An Early August Float Along the Brule!

Rain Clouds loomed in the distance. The shrubs and flower baskets hung limp. The humidity of late has made even the mosquitoes sluggish. August has arrived to Western Wisconsin, and made extended periods outside a challenge. Afternoons of fogged sunglasses, warm waters, and tepid trout. Yep. August. The Angry Dane called me and shrewdly ordered me to, "Not forget the map!" That holy grail of identified steelhead and trout waters on one of our favorite trout haunts... The Boise-Brule River of Northern Wisconsin.

The Boise-Brule, or Brule for short, is a river steeped in history. Five former presidents have donned waders and struggled against the current for trophy browns, rainbows, and brookies. It is a river of incredible moods, which change at nearly every turn. The Brule River winds some sixty plus miles from Solon Springs to Lake Superior. Along it's run, one can find calm shallow openings with spruce and rock. At another turn, the river is in sections divided by waving weeded beds. Trout will hide along the shade and attack a caddis fly like you wouldn't believe! The next moment, you're handling a boulder-strewn section of rapids, which empty into mysteriously beautiful, deep pools, with golden-bellied browns within. I do this river no justice. The peace, beauty, and serenity of this resource are worth your efforts to paddle. I love it even more exploring by foot... er, wader. The local waters near River Falls had stalled! The bite had become far more finicky than any other time of the year. I could find fish, watch them rise, and not take anything I threw. I was ready for new water, and the thrill of landing a big brown, or beefy native brook trout.

The Angry Dane's plan was to do a canoe float from the Stone's Bridge to the Winneboujou Landing. Roughly a twelve mile journey along the Upper Brule. During the float, we would encounter seven sets of rapids, numerous holes, and two lakes. All well and good, I assure you, but I wanted to hit the Lower Brule, and explore a few holes near McNeils. I had a hunch, with the recent rain, the Lake Superior Browns would be started up for their early fall run. These are the compromises you make with your outdoor brethren.

I had little interest in the Upper, as I'd floated and fished it before. The lakes were a chore to make, and quite weedy to my recollection. The Lower was far wilder, and to my liking. I enjoy the challenge of the swift, cold, and tricky current. It keeps my senses sharp to dance along slippery boulders, and unseen ledges, while making your way to cherry stretch of water, or deep pool. Call it my inner explorer, gluttony for punishment, or inner child. I smile at them all! I like a challenge, and the wild.

The table was set. I was to meet the Angry Dane at his abode at the allotted time. We were going to rough it this time. He was bringing Mrs. Angry's 32 foot trailer. "It ain't my trailer!" He is quick to reply. Also accompanying us would be two of his co-worker buddies, of whom I'd only on occassion. They would be throwing spinners, a perfectly fine way to fish the Brule. Both were new to trout angling. The Angry Dane and I would be working the fly rod. In addition, I made it my mission to try a few new tricks to get these finicky August trout to bite. I'd employ the hopper-dropper and also work some Czech-Nymphing when the conditions warranted. The Good Doctor has had tremendous success this year working this style.

As I began loading the car, Calvin, my faithful Golden Retriever, sensed I was off to some adventure. He followed at my heels as I loaded bag, rod, waders, and gear. Poor fellow even ran his head directly into the storm door to beat me outside. One of the greatest qualities of man's best friend is his willingness to forgive. True to form, I was told the poor wretch whined and cried by the door a full hour after my departure. I promise to make it up to him in the coming months, as early goose season is fast approaching! Alas, but I wander...

I'd been so excited to not only make it to the Angry Dane's, but to make it hours early! He'd never believe it, as often I am lax on the arrival times of many an engagement with the Dane. He lets me know it too, as well as anyone else within ear shot. Well, this time, I'd have something to say about being ready. Five minute from the house, a cloud of absolute dread fell. The map! I could be a week early, yet without the map of the lower Brule, I'd never hear the end of it. I've a bit of history leaving a few things in my wake... a trail if you will. A glove here, sunglasses there, perhaps a fly box, or multi-tool. None of this was ever forgotten by the Dane. And again, he'd let me know it repeatedly... as well as anyone in earshot.

I pulled a quick U-turn and raced back for my domicile. Calvin jumped at my return, and nearly tripped me as I ripped through a few drawers and shelves where I kept my gear. The map was nowhere to be found. My stomach dropped, anxiety kicked in, which quickly was followed by frustration. I knew we'd fish and do well with or without the map, but this collection named well over a hundred points, riffles, and pools along the President's River. The map would impress all who gazed at it, as it was akin to hidden treasure! Without it, I would have to hang my head in shame in front of two strangers as the Dane would lavish the plight of his Austrian companion. This would not do. No sir!

Fortune smiled... nearly an hour later, and the proverb was thus again proven. It really is always in the last place you look. Map in hand, I left Calvin again agonizing at the door, rushed north, and still made it an hour early. Whew!

The Dane's jaw literally dropped when he saw me pulling into the drive. "Is this even possible? Am I seeing things? An hour early Austrian? What has the world come to?"

"A man deprived of quality time out of doors is not to be trifled with." I replied. "Now, where do you want me to store the gear?"

We began loading the camper, and I was nearly throttled before beginning. "Do not have your shoes on in the camper. She'll kill me if there's a grain of sand." Not wanting to tempt providence, I took off my sandals and began the tedium of final prep. We placed and strapped the two canoes on top of the Dane's truck, and hooked up the trailer. Our companions arrived, and we helped them with their gear. They were driving a second truck, and one which held precious cargo... the Dane's latest batch of homebrew.

As I was exiting the trailer, I got an electric shock from the trailer door! "This thing is hot gentlemen."

"What are you talking about?" replied the Dane.

"Seriously, this door just about electrocuted me! I'll not be denied a big brown this weekend. Not by some cursed door!" This gave everyone of the company pause. Was he feeding us a line? Is he nuts? He is Austrian...

Putz, one of our companions, braved an attempt. Tentatively, he placed his pointer and thumb and pinched the door. He then grabbed it, looked at me and said "I think you're eyes should be brown. I feel nothing." Moped, our second companion looked at me with head slanted. The Dane shook and muttered something. It may have been something along the lines of freakin' Austrians.

I took the door again, and definitely felt electricity riding up my right arm. "Boys, this thing is juiced. I kid you not. Let's not burn the Dane's chariot."

"It's not my trailer!" replied the Dane.

Putz tried again, and noted nothing. Was I losing my mind? As I contemplated this possibility, the Dane jumped down, and grabbed the door, which then nearly knocked him backwards. "Whew! She's hot alright. Let's check the connections." Long story short, the wet grass, and a bad patch of cord were the culprits. With the mystery solved, we were Brule Bound!

I learned quickly of the Dane's working relationship with Putz and Moped. He planned on supervising... At a gas stop, they pulled along side my door. The Dane told me to keep the window closed. He motioned them to roll their window, which they did. He turned on the wipers and shot fluid into Moped's face. With that, he roared out of the station, laughing all the way, and moved on. The look of surprised animation was an amusing sight, but I did feel for this stranger. I tend to spend time with the Angry Dane out of brotherhood and friendship. These guys were often paid to be with him. I somehow felt they may have had the right idea.

We arrived at the Copper Range Campground north of the town of Brule, Wisconsin. It is a no-muss, no-fuss, no-frills, no-thrills campground. No running water, or electricity. Just a fire ring, picnic bench, pit toilets, and direct canoe access to the Lower Brule. I love it there. It is nestled among tall pines. Cool breezes work their way from the west bank to the east, and if you listen carefully, the Brule will sing you to sleep. Even with other campers near, there's a peace in this place that makes one breathe deeply, and smile. It was nearly 5:00 by the time we got camp settled, and all were ready to wet their lines. I suggested a section on the lower near May's Ledges. We loaded the trucks and were off.

Upon arriving, we geared up and began working our way to the water. I must say, I make great ceremony before heading to the river. I place a camping chair, slowly pull on my waders, check my gear bag, and assemble my rod. I then take a few moments to clear my head, and get it right. I give thanks, and make every effort to put myself in the moment. I ... "C'mon Austrian. Let's go!" shouts the Dane. I follow a few minutes behind, and shake my head.

This parking area is roughly a quarter mile from the river, and takes you along a steep drop into the river valley. It had been wet, as the red clay and muck stuck to my boots. We had a section of footholds along a series of spruce roots to get to the bottoms. A tricky trek down, and a hard uphill climb back. Good! I like a challenge.

Coming off the trail to the river's edge the Brule came into full view. The water was moving fast, but was clear. A great sign! Across the way were a set of boulders, and I saw a fish rise. Nothing was hatching, but the water looked "fishy." Within the first five minutes, everyone had landed fish. All small, but the skunks were out of the box! Brule fishing!

We encouraged Putz and Moped to work ahead, as they were apt to cover more water with spinners. The Angry Dane and I would find a spot and work it awhile. Pleasant time passed. The sights, sounds, and smells of the land washed over me. There's a music, a rhythm, and feeling to a river. You can't escape it. It draws you in. Challenges you to see if you can discover it's secrets. Being outdoors anywhere is a buffet of the senses. Times like these let me know that I am a small thing in this universe. Small, but alive, here and now.

The current of the Lower Brule is much rougher than the gentler waters of home. It took some getting used to, and even then I often did a great rendition of Elaine's dance of Seinfeld fame. Ultimately, I set my sights on a bend in the river. A stretch of rapids was in front of me to the right. Downed spruces were in two places in front of me, before setting into another stretch of rapids. Between the trees, backwater swirled. I got to work.

I had prepared for this trip by stopping at several fly shops between home and Duluth, Minnesota. I had amassed an assortment of flies meant to land a whopper of a trout. Be it steelhead, rainbow, brook, or brown, I was not to be denied. A friendly fellow from Duluth insisted upon dropping a grasshopper pattern from downed trees. All of these "Brule" flies were larger than most of what I threw at home. The hopper was no exception. Try as I may, nothing was rising. The Good Doctor passed along a collection of flies he last used on his pilgrimage. Of which, a grey hopper made by a wonderful DNR biologist in Winona I was fortunate to fish with last winter, John. John's hopper was smaller than the flies purchased, so I gave it a shot.

I worked the hopper above the rapids, and ran it to the first set of branches. Nothing. I worked it just outside the coursing current. Nothing. I tossed behind, and Wham! The fish took a direct path towards the next set of branches, and forced me to horse him to the deeper pool. Who knew what boulders and debris were hiding in the depths. He made a run at me, and I scrambled to keep tension. He broke upstream, and I worked him back to my net. A nice thick-bodied brook trout was quickly caught and released. Brule!

With my confidence boosted, and ambition ignited I threw again to the spot, only to watch John's Hopper wrap around the upper branches. It sits there still, with who knows what below it. As I worked to tie another fly, the crew informed me they were hungry, and ready to head to Iron River for dinner. There was still a good two hours to fish! Alas, I fought my better nature to bark, knowing tomorrow would be a full day of fishing, and Saturday would bring us again to the places I really wanted to explore.

As we sat down to a collection of beverages, and sustenance, new friendships were formed. Moped is quite the rambler, and shared many a story of times spent in the surrounding countries government buildings. One does not know what one may do when the prison lights go out. I think Moped may be Irish, as the gift of Blarney abounds. Making our way back to camp, I brought out a little something to raise our "spirits" for the morrow. Warmed by the beverages, and the campfire we headed to bed. The last thing I remember before turning in, was the Dane yelling "Hey!" and a pile of fake dog waste was thrown Moped's way.

The following morning had us up and out early. Breakfast was prepared, consumed, and camp organized. We loaded gear into the vehicles, and quickly made our way to the landings. We left Moped's truck at Winneboujou, and piled into the Dane's Chevy. In little time, we were at the Stone's Bridge. I spoke with a gentleman at the bridge fishing with no waders. He looked ruefully at our set-up asking if we had any insights on patterns and such. This sharing of ideas and experience is something much beloved to the angler. We won't necessarily tell you where, but often won't give you a bold-faced lie about what's been working... most of the time. This angler was here on business from New Jersey. He had a morning off, but hadn't brought waders. Poor soul wouldn't get far in that icy water. I wished him well, and we were off.

Putz and Moped again worked ahead of us, as the Dane and I studied and worked slow. I was of the mindset to take turns. An hour each in the bow, while the other worked the stern. He advocated for dual citizen fishing. To his credit, it worked well early on. He was throwing a copper caddis pattern, and I a brown with a green middle. It did not take long before I'd landed my first whopper of the float. I wish I could tell you what it was, but trout fry are tricky to identify. I'm going to go with him being a brook, although he attacked it like a rainbow.

That was the typical fish that hit in that early stretch of the day. I give those fry points for their efforts. Little trout torpedoes that smash a fly with ambition! Not exactly the quarry we sought, but it kept us entertained. Seeing that small fry were all that would hit the caddis, I changed patterns several times. None seemed able to get the larger fish to bite.

We met up with Putz and Moped for lunch. The other canoe had been having better luck. Two nice brook trout were collected in their creel. Putz made me a sandwich with a personal touch. I feel it conveyed my morning mood rather well. He has the touch and flair of an artists.

We made plans to meet outside the lakes in the late afternoon, as we wanted to work them for the "Monster Browns" the Dane was after. Again we were off, but this time I decided to change tactics. I dug deep in my Brule box of flies, and pulled out a classic., the Royal Coachman. This wet fly has been used on the Brule since at least the 1920's if not earlier. I'd never fished it before, as it resembled nothing I'd ever seen, but old hunting and fishing tales tell of its effectiveness. That sentiment was repeated by the local fly shop owner at home. Two casts later, payday!

The brook smashed the fly off a bed of weeds, and took me to the deep pocket of water. I saw it was headed to another bed, surrounding a boulder. The four-weight, eight-and-a-half foot rod was bent over, as I horsed it away. The Dane put his rod down, and worked the net. As the brook was played out, it was landed and admired. I will say, the brook trout of the Brule river are some of the most beautiful fish I've seen. My camera was in a waterproof sleeve, and unfortunately did this specimen no justice. The fish was of the same class at Moped's fish in the creel. A large brook by any standard. I decided to release this fella. I wanted a bigger brown.

The Coachman did its job well. I had many more brooks hit it, yet none as nice as this fellow. The Dane and I set our jaws tight, and continued working. Each set of rapids, we would beach the craft, and work the water ahead, in, and behind. There had been no hatches. We set upon the lodges once visited by our former presidents, and caught fish in their shadows. The Angry Dane made an interesting point of imagining what deals, and policies were fleshed out along these waters. Where they good policies that made life better for our common citizen? What stories these waters held. I wish they would speak.

The remainder of the afternoon was much of the same. Working stretches, netting small fry, working pools, changing patterns, waiting for a hatch. Evening crept-up on us as we reached the first lake. A couple were working the end of the rapids we shot through to enter the lake. The woman had quite a fright, and gasped. I often have this impulse when looking upon the Angry Dane's face too. He felt we just surprised her. Let's just say we can agree to disagree.

Other anglers were working from the shores. One gentleman spoke saying these lakes were a love-hate relationship. When they were on, it was a thing of beauty, otherwise a dead sea. This evening was of the later, unfortunately. I saw one solid rise, but could not entice much to bite. As we made our way across the lake, there was no sign of the other canoe. We surmised they had simply moved on the the next one.

As we left Big Lake, a hatch began. They were large, brown, and looked something like a caddis, but I could not put my finger on it. Regardless, I went back to my original fly of the morning, and licked my chops. Nothing hit.

We wound our way through the second lake, and past beautiful boat houses, then a trico hatch... a sprinkling more like it occurred. Trying to tie a Trico pattern with dusk settling on you is no easy task. Alas, we netted few fish.

Coming into the Winneboujou Launch we saw two familiar figures sitting in camping chairs. Each smoking a stogey, and imbibing a beverage. Something was off though, as Putz wore a captain's hat, and Moped had something on his face. I couldn't make it out as it was dark, but his voice clued us in.

"Tell me matey's, what is a pirate's favorite letter? You be thinking it Arghh aye? But you'd be wrong. Tis the Sea, Arghh!" We were among good company. Captain Putz helped us hoist the canoes, and One-eyed Moped passed us a celebratory drink. We made our way back to the Copper Range. The seaward party had kept three nice brook trout. We helped them with the cleaning.

We may not have found the large browns and bows that day, but I would definitely do the float again. Perhaps next spring! This time when I put my head on the pillow, the fake dog waste was awaiting me. Arghh!

Finally, the day of reckoning had arrived. We would hike the Lower Brule, and do our best to land a big Lake Superior Brown. Getting everyone on board and hitting things early was another story. Mind you, I was humbled by the previous days float as well, and in no particular hurry to rush. We were forgiving with our time. In fact, I've read stories that say it isn't even worth fishing until the white-throat sparrows sing. We didn't hit the river till early afternoon.

Upon reaching a spot near McNeil's, we split up. I wanted to work the fast water sections with a Czech Nymph set-up. With the colored leader attached, I went to my tippet and connected two lines, approximately 18" to 24" apart. I went with a large orange prince pattern for the bottom bait, and the smallest nymph I had for the top. Five minutes of working a stretch of rapids, I had my first taker! A small brown on the upper nymph. He'd been hanging out in the slack water behind a boulder in the rapids. This was hopefully a big clue as to where the active feeders may be.

Pleasant hours passed as I worked four or five sets of rapids. I'd hooked a number of fish. All larger than the previous days fry, but nothing of note. I smiled though, as I'd had the entire river to myself, and was saving the best for last! I knew there was a bend coming ahead, with a large pool to work at dusk. My map wouldn't fail me. The stage was set for a big trout rendezvous.

This particular pool was set as the river was split by a small island. The main channel ran quick and cut a deep hole in the wayward side, then bent right to begin a set of rapids. Those rapids cascaded for a good hundred yards. Two downed trees ran at different spots nearly horizontal with the water. A poplar or birch hung out over the slower water nearest the island. Backwater swirled behind one of the downed trees. It had all the makings for a trout honey hole. I just knew this was the water that could hold anything... huge browns, steelhead, or even walleye!

I tried the Czech rig for a good thirty minutes to no avail. In that time perhaps one or two fish had surfaced ahead of the pool, near the island. I swapped my leader, and tied a caddis pattern, placing the first cast feet above where the trout had surfaced. Nothing. I worked the backwater. Nothing. The fly danced along the quick current. Nothing. Dusk was quickly turning to dark.

Perhaps the hopper would again work it's magic? As I was applying the necessary knots I heard the unmistakable pinions of a mallard. A lone hen came shooting along the river corridor and landed feet from where I stood. She quickly took note of the strange-looking creature before her, and swam for the shelter of downed trees and shrubs.

The hopper was presented any which way I could imagine. The fish were not in a cooperative mood. To their defense, I had not seen many grasshoppers in the fields nearby. It may have been a touch early. I went again to the Coachman. It was not successful. Lastly, I tied an ant pattern, only to get a good amount of casting practice.

The sounds of the others drawing near told me that time was had. We made our way back to the vehicles and swapped stories. Nobody had much success, yet smiles abounded. There's something to be said of the weariness one earns from time afield. It generally has me sleeping with a smile. The Dane said something to effect of, "Great map Austrian. It had all the places named. Guess that's all the makers had time for, since they hadn't been catching fish."

"At least I didn't forget the map," was my response.