outdoors

HAGER CITY, WIS.

Lying not far from this Mississippi River village, approximately across from Red Wing, Minn., Everts Resort is spread along a shoreline flooded these days not by high water but by pickups and boat trailers. Behind the resort and extending up and down the river as far as the eye can see are lifeless bluffs, their trees bare. Call it early spring. Or late winter.

On Tuesday, the sun shining, Roy Whipple threw open the door to the resort's bait shop wearing a tired snowmobile suit. The shop is straight out of central casting, its close walls bearing long rows of jigs and other lures, a few wash basins of minnows adjacent to a small counter, and a young girl at a workmanlike table packaging hard baits, treble hooks swinging.

As Whipple walked in, the girl offered a friendly "Hi,'' and Dean Marshall, who runs the joint, stepped out from behind the counter.

Marshall's business is rip-roaring these days because landings on the Minnesota side of the big river are still iced in. This is Pool 4, lying below Lock and Dam No. 3, a stretch of the Mississippi that stays open year-round, and where walleyes can be fished, weather permitting, every day of every month -- assuming you can find an ice-free place to launch your boat.

"Early in the season, everyone comes here to launch,'' Marshall says. "Later, when the other landings open up, things quiet down.''

On this day, there is no quiet to be found. Big boats and little boats are being backed into the river by fleets of anglers who might rather fish than relive their wedding nights. It's been a long winter, after all. Whipple himself is among regulars at Everts, and when he's done jawing with Marshall he and I amble to a river dock not far away and push his boat into the swirling Mississippi, headed upstream.

"I didn't even start to fish until I was in my late 40s,'' said Whipple, who's a couple of decades older than that now, and retired. "I was into motorcycles and had a Moto Guzzi, which I sold. When I went to replace it, I thought maybe I'd like to try fishing. So instead of buying another 'Guzzi,' I bought a boat.''

As Whipple spoke, boats traded up and down the river as if part of an amphibious assault. Some were big, 20 feet long and more, with huge outboards swinging from their transoms and rod holders on their rails.

Other craft were so small their insurability appeared doubtful, tiny scimitars of poorly cast aluminum whose seaworthiness seemed vulnerable to a minor shift in weight, or a muffled sneeze.

We fished a quarter-mile downriver from the dam. Much nearer to the dam, a flotilla of boats had gathered in a tight knot, as anglers concentrated over a hole about 80 feet deep. Whipple and I fished shallower, say 20 to 25 feet, dragging 5/8-ounce Patriot (red, white and blue) jigs tipped with minnows.

Not to give away too much too early, but Whipple and I were going to catch fish on this day, that much we knew. Already preparing to spawn, many Mississippi River walleyes were running upriver from Lake Pepin, migrating toward rocky underwater bars and sandy beaches. As they bumped up against Lock and Dam No. 3, holding their positions for a time, fishermen gained an advantage.

Angling specifics aside, the day seemed simply too pleasant not to catch fish, if only because winter was ending. The sky was blue, the winds light, and carving huge arcs above us were bald eagles, some transient, some resident. Moreover, our spinning rods and reels fit our hands like shopworn gloves. And the gentle slap of Ol' Miss against Whipple's boat rang like sweet music from a season now long past, and warmly recalled.

Soon I set the hook on what at first seemed like a walleye, then a snag. Whatever had impaled itself on my jig in moments moved off independently of the strong river current, and independently of my efforts to tip its nose upward.

"It's a big something,'' I said.

I fought the fish awhile, my 6-pound-test line straining, before handing the rod to my boat mate. I had a camera along and in case Big Foot or Jimmy Hoffa or a long-lost spaceship was about to appear I wanted not to miss the photo op.

Ten minutes passed. And more. Finally, Whipple brought to the surface a lake sturgeon that barely fit in our oversized net. Thirty pounds? Thirty-five? Forty? Something in that range, the sturgeon wore its skin like leather and breathed heavily, like a boxer between rounds.

Revived and released, the big fish soon sounded for the bottom.

Walleyes are next

Afternoon passed its midpoint before Whipple and I started to catch walleyes. This didn't occur in 80 feet of water, or even 20. But 14 to 17 feet.

"I don't jig at all, I just drag the jig and minnow on the bottom,'' Whipple said as he guided his boat over a small area of the river.

A lazy man's method of fishing, perhaps. But it worked. As Whipple powered his boat up and down the river, and across its current, using his bow-mounted electric trolling motor, we caught one walleye pretty much after another, later ending the outing with a double -- each catching a walleye at the same time. All of the fish were released.

Back at Everts Resort, motion reigned. Boats were launched from trailers, and winched onto them. RVs were parked alongside one another; anglers' homes away from home. And buckets of minnows were toted to boats that were quickly piloted upstream.

In the bait shop, Dean Marshall, a lean guy, a happy guy, a guy quick with a handshake, was in his element.

Winter was ending, and spring soon here.

Dennis Anderson danderson@startribune.com