Saying So Long to Mr. Brown.

The Good Doctor was itching to have one more crack at trout. He was relentless in his harassment of yours truly. His barrage of calls and messages were direct, pointed, and outright offensive. I had little to defend myself and was most certainly responsible for his ire. I'd agreed that another bout with trout would be a good thing. My sentiments were most sincere, but alas things get a mite complicated for us outdoor folk in October.

The trout season has been extended in Wisconsin. Whence before the season closed at the end of September, our state resource agency has graced the fall angler with fifteen additional days to be stream side. This is wonderful news if you are after browns, brookies, or bows. Unfortunately It makes my autumn work far trickier.

If you are like me, your time afield is a precious commodity. One is forced to balance his outdoor pursuits. How does one spread his or her time amidst the pursuit of duck, goose, pheasant, deer, trout, and steelhead. Not to mention a brace of squirrel or rabbit? To put it bluntly, things were simpler when the trout season closed at September's end.

The addition of Calvin, our Golden Retriever, put bow hunting aside. It is my sentiment if you have a bird dog you owe it to said dog to pursue birds. This cold, calculated logic may come from somewhere in my Austrian ancestry. I accepted it whole-hearted but confess to you dear reader, I do have a pang in my heart whenever I stumble across one of my bowhunting brethren. It is pleasant indeed to sit in a tree and take in the beauty of autumn. Getting a buck to stop at fifteen yards isn't too shabby either. Good days.

Pheasant are a nice way to mix things up on a slow day in the duck blind. Morning's are meant for the fowler, but who's to say no to walking a nice field on a bluebird day? What's wrong with taking the dog for a stroll along the marsh and kicking up a mallard, or rooster? Not me. Oh no. Not me. I've also no qualms with collecting a squirrel or two near the wood duck pond before the afternoon flight is upon me. These are wonderfully good days,

What do you do though if you are after trout? You are solely focused on trout. Such was my dilemma with the dear Good Doctor. I'd put things off. My time outdoors was given to the dog and fowl. My friend's wrath was forthcoming and deserved. This procrastinator had pushed things to the last day of the trout season. The Good Doctor and I were to spend a couple pleasant hours on a favorite trout haunt.

My rod, reel, vest, and waders had all been stored in the car the night before. It wouldn't do to waste time packing after work. The Good Doctor was waiting outside his house with all his fishing tools ready. This was not a good sign. Typically he is one rarely pressed for time. In fact he is prone to daydream and ponder whence I have appointments and deadlines. If he was ready to load and go, I really was in for it. If my truck had a tail, it would have been dragging as I pulled in.

"Glad to see you're still breathing," said the Doctor.

"Vertical and upright. At least for the moment," I replied.

The vehicle pulled away from my esteemed friend's abode and we headed east. After quick ribbing and asking of each other's affairs we got down to business. "Well, since we're finally doing some fishing. Where should be go?" asked the Doctor. This is a back-and-forth issue often fraught with debate, argument, wheeling, dealing, bribery, and unlike those of our political establishment, a final bridge of compromise. This day's argument was not as feisty. A somewhat somber tone came from the Good Doctor. I think I felt it too as I'm sure most outdoor folk are prone. We were saying farewell to another season of open-water angling with a most noble competitor... the trout.

With the sun setting ever sooner each day, I parlayed us to fish the dinner hole. It was one of the closer haunts on our favorite local river. It isn't the most stunning setting and one doesn't need to walk a half mile in waders to reach. My thinking was to get in as many casts as we could in the allotted time we had before dark. The dinner hole is a place one saves for the days when dry fly fishing is difficult. Often a trico will make those finicky browns race to slurp them down. If we were to have a productive outing, I felt this was our best bet. The Good Doctor didn't take much convincing and didn't argue. With a grin we tore down the road.

As we donned waders, and set the leader down our guides one last time the Good Doctor and I made amends. We pushed along the highway and started along a deer path towards the river. The heavy rains of late September had left reminders in the form of high water marks, debris, and shifted pockets of water where once before stood pools. "That flood really did a number here!" I exclaimed.

"Well, we are here and that's what counts. I'm not accepting any excuses. Lets fish," replied the Doctor. It was the proper and right answer for a day of this sort. We came upon the rapids leading to the spot. I shared about the fourteen inch brown I'd taken just off the right bank underneath the overhanging branches of a willow this past August. We decided to throw a few preliminary casts, work the rust out, and see if we could tempt Providence a little.

The Good Doctor has a strong casting arm. His technique is sound. He is quick and adept at getting his fly to lay just right at low angle. It isn't that he doesn't get hung-up it just isn't very often. An easterly breeze came across making the casting a mite trickier as it blew the fly left of our target. The Good Doctor's beard blew with that breeze. It is a beard of character.

I set up just above and to the left of my friend, let out some line, applied goop to the size 22 trico, and began my back cast. I fired the fly below my intended target. Even so, I tried to adjust my drift, keeping line with the current flow, and looking for any fish that may rise. The Doctor's fly landed in the zone. I watched as the fly danced across that pocket of water and nothing stirred. As it moved along, I began my next cast. The rod raised, back, forward, back, forward, back, fire and "Ouch! Wait! Wait! Wait!" My line shot forward, the rod bent, but the fly did not hit the intended target. Indeed it had lodged itself firmly in the Good Doctor's beard!

The hook was dislodged amidst some good laughter, snapped a photo, and continued ahead to the real target. Now I had fished this stretch of river when I was a boy, but this was before I took to fly fishing. All credit must be given to the Good Doctor as he rediscovered this stretch. The fish would stack up outside the main riffle and lie beneath a leafy aspen. We as anglers had a nice stand of grasses projecting out with a sandy stretch behind that point. It was a great set-up for remaining undetected as we cast to the pool. Aggressive fish could be had just along the seam of current and slack water, but to entice the big ones, you had to hit the pool and keep your fly there long enough to entice a bite. It wasn't to be.

The flood had mangled the area. Our pool of fish were not present. The blind of grass was matted, tangled, and beaten down into the mud. We mulled over the possibility of picking up and trying another known locale. Time was against us. I offered moving ahead to fish near the farmstead. The Good Doctor agreed, but decided to change tactics. Streamers were to be his weapon of choice. I elected to stay dry and cast my trico.

The river opens up past the dinner hole. An old farmstead, still in operation, holds the right bank. Near the outbuildings a stretch of rapids empties into the water we fished. The current runs clear and fast and often holds trout. The Good Doctor and I fished opposite sides. We both presented our wares to all places. "Here we go... Ah!" my friend cries out in exasperation. "Had him for a second. Man, he felt good. Shoot!" This was to occur another handful of times... but not for me and my trico.

The Good Doctor was cycling through his collection of streamers. As it was, I had one of an olive color he did not. I opted to begin throwing streamers as well. We moved to the head of the rapids. Nothing. We pushed ahead to the next quiet and still pocket. We saw a fish rise. No takers. That was to be the case on this last afternoon of the season. Oh I did have a trout do something I've not seen before.

We had not ventured much further when I false cast once, twice, and as I released the fly, a spunky brown leaped from the river towards me, missing my fly, but getting his entire body out of the water. At least I felt my olive streamer was getting their attention.

Friends, I wish I could tell you we tied into a banner brown with bright coloration along the dorsal and tail. It wasn't to be. Regardless, as we ventured further into parts not fished since my boyhood days I looked upon the sun setting behind the autumn plumed trees and came across a deer ladder in what can only be described as a pretty spot. Not far from that ladder stand I heard deer walking the river bottoms and exiting to a farmer's field. Did I long for my bow? Absolutely! The sun was setting to the west and the moon was rising in the east. Deer were travelling, the water singing it's peaceful song, and the breeze carried the smell of autumn loam from the west.

Alas, the Good Doctor and I called an end to the season. We managed to mark a few new places of interest to try next spring. A beverage of barley-pop was shared at the truck. We toasted to another season, to friendship, and to the winter ahead. Sure, I didn't bag any birds, deer, or fish as it was, but it certainly was a fine day.