Behind the 8 Ball on the Brule

Before a trip, when people ask where I'm going, I usually end up explaining what fish we're after. Be it massive brown trout mousing late at night or a Great Lakes-run steelhead, those are easy to explain. They're tangible and easy to understand. It's harder to explain the anticipation and excitement during the drive to your destination.

In this instance, frantically trying to find a spot to camp was part of the excitement, as we spent the majority of the four-plus-hour drive north doing just that. We were already behind the 8 ball. We timed our trip several weeks early, before the steelhead were really moving in numbers, and the lake browns were only starting their moves as well. However, sometimes just getting the opportunity and the time to make these trips is a win in and of itself.

The Brule River is nestled in the north woods of Wisconsin, flowing north into Lake Superior. The Brule itself is split between the Upper Brule and the Lower Brule. The Lower Brule is full of ledges and deep, boulder-filled pools, which can create some legendary runs tucked into the forest. The Upper Brule typically has slower water and gets boggier as it moves toward its headwaters. Great water to fish. Tough water to wade, especially in the dark, as we'd soon find out.

We ultimately landed a small site tucked under several large oaks, which dropped acorns on the tents all night.

You would have sworn they were baseballs.

Night One

The excitement carried over immediately as we scurried to get our tents pitched and our gear piled into the truck so we could get out for some night fishing. If you'd asked any of us whether we were prepared and going to catch a fish that night, we'd have all confidently said yes.

Because, well, that's just what you do.

After throwing on the waders, boots and red headlamps, we headed down to the water, where we were immediately reminded that it's not a great idea to wade water you're unfamiliar with in the dark. Our hopes of hooking into that large brown diminished as our grand plan of covering lots of water turned into only a two- or three-hundred-yard stretch.

The cold water of the Brule pushed against our waders as we inched along the riverbed, careful not to step off a shelf or into a nice run. Over time our eyes adjusted to the darkness, and it got easier to tell where our flies were going. Undeterred, we slowly and methodically covered the stretch for a few hours until someone was brave enough to ask, "Should we call it?", knowing full well somebody has to be the first.

Two or three hundred yards. That was the grand plan.

Over a beer and a burger in the town of Brule, the crew debriefed and hashed out the plan for the morning.

The Morning

The plan was simple: boots in the stream before the sun came up, cover water and catch fish. The morning looked promising right away. We could see rises up and down the river as we walked in. Feeling better about our chances, we got to work, and it didn't take long before we started getting rewarded. This stretch had deeper pockets tucked behind logs and deep rock pools below the faster water. For periods of time, it felt like the fish couldn't resist a soft hackle dropped off a dry.

We were on smaller rainbows and browns much of the morning, with several comically small catches mixed in. At one point, a big trout, and I mean big, pushed past me, nearly knocking me over as it made its way upriver. Probably a lake-run brown, but it was hard to tell as I struggled to keep my balance.

The massive trout.

The Hatch

The plan was to move to the next spot in time for the trico hatch. But we got greedy and stayed at the first spot a little too long, and by the time we walked through the forest from the truck, it was mid-morning.

Like always, behind the 8 ball.

To make matters worse, we realized none of us had enough of the right flies on us. What was left of the hatch came down to who had the right fly. Those who did got onto the beautiful native brook trout that the Brule holds.

I was not the one with the fly.

As I watched the others land these trout, I fumbled through my box, tying on one fly after another through every size and color one can imagine.

The trout were not impressed.

A few comedians among them found humor in their false takes, just enough to keep me trying different flies until I found one that worked.

I never did.

When someone asks about the trip, sometimes you have a picture of the elusive trophy fish. Most of the time you don't. But you always say the same thing:

Can't wait to go back.