Bushwhacking Brimson Brookies

wpe2C.jpg (5193 bytes)

THE BOUNDARY WATERS JOURNAL / SPRING 1992

here for the fishing

 by Mark Sakry Bushwhacking Brimson Brookies

You may always be sure of taking trout in the secluded places.
—From TROUT by Ray Bergman

A flash of lightning ignited the interior of the greenhouse where Mike Olund was bent over scrutinizing a young tomato plant. Instantly, he froze. Five heartbeats later the thunder hit like a sonic boom, and the poly-film canopy of the greenhouse sizzled like a giant kazoo. Mike looked slowly up from the plant to the roof, cringing as though he'd just been slapped. A goblet of rain burst suddenly against the plastic above his head and ran in a single rivulet down the side of the greenhouse. Another one hit. Then another. A thin smile suddenly broke across Mike's face. Within moments a deluge of rain engulfed the greenhouse, rattling it like a tent in a Quetico downpour.
    Mike turned and beamed at me with a self-knowing grin, "It's brookie time."
    "What?" I squawked beneath the tumult.
    "The first big thunder storm!" he blasted exuberantly. "Means it's time to bushwhack some brookies!"
    "Ohhh—yeeeah," I acknowledged, "brookies!"
    You can't know what a moment like this means unless you spend a winter in Brimson, Minnesota. It is long, cold, and unusually tenacious. By February, the doldrums have set in—and they are bad enough—but the April doldrums are worse.
    Mid-April marks the opening of stream trout fishing in Minnesota. And Brimson offers some of the best brookie fishing in the state. But any thoughts about wading through green sedge at the brink of some glistening forest trout stream will seem fantastically remote in contrast to the icy torrents still existing here at the time. The spring melt-down can be dreary and oppressive, especially when you are badgered by repeated onslaughts of sleet and snow. It's as though the season can't make up its mind.
    I find refuge in Mike's greenhouses. The three structures are an unseemly sight in the dense woods surrounding his homestead where he makes his living on the south end of Superior National Forest. I find the fresh aroma of peat and living green plants pleasantly narcotic, and an effective tonic for this "schizophrenic" season.
    But now, by the second week of May, the flurries have long subsided. The snow has finally disappeared from the ground. The surging trout streams have begun to recede. And the brookies, recently purged from the deep slack-water pools, poke about the rocky streambeds for nymphs and midges, as though awaiting some greater rejuvenating event.
    And it finally arrived. Oh, one or two thunder-boomers may have already passed through April, but when you're waiting on brookies, you learn to recognize the one that really counts.
   It is the one in May. Usually the first one. It comes when the alder leaves have grown to about the size of a squirrel's ear. It is the one that washes all remnants of winter from the land. It is the one whose warm rains replenish the forest and cause the creeks to swell anew—and to swarm with new life.
    The brook trout are charged. They attack your bait with such voracity that you can hear your line quiver. Your rod bends against them like a drawn bow. And the famous beauty of the brook trout is once again displayed to the sun … in a death dance that shatters the crystal reflection of a stream.
    When I first moved to the Brimson area several years ago, I had already fished stream trout on assorted designated lakes in the BWCAW—such as Found, Skull and Ahsub—which were regular destinations for short weekend excursions by canoe or by snowshoe. These, along with a good number of other small lakes in the Boundary Waters, were once routinely stocked with "stream" trout such as brookies, rainbows, browns and splake. So, in a way, I was already hooked on brookies. (Note: A plan is presently in the works to end stocking of anything but native fish species in the Boundary Waters, with the exception of lakes where stocking of non-native fish began prior to the Wilderness Act of 1964.)
    But when Mike Olund first introduced me to brookie fishing around here, I was lost to the sport forever!
    I do not, by any stretch of the imagination, consider myself an "expert" angler. I used to think that only those who mastered the art of fly fishing, or who were somehow telepathically connected to fish and their whereabouts, were capable of stream trout fishing. I have listened in envy to many stories about masterful brook trout catches along the famous cascades of Lake Superior's North Shore.
    Well, if you are anything like me, you will be happy to learn that there is no mystery, no art, and virtually no technique to catching brook trout in Brimson. The method is simple: glob a bunch of angle worms on a No.8 hook and zing 'em downstream. Really. That's about it! Easy, huh?
    Oh, did I mention that you have to crash through brush to get to them?
    Indeed, perhaps the most challenging aspect of brookie fishing in the Brimson area is that you must cross extremely rugged terrain. There is a definite trade-off between the relative ease of catching fish and of actually finding them. You must invariably bushwhack through timber to get even one-hundred yards downstream from any road. But, in my opinion, that is the beauty of it all. As Mike aptly put it once, brookie fishing combines "all the best elements of fishing, hunting and exploring." In this regard, it is truly an exotic sport—a secluded, private enterprise with rewards all its own. The terrain around Brimson makes this especially so. The geology of the area is unique:
    On a map "Brimson" is located precisely 43 miles south of Ely. But to folks who get their mail here, it is a vast area canvassing three townships, plus a large portion of Unorganized Territory No. 2 of Lake County, called the Toimi area, in Superior National Forest.
    This region happens to coincide with a fascinating, relatively recent glacial event which may be considered the primary reason for Brimson's exceptional brook trout possibilities. About 25,000 years ago, a vast glacier, covering much of northeastern Minnesota, split into two distinct lobes. One occupied the Lake Superior Basin. The other, called the Rainy Lobe, occupied the adjacent uplands. Both advanced—in relative concert with each other—from the northeast to the southwest. The Rainy Lobe left a very unusual land feature here, which is described by Richard Ojakangas and Charles Matsch in Minnesota's Geology. "In its vigorous advance," they explain, "the Rainy Lobe impressed upon the subglacial surface in northeastern Minnesota an ensemble of streamlined hills and intervening swales, the Toimi Drumlin Field."
   The word "drumlin" originated from the Gaelic word Druim, meaning ridge. A topographic map reveals roughly 1,400 of them in a sixty-mile long oval band running from Isabella through the Cloquet Valley State Forest just north of Duluth. But there is good reason why this peculiar geographic array carries the Toimi name. The Toimi (hence, Brimson) area lies at the very heart of it.
    While drumlins are not exactly looming promontories, they are noticeable as you drive through the area in the form of gently rolling woodland ridges lush with balsam, aspen, birch and black ash. Now, between most of these ridges there are swales, and in many of these swales there is water. Much of this water stands in alder swamps, ponds and a few lakes. But there are also many streams. The Brimson area has dozens of them—with names like Petrel, Trappers, Murphy, Sullivan—all flowing predominantly southwest, all eventually flowing into the Cloquet and St. Louis Rivers of the Lake Superior watershed. And almost all of them are loaded with trout!
    Drumlins, being essentially elongated moraines of glacial drift, consist primarily of boulders, gravel and sand. This makes for ideal brook trout habitat because the fish must bury their spawn in stream-bed gravel in order to successfully propagate. Brookies also prefer cold water, and most of the streams here are spring-fed. The watercourses also get plenty of natural shade where they swing through the mature needleleaf forests girding the drumlins. Broader swales and swamp areas generally receive shade from vast tangles of speckled alder (bushwhackers take note!).
    Ironically, even though the brook trout is native to Minnesota waters, it is not indigenous to the Brimson area. It is said that Finnish loggers and railroaders first introduced the fish here through "cream can" stocking, but government agencies have stocked them, as well (along with a few browns and rainbows). It is merely incidental that the geology of this area coincides with absolutely perfect brook trout habitat.
    While the deep-woods, worm-on-a-hook method of brook trout fishing requires very little in the way of equipment and technique, bushwhacking can be very hard work. And it is often a real test of nerves.
    You can certainly find good brookie fishing starting right at the road culverts; by working (up or) downstream from there, you can cover a lot of distance without worrying too much about getting turned around. There are also many "Minimum Maintenance" and old logging roads in the Brimson area which will bring you directly to productive yet "secluded" trout waters. But it will require some experience in woodsmanship and orienteering if you plan to travel overland any distance from the road. There is a lot of wilderness here.
    A good map and compass are standard equipment. The U.S. Forest Service map of Superior National Forest is great for general use; topographic maps are essential for forays into timber. However, here is another important matter of note: Be prepared for faulty compass readings. The ground contains iron-formation sediments. If you are ever suspicious of your compass direction, walk several feet and take another reading. While somewhat rare, such encounters (probably from magnetite) can be very disorienting.
    Long pants and a long-sleeve shirt are appropriate in the brush. So is bug dope, if you use it. A trail pack is handy for assorted items you might want to bring along, like a camera or field guides. Encounters with bears, moose, deer, wolves, otters, fishers and pine martens are all common in this area. My pack always includes a first aid kit, a small survival kit, a whistle and my trail lunch.
    It's a good idea in this country to carry a wool sweater or jacket, even on warm days. The weather up here, as many know, can change pretty fast. Needless to say, raingear is a pretty smart item to have along, too. But I'd advise against wearing it until you really need to. Mike Olund tells of an incident where a friend of his "came undone" one time, apparently from hypothermia, because he insisted on wearing his rain suit to keep warm. The man sweated himself to chronic chill by midday, then panicked to tears, believing they were lost. They had, of course, been following the same creek all morning.
    Those accustomed to fly casting for trout, which is generally the method of choice in wide-open spaces like out West, may consider fishing brookies with worms a rather crude and unorthodox method. But, believe me, you will be hard put to try casting a fly line around here. The brush along the streams—usually alder—is just too thick. A single ultra-light spinning outfit is all you really need. (A small fly rod will work if you use it for dangling bait.) Anything bigger simply increases your chances of getting tangled up.
    It is also a good idea to rig up your rod before you enter the woods. Trail your rod behind you, butt forward, with your line hooked to an eyelet. This might seem too trivial to even mention, but it is surprisingly easy to get fishing gear fouled up in the brush.
    Rig up with light fishing line and a No.8 hook. Four- to six-pound test line is ideal for stream trout, but heavier is alright. In Brimson waters, line weight has less to do with what the fish will see than how far you can cast your bait. Almost all streams in the area are darkly stained. Bring along a small pocket tackle box with plenty of spare hooks and a few light sinkers. Generally speaking, the weight of a small hook generously baited with worms will be enough to cast sufficiently. But sometimes, in faster water, a small sinker or two fastened about a foot-and-a-half from your hook will help keep the bait from skittering on the surface.
   And use angle worms. For some reason the bigger night crawlers just don't inspire brookies. Mike and I dig them right from his garden.
    Sometimes a Mepps spinner will produce fish in deeper pools, if you have a notion to try it. Generally speaking, if they have been abandoned for a couple years, beaver ponds make excellent trout hideouts. If there is sign of any resident rodents stirring things up, however, you will probably do better to move on. Beavers have, on more than one occasion, moved in and virtually annihilated a brookie hot spot Mike and I knew about, the rascals!
    I have found polarized sunglasses almost indispensable to brookie fishing. They eliminate surface glare so effectively that many times you not only see the fish, you can see what kind of fish they are. With brookie fishing, this can save you a surprising amount of aggravation. There is nothing more frustrating than getting into a "glory hole" that produces nothing but big, fat, worm-devouring chubs! (Stream chubs are overgrown members of the minnow family which, unfortunately, also come with the Brimson territory. They are always hungry, so bring plenty of worms.) A visored cap is a good companion to polarized sunglasses because it cuts glare from above.
    You may also want to bring a fillet knife. Field dressing brook trout is a sure way of preserving their fresh, delicate flavor. In my opinion, no other kind of trout tastes better than the brookie, and it is worth the simple effort to remove gills and entrails on the spot.
    It is nice to have a hook disgorger, or a needle-nose pliers, for extracting hooks. It is recommended, though, that you cut the line and leave troublesome, deeply set hooks in place on fish you intend to release. It is better to allow digestive acids to disintegrate the hook rather than risk killing the fish by tearing out its innards. I can personally attest to this: Once a friend and I cut open a brookie's belly to see what it had been eating, and there—embedded in the stomach beneath a wad of partially digested hellgrammites—was an almost completely digested No.8 hook!
    For landing brookies, some anglers like a small landing net. Personally, I find them too cumbersome to tote along for what they are worth. I have known a few people who were pretty handy with the hand-held collapsible type. And, I admit, any kind of net would be nice to have should you ever run into a brook trout approaching the current Minnesota record of 6 lbs., 4.48 oz.! But, realistically, Brimson keepers will range from about one-half to two pounds—that is, from about eight to 18 inches (brookies are generally measured by length). Most of these can easily be retrieved by hand. You may safely handle a brookie by gripping its lower lip between your thumb and forefinger.
    Few seasoned anglers would ever think of bushwhacking brookies without their creel. Traditionally, the willow creel has been the trademark of the stream trout angler. And if you have one, it is your best guarantee for keeping your fish tidy and fresh for prolonged spells in warmer weather. Just toss a handful of cool green sedge into your creel along with your catch to preserve its integrity until you return home. If you own a special heirloom, however, reconsider—because you can almost expect to get a few dings in it. In his book, Up North, Sam Cook describes an old-time brookie angler who repaired his creel with coffee cans and wire after it became "the victim of too many riverside slips and falls." That's the way it is up here. A light canvas creel is probably more practical in this country. (If you can't come by a creel, a handful of grass in a large jacket or trail-pack pocket will work fine for preserving your catch.)
    Like the fly rod, many swear by the hip wader for stalking stream trout. Well, there are several reasons why they are impractical for bushwhacking: they tire you out, they make you sweat, and they shred in timber. Due to the relatively small size of the streams here, wading also tends to scare fish easily. Hiking boots are far more appropriate.
    You will find that the most productive method of stalking brookies is to move slowly downstream working small sections of water from shore. By taking advantage of the thick stream-side cover, you may approach surprisingly close to where you want to cast without spooking the fish.
    After you have loaded your hook with worms (I mean load it), a short flinging side-cast will probably be all you need to hit your mark. Cast downstream. Play around in the slack-water pools beyond the spillways. Let your bait settle for a minute or two, and if you haven't engaged a brookie by then, reel in a foot. Let it sit, wait a minute, then reel another foot. This touch-and-go method is very effective for working small sections of stream. After you've worked an area pretty good, move on to another. Be patient. Don't neglect to cast into faster water, either. Often you'll find that that's where they've been hiding all along. And then—when one finally presents itself—you will know. You will know what this was all about … and that it was worth all the effort.
    Thoreau once said, "We are conscious of an animal in us, which awakens in proportion as our higher nature slumbers." This seems to hold special meaning for those who fish brook trout—especially after the first spring thunderstorm has finally made its debut—in Brimson.