Winter Brook Trout on Cape Cod

Meandering lowland streams are the dominant type of river in Southeastern Massachusetts. The geology there wouldn't allow anything else: the hills are small and rolling. There are no mountains here. But there are brook trout. For most, images of mountain lakes and brawling freestones are conjured by the thought of brook trout. These coastal streams are nothing like that. What they are, though, is nutrient rich havens for some of the last sea run brook trout populations in New England. These vegetation-rich streams are often guarded by brush and bog and are difficult to fish. I've spent many days on brooks of a similar character in the Connecticut River Valley, so I feel pretty much at home on the char streams of Cape Cod. A few days after Christmas, my partner, Cheyenne, and I set out to explore the Cape. It would be my first visit in the winter. I was keen on seeing some of the streams I know out there in a different season.

After a lovely breakfast in Buzzards Bay, we made our way to one of the coastal small streams I've had the pleasure of getting to fish a few times. I wanted to stick to the tidal stretch, knowing full well this decreased my odds of encountering a brookie. If I did catch one the odds were much greater that it would be a true sea-run fish. Additionally, I'd be staying out of the water these fish use to spawn. Fry don't emerge from redds until February or March. The last thing I wanted to do was tromp on a well obscured redd and crush the developing future generation of brook trout in it. The importance of not wading on spawning habitat is not well observed. If you aren't willing to respect these fish by staying off the gravel they spawn in you should not be fishing these waters. 

Fishing for brook trout in a salt marsh is a surreal experience even when I'm not catching or seeing any fish. The gear I'm carrying, the fly on the end of my leader, and the way I'm fishing are no different than what I'd be doing on many Connecticut brook trout streams. But the sights and smells are not at all the same. The water rises and falls with the tide. The marsh mud produces an odor that gives me a sense of what I should be expecting. But striped bass nor fluke nor bluefish swim this marsh in any notable abundance in the month of December. Brook trout, however, wander in and out of this marsh year round. At least during the low end of the tide on the day I was there though, salters were scarce. I went without a touch. The hoar frost, however, was lovely on the dead, marsh grass.

There were other things to see, so we moved along. With the sun warming the ancient dunes and kettle ponds, we crested a hill and found ourselves next to another of the Cape's rivers. I'd fished this one with Noah in the summer and we each caught a beautiful brookie . I was a little more confident. One run produced nothing. The next also seemed lifeless. The glassy pool below called out to me. I wasn't in waders so I couldn't get into the best spot to fish it. I did have a casting window and a little bit of know-how on my side though. 

I changed to an unweighted Hornberg. I let fly the longest cast the brush would allow then began feeding line out to let the fly float downriver.  When it reached the tailout I twitched the rod tip aggressively and sunk the fly. I then retrieved it back up the pool. About halfway in, I saw a fish dart from under the brush-covered bank and smash that Hornberg. I set the hook and a gorgeous brookie began leaping around the pool. Back-lit by low winter sunlight, the jumping brookie was surrounded in golden droplets. It was a magical moment in time. I walked the fish upstream, keeping her in the water so Cheyenne could see her. It was a lovely fish. Whether this char had spent any time in saltwater I do not know, but any native freshwater fish from a place where humans have had as severe an impact as on Cape Cod is special. 

With that fish landed, I was satisfied. I need not catch any more. Later, we ran into Geoff Klane and a buddy of his who were also out after brook trout. I kept the rod packed away but it was good to chat with Geoff for a bit. Covid has made fishing with friends much more difficult these days so any socially distant interaction with my friends near the water makes me yearn for this virus to be over with so we can all enjoy each other's company again.

After saying goodbye to Geoff, Cheyenne and I headed to the dunes of the Outer Cape. It was cold out there, and we saw neither seals nor white sharks. A couple miles out I could see a huge flock of birds that appeared to be over a blitz. In December the options are few. It must have been bluefin tuna. Seeing life out there in the winter was an exciting surprise. On the bay side, a beautiful sunset lit up the sky. 

I really ought to spend more time on Cape Cod in the winter.

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.

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Edited by Cheyenne Terrien