There is an intimacy in the Appalachian Mountains. While few segments of the topography are severe like much of the Rockies out west are,  there is a tangible closeness in the hollows and valleys of the eastern mountain range. Perhaps it can be attributed to the contrast that Appalachia provides. With only a short drive from Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Washington,  and Atlanta, it is hard to believe that the quiet forests are in the same states. Even the sounds of the names are simpler, calmer, and less hurried: Cumberland, Smoky, Shenandoah.

Part of the intimacy of Appalachia has to do with the fact that civilization has long been here. Native Americans first, then European settlers. The game, timber, and forage all made the relatively accessible mountains a haven of sorts. The evidence of their presence, and the presence of their descendants/our ancestors is over every ridge and behind every old oak. Clearings, charcoal pits, stone fences, rusted stills, and chimneys pepper the landscape.

Once you get beyond the human element, and the fact that the mountain range itself runs unbroken from Alabama to Maine, the specifics of the setting change as you traverse the Appalachians. Plants differ wildly from north to south. Birds, insects, and some mammals only exist on one side of the Mason-Dixon Line or the other. If you take the time to notice, the soil smells different.

But one natural component of the Appalachian Mountains that is consistent up and down the entire range is the brook trout.

Even with a drastically reduced range, this little char is a fixture that anglers today can experience in the mountain hollows just like their forefathers did.  Although they have been pushed to the headwaters, they thrive there. If anything, brook trout populations today are on the mend.

Simultaneously, brook trout stand out and fit right in with the landscape. Like revealing the striking visual display of a salamander or mushroom by chance, the real beauty of a brook trout has to be found and uncovered. Red spots with blue halos might be the most vivid coloration in an otherwise dense, green summer forest. In the fall, orange bellies blaze brighter than the canopy above.

Like the mountains themselves, or the various people who have chosen to make them their home, brook trout are a constant. The wide valleys have big highways and warmed rivers that are now only suitable for high speeds and stocked rainbows. Yet up the hillside there are still gravel roads, tumbling creeks, and brookies. A slower approach, a shorter cast, and more delicate gear don’t just fit what is required for the angling – it fits the overall Appalachian aesthetic. But the trout, like the people, are feisty, opportunistic, and resilient. It is no surprise that they have endured acid rain and deforestation as well as they have. Long before people started mucking up their ecosystems they dealt with floods, droughts, and wildfires. Consequently they eat when and whatever they can.

This last point makes them a constant for anglers. You rarely have to try too hard to catch a brookie, but you always have to put forth all your effort to catch a big one. When a fat, brilliant brook trout comes to hand from a plunge pool in a gentle valley, it ties a fly fisher to that place. The fish isn’t foreign like the person is, but it also stands out from the rest of the scene.

Brook trout tie us to the Appalachians in a concrete way that the contrast of the ridges against the sky or the sound of the wind through the trees can’t quite match. These fish, and the places they live, are intimately meaningful to so many fly fishers. Brook trout are a real substance of Appalachia that allow us to tether ourselves to a place we love.