The Doctor Is In

While we wait for the MN early season to start, I have gone to California to check on the West Coast chapter of the Fly Angler's Guild. With everything in fine order, I present you this offshoot of the "Great Gas Station Names" series (click on the pic for a larger view).

U.M.F.A.G Out West Report

Alright after typing out the acronym for the Upper Midwestern Fly Anglers' Guild in the title I have to say that it might be easy for me to draw offense since I did attend the illustrious U of M and well despite what I was told over the year's I'm not a...well anyway. But as Jazz Hands told me as we sat in the hot tub, "Bchubut...sometimes you have to pick your battles."

That said Jazzhands and I visited the Owens River which is named after the country music great Buck Owens. Well at least that's what Jazzhands told me.

Overall the two days were a success with pleasant weather, beautiful scenery and a handful of fish though nothing of real size.

On the downside it was a bit crowded at times but once they saw Jazzhands $4,000 rod and awe inspiring clothing ensemble they quickly dropped to one knee, bowed their heads and whispered 'Go Pack'. Hmmm...I wonder if that had anything to do with the Lion's complete ineptitude on T-Day.

There are NO steelhead in the Brule

Date: November 3, 2007
Location: Brule
Air temp: 40s
Water temp: ???
Hatches: ?
Fish landed: 0

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

Xan
TP


The last time TP and I visited the Brule, neither of us landed any steelhead. A brief tussle with a river creature, which I mistook for a steelie, had given me the hope to try my luck again. Sadly, my friends, I can tell you now, steelhead, let alone any large salmonidae, simply do not exist in the Brule.

After driving up and camping on Friday night, we woke before dawn and headed out to try to be the first on the river. Not having seen many cars parked at the motel or campsite was a good sign for a low river traffic day. Of course, someone was already at the first run we wanted to fish.

Heading upstream, we fished various familiar spots, mostly throwing small nymphs and egg patterns. After no success, we decided to head further upstream than usual. We found some nice runs above and below a bend in the stream. I fished the lower run, while TP was around the corner fishing the far bank. Not long after, I heard some hoots of what sounded like joy. Further investigating, I went upstream to find that TP had just caught a steelie. Of course, I didn't see it, and it can't possibly have occurred (though he said it was about an 18"er).

He encouraged me to take some casts into the run he had just caught his "steelie" from. I was soon tossing more no-hitters than Nolan Ryan. If there were steelhead there (which there weren't), they would have been long since spooked by my retarded casting and TP's recent battle. I decided to head back around the bend to resume my efforts. About three casts in, I hooked high into the tree behind me. Staring at the sky, trying to figure a way to get my flies back, I heard another shout.

"Fish!"

"FISH!"

I set the rod on the bank and ran up to see TP holding a thin graphite horseshoe in the air. I grabbed the net and dashed out to his location in the middle of the stream. It never jumped, but we would occasionally see flashes of something resembling a steelie. This mysterious creature darted every which way through the run, trying to use the deeper water and swifter current to make it to an undercut. That wasn't happening today. After an intense fight, there was this:



We fished for a bit more, with no success. Near the end of the day, I was back at the spot that was the culprit of my hope. While TP watched from the bank, my millionth snag of the day turned out not to be much of a snag. Something started moving on the other end in rapid fashion. Unlike most fish I've hooked at the Brule, this one did not fly out of the water when I gently pulled on the line. That being said, it also felt like it was two titmouse hairs north of that threshold. This creature as well did not surface. I kept a steady pressure on it, not wanting to horse it in, when all of a sudden, it was gone. Then, another shout rang through the forest.

"FUCK!"

As stated at the beginning of this story, there are no steelhead in the Brule.

Monsters of the Deep

Date: Oct 15, 2007
Location: p. trizzy
Air temp: low 50s, windy and Rainy
Water temp: ???
Hatches: ?
Fish landed: a few small bass

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

Tim
QuickDraw

Well Tim and I headed out to the trizzy around 3 pm the weather was "cold and wet and windy". We proclaimed that the weather was officially "muskie weather". There was good feeling in the air, we could both feel it, if the muskie had to jump into the boat in order for us to catch them then dag nab it that's what they would do, this was the time and the place.

After donning our muskie gear, we headed down to to the lake, there was a moderate chop on the lake and a brisk gale blowin' through. I noted that the lake level had risen approximately 1 fathom(1 foot, fathom just sounded better in the real world 1 fathom equals 6 feet, but for purposes of this story 1 fathom equals 1 foot). we headed out to the center of the lake to set adrift whilst we set the rigging for hauling the monsters from the deep. We loaded the new sinking tip line on my reel and headed for the shelter of the cove. in short order we were casting. not a lot was going on, other than cold and wind, the fish knew something that we didn't. we set up on some long drifts, from one end of the cove to the other end of the "J-hole". after a few hours of doing this with only 1 decent bass in the boat(tim caught on a green streamer), we decided to re-rig with a trolling outfit, and hunker down. we cast our lines astern and hoped that they would come back to us in a fight. Shortly after we started the trawl my line exploded, there was a steady pull, followed by some large tugs, there was a bona fide monster on the end. I tried to play him very carefully as I could, trying not to disturb the beast. I knew there was something of size on the other end, we fought for about a minute when the Leviathan began to breach the surface. 'twas a large piker about a yard in length and he was nettled to say the least. Tim had the net at the ready, and Just when we thought that we had the better of him, he showed us his teeth and mad a turn to the deep, and liberated himself from my ensnarement.

Sometimes that's how the story ends, this is one of those times.

on the way home I picked up some chipotle, tried the carnitas for the first time, I thought they sucked, next time I'm sticking with the chicken.

Lay down your rods, and surrender to me

Date: September 29, 2007
Location: Upper and Warwick
Air temp: 60s
Water temp: ???
Hatches: ?
Fish landed: Skunk

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

Scotty Mac
Fruit Booter
Xan


To close off the (Wisconsin inland) trout season, we headed out to the Upper. Scotty Mac was making a rare appearance to one of our fish socials, so we made him drive.

The second weekend into the (early) season, Scooter caught a trout. Over six months later, with only six trips in that span, that stood as Scoot's only fish of '07. Much like President Bush, he took April, July and August off and spent time at the ranch. When pressed, he would exclaim that he "sucked." What, we don't know (the Senator involved was evasive, and is now trying to change his plea). What we do know, is you aren't gonna catch many fish if you only go six times.

The Curd River had not produced in recent weeks, so we decided to hit the Upper. According to vague information (I think someone read it online) we now hold as fact, the Upper holds impressive totals of fish per mile, in the ballpark of 4,000. They are smaller on average, but sometimes quantity trumps quality, usually when you're desperate.

The overcast, drizzly skies and forecasts of God's wrath gave us hope for a haul o' trout. We got skunked.

We decided to regroup and formulate a new plan. The decision was to head to the land of aggressive bows and chubs, the Warwick. We arrived at a familiar spot, determined to put Scooter on some trout. Making the short walk to a money run, we put him in place and set him to task. He made us proud.




The view from my sunglasses:



Scooty landing another one:



After we had fished out the run, we called it a season. And on the seventh trip, Scotty Mac landed trout.


A Season In Review:

- Quickdraw learning the arts of woolly buggery

- TP showing us the use of windshield wipers as rod holders

- The Great Flood (of the Early Season)

- Shady Grove

- New spots on the Curd and Warwick, exploring the Apple and V

- Walter from the V

- Ticks

- Success with mouse patterns

- Learning the double haul

- Beaver!

- Batman!

- Beer! (Fat Tire)

- Bozeman!

- The beginnings of the Great Muskie Hunt

- The Return of the Jazz Hands

- Smallies on the fly

- Raspberries and plums

- Jazz Hands catching ocean fish... and his head

- B-Chubnut, shaking it like he never left

- The retirement of the yeti suit

- First steelie on my line

Not a bad season.

Sunday Morning

Date: September 23, 2007
Location: Brule
Air temp: 60s
Water temp: ???
Hatches: ?
Fish landed: 1 brown, and scads of very, very small steelie

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

Xan
TP


We rose just before sunset to give the Brule one last go. We arrived at a canoe landing and made our way upstream, the first people on the river. I found a run and began to fish. I pulled in small steelie after small steelie. This pattern was broken up with a decent resident brown, but that would be the last decent fish I would catch that day.

As the area filled up with fishermen, we hiked a ways downstream, fishing here and there. Once the sun was high up in the sky, the action stopped. Eventually, we called it quits and hit the long road home.

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.