Early Winter Guiding Updates & Report

 Hey all! We're shifting into winter mode for sure now here in Connecticut, and with that comes some slight programs shifts. Let's start with the late fall recap, though. November was a fair month for clients with a few good catches, with some good some decent chunks of time for me to get out and do my own thing. Water levels were up and down, providing both good wading and a few floatable days on the Shetucket. My client Dar hit the best window I've had yet with a fairly steady bite until the water started to rise and shut things down for the day. 

He was also with me for a good flow window on the Housatonic. The fishing there has been a bit spottier when it's been high enough to float, likely because the fish had gotten comfortable in low water lies. 

Later in the month, Levi and I did an exploratory float on some big water without much idea of what to expect and low and behold! Big river Connecticut wild brook trout!!! A couple more floats down the same waterway, one I've wade fished here and there over the years, and I anticipate some more revelatory discoveries will come to light. I'm already impressed by the productivity of some stretches of these rivers that can't be reached any other way and don't see any stocking. Trout move, never forget that. 

The fish of the month of November goes to Connor Ferris, though, with a striper closing in on 20lbs. She was a gorgeous fish, and thankfully as she might have been one of the last of the year as weather does not look likely to provide safe and productive windows for canoe based stripering through December. Great work Connor! 

As for personal fishing, I've had a few real duds when it comes to mid distance and long distance trips, and some fairly poor success close to home as well. That all shattered  with this big hen on a twitched Ausable Ugly. Yes, she's a lake run fish, and yes, I know they get a lot bigger and nicer looking... but I don't get over to western New York that much and I'm taking her as a minor victory. Not my victory really, but almost cooler, on the same trip Noah managed his lifer laker when we took the canoe out over some of the deeper water that boat has ever been on. 

That salmonid-heavy program will continue into the winter here as we gear up for the next couple months of fishing. Three month NOAA temperature outlooks suggest slightly warmer than average conditions in Connecticut, but the early polar vortex breakdown doesn't make it feel that way at all and lakes and ponds are already freezing up. We'll see, if this winter shapes up at all like last I may just start guiding ice trips finally! But for now, the program is all about trout and Salmon. The big Atlantics went in the Naugatuck and Shetucket last week, some really nice looking fish this year, and as conditions shift I'll continue offering either walk and wade or raft floats on the Shetucket as flows permit. The Farmington doesn't yet look like it's going to provide us many floatable days, and the Housatonic has been a bit fickle for my liking, but that could change with just a couple of storms. If we get the water a few of the Eastern CT rivers are in play (Salmon, Willimantic, Quinebaug), so if you see that we've got some rain incoming and are interested in floating, reach out and I'll show you a side of Eastern CT trout fishing few know! Barring that rain, all of the TMAs are in play for wade trips. If you're looking to up your game for winter trout fishing regardless of tactic, just let me know and I'll set you up for success. It'll be a fun season, there's still a lot to love here in the cold times. 

Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Franky, Geof, Luke, Noah, Justin, Sean, Tom, Mark, Jake, Chris, Oliver, oddity on Display, Sammy, and Cris & Jennifer, Hunter, Gordon, Thomas, Trevor, Eric, Evan, Javier, Ryan, Dar, Eric, Truman, and Collin for making Connecticut Fly Angler possible. If you want to support this blog, look for the Patreon link at the top of the right side-bar in web version. 

Solitudinous

 There's no such word, but these are the sorts of things that come to mind when you are by your lonesome, laying on the forest floor focusing on breathing and stretching to relive tension in your back. I find I really feel do fatigue now, that close to two decades of  tromping around in the woods, rivers, and urban landscape with a variety of shoulder-mounted carrying cases- be the slings or back packs -loaded up with cameras, fishing tackle, and necessities did eventually start to do damage. So I can't just ignore it anymore. I have to pick and chose what I carry and how I carry it, and I need to rest and stretch. And so that's what I was doing, twisted into an odd pose on the forest floor, trying to get my diaphragm to do what I'm told it should do instead of what years of bad posture have taught it to do; and trying to stretch the muscles in my shoulder so I wouldn't keep wanting to kill myself so much. It would be a rather odd sight were anyone to come upon me, but such an encounter would be doubtful. This was BFE, if ever such a place existed. I'd just caught the first fish of the day. She was a lovely little brook trout no more than four and a half inches in length and had come up for a dark colored deer-hair caddis. I was fishing the way I wanted to this day: with a dry fly. This was to spite fairly cool water temperatures. I'm sure that I could have tempted a few more and perhaps larger fish with a nymph of some sort, but there was no need. Some bugs were active, including the cursory winter stones which occasionally skittered across the pools. I only saw one meet its demise in the rise form of a fish, though. A few hundred yards in and the plop of the little char as I dropped it from by barbless hook back into the stream told me I could take a rest. 

So there I lay in the dappled light on the forest floor, stretching and thinking about everything and nothing. It was a very bright, bluebird day. A cold front had passed through overnight, draped from a low pressure center that tracked through Canada. In front of it had been seasonably warm air in the mid to high fifties, as well as some rain and clouds. Though the air behind the front wasn't cold necessarily it was cold-er. And wind came with it. It whipped the tree tops about a bit and I occasionally heard a branch come down. Not big ones, really, but enough to make me wonder if one might clock me in the head at some point. The sun and the deep blue sky felt a bit contrary to the wind, but the two do often come in tandem. Those dry, clear, bright post-frontal day are wind makers. The blue was brilliant though, and the radiant heat from our burning gas ball was doing wonders for my hands that had gotten a little chilled coming in contact with the water. 

When I did finally stand back up I felt a fair bit better, but everything was bluer than it ought to be. The bright sky had left a lasting tint to my vision that lingered a good few minutes. I shouldered my sling pack, this time backwards to try to counteract the lingering soreness in my right shoulder, and told myself to just leave it in the car next time. I'd be far better off pocketing a box of flies and spool of tippet, and did I really need the camera? 

I worked my way down stream, being picky about where I fished. This wasn't the time to try to eek a fish out of every nook and cranny, I just wanted to fish some of the longer runs and pools. I didn't used to fish down very often. It was Alan Petrucci that changed my direction in that regard. Prior to knowing Alan I fished pretty strictly upstream, trying to stay behind and out of sight of the trout. This worked fine, but I learned from Alan that I could put my fly in places while going down that one just couldn't get it to while going up. I still fish up sometimes, but not always. 

I reached a run that that looks perfect, and eased into a position on the bank well above it. I gathered my fly line in hand, pulled back, and let it fly in a short bow and arrow cast. I then fed line to let the fly drift down the run. When it had drifted a distance I felt sufficient, I let it come about and hang in the current. A waking dry fly like this has almost universal appeal to Salvelinus fontinalis. On one of the popular and pressured stretches of river in northern Maine I was told to fish stonefly nymphs, that a mono rig would serve me well, that these brook trout were harder. I listened, but only for a bit. Frustration and my own rationale wouldn't let me fish a mono rig to a big wild brook trout, it felt counter to what should be done. Perhaps luck is a better friend to me than I usually suspect it is, but I had absolutely no difficulty catching robust brookies and landlocked salmon on a skated Hornberg. Don't let these nymphing nerds fool you; brook trout love a skated fly. And even in that barely forty degree water in Central Connecticut, it worked a charm. Up came a brookie, and I whiffed him like I was trying to. I played with that fish for a little while, getting it to come up again and again. Eventually, despite my best efforts, the hook did get stuck in that trout's mouth. 

I took another break, though not a stretching one. My camera had come out of my bag for the fish, may as well use it. I'm not sure why photography has always been a compulsion for me. From a technical standpoint, I remain very much an amateur. But there's been a camera in my hand on and off for almost as long as I have memories... pointed at the sky, at animals, at water. It's just something I do because it feels good and because I like pretty things. 

The stream took me down a little further, where a brushy meadow turned me back around. I rested again there though it hadn't been more than ten minutes since the last one- but only because I spotted a fish and decided to watch it for a little while. Eventually though the deer trails took me back to the car. It had been a satisfying little morning. 

Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Franky, Geof, Luke, Noah, Justin, Sean, Tom, Mark, Jake, Chris, Oliver, oddity on Display, Sammy, and Cris & Jennifer, Courtney, Hunter, Gordon, Thomas, Trevor, Eric, and Evan for making Connecticut Fly Angler possible. If you want to support this blog, look for the Patreon link at the top of the right side-bar in web version.

Traprock Brookies

 I've fished wild trout streams through all sorts of substrate and geology. Classic limestoners, freestones through limestone bedrock, marble, quartzite, granite, gneiss, schist, sandstone, brownstone, conglomerate, alluvial substrate from clay to cobble, glacial till, even muddy lake beds. But it occurred to me not long ago that I'd never caught a brookie in a stream flowing out of and through traprock bedrock. 

Traprock is a reminder of our continent's volcanic past. Millenia ago, tectonic motion let magma seep up into cracks in the Earth's crust in what is now the Mid Atlantic and Southern New England area. This magma hardened into the two kinds of rock referred to as traprock: basalt and diabase. Basalt is generally extrusive, meaning the magma cooled on the Earth's surface. Diabase typically cools below the surface. Of the two, basalt is a little more common in Connecticut. The massive, imposing mountains and ridges that run North from New Haven to Holyoke, then arc east to a terminus between Belchertown and Amherst are all volcanic remnants. Today, we drive on a lot of this, and I don't mean that our roads go over these rocky slopes. Basalt is very uniform in it's crystallization and also very hard, so it makes great aggregate for road and railroad beads, and is used in concrete and asphalt as well. Basalt is a staple of the development, industry, and infrastructure of our world whether you knew it or not. Unfortunately that means the quarrying of it has negatively impacted the species that utilize the environments that evolved around these geological features. That includes species like red cedar, blue spotted and Jefferson's salamanders, northern copperheads, red squirrel, and peregrine falcons.

Female Northern copperheads often rely on the crevices on open trap rock ridges to gestate and birth their young.

But what about brook trout? Are there any small streams on or along these traprock ridges, and do they have brook trout in them? 

The very nature of these geologic features doesn't make for an ideal situation for a coldwater stream habitat to arise. First of all, spatially they aren't huge, so there just isn't that much room. Traprock ridges are narrow and tall, their shape lends better to streams running along or between them in the sedimentary rock they intrude rather than on the dykes themselves. But there are a couple streams that emerge from them and run some distance, and they have heavy spring influence so those that aren't season seem to stay cold. 

My decision to try to catch a traprock brookie was followed by the sort of oddball research I don't often hear about other small stream anglers doing but which isn't at all unfamiliar to me. I lined up bedrock maps with topographic maps to find streams that ran not just near trap rock but through it. Then I examined some satellite imagery to get an idea of the stream's consistency. I have enough experience to tell when a mapped stream is likely to be the sort that can hold water and therefore fish year round. It also gives me an idea of the forest type and what I might be in for as far as bushwhacking. Eventually I found one that looked very promising. An added confidence booster, though it had never been sampled another in the watershed had been with brook trout, albeit very few, in the 1990's and there were no dams preventing cross pollination, if you will, between the two streams. Some culverts could throw a wrench in that. Access would suck though, with questionable parking and a long circuitous walk. When the time came though, I suited up and hit the road. 

My parking spot turned out to be legal, thankfully, but proved to be a reminder of why I got an off-road capable vehicle. I parked grabbed my rod and sling pack quickly, as I had a decent distance to walk down the road and I hate being seen with a fly rod in hand. I hustled to a bridge, not on the stream I wanted to fish but the one it flowed into. This was down in the basin, in mudstone rather that traprock. I then traversed this low gradiant creek down. There was one ominously deep pool in about a half mile of difficult to negotiate water and I hooked a brook trout there. Not only did that put a new stream on my list automatically but it gave me even more hope as the survey site at the rod I'd parked on had no brook trout in the two years it was sampled. This was likely just wintering water though. Eventually I reached my stream. I looked at my map quickly as I'd saved where it crossed the line from basalt to sedimentary bedrock on the bedrock map as my starting point. It also didn't look very favorable at the bottom end, very straight on the map and shallow in real life, but where I wanted to start there were some bends and much steeper gradient. So I hoofed it upstream, staying out of the water but stopping to fish the two decent looking runs I did see. 

Just as I reached the point I'd marked I could see a good deep, slow pool upstream. The hope was there to put this goal to bed and fast. I had on a size 12 Ausable Ugly and was fishing each pool upstream, which would work well with this one as it was blocked by brush near the head. I covered the tail- as there is often at least one fish in the tail of a pool like this in the winter -to no avail. But as I extended my cast the water I was fishing held promise in the for of exceptional depth. I let the fly fall and there was a discernable but delicate tap. The next cast in the same spot I was ready and the fish was on. Success! The fish was diminutive and far from the most colorful example of her species, but that was all I'd needed. I continued upward and caught one more fish and missed some others, all very small, and decided to bother them no more. The day had been a fantastic one already.

 Though this may seem like an extremely trivial goal to have achieved and perhaps an unnecessary one for just a couple tiny brook trout, I think many anglers miss some significant keys to the understanding of fish and fisheries. Frankly I'll be blunt... I've only twice been legitimately impressed by the comprehensiveness of understanding an individual trout angler had of not only wild trout but the totality of their habitat, movement, behavioral patterns, and the nature of their whole lives. The geology of the land and rivers plays a HUGE roll in how trout survive, grow, and behave and it is one of the foremost factors I look at to understand a stream and what potential it has. And though I may only very rarely fish traprock trout, it is a piece of the puzzle and another step toward my end goal of having the most thorough understanding of the natural world I can. 

Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Franky, Geof, Luke, Noah, Justin, Sean, Tom, Mark, Jake, Chris, Oliver, oddity on Display, and Sammy for making Connecticut Fly Angler possible. If you want to support this blog, look for the Patreon link at the top of the right side-bar in web version.

Giant Brook Trout

 I can catch oodles of eight inch brook trout in Connecticut. Those are wonderful, special little fish, and I never take them for granted, but I try to make a point not to travel for a fish I can catch at home. Maine has big brook trout, still. Certainly not as many as it once did, but they are there. When I go to Maine, that's what I want to catch: brook trout that thoroughly dwarf those I could catch back at home. That hasn't always happened, but I've gotten better and better at manufacturing it with each trip. 

Back in Late September with Noah, I'd already gotten some fantastic and healthy fish to hand (read here), but was very much hoping for something even a little bit larger than those. It had become fairly clear from that experience that fairly thoroughly covering quite a lot of water would be necessary in order to find larger fish in these small creeks with lake runners, as they were clearly not evenly distributed and even some of the nicest looking water may not be holding. 

Though we were only about six hours from home, this was very different territory. I traversed high grassy banks along shallow, gravely runs before dropping onto sand bars pocked with moose tracks, staying low and moving swiftly but with intent so as not to spook any fish that might be in shallow, visible lies. I didn't really see fish for a long time, it was clear that most were holding in the very deep, slow pools. That made sense, it wasn't spawning time yet so there was little need for the fish to put themselves at risk in the shallow tailouts and pockets just yet. They were likely hopping from deep spot to deep spot on their way up, with some time in the faster runs with lots of cover as well like where I'd caught them the day before. 

But even those didn't always seem to provide the pull I was looking for. Then I came to one dark, deep bend pool with an overhanging tree and loads of wood in the water. This one had to be harboring something large. The head looked extremely juicy, with the main current dumping over a beautiful gravel shelf into the depths of the pool and a foam covered eddy on the other side with branches sticking through. I dangled and tightlined the big, heavy Ausable Ugly through the faster current, then pulsed and retrieved it through the eddy. Not believing there wasn't a fish there to be caught, I then went back through it again making extra certain the fly got down deep. As small one obliged, maybe 10 inches... that wasn't it. I moved on to the heart of the pool, counting the fly down and retrieving gradually, forming figure eights with the line in the palm of my hand then raising the rod tip in little jumps as the leader neared the tip. Still no satisfying thump. I had moved down to the tail when Noah rounded the corner. We both remarked how incredible this pool looked and that there must be a large fish in it. Looking back to what I was doing I saw a large dark shadow streak out from one of the many logs. I struck, my rod flexing as the hook point found purchase, and said "Oh there she is!"

Large brook trout often don't have the piss and vinegar of other salmonid species, and though this was one of the heavier trout I'd stuck in a while it wasn't terribly hard to control. We had it in the net in just a short time. The fish of the trip was indeed a hefty one, and dressed up in proper brook trout finery. 

It had been a number of years since I'd tied into a Maine brook trout this size, and to do so in a lesser known fishery made it all the more satisfying. It was yet another reminder of the magic these fish I've long adored hold. Brook trout were one of the fish that brought me to fly fishing and made me obsess over it, hiking and biking sometimes 60 miles in a day to try to find new streams before I could drive. I'm less brook trout obsessed than I was back then, but they do remain a driving force in my angling- the hard headed, gaudy, and aggressive native that they are. It is hard to deny the appeal. They stand both for wilderness and the fact that we haven't quite snuffed out wild things yet, even when we've done our damnedest to do so. In Connecticut, there are still wild brook trout swimming behind shopping centers and through neighborhoods. In Maine, there are still big, darkly colored brookies residing in lakes and ponds and a few rivers. They are a stubborn relic of what this land once was. 

Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Franky, Geof, Luke, Noah, Justin, Sean, Tom, Mark, Jake, Chris, Oliver, oddity on Display, and Sammy for making Connecticut Fly Angler possible. If you want to support this blog, look for the Patreon link at the top of the right side-bar in web version.

One Run (Big Maine Brookies)

The Maine woods are a contradiction. Though vast and mostly very quiet, much of it is little more than a mono-culture crop. Pine trees grown, then are cut down, then grow again. This keeps them at a level of unnatural sterility, as that's not how woods are supposed work. Luckily its possible to find more natural state forest nowadays, especially in proximity to water. We've gotten a bit better at not wrecking everything and understand that clear cutting a riverbank is an inherently bad idea. The woods Noah and I traversed along a small lake tributary had been allowed to do their things for a good while and were a healthy mix of hard and softwood with some different maturities and a few clear areas where berry bushes and wild flowers grew. The mature trees kept shade on the stream, which tumbled through big pale granite boulders before becoming more sinuous and slow moving at its lower end, with grassy cut banks and deep, dark pools.

It was late September, the very end of the general trout season in Maine, and we were after big, colored up lake run brookies. I'd fished this area before a number of times, once with Noah, but never for the glorious fall season. My late friend Alan Petrucci was very much responsible for my infatuation with the Rangeley Region and for much of my knowledge of where and how to fish it. This particular stream was one of his favorites. I'd fished it before a few times, memorably with my father one July. The resident fluvial brookies were small and scrappy, but left me wanting more. Now, in September, the migratory fish should be showing their faces. Alan had made mention once of an 18 inch male he caught under one bridge on an Edson Tiger. Such a fish in that small, tumbling freestone stream... it was hard to picture but easy to want. 

Noah and I picked our way down, encountered a scattered number of the same small resident fish I'd remembered catching here before. Knowing the nature of migratory fish, though, I understood that the biomass could be very concentrated and isolated to a restricted length of stream. I pushed further and further down, plying deep plunges and long glides. It was relatively fruitless until I reached one particular deep hole. There were sizable fish rolling- not rising for insects, rolling like salmon -on occasion. I worked that pool for a good long while and missed one large fish, but came up empty handed in terms of the sort of fish I was after; just a few more smalls. Ah well, downstream I continued. 

Not that far below that the stream braided. I followed river right, mostly because it was a path of least resistance. A few emblazoned maples overhung the river, dropping some bright orange leaves. I wanted to find some equally well colored fontinalis. I reached the bottom end of the braid I'd followed and looked up the one to its left. Just up it was a classic little run, complete with undercut bank, overhanging tree with a solid root mass, and a perfect seam along the cut. I eased up to the tailout, crouching low both to stay concealed and get the right low angle to shoot casts under the overhanging tree branches. I was nymphing with a Harvey style leader and a single size 8 Ausable Ugly, casting upstream and leading the fly with a gentle bow in the fly line. That was my sighter. There was no need for colored monofilament, long light rods, or fancy little nymphs here. The technical aspects came in the form of perseverance, understanding how to cover lots of water without spooking fish, and narrow casting windows in the brush. I knew that these fish would eat the fly and eat it well, leaving little doubt as to whether I had a take. The fly line would straighten, I'd set the hook. That's exactly what happened. 

I was then treated to one of the most productive 10 minutes of small stream brook trout fishing I've been lucky enough to experience. One colored up, hefty male was followed by another. For a bit it seemed like there might be a nearly endless supply of them in that little tiny run. 

Eventually the onslaught did end, but for a while there I was like a kid in a candy store. An addict of big gnarly char like myself dreams of small stream fishing like this. Of course they weren't really small stream fish, they'd grown to size in a different environment and were entering this small stream environment for purposes of spawning. In the coming days they'd likely continue to push further and further in, especially if rain made a pulse of flow to ride. Migratory salmonids can be there and gone in so little time. I think back to an obsession I developed for large "river run" wild brown trout years ago. I'd found little smolt-like wild brown trout in a tiny tributary stream that didn't have any resident fish of any size, certainly not large enough to be producing these fast growing young ones. I realized they must be coming and going from the larger river the stream flowed into to spawn. I began visiting this little tributary in October and November, hoping to encounter these bigger fish on some semblance of a run. This stream was so small and so short in length from its mouth to the first migration barrier that I knew with certainty that I'd find the fish if I hit it right.

The telling moment occurred one late October time frame, within 24 hours. It was quite cold, frosty even, when I headed out one early morning to pay the stream a visit. I walked it from barrier to mouth with nothing to show for it but a few small brook trout. It was a good baseline, I knew a bit of rain was in the forecast for later in the day and into the night. Perhaps I'd find what I was after the next night. Sure enough, I returned to the water level just starting to drop and clear the next afternoon. I repeated my routine once again. To my surprise, I found a completely vacated redd toward the bottom end of the brook. In just over  24 hours, the fish had come, done there thing, and gone. 

Though not as extreme, Noah and I would come back to this same magic run the very next day and find that it was completely devoid of fish. They'd already moved on. 

Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Franky, Geof, Luke, Noah, Justin, Sean, Tom, Mark, Jake, Chris, Oliver, oddity on Display, and Sammy for making Connecticut Fly Angler possible. If you want to support this blog, look for the Patreon link at the top of the right side-bar in web version.

Go Back

Trucks roared by one the highway as I traversed the brushy riparian zone of a small wild trout stream. The landscape I was in was heavily altered, to my eye. But if it weren't for that road perpetual road noise someone else may not recognize the signs of human interruption. Many haven't trained themselves to understand the unnatural landscape, and some signs are more subtle than others. I wasn't in a city or even a suburb, I was in the woods. A place many might call "out in nature". But there was actually very little in front of me that was indeed natural. 

Dropping down a steep bank, I looked up and down a straight course of the stream. Along one bank was broken rock, rock which didn't match the native granite and gneiss. This black and fine grained basalt, a volcanic remnant that looks the part, had likely been quarried from one of the ridges in Central or Western Connecticut or possibly even Massachusetts. It was broken free with the help of explosives then trucked to this place and used to try to make a stream do what some people had decided they needed it to do. This stretch had been channelized, making it a straight shot of underwhelming water. Without natural bending and meandering the stream couldn't create deep pools, undercuts, or slowly fell trees into itself. This is all necessary habitat for fish, macroinvertebrates and more. Without it the stream was not only unnatural but much less full of life. I wouldn't catch fish in this section, they weren't there. They weren't there because people had made it unlivable. 

The irony is the fish I was there for was a fish that didn't belong either. Salmo trutta, not in spite of but in fact because of out love for them, are a broadly introduced invasive species that has brought disruption and damage throughout the world. I harbor a similar deep appreciation for brown trout, but unlike others who allow their adoration to cloud their view, I can see the problem at hand. This very stream should be and could be teaming with the native salmonid, Salvelinus fontinalis. But brown trout sometimes have advantage outside of home court and they outnumbered brook trout here. When I reached stretches where the stream took its own course and formed deep cuts and pools I ran into brown trout. These lovely fish had genetic lineage dating back to near their initial introduction. They'd adopted and adapted characteristics that allowed them to survive in this foreign land, and to me they were indeed beautiful creatures.

 As if they weren't there, in just a couple months a truck would pull up to a bridge not far from here and offload a couple hundred horrible facsimiles of these fish. Farm raised and bread, these trout would be ill adept and equipped to survive where they'd be put and in all likelihood none would even survive a whole season. But while they were there they'd do nothing but damage to the wild fish present in the stream, be they native or non-native. Human's had demanded the stream travel a certain course and they demanded not only what sort of fish lived in the stream but how many as well.

I dropped below the channelized stretch a ways, navigating between beech trees and maples, none of them very big or old, and occasionally deviating around a mess of green brier or bittersweet. Even these aspects of the landscape hinted at the anthropogenic alterations. Invasive plants, stunted trees, and unnatural abundances of species denote the post-European New England forest. Old growth is all but non-existent today, as are many of the huge native trees that once characterized and cast wilderness. Of course, the native peoples were making changes too before the white man ever stepped foot here. The natives managed land for their survival, maintaining habitats that favored species they relied on. Europeans had a different outlook: domination. And we did indeed dominate. We used, abused, and replaced. We left a landscape that is lesser, even when we've tried to protect it for the future. It's hard to feel something other than cynicism and apathy once you know just how... wrong, how unfathomably incorrect our people have made all of this landscape. If I could snap my fingers and turn it all back, I would. But I can't. So that leaves those of us who know to take responsibility. It will never be what it was; but those with the eye for human change and alteration, who know the subtle signs of damage, should use their understanding to turn back the clock where possible and preserve with extreme prejudice anywhere that remains somewhat natural. So the next time you go for a walk in the woods or along a stream, try to look at it with a new eye. Ask what's natural and what isn't and consider what could be put back. 

Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Franky, Geof, Luke, Noah, Justin, Sean, Tom, Mark, Jake, Chris, Oliver, and oddity on Display for making Connecticut Fly Angler possible. If you want to support this blog, look for the Patreon link at the top of the right side-bar in web version.

Trouting About in Vermont (Pt. 3): The Wild Trifecta

 I've caught scant few wild rainbow trout in New England, which is okay. They shouldn't really be here and they can create significant competition for brook trout especially in small, cold, headwater streams. Because they require very cold runoff in the spring for their early spawning behavior, they're restricted to northern New England, largely Vermont and New Hampshire. Most of the wild rainbows I've caught have in fact been in Vermont. I personally love O. mykiss as a species. They're insectivorous, surface oriented, vibrant, and also as adaptable as is any salmonid. They possess substantial diversity, with forms and subspecies that behave and look quite differently. Unfortunately, most New Englanders' experience is limited to the worst examples of the species: the hideous, hardly functional, barely even real trout hatchery raised version. I'm always looking forward to getting to interact with wild ones again, and when I get to fish for them within their native range I will enjoy that even more. After getting our butts handed to us on the Battenkill on our second morning, I suggested we try a river that was known to hold wild rainbows. In fact, all three trout species we'd have opportunity to target on this trip would be present in this stream. 

This was a classic New England trout stream showing multiple characters; descending from the granite hills as a clear, broken freestone before lazily twisting and turning into the valley, gaining size but meandering and creating wonderful cut banks and slow pools. We took a top-down approach, starting in the picturesque and boulder filled upper end. This was a stunning, classic piece of New England brook trout water. 

We quickly found, though, that when we say a salmonid in these clear waters with visibly white-tipped fins, it was pretty much without fail a rainbow. I was a bit surprised by how much the rainbows looked like a brook trout in the water, and I'm not quite sure why it was the case. But each time I spotted a fish and watched it for a time, I eventually realized that I was looking at an Oncorhynchus. These elegant little fish acted much like brook trout would in the same water, often hovering mid water column and rising to intercept anything and everything they could. It's an eat or be eaten world for a small trout. Tiny brown trout occupied some of the same water, and they proved easier to bring to hand initially. Perhaps just because I was far less interested in them. 

I fished bombers, the perfect sort of fly for this water. In fact this was probably the closest I'd fished the Ausable Bomber to its home of origin. I wasn't that close, really. The waters where Fran Betters had tested his messy yet immensely productive flies were more than 50 miles away. But his flies were just as at home on the surface of this lovely brook in the Green Mountains as they'd be in the Adirondacks. That bright orange thread, fuzzy possum dubbing, buggy hackle, and buoyant and visible calf tail wing pull up surface oriented and opportunistic trout on small streams everywhere. Eventually, I manged to draw up a wild rainbow with mine and kept it stuck long enough to come to hand. 

That upper end proved to be difficult as it had just been fished prior to our passing through. We managed just a handful of fish and covered quite a lot of water. I felt it was time to go downriver, into the flat lands. There we might find larger fish and hopefully less pressure. 

When we reached our next destination, I promptly came to the conclusion that this was my kind of stream. Down here, it had a very different character. Meandering through dense brush and farmland, this felt like the kind of small water where some trout of not-small proportions might lurk. Garth and I went separate ways. He headed off downriver while I went up. In the first good run I came to, with another fly of Adirondack origins on (the Ausable Ugly) I deceived three small trutta. Each looked similar, but had very different character from those I've caught in other waters. This is something you'll notice as you begin to really know wild trout. They take on different appearances and characteristics based on where they live. These browns lived in extremely clear water with light colored sandy bottom, they were notably pale by comparison to brown trout I'd catch in other streams on this same trip. I would go so far as to say that I could tell you what stream certain brown trout were caught in just by their appearance alone. The browns in this stream had very plain fins, pale red spots, and salt-and peppery heads. There was variation within the stream, of course, but it was just variation on an identifiable theme. Were I to catch a brown that looked dramatically different here I'd be inclined to believe that it had moved in from a part of the watershed with different habitat. 

Continuing upstream, I found an active riser. It was clearly more substantial than any of the other fish I'd cast at, and I figured it would be a fairly easy sell. I tied the bomber back on, and one cast later stuck a very feisty, colorful wild rainbow. 

So began a stint of wildly productive small stream dry fly fishing. Most of the fish I'd catch would be rainbows, with the occasional small brown mixed in. Many were fish I spotted prior to making a cast, I luxury I don't always have on Connecticut's small streams. I was having a very enjoyable time. 

When I reached the limit of what I could fish headed upstream to meet back up with Garth. Though he wasn't skunked, he'd yet to catch a wild rainbow and I wanted to make sure he did on this trip. We ate lunch before heading out to try to find another stretch even further down to fish.. Both access and cell service were poor and we failed to locate another area to park and fish. That was alright, because on the way down to meet back up with Garth I'd seen a rather impressive fish, a rainbow in the mid teens residing in a classic meadow pool. I though we might get a shot at that fish if and evening rise started. 

We found ourselves on that pool as the sun set. Tiny mayflies, I think they were needhami or something similar, and a few caddis were emerging. There was maybe a half dozen trout rising in the pool. I gave Garth the first go, knowing most of these would be rainbows. Two were sipping bugs towards the back of the pool. We were careful and deliberate in getting into position as well as presenting to the fish. I figured they wouldn't all that selective given their behavior throughout the day and the mixed hatch. When caddis are mixing in with small mayflies, I find that trout will often pick caddis out willingly even when slurping the slough of smaller bugs. I figured a Sedgehammer would be an effective fly.

Garth got into place and began casting to the furthest back of the fish in the pool. It took a little time, he isn't well practiced in the dry fly game, but he finally got his wild rainbow. Now I was up at bat. I set my sights further up the pool where what I suspected was the larger fish I'd spotted earlier in the day was rising. I landed the Sedgehammer in the seem and the trout promptly rose to it. I lifted the rod and a silver bullet went airborne, flying across the pool. It landed darn near on the bank and caught some loose grass on the leader. Moment late it came off. Bummer though it was to lose the king of that pool, that was quite a spectacle to end the day on as well. Rainbows fight especially well. The spirit of a sizable wild rainbow is almost unbeatable. 

The unfortunate reality is, though the whole length of this stream would indeed have wild salmonidae and be spectacular brook trout habitat, the only brook trout we'd catch in that stream was one Garth got that looked to me to be a stocker. I caught one brook trout that morning on the Battenkill and she was a stunner of a wild fish. 

It was quite clear that the abundant rainbows, which more or less match the niche that brook trout would fill in this small stream environment, with the added factor of brown trout also being present, is keeping this from being the incredible native brook trout stream it so easily could and should be. It's a shame that our species so often feels the need to play God. Though I enjoyed fishing for these wild rainbows, had that been a mid-teens brook trout I hooked in that one pool I'd have been no less happy. Where possible both physically and socially, we should be reclaiming these streams. This stream likely isn't the easiest one to reclaim. There are so many others like it across the country that could be thriving native fisheries no less interesting and fishable than the currently existing non-natives. 

Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Franky, Geof, Luke, Noah, Justin, Sean, Tom, Mark, Jake, Chris, and Oliver for making Connecticut Fly Angler possible. If you want to support this blog, look for the Patreon link at the top of the right side-bar in web version.

Trouting About in Vermont (Pt. 1)

 Back in mid September, with some rains bringing rivers back to life and temperatures on the fall, the trout itch started to need scratching. With the Farmington still too low to be of particular interest in daylight, Garth and I set our sights further afield. The Rangeley region seemed like one decent choice, it had been a while since I'd tangled with large brook trout. Night fishing in the Catskills also didn't seem like a bad plan. We settled on an area between the two, and one I'd not spent as much time exploring. Though I'd fished Vermont many times, rarely ever have trout been the target. With input from Drew Price of Masterclass Angling, a lot of research trough USGS data, satellite imagery, and the limited available fishery data, I created a hit-list of rivers and specific spots within rivers. I packed up the 4Runner and picked up Garth after he got home from work one evening and we headed north. 

The plan was simple: car camp, fish, and explore. We had a few days and nights to work with on some of the prettiest trout waters in the Northeast. The Green Mountains have a rich trout and fly fishing history; being home to Orvis's headquarters, the famed and fickle Battenkill, and some exceptionally beautiful and large wild salmonidae. It is a stronghold of native brook trout, though some of the Green's streams are now dominated by nonnative brown trout and in some cases, rainbows as well. We hoped to catch all three species in some beautiful and at times quite remote waters. 

We arrived in the dark and caught some rest near the stream I wanted to fish first. It was the most remote of them and a totally blank slate for us. It was going to be cold and there'd be trout in it, we just didn't know how many, what species, or how big. When I first got a look at the river I liked what I saw. Flows were strong, the water was a little tanic, and the surrounding woods were beautiful mixed forest dripping with moss. Spring seeps poured out of the hills and the river valley itself was spotted with beaver meadows. Varied habitat makes the best habitat, and this felt like a clean and healthy ecosystem. I was getting pretty excited. 

This environment may actually have had the highest density of Eastern newts I'd ever encountered. The wetland areas, be they active beaver ponds or the remnants of abandoned ones, were crawling with hundreds upon hundreds of the aquatic form. Walking through the woods we turned up the bright orange terrestrial form as well, know as red efts. 

Also occupying the beaver ponds were creek chubs and a variety of dragonfly species. The stream itself was cold and fast and seemed fairly sterile, harboring caddis and midges but very little in the way of mayflies as far as I could tell. It seemed a bit too "clean" and nutrient deficient to be brown trout habitat- remember that point - and out initial visit seemed to indicate that the stream was very rich with brook trout and hardly any other fish of any kind. These fish were beautiful, dark specimens averaging 6 inches. Some exceeded that mark, but it didn't feel like encountering one much in excess of 10 inches was likely. They were quite numerous though. I fished the ever reliable Ausable Ugly, and it produced handsome fontinalis one after another for a few hours. 

After months of fishing urban, industrial, and suburban habitats almost exclusively, it was a relief to get away from people and signs of people. Unfortunately some of this was an illusion. Neither the forest itself nor the stream were in a fully natural state. The land it was contained within was is fact, in essence, a protected tree farm open to recreation. It was timber in reserve. We passed patch cuts on the long dirt road in. But at the very least signs of human presence were limited down in the river valley. There weren't angler foot paths. The fish didn't have the injuries so common in pressured fisheries where trout are caught and released repetitively throughout their lives. Trash wasn't merely scarce, there was none. It was rejuvenating. 

I can only catch so many small brook trout in a day, though, before I feel bad for disrupting their natural rhythms. Garth and I then decided to go disrupt the rhythm of some non-natives. It was time to look for a big brown trout. Though not a widely known big trutta destination, Garth and I had a bit of intel to act on. Perhaps we'd stop somewhere along the way that we knew nothing about as well. This was an exploratory mission after all.

Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Franky, Geof, Luke, Noah, Justin, Sean, Tom, Mark, Jake, Chris, and Oliver for making Connecticut Fly Angler possible. If you want to support this blog, look for the Patreon link at the top of the right side-bar in web version.

The Prettiest Brook Trout in Connecticut

 I first met Alan Petrucci at the Comstock Covered Bridge. If you live outside of central Ct you likely don't know what that is, but it's well known here. The Comstock Bridge is lovely restored relic of a by-gone era, crossing Connecticut's Salmon River. I stood near it's west entrance, having just walked there from my home, at the time about four miles away. Connecticut Fly Angler was in its infancy then, being written by a kid trying to sound like he wasn't a kid. I didn't even have a drivers license yet. I was finding fishing spots by shear physical effort in those days, looking at maps and walking or biking as far as I could. I didn't know many other anglers. But there was this guy writing this blog called Small Stream Reflections. 

I almost idolized Alan. In those I was completely obsessed with small stream and wild brook trout. I think it was because such pursuits felt almost childish to me. I believe that play is intrinsically important to humans well beyond childhood though society today may try to beat it out of us. And brook trout fishing felt so much like play. It reminded me of my formative years, when my mother would bring me and later my brother too to state parks around my first home; Franklin, Pennsylvania. Playing in creeks was an integral part of my upbringing. Flipping rocks and looking for salamanders, catching crayfish, and watching fish were the most important tasks. Small stream fly fishing felt more like that than other hobbies, and it seemed to me that this Alan Petrucci had held onto that simple, childlike joy. I wanted to fish with him. 

I recognized Alan's vehicle immediately, that little black hatch-back with the BRK TRT license plate will live in my memory forever. He parked and walked over to introduce himself. I was an awkward teenager then, and I recall acting like it. I was bad at talking to new people then. I'm not sure what Alan's immediate impression was though hist struck me. Alan was a quiet man. No word he spoke was unnecessary. If he wanted to be funny, he was funny. If he wanted to be serious, he was serious. But generally he was a quiet man and that aptly carried over to his pursuit of small stream trout. We got along well, possibly because I was old for my age. Or perhaps he was young for his. Our appreciation for the environment where brook trout live, which Alan called "Brook Trout Forest" was really what brought us together. It was a simple, un-fancy appreciation of the natural and small. Brook trout in CT are not big, and indeed Alan always found the smaller char far prettier. He'd caught large ones, stories of which he told me while we drove to a new stream. "Those are ugly," he'd say, "those big males... big and ugly."

Alan seemed to know every stream. As he drove me to a place I'd never been he'd point out road crossings of other streams and ask "Ever fish down there?", and he'd always have a few words about each one. He'd describe a wild brown trout he'd caught, gesturing with his fingers to show the size, or describe the colors of the brook trout. I realize, now, that that's what I've become since. I already covered water beyond my reasonable means then. Spurred on by Alan and his apparent ability to find a brook trout anywhere, though, I began scouring with a fine toothed comb, and now much like Alan I have quiet anecdotes to fill in what had been holes on my personal map. He and I always talked about new streams. He was an old man then but he was not done exploring. He wanted to know what places held these wonderful fish and what didn't, as did I. 

We were winding through a hemlock forest on one of the prettiest roads in CT when Alan looked over and said "I'm taking you to a stream that has the most beautiful brook trout in CT". Soon we arrived at a tumbling brook full of plunge pools. Alan was right. The brook trout there were some of the most colorful I'd seen anywhere. 

My Best CT Brook Trout Yet

 My hunt for giant wild brook trout was going quite well this spring when I started to ply anew stretch of stream. I'd caught 11 fish between 12 and 14 inches already in two other streams, and this one had similar characteristics. It had everything I've learned to look for with one exception: it had brown trout. I was a bit worried this might be hamper the brook trout from reaching their potential. Generally, where brown trout exist, if brook trout persist they do so in a compromised state. They don't attain the sort of size that they could otherwise while they compete with the more piscivorous and more warm water tolerant browns. The result is often a somewhat stunted brook trout population. I had hope for this stream in spite of that, why I'm not exactly sure. 

On my first visits this spring I didn't even catch a brook trout. It was browns with a few large fallfish mixed in. A few of the browns were quite decent but the largest fish I caught on the second visit was a one pound fallfish. Each time I fished evening into dark, fishing down with streamers then back up with a small mouse pattern. The streamer fishing predictably outperformed, but I managed a few fish on the mouse as well. During those trips, the flow was moderate. I pinpointed a particular hole that I felt could really hold something special. It had all the right ingredients: cut bank, notable depth, a nice incoming run. I was surprised it didn't produce a fish on those first few attempts. 

On my fourth visit, the water was much lower and I was struggling to find the success I had hoped for. The brown trout were turned off and either darting for cover or already underneath, and just not receptive. I tried being extremely slow and cautious but it just wasn't working. Then I came to that hole, the one I had high expectations for. I tied on larger fly than I'd been using, switching from a #10 Ausable Ugly to a #4 Half Pint. This hole was, after all, multiple feet deeper than anywhere I'd yet fished and I felt I needed not only to get down but to have something fairly meaty on. In four casts, I came tight. A torpedo shaped salmonid came out of the water, leaping as spectacularly as a fish of such size possibly could. To my astonishment I could clearly see that this was a brook trout and an extraordinary one at that. It actually had some control for a few moments, taking nine and dogging towards the cut bank. That's not something I'm used to with CT brook trout. I was fishing a 5wt though, as well as 8lb tippet, and it couldn't win. When I got her in the net I uttered a low guttural laugh of astonishment and gratification. I'd put a lot of effort in over the late winter and spring after large salmonids, split between rogue brown trout and giant brookies. Now I had my heaviest CT brookie in my hands.

I know, of course, that there exist some wild char in CT that are even larger than this one. But for the summer, I think I'm mostly done with big brookies locally. It's been dry and hot. No need to over-pressure them. I may well end up of a bender again when the water starts to cool down, but I'm not sure. 

Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Leo, Franky, Geof, Luke, Noah, Justin, Sean, Tom, Mark, and Jake for making Connecticut Fly Angler possible. If you want to support this blog, look for the Patreon link at the top of the right side-bar in web version.

Monster Connecticut Brook Trout

 I've been on the hunt for big brookies this spring. After a number of years of less dedicated wild brook trout fishing, wherein I'd just occasionally revisited easy spots already well known to me and caught very typically sized fish, I'd got the bug again this year and wanted to find something impressive. I hadn't caught a wild brook trout of over a foot in Connecticut in quite a while. Catching fish like that can sort of just happen if you fish for brook trout enough, but I didn't just want to go out and hammer brookies every day. That isn't really my thing anymore, and I don't think it does the fish any favors. I've taken to resting streams and having a measured approach. I'm not trying to catch every brookie in the water I fish, just the largest ones. I'm also not just fishing any old water. I've come, over time, to understand what makes big brook trout in CT, and it doesn't happen just anywhere there are brook trout. If you think I'm going to just go ahead and tell you the magic ingredients, well... I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I won't. They make sense though. If you follow the natural patterns, understand the biomass factors, and think about how different habitats work you'll figure it out on your own. That's a great feeling and I don't want to deprive you of that. 

Once I'd figured out the formula it was just a matter of time, and not much time. I'd stacked the deck in my favor, if I caught brook trout at all in the places I was fishing there was a strong probability one would be a monster. To catch the fish, I'd also stack the deck by using larger flies than I might otherwise. I've never been a big fly for brook trout guy, in large part because bigger hooks and small delicate fish do not mix. But I wasn't after small fish, and there wouldn't even really be any small fish in the places I was fishing. I'd fish larger streamers, mice, gurglers, and things of that sort unless I saw fish actively feeding. I wasn't taking that strategy because the fish would want really big meals, more so because I needed flies with a bit of calling power because I didn't know exactly where the fish would be sitting a lot of the time and wanted to fish in a way that would potentially draw a big brook trout from further away.

It's funny, frankly, just how quickly it came together. Of course that's ignoring the years it took to put everything in place to make it easy to do, but once I had the idea in my head it was a matter of days. The location I had the most confidence in showed me two giant brook trout on my first visit of the year, though I didn't catch either one. On my second visit, I caught one of the largest brook trout I've ever caught in CT. At fourteen and a half inches and carrying about a pound, it was an extraordinary specimen of a native salmonid. 

As we shift into what feels like a very early summer here in CT, I do intend to devote a bit more time over the coming month or so to these big brook trout. Since I got that one I managed a few other monsters as well, but I'd really like to break the 18 inch mark here in CT. I think it's possible, though I don't know of anyone that has done so recently. If nothing else, it's a relief to see that our only remaining wild native salmonid is doing well enough to kick out specimens as big as a pound. That certainly is a good thing. 

Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Leo, C, Franky, Geof, Luke, Streamer Swinger, Noah, Justin, Sean, Tom, Mark, and Jake for making Connecticut Fly Angler possible. If you want to support this blog, look for the Patreon link at the top of the right side-bar in web version.