Camping The Opener

Editor’s Note: I’m dusting this one off from the vault. The vault is my collection of drafts that have yet to see the light of day for one reason or another. I started writing this one shortly after taking this trip, but life got busy from moving west and there it sat. With the Wisconsin trout season opening once again, I felt it was all too appropriate to reminisce on the last opener I fished. Memories marinated for awhile and the revisiting of it to finish writing allowed me to relive these moments in time. The opener is always a time for joy and optimism as we are able to visit and interact once again with the wild places that we cherish dearly. I’ll be living vicariously through the adventures of my Brothers in Trout back in the Dairyland until I return there later this month. -Sam

A buzzing from overhead begins the morning. Lying on my back, I reach towards the ceiling storage pocket and silence the noise. 5AM.

Unzipping my tent and crawling out into the pair of damp hiking boots left just outside the door, I gaze around in the morning twilight and bask in the importance of this Saturday morning. It is May 1st, 2021. The opening of all trout streams across the state of Wisconsin. While the tradition of fishing on this day is not new to me, I am experiencing it in a new way this year. My good friend Cordell and I rented two nights at a campsite on a state park located twenty minutes away from our most coveted stream. Not to mention all of the other prime waters that lie within close range of the park’s borders.

I fumble through a small black bag for my pocket stove, lighter, boiler pot, and two pouches of instant coffee; mission critical gear. Shortly after lighting the propane, I hear another tent unzip and Cordell emerges with some news. “Mitchell just got to the stream. Two other trucks.” It is 5:10AM.

While my views on sharing the stream with other anglers and even the concept of “competition” has become increasingly pacifist as I’ve grown in my fly fishing pursuits, there is still a tingle of anxiety that comes with accepting the fact that your most secretive spot isn’t all that secret. At least not on opening day.

While slurping down some instant coffee that contained not-so-delicate notes of the previous night’s Spanish rice, we load my Outback with the last of our gear and are soon en route.

When we pull up to the stream access point, those two other vehicles from the early morning report had turned into five. Six if you count the guy fishing out of his car(!) from the bridge. He didn’t stay long.

Hiking through a farm field skirting the stream, we encounter our first character of the day. A pair of Mossy Oak camouflage waders climbs out of the stream and into our path. In an insane instance of déjà vu , we both had encountered the same man, at the same time of morning, on the same stream, at the same field on opening day the year prior. The first time we met him, he boasted about catching his limit before 6AM and doing so out of necessity because he “hooked ’em all the way down to their a–holes.” The conversation is even similar this year.

“Caught your limit already?”

“Oh yeah. Small ones, 8 inchers. Had to keep ’em though, I hooked ’em so deep.”

“All the way down to their a–holes?”

“Ohhhh yeahhhh. You boys won’t have no luck with them fly rods in here. Too brushy.”

“Oh really? Alright.” (if only this poor man had seen the size of some of the brookies we’ve released in this stream…)

We decide to pass on the section recently frothed by the man in camo waders and continue upstream to meet up with Mitchell, stopping to make a cast or two at some of our favorite spots along the way. We have come to know each bend and pool in this section of the stream with an intimate knowledge over the years. The first visit to them each season is akin to the reunion with an old friend. No matter the time elapsed between visits, you are able to ease back into a comforting familiarity.

Spirits are high as we meet up with Mitchell. Given his early start, he’s an hour into fishing and has already made his way halfway through the famed meadow section; roughly a half mile from the access point. We spread across the meadow section and work our way well past it, covering water thoroughly between the three of us without any signs of trout. The cold temps and overcast skies shoot any chance at early insect activity.

A few spin fisherman paddle by in kayaks churning up the gin clear water. Collectively we decide to head into the nearby town for breakfast, rest the water, and let the temps warm up in hopes for a midday hatch. We are no longer trying to beat the opening day crowds, we are one with the opening day crowds.

A trip to the bakery is a ritual in itself. Tom, the owner, is always excited when Cordell, Dean, or I walk in. He’s a dedicated trout angler himself and has gotten to know us well from years of visits. Invariably our presence means that we are either fresh off of or about to head to a trout stream, sometimes both. We talk about the opener, speculate on the changing of the weather, and huddle around a laminated map on his wall of trout streams within the county. 

“I would head there if it was up to me”, he says pointing to a road on the map with an unwavering confidence. We have our next heading. A multitude of blueberry danishes, quiche slices, and mugs of coffee are consumed while sharing stories of trips past. We pick up a cookie for the road, say our goodbyes to Tom, and organize the caravan. I check the clock as the car starts, not even 10am and we are onto stream #2. Life is good.

The weather begins to turn in our favor as we pass rolling hills and farmland. We turn down a gravel road, narrowly squeezing by a farmer in a combine coming the other way. We pull into the grassy access point alongside an aging pickup truck. It’s clear that this belongs to the older angler standing at the bridge. I’m not sure if there’s a statistic out there for percentage of fisherman that never leave the bridge on opening day, but I imagine that it’s quite high. He’s instructing his grandson how to cast a spinning rod and drift a nightcrawler. I can’t help but think that we could be witnessing an important event in this young boy’s life. I head upstream while Cordell and Mitchell hike downstream from the bridge.

The land bordering this section is an idyllic meadow that affords ample room for backcasting, a rare feature on central Wisconsin streams. It doesn’t take long before a small pod of trout starts rising just past the next bend in the stream. I observe the risers for a few minutes and scan the sky for bugs before tying on the old standby, a size 16 parachute adams.

A few of those risers are brought to hand, revealing themselves to be small native brook trout; the living gems that we have grown so impartial to. No matter the size, each one of these trout has its own finger print. The light coloration on the abdomen of these indicates a life spent in the namesake substrate of the Sand Counties.

I came into the weekend with some things weighing heavy on mind mind. The next week I will fly out to Washington for the final round of job interviews. Life is about to change in exciting but drastic ways. And it will come at me fast. On the stream, my mind is able to attain a stillness. The bugs, the water, and the trout all give me an unspoken permission to let these thoughts go.

At the agreed upon hour, I reunite with Cordell and Mitchell back at the access point. The announced returns are small, but spirits remain high. The bridge angler is still in position and gives us some ribbing about our fly rods. Despite his aversion for fly fishing, we find common ground in our Salmonid pursuits. We say our goodbyes to Mitchell and head to another town nearby.

Plans for the remainder of the day are hatched over burgers and iced tea at a classic small town diner. We will return to camp for an afternoon nap, give the waders a chance to dry out, and enjoy some Spotted Cows before heading to one final stream near the campsite. The midday sun remains into the early evening, but we are afforded shade at the campsite from the towering pines. After one more Spotted Cow, we collect our gear and take off. It’s a Three Stream Day.

In the small grassy lot of the access point, I pop up a portable camp table and spread out the dinner ingredients; smoked salmon, a box of couscous, and some cherry tomatoes. Cordell pulls up the cooler and unboxes his guitar. The soft hiss of a propane stove set to the strumming of an acoustic six string is a sound I’ll never hear enough of in this life. The notes carry themselves over the fields and to the stream beyond that we will soon fish.

This is what it’s all about.