Last Fish of the Season

Image by Eric Harvey

Editor’s Note: This is the seventeenth article in our series on fly fishing conservation.  This series appears with the support of Epic Fly Rods.

When the remote ponds, woodland streams, and large rivers near my home in central Maine warm up, rather than stress the fish, I turn my attention to the headwater freestone streams of New Hampshire’s White Mountains region. Fed by mountain springs and runoff, these small high-gradient streams remain cool throughout the summer. Most importantly, they are home to wild native brook trout.

From mid-July through mid-September, I put away my pond rods and pond pack, river rods and large chestpack and vest, as well as my waders and heavy boots. Out comes my arsenal of short light-line fiberglass rods, compact chestpacks and fannypacks, hydration packs for hiking, and lightweight wet wading boots and neoprene socks. No more canoes, no more big water wading, and no more big fish.

While my summer fish numbers are high, rarely do I catch anything larger than eight inches. Although I catch the occasional stocked or nonnative fish, 95% or more of what I encounter are wild native brook trout. The waters I fish are remote, undeveloped, undisturbed, and ruggedly beautiful. Rarely do I see another angler, or even evidence of one.

The season starts late on mountain headwater streams due to lingering high water, cold water temperatures, and the fact that many fish spend their winter downstream in the low country. The small stream season also ends early due to fall leaf drop that makes fishing nearly impossible, and what I refer to as the “Great Fall Brook Trout Disappearing Act.”

As this year’s small stream season wound down, I briefly turned my attention to a popular big fish lake-run river fishery, a large river with resident fish, and what would be my last chance to fish for wild native brook trout in a remote pond before the season closed. I also checked out my home river, the middle Kennebec in Maine, to see how fall conditions were progressing.

A couple of weeks later, with the New Hampshire fishing season about to close, I decided to make one last small stream trip on the final day of the season. I had postponed the trip twice already due to poor weather conditions, and while the conditions were not ideal, it was now or never.

Unlike summer when I fish in quick-dry pants, SPF shirts, and lightweight wading boots with neoprene socks, I put on a pair of long underwear along with warm pants, fleece shirt, light jacket, fingerless gloves, and a blaze orange hat as there were bird hunters out and about. With cool air temperatures, cold drizzling rain, and 45-degree water temperatures, it was notably different than just a month earlier.

I set out with my normal late fall lack of confidence. Success would be measured by catching a fish or two, and total failure was as likely as not. I started by working a section of high-gradient stream that had produced very well for me in mid-September. In close to two hours of scrambling over slippery wet rocks and leaves, casting to every likely spot, and trying to keep my fly clean, I never even saw a fish.

With limited time left before the low fall sun dropped behind the mountains and the woods got dark, we moved to another stream. I had caught a lone brook trout there as the season wound down several years earlier. When I arrived, the stream looked larger than it actually was due to accumulated leaves that acted as small dams and raised and widened the flow.

The stream is part of a two-stream six-mile long headwater system with no stocking and no competing species. A fish-blocking waterfall keeps stocked and nonnative fish from downstream at bay. It takes nearly four hours to fish between access points, something we did not have time to do, so we pushed downstream from a small bridge with the intention of hiking back out through the woods when we were done.

After picking apart the first several hundred feet of stream without so much as moving a fish, it seemed as though the season was going to end with another fall bust. As I pushed forward with ever-lowering expectations, I caught something out of the corner of my eye. While I was focused on the deeper water on the opposite bank, there was a brook trout finning in the shallows on the inside bank just 15 feet away.

The vermiculated back and white-trimmed fins left no doubt as to what I was looking at. And the fish was large for the stream. I slowly backed away and cast downstream to the fish. Nothing. I gently lifted the fly and cast it again, twitching it the second it hit the water. The fish moved toward it, rose to the surface, and took the fly in a swirling motion.

As I played the fish in the shallow water and leaves, I yelled to my friend who came downstream and netted the fish for me. We removed the fly and admired the size, coloration, and natural beauty of this wild native fish. After releasing the fish, we high-fived, knowing that it was likely the last fish of our all-too-short but very rewarding headwater stream fishing season.

We pushed further downstream over the next 20 minutes or so with me in the lead scanning the water for fish from high on the bank. After circling back upstream to find my friend, we climbed out of the streambed and into the woods to hike back to the truck. The woods were starting to get dark; we were both cold, and we knew it was unlikely that we would find another fish as any fish is a bonus that late in the season.

While small by most standards, the fish was a trophy to me. It was wild, native, and caught from an undeveloped unspoiled stream on public land in one of the most beautiful places in New England. The fish was the only one we caught in close to four hours of fishing, and the last I will see from my mountain streams for another seven or so months. And it was caught in a memorable way.

Less than a week later, I caught a 16-inch brown trout on a No. 20 BWO on my home river. Standing knee-deep in the burly 2,500cfs flow 50 feet or so from the nearest shore, the fish circled me twice. At one point it got too far downstream in the heavy current and I figured I’d lose it. Unable to pressure the 6x tippet in the fast water, all I could do was follow the fish around until it tired.

While I will remember the small wild native brook trout from the last day of the New Hampshire open season, and talk about it for years to come, the notably larger and harder-fighting brown trout two weeks later from my home water was just another fish to me. The former created a lasting memory while the latter was just another one-time event.

There is a lot more to fishing than fish. And what we call a trophy has sadly become associated with length and weight, not the overall experience or the circumstances the fish was caught under. To many anglers, if a fish is not measured in pounds it is unworthy of their attention. Many place a higher value on a large freshly stocked fish than they do a small wild native fish. And sadly, they see no real difference between nonnative and native fish.

I think back to my first trip out west, a three-week sojourn in my mid-twenties. I fished many of the most famous trout waters in the country including the Beaverhead, Big Hole, Bighorn, Henry’s Fork, and Madison Rivers, Slough and Flat Creeks, and Hebgen Lake. I caught brown trout over 20 inches and rainbows approaching 20 inches. But it was a 14-inch wild native Yellowstone cutthroat from Slough Creek that I remember most.

There is something truly special about wild native fish in natural waters. It does something for me that no other type of fishing can. It’s about much more than fishing. It is an overall experience that connects me to what remains of our unspoiled natural world beyond the heavy hand of man and the impact of our long-standing belief that we can “improve” everything.

I don’t want our waters improved. I don’t want our fish improved. I’m okay with small fish. I’m okay with low numbers. I want our natural waters and wild native fish left alone and treated with the respect, care, and protection that they deserve and need if they are going to persist for generations to come. I want to end my season with a memory, not just another fish.