Hunting for trout

“If you want something you have never had, you must do something you’ve never done.”

The fact that this quote is frequently misattributed to Thomas Jefferson shouldn’t take away its sentiment. It certainly doesn’t for me.

After I came up empty in my mission to land my first inland trout on a fly rod during the early season, my friend Brandon offered me an opportunity. His family owns a cabin in Langlade County and he discovered an abundance of quality trout fishing spots during some scouting trips last year. He told me I was welcomed to join him for an adventure that would likely get me off the schneid.

We settled on a range of dates in May, being sure to avoid Mother’s Day. Our natural dispositions likely do enough to put us in the doghouse. We didn’t see a need to put ourselves there voluntarily.

Though my schedule at home kept me from making this a weekend outing, I was able to fit a day trip into my plans. I’d leave my house long before sunrise to complete my three-hour trek to the cabin in plenty of time to make the most of the morning and we’d fish hard. Mid-afternoon, I’d head back south to be home before my one-year-old son’s bedtime.

Is that a lot of driving in a short timespan? Yes. Do I particularly care for extended drives? No.

But here was my mental calculus: These days, six hours of uninterrupted fishing time is something I don’t often get in a week’s time, much less in a single day. Plus, I would get the opportunity to fish new water and have the potential to cross a fish or two off my life list. Brandon mentioned that one of the bodies of water had a nice brook trout population. I had never landed one. To me, a tank of gas and six hours of seat time was a reasonable price to pay.

Yet one last-minute variable threatened to change the math: the weather. Less than 24 hours prior to my departure time, the forecast was less than ideal—a 93 percent chance of rain, mostly occurring during the hours I would be in town.

Now, I don’t mind getting rained on while fishing, even a considerable amount. But I was concerned how the fishing would be affected by the inclement weather, especially on a body of water I wasn’t familiar with. Brandon assured me we would figure out. He was particularly confident in one of our options. So confident, in fact, that he jokingly wagered a certain portion of his manhood that we would catch trout. Who am I to argue with a proclamation that bold?

As my morning trek northward drew to a close, I was hit with one of those beautiful moments when the winding roads, budding trees, and dwindling evidence of human existence made me forget that I was still in my home state.

At this point, not a single drop of rain had fallen. When I met up with Brandon at the cabin, he had seemingly made note of that too. The plan was to hit the water immediately and then come back to the cabin for lunch once we, hopefully, had our fill of trout action. Within minutes of my arrival, I was riding shotgun in his truck en route to our first fishing spot. We weren’t going to squander our good fortune. We had the chance to make hay before things got dicey and, by God, we were going to try.

Around 8 a.m., Brandon pulled off the worn pavement of the county road and onto a path that was a mix of grass and gravel that led to the closest thing you’ll find to a parking lot in these parts. We were immediately greeted by a significant number of insects buzzing about. It didn’t take them long to hone-in on us. On a normal day, this would be slightly annoying. But today, it was welcomed. We were here to try to catch trout by using fake bugs, after all.

We slipped our waders on and assembled our fly rods. Brandon explained that we were using a setup I hadn’t fished before: the dry dropper. This tactic involves using two flies on the same tippet. The top fly was a dry fly (in this case a caddisfly). Below was a wet fly (a nymph). Since the dry fly floats, it would not only serve as a lure to entice fish that were feeding on the surface but as the strike indicator that would disappear under the surface of the water as soon as a fish munched on the wet fly. This approach allowed us to quickly figure out which presentation the fish liked best.

Before we began our walk to the water, Brandon showed me a topographical map on his phone. The river was a few hundred yards away, nestled in a valley and surrounded by woods. First, we traversed a clearing that used to be mature forest—severe storms toppled the aging trees a few years back and turned the forest into something resembling a prairie in mere hours. Evidence of this event was everywhere. Piles of dried out branches and logs that looked like unlit bonfires were strewn about every few feet.

There were also signs of new life. Fresh, light green undergrowth was everywhere, taking root in the destruction the storms left in their wake. Nature is cyclical. Every closed door opens a window.

Weaving in and out of downed timber, we eventually made it to the wooded hill crest that overlooked the river. The terrain was surprisingly steep, but game trails made navigating the significant decline manageable.

Four hours into my day, it was finally time to get to business. We began casting.

I hadn’t used a fly rod in over three months, so it took me a minute to shake the rust off. As I was doing this, I took notice that the water was a fascinating combination of clear and dark. It was as though I was looking into the sky on a cloudless night but, instead of gazing at stars, I was watching the occasional flashes of hungry trout chasing my bait. The width of the river, in most places, was better measured in feet than yards.

Brandon had a bite (sorry, a “take,” I’m still new to fly fishing lingo) almost immediately. He quickly landed the first brook trout of the day. We were on the board and it felt great. There are no guarantees in fishing and that’s something any good angler learns to accept on some level. But, in a way, our swift, collective success felt like justification for the long day I signed up for.

When I expressed these thoughts to Brandon, he responded, “I figured, even if the fishing sucked, you’d enjoy the scenery,” as he gestured to the backdrop that enveloped us.

As one of my friends recently remarked, “trout only live in pretty places.” In my half-year as a part-time trout fly fisherman, I’ve found that statement to be incredibly true. I’ve never seen an ugly trout stream and this place wasn’t the exception to the rule.

Everywhere I looked, there were hills, trees, patches of tall grass, and water. The birds sang such beautifully passionate melodies that I had a difficult time identifying them, even though many came from species I am intimately familiar with. It was almost as if they were happier than your average bird that lives in the suburbs.

Forget seeing other people, there weren’t even signs any had been here. No footprints. No litter. No nothing. The area was as close to pristine wilderness as I have experienced in my life.

Brandon landed another brookie shortly after his first. Eventually, he moved upriver. Not against batting cleanup and eager to get in on the action, I hopped into the spot he previously occupied. After a few casts, I was hooked up. I called over to Brandon who ran to my side with his net in-hand. The pace with which he did so showed me he knew how important this fish was.

Every fish feels huge on a fly rod. It’s part of what draws me to this method. Yes, the length of the rod gives you leverage, but you have to be careful about how employ it because the tiny hooks on the flies don’t leave much room for error.

As the tip of my rod pounded away and the line remained ever-taught, I started to worry about my ability to keep this fish on the hook much longer. Even in hindsight, given the relatively small size of inland trout, this feels like a ridiculous thing to say. I wouldn’t even give a second thought to tangling with a smallmouth bass of a comparable size. But I genuinely had my hands full.

Sure, Brandon could have charged into the water and hastened the end of the battle, but that would likely disturb the most fruitful spot we had found so far even more than this ongoing struggle already had.

Thankfully, I was able to gain some line and steer the fish into the net Brandon had waiting.

There it was. My first brook trout and my first inland trout on a fly rod. And it didn’t even take an hour.

The fish was even more beautiful than I had imagined. I’ve seen plenty of incredible pictures of these stunning fish, but there’s just something about holding one in your wet hands and being able to admire it up close that deepens your appreciation in a way only firsthand experience can.

These fish have such a unique color palette. The white lines on the bottom that sharply contrast with the red of the lower fins look like they were painted on with the finest of brushes.

Brandon picked up a couple more fish before we decided it was time to explore a different stretch of the river. We opted to head back to the truck to change clothes and grab a drink of water. The air was a strange mix of humidity without heat. I was ready to change out of my hoodie in favor of something more breathable. My neoprene waders already had me sweating profusely as it was.

Note to future self: If you start taking this fly fishing thing more seriously, invest in breathable waders.

With our comfort needs addressed, Brandon once again pulled up the map. He determined the best way to get downriver was to simply walk the clearing in the opposite direction from our early morning travels. We would enter the woods and then cut straight to the river, just as we had earlier. We would fish for an hour or so and then head back to the cabin for lunch.

Everything was going to plan. We made it to the tree line and began our dissent down a hill that wasn’t nearly as steep as the one we encountered the first time around.

But then we hit a wall.

A straight line of thick brush that moved laterally with no visible gap as far as the eye could see. Figuring we couldn’t be too far from the water, we decided to put our heads down and push through. We moved methodically, protecting our rods and our waders, strategically choosing our next step before we took it.

The ground began to level out. Surely we were close to the water. But we couldn’t hear water. We couldn’t see it, either. We couldn’t see anything, really. The cover was so robust in some spots that you’d have a hard time seeing your hand hand in front of your face, if you could even get your hand up to your face.

It was at this point that Brandon and I realized we had made a rookie mistake by not collapsing our nine-foot rods before embarking on this odyssey.

We snuck under low-hanging branches, crawled over logs, and shielded ourselves from the thorns of the wild blackberries.

I had no concept of how much time had passed, but I had to imagine this unplanned side quest ate into a significant portion of the hour we had allotted.

“I hear water. We’re almost there,” Brandon said from a few yards ahead of me.

“I know you said an hour, but if we find hungry fish, we are going to bang on ’em until we can’t anymore,” I told Brandon. He agreed.

Before long, I could hear running water too. I mercifully had made it to the thinner vegetation that lined the river. I was panting and dripping with sweat.

“Look familiar?,” asked Brandon.

I peered to my left.

“You have got to be shitting me,” I replied while still catching my breath.

Despite walking nearly a quarter-mile in the opposite direction before entering the woods, we were standing a handful of yards from where we had started the morning.

At that moment, it felt like all of that effort had been, basically, for nothing.

With no time to dwell, we began walking the bank downriver toward where we had planned to end up in the first place. It was after 11 a.m. when we came across a snowmobile bridge that crossed the river, the first sign of humans I had seen since our arrival.

We crossed the bridge and entered the water, continuing our march downstream. Brandon crossed the river and found a spot that was to his liking. Based on my learnings from earlier, I found a couple suitable runs to work on as well.

The action was fairly steady and the rain stayed away as we spent just under two hours trying to entice every last fish we could find in our locations. We each managed to add to our totals.

With my available fishing time running out, we decided to fish our way back upriver to where our day began. A light rain became increasingly steadier, but it never dampened our spirits. We were committed at this point and we knew there were more fish to be had.

Back in a spot we were familiar with, we were able to dial-in on the fish quickly. Brandon landed the first brown trout of the day. I added two more a little while later. Inland trout, another “first” checked off the list.

All told, we ended the day with 10 brook trout and a trio of browns—all released to swim another day.

We never made it back for lunch.

To me, that fact illustrates something I appreciate most about fishing with Brandon: he is every bit as addicted to this as I am.

For both of us, “last cast” is probably the most frequently lie we tell. That fib was repeated multiple times on this day. It was just so hard to leave. We were getting regular takes until the bitter end.

Shortly before 3:30, I was back in my truck and headed home. My wife and I were reunited and playing with our son by 6:30—a 14-hour adventure had come to a fulfilling conclusion. I got to spend the day doing something I love and finished it by spending time with people I loved.

I was tired yet, somehow, refreshed.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this story, you may also like this one: Fly Fishing Reflections