This year, it seemed that every pheasant was a trophy.  Whether it was those early birds on opening weekend with half-colored feathers, or that lone rooster coming late in the season, each one provided a welcome warm meal and a new crop of pheasant feathers for fly fishing.  With one season behind us, another one begins – the fly tying season.  And I’ve been hard at it already, tying up new patterns with feathers from my favorite bird, beyond the nymphs and soft hackles that are so common.  Here are just a few for you to try.
The Copper Sawyer

Humpies and Stimulators are some of my favorite dries, and big flashy streamers are fun to tie and neat to see in the water. Nymphs aren’t usually so flashy, but that doesn’t mean they can’t be. The Copper Sawyer is a good mix of the usual nymph features – brown and buggy – with a little added flash and weight thanks to some copper ultra wire; and best of all it is a simple two-material fly made with feathers from our favorite bird – AND it catches fish.
Materials
Hook: Nymph, Size 12-18
Thread: Brown 6/0
Tail, Body, Wingcase: Pheasant Tail Fibers
Abdomen: Copper Ultra Wire

Tie in 6-10 pheasant tail fibers so the tips hang one-third of the hook shank length beyond the bend, serving as the tail. Tie in a 3-inch strip of copper ultra wire (use Medium for size 12-14 hooks, and Small for hooks size 16 and smaller). Wrap the remaining fibers forward about 2/3 of the hook shank and tie off, advancing your thread to the hook eye. Then wrap the ultra wire forward, segmenting the thorax. When you reach the tie off point, use the ultra wire to form the abdomen by tightly wrapping it forward and then back over the first wraps to the tie off point, trimming the wire neatly. Fold the tied-off feather fibers over the wire abdomen forming a wingcase, tie them off and trim. Form a head with the thread, whip finish and cement.

Simple Streamer

This two-material fly is a short streamer that can be used for bluegills or crappies.  It wraps up quick and uses all-pheasant fibers to trigger fish.

Materials
Hook: Streamer, Size 8-12
Thread: Brown 6/0
Body: Gray Underfeather
Collar: Pheasant Rump Overfeather

You’ll need a streamer hook, a rump feather from a rooster and the gray underfeather beneath it. Simply tie in the underfeather and wrap it forward for the body.Then tie in a rump feather – a nice big blue-green one from the top of the rump – by the tip and turn it around a couple times behind the hook eye for a collar, trim it and tie off. Whip finish, cement, and you’re done!

Advanced Streamer
This bigger, badder version of the previous fly works great on smallmouth bass and aggressive trout.  It has more substance and style to send bigger predator fish into a frenzy – and except for two pieces of tinsel – it is all pheasant-powered!

Materials
Hook: 3X Long Streamer, Size 8-12
Thread: Brown (or Red) 6/0
Tail: Pheasant Marabou
Body: Gray Underfeather
Lateral Line: Tinsel of Your Choice
Collar: Two Pheasant Rump Overfeathers

With a streamer hook secured in your vise, select a full marabou-tipped middle layer rump feather from a rooster and strip the fibers from it. Tie the fibers in as the tail of the fly. Next, find a fairly long after feather with bushy gray marabou all along it and tie it in by the tip, just in front of the marabou tail. From there, wrap the gray feather forward, forming a nice thick body, giving the fly a minnow-like appearance. Trim and tie off about 1/4 of the hook shank behind the eye.

Now tie in a piece of tinsel on both sides, forming a colorful streak for some fish-attracting flair – you can use silver, gold, pearl, red, whatever – make the fly your own! This tinsel should reach the end of the marabou tail. Finally, select two bright colored rump feathers (the blue-green ones around the tail) and tie them by the tips over the tinsel. Advance your thread and wrap the feathers around the hook to form a collar on the fly. Trim off the excess, cover with thread, form a small head, whip finish, cut the thread and cement for posterity. You can add lead wraps or a bead head at the beginning for more weight.  Fill your fly box with an army of these flies built with pheasant feathers for fly fishing and you’ll be ready for some fast spring fishing…in our outdoors.

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If you’ve ever laid eyes on a steelhead, you know the color they bring to a spring fishing trip. The hens are a glistening chrome with a faded pink stripe down their sides and a light green top. The bucks turn a deep pink – almost purple – throughout their sides with greenish backs highlighted by a silver tinge as spring arrives. They bring the color to the tributaries of the Great Lakes at a time when the world is still cloaked in browns, beiges and whites.

From March to May, these lake-run rainbow trout make their annual spawning runs up the tributaries of the North Shore of Lake Superior, bringing the fishing season to life and drawing thousands of anglers to the gushing meltwater flows from Duluth to Grand Marais. Clad in camouflage coats, brown and green waders and ready to take on below freezing to t-shirt temperatures, the anglers offer up some of the same color in pursuit of these fish, which can boast of a catch rate of about one-tenth of a fish per angler hour. Stories of the fish that come to hand, and the powerful ones that got away are traded among the communities of transient anglers that follow these chrome monsters up the shoreline throughout the spring with a variety of their favorite flies in tow.

There’s the staple egg and yarn patterns, tied up on fly hooks weeks in advance or snelled streamside to accommodate what the fish are keying in on. From common colors like pink, orange and chartreuse to McRoe, Wisconsin cheese, and champagne, a variety of unique hues populate the boxes and bags stashed in each angler’s fishing vest. Those patterns are supplemented by egg-sucking leeches with bright accents, flashy woolly buggers, and spring’s wigglers tied with a variety of chenille colors.

Between the fish, the flies, the red mud, the black rocks, the rushing tannin waters and the greening leaves of spring, my journeys on the north shore for the end of the spawning run drained the color from my fly boxes, and painted a few more pages in my memory book. And despite a few smaller specimens that I landed, the most colorful part of the trip might have been the air in the immediate area around my head on a pool somewhere between the barrier and the mouth of the Baptism River.

On the morning of the second-to-last day of my trip, I soon forgot the gray skies, the gusting winds and the chilling rains when a heavy fish took my cerise glo bug in the back of a pool. As it did, two other fish exploded out of the water and bolted downstream as the hooked steelhead entered the first throes of the battle. Twisting, turning and bolting up against the current I caught a glance of the bright pink stripe down his side and the unclipped adipose fin near his tail. As I was fishing alone, I planned on tiring the beast out and bringing him into the shallows where he could be landed.
Four, five, six times he charged headlong into the run ahead of the pool, driving his way against the reduced flows of late April with the greatest of ease. It was a wonder he didn’t spool me en route to the gushing barrier a ways upstream. But the battle tilted back and forth and the pool served as our dueling ground as I allowed the fly reel to spin, whirring its disapproval as I wrenched the rod against the fish to keep him in the arena.

As we entered the tenth round, the fish flopped about on the surface making half-hearted runs back into the pool. It was then I was able to get a good look at the buck steelhead’s size. Even with its tail worn down from spawning in the weeks before, it was huge. The fly was stuck cleanly and tightly in the corner of the fish’s gapng mouth, dwarfed by the size of the greenish blue head of the beast. I backed him into the shallows and he submitted.
I began to bend down to land the trout as he swished, exhausted in the puddle attached to the pool. As I did, the fish gave up, and turned over on his side. A few beams of sunlight streaked through the gray clouds above and set the rainbow alive. Silver skin tinted pink, blue and aquamarine twinkled as the fish rolled over.

Perhaps the wily steelhead’s concession was his final attempt at escape, learned from multiple years of running up and down the river of his birth; for as he did, the fly dislodged from the corner of his mouth due to the unexpected change in angle. The split shot above the fly zinged back in my face and the glo bug dangled around my neck. I blinked. The fish blinked. And before I could even think about making a desperate grab for him, he was gone into the rusty waters of the Baptism.

Dumbfounded, I cursed the laws of physics, the rules of trigonometry and the caginess of the time-tested fish that had bested me. I alternated between laughing, swearing and pulling on my rain matted hair as the thirty inches of fish took off into the pool joined several others as just another colorful memory of the one that got away…in our outdoors.

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By Nick Simonson

A year ago this very morning I was sitting across from my old boss in a conference room as he explained the layoff benefits the company would be providing me until they’d run out or until economic conditions improved. As I had been the one handling the unemployment benefit issues for hundreds of workers who had been idled over the previous three months at the facility, I had been reading the writing on the wall for some time. But when it was my turn to face the music, I wrestled with a flurry of questions and a surge of unpleasant emotions.

Is this really happening!? Would the funds I had saved for this very possibility be enough to get through a year of unemployment? What about two!? Should I just look for a new job, or wait and hope for recall? Fine. Whatever. I’m out of here, and I’m not coming back. This is their loss!

Denial. Fear. Anger. The usual range of reactions to a negative life-altering event. It all blurred together until I found myself standing on the steps of the office building holding a cardboard box full of my things, including two diplomas, a curling trophy, a wall clock, a plant and some fishing pictures.

I marked the anniversary of the event by stepping into the cool waters of a trout stream. Wading the unfamiliar flow, and casting with no success, I looked ahead to where the river came out from around a tree-covered bank and waded upstream against the current. I stumbled over the rocky bottom, caught myself and regained my footing. I took in a deep breath of the misty spring air, let it out slowly, and placed my cast between the fast water and the eddy just behind a big red boulder.

As my little woolly bugger drifted downstream, tossed and bumped around by the unpredictable currents, my mind was pulled from the difficulties of the previous year and into the rush that flowed around my legs, which were now planted firmly in the gravel bottom of the stream. I was soothed by the murmur of the water, the rhythm of a chickadee’s call and the chatter of a nearby kingfisher that was hopping from branch to branch.

I watched my line catch in the fast water. I lifted my rod tip and mended it, correcting the drift. Once. Twice. Three flips of the tip, and then the line jumped. I pulled up and set the hook and a ten-inch brown trout splashed his way across the little stream, never giving up until I wet my hand and he slid into my grasp. With a slight tweak from my forceps, the hook slipped loose and the fish shot back into the flow.

How many times had I done this over the years – in good times and bad, routine days and uncertain ones? Hundreds. Maybe thousands. The stress of each day, whether nonexistent or nagging, drifted away each time as I set out on the water searching for smallmouth, walleye, or trout. Angling has always been my outlet.

And what have I learned from half a lifetime of fishing? I’ve learned that there are many things beyond my control, like the weather (particularly the conditions on any given walleye opener). Wind. Water levels. Cold fronts. Things that can sometimes make fishing difficult. As my old boss was fond of saying, “It is what it is.”

However, I also know there are many more elements that I can control. Lure selection, presentation, location, and the mental attitude that a fish can be caught, anywhere, anytime thanks to what I know. What I’ve read. What I’ve experienced. What I’ve learned from others. And no matter what weather or water conditions I’m faced with, I’m always sure I can find a way. I’ve always believed that nothing “is what it is.” It is what we make of it.
And so it is with life. Trying times eventually find us all. Maybe it’s a diagnosis. The loss of a loved one. An economic downturn.

But a firm foundation, holding us steady in uncertain waters, helps us through these unpleasant realities until the rain subsides, the winds quiet down and the sun comes out again. Maybe that foundation is family. Maybe it’s the advice of good friends. Maybe it is our faith, our work, or our hobbies. We rely on our own experiences or the things we learn from others, and what they’ve dealt with in the past. Or maybe we take the lessons from what we enjoy doing and use that knowledge to overcome. Whether it was finding a new job where my input and talent are valued, or exploring new waters like the little trout stream, this past year has been what I have made it to be.

Relying on your knowledge, your foundations and the mindset that you can – and will – overcome makes all the difference in getting through the tough times. Whether it’s a bad day, or a bad year, the idea that peace, joy or the next opportunity might be just one bend away in life’s river is an attitude I’ve adopted from the lessons I have learned…in our outdoors.

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My guess is whomever was in charge of setting up the 2009 NFL schedule was a deer hunter and a Minnesota Vikings fan. What other alignment of the stars could explain last week’s bye for the Favre n’ Harvin show falling precisely on the opening weekend of deer firearms season in the upper Midwest? The diehard fans of both purple and blaze orange had their choice of garb made for them several months in advance. They also had the good fortune of not to having to worry about the score while out looking for the thirty-pointer.

Perhaps that same providence is the reason why my quarry wandered right up to me, allowing me to fill my tag on the first day of the season and have it processed on the second. Once my card was punched, I had no reason to be on stand any more. My dog, similar to a coyote in both stature and in color, tends to be my reason not to go bird hunting while the increasingly trigger happy still look to fill their tags, or at least fire a shot off at something. With the boat winterized and trout season closed, fishing was out of the question.

The powers that be had effectively granted me a bye week as well, but outside of watching the Wall of America crash down on Matt Stafford and the Motor City Kitties, there wasn’t much time to lounge around. My weekend off was one of neck strain, not from watching the Packers and Cowboys punt the football back and forth, but from glancing back at moments from past seasons and then suddenly looking ahead to get ready for the seasons to come.

As I hauled my portable ice shack out of storage, memories of last winter’s late night crappie runs came flooding back. Beneath the light of a February full moon, my wife and I watched the Vexilar as red lines rocketed off of the bottom of the lake, stopped short of our spoons and then struck. Seven slabs were our reward that night, and fresh fillets singing in hot oil were a welcome wintertime treat. As I applied a second duct-tape patch over the air conditioning hole I accidentally added to the tarp last year, I looked forward chasing those late-night panfish again this winter.

With the shack ready for first ice, I ventured up to my desk in the upstairs office. On the wall next to it, my brother and his two fifty-inch muskies smiled down on me. The fish were both landed this summer on lures I had made over the winter. On the bulletin board behind the desk, a collage of pictures from the north shore of Lake Superior reflected the multiple weekends I spent chasing steelhead – and finally finding success in the chilly spring meltwaters. With the rush of the rocky streams came the memories of running the steeplechase as a silver fish bolted toward the big lake with yards of line in tow, my hand-tied egg fly firmly in its maw.

Short on supplies, and long on time this particular weekend, I began assembling my wish list for lure components and fly tying supplies. Size 12 blades, magnum flashabou, and a new set of 7/0 hooks were in order for the toothy critters, while McFly Foam, egg hooks and fluorescent thread would be the ticket for the trout patterns to be tied up over the off-season.

As I glanced around the room – from the rods tucked into a corner, to the GPS, platbooks and other maps splayed across the small coffee table – I came to and counted the points on the rack of a buck I had taken a few years back. The total was still nine, plus the 7/8-inch tine that he must have broken in a battle late that summer, making his headgear fall just short of a perfect ten. It was a little nick of character in an otherwise uniform rack. It was the biggest buck I had taken and was the hunt that hooked me on whitetails. I immediately began wishing for next fall and another deer season.

As Sunday Night Football on Westwood One buzzed on the radio in the garage, I scraped the last bit of hair from the base of the antlers of this year’s buck and relived the rush of the prior weekend. I placed the velvet cover over the rack and tacked it into place on the plaque mount. Though smaller than the set it now hangs next to on the office wall, the memory of the hunt is as big as any other.

I turned out the lights and clicked off the TV after Peyton Manning’s ice cold connection kept the Colts perfect in a stunning Sunday night comeback. And as I lay in bed, reliving the memories of ice adventures, big water fish and buck fever in that place somewhere between asleep and awake, I bid good bye to the seasons past and began planning the next year of exciting expeditions…in our outdoors.

Find more stories by Nick Simonson on www.nicksimonson.com or become a fan on Facebook by searching “Our Outdoors by Nick Simonson.”

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As my offering drifted around in the pool eddy, I hoped that my brother would see a fish caught – if not by me, then by another angler, or maybe himself – and he would experience the finned allure of the north shore of Lake Superior beyond the lichen-covered bluffs and pine-shaded streams that add to its aesthetics. Being a greenhorn to steelhead fishing myself, I made no promises, other than that we’d try a few rivers, talk to a few people, watch how its done and take some good pictures. The weather was somewhat sketchy, with partly cloudy skies and a northwest wind ripping out onto the water of the big lake, but it was tropical compared to the trout opener two weeks before.

Steelheads are a true prize in the fly circles up north

As we neared the streamside, a dark gray cloud began spitting tiny chunks of ice at us and sleet fell for several minutes. My brother remarked that it must be some sort of sign. We descended down the steep bank to a pool below a small set of ledges and watched for a few moments. I thought at one point I saw a shadow move in and out of the foam line, and then decided to drift my offering through the pool. The rushing of the falls, the squawking of a kingfisher and the rustling branches of an old cedar tree that had grown out from the canyon’s side reminded me that fish would always be a bonus in a place like this. For a few minutes, as the sun peaked back out, I soaked it all in and my mind wandered.

My rod tip bumped once and brought me back to the moment. I pulled up on the slack in the pool. The eight-pound line tightened in the guides of my fly rod as whatever it was on the other end realized there is no such thing as a free lunch. The rod bent into a full arch and the reel spun backward against the palm of my hand as the fish dug for the main current.

‘Fish On!’ I hollered over to my brother, who was just getting his feet wet in terms of north shore fishing. Despite my reminders, he had forgotten to bring waders and was stuck in the shallows in my old calf-high rubber boots. He bounded across the rock ledge to the gravel shore I was standing on and readied himself to grab the fish, whenever it chose to come close enough to land. On the trip over his feet went from being figuratively wet to literally soaked, as his third step put him knee-deep in the chilly meltwater of the stream. It wouldn’t be the only time this fish would baptize him in the waters of spring trout fishing.

My mind began to spin, my voice cracked and I shouted when I talked. I could tell the fish was big, even though I could not see it. My knees began to weaken and each touch of the reel was softened by the anxiety of the fish – potentially my first north shore trout – breaking me off. I let the knob spin around several times as I lost more and more line with each run. Finally the fish turned sideways near the surface, a bright purple streak with a creamy-green back and a clipped adipose fin signaled a large feisty kamlooper – a variety of rainbow trout stocked into the tributaries of Lake Superior to supplement the Steelhead population and for put-and-take fishing. Shortly after being identified, the 25-inch fish ran an end around that would take my brother and I 100 yards downstream.

As I tried to guide the fish into the shallows of the pool where my brother could make a landing attempt, it quickly spun the opposite direction and bolted over the small ledge. I turned and pointed the rod tip downstream as the reel spun out of control. I expected the green backing to follow suit as yards and yards of the clear line peeled off as if I had hooked into the last car on a freight train.

Without instruction, my brother gave chase. Each step into the smaller downstream pools put more icy water in his galoshes. The fish squirted through his hands in the second or third hole down and then made for the lake. My line was wrapped around the buds on the end of a birch branch hanging over the stream, and we struggled to free it, even as the fish took more and more of it down the flow. I thought the ‘looper was lost for sure, but as I reeled up the slack from the tree, I felt the weight of the fish, though it could have just as easily been a rock. As I ran downstream, I found the fish with its nose buried deep behind a small boulder that broke the current in the middle of the riffles.

“He’s right there,” I hollered to my brother, pointing with my arched rod tip at the mid-stream boulder. Ben reached down to grab it, and as he did, the fish darted away. I felt the electricity in my fishing rod falter and heard my brother curse. With a turn revealing a flash of pink, the kamlooper bolted toward the lake, leaving the hook in my brother’s hand and both of us bewildered and out of breath, shaking with the after effects of adrenaline.

After a minute or two, Ben apologized, but I told him it wasn’t necessary. That was the longest I had any fish on the line in my trips to the north shore. I had seen it, felt it and ran the steeplechase after it on the small stream and that was memorable enough. Besides, if that was the first half-hour on the water, I was certain we could find something in the rest of the afternoon which would provide a silver lining on this trip.

-PART II
Having swallowed hard on the agony of defeat after watching my first fish of the day bolt down toward the waters of Gitche Gumee, my brother and I moved up the shore in search of more excitement. His first trip had started off much like my early adventures on the north shore had – full of wind, sleet, and lost fish.

We relocated beneath a set of falls to work a run and a deeper pool. The sun shone more frequently and we approached the area with renewed confidence. I waded to the far side and my brother, with a change of socks and drier boots, worked a drift setup on his spinning rod through the foam line on the near side. I flipped my offering out into the run, guided it behind the red and gray boulders and into the little pockets I hoped would hold fish.

The pines on the bank, some sixty feet in height, swayed with the gusts of wind overhead. Their bases of thick branches spared us the chill and allowed us to soak up the sunlight beaming down from directly overhead. We drifted the run for half an hour with no luck and then moved up toward the deep pool.

Having never used a fly rod, my brother asked if he could try mine. Explaining to him that it wasn’t a typical fly-fishing set up, I showed him how to present the monofilament drift rig. There was no traditional ten-to-two cast, but rather a flip of the rod-tip with a roll cast into the current, and a following of the split shot as it bumped around in the flow. It had taken all of last spring for me to get used to it.

Giving him the rod, I waded back to the far side of the river with the camera to take some pictures. The sun shone down on the clear water and my brother was lost in the observation of his drifting line. I snapped a few photographs of him methodically working the seams as if hexd done it all his life. I closed the camera lens and walked back down the bank. As I did, I saw the rod bounce and bow in my brother’s hands.

“I’ve got one,” he shouted from across the stream.

Of course I should have expected it, knowing my brother’s luck. On his first cast with the fly rod, he had hooked into a north shore trout, which quickly realized it was in trouble and dug deep into the pool. I entered the role of coach and net man, minus the net I had forgotten back home, and began formulating a plan to direct the fish into shallow waters and execute a hand landing. I instructed Ben to back into the shallows, where the fish could be landed with a carefully timed grab. The fish rolled to the surface, beaming silver with the slightest hint of pink and then bulldogged back into the depths.

As the fish made run after run, I instructed my brother to let the old fly reel spin and to keep tension with the palm of his hand. For a novice, he executed the battle perfectly. His rod tip stayed high, as did the tension in the line. After withstanding five minutes of powerful charges, my brother was able to direct the fish toward the pool’s edge. Wetting my hands, I reached down into the shallows and the fish lazily rolled into my grasp. I readied the camera and snapped pictures of the Simonson family’s first steelhead.

High-fiving after a successful release, I pointed out that what he had done was something that still eluded me and seemed that only those with years of experience did regularly. We stood in the trickle of water, replayed the fight and estimated the size of the fish at around 22 inches. Handing over my fly rod, he enlightened me on the finer points of steelhead fishing, laughed, and went back to his spinning rod.

As the afternoon progressed, my brother hooked into three more fish, landing one of them, a 17-inch kamlooper. Not only had he caught his first steelhead, but also his first ‘looper, giving him the two main spring species anglers look for on the north shore. I chalked it up to beginner’s luck combined with my brother’s mojo.

The sun peaked through the pines and leafless spring aspens as it made its trek toward the evening skies. I prepared to end my day fishless on the north shore as usual, but happy that my brother had met with such success. I flipped my offering into the water one final time and traced the movement with my rod tip. Suddenly, I didn’t feel the rig, only the sensation of dead weight.

-I pulled up on the rod and it buckled hard. The knob on the whirring fly reel hit my knuckles as the fish ran. I could tell it was big, and from his vantage point, my brother confirmed it was the biggest trout he had ever seen – even bigger than my lost kamlooper. As the minutes wore on, the fish made countless runs, never tiring, never losing the advantage of the swift river around it. Over and over again, it would come shallow, in a streak of silver and metallic pink, as if to wink at me, and then teasingly charge back into the flow. As the runs subsided, the fish seemed to voluntarily swim to-and-fro just a few feet in front of me, as if to say, “Alright, I’ll let you win this one.”

My brother gently clasped the fish around the tail and under its belly and lifted it to me. And there it was, beaming in the late afternoon sunlight, my first steelhead.

Five trips to these tributaries spread out over two springs filled with snow, wind, rain, sleet, numb toes and frozen fingers culminated in this one fish, born of the very water I stood in. And for the first time in my adventures along the north shore, the sunlit scales of a steelhead became my silver lining’in our outdoors.

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With all the hunting opportunities around us, it’s tough to set the shotgun or the bow down for an evening and pick up the fishing rod. However, fall provides an excellent chance at some fast trout fishing, particularly in those deeper pits and ponds where agencies have stocked trout for put-and-take fishing.

Fishing always picks up in the fall and trout are no exception

If fish had a deep hole to hide in from higher temperatures, they will be on their way up into the shallows to enjoy the cooling autumn waters. They will also have packed on the weight over the summer, increasing their size from “catchable” to “worth your while.” Start your search out shallow using small trout spinners, little spoons, or jigs and twister tails. Cast over and along the thinning weedlines where stocked trout seek the end of summer’s buffet: bugs, baitfish and crustaceans.

Fall is generally a time of clearing water. The algae blooms of July and August have subsided and many lakes will begin to clear, particularly after turnover. In the case of clear water, use florocarbon leaders for a seamless presentation. Make your casts as long as possible, and cast beyond the areas where you see fish feeding so they aren’t spooked by the splash of a lure.

Another method for catching trout that works well, where it is allowed, is trolling a small crankbait, like a Salmo Hornet, Floating Rapala or Rebel Wee Craw. This tactic helps cover water quickly and assists in finding the depth that autumn trout are cruising at. In many smaller lakes and ponds where trout are stocked, it is wise to stick to the littoral area, which runs between one and 15 feet deep. While cruising, trout can be found anywhere, but primary areas to key in on include points, bends and other contours. As you troll, pay attention to these changes on a depthfinder or by studying the shoreline.

If you’re going after fish with the fly rod, focus on late-hatching insects or their aquatic stages that you know are present in the ecosystem – midge larvae, scuds, damselfly and dragonfly nymphs. By this time of the year, the stocked trout that made it through the bucket brigades shortly after stocking will key in on more natural prey such as minnows, leeches and the aforementioned insects. Throw streamers and smaller baitfish patterns to find active trout or present flies that match the hatch when you see fish feeding at the surface.

Packing two spools, one with floating fly line and another with sinking line, like a Type II or III, will help in your presentation. The sinking lines will give you a count-down rate to find the precise area in the water column where fish are holding, if they aren’t feeding up top.

Generally, stocked trout that make it through the summer will be about 12 inches long in the fall; in some fertile areas, they will be bigger and will have packed on a lot of summer meat. Those fish that have dodged the bullet two or even three seasons in a row will present you with a chance to catch a trout over 20 inches in length – a quality fish in anyone’s book. Examine agency reports to see how many trout are stocked each year, and what time of year they are stocked to get an estimate of the size of the fish you are after. Check survey reports, where available, to see how many fish of each length were caught in the most recent test netting. That will give you an idea of the amount of pressure a stocked water receives and the number of big fish that might survive from year to year.

If you can tear yourself away from grouse, pheasant and deer this autumn, there are plenty of opportunities to give stocked trout a try. Tack an outing on in the afternoon after a morning hunt and you have a memorable blast n’ cast combo that is available almost until ice-up…in our outdoors.

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There were some great opportunities with the camera on my visit to the North Shore for steelhead.

Though the weather is an element that is always out of my control, I try not to let it dampen the spirits of a fishing trip; particularly when that trip is my first of the season and my first to a new place. Despite highs in the forties, rain and cold swollen streams, the weather did not detract from the first in what will be many trips to the tributary streams of Lake Superior’s north shore.

After work on Friday, and a scenic drive to the small town of Knife River, MN, I met up with the group of experienced north shore anglers that I had been corresponding with all winter. After settling into our cabins, we traded war stories over dinner, and for the first time in quite a while, I found myself doing most of the listening. They talked of salmon runs through the middle of Milwaukee and rare coaster brook trout near Grand Marais and tried to recall what rivers between Duluth and Tofte they had not caught fish on.

Neil, the organizer of the event, broke down his daily scouting report of the area. River temperatures were cold and were not conducive to fly fishing, but like me, most of those around the table were there for that purpose and refused to abandon it.

When we assembled in the morning, we were met with moderate rain, cool temps and calm air, conditions which would fall short of the previous day’s forecast. From the front porch of my cabin, in the dim gray morning light, I could make out a chocolate colored sediment plume cutting from the mouth of the Knife River into the gray-blue waters of Lake Superior. Neil sent me with Matt, a former fly fishing guide from Chicago who spent his free weekends scouring the shores of the Great Lakes year round in search of fresh runs of migratory salmon and trout. Matt suggested we try the nearby Sucker River.

As we slid our way down the embankment, Matt advised that every morning was a race to the mouth in the spring on the north shore. If we were to catch any fish on this cold day, they would most likely be making scouting runs into the first pool. Whipping his leader and tippet through a nail-knot tool, he showed me the art of the dropper rig. I clumsily followed suit with a blood knot, making several attempts to get the tag ends long enough to knot and add split shot. It was hard to look graceful roll-casting the rig, but I was beginning to learn there was little grace involved with spring fishing on the north shore, as muddied anglers in mismatched camo waders and jackets continued to line both sides of the stream.

We bumped our offerings of egg-sucking leeches and glo bugs along the rocky bottom of the tinted river, hoping to bonk an opportunistic trout on the nose and trigger a strike. We saw one fish caught by an angler on the opposite side just before Brendan, another member of our group, arrived. Matt felt a fish in the muddied water, either running his line across it or getting an actual strike, but other than that it was quiet.

My hands were cold, red and nearly numb by the time we ventured down to the mouth of the river to view the lake shore and streak a few streamers through the rapids leading to the lake. We decided breakfast and a warm-up was in order and headed back to the cabins. There we met with Jesse, the youngest of the group, and the four of us planned to head north through Two Harbors in search of fish.

Again at breakfast, the talk was of big fish, historic trips and my barrage of questions regarding this fishing that seemed so foreign to me. I rode with Jesse the rest of the day, and he provided me with insight on each stream we passed over in his red GMC pickup.

Many of the rivers we crossed warranted only a viewing from a bridge or scenic overlook, as the melting of recent snowfall had significantly increased their flows and made them turbid. Passing over the Stewart and the Encampment Rivers we made our way north in search of clearer waters.

We visited Gooseberry Falls, the flow of which exploded from a normally peaceful waterfall. It was there I learned that Jesse was a coyote hunting buddy of my law school roommates. We talked of his adventures with the Brandborg brothers, and related some funny stories, marveling at what a small world it was. From the park we headed to the Split Rock River and after a quick look over the sides of the Highway 61 Bridge, we kept moving north to the Baptism River.

Running high, the Baptism lacked the sediment of the other rivers we had passed. The tannin colored water was clear, and it churned beneath the wooden footbridge. We trekked to the mouth of the flow, and the hike was a short one through a pine and birch forest trail, which every fifty yards allowed a vantage point where I could look upon sheer lichen-covered cliff faces which formed the banks of the river. Pines grew out from the tiniest rock outcroppings, and the continued rainfall gave the area the feeling of timelessness, as rain once again became runoff, and runoff pooled in the ancient glacial lake.

We fished for an hour in the cold water. A silent older angler joined us and he worked a spawn bag down the river, hooking into a 21-inch jack steelhead. Upon release, the fish beelined down the stream toward me and beached itself on the gravel bar where I stood. I set my rod down and righted the fish, inspected the unclipped adipose fin indicative of a north shore steelhead, and not a hatchery-raised Kamloops strain rainbow trout, and watched it swim downstream toward the lake.

From there, we headed to the tiny Cross River. My first cast snagged and I broke off at the dropper – time to retie for the tenth time. As I climbed on the shoreline ice shelf to find a seat, I heard Jesse shout.

“I’ve got one,” he yelled.

I turned and saw a massive rainbow trout break the surface of the bend pool. It was at least 28 inches, maybe 30, decked in silver and a shade of purple-pink that reminded me of a November sunset on the plains. It was bigger than any trout I had laid eyes on, including the monsters in the aquarium at the East Grand Forks Cabela’s store.

I scrambled up the embankment to find the other half of our party and the landing net, but they were gone. As I hurried back down, I saw the fish one more time, struggling mightily in the cold water to free itself from the peach glo bug in the top of its mouth. As I was about to set foot in the water to hand land the fish, the hook popped loose, and Jesse let out a sigh of defeat. The fish immediately reversed direction with a flip and headed for the lake.

“That was the biggest I’ve ever had on,” Jesse said, “I deserved it though, I was already taking the picture in my head, I just horsed her too much trying to beach her in the shallows.”

“That was the biggest I’ve ever seen,” I responded, “and though it didn’t end right, just seeing that fish made my day,” I continued in consolation.

That fish convinced me that the place to find monster trout was the north shore. As we examined a few other rivers and creeks on our way to the turning point of the Cascade River and its majestic falls which spilled out of the rock streamed at the barrier, I had caught nothing, froze my hands and toes, and enjoyed every moment of it thoroughly. I was assured by my guides that night that there were many successful trips in my future. From pink salmon and coaster brook trout in the fall, to a shot at steelhead and kamlooper rainbow trout when things settle down in a couple of weeks, the north shore held great fishing and a shot at some true trophies whenever I should venture back again.

I am certain I will later this spring. Hopefully then, I will find more idyllic conditions to tangle with a trout of my own. But as for now, the memory of the scenery, my introduction to the north shore and my hopes for future success will linger in my thoughts of this unique area… in our outdoors.

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Easter weekend, with most of my peers hunting snow geese somewhere from Nebraska to North Dakota, I was in Northern California. My father and I had made the journey from St. Paul together by plane. We were going to visit my sister and her fiancé and their new child my first nephew Martin. I was a trip that was full of new discoveries.

A nice Trinity River Steelhead

Although my sister’s fiancé, Michael Sonn, and I are separated by distance, we share a passion for fishing. He is the kind of guy that keeps his G-Loomis rod in the back of his car in case an opportunity to do some casting presents itself.

When we first arrived we inquired if we would like to do some fishing, and made a quick call to his friend Alex who happens to be a local guide. Luckily for me Alex was available to take us out for a float trip the following day on the Trinity River in search of Steelhead.

Before we all went out for dinner Michael and I went to a local sporting goods store were I purchased the proper licensing. There we also picked up some Roe to use for bait. After dinner with the sun setting we all went for a walk along a coastal marsh in Humboldt Bay. There we saw Greater Canada geese, buffleheads and a few flocks of green-winged teal returning from their wintering grounds.

It was dark when Michael picked me at my hotel the following morning. In northern California it was 5:15 am, back in Minnesota it was 7:15 am, about the normal time I wake up for work. We picked up some coffee at a drive through and headed for the mountains.

To get to the Trinity River from Manila you must drive over a mountain pass through parts of the Redwood Forest. Taking this route you pass by the areas where some of my favorite scenes from the Star Wars movie, Return of the Jedi, was filmed. It is an eerie drive in the dark, with fog clinging in the clearings and clouds at eye-level.

We met Alex in a small town near a public landing along the river. We dropped his truck off at the landing and made our way along the river to his house. Alex is fortunate enough to live along the river and has the opportunity to keep his drift boat down the bank from his house. One day he launches the boat upstream and does a float to his house. The following day he does a float from his house downstream to another launch. Fishing all the way.

It had just lightly rained the night before in the mountains and the water clarity was perfect. Too much rain and the Trinity becomes green and Steelhead cannot see your bait. Too little rain and the water is crystal clear and the Steelhead flush at the approach of the drift boat.

Alex explained that steelhead fishing was a lot like muskie fishing in the sense that it takes a lot of time on the water to land a fish. He also went through the various techniques we would be using to entice them. He explained these things all while tying up multiple fishing lines on the bank of the Trinity before we pushed off.

Once we got out into the current, you could feel the power of the Trinity. Throughout the river there was steep ledges, powerful curves and deep channels. You have to fish using the current. My impression of steelhead fishing is a mix of cat fishing and walleye fishing. One must play the current like you do for cats, with the finesse you need for walleyes.

The first couple breaks in the river we practiced the routine we would be going through to present our bait to the Steelhead. The drift boat captain and fisherman must work as a team, playing the current with the boat and bait, to be successful. The object is to have the boat drift through the breaks at the same speed as the bait. This way you can cover the most ground, presenting the bait in front of the fish that are suspended in the strongest current.

We were anchored, casting into a good break just a mile into the drift when I hooked into my first Steelhead. Steelheads have a strong backbone like pike; dig into the water like walleyes and jump like bass. On the Trinity fisherman are required to use barb-less hooks, which makes landing a fish tricky. I fought the fish I hooked for several minutes before losing it at the boat. I was disappointed but felt lucky to have fought a Steelhead.

Shortly after that I would briefly have another Steelhead on the line. We saw the fish roll and flash in the river before spitting the hook. Alex told to me that he saw me set the hook upstream and explained that with Steelhead you want to set the hook downstream, going against what would seem natural.

Later in the day Michael would hook into another Steelhead that would break his line and that would be our only action of the day. Pretty typical explained Alex, usually you hook into more fish then you land. He said on the best day he has had on the river his boat hooked into twenty fish and landed fourteen.

My father, who I would coin as a luckier individual then myself, landed a nice native Steelhead on an earlier trip with Michael and Alex. The beautiful fish was returned into the powerful Trinity in compliance with the regulations. That evening when Michael and I were driving back into Humboldt Bay we saw thousands of Aleutian geese feeding in the green fields surrounding the water. It was another awesome sight, some of the flocks of these sub-species of Canada geese were feeding right off the road. For this old waterfowler, these simple pleasures are priceless. I am already looking forward to my next trip to Northern California to fish for Steelhead again.
For information on fishing with Alex check out www.jetstreamguideservice.com.

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Quilters have their bees and bakers have their cookie exchanges. At these events, the artists in their respective hobbies get together to exchange patterns and recipes, adding a little more to each other’s experience, each taking away something new to try. The equivalent for fly anglers, the phenomenon that is fly-swapping, accomplishes the same.

The fly swap is becoming commonplace on many internet message boards and websites where fly anglers meet and discuss fly tying, rod building, and the changing nature of fishing with the long rod. In these exchanges, anglers tie up a number of flies in a single pattern and either send them in to a swap master with a postage-paid return envelope or meet in person to exchange.

The Missouri Valley Fly Fishers Club (MVFF), based in Bismarck, is one such group of anglers that hosts a pattern swap. For the third year in a row, I have been privileged to be part of the MVFF fly exchange. Last year, I was able to attend in person, and I highly recommend that anglers interested in fly fishing give the club a try and stop in for a few meetings, or visit them online at www.mvffclub.com. Being on the road this year, I regrettably knew I would have to send my patterns in.

I set to work on 25 of my recently-developed “soft hackle fry” flies. The fly is a simple recipe, consisting of a wet fly hook, some Mylar tinsel for flash, orange dubbing for a body and a partridge feather for a collar. In my mind’s eye, it looks like a hatchling minnow or other small fish; on the vise it just looks cool. Throughout first snowy weeks of April, I cranked them out, three here, five there, until I had the number I needed.

I packed the patterns in a small plastic container and mailed them off with a return box, expecting a number of goodies to be returned in their place. After all, twenty-five flies of the same type going into the mail box means twenty-four different ones come back. Some patterns might be the other swappers’ favorite streamers, dries or terrestrials. Still others might be classics that work on the tiers’ home waters. Whatever was in the box the following week would certainly be eye-opening and provide insight into other anglers’ strategies.

I was not disappointed.

My brother tossed me the return box while going through the mail. I tore open the self-addressed mailer and dumped the flies on my tying desk. They spilled out like coins from a slot machine. Pay dirt!

There were streamers of every size – mohair leeches, black-nosed daces and woolly-bugger type patterns tricked out with flash and beads. A high-vis foam beetle, with a bright yellow sight spot was a highlight for me, and I wrote it down to add to next winter’s list of patterns to tie. A number of modified classic nymphs, such as the Prince Nymph and pheasant-tail also showcased the other tiers’ skills. It was a bounty of flies that were sure to catch fish on any water. I placed them in my streamer, dry and nymph boxes, according to their type, and checked my arsenal over for the umpteenth time.

Another successful fly swap complete, I headed back to work from my lunch break, dreaming of a twitch at the end of my neon-orange fly line drifting lazily on a bluegill pond. I hoped to exchange more memories along with a pattern next year…in our outdoors.

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Over, under, around and through, that’s the way to tie…a fly? Well, that’s the way I finish them at least.

Another great start to a fall bird season and the switch to daylight standard time has dashed my hopes of anymore after-work hunting trips. But once again those pre-standard time hunts have given me more materials that I’ll ever use. Partridge feathers, pheasant tails and, thanks to a new 15-member family on the block, turkey quills are piled high on my tying desk. Now I have all those dark hours after work to get back to tying.

My goal this year is to tie 600 flies. Last year, I said I’d get 500 in, and it ended up being more like 375. Like any hobby or sport, the more a person practices, the better one gets. I think 600 should get me back up to snuff before the days lengthen, the water thaws and I can put those flies to use.

Start Simple

To get into the swing of the fly tying season, tucked down in the back room of the basement listening to talk radio or watching DVDs, I start simple. Easy creatures like soft hackles, pheasant tail nymphs, and simple thread midges shake the rust out of my hands and help me remember how things are done. Not only that, the flies produced still catch buckets of bluegill each summer. It is good practice and it gives me time to fill the holes in my flybox left from last year.

By December or January I’ll have moved on to intermediate patterns, or at least new ones. Flies like the classic Adams, the ornate Stimulator or tiny Elk Hair Caddis usually test my skills and my patience by mid season. The added challenge of the hobby comes with each new fly recipe. I would like to learn new patterns that mimic common insects I saw this year; such as foam or woven damselflies, to match the blue bugs that swarmed local lake shores and stream sides during the heart of summer.

Keep the Fever at Bay

Late winter brings hope of spring and instills in my mind the idea that smallie fishing is only a few months away. As a result, late winter is the time to bring on the streamers! Clouser minnows, woolly buggers and mohair leeches are prime patterns for bronzeback fishing. But there are new ones out there I’ll need a few of. Chuck Loftis’ EZ Perch was a killer pattern on smallies and pike in the Sheyenne during the spring. Too bad I only had one which I received through the Missouri Valley Fly Fisher’s swap. After catching five fish in an hour with it, I sacrificed it to a high branch in an old tree. I’ll make sure to create a bunch of them, just in case the elms are biting next spring.

Along the way, I’ll experiment with ice fishing jigs, tie up tiny flies for tough hardwater days and combine standard, ice and fly fishing to find patterns that work and others that just look good in the tackle or fly box. At the very least, the flies give me time to try things out: my skills, my patience and new techniques. Any way it is tied, I always come up with something exciting.

In the end, that is when most of the art of fly tying occurs; when I’m just goofing off at the vise, killing time until I can put the patterns to use…in our outdoors.

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