Stan's River

The river doesn’t look like much to the untrained eye. There are only a handful of spots deep enough swim.  Pick any place you want in a ten-mile stretch and you can pretty much cast from one bank to the opposite side.  The water runs cooler and cleaner now than it did 30 years ago. The trout are smaller and thinner, although they are more numerous.  After the first couple of weekends in May, fisherman are quite scarce.  Most opt for inland lakes, or larger rivers with easy access and open casting pockets.

 I like to call it Stan’s River.  That’s not the name you’ll find on the county maps or the state listing of fishable trout waters if you ‘Google’ it. The name fits though. For others, it could have a name like Brule, Rush, Kinni, Eau Galle, Tomorrow, Cedar, Plum, Cannon, Bear, Powder or Flambeau. The true name doesn’t really matter, nor does the location.

You see Stan grew up on this stream. His dad brought him here to pluck plump rainbows and native brook trout from undercut banks in the warming sunshine of May and June. This was before Stan could ride a bike absent of training wheels. That was six decades ago.

Through elementary school Stan and his cronies headed to the river often. To fish, swim, float on tubes, trap muskrats,and pass shoot wood ducks and teal at dawns and dusks of fall.  It wasn’t the best place for small town boy to spend his free time…it was the only place.

Most of the high school kids in the 60’s found other interests that kept them away from the river.  Not Stan. He took his younger brothers, sisters, and neighbor kids with him along the way. Teaching them the best places to wade, where the trout were hiding, and how to fashion an old screen door into  homemade minnow traps.  He taught them to catch crayfish, by scooping them from behind the tail, because they could only swim backwards.  He showed them the best feeder springs for drinking and the ones where the peppery watercress grew. He showed them the best banks for harboring wild black cap bushes, and near-by ridges to find bittersweet plants.

Stan also showed the young ones how to avoid some perils of the riverside shores. In those days, it was best not to tangle with any of the Tachshire family; known Moonshiners who didn’t want any one else near their land.  He also helped them identify poison ivy, stands of wood nettles,and patches of wild parsnip that would be the undoing of many unprepared riverside travelers.

Yet, for each negative curveball Stan’s river doled out, it repayed us with dozens of positive attributes.  The simple serene gurgling of water dancing across flat rocks; the blazing spots, stripes and fins of wild trout; the jet black nose and quivering lips of a month old fawn sneaking in for a sip; the laughter of splashing children; the rendezvous place for grandfathers, dads, sons, and moms to spend some time together wondering what might be around the next bend or what was lurking below the water’s surface. These and many more scenes have been replayed over and over, and they will carry on long after we have passed.

Stan still finds time to venture to the river.  His legs may be failing but his mind is sharp as ever.  He remembers countless details of the trips he’s taken, and the conversations had with a lifetime full of outdoor partners. It may be tough for Stan to retie dry flies onto 5x tippet now, especially if he leaves his glasses in the truck.  But his vison of  60 years worth of memories made on and around his river are as fresh and vibrant as morning dew on a streamside trillium.

Rivers and people are in continuous states of change. Evolving, improving, steadying, rising and falling. So it is with the river and with Stan. For he is as much a part of the river, as it is a part of him.  


-TGI

Musky Madness

This musky fishing outing came as a bit of a surprise.  My wife, Hayley had volunteered her newly acquired garage sale services to younger sister Norah who lives in White Bear Lake, MN with her husband Mark. 

Knowing that spending the first Saturday in June at a garage sale could drive any outdoorsman stir crazy, Hayley suggested, “Maybe Mark will take you musky fishing?”

“Do you have room for me in your boat?” I questioned.

“Yeah, it’s just me tomorrow for the opener,” Mark answered giggling, “My friends refuse to musky fish with me anymore.”

So it was set…

At  4:30 a.m. we pulled into a parking lot.  From all of the vehicles, I wasn’t quite sure if it was the boat launch or the outside of the Mall of America on Black Friday.  Obviously there were lots of other crazy people after Esox masquinongy as well. 

Without too much trouble we were soon bopping across Lake X in Mark’s new rig and 90-horse Mercury.  Killing the motor, we glided towards a mid-lake hump and began heaving our offerings.  I was using one of Mark’s homemade top water baits called a Click Fin. It was a jointed green and black job with three large trebles and a silver prop.  Upon retrieve, it clicked, chugged, spit water, and scared most of the lake’s local waterfowl to the backside of the nearest island.  The teeth marks the lure sported proved that it had fooled a fish before.

Mark chose a two bladed spinning buck tail that musky enthusiasts and bait shop owners affectionately call a ‘Double Cowgirl.’   To best describe this monstrosity, picture a 20 year-old hula dancer’s skirt sandwiched between a pair of cymbals from the local high school marching band.  If you add a grapple or dredge hook to the back, Bingo! You have yourself a state of the art musky catching machine. 

The eastern sky was turning from charcoal to a light gray as we worked our baits with no hint of action for the first hour.  Dimples on the surface and scattering baitfish here and there, led us to believe there was something big lurking in the waters below.  90 minutes later, I gave my arms a break. To keep from getting ‘skunked’ I rigged my ultra- light and pitched a tiny jig towards a weed bed.  Three small crappies in as many casts at least made me feel a little better about buying an out of state license.

The sun was climbing high in a clear sky, so Mark suggested I try a buck tail.  Thankfully he handed me a single bladed number to use, as retrieving a ‘Double Cowgirl’ for any length of time is like trying to reel in a submerged open umbrella.  Mark changed baits often; alternating between wood, rubber, and hardware creations.  To be honest, some of the offerings looked more like Halloween costumes than fishing lures. 

Mark boated a couple small pike, but the less than ideal musky conditions of bluebird skies, calm wind, and heavy pressure from dozens of other fisherman seemed to have the deck stacked against us.  Then it happened…

“Ohh, big fish,” Mark more gasped then said.  “He missed it!”

The mid 40 inch fish had taken a boat side swipe at a bright colored jerk bait. The following fish restored some confidence as we continued fan-casting the area in hopes of hooking up.

Mark explained, “It would be best to let him rest for 20 or 30 minutes, but with so many other boats around, we’ll work him a bit.”

It sounded like a good idea to me, but like most other musky fishing strategies, it did not equal a fish at the end of the line.

We had time to work one last spot before our 9 a.m. curfew set by our wives, children, and mother-in law would be up. We headed for an underwater emerging cabbage bed where Mark had boated a 49- incher the year before.

    About a dozen casts in, I was watching my bait track to the boat as I heard “FISH ON” from Mark standing on the bow. The musky had inhaled a crappie patterned jerk bait that was slightly smaller than a Volkswagen van bumper.   A tail, fins, and sharp teeth thrashed at the surface as Mark steered her toward the starboard side of the boat. The fish was certainly not fond of this situation, so it whirled and headed toward the bow, trying to shake the bait.  Mark led the fish deftly past the trolling motor, to the starboard side, where I was waiting with the net.  The battle was surprisingly short, and I am not sure who was more surprised…Me, or the 30-lb giant that was finning in the mesh that I held in the water. I am sure we both had that “What the h*%! Just Happened” look. 

After a high five, Mark reached over the side and removed the last remaining treble hook from the fish that would measure 47.5 inches.  A couple quick pictures preceded the rocking/ reviving of the trophy fish. With a powerful whip of the tail, she disappeared back towards the cabbage bed from where she had come. 

Ten minutes later a 45-incher followed my slow rolling offering to the boat.  I attempted to make a ‘figure-eight’ to entice a strike, but it was feeble at best in terms of musky fisherman standards.  Like a swimming ghost, the fish returned harmlessly to the depths. Feeling like a toddler who had his favorite toy snatched away, I shrugged and went back to casting.

Mark offered some advice. “Next time reel up nearly to the leader, and push your rod down into the water as far as you can reach. This makes the fish look down. If they are looking up, they see the boat like that one did.”

“Thanks,” I managed. “That would have been good to know a couple of minutes ago!”

We chuckled as Mark started the motor to head back to the landing.  We know better than to keep our wives waiting.  I am far too mentally stable to become a full-fledged musky fishing addict. Hopefully in time, Mark will allow me back in his boat and share some of his secrets about chasing the mysterious musky. 


The preceding rambling is dedicated to Holly Lunde who passed away suddenly on June 2, 2012 at the age of 52. Holly was a tremendous lady who worked for 17 years at the Plum City Public Library, and who also helped me edit some of my blog posts.  She was passionate about turning people of all ages on to literature.  Thank you for everything Holly, may God bless you and the family and friends you leave behind.


-TGI