Let’s just set the record straight. If I find out who originally coined the phrase “from zero to hero” I might punch them in the face. Historically speaking, I’m not not prone to violent outbreaks (outside of a few alcohol-fueled skirmishes in my disillusioned youth). Really I’m as tame as an innocent little pussy cat, it’s just my lengthy attempt to show my disdain for this blog title. But there’s a method to my madness. It’s time to get this season back on track. My comedy of errors must come to an end, and one way to right the ship is a solid round of easy fishin’. Pounding out a session filled with eager Brook Trout is just what the doctor ordered.

Let’s just say things didn’t start off quite as well as I’d planned. I’m not sure why, but I chose to fish a cheap little 7-foot 4-weight fly rod that seems to collect dust in my garage. A number of years ago I picked up the rod as part of a combo package from Cabela’s. I had no interest in the rod per se, but Cabela’s always does an admirable job with the upsell. Somehow I walked out with a cheap flyline and rod to match the reel I was purchasing. If memory serves, my reasoning was that it would be a good rod for the kids to destroy or serve as a backup. As it turns out it rarely has seen the light of day. For no particular reason I threw it in the truck and vowed to put it through it’s paces.

As one might imagine, a rod of this caliber is somewhat of an throwback soft-flexing noodle rod. I managed a few feisty fish while I worked my way through the casting motion “adjustment period.” Much to my chagrin, a soft roll cast caused my reel to plummet into the creek. Initially I thought that I hadn’t cinched down the reel tight enough, but quickly realized that the reel seat hardware had come unglued. The rod, like the corresponding Cabela’s flyline turned out to be a real piece of shit. I fished the flyline once right after I purchased it, and hated every minute of it. Thankfully these subpar products didn’t break the bank. I’m sort of a mixed bag when it comes to product loyalty. I’ve got a healthy dose of skepticism stemming from my experience doing design and branding work for a wide range of manufacturers. Mix that with a practicality learned at an early age from my engineering father, and a lot of time hanging out on a friend’s used car lot. Where does that leave me? I believe in some brands, but never blindly buy the marketing BS behind the latest and greatest claims of many. I’m willing to dole out the cash for some high end items, while others times I’m looking for reasonable quality at a good price. On this morning I was treated to the old adage, you get what you pay for. Fortunately I slipped my workhorse small stream Sage into the car as a backup.

Speaking of product loyalty and easy fishin’. I had my sights set on some dry fly action to test drive a new Iowa-based floatant that I did the design and branding work for. In the spirit of full disclosure, HighHorse Floatant is a client of mine but I haven’t had the pleasure of using the product yet. They offer a few ideas in floatant that are new to the industry. HighHorse is available in Naked/Original, UV/Infused and Scent/Infused. This ain’t your grandpa’s fly dressing, and I had a hankering to try out these new “flavors.” While this stream isn’t blessed with a killer “Mother’s Day” caddis hatch, I had reason to believe that the fish might be looking up. I loaded up a fat PMX with some UV/Infused HighHorse with a dropper nymph and began to dissect the patient. The rig, along with the floatant performed well. It’s a little to early in my scientific method to conclusively report my findings on the merits of UV or scent infused floatant, but from a risk/reward standpoint I’d fully endorse test driving a bottle or two of HighHorse. A few bucks will get you a bottle, and why not support an upstart local supplier as opposed to sending your dollars out into the stratospheric Ginks of the world?

This stream generally puts out average-sized Brookies, but occasionally will produce a reasonable specimen. The concept of readily duping trout with ease seemed somewhat foreign to my fragile angling psyche. The the icing on the cake was nabbing them on the surface. Every little fish served as baby steps towards redemption. It’s as if I was relearning the mastery of our aquatic friends. Everyone is prone to a slump, and Mrs. Adrift™ will be the first to tell you that it affects my mood. She can tell before asking, whether or not I had a good day on the water. To be honest with you, she doesn’t even ask that often, she just knows. If something is worth mentioning I’ll give her a play by play, but for the most part it remains unspoken. Keep in mind while she’s not wise in the angling arts, she worked for a fishing magazine when I met her, so she’s wise in the ways of our kind.

Give me an inch and I’ll take a mile. After declaring victory via the dry/dropper rig, I couldn’t help turn my attention to more R&D with a Shirley Temple micro streamer. I’m a staunch believer in tying with whatever you have on hand. The latest batch of Shirley Temples were tied on blue Gamakatsu hooks because I had some. Did it matter? Nope. Fly fishermen tend to be obsessively anal about details, but the pursuit can also be as simple as you choose to make it. Many focus their angling efforts on the finicky fish that reject your latest offering, but for every selective sonuvabitch trout there’s three willing to submit to an attractor. I’m eager to dole out the opinions with the slightest inkling of success on this easy track I suppose. Even the smallest of Brookies chased down these things with reckless abandon, just like my last outing throwing a Shirley Temple. Upstream, downstream, strip, dead drift, it didn’t matter.

It felt damn good to be fishing devoid of snow and cold, a strange statement indeed for mid-May. You gotta appreciate this brand of fishing, it’s like a stroll in the park. Tall weeds, ticks, mosquitos and fly eating trees are at a minimum. Casually hopping from hole to hole in ultimate golf course fashion. I’m not a big fan of man-made golf course fishing, but I enjoy a nice round of spring angling on a more natural section before the weeds take over. No particularly big fish were brought to hand, but that isn’t the point anyway. This nice looking fella greeted me with his presence before my time was up. A fitting end to the day. 

I’ve been rocking a pair of “antique” Hodgman wading boots the last few weeks since my Korkers Metalheads are in for warranty replacement. I have a soft spot for these wading boots since they’re over 15 years old. I don’t wear them often, but everytime I do I appreciate the advancements in boot design even more. Upon departure one of the felt soles finally came off. A solid run by any stretch of the imagination. Perhaps this is the ying to the Cabela’s fly rod yang? It matters little since I’ve already Shoe Goo’d the sole back on and am looking forward to another 15 years of faithful service. I’ll put them back on the shelf tomorrow when my new Korkers KGB’s will be next up on the Adrift™ wading boot throwdown. Can any footwear really stand the test of time?

I have a nasty habit of occasionally torturing myself on some questionable water choices. I guess I just get a little uneasy with the same old same old. When I have a run of bad luck and worse fishing conditions, I need a little shot of redemption. A healthy cache of Brook trouting provides me a false sense of accomplishment and is a one way ticket to go from zero to hero.

I’ve previously stated that there is no greater month for trout fishing in these parts than June. It’s just a personal preference. On the flip side I’ll admit to disliking the late winter/early spring period. I don’t appreciate being the meat in the trout sandwich. Earlier in the winter things are cold, somewhat unbearable, yet somehow predictable from a fishing standpoint. Later in the spring is the delicious treat. It’s when things really begin to heat up. The in-between period is a hit or miss roller coaster of spring creek fishing. It seems Mother Nature has taken it upon herself to play mind games with our fragile upper midwest psyche. Wave after wave of pseudo historic snowstorms have blanketed the region with sloppy springtime precipitation. There’s an eerie Bill Murray Groundhog Day vibe to it, and we’re all just living in it. Speaking of living in it, what can I do other than fish my way through the misery? As I stopped by the neighborhood Pump-n-Munch to coffee up recently I looked up to the fishing gods and quietly asked why? It’s not like I need to get up at the ass crack of dawn to hit the water in this wintery mix, but I’m knee deep in spring training and choose to go through the motions nevertheless.

Wildly fluctuating April water levels and clarity have continued to plague my efforts. Most watersheds have continued to huff and puff with the casual ease of musty accordion bellows. I must confess that I’ve still got a case of Brookie on the brain, though I’ve been reluctant to visit Shit Creek until I’m confident of better water conditions. I could be waiting a long time.

I’ve been eager to unleash a handful of new patterns built to dupe the wiliest of Brown Trout. The aforementioned flies, like my fishing has been in a significant slump. Baseball and angling are on a similar trajectory. It’s a batting average issue, and right now I’m hitting .112. The unseasonable temps have been contributing some light bites, to an even lighter skill set. I’ve managed a few big bites, but ultimately lost every fish. I hooked up with an absolute bridge busting tank that took me for a 30 second ride, only to watch him spit the hook on a largemouth leap that would make Dwight Stones proud. Mother Nature’s cruel plan is seeping into my pores.  I feel like the Tin Man in need of some oil. At one point after a short strike I threw my rod down to the ground in disgust, followed by a healthy round of filthy expletives. Fishing karma is in full effect. I had an excellent bite last fall. Now it appears as if I must atone for my sins.

For various reasons a good portion of my angling tends to be a solo affair. While I used to fish with a regular pack of cohorts, inexplicably I’ve become somewhat of a lone wolf in recent years. It’s not that I’m anti-social. I feel most at ease when I’m able to tackle specific onstream challenges in a spontaneous manor, often free of other anglers. My wandering, run and gun, grip and flip, upstream, downstream, chaotic approach isn’t for everyone. From time to time I try to break up isolation and actually fish with another human being. I recently met up with a crankbaitin’ crony for specifically that purpose. 

I have little patience for fly fishing purists, or at least those who openly admonish others for their choice of individual pursuits. I’m an ardent “each to their own” kind of a guy. A self contradiction, perhaps? The beauty of fishing with a skilled crankbait angler is the opportunity to observe, learn and in turn question some of my own streamer patterns. Putting anything you’ve personally tied up against the pedigree of a classic Rapala is a daunting task to say the least. The reason I mention streamer fishing probably more than any other aspect fly fishing, simply because it’s one of my favorite tactics. I could go in greater depth covering the entomological angle of the sport, but it is well traveled turf, covered in mind numbing detail by those who are more passionate and knowledgeable than myself. I could spend all day talking about my #16 Elk Hair Caddis, but why bother? I’ll even fess up to a dirty little secret that I’ve been harboring for sometime. I don’t like to fish nymph indicator rigs. Shhhhh, please don’t tell anyone, okay? That’s not to say that I don’t nymph, I do it all the time, it’s just my least favorite way to skin the cat. Bobber fishing for me has always been a sticky wicket. From an early age I was too impatient to stare at a float for any length of time. Let’s just say I’ve always tolerated it more than I’ve enjoyed it. You can either wait for them, or take it to them. In a lot of ways it’s the difference between playing offense or defense, and I’ve got more of an offensive mindset, preferring to play the role of instigator.

My sidekick and I set out on a morning trip in search of the Brown bonanza. While things moved at a slow clip in the first hour or two, his Floating Rapala began to make a dent, nabbing a good fish or two. My viscous fishing style continued to affect this outing as well, as my flies and casting abilities were running ice cold. I cast right into a streamside tree on one of the most promising holes, surely scaring the big boy that I knew must be holding down below. In a moment of frustration I violently jerked the rod attempting to dislodge the fly from the branches, but mysteriously stripped my fly line down to its core in several spots. It was a wounded duck and there was no chance it would smoothly shoot through my guides any longer. I was down, but not out. We casually BS’d our way up to another prime location, alternating shots between cranks and flies. As we approached a terrific looking holding lie, I predicted the location of the big dog. Like clockwork my counterpart expertly fired his Finnish masterpiece right on the money.  A few turns of the handle later we saw the tell tale flash of a bruiser in hot pursuit. Fish on. A lucky guess, who knows? I instantly wet my pants like an overeager puppy in the front doorway, by prematurely diving into net duty. A short, sluggish fight crescendoed with the beast successfully secured in my net. A sturdy round of high fives, a few quick pics and we sent her on her way. While I was personally struggling with my fishing abilites, I was bolstered by the sight of a good fish, and a job well done.

Biding your time is a funny thing. We’re entrenched as a collective just waiting to pounce on any sign of better things to come. In the context of upper midwest living, that thing is summer. Hell, we’d even settle for a healthy dose of spring. The annual exercise in restraint is at it’s wit’s end. As I sit here penning my latest entry I’m bracing myself for the latest round of wintery weather. The weeklong respite from Wisconsin trout fishing can’t come soon enough. It allows us to take a deep breath in preparation for the upcoming season, and I certainly could use a little relief from viscosity.

The Adrift™ entourage was in the grips of a makeshift spring break getaway. To some this may seem like the stuff that dreams are made of, though I’d suspect that it’s limited to the elementary school demographic. The primary task at hand was to throw the kids in the pool, while the adult contingency basked in sultry waters of the hot tub. Possibly knocking back a few cold ones if the mood should strike (the sign on the door in the photo above will elaborate). I must admit that lounging around a pool is never my first choice when it comes to relaxation, or entertainment for that matter. Quite frankly I find it boring. But the world doesn’t revolve around my needs. For those who have gone the procreation route in life, this brand of existence is well traveled territory. But the cloud would have its silver lining. The follow-up to our meager hotel existence came with a road trip through the heart of the Driftless. I was struck with a dilemma given our mud city launching point, Wisconsin or Minnesota? 

We felt compelled to play the “home slice” card and chose a day trip through Bluff County to Lanesboro. It’s not often that the entire crew goes out to explore my stomping grounds. This was kid fishing 101. They were lathered up to wet a line for the first time this year, and I’m not one to rain on a parade. Furthermore, I’m knee deep in the ”pay it forward” portion of life’s equation. The elders in my family had me on the water early and often when I was young, and now it’s my duty to pass it on. I’m dead set on sharing my appreciation for the outdoors, which can be particularly challenging given our urban lifestyle. Yep, ’tis the season for the family photo album portion of the Adrift™ bloggarama.

We set the cruise control and turned the wheels south along the river road. There would be no particular agenda on this day, and that’s just the way we like it. Our journey the night before had us crossing many creeks in the region and things were in rough shape to say the least. I watched every imaginable bridge crossing and field like a hawk, and the spring runoff gods continued their evil campaign of terror on trouty lies far and wide. A strategic decision was made to make a dash towards my Hawkeye homeland in search of more amiable water conditions. This fateful decision left us with carte blanche to roam the precious valleys of Houston County. As we busted up the gut of the Crooked Creek valley I knew I had made the right decision. It’s as if a transporter had beamed us to a different universe. The waters of this area were a far cry from their northern counterparts. They were running at perfect levels with just a hint of stain for good measure. I had difficulty containing myself upon seeing these conditions. It was love at first sight. I was conflicted by the fact that I’d slid a small 8-foot 4-weight into the car, but had no real plans to fish. I would be the conductor, not the musician on this fine spring morning. Jack and Ava have had a few rounds of practice casting on the fly rod, but have yet to fully embrace the concept. They came armed with spinning rods, Panther Martin spinners, and a willful determination for trout slaying duties.
Ava got on the board in short order nabbing a sleek stocker bow. I was assisting Jack with a miscue when I heard the fateful words. “Dad, I got one, I got one!” Followed by a round of high pitched squeaks that are the hallmark of the third-grade repertoire. This was a moment that will be etched in stone for all eternity. She was beaming with pride. In recent years I’ve been unable to convince her to join me on any creek explorations, and I feared her lost to the dark side. This is another example of how simple stockers can serve a useful purpose.

We moved up to the next bridge upstream. It contained a generous easement pasture section allowing us to free ourselves from the confines of the riprap bank. The kids chucked their offerings far and wide into a deep bridge pool, but only managed a few reluctant followers. I took them aside hosting an impromptu course on retrieval speed which helped garner Ava a little Brown Trout that was quickly named “Brownie.” There would be high fives all the way around. I offhandedly mentioned to them that we were dangerously close to the “spring break slam” of a Bow, Brown and Brookie. Their eyes widened as if they had a new reason for being. Ava was committed to catching a Brook Trout to complete the slam if it’s the last thing she ever does. We walked a short section of the pasture, but had only one lazy follow from a Brookie. I could orchestrate this sort of dance until the cows come home, but I sensed the impatience growing on the face of Mrs. Adrift™. She’s a real trooper for this sort of thing, given she’s not an avid angler by any definition. She did however choose to marry me, so this is not unchartered territory, and the look of pure joy on the faces of the youth helped to prolong the duel. We were well past lunchtime, so we finally relented and returned to the car, turning the page to the next chapter of our journey.

The original plan was to hit Beaver Creek Valley State Park which would have cemented the “spring break slam” in short order, but we decided to skip it and make the run to Lanesboro. I slow rolled a few juicy looking creeks, while Mrs. Adrift™ peered at my Gazetter. She was taken aback but the overabundance of spots marked on the map and inquired, “are you scouting right now?” To which I eagerly responded, “I’m always scouting!” Rating Driftless valleys is a game of personal preferences, but for my money there are no more picturesque valleys than those found in Houston County and far northeastern Iowa. At times I can almost convince myself I’m the subject of a Norman Rockwell painting, then the cruel reality of modern life comes charging back.

Our early afternoon arrival in Lanesboro was greeted by a sleepy ambience that is indicative of a Friday afternoon in the offseason. We decided to hit Pedal Pushers on the main drag to recharge our batteries, and it didn’t disappoint. Good food and better service was on tap. There was even talk of a second round of afternoon fishing with a possible shot at the slam. A quick mozy down to the chocolatey brown waters of the Root helped move the doubt in the back of my mind to the forefront.

We decided to head over the the Trout Hatchery and take a look at Duschee Creek. I got voted down for an actual tour, for fear that I’d just BS with staff about trout nerd issues at great length. The entire area had a rice paddy vibe to it with mud and standing water as far as the eye could see. The creek wasn’t super high, but had too much of a mudslick for kid fishing. At this point I knew I might be up shit creek, yet again. It was time to punt. I proclaimed that we’d start heading for home, but would take the scenic route in search of clearer waters. I was lambasted by Ava who displayed the fervor that I’d expect from my offspring. She was determined to get her slam. A quick review of Trout Run didn’t help the cause. The Bucksnort Dam was chaotic to say the least.

The Upper portion of Trout Run was still a mess. Heading north we reviewed the Whitewater system and it was a no go. In addition to our runoff woes, the bluebird skies and temperate climate slowly gave way to something much more sinister. I had one more spot in my back pocket, attempting to get Ava the holy grail that she so richly deserved. A small piece of Brook Trout water that I hoped would be running clear. We weren’t so lucky. This little gem was running very high and off color to say the least. I felt compelled to give them a shot. The roller coaster of spring runoff and precipitation was putting my guiding skills to the ultimate test. It’s not like these were experienced adults fully decked out in gear. This was roadside kid fishing, with limited skills and a shrinking set of viable opportunities. The window was closing. We worked every inch of an easily accessible section of stream. It just wasn’t working, it was too fast and high to fit the objective. Jack was simply having a good time. But Ava, ever the do gooder, took my challenge at face value. She was prepared to “one last cast” herself into oblivion. It was surreal. The daughter who has shown little interest in fishing recently was smitten with the pursuit. She almost broke down in tears of failure as we pried her from the stream bank. The reality is that this was my fault. We could have easily gotten her a Brook Trout earlier in the morning, had I anticipated the change in stream conditions and understood the breadth of her commitment. What I figured to be a few quick fishing pop-ins turned out to be a game changer. I promised her a rematch as soon as more seasonal conditions return to the area.

Within minutes of our departure the rain and sleet began to fly. It was a wise choice to leave when we did. Plans were scrapped to get some ice cream based upon the deteriorating weather conditions. The cruel reminder that this perpetual winter won’t relent rubbed me the wrong way. I’ve tempered my disdain for mother nature more than most in recent days. The truth of the matter is that this was one of the best days I can recall in recent memory, and the negativity was short lived. I made a promise to Ava before we left the hotel that morning, and I’m a man of my word. She asked me, “Dad if I catch a trout, will you feature me on your blog?” A little trout fishing and a lot of family time. It’s not often that you get the best of both worlds.

This would not be an early morning affair like my previous review of the place I now lovingly refer to as Shit Creek. I took care of a few work-related issues, gave the mini-Adrifters™ a few hugs, filled my belly with foodstuffs and hit the road for a late morning arrival. The last time I set eyes on this stream I found it uncomfortably low. When I did find deeper holes they were covered in a thin layer of surface ice. It was a brief tour, the cold temps and poor conditions forced me to look elsewhere. Many anglers may chose move on to another watershed and never look back, but I’m a glutton for punishment. I’m not looking for the quick fix, but more of a long term engagement.

I pulled up to the bridge and immediately recognized an increase in flow from the ultra skinny water on my last visit. I got an extra shot of adrenaline from the thought of working more seasonal conditions. The positivity was short lived. Upon closer inspection Shit Creek sealed it’s nomenclature with a water clarity evocative of a frothy glass of ovaltine. Fuck. I stood in brief contempation as to my next move. Should I move on to greener pastures I asked myself? I’d set my sights on a particular set of spots about a mile upstream from the access and I just couldn’t shake the notion. In an instant I chose to forgo grandiose plans of victory. I would grind it out by tempting the skunk on Shit Creek.

I thought of a half dozen other places I could be catching fish in better conditions, but quickly put such nonsense to rest and concentrated on the task at hand. The mission was multifaceted. It wasn’t just about the Lewis and Clark factor. I enjoy testing my ability to catch fish in murky water, but I wasn’t convinced I could muster a bite in this mudslick. It’s not like this creek was blown out or running particularly high, it was just muddy as hell. This was one of the first truly warm days this spring with overnight temps still holding below freezing. It mattered little as I had misjudged this stream and it was mucked up in short order. I didn’t care. I was determined to go down swinging. Some may enjoy plucking dinks on micro dries, or majestically swinging their regal offerings, I enjoy testing my limits of what’s possible. I’m not stupid (debatable), I actually chose to slog through this muddy mess. As I worked my way methodically up the Milky Way, I began to change out flies at a rapid pace. I cycled through big streamers and smaller nymphs. Heavily weighted offerings and lighter attractors, dark, light, the kitchen sink. No stone was left unturned, and no fly served as the magic bullet. Shit Creek is an absolute fly monster intent on devouring my offering at a moment’s notice. The abundant woody debris wreaked havoc in true Poltergeist tree fashion. I probably lost more flies on this outing, than all of last year combined. Ouch.

I scoured the stream looking for the tiniest margin of clearer water. About three-quarters of the way to my curvy, spring fed target, I practically stepped on a quality Brookie in skinny water. This served to bolster my morale and convince me that what I was doing wasn’t complete madness, or was it? To be honest with you this was largely a fact finding mission. This journey served to confirm two things in my mind. Shit Creek held quality Brook Trout and a healthy roster of deeper, yet challenging holding lies. At one point I slipped a Shirley Temple into a laydown and was met with a solid take. I set the hook almost in disbelief. A stout Brook trout that I estimate to be in the fourteen inch category porpoised to the surface. The gorgeous coloration of the fish pierced the shitty mess that surrounded him. As I attempted to work the fish out of it’s evil abode it gave me a few headshakes and plunged back into the depths. A fitting conclusion. I continued upstream, but couldn’t manage any more participants. Eventually I decided to retreat in defeat and turn back towards the truck. As I trudged back down I must admit that an eagerness to take this place at face value and fish it under normal conditions grew from within. There are no immediate plans for a rematch, but never say never.

As I’ve mentioned previously, I never go fishing without a Plan B, and usually it goes much deeper than that. I earmarked the lower section of a stream that was a half hour drive from Shit Creek for second fiddle Brook Trout duties. I hopped in the car and ingested my makeshift dinner with hopes of better things ahead. It wasn’t realistic to think that this watershed was free and clear of runoff issues, but I’d hoped that the clarity would be marginally improved, and it was. I was renewed with the possibilities that clearer water presented and proceeded to work it like a part-time job. For the second time this week I was fishing one of the most promising spots of the early season. I probed and prodded every nook and cranny, and in a cruel twist of fate it seemed devoid of life. To add insult to injury the creek had muddied as I fished into dusk. At this point it was an exercise in futility. I put on a meaty streamer and began to blanket the area, but really I was just enjoying the surroundings. Every once in awhile I can mentally detach myself from the cruise control of everyday fishing. I had the luxury of reflecting on the day’s events, and by almost any measurable standard getting skunked is something to bemoan. But for me it only serves to fan the flames.  If I was to do it all over again I wouldn’t change a thing. Sometimes you have to get back to the basics. I often quote my kids elementary school principal in these instances, “if it isn’t hard, you’re not learning.”  The reality is that my mission is complete, and I know what’s up Shit Creek.

Are you tired of looking at my windshield yet? I should retire this photo from the usual assortment of flotsom, but I seem to keep snapping the pic and subsequently feel the need to post it. I think it may be a subconscious reaction to Phil Monahan after he posted one of my videos on the Orvis news blog last spring and proceeded to rip it for “too much driving time.”  The reality is that if you’re an urbanite like myself, large portions of the angling experience are spent on the road, and I’m just too stubborn when told not to do something. There’s a fair chance I’ll just do it more. Furthermore it just feels good to be on the road again after winter hibernation. The good news is that I snuck out for a few hours yesterday, and can attest that the stranglehold of winter hasn’t fully lost it’s grip. The light at the end of the icy tunnel is ever so close with a major league warmup just on the horizon. The astute angler might wait for the warmer temps later this week. But as any veteran Adrifter™ would tell you, I’m an ardent student in the “fish when you can” school of medicine. The “when I can” in this instance was a sunny, yet cool Monday afternoon in dairyland.

My apologies to any “The Carpenters“ haters. The nod stems from my dad’s incessant ability to rock The Carpenters at ultra high decibels, amongst other seventies classics, from his bad ass set of Klipsch corner horns. If you didn’t care for The Carpenters, The Beach Boys or John Denver, and you lived on 27th Ave in the seventies and eighties, it was tough sledding.

Have I mentioned that I have Brookie on the brain? My last round of R&D on a number of crapshoot creeks left me unprepared for spring creek fisticuffs. I felt compelled to flex the muscle a bit with a more generous choice of water. I arrived midday at a somewhat familiar stream to bluebird skies and a light wind that added just enough chill to remind me of my mere mortality. While this creek has a steady population of fish, there’s just enough respectably-sized fish to keep things interesting.

The switching of gears to Driftless Brook Trout is always an adjustment to my “rewards system.” I’ve found that mine is significantly out of whack following my run-in with the Thanksgiving “Milwaukee’s Best” brown. I was perusing the trout section on the Minnesota DNR’s site recently and noticed the state records for trout. I have never paid much attention to the records, as I have virtually no shot at ever eclipsing any of them, but was struck with the fact that the Thanksgiving fish was bigger than current Minnesota Brown Trout state record. Obviously it’s not an apples to apples comparison, since the Lake Superior and Lake Michigan fisheries are very different in their size structures. It did however serve as a catalyst for change. I need to switch gears for a few outings to kick off the season. It’s time to do a little spring cleaning. To clear out the cobwebs of winter so to speak. I’m attempting to get back to the basics. Back to fishing small where every footlong trout is considered a quality fish. There will be plenty of time in the prime of spring and summer to chase the big boys, but for now they’re just innocent bystanders in my quest for cheeseland char.

I stood under the bridge and was confounded by the conundrum that has plagued man since the beginning of time. Upstream or downstream? Sure everyone knows that upstream is the wise choice since these things point their noses in that direction. But I caught a glimpse of a juicy-looking downstream run that taunted me in traditional peep show fashion. Fuck convention, I’m going downstream for awhile, then I’ll circle back and work my way up. I crept downstream at a snails pace attempting to not stir up a hornet’s nest of silt. This was private property and I was forced to keep my feet wet, compounding the difficulty. I fired a few casts to the heart of the bottomless pool and was greeted with a righteous specimen. All was right with the world again. 

I continued downstream to a few reasonable looking spots, but none produced. The further I walked the more shallow it became. My multitasking mind inevitably wandered to thoughts of the deep pool just upstream of the bridge that I knew must hold fish. I hightailed it back upstream and approached the spot with care as to not spook any of the inhabitants. This was one of the best looking holding lies in the county and I was determined to not mess it up. I put a good half dozen cast into the belly of the beast, with nothing to show for it but doubt. I worked my way closer to the gut for further inspection. After a few more casts straight upstream I saw the infamous pirouette of a trout chasing my streamer downstream. This all too familiar arcing motion had a golden coloration to it. A German invader had taken up residence in my Brook Trout stream and he was hellbent on world domination. After a brief tussle I put the decent, but not large Brown Trout into the net for further inspection. A few quick pics and I sent him on his way.

Without further adieu, introducing the “Shirley Temple” Brook Trout micro-streamer. When I bellied up to the bar a decade or two before I  was of legal age I knocked back my fair share of these delicious drinks, “to warm up for the real thing”. You may be more of a Roy Rogers fan, but for my money the Shirley Temple is where it’s at. More to the point, I tied a cache of these things on green-anodized Gamakatzu walleye hooks. I wanted to create a very small attractor/streamer in a “baby” Brook Trout pattern. You certainly can dead drift or “Frankenymph” (for those who read my AA article) this fly, but it proved deadly to actively strip retrieve the fly yesterday afternoon. Even the smallest of Brookies were suckers for syrupy goodness of the Shirley Temple. I proceeded to pound out another hour or two on the creek, producing a decent roster of Brookies. The Shirley Temple experiment was complete, and it worked as good, if not better than I would have imagined.

I hoofed it back to the car and refueled with a quick PB&J and other caloric accoutrements. As I sat in the hatch of my car and considered my next play I was reminded of the mishap at Hay Creek back in January. I set my GoPro on the rear hatch of my car and I fear it must have fallen into the snow. I was removing my gear before departing for home, and I haven’t seen it since that outing. If anyone has found a GoPro at Hay Creek this winter, I’ll tell you that the small scratch on the lens is going to bug the shit out of you.

I decided to hit a bigger stretch of water on a stream that contained both Brooks and Browns. I’d never fished this section before, but it had been on the hit list for some time. I slinked into the clear water and was struck with the quality of the creek. The first couple holes were deep with the emerald green hue that is indicative of good turf. I switched gears and tied on a meaty #4 Bugger and added an extra split for good measure. In short order a medium-sized Brookie took a swipe, but couldn’t consumate the relationship. Over the next hour I blanketed the prime looking water with no success. I even switched over to a deep probing nymph rig containing a Pink Squirrel, just to “test the waters” in greater detail. The cruel irony is that this was the best looking water I’d seen all season and it didn’t produce squat. My time was running short, so I decided I’d pop in on the next bridge downstream for a twenty-minute tour.

I looked down from the bridge and saw and absolute chunk of a Brown Trout leisurely loitering in typical bridge pool fashion. That was the only cue I needed for further investigation. This stretch was curvy but shallow and silty as hell. One huge corner bend had to be 100 feet wide and no more than 6 inches deep, no shit. It was the kind of water that most anglers would avoid altogether. One lesson I learned many moons ago is to not judge a book by it’s cover. If you’re on a quality stream, you’ll eventually find fish. I had two things working against me at this point. The first was the clock and the second was that I was once again working downstream. I marched at a fevered pace swinging my big bugger to anything resembling a holding lie. The challenge to outrun my mud trail became paramount, as I was spewing silt down into my fishing lane as if it was liquid hot magma. I wasn’t deterred and I continued my sprint. I looked at my iphone to check the time and ignored the overstuffed inbox of client requests. 10 minutes more then I have to be on the road I told myself. I spied some faster water downstream and made a mad dash to investigate. It was by no means a great looking hole, but it was the best I’d seen in this god forsaken place. I launched the lanky Bugger down into the run and stripped it straight back to me. As I lifted it out of the water a small fish erupted on my offering. A few more casts, no dice. I walked down to the next section and immediately connected with stout 13″ caliber fish. I released him and made one more forray  into some faster water. I opened up a long distance dedication that was rudely greeted with the cannibalistic behavior of a frenzied predator. Upon hookset I was treated to an aerial display of Brown Trout love. What was even more impressive was that there was a second, much larger, fish vying for my lure. This isn’t a “the one that got” away story as my fish had beat him to the punch. This is the type of behavior that is commonplace in Smallmouth fishing. One gets the feeling that these fish don’t see quality forage all that often, and when they do, they pounce. I proceeded to snap a few pics and make a mad dash back to the truck as I’d overstayed my welcome.

The goal was to get after some Brook Trout and put a new creation through its paces, which was successfully achieved.  As it turns out the Browns had a few ideas of their own, and I’m certainly not one to kick them out of bed for eating crackers. There was something special about the pirouetting take of the fly, or the aerobatic display in the final chapter. Strangely familiar, yet altogether new. It had a “we meet again old friend” vibe to it, and the good news is that we’ve only just begun.

Better late than never? You bet. The long wait was over as I finally made my inaugural run into the badger state for some trouting last Friday.  In typical fashion it was an early departure. Dawn raids are an imperfect proposition this time of year, but I don’t give a shit. While y’all were sleeping I was logging miles making a deep run to review some new turf. One of my February habits is to pour over my maps in search of new valleys to explore. You see by nature, or perhaps nurture I’m a “run and gunner.” Many may choose to set course for one access point and plod through it like a mouse seeking cheese. My preferred method is often more of a shotgun approach. I pick a few streams worthy of further review and rank the sections as plan A, plan B, plan C etc. The cardinal rule is that the fish ultimately dictate the tour. If I encounter a hot bite I’ll stay put and fish the section more thoroughly. My approach on this frigid March morning was to look at some marginal Brook trout water. In my mind I considered this more of a scouting mission than a results oriented affair. I had the luxury of several opener reports from my trouting cronies. They forewarned me that the Brook trout bite was poor to say the least. I even knew of specific spots where large Brown trout were readily being duped. I’m often driven to zig when everyone else zags, to a fault. It may be hard for some to fathom but sometimes I go “looking” with low expectations of doing much “catching.” Numbers are superflous. I’ll leave the body count to other anglers. I was looking for one big bite, not many average ones. Not that I didn’t want to catch fish, in the back of your mind you hope for the best of both worlds, but I don’t deem this the kind of water that can produce those results. At a bare minimum I was seeking evidence that proved these locations worthy of further review in better circumstances. I forewarned in my last post that I’d swing for the fences, but would I strikeout?

I emerged from the shroud of darkness afforded by the fog-filled valley only to be greeted with a winter wonderland. To may dismay it wasn’t yet June. The hefty snowfall from earlier in the week left the area with a fresh coat of powder. There’s something great about getting a first look at something that you’ve only imagined in your mind. As expected this stream was extremely shallow, silty and looked like a tough nut to crack. Bites, or fish for that matter were not going to be doled out in spades. I was going to have to earn my keep, just the way I like it. I grabbed my rod and worked my way upstream. I was immediately struck with how cold it was. The daytime high temps were going to protrude into the mid to upper 30′s but this was much colder. I tied on one of the new micro streamers that I’d conceived for this specific occasion. In short order it turned into an ice ball with a gapless hook. Keeping my line deiced also became a full-time occupation. Slinging this rig around began to feel more like a medieval mace than a delicate fly fishing offering. Ice management overwhelmed the opening rounds of my season. My standard approach is to deice the streamer by biting down carefully on the lure. The trick is to not get hooked on your own creation. Easier said than done. I approached the first good-looking hole with the stealthiness of an atrophied angler. The first fish of the season scooted away upstream in disgust of my presence.

I continued my journey flipping my offering to every nook and cranny in the ultra skinny water. After some time I finally found a few spots pushing more current and a bit more depth. Unfortunately a thin layer of ice covered some of the better corner pools, and where I was able to cast, nobody was home. I plodded on to the next spot, which was a series of laydowns that I soon realized to be beaver activity. I had finally found decent depth, but I listened as a beaver noisily made his way downstream to my location. He poked his head out of the water, flipped me the beaver bird, and continued on his way. The call of other destinations grew too loud which finally caused me to pull up stakes. Before I departed the valley I toured most of the bridge crossings to commit them to the memory banks for future endeavors. No fish were brought to hand which you might perceive as a failure. But there’s a small piece of unspoken evidence which forces me to keep this spot in my back pocket. These fishless pursuits may make for boring discourse, but if you’re committed enough to read along, there will be more of this type of Brook trout exploration in 2013. Like most fishing pursuits in my adult life it’s a long-term investment, no risk, no reward.

I warmed up in my car, grabbed a snack and hightailed it to another county. En route I placed a prearranged call to a local landowner that I chatted with earlier in the week. He told me to give him a call if I was interested in fishing his place. He’s wedged a few miles from the nearest bridge, but has some turf on a stream that I’d never fished before. I drove downstream and popped in on a few access points prior to my arrival. I found some very promising looking deep holes with significant shelf ice, but couldn’t manage a bite or even evidence of aquatic life for that matter. I wasn’t encouraged. This stream held both Brooks and Browns, but all I could see were huge Titanic-like chunks of ice drifting through the runs. No worries I told myself and I stayed the course. I proceeded to fish his property for an hour or so and didn’t see a single fish, nor did a snap any pictures of this stream. The hope was to at least spook a few so that I could gauge this creek’s potential. I’m at a loss on this one. Will I return? Only time will tell.

Now came the scramble portion of the day as I decided to start working my way back to civilization. The plan was to bridge hop my way back on new water. Most spots were not particularly fishable and I spent little time reviewing them. While I was committed to the notion of marginal water and one big bite, there was an elephant in the room. The stench of the skunk began to linger in the air. I figured the least I could do was to remedy that situation by getting a little slime on the hands for good measure. With my tail between my legs, I set course to go win the loser’s bracket.

After reviewing the last creek on my list, it left me perilously close to a stream that I hadn’t visited in the last year or two. A little birdie had told me that this piece of water was fishing well and it didn’t disappoint. The minute I slipped into it’s gin-clear waters I was transfixed by the activity level compared to what I’d seen so far. It’s as if these trout missed the lockjaw memo. Midges were everywhere, but what was more impressive was the Stonefly activity. A smorgasbord of winter Stones dotted the banks with some big dudes in the mix. The trout didn’t miss a beat as you’d find fish readily rolling on these bad boys. I had two things working against me at this point. The first was time. I only had a half hour of fishing time left to spare before I had to make the run home for a previous engagement. The second was fly selection. I had tied a handful of artificials to mimic this bug, but failed to transfer the box to my wading jacket as I had been fishing without my usual chestpack.

There was no turning back at this point, so I put on a very small bugger by my usual standards. Probably a 12 but who knows as I can be devoid of details when I’ve got fish on the brain. In short order I was getting hits and chasers without hookups, including one pretty nice Brookie. It took me a bit to get in rhythm with these fish, but fairly quickly I put a cookie cutter Brown on the board. I proceeded to get a second one identical to the first by flipping my offering into a deep logjam. While the results aren’t stunning, that act alone got the juices flowing. It’s the kind of thing you long for on those cold December nights. I blasted upstream and fooled a few more dink risers with my very unStonefly looking offering. Time was up and I practically ran back to the truck as I had almost “one last casted” my way to being late on my arrival.

I jumped in the car and began my journey back from solitary confinement. While proceeding through the Twin Cities trouting gateway of Pierce County, it dawned on me that I had covered 5 western Wisconsin counties on my saga. The results were certainly a mixed bag. I like winter fishing just fine, but there’s no question I’m looking forward to the thaw. The majority of what I saw wasn’t ready for primetime. Either through inherent shortcomings or the water was still too cold it was a “no go”, but that was to be expected.

The lesson to be learned from Clark Griswold is that it’s more about the journey that it ever has been about the ultimate destination or prize. There’s no shame in mixing it up and simply kicking the tires from time to time. Don’t hesitate to go on that Vacation you’ve been thinking about, even if you’re rudely greeted with, Sorry folks park’s closed.

Like most people, February has been a grind for me. All work and not enough play makes Jack a dull boy. February always has that “blessing and a curse” vibe going on. You can see the light at the end of the tunnel as the sun angle increases and the thaw begins, but we’re still trudging through the last stronghold of a Minnesota winter. To add insult to injury, the fishing was few and far between for me. I made a few exploits down to the Mississippi to check things out. It’s become a rite of passage for me, as my fishing clock tends to be well ahead of mother nature’s. I make a few casts here or there on the big river, but it’s as much about getting out and stretching the legs as it is about fishing. Nothing cures the February doldrums like a Wisconsin opener. While I haven’t fished an opener morning the last few years, you can bet your ass I’ll be out there soon enough. I’ve set my sights on some new water for the early season and I’m foaming at the mouth to give it a go.

I made a run to the North Shore last week to make a few turns. My buddy was in the driver’s seat for the haul which afforded me the prime seat to rubberneck the many trout streams and surf spots that dot the landscape. Is there anything better than getting a quick eyeful of trout stream as you go down the road? Sure it would be nice to wet a line, but these things were locked up like a fresh bag of Quickcrete. Damn I wish there was a viable winter fishery on the North Shore. It’s all uphill from here and I’m pretty stoked that this will be our last year of closed trout fishing in Minnesota. It looks like next year we’ll have an expanded fall and winter season with Whitewater and other state parks remaining open year around. Can I get an Amen?

While I traversed the Poplar River numerous times on my board and skis I couldn’t help but daydream about a steady round of Brook trouting. I’m not really sure where the issue of Lutsen over pumping excessive amounts of water from the stream for snowmaking landed? I do however know that the evidence littered the landscape. Snowmaking was in full swing, gracing the slopes with it’s rock hard icy goodness. Late February has left the North Shore light on the natural stuff. It reminded me that while Lutsen may be the finest the midwest has to offer, it still pales in comparison to it’s western counterparts.

Good luck to those of you who are out and about for opener this weekend. Fishing in March can be a hit or miss affair for me. The smart play would be to hit a few “old faithful” spots early in the season to insure that I’ll get into some decent fish. Too bad I liked Kenny Rogers Gambler just a little too much as a youngster. Against my better judgement I’ll probably swing for the fences on some new turf and let the chips fall where they may. I’ll furnish the play by play in the coming days.

The gas tank is filled, the oil has been changed and I’m back on the road. Better late than never.

Ice fishing for me is an adopted pursuit. Minnesotans like to make many claims. Whether it be the “land of 10,000 lakes”,  “the state of hockey” or the Coen Brothers. Ice fishing culture is as Minnesotan as Babe the Blue Ox. Risking my life in pursuit of fish is like a tube of Oscar Mayer Braunschweiger, it’s just filler. I regularly lace-up the skates for a pickup game, strap on the snowboard or partake in an extra round of shoveling as a means to rationalize my choice of living in an pseudo-arctic climate. Many individuals opt to hibernate in winter but I attempt to revel in it. It’s a behavior that was frozen into my brain at a young age. I spent my teen years freezing my ass off on the antiquated chairlifts of my beloved Sundown Mountain. Skiing and snowboarding from 9am to 10pm was standard fare. Eventually you get accustomed to wicked self-induced windchills of an Iowa winter.  Mixing my cold weather tolerance with my love of fishing would prove to be a match made in heaven. My introduction to the sport came in the late nineties, and it was trial under fire to say the least. Mrs. Adrift was an Editorial Assistant for North American Fisherman Magazine. The staff ice fishing trip was an annual pilgrimage to premier northern Minnesota lakes. For more than a decade I joined the armada as we’d run and gun with the finest guides in the area to prime locations. I have to admit that the best of the bunch was Brian “Bro” Brosdahl. If you don’t think there’s any skill in ice fishing I’d suggest you book a trip with Bro. I consider myself a fairly competent ice fisherman and he has regularly outfished me 10 to 1 in side-by-side holes. It’s an amazing display of skill and knowledge. Enough rambling about the past, let’s get to the present, shall we?

The late fall “filler” was my CHP in Chaska exploits. I’m not sure why I was so enthralled with the experience, since suburban stocker angling rarely is something to get lathered over? Nevertheless I decided back in October that this would be a good destination for an ice fishing blog post. I mean besides watching American Idol, tying flies and daydreaming about the spring thaw, what else do you have to do that’s more important than reading this BS? To be honest with you I’m like a dog in heat to hit some SE Minnesota streams, and Hay Creek did little to quench my thirst. I’ve just been too busy to escape. The events that unfolded earlier this month forced me to miss the first two weeks of the designated lakes trout season. This would prove to be a blessing and a curse. I had no intention of fighting the crowds that amass for opening weekend, but the standard Adrift™ approach of fishing a weekday shortly there after was in full effect.

I arrived at “legal time” on Friday morning with extremely low expectations. This was the one week a year that we all despise. Every January we have a week where the mercury struggles to rise above zero. As luck would have it this corresponded with my first real opportunity to fish in a few weeks. With the crazy cold temps and my delayed arrival, I surmised that this little gem had been pounded to within an inch of it’s life and there’d be nothing left to pursue. I setup shop on the ice with my small otter sled containing a few rods, my aging Vexilar FL-18 and my trusty Jiffy. I own a portable ice house, but rarely use it. I’m way too ADHD to sit still and stare at one hole for very long. The preferred approach is to drill way too many holes resembling a thick piece of swiss cheese and bounce around accordingly. I began my pursuit and the early returns were as expected. Nobody was home in deeper water. As the sun began to lazily rise above the treetops I moved shallower and finally hit paydirt. Ice fishing for trout can be a visual experience. Often the fish cruise right under the ice, and you can sight fish them as they flyby and smash your offering. This fish however was suspended half way down and I picked him up on my electronics. I felt the telltale inhalation of my jig. I solidly set the hook and an angler’s worst fear came to fruition. The rod snapped like a twig. I immediately moved to plan B attempting to subdue the beast by hand lining into my clutches. No dice. I threw the Jason Mitchell sight fishing rod to the ice in disgust. This was the newest rod my the collection, and clearly it was the shittiest, since I hadn’t caught any fish on it. Hey Jason, thanks for nothing! Fortunately ice rods, unlike fly rods have the shelf life of a disposable diaper, and the price point to match. My anger was shortlived as I grabbed another rod and got back to business. Within minutes I iced my first Bow and all was right with the world.

One of the finer points of ice fishing is the visualization and imagination portion of the equation. Minus the use of your depthfinder and lake maps, much of what you’re doing is blind. Don’t get me wrong I own an underwater camera, but use it more as a novelty than a fishing aid. This outing would prove to be a different affair. The next hour of fishing was killer. It was one of those windows of frenzied activity that we live for. It’s particularly rewarding in ice fishing given the atmospheric conditions that you’re subjected to. You can endure many fishless hours in the winter looking for low light bliss. CHP was doling out the Rainbows in spades. The numbers yet again were mind boggling. A school of what appeared to be 25-100 fish would move through your hole and you’d get 10 quick biters, I had a real shot at only one or two as the stubby-tailed hatchery fish moved at an insanely high rate of speed. The morning was shaping up to be pretty damn good, and fortunately for me only two or three more anglers showed up to join the affair.

The weather was strange indeed. Wild fluctuations between blue skies and clouds were the norm. A band of driving snow showers blew through for 15 minutes coating my limit of troutcicles in a fine white powder. Even though I quickly bonked a limit I continued to fish. In the back of my mind I thought of the monster Brookie, brooder Bow and the big Browns that I saw last fall. If only I could C.P.R. one of those big boys I told myself, this would truly be a special outing. But it wasn’t meant to be. I stood hammering Bow after Bow looking stupidly like an Everest explorer, when in reality the only thing I was conquering was my inner demons.

    As I made my way off the ice I was struck with the amount of garbage that littered the ice. There was your usual assortment of ice fishing refuse. It’s as if I was guest starring in an episode of Fat Albert. Dinky sunfish also littered the ice in an effort to rid the clay pit of the unwanted guest. Garbage or no garbage, this was one of those mornings that some would just shake their head at. Morning commuters gingerly sipping their coffee in their cozy warm cars. I could feel their judgment even in the arctic air. They must be wondering about the guy standing out on the ice staring down the hole. Either you’re with us or against us. Why would he do that in this weather? What is it all about anyway?

I cannot answer that. I can only shed a glimmer of light on why we fight.

2013 has been billowing like an overstuffed burrito. The ever important life/work balance has been stalled at the work end of the spectrum. There has been little room between the beans and cheese of life for chasing trout. As last week unfolded, I finally found a small window for a much anticipated day trip into the belly of the beast. The calm before the storm consisted of reviewing maps for potential targets and surveying my fly boxes for a quick state of the union address. The latter revealed an assortment sorely underrepresenting the tiny flies that can do so much damage this time of year. I’d have to suck it up and sneak in some vise time to round out the the “tiny” portion of my box. I like to pop open my laptops to review maps, stream reports, and tying videos while on the vise. It’s the ultimate ADHD scenario. One computer just isn’t enough, I often have two or three adorning my desktop. I determined I’d make a run to an array of familiar and unfamiliar streams to kick off the season. After hard charging towards Brown bliss last fall I though I’d switch gears towards beloved Brookies. I was also committed to the idea of fishing small. I throw big stuff more than most, but I was eager to dust off the 4-weight and sling some tiny goodness. Many guys are embroiled in a “tiny rod” arms race to convince themselves that the puny fish they are catching feel bigger. It’s sort of an inverse penis pump situation. If anglers want to tape a few pieces of spaghetti together and fling some horse hair to feel closer to their quarry more power to them. I’m an ardent “each to their own” sort of guy who’s also perfectly comfortable bottoming out at a standard 4-weight for Driftless dutites.

By later that evening it was a done deal. the coordinates were punched into the GPS and all that remained was to tie up a few pseudo masterpieces to fool the pint-sized salmonids. A quick review of my tying materials revealed a significant problem with my plan. Not only was my stash devoid of any small hooks, I’d have to improvise using size 12 hooks. I should have anticipated this given my propensity to tie and fish bigger, but I hadn’t had the time to run to the fly shop and I’m somewhat adverse to ordering online. I’m a visual person who prefers to inspect and handle most goods prior to purchase, and tying materials easily fall into this category. I’m also a staunch minimalist on and off the water. Many years ago I shed the habit of carrying big boxes with hundreds of flies. I roll with a small chestpack containing only a few small boxes that I swap out and replenish as needed. This method certainly has it’s pros and cons. I’m not sure how many anglers have ever attempted to fish size 12 flies for midges with any seriousness, but I was about to embark on this mission. Simple is the name of the game when you’re hamstrung with my tying abilities. I opted to whip out a few  makeshift zebra midges and a brassie-like creation I like to call the Blue Light Special. I substitute some bluish ice dub for the peacock herl and crown it with a pearlescent blue bead robbed from my kids robust cache of friendship pin materials. I followed up with a Griffith’s Gnat and a fat pearlescent pink squirrel just so I can officially lemming myself a true midwesterner.

Life has a funny way of doling out lemons when you least expect it. I’m prone to being a night owl the night before a round of fishing. The clock struck midnight as I went to the kitchen for a quick beverage. While I stood enjoying a refreshing drink Mrs. Adrift’s phone lit up with a text message from a family member, “call me ASAP.” Initially I didn’t think much of the message, until I considered the time. Why would he be texting her that message at midnight I asked myself? I proceeded to pick up her phone and unearthed a series of messages and missed phone calls from family members, as the ringer had been silenced. My prefishing anticipation took a quick turn towards something much darker, and a lot less fun. I woke up my wife to inform her of the bad news (I’ll refer to this person as GG). It turns out that GG had suffered a heart attack and wasn’t going to make it through the night. There wouldn’t be enough time to say our good-byes in person. We called family members in Madison who were bedside at the hospital, which allowed Mrs. Adrift time to say a few words over the phone to GG. The next stage was a torturous waiting game. Sure enough a few surreal hours later we received the call that GG had passed. What the hell just happened?

In times like these fishing becomes both the least and most important thing. The reality is that fishing has no importance in the context of what really matters, but it’s therapeutic value for people like us cannot be underestimated. You see, I had the misfortune of losing my parents and grandparents by the age of thirty. There was a seismic flip flop in my world years ago where I traded being a child for becoming a parent, all within the span of two years. In addition to the support of family and friends, the one constant in life is fishing. It’s a place where you can always go to simplify things.

As the fateful day unfolded last week, we sent the kids to school and Mrs. Adrift courageously chose to head into the office to tidy up a few things in preparation for our impending journey. My fishing plan had gone by the wayside until she suggested I still go. I had mixed feelings about leaving, but conceded there was nothing more we could do for a few days. I quickly scaled back my itinerary to stick closer to home should I need to return. The back up plan was the “venerable” Hay Creek. I’ve ripped Hay Creek a new one in the past since it tends to be towards the bottom of my list of favored local trout streams. I think it’s worth clarifying that trout streams, like ice cream cones, are a range of goodness. Mint chocolate chip may be one of my least favorite flavors of ice cream, but it’s not like it’s brussel sprouts. It’s still fucking ice cream.

Hay Creek , like others, suffers from the usual overworked HI approach that is standard fare these days. It seems like no stream is acceptable unless every inch of it has been blindly McStreamed. I’m not convinced that it’s always about habitat improvement as much as it’s driven by dollars. Trout stream “improvement” is as much of a business as it is about the fish. All HI is good HI is the mantra. Leaving nothing to chance and lacking imagination. Every nook and cranny has been preplanned by human hands. Wetting a line at Hay feels like fishing Peavey Plaza in downtown Minneapolis. I realize that it’s poor form to shit where you eat, and I don’t mean to belittle those who have invested their energy into the creek. Unfortunately Hay is the only viable option remotely close to the Twin Cities if you’re looking for a quick winter fix. I usually try to keep the preachy opinions to a minimum, but it’s my blog so occasionally a few slip out. I’ll jump off the soapbox at this point and stick to the fishing.

I felt compelled to blast down the Wisconsin side of the river en route to Red Wing, just so I could daydream about popping in on prime badger water. Too bad we’re a few months away from the Wisconsin opener as I inevitably arrived at Hay. To my surprise there were no other cars at the usual spots. Somehow I’d have the water all to myself (minus a cross country skier and her protective team of dogs) for the entirety of my stay. I got on the board quickly in some faster water with a cookie-cutter brown on my plump pink squirrel. Man it felt good to connect for the first fish of the season.  As the morning began to unfold sporadic midge activity became readily apparent and I switched flies accordingly. I fooled a fish on the oversized Blue Light Special in short order. Did this fish actually think this fly was a midge larvae? Perhaps it was functioning more as an attractor than anything specific? It’s silly for me to determine whether this situation fits conventional wisdom, because I never really mastered the conventions in the first place. My approach is thick with the trial and heavy on the error that comes with a largely self taught skill set.  Ultimately the details mattered little. I was racking up numbers in reasonable succession for winter fishing, thereby taking out my angst on the bait-sized Browns of Hay.

I alternated between the man-made sections and the old school stretches that have yet to be fully strip-mined, picking up a fish here and there as I wandered my way through the early afternoon. The air temps were comfortable enough that I didn’t bother wearing gloves or even a coat for that matter. If global warming has it’s way we may have some pretty nice fishing conditions in the coming years, and I suspect the winter season will swell in popularity.

I continued my journey resisting the urge to go big. On the contrary I tied on a microscopic #22 Red Hot Nymph and was immediately pleased with the results. Once again the adjustment to my “rewards system” was complete. Thoughts of giant brown trout had for the moment evacuated my memory banks as I simply took what the stream offered me. I had to ask myself, is bigger always better? Certainly that isn’t always the case. Nothing illustrates this more than NYC’s Mayor Bloomberg’s controversial war on giant sodas and obesity. Big drinks equals big people, to what end? It takes a little discipline on my part, but I can occasionally fool myself into thinking that a small fish can provide the hefty return on investment worth the price of admission.

The first trip of the year was under my belt and I was no worse for the wear. While it was somewhat unremarkable from a fishing standpoint, it successfully shook the rust off and provided temporary mental respite from the day’s events. We proceeded to complete our inevitable date with destiny, packing the kids into the car and spending a few sullen days with family. Our trip culminated in GG’s funeral procession, followed by a few honorary toasts. As we drove home from Madison I convinced Mrs. Adrift to take the long and scenic route home. Splitting the Driftless in two by dashing over to La Crosse, followed by a quick Winona flyby for lunch at Beno’s Deli, one of her college favorites. The youngsters tallied the eagle count, while their old man rubber-necked a bonus number of trout stream bridge crossings. It’s drilled into our pre pubescent psyche that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. In our increasingly dysfunctional world of iPads, smart phones and Netflix, choosing the road less travelled is a small package worth treasuring. Life ultimately gives way to death. The counterpoint that death affords us is the opportunity to take life as it comes and relish the little things, because good things come in small packages.

R.I.P. GG

On a side note. The Moldy Chum slab of the month contest is underway and my Milwaukee’s best brown is in the running and needs a little love. Feel free to cast a vote my way if you feel compelled to participate: Moldy Chum Slab of the Month (the poll is on the left side of the page).

Let’s play a game of make believe, shall we? In lieu of new substantive content here at the worldwide headquarters I figured I’d offer up some largely unpublished photography. Some of the shots are repeats from older posts, but the lion’s share of these images were shot from around the Driftless in preparation for my current American Angler article. They hold exclusive rights to the handful of shots used in the article and I can’t show them on my blog until the issue has run it’s course. Some may subscribe to the notion that “less is more.” While that is fine for some, I’m the type of person that will generate a maddening number of options when brainstorming. Selecting photography is something that I do on a daily basis working as a creative director and designer, and I like to have a lot of options. With that in mind I submitted a healthy cache of shots to American Angler to support my Close Encounters thesis. There are limits to what I can accomplish on the stream by myself. Some pics I took on time delay with my trusty tripod, others were shot by my buddy Joel Woodward. The photos in this post didn’t cut the editorial mustard. These are the All-American Rejects.