The morning air in Shiocton has a bite to it — that crisp, damp chill you only feel in early spring along the river. I pull my jacket tighter as I make my way toward the viewing platform on the Wolf River. Around me, a few other early risers gather, cameras slung around their necks, kids bouncing with excitement. We're all here for the same reason: to witness something ancient and unforgettable.

The lake sturgeon are spawning.

For most of the year, these giant fish — some weighing over 100 pounds — are ghosts, hidden in the deep waters of Wisconsin’s lakes and rivers. But once the ice melts and the water temperature climbs into the low 50s, they return. Not just a few — hundreds of them, moving upstream with a determination that’s almost impossible to believe unless you see it with your own eyes.

From the platform, I spot the first ripple. Then another. Suddenly, the surface of the river seems alive, boiling with motion. Massive, prehistoric bodies break the water in flashes of gray and silver. Some sturgeon roll completely onto their sides, showing off their armored plates before splashing back into the current. It’s not quiet, either — there’s a low, rhythmic slapping sound as these giants thrash along the rocky shallows.

It’s the males that arrive first, smaller and faster, crowding the banks in anticipation. They're waiting for the females — the real heavyweights of the river. When a female arrives, a frenzy begins. Several males cluster around her, bumping and thrashing against her sides. She releases tens of thousands of eggs onto the rocks, while the males release their milt to fertilize them in the swirling water.

Watching it, you realize how vulnerable they are. These massive fish, some older than anyone standing here today, are completely exposed in the shallow water. It’s easy to see why conservation efforts, like the Sturgeon Guard program here in Shiocton, are so important. Volunteers keep watch to protect the spawning sturgeon from poaching — because after all, it takes a female sturgeon decades to reach maturity, and she may only spawn a handful of times in her entire life.

As the sun rises higher, more people arrive — families bundled in sweatshirts, and couples with steaming coffee cups in hand. Some kids gasp when they see how huge the fish are. Others stand speechless, wide-eyed, clutching the railings as sturgeon bigger than they are crashing through the shallows just feet away.

There’s something almost spiritual about standing here, watching a life cycle that's been repeating for millions of years. These fish were here long before our towns, our roads, our lives. And with care, they’ll still be here long after us.

As I head back to my car, I glance over my shoulder one more time. The river sparkles in the morning light, alive with ancient energy. Here in Shiocton, on the edge of spring, time feels slower — like you're part of something timeless.

And I know I'll be back next year.

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