We reached Rochester, MN, with grizzly bears clawing at our insides and excitement of brown trout in our minds, a quick food stop sounded simple and necessary...
Little did our squad of four know that come Friday in Rochester, bring you F%$* pistols and throwing stars to even THINK about getting food at a fast food joint. After making our orders, dodging hamberglurs and cookie monsters we set foot back to the outside world of Culvers. I have never seen four humans run to a car to find home as I did on Friday. With food in hand, gas peddles were pressed and we made our way to the Root River! All four members of the team breathing deep and relieved to be back on the road to the Root.We made our way to our campsite, the local park rangers made us feel as though their long lost cousins were stopping by for a weekend of smiles and storytails. Truly a Minnesota welcome.
We set our tents, Matt and Ryan managed to pack a tent that resembled the Metrodome with a hint of castle. In fact after they had gone to bed I almost felt as though I should dig a moat and whittle a dragon out of some fallen timber to place in front of such a castle.
My worries of the rain that night kept me up to sip some home brewed beer and tie some flies around the fire. A few san wons never hurts? A couple more caddis for the rest of the crew? My thread and bobbin spun until the rain over came my abilities to tie and I rested next to my brother. (What felt like walking into a gas chamber, Sande farts, especially P. Sande farts, WOAH!) I laid in my sack and visioned trout rising with a hunger that we felt earlier that day. I found my self jealous of the life they live, a thought that Patrick later brought up on our hike back to camp.
The next morning Patrick had coffee on the pot and he was back in the tent for the first true Minnesota thunderstorm we have been through since 2001. I awoke with down poor, Patrick was next to me sitting up right with a grin that reminded me of a twelve year old on his first camping trip. Then THUNDER STRUCK. I was up! Arm hair on end, eyes wide open and Patrick let a giggle and laughter of true excitement. We both knew that it was going to be a good day!
The thunderstorm let to a calming poor, we geared up, traded flies and directed ourselves toward the calming sound of a river that directed us to the splash of rising brown. Downed trees covered in bright moss and purple flowers shooting all around us reminded us that we had already succeeded in catching something that we didn't expect so early in our trip, peace. I believe in our separation we all found the same thing; absolute and perfect zen. Rain drops trickling from our hats, fly rods in hand and one thing on our minds, fish.
The sound of drops dripping from the green leaves and the occasional rise of a fish, we separated. I ran nymphs through shallow ripples and moved fast, changing flies and checking rocks to see if what I had to offer was what the river was supplying. Matt was upstream and landed the first fish of the trip, a modest but buttoned brown on a dry fly. Ryan moved downstream and found the end of his line excited with the action of a brown trout, a trout indeed.
I teamed up with my brother, Patrick started to cast in a way that makes you stop and watch. With the rhythm and concentration that Hemingway could only describe. I watched on shore as Patrick landed fish after fish after fish. My dry box offering every possibility of drys, I could not mimic the casts that Patrick offered for the browns swimming just above the river bed.
We ended our day with a few crisp beers, a delicious meal made for kings and a fire that I cant really explain. Truly a perfect day.
We awoke early, I decided to stay in the tent and sleep, while Patrick, Matt and Ryan set foot to the river to see if the fish had an appetite for breakfast. Patrick was again offering a fly that they could not resist. Brown after brown lipped his fly in delight of an early meal, and Patrick whipped his rod back like a commodore commanding a bull.
When Patrick and the rest returned to camp for breakfast and stories, the gleam in his eye and smile on his face lead my to believe his story of fishing early that morning were true. His last few casts, with a caddis on end, a perfect drift, a perfect rise, and a perfect sixteen inch brown.
Patrick out fished us all, but we all left with the same feeling in our souls. Peace.
