And This, You Won't Believe

While spending innumerable hours in the out-of-doors, fly fisherman are frequently exposed to the copious peculiarities of nature. Twenty years ago while flogging the White River near the hamlet of Bethel, Vermont, I brought to net an otherwise healthy rainbow that was configured in the form of a perfect "L", for example. I’m quite sure that a similar oddities have been witnessed by just about everyone that meanders afield for any length of time.

This narrative recounts the events that surround one of the most extraordinary, yet TRUE, episodes of wildlife behavior I have ever been privy too.

The setting is the heralded "Y Pool" located on the main branch of the Swift River in Belchertown. In the interest of anonymity, the protagonist in this tale will be called, John, a semi-regular visitant to the popular tail water.

Seems John and his elder son, Mark were reveling in a particularly rewarding afternoon on their favorite expanse of water when a diminutive native brook trout mistook John’s offering for natural forage and affixed itself to the business end of a size 20 TMC 100 (not at all uncommon). Upon realizing his plight, John was in no particular haste to dispense the beast and proceeded to procure his surplus fly line, content on allowing the brookie to flounce in the current while this simple task reached it’s ultimate conclusion. While reeling, and paying no head to the fluttering salmonoid, a brown trout, of epic proportion, jolted from a nearby undercut and instigated a violent attack on the defenseless critter, intent on satisfying it’s normal daily requirement of protein (not at all uncommon). The ferocity of the attack was such that the once secure fly was knocked free of it’ hold and fashioned itself through the brookie’s gill plate and the minuscule hook became impaled within the kipe of the mighty brown trout as his potential meal slid helplessly up the delicate tippet section of John’s leader. Now the plot thickens.

Upon witnessing this abnormal turn of events, John became intent on bringing both fish to net and formulated a more appropriate battle plan as the brown trout sought the comfort of deeper digs and began to relieve John of a fair amount of backing in the process, brookie still in tow.

After a modest bout, the brown drew weary, and John was able to retire the better part of his weight forward back onto his reel, the end of the conflict now well within his grasp.

Standing midstream, John initiated his traditional landing ritual, the brace of trout now gently gliding up the current tongue where John’s landing net awaited their ultimate demise.

In an instant, from the depths of the conflicting currents, another brown tout, of similar proportions to the initial combatant, laid claim to the dangling brookie in a manner reminiscent of the initial assault, bicuspids deeply imbedded within the flesh of the disabled salmonoid.

With his trusty Brodin previously at the ready, John made one fleeting swipe of the net in a desperate attempt to corral all three victims and put closure to this rather erotic episode.

The advantageous position of the team of salmonoids at the moment of engagement, despite their rather cumbersome proportion, allowed John to cradle all three specimens within the confines of his now overburdened net.

John, not being one to wallow in melodramatics, roamed to the far shore line and calmly dispensed his catch back into the confines of the stream with only the brook trout exhibiting the effects of the dubious conflict. In time, it too methodically swam away.

Good fishing and safe wading,

JB