Fun in Fergus Falls
by Joe Cornwall
The never ending rains were getting to me. Every time the
rivers would get low enough to fish well, another storm would blow through and
blast the rivers up again. It seemed as though the "spring floods" were to
become an everyday occurrence. "Enough is enough" I heard myself saying as I
watched the news about 7" of rain hitting Indianapolis and heading towards
Cincinnati. I've got to find some fishable water!!!
Word from my friends in northwest Minnesota was that they
hadn't received any rain in nearly six weeks. Farmers were suffering as their
crops turned yellow and died. Rivers were low and clear. Fish were
concentrated in deep pools. The analysis showed that the potential for some
serious fishing was at hand and a frequent-flyer ticket would surely get me
where I was going. The better half said "yes". The airline said "yes". The
weekend was a go.
The flight from Cincinnati made a quick stop in Chicago
and everything remained on schedule. I arrived in Minneapolis just minutes off
of the airline schedule and my baggage arrived with me. So far, so good. I
checked the rod tube - two six weights, one eight, one four. All in fine
shape. The big duffle with my boat bag, vest, reels and other accoutrements of
travel looked no worse for the wear. The rental car company even upgraded me to
a 4wd SUV - this couldn't be any better!
The three hour drive from the Twin Cities to my
destination went without a hitch and I arrived on site by 4PM. Del and Bruce
were waiting to see what kind of mischief my arrival would bring (I have a
reputation to live up to) and by 5PM we had successfully launched Del's
beautiful Lund at Swan Lake for a little twilight bass bugging. Bruce was
almost speechless as he unwrapped his new Pflueger fly rod, fresh from Hook&Hackle at the low, low price of $40. I was impressed as I waggled the rod in my
hand, it seemed a serviceable tool at a great price. A weight-forward line was threaded and
a first cast tentatively made, just to see what the rod felt like. Sage need not
worry, but the rod would prove to be worth its price and then some as Bruce took
his first tentative steps towards what will surely become a life-long obsession.
The lake was clear and low. Well defined beds of milfoil
and coontail bordered the water's edge, dropping quickly and cleanly to a
fifteen foot break. Bruce took his place at the stern of the boat and
immediately began what, for all the world, looked like a strange Indian dance.
His whole body pushed and turned, fought and struggled. It was great fun
watching his first casts with the fly rod and laying bets on when he would pitch
himself into the water, such were his efforts at casting. What a trooper!
We were on the water little more than fifteen minute when
the little Byrd Gillbuster fly tied to Bruce's tippet was nailed by a three inch
bluegill. Bruce had hooked his first fly rod fish on a lake, having spent
only a single day last year trying out the fly rod game for the first time.
The little bluegill pulled this way and that as we chided our friend for
catching 'bait'. Those words proved to be an accurate prediction. As
Bruce leaned to pull his catch in, a large swirl appeared at the stern of the
boat. Bruce's rod bent double and we all knew the bluegill was gone.
In its place was a rather surprised looking largemouth of about 14 inches.
Bruce had caught his first largemouth on his first bluegill on a fly!
Amazingly the little hook slipped out of the 'gills mouth and into the corner of
the bass' mouth. A picture of this auspicious occasion was required and
much laughter ensued.
As we worked out way around the west end of the lake, we
tossed Clousers and bass bugs towards the reeds and rushes. I stood in the bow
next to Del as we both practiced the "duck and cover" routine common amongst
boat- born fly fishers. Clearly Bruce was getting a work out and
after about an hour of casting he was panting. The fish, while teasing,
had refused to cooperate fully. Del suggested I toss a cast to the weed
line to see "if they were still home." Don't you know I hooked a fine two
pound largemouth on that very cast! Bruce looked like he was ready to whip
me with his new fly rod! A few more casts and a few
lost bugs to the toothy pike population and we were ready to call it a night.
The Friday morning dawn brought with it glorious sunshine and the
promise of high temperatures in the 80's. I headed towards the Ottertail
river for a morning of smallmouth hunting. The plan was that I would hit
the Ottertail in the morning and then catch up with Del and Bruce for lunch.
We would then explore a few lesser known spots and put together a plan for the
weekend. By 8 I was standing calf deep in the cool river, amazed at a
water line at least two feet below normal flow. Each bolder in the river
stood in stark relief and it was easy to see the four to six foot deep "holes"
that were scoured in the pea gravel and stone at the base of the large rocks.
I started at the bridge and on the third cast nailed a fine 16" fish who jumped
and ran through the shallows, forcing me to give chase. I still had coffee
in my cup when I took my first picture fish!
The bass were ravenous. The low water, far from stressing
the fish, had created an amazing fishery. The bass were stacked in small
pockets, the baitfish were uncomfortably close. The bass nailed just about
anything that looked like a shiner as soon as it got into water more than a foot
deep.
Because this is a catch-and-release only fishery (the
Minnesota DNR is quite forward thinking - Ohio DNR are you listening?) the
population of smallmouth is large
and the average fish is about 12" with many, many fish pushing 18". All
one needed to do was toss anything with a streak of chartreuse and retrieve it
downstream. I was alone on the water and by lunch I had lost count of the
bass I had hooked and released. Along with smallmouth I found an obliging
population of 8 to 10 inch crappie, channel cats, hammer handle pike and others.
I duly reported my success at lunch. It was agreed that
Bruce and I would fish the river on Saturday and, rather than float as we had
planned, we would fish on foot. Returning to the river at 2PM, I decided to
keep a careful count in order not to exaggerate the day's exploits. I met up
with Bruce at 5:30P to head to Fladmark Lake for some panfish. In the three
hours of fishing I landed and released 43 more smallies from 8 to 18". What a
day!
Fladmark proved interesting. We launched Bruce's boat and
amazingly remembered to keep the transom plug in place. The boat didn't sink
and we didn't fall out, so it was a good trip. The hybrid green sunfish the
lake is managed for were on the shy side, though we took enough sunfish and bass
to keep our attention. Still the river called. I was on a mission and her name
was smallmouth!
Saturday was a carbon copy of Friday's weather. The bass
were just as aggressive. Because of the low water, we were able to wade
upstream on sand bars in the middle of what normally would be a fast five foot
deep run. Now it was just an ankle deep trickle. Using the same
upstream cast and downstream retrieve we found tiger striped smallmouth more
than willing to play. Before we broke for lunch we each had hooked and
released better than three dozen smallmouth. I accused Bruce of trying to
catch a 12 pound smallie one half pound at a time, such was his take of 10"
battlers!
Shortly after lunch I hooked a real pig of a smallmouth.
After four magnificent jumps I brought her to hand. Bruce managed the camera
duties and I smiled at the 20" fish which surely pushed the five pound mark and
then some. If the trip ended there it would have been a success, but
there was more in store. The river would provide a rare gift and give us amazing
fishing till dark, even throwing a few surprises our way.
By 7PM my arms felt like dead weights at my sides. All
the fingers and toes in my family weren't enough to keep track of the number of
smallmouth bass we took. Bruce was having the time of his life and it became
clear to me that fly fishing was something he would pursue long after I had
returned south. After hooking several fine pike, Bruce finally had one that
didn't bite through his leader. His two foot long snake was his first
pike-on-a-fly and I turned jealous. I put on a steel bite guard and upped my
fly to the largest streamer my six weight would toss. After a dozen or so casts
my line came tight and I landed a twin to Bruce's pike. What a day, oh what a
day! But it still wasn't over.
As the sun went down and the sky turned a dusky blue I continued
to toss the giant streamer, catching a few smallies in the process.
Suddenly my line went tight and ripped off the reel. We saw a flash of
gold and knew this wasn't a pike. If it was a bass, she was having none of
the jumping and surface battling the other bass had provided. Thirty feet
melted off my real as I leaned into the lightweight graphite rod. The fish
came towards shore but I couldn't raise it's head to see what it was.
Again the line melted off the real. I figured perhaps I had hooked a
muskie, as they were known to inhabit the river and grow to impressive size
there. Not a muskie, though. And not a pike. Not a bass...
What then?
After an exciting fifteen minute battle that left me sweating and
aching I slid the beast onto the sandy shore. "It's a dogfish" said Bruce.
I had never seen anything like it. Long and sleek with muted gold and
olives the fish sported a mouth full of sharp teeth. Its strength was
impressive, even in hand never giving up and always struggling. I hoisted
the beast for a final picture as we called it a night. Between us we had
easily landed two hundred fish. My final count showed six bass of 18" or
better, including the one 20 inch fish. We also caught pike, crappie,
bluegill, golden eye and, of course, the "dogfish" which I later identified as a
northern bowfin.
As I sit here at my computer my heart beats quickly thinking
about this shining jewel of a river that has so much to offer and yet receives
so little pressure. I have fished it before, as I surely will fish it
again. And now I know that I won't be the only fly fisherman on that
northern river.
