“What’s wrong with the creek?”

It was a legitimate question. We were catching fish. We always caught fish. Not dozens, but a dozen maybe. Although it was a pretty pressured fishery, it consistently produced trout.

“We just want to try something different,” I said.

The man behind the counter gave us a mildly exasperated look. I think he knew. He knew that what we had was pretty good for where we were. That our experience was nothing to sniff at. He was often the one we went to for information. What have they been hitting? Where were people catching them? Simple stuff that we appreciated, and needed, as teenagers. Now, we wanted something else. Not more, necessarily. Just different.

He pulled out a DeLorme Atlas. The edges of the maps were frayed and the cover looked as if it had been folded over on itself daily for the past decade. He opened the map to the area where we were currently standing. Then, he turned the map toward us. He leaned over the counter a bit so that we had the same perspective. Using a finger, he traced a route back into the mountains. We’d go over a ridge, through a small Appalachian crossroads, and into a hollow.

“That’s probably your best bet for big fish. Well, second best. The creek out back is as good as it gets.”

We bought flies and headed back to the car. We went back into the mountains, over the ridge, through the crossroads (that was even smaller in person than the tiny map made it appear), and into the hollow. Soon, the stream came into view. It was much more gentle that the stream in the mountains. More turbid, too. Pastures of waving grass lined the far stream bank. Nearer to us, just on the other side of the guard rail, trees overhung the water.

We saw fish immediately. Decent ones, at that. Nothing chased the first few casts. A few fly changes didn’t yield much. Except suspicion. Aside from a few baitfish, trout were the only fish in our usual creek. These fish were remarkably sedate.

We moved upstream, fishing as we went. Up ahead there was a small bridge that lead from the main road to a farm house. Below it there were riffles. It was much fishier than the water we had been probing. Carefully maneuvering, we positioned ourselves to cast up underneath the bridge so that our fly would be at depth before entering the head of the broken water. We made good casts. Nothing responded.

After dozens of attempts, we climbed the bank and walked out on the bridge. There were fish down there. Lots of them. But in the shallow water it was clear that these were not trout. Dozens of suckers swam under that bridge. Two stood on top of it. Frustrated we went to leave. One reckless cast while walking away yielded a brook trout. So random, we released it and didn’t even think of making another go at it.

We learned a few things that day.

First, it isn’t always wise to leave fish to find fish.

Second, different isn’t bad. There are fish to be had, but there are also things to see. There are lessons to learn. One lesson is that suckers look like trout, from a distance. Another is to listen to your elders. One other important one is the real life perspective that it isn’t always wise to leave fish to find fish.