Cold Open

They said it couldn’t be done. Not in January, not in Wisconsin, and especially not with a morning temp of -12 F. That’s alright, we waited til noon.

With thermal layers on and hand warmers activated, Dean and I departed amidst doubts from the naysayers. It’s the 2018 Wisconsin trout opener and we may have well been the only two in all of central WI crazy enough to venture out on a day like this.

Discussions on the car ride centered around speculating whether or not there would even be open water to fish. A string of cold spells had frozen over much of the area’s open water into thick sheets of ice. Driving past many of these waterways, including some trout streams, did not get our hopes up.

We pulled into the unplowed State Fishery Area parking lot, situated on a hilltop above the stream. We exited the car and began hiking down the path toward the creek. Before the stream came into view, we paused to listen. The only audible noises were the call of birds and the unmistakable sound of running water. We were in business!

We rigged up, said a prayer to St. Andrew, and hit the water. Dean worked a bend near the trail point as I hiked upstream to a favorite pet-pool of mine. On its first drift, my small pink squirrel nymph was inspected by a 7 or 8 inch brookie before returning to his undercut bank. A few casts later and I’m tight to a wriggling trout whom I saw come take the nymph from across the pool. This trout was smaller, but beautifully colored up from the previous fall with a red belly and perfect red spotting, silhouetted with light blue halos. After a quick pic, the trout swam off. In the meanwhile, Dean had made his way upstream and we celebrated the first trout of the 2018 season; still in disbelief.

Now it was time for Dean to catch his. I advised him to switch to a pink squirrel; something easier said than done. Tasks that require the dexterity of a dental hygienist become complicated as your fingers turn as tough and pliable as beef jerky.

The switch was made and after a few passes through the same pool, Dean was into his first. A small brookie had situated itself at the tail end of the pool and struck the nymph on its way back up the water column.

Soon a small, dark colored brook trout sat in the hand of his mitten. Size is not the measure on the first trip of the season, and we celebrated this trout with all of the usual fanfare of an extraordinary catch.

Upstream now and I hear Dean whistling the Dixie theme, his new 4 weight throbbing under the tension of a squirming trout. A much nicer brookie, 7 or 8 inches in length, was splashing midstream. The bright red underbelly and green flanked sides were visible from my upstream vantage point. A series of head shakes and the fish was gone, leaving only the bitter taste of rejection in its wake.

This taste is only marginally worse than the loss of feelings in the extremities; something I skirted with soon thereafter. A calm and shallow stretch I was nymphing produced another 5 inch brook trout to my glove. The trout then promptly nose-dove into a snow drift bordering the stream. I jumped towards the fish, realizing it would soon become a popsicle and in doing so, broke through the thin ice along the waters edge. My genius idea of forgoing waders in favor of warmer boots and snowpants nearly frost bit me in the foot. Dean and I debated on the car ride back whether or not 5 inch brook trout were worth risking loss of appendages to save; no conclusion was reached.

At this point we decided that it was best to return home, where we reported our unlikely successes to the surprise of everyone, unthawed by the fire, and toasted our porters to the trout.

I returned on a solo trip the next morning. Air temps were a bit higher, but a nipping wind was introduced. Also, I brought along waders this time.

Without going into fish-by-fish detail; it was a record day for me. Ten brook trout and most of which were 8 inches or more; big fish for this tiny creek.

The trip may have been perfect had it not been for an unfortunate event that occurred upon hiking out (thanks in part to my own negligence). My fly had just gotten stuck in the streamside brush and snapped my fine, 6x tippet. I reeled my line in and called it a day. The trip back to the car requires a pathless hike through a pine forest before finally meeting up with a cross-country skiing trail leading back to the parking area.

Anyone who’s ever tried walking through thick trees with a 9 foot piece of graphite knows how difficult this is. The best method to maneuver is to tuck the rod under your arm, with the tip of the rod pointing behind you. I forged forward like this, crawling under branches in some parts until finally a clearing appeared and I reached the skiing trail. I flipped the rod so that it was now in front of me and realized something was up. The rod was about a foot and a half too short; the final piece of the rod came dislodged by the thick brush. A line running through the guides would have prevented this.

Trying to stay calm, I hiked back, attempting to retrace my steps. Searching for a foot and a half long rod tip the size of a twig in the forest of foot and a half long twigs is an almost impossible feat. I gave it my best effort but stopped when my own foot tracks became lost in the vast network of animal tracks.

Luckily, Orvis can replace the lost section for me and in roughly 56 business days I will be back, risking hypothermia for 5 inch brook trout.