"The Evening Campfire" from
The Herald, July 1, 2007
Solitary wild trout fishing a true
summer treasure
A weekday trip to the
mountains can be a rewarding and healing experience,
even when you only get away for one day. Such was the
case last week when I drove up alone to cut grass and
work on the camp. I threw my fly rod and fishing vest
in, though, in case I decided to steal away upstream for
an hour.
I arrived at camp and saw
how thick and high the grass was, with massive clusters
of purple-blooming weeds playing host to hundreds of
busy bumblebees. The task looked daunting, but I plunged
in and finished the yard in three hours. Then I relaxed
on the front deck with a cold beverage and gazed out at
the majestic Allegheny River, one of the grand small
pleasures
of camp life.
I decided I would try a
trout stream and selected Antler Run for its proximity
to camp, its beauty, and its flourishing population of
wild brook trout. I drove my Jeep to the bottom of the
hollow and walked in. It was a fine summer day, with
temperatures in the upper seventies and fragrant
evergreen breezes blowing. As usual, nobody else was on
the stream.
As soon as I got 100
yards into the woods, I relaxed and immersed myself in
the audio pleasures of birdsong and rolling waters, the
visual gratification of sparkling riffles over rocks and
hemlock boughs shading the stream and steep, wooded
hillsides, and just the great timeless ancient presence
of the forest. These big woods wild trout streams are my
favorite places in the world, and I plan to visit them
as long as I’m alive.
I caught a feisty
seven-inch brook trout on a bead-head nymph at the first
hole, which lies under the fallen trunk of a large white
pine, and I missed a bigger fish at the next pool
upstream. At the “perfect trout hole,” a magical spot
where cold waters pour swiftly down over a solid rock
shelf and enter a green pool and a deeply undercut
embankment, I missed a fine dark-colored brookie that
darted out from the shaded cutbank and caught a
lighter-colored beauty that was feeding out in the brown
riffle. It always amazes me how wild brook trout can
take on the coloration of their surroundings.
I caught a few more as I
hiked upstream and missed more than I caught and took
some photos that, as always, will look good and stir
some memories in the future but will fail to capture the
essence of the trout, the waters, and the outdoors.
I stayed on the stream
for an hour and a half before I turned around and walked
out, drank a bottled water on the front porch above the
river again, cleaned up around camp, and headed home.
There’s nothing quite
like a solitary fishing trip for wild trout up a
mountain stream. When I have friends along, it’s
something of a social experience, where we hike upstream
together, whisper encouragement under the forest canopy,
and show off the fish we catch and release, then relive
the experience later beside the
campfire under the stars. When others are along, I act
more as guide, photographer, and social director than I
do as fisherman.
But a solitary venture
upstream is a spiritual experience, not a social one.
You wander under the cathedral forest, gaze at the best
of all creation, and ponder what’s important in life
with peace and contentment on your mind. You banish the
petty troubles that nag at you in your other life and
seek joy in the simple and ancient acts of walking,
casting, catching, releasing,
and walking some more. Your clearest, best, and most
generous thoughts can arrive when you’re out in the
forest alone along a stream. The experience can make you
healthier in body and mind and soul.
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