Dennis Anderson: Sunset over ... Chequamegon

ON CHEQUAMEGON BAY, LAKE SUPERIOR — Quiet now, in the low light, a long day beneath a hot sun nearing its end.

In this sheltered inlet, only a single boat other than ours remains, its three distant anglers appearing in the dusk like actors in a vintage film, arms flailing as they cast, silhouettes in miniature. 

Here in one of the world's great smallmouth bass fisheries, a place also of blue water, sandy beaches and trim sloops swinging from sunken moorings, I hope that as our boat angles quietly toward the darkened shoreline another of Chequamegon's bulbous smallmouth bass chomps my surface fly, or popper.

If so, a thrill ride rivaling those of any theme park will ensue.

But Chequamegon's history is defined not solely by a fish, nor only by the now-twinkling shoreline cities of Ashland, Washburn or Bayfield, Wis. Nor, to the north, by Madeline Island.

Nor is it defined even by those many mariners whose pursuits over time have been waylaid by Lake Superior's often sudden irritability, among them the sailors of the ore-bearing schooner Lucerne, who, ensnared in a nor'easter on Nov. 18, 1886, lashed themselves to the mizzen rigging in an attempt to ride out Superior's furies

Still tied there, some were entombed in 9 inches of ice, shipwrecked and 90 miles from their last sighting when they were found just off Long Island, which forms one shoreline of Chequamegon Bay.

Stripping line from my reel, I loop a bunch of it airborne, backcasting once before shooting the lot of it ahead, where it dissolves into the darkness.

In staccato-like strokes, I strip the line back to me. And with it, the popper.

Then: Bang!

• • •

Roger LaPenter carries the bronze tan and white mane of a fishing guide, which he is. He's not the only angler-for-hire on Chequamegon. But he's perhaps the best known guide among fly anglers who travel from near and far to test their mettle on the 12-mile-long bay.

I encountered a couple of these interloping fishermen the night before while checking into an Ashland motel. One rose from a car that bore Illinois license plates. Another was from Michigan.

I had my two boys with me, and they sized up these fellows as one might assess the grim reaper. They noted the amount and kinds of gear the men extracted from their vehicles, and how exactly they carried themselves.

Then, weighing and sorting these and other observations, the older boy coughed up his assessment, and that of his brother.

"No problem," he said.

LaPenter's shop, Angler's All, opens early, and I would have arrived when the door first swung open, except for the flat tire that morning on my truck.

"It's been hard finding days to get out, the weather's been so bad this spring,'' LaPenter said. "But you picked a good one. No wind today. You should find some fish.''

I bought a few poppers and a couple of other flies that LaPenter recommended, clousers in particular. He suggested I launch my boat at a public access a few miles east of Ashland and said the smallies likely would still be in the very shallow reaches of the bay, in water 2 to 6 feet deep.

"Or they might have moved out to deeper water yesterday, they might move out today, or they might move out tomorrow,'' he said. "It will be any day now. The water's warming up.''

Dropping my boat into the water, I soon had it on plane. The sweet morning air was fresh off the cold lake and embraced us like an angel might a saint. Certain navigation rules should be paid attention to here, among them the difficulties that ensue if impenetrable fog settles in. Careful attention to weather forecasts is also recommended, as is a GPS.

We found our way into a fingerlike extension of Chequamegon that angled southeast. You really hope in these situations that waters unfold before you're entirely devoid of other craft. That wasn't the case. Four boats were spread among an area of perhaps 5 or 6 square miles. One was a sleek bass outfit, and its anglers, we could see, were tossing crankbaits. The others were bait fishermen, lobbing bobbers that hung above leeches.

From what we could tell, this last bunch was cleaning up, though they kept few, if any, bass: Chequamegon smallies must be 22 inches or longer to be legal.

You could say the next 10 hours passed quickly. Sometimes the three of us cast simultaneously. As often, two would cast and the other would scan the shoreline for the type of water LaPenter suggested might hold fish. "They'll most often be by logs,'' he said.

Which at the time I took as a tourist joke. The bottom of Chequamegon Bay is still flush with logs that sunk in the late 1800s, when vast rafts of white and red pine, sugar maple, yellow birch, hemlock, oak and elm were felled and gathered for milling, in part to rebuild Chicago after the Great Fire.

Of logs that sunk, those that lie in Chequamegon in water 30 feet or deeper, with its cold water and low oxygen levels, are often found in pristine condition and are highly prized for making furniture and musical instruments.

• • •

On still nights like these, Chequamegon Bay sailboats lie ahull, motionless, mainsails collapsed onto their booms, anchors dropped.

On this still night, darkness gathered ever closer.

The evening's first stars appeared.

Having lost little of its midday heat, the air invited yet the lightest of clothing.

Save for the boat in the distance with the three silhouetted anglers, the other fishing craft had returned to their ports.

The first white men who encamped in what is now Wisconsin did so on Chequamegon Bay. One was the fur trader Pierre-Esprit Radisson, who arrived in 1658.

Did Radisson shoot deer here? Eat roots? Net fish? Smoke the pipes of the Ojibwe?

No doubt he marveled at summer nights like this.

Fishing for smallmouth bass is productive in Chequamegon in part because these fish migrate to the bay's warm, shallow water in spring to nest and spawn. Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources studies have revealed smallmouth bass averaging as much as 3 pounds, with specimens much bigger commonplace -- thanks in both cases to abundant forage.

Casting lines in silence, the boys and I masked in the low light the boat's approach toward shore.

We threw flies and the odd crankbait; top-walking lures that tantalized bass that sometimes lay only inches below, and tricked them into explosive strikes.

Finally the boat with the three anglers disappeared ahead of an ever-widening wake.

Bang!

A line tightened. A rod bowed. A final popper taken.

Bang!

This time a crankbait, skittering across the surface.

Then it was over.

We pulled on jackets and set course for the distant landing.

The lake was mirrorlike, the sky indigo.

For a day and a good evening, we were part of it.

Chequamegon.

Dennis Anderson • danderson@startribune.com