"The Evening Campfire" from
The Herald, October 10, 2008
The best wild brook trout
of the year
I’ve been very luck with my
fishing adventures this year — with crappies,
largemouths, smallmouths and trout — but my best catch
and most interesting bite just occurred last Saturday up
at camp. I held no great hopes for success that day,
because the rain predicted for the weekend never
materialized, and the waters were low and clear. I knew
the trout would be spooky under those conditions.
The stream I chose for the outing features holdover
stocked brown trout in its lower reaches and wild native
brook trout upstream. But I rarely catch brown trout
unless the pools have some depth and color in them from
recent rainfall, so I hiked back in and pinned my hopes
on the brookies.
I tossed a line here and there into crystal clear waters
on the way in and managed to scare off four big holdover
browns and catch only two small brookies over the first
mile. I didn’t care, though.
The overcast skies and temperatures in the 60s reminded
me that summer was ending and fall, the most precious
season in the outdoorsman’s calendar, was well on its
way.
The maple leaves were already turning to shades of
autumn scarlet, and the shagbark hickory foliage was
changing from green to yellow and falling to the ground.
I breathed in the golden scent of autumn and smiled.
Even a bad day fishing, I told myself, was better than a
good day doing anything else.
Eventually I came to a certain out-of-the-way pool that
I’d fished before with some success in the past. It was
a classic-looking trout spot that was hard to fish. A
strong current ran down the far s h o r e l i n e ,
drove its waters into a cutbank in the bend, then flowed
out into a promising, deep pool. The problem was
accessibility. Root tangles inhabited the undercut
shore, and a large windfall hemlock lay half-submerged
in the pool. It would be difficult to present an
offering or to land a hooked fish without snagging up.
I tried a few casts with a streamer from the side of the
pool into the edge of the current with no success. Then
I moved downstream and cast up toward the far bank, with
its cutbank and its root tangles, as closely as I dared.
Suddenly I got a small hit and rolled a five-inch native
brookie that got away without biting the hook. I tossed
in again, hooked the fish and began playing him toward
the shoreline. That’s when it happened. A huge trout
bolted out from the undercut bank and charged up behind
the brookie, mouth wide open, ready to attack and
devour. Instinctively I yanked the small fish safely up
out of the water and then thoughtlessly put it back in,
where it evaded the big fish once more and fled up under
a ledge.
For the next two minutes, I stood and gazed at the pool
in front of me. The big trout dashed back and forth
upstream and down and swirled wildly from shoreline to
shoreline in an extremely aggressive manner. Clearly,
this trout was “boss fish” of the pool, and it was in no
mood to tolerate trespassing or food-stealing from any
of its younger, smaller brethren.
It was a wild native brook trout, one of the largest and
most beautiful I’d ever seen, about one foot long, thick
through the back and sides and colorfully marked. I
could see the characteristic network patterns on its
back, the bright fall spawning red of its belly and the
liver-colored oversized fins with their black shading
and brilliant white edges.
I stood motionless at streamside, captivated by the
sight of this big fish dominating its territory, hoping
it would not spy me. Then I slowly and carefully raised
my rod tip and tossed in my line.
The big trout surged forward and took the bait, and I
hooked him and guided him thrashing to the shore. I wet
my hands and lifted him out of the water, admired him
for three seconds, then lay him down for five seconds
more on the poolside rocks, where I snapped two
pictures. Then I gently released him back into his
domain, this best fish of the year in my best year of
fishing, ever.
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