Root River Steel and Browns

Despite my gut feeling our trip to the Root turned out pretty good. The river is, without question a drainage ditch, the town (at least around the river) has some dubious residents, the stream is overly crowded with fisherman at the best fish-holding areas, and is too close to Chicago but we managed to make a fine go of things.

I must state that fishing the Root River (in Southeaster Wisconsin) was Ted's idea and I was very sceptical about the type of experience we'd have. The river is stocked full of fish but there are just as many fishermen and the surroundings aren't scenic. However, how could we call ourselves Wisconsin steelheaders without fishing the Root at least once. Upon our first sighting of the river I wasn't very impressed. The idea of fishing three days along a "river" with concrete walls and drain pipes flowing in every few hundred feet didn't sit well. The water was low and stained and I could almost see the use condoms and syringes floating down. Was any fish worth this?

We headed up to the Racine Fish Raceway to see how many fish had made it in, (this is where the adults are stripped of eggs and milt to fertilize the next generation of stockers). Well, my eyes nearly fell out of their sockets. Huge brown trout, cohos and steelhead, with a few crusty kings holding on to life. There were heaps of them. Suddenly I was willing to let the "stream" conditions slide a little. Directly downstream from the weir was understandably a fish sanctuary, but below that fisherman jostled for position to fling their hooks (some garnished with bait or flies and some not) towards the salmonids pushing upstream. We decided not to bother with the maddening crowds and drove down river to look for better water.

What we came upon wouldn't be much if the water levels weren't so incredibly low. In fact, fish would normally shoot through without even stopping, but in the conditions the riffles would probably be one of the earliest obstacles for the migrating fish. Probably because it wasn't a spot that usually held fish we also had it to ourselves. Ted headed downstream while I plumbed the area just down from the car (I was actually a little concerned my car would get broken into). There was a lone, virtually spent king salmon up in the shallows, gasping for life. After resisting the urge for a while I finally gave in and figured jagging this fish might be my only action for the trip so I did the unmentionable. I must preface this by saying I didn't try to jag the fish, as all my drifts were directed at giving the fish a chance to grab the fly, but as we all know when fish are in this kind of water, if you drift it by enough your hook will eventually stop somewhere along the fish. In terms of the fight I got what I deserved and I got that empty, kinda dirty feeling when the fish finally came to hand. I looked about to ensure nobody, least of all Ted, had witnessed my moral lapse and got back to fishing.

There were some shined up redds but I couldn't see fish on them so was probing behind them. The sky was grey and getting darker and only afternoon. After an hour or so of no fish Ted came back up and almost immediately hooked up with a nice brown trout. It was a nice fish and I was happy for him but it's always tough to watch someone pull a fish out of a spot you've just spent a good chunk of time working with no result. After his victory Ted headed further upstream while I stayed. The sky got blacker and blacker and finally it felt almost like night at only 3pm.

One of Ted's nice lake-run brown trout

Suddenly my line stopped, then ran off in a blistering run. I'd heard browns didn't fight that well but this fish was speeding off. Ted was out of polite yelling range so I tried to land this hard fighter myself. It was a big brown and I pretty much had him beat but tried a bit too earnestly to tighten up and swing him into the shallows. I blew my first lake run brown and I was none too happy. After the usual profanities and shoulder slumping and fist clenching and shaking I felt I'd blown my chance. Without conviction I cast into the run. I swear the fly hadn't moved five feet when it went off again, this time with real conviction. I couldn't believe it. Snow, rain and sleet was pounding down, the sky was black and I was losing a battle with a REALLY big fish. The fish ran from pool to pool and all the while I followed. This was like fishing back in Australia when you just have to trust that eventually the bend in the rod will tire the fish. I don't remember when it was but when it happened my heart really began to race. The fish surfaced and rolled. "That's not a brownie, I think it's a steelhead", but I wouldn't let myself believe it. Maybe it was a coho or just a fresh king, it was too big to be a steelhead. I saw it a couple more times and finally I decided I needed Ted to see this one so I yelled, and yelled.

Ted came racing and watched the struggle. I almost felt stupid telling him I thought it was steel in case I was wrong. That fish and I were at a stalemate and knowing I was going to release the fish I eventually asked Ted to go in and grab the fish, instead of me play it all the way out. I knew it was a big steelhead but I was amazed when the tape told the whole story - 35 inches. There was no doubt it was a steelhead and relatively fresh. My best guess is a Skamania but really, who cares.

A fine steelhead - by anyone's standards

We both stayed in that stretch and hooked up a few more times but none came to hand. Soon after the steelhead I hooked into something a little different but after a leap probably six feet lear of the water I came undone. In hindsight I think it was a coho. By this time Ted noticed fish up on the redds and worked them. They were finicky and he fouled them a couple of times but quickly dislodged the hook without disturbing them too much. Finally he got a clean taker and the fight was on. We're still not sure if it was a brownie or a coho but from what I saw it was a coho. Still, it won the fight just before Ted could land it. By 5pm it was nightime and lightening was all around us. It was stupid to be casting carbon fibre rods in this, so totally drenched we headed back to the car and our hotel. The afternoon had been full of big fish probably only a few minutes from the big lake, pushed up by the big storm. That night it absolutely poured.

In the morning the river was up but not too cloudy but it was rising and the water temperture dropping as we watched. There were fish about but they were either pushing through or very finicky. When one of us would finally hook up they were too hot to handle. I did get one to hand but whether it was foul or fair we can't be sure. (As I was fishing two flies and one was lodged in a fin while the other was in the mouth). Either way, it wasn't sight fished so there's no way I could have intentionally fouled it. It was twenty-eight and a half inches long but deep and heavy with a long kype. The river had changed character and our riffle was now deep enough as to provide no obstacle to upcoming fish. It even lost that "fishy" feel.

my big brown

Once again we headed up to the weir flirting with the possibility of seeing the fish I'd released the previous evening. We didn't but there were more fish in. Along the stream below the weir it seemed everyone was hauling around huge dead brown trout. How any of them get through the fishermen is amazing. We thought it might be less crowded above the weir (as they only pass the cohos up) but no such luck. Every stretch of water had people fishing it. The Root River is no place to fish on a Satuerday after a rain/snow storm. We'd had our fun and felt fulfilled as we trundled westward back towards Minnesota. Not a bad trip!

Manitowok Salmon

After a day of chasing very the very last remnants of the king salmon run on the Sheboygan River the afternoon before we were ready for an improvement. We'd spoken to the creel survey guy and he'd suggested we hit the Manitowok River just north. We had few other options. The trip consisted of myself, my buddy Ted and my father visiting from Australia. We had tried to intercept early run kings in September in blisteringly hot conditions and hooked only one fish (and it wasn't landed) and the first day of the trip was also a bust - it wasn't looking good and he wasn't too impressed with "this salmon fishing".

When we arrived at the river there were no cars or people - that wasn't a good sign and the water was a bit off colored but as we walked down the stairs into the deep valley we could begin to make out the shape of fish in the shallows. Once into the water it soon became clear there was more than a few, and within an hour we realize the place was swarming with them. You would kick them and step on them as you waded through the stream, their wakes showing as they pushed upstream to get away from the threat. Unfortunately though, most of them had been in the river a fair while.

The old man hooked up with his first king salmon

A relatively fresh hen

Ted immediately went downstream but I hung around to see what the old man could do. It didn't take long before he was hooked up with his first fish of the day. A relatively fresh hen and not bad to look at and of reasonable size. She fought pretty well and took the old man a good fifteen minutes to land. A few minutes later he hooked up again, this time with an old, black buck. The fight this time was what you'd expect of a fish that had spent so much time in the river, but still the fish never want you to reach over and pick them up. After that I we didn't bother with pictures as the fishing was fairly constant.

An average size buck that has spent some time in the river

Just to show I was in on the act as well

The biggest problem was the sheer number of fish in the river. Getting salmon to strike an egg sucking leech is hard enough but when there are so many fish it is impossible to avoid jagging fish, often! Although most times the hook pulls out with a steady yank of the rod there is still considerable time spent chasing foul hooked and grumpy salmon around. Still, despite this it was a good days fishing and the rods were bent for the largest percentage of the day. The most important part was my dad experiencing it. The river had nobody else on it, it was scenic and the elk (not wild but from a farm) were bugling in the distance. To top it off it began snowing as we left and that's quite something for a boy from the tropics.

Fabled Brule Steel

The Bois Brule River in northern Wisconsin is one of America's most fabled trout streams. Originally famous for its now almost extinct Coaster Brook Trout the river has been fished by at least five American Presidents. Calvin Coolidge even spent his summers here during his presidency! Today the Brule is known for it's large resident brown trout and the legendary Hex (Hexagenia limbata) hatch, and it's wild, super-charged steelhead. These aren't the stockers that live a charmed life in the bountiful waters of Lake Michigan, but wild fish that have to survive in the cold, barren, inhospitable wilds of Lake Superior. These fish are mythical.

They don't generally grow large (ten pounds is a true trophy although a few in the teens have been caught) and there's not a heap of fish, and fooling them is seldom easy. The river also has many miles of fishable and fish holding water that spread out the anglers and fish. It is very scenic with a wonderful blend of evergreens and others. Despite being a very low flow year the river is a strong, surging waterway and you need to take care wading it. The water has the tannic stain of many Lake Superior streams but is pleasing, and "fishy" to the eye.

We arrived to bright morning sunshine and fished a beautiful stretch of river not far upstream of the mouth. Everywhere looked like good holding water but we saw and caught nothing. We moved upstream a ways. We fished hard and everyone we encountered said the fishing was poor - very poor. We didn't come across anyone that had tied into fish (at least that admitted it). We did come across Johnny and Marty. Marty was a nuclear engineer in Mantiwok and Johnny a long time fishing buddy. Marty had guided for many years and fished everywhere from the famed Hardy's beat in England to his home river the Mantiwok. He fished only speys on the swing and beautiful bamboo rods and Hardy reels. They had fished ten days without a fish but didn't seem to care. They had caught so many steelhead that any additions to their totals had to comply with the anglers rules. They were very friendly and full of information but eventually the pull of the stream had us back on the river.

We fished here and there and there and here, all without luck. My back and shoulders hurt, the sun was down and the light was fading. Ted was upstream and I'd all but given up on even seeing a fish. It seemed as though the river was lifeless. I came to another wonderful run but this time made a strange choice. From the bank I stood the pool was easy to fish. It gently dropped into deep water but the river direction meant the best drift would require me wading through the tricky currents and depths to the steep and treeclad other side. Was it worth it?

Why I crossed I don't know as I was already convinced there were no fish in the damn stream. Anyway I cast my heavily weighted hex nymph into the fast water beneath the rapids at the ead of the pool and it stopped. The fly had stopped many times already this day, and many had been claimed by the rocks and logs strewn along the bottom. I thought nothing of it and frustratingly jagged the rod towards the sky to either pull my fly loose or break my tippet (at this point I didn't care which). That was it. The black bullet screamed up out of the water like a missile right at me. That fish jumped three or four times as it shot downstream and I audibly begged the heavens that I might land this fish. I scrambled after it, dropping to my knees at least twice as I made my way through the large rocks and bushes and deadfall. Finally I made it into the lower pool only to watch my line arch back up through the fast water into the original pool. My knee already hurt. The fish fought for some time in that pool before slipping effortlessly through what seemed to me to be heavy water. This time I needed to pass my rod through tree branches and the loose rocks fell around my footsteps as I clambered along the steep back. Then, just as I thought I had gained the upper hand it headed back to the rapids and down it went. At this point my knee was throbbing in pain, my elbow was leaving blood on everything it touched, the darkness in the valley made it hard to distinguish individual trees on the far bank. Almost all the fishermen were already back eating dinner. I had no choice but to follow and I watched as the fish headed for the lower pool again. I just didn't have any more in me. I decided now or never and tightened up the drag. With each passing moment I gained confidence and put more wood on the fish. Finally, in some shallow chutes barely deep enough to cover the fishs back I grabbed the line and watched my fish beach itself in the shallows. With the prize in sight I scrambled once again down to my prize. It was beautiful, glistening mint silver even in the failing light. This was easily the brightest fish I'd caught and possibly the most beautiful, not to mention most fulfilling. I took a measure and it went 25 inches. As luck would have it Ted was walking downstream on the fisherman's trail and came over once I called. He also stood impressed at the catch. No matter what the next two days would bring I felt I couldn't surpass this. What a night!

My first Bois Brule Steelhead

The next morning looked good, there was a low, overcast sky and a light drizzle falling. It was cooler and there had been some heavier rain the previous evening. It looked like good steelhead dey but somehow my heart wasn't in it. We headed to a spot we'd heard good things about and the two of us split up. I worked away but without conviction. I'm not saying I didn't want to hook more fish - I'd have loved it but I'd already done what I'd come hoping to do, and it was even better than I'd imagined. As time wore on I figured I head up to see how Ted was going. He's walked quite a ways downstream and if my memory serves me well he'd hooked a few smolt (or small resident rainbows as it's hard to tell) but no steel. On my travels I'd noticed a fisherman plumbing the one nice pool for over and hour and then by the time Ted and I had gotten back up to the pool at least another hour and a half had passed. We fished the pool below him for a while, but because the fishing was slow we spent as much time talking as going through the motions.

After a time the gentleman moved out of his pool and went just downstream of us, mentioning the lack of success he'd seen. His pool was the last pool between us and the car so I opted not to fish it but Ted couldn't resist. Within two drifts a heavier rain squall came through and BAM, his rod went off. The first run was feisty but it soon became evident it wasn't a large fish. In no time at all Ted had to hand what is known locally as a jack, or male fish returning from the lake after only a year (not to spawn).

Ted firmly hooked up

A nice jack steelhead

We could see the gentleman downstream was a little disappointed that he's spent so long working that pool with no success, only to see someone hook up in no time (and he'd been using spawn!!). Only a few drifts later and Ted was hooked up again. As Ted played the fish I watched as our downstream gentleman friend just deflated and sank his butt down onto a rock. Even from our distant vantage point it seemed his spark was gone. Ted's fish was another jack but very pretty indeed. We again met up with Marty and Johnny and this time shared a good lunch and great conversation and learned a tremendous amount.

A very pretty fish

Ted with another fiesty jack steelhead

We fished all afternoon and then the next morning. In the morning I came upon a large pool with the occasional splosh from a large fish. However, at the head of the pool a light hatch of white wulffs was coming off and being sipped happily by resident rainbows. I tied on the closest thing I had and off to the races I went. Had the offering been closer I'm sure the action would have been better but I still managed a few fish. The highlight was a dark slash come up from the depths of the far bank and slam the fly. The large fish was on for a few seconds before pulling free. I checked the fly and the hook had broken at the bottom of the shank. It had been a cheap, size fourteen of sixteen fly from a discount sporting goods store, tied on a cheap hook. That will teach me! Unfortunately that was it for me. No more steelhead and I don't think Ted got anymore either. The river is very scenic with plenty of water just great for flyfishing. The fish, at least the one I caught, are a cut or two above the stockers caught from Lake Michigan. I was a good trip.