Fencerows: Valley of the Trout

By John Luthens

 A wooden ski ramp towered above on a pine-clad ridge.  Bands of white trilliums sprinkled the forest clearings below.  Campfire smoke rose lazily in the air and fly rods leaned on trees. There was only the slight matter of fording a stream to reach the camp.  With a spray of water above my truck’s tires, I arrived in the valley of the trout.

I’d roamed beyond where the last ice-age glaciers had stopped and into the heart of the Driftless Region of southwestern Wisconsin, winding above limestone bluffs and deep valleys for a gathering of like-minded anglers.  I’d heard about the gathering through the Driftless Trout Anglers, an online forum tailored for trout anglers and fly fishing enthusiasts.  In a land where the vistas roll like waves and the pastures are cut deep by rushing arteries of spring water, the setting couldn’t have been any finer.

The camp sprung up outside of Westby, Wisconsin, in Vernon County on Timber Coulee Creek, a trout-stream valley dominated above by a massive ski jump- the kind you see in the Olympics- and which I was told by preeminent angler and host of the event, Bryan “Trapper” Voldahl, is still in use.

It was a casual convention; reservations not necessary, dress code consisting of waders and fishing hats.  The accommodations were up to the individual, meaning tents for some, rented cabins and hotel reservations for others, and the backseats of cars and trucks for a select and hardy few.

Anglers rolled in from all parts of Wisconsin, as well as Minnesota, Iowa and Illinois.  While the gathering was informal, there was nothing informal about the fly-fishing knowledge that came sliding out of rod cases and fly boxes.  As a journalist, I’m usually used to asking the questions, but for the span of a weekend spent in the valley of the trout; I stood around with my mouth agape and breathed in the imparted wisdom.

As far as the itinerary went, the group dispersed in pairs and alone in the mornings, repairing to favorite stretches of water.  With some 250 miles of trout water alone in Vernon County, finding a run was not an issue.

I fished below Coon Valley, in a stretch of water I used to haunt while attending college at UW-Lacrosse.  It is good fly fishing water, with enough open stretches to make for agreeable casting and enough logs and undercut banks to keep you guessing.  I also remembered it fondly as being trout-worthy enough to keep my college professors guessing as to whether I’d be in class or not.

The birds were alive in the brush, the smell of lilacs was alive in the air, and the trout were alive in the water.  I was as good as I remembered - really, all I remembered – from my college days.  My biggest trout of the day went just shy of 17 inches, but the best trout of the day came as I was trying to photograph a particularly hyperactive yellow warbler.

The bird wouldn’t sit still, and as I waited with camera in hand, a trout rose alongside a log jam on the opposite bank.  I shot a quick cast, fully expecting to tangle in the brush.   Instead, what will likely go down as my best cast of the year landed square above the feeding trout and he inhaled it as it hit the water.  I snaked the trout over the log, camera still in hand, landing an eight-inch brown.  I never did know what happened to the warbler.

At night, waders stomped in until well after dark.  Most caught fish, and some even told where they caught them- or else they lied so well that they should play poker for a living.  I gave up remembering the names and origins of the people I met, focusing instead on the stories.

The bonfire roared hot as we all crossed paths on favorite waters of yesterday.  We caught enough trout and bass and muskies to fill the whole valley.  The stars came out above and I swear they must be breeding, because there were more up above the rim than I ever remember. 

There was frost on my tent in the early morning when I packed up to leave.  The sun still hadn’t made its appearance into the valley of the trout.  It was quiet.  It’s possible everyone else was still sleeping, but I’d heard enough fly-boxes snap open in the pre-dawn hours to know that most were already shooting line, laying a fly just right in the heart of the driftless.

Ski-jump ramp outside of Westby.

Coon Creek in Vernon County.