Of Chrome and Campfires...

Jacob Gibb PhotographyIt's over already? Fishing buddy Andy Roth and I looked at each other, both sadly puzzled as we headed back south towards the busy city bustle, a cold Lake Superior now 100 miles behind us. The sour smell of wet campfire smoke oozed out of the back of my, gear-stuffed Jeep. Wet mud coated the floor mats. We had just survived three days of cold rain, gnarly North Shore rivers, even the antics of two black-capped chickadees.  The odometer had an extra 500 milles on it. Such is the exciting life of steelheaders....

Our journey started Wednesday morning, 9:20 a.m. sharp. Okay, I was 20 minutes late tracking down Andy at our scheduled meeting stop along Interstate 35.  Andy is one of the premier trout guides in SE Minnesota and SW Wisconsin.  You can find out all about him at: http://www.graygoatflyfishing.com/.  Be sure to check out Andy's "Bentley's Balls".  They will change the way you fish.  Anyway, I digress.  Andy and I quickly stuffed our gear  (we pack like, well, you know...) into the truck and pointed the front bumper north through Duluth and up Minnesota State Highway 61 along the lake.  A quick stop at the French River.  Yep, plenty of fish coming in, although they're tough to see, even in the low water, unless you have polarized sunglasses. We hopped back in and continued north towards Temperance River State Park, roughly halfway up the shore. I couldn't help

but pull over at Kendall's ten minutes later to grab "my North Shore regular";   A pound of brown sugar-smoked salmon. Nothing beats a smoke shop that wraps fish in yesterday's headlines.  I pushed the accelerator and we zipped up the shore.   Our goal was to get base camp set before the rough weather moved in. We had rain and even a hint of late April snow in the forecast. The Jeep pulled into the park, not another soul around. Strangely enough,Temperence sat in a most unusual state. Weeks earlier, a major spring ice storm slapped most of the North Shore. Clearly, the state park had not been spared.  Downed birch trees criss-crossed the woods. Giant limbs lay scattered across most of the campsites.  Andy and I moved into site #7 and quickly threw up a giant dining fly and then pitched the tent.  We could see storm clouds just off to our west and wanted a dry camp. Minutes later, gentle rain started to fall as the two of us piled up dry wood for the week and tucked it away under the tarp. By eight or so, we had settled into our camp  and stared at the fire. Our fishing buddies, Jacob Gibb and Tim Pommer, pulled into camp and wrestled up their tent in the steady rain.  After an hour or two of campfire fodder, we all retired to our tents and tucked into warm sleeping bags, the sound of cold rain tapping at our rain flies. As I drifted off to sleep, I could hear Lake Superior slapping at the giant boulders just behind camp. I wondered if steelhead trout were moving along the shore and sneaking into the rivers.....

Morning #1

I rolled out of bed about 7 a.m. to the smell of dark coffee and the sound of the percolator bubbling on the Coleman stove.  After a few hot mugs of campfire coffee and a plate of eggs mixed with deeply-burned potatos, Tim and Jacob headed down the shore towards the North Shore FogSpril Rock and Stewart Rivers while Andy and I headed up the shore. The rules of the steelheadin' game work this way:  Start driving and stop at every river and stream crossing.  If you find good water flows and temps at roughly 40 degrees or above, odds are you've got fresh fish that have come in from the lake.  Sometimes, you'll even be lucky enough to spot a fish or two.   Andy and I pulled over at our first river, The Cascade, with the biggest of expectations.  Muddy, blown water.  Next stop?  The Poplar. High and blown.North Shore Haze Jacob Gibb Photography The Devil's Track. Blown. All the way up the shore, we found high, cold water with little or no clarity. To add insult, we fought rain much of the day.   We broke down and fished one of my favorite spots up the shore with no takes.  We hopped in the truck in our wet waders and headed 60 miles back down the shore.  As we neared the Baptism River, the heavy clouds dissipated and we found a bit of sun shining through the wet fog. Egg pattern flies... Jacob and Tim had come up the shore to meet us after fighting crowds of anglers on the lower shore rivers. The four of us wandered down to the Baptism's  high, but otherwise fishable riffles.  Water temperature  sat right at 40 degrees and the river had its classic, root beer-colored clarity.  I hiked down to one of my favorites spots, drifted an egg pattern through the hole a dozen times and hooked a fish on the thirteenth drift. . A fresh chromer rolled and I fought her out of the fast water and up towards the calm water near the gravel bank.  As I leaned over to grab her tail, Tim and Jacob Roll Castingshe rolled and my fly popped out. I watched as the silver-colored fish drifted back into the river's shadows.  At best guess, about a 22 inch hen, which is a female.   That fish would prove to be the only steelhead any of us would hook on day one.  Andy and I called it quits about dinnertime and decided to head back to camp. Sure enough, we had visitors  when we arrived.  As Andy worked on a deep pot of his now famous "Gopher MoleStew", a couple of black-capped Chickadees visited our frying pan. I tried to set of my camera on remote to snap a few closer shots. Unfortunately, the little birds got wise to my plan and never came back.....

Morning # 2

Andy and I could hear the sound of songbirds and feel the mild heat of the morning sun baking through the outer skin of the tent. We crawled out to find no clouds and the sun drifting high over the horizon.   Buddy Josh Nelson had now joined our "chrome crew" and he and his younger brother decided to roam down the shore to the Split Rock River, where reports of good fishing had funneled into our camp.  Jacob, Tim, Andy and I decided to head even further down to the Stewart River, a popular lower shore haunt.  We sure weren't the only ones fishing, but the morning proved quite productive. Andy Andy chasin' down one of Tim's big fish...hooked and landed two fresh fish downstream while Jacob, Tim and I worked a couple of upstream holes. Tim ran a stonefly and egg pattern through the whole and finally hooked and landed a nice first fish. A few minutes later, Jacob hooked Almost got him! up, burying his egg pattern in the mouth of a nice chromer, but couldn't quite seal the deal (ask Jacob about it). Moments later, Tim hooked yet another fish. Andy had since wandered upstream and ran to Tim'said with his net.  See, when a big river fish gets hooked, it's

Another big fish landed!

not like bobber fishin' for bluegills. Those fish will muscle you downstream.   The big fish sometimes force us to literally run downriver after them, wrestling them in.  Andy finally napped Tim's fish and Jacob

A North Shore Beauty..... Jacob Gibb Photography

pulled out his camera and snapped a few of the kind of shots that have helped him develop a reputation of an up-and-coming outdoor photographer (check out his website, www.Jacobbgibbphotography.com).Tim and fish... The rest of the day, we wandered several other rivers, completely content, discussing the merits of North Shore fishing.  The merits surrounded us.  The sound of moving water.  The smell of Lake Superior and the woods.  The view of seemingly endless water and fish.   As Andy and I drove back to camp later that evening, a favorite song of my played on the radio. I chuckled a bit as I listened to Greg Brown rumble out the lyrics of his fishing song, "Eugene".  "Sometimes,you have to go look for your life." "Sometimes, you gotta go not look for nothin'."

 Sizing up our next fishing hole.... Jacob Gibb Photography

Yep, exactly what North Shore steelheadin' is all about...

T and T!

T is for turkey...

Yelp! Yelp! Yelp! I wondered if the big ol' gobblers could hear my hen turkey calls. I don't pretend to be the world's best caller, but I sure do like tryin'. My watch read 5:35 am. Yelp! Yelp! Yelp! I sat in complete darkness, calling directly into a cold, stiff breeze that smacked me in the face and kept kicking off my hat. I had been waiting two years to hunt this piece of property and so far, the whole "perfect turkey hunt" thing wasn't quite playing out like I had dreamed it in my head. Yesterday I fought heavy wind and rain. By afternoon, that rain turned to sleet. As the third squall of icy pellets riddled my windblown face, I said to heck with it. I was cold, I was tired and was only eight hours into my 2009 hunting season. I scurried out of the turkey field hoping, just hoping my second morning would be slightly more palatable that the first.     This morning, the rain was gone, but the wind was not.

My Stump - Notice my back sits to the sun so birds in front of me can't see me hiding in there

I popped down against the old stump, looking directly into the wind. I sat thinking about how the stiff wind would affect my hunt. I made a spur of the moment decision. I hopped up from my hiding spot and headed into the wind and upa smallhill towards two standsof old Oaks where I thought the gobblers were roosting. 5:42 am I hit my call; Yelp! Yelp! Yelp! Off in the distance I could hear a gobble. Yep, a big Tom turkey hid somewhere in the stand of Oaks across the corn field. I backed down the hill and doubletimed to another angle where I could make sure that bird knew I was around, gale force winds or not. Yelp! Yelp! Yelp! No response. Yelp! Yelp! Yelp! I got a tired, but sure response from a big bird. I raced back downhill to my stump, sat back down and watched the woods wake up.

As first light started to fall on my turkey haunt, I heard a crash and looked up the hill just in time to see the dark figure of a turkey dropping down from its roost right where I had just made the first calls. Turns The view of my turkey haunt from my stump. Notice the small pond, the hay field and the corn field aboveout it wasn't a squirrel next up in the tree. It was a turkey. I watched the hen hit the ground and cross the hill in front of me, never even slowing to acknowledge my calls. For the next half hour I listened to a couple of gobblers wake up and pop out of their roosts, right in the stand of trees I had been eyeing about 200 yards out and up the hill. I couldn't see them and I could barely hear them as the wind whipped my ears and traffic raced behind me on the old country road. I wasn't a happy turkey hunter at that moment. Each time the wind would die down and I'd get a break in traffic, I'd hit my call, Yelp! Yelp! Yelp! No response from the mystery gobblers. For a half hour I sat in silence against my stump, trying to figure out why those birds had seemingly run the other direction. That's when I heard a distinct gobble way off in the distance. It The bittersweet walk outwas surely in the stand of trees I was focued on, but that darn bird was on the far end. Nowhere near my digs.  I heard another faint gobble. Wind howling, I instantly responded, Yelp! Yelp! Yelp. I got a gobble right back. I didn't think much ofit until the gobbler let out another call. I again responded and got a gobble right back. For the next ten minutes I sat, watching the first bit of sunlight hit the field in front of me.  My heart thumped. I knew there was a Tom out there somewhere and he had definately heard my call. The sunlight tipped the field and slowly got brighter and brighter. Suddenly, Gobble! Gobble! Gobble! That darn Tom had moved a hundred yards toward me. Yelp! Yelp! Yelp! The bird gobbled back. I finally saw him walk out from behind the trees, still up on the hill in front of me. He made slow but steady progress my direction, stopping only to fan his tail and strut a second or two at a time.  That's whenI realized this deal was suddenly going down. I decided to keep on this bird, which goes against much of what I've been taught about calling turkeys. Yelp! Yelp! Yelp! He kept moving my direction slowly, but definatley surely. It was amazing to watch this bird strutting, posing, walking. He dropped down the hillside and had a small pond between himself andthe decoy hen which, by the way, I was worried was going to blow away in the gale. That darn thing was flipping and spinning and bouncing in the heavy wind, but the gobbler kept coming. It walked behind a little brush along the pond edge and I gently shouldered my shotgun. I could feel my heart throbbing. I could hearthe blood thumping in my ears. No wind, no traffic, just THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! The proud old gobbler walked right in front of my blind and I clicked off my safety. He paused behind a pile of scrub brush and then walked out into my open site. I harvested the biggest wild turkey of my career. As I stood over that turkey, I felt just a tad of guilt taking the life of such a stately old bird.I don't take hunts like this lightly. They're a big deal to me and that's the way it should be. Oddly enough, once I got home I decided to weigh that big gobbler.  I hoisted the scale, noticing 26 1/2 pounds on the dial. I raised it to eye level and the scale handle disintegrated, sending the whole deal crashing down on my garage floor.   Figures.... Just like that, my 2009 turkey hunt was over. We spend months dreaming of our hunts, anticipating that first early morning walk into the field and then, it's all over.

By the way, T number two stands for Tick. I found only one in the shower post hunt. For the record, he fared no better than my gobbler.

Congrats are also in order for our co-worker, Todd Siebell.  He nabbed his bird Monday morning about 9.  That gobbler had a 10 inch beard!  Get this... Todd's hunt was such a quick one, he missed out on all that rain and sleet.  Jerk....

Trout, Turkeys and Take-Off...

April 1 may be my favorite single day of the year. Yes, I love April Fool's Day. No joke. I haven't worked on that first day of April in years. See, April 1 marks the open of Minnesota's catch and release trout fishing season and long ago, a few fishing buddies and I vowed to always fish the opener. It's sorta become traditions for us.  We hike in and set up camp along my favorite winding ribbon of gin-clear trout water. Lots of fish and nobody around. A perfect way to kick off spring. Most anglers wait another two weeks until the regular season opens and they can keep fish.  We hit camp before all that mayhem and fish sun-up to sun-down.  It's truly hardcore trout fishing.  I get so darn excited for that first trip, I sit around planning for weeks. Seems like each year we find ourselves in the midst of some kind of adventure. Last year, I hauled gear into camp the night before opener in near white-out conditions. Eight inches of heavy, wet snow fell in just a few hours. Camp looked incredible. Next morning, 50 degree weather dissolved the white landscape in a matter of an hour or two. This year, we decided to skip opening day camp, only because we have something better in mind.  We'll be headed up Lake Superior's north shore in a few weeks to steelhead camp. Buddy Aaron and I still got out for the day on April 1, but instead of retiring to the woods that night, we headed home to get ready for a slightly bigger trout adventure...

 On Tuesday, I pulled into St. Paul's Holman Field right at 12:02 pm. Two minutes late, but excited as heck. I had been brainstorming this trout trip for some time. I pulled into a parking spot behind Wings Aviation, a small fbo,where photjournalist Cy Dodson was already waiting. His gear was out and he had his camera ready to go.  He'd be documenting this fishing adventure for a couple of our television shows.  We'd be traveling with pilots Jeff Dalton and Josiah Ellis and Mark Perkins of Wings Aviation. Out on the tarmac sat a Cirrus SR20 and Remos GX, both planes polished up and ready to head south to trout country. Our trip was simple enough. We'd fly down to the Houston County Airport and then hitch a ride five minutes down into the Winnebago Valley where we'd chase early season trout on one of the Midwest's prettiest spring-fed streams.

We tossed our fishing gear in the back of the planes and quickly taxied out to runway 31. After clearance from the St.Paul tower, the Cirrus zipped off in front of Jeff and I and we followed a few hundred yards behind. We buzzed out right over downtown St. Paul and the State Capitol.  Our flight plan would take us south and east along the Mississippi River to Winona, where we'd then head west into Houston Country. Jeff and I buzzed south in the Remos, an inexpensive and easy to fly airplane.  They're fairly new to the US flying scene. Classified as a Light Sport Aircraft, these planes take half the money and half the training to fly. They're not unltralights, but real machines. Fast little planes with all the bells and whistles. As we bounced south through rough air, we noticed a couple dozen fishing boats piled up on the river in Red Wing, a sign that the walleyes are finally making their way up river.  We next passed over a couple of barges and even dodged a few Bald Eagles and hawks over Lake Pepin. Once we cut to the west and found our way to the Houston County Airport, both planes flew in formation for a few minutes, bouncing around in clear skies as Cy grabbed a little video.  Pilots Jeff and Josiah laughed a bit as the planes buzzed alongside each other, wings seemingly ready to touch. That's the real fun of flying.   Seeing the guys right next door, waving and smiling as we zipped along at better than 100 mph.  I even managed to pop a few still pictures of the high-flyin' fun. A couple minutes later, we touched down at KCHU and rolled up to a couple of parking spots where members of the local flying club and the local newspaper reporter had gathered. It appears news travels quickly. The fliers kicked the tires on the new Remos and poked around the fancy Cirrus. We had a great time meeting new folks. Also in the group? Jeff and Cindy Burg. They own a small fishing camp down along Winnebago  Creek.  I've been down to see them many times and they volunteered to shuttle us from the airport to camp.  A ten minute drive and we pulled into the old farmstead along the banks of the creek. This is where the story gets a little magical.  See, the Burg's turned one of the old farms they own into a fishing oasis.  They renovated the old milking parlour on one of the old barns and turned it into a fish camp. They now rent it out to anyone who wants to catch wild brown trout. Really, it's one of my favorite spots in Minnesota.

We unpacked all our fishing gear and the guys quickly slid into their waders, eager to wet a line in the gin-clear creek. We wandered upstream with fly rods and conventional gear, picking up just a couple of fish before sunset. After a dinner of brats on the grill and a few smokey stories around the campfire, we retired to our beds exhausted, but excited to get to the real fishing first thing come a fresh sunrise. I drifted off to sleep as the coyotes howled in the moonlit valley...
 I  awoke about 7:00 am to the sound of a squeaking floor and the smell of dark roast coffee. A quick peek out the window. Frost coated my still wet waders, but bright blue skies covered the valley.  Forecasters promised a sunny high of 50 degrees. They got the sun part of the equation right, but forgot to mention the wind. The breeze chattered the old farm, gusts howling to 25 mph, darn tough on guys just learning to cast fly rods.   Josiah and Jeff got to work first  thing after bacon and eggs, learning the basics of the roll cast and false cast.  Essentials in the game of fly fishing. Soon enough, Jeff had his first fish in hand. A beauty of a brown trout smacked Jeff's tiny pheasant tail nymph. The rest of the day, we poked a few fish, even finding a spot where eager trout rose to bugs above the surface of the water. Mark and I snuck up behind the hole and Mark laid out a perfect cast, a size 14 Elk Hair Caddis I had just tied on the end of his line. The fly fell just above the rising fish. The caddis danced downstream until it disappeared in a dimple of fast water. Mark set the hook and brought to hand the perfect Winnebago Creek Brown Trout. After another few casts and a few quick takes, he handed off the dry fly rod to Josiah.  Josiah whipped the fly rod and drifted the tattered dry fly through the fishy water missing several fish as they quickly darted up to tap his fly. Finally, he set the hook and landed his first ever trout on a dry fly. I snapped a few pictures of Josiah's accomplishment and we called it a day.....

On morning number two, Mark and I snuck out at sunrise to listen to the valley wake up.  The rest of the guys still laid in bed asleep as we listened to the chorus of rooster pheasants cackling and red-winged blackbirds screeching. I scratched my slate turkey call as gobblers returned the morning hello from high atop the bluffs.

By the time we piled back into the airplanes to head back north, everyone had caught their fair share of trout and landed at least a couple on dry flies. Sad to leave, we were oddly excited to head back towards home. The thrill of flying will do that...  As I snapped a few last pictures before we pulled out of the Houston County Airport, I noticed one last shot on an old and worn hangar door.  I guess that picture sums up our adventure...

Stop and see the folks at Wings Aviation in St. Paul. They'll offer you your first discovery flight.  It is an absolutely amazing thrill.  Thing is, Light Sport Aviation now makes flying easily obtainable again, even for regular folks like myself.   Stop dreaming. Start flying...

Tick, Tick, Tick.....

Seems I'm watching the clock and the calendar way too much these days.  I hate this small window of time each spring.  My ice fishing is done.  I'm chomping at the bit to start trout fishing.  I can't wait to get the boat ready for walleye season, and I'm going crazy counting the hours until turkey season.  Yes, I'm completely "birdy", waiting for my first morning of hunting.  Drives me crazy having to wait!  This year, I'll be hunting April 20th, not too far from home.   For these few weeks, I change my driving route to work so I can check my fields and see if my birds are mulling around.   This morning, like most when the weather is moderate, the birds were out.  I watched four GIANT gobblers roaming around, acting tough in front of the hens they're trying to court.  They puff out their chests and go into full bloom, strutting back and forth, trying to make a good impression.  It's funny, because this morning, those birds absolutely knew I was there, and didn't care a bit.  Seems they know I'm helpless, not able to hunt 'em.  I'll bet the morning I walk into that field before sunrise, those birds won't show.  They'll have courted and found the right hen, their business will be done and those gobblers will be off to greener pastures.  Oh yea, that's the other thing about this time of year.  My confidence is always low.  For some reason, I thing I'll have zero luck chasing wild turkeys.  In three weeks I'll know... 

The Turkeys Are Teasing!

I don't care how good a turkey hunter you are, those darn birds can be frustrating, in or out of season. A prime example? Just what I've been witnessing the last few mornings. I don't hunt my spring turkey spots until the third week of April, but I am already keeping tabs on the birds. After I drop Brady off at daycare, Idrive by my regular spots on the way to work. I've got six or eight spots. Really, that's probably a bad practice this early in the spring. Why? Well, because those birds are grouped up right now. Two days ago I counted 11 gobblers in the small hay field I hope to hunt. I was able to get some blurry phone video of them playing around in front of me. Darn buzzards! Struttin', Gobblin', showing off 40 yards in front of me and I'm not able to do a thing about it, but watch. I love it! It's amazing to just sit and watch these wild creatures. It's even more amazing when you consider Minnesota's wild turkey population was all but gone years ago. This morning, I revisited my fields. Two for two. The first had more than a dozen hens, gobblers and jakes wandering around. The second field had eight or ten birds. I tried out a set of binoculars with a built in camera I received for Christmas. A fun little toy to try. Unfortunately, it seems the camera doesn't quite take the shot where you're looking. Kinda like a shotgun that's not sighted in. Oh well. I was still able to grab one shot of a darn big gobbler. I knicknamed himWiley. Old Wiley and his buddies sure didn't seem tobe in any sort of mood to be mating today. Unlikeearlier this week whentheywere on their game, so to speak. They were just wandering, picking at any feed they could find, certainly unaware, or at least not at all worried that I was watching them. Odds are over the next few weeks