In the Bag

In the Bag

It’s honest, but probably not macho to admit that I have been afraid.  There are times that I have been afraid that I now look back on, and I have to chuckle at myself.  Of course, those times are now judged by hindsight, and nothing is as clear as hindsight.  But there was one time that I look back on with some level of understanding, but I literally cannot tell you exactly what I was frightened by. 

If you enjoy fishing trout in NE Wisconsin you may know the river.  The Pine River snakes its way eastward across northern Wisconsin, just under the state’s border with Upper Michigan.  The stretch that flows freely through Florence County is designated as a wild and scenic river.  I used to park at the bridge where the river crosses Highway 139 and fish it in both directions.  Usually, I headed upstream in the morning for a couple of hours, then fished back down to the bridge and my vehicle where I had my lunch stashed.  After I had eaten my lunch, I fished downstream until early evening. 

On the day in question, my routine got thrown off kilter.  That’s because as I rigged my spinning rod I saw a fish rise in the first pool below the bridge.  I considered that a personal challenge, so I made my way down to the water and found a good position to cast from.  Since the fish was obviously rising to a small hatch of caddis flies, it would have been much wiser to use a fly rod, but this was at the time when I was still much more confidant in in spinners or small spoons than in my fly-casting ability.  That had changed over the years, but I want to tell the story as it was truthfully lived. 

As it turned out the trout was a nice-sized brown who wasn’t picky about what he had for breakfast.  He grabbed my #2 Mepps spinner almost before the blade began to turn.  The fight was a tug of war.  He never surfaced or broke water.  Instead, he stayed down deep, twisting and turning in an attempt to pull free.  It turned out to be my day, not his, as I slid the net underneath him.  He added some comfortable heft to the creel after I added a bedding of fresh ferns. 

I took the happenings as an invitation to continue downstream after first retrieving my lunch and some water.  I figured that perhaps I should use much of day and fish farther downstream than I usually had time for.  The next mile or so of river wasn’t overly productive; it was mainly a series of riffles.  But I did pick up several more fish along the way, so I kept going, mainly because I knew that there a big bend in the river ahead that had a deep pool at its tail and its head.  It turned out to be a wise choice. 

That morning, I did something in the tail pool that I had never done of the Pine before or since.  There was a huge boulder midstream.  I had caught some nice trout here before.  My first cast went out about three feet farther than I intended and the spinner wedged itself in a crevice of that boulder.  I carefully moved upstream keeping tension on the line.  When I was ten feet or so ahead of the boulder I tugged on my line; gratefully and surprisingly, the spinner pulled free.  Not only that, but a nice brook trout decided the spinner looked delicious.  He was a full twelve inches and went into the creel with the others.  I tossed the spinner ahead of the boulder and let it sink deep before starting the retrieve, and I felt the strike of a nice fish.  This turned out to be a brookie exactly one inch bigger than the first.  Again, I tossed the spinner into the pool and once again, my rod arced over and throbbed with a good fish.  This one was an inch bigger yet.  A 12, 13 and 14-inch wild brook trout on three consecutive casts into the same pool.  I took a picture of those three fish, but of course I  couldn't find it.  [The picture above is the Pine River; I am pretty sure it was taken on the day of the events of this post.]  Of course, I got greedy and continued to cast into the pool for another twenty minutes or so, but to no further avail.  I began to work my way downstream. 

I fished for the remainder of the day, picking up a fish here and there.  The day passed pleasantly but without anything exceptional to report.  I noticed the sun was well on the descent and a glance at my watch confirmed that I was already a bit tardy in turning around.  There really was no trail along the river down that far.  In fact, the banks were covered with thick tag alder.  I would have to either wade the river back up, or get to the edge of that alder to where the woods opened up a bit to afford easier walking.  I needed one more fish to round out my limit.  I decided the big bend pool was just the place and figured I should be able to get back to it before dark to fish it when perhaps a big brown trout would be feeding there.    

I realized that I still had some distance to go when I heard a whippoorwill sound off urgently.  I heard the big riffle and knew that I had reached the big bend pool.  I cut straight back through the alder to make my way back to the river bank.  I stood there for a moment to let my eyes adjust to what little daylight was left.  I carefully waded through the riffle to cross the river so I could fish the pool from the same spot as I had so successfully done in the morning. 

I decided to tie on a #4 Panther Martin in the hopes of the larger lure attracting a big brown trout.  I had to hold the eye of the spinner up to the sky to be able to see well enough to tie the knot.  I heard a black bear woof across the river, where I had just been 15 minutes earlier.  I yelled out and heard him crash through the brush; unfortunately, he ran the same direction that I needed to go.  That was a little unnerving, but I turned to the task at hand. 

I cast the spinner out into the pool.  I had misjudged how much farther the heavier lure would carry and it splashed down about eight feet ahead of the big boulder.  Suddenly, the line stopped and I set the hook hard.  My rod bent over double.  But the excitement only lasted a split second as I soon realized it wasn’t a fish; I was hung up on something.  I walked carefully back downstream hoping the different angle would free up my lure like it had when I got snagged here in the morning. 

To my dismay the lure did not pop free.  I carefully pulled back and felt some movement.  I pulled again and this time I was sure that whatever I had hooked was coming my way.  A few minutes later I saw something but was unsure of what it was.  I dug in my fishing vest and found my little flashlight.  I pushed the button but all the flashlight would provide was a very weak beam; the batteries were low on juice.  I bent down so I could hold the dim light on the object.  It was a gunny sack.  I had obviously pulled it up out of the muck as it was covered with mud.  I saw my spinner lodged deeply into the material.  It wasn’t going to come out without cutting it free.  I shuddered involuntarily at the thought of getting near the sack. 

Thoughts raced through my mind as to what the sack held.  I noted that the top had been gathered and then wrapped tightly with wire that was now rusty.  Whatever the sack held, the owner wasn’t concerned about getting quick access.  That made me decide it was unlikely to hold gear from some canoe or kayak that may have tipped over somewhere upstream.  As large and heavy as it was, and the fact that it was almost a mile yet to the bridge, I wondered how many spring thaw floods it took to wash the sack this far downstream.  The gathering darkness didn’t help as there was something a bit creepy, even sinister about it. 

I made my decision.  Quickly, I reached for my small fillet knife, cut just enough fabric to free the treble hook of my spinner and then I stepped back and let the sack quietly sink back down into the depths of the pool.  I then made my way to the near shore to keep the river between me and that bear I heard earlier, and then carefully but quickly made my way through the now dark woods.  I’m sure it didn’t take as long as it felt it did to get back to the bridge and my vehicle. 

It wasn’t until I was miles away from the river that I even let my mind consider further what may have been in that sack.  It may have been the find of a lifetime.  But I’m still convinced more than thirty years later that it was far better to leave that surprise in the bag.  

His Peace <><

Deacon Dan