There is something about the descent into a trout valley in Southeast Minnesota that puts me in a good mood like few other things can.  I started my journey on Saturday with the hopelessly boring drive on the highway south of the cities.  The only thing of interest is the occasional stream that is passed over; I make sure I’m in the right lane at every stream crossing so I can get the best view of the water below, helping to get a gauge on the overall water conditions for the area. I hit Rochester and find it to be more of an annoyance than anything [better watch your speed, cops have someone pulled over every time I’m though on 52].  At some point I get off the highway, at least now there are some interesting old farms and other curiosities but it is still a bleak landscape, painted by someone whose palette doesn’t go beyond gray and tan.  Then suddenly the road is pointing downhill.  Down a steep hill.  The colors spectrum changes from mostly gray to mostly green. Usually as I get close to my fishing destination my speed increases in anticipation of getting there, but today I find myself riding the brake though the valley as I try to take it all in.  There are several streams that come together here, and there are many people out enjoying the great day.

My destination is a stream I have not been on before, and actually had very little info on other than some very limited second hand accounts.  One key feature is that it is lightly fished due to lack of access points.  I had Google Earthed the crap out of this stream, and the parking spot I was looking for was easy to find.  I was disappointed that there were three other cars there.  One vehicle had three generations of trout anglers about to head up the trail, they shared a bit of info with me, assuring me I would like what I found up in the valley.  I was probably five minutes behind them on the trail, but they were nowhere in sight.  The trail paralleled the river which was a few hundred yards away.  Eventually the trail and river converged, and there were my buddies form the parking lot.  I quietly slipped past them, walked hard for about ten more minutes and decided to start fishing. 

When I’m on a new stream I fish very poorly. Or at least very quickly.  I had no way of knowing exactly what was around the next bend, where the best water was, or where any other anglers were.  Having fished a lot of streams I have learned that all trout streams tend to “behave” in a similar manner, which means that the ways that pools and rifles are arranged on one stream will likely be repeated on a completely different stream.  The stream had a strong “Lower Kinni” vibe.  Part of this was likely due to the hike up the valley, but there were a few riffles that had a twin on a different creek a hundred miles away. 

What flies worked the best here?  I had no idea.  As is usually the case, I had a black wooly bugger tied on from the last time out, and I made a few casts with it, but my MO on this type of water is to nymph my way upstream, and then bugger my way back.  So, I changed up with a nymph and a cork but continued to fish fast.  There was so much good looking water here that I just couldn’t slow down.  I would make a half dozen casts into “the juice” [this is Gunnar’s name for the “spot-on-the-spot”, as in “Quit casting into that bullshit water and throw into THE JUICE!”] and then march on to the next spot.  It is hard to describe what the juice looks like, as it is different in each riffle or pool, but anyone who is an experienced angler will know what I mean.  It usually involves an edge near the top of a run where the riffle comes in, where the current speed and depth are just right.  I found myself constantly alternating between looking back over my shoulder, anticipating other anglers coming upstream and straining to see what was up ahead.    Eventually I started catching fish.  Not sure if it was because I had slowed down, found the magic fly [I was using a one-of-a-kind beadhead thing], or if I just got into better water, but this stream appeared to be filthy with trout.  Most likely looking water would give up a few, and in a couple of spots I left them biting.  I got to a point where the tasty water changed to flat “gator water”, and I figured it was a good point to stop and start fishing back.  A break was in order, and I took my time eating a sandwich on a grassy bank.  I thought about how glad I was to be fishing alone this day.   I had asked my kids if they were up for trout fishing, but the response was less than lukewarm.  I had considered trying to hook up with a friend this day, but my schedule is unpredictable, and I never know what I’m going to want to do, or where I’m going to want to go.  Getting someone to put up with my unpredictability, and is willing and able to keep up, will have their own gear, know how to use it etc. is tough.  I like fishing with others, especially on known water, but on this day I was glad to have all the adventure to myself.

Despite all of my marching and fish catching, the spectacle of a mature hardwood forest on a spring day was not lost on me.  The forest floor was a green carpet speckled with millions of white flowers, reminding me of stars in the night sky.  I was wishing for a camera better than what is in my phone, but it would have to do.  I was keeping an eye out for morels, but never did find a single one. 

There were quite a few Pheasant Back mushrooms sprouting from dead logs though, and I decided today was going to be the day I would harvest some.  I could already imagine cooking them up along with the five trout that I was quite sure I would catch on the way back downstream.  And I figured I should dig up a few of the millions of ramps growing in the forest while I was at it, these wild relatives of onions were another thing I had never harvested before.  [note to self—put a small shovel in your vest for ramp digging detail, digging them up barehanded is tough and dirty]

Sandwich eaten, bugger tied back on, let the trout harvesting begin.  This stream has special regs like many other Minnesota streams, and there is no kill between 12 and 16 inches.  The best ones for the pan are in the 9 to 11” range anyway.  First cast- twelve incher, about as big as I had seen in this stream.  I let it go, and was soon hooked to another, maybe a bit smaller.  I put the tape measure on it to confirm it was under a foot, and it went in The Sack.  The Sack is a mesh bag that mostly stays wadded up in the back of my vest, once in a while it gets to carry some trout.  Soon there were a couple more in there.  Funny thing, when I start fishing for trout that I’m going to keep it starts to be not as much fun.  When I’m catch and release fishing [which is most of the time] and one gets away I don’t really care at all.   When I’m keeping fish and a “sacker” gets off just as I’m about to grab him I can’t help but get pissed. 

A few fish started rising here and there, despite the fact I had hardly seen a bug on the water all day. There must have been something hatching, as many unidentified warblers and songbirds were picking things off as well.  The trout were hitting the bugger enough to get me to put aside any thoughts of dry fly fishing, but at some point they started coming up steady enough to get me to make the switch.  The only bugs I had seen were a few caddis, so I put on the old trusty Henryville Special.  They couldn’t get enough of it.  At some point The Sack had five trout in it, and I stopped fishing to clean them in the style of my grandpa.  He always gut and gilled his trout streamside, and I mostly keep the tradition alive, I have a little knife in my vest that is used only for this purpose.  I figured that doing this was probably illegal, but then continuing to fish with a limit of five in The Sack probably is too.  I took my chances with both, finally ending up in a run with 50 trout rising along the far bank.  I did a time check as I got to this spot, knowing I was now at the point where I was going to be late getting home.  How late was still debatable.  After tormenting another dozen fish I decided enough is enough and I began the march back to the truck.  I sent a text home indicating I was walking out of the valley.  The hike out took about a half hour.

Epilogue:

I cooked the trout as I always do, de-headed and de-finned, but otherwise whole, pan fried.  I chopped and sautéed the wild mushrooms and ramps and mixed them into some brown rice for a great accompaniment to the trout.  Wild trout, wild mushrooms and wild veggies, all harvest from the same verdant valley.  Sometimes life is pretty good.

There was one trout left, which I ate for breakfast this morning with more ramps and over-easy eggs.

Dream up, dream up,
let me fill your cup…

She had me there.  “That’s true”, I said, “but this guy seems way less douchey than most, and even though I’ve never met him, we do have mutual friends…I think the guy might be a cop or something, and judging by his blog I’m pretty sure he’s harmless.  The guy is always putting up pictures of big trout, which is more than I’ve been able to do this year.  But…..if you don’t want me to go, I’m sure Gunnar would be up for going steelhead fishing this weekend…and Gunnar did say something about a new strip club opening up, we’ll probably check it out on the way home…”

Fast forward to Sunday morning at Eddie’s house.  I really needed to break this trout fishing jinx.

I had left the decision as to where we were to go up to him, which is a very odd move for me.  But I’ve seen his posts, he fishes a lot, catches plenty of above average sized trout, so I’m willing to trust his judgement.  Besides, all of my best spots have been marginal or worse this year.  He said bring a life vest in case we use a canoe, I wasn’t sure if he was serious or not, but I brought one with to be sure.  I wasn’t even sure which state we would be headed towards, so I made sure all licenses were current in the five-state area, and I brought my passport just in case he had some crazy Nipigon mission in mind.  I was just hoping to get into some good trout fishing, and after a quick chat in his kitchen we had the canoe loaded up and were off.

We had a great talk on the way to his first spot, talking of places we’ve been, mutual people we know, that sort of stuff.  He’s been at the trout fishing thing for about six or seven years, and has a crazy exploratory nature. He writes a blog that I enjoy, a lot of you have probably seen it — Eddie Rivard Fly Fishing

Even when I used to fish a lot more than I do now I didn’t explore like he does.  It later occurred to me how much easier it is today to seek out new spots with all the info that can be gleaned off the internet.  It became pretty obvious early in our conversation that there were no trout spots I knew of that he hadn’t fished and probably caught an 18 incher out of.  He did make a comment about how he had not been able to figure out where “Area 51” was, even though there were power lines in a photo of me with a trout there.  “Area 51” is a Triple Secret Spot of mine that very few people know the exact location of, and I couldn’t remember even posting a picture where I named the spot, but it amused me to learn that I was not the only one that would spend hours on google Earth trying to figure out where someone’s fish picture was taken.

Our day ended up mostly being a series of what I would call “hit and run” spots—park, hit a couple of “money spots”, then back to the vehicle.  The first spot we tried had the water pretty high and muddy, not quite what I would call unfishable, but getting there.  I hooked up right away on a nice twenty-incher, which turned out to be a redhorse.  We never decided if it actually ate my streamer or just got snagged in its ample upper lip. No sign of trout, but it was cool to be fishing on water that while it may not be completely secret, it was totally off my radar.

We had a quick look at this unknown creek, Eddie couldn’t resist making a couple of casts right by the road

We bopped around and tried a few more spots, but Eddie eventually decided we would need to find some clear water.  And clear water we found.  We ended out our day on a pretty little creek with an abundant population of little trout, and even they proved to be too much for me.  Eddie assured me that he had tangled with some big fish in the creek before and I believe him—there were numerous undercuts and hidey-holes where a big trout could live, just waiting for the next fingerling trout to munch.

So the jinx continues.

I keep saying how good our local trout fishing was in the 90s.  If you weren’t around then, imagine this—The Rush is thick with fat browns, mid teen to low 20 inch fish were common.  The Upper Kinni had over 5,000 trout per mile, and the lower had great numbers of 10-16” browns, and it always seemed like there was a hatch.  And no kayakers floating over your fish. Even the Willow had a strong population of trout of all sizes, you could even expect dry fly action most evenings.  There was no internet, no Google Earth, no place to post your reports.  Maybe at the local fly shop, but that was about it.  When Eddie asked me if I had ever fished this spot or that spot, I always had to say no.  The fishing was so good on the home streams that there was no need to explore.  And every time I did go on a mission to the Eau Galle or the Trimbelle or some other similar spot I always had the same result—nice streams, there are fish to be caught, but it just didn’t make sense to drive by miles of the best trout water in the Eastern US to explore.

I keep saying that the streams will come back, and they will. But for now it appears that exploring is necessary. There are more good anglers, and less secrets.  In the 80s and 90s the vehicles I had were unpredictable at best, and more than once found me broken down somewhere.  Vehicles today are all good, I never see any beaters parked at the streams, or anywhere else for that matter.  A vehicle that is reliable and gets good gas mileage may be the best piece of trout equipment there is.  Match it up with high speed internet to access resources like Google, the USGS Streamflow Gauges, and DNR websites, there’s no good reason to not be able find somewhere to fish.  So I guess I better get busy and find me some good water to fish. I’ve got a milk run in mind, this weekend or maybe next.

And remember that even the best vehicle won’t do you any good if you run out of gas.

It troubles me that I am going into this trout season with a genuine lack of enthusiasm.  I’m still looking forward to walking the creeks, taking in the sights, sounds, and smells, but I just know the trout catching is going to be off.  For reasons I’m not going to get into here, my two favorite streams [the Upper Kinni and the Willow] are seriously hurting in the trout population department, and it’s going to be a few years before it improves.  So for catching, that leaves the Rush, or maybe the lower Kinni.  Not that these are bad—quite the contrary, these are fantastic streams with wild trout and fishy riffles and pools.  Also an abundance of trout anglers, [and %$##&@ kayaks on the Kinni] and I hate the fact that when I’m approaching a favorite access point I have to start deciding how many other vehicles I will tolerate.  More than three or four, I’m off to the next spot.  This is why the other creeks have been so dear to me, enough fish to keep me busy, and always plenty of water devoid of other anglers.   

I know my favorite streams will come back, but in the meantime I’m going to share a few times when the fishing was truly outstanding.  I’ve had a lot of great days on the local creeks, but these are some days that really stand out.  Interesting to note that my very best, most memorable days were days I was fishing alone.

The first year of the “Early Season” [the one that would start March 1] was a great year.  I really fished a lot in those days, and two extra months equated to a couple hundred more trout than before.  I was on the Upper Kinni, it was March 20 [I forced myself to remember the date], and I think 1997.  I’m working through some favorite water with the trusty UV scud tied on, when out of nowhere there is a very aggressive rise just above me—like someone threw a baseball in the water.  Not one to switch to a dry at the first sign of surface activity, I kept dredging, and was catching a few.  The big splashes continued, and were becoming a distraction.  I stopped casting to try and determine what was happening.  I had seen a couple of bugs flying around, but hadn’t really paid much attention to them.  I soon realized that they were black stoneflies—they were starting to buzz on the surface, and I spotted a few crawling on logs.  I looked up to the top of the run I was working, and here comes a stonefly buzzing down the center of the stream [they lay their eggs this way].  SPLOOSH—the bug gets chomped by a better than average trout, and I couldn’t get the nymph, shot, and cork off my leader fast enough.  As I’m cutting off my nymph rig I am taking a mental inventory of all my fly boxes, trying to picture what I have to be a suitable stonefly imitation.  Remember, this was the first year we could fish there this early, and no one was aware that the black stoneflies were such a thing on the Kinni.  A big elk hair caddis would have to do, and I greased one up with floatant after it was tied on, and after a couple of quick false casts it was drifting toward where I has seen the last fish feed.  It hadn’t floated a foot before it was eaten, and I was soon admiring the first of many trout I would catch that day.  I didn’t count them [I always lose count after 2], but by mid-afternoon I had caught more than enough and headed home early.

Since this memorable day, I always try to get over there on a warm, sunny day around March 20.  I have hit this hatch pretty good a few times since, and I have designed a very devious stonefly pattern specifically for it.  It takes about 20 minutes to tie, but it looks really good.  And it works exactly as well as an elk hair caddis that I can tie in about 3 minutes.

here’s the pattern:

Hansen’s Ovipositing Stone 

Hook:  TMC 100; Butt: Pearl Litebrite; Body: Clipped black deer hair; Hackle: Grizzly; Wing: Grizzly hackle tips

These bugs have what appears to be a glowing white egg sac on their butt when laying their eggs

Thinking about this day reminds me of another epic dry fly day on the Kinni.  This time I was headed to the lower river, and as I crossed into Wisconsin I was anticipating my hike up the canyon from County Road F.  It was midweek, so I wasn’t worried about crowds or kayaks, and I expected to have some decent nymph fishing before some mayflies would start hatching in the afternoon.  I don’t remember the date, but it was around late May/early June in the early “Oughts”.  [I’ve been dying to say that].  I’m not known to be a particularly fast driver, but my speed definitely will pick as I get closer to a stream. I was moving right along at about seventy, anticipating a great day.   I’m always hoping for a good “inspirational” rock anthem to come on the radio to really get me fired up as I approach the stream.  On this day, Rock and Roll [part 1] by Gary Glitter came on just as the old white Chevy began the descent into the valley.  I cranked it up and cheered at the right parts until I pulled into the parking lot at the bridge.  I’ve made this hike enough times to know that it involves about 45 minutes of steady hiking to get to where I start fishing.  There is a long bluff pool with a great riffle that comes in at a sharp angle at the top.   Similar to my previous story, I started out nymphing, and they were really hitting it good.  I can still remember one that ate the fly and started jumping before I was even able to set the hook.

I fished all the way to the top of the riffle, probably caught a half dozen.  I had been noticing some fish rising a bit upstream.  I was keeping an eye on them as I headed up the path, and decided to sit on a big log laying across the stream and eat a sandwich while I watched the fish rise.  There were some mayflies coming off, I think it was the light Hendrickson hatch, and as I paid closer attention I could see that the next riffle was ALIVE with rising trout.  I was grinning a grin while I ate my sandwich, watching those trout rise, thinking about how many I was about to catch.

This next riffle where the trout were making a spectacle of themselves was really nothing special to look at. A small riffle came into a little run along the right bank, there were a couple big rocks, and it was maybe three feet deep tops—definitely not a spot you would think could hold more than a few trout.  Despite the fact that it looked like a marginal spot at best, there appeared to be at least a dozen trout rising steadily.  I had re-rigged while sitting on the log, I now had a trusty comparadun on my tippet, greased up and ready to go. After stepping in, I was hooked up within a couple of casts, and then almost every couple of casts after that. I can’t remember how many I pulled out of that little run, but it seemed like for everyone I caught, two more took its place.  It really was bizarre, because it just didn’t seem possible that there could be that many trout in there, but no matter how many I caught, they just kept rising.  I finally decided to move on, and every likely spot was the same—seemingly unlimited rising trout.  They rose steady though the afternoon, and I never saw another angler.  Throughout the day I changed flies regularly [I had to, they kept getting waterlogged from all the fish!], and I tried a little bit of everything. This confirmed to me than when trout are rising to mayflies, you just can’t do better than a comparadun.  I caught some on other designs, but nothing worked better. It didn’t even seem to matter if it was the right color or size either, as long as it was a comparadun.

It was getting later in the afternoon, and I was working my way up through what we call the “Bread and Butter” run.  There were trout rising all over the place, and I was catching them steady.  I looked at my watch and it was 5:30.  I decided I would catch five more and leave.  I forced myself to keep track of the next five I caught and then I looked at my watch again.  It was now 5:40.  I made a few more casts, caught one more, then had a smoke while I watched them rising for another five minutes.  Every run and riffle that I walked by on my hike out of the canyon had trout rising in it. I have never seen a river so alive with trout. How many did I catch that day?  The rate at which I caught the last five were representative of how the action was all day, so figure conservatively 20 per hour for five or six hours.

The Willow River has long been my favorite stream.  Light pressure, easy access, and while the trout population has never that impressive as far as numbers, due to warmer water and abundant forage, the average size can be impressive.  And this was the case on a fine spring day sometime in the late 90s.  Or early Oughts, I don’t remember.  Rarely a place for good dry fly action, the Willow’s dark waters are better suited for dredging big wiggly nymphs or swinging bunny strip streamers or buggers.  I had my favorite 6 weight rigged with a clear tip line.  The clear tip is slow-sinking, and provides just the right amount of sink for the streams around here, and it allow for the use of a shorter leader for better accuracy when casting at close range around bushes and other cover.  When the streamer bite is “on”, the exact fly hardly matters—what matters is that you cover water and show your fly to as many fish as possible.  I was using a favorite pattern that is really nothing special.  I call it the “Strip Club”, it’s got a bunny strip, lead eyes and some rubber legs. I tie this fly [and many other trout streamers] on a 4x long streamer hook, size 4.  This is more important detail that what the pattern was, or what color the fly was.  This hook is just the right combination of length and wire thickness for a trout streamer. [This is a also a good fly for steelhead and smallmouth.]

The Strip Club 

Hook:  4XL streamer; Tail: Flashabou; Body: Sparkle Braid with 3-4 sets of rubber legs; Wing: Bunny strip; Throat [optional]:Contrasting marabou; Eyes:  Medium lead eyes

There are many days on this river when I might get a fish out of every 5^th spot.  This day, every big fish in the stream wanted to play, and by the time my session was done I figured I had had landed around 18 fish.  I know, not exactly insane numbers, but the funny thing is the one I remember most was the smallest one of the day, and it was a foot long.  I chuckled when I released this guy, ‘cause he was just a baby compared to most of the other ones that day.  I don’t think I had any others under 15 inches, most were 16- 18 inches, and a couple were over the 20 inch mark. These were serious, “put-’em-on-the-reel” browns that could have just as well been measured in pounds.  Not bad for a stream 30 minutes from St Paul.

I have had other great days on the creeks over there, and I hope there comes a day when it is again possible to have a “big day”.  And to be fair, I have plenty of great memories of trout fishing where the things I remember most wasn’t the fish catching.  For some reason this memory just popped in my head—I was over there with the Gunnar, we hadn’t brought any food with us [SOP in those days], so we subsisted on berries we picked along the stream.  At one point we were both sitting on the ground off the trail, chowing all the wild raspberries we could reach.  We probably caught a few trout.

EPILOGUE

I fished on the Wisconsin creeks the other day, it was pretty warm but windy.  I visited the Rush for the first time in a few years.  First thing I see is the Red Barn Cafe has turned into a Bar and Grill.  Figures.  What happened to the big metal bridge?  I guess some would have called it ugly, the cement one that took its place is sure nothing special.  And most importantly, where did all the trout go?  I know there are trout anglers more skilled than me who are catching some fish there, but seriously—I can remember being there when a hatch was on and walking right by a riffle full of rising fish if there weren’t any big heads popping up.  On this day I was “zero for zero” after nymphing through a bunch of good water that I have caught hundreds of trout out of. All I caught were a lot of memories as I walked up the canyon.  I could tell stories about every pool in this section. Stories of fish caught, of people I was with, of bugs that were hatching, of big trout seen and big trout caught. There was a guy much younger than me working a streamer through the bottom end of a deep pool.  I really wanted to tell him about the time when I was 15 and caught a 16” brown on a black ghost streamer around the boulders at the top of the pool.  I wisely just asked how he was doing as I walked by on the well-worn trail.  “No fish on the streamer, might try nymphs”.

This is the very Black Ghost streamer, my grandpa tied it in around 1980, and it has lived in my Perrine fly box since. He used jungle cock saddle hackle for the wings, the fly is about 2-1/2 inches long

I finally came to a canyon pool where there were what were obviously tiny trout rising to tiny bugs.  I looked at them dimpling, and shuddered that it might come to fishing for them.  I fished my nymph rig through the fast water at the top and then down through the meat of the run against a bluff with a few logs thrown in for good measure.  Didn’t get a bite, and since the dinks were still rising I reluctantly re-rigged with the smallest fly in the box tied on to some ancient 7x tippet.I have never been so glad to land a five inch trout as I was when I brought in the first of a half dozen or so.  At least I wasn’t skunked.  I did catch one brook trout that was maybe 10 inches, and broke of a slightly larger fish. [I was using tiny flies on a 7x tippet, and the only 7x I had in my vest was some Seaguar that I KNOW has been in my vest since the 90s.]

I left the Rush to try a favorite “hit-and-run” spot on the Kinni, caught exactly zero.  Drove to the Willow, not really planning to fish, just to “have a look”.  I took one look at the water and knew it wasn’t going to happen.  As you may know, a dam was removed last year and this released a lot of sediment.  Now the Willow, not known for great water quality anyhow, was flowing a sickly greenish grayish tan color, with less than a foot of vis.  The Willow hadn’t been fishing well for me for the past two years, I don’t know what to make of this.  It will be a while before I go back.

Don’t get the impression that I’m only concerned with numbers of fish—I enjoy steelhead and muskie fishing, neither of which is known for non-stop action, and I’ve had plenty of nice days on the trout stream where I only caught a few fish.  I’ve just become accustomed to being able to have at least steady action on these streams.  Some days, steady may have meant five or more an hour.  Other days is might mean one ever two hours.  But I am hoping for some version of “steady”.

Any of you out there that have been fishing the local creeks for more than a few years must admit–we had it good. Those streams being what they were for the last 40 years really have a lot to do with who I am.  There wouldn’t be four fly shops in the Metro Area if it weren’t for how the streams used to be.  And I know things are cyclic.  It may take a few years, but the streams will come back.

I do know that I will be learning some new trout water in Southeastern Minnesota this spring!

It seems like I’ve got it in my head that 2015 was a terrible fishing year for me.  As a dad, a homeowner, a landlord, an employee, and an actual grownup, I sure don’t have the time to get out like I used to.  Although part of that is that I don’t NEED to catch fish like I used to.  What the heck, Wisconsin trout season just opened, and I haven’t even considered going, and probably won’t for at least a month.  The fact that favorite trout stream went to crap doesn’t help, but more on that later.

And for someone who doesn’t “fish that much anymore”, I sure do fish a lot.  I was explaining to an old friend, “It’s frustrating to not get out much anymore.  I only made it out one night last week, and only one half day on the weekend.  I did go on a short trip out of town the weekend before that, but otherwise…”  Now I notice my friend has a WTF look on his face that says “You still fish more than anyone I know”.

Fish smarter, not harder might be my mantra now.  I don’t do a lot of exploratory stuff anymore, and really try to focus on what I can depend on.  But I somehow still manage to add some new spots to the lineup, which is good because some old favorites have been way off.  The more you fish, the easier it is to stay on them, and its easier to decide when to make a move if you have plenty of spots to make a move to.

Here’s where we launched for smallies one fine day this fall, based on a tip from a friend.  It was a good tip.

My fishing season usually kicks off in early March, chasing trout on favorite Wisco streams.  It’s no secret now that the trout numbers are WAY down, populations have suffered from a few long cold winters and some big floods.  Last opener I managed only a few fish on my first trips, but one was a full sized 20” brown.

Next on the itinerary was a trip to Sanibel/Captiva, one of my favorite places. Besides going out with a guide one day and renting a boat one day,I got out at dawn a few mornings to harass the snook and stuff that live there and ended up having good fishing each time, and one morning was really great—seriously one of the best fishing sessions I’ve ever had ever.  Some big snook, a redfish that was ridiculous, and I didn’t get eaten or even gnawed on by a shark or alligator.  A manatee came up so close to me that I was able to poke it with just the tip section of a 3 piece fly rod.

I kept my parking receipts from each morning, the time shown was how long my parking was good for.

May saw the beginning of the end of a favorite bass lake—Little Falls Lake was drained last year. I got in one last session there in the float tube.  It looks likely to me that the dam will be rebuilt and the lake will fill back in, but I have to believe it will be 10 years or more before the fishing comes back to what it once was.

Summer means smallmouth on the Mississippi, but for reasons I’m unsure of, this was not fishing well this year either, at least not in the Monti stretch.   There were fish to be caught for sure, but you had to work for them.  A big catfish was my most memorable catch from there this year.

I did take the girls on a camping/fishing trip later in the summer, we had a fine time in the Royalton section.  We’re looking forward to doing it again this year.

Savannah is my partner is a series of bass tournaments each summer.  When started this two years ago I made it clear that we didn’t have to win…but we definitely don’t want to lose!  The first year we did pretty good, always came in with a nice bag and were even in the money once.  This past year, ugh.  I’m not sure what happened but we just couldn’t get it together.  This year will be better, I just have to convince Savannah that bass can be caught in places other than under docks.

Here is Savannah weighing in our bag at South Center Lake.

One perk of working in the fishing business is that once in a while you can actually be on the clock while fishing, usually under the guise of product testing, team building, or some other BS.  One such day I was testing out some new equipment for my company on White Bear Lake.  When I had done all the testing that was needed I found I still had an hour before I needed to be anywhere.  It was hot and sunny and calm, not ideal fishing weather, but I somehow ended up with a full-sized muskie on the line in less than ten casts.  I also got a phone call that day that was a job offer, and it is with this new company that I am presently employed.  So to summarize this day– 1.  Got paid to be out on the water.  2.  Caught a big muskie.   3.  Got offered a new job.  I guess this was a good day.

There were other fish, there were great times spent on the water with family and friends.  Agates and mushrooms were found.  Fish were kept and eaten.  There were sunrises and sunsets, campfires, canoes, kayaks, seashells, loons, lady slippers, waterfalls, rivers, streams, and lakes.  I wanted to just mention a couple of highlights, I find myself wanting to add to what I’ve already got here.  Now that I really look back, there may have been somewhat of a shortage of fish that were caught, but there were as many good memories as a person could ask for.

One friend tells me I am definitely living the dream.  He may be right–I have a great wife, two kids, two boats, a house, a job, and I do get to fish a fair amount.

Here’s to 2016, which I see is the year of the monkey.  There must be a joke here somewhere, but much like a school of 4 lb. largemouth, I just can’t seem to find it.

Somewhere along the way it appears that the smoky apartment has been replaced by a nice house, a wife and two kids have appeared, and the never ending 12 packs of cheap beer has been replaced by a couple of Summits.  And while I still tie flies out of necessity, my nights of “recreational tying” are mostly a thing of the past.  I now have a designated fly tying room, which makes it possible to get tying right away when the mood strikes.

Despite the thousands of flies I have tied, I still don’t consider myself to be a great tyer.  If you need some durable, effective flies tied up in a hurry, then I’m your man. If you looking for a dozen that look just like the ones in the catalogs and on-line websites, please look elsewhere. I figured out at an early age that a simple scruffy fly will work just as well, and maybe better than an ultra-realistic fly, tied with jointed legs, antenna, eyes, genitalia, DNA sequencing, etc.   Case in point—I was about 10 or 11, I’ve caught a whole lotta trout by this time in my life, but all on worms, a few on Mepps.  My interest in catching a trout on a fly was strong though, and my grandpa would often rig up my Herter’s fly rod for me to flail away at rising trout with.  One day I was working up a good froth at the bottom end of our favorite worm dunking hole, and much to everyone’s amazement, I ended up with a good sized trout on the line. The fly that I was using was one my grandpa called the “Black Nothing”, probably because it was just black fur on a hook.  After the capture, he cleaned the trout streamside and showed me that it had several black beetles in its stomach.  “That’s why it ate your black fly” he said, “it thought it was another one of these beetles”.  Alright, black fur on a hook = beetle.  Got it.  I had simplified matching the hatch and flyting before it ever had a chance to get complicated on me.

So, combine that with my natural lack of artistic ability, and you’ve got a guy that is going to tie a fly that is good enough catch fish, but no better.  In an hour, I can get well over a dozen of my scruffy specials done.  On the other hand, someone who might be considered a “great” tyer, would probably be able to get half that many done.  They would likely be perfect ties, but would they catch any more fish than the stuff I tie and fish with?

My friend JD “Redfern” LeCompte contacted me from his California ranch recently, letting me know he had an abundance of peacock feathers he had gleaned from their semi-tame flock, wondered if I could use them for fly tying.  He sent a couple of pics of the plumage he had gathered, much of it was pretty standard tying stuff– eyed plumes and some swords, stuff that is easy to come by. But some of the feathers were stuff I had never seen before, and I wasn’t sure how I could use them.  A week or so later I had an envelope in my mailbox that was overflowing with peacock.  I was determined to set aside a night for “recreational tying”.

Once you start tying flies, you start looking at the world a little differently.  As in “What could I tie with that?” every time you see a rug, a pet, a sweater, or fresh roadkill.  An old girlfriend once forbid me to put a skunk tail in the trunk of her car [it only smelled a little—and the hair was really nice and long!], and I still have the tail of an albino squirrel that was dead in the middle of the road in downtown Farmington, Minnesota.  Joe Vasquez was with me, we were running late for work on a Sunday after a morning mission to Hay Creek.  When I first saw it on the centerline, I figured it was a cat, but as I passed it, nope, that’s a white squirrel—must have!  I did a quick U-turn, pulled over and hacked the tail off with a dull knife.  We still made it the Orvis store Downtown by 11.  That tail is still in my collection.

In the package of peacock, there were some great looking body feathers that I suspected would be choice for tying “Spey” style flies.  Spey flies are a traditional style of fly that still have a dedicated following.  I’ve never tied very many, and I’ve certainly never fished with them, but they are very attractive. I was able to pull off a few “Spey” or “Spider” patterns that probably won’t see any time on the water, but will look really cool in one of my fly boxes dedicated to such things.

Peacock herl is very useful for tying trout and steelhead nymphs, and this stuff in the package was top notch.   A few nymphs and a bugger for good measure will all go into a working box.

A popular “attractor” pattern here in the Midwest is the “Pass Lake”.  It’s sort of a streamer/wet fly that doesn’t really look like anything, but on some days the trout can’t get enough of it.  They are traditionally tied with black chenille for the body, but choice peacock herl works as good or better.  The wing is supposed to be calf tail, these have the wing crafted of the aforementioned albino squirrel tail.  I have always tied them with a red head.It’s fun to stray from my usual tying–only tying stuff I need.  Maybe if I did this a little more I could actually become a good fly tyer.

With all my years on the streams, you can be sure I have built up a few secret spots.  One such secret spot is where I pointed my truck on Sunday.  This stream is known for marginal water quality, and plenty of non-trout species, but at least it is not on most anglers’ radar.  I have fished this stream on and off for many years, and know the subtle nuances of its waters. On the popular “name-brand” streams around here, [you know, the ones that start with “R” or “K”] every likely spot probably has a dozen or more fish in it, and it is easy to find a lot of fish.  But this creek is a place where you had better plan on covering a lot of water, as there just isn’t a high trout population here.  If you like to fish light rods, small flies, or only cast to rising trout, well there’s a reason not many people fish here.  I use a 5 or six weight, and plan on fishing beefy nymphs or oversize streamers.

As usual, I was greeted by a cacophony of songbirds when I got to the parking spot, but no other anglers.  I headed up the trail for a bit, and dropped in to an old favorite spot. 

There was a nice caddis hatch coming off, but the only thing eating them were American Redstarts and other warblers.  No fish hooked at my first spot, or the next.  The third spot I dropped into is one of the best on the creek, but after 30 or 40 drifts without a fish, I was starting to think this would be a day best suited for taking pictures.  Then it happened–BAM! My indicator when down and a fat foot long trout came flying out of the water.  Two cast later I had his twin hooked up.

And so the day went, lots of spots gave up no trout, but I covered enough water to end up with a decent box score.

Quite of few of these:

I couldn’t believe how many of these were along the path

And I even caught a few of these

Could resist this shot when I took the high trail back up the river valley

None of the fish I brought to hand were particularly large, although I did lose one that made me say a bad word when it came off after I saw how big it was!   I’ve had days when far more and much larger trout were caught, but this was just a great day on the water–I only had to share it with the songbirds and a mink!  I might make it out for trout once more this year, but this is when my attention starts shifting to the lakes and larger rivers for bass and muskies.

This song plays on a loop in my brain this time of year.   Despite all the different kinds of fishing I do, I guess I’m still a trout angler at heart, and like many, I start going a bit stir crazy this time of year.  The fact that this is the winter of the Polar Vortex hasn’t helped, and I’ve spent every weekend alternating between working on and buying supplies for a never ending basement remodel project.  A break in the weather actually coincided with a day off, and it was off to the Kinni for me on Sunday.

“♪♫♪…Take my money, my cigarettes…. I haven’t seen the worst of it….♪♫♪”

Something I like about trout fishing compared to the other kinds of fishing I do is the simplicity o the equipment, and the minimal prep/rigging for a session.

Pretty short checklist:        Rods? [still have flies tied on since last year]- check.   Waders? [which ones don’t leak?]-check.  Boots? [need new ones this year]-check.  Vest? [I did plenty of tying this winter, fly boxes are FULL]-check. Packed a sandwich, topped off my coffee cup and on the road by 10:00.  No advantage to getting on the river at first light this time of year, might as well wait for the temps to approach the freezing mark before getting there.  Besides, even though the weather would be mild, the two feet of snow in the woods will dissuade most casual anglers.

Often times when making this familiar journey heading east on 94 towards the St Croix Valley, I don’t really know where I’m going to end up.  Not the case today, I have an itinerary that includes several favorite “hit-and-run” spots on the Upper K.  I head south towards River Falls, past favorite landmarks–the limestone bluff where my grandpa used to get white sand,  Ave’s Taxidermy and Cheese [sadly, now they only have taxidermy, so much for one-stop shopping], and the field where I shot a 20 lb. turkey [a pre-school now sits on the very spot the bird dropped].  My starting spot is a hole that I re-discovered last year, after being away from it for about 35 years.  The fish are still there, although the hole is a lot different than when I was a kid.

“♪♫♪… yet I wanna know that you’ll tell me…I love to staaaayyyy…♪♫♪”.

Vehicle parked, waders on, time to head for the river.  Someone has actually been down the path this year, I am relieved to have had the trail through knee deep snow broken, but at the same time disappointed to not be the first one in here this season.  One of the joys of early season is the experience of making a cast to fish that haven’t seen a fly in five months.  I step into the river and head across.

“♪♫♪…Take me to the river…drop me in the water…take me to the river, dip me in the water…washing me down…washing me doooowwwwn…♪♫♪”

No matter how any fish I get today, things are looking promising.  The stream is clear [but not too clear], and there are an abundance of robins hanging around the creek.  I soon realize what they are up to–they are gobbling up small stoneflies that are crawling on the shelf ice–this is another good sign.  The rod I’m using has been rigged with a scud since I hung it up on the pegs last fall; even though there is the promise of dry fly action, I plan to be nymphing today. 

On the Upper K I almost always use one of two nymphs, either a UV Scud, or the Green Thing.  If you are interested in how to tie the Green Thing, I’ll tell you, but be prepared to be wildly disappointed–there’s not much to it.  I like the UV Scud because it works great and takes about 2 – 1/2 minutes to tie.  I like the Green Thing because it works great and takes about 1 -1/2 minutes to tie, so I can fill a row in my fly box quicker.  Whoever made the track to the river went right to the obvious riffle at he head of the hole.  There’s usually a few trout up there, but there’s probably 200 in the slow run bit downstream.  I positioned myself carefully on an ice shelf and took a second to “take it all in”.  I put the first cast out there perfectly, amazed at how easily I am able to get a fly to go just where I want it, yet I appear to be someone with special needs while trying to operate a bat, a racket, a golf club or a hockey stick.  The first cast gets grabbed, and I’m caught somewhat off guard, what with all the scenery and birds and what not.  The fish comes off right away.  It took another few casts to get the right drift again–this is a spot where you have to cast upstream, mend the line downstream just so– enough to keep the drift going, not too much or it will start to swing, let it drift down, down, and just when you are about to run out of line, you get the grab.  Once I had the cast dialed in, it was a fish every other cast.  I switched between the two flies, the UV scud had the edge today.  After landing a dozen and losing that many more, I left them still biting to try some different water.

Spot Number 2 is just up the road.  Again, there were tracks that led to the river, but it appeared that the intrepid angler that made them had not ventured farther than the run at the end of the trail.  I crossed the river and began blazing a trail to one of my secret spots.  It’s not far, but after “post-holing” through thigh deep snow for a hundred yards, I had worked up a sweat.  Much to my dismay, a tree had fallen into my secret high-bank spot, making it impossible to make  a cast.  I considered my options; either walk right back out, or venture up to another likely looking run that is a mere 75 yards upstream.  75 more yards through 2 feet of snow.  And, even though the spot looks good, I have caught few [if any] fish there in other attempts.  Of course, I headed up there, and after 10 minutes I was positioned precariously on an ice shelf, casting up into this nice little run.  The first 5 casts produced nothing, but then I hooked one.  Then another.  And another. I think I hooked up 5 in 5 casts, then it took another dozen or so casts before another one bit.  After that I called it good enough, and began slogging back to the road.

I skirted around a deer’s ribcage near the parking spot, it had been picked pretty clean.  With all the snow this year, I sure the scavengers have had a tough go of it.  I was parked right on the road, the parking lots are not so usable yet. 

Back in the vehicle,  I zigzagged up the valley, crossing the river a few times.   I had the radio tuned to NPR.  “Prairie Home”, “Wait, Wait”, and “This American Life” are often my fishing partners, it was nice to hear them again.  There were a few other folks out and about, I didn’t stop at any areas where there were other anglers.  Many of my favorite areas require a decent hike to get into, but I had one more quick spot to try.  No Subarus in sight, so I pulled off as far as I dared.  As in other spots I had fished, there was a trail blazed to the river, but the makers appeared to have not ventured any further than right at the bridge.  Through the woods I went, off to a spot known as “The Trout Barrel”.  As I approached the spot, it was obvious I was about to witness a murder…a murder of crows, that is.  There were well over a hundred crows in a nearby grove, no doubt harassing a hawk or an owl, making quite a racket.  Their “CAW! CAW!” calls soon became background noise as I slid down the ice and snow into one of my favorite spots.  The Trout Barrel rarely disappoints, and it gave up a half dozen browns in short order.

By now I’ve caught all the fish I need to be in a happy place, so I spend the next couple hours trying out my new fancy pants SLR camera at a couple of spots that are easy to access, pretty to look at, maybe not good for fishing.  At least that was the excuse I told myself when I blanked.  Gave me some good practice with the new Canon, lots to learn though.

I was taken to the river, dropped in the water, just what I needed to erase the sound of phones rigging and allowed me to forget about, at least temporarily, the unfinished wall that is glaring at me even now as I type this in my basement.  Two weeks and I’ll be back, look for the black stoneflies to really get going on the first warm sunny day we get.

To put you in the mood- The Talking Heads http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6ar2VHW1i2w