You have undoubtedly heard the five stages a trout fisher goes through: catch a fish, catch a lot of fish, catch big fish, catch difficult fish, and finally be satisfied with the act of fishing itself – whether or not the fish decide to cooperate.
My journey started in the 4th grade, fishing Trout Brook in Hudson every morning after finishing my paper route. I eventually caught my first trout by pegging a worm on the bottom of a hole coupled with a big split shot. Despite only processing 5th grade educations, by the next year, my mates and I invented euro nymphing albeit using long spinning rods and garden hackle. Now we were catching a lot of trout in water not known for great numbers and an added benefit was our bycatch of suckers and carp greatly decreased. The following year, the nightcrawlers on the lawn of the old Hudson courthouse their nightly sojourns after a summer rain were never bothered again by my flashlight wielding buddies and I. We changed our tactics and used Mepps and Panther Martin spinners (spin fishers don’t overlook a floating #5 Rapala either). Overall, the fish got bigger (especially at night) and the rough fish were eliminated.
During junior high, my parents bought a camper on a lake in Siren, Wisconsin chock full of pike. Sadly, I abandoned trout fishing and became a big pike fisherman using my paper route money to buy a boat. It wasn’t until many years after college, marriage, and kids, that my brother-in-law introduced me to fly fishing and I again fell in love with trout and the rivers they inhabit.
Forgetting all the trout knowledge I gleaned in grade school, I floundered mightily with the fly rod and was undone by poor casting and new enemy, drag. Needing help, I enrolled in a fly fishing class taught by Mike Alwin. A light bulb went on when Mike described how to swing soft hackles. This seemed to be a method that could disguise my inaccurate casts and luckily drag was actually integral to the method. When the class hit the upper Kinni for our “final”, I found success! BWOs were coming off in a riffle and swinging my new favorite fly, a partridge and yellow, I caught 11 trout! All that spring, I was swinging my way down the Kinni, covering surprisingly long distances (only discovered upon the slog back upstream) and encountering quite a few fish.
After a season of swinging, I decided to work on my nymphing game. If 90% of what a trout eats is subsurface, I figured this is how to rack up the numbers and I was right. The discovery of the water load cast was crucial to me doing more fishing and less untangling of double nymph/thingamabobber rigs.
I have never been a dedicated streamer junkie, but I have connected with some big fish, hitting the banks with streamers while fishing back to the car after an evening hatch is done. My biggest trout have come steelhead fishing on the Brule by chucking eggs and legs (Superior X-leg nymph with an egg pattern tied off the bend of the hook) all day long or fishing the hex hatch on the White and Brule rivers. Dry flies the size of hummingbirds bring the big browns out of hiding and makes braving the hordes of mosquitos worth the effort.
For my next stage, I decided to take on the tricos a few of years ago. This hatch of insects, size 20-26 occurs daily from late July through early September, so the trout get very, very picky – they know exactly what a trico is supposed to look like. The water at this time of year is low and clear and to top it off, much of the feeding is for the spinners in the slow water below riffles. Dead spinners don’t move at all and the trout can get a good long look at the fly before committing. It took quite a bit of scouting to find areas with good hatches. Then it took a couple of years to figure out techniques, patterns, and leader set-ups that work for me. It was truly a challenge.
Well, that takes us up to this past season. Was I content to just get out, regardless of the results? Almost there! I wouldn’t be upset with a skunking, let’s call it “mildly irked.” One fish sure would have been nice. Being quite competitive in nature, I did not think I would get this far when I first started, but here I am, free to trout fish any darn way I chose. Very early in my journey I read every trout fishing book in the Washington County library system and purchased a good deal more. Some of the books, written across the pond, expounded on the requirement in some local streams to only fish dries flies upstream, to rising trout, which struck me as utterly ridiculous. And yet I stand here today, not as a dry fly snob — please trout fish any way you choose — but certainly a dry fly enthusiast. Without the need to rack up numbers or size, I no longer feel the need to fish from dawn to dusk. I fish whatever is emerging at that time of the year. During the hex hatch I will sleep in and wait until 8 pm before leaving the cabin. Conversely, if it is trico time, I will be on the water at first light and off the water enjoying a late breakfast by 10:30 am, when the spinner fall is over. My overriding rule, however, is that the best time for trout fishing is whenever you can go — and often that is when nothing is hatching — so I always carry a fully stocked nymph box.
I taught my kids to fly fish which was very satisfying, and I now find that helping out a stranger at streamside is a joy as well. Having a new friend catch a fish is more rewarding now than catching one myself, something that would have never occurred to me when I first started.
My son, Brian, is following the same path, as I did. He sits at the vice tying huge pike flies often with gobs of yellow bucktail and red hackle feathers, replacements for the Five of Diamonds spoons I used to hurl out with my spinning rod when I was his age. He is also looking for big trout too using these streamers and fishing the hex hatch.
In contrast, my daughter reached the final stage before I did! She went from catch a fish, to just happy to get out on the stream. I realized this, one night when the trout were tearing into sulfurs like stripers in a school of menhaden and I was laser focused on my #18 comparadun bouncing down a riffle. She tapped me on the shoulder and told me to look up to see an incredible sunset that made my jaw drop. I felt sheepish knowing that I would have never noticed it had she not been there. She has become almost a brook trout purist and claims to only need one fly to catch them, a #18 CDC Caddis. She is out in the world now and I don’t get to fish with her much anymore but I can’t doubt her. Her fish photos are all of brook trout and unless she is secretly hitting up the fly shop bins that is the only fly she asks me to tie for her. She has no need for big fish, as the small brook trout are “so cute” and their small bodies “concentrate all their beauty.” When she reports catching no fish, I ask what was hatching and did she try a different fly say a nymph, streamer, comparadun, or soft hackle. No, she didn’t try those, but then I’ll receive photos of what she did “catch”; the deer that came streamside to get a drink, the beaver cruising up the opposite bank, the bald eagle watching over her, and the wildflowers. She is on to something. She never gets skunked.
Sometime early in the century when I was helping out – or so I claim; Mike may have a different view – at Mike Alwin’s Bob Mitchell’s Fly Shop, a guy named Paul Wiemerslage, would drop in, usually near the end of the day and usually accompanied by his pert and perky wife, and just sort of hang around, often well past closing time. By that time of day my supply of bonhomie had run low and I found him kind of irritating. He obviously came to talk to Mike and didn’t seem even to notice me, which, when you get down to it, is likely why I found him irritating. I learned that he was a high-level executive at a large local manufacturing concern and presumed that with that came a certain level of disdain for the help. I have never been more wrong in my life. I had mistaken a sense of respect for disdain. Sometime in the Christmas Holiday season in my days as a putative Lutheran, probably when my daughter was participating in a Sunday school show, Paul, who was a co-parishioner, stopped me in a hallway and asked me how my steelhead season had gone. I was surprised that he knew I’d been fishing. That one question breached the metaphorical levee between us and led to a conversation so long that I was, much to my wife’s consternation, late to my seat for the performance. Subsequently Paul and I forged a friendship that led us on adventures with venues as disparate as Paul’s home kitchen, the north woods, and the famous trout streams of Montana.
Paul had held many different positions with his employer and had excelled in all of them, but the job he had liked most, and was certainly best at, was in sales. He had a preternatural ability to earn people’s trust and to put them at ease. This wasn’t some sort of technique or act; it was simply and genuinely Paul. The first time I traveled with Paul we took his travel trailer deep into Wisconsin’s Driftless Region and set up at a campground on the upper reaches of Timber Coulee Creek. It had been a wet spring and the water table was high. The campground was soggy in many spots, but we’d parked the trailer in a high and dry spot. One afternoon I heard a group of campers talking. One of them was grousing loudly about where and how we’d parked and what jerks we must be. I told Paul about it. He shrugged and said he’d take care of it. He strode out to where the men were talking, introduced himself and asked them where they were from. “La Crosse,” the chief grump replied. “Me, too,” said Paul, “My father worked at Heileman Brewing for years.” This established Paul as a local and within minutes the entire group was laughing at Paul’s storytelling. There was no more grumping. I saw Paul build or reinforce relationships wherever he went. When we traveled, he brought along good bottles of wine and blocks of aged Wisconsin cheddar cheese from the Cady Cheese factory. He presented these as gifts to fly shop workers who gave him good information and to campground hosts who treated him well. Some of this was done, of course, as a means of ingratiation, but the real driving factor was Paul’s genuine respect for the knowledge they possessed and the effort they put in. These folks never forgot Paul, either. Perhaps they recalled the gifts, but I always felt it was more likely that they remembered Paul’s big heart and even bigger personality.
Paul had a close friend, John, a brilliant architect and businessman. John, a giant of a man, had an appetite and a lust for life that equaled Paul’s. John had an expansive cabin on what was essentially a private muskellunge lake in northern Wisconsin and another utterly primitive cabin in a vast lake-dotted landholding in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. We fished hard on trips to these midwestern paradises, but we ate Paul’s gourmet cooking and drank John’s French wines prodigiously as well. John was never happier than in these settings and Paul once said to me, “I just love to watch that man have fun.” The feeling, I’m sure, was mutual. The only problem for me was keeping up with these two characters and I soon learned that I was a better observer than participant.
In essence, Paul loved to watch all the people he liked and admired have fun. In the last few years of angling author Jim Humphrey’s life, Paul hosted a mid-winter get-together at his house with Jim as the guest of honor. Paul didn’t know Jim particularly well, but, again, he admired Jim’s work and what he’d done to help others through his writing. These were titularly discussion groups with specific topics pre-selected by Paul. The guests ranged in age from Jim at the oldest to anglers Paul’s son’s age with several of us in late middle age in between. Everyone’s input was welcome, but Paul made certain that everyone understood that Jim’s word was gospel. There was food and drink, of course, with typically three different varieties of Paul’s delicious chili served as entrees. Paul put hours of work into those soups, expecting nothing more than the obvious satisfaction of his guests.
Paul was a born organizer. We (Friends of Paul and friends of friends – Paul subscribed to the idea that his friends’ friends were also his) made trips every spring to Cottonwood Camp on Montana’s Big Horn River for several years. The fishing was superb and the camaraderie was excellent, but the best part was that everything was taken care of! Paul secured the lodging, planned the menus, and did the grocery shopping. In almost everything Paul did he started at wretched excess and went on from there, so while it took half the crew risking hernias and ruptured discs to haul his massive Yeti cooler from the truck to the cabin, we could be certain that we’d dine like kings throughout our stay.
One of the very best adventures I ever had with Paul was a trip that the two of us made to Montana in the late summer of 2012. Paul asked me to go along with him to pick up a gorgeous, custom-made wooden drift boat he intended to buy. I had been downsized from my job that spring and felt that I ought to stay home and be responsible, but Paul worked his salesman’s charms on me, made an offer I couldn’t refuse, and it was off to Montana we went. We took a southerly route through Wyoming, country I hadn’t seen, staying overnight in Sheridan before heading up across the Big Horns and on to our lodging at the historic Chico Hot Springs Resort. Eventually Paul took possession of the boat and we fished out of it on both the Yellowstone and Missouri Rivers before returning home. However, it looked for a time as though details might block the sale and we were both nervous. When the details were resolved and the deal done, Paul drove us back to Chico and produced a bottle of sixteen-year old Lagavulin single malt scotch whiskey he’d brought along in case a celebration might be in order. I’d somehow made it into my seventh decade without ever having so much as had a nip of this delightful potable, but I rapidly developed a taste for it and it took a couple of hours of soaking in the hot springs and several cups of the resort’s potent black coffee to make me whole the next morning.
I was to have another memorable experience involving Paul and scotch. Late in the afternoon last December 20th, Paul called and asked the name of a smoky Scotch I’d told him about. I told him it was Ardbeg. He asked me if it could be found in any of Hudson’s liquor stores. I suggested he try Casanova’s. Not two hours later there was a knock on the door. It was Paul. He thrust a bottle of Ardbeg into my hand and told me that he’d bought a bottle for himself, too, and intended to go home and drink a glass of it and suggested that I do the same. He turned and walked out to his Jeep and out of my life. Paul died of heart-related issues sometime late that evening or early the next morning. If you knew Paul only casually or only by reputation, it was easy to think of him as a sort of Falstaffian character – which he was. Paul was a man of huge appetites and interests, but he was also one of the kindest, truest, and most generous friends a man could hope to have and I will miss him always.
Paul loved the outdoors and he loved fly-fishing for trout. He was a long-time member of Kiap-TU-Wish and once served on the board of the Kinnickinnic River Land Trust. His family has asked that memorials in his name be directed to those two organizations.
One day this past Spring, a FedEx shipment in a triangular box arrived on my doorstep. At first, I was confused as to its origin, and my wife, Suzanne, who in all our years together has become quite familiar with triangular boxes and their contents, quickly asked “Ed, did you order another fly rod?” I had not. Further investigation of the label revealed that the package came from my good friend Ernie Chupp ,who lives in Omaha, Nebraska.
Over time, I’ve shared with Ernie my fervent passion for fly fishing. I’ve mentioned my fondness for older rods and explained how fly rod construction had progressed over time with the advent of modern materials such as fiberglass and graphite, eventually finding favor over bamboo. I was delighted to learn that one of Ernie’s relatives was none other than Ferdinand Claudio, a builder of premier fiberglass fly rods in the 1940s which are still in great demand today by vintage rod collectors—and Ernie has one of Claudio’s rods.
After opening the box, I was surprised to see a vintage bamboo fly rod. It was a three-piece rod with two tips. Each section was cradled in a slotted holder. The rod was in pretty rough condition, but something told me that it had character and qualities that, if paired with a little TLC, might result in a usable fly rod that would provide loads of fishing fun. I needed to find out more about the rod and whether it could be brought back to its nearly original condition.
My next thought? “I need to go out and see the Norlings.” I contacted Dave Jr. and asked if I could bring the rod out to their workshop, if they’d be willing to help me figure out where and when it was made, and if there was a possibility, we could give it a new life.
At the workshop, Dave Sr. took the rod in hand, and asked “what do you want to do with it?” I told him that I would like to fish with it. He gave me a wry smile; I think he was pleased.
At first glance, Senior thought the rod was made in New York, but he couldn’t verify the manufacturer and said he’d need to do some further research. On closer scrutiny we determined that one section was missing some guides, and that a series of narrow thread wraps, which Senior told me were called “intermediates,” were placed along the sections of bamboo for added strength. Many of these wraps were either loose or missing and would need to be replaced.
The Norlings offered that I could come back out to the work shop and they’d help me get started with winding new wraps and attaching new guides. I left the rod so that Senior could do some additional research and determine what else was needed to get it into fishing condition. About a week later I received a note from Dave Jr. telling me that they would be fixing up the rod at no charge. What a surprise! They had found that the rod was indeed made in New York, by a company called Horrocks-Ibbotson (H&I), and they placed its manufacturing date around 1910. Horrocks-Ibbotson was one of America’s largest production rod companies for many years, competing head-to-head with Montague and South Bend. It later became known as the world’s largest manufacturer of fishing tackle.
I soon got another call to come and pick up the rod. Dave Sr. also informed me that I could likely get a reel on Ebay to match up with the rod, and I was able to purchase a wonderful, small,
single-handed reel made by H&I that turned out to be a perfect match for the rod.
When I arrived, Senior handed me the rod. I pulled it out of its rod sock and was astounded. The rod glistened. He had put fresh coats of varnish on it. There were new snake guides where needed, a new stripping guide, and a set of new ferrules. All of the guides and thin intermediate thread wraps were re-done. The reel-seat was re-glued as well. When I put the rod together, I knew that I was handling a treasure. I felt blessed! I showed Senior my vintage reel, and just the sight of it made his day. Next, Senior’s command: “Let’s go cast it.” He felt that the rod could probably handle a 6-weight line, which Dave Jr. quickly spooled onto my vintage reel. First casting honors went to Dave Jr. As I watched, he quickly began to shoot the most wonderful tight loops imaginable, making clear what an excellent caster he is. Then it was Senior’s turn. It was soon evident that Senior hasn’t lost his touch. I followed and was delighted with the feel of the rod loading and unloading and how effortless it was to throw a perfect cast. The three of us reveled in our success.
I want to thank my friend Ernie, whose gift started the whole experience, and Dave Jr. and Dave Sr. Their generosity has provided me with not just another fly rod, but a treasure that will always have a special place in my heart.
Let’s begin by recognizing that Trout Unlimited is not a fly-fishing club, it’s a conservation organization dedicated to trout and cold water fisheries. It’s motto could be, “What’s good for the trout is good for the trout angler.” Founded in 1959, TU accepts any trout angler who wants to help conserve and protect trout and the cold-water habitat they rely on. Angling methods, whether bait, fly or spinner, are less important than your desire to protect and conserve.
Among Great Lakes steelhead anglers there’s a technique that calls for a fly rod fitted with a fly reel loaded with monofilament. The advantage of this rig is twofold: the fly rod, generally longer than a spinning rod, extends the anglers ability to lengthen the cast and control the drift, and the thinner mono allows the spawn sack, egg, or fly to sink deeper faster because it is less subject to the vagaries of the current.
Years ago, there was a debate in the Fly Shop about what actually defined fly fishing. At that time a veritable hoard of guys would crowd the shop every Wednesday to drink coffee, trade the same old stories, and debate various issues, one of which was what defined fly fishing. We called them “the Lost Boys.” Gordy was the one member of this unofficial club whose life had purpose; he fished every day, no excep- tions. While he had explored every method of catching trout on a fly and was an excellent caster, his favored method of trout fishing was with mono because he recognized its advantages. With a weighted nymph or two, split shot, and a wood strike indicator, Gordy relied on the weight of his rig to make the cast. The Lost Boys rejected this method as “spin fishing” with a fly. And therein lies the debate.
If you want to practice your spin casting you need your rod, reel spooled with mono, and a lure or plug because it’s the weight of the lure that pulls line from the reel. If you want to practice your fly casting you need your rod, reel, fly line (which supplies the weight), and something that could pass as a leader. You wouldn’t need a fly because a fly weighs nothing. So, what defines fly casting, as well as fly fishing, is the fly line.
Bruce Maher and Bob Trevis wrote an excellent article in the January RIPRAP about Tenkara and Euro Nymphing as trout fishing techniques. Tenkara relies on rods that are long and willowy and a short “line.” What they describe is either level fluorocarbon or braided or furled nylon. Both are described as roughly the length of the rod, 10′ to over 14′. Approximately 3′ of tippet is attached to the end and a fly attached to that. I’ve frequently thought that Tenkara, because the rods telescope to 20″, would be an ideal lightweight outfit for backpacking into those small mountain streams I love. But to make a point, the authors admit that the “line” rarely touches the water and in fact is not cast in the traditional sense. Likewise, in their description of Euro Nymphing, they explain that the fly line, usually only a foot or two beyond the tip top, also rarely touches the water. With a 20′ leader and heavily weighted nymphs the angler is actually casting the weighted nymphs, not the fly line, copying Gordy’s tech- nique. If you think a 20′ leader is kinda long, brace yourself; I found a leader formula that was 45′.
Both of these methods, Tenkara and Euro Nymphing, are legiti- mate and excellent fish catching techniques. Maher and Trevis should be applauded for introducing us to these techniques, and we could all stand to adapt some of these ideas into our fishing repertoire. Absent a fly line, however, is it fly fishing or is it spin fishing with a fly? Therein lies the debate.
Every year our Chapter gives away dozens of flies for various events. We include flies at our Fly Fishing for Trout clinic in the spring. We offer flies at the Great Waters Fly Fishing Expo. We give away flies at almost every membership meeting. Last year Bob (the Fly Wrangler) Trevis told us we were tapped out on flies so we organized the first TIE-A-THON with the goal of replenishing the Chapter’s fly library. We were successful beyond our wildest expectations as the assembled tiers churned out hundreds of wet flies, nymphs and dries. Plus, we ate well and had a load of fun.
How much fun you ask? Last year we had nine or ten tiers and seven of them have already signed up for this year’s events. And the dates for this year’s TIE-A-THON are Saturday, February 22 and Saturday, March 28. The meeting place is Lund’s Fly Shop in River Falls and the meeting time will be from 10:00am until sometime in the mid afternoon. Lunch and coffee will be provided. The emphasis in this first session is on nymphs, wet flies and damp emergers. Tiers should bring their tools, hooks and materials; you’re donating your results to the chapter. If by chance you’re short on something (a hook, beads, a tool) rest assured Brian probably has it. . .it is a fly shop, after all.
Interested? To register for the seats still available contact: troutchaser@msn.com — Mike Alwin
Wisconsin TU has requested that our chapter provide a fly box of flies for hatches specific to our area (yes, the pink squirrel counts as a hatch). This fly box will be auctioned off at the state banquet on February 1st. We would ask that you provide 6-12 flies of your favorite pattern(s) by January 25th.
Please contact the “Fly Wrangler,” Greg Olson, via email: driftless23@gmail.com, if interested. Your help and flies are much appreciated!
Get out your vise and materials; tie 6-12 of your favorite flies by January 25th for the WI TU Banquet. Kiap-TU-Wish is donating a box which will be auctioned off on February 1. We’ve brought in big bucks before; let’s keep it going.
