The hell if we're going to tell you our favorite spot, but we'll give you a hint where to look. Put in midsummer at Marine on St. Croix and slowly work north, through the shallows and the rocks and the branches, into the primeval bee-loud backwaters. The water level's unpredictability and the powerboat restrictions keep the bass-fishing bastards and their raging twin-screw fiberglass death machines down-river in the bottle-littered murk. The fish don't jump on the hook, but they're here: fat, lazy walleye, jittery northern, bass of both persuasions, and sullen, hostile muskies. But be careful: Snapping turtles the size of a Prius sit poised to bite the nipples off swimmers.
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