Hope

Date: September 22, 2007
Location: Brule
Air temp: 60s
Water temp: ???
Hatches: ?
Fish landed: 1 very, very small steelie

Present members of the Fly Anglers Guild :|: Upper Midwest Chapter, for this outing were:

Xan
TP


It is called the "River of Presidents." Probably the best known steelhead river in Wisconsin, the Brule, to me, has been known as a colder than fuck madhouse with no big fish. Sure, I've seen pictures. I've read articles. I've also used Photoshop and written blog posts.

My (two or three) previous outings to the Bois Brule have consisted of catching two inch fish, clearing glacial formations from my guides, swearing off vegetarianism through the most extreme channels, and wondering if I would ever be able to move my fingers and toes again. The highlight of my Brule resume is forming the correct hypothesis before our first and last campfire experiment, "The Effects On A Can Of Pabst Blue Ribbon When Placed In A Flame." For those who have never conducted this experiment, it explodes and sprays warm beer and ash on the two people closest to the fire.

There had been reports of lake run browns, steelies, and coho in the river. As we walked to find a spot, we came upon a couple fishermen who had a coho on a stringer. As I had never even seen a large fish, even one someone else had caught, this was a favorable omen. They are here. My next bit of good fortune came not long after, as I caught my first steelie, albeit a very small one, at the first run I fished.

We moved upstream a bit, where I began to fish a run I had been introduced to the previous year. My nymph/egg rig was heavily weighted. Snagging the bottom was becoming par for course, and when my indicator stopped suddenly, I set, thinking I had dug once more into a rock. Then, my line started to move. I started to add pressure to the rod, but whatever was on the other end of my line was staying low. It darted back and forth through the stream. I wasn't sure exactly what was going on, until it jumped out of the water.

I can only remember in vague terms its color and size. It seemed to be a blueish green trout like mass, roughly 20 inches. When it sailed into the air, it stopped its flailing, creating an odd silence, returning to the river like an Olympic high diver. I called out to TP, hoping for a net, or at least a witness to this battle. At this point, he was too far upstream to hear me, though I began to notice another fisherman and a cabin owner across the stream turn their attention towards the commotion, and a hiker on the path behind me.

I fought with the fish for a while longer, watching in awe as it shot out of the stream a few more times. Then, in my excitement, I tried to horse it in and popped the fish off.

After multiple miserable experiences, I had now gotten a taste of the Brule's treasures. As had been the case a week prior with the Lion's two game win streak, I was dealing with a new feeling in a familiar situation. I can by no means claim I have paid my dues (in fishing the Brule, not as a Lions fan), but now, after failed but valuable attempts, I was granted the gift of hope.

We fished for the rest of the day with nary a hit. It seemed that once the sun came out, the action stopped. We finished the day at the Kro Bar, losing at pull tabs and waiting for the next morning.