The Upper Mississippi River is not as muddy as some people think. If the surface of the water is calm, I can usually see down four or five feet. Even then, any lack of clarity is due more to organic matter than to mud. I assume that downstream of its confluence with the Big Muddy (aka, the Missouri River) the Mississippi turns a milky brown, but up here it is relatively clear.
My ability to see below the surface does not mean that I have much of an understanding of what goes on down there. At best, I get occasional glimpses of life beneath the ripples, but these little sightings do more to add to the mystery of the river than explain it. The following are a few of the curious happenings that have contributed to my fascination.
Once, while standing waist-deep in the river to help a friend level out a small dock that had been tipped cockeyed during high water, I accidentally kicked a gelatinous blob to the surface. My first thought was that I’d just dislodged frog eggs from the world’s biggest bullfrog. “Bryozoan!” my friend exclaimed. When he saw the confusion on my face, he explained that freshwater bryozoan are filter-feeding invertebrates that live in tight colonies about the size of a loaf of bread. He also said that bryozoan thrive only in clean water, so their presence beneath his dock was a sign of a healthy river.
My favorite backwater paddling loop has long sandbars running the entire length of its two access points. Sometimes these sandbars are exposed to the air, more often they reside a foot or two below the surface. When below the surface, freshwater clams come out of the sand to feed. They pull themselves along too slowly for me to detect movement, but I can easily see the trails they leave behind in the sand.
- Fishing just below the Wisconsin Welcome Center on Interstate 90, I hooked into a river creature so large that it dragged me and my canoe for fifty yards before swimming into a fallen tree and breaking the line. It could have been a flathead catfish, a lake sturgeon, or a musky, although it did not fight like a musky. Maybe it was a snapping turtle. I did not mind that I was not able to land the fish (or the turtle), but I would have liked to have seen what it was.
- Paddling near Trempeleau with my daughter Clare, a northern water snake swam out of the aquatic vegetation along shore and charged our canoe. I didn’t think it would be able to get into the boat by climbing over the gunwales, but I didn’t want to give it the chance. I splashed water at it with my paddle until it swam away.
- Quietly fishing the slough behind Gundersen Lutheran Hospital, the water around me suddenly began to churn for thirty feet in every direction. I assumed that it was a school of fish, but chop on the water and sun glare kept me from seeing below the surface. I put on an artificial lure that dove only to a depth of five feet and casted into tumult. Whatever was there struck at nearly every cast, but I had a hard time setting the hook. Finally, after more than twenty casts, I finally hooked a fish and brought it alongside my canoe. I then realized that I was in the middle of a school of longnose gar. Once I’d identified the species, my next question was how to extract my lure from seven inches of sharp teeth. There are only a few things in the Mississippi River I am reluctant to touch, and prehistoric gars are one of them.
This is the third consecutive blog about the uniqueness of the Upper Mississippi River. I could easily stay on the subject for another month, but unless the next few days produce a new fishing tale to tell, I will move on to something else.
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