By BRIAN LEAHY
of The Gazette
It was a dozen or more years ago that we first met.
Wanting to get into trout fishing, I poured through guidebooks and maps for a stream matching my needs. It needed to be relatively obscure. Sure, those famous trout waters like the Tomorrow or Brule are worthy of their reputations, but crowds would get in the way of what should be a close-knit relationship. It had to be wild - no wading past houses or sharing the stream with watering cows for me.
The first trip validated the selection. Several brook trout hit the lures and some even made their way into the creel. More importantly were the sights and sounds I encountered - water bubbling around rocks and over downed trees, uncommon ferns and pre-logging era trees. The upstream wade under the low canopy of balsams and tag alders revealed fishing holes better than the last.
Numerous repeated trips during the next few years added memories and reinforced old ones. Then the frequency of the visits dwindled till it became a once-a-year reminder. Adult responsibilities had caught up to me.
Slipping back to my wilder youth, I threw the waders in the back of the Jeep and headed for that creek last week. A recent storm had turned stretches of the logging road into a muddy mess. No problem and thank you - it was a good reason to switch to the seldom-used four-wheel drive, now mainly an excuse for being less diligent in my driveway snow shoveling duties back home. A few new rocks had wormed their way to the surface and added surprising bumps to the route. Except for some bear hunters training their hounds, I was the only one on the road. I parked, traded hiking boots for waders and began the on-foot portion of my journey.
The path leading to the stream had also grown narrower. Each step told a story. The scattered clumps of deer hair reminded me of past hunts a few miles away. The faded 12-gauge shotgun husk hinted about the startling flushes of grouse on past trips. Fresh claw marks in a two-foot diameter cedar tree took me back to the time a bear showed a great interest a friend's creel full of brookies.
The climbing sun was turning the foggy morning into a hot and sticky day. The cool stream water brought relief. And then it was time to fish. This stream would best be described as "worm dunking" water, but I chose to cast a small Mepps spinner. Carefully selected and executed casts were needed to keep the lure from sailing into overhanging branches. Freeing a tangled lure too often meant walking through the targeted pool and sending any trout in it fleeing. Just as in past years, errant casts quickly spoiled some of the better holes.
The stream boasted a few new wrinkles this year. The spring flood or a deluge straightened out a bend, moving one of the deeper holes on the stream. More trees had fallen over, making some stretches effectively unwalkable and definitely unfishable.
Other honey holes had also changed, but all the alterations seemed in harmony with the mood of the creek. It was still wild. The brook trout living in it still lunge at spinners and fight hard once hooked.
Two months remain of this year's trout season. One visit is complete. Will there be more?