“Change-of-Season Trout,” by Bob Romano
Photos: Phil Monahan
The air this morning is still, the temperature warmer than might be expected for October. While sipping tea from a favorite mug, my attention is drawn to a pair of cedar waxwings plucking dusty-blue berries from a red cedar beside our porch. The wooden deck feels cool under my bare feet, but not too cold. I remove a cushion from a redwood chair and lay it on the upper step to prevent moisture from seeping up from the floorboard. Seated, with my mug cupped between my hands, I watch the day unfold like the last of summer’s morning glories.
A mist has dampened the lawn. Beads of moisture illuminate webs woven by spiders. Daisies, black-eyed Susans, and Queen Anne’s lace growing along the edges of the lawn have withered, their simple beauty pressed into memory. It’s been a while since we’ve seen the silver-haired woodchuck waddle out from his den onto the earthen dam behind our pond where he likes to bask in the late-afternoon sun.
The next few weeks will mark the beginning of fall’s great hurrah. The biting wind and rain of November will inevitably give way to months of ice and snow, but not before the celebration of heart-breaking beauty. In a corner of our yard, the scarlet leaves of a young maple are backlit by the rising sun while the hills surrounding our home only hint at the yellow, gold, and russet colors soon to come.
Leaves need to be raked and stove-wood stacked. Moss growing on the siding along the north-facing wall must be removed and the snowplow connected to our Kubota tractor, but I’m drawn, more than any other time of year, to Bonnie Brook. Perhaps there are still a few trout willing to come to a fly before giving themselves over to the icy shroud of winter.
It’s a few minutes past ten when I park my pickup along the cracked macadam. A breeze has yet to stir and I’m able to hear the tick of leaves as they touch down between patches of summer grass turned the color of straw.
I follow a well-worn deer trail through a field, crossing under a grove of white pine. The previous week, remnants of a late-season hurricane disgorged three inches of rain. The sound of the swollen stream rises as the current sweeps through a gorge, sliding over boulders and under fallen trees. Runoff seeps through lush moss and along the jagged edges of shale as I hug a ledge. While working my way down the steep ravine, my wading boots shuffle through soggy leaves and wet underbrush.
The woodland surrounding this stretch of stream is composed primarily of hemlocks and spruce, with some pine and a lesser amount of hardwood. Sadly, the ash trees have fallen victim to the emerald borer, but maple, oak, and a number of shagbark hickory remain. Although the sun is strong, the temperature remains cool under the shade of the mature trees. Suspended over the forest floor is an aromatic blend of damp bark, hemlock needles, and fallen leaves that combines with the scent of decaying ferns and rotting mushrooms.
Bending on one knee, I scan the current for signs of fish. I’m looking for the flutter of a fin, the heave of a gill, a shifting shadow. The brown trout here are wild and have no use for me. Their backs bear dark green markings like sinuous worm trails, allowing these secretive fish to blend in with a streambed dappled with sunken leaves over copper-and-flint-colored cobble. Although the sides of each brown trout are covered with pumpkin-colored spots, their flanks are visible only when they are removed from the current. I have caught bigger trout in larger rivers, but none quite as comely as those that begin and end their secret lives in this little mountain brook.
No rises. Didn’t expect any. I knot a wet fly—one I tied myself—to my tippet. Nothing special: a bit of hare’s ear dubbed along the shank of the hook, a few strands of brown hackle for a tail, and a single turn of a grouse feather behind the eye for a collar. Nothing on my first few casts, but then I come upon a familiar boulder. The current, diverted around its far side, swings beside an undercut bank where I took a nice fish a few years ago. The Soft Hackle ticks off the side of the boulder and sinks before drifting down along the edge of the stream. Sure enough, I’m into my first fish, a not-so-pleased, but nevertheless plump nine-inch brown trout.
I work upstream for at least a mile, maybe farther, fooling a few fish, spooking others. Clouds have rolled in, the wind picking up. There is good water above the bend, but my right knee has begun to ache. There’s always tomorrow, I tell myself, although at my age, that’s not nearly as certain as it might have once been.
It begins to spit rain on the hike out to the road. The sleeves of my flannel shirt are lowered, the collar around my neck raised by the time I reach the truck.
Through intermittent wipers I spot a large black bear with three cubs rambling along the edge of the forest. The yearlings lope into the middle of the road. Their mother follows, advancing between her young and the truck. There’s a slight hitch in the bruin’s stride. I wonder if she, too, has a bum leg. The fur along her broad shoulders has a whisper of white, like the gray sweeping through my once black beard.
Only after the triplets shuffle up an embankment does the matriarch follow. Before lumbering into the forest, the old sow turns to look in my direction. The only sound is that of the wipers as they sweep across the windshield. At first, I notice her muzzle. It is dignified, with a hint of a hump. The tan fur around the snout glistens with droplets of rain. Then my eyes catch hers, and I wonder what manner of brown trout might be found in those chestnut pools.
Bob Romano’s latest book, River Flowers, is a collection of short stories about wild fish, the places they’re found, and the men and women who seek them out. For more information about his writing, visit his website, Forgotten Trout.
