Fencerows: Urban Bass
By John Luthens
Maybe I’m close-minded, but the Milwaukee River corridor flowing through my hometown of Grafton, Wisconsin seems surprisingly noncommittal to the whims of urban development.
I’d like to believe that regardless of which new big-box store is going up on the fringes, or which dam and fish passage is being debated in an endless cycle of human construction and destruction, the river crashes through town on a rocky course and doesn’t seem to care a whit for what the newspapers, business journals or environmental blogs are gossiping about.
John Luthens hooks up on the Milwaukee River.
Smallmouth bass from the Milwaukee River in Grafton, Wisconsin.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not anti-establishment or naïve enough to understand that without political action groups, without the tax revenue created by new businesses in town, or without the calculated work of DNR revenue in removing sediment impounds of non-functioning spillways, the Milwaukee River may well be polluted and neglected into a futuristic wasteland.
Suffice to say that the world needs politicians, civic leaders, and construction workers to build stuff up and rip stuff down. I’m not remotely qualified in any of the above categories, but the Milwaukee River always talks to me in an equal-opportunity voice – something like:
“You don’t look like much, but I see you’ve got a fish pole and a valid Wisconsin fishing license and it says here that you don’t mind wading in tennis shoes and shorts. How do feel about smallmouth bass? Well son, you’re hired. Let’s go to work.”
The tumble of summer on the Grafton stretch of the Milwaukee is a place where even a town fisherman can feel removed. Limestone cliffs and caves rise along the banks as they have done since the river was first discovered. Somewhere far above, on the cedar-lined ridges, houses are as tightly packed as the developers could get away with.
An occasional stairway or solitary bench pokes out of the walls of green, but the jungle grown up in the humid air hides the town well. The growth creates a natural sound barrier and the spilling water drowns out the sound of passing cars. There is only the occasional flash of the sun on a far windowpane, coming down and reflecting on the water like a coded message from the future to tell that indeed there is civilization to come.
The waters are fast and rocky, and smallmouth are on the prowl are liable to smash a bait from anywhere in the current. In late-summer, the water is low enough to be easily waded. If you get up over your waist, you’re likely standing in prime fish territory, so you best back out and start casting.
I prefer the fly rod method, but I don’t believe there are any secret patterns. If it looks like a bug to me, it seems to look like a bug to the bass. Spinner baits and plastics will work equal magic.
There are a lot of small ones, but I’ve hooked plenty up to 14 inches. In fast current, even an average smallmouth gives a fine aerial performance and bends a rod in half. One night, I scared an alligator of a fish out of a shallow feeding lane. I’d say the bass went a good three pounds. Even allowing for my fisherman’s tendency to lie like a dog, it was still plenty big. It was dark enough that the fish scared me as much as I scared it.
The coming night is the finest part of fishing a river in the civilization of my hometown. I’ve walked through tangled brush off many a remote river, breaking into the cold sweats and wondering where the heck I parked and whether or not I’m going to have to spend the night with the bears and wolves. But on the Milwaukee, I angle up the bank and hit the nearest sidewalk. It’s not like finding the saving grace of a logging trail, but it’s much more reliable and the results are the same.
As I stop at one of the outdoor cafés in town, sitting in the urban jungle and drinking a fancy mocha coffee or designer beer, I look a bit out of place in my dripping shorts, with a fish pole leaned up under the street lights and townspeople eyeing me with suspicion.
I’d tell them that the Milwaukee River invited me personally, but they’d probably get the police involved and I’d spend the night in a worse environment than a desolate logging trail. I finish my drink, pick up my fish pole, and head merrily down the sidewalk. I hope I don’t get a ticket. I know exactly where I parked, but I can’t remember if I plugged the meter.