Snake Guides: North Shore 1

My wife's grandfather died at a good age after a long life.
He was the son of a Norwegian immigrant who settled Minnesota's North Shore of Lake Superior.

I didn't know him very well, but I enjoyed talking to him.

I once tied him a dozen marabou jigs after he told me a story about how they were deadly on walleyes. I'm sure he never fished them, but I was happy that he got them from me.

He died in February and the decision was made to have a memorial service in June instead of a conventional funeral the week of his death.

The memorial was this weekend so my wife and kids and I piled into the car and drove North.

This "North" is the place of my own birth and childhood and I am connected to it.
I still feel, after all of these years of being away, that the lake is mine...or perhaps I am her's.

After the service today, I walked through my in-law's house to their deck and looked over the Lake.
It was calm.
It was unusually placid for the afternoon hour and the high sun pierced the glassy surface. I felt compelled to walk down to the rocky shoreline to the edge and peer in. I was thrilled that the wind and the sun conspired to betray the Lake's depths.

After a while I rejoined the celebration of this man's life as the sweet early summer day turned into early evening. Eventually, with my fly rod, I took my leave of the family and made my way to a stretch of Lake Superior shoreline that has captivated me for over 20 years.

Wading out to a familiar rock with a freshly tied Deceiver knotted on, I stripped a boastful pile of line into my basket and started casting. I plied the depths of the Lake with my fly as fish appeared on the surface.

Close in they were sipping and far out the were rolling.
My guess is that the fish near shore were whitefish or maybe herring...
possibly brook trout and maybe even suckers...
the fish in the distance...
I couldn't say.

My fly line came tight briefly and I felt confirmation for the confidence that the this place gives me.

A few casts later I landed a Northern Pike of about 4 pounds and I was happy for the tussle. I pulled the fish onto my rock and removed the hook before letting her slide back into the water. I came for trout or salmon but had trouble being disappointed in catching the pike. The amount of water in front of me and the size of the fly I was casting into it made any connection a small miracle.

I varied my retrieve, paused to allow the fly to sink and cast at different angles off my rock. The only thing I didn't do was doubt the possibility of another connection.

And then, stripping my flyline back into my basket with a two handed striped bass retrieve (the technique borrowed from my friends on the East Coast and brought here, by me, to the North) my fly was eaten.

The fish, a hatchery bred non-native, Kamloops Steelhead, or "Looper" tugged and twisted and would have probably made a run or two except that she had recently spawned and was lacking the energy and acrobatics of a prime fish.

I was surprised. Even this far North, June is a late to find these fish where I found her.

And so, in the name of science, my personal ethic and the tradition of old Norwegian settlers, their sons, and their grandsons, I killed her with a rock, ripped her gills out and bled her out in wave pool on this rock....
...and made another cast, never doubting.