My first fishing trip to Slovenia didn't go so well... I arrived just days after the biblical flood hit in 2007. Fishing was out of the question as the country was rebuilding, digging out from landslides, and removing car after car from trout streams and rivers (I've heard of log jams at bridges but never "car jams"). I headed for high ground and went mountain climbing instead--sadly, the waders and 4-piece had to hang out in my luggage for the trip (but I did summit the highest peak in the Julian Alps!).
The second trip to Slovenia a couple of years later was strictly for mountaineering... so no fishing.
And, the last trip I made a few months ago combined mountaineering, scouting trout streams, and visiting cousins in my great-grandfather's home town. A fond memory of that third trip was sitting quietly on the bank of an alpine creek watching a single brown rise in rhythm to a late season hatch of little yellow stones. At this point I decided I must return with fly rod.
The forth trip to Slovenia will have to be the charm... after watching this need I say more. The only question... winter Hucho (Danubian Salmon) or summer Marble Trout and Adriatic Grayling?
Documenting fishing experiences in the Upper Midwest where prairie, hardwoods, and boreal forests meet--with occasional adventures elsewhere.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Thursday, February 21, 2013
Believe in Your Smelt
A recent trip on the ice to my favorite walleye hole turned up nothing. Maybe it was the local law enforcement annual ice fishing contest which occurred in the morning that spooked the 'eyes for the day. Or, more to my acceptance, maybe it was just the midwinter blues I hear all ice fishermen complain about this time of year. After all, most of the "permanent" ice houses have been moved from this spot... if that indicates anything. So to combat the blues I decided to target "those other fish". I first started with an exploratory mission to the main lake basin for whitefish and tullibee the next day. I figured it would be worth a try since I see them there often in the open water season. But, that didn't go so well... all I got were weird looks from half-buzzed snowmobilers. The walk back to shore after was a long one. That weekend hurt. And now I had all week to feel the burn. And, it burned. But, that's why they call it fishing and not catching, right? Wrong. It was a miserable failure.
With a whole week to reflect on this misery I developed a rather evil plan that would surely foil the fish demons. Smelt. Yep, smelt. The little silver-sides that are ruining our inland lakes' pelagic fish populations. The ones that are eating up all the whitefish, tullibee and lake trout fry. Those guys. The same culprits responsible for legendary drunken nocturnal dip-netting events each spring where someone inevitably ends up either falling into the frigid water or into the bonfire... or both (and that guy usually ends up with a rather stellar nickname).
So, smelt. I had just the inland lake in mind... lots of smelt here. No one really fishes it much either. So I win in both senses: solitude and lots of fish. My target spot was a bit of a walk across the lake to the far shore where the afternoon sun was blocked by a steep rocky shoreline. A long shadow reached out across the lake and a deep hole sunk down below the shoreline rocks. The long shadow was a nice feature since it was the first place the smelt would become active. They're diurnal. So I drilled a few holes and watched the graph. Not a whole lot going on down there; but, nonetheless this was the spot. Shortly thereafter, down went a tear drop jig and a small piece of minnow... all the way to the bottom.
It wasn't a few jigs later and the first fish had struck the little jig. I had it up about half-way to the hole and it came off. Of course... this bad luck again. So I dropped back down and endured a miserable first hour of nothing. But, for whatever reason I hung in there with some strange confidence (or psychic premonition or something... like it was the smelt psychic hotline I was putting faith into). I kept thinking a modified version of the Old Spice ad 'Believe in Your Smellf'. Only, the latter word replaced by a similar one sounding oddly like my quarry...
And then... it all happened. Finally, the curse had been broken without having to perform the exorcism of dumping lighter fluid on my ice-fishing rod and setting it ablaze while calling out the demons. Yes, the smelt. With a little lower sun angle they really began to turn on. Soon they were making their way to daylight from the underworld. Literally, as soon as I would drop the jig to the bottom my line would start swimming sideways... and I would reel up another smelt. Fantastic!
It didn't take long and I had a nice little accumulation of smelt on the ice next to me. I had to guard them carefully once the ravens on shore analyzed what I was doing. They observed with tilted heads and raven calls, and short flights to branches with better views... they wanted smelt, too. The smell of smelt was in the air and the ravens couldn't resist. One noisy recon flight after another began to occur. But, I stood my ground and my little smelt pile on the ice remained in-tacked. I could only imagine Hemingway's "Old Man" fighting off the sharks at sea while bringing in his giant marlin to Cuba's shore.
After a nice little catch I decided to walk out at sundown. The air was cold and crisp. It stung my cheeks and slurred my speech. The walk out created a nice ice mustache that once back at the truck melted and provided impromptu hydration to end a great day on.
The real treat was, once gilled and gutted, frying up the smelt. A wonderfully simple way to prepare them is to coat them in extra virgin olive oil and fry 4 minutes per side on a flat griddle. When they have that nice grilled look to them take them off the heat and drain on paper towels. Salt them liberally right away and serve immediately. Don't forget to grab a favorite beverage with this! Delicious.
With a whole week to reflect on this misery I developed a rather evil plan that would surely foil the fish demons. Smelt. Yep, smelt. The little silver-sides that are ruining our inland lakes' pelagic fish populations. The ones that are eating up all the whitefish, tullibee and lake trout fry. Those guys. The same culprits responsible for legendary drunken nocturnal dip-netting events each spring where someone inevitably ends up either falling into the frigid water or into the bonfire... or both (and that guy usually ends up with a rather stellar nickname).
So, smelt. I had just the inland lake in mind... lots of smelt here. No one really fishes it much either. So I win in both senses: solitude and lots of fish. My target spot was a bit of a walk across the lake to the far shore where the afternoon sun was blocked by a steep rocky shoreline. A long shadow reached out across the lake and a deep hole sunk down below the shoreline rocks. The long shadow was a nice feature since it was the first place the smelt would become active. They're diurnal. So I drilled a few holes and watched the graph. Not a whole lot going on down there; but, nonetheless this was the spot. Shortly thereafter, down went a tear drop jig and a small piece of minnow... all the way to the bottom.
And then... it all happened. Finally, the curse had been broken without having to perform the exorcism of dumping lighter fluid on my ice-fishing rod and setting it ablaze while calling out the demons. Yes, the smelt. With a little lower sun angle they really began to turn on. Soon they were making their way to daylight from the underworld. Literally, as soon as I would drop the jig to the bottom my line would start swimming sideways... and I would reel up another smelt. Fantastic!
It didn't take long and I had a nice little accumulation of smelt on the ice next to me. I had to guard them carefully once the ravens on shore analyzed what I was doing. They observed with tilted heads and raven calls, and short flights to branches with better views... they wanted smelt, too. The smell of smelt was in the air and the ravens couldn't resist. One noisy recon flight after another began to occur. But, I stood my ground and my little smelt pile on the ice remained in-tacked. I could only imagine Hemingway's "Old Man" fighting off the sharks at sea while bringing in his giant marlin to Cuba's shore.
After a nice little catch I decided to walk out at sundown. The air was cold and crisp. It stung my cheeks and slurred my speech. The walk out created a nice ice mustache that once back at the truck melted and provided impromptu hydration to end a great day on.
The real treat was, once gilled and gutted, frying up the smelt. A wonderfully simple way to prepare them is to coat them in extra virgin olive oil and fry 4 minutes per side on a flat griddle. When they have that nice grilled look to them take them off the heat and drain on paper towels. Salt them liberally right away and serve immediately. Don't forget to grab a favorite beverage with this! Delicious.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
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