A road trip for the ages

What do you do when the weather turns cold and the streams freeze over in your locale? Two words – road trip.

That’s exactly what I did this week as I headed to Paris … Texas. Unfortunately Texas isn’t exactly the trout fishing state Montana is so, after visiting with my brother and my folks, I turned the truck around and drove to central Arkansas to fish one of the best waters the nation has to offer.

I pulled into Heber Springs, Arkansas on Wednesday and met up with a buddy of mine. David and I met more than three years ago in Bozeman, MT where we were both in town to defend our master’s theses. By chance, I attended his defense where his facilitator announced that he “had fly fished his way to Bozeman and was going to fly fish his way back home.” We spoke after his presentation and spent the next several days fishing some of my favorite spots on the Gallatin River, drinking a few beers and getting to know each other. Upon parting, we vowed that we would fish together again and, after some near misses, it finally happened.

After unloading the non-essentials, we headed over to the Little Red River. The Little Red is home to the former world record brown trout, a 40 pound 4 ounce behemoth. The record has since been broken but any way you figure it, a river that can grow a monster that big has something to offer. The Little Red is a tailwater fishery and flows from the base of Greers Ferry Dam. I have fished tailwaters before, but the Little Red is a bit different as you really need to be tuned into the generation schedule as the river can rise rapidly once water is released from the dam.

We arrived at David’s chosen location as the water was receding from generation earlier in the day and had the place to ourselves. The fish were in the post-spawn mode and we threw egg patterns with a sow bug dropper. It didn’t take long before we found fish and I was shocked by the girth of the fish, a girth that threw off my ability to determine fish length. (My handy measure net settled any possible exaggeration.) Rainbows typically ran in the 12 to 13 inch range with browns averaging a couple inches larger. We fished until the sun was low on the horizon and headed for the only bar in the area.

Heber Springs is located in Cleburne County which is a dry county, two words that you would never see put together in my home state of Wisconsin. However, or should I say thankfully, a “local option” system allows alcoholic beverages to be served in non-profit private clubs and it just so happened that David was a member. We enjoyed a burger, had a few beers, and even met the former roommate of the drummer for Iron Butterfly.

The next day was nothing short of epic as the stars aligned with warm temperatures (nearing 70 degrees) and no water generation predicted. We arrived early, found fish in the riffles, caught countless browns and rainbows up to 18 inches, and each had a chance to land the fish of a lifetime (neither of us completed the deal). It was one of those days that make up for the times when the fish just don’t want to cooperate and, while the river was a bit crowded early, by 11 a.m. we once again had the place to ourselves. We celebrated our success at the “speakeasy” before heading back to our motel room. 

Early the next morning, I pointed my truck north and pulled into my driveway 15 hours later having endured four hours of freezing rain which served as my welcome-home present courtesy of the Badger state. It had been the perfect reunion with an old friend and a trip to remember.

At least I don't have to shovel cold

There probably aren’t many people who can say they summer in the U.P. and winter in Wisconsin, but I am one of them and a quick trip to Ontonagon this week illustrated why I leave there from December through March.

I headed north on Thursday right behind a weather system that had dumped freezing rain and the roads were still in pretty tough shape. A trip that normally takes me three hours drug into five and I was happy to pull into my first stop, the local bar. I caught up on the local gossip, wolfed down a burger, slid my way over to my cabins, and trudged my way through a foot of snow topped by a shin-busting coating of ice just to make sure all was fine. It was.

I then turned my truck north toward Ontonagon where I had a Friday morning meeting scheduled with a forest service official to do a year-end review and discuss other business.  When I arrived, Lake Superior was tossing enormous waves onto the shore and the sky was filled with snow that lasted all night and eventually covered the ground (and my truck) with six inches of fluffy lake snow. I had morning breakfast with some hearty locals, including one that had recently moved back to the U.P. from Arizona. He took plenty of ribbing for that relocation and when he said, “I didn’t shovel snow for 40 years,” I couldn’t help but reply with, “Up here you can get 40 years worth of shoveling in one season.” It continued to snow during my forest-service stop and, although I enjoy snow, it becomes more of a nuisance with each passing year.

By the time I got back to Wisconsin, the temperature had just climbed above zero and was forecast to stay there for some time. It was actually colder than it had been in Ontonagon, but I was still happy to be home. Why? I don’t have to shovel cold. 

A different type of weapon

Friday was the opening day of gun deer season in the U.P. and hoards of blaze-orange-clad folks hit the fields and woods to fill their tags. I also donned blaze orange, albeit for a different reason. While others were equipped with every imaginable type of firearm, a 4-weight fly rod was my weapon of choice.

The rivers in the U.P. have been running high and off-color all fall due to almost daily precipitation, most of which had come in the form of snow. Friday, however, was finally sunny … one of two days that the sun had shown in the past month or so.

I didn't have a lot of time to fish – only an hour – so I picked a spot that provided easy access. It also was a location where I would not interfere with hunters. (After all, they only have 16 days to chase their prey. I have most of the year.) The water temperature was a chilly 38 degrees and there was about two feet of visibility, not exactly ideal conditions. There were a handful of midges in the air and I did find two rainbows willing to eat a size 16 copper john. I also had one really nice rainbow rise and push my indicator around, making me wonder what would have happened had I been using a dry-dropper combination.

Despite the fact that the fishing was a bit slow, I still had a good time. The sun was out, the temperature was in the mid-40s, and I had the place all to myself. Other than a few extra hours to fish, I really couldn't have asked for more.

Swat and Shovel

There’s an old joke that says in the U.P. there are two seasons, Swat and Shovel, and based on the month of October I’m inclined to believe it. Two weeks ago, I was basking in temperatures that reached 70 degrees and crushing the occasional mosquito making me its last meal of the year. This week I endured heavy, wet snow and treacherous driving conditions. I offer you these pictures as evidence.

Testing an old adage

In life, there are good days and bad days. Wednesday was a bad one and I should have seen it coming. I

wanted to check one last time for the salmon run in the western U.P. tributaries. A fisheries biologist had emailed Monday to tell me that the run was over, but I just didn’t believe him. Besides, even if he was right, I had the feeling that heavy rain on Monday might push more fish into the rivers.

The trip to the river was filled with Sunday drivers who apparently had mistaken Wednesday for that day. To make matters worse, I was followed by an officer for 60 miles of the trip, meaning I couldn’t pass without risking a ticket whose cost might surpass the price of my last fly rod.

I finally got to the river and headed straight for the falls that blocks any upstream migration of fish. The river I was on is essentially a steep canyon from its mouth to the falls and navigating the sometimes rocky, sometimes clay-covered, always root-filled cliffs was difficult at best and deadly at worst. One slip meant a fall to rocks 30 feet below or a raging river now flowing at 500 cubic feet per second higher than it had been two days earlier.

There were two anglers holding fly rods at the falls’ base and I skidded my way down to see them. The spawn-sack-soaking pair was quick to provide what I wanted to hear … the run had started late last week and was definitely on. One of the gentlemen reported catching three kype-jawed brown trout and one silvery coho. He also shared that he had seen several porpoising Chinooks and I was starting to feel that all my scouting would finally pay off. I wished the pair luck and headed downstream to find a spot to fish.

The first spot I chose, a large back eddy, was an obvious location to fish as it had the remnants of a warming fire, a broken spinner and an empty Rapala box strewn about. My indicator bounced in the current the first two casts and, on the third one, it disappeared. I set the hook hard and in a split second turned my favorite nine-foot, eight weight into an eight-foot six inch model. The rod was no match for the bedrock which had taken my fly.

I recovered the top half of the rod thanks to the indicator still on the line – the flies remain attached to Mother Earth – and walked back to my truck to get a new rod. As I rigged my back-up, I realized that my wife had been wrong every time I came home with a new fly rod. You truly can never have enough rods.

Back on the river, I looked for a new spot and I chose poorly. Again I should have seen it coming. The path to the Spartan shore had everything required to create a disaster ... jagged rocks, wet clay and slippery tree roots. I remember thinking, “I know I can get down there, but I hope I can get out.” Sure enough the trip down went off without a hitch and soon I was nymphing and casting flies into a narrow stretch of water that just had to hold fish. (If it did, the fish weren’t at all cooperative or appreciative of my efforts. I never had a grab.) After losing a few flies to the rocks, I re-rigged and started to climb out. About half-way up the 30-foot slope, my  foot slipped and I tumbled back down to the water’s edge stopping, miraculously inches shy of the raging torrent. My rod had not broken but my right ring finger was already swelling and turning that deep purple color indicative of a broken bone.

I fished another hour, soaking my finger every few minutes in the ice-cold water, before climbing back out of the gorge and calling it a day. A few cold beers, a cheap cigar and a hot sauna on the shores of Lake Superior helped me forget the day but left me wondering if that old adage, “a bad day of fishing is better than a good day at work,” is actually true. On Wednesday, it sure wasn’t.

Yes, I am superstitious

I have to believe that every fly angler is, to some degree, superstitious and I am among those who believe that leaving your lucky shirt, hat, rod or fly at home can spell disaster. Consider this story.

By last Wednesday, the rivers had finally dropped to fishable levels following three inches of rain over the weekend. I was eager to throw some streamers because post-flooding fishing can be (as one shop rat in Montana once told me) “stupid good.”  I was about to hit the river in time to fish the last couple hours when I realized my lucky shirt was back in camp. I was undeterred and jumped into the water expecting to catch a fish on every cast.  When I walked back to the truck in the waning daylight, however, I found myself on the receiving end of an ass-kicking by the fish as in I had been skunked for the first time all year.

The next day I was on the same schedule, having spent the day scouting waters that are now closed. I wandered down to the same river at the same time with the same streamer except now I had my lucky shirt on my back. The result? Stupid good fishing.

There are still some good days to be had on the water this week and the fall colors remain brilliant in some parts of the U.P. But with snow showers forecast for the weekend, it won’t be long before I will be hanging up my lucky shirt in the cabin for the season (make that putting it in the back of my truck) and that will be a sad day as it has been a tremendous year.

A tale of two seasons

This past week in the U.P. was certainly a tale of two seasons. Early in the week, it was definitely summer with high temperatures in the 70s and stunningly blue skies. Wednesday night the bottom dropped out and fall came roaring in as highs struggled to reach the 50s and heavy rains turned some rivers to mud and all rivers into raging torrents. Nonetheless, we managed to catch fish.

Early in the week, fish (especially big browns) were keyed in on girdle bugs and copper johns. Later, when the cooler weather made its appearance, streamers became the fly of choice and rainbows became much more active. The fall colors made fishing a pleasure all week long as trees reached their peak. From crimson maples to fiery oaks to orange aspens, the week was one to remember.

One thing that still hasn’t shown (unless I missed it during my road travel) is the fall salmon run. I scouted a river known to harbor a good migration and saw no signs of the large fish. There were no fish (dead or alive) in the water and no anglers chasing them. Perhaps the heavy rains will change that picture. In the meantime, enjoy some more fall photos I posted on our website.