The Killer of Browns Brook

Editor's note: this story is very different from what I usually write and post, but I hope you will all find it enjoyable. I concocted this tale on the walk back to my car after fishing a heavily beaver-altered stream in a quite remote area. Finding an out of place object triggered a story line about animals with murderous intent, particularly animals you wouldn't expect to be murderous. It's the first and probably only time I'll ever write a tongue-in-cheek horror story, or any horror story. 

A hiker wandered down the banks of a narrow stream, red walking staff in one hand and binoculars around his neck. It was a beautiful early spring evening. The air was warm overall save for a light breeze that occasionally wafted through, bringing a bit of a chill with it. The sun had fallen low to the horizon, casting a golden glow through a layer of high, hazy clouds. The hiker gazed at the sky and thought to himself that there must be quite a lovely sunset coming in a couple hours. Those sort of high, wispy clouds really light ablaze when the sun reaches the horizon. A sound emanated from the woods; a cracking branch and a little shuffling. The hiker payed it little mind. Squirrels are everywhere, after all. What did catch his attention was the call of an inbound wood duck. Raising the binoculars to his eyes he watched a pair bank through the trees and make a splashdown on a beaver pond. The pair moved around the corner and out of site. Easing his tired muscles out of resting position and taking the weight of his walking staff, the hiker made a few short steps towards the bank. 

Ahead of him on the same bank was a tangle of green brier and tightly bunched saplings. Beavers had worked this area over and the emergent vegetation made passing through a difficult task. The opposite bank, though, was all mature forest. The trees were big and old, and the undergrowth sparse. He'd have to cross to the other side to continue downstream. Luckily those beavers had left him with a bridge. A big old oak lay across the creek. There was a branch sticking straight up, but though the man was in his 60's he was not one to shy ways from a challenge. Getting to the midpoint was easy, and though he nearly dropped his staff into the river and his binoculars swung perilously, he rounded the branch without incident too. From there it was a mere step onto the bank. At that moment a load cracking noise caught his attention and he startled, nearly wheeling off the log and into the water. He barely caught himself, looking around for the source of the noise. There was nothing to be seen, so far as he could tell. Collecting his whit he righted himself again the stump of the beaver felled tree and looked back down the bank he'd successfully reached. Neither that loud crack nor the ruckus he'd made disturbed the wood ducks, apparently. Though they were still out of sight there's been no loud takeoff and alarm call. 

Suddenly, another loud cracking noise arose from behind the startled wandered and he turned to see a well chewed tree beginning to give. It was a thick old tree and it was falling in his direction. He had but seconds to weigh the options. Taking the closest escape he dove toward the brook, rolling of the bank and falling into a hole that was every bit of four and a half feet deep. The wood ducks took off, calling loudly. Animals flushed throughout the area as the big old tree crashed to the ground mere inches from where the hiker had just stood. He didn't hear the wood ducks take off, of course, as he was too busy exploding back to the surface of the brook and gasping for air. The water was quite cold, probably not even 50 degrees, and he realized quite quickly he was in a bit of a predicament. scrambling up the steep bank, he flopped on the ground and struggled out of his backpack and soaking wet jacket. He knew the air temperature was dropping quickly, and he knew he was pretty far from his vehicle. 

Simultaneously catching his breath and wringing out his jacket, the hiker pondered his options. Hypothermia sets in quickly. He knew he needed to retain body heat. He hopped up and started doing jumping jacks. Then running in place. His muscles screamed. He had to get moving, this wasn't going to keep him warm long. Turning to examine his rout out, he noted that the newly fallen oak had created quite a messy tangle of branches. He'd have a hard time getting through all that mess, but it was either that or go back in the creek. As he approached the felled tree some movement caught his eye. Up the bank and near the chewed stump of the massive tree stood an enormous beaver. It must have be close to 80 pounds, he thought. And it was standing, up on its hind feet and staring at him. In his excitement at seeing such an enormous old beaver, the hiker forgot about his predicament. The beaver dropped down on all fours. As it did so the hiker realized that something was off about this beaver. It took a few lumbering steps toward him and stood back up. As it did so the hiker realized the animals eyes were a blazing crimson red. When it stood again it spoke. The beaver's mouth didn't move, but it spoke directly to the hiker. "Humans don't belong here, hiker" it said. Completely flabbergasted, the hiker couldn't muster a reply, he just gasped. "We don't like humans in this place" said the beaver. "I... I... I mean no harm" stuttered the hiker."

The beaver dropped on all fours again and continued toward the beaver. "I need to assure you won't return, and that you won't bring others." The beaver's deep, ominous tone elicited fear in the hiker, and he stumbled backwards away from the approaching animal. "I won't come back, I promise" he gasped out, in complete shock at what was transpiring. "I know you won't," responded the beaver, "you will never leave." Scrambling back, the hiker suddenly felt the ground disappear from underneath him and with a yelp and a splash he was in the brook again. The commotion was short lived this time, the hiker never rose back to the surface. A few bubbles rose to the surface, then a billowing red cloud. The beaver emerged moments later holding a red walking staff crosswise in his huge, sharp teeth. 

A few months later, an angler was fishing his way up Browns Brook. The bite had been fantastic and he'd already caught better than a dozen colorful brook trout when he came upon a beaver dam. In the center and at the top was a bright red walking staff, stuck in the dam handle up, as if purposefully placed there. How curious, thought the angler. He wondered how and why a beaver would come to incorporate such an object in his construction. It was stick shaped, of course, so it fit the architecture. But it looked so odd and out of place. 

From behind the angler arose a bit of noise in the forest, a branch breaking and some rustling. He ignored it. All sorts of animals make a commotion on the forest floor. 

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, and Mark 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.

Can't Stop

It's dark and cold. The spring peepers went quiet hours ago when the temperature crept down below freezing. Nobody is out, the water slides by at a slow and steady pace. The tide is as sluggish as everything else seems to be. There isn't any sign of bait. There's no sign of bass either. It's so cold, why would there be? I fish anyway, letting the hours slide by, allowing the pursuit to pull me forward and keep me on target. If I think about that target I don't need to think about anything else. 

A muskrat comes up the bank from below. I think I know where he's headed, but I'm surprised to see him at this time of night. Normally he makes his rounds earlier. Maybe he's just wondering why I'm there when I am too. I'm often late to the party, showing up after the bass have been around a while and lingering till after everyone else has given up. This year I felt the need to hit the target sooner. But tonight there's nothing, it seems. No bait. No bass. But I must not stop. At 3:30am I can hear the frost that's forming on my line scraping off onto my guides. Hmm. Very cold indeed. 

I make a minor spot adjustment, just to cast through the same water at a slightly different angle. Sometimes that makes a difference. Usually it doesn't. I think about these things that some anglers don't. Not merely does adjusting where you stand allow you to present your fly to different fish, but it might let you present it better to the same fish you've already showed it to. Maybe there was a bass in front of me and I just had to show it the same fly in a different way. Maybe it  If I keep thinking about these things I don't have to think about... well, I don't want to think about that. I force myself to think about the variables and the task at hand again. The line I'm using wasn't great. The head is much too long for the job. It's much too long for anything I would do with it, frankly. Feeling the taper as I strip it through my fingers, I ponder solutions. I could cut it down I bet, make it into something really useful. It would end up being a triangle taper, basically. As it was there was really nothing I could think to use it for. My mind drifts to things Ian Devlin has taught me about tapers, grain weights, and casting. 

My new angle suddenly seems to have been a good idea when I feel that ever distinct thump. Ramming the hook home, I could tell it was a fairly decent bass. Not huge, but big enough to make for a very solid first of the season. 

By that point I'm more than exhausted enough to fall asleep. I let the fish swim off and walk back to the car. That was that. But only for that night. Sleep keeps the thoughts away for the most part, especially when I'm so dog tired I don't have any dreams I can remember. The next day I'll work until I have no more will to work, then I'll go fishing again. And I'll fish harder and with more intent than I ever have before.

 I can't stop, and I barely have since. If I fish hard enough I'll break my goals. If I fish hard enough, I won't think about those things I don't want to. I can't stop now or it will hurt too much. I'm fishing the pain away. That's all I know how to do. 

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, and Mark 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.

Jon Zukowski and The Brink

Editors Note: Recently, the New England fly fishing community lost a prominent figure to an extremely unfortunate accident that occurred on a well known New Hampshire trout river while in the presence of two other experiences fishing guides. Jon Zukowski's passing has sent shock waves through the community, as he was a well liked shop owner, all around good and humble character, extremely skilled angler, and native fish advocate. The accident that resulted in his death is something that could happen to any one of us. This post was written by Jon's friend Nate Hill, another well known and liked NH guide. He kindly gave me permission to share it here. He feels it is important for as many people to see it as possible and I very much agree. The takeaways here are all to clear and we could all use the reminder that all it takes is one wrong step. 

Jon Zukowski, how do I find the words. I first learned about Jon from my good friend Milan, who kept sending me pictures of Jon holding giant trout. We couldn't comprehend how Jon was catching such fish on the fly rod. I spent the next eight years trying to catch up. In doing so I began running into Jon on the water. What started as casual hello's soon evolved into a deep friendship. We both had a burning love for wild trout and wild places and I had never found another NH angler who matched my passion and surely exceeded my ability in catching them. Over time Jon and I began fishing together, often on the bookends of the seasons when our schedules finally lined up. Later we both joined the NH chapter of Native Fish Coalition. Then when Jon bought Mountain High fly I jumped on board as one of the shops fishing guides. 

While I lived across the state I made sure to stop in the shop whenever I could, always spending way more money and time than I planned. Our conversations of life, fly fishing and fly design went from minutes to hours. The last time I was in the shop, back in March, my son Ellis was with me. Jon and I talked for so long I couldn't believe how good Ellis was being. Then I looked over and saw him fast asleep on the floor. Jon and I laughed about how he was a born shop rat. 

Jon was one of the few anglers who had the ability to imagine and create flies that not only caught the attention of the biggest fish but also looked darn good hanging from their mouths. He was an engineering genius at the vice and his flies will live on forever. 

While Jon's fishing prowess is what drew me to hang out with him it was his genuine and humble-beyond-reason personality that kept him at the top of my fishing buddy list. Jon would glowingly speak of friends and family. Especially his father who he admired more than anyone. "My pops caught this pike, shot this deer" he would often say pointing to pictures on the shop walls. I had to be the one to point to the pictures of Jon holding fish. " Jon that brown looks to be a state record!" I would comment in awe. " I think she probably was" he would shrug with no interest or care in finding out as it would have meant the death of one of his favorite creatures. I have never and will never meet a more brilliant yet humble angler. 

Unfortunately it was Jon's need to put others before himself that became fatal. We all know when standing near the edge of a cliff which step will be fatal. If a personal possession were to fall from such a perch none of us would jump to retrieve it, knowing certain death would result. Like cliffs rivers all have edges, that when crossed, are fatal. Unfortunately in rivers that edge is not visible to the naked eye. It is ever moving and shifting with changes in flow, water temperature, substrait and our attire. When Jon saw our boat floating away he weighed the safety of himself against the safety of the group, he was aware that the edge was near. He hesitated on the brink but in moving water the brink is not something you can stop even close to. Half a step too far was all it took. It was a mistake that almost every angler I know has made themselves. You are wading a river comfortably, you want to get a little better cast. You feel you have control, but a rock rolls, or your foot slips, you end up off your feet, over your head. Most times we are able to right ourselves, scramble to shore and chock it up as a silly mistake. None of us, still here, know how close we have really come to that edge.

 Let us all work to keep ourselves and eachother safely away from that edge. 

To all those who knew, loved, lived and laughed with Jon, my heart is with you always.  Jon, you will be with us forever, mountain high and river wide. Never stop casting to the big ones my friend.

Nate Hill will be a series of swiftwater safety events this spring and summer. The first will be a seminar on May 14th at Ledge Brewing Company in Intervale, NH. I will post updates as needed.

If you'd like to donate to help Jon's memorial service and aid in keeping his shop, Mountain High Fly, running, follow this link: www.gofundme.com. 

Stay safe out there folks. The risks are bigger than we sometimes believe. My deepest condolences go out the Jon Zukowski's family and friends. 

Why You Should Tie & Fish Hair or Feather Jigs

Hair and feather jigs are some of the most utilitarian lures in the fishing world. Cheap, simple, and easily fished, small jigs bridge the gap between fly fishing and gear fishing. I was generally reluctant to start fishing jigs with a fly rod under the misconceived idea that they'd be too heavy. Then, in a fly swap, I received some flies tied on simple dart jigs by shad guru Sonny Yu. I eventually got around to trying them, but not for shad. The first time I used jigs on a fly rod was while targeting trophy sized yellow perch. They quickly proved their utility. 

Before I started using jigs, I didn't have a particularly good understanding of how specific weights fished. I'd tie nymphs and streamers with brass or tungsten beads or cones, copper wire, lead wire, non-lead wire, dumbbell eyes, and other materials to add weight but I didn't pay much attention to specific weights. When I started to tie jigs that was suddenly the foremost factor. I was buying weights as much as I was sizes: 1/64oz, 1/32oz, 1/16oz, so on and so forth. I knew pretty much exactly how heavy a fly I was tying, minus added material. It turns out that's a huge game changer for a fly tier and angler. I now could correspond how a fly fished in different scenarios directly with its weight. I could also see how different materiel and fly sizes impacted the sink rate and action of  jigs of the same weight. For example, a long and bushy bucktail in 1/16th oz sinks quit a bit slower than a short, sparse one. The part of the tail I tied with had an impact too, of course. I could then make a pattern of the same size and material on different weight heads to fish different depths and different current speeds. That's huge. Jigs made learning it easy and lead to me paying a whole lot more attention to the weight of the other flies I tie. 

Jigs also just seem to work really really well, often when other offering won't. Two people's catch rates in particular heavily influenced my interest in tying and fishing jigs: Tim Galati (www.youtube.com) and Josh Rayner (www.ctfishnerd.com). Tim's success regularly catching trophy sized fish of a variety of species on bucktail jigs piqued my interest, and Josh's regular success with his own hand tied jigs at times I'd previously had a hard time catching similar numbers and sizes. Noah caught on a bit quicker, resulting in a few really big early season smallmouth bass, at which time we proposed building a shrine to Tim Galati. The bucktail jig is magic, it really is. And at sizes under 1/8oz they can be fished to exceptional effect on a fly rod. I found that using such jigs on a floating line allowed me to very effectively fish 5 to 10 feet of water early and late in the season for less aggressive bass and walleye in my local lake. It opened up new spots where I'd previously felt I was fishing dead water. I could now feel bottom contours and regularly catch fish where I wasn't previously. As soon as I knew how to fish a spot with jigs, I could easily switch over to other flies and lines and find success that way as well. But the jigs just flat-out worked, so I only occasionally bothered to switch it up.

Jigs also present extraordinarily well under a float. The number of impressive fish I've caught on a 1/64oz chartreuse marabou jigs under a Thingamabobber is ever-growing. Last spring I got walleye, crappie, carp, and a huge smallmouth on that rig. When the water is cold and the fish are sluggish, particularly either with slow current or light wave action, this has been exceedingly deadly. Sometimes fish want very little horizontal movement, and retrieving the jig through the zone won't result in many hookups. A float allows you to hang a jig at an exact depth. This can be huge when it comes to suspending fish like crappies, especially when shore bound and fishing to schools that are further away than the tip of your rod. It's just vertical jigging at a distance. Wave action adds action to your jig, so wind is often helpful with this strategy. 

Another huge benefit of these simple jigs is their affordability. I tie my own, of course, which gives me creative control over size and color combinations. Mine are either all marabou, marabou with a chenille body, woolly buggers, or bucktail jigs. Getting jigheads on the cheap is exceedingly easy, and oftentimes scrap materials left over after tying nicer, fancier flies and perfectly suitable for simple little jigs. You can get more out of what you were probably already buying anyway. Of course if you don't tie, you can get get marabou jigs exceedingly cheap at just about any walmart. Or, if you want something specific, you can send me an email and I can put together a custom order. If you're using them as flies it definitely doesn't feel as much like a travesty if you have a bit of creative control. 

That brings up a fun question... are these jigs flies? You'll have to answer that yourself, but I'll leave you with two facts: I've cast a Clouser Minnow about 45 feet with a medium light spinning rod, and I've fished an inline spinner very effectively on a 9' 5wt fly rod. The gap was bridged years ago, it's all in what you chose to make of it. 

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, and Mark 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.

Night Fishing Seminar (In Person)

 I'll be presenting one of my night fishing seminars starting at 6:00pm on April 10th, at the Middle Haddam Public Library (2 Knowles Rd, Middle Haddam, CT 06456). This will be the first in person presentation I've done since the pandemic! Admission is free.

This seminar will cover the necessities for anyone looking to start or expand their skill-set night fishing trout streams. It covers gear, safety, flies, reading water, and other strategies. It'll run about an hour long. I hope to see some of you there!