A Temporary Goodbye to the Kinnie

Date: September 30^th  

Weather: 55 - 65 degrees

Stream: Clear

Hatch: Tiny mayflies

Beer: The Dancing Man

            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!!!!

            My last stop for the evening brought me to my beautiful bend where I caught my first trout on a fly. I’m a big romantic like that and it was the perfect spot to close the season. In the north we have something called the witching hour, that last half hour of dim light left in the day before it disappears. Strange things are known to happen during it and I was holding out for something special. I have the angler’s habit of telling myself one more cast then I’ll leave. I told myself that too many times at that spot. On one cast that I might have meant it, I dropped a fly on a beautiful cast behind a submerged boulder and had that instantaneous gulp that comes from nothing other than a trout. It wasn’t big, didn’t have any eggs but for those last moments of the season it was mine. A quick picture and I released it. As I walked out of the valley a final time I blew lots kisses to river I hold dear and savored my last Dancing Man I had saved just for this occasion.

            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. 

The Broad Majestic Willow

Date: September 29^th

Weather: 60 degrees

Stream: Clear

Hatch: Tiny mayflies

Beer: Kristallweizen

            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. 

The Pursuit of Trout Caviar

Date: September 28^th

Weather: 75 dropping to 55 degrees

Stream: Clear, low

Hatch: Tiny mayflies

Beer: Kristallweizen

            Usually, when you tell people how good caviar tastes, their mind is just shattered, especially in the Midwest. No red blooded Minnesotan would ever think to harvest fish eggs to serve as an appetizer. But let me tell you, some nice sourdough rye and crème fraîche topped with succulent orange roe and you are in business. Towards the end of September is when the trout spawn so I needed no convincing to hit up the Kinnie.

            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. 

Salmon Run on Lake Superior

September 20th - 22nd

Weather: 35-50 degrees

Stream: North Shore clear

Hatch: Tiny insects

Beer: The Dancing Man

            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 dry, dusty conditions I left in St. Paul were a stark contrast to healthy conditions on the North Shore. Rivers looked bountiful and the grass was green. After setting up camp at Split Rock I set forth to the Cross, Temperance and Poplar Rivers. The Cross is so small but full of salmon which was fun for a while. The Temperance is always a zoo; everyone is shocked to see people catching salmon and lazy anglers who don’t want to hike back to a river just stop there. By evening I had the Poplar River to myself and it was beautiful, the big pool is flanked by two gorgeous bridges over the river and the pinks were rising to tiny insects. It was interesting, I didn't have a fly small enough to match what they were eating but the brook trout couldn't get enough. I like brookies better anyway, they are the only indigenous migratory fish on these rivers and I wish it was still the case. Funny story, this guy who saw me fishing on the Poplar thought I was crazy to keep the caviar but that's Lakeville for you. I just blew his mind when I told him about it.

            The next day I woke early to check out some new territory. I started at Gooseberry River but it was so low and winding I couldn't find any salmon. Next, I went to Split Rock River but no fish were near the mouth; they had all made it up river almost two miles so I abandoned my pursuit there. Cruising 61, I stopped before the bridge over Tettegouche State Parks Baptism River and peered down one hundred feet into the river. Salmon were splashing and spawning and no one was fishing.

            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. 

Kinnickinnic Naniboujou

Date: September 13^th 

Weather: 70 degrees

Stream: clear, 90s cfs

Hatch: Small moth-like insects

Beer: New Glarus Staghorn Octoberfest

            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.

            Arriving at the bike shop I immediately grabbed the trout so I could gut them. As I reached in I brushed aside the grass I keep in there but found nothing. I threw down the creel and looked all around my trunk for the trout in case they fell out but they weren’t there, I yelled a lot of curse words. My mind immediately jumped to some Boundary Waters stories I remembered and instantly knew what happened to me, the Windigo. It’s a spirit in Native American lore, specifically Ojibwa tribes who lived around the Great Lakes region. I’ve heard it called the Windigo and the Naniboujou but I can’t say specifically which it is. All I know is it is a spirit who likes to play jokes on unsuspecting people. It got me. 

Willow River Falls at Burkhardt

Date: September 5^th

Weather: 70 degrees, rain

Stream: clear

Hatch: Nothing

Beer: Schell’s Oktoberfest

            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.

We Need Some Rain!

Date: September 3^rd

Weather: 89 degrees

Stream: clear, 90’s cfs

Hatch: Tiny mayflies

Beer: The Dancing Man

            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.