Fencerows: The Bridge
I dodged four lanes of traffic to reach the sidewalk of the Oshkosh Avenue Drawbridge over the Fox River. The bridge shook and swayed as a rush of commuters scurried through Oshkosh and headed home for the evening. Through the bustle, I could just make out the slower motion of jigging rods as fishermen leaned along the rails in the last rays of the April sun.
It was not exactly pristine. The air was filled with the sounds of the city. But the fishermen looked to me like the first sprigs of green grass reaching through cracks in the concrete. As the traffic lined above, below, in the swirling pilings of a bridge driven a mile or so above the expanse of Lake Winnebago, walleyes were holding rank in their spawning-run ascent. It was a sure sign of spring.
An early April sun sets above walleye anglers on the Oshkosh Avenue Bridge.
The Winnebago system offers a vast and beautiful experience. There are styles of fishing to suit the most finicky of anglers. Along the rural rivers and marsh-covered banks of the upper lakes and rivers, boats and expectant anglers wait with baited breath and sharpened hooks for the walleyes to make their move. While the Oshkosh Avenue Bridge is anything but rural, when it comes to the upriver movement of the spring walleyes, it is first in line to witness the action.
Like most any other afternoon at this time of year, my friend Dave was part of close-knit band of bridge fishermen keeping watch. “You should have been here last week,” he said. “Crazy…”
Before I could reply, a fire truck wailed across the bridge and the rod tips danced as if everyone at once had hooked a fish. The siren was deafening. “I never called you crazy,” I said.
A homemade dip net used to hoist up hooked fish.
The noise subsided. “The fishing was crazy. The biggest fish of the run were coming through,” said Dave, with a note of exasperation. “You’re not used to this type of bridge fishing, are you? You have to ignore the sounds and pay attention.”
I tried to ignore the humming traffic and concentrate on the fisherman lined up beside me. I paid attention. It was about 15 feet from bridge level to the water below. The standard fare was light to medium rods with 8 pound test line. Jigs ranged in weight from ½ to ¾ ounces. Large shiner minnows were the preferred bait and stinger hooks were being used by the overwhelming majority.
Before I’d even cracked my notebook to duly put my lessons to paper, Dave hauled in a 14-inch walleye, winching out of the water and onto the sidewalk. He expertly removed the stinger hook and sent the walleye back on its way upriver.
“What do you do if you hook up with a real fish?” I asked. “A 20-incher would snap that rod in two if you tried to get him up here.”
“Don nets the big ones,” Dave said, pointing out an older gentleman. “He’s here almost every night.”
A walleye caught and released from the Fox River in Oshkosh.
There was no sign of an extension net leaning against the railing. And while Don was a rather big man in an oversized hunting jacket, I doubted he could have anything remotely big enough to land a fish from fifteen feet in the air. Seeing as how I was now in the “paying attention” mode, I wandered over to find out.
Don’s net consisted of the round portion without the handle attached. It was attached on a three-way swivel to a long piece of nylon rope and had a rock tied into the bottom of the net. Although not the classiest looking, as I watched the dip net hoist another nice walleye from the water, I have to say it was as soundly functional a piece of fishing gear as I’ve ever come across.
He also gave me a piece of fishing wisdom that I’d never heard before. “The bite will turn on some when the sun hits the horizon,” he said. “But for exactly a half-hour after the street lights come on, that’s when the real action is.” I stayed until the sun went down and the moon rose over unseen Lake Winnebago. Turns out, Don was absolutely correct.
As I traded stories with the line of fishermen, fish were caught and fish were lost. You never know what to expect when you invade a new environment. But I was taken in and shown the ropes of bridge fishing, and I came away with new understanding. Most importantly, with glow of street lights above and the rumbling of passing cars beneath my feet, I passed the first rites of spring in the camaraderie that held sway on the bridge.