Upstream A Bit

     Topographical maps show an area of slack water with no contour lines crossing the stream for a very long ways. From the nearest logging road it’s more than a mile in, five times that from the asphalt. It’s grouse and woodcock country, so there’s bound to be alders and woodcock come fall. But it’s the promise of brook trout that draws me in.

     It’s a stream noted for wild brook trout and it weaves through back country, most of the way tumbling down bony grades. But one stretch in the middle is slower, where the water winds through a valley with high undercut banks shouldering the stream. Large brook trout aren’t usually found in the pocket water of tumbling streams. It is more likely they are king of the meandering streams, hiding in the deep holes or under overhanging banks.

     The place needed a closer look.

     With backpack loaded and accompanied by my dogs, following a compass course to the west from my parked truck, I headed into the woods.

     It was easy going, mixed softwoods and hard. Often the ground became soggy enough to warrant detours. Moose tracks turned up the mud. In a gully more than ten feet deep, we encountered a stream too wide to jump. Downstream a couple of hundred yards a half dozen rocks provided stepping stones to cross. Soon we came to alders and the progress slowed. We had to be close to our intended goal.

     So many things in life are like that…you get close to your goal and the progress slows. Finally we broke from the alders onto a bony beach. In front of us water tumbled over rocks after funneling between boulders. Upstream the water appeared a glassy slick lined on either side by alders.

     It appeared to be exactly what we were looking for.

We Went For a Walk

     Our premise was to find a beaver pond with trout in it. Years had passed since I had found a good one. Pack rods were stowed in our backpacks, along with lunches, trout flies, and basic first aid gear. The dogs would accompany us and their excitement felt contagious. From an old abandoned logging yard filled with a kaleidoscope of wildflowers we headed east.

     The path petered out and we stepped into the shade of hardwood trees. Up in the treetops a grouse flushed. The old skid roads had filled with raspberries and made for miserable walking. Inside the shade of the hardwood trees the air felt cooler. How many people today abandon the trails to make their own way through the forest? Not many I suspect.

     Moose sign was everywhere, droppings and tracks.  Deer tracks, large and small, indicated a healthy herd. A well-worn game trail led down to the first pond we had hoped to find. It looked more like a meadow than a pond, all filled with silt until perfectly flat and then covered with the greenest of grass. After a good mowing it would have made a delightful baseball field.

     Heading to the north through the hardwoods again, we crossed another logger’s skid road and soon entered a stand of softwood trees. Another grouse flew from up high at the sound of our dogs. Clearing the top of a small knoll, we looked down on an expanse of water.

     It couldn’t have looked much prettier, but no recent beaver activity could be found. The water looked brown and warm. Only a trickle of water flowed out of the pond and there didn’t appear to be a brook flowing in.

     Our dogs loved the water and poked along the shore. Maggie swam out to one small island and claimed it for her own. Trout seemed to be absent, so after a short break we trekked onward to the west, passing under beech, maple, and yellow birch trees.

     The third beaver pond we found had water in only one small corner next to the long-gone beaver’s neglected dam. Clumps of very green grass sprouted in the mud, as Mother Nature reclaimed what the beaver had tried to change. It was time to abandon our quest and head home.

     Following the contour of the hill, we continued to the west, knowing we would eventually intersect a logging road that would lead us back to our truck.

Mayflies

     The month of June is ruled by mayflies. Sure, there are stoneflies and caddis flies, and on the last trip down to the stream a half dozen damsel flies were holding a congregation. But hatching mayflies get the attention of the fly casters.

     This past week a maddening array of varieties flittered over the water. March Browns were still present with Quill Gordons also in flight. A monstrous Green Drake landed on my hand, it looked to be well over two inches long.

     Little trout rise with abandon. Wiser trout are larger and less likely to take an artificial.

     So we swap flies and swap them some more. Bigger, darker, spentwing or dun? There are so many choices.

     Just like in bird hunting, if it were easy we would get bored.