I’m always amazed by the places that trout live. With conservation being part and parcel with fly fishing for the past few generations, there is almost a subconscious assumption that salmonids are fragile. This isn’t to downplay the reality of the situation. Deforestation, pollution, and overfishing have ravaged rivers and lakes to the point that they’ll never be the same. And trout have, relatively speaking, a narrower threshold than other species in which they thrive. But they aren’t helpless.
All that said, it is somewhat of a surprise to stumble upon a stream that is filled with fish. Water like this that isn’t spoken of as anything special can be an anomaly. Being from the east coast, that strikes me as odd. Almost like we’ve been here long enough, and there are enough of us, that everybody should know everything.
I found a stream like this while hiking. Prominent trails in the Appalachians tend to follow old or contemporary roads. These tend to follow moving water. The Native Americans and early settlers didn’t need a survival guide to tell them that all you needed to do to find civilization is head downstream.
This stream was about 20-30 feet wide, shallow, and rocky. Not a typical waterfall and plunge pool sequence, but more like gentle tumbling. A canter rather than a gallop. The water was clear, the banks were undercut, and the tree cover was adequate. I was back, rod in hand, within a week.
The first pool I fished was slow, deep, and dark. A few drifts of a puffy dry fly (probably a yellow humpy) didn’t produce anything. So I switched to a streamer. The first cast went into the tangle of an overturned tree at the head of the pool. The fly was hit hard, but nothing came of it. The next few casts didn’t tempt the fish, either.
I fished that pool at the end of the day, with no luck. In fact, that was the spot I casted to first every time I went to this stream. Sometimes I’d see a disturbance as I approached, the telltale sign I’d spooked a fish, and other times it was as if this perfect hole was devoid of all life.
Moving upstream I’d encounter a large footbridge for hikers. The water was so shallow here; probably four or five inches. But there was a lot of cover, so it looked fishy. This is where I caught my first fish on this stream. A wild brook trout, no more than four inches. It was good to confirm my suspicions that the creek had trout in it, but I knew there was greater potential away from the traffic of the trail.
This hole inevitably led to conversations with hikers. If you’ve ever been caught fishing a small stream, chances are you’ve had to explain that “yes, there are fish in here” and that “a lot of small creek have trout in them.” I suppose to someone who doesn’t fish, it is like seeing paparazzi stake out a Wal-Mart parking lot. Could someone famous show up? Technically yes, but it isn’t likely. It’s cliché, but fishing small streams is just something only fishermen understand.
Upstream the flow’s pace continues to quicken for a bit. This is where you leave behind the other people. Hikers and fishermen lacking an intrepid spirit have no reason to venture more than a few yards from the trail. Consequently, the fish get chunkier. They rise with gusto, as many small-stream trout do. I pick patterns with very little regard for matching real bugs, let alone the hatch. The renegade, the royal coachman, and the aforementioned humpy are three that play heavily on my rotation. I want the fish to see it, and I want to see it. If it looks like it might be a living bug, that is all that matters.
Above this stretch, which lasts for about a quarter mile, the gradient calms down a bit. The stream narrows down, and meanders through a little hollow. Now a hollow (or holler, depending on what flavor of Appalachian you are) may be the most romantic sounding natural feature out there. It screams of all things rural, secret, and wild. My stream’s hollow doesn’t disappoint.
Living in the United States, there isn’t the same historical presence as there is in nearly the rest of the world. Asia, Central America, Europe: there are ruins and viable structures that are a thousand or even thousands of years old. We don’t have that. In the east, the first Americans did leave fish weirs and other earthen structures. But these markers of their existence were susceptible to the elements, and most are gone or extremely obscured.
So when you come across an old chimney, a stone fence, or a rectangle of new growth that sticks out from the surrounding landscape, it catches your attention. In the hollow, the creek flows through what must have been a farm or homestead. Historical records were hard to come by. The best I could find is something to the effect of, “folks in town knew that other folks used to live in the valley.” Hardly helpful. I can tell you one thing: they probably ate a brook trout or two. The fish were still there for me. Eager to rise, brightly colored with milky white-tipped fins.
Moving further on, the valley closes in and the stream getstighter. The creek is 15 feet at its widest, currents shifting considerably with the slightest jut of the bank. The foliage gets closer, creating a tunnel in most places. But the most interesting thing is what I find in the stream.
Usually the closer one gets to the headwaters of a stream on the east coast, the more brook trout one finds. Stocked non-native species, habitat degradation, and a bevy of other factors “push” salvelinus fontinalis to a friendlier environment. Those who chase pure strains of brook trout for purposes of scientific endeavor or pleasure go straight to the tops of the blue lines on topographic maps.
But I was catching brown trout. Healthy, wild, yellow-bellied, red-spotted brown trout. Nothing was big. Like any freestone stream of that size, the eight to ten-inch fish were the alphas in the ecosystem. They were beautiful, hungry, and plentiful.
Like anything in life, being surprised or caught off guard is kind of exhilarating. Once you process what happens, the hard work of rationalizing or organizing your experience takes over. Catching brown trout in the headwaters of a small creek hardly counts as trauma, but I did wonder who/what/when/where/why and how.
Who lugged those brown trout or eggs all the way up there? How did a population of brook trout hold their ground downstream for so long? Why isn’t this stream mentioned more in conversation at the fly shop or TU meetings?
The brookies and the brown trout were both doing great. No one was helping them, but more importantly no one was hurting them. The last human development near the stream had since been demolished or burned and the woods had retaken it. The state wasn’t doing anything one way or another. No magazine articles, special angler’s parking, or posted regulations. It was, and is, still just a stream. In a valley, close to a trail, and healthy enough to be filled with wild trout.
Exploration and discovery are an element of the outdoors experience that we can easily eschew today. Again, on the east coast we are a guidebook or a brown roadside sign away from a fishing access point or a trailhead. Leaving the known, in either a personal or popular sense, can lead to so many wonderful moments in the wild. It could be a strike out, but as the old adage goes: “a bad day fishing is better than a good day working.” Blazing a trail has an upside that is so big. New fish, water, and surrounding environs expand our appreciation and frame of reference for our world and our quarry.
I did finally catch a fish in that slow, deep, and dark pool I mentioned earlier. One day I snuck up, crawling on my belly through wet leaves and other detritus. The cast with a tiny adams was on point, and after a few seconds of I gave it a twitch. There was a flash, and the line went tight. It did it’s best to retreat into the tangled mess of roots at the head of the pool. But it wasn’t a huge fish, and my bamboo 4-weight definitely had enough backbone to quickly bring it to hand. What I saw was an even bigger shock than the browns in the streams’ upper reaches. A sunfish. In the mountains. Truly, in fly fishing you’ll never get bored if you keep exploring new waters and fish beyond the next bend.
