The evening ended with a waxing crescent moon hovering downstream over the Rum River. After having completed my fifth, sixth and seventh "last casts", I gazed at the slivered sphere, wiped fresh walleye goo on my fishing vest, and took another drag of a convenience store cigar, which under the circumstances, tasted much like my customary Hoya de Monterey Rothschild.

Blissfulness was achieved at the trip’s conclusion, but for a couple of hours preceding the contemplation of being, I was granted reassurance why sometimes the outward simplicity of slipping on tattered wading shoes takes precedence over trailering up the rig.

River fishing is an exercise in both appreciating and understanding the environment at hand. Seven-foot spinning rod in hand, I traipsed down the short, but winding path, which leads to what contemporary anglers dub "skinny water". Not more than 10 yards into the greenery came my first opportunity to sample nature. Frogs; not a few hippin’ and hoppin’ here and there, but instead, hundreds of leopard-frogs exploded across the forest floor. And by the time I reached river’s edge my threatening presence caused a dozen or so amphibians to plummet, lemming-like, into dangerous waters. I quickly surmised that the bumper frog crop must be a dietary staple for river smallmouths, walleyes, and northern pike. Not to mention the belief that amphibians are a meter of an environment’s overall health. Ostensibly, Isanti County is in awfully good shape.

River fishing is best experienced inside not outside the current. Bank fishermen certainly catch quarry, and at certain times of the year, the bulk of the action occurs near shore, but under no circumstances has a shore bound caster contacted more fish than a competing angler who waded into the water. Childhood years spent chasing smallies and cats south of the I-694 Bridge in Minneapolis taught me that wading extends better access to structure, and ultimately fish, than shore fishing, and even angling from a boat – boats struggle to hold on finite hotspots that wade fishermen blanket with authority.

Back to the Rum. After watching the suicide-frogs bank-dive, I followed their lead, but in a less serious manner. Once my retired basketball sneakers stepped into the tainted water, notice was taken that the frogs’ impact as foodstuffs was secondary at best. Swimming beneath the surfaces of one of my foremost shoreline areas was a baitfish population like none other.

If the frog numbers could be estimated in dozens and possibly hundreds, then the minnow population demanded thousands and possibly infinity as numerical references. Even in the Rum’s reddish to greenish tints couldn’t camouflage such great numbers of baitfish. A quick inventory revealed river shiners, exposed via their telltale twitches and silvery flashes, fatheads, and a smattering of chubs.

Does the presence of aggressive baitfish forebode gamefish activity? It’s hard to say, but on this day both the minnows and big fish were ballistic. The cilia-like action of my leg hairs swaying in the current apparently represented something palatable, because hordes of baitfish sucked on my limbs like suckling piglets. Had I been standing in the Amazon, a foolhardy notion, and shiners were swapped for piranhas, you’d be calling me Stumpy.

Structurally speaking, what makes this particular segment of the Rum so appealing is that inside a 100-yard flow lies nearly every conceivable contour and depth variance. A major river bend forges a deep groove before straightening out, rising, and forming a slender sandbar. The sandbar’s tailrace dips and greets the front side of a deep and lengthy pool. The opposing shore offers a lazily running tributary, which spills into downstream brush piles. Below the sunken timber a second pool is born. And between the opposing pools lies a shallow gravel and rock flat that eventually tapers into a deep hole and subsequent river bend. Who could ask for more?

Intimately understanding a productive piece of water often supercedes the ability to blanket large sections of water. Modern fishing wisdom teaches us to "eliminate water" and achieve results by implementing mobility. But in the case of a petite river, it’s prudent to identify a structurally diverse section and learn its seasonal, monthly, and even daily schedule.

The hunk of Rum River I embrace has been under the microscope for three years. And on the evening in question, I opted for the eddy and logjam situated downstream of the feeder creek. Here, at the head of the eddy, the main channel sliced a distinct current break against the calmer, back curling waters. I stood in mellow waters of only a foot or two in depth, but within a rod’s length the flooded shoreline flat dipped into five feet of heavy current. The current break angled away from shore, leaving a deep, stagnant, and silt laden pool directly below me. The perfect gunnery position for addressing active current feeders and laid back fishes relaxing in stiller waters.

A plethora of attacks could have been used on gamefish in said location. A jig and minnow, crankbait, and soft plastic bait are accepted presentations for extracting river smallmouths and walleyes. But experience has proven that if an angler can overcome the piousness of implementing only artificial lures that live bait affords greater results.

Nothing beats the pulsating action of a night crawler in the current. Night crawlers naturally flush into river systems following wet weather; gamefish know this. And due to the relative abundance of baitfish, night crawlers seemed to be desirable alternatives. Making earthen invertebrates even more attractive, to me anyway, was a comprehension that resident redhorse, white sucker, and even lowly carp crave crawlers. Action is action, and truth be known, rough fish will out-fight walleyes at every opportunity. Having said that, at some yet undetermined point in September I’ll substitute beefy minnows for crawlers. Cooling river temps invigorate river walleyes, smallmouths, and northern pike, and with increased foraging by baitfish eating species, the need for supplementary suckers and carp is lessened.

An eerie squawk interrupted my first cast. Pure chance strategically placed me beneath a concealing sugar maple, which doubled as a roost. A second, and richer, squawk was instantaneously accompanied by the perpetrator, a lone great blue heron. The massive bird touched down on a dead branch, surveyed the river, and minutes later relocated to the creek mouth where it commenced jousting careless frogs. I’ve always maintained a fondness for a great blue heron’s elegant yet lethal hunting methods.

My maiden cast quickly encountered a foraging walleye. The 15-inch fish inhaled my offering, yielding little chance to miscalculate how much line to give ‘em. Precedence was established. Walleyes, or at least a walleye, were scrounging along the current break. So I released the feisty river resident, thread on another crawler, and duplicated the original cast. This consisted of lobbing a 1/8^th ounce split-shot, #4 Gamakatsu hook (green), and exotic worm over the rippling mid channel flat and bumping back toward the eddy.

Duplicating the placement of successful casts is important because river fish can be downright belligerent about their surroundings. What this means is that if walleyes or smallmouth bass are feeding over a specific bottom type, in or out of current, or amidst certain structure, that a lure dropped nearby, but away from their precise environment, can go completely unnoticed. Surgical casts are paramount. Another river phenomenon is that when a fish is harvested, or caught, released, and discombobulated, their prior habitat is quickly replaced by a new fish. Again, supporting the theory of pinpoint casting.

The follow up cast hit the current and walked downstream toward the breakline. Along the way the bottom’s identity was telegraphed via line and rod gestures. An experienced river fisherman is able to readily distinguish bottom types and depth changes by watching his or her line and interpreting sensory knocks and twitches. The crawler settled within feet of the inaugural target and in less than a minute’s time was accepted by a small walleye.

For the next hour approximately every other cast produced a fish, some walleyes and others of rougher varieties. Rivaling the piscatorial excitement was a nonstop air show. A standing but dead hardwood provided a launch pad for insect eating songbirds. An assemblage of cedar waxwings swooped back and forth across the Rum. Recognizable by their signature crested-head and yellow trimmed tail, cedar waxwings are known for harvesting mountain ash berries during the winter months, but their summertime diet consists of both insects and berries found along rivers and creeks.

The walleye count stood at 7 and the trash fish tally was somewhere in that range, making the grand total about 14. Daylight was fading, but being familiar with the path’s curves and flanking obstructions allowed me to become a creature of the night. Like a nocturnal owl, the gradual depreciation of light levels heightened visual capabilities, as my pupils grew larger than their surrounding irises.

The next aerial display was compliments of a modest flock of Canada geese, which traced the river in route to popular overnight lodging. A pair of noticeably larger adult waterfowl led the handful of smaller family members downstream. And just as they vanished over the tree line and honking became faint, another verbalization filled the airwaves.

This nearly grotesque and alien resonance would be a challenging "Name That Tune" offering. More guttural than a heron’s call, the utterances produced by a sandhill crane seem not of this earth. Combine the shuddering sounds of one bird with five others and quite an obnoxious chorus befalls, but a remarkable none the less. And witnessing the half dozen creatures of the sky and their 80-inch wingspans was especially stirring because they passed only 30-feet overhead.

The vaunted last hook set of the outing was planted into something unlike previous catches. Tug, tug; I tightened the screws and gave it the wood; a solid stick. She peeled off line that I could hear but not see, because encroaching darkness caused my line to vanish against the surface. I pumped the rod again for insurance purposes. And without warning or probable cause it let loose. In defeat, I reeled in the stereotypical remaining crawler head and pondered going after her again, but nightfall wouldn’t allow it.

The season’s first squadron of wood ducks buzzed past tracing the course made by an earlier flock of geese. These were the last birds of the day, and as the thrifty woodies faded from sight bats reclaimed the skies. I took a couple minutes to watch the dark bodied sky rats materialize from towering Norway pines. Sightless, they flickered about inhaling whatever consisted of the evening bug hatch. One last bump from my cheap but flavorful cigar. This evening was full of flavor.

It was The Little River Band who sang, "It’s kind of a special feeling, when you’re out on the sea alone." In my world, rivers and lakes replace seas, but the notion is understood.