If you can
fish the Brule, you can fish any river in the country was the advice an elderly
resident of northern Wisconsin gave me as I set forth on my pursuit for fall
steel. My only other time to the
beautiful, 52 mile Bois Brule River was the previous fall but I had no clue how
different things were here in the Wisconsin Lake Superior region as opposed to
the Driftless area and Minnesota’s North Shore. But it’s that excitement of
exploring new places, crossing running water to reach promising holes and
forming new memories which summoned me on a three hour road trip at 3:30am to
hit the river at first light.
A season ending finale on the
legendary Brule would do justice in ending my wonderful season. It rises out of
a lake in the middle of the Wisconsin Northwood’s dotted with hardscrabble
farms eking their existence out of the sandy, loamy soil. It’s those sandy
soils that make the Brule the river it is, just thirty miles out of Duluth but
I looks like a different region from Minnesota. Deep in those river runs and
pools contain the Brule’s reputation for thrills and heartache that are too alluring
a siren for fellow anglers.
I’m a fish out of water when it
comes to steelhead; it’s a different angling pursuit than the brown trout I am
familiar with but I didn’t let it stop me. I fished nymph patterns long and
hard at the deepest pools I could find. The water is very low due to drought so
steelhead congregate in the deepest cover. It’s tough steelheading, being on
the river at first light my fingers froze switching flies. Whereas on the
Kinnie I would only fish one stretch at a time, I spent the day scuttling
between different entry points on the river. Also, successful catch rates
differ widely, you are in business if you hook two or three in a day of fishing the
Brule. 
When fishing the Brule, there is no
real artistic way to describe the process, it’s rather dull and boring to those
not fishing. Each stretch I fished I hiked deep into the woods to find spots
with the least fishing pressure. Summoning as much grace as possible in a pair
of clunky waders and several layers of warm clothes, I would walk as slowly to
the head of a deep pool, stand stationary for two minutes and dead drift and dead
drift and dead drift. Prince nymphs, x-legs, caddis pupae, stoneflies, scuds and
eggs produced nothing. And I was pushing the limits on how deep I was fishing,
my strike indicator was set deep and nymphs were bouncing on the bottom, I could
feel it. But that’s what I did and I fished spots way longer and harder than I
usually would but with no success.
If
I’ve learned anything, steelheading is tough business and one day on the river
is not enough to reduce my learning curve. But in the scheme of things, no
angler is unsuccessful after a long day on the river. Hell, I was walking
through the beautiful fall woods as leaves fell around me foliage, fishing
under the smoky gold tamaracks, and enjoying the last part of autumn. That is
better than school and work on any day of the year. I was a little forlorn drinking
my beer in the parking lot after all that fishing. It was a good day; I put in
a three hour road trip and twelve hours of fishing to close my year but it’s
all over till next March. But I am the biggest optimist around. I did so well
this year, learned so much and expanded my angling skills to new levels. I still
have much more to learn and the rivers will always be there full of promise.
Fishing is my passion; it’s what I look forward to and has given me so much.
With that said, this blog was simply a reflection of a year of fishing. I had
no idea what the year held but I enjoyed writing about my adventures and I’ll
be back on the Kinnickinnic next March. 
This season of dreams has passed too
quickly for my liking. Exploring the Whitewater, witnessing prodigious Sulphur
hatches and finding recluse from the summer’s heat still feel like yesterday.
But here I am at the season’s close after putting in six and a half months of
good fishing and I feel a little sadness in my heart for this year’s finale. It’s
beyond my logic that the season ends in the middle of fall when there are still
many beautiful autumn days left in the year.
My walk down the canyon started on
good terms, no cars were around and the construction crews were absent. The
yellows of basswoods and birches were showing a beautiful contrast with the big
white pines scattered throughout the river bottom and hills. My arrival on the
river was remarkably early but with the sun down by 7:30 every hour on the
river has to count. Like other times on the river this I started with my
standard nymph and strike indicator rig. Fishing at three o’clock, sometimes it’s
hard to distinguish if it’s the fish not biting or the need to switch flies. I
figured the latter. 
My luck on nymphs was hit and miss.
I had two early bites only to be lost setting the hook. Then I had nothing for
a long time and streamers didn’t produce anything as well. But as I’ve noticed
the past few years, there is always an insect hatch going on those last few
days of September and tonight was no different. They must have been some sort
of mayflies but, regardless, the trout were rising. Not having small enough
flies I trimmed the hackle off some with a scissors and found some luck.
Perhaps I should invest in some size 20 flies but in a pinch, my technique
worked. I didn’t catch a bunch but some are better than none. Some had size and
some didn’t but I think the fall feeding frenzy let me get away with my unconventional
technique more than anything. 
Without failing, I spent a
considerable portion of the evening at my favorite honey hole. More often than
not I was distracted taking in the remarkable scenery of it all; beautiful
riffles leading in a steep canyon wall with good depth and structure all overlooked
by stately pines and birches above the cliff. I spent too much time there and I
had to duck out as the sun dropped. I’ll miss that spot.  |
| Last trout of 2012!!!! |
If this was a movie or a tall tale I
was telling people, I would make sure to say I caught trout after trout on the
season finale as a fiery red sun set above me. But that wasn’t the case
tonight, just a handful of average size trout but a great end to the best
season I’ve ever had. The season was a huge learning curve for me; I refined existing
skills and added new ones to my repertoire. But more importantly I was able to
spend time week after week in the magical waters of a beautiful river. 
As I squared my gear away to hit the
river, I was in disbelief it was second-to-last day of the season. The fishing
for the last six months has been a dream and I didn’t want to think of the
reality that I would have to set my rod down till next March. Some people think
the last day of summer is one of the hardest days to swallow in the calendar
but I think it’s the end of trout season. After seven months of exploring new
streams, hiking deep into the headwaters and enjoying time well spent outside,
it’s hard to just stop.
On the second to last night of the
season, my instincts were urging me to keep my streak going on the Kinnie but I
held out for the Willow. I had to; otherwise I wouldn’t be back until next
March. Also, my three previous visits are too few to such a lovely river. A
strange river at that too; there is much more mystery to the Willow than the
Kinnie. Insect hatches appear from nowhere at twilight, the river is much
narrower, pools shallower with a tannic tinge to it. 
Unlike the Kinnie this year, the
Willow has been popular for anglers and tonight was no exception. One thing
about fall fishing, if you aren’t on the river by 3:30, you’re missing out
because the sun is gone by 7:30. The well-worn angler trails cutting through
the woods and prairie grasses were a welcome sight. I had to remind myself I
wasn’t wormin’ but casting nymphs. Some of the pools I had planned to hit just
weren’t that accessible surrounded by overhanging brush and shrubs.
I was lacking my sweet spots on the
Willow this time around. Dead drift after dead drift yielded the promise of a strike
to be crushed by having to roll cast again. Stonefly, caddis fly, and prince
nymphs did little to induce any hungry bites. Streamers did little either.
Standing midstream of a nice pool, I cast straight in front of me towards the
little falls. My drifts hooked nothing but chubs but from previous experience I
knew big trout lurked. As my strike indicator drifted towards my feet I saw it
drop, lifted the rod straight above my head and felt it bend. It fought and
fought and fought, better than any brown and when I finally grabbed my net I
scooped up a prize rainbow trout. My only fish of the night but a beauty, no
caviar though. 
Before
I hiked up the canyon I had already run into three other anglers, unheard of for
me with ongoing bridge construction. It threw me off my game. Instead of taking
my time and plying runs and holes with a variety of techniques, I had to make a
straight beeline to my favorite spots. This season has spoiled me, the Kinnie
has been mine alone and I don’t know how I will manage next year.
As
I’ve noticed the last few Septembers, there is usually some sort of insect
hatch which causes aggressive trout in fall forage mode to go crazy. Nymphs and
streamers are not quite as essential and differing size trout can be hooked on
a dry fly. Nothing is quite so beautiful as to watch a fly drift with the
current only to disappear with a splash and gulp. Tonight was like that and it
was refreshing to end the season how I started. 
The
only thing about harvesting trout for caviar is it’s a 50-50 chance whether you
will bring home a female. I drew the short end of the stick but didn’t find out
till I was gutting the trout in my kitchen sink hot in anticipation for caviar.
No luck with that tonight but trout for breakfast beats the hell out of frosted
flakes. My only regret is the season ends in two days and I haven’t fished
enough this year. 
I've been saving my last sixer of
the Dancing Man for this once a season event, it’s that special. This time in
September, when the mercury falls and leaves change marks the spawning season
for Superior’s only naturalized salmon, the pink salmon. It’s the smallest
species but it’s the quantity which makes this one fun to catch. At any time
during the spawn you’re bound to see more than twenty to thirty salmon bunched
up in the same pocket of water, in some places like the Temperance even more.
Last year was my first time doing this and I had no idea what I was doing but
somehow managed to slay a bunch. 
I had the itch to get out of St.
Paul fast and grabbed a bunch of camping gear, finished my homework and set
out. My plan was to bring no food for the three days I’d be there rather be
like a grizzly bear and survive on salmon alone. My mother made me bring some
PB & J when I went to pick up gear at her house but other than that and
coffee and beer I subsisted on salmon flesh for three days. How many hipsters
would dream of something that manly? |
| Brookie!! |
The
section of the Baptism was shallow, fish were spawning in a foot of water and a
few had found some deep pools. Egg patterns produced, especially pink and
woolly buggers were equally productive. The only problem fishing such shallow
waters with big concentrations of salmon was snagging them and it happened
often. After catching two nice females, I gutted them for the caviar and fried
them up next to the river and feasted like a bear. Catching thirty fish in an
afternoon beats up your gear; not only was I tying fresh tippet but the last
eyelet on my rod broke off and casting sloppy to say the least after. After a
long day of fishing, I hiked the trails around Split Rock that evening and
drank some beers and looked over Superior and the fall colors on an overlook. I
even spooked two nice bucks in the woods. 
Sleeping up north this time of the
year is really cold. It didn't just frost, it froze. Cut off from the lights of
the St. Paul I was in bed shortly after sundown and reading. It started pouring
and left me pretty vulnerable in my tent. I brought two sleeping bags and slept
in my jeans and fleece but I was still cold. It’s hard to sleep well in those
conditions but I managed. In the morning, the sun’s fiery brilliance cut
through hole and woke me. It was nice to sit down next to the Lake, watch the
sunrise and see the world wake up. I hit the Baptism again but didn't get it
too myself. After a morning of fishing I loaded up and headed down 61 to Como. 
This is a hard story to take, I
wouldn’t believe if it had not happened to me. Evenings on the Kinnie this
fishing season have been nothing but enchanting especially with a trout on your
line. This evening was no different, beautiful fall colors were starting to
show, I had the river to myself and there was an unexpected hatch going on and
trout were biting. But it turned out to be a lot different.
I worked my way upstream following
my usual spots going after hungry trout and ended up at my honey hole. I tied a
big tan humpy on, the closet thing I had to the moth-like insects I saw and had
at it. I caught a lot of nice trout eager to pack on the calories before the
lean months arrive. When I fish, half the time I’m zoned out not paying
attention to my fly but looking at the scenery. As I was looking I saw a huge
splash in front of me and thick trout launched straight two feet out of the
water to grab a bug. That wasn’t so much strange as it was startling to see
such a leap. Later, at the same spot as I was fishing I thought I heard some
low voices speaking and coming closer to me from the trail that goes along the
river. It turned out to be no one but I swear I heard voices. After a minute, I
resumed fishing and caught some nice trout.
On a sloppy cast I almost tangled my
fly in a branch but luckily it missed and dropped six inches from the rock
wall. Before the current could move the fly a huge trout slurped the fly and I
set the hook not on sight but sound. For a 15 inch trout it didn’t fight as
well but did manage to tangle itself up in some woody debris on river bottom. I
had to wade out and untangle it while water spilled over my waders but the fish
was mine. I think it was one of the most beautiful browns I had ever seen; its red
spots and golden sides were especially vibrant. 
My last two trout were destined for
the frying pan, something I was eagerly looking forward, both for some nice
meat and to see if I could harvest some caviar as well. With darkness falling
earlier in September, I packed out the canyon and latched my creel shut to make
sure I didn’t lose my trout. The canyon is a long walk out and as I was walking
past the construction where limestone had been blasted out from the hill to
widen the lanes I saw a guy walking across a narrow ledge halfway up the
limestone face, about 15 feet off the ground. My mind was shattered seeing this
so I kept walking, I couldn’t even respond. I made it to the car in time to
break everything down and try New Glarus’ Octoberfest, which was excellent by
the way, much better than Schell’s for this year. The ride home was uneventful.
The season has been wonderful so far
and with a month left till close, the big fish start biting. For some reason I
don’t know I switched from going to the Kinnie to Willow River Falls section at
Burkhardt. Maybe it was for a change of scenery or to see if my skills would at
a new section of river I’ve never fished. The falls are just beautiful,
somewhat out of place in intensive Wisconsin agriculture but a nice gem
nonetheless. 
At the base of the falls is a big
pool I chucked some streamers into. Creek chubs abounded and I figured trout
had to be there but no luck. Not being able to go upstream, I went down. And
the evening’s fishing went down with it. This section of the Willow has water
which barely has a current, no deep holes or runs and shallow sand runs
everywhere. The water temperature felt cool as I heard reports the Willow was
too warm for trout and anglers were advised to go elsewhere. That may be so but
this section was awful.
Under fading autumn light I made the
executive decision to abandon my attempts at the falls and speed through the back
roads to the Willow-Race section of the river outside the park. I made with
about half an hour of light and tied on an indicator and stonefly nymph. I hit
a few spots but no bites, there were some rises too but by the time I switched
to a dry fly the light was gone. That was my first time on the Willow-Race
section since May and I wish I could have done better.
Since I came back from the Eastern
Shore, the Midwest countryside has taken a different hue. Everything is so dry;
leaves are changing earlier than I remember, the streams are low, and the corn
is brown. The lingering summer heat doesn’t help either. 
With a month left in the season, it
has been quite the season. Due to the bridge construction I have had the lower
Kinnie all to myself. This is unheard of, almost any night of the week the
parking lot would be filled with cars. With the drought, the leaves have turned
and given the Kinnie a nice hue of crisp yellow, albeit early. 
Fishing tonight was slow; changing up
flies did little plus I lost my hot green caddis nymph to a snag early on. My
orange beadhead scud hooked two small trout at my hot spot then nothing. I
switched to a big size 10 green stonefly nymph but that didn’t do much either.
Hard pressed, I drifted it past a tricky location full of branches and hooked a
beautiful 14 inch trout. This trout didn’t want to leave its hole; it made some
nice long runs just like a bass. My heart was beating fast when I netted and
measured it, just a beauty. 
