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.
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.
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.
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!
