FENCEROWS...Spring Break
By John Luthens
The Bois Brule River in the far reaches of northwestern Wisconsin, in the early months of spring, is naturally engineered to separate the casual fisherman from the fanatic.
It’s true that the Brule steelhead trout come back up from the lake in spring to spawn. They are some of the mightiest fish that an angler could ever hope to tangle with: bright flashes of silver and red power that can strip a reel bare as the early April trees in two giant leaps, disappearing around the pine and birch-lined bends like a ghost.
So it’s not that there is any lack of excitement to be had on the river in April. Rather, it’s more of a balancing act of how much cold and icy agony a fisherman is willing to put up with in order to tangle with one of the early runners.
These are the odds I weighed as I stood in a fisherman’s lot in Douglas County and looked at the DNR-posted sign detailing fish counts from the lamprey barrier on the lower end of the river. There is also a spawning run of steelhead in the fall, and the graph numbers on the sign claimed 4594 fish had gone up last year, peaking in the third week of October, when the leaves were still crisp, the sun dappled down the ridges, and the autumn wind was invigorating and full of blown-leaf splendor.
Brule River migratory fish counts
The sign didn’t tell how many fish decided to spend the winter in the river instead of sliding back into the lake for the cold months. I guessed the lamprey barrier fish count to be a one-way affair. The chart did say that 1739 steelhead had come up the previous spring. The verdict was still out for this year, as I stood and read the sign in the early morning light in the first week of April. It was spring break in northern Wisconsin. Autumn was far removed. The temperature was 16 degrees and I stood in six inches of snow in the fisherman’s parking lot. I remembered hearing that Florida was very nice this time of year.
I climbed in the truck and headed back to the cabin, fly rod and waders untouched in the back. I poured a steaming cup of coffee and sat in front of the fireplace. The long winter had taken a good chunk out of the wood supply, but there was still enough oak piled in odd corners of the woodshed to spark a warming glow.
A phone call to a local friend who lives on the river did nothing to renew my enthusiasm. He is one of the old steelhead guardians, one of those guys that know when the fish move in, friendly to the point of letting you drop in at a moments notice to embark on the river from his front yard whether he is home or not, and even launching one of his canoes if the spirit strikes you. He knows enough steelhead stories to fill volumes and he knows how to fish them.
“There’s a few hold-over fish,” he said. “They’re dark and lethargic from spending the winter, but I think they’ll take a yarn fly. There might be too much ice at the mouth of the river to let any fresh ones get in.”
“How does the river look in front of your place?” I asked.
My friend laughed. “Oh, the river is in great shape, except for all the shelf ice. I haven’t been out yet because I’m afraid that once I actually slide into the river, I won’t be able to climb back out. But you’re welcome to come here and try if you want.”
A frozen vista of Lake Superior shoreline
“Thanks, maybe I will. I’m still working myself up to it.” I said, hanging up the phone and stretching my legs closer to the fire.
I finished my coffee. Stirring the bottom of the cup with a spoon, like a fortune teller trying to read tea leaves, I saw two choices in front of me. Either I could brew another pot, or I could get out into the northwestern Wisconsin world, with or without spring weather. After all, it was spring break. Yes, I figured. I should definitely go to the beach. And that’s how I found myself on the Lake Superior shoreline.
It was amazing, even though there were no swimsuit-clad beauties or pounding surf to behold. In fact, there was no one, and there was hardly any sound. I stood at the mouth of the Brule River and stared at an endless expanse of ice-shove bridges and miniature snowy mountains. It’s was as close to the wastelands of Antarctica as I expect I’ll ever get.
There was ice two miles out. A few seeps of tributary water flowed under the ice and rose to cut channels in the ice. I stood at the brink of a swirling whirlpool of water that disappeared below the ice. The water didn’t resurface anywhere that I could see, so I imagined it cut below, going to a place unseen and far out into the lake.
I used a stick to tap the ice as I shuffled forward; balancing on ridges of heaved ice and prodding the surface in front of me as I went. There were sheets so thin that it was like walking on panes of glass. Sometimes I broke through, going down a half-foot at a crack, always wondering whether I’d land on hard-packed shoreline sand or knee deep in ice water.
It was easy to see that no new steelhead would make it up into the river for a while. I doubted a single smelt would make it until a blast of southern climate worked its way onto the icy plain.
Walking back out through the tree clearings, I came upon the tracks of a bear that had stumbled from its winter stupor. At least something was pointing to spring. I also found the remains of a deer. All that was left was scattered tufts of hair and a partial skull. If it was a wolf kill, coyotes or even the hungry bear, it was impossible to tell. I moved on further upriver. My interest was peaked, and I was intent on at least looking at some moving water.
I drove inland from the lake, parked back at my morning lot, and hiked in. There were a few wader prints in the snow; not enough to beat down the snow, and they were crusted over like old deer tracks. No one had been down the trail for a few days. I knew there were several places to hit the river, so I followed the wader tracks, blending with real deer tracks, and meandered down the valleys and through the overgrown alders at random.
Soon enough I saw the winding river, and then it didn’t matter if there was snow or not. I stumbled down the last pine ridge and stood on the banks. As my friend had warned, there were sloping ice shelves along the banks, yawning over the river with undercut caverns shadowing the water.
Ice shelves of early April on the Bois Brule River
But I got that feeling in the pit of my stomach as I looked at the river, an excited feeling that turned butterflies; it was a steelhead trout feeling. I didn’t have a rod in my hands, or any yarn flies or spawn sacs to probe the depths. It sounds crazy, but being back on the banks of the Brule after a long winter was almost more important than fishing the water.
I made mental plans to return later in the week, but they never materialized. After all, it was spring break for the whole family. There were places to go and things to see. I ended up for two days at The Mall of America in Minneapolis, riding roller coasters and trying to hold onto my wallet.
The last morning of spring break, before heading home, I would have had a chance for one go at the Brule steelhead. But with two inches of fresh snow on the ground, and the snow showers turning to a slow, drizzling rain, I guess I wasn’t fanatic enough. I’ll still ride roller coasters, but maybe I’m getting old.
I could smell the ice melting, though. I knew the fresh steelhead staging off the Lake Superior shoreline could smell it too. Spring was finally in the air.