This was our first-ever trip to the Lower Chippewa River in Wisconsin.  This is one of the most diverse and unspoiled large river segments in the nation. 

Corey and I launched our small boat on the Red Cedar river, drifted through riffles full of shorthead redhorse and oared our way around boulders, eventually dumping out into a giant swift-flowing river with high eroded banks and very fast flow, deadfalls in every direction, rocky shallows to lose our prop on miles from civilization. We eagerly cranked up the old outboard and headed downstream, looking for the first time at places that in time will become favorite spots. This was our first time on the Chippewa River, and we were anticipating the incredible fishing opportunities that could be found from its' oxbows to its' thalweg, the dense populations of various interesting species that needed to be understood. At first the big river seemed channelized, too uniform other than giant deadfalls to stop and fish, the current too swift to make stopping in our small craft very feasible. I sat poised in the bow, watching for submerged logs and boulders so I could warn Corey of a direct hit and hopefully he could evade the trouble. As we were moving rapidly downstream, I began to bark directions and point with my arms to navigate, as boat-wreckers flew by very close to keel at a speed that I found very alarming. I remained calm so Corey kept faith in my navigational skills and we came aground on only two sandbars before a rocky crag extended from a backwater and we pulled in to investigate.

Upon entering the mouth of the oxbow, dozens of carpsuckers scurried around in the flooded creek channel, going between our legs and moving in a panic to the main river. Might be that they hadn't seen a human with a fishing rod before, but Carpsuckers always seem paranoid and spooky, so we set up nearby and bottom- rigged the rocky hole in the main river. Immediately, two things were evident - fish were charging into baitfish all over the rock point making violent attacks under the cliff, and the mosquitoes were absolutely horrific. I fished crawlers and landed a few drum and smallmouth bass, noticing very small pike around the backwater's mouth that must have been from this spring's spawn. Also, Carpsuckers began filtering back in and I watched them with great interest. Corey found the attackers to be eager northern pike, and landed a few before a bald eagle soared down over us and took perch in a snag directly above us. The bird may have noticed an injured mooneye struggling that Corey had released, and came over to investigate. The carpsuckers I'd been observing, mainly Quillbacks, were more approachable and in more of a feeding behavior than I'd seen elsewhere, and I got my flyrod out to try some nymphing. Pods of them, numbering from four to nine, perpetually circled the backwater and individuals would occasionally nose into the algae or weeds and their peculiar mouth would quiver, indicating the taking of some kind of food. None seemed the least bit interested in my offerings, which consisted of various midge larvae and small, dark mayfly nymphs, so I turned over a log, found an angleworm, and flipped it out with my 4-wt. I thought I placed it in front of a few active carpsuckers, but once again no take was elicited and a tiny pike took the crawler, thrashing as much as a four-inch fish can, and spooked them back to the main river. At this time Corey and I both agreed that much more river needed to be explored, the swarming mosquitos making our decision to leave pretty easy. We needed to find a sandbar to pitch our tent on, as this is where you can camp on the Chippewa.

After checking a few inlets and catching some drum, mooneyes, smallmouths, and a turtle, plus a very nice shorthead by Corey, we found a suitable sandbar. Not the deepest of holes, but it was a definite major current break out from an adjoining shallow backwater and the quarter-mile long sandbar's swift shallows were absolutely swarming with thousands of emerald shiners. I filled a minnow bucket with two dozen large shiners with my ultralight, and meanwhile Corey fished around a giant snag near the current break and landed a few nice redhorse and a bonus big carp. I caught white bass, smallies and drum, plus one pike on the native shiners while we got camp ready and started a fire. Around this time a drone came from the distance, sounding like a small airplane or something, and it got louder by the second. We hadn't seen another soul out here today, other than a couple drifting by silently in a cedar-strip canoe, so this seemed alien. The loudness was terrible, and a pair of airboats emerged around the bend, going mach ten. One came too close, cutting over my lines in the hole we were fishing, and maybe a gesture was made, just maybe. After a brief altercation with a moron with too much gas engine and alcohol for his own good, he left our sandbar and we now sat around the campfire in the fading light. The fire was like none I'd ever built, and I've built many a fire on the riverbank. The sandbars which are now very much dry were not long ago under the river's waters, and wood is constantly being deposited around the river bottom. Firewood consisted of varying rounded pieces of driftwood, dried by the hot early summer sun. It made for an odd fire, the pieces looking more like old toys or the soles of shoes than firewood. As I pondered this, another drone came from the distance. This time I recognized the sound as the freespool click on my baitcaster, so I sprang up with sand flying everywhere, and picked up the rod. The fish continues peeling out line at great speed, heading directly for the giant deadhead that lay at the edge of the hole. I whipped back the stout rod, and swore immediately as I felt nothing but the four-ounce weight on the other end. After reeling in and re-baiting with a slice of fresh mooneye fillet, I cast once again into the darkness, aiming blindly for the edge of the current, the seam near the submerged log where a big fish just may slip out of the thalweg to feed tonight. Corey and I sat around our strange campfire, already planning for the morning's fishing, drinking dark stouts that tasted as pungent as the backwaters smelled behind us.

Suddenly, my clicker sang again. I had the rod in seconds, and watched as once again line peeled at blistering speed from the spool. Twenty yards gone , thirty, faster now, and headed right for the snag. Then the fish slowed, and after a second of pause I set the hook hard, feeling a heavy weight on the other end, shaking its' head violently out in the river. I was not surprised when the fish turned and headed directly for the submerged deadhead, despite my increased thumb pressure on the spool. Corey, ready with the net, said, "You can't let him get to that snag, grouper-fish him!" Fishing in the Gulf of Mexico, we once had a guide put us on numbers of grouper around an artificial reef. These fish would immediately dig for their crevices in the twisted metal and concrete reef, so drags were cranked tight as giving any line at all would mean losing the fish. You'd pull, they'd pull harder, and very often a loud crack happened as twenty-five pound mono was broken. As Corey struggled with one particular grouper, the guide yelled "BE A MAN!" and Corey subsequently gave it everything he had and hauled a huge grouper from the depths. Now, Corey shouted out the three words that in epic fishing battles turn the odds in the fisherman's favor - "BE A MAN!", and I reared back and groaned, the fish coming to the surface and thrashing in the darkness. I gained some line quickly, and the snag was averted. After enduring many powerful headshakes and hard-charging runs near shore, Corey finally got the net under him and slung the beast onto the sandbar. An incredibly fat channel catfish lay there exhausted, its' giant swollen gut looking rather impressive. My large circle hook just barely pierced the base of one of the great catfish's whiskers, and was popped out with barely any effort. I was lucky to land this fish. After a quick photo the beast was let go into the blackness of the night, and Corey and I headed back to the fire for another stout in celebration of the awesome fish and the incredible day we'd just spent on this river. After this day of exploring, we crawled into our sleeping bags and listened to the river's natives speaking in the night....the owls, coyotes and raccoons felt we were intruding on their wilderness, when really we wanted to understand it better, to become a part of it and make it a part of us. We slept well, looking forward to the adventure to come in the morning when we awake on the bank of this incredible river.