Australia Visit - Day 5-BarraPaulLooza 1

October 23rd. - After getting up pretty early Paul and I checked the yabby pots at Escott crossing and scored 7 cherabin.None of the pots looked as though they'd been raided or tampered with by crocs, so that was a good thing. An air of excitement was upon us. We flicked lures around for a short while and the old man managed a small barra but was too embarrassed to have his reputation tarnished by having his picture taken with it. It was a pretty little fish.

Paul checking one of the yabby pots.

One of the cherabin (trust me, they're delicious!)

After a breakfast of bacon and eggs we headed down to the boat ramp out on the salt flats and launched. Before heading out we stopped at the servo, filled up, grabbed some ice and a plain pie. Driving out from the caravan park we quickly left the sparse scrubby country and found ourselves amidst the heat haze of a treeless, vast saltpan. The sun was beating down with all the vigor it could muster and the wind howled in from towards the river mouth. After checking to ensure the outboard would start, mum and dad took the rig back to the van park.

The rig all ready to go at the Albert River boat-ramp.

We headed upstream and got a heap of big, fat, juicy mullet in no time on a shallow sand-flat. After that we ran quite a ways downstream to almost where the creek arm runs into the main Albert River to a set of snags that Paul had caught barra at before. We set up in the blazing sun and a very blustery wind. After we set up the umbrella things were much improved. The river is a huge, meandering river serpentining it’s shallow-bowled way across the sprawling flats and saltpans of the Gulf of Carpentaria. The banks are lined with only mangroves amidst the browny-yellow mud.

The run down to Paul's barra snag.

Only the best - Abu Ambassadeur 6500s and 7000s all around

We sat without interest for probably two hours before the largest of the mullet screamed off. Despite our enthusiasm and a long fight all that came to hand was a large (around 20 pounds) catfish. That was quite a letdown. A bit later another reel screamed off with the same result. Despite one strong run back towards a snag that didn’t hook up, we scored nothing but catfish and we were well ready to return to boat-ramp when the afternoon was done.

After a dinner of possibly the best steak I’ve ever eaten, Paul and I headed out to Escott crossing to check the pots and flick lures for a while. I could only see three sets of croc eyes as I shone the torch and we didn’t stay too long but again caught nothing. Our only conciliation was finding a brand new reidy’s lure stuck along the causeway.

Australia Visit - Day 4 - Up to Burketown

NB: The first part of this is directly from the journal I was keeping during my trip. I wrote it as the sun came up and I was awake due to jetlag. I was sitting on the front steps of Paul's house. The second part was written after the long drive up to Burketown.

Paul and Family's House

Day 4 (Monday 22nd October)- Well, it’s just gone past 5:30am and I’ve been awake now since about 4:00am. I’m out sitting on the front steps listening and watching a flock of galahs numbering well into the hundreds that roost across the road from Paul in what looks to be one of those big trees with the long, brown seed pods. All of the upper branches are stripped bare of leaves but are now alive with manic flapping and squabbling. The shrieks and screeches are constant and blend together into a much amplified version of the calls one might hear from frogs down by a swamp at night, crecendoing into a raucous seizure as any kind of stimulous passes by, such as a road train or hawk. In front of me stands a tall water tower that bares the namesake of the caravan park from which the base sits as it reaches toward the endless skies that stretch toward oblivion in all directions around us. From that loosely stretches a wire towards an electricity pole the main road out of town. At the point of intersection four tightly drawn wires that run east/west along the main road in town converge with the loose one, and collectively they head off towards the substation just east of town along the road as it begins its long, straight passage back towards the coast.

A few more minutes have passed and the sun is bursting over the horizon, as though full of enthusiasm for the upcoming day. If yesterday is anything to go by, the sun in this place certainly enjoys its work more than in many places across the globe as it scorches down across the landscape with vigour and conviction, leaving little doubt as one moves across the land as to when the sun is beating a direct path upon your shoulders and exposed neck, or if some shade is partially cloaking some of the suns zealousness. The skyscape is rich and a fresher, cleaner more environmentally refreshing palette I don’t remember witnessing beckons the new day. I can’t help but wonder if the upcoming day can live up to the almost perfect scene that it has begun with. Mixed in with the screeching galahs, which are subsiding slightly as the birds begin to disperse into the endless habitat between their roost and the horizon circumnavigating us at an unimaginably far off distance.

Some details are revealing themselves to my eyes as the gently enveloping light seaps into the scene. I liken the mood of the sun to that of a young child, probing the mood as they enter their parents’ bedroom early in the morning. Can they come in? Is it too early? Will they get in trouble or be welcomed under the covers? Maybe even get to switch on the television and watch cartoons, but that is almost too wonderful to hope for! I feel as though I could return the sun under the horizon by simply bellowing my disapproval to the heavens. However, I know that this level of confidence will be short lived and in no time at all the sun will be beaming down with all of it’s strength, arrogantly sure of itself and completely unconcerned with my willingness or ability to withstand what it has in store.

In the distance a few crows have begun calling for me. I hear their challenge to get up and explore this place. Other calls I can’t identify ring out from a myriad of birds I guiltily can’t identify. It is now just past 6 o’clock, the galahs and their shrieks have all but left the immediate vicinity and now a rich blend of calls are available to me that were previously drowned out. Joining noises is an inviting blend of smells. Although the unmistakable odour of Tara wafts across to me in small, ripply waves, other earthy tints tantilize me. Flowers are in bloom in the median strip of the road and wattles are in bloom out there in the sprawling bushland. More that flowers though is just a smell of the land. The human population just isn’t large enough to drown out the land here. Sure, there are cars and trucks and roads and electricity poles and wires and shops and all the things that people need but it is amidst a sprawling sea of bush. A kind of balance and equilibrium I can’t help but feel is much more environmentally healthy than any other system I know. The impacts of an individual here can be quickly negated by the vastness of everything, providing a true sense of freedom. Where I live I feel the loss of every fish I fillet and ever deer or creature I harvest, here the system appears so strong and vast that anything I could take would be inconsequential. Perhaps that is as it should be.

It has just slipped past 6:30am and the sun’s attitude has changed. Already the suns rays are unapologetically beaming across me. The flame has changed from orange to white and the delicate comfort of coolness will soon be burnt off to await the end of the suns shift and subsequent trip out of sight, presumably to the nearest pub, before it can again slide unobtrusively over this place.

I feel very disconnected to this place. I don not know the birds, the trees, the soils. The people, even those with whom I share this house are varying degrees of strangers. I do not belong here, or perhaps, here doesn’t belong to me. I am not sure what the upcoming trip will hold. I feel each of us is expecting, or hoping for different things from it, and I fear it may end in disappointment but we'll see I guess.

Paul's situation here is great. I like the town, the house and the people here and even his job seems pretty good. Mate, I even love his dog! There's so much space to get away and explore and a perfect place to raise kids.

Paul standing at the steps for his morning cigarette with Tara

The Family dog, Tara

Well, it was an interesting drive, not at all as I imagined it would be. The land got sparser and sparser before somewhat reversing the trend but in a completely different way. The land is vast and appears somewhat unfit for life of any sort but animals are everywhere, especially birds. We’ve seen plenty of emus closer to Paul’s place and camels and more wallabies and kangaroos than you can point a stick at. Birds of all shapes and sizes. Out here there are brolgas everywhere you look and a few jabirus are flying about. Hawks and eagles and all the small parrots and others are calling about from all corners of this place. It is hot, dry and dusty though and those things I can’t emphasize enough. There is a real sense that if you screamed at the top of your lungs nobody or nothing would hear you. It’s hard for me to imagine I’m on the same planet as Plainview, Minnesota.

Getting ready for the Trip to Burketown

We stopped for sandwiches at a place called Burke and Wills. It is little more than a truck stop. We’d just finished passing a whole heap of idiots on mail-man motorbikes that were on a rally from “Brisbane to Cairns, via the Gulf” so as they started to file into the place we knew it was time to leave. The last stretch was dirt but we did stop at a stretch of the Leichardt River, way up in the fresh for a coffee break. Pretty, wide open country.

The Crew just north of Julia Creek for a pitstop

A nice spot on the Leichardt River


Our first view of the waters we’d be fishing was the bridge over the Albert on the way into town. It looked pretty good to me. As we entered town there was a very greeting sign - Burketown, the barramundi capital of Australia. What could be better than that?
Our first look at the Albert River


Not a bad to sign to encounter when you're hoping to catch a few barramundi



We got all set up at the caravan park in a very flash, and airconditioned, donga and set off for Escott crossing on the Nicholson River. It was a great looking spot and bait was splishing about. We threw lures for an hour or so to no avail, set up yabby pots and headed home. I had such high expectations I was a little disappointed with no fish but there’s still plenty of time.

Australia Visit -Day2/3-Out to Richmond

Day 2 (Saturday). Woke up around 3:30am to be on the road by four. We headed south and were through Innisfail as the light became obvious. We stopped in Cardwell for a sandwich and sat on the beach to overlook the sights and sounds of Hinchenbrook passage. The rainbow lorikeets were in full force in the blossoms and despite looking hard I couldn’t see any dugongs swimming about. We refueled in Townsville then headed west, first past Charters Towers and on to White Mountain National Park. We only stopped for a bit of a look and a photo or two but the place was quite scenic and was the shoreline of an ancient inland sea that stretched across most of western Queensland.

Mum and Dad standing at the overlook of White Mountains National Park.

We stopped in Hughenden at the bakery for pies but they’d just closed so we settled for fish and chips from a corner store. The fish was OK but sure wasn’t mackeral. It was a few more hours out to Paul’s place in Richmond though. My first impression of Richmond was certainly better than I’d imagined. It was much bigger and more vegetated than I’d thought. In fact, it sure looks good to me. Laura remembered me but Mitchell didn’t and he took a little time to warm up to me, however it didn’t take long and we were playing together as dad and Paul got on to getting stuff organized for the trip.

Looking towards the center of Richmond (west).

Looking out of Richmond (East).

Directly across the street from Paul's place.

A genuine Cobb & Co wagon, right in front of Paul's house. How cool is that?

In the evening Paul and I tried to put the boat in at Lake Fred Tritton but it was pretty windy making fishing quite difficult. We came home and then Paul took me out to show me the town. We saw a swag of wallabies so came home and grabbed the bow. We got to draw on a few but never closed the deal. Because it was late and we had a big drive ahead of us we called it off after an hour or so and headed home.

Day 3 (Sunday) – We didn’t really do much except get ready. The boat trailer needed some work and that took a big part of the day. I went with Kylie and mum to the store and stocked up on lollies and shared some with the kids. That made me an instant friend. I also got to try some pies from the local servo. Dinner was pizza and we just hung out and did very little.

Paul and Kylie's daughter Laura playing in the living room.

Paul and Kylie's son Mitchell hanging out in the backyard.

Australia Visit - Day 1

Well I guess this is officially day one (Friday 19th). I arrived in Cairns last night just past midnight. I'd had to pull out my fishing gear to be inspected at customs (they were checking for didymo) but because everything was dry there was no problems. I got to my parents house, had a couple of meat pies, some cherryripes and jaffas (candy) and headed for bed.

I awoke very early to all the birdcalls. The place was alive with activity and the greenery was spectacular considering it was the end of the dry season. Evidently there’d been a little rain leading up to my arrival. I wandered around the yard, looking at the fruit trees and things. The smells wafting around were very rich and tropical. As I sat out on the varandah the smell of mum’s white roses was strong and satisfying. People were moving about getting ready for work at a pace somehow different to Americans I know. The pace was more deliberate but more relaxed, almost as though far more was being achieved with much less effort. The way of dressing, the movements, the body language even the way they greet one another was overwhelmingly and refreshingly different.

A couple of pics of the front of my Parent's house in Cairns, Australia.

It wasn't a day of doing much, and we took a brief walk around the neighbourhood and went down the road for fish and chips for dinner. We spent a big portion of the day packing up for the trip. I did get to speak to both grandmothers and promised to see them both before I left. I also got to speak with my mate Dave Liston. I also promised to visit him but unfortunately I never made good on that one. Believe me, that is the biggest disappointment of my trip. I watched a bit of TV and was struck by the differences in programming and the culture difference between talk shows in Australia and America. I was early to bed though as jet lag caught up on me a bit.

Wisconsin Tribs 5-6th October 2007

Ever had one of those twenty-four hour periods where everything that's going on in your life seems to head dramatically south for a while? Well, that pretty much describes this trip. Ted and I had carefully managed our family duties and work commitments to meet up with some PREDICTED reasonable weather for some early-run king salmon. The Saturday previous the weather predictions were for temps in the 40's and drizzle and rain - PERFECT! As the week progressed the predictions changed, first mildly (trips still looks good) to not that good (I think we'll still do okay).

So the Thursday before the trip our lab got together and hashed a few things out where I realized the views displayed by certain members of the group differ, depending on the company they're "performing" for. Although it wasn't unexpected, it was still a shock to see the extent and to actually witness it. That left a sour taste in my mouth. Still Friday morning, bright and early we set off for Sheboygan. When we got there things looked grim. It was hot (probably high 70s) and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. The river was low and there didn't seem to be much catching going on, despite the small army of fishermen.

Ted and I didn't have much choice so we rigged up in order to give it a go. It didn't take long to realize there weren't too many fish in the system and the few that were there were stressed and spooky as hell. In the deeper pools fish were jumping and zipping all about. No doubt they'd had an endless number of hooks dragged across their backs and endured countless wader-clad legs pushing through the holes they were trying to sulk in. After some fruitless time on the stream Ted and I met up to discuss things. Ted relayed that he'd seen a guy pull up, stroll down and hook up on a bright silver salmon on his first cast. That guided my decision as to my tactic. I decided to throw big streamers in the hope that some stray fresh fish just entering the river would smash my fly. Although there were plenty stale fish in the river I figured there was virtually no way of catching these fish, at least fairly so I'd take a chance.

Well we both fished hard all afternoon in temps well into the 80s with no cloud cover. There was a group of guys from Minnesota stalking there fish in the shallows (and I mean shallows). They collected a few fish and at the end of the day they all held up there black prizes proudly for pictures. They seemed genuinely pleased with themselves, and their techniques, but I can only imagine how much they'd enjoy the fight and sense of achievement of a fair-caught fish. I felt a little sorry for these guys because I'm sure if they'd gotten to experience conditions with better fishing they might also realize that catching salmon could be so much more.

As the sun dropped behind the trees I was still throwing a large, black sculpin pattern, sometimes swung downstream and sometimes stripped back from an upstream cast. I walked well upstream away from most of the fishing pressure.I was moving up through some shallows, still amazed by how few fish were in and saw a big, shined up redd. I couldn't see anyfish on it but the water behind it was dotted with stones but deep and fast enough to hide a spooked fish until nightfall. I cast well above the redd and stripped it slowly along, just to the right edge of the polished gravel. When the fly got to about ten feet in front of me I saw a dark shadow zip out from around my legs, straight over to nail the fly. I didn't have to do a thing and the line defied the current and ran upstream. It wasn't the blistering run I'd expected but dogged. The fish fought well but, like most spawning fish, didn't really have a strong inclination to leave the pool. A few minutes later I had my first king salmon of the season. It certainly wasn't silver but hadn't taken on too much color. Although I doubt it had been in the river long it had been for a while as the peduncle (skinny bit where the tail attaches to the body) was well worn from scraping redds.



Later in the evening I hooked up again on the same fly (I didn't see the take) and it screamed upstream then slammed on the brakes and headed downstream like a freight-train towards Ted. It was only a few seconds before he was two pools downstream from where I'd hooked him and I was chasing. Ted had gotten out of the path of my fish as it jumped well clear of the water. It jumped a few times and on the last jump the bend in my rod died. The fish was gone.
We fished as late as we could then headed back to the motel. It was grim.

The next morning we gave the Sheboygan a quick try then decided to head north to seek out cooler water. When we reached the Kewannee River both Ted saw things we'd never imagined. This river is quite intimate in the spring but in the fall during a drought it was tiny. You'd think the skinny water would mean no fishermen wouldn't you, but no. There were "fishermen" everywhere. Groups of people were walking (driving fish) upstream in the ankle deep water (the deepest pool I saw was less than two feet deep) with the "anglers" waiting at the top of the pools. I feel sorry for some jaggers, but these guys weren't even trying. Now I've heard many (often myself included) that some of the ethnic groups partake of this kind of fishing and ruin it for everyone else, while the familiar ethnicities were well represented, there were plenty of guys of all walks of life doing it. I even saw fly-fishermen outfitted with the finest equipment at it. The levels had been low for a while and any fish that were in the river had been well cleaned up days before, and the few suicidal fish that had tried to push up overnight would have been ripped off their redds at first light. On the way out there is a large, shallow pool over which the road bridge traverses. There were cars everywhere so we just had to stop.

From our vantage point we could see a few highly-strung-out fish swimming about with huge chunks of lead and treble hooks being flung at them from all directions. Many guys weren't even trying to disguise their intentions and the hooks were naked (they could have at least attached a piece of yarn to perhaps pitifully represent a lure of some description). At one spot a group of about six guys had managed to corner a moldy salmon and now stood shoulder to shoulder blocking it's only escape route and pitching their hooks and lead at it. It was the most amazing thing! Every now and then y0u'd see the familiar upward yank of the wrist as the hook passed over the fish but, amazingly, that fish laid there. I could only imagine the pandemonium that would have ensued when one of those guys finally did hook up. Amazing as it was we could only watch it for so long.
Now that's Fishing!!!!

From Kewaunee we headed south and examined the Twin rivers at Michicot and Shoto. Michicot was bunch of locals sitting at the dam quietly soaking spawn sacks while the heat-stressed fish swam around in circles. Shoto on the other hand was another spectacle. They were having their salmon extravaganza and people were everywhere. There were only a few fish and again people weren't even trying to pretend not to jag fish. There were black fish on stringers and loud speakers playing music and deckchairs, beer, sunburn. It was lunchtime, temps in the 90s so we decided we might as well have a few beers. We met a young guy on a six day break from serving a twelve month stint in Iraq. He had an interesting story to tell.
Dam at Michicot
Trust me, you can't even see most concentrated area up closer to the dam

Anyway, that pretty much sums it up. When I called home Friday night I'd found out both Australia and New Zealand had lost in the rugby, I watched every team in the baseball playoffs I was supporting (except the red-socks) lose, I watched the Packers and Badgers lose. We did stop and briefly fish the Manitowoc River. No fish to report but we were the only guys out and the fall colors were nice. All-in-all, not our best trip.
Fall Colors on the Mantiwoc River

Devils Track River September 16th 2007

It had been a few years since I'd fished Minnesota's north shore for pink salmon and honestly, I've found it hard to get a legitimate hook up. I first encountered them a couple of days before my wedding when my father, Dave Liston and I, got into them. They were in thick and not fouling fish was impossible. I remember catching them with our bare hands in some smaller tributary creeks. Still, the highlight of those couple of days was a couple of kings from Dave and one that I got in the terminal pool of the Cascade River. I'd returned the following fall alone and the year after that with Nandor from my lab. Each time the fish were present in great numbers but only a few fish were caught fair.

Since then I've read a lot and learned a lot. Fishing heavy pods stacked up at barriers isn't a productive method so I thought it would be fun to try my luck again, this time with a 3 weight. My parents-in-law live no more than a couple of minutes north of Devils Track so I was on the water very early. The subtle orange hues of first light gleamed across a relatively still Lake Superior as I hiked along the shoreline to the mouth. Seagulls were present just out from the mouth and a batch of ducks took to the sky just as I noticed a family of three otters scurrying about in the shallows near the mouth. The signs were good. I started with a green caddis and soon saw a fish porpoise. Well, there must be fish in. I moved all the way to the highway 61 bridge with only a single hit. By this time there was enough light I could see quite a number of fish in the pool, but nowhere near as many as I've seen in years past.

After trying a number of flies with no luck I switched to a #16 prince nymph. It struck pay-dirt almost immediately, my first humpie on the new rod. The fish was clean and quite fresh, fought very well on the light rod and made me a happy camper. I was doing very well fishing the tailout of that pool hooking fish every few minutes or so. After a half hour or so a young guy came walking along the bridge, spied me hooked into a fish then left. Hmmm, unusual behavior in this part of the world. Normally he'd be fishing so close I'd smell his after shave. Ten or so minutes afterwards the same guy came down, armed with his 7 weight and quietly slipped past me to fish downstream.
First Fish of the Trip

After some time he hadn't had any luck while I was still regularly hooking up. One thing I did notice though was that when I'd lost the white biot wings from my fly there was no more hits, and other flies weren't doing half as well. I'm not normally the guy that dials things in that well but this time I was doing well. Anyway, after a while the young guy came up and mentioned he'd just moved to Duluth to go to Med school and was trying out the new rivers. I'd done quite well already and offered him my hole and suggested he try a prince nymph. He politely refused mine and opted to use his own.

I moved downstream to the first pool upstream from the shallow mouth of the river and noticed the strangest thing. With the sun getting higher hits were becoming sporadic with a heap of activity for ten minutes or so and then it would get quite for a half hour or so. Finally I put it together, as you could visibly see the fresh pods of fish coming in from the lake and filling the pool. Where there had been very few fish earlier in the morning there was now hundreds of fish. I had one more visit from my fishing partner that resulted in me providing one of my princes. Apparently his had very small white wings and I'd already established the importance of them to the fish on this day. Soon after he caught his first humpy and I landed it for him. He was hooked fair as was fitting for somebodies first fish. He went on to get several more that morning and even took a picture of me holding up one of the last fish I caught for the session.

My Fishing Partner's First Pink Salmon

Things slowed considerably about lunch time and I came back to fish again that evening. I managed a few more as it got darker (and the otters and ducks returned) but fair hookups were less frequent. The following morning the river was packed with pink salmon but they were very difficult to get fair. I tried some other rivers without luck (the run always seems to be earlier on the devils track) but did land a steelhead smolt from the Cascade, which is great news for steelhead populations. I may never strike it lucky enough to have fresh fish pushing into a river again, but for a few hours pink salmon provided me a heap of fun on a 3 weight fishing with conventional trout flies.

A Typical Male Pink Salmon

Mouth of Devils Track River

Highway 61 Bridge

April 23-26th - North Shore Steelhead Trip

After a disappointing steelhead trip to Wisconsin in late March, followed by a freeze out trip in early April to the north shore I decided to latch down the hatches and put in the hard yards to ensure at least one decent steelhead for the spring of 2007.

The sunday night before I left it rained hard, which I thought would be a good thing, but I didn't realize how hard it rained. When I arrived Monday afternoon the rivers were chocolate and raging torrents. I did manage to hook something strong just under the bridge of the Stewart River but it shot upstream and under a log. I fought the current and my footing and tried to pass my rod under the log but the water around it was deep and flowing strongly. First I felt my rod tip bust and then the line went dead. That was bad enough but the line tangled as I tried to pull it through and as I was already upset I yanked a bit harder than I should have. Believe it or not the flyline broke. Man was I a happy camper. I decided to head to Gooseberry State Park to get a camp set up for the night.

To my suprise there was another group of campers but being a big park I found a site well away from the other group (although I thought about that group of four college aged girls a little throughout the evening - perhaps wondering if they needed the assistance of an aussie fisherman). I changed line to my backup and rigged the reel on my 8 weight rod and with plenty of light left went off to try my luck in the Gooseberry River. I fished the first couple of long pools by the mouth but didn't see a fish. A couple of spawn fisherman came down and mentioned they'd fished for four days and not seen a fish - not the kind of news one wants to hear.

It was a good night camping with just me and the dogs, clear crisp and dipping a bit below freezing. There were a few deer hanging around just outside the tent but the dogs were pretty good about ignoring them. I slept well and rose early. Morning was again clear and sunny so I decided the best option was to explore and see if I could find anything worth fishing. I drove and fished Silver Creek (which was borderline fishable) but the first pool had a huge assortment of guys hammering away. I can only guess there was a fish or two in there but I wasn't going to combat fish. I did watch them for a while and I saw slumped shoulders all around, so if the fish were there, they weren't biting furiously. For the short distance the stream ran it looked quite nice and I'm sure it holds the odd fish. I ran as far as the Baptism and after a brief foray to examine Palisade Creek (It's skinny water and another guy beat me to it by five minutes so I let him have it undisturbed), I gave up on steelhead and went upstream in the hopes of getting some stream trout. I drove quite a ways up but even here the river was flooded badly and although the color was OK the banks were swollen and it wasn't fishable - still I tried for over an hour.

The rest of the day saw me entertain the dogs with hikes about the place and even a swim at the beach in Two Harbors but I did spend some time with a fly in the water at Gooseberry before deciding to hit the Splitrock River in the evening. It was high and dirty and I wasn't comfortable wading it in places. The water was coming down and clearing. Perhaps tomorrow would be the day. I headed to Split Rock State Park fairly early that evening to get some rest and prepare for an early start. I had the place all to myself and the dogs and I loved it. We had a great campsite, sheltered from the wind but affording an excellent view of Lake Superior and the Split Rock lighthouse. We wondered down to the beach, played the guitar and just let the world spin for a while.

View from My Campsite


After another pleasant night in the tent I was at the river early and the water was still a touch too high and stained. I gave it a good go but didn't hook up. I was making my way downstream to a favorite hole and found it already occupied. I fished the hole above and within a couple of minutes I saw his rod bend. He fought out a nice fish but was upset when he had to release a nice steelhead (most of the locals hope for Loopers as Steelhead must all be released while the loopers can be taken). When the spawn guys start getting them you know the fish are in and it's just a matter of time. With an angler below me and another party pushing down on me I elected to leave. I decided to explore and try my luck on the streams closer to Duluth. I found the Sucker River to be flowing quite nicely and not overly crowded (that's a relative term on this stream). I fished where I could and watched a father impress his son by landing one at the terminal pool. I also hooked up with and landed a pair of loopers (they have fin clips so you can identify them) probably both around the 18 inch mark but fat, sturdy looking things. That wasn't what I came for though and I headed back to investigate the Stewart a little further.

It was easily waded now and turns out this is a beautiful stream. I watched one guy land a smallish steelhead in a deep pool (his girlfriend was so excited I wasn't quite sure what she was going to do to him), and ran into a couple local guys with one on a stringer. It was the middle of the day and it was clear and sunny and every now and then you'd see the form of what was probably fish. I didn't hook up though but this is one stream that really suits flyfishing and has a long fishable stretch. I wouldn't mind learning this river a little better in future.

The afternoon saw me back at the SplitRock. I started downstream and worked up. In the pool I'd seen the guy land one in the morning I landed a looper of a similar size (perhaps a little larger) to the one's I'd gotten at the Sucker. Things were looking up. As I made my way upstream I fished the pools hardest but also the faster, broken water. This river sees plenty of anglers and I've watched the fish move into the broken water when anglers disturb them when the water levels were lower. Finally my persistance payed off. Drifting a yellow egg through a fast run, the line stopped as it had many times before in this rocky river. I gently lifted the rod and instead of the breakoff the weight slowly pulled up (like a log or branch might). I put a little more pressure on and then the fish must have realized something was up. It charged around in the pool before deciding to head back towards the lake through some shallow riffles. I tried to follow, keeping my rod tip high and vocally praying for the fish not to come unbuttoned in the shallow water. Turns out it didn't and I finally played the fish into some slow water in the downstream pool.

I was lucky enough to have another angler passing by as I was landing the fish and he did me the service of taking a picture of the fish and I. She was a memorable fish that I had to work for but seeing her and the little fly in the corner of her mouth definitely made it all worthwhile. I was satisfied.

At Last - A Minnesotan Steelhead


About a half hour or so later and in the next pool, I hooked and landed another steelhead hen, and although I love catching all of them, she didn't change my mood half as much as the first one. That fish relieved the tension and doubt, the second fish was icing on the cake. Despite there still being plenty of light, and probably another fish or two, I decided more fish wouldn't make me happier or more pleased with myself, and if I left earlier the dogs would be pleased. I slept very well that night in the tent.

A Nice Hen
I tried Splitrock again in the morning but just couldn't get into it. A few minutes after I arrived a pair of eager young guys almost split their seams desperately trying to get rigged and ready before me, before racing down the track to the terminal hole. I hadn't fished a terminal hole throughout the week so they needn't have bothered anyway, but still it was annoying. I went to the hole I'd worked successfully the evening before but didn't draw a strike in a half hour or so. Word must have been out because I watched a steady stream of fishermen along the hiking path making their way to the terminal pool. As always they crowd themselves out of there and begin to push down so I decided to leave before I was crowded out - besides, I'd already achieved what I'd set out to do. As I drove South I stopped to fish the Knife and Lester, just because I felt I had an obligation to fish the historically great streams. Standing shoulder to shoulder isn't my thing but I can now say I've done it, caught nothing, but done it.

Rascal (Top) and Belle (Bottom) Hangin' out on the beach


All in all the fish were few and far between, but that's how it is on the north shore. I got my decent Minnesotan steelhead and thoroughly enjoyed my time there. Hopefully I'll be able to do it again, but a few more fish would be nice. Now I just need a big looper before the DNR discontinues that program, or at least I'll use that excuse to justify spending time on the scenic rivers of the north shore.