Fifteen-year-old me rushed out the door the moment I realized there’d be a few hours of free time on Christmas Eve morning. Chaos ruled the holidays then, and the woods and water beckoned… I had little interest in partaking in the family activities. Transportation was all man-powered for this young angler, and anything I could get to on foot or by mountain bike was fair game. My radius was quite substantial, but there were some relatively nearby favorites.
One was a freestone stream with stocked and wild trout, a 4-mile ride on roads and trails by mountain bike. I called that stream my “home water.” It wasn’t anything hugely special, but it was close enough that it was readily reachable. That was where I cut my teeth as an angler. That stream taught – through its seasonal changes, tumbling currents, and ebbs and flows with the weather – the ways of trout, bugs, baitfish, and their interactions. I learned it well and can still picture its distinct pools and pockets, and how I had to lead a fly through them to draw out a squirming, colorful little trout.
At that time, I’d gotten so intimate with my home water that I had named a particular fish. One that seemed to be the biggest, baddest male brown trout in the stream, and I called him Grandfather. He had shown himself first that same spring, rising to a hatch of mayflies called paraleps (short for their latin name, paraleptophlebia adoptive). Quaking with anticipation, I bunched fly line in my hand to make a bow-and-arrow cast. It flew, and I can still see giant trout’s mouth closing around the fly in my mind’s eye. He beat me handily. Thus began a nearly 8-month battle. The next two times I’d encounter Grandfather, he wouldn’t be as obliged to bite. He spurned what I threw at him and after September, I would lose track of him.
The main trail gave way to a single track, shaded by tall white pines and covered by fall’s remnants of glistening, wet leaves. The rain had been proceeded by snow, which was all gone now but added to the overall dampness. I hit puddles in the low spots, splashing a strip of grayish mud up my backpack and hood. The trail was descending down into the deep valley created by the creek. There was one spot on the docket, a deep pool below the remnants of an old, abandoned cart bridge. This pool had long been a source of mystery, as one of the few on this stream where it was deep enough that it was hard to see the bottom in normal flows. It just felt like a place that might hold a monster.
Logic followed, that with early winter water temperatures falling and fish settling into the lazy spots, there should be something in there to catch. As I made my way down to it, the brown water swirling with leaves discouraged me a little. But, when you put in the physical effort of biking all the way to get to the stream, you fish. I rigged up my old fiberglass Shakespeare Wonder Rod, strung the line through the guides, and tied on a fly. It was wormlike in some ways, on a curved shank hook with red egg yarn wrapped up the body. It also had silver tinsel wrapped up the body, which in retrospect I find immensely silly. It was heavy enough to penetrate the turbulent flow, and – I figured – a worm would be on any trout’s mind.
I cast into the heart of the pool, wiggling the rod tip to feed line and let the fly sink, then kept contact, trying to feel any light bite a chilled-out fish might give. It may not have been more than three or four casts before a dull thud transmitted up the line. Lifting the rod, it immediately became clear to me that this was a big fish. There was a couple minutes of give and take before I got the fish near the surface, my heart rate increasing with every passing moment and my hands beginning to shake. The Wonder Rod was bent to the cork when I made the final push to slide the fish’s head into the net. I gave a shout that echoed off the valley walls when the battle was won. This had to be him.
The robust head of this male brown trout featured alligator-like jaws and a kype that would make some adult salmon jealous. The flanks of his 20-inch long body were yellow, grading into olive brown on his back and studded with large black spots and blue halos surrounding deep red blotches. Grandfather was a stunning specimen, the first truly large trout I’d ever caught. On top of that, he was clearly a wild fish, denoted by the striking colors, perfect build, and completely intact fin rays. Inexperienced though I was at the time, it wasn’t lost on me how special a wild brown trout of this caliber was in such waters, and I rushed to get photos before releasing him. Knowing there was little to no chance of improving on that success, I called it a day. The bike ride home was a giddy, adrenaline-fueled one. It felt like I covered those 4 miles in no time flat.
