I'd been exposed to trout fishing only briefly as a young boy by my grandpa Schultz and Uncle Johnny. We'd drive south a few miles from the cottage in Hazelhurst to the Rocky Run creek off hiway 51. A hike back through dense forest about 1/4 mile lead to the stream. Worms were tossed in a few holes and most of the time brookies filled the old wicker creel destined for Grandma Emmas cast iron pan.
In the early 80's I'd find myself back alongside trout water again. I'd started my first teaching job in Neillsville and Bob Moore, a HS history teacher, kind of took me under his wing in all things outdoors in this unfamiliar neighborhood. He showed me his best bow hunting spots and frequently we hunted together. He also dragged me along to fish the tiniest of trout waters in Jackson County, west of Neillsville and taught me the ways of putting fish in the bag.
We bait fished-actually more like hunting. We were camo clad and literally crawling through brush trying to thread a nightcrawler and line thru tangles and tall grass into the creek. Doing so without spooking fish or getting hung up was a challenge. We'd move from place to place, give the fish a look at the bait, if no hit, then try the next spot. Generally, we'd get our 5 trout limit and be back home by mid morning.
That was 30+ years ago. Kids came along and time to sneak out myself to fish was limited. Until now. Of course the world has changed and I have a lot of time on my hands and returning to the trout streams seemed like a good thing-a diversion to a quiet unhurried place. I tapped into our fish biologist Kramer at work and asked about what he uses and where he goes. I'm sure, like all fishermen, he didn't tell me everything, but he got me started. The creeks I'd fished with Bob Moore all those years ago were now sub-par, silted and shallow and holding fewer and smaller fish than years ago.
So I'd be moving and exploring new water and exchanging worms for spinners. Casting would be different and not entirely easy in these tight twisty creeks. With bait, you'd drop it with a split shot on the line in a likely looking spot, let the current drift it along and hopefully in front of a trout nose. I suppose a spinner fishing is a bit like casting a fly-you're actively trying to place the lure as close to the fish as possible and coax a strike.
My first attempts a couple weeks ago went okay, though starting out I was reminded of the 10,000 casts adage in musky fishing. It seemed that was how many I tossed before finally catching and releasing my fist small brookie. At least I must have done something right? Immediately I caught a second and kept it for the frying pan. The creek was small here at a road bridge, but did have a larger deep pool on the opposite side-perfect looking spot, but 5000 casts later, nothing.
Trout fishermen get obsessive of their sport-I'm understanding that now. That same little stream got it's claws in me when I hooked into a big brown trout a bit downstream, the largest I'd ever seen or had on a line. It got tangled in a branch of course, but I managed to free it and work to a clear spot. The next issue was getting him out of the water. The water was too deep to wade in and I really couldn't get to it as the banks were too high and straight down to the water. So, I tried gently lifting him up and out which resulted in a big brown trout quickly swimming away downstream. Damn.
I've returned to that spot again and several other streams Kramer had shared with me. It seemed every time I learn something new, I became better at reading the water-where fish may be waiting in ambush. My casting techniques improved and getting tangled with overhanging sticks is a bit less frequent. I'd return home with fish enough for a meal and a need to change out equipment that just wasn't working. The open bail spinning real was shelved for an enclosed one-less tangles in all my short casts. Asking other trout fishing friends, my spinner collection grew and narrowed to what seemed to generate the most hits. A new net was needed as I tired of cutting the hooks out every time I landed a fish in the black nylon one. Brand new hip boots are now left in the garage replaced by my old neoprene chest waders for it seems to work better to actually be in the water working my casts upstream at fish level-who knew? I've learned that spring stocked rainbows taste bad and though fun to catch, get slid back into the water. Brookies are beautiful and make great table fare so that's what I want now hitting my lures.
I haven't forgotten Brown Trout-that day one fish is seared in my mind-watching it plunk back into the water and swim away. I've yet to catch another and I know they are there...somewhere. I think I'm getting that trout fishing preoccupation with getting one on my line again and maybe this time landing one.
Like the brothers Maclean, Norman and Paul from the book, I'm starting to understand the ardent pursuit of a perfect pool, a perfect cast and perfect fish. I don't know if I'll ever get there, but now seems to be the time to try.
Of course now I'm too old to be much of a fisherman, and now I usually fish the big waters alone, although some friends think I shouldn't. But when I'm alone in the half light of the canyon, all existence seems to fade to a being with my soul and memories, and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River, and the four-count rhythm, and a hope that a fish will rise. Eventually all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood, and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters.
— Norman Maclean, (1976)
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