When my dad was in high school, he and his four best friends bought a trout stream. I know, it sounds like something out of Trout Fishing in America, but they really did. Can you imagine, getting out of school and heading out to your own trout stream, to fish with your best friends? Somehow, that very idea of that makes me feel like I got my priorities completely wrong at a very early age.
I didn't even own a fly rod until I was 40, but I’d heard about this stream my whole life and finally, one day when I was home visiting, it occurred to me that I should ask if I could go fish it. I mean, how many people have a trout stream in their lineage?
They had continued to stock it for years, even though nobody had fished it for the last 20. My dad hadn’t been there in so long, he had to call his one surviving friend to get directions! I won’t tell you where it is exactly, but it's a little creek that becomes a tributary of the White River in Vermont.
When they say in New England “you cahn’t get theya from heya,” it ain’t far from the truth. North and south they have dialed, but east and west is always some weird drunkard’s walk of secondary highways, byways, and dirt roads. When we finally got there from southern New Hampshire, we were greeted by an incredibly dense and verdant valley, hemmed in by nearly vertical ridges. Unfortunately the stream had been beaverized, with dams about every 100 feet, creating a lush swamp in the resulting river bottom.
I had to walk through that very lush and dense swamp to make my way to the stream. The regularity of moose tracks along the way made me more than a little nervous. From what I've heard, you would rather run into a bear than a moose. When I finally got to the stream, I found it was about 8' across and, beneath many of the dams, almost that deep. In the crystal cold water there I could see fry, every pool holding hundreds. Knowing what cannibals trout — especially brook trout — are, I imagined each stretch must hold one lunker or so. I mean 20 years of stocking and no fishing ...
The brush was so dense I couldn't even make a bow-and-arrow cast. I was trying to dapple with just my leader sticking out, but even that wasn't working as the weight of the line would pull the fly back into the guides. Eventually I tied a half hitch around the tip and poked around a bit, not knowing what I would actually do if I found a fish, but determined to try.
It was tough, actually impossible, so I worked downstream until I finally found the pond where I could see dozens of fish rising at the edge of casting range against one of the beaver dams. Given how hungry brook trout behave even on pressured water, I figured things were about to get easy. Instead, I found myself throwing everything I had at them, but getting ignored like an awkward teenager at homecoming.
Finally, I tied on a Hornberg, and instantly the catch was on. My first cast didn’t even hit the water before a fish took it out of the air. These were beautiful little fish. The images I have of them don't do them justice (they never do). Where most brookies are olive green, these were indigo blue—each uniquely beautiful, a little galaxy of stars and dreams.
Unfortunately right when the day started coming together, my dad began honking the horn, signaling for me to come back. Imagine, you wait your whole life to fish your heritage, are the first person to fish it in 20 years, take a couple of hours to figure it out, finally get it dialed, haven't yet hooked the big one, and you have to leave.
I had always planned on going back, maybe even someday owning it, but right after that trip, my dad told me he and his one remaining friend had grown sick of paying the $120/year of taxes on it and were preparing to sell it to the state.
So I went on living my life. I put out of mind those beaver dams, that pond, and the beautiful little jewels it held. For five years, I forgot all about the trout stream that might have been mine.
So imagine my surprise when dad called last night and offered to give me his trout stream. Apparently it’s “not worth enough to sell, and the state doesn’t have the money to keep it up.” I might just have to step up here, and maybe someday, I’ll also have somebody to leave this little gem to. Besides, I just have to know what is downstream of that dam.
stephen hill replied on Permalink
Thank you for sharing this wonderful story.
Ed Edder replied on Permalink
Pretty certain "your trout stream" belonged to a native family before someone carved/shot/stabbed them up and took it.
"lineage" is probably not the right word.
Anonymous replied on Permalink
that sounds like fun, maybe we should do it more often. where can I find people to stab and take their trout stream? please let me know. I might share.
Adam replied on Permalink
Humans are NOT native to North America so the first humans there claimed it as their own when it wasn't. Couple that with the fact that many native American tribes regularly attacked and killed each other in land and resource disputes. How is that any different from Europeans coming over and attacking and killing the native Americans that aren't really native anyway?
jon replied on Permalink
I too have sympathy for the natives, but your comments could apply to anything including your driveway, so I'm not sure what personal offense you took from this nostalgic piece. In fact, if the natives wanted it back, I would give it to them. How many people would say that? Cheers.
Paul Brown replied on Permalink
What a fantastic story, every anglers dream to own some water of their own.
I’m sure you will continue to enjoy it.
Bob Triggs replied on Permalink
It doesn't have to get any better than this.
Rod Barford replied on Permalink
Wow every fly flicker's dream! If it were me I'd move heaven and earth to make it a reality, so I'm somewhat mystified by the author's attitude - I know I couldn't walk away from that stream without forming a definite plan in my head to clear away some of the brush and make it fishable; dismantle a few of those beaver dams would be a good start.
Every one of us dreams at some point of owning a trout stream, and here you have it. You are truly blessed.
Patrick Lemay replied on Permalink
How lucky you are!
I'm just curious about the technicality of it. What do you own? The water? The right to fish? The land on each side or under it? How was that deed made? I'm curious about the historical aspect of it.
Choooks replied on Permalink
Vermont is not a place where you can own the streambottom, so if you can find access, you can fish “his” stream.
jon replied on Permalink
Well, "technically" unless you accessed the stream from public land and walked down it, your comment makes no sense.
jon replied on Permalink
They bought acreage and the stream runs through it. I mean, that's how owning any piece of water with a stream on it would work, isn't it?
Joel Hoffman replied on Permalink
i have a 120 bucks sign me up
Manny the Actor replied on Permalink
This was a really fun piece to read, filling me with envy. Hopefully you are able to continue to use this stream, and pass it along. Truly one of a kind. Thanks for sharing.
Virgil Jones replied on Permalink
Great story! Let me know if you need some help cleaning that stream up.
Chris Burns replied on Permalink
Wow! A nice story...and owning your own trout stream. A dream come true for many a fly fisherman.
James Hillard replied on Permalink
Nice story, that property and stream are special. Get that if you can. I love catching native trout, among rocks, laydowns, steep banks, laurel, logs. That stream is a treasure.
Ron Misiura replied on Permalink
Thanks for sharing. I thoroughly enjoyed your word pictures.
Roger Kilburn replied on Permalink
Your blessed. All flyfisherman would love to own there own trout stream. Don't forget to give permission if people are nice antespectful that would like to fish it.
Brandon Begner replied on Permalink
Loved this story. I hope you'll share more as you explore your very own trout stream.