With fishing poles in hand and trout stamp validations on our licenses, my husband and I set out to scout some brook trout over the season’s opening weekend.
Brook trout are special to us. Before I ever caught and grilled up a few brookies, I liked fishing more than I liked fish. As a kid, my Pop always encouraged me to eat what I caught— sometimes with added teasing that, if I didn’t, he might not take me out as often.
I have to admit, my first few attempts at eating fish weren’t exactly gourmet. I drowned my catch in ketchup, hoping to mask the taste. But when I finally tasted brook trout on its own, I was surprised. It didn’t have that overly “fishy” taste I expected. Instead, it had a light, delicate flavor and tender meat that quickly turned me into a fan.
Since then, I’ve been hooked. But after we moved up north, we hadn’t had much luck reeling any in—despite being surrounded by great trout waters. Life gets busy, and the season moves fast. We don’t always have time to explore as many rivers as we’d like.
This opener, we were determined to get out there. We started our search along the Knife River, upstream of Highway 61—a spot my husband’s grandpa Paul used to love for trout fishing. I’d never been there before, so it felt like the perfect place to begin.
It was a wet and rainy Saturday, and not many folks were out along the river. Instead of casting right away, we followed the hiking trails to get a feel for the place. Parts of the trail were slick, others were surprisingly steep, and at one point, even our dog debated whether it was worth climbing back down. (Honestly, I needed a little convincing too.)
Though we didn’t end up trying our luck there—nobody else along the river seemed to be having much either—I had no regrets. Even with the shaky descent, it was worth it. My Fitbit was proud, and standing beside all that rushing water, with its roar in my ears and the stunning scenery all around, made the whole experience more than enough.
Undaunted, we drove upriver and pulled off near a culvert by the road. No luck there, either. We took the long way home, stopping at a few other spots that looked promising, but in the end, we had leftovers for dinner.
Sunday we stayed closer to home, trying our luck on the Drummond Grade easements. We’d struck out there before, and history repeated itself. So instead of fishing, we took a hike—which seemed to be what the brookies were telling us to do.
With other plans pulling us an hour south the next day, we figured we’d make the most of the drive and push even further—to our old faithful fishing spot from before we moved north. On the way, we stopped for tackle, and the kid at the bait shop said he’d done alright on the Brule but hadn’t heard of anyone else catching much anywhere in the area.
We gave it a shot anyway, trying a few little streams along the route. The wind was whipping, the rain kept on, and I did my best not to complain—I didn’t want to be accused of being a fair-weather fisherman. But once you’re on the river, casting your line, it’s easy to forget the chill. Something about being in the moment just kind of warms you up from the inside out.
Unfortunately, our trusty old spot didn’t deliver this time either. But honestly, it wasn’t a total bust. The company was good, the scenery was even better, and warming up in the car on the way home felt like the perfect way to wrap up the day. Sometimes, it’s not about the fish you catch, but the memories you make along the way.
I hope others had better luck with their trout this weekend! If you did, please, share your secret spots. I’m all ears!
