“Diamonds on the Edges of Their Fins,” by Bob Romano
Wild brookies, even those that are a legacy of past stockings, are gems. Photo: Bob Romano
I enjoy summer’s sweet lemonade and the occasional ice-cold beer, butter dripping off a cob of corn, and after-dinner visits to the local Dairy Barn. When Van Morrison comes on the radio, I always roll down the windows on the old truck while turning up the sound. But like trout, I’m not a fan of the heat and humidity that seem to descend earlier and remain longer with each passing year. That is why, of all summer’s earthly pleasures, one of my favorites is rain. Not the icy storms of winter or those cold, damp downpours of early spring, but a warm, lazy drizzle. The kind that takes all morning to develop, then continues into the afternoon, and does not end until sometime around dark. What the Irish call a “soft day.”
This morning, as dark clouds release their moisture, I grab the aluminum tube from the corner by the door and rush out to the truck. The pickup’s wipers are as threadbare as its tires, leaving long streaks of pollen across the windshield. The truck’s faded red paint is marred by rust, and the back bumper is dented from a late-night run-in with an obstinate oak. Even so, it gets me to the stream.
After rigging my little bamboo fly rod—built by Pennsylvania artist and rod maker, Tom Whittle—I pull the hood of my rain jacket over the brim of my cap and tramp through a field of tall grass sprinkled with fleabane, feverfew, and daisies, their long stems bent with rain. Finding a well-worn deer trail, I slip between the prickly branches of barberries and wild rose, and after reaching the forest, descend toward Bonnie Brook.
Hill Songs
Located in the foothills of the Kittatinny Mountains, the freestone stream begins as a trickle, seeping from a pond nestled between low-growth blueberry bushes and tall cedar trees. After a short distance, the brooklet slips through a culvert under a rarely traveled country road, closed during winter because of its crumbling macadam. From here, the current winds leisurely in the shade of a hemlock forest before falling briskly through a ravine where narrow falls create a series of plunge pools.
Brook trout inhabit this upper stretch, combining with rainbows as the hemlocks give way to hardwoods. Farther down, near its terminus with a large river, brown trout think dark thoughts while brooding in their shadowy lairs. The trout in this stream are the tenacious survivors of a stocking program discontinued in the 1970s. With the exception of the browns, these wild fish are small, most no longer than six inches. A few fit snugly in the damp palm of a hand, though there is the occasional surprise 10-incher.
No more than fifteen minutes from our home, this improbable, six-mile bit of fluviatile paradise depends on rain to maintain its population of trout throughout the heat of the summer. Too much of a downpour and the brook turns dark and roily, but there are days like this morning when the rain falls gently, cooling the air while gradually bringing the water level up.
The previous evening, I’d tied a few flies, hoping to imitate the many beetles crawling along the branches of bushes this time of year. My version of Vincent Marinaro’s Jassid pattern features palmered black hackle over a size 18 dry-fly hook. Snipping off the barbules along the top, I glue together two tiny, iridescent feathers from the neck of a male pheasant and tie them over the trimmed hackle so that they lie flat. After that, I cut the underside of the hackle in the shape of an inverted V to make it easier for the fly to float. It’s a simple pattern that has worked well for me during summer months.
Willing and Able
Now, with the rain still falling, my calves immersed in the cool, clear current, I cast along the edge of a plunge pool where a brook trout no longer than my little finger swings through the surface to grab the fly. Not long afterward, a second brookie, a few inches longer, rises through the little fall of water at the head of the pool. Another, this one six inches long, grabs the fly as it drifts beside a fallen log.
The fish appear giddy, as if wishing nothing more than to dance with me in the summer rain. Some slip the hook. Others require my assistance to be released. I miss more than I hook. One trout wraps the tippet around a sunken branch. As if counting coup, it snaps off the beetle.
Downstream, the first rainbow, its crimson sash flashing through the surface, darts from an undercut bank to grab a newly knotted fly. After zigging toward a confusion of tangled debris, then zagging toward the far bank, the fish breeches the surface with a mighty leap.
It goes on like this for more than two hours.
On the short drive home, I find myself tapping the dashboard as Paul Simon breaks through the static on the beater’s radio. When Trish asks how it went, I reply, “It’s as if the fish had diamonds on the edges of their fins.”
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.
