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| The tail-out of Wildcat Rapids - Courtesy of Jason Neuswanger |
There are two lakes on Wisconsin's Brule River - Big Lake and Lucius Lake. There's a stretch of fast water between them, less than 1/4 mile, called Wildcat Rapids. It isn't the best known quarter mile of Wisconsin trout water, but I learned a lot there.
It had been 30 years, or more, since I last fished there. I had moved on to higher altitudes, bluer skies, and bigger fish. A trip to visit family left me with rare time to go and do as I pleased and I chose to spend the day canoeing down the Brule, taking in the scenery and doing a little fishing.
The upper river slid by quickly. I stopped and fished at Cedar Island and a few other places. I paddled down Big Lake as quickly as I could. There were fish, big fish, there, but it never fished well for me in daylight. I wanted to get to into Wildcat Rapids.
Wildcat is faster water, for sure, but barely deserving if the title, "rapids". Alone, in a canoe, it presents a challenge, but nothing like the fast water I knew in the West.
I found the river there had changed from how I remembered it, as rivers always do. Just the same, it was as pleasant, green, and lush as I remembered, even if it had changed some. I wound my way to the bottom of the rapids and parked the canoe at a grassy sandbar. I decided to have some coffee and a smoke before I started my way back upstream on foot.
Just as I finished my coffee, something stirred in the brush, and a boy - 15, or 16, maybe - stepped out into the river, wading towards where the rapids spilled into the lake. I felt disappointed. I had wanted to start fishing there, as I always had. My dad, Uncle George and I would sneak down to this spot from the highway, just like this kid had probably done. When I was a kid the land owners didn't care about what we were doing, they just didn't want to see us. As time went on they became less tolerant. The kid must have had balls to trespass like that.
I decided I'd wait for the kid to finish and leave before I started. So, I poured more coffee and lit another cigarette. I'd watch this kid for a while.
The kid was fly fishing, but he wasn't very good at it. He had just started fishing like this. His casting was sloppy and undisciplined, but he stuck at it. You could tell he had a good idea where the fish would be, but wasn't reaching them. His casts were long. Too long. His fly hung up in the brush behind him. He yanked at it a couple times, and the fly popped free, arcing up into the air and collapsing in a pile out in front of him in the current. He started to strip his line back in. He was in a hurry. Just about the time he was ready to start a new cast, the line shot out. A fish had taken his fly! He set the hook, way too hard, but it stuck. The fish lurched. From where I sat, I could see the flash as the trout turned against the line. It was a good fish and the kid's rod, bowing under the weight, confirmed it.
I was really excited. I'd caught a couple 16-inchers in here when I was a kid, but this one looked to be half-again that size. The kid was going to have his hands full.
He didn't seem to know what to do next. He was keeping his rod tip high, like he should, but wasn't giving or taking line. The trout was just thrashing around at the end of his line. I stifled the impulse to shout directions and sat back to watch the encounter unfold.
The kid finally seemed to collect himself. And started trying to play the fish out of the current and into slack water. The fish was having none of that and made a frantic dash for the far bank. There were sweepers - cedars and other trees, close to the bank and leaning out over the river - a perfect refuge for a hooked fish. The kid held his line, to try to prevent escape. Then the fish jumped clear of the water. It sent water spraying in every direction.
Christ, what a fish! A brown trout. 22 inches, easy. A big fish for this part of the Brule. It hit the water with a SPLAT!
Foiled, the trout made a dash for a bed of water cress. It made it that far and got tangled in the weeds.
I don't know if trout are really that smart, but they always seem to know what to do to ruin a perfect fight.
"GOD ..... DAMMIT"
The trout was stuck. The kid was pissed. He wanted it, bad. Keeping the line taut, and his rod tip high, he moved farther out into the lake to change the angle. He took in some line to put pressure on the weeds to try and pry the line, and hopefully the trout, free.
This kid was smarter than I thought.
It took a minute, but the line and the fish finally came free and clear of the weeds. The rod was bowing deeper. There were weeds still tangled with the line and the fish. A lot of weeds. This wasn't over, not yet anyway.
In the few minutes this had gone on, the kid had worked himself as hard as he had the fish. He was looking tired already. Probably the adrenalin wearing off. Buy it also looked like the fish had had enough too. It was probably fighting the same weight of weed that the kid was. The kid started to bring the fish in for the net. Slowly, but surely, closer and closer, I could feel the knot in the kid's stomach. By far the biggest fish he'd ever hooked and he had come too far to lose the fish now. Better to err on side of caution. It was so close, but the fight wasn't over just yet. The kid carefully worked the fish within about ten feet. The fish made one more run for freedom. That knot got even tighter, the rod tip jerking spasmodically as the fish tried for deeper water. This was the Moment of Truth. The fight would end here and now, one way or the other. That fish would either go free or into the net. The fish came to the surface and rolled slowly. It was done.
I scooped the fish and a couple pounds to weed up into the net and staggered back into an old cedar log jutting out into the river. My heart was in my throat, beating like a trip hammer. What a fish! What a fight! Dad, I knew, was just upstream. I called out and he responded. I heard him moving through the brush in my direction. He really needed to see this fish and hear the story. That and give me a pull of that flask he always carried in his vest.
I wish to thank Jason Neuswanger for his generous permission to use his photo of the tail-out of Wildcat Rapids on the Brule where this story takes place. Visit his site, Trout Nut.
It had been 30 years, or more, since I last fished there. I had moved on to higher altitudes, bluer skies, and bigger fish. A trip to visit family left me with rare time to go and do as I pleased and I chose to spend the day canoeing down the Brule, taking in the scenery and doing a little fishing.
The upper river slid by quickly. I stopped and fished at Cedar Island and a few other places. I paddled down Big Lake as quickly as I could. There were fish, big fish, there, but it never fished well for me in daylight. I wanted to get to into Wildcat Rapids.
Wildcat is faster water, for sure, but barely deserving if the title, "rapids". Alone, in a canoe, it presents a challenge, but nothing like the fast water I knew in the West.
I found the river there had changed from how I remembered it, as rivers always do. Just the same, it was as pleasant, green, and lush as I remembered, even if it had changed some. I wound my way to the bottom of the rapids and parked the canoe at a grassy sandbar. I decided to have some coffee and a smoke before I started my way back upstream on foot.
Just as I finished my coffee, something stirred in the brush, and a boy - 15, or 16, maybe - stepped out into the river, wading towards where the rapids spilled into the lake. I felt disappointed. I had wanted to start fishing there, as I always had. My dad, Uncle George and I would sneak down to this spot from the highway, just like this kid had probably done. When I was a kid the land owners didn't care about what we were doing, they just didn't want to see us. As time went on they became less tolerant. The kid must have had balls to trespass like that.
I decided I'd wait for the kid to finish and leave before I started. So, I poured more coffee and lit another cigarette. I'd watch this kid for a while.
The kid was fly fishing, but he wasn't very good at it. He had just started fishing like this. His casting was sloppy and undisciplined, but he stuck at it. You could tell he had a good idea where the fish would be, but wasn't reaching them. His casts were long. Too long. His fly hung up in the brush behind him. He yanked at it a couple times, and the fly popped free, arcing up into the air and collapsing in a pile out in front of him in the current. He started to strip his line back in. He was in a hurry. Just about the time he was ready to start a new cast, the line shot out. A fish had taken his fly! He set the hook, way too hard, but it stuck. The fish lurched. From where I sat, I could see the flash as the trout turned against the line. It was a good fish and the kid's rod, bowing under the weight, confirmed it.
I was really excited. I'd caught a couple 16-inchers in here when I was a kid, but this one looked to be half-again that size. The kid was going to have his hands full.
He didn't seem to know what to do next. He was keeping his rod tip high, like he should, but wasn't giving or taking line. The trout was just thrashing around at the end of his line. I stifled the impulse to shout directions and sat back to watch the encounter unfold.
The kid finally seemed to collect himself. And started trying to play the fish out of the current and into slack water. The fish was having none of that and made a frantic dash for the far bank. There were sweepers - cedars and other trees, close to the bank and leaning out over the river - a perfect refuge for a hooked fish. The kid held his line, to try to prevent escape. Then the fish jumped clear of the water. It sent water spraying in every direction.
Christ, what a fish! A brown trout. 22 inches, easy. A big fish for this part of the Brule. It hit the water with a SPLAT!
Foiled, the trout made a dash for a bed of water cress. It made it that far and got tangled in the weeds.
I don't know if trout are really that smart, but they always seem to know what to do to ruin a perfect fight.
"GOD ..... DAMMIT"
The trout was stuck. The kid was pissed. He wanted it, bad. Keeping the line taut, and his rod tip high, he moved farther out into the lake to change the angle. He took in some line to put pressure on the weeds to try and pry the line, and hopefully the trout, free.
This kid was smarter than I thought.
It took a minute, but the line and the fish finally came free and clear of the weeds. The rod was bowing deeper. There were weeds still tangled with the line and the fish. A lot of weeds. This wasn't over, not yet anyway.
In the few minutes this had gone on, the kid had worked himself as hard as he had the fish. He was looking tired already. Probably the adrenalin wearing off. Buy it also looked like the fish had had enough too. It was probably fighting the same weight of weed that the kid was. The kid started to bring the fish in for the net. Slowly, but surely, closer and closer, I could feel the knot in the kid's stomach. By far the biggest fish he'd ever hooked and he had come too far to lose the fish now. Better to err on side of caution. It was so close, but the fight wasn't over just yet. The kid carefully worked the fish within about ten feet. The fish made one more run for freedom. That knot got even tighter, the rod tip jerking spasmodically as the fish tried for deeper water. This was the Moment of Truth. The fight would end here and now, one way or the other. That fish would either go free or into the net. The fish came to the surface and rolled slowly. It was done.
I scooped the fish and a couple pounds to weed up into the net and staggered back into an old cedar log jutting out into the river. My heart was in my throat, beating like a trip hammer. What a fish! What a fight! Dad, I knew, was just upstream. I called out and he responded. I heard him moving through the brush in my direction. He really needed to see this fish and hear the story. That and give me a pull of that flask he always carried in his vest.
I wish to thank Jason Neuswanger for his generous permission to use his photo of the tail-out of Wildcat Rapids on the Brule where this story takes place. Visit his site, Trout Nut.
