We set a leisurely pace in getting there, and rolled in Wildcat Mountain State park at 4:15pm. Stopped into the park office for the usual chat, firewood, registration dance and settled on one of the more remote walk-in sites. We were pleasantly surprised to find that only a day after Labor Day the park was practically ours! The site was placed neatly out into a meadow of wild-grass, and surrounded by the steep forested slopes of Wildcat Mountain. A small window in the tree canopy to the South provided a spectacular view of the sprawling and erratic Kickapoo River valley as it meandered below. Kickapoo is an Algonquian word meaning “one who goes here, then there”. They couldn't have been more right.
The Goal of our evening fishing was two-fold. First, we were to fish a body of water with regulations allowing for the evening’s meal, and second, to find a place where Cody would be able to test his fledgling skills on willing trout! We headed for Camp Creek just upstream of where it spills into the Kickapoo River in Viola, WI. As we raced down HWY-131 towards Viola the storm clouds were already gathering. We paid no mind. Rambling into the grass on the roadside at 6:00pm , we hit the ground running to throw together minimal gear and string up our rods. Cody’ rig was good to go with a low-ride foam hopper in dark tan, and mine only needed the addition of a dropper. We paused briefly on the bridge to watch a nice brown feed sub-surface, and then stumbled into the head-high grass.
As every young and foolish angler does I clumsily stumbled towards the brown we had seen from the bridge.
“I know he’s there, of course he’s mine!”
My first two casts were awkward chucks at best. He tolerated the first offering with little more than an irritated juke to the side, but when my second cast landed “less-than-gracefully” on top of his head, the game was up. Doing my best to slow myself down to the pace of the water in front of me, I moved on to the next bend. A beautiful ninety degree corner, riffle into the bend and a pool out the bottom.
My first throw was directed at the very bottom end of the pool, and was greeted by immediate attention to the “Dave’ Double-mint” nymph I had dropped four feet below a CDC&Elk . A splashy half-hit with no hook up, but I had captured their focus. The next cast was slightly higher, and the instant the Double-mint hit the bottom of its drift the line shot tight! An aggressive enough take to set himself, and I quickly had a stunning eight inch wild brown to hand. Fishing out the pool I got a few more strikes and landed two more hearty browns. None was any bigger than the first. It seemed as though any fish over nine inches knew he was destined for the dinner plate…
In the short ten minutes I had taken to fish the pool, it had gone from full daylight to nearly black as night. I checked the barometer, and the bottom was dropping out. All signs pointed to very little time left on the water, and as I began navigating my way upstream towards Cody the first flash of lightning and a distant roll of thunder sounded the prelude.
I found Cody a few runs upstream in the middle of a beautiful sequence of casts. I moved slowly through the tall grass behind him, and worked my way down to his side, on the bank. He had picked quite a nice pocket to try; a small undercut bank in the break of a long riffle, and was one cast short of drifting it through “the sweet-spot”.
For those of you unfamiliar with “the sweet-spot”, it
is those pieces of water that should yield a trout to any
passable drift thrown over them. If said wily-brown
should refuse the offering it is common to hear a
small curse followed by a “HOW DID HE NOT TAKE
THAT!!!”
In reaction to an audience Cody put his next cast “juuuuuusssssssttt a bit outside” (Go Brewers!) A few short words about keeping a high stick and maintaining rhythm, and the next cast cut a cleaner line. The leader unfurled neatly around a clump of vegetation and landed with a splash befitting a hopper at the top of the cut-bank. It drifted slowly under the vegetation and then back into view, and as it seemed the moment was bound to pass peacefully….SPLURSH!!! Cody raised the rod sharply and with a clean set the fight was on!
The feisty brown had surged from under the vegetation in pursuit of a tasty mouthful and was now attempting to run the riffle downstream. With the wisdom of a seasoned trout-bum Cody eased the fish back onto the reel and began maneuvering him back upstream. Taking no chances I moved in below the fish and netted Cody’ catch. As we joined at the bank we got the tape measure out, and at a healthy 11” this brown would be destined for the cook-fire. Cody posed for a few victorious pictures and we took a minute to celebrate his first trout, and first fish, on fly!!In the excitement of the previous scene neither of us had managed to notice the severe and violent shift in the weather. We commenced to making an immediate and hasty retreat under a blanket of lighting and a nearly constant chorus of thunder. Still 200 yards from the truck and the skies broke above us. A few probing drops followed in quick succession by the inevitable torrent. We broke down our rods as we ran, and hurriedly piled the gear and ourselves into the Ranger. The weather-band radio via walkie-talkie crackled to life as the hail began…
Once able to gather the direction of the storm system we beat a quick retreat northward for La Farge. We waited out the last of the driving rain the General Store and picked up the few supplies needed for a dinner of trout.
It was 9:15 before we rolled back onto Wildcat Mountain, and thankfully the storm had rolled on as well. After building a fire sufficient for cooking we prepared the fish. Salt, pepper, lemon, and dill are the only ingredients needed in a feast fit for kings! Fat and satisfied we sat drinking for awhile next to the warmth of the fire. Listening to the coyotes call from the next ridge, watching the still-bright waning moon rise through the clearing clouds. It was indeed a good day to angle…
