Fishing the North Shore of Superior

I’d fished several streams along the North Shore of Lake Superior over a number of years. And I’d always been satisfied with the experience, just in the scenery, the rocky, cascading streams, the solitary link with the country. But I’d never caught a fish. And I would only occasionally see another fisher out on the water, and while I might think on another stream in another place that this was a sign of hope – there must be fish if there are others fishing for them – I began to think that these other few fishers were actually just like me – bozos who had no idea what they were doing.

So, on my most recent visit to the North Shore I decided to hire a guide to point me to productive water. The first sign was that the cost for the day was about half of what is typically charged for similar guided trips on other rivers. Also, it was described not as a “guided trip” but rather a “tour.” Finally, it was the only guided trip offered along all of the upper part of the shore. When I went into the outfitters shop the afternoon before the trip (or tour), I spent about half an hour with my guide. At first he assumed I would be going out on one of the hundreds of inland lakes and fish from a float tube, as virtually everyone else who goes out does. But I told him I wanted to fish the streams. He was fine with that, even happy to be given the chance to do something different than his normal routine, even if his normal routine was helping clients catch fish. I assured him I was more interested in scouting potential streams to fish and not necessarily in catching fish. He said that that was a realistic goal.

We ended up fishing only two rivers, though he did point out to me several other rivers and streams that I might try and gave me access points. On the first river we fished, the Cascade, I caught only one fish, a two-inch bass. (We were fishing for trout, specifically brook trout.) He was surprised by seeing a bass, saying it had come down the river from an upper lake, but at least I hadn’t been skunked. (He apparently thought being skunked for the day was a distinct possibility.)

I did better on the next river, the Devil’s Track. I caught a four-inch rainbow trout in one of the first pools and noted that I was doubling the size of fish caught. And in the next pool I caught another rainbow, upping the size again to six inches. Soon after I caught what would be the fish of the day, a ten-inch rainbow. This is a fairly typical fish on my usual water, so I was surprised by the excitement of the guide. I think he referred to it at one point during the landing as a “monster,” and I wondered if he was mocking me. But he insisted on taking a picture of me with the fish, as if it were a trophy. And I suppose in those streams it may well be. All’s relative.

I caught a few more small fish through the afternoon, but nothing over six inches. My guide explained that the sun was not good for these waters, that a cloudy sky or rain was preferable. And there wasn’t much snowfall this past winter, so the lack of run-off and little rain this summer made for low and slow water. As we walked over rock banks back to the van he pointed out that we hadn’t seen another fisher all day, confirming my suspicion that there aren’t many who fish these streams, and for the reason that my meager outing was actually better than the average. But for me the trip was a success. I discovered where and how to fish some of the streams of the North Shore, and I did catch some fish, and most important, I spent most of a day outdoors in some of the most stunning scenery in the country.

Fishing Without Fish

It’s a good thing I don’t fish to catch fish. It would be frustrating otherwise. Out on the water today, water the lowest I’ve seen it in 25 years, three weeks of no rain and temperatures in the 90s and 100s, there was little chance of catching fish. Or even seeing fish. The only positive was that there was no one else on the water. I had the fishless stream to myself. To fools come the reward of solitude. Though  I spent more time walking to and through and beside and from the water than wading in it, flailing my fly rod to no effect, there was no end to the plants in bloom, the birds surprised by my presence, the dragonflies flitting along the path and by the shore. And it was easy to keep reminding myself – it’s a good thing I don’t fish to catch fish.

Looking Buggy

I’ve never been a flyfisher who matched the hatch, that is, identified the insects that were hatching at any one time and that the fish were feeding on, and then tied on a fly that mimicked that insect to fool the trout into taking it. For one thing, the waters I fish don’t seem to have all that many hatches, at least not that I’ve encountered. And even when they do I can’t see what the fish are rising to, and even if I could I wouldn’t know what kind of bug I was looking at. On the one or two occasions a year I do stumble into a hatch, I just tie on whatever’s the easiest for me to see on the water; sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. But the far majority of the time, I fish nymphs below the surface. And the nymph pattern I use most – probably 80%-90% of the time, any time of the year – is the muskrat nymph, the first fly I learned to tie, and the easiest. It’s simply a #18 to #12 nymph hook, with black thread, dubbed gray muskrat fur body (guard hairs picked out), and a peacock herl thorax. For the past 10 years or so I’ve added a brass bead’s head to add weight and attraction. My understanding is that the fly is used most often in the waters of Pennsylvania. I’ve never seen it in fly bins here in the Midwest, and a few years ago, when I needed a new muskrat pelt I finally found one in a fly shop in St. Louis, where the owner had a large one stowed away in the back, which he just gave to me gratis, having no use for it himself. I’ve since used maybe 10% of the pelt on maybe 100 muskrat nymphs, and will probably die before I can use up even half of the remaining fur. I don’t know if the fly is supposed to imitate any particular insect, but my guess is that it is good at simply “looking buggy,” the primary criterion identified by a cousin of mine who first instructed me in fly tying. I imagine the wispy fur of the body in the drift, the translucent glow of the peacock herl in the sun, the shine of the brass bead’s head work together to look sufficiently buggy. It’s at least worked well for me. And is always a reminder of what may well be a primal truth – that simple is best. Or to quote Thoreau from another context, "Simplicity, simplicity, simplicity." Though buggy is good too.

A Mediocre Flyfisher

I’m at best a mediocre flyfisher in my home waters of the Driftless Area of the upper Midwest. I catch some fish on most outings, no fish on an occasional outing, and very occasionally I have an outing where I seem to do no wrong (or blind luck more likely). I’ve been on several western waters, and except for a couple of guided trips, have generally done little but whip the water into a froth. I do little different now than when I first started flyfishing some 25 years ago. I use the same few flies, three nymphs and a couple of dry flies when (seldom) the fish are feeding on top. They seem to work okay, and I’ve never been one able to match the hatch (identify the food the fish are eating and use a fly that mimics it; I can neither identify what they’re eating or usually have the fly that mimics it). But my fishing has never been motivated by catching fish, either number or size. Of course catching fish – and the occasional 12”+ fish – helps keep me going, not a goal so much as an object. If I never caught a fish I wouldn’t go out again. But most of why I fish is just to get out on the water, on the streams, in the quiet of running water and bird song, wind in the trees and sun on the riffles, the deer and the muskrats. The silence and the solitude. The escape and the promise.

First Fish

Catching a fish (and a relatively nice fish) on the first trip of the season, especially on a new stretch of water, comes as a surprise. The second fish (another nice one), a few minutes later, is another surprise. The third is almost becoming a habit. Later, further downstream on more familiar water, water that is more flaccid, not cut by spring flooding, less promising than last year, I find a small run up against a bank, flick my fly in the riffle at the head of the run, and a second later I have a 14” brown on (large for this stream), both of us unsure (I imagine it’s the first time this year this fish has been caught), it runs downstream, then across, I force it on its side and slide it into my net, but it flips out and makes another run down and across, but I get it on its side again and into the net, release the fly, a strong and beautiful fish. The first trip of the year is always the best. The streams are easily accessible, last year’s weeds and grasses matted down. There hasn’t been any pressure. The fish are gullible. A month from now I won’t be the only fisher on the stream, the vegetation will be a head-high wall blocking access to the stream, and the fish – those not already caught and taken – will be wary. This first trip sets up a promise that can’t help but be spoiled as the season goes on. But after years and years I’ve learned to take what I can get when I can get it. And keep trying to overcome the failure I know is certain to come. Maybe it’s fishing that’s made me the cynic I am.

Pleasures of Fly Fishing

It’s fortunate for me that the pleasures of fly fishing are not limited to the catching of fish. If you were to come upon me on a trout stream any time between April and November, you would most likely find me futilely attempting to untangle a Gordian wind knot in my line, or trying to retrieve the last of my hare’s ear nymph, wrapped around a willow branch eight feet above the bank. You’re less likely to find me actually with my fly in the water, floating in the drift, and even less likely to find me with a fish on. None of those pictures you see in outdoor magazines of anglers playing a strong fish, taut line spraying in backlit sunlight, or kneeling in the backwater, holding out an unseemly large brown trout, beaming in triumph – none of those pictures is of me. I’m the one around the bend trying to get my butt up the bank and through the brush without snapping off the tip of my rod.

Catching a Trout

There’s something primal about catching a trout on a dry fly (especially one tied yourself): The stalking of the rising trout, the matching (or at least resembling) whatever’s being risen to, the soft cast just upstream of the rise’s dimple, the attacking gulp of the deceived fish, the play up and down the stream of the catcher and the caught, the shared adrenalin in the taught line singing above the water, the apparent final surrender before one last flop at the net to break off, a thankful near-distant release, a dance of shared understanding for both hunter and hunted. Another day left to do it all again.

Spring Valley Creek

On days like this it doesn’t matter whether or not you catch fish. Just being out on a spring stream, in the post-summer, pre-fall weather, clear and comfortable, blue sky and 70, light breeze – it’s enough. A multi-hued green stained-glass canopy shrouds the stream. The water, shallow as usual for this time of year, rushes over the moss-covered rocks, a hymn of small crashes, indistinguishable by themselves, but rising to a gushing chorus in its total. The sunlight off the riffles is like endless, bright, dancing diamonds, here and in an instant gone again and again replaced forever it seems, hypnotic, like soft fire, flames of reflected sunlight. Mayflies and butterflies hover like tiny rainbows in the stream of light. The songs and screeches of birds I’ve vowed in vain for years to be able to recognize rise all around me, invisible in the shadows of branches, taunting, cruel. Five miles above, a jet passes, a faint anachronism, a brief intrusion. And then, of a sudden, a 14” brown trout rises from nowhere, breaks the water, engulfs a #14 Elk’s Hair Caddis, and loses all but the fight in the moment of the water. Perhaps it does matter whether or not you catch fish.