Are trout unlimited?

Just west of Madison lies a resilient haven for a sensitive fish. How long will it last?

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Trout are the most sensitive of creatures. They can be spooked away by a shadow or by the plunk of an artless cast of an angler, even with exactly the right fly at the end of the line, or even by a perfect cast that presents an ever so slightly wrong imitation of a bug.

And they can be driven from an entire ecosystem by a slight rise in the temperature of a creek or a miniscule change in the oxygen level or the runoff of soil or pollutants even in small amounts.

Catching trout is a subtle art. Keeping them alive to be caught in Wisconsin’s streams in the face of all kinds of threats demands robust science and some back-breaking labor. But conservation practices pioneered by Aldo Leopold 80 years ago in southwest Wisconsin may be paying off even in the face of threats that Leopold could not have imagined.

“I’ve always been haunted by water. Some folks are almost genetically coded to be anglers,” says Steve Born. “It can be as fast paced and dangerous or as slow and contemplative as you want. And there are no falsehoods with trout. It’s the trout, the river and you. The learning never stops.”

For me the learning has only started. On a perfect May afternoon I’m returning with Born from a day on Willow Creek in Richland County. Born is an emeritus professor of planning and environmental studies, who had a long career at UW-Madison where, among many other things, he chaired the graduate Water Resources Management program. He has had a hand in the development of laws related to watershed management and groundwater protection. He also served as the chair of Trout Unlimited’s Natural Resources Board.

For my purposes, what matters most is that he is the coauthor of the seminal book, Exploring Wisconsin Trout Streams (University of Wisconsin Press) and he’s widely regarded as one of the state’s leading trout fishers. Once a year for the last few years Born has given me a spring fly fishing lesson, which is more or less barter payment for the venison I supply him with when I’m successful during the fall deer hunt.

While trout can be caught with a rod and reel, that is to true fishing what paint-by-numbers is to art. Catching the wariest fish on the planet with a fly rod is the highest accomplishment of the outdoorsman. It’s the master class of the hook and bullet crowd. You can call me an elitist for loving it, but I will counter that I am also really, really bad at it. Too often I’ve put my fly in a tree or found a way to wrap my head in line. It’s hard to feel elite with a hook stuck to your back and filament around your neck.

Our day on the stream has yielded one 8-inch trout, which by law and by common decency we returned to the stream to grow larger. But it has been a good day. Born has taught me more about how to “read” the water to guess where the trout might be, to cast two flies at once on the same line and to make a more graceful cast so as not to scare the fish or to drive him away out of disgust.

On the drive home we talk trout. “Anybody who’s a good trout fisher in Wisconsin can catch trout anyplace,” Born says. When Born fishes out west, the spaces are wide open and there are few chances to snag your line. “Here you have trees, vegetation all over, it’s very tight.”

Born started fishing trout in Wisconsin in the late 1970s. “Up until these recent floods in the last 10 years or so, it’s been an increasingly better fishery since the ‘70s,” he says. “But there’s a lot more pressure, it’s a lot more popular. I’d say on balance these are still pretty good days for Wisconsin trout fishing.”

But, he points out, there is still a lot to worry about.

Born and I were fishing in the Driftless Region. The rolling countryside left untouched by the most recent glacier starts just west of Madison and covers about 24,000 square miles in southwest Wisconsin, southeast Minnesota, northeast Iowa and northwest Illinois. Cold, spring-fed streams provide perfect habitat for sensitive native brook trout and more hardy browns and the occasional rainbow, species that were introduced to the region.

Human activities on the steep hills that surround those streams pose a constant threat. In fact, brook trout may have been extirpated from Wisconsin altogether due to early 20th century farming practices that resulted in massive runoff of top soils into streams. In some places, the valley floor can be 10 feet or more above presettlement conditions because of the runoff from the surrounding hills. Recent science suggests that some native brook trout populations may have in fact survived the early 20th century. The state also stocked streams with brook trout, helping to bring the population back.

Conservation practices, including those started in Wisconsin’s Coon Valley in the 1930s by Aldo Leopold, are showing results. So much so that scientists are starting to believe that the Driftless may be a refuge of trout resilience in the face of global climate change.

“It’s kind of exciting news that the Driftless might be more resilient to climate change than people feared,” says David Schmidt, the Southeast Minnesota Conservation Coordinator for The Nature Conservancy. “We’re actually now seeing the benefits of decades of conservation work. It’s neat that we may be seeing a long-delayed payoff for work done decades ago.”

Those efforts aren’t always in a stream or anywhere near one. “The health of a stream is the reflection of the health of its watershed,” Schmidt tells me. So he’s working with federal government agencies like the Natural Resources Conservation Service, state departments of natural resources, Trout Unlimited chapters and other local groups on a host of conservation measures.

One that might seem far afield, literally, is prairie restoration on upland areas, some far from any stream. But Schmidt explains that prairie plants, with their deep root systems, hold soil in place and keep it out of streams while helping with infiltration of rainwater to recharge aquifers.

Because trout are so dependent on cold water it stands to reason that warming air temperatures would be a concern. And, in fact, for some famous “freestone” streams like the Wolf River in northeast Wisconsin and for many rivers in the American West, warming waters may one day wipe out trout habitat altogether. That is because freestone streams get their water from runoff, which makes them more sensitive to air temperatures and drought. Driftless trout streams are fed by cold spring water bubbling up from deep groundwater aquifers.

In addition to the natural advantages of spring-fed streams, conservation practices like contour plowing and such restoration efforts as tapering stream banks back to their natural shape have increased stream flow rates. As more of that cold underground water is allowed to flow again through those springs, the water actually is getting colder even as air temperatures rise.

And because climate change has resulted in more precipitation and longer periods when the ground is unfrozen and can absorb moisture, underground aquifers are recharged more thoroughly, which is probably another factor contributing to increased spring flows.

So, is climate change actually good for trout in the Driftless? Maybe in the short run, but Born says that there is “a huge reduction in habitat potential, even in spring-fed streams,” due to the shifting of ranges for different species. And native brook trout, which are much more sensitive than non-native brown trout, would be the first to go.

Floods like the ones that devastated southern Wisconsin last August and September are another threat. There is little doubt that climate change is producing more heavy rain events. The heavy rains of late last summer essentially ended the trout season early in the Driftless. Roads and bridges were washed out and the streams themselves were filled with runoff and debris even after the streams returned to their banks.

But even here trout stream restoration efforts may be contributing to human resilience to climate change. Landowners who allowed restoration on streams running through their property experienced far less damage than their neighbors.

Few people know more about that than Duke Welter. In the early 1970s, Welter was a cub reporter for The Capital Times. Then his union went out on strike and he was driven to desperation. He went to law school. After he started a successful law practice, one thing he did to relieve stress was fly fishing.

“In about 1981 my family bought me a fly rod,” says Welter, who is now 67. “I was so pathetically inept and I didn’t have anybody to teach me. One day I spent six hours on Black Earth Creek. I caught one 8-inch fish, hooked another one and lost it. Fell in the river and lost my watch and at the end of it I said, ‘what a great day!’”

From those modest beginnings Welter went on to become the vice chair of the Board of Trustees for national Trout Unlimited. A decade ago he retired from the law and took a job with the organization as outreach coordinator for the Driftless Area Restoration Effort (DARE).

In his post, Welter works with private landowners and brings together resources from state and federal governments, private foundations, corporate partners like Cabela’s and Patagonia, and, of course, Trout Unlimited itself.

“For the last 12 years we’ve had a succession of 100-year flood events every year,” says Welter. “And the climatologists tell us that’s what to expect.

“But the impacts of floods are very different in places where we’ve restored the flood plain and sculpted back those banks versus places that have the vertical banks. In the vertical bank areas the water just beats against them. You can watch the soil slough off and go downstream,” he says. “But in these areas where we’ve done the restoration, the water spreads out gradually.”

Welter says that he’s had landowners not yet in the program who look downstream to a neighbor who has had his stream restored and they notice that there is a lot less flood damage. Welter thinks that the recent flooding may induce still more landowners to come on board.

“The whole goal of this project is to say to landowners ‘if you provide perpetual public fishing access, then we’ll find all the money for a (conservation) project.’”

On average these can cost $80,000 to $120,000 a stream mile. Welter says that all told, the public and private partners in the DARE program have invested between $65 million and $75 million in Driftless stream restorations just since 2004.

The sign out in front of the Vernon Inn proudly proclaims WELCOME TO TROUT CENTRAL, VIROQUA WIS. But when I ask owner John Iverson about it he tells me that a recent customer survey found that only about 3 percent of his business is from fly fishers. So why the sign?

“Well, Mat asked me to do it,” Iverson says. He’s referring to Mat Wagner, owner of the Driftless Angler fly shop. Although Iverson doesn’t fish much (he owns a farm and is an avid deer hunter) he nevertheless supports the trout campaign. “Mat and I are trying to get Viroqua known for something,” he says. “I would like it to be known for trout.”

Although trout fishing only accounts for a sliver of Iverson’s business, it’s the only sliver that is growing. Vernon County doesn’t have much public hunting land, he says, so deer hunting doesn’t attract many hunters, and snow cover is too inconsistent for snowmobilers.

But he says, “Trout Unlimited has the access issue figured out.” He’s referring to programs like DARE. Under state law anyone has access to a navigable waterway as long as they keep their feet wet. Easements are needed because fishers often need to cross private land to get to a stream in the first place, or to fish along it, as opposed to in it, once they get there. By purchasing or getting landowners to donate easements across their land, the trout group and its partners like the Department of Natural Resources have opened up miles of good trout streams to anglers.

The two business owners, Iverson and Wagner, are a good representation of what makes Viroqua work. Iverson’s family has farmed in the area for generations and at 67 he comes off as a real Wisconsin guy. Wagner and his wife came to Viroqua from New Mexico and at 40 years old he could be mistaken for a slightly aging snowboarding dude.

Yet the two are working closely together to give Viroqua — population 4,362 — an identity built around a fish.

The Driftless Angler is a cozy and tidy store filled with fishing gear and clothes and one of the finest selections of flies that I’ve ever seen. The store was established 14 years ago by Wagner and his wife, Geri Meyer. Both also guide visiting anglers on Driftless streams and they employ two more full-time guides and some part-timers.

Wagner and Meyer chose Viroqua because it wasn’t the big river fly fishing country of the West. “It is far more laid back here. The West is super competitive. Because it’s such a small group here the other fly shop owners come down and we all have dinner, we all fish together. We’re not cool. We just fish.”

On the morning I was in Wagner’s shop, his customers include Bill Baldon from Madison. Baldon says he had been a worm angler for about a decade, but two years ago took up fly fishing.

“I really fell in love with it,” Baldon says. “Love being in the water. Love trout. They’re physically beautiful. Their habitat is beautiful. But just their nature is very intriguing. And you have to learn about what they eat. So, then there’s a whole world of learning about insects. More and more layers that draw you in. Not to mention this area, the Driftless is so beautiful.

“Fly fishing allows more creativity and a deeper connection with the environment and the fish,” he adds.

Baldon, 48, is the restorative justice manager for the YWCA of Madison. He is quick to point out that he’s in the fly shop because a training scheduled for that day has been cancelled. His secret is safe with me.

As Baldon heads for a stream, in walk Jake and Amy Quinnan, who live in the Detroit suburb of Rochester Hills. Jake, 26, is an engineer with Chrysler and Amy, 27, is a newly minted physical therapist. They’ve come all the way here as part of a group brought to the Driftless from outfitters in Fenton. They will spend about four days on area streams and they have come to ask Mat advice on which flies to choose for their adventure.

Jake is a trout veteran. His home stream is the Au Sable, the very birthplace of Trout Unlimited. But this is Amy’s first fly fishing trip. She’s not sure it will take, but she’s intrigued. “I like that you have to think a little more,” she says.

And that’s how it goes all day long. When I return to the store late in the afternoon Mat has time to sell me some flies but really doesn’t have time to talk. There’s a young family and two more couples in the shop. According to a 2017 study commissioned by Trout Unlimited, trout fishing in the four state Driftless Region produces $1.6 billion in direct and indirect benefits each year. The group calls it the “trout economy.”

Luke Zahm introduces himself as “incensed.” On the morning I’m visiting Viroqua word has started to spread that there’s been a significant manure spill on Otter Creek. I have stopped for lunch at Zahm’s Driftless Café just around the corner from the Driftless Angler.

“You want to go see?” asks Zahm. Of course I do. So my host, Viroqua Chamber Main Street Director Nora Roughen-Schmidt and I have our fried chicken sandwiches boxed up to go and we set off in Zahm’s new van.

As Zahm drives and talks, Nora and I eat. The fried chicken sandwich is amazing. The chicken is so good that it reminds me of the first time I had chicken and waffles in Nashville. And, in fact, the Driftless Café has a reputation for good food that makes people want to drive there from not only Madison, but Chicago and Minneapolis and Milwaukee.

As he drives the twisting, narrow back roads, Zahm (who will host the next season of Wisconsin Public Television’s Wisconsin Foodie) talks pretty much nonstop. But since he’s smart and enthusiastic with interesting stories to tell, it’s more than okay.

“Trout fishing opens the door for people to come here,” he says. “But when people get here they find something that’s very unique. They find pieces of the east or west sides of Madison or Milwaukee.”

Zahm himself is part of that story. At 39, he’s the son of parents who left the city to come back to the land. He started his culinary career in Madison working at such iconic Madison restaurants as the Kennedy Manor and the Old Fashioned.

When we arrive at Otter Creek, Zahm explains that this is the valley where he grew up. It’s stunningly pretty, but the creek is chocolate brown, suffering the effects of the manure spill on the ridge above. We get out and walk the stream.

As we walk, I ask about the culprit farm. “Ellen was my kindergarten teacher and Art coached football.” He knows them and he explains that they felt that they needed to get big when milk prices tanked. He’s furious and understanding all at once.

In the Driftless, even polluters have a face and a story. Everything and everybody is connected and, increasingly they are connected through trout. Some folks, like Mat Wagner, have bet it all on the health of that fish and its environment while others, like Bill Baldon, follow trout to spiritual renewal.

And at least for a time, Wisconsin’s proud conservation heritage echoes down those streams in ways that might save them from the worst ravages of climate change. But just for how long is anybody’s guess.

Like Steve Born, we are all haunted by water.