Our Outdoors: Silver Linings - Part I...

As my offering drifted around in the pool eddy, I hoped that my brother would see a fish caught - if not by me, then by another angler, or maybe himself - and he would experience the finned allure of the north shore of Lake Superior beyond the lichen-covered bluffs and pine-shaded streams that add to its aesthetics. Being a greenhorn to steelhead fishing myself, I made no promises, other than that we’d try a few rivers, talk to a few people, watch how its done and take some good pictures. The weather was somewhat sketchy, with partly cloudy skies and a northwest wind ripping out onto the water of the big lake, but it was tropical compared to the trout opener two weeks before. As we neared the streamside, a dark gray cloud began spitting tiny chunks of ice at us and sleet fell for several minutes. My brother remarked that it must be some sort of sign. We descended down the steep bank to a pool below a small set of ledges and watched for a few moments. I thought at one point I saw a shadow move in and out of the foam line, and then decided to drift my offering through the pool. The rushing of the falls, the squawking of a kingfisher and the rustling branches of an old cedar tree that had grown out from the canyon’s side reminded me that fish would always be a bonus in a place like this. For a few minutes, as the sun peaked back out, I soaked it all in and my mind wandered.

My rod tip bumped once and brought me back to the moment. I pulled up on the slack in the pool. The eight-pound line tightened in the guides of my fly rod as whatever it was on the other end realized there is no such thing as a free lunch. The rod bent into a full arch and the reel spun backward against the palm of my hand as the fish dug for the main current.

“Fish On!” I hollered over to my brother, who was just getting his feet wet in terms of north shore fishing. Despite my reminders, he had forgotten to bring waders and was stuck in the shallows in my old calf-high rubber boots. He bounded across the rock ledge to the gravel shore I was standing on and readied himself to grab the fish, whenever it chose to come close enough to land. On the trip over his feet went from being figuratively wet to literally soaked, as his third step put him knee-deep in the chilly meltwater of the stream. It wouldn’t be the only time this fish would baptize him in the waters of spring trout fishing.

My mind began to spin, my voice cracked and I shouted when I talked. I could tell the fish was big, even though I could not see it. My knees began to weaken and each touch of the reel was softened by the anxiety of the fish – potentially my first north shore trout – breaking me off. I let the knob spin around several times as I lost more and more line with each run. Finally the fish turned sideways near the surface, a bright purple streak with a creamy-green back and a clipped adipose fin signaled a large feisty kamlooper – a variety of rainbow trout stocked into the tributaries of Lake Superior to supplement the Steelhead population and for put-and-take fishing. Shortly after being identified, the 25-inch fish ran an end around that would take my brother and I 100 yards downstream.
As I tried to guide the fish into the shallows of the pool where my brother could make a landing attempt, it quickly spun the opposite direction and bolted over the small ledge. I turned and pointed the rod tip downstream as the reel spun out of control. I expected the green backing to follow suit as yards and yards of the clear line peeled off as if I had hooked into the last car on a freight train.

Without instruction, my brother gave chase. Each step into the smaller downstream pools put more icy water in his galoshes. The fish squirted through his hands in the second or third hole down and then made for the lake. My line was wrapped around the buds on the end of a birch branch hanging over the stream, and we struggled to free it, even as the fish took more and more of it down the flow. I thought the ‘looper was lost for sure, but as I reeled up the slack from the tree, I felt the weight of the fish, though it could have just as easily been a rock. As I ran downstream, I found the fish with its nose buried deep behind a small boulder that broke the current in the middle of the riffles.

“He’s right there,” I hollered to my brother, pointing with my arched rod tip at the mid-stream boulder. Ben reached down to grab it, and as he did, the fish darted away. I felt the electricity in my fishing rod falter and heard my brother curse. With a turn revealing a flash of pink, the kamlooper bolted toward the lake, leaving the hook in my brother’s hand and both of us bewildered and out of breath, shaking with the after effects of adrenaline.

After a minute or two, Ben apologized, but I told him it wasn’t necessary. That was the longest I had any fish on the line in my trips to the north shore. I had seen it, felt it and ran the steeplechase after it on the small stream and that was memorable enough. Besides, if that was the first half-hour on the water, I was certain we could find something in the rest of the afternoon which would provide a silver lining on this trip…in our outdoors.