
