Quiet Brookie Stream
After an unsuccessful early morning turkey hunt I parked along a quiet trout stream and took a short nap. I was getting my gear on, after my nap, and a vehicle pulled up behind me and three guys got out of their vehicle dressed in posh outerwear from head to wading boot. They grabbed their modern 9 foot graphite fly rods and headed to the water. I put on my old faded fedora with the Harley hat band and donned my well worn fishing vest. I assembled my two piece Wonderod fiberglass fly rod and discovered I forgot my Martin Classic fly reel. I mounted on an England made Orvis Battenkill with DT5F doubletaper line and grabbed a few stogies. (Next to these guys I probably looked like an out of date bum without much skill.) At the van I watched as the three fished the deep hole. It wasn’t long before they started to fish their way down creek. I walked down to the water and looked over the situation.
After they left I had the deeper stretch of water to myself. Two brook trout fell for my popcorn bugger and I was only able to bring one to hand. I also caught another on a triple threat. After an hour there I decided to make my way down creek a little further.
I passed a good hour away down creek without a strike before returning to the deep section I fished earlier. Without any strikes on a few casts of streamers, as a last resort, I elected to nymph fish. I knotted on one of my trusty Latex Caddis.
With a loop cast, of my Wonderod, the caddis larva imitation plopped up creek. With a mend up creek I let the caddis drop deeper as the fly line flowed behind. I kept a good eye on the tip of my fly line watching for any drop or slight pull. Just in front of me my fly line dipped downward and I lifted to the hook set. The line tightened as the rod tip arced downward and soon the fiberglass rod was flexing with action. The trout rose with a flash and turned down creek with reckless abandon. I held the porous cork handle tightly in my grasp and felt every jerk and sudden movement of the battling trout. I got the brook trout near and the fiberglass rod arced deep as the trout flopped on the water surface before me.
I continued to nymph fish in the same manner and was rewarded occasionally with a good quick skirmish of a hooked brook trout. After the last puffs of a Triple Corojo cigar I called it quits. I penetrated the point of the hook into the cork handle and made my way to the bank. Following the trail, between trees and brush, I made my way back to the van.
It was near 3:00pm. I had a commitment and had to get back home. I took my time though, enjoying a cold Grolsch, as I changed into street cloth. I drove up the windy road till I got to route 66. There I turned right and headed south whistling to a country song on the radio. What more could a trout bum ask for?