One And Done: A Whole Season

I slid down a steep hillside feet first, on my butt, using saplings to slow my descent, 3wt in hand bouncing perilously. I'd done this and worse before countless times and never broken a rod... so whatever it takes to get to the stream is what I do. It had been a little while since I slid down this particular hill or any other hill down to a brook trout stream. Though the chaotic spring corona virus crowds had subsided and I was no longer quite so worried about small lesser known streams being over-pressured, we are in a drought here in CT. A bad one. So I again had reason to stay away. But I can't always. So, this was my first and only local summertime brookie trip. 

Some might say I've drifted away from my beloved brook trout over the last few years, and this could be true. I've fished for them much, much less than I used to. This has more to do with balancing my need to catch brook trout with their need to be left alone. I've fished most of my local waters long enough to know what they hold and how to get a few fish any time I go. I just don't feel the need to fish them as often as I once did. The fish are better off without me bothering them. That said, these fish also go unnoticed by most, and it isn't bad to have someone that cares checking up on things. After I got up and wiped the dirt and bits of leaves off my legs and shorts, I pulled out my pocket thermometer and placed in the run I stood looking over. The flow was low, but not severely. It had rained just days prior though. I contemplated how warm the water might be. I'd never documented a temperature over 65 in this stream but if it was over 62 I would not make a single cast. I picked up the thermometer. 60 degrees.

I dressed the bomber, then slowly crawled into position behind a boulder. Just upstream was an inconspicuous pocket that some might completely ignore. I knew, however, that it rarely failed to hold a fish in late spring into late summer. This day proved no exception.

One fish to hand, a typically bejeweled wild char. A Connecticut native. I put the bomber in the hook keeper and left, whistling and smiling. Beautiful fish... I hope she survives the drought. 

 Until next time,

Fish for the love of fish.
Fish for the love of places fish live.
Fish for you.
And stay safe and healthy.

Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Leo, and Franky for supporting this blog on Patreon.