I had been searching for Carpsuckers for most of my adult life when I finally found them. From reading all the available carpsucker literature on the planet, I had naively thought that all I had to do was locate a good carpsucker spot, and catching them would be easy. But here they were, hundreds of them, schooled up and suspended in the clear water of a nice pool. In the tail of pool was an island named after a certain rambunctious terrier that defended it viciously as if it was her own little kingdom. It was the perfect spot to fish; the water was clear, suckers were just finishing up their spring spawn, and hundreds of quillback and river carpsuckers were visible. I was about to have the time of my life, and add two species to my lifelist in the process. But optimism in fishing can be a killer. After six hours of fishing for the carpsuckers, I hadn't seen any of them show any interest in my worms and doughballs, and caught none. Shorthead redhorse and White Suckers were everywhere, and I landed several beauties. Two walleyes, a dozen perch, several black crappies, a bluegill, and a largemouth bass rounded out the gamefish category. A Silver Redhorse about 7 pounds in size had battled me up and down the pool and dunked me in the chilly river. A fifteen pound carp had worn me out with its dogged fight. I had two freshwater drum and a small channel catfish on the stringer already, and was almost ready to head home and make a sandwich out of them, when I noticed a tug on my line. It was already a ten-species day, so when I set the hook I thought perhaps I had finally caught my elusive carpsucker. Once again, it was not to be. Whatever I had hooked was very small, and came to the surface immediately, thrashing. The creature was about a foot long, mottled black and brown in color, with a single chin whisker and white eyes. Writhing like a snake, it curled itself around my fingers. A burbot. My brother laughed. He had been trying all winter long to catch a burbot, traveling from Gunflint Lake on the Canadian Border to Chequamegon Bay on Lake Superior in northern Wisconsin. But despite many cold nights of ice-fishing, he had failed, and here, in this little trickle of a river, fishing a tiny worm with the hopes of catching those stubborn carpsuckers, I had succeeded. I unhooked the little fellow and he swam under a rock and disappeared. Amazing. A baby burbot, in our carpsucker pool. It did make sense, from what little people know about the lives of burbot. They are migratory, and the young live in streams, under rocks and in roots and logs. This fish, then, must've been born in this stream, or perhaps in the gravel nearby. Which was evidence, of course, that adult burbot came here too, perhaps swimming upstream to here from larger waters under the cover of winter ice. Here then, was where they spawned. I had no idea where their home water could be, perhaps Lake Pepin, a hundred miles away? Was it possible that huge burbot swam a hundred miles to get here each winter? If we came back in February, would we find, here in this little pool, dozens of giant, writhing twenty-pound eelpout? It was food for thought, and as we headed to a nearby bar and grill for a burger and a beer, we pondered making a future trip, when the ice covered the river, to try again. Maybe we were onto something here. So far, I haven�t been back in the winter. And I'm still trying to catch those carpsuckers in the Brophy Island Pool.