That day was a tale of my two great outdoors passions colliding, a transition from spring turkey hunting to summer trout fishing. It was one of those days that, when it’s done, you wonder: did that really happen, was it real? It was one of those days that makes the outdoors maddeningly delicious.
Spring turkey hunting has been my top passion, something I yearn for, plan for, can’t wait for. It’s a time of waves of warblers, spring flowers, finally feeling warm and — just thinking about it thrills me — the gobbling of mating-eager turkeys.
This year, however, the season was nine days of frustration, puzzlement, anxiety and dashed dreams. Before sunrise the first day, I called two toms within 100 yards but they began walking away so I tried to shift to a better shooting spot to be ready when they might return. Return they did — too quickly. They made me and made tracks out of there.
That was it, that was the highlight of maybe 60 hours of “hunting.” I neither heard nor saw birds on a great piece of land along the North Branch Root River and it wasn’t much better in the final day of second season along the Zumbro River.
I hunted three days of the last season; my final day was May 25 along the Zumbro. I got out early, dressed for moving, not sitting, and walked for six to seven miles, up and down, on rocks and mud, calling, listening, hoping.
At noon, I was frustrated, thwarted, done in, done for, done. I wasn’t angry, just puzzled. Where were the birds? Why didn’t the few that gobbled in the distance not respond to any calling? What had I done wrong? That kind of introspection can drive you crazy so I tried to let it slide.
Besides, several turkey-hunting friends reported the same frustration — few birds, less gobbling. We all wondered: were numbers down, did mating start a lot earlier, did we all just happen to be among the few who had a rough go of it?
At lunch, I even asked myself if the day was cursed and wondered: should I just go home or should I switch to trout fishing? Did I have enough energy?
Ah, what the heck. I was going by a favorite stream anyways and had packed gear for trout fishing, which is edging into the number-one spot in my outdoors passions. OK, an hour or two.
Fishing began with a lot of casting and a few nice brown trout — just enough to keep me fishing. When I chatted with another angler, we both noticed a few suspicious bulges popping up in the stream.
Rising fish? They weren’t slammed bugs on the surface, but probably taking caddis before they could reach the surface. It was no great hatch, just enough to tantalize me. I switched from a bottom-bouncing nymph to a dry fly that I vaguely recalled looked a bit like an adult caddis. I dabbed on floatant and began casting.
Darn, the current dragged my fly underneath overhanging rocks.
Wow, a nice brown slammed it.
Hmmm, maybe that was the key.
I let the fly go with the flow because the trout were probably hiding beneath the overhang and letting the current be like a pizza delivery truck. For the next half hour, it was trout after trout after trout, maybe 10 or more, all nice sized.
These tiny flies were the key to catching approximately 15 brown trout in a few hours. (John Weiss / sports@postbulletin.com)
It felt great to feel the sun, to feel success, to feel my 3-weight rod bend with each fish. So what if a few slipped the hook, there were plenty more. I forgot about vexing spring, no gobbling, sore legs, battered turkey-hunting ego. They all went poof.
Then, poof! It was over. No more bulges, no more easy fishing.
I was exhausted from being up early to hunt but too psyched to quit fishing. I switched to a tiny fly that was merely a small bead and a wrapping of copper wire. I moved on. I caught a few small fish but wanted something better, bigger, a contended coda, a final chapter to my tale of two outdoors passions.
I went back to where the hatch had been.
Bang. A solid hit, a nice fight and I netted my biggest fish of the day, a fat brown measuring in the mid-teens.
The day was pushing supper time, I was tired, I was ready to go, to forget spring and continue my transition to summer.
Mel Hayner, owner of Driftless Trout Fishing Co. in Preston, agreed this is indeed a time of change. When we chatted last weekend, he was standing in a river and looking at mayflies flying around. “There was a lot of stuff out, ” he said. “Right now, there is a mix (of bugs), it’s kind of a transition.” Caddis are often the first kinds of bugs to hatch, while mayflies are more the hatches of summer, he said.
Streams had been low but the rains the week before helped, he said. Until then, water had been so clear that those fishing with flies needed extra-long, extra-thin tippets. “You had to get your A game just to get a good cast,” he said.
Now, streams are looking better and we’re seeing summer patterns, he said. Better yet, “the fish are hungry.”
John Weiss has written and reported about Outdoors topics for the Post Bulletin for more than 40 years. He is the author of the book “Backroads: The Best of the Best by Post-Bulletin Columnist John Weiss”
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