Indigenous Fishes

Editor's note: Tradition has always been a common thread on this blog. The following guest post is a fine example of that, as Aaron Swanson details a unique camping and fishing trip that he and Tommy Baranowski have been going on the same weekend for years. They both captured great images that help tell the story.

Some friends and I make an annual overnight trip on Columbus Day weekend.  We hike into the wilderness and camp near a small blue line on a map, a stream far from any paved roads or signs of human development. 

I wonder what the mountain stream we fish each year on the weekend named for the fabled, if not modernly controversial, explorer looked like at the time he first stepped foot in America Hispaniola. If I had to guess, the river and its inhabitants look very much as they do today.  It isn’t the fish or the stream that has changed, but the humans that live in the area.  It is a tired point, but valid, that since European settlers colonized the place we call home the landscape has changed drastically. Much of our environment has been altered to the point where the kinds of life that once thrived here can no longer do so.  This remote mountain stream and its inhabitants are special. They have largely escaped the consequences wrought by discovery, exploration and settlement that create our shared history.

The point of this story is not to dissect the past.  Instead it is to share the enjoyment of being able to take what feels like a step back into it. The boulders and gorges that outline and dictate the flow of the stream seem so permanent.  We hop across them and find in their pools the fish that bring us to such a wild place.

 

Mind you, during this hike, we enjoy plenty of modern day comforts.  What started out years ago as a bare-bones hike and overnight fishing trip has, as many traditions tend to do, grown a bit more extravagant over the years.  The quality of the food and beverage we pack in has increased sharply. Yet the core of the trip remains the same; the trail, the scenery, that noticeable start of the change of the season, the fishing, the bullshitting, the laughs and the quiet remain the real draw.

 

A neat thing about a tradition like this one is the variety of conditions you get to observe at a familiar place as the years pass.  This year we have been blessed with plenty of rain to fill our streams, reservoirs and water table. The stream this year was full, and it made for better scenery and fishing than found in prior years when low water made the stream but a trickle.

The fish seemed energized, they were healthy and bright in hand and quick to take our flies in the water.   The fishing was fun.  If you looked at a spot that looked like it held fish, it did.

As we prepared for this year’s trip, we agreed that this little overnight has become something we look forward to and cherish. It has a special feel. Much of it can be hard to adequately describe, but can be easily seen in the pictures we take to remember each individual year. As fall is now fully upon us I’m thankful I could spend another night in one of the most beautiful places found within our state’s borders. I take comfort knowing that not much has changed here and that each year we can mark the passage of time by paying a visit to one of our state’s most beautiful indigenous fishes.

Lunch With A View

There are pros and cons to every job. A clear pro of mine is its proximity to a wild trout stream. It's less than a mile from my office. Sometimes I break away and spend lunch breaks beside it stalking wary targets. When the sun is at its highest isn't my preferred time for trout fishing, but it usually means I'm alone. With Muck Boots and a three-weight fly rod stashed in my truck, I can be desk-bound to streamside in five minutes. 

As an obsessed angler with a nine-to-five and a parent of two little ones, it's a major perk to get that small fix on the water amidst the daily grind.  It's even better when it happens on a blue ribbon trout stream like this one. It's refreshing to learn a place as intimately as I've come to know this piece of water. I've fished its entire length, in every month, in all conditions. I've grown quite attached to it and its residents, the best of which are not easy to fool. I've been fortunate to catch and release some gems over the years, but I saw photos of two trout over 20-inches from here in the past year. I'm pretty sure I hooked one on a white Zonker back in the spring and my buddy had one come off at his feet around the same time in the same pool. A trout that size in a stream like this is a horse of a different color. A unicorn. A white whale.

I'll keep taking lunch breaks on the stream as long as I can. Maybe I'll run into one of those unicorns someday, but I'm not complaining.

Slump Buster

I dropped the first two fish I hooked in 2017. Both felt heavy and hurt in their own way. One was a northern pike that I lost an arm's length from the ice hole. I never did get a look at her, maybe it was for the better, but by the fight and weight I know it was big enough to be rattled over losing it. 

The other fish wasn't under the ice; it was next to a brush pile in a small stream. I saw the trout's back come out of the water as it crushed my black and olive bugger. I set the hook and she thrashed, spewing my fly ten feet behind me. I let out an "Oh my god. What the F was that?" while the gravity of the situation sunk in. It was definitely another class of fish that I was accustomed to from this stream; something I'd be happy with from the Farmington, yet this was unstocked water a fraction of its size. I was certain it was the largest wild brown I had hooked in more than 15 years of fishing there. That one stung pretty good. I was in a funk to start the new year. 

Cue the January thaw. I went back to the same small stream today during a long lunch at work. The fresh wading boot prints on the snow-packed trail was a punch to my gut. Someone had already fished this stretch today. I blew by some water that I would normally take some casts in to get to the exact lie I pricked the fish from. Along the bank I could see where the angler got into the water and broke shelf ice and stirred up mud. I knew right then that he didn't hook that fish and neither would I this trip. I kept moving upstream and I couldn't escape the fresh prints. I made it to a deep, slow pool screaming to be fished with a woolly bugger. I couldn't get a sniff and to make matters worse, I busted off the streamer on a tree branch, then worked it free with my rod tip, only to lose it for good after it fell to the ground. I walked back downstream dejected. 

Before leaving for work, I had packed two other flies just in case I found myself in a jam like this. Back at the truck, I tied on my bread and butter dry-dropper combo and headed to my Alamo. Work lunch was stretching longer than usual at this point, but for good reason. I needed my first fish of 2017 and to snap out of this mental funk. I approached the honey hole and saw no prints. It was a good feeling knowing my flies would be the first these trout have seen in at least four days since the last snow. And they sure acted like it, too. In quick succession, I landed six trout from the small run. Five browns and a lone brookie, all of which looked healthy and put a bend in my three-weight rod. Each of them took a tiny bead head pheasant tail nymph dropped 18 inches below a stimulator dry fly. This method had worked for me many times in this run and it wasn't going to let me down now. I was on the board for the year and swapped my Muck boots for work shoes and drove back to the office with the smell of fish on my hands. 

Branching Out

Anglers are a funny bunch. We can get pretty comfortable in certain stretches of water that treat us well. Whether in fresh or saltwater, we all have our favorite spots. Often times we grow complacent and keep going back to those comfort zones while ignoring other areas or bodies of water entirely. I am guilty of this. I have been fishing one small stream off and on for over a decade, yet in all that time I have only seen about a mile of it. A select rotation of riffles and pools usually produce a healthy lot of wild browns and native brookies on every visit. It's a quick hit that's not far from home for me, a good option for when I don't have the luxury of a full day on the water (full day on the water...Ha!). 

Catching fish in familiar water is fun. I wouldn't keep doing it if it wasn't. I didn't see a need to explore any more of this particular stream. Hell, I hardly ever re-rigged or changed flies--a small pheasant tail nymph under a Stimulator fooled 90% of my trout here. This spring, however, I forced myself to branch out to water up and downstream of my usual haunts. No rods were carried on the first two scouting walks. I took some photos and mental notes at each run I would have fished. One thing I noticed right away was that the dry-dropper technique wasn't well suited for much of the new water I encountered. It was back to the basics with a method and fly pattern responsible for hooking me, and likely thousands of others, on fly fishing in the first place. Many years have gone by since I tied and last fished a small black and olive Woolly Bugger, but like a good bird dog it went right back into action without skipping a beat.

When I finally found time to fish the sections I scouted, the first pool I gravitated to was deep, slow and littered with woody debris--a haven for wild trout. I must have pricked 10 char in that hole alone on my trusty bugger, most of which could fit in the palm of my hand. Feisty, dark fish that acted like they hadn't seen a fly in some time. A handful of heftier brook trout darted from the darkness to pounce my streamer, but any dinosaur brown trout in this new stretch remain elusive for now. It was a short outing, but one of the most productive 90 minutes of fishing numbers-wise I've ever had on this stream. The best part about that day is that I only fished a fraction of the water I scouted. I'm pumped to get back there. I don't get out quite as much as I used to, but I find myself looking forward to the trips more than ever.

We Took To The Woods

Editor's note: This enjoyable post comes from my good friend Aaron Swanson. He and our buddy Tommy recently made a memorable trip to Maine to catch big native brook trout. 

Fishing in Connecticut during the month of May presents the versatile angler with a problem: too many opportunities. Of course, this is a good problem to have – variety as they say, is the spice of life.

Inland streams are flush with hungry salmonoids; many looking up to slurp the first large rusty colored mayflies hatching in the rapidly warming water. Coastal rivers and tidal zones are infused with the first anadromous visitors – some joining their counterparts who stayed the long grey winter.  Post-spawn pike, pre-spawn bass; both brown and green and pre-spawn carp all present varied and exciting prospects – and this abbreviated list would surely have some grumbling for species omitted.  When presented with the virtual piscatorial mayhem at hand in the Constitution State a friend and I made the easiest choice possible:  get away from it all. 

An invite to stay and fish in western Maine is one that – if possible – you don’t turn down. There, in those woods, resides a special population of brook trout, native char that grow large in the cool clean waters far from parking lots and suburban developments. This invitation was extended to us; just as warming temperatures drove the intensity of the local fishing scene to a level nearing combustion. 

The stampede of anglers falling over each other to get their piece of the local action, the prospect of finding ourselves as far away from people and civilization as we could get sounded just about right. As we set out on our six-hour ride, the 91 degree reading on the truck’s thermometer, the crowded roadways packed with Friday afternoon traffic and the sizzling pavement only helped to reaffirm our decision and destination.

The rivers we fished in western Maine (and the large lakes that feed them) harbor the last of an incredible strain of brook trout.  These fish were recognized by turn of the century sportsman to be worth saving. Thanks to foresight and conservation, there are still a handful of waters where trophy quality brook trout can be found stateside. Combining tips and assistance from one of the area’s top guides with fortuitous timing and find them we did.

But the fish aren’t the only reason to visit this special area. The sensory experience of living history helps to transport you away from the everyday grind of reality experienced back home. The complete lack of cell service instantly facilitates a decreased use of electronic devices and we found ourselves refreshingly unplugged. When we got down the logging roads to Forest Lodge we were reminded of the way folks used to live. This opens the eyes to how good and in some ways, bad we have it. 

Sitting on the Aldro’s back porch after one of the best days of fishing of our lives while guests use the wood-fired hot-tub and the river plays the only soundtrack that fits the scene at hand – this provides a kind of therapy found nowhere else.

We were invited to dinner, to sit in a rustic country kitchen where people have sat for more than a century. We enjoyed a fine meal around the table with a dozen friends, none of whom we had ever met.  That is to fully experience a place where history was chronicled and written and that is a feeling that will take you a million miles away – even if you do have to do the dishes as compensation for your meal…

              

Special thanks go to Dan Thrall of Rx Outdoors for hosting, sharing his immense knowledge of the local area and being an all-around good guy! Thanks to Rufus too...