Brook Trout, Briar Creek & Memories
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| Picture Borrowed from "Small Stream Reflections" |
I
recently read a post on one of my favorite blogs “Small Stream Reflections”
about how the Hemlock is so much a part of our brook trout streams. That blog
post took me back to my trout fishing roots and memories of my childhood stream
of which I have written on over the years. I began browsing through essays and when
I was done perusing what I had put down in print, it occurred to me that two of
the essays which were written nearly 15 years apart encapsulated both the life
of that stream and how it impacted me as a fisherman over the course of the
first 42 years of my life. A period which ended with the 2nd essay
and my last visit to Briar Creek around 2005. Having no personal images of Briar creek or it's fish, the above photo from "Small Stream Reflections" is so close that the two waters could be one-in-the-same. PS: I promise to put it back where I found it Alan. :)
Brookies….
I
picked my way through the briars toward the sound of a creek about 30 yards ahead,
but yet unseen. I knew that the line of hemlocks up ahead would be my
salvation from this tangle I was working my way through with a fly rod in hand.
It seemed that every time I so much as glanced at the vines around my legs to
avoid another puncture through my jeans, I would instantly tangle my fly line
again. Yet this entire struggle was worth the trout fishing perfection that lie
ahead. I stepped through the last bunch of briars and stood in the shadow
of a 100 yard long run of hemlocks. Running through that grove was an 8 feet
wide trout stream, known to the locals as Briar Creek. It wound its way through
the woods after leaving a pond about a mile upstream. About 1 mile from
where I stood, it would join with its sister creek, and then continue a short
distance into a county reservoir.
Crouching down to rest, I took advantage of the open area to inspect my leader
and tippet. All was intact and the #14 Royal Coachman on the end seemed
none the worse for wear as well. I evaluated my approach to the pool that lay
straight ahead of me. The bank on the far side went straight up the
mountain, and was undercut with roots. The pool at its deepest point was
about 3 feet, and it extended for about 30 ft into the next ripple. I
crouched-walked my way up to the hole, and with a bow-&-arrow cast, popped
the fly into the head of the hole about 6” from the far bank. It had drifted
about 4 feet when out from under the bank in a flash came the take, and as
quickly as it came it was gone. I lifted the rod tip just slightly and the
little glass rod came to life. In short order I had a gleaming native
brookie lying in my hand. A fat little 8” fish, and a fine specimen for the
creek for sure. I dropped the fish into the creel with a smile, knowing
that this would be a great day on the water. I loved this crick!
That was 1976……24 years earlier. And as I sat contemplating my next move
through the briars, I was seriously 2nd guessing my desire to revisit this
creek of my youth. I had left the Jeep parked at the same place I always
entered the woods as a kid, yet it somehow seemed much thicker than
before. Whether it was actually thicker underbrush, or just a thicker man
walking through it I was not certain. But either way, I was sweating & my
legs already bore the puncture wounds of unbelievable large green thorns! I
could however, hear the creek just up ahead. And like years ago, I smiled
with anticipation.
Stepping out into the hemlocks, there it was! The hole I remembered was
gone however. The bank had given way along with a huge hemlock, and the
root system had carried rock into the streams path. Feeling slightly let
down, I turned downstream. I was not to be disappointed a 2nd
time. There before me was a pool twice the size as I recalled, and as I stood
there watching I saw at least 2 distinct rise forms at its tail-out. I
was no longer carrying the old South Bend glass rod of my youth. Instead,
I now had a little 3 weight Orvis Superfine that seemed perfect for the water.
I decided to fish the hole below me from its head and feed line after a dump
cast. The 1st cast ended up in the branches overhead.
Cursing at myself, I was fortunate to pull my fly free….and this time with a
side-arm delivery was able to pile up my line just below the riffle. I
watched the #16 Elk Hair Caddis drift for about 10 feet and the rise came with a
sip. One minute it was there, and the next second all that was there was a
bubble on the surface. I lift the rod tip and found an acrobatic little
fish on the end of my line. Enjoying the moment, I let him take his
frustration out on the little 3 weight, and then stripped line to retrieve
him. An amazingly bright little 5” brookie came to hand. Removing
the hook, he instantly flipped in my hand and was back in the stream. 20
minutes later I had landed 3 more identical fish and was reeling in line to
search downstream.
What I found was exactly like I remembered. Pool after pool began with a
smallish boulder choking the stream, which then dumped into a hole of a couple
foot in depth, and a 10-20 foot tail-out would follow. Each of which held
a handful of hungry brook trout in the 5-7” range. I was in heaven. As
expected, I was 12 years old again. Yet oddly enough, I hadn’t seemed to
improve at all in my casting ability! At least not that my performance on the
day had proven anyway. I had been fishing exclusively with the same #14 Elk Hair Caddis throughout the morning up until that point, as I stepped out onto a little
gravel bar formed by the stream and its sister fork of nearly identical size
coming together. Almost immediately a rise-form at the head of the hole
caught my attention. It was a larger fish from the looks of it.
Losing my bearings, I turned to cast directly to it, and instantly hung my back
cast. After the initial frustration, I smiled to myself. A lot has
changed over the years, but just like a 12 year old kid, the sight of a larger fish
had gotten me flustered and I instantly forgot everything I knew. Right
down to the fact that I was standing in an opening too small for a standard
cast.
Having lost my fly to the hemlocks, I tied on a wet fly that I had actually
tied for the day, but had not gotten around to fishing yet. I leaned out from
the bank to my right, and with a sidearm cast skipped the fly up into the rifle
above. Stripping line in as the fly drifted downstream toward me the line
quickly went tight. I lift the rod and found myself hooked onto a fish
considerably larger than any I had caught all morning. The fight ensued,
and after pulling him from roots & giving line multiple times, I was
looking at a 16” brook trout and a monster fish for that stream. Again, I
was 12 years old and wishing for my creel. My dad would love this
fish! But having no creel and with my Dad gone now, I was left without a
camera and only me and the fish. I smiled as it slipped from my hands and
instantly disappeared back into the roots it had risen from. I looked at the
little wet fly that had done the trick. It instantly became the “Briar
Creek Wet”. From the confluence of the 2 streams I was only 75 yards from
the lane I was parked on upstream. Feeling like this was as good a place
as any to wrap up the morning, I headed out toward the road. It had been
a nearly perfect day on the water & like 24 years earlier, I found myself
walking back up that gravel lane….tired, sweated through & undeniably
happy. I was heading back home again, rod in hand, knowing that Mom would
have something in the kitchen for lunch. Coming around the corner I saw
the grill of my Jeep staring at me, & reality returned again. Lunch
would be at the general store, and maybe I would visit that pond I
remembered just a short drive away? Times do change…..and yes,
waters do as well. In the end we have our memories.
It’s been nearly 10 years since I re-visited
that creek….maybe it’s time.
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| The Briar Creek Wet Hook: #14 2x Long Dry Fly Thread: Black Tail: Red Tippet Rib: Flat Gold Tinsel Wing: March Brown Brahma Hen Wing: Wood Duck (Tipped on Original) |
But for Memories….
The Briar Creek
that I grew up near was the epitome of a perfect wild brook trout stream. A
fact that was not contemplated during my youth yet became painfully obvious as
an adult as I traveled. It was a true rarity. A jewel of the outdoors that not
only was in its prime as I knew it, but was also vastly left alone by local
fishermen. It was perfection within the
trout world, and the best of trout streams to a 12 year old boy with a
hand-me-down fly rod and a tin of wet flies. To that boy, it was water equal to
any of those found in the pages of magazines, with brookies so brilliant and
plentiful that no rival was possible. At least in my young mind it was so.
The creek was formed by two
forks. The East fork flowed from a spring near the base of Knob Mountain, and
then traveled through farm fields and 2 beaver dams. From the point of the 2nd
beaver dam downstream to its confluence of the west branch it was
intermittently brush choked with a few stretches of hemlock shrouded runs. This
was, an ecosystem of its own as the beaver dam was full of large fish, and the
lower run was in essence a tail-water fishery. We would begin at the dam until
we had caught a brace of keepers, and then move downstream, pool-hopping
between us through the hemlock runs.
The West fork was fed from a
spring that had long ago been formed into a farm pond. From that point its
gradient was increased rapidly and its pocket water tumbled down through a mile
and a half of hemlocks, where it met with the east fork. This pocket water
stretch taught me everything I needed to know about fly fishing so many of the
waters I encountered later in life out west. I learned by trial and error how a
drifting wet fly “needed” to be presented in order to even be looked at. Later, I would come to realize that the fish
on Briar Creek came to the creel with much more difficulty than most waters I
had encountered since.
It was at the confluence of the two forks that a large pool formed in
the shade of several old hemlocks, before gaining speed and heading out through
meadows where it dumped into the local watershed. It was a beautiful place to
behold. With just enough room for casting, small gravel bars to approach the
water, and almost an ethereal feeling while in the shade of those huge dark
trees. It was the genesis of this fisherman’s piscatorial memories and the
birthplace of so many pans of frying fish in my mom’s kitchen. Quite often through the years, I will find
myself sitting along other waters, yet daydreaming about that hemlock pool.
More waters than I can count have taken me back there. It seems that my mind
has decided “that place” is fishing. Not able to understand exactly why my mind
works in that fashion, I’ve willingly accepted that fact and not fought it.
After all, it did treat me well, so who am I to complain simply due to a lack
of understanding?
A few years back I realized that I had not fished the water in many
years. So with rod in hand I took the trip back home and made my way through
the woods from that familiar gravel road. However, things had changed. There
was no longer a watershed as I had known it. In an effort to fix a damaged and
dangerous dam, the watershed had undergone a complete transformation. At the
beginning of those old meadows the creek was now routed underground. The entire
area of the confluence was now open grass. Gone was the pool. Gone were the
hemlocks. Gone was all that I had known and loved for so many years. Not giving
it enough time to sink in, I turned away and began fishing my way back up the
west fork and its pocket water. Some fish were still there, but most were in
the 5” range. Still as beautiful as ever, but far fewer than I recalled. I
fished casually upstream for about ½ mile, then turned around and strolled back
down to the location of the old pool. With a dozen fish on the walk I still
could not shake the sadness of what had become of my pool. Sitting on a stump
on the edge of the tree line where the meadow began, I looked out over the old
location. It was gone, but I could still sense it. Closing my eyes I could hear
the streams currents converging. I could smell the thick heavy air under the
canopy of the hemlocks, and feel the pea-gravel move under my high-top converse
sneakers. I was there. It was there. Just as I had often found myself while
sitting on the banks of waters far better known and heralded. And it was then that I understood. But for
memories…many things such as this small stretch of water would at some point
cease to exist. Not just go away, but cease to exist as if it never had at all.
Unless it’s existence and meaning was held in the memories of those in which it
had touched.
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