Going Native: Brookies are very powerful little adversaries despite their size. Photo by Jim Lapageby Paul Fersen
The last houses on the road are behind me. The sign that warns me the road is not open in winter slips past. The road narrows and winds its way up the mountain following the course of a tumbling little river that carves a stony path toward the valley. Halfway up the mountain I begin to look for pools and plateaus where the water slows and rests momentarily. Here I'll find what I'm looking for.
The rod is short and very light, nearly weightless, the reel small. I step into the river, looking up stream for a pocket of still water. Finding a large pool, still no more than five feet across, I slip up behind the big boulder protecting its flank and peer at the dark water. That she is here there is no doubt. A mere flick of a cast and the bushy fly drops into the middle of the pool hanging momentarily.
A slashing mini-explosion sucks the fly under and I lift the rod, the tip diving toward the water, putting a lovely curve in the rod. While a beautiful fly rod is a work of art, it is a masterpiece when bent with the weight of a fish. The leader cuts through the water in dizzying circles as the brightly colored fish fights for survival with a Herculean effort belying its diminutive size. I marvel at the disproportionate strength and attitude of this tiny fish, holding the rod high, watching the rod tip follow the fish like a searchlight. Finally it comes to net. Reaching down I slide my hand underneath. She fits in my palm.
The fish is dark green with a marbled pattern of lighter shades across the flanks and back. There is a distinctive sprinkling of red dots, surrounded by blue halos, along the flank. The belly and lower fins are reddish in color, the latter with white leading edges. She is beautiful. Easing the hook from her jaw, I drop my hand into the water and in an instant she rockets under the nearest rock. I stand and head upstream, looking for the next little pool.....
