What The Trout Said...

What The Trout Said
about Fishermen and Fishing

    On June 7 of this year, the well known, syndicated outdoor writer Dave Wolf published a piece wherein he took me to task for my story about my dog Sneakers (8/23) and my comments on catch and release (8/30) both published in The Potter Leader Enterprise. Well, I'm no FDR, prepared to deliver a "Falla" response to the dog story, so instead I asked Sneakers what he thought I ought to say. He said "Tell that Wolfman to take a hike...I have the best dog house in town. And, by the way, I was on the World Wide Web before he was!"

    Wolf's double-barreled wing shot rather missed the mark. Were she still alive and teaching, I'd suggest he enroll in my mother's 6th grade "Reading Comprehension" class. His second barrel (an abridged Fish Commission press release) of No. 6 shot (full choke) aimed at my observations on the inevitable consequences of engaging in the blood sport of fishing called for a more extensive rebuttal.

    I was rooting around in my file cabinet the other day and came across a story I had completely forgotten about. Written in 1990, it is a take off on the then best selling book, "What The Trout Said," by Datus Proper, Nick Lyons Books (1982, 1989). I sent the draft to Datus and we later spent an enjoyable afternoon in his study when I was on an extended western fishing trip in 1990. He even invited me to stay over and fish with him on his own trout stream. I wish I had, for in the summer of 2003, Datus died, at the age of 69, from injuries sustained in a wading accident on Montana's Hyalite Creek, not far from his home.

    Reproduced herewith (without any editing) is my catch and release story from 16 years ago. Were I to write it today, at a time in my life when thoughts of the grim reaper pop up unbidden, I would have included a caution about the inevitable trout mortality that occurs.

WHAT THE TROUT SAID...About Fishermen and Fishing

    About the first week in December, I left the stream to make my last entry in my fishing journal for the year. A good year in the main. 508 trout caught, 503 released to be caught again, some, perhaps, by that freckled-faced youngster I met on the Jones farm. Good luck to you, future fisherman!
    Not meeting many fellow anglers (17, to be exact, in 108 trips) I was rather hard put during the slow times (ah yes, there are and always will be the "slow" days) to find ways of passing the time. (Fishermen are notorious "gabbers"; I suspect some actually lie in wait along the bank to regale the unsuspecting with tales of heroism and awe).
    It was on one of these days when I realized that, perhaps, I talked too much. Indeed, maybe all fishermen talk too much. Maybe the real gift is to learn to listen... to the wild, to the birds, to the water, but most of all - to the trout. It occurred to me the trout knew the answers, if only I would listen.
    Lest you think I've gone bonkers you should come to know Datus Proper. Datus is the first (to the best of my knowledge) to talk to the trout and sales of his published conversations What The Trout Said, Nick Lyons Books, New York have been substantial. But Datus and his trout mainly talked about fly design and behavior and stuff like that. I had some different questions.
    Let's start with a beautiful June day on "Approved Trout Waters" upstream of my hometown. We'd had some lousy weather through May - water abnormally high and the normal pattern of mayfly hatches had been upset through most of the early season. I'm having it out with a nice rainbow I had caught earlier in May (the 26th, to be precise):

Rainbow: Hey, don't I know you? Yeah, must be you... I remember the silly fishing hat. (I'm listening, but not too sure I like what I hear. My straw hat is light, cool and keeps the sun out of my eyes).
Me: Look you silly twerp... if you're so smart, why are you on the end of my line. A little more respect, or into the frying pan. Understand.
Rainbow: Sorry about that, but you'd be bored too, if you were in my shoes, er...fins.
Me: How come?
Rainbow: Well, there's not much to do. No fishermen.
Me: I've noticed... and such a nice day too.
Rainbow: Yeah, every year it's the same thing. April and May these guys are all over the stream... casting just about everything but their spare tire and the kitchen garbage. They wade up and down, down and up, up and down, crashing about. Believe me... it's a barrel of laughs for the most of us. Of course, some of the younger trout and especially my hatchery cousins get taken in. But what do they know. A piece of worm looks just like a good pellet.
Me: Wait a minute. As a rainbow, you started out in a concrete raceway yourself. So how come you're here?
Rainbow: Well, I was lucky. The year they put me in the landowner got ticked-off at some "6-pack joes" who trashed his property, cut fences and stuff like that. So the next day he posted his land. So I had a chance to learn the ways of the stream. Believe me, it wasn't easy. Nearly starved until I learned to muscle out the natives. And it's still tough... you see - the brooks and browns - can have little ones. I can't. Another reason it's boring... sex, you know.
Me: Let's not get into that. But you can't have it both ways. Posting gave you a chance, now you're complaining because no one shows up.
Rainbow: Don't be too sure about "both ways." You've heard of catch-and-release; in fact, you caught me a few weeks ago. You see, it's like this: I like the game... fishing, that is. I just don't like ending up dead. So I'll cooperate... give you a good battle. Just don't go horsing me around, stuffing your fingers up my gills. How would you like someone ramming his fist into your lungs! Now you fly fishermen are pretty good about it, especially when you bend the barbs down. Look... you can hardly see the hook mark from our previous encounter. (And he was right - just a little pink scar). But those bait fishermen. They're absolute murder. That #6 hook goes all the way down. Just can't get it out without shredding my insides. Could cut the leader and the hook will dissolve, but it's still awfully chancy.
Me: Ok. That makes some sense, especially since it's beginning to cost a king's ransom to raise you guys in hatcheries in the first place. But what about the kids, or the people new to fishing. Seems like sort of a bum deal for them not to be able to take a few trout home to dinner.
Rainbow: You got it! A few, not a whole tubful. Frankly, I suspect most of us end up as cat food anyway. Remember - we are supposed to be a "delicacy." Savored, with a nice wine, fresh garden greens, parsley garnish... the works.
Me: Food, ah yes. No, no... I mean food for thought, rainbow. Maybe you're right. I'll think on it. And I did, as back into the pool went one plump Salmo Gairdneri.

    I have a strange feeling that the rainbow, despite his distance from his wild relatives on the West coast could tell me much more. Perhaps, more than I cared to know. But for a virtual cacophony of sound, you can't beat the wild brook trout of this part of the country.

    It's late in October. Certainly, the best time of year to be out in on the stream. Brilliant blue sky, golden foliage, sparkling mountain stream, the typical "jump-across" kind. Brook trout water - no need to be especially fussy about fly selection. Lay it next to the grassy bank...bang, slap, dash... you're on to molten reds, whites, greens flashing and twisting in the current. And goodness - THE NOISE!

Brook: Hey you, what do you think you're doing.
Me: Fishing, stupid. What do you think?
2nd Brook: Yeah, what's the idea. Don't you know we are THE native trout. That we're way up here in the mountains - the headwaters, like they say - and the canopy of the trees, the steep mountain sides and everything ain't exactly like your lovely pasture steams.
2nd Brook: So you see, man like, we get real hungry. (For a moment I wondered if I hadn't stumbled onto the trout equivalent of an inner-city street gang. But I hung tough!)
Me: That's what I like about you guys. No pretense, no darling behavior - just raw hunger. So you're not very big. Pound for pound, you've got spirit.
1st Brook: Spirit, he says. Same ol' clichés. Yeah, we've always had spirit. But tell me, how much good did it do when you and your "civilization" cut the timber, plowed the land, muddied the water and poured all that junk into the streams and drove us out. You know - we used to be down there in the valleys, too. But blast it all, we gotta have nice cold water. Anything over 65 - 70 degrees and we go... like, "belly up". So we came up here to get away from it all and you drag you butt right behind.
2nd Brook: And leave your trash, more'n likely.
Me: OK. OK. You've got a point: One: I don't have any trash with me. Two: I want what you want: clean, cold water and a chance to "get away from it all." Three: And I'm not going to 'take advantage' - you all go back to live another day. That OK with you?
1st Brook: Yeah I guess so. (I don't think trout can shuffle their fins in embarrassment, but I'm not sure.) I guess you're OK. Com'on, let's see how you do on my brother up there under that log. Betcha can't!

    (But I did. And many more. Actually lost the count. But what fun!)

    Bad enough to be jerked around by pesky brooks; even worse to overhear a conversation by the browns of XYZ Creek. XYZ is a smallish tributary of a local stream that is virtually cut off from the rest of the fish world. Bear with me for a little history.

    To solve an almost annual problem of flooding in the 50's, the Army Corps of Engineers persuaded the politicians to build an enormous concrete ditch through the center of my hometown, little understanding that the real problem was the excessive clear-cut timbering and lack of contour plowing in the valleys above town. As a quick - fix it worked - no more floods!

    In the process, the engineers devised a steep ramp to accelerate the flow of the small XYZ Creek where it joins with the main stem, eliminating just about any possibility of a brown working its way upstream out of the larger river.

    Then, about 10 years ago, as part of a new fisheries management plan the state stopped stocking XYZ Creek. And as night follows the day, the fishermen left to pursue the hatchery trucks elsewhere.

    Consequently, a rather sophisticated population of rotund browns developed in XYZ, quite content, apparently, to have things their own way. The local anglers, for the most part, have left them alone. Indeed, very few locals "harvest" these fish... it's more fun to listen in on their round tables:

1st Brown: You know, the other day I heard old man Garner, lives down by the bend hole, tell a tourist there "warnt no trout left here no more sins the C'mission stopped stock 'n.'
2nd Brown: Probably believed him, too. God knows, we've got a fine gang here. Something about this stream. I certainly have no complaints. Especially since I don't have to compete with those silly stock trout for food.
3rd Brown: But the best news is we're not overrun with fishermen... gives us a chance to feed, spawn, go about our business. I'll tell you though, some of these locals are tough anglers. Some of them actually know what they're doing. That one guy with the spinning outfit... uses trebles. He's nailed me twice.
2nd Brown: I've seen him. But not often. All in all, we've got a pretty good deal here. Hey, have you seen the crazy guy in the straw hat?
1st Brown: Isn't he something. Thinks he can conn me into a "little talk." As if I'm about to tell him anything.
3rd Brown: I pretend I don't hear very well. It usually works.
4th Brown: Well, I don't know about that... I kinda look forward to him. Not a bad guy... just a little, er, "different." I try to help him out from time to time.
1st Brown: Really! What does he want?
4th Brown: Not much. Knows he's got a lot to learn about trout. Figures since we can no longer intermingle with any of our kin in the watershed that we might be like the trout of days gone by. Got me to thinkin', too. Maybe we are.
1st Brown: Thinking again, are you. Probably some of that old "German intellectualism"... they say it's in the genes, you know. Come to think of it, your spots are pretty bright.
2nd Brown: Yeah, but what does he really want.
4th Brown: Said something the other day about us being "unique." Thought it was a shame we didn't get any recognition... that he and his kind should be especially careful about how they use the river. And so on. Not exactly a do-gooder, but, well, you know - concerned and "aware."
3rd Brown: Well, what's he worrying about. We've got pretty good landlords. They don't mess with the stream. Even fence their cows out.
4th Brown: He knows that. But still... he worries about the future. His kids, and his kid's kids...all of that.
2nd Brown: Hey. Did you guys see that rod flash?
1st Brown: That's him. Run for it!
4th Brown: I'm staying. I'd like to talk some more.

Postscript -

Box Score - 3 years fishing on these three streams

Stream	Trout Caught	Kept	Avg./Hr.	# Fishermen
Approved Trout Water	307	16	1.27	21
XYZ	382	4	1.54	8
Brook Trout Stream	61	4	5.0	1

Author's Note: Rainbow trout, formerly Salmo gairdineri, are now classified as Oncorhynchus mykiss ("Trout," Stackpole Books (1991). The re-classification took place after I wrote the above story. Lest anyone think I am employing "overkill" by publishing this rejoiner and tale, let the reader keep im mind that writers have traditionally been loathe to let criticisms lie dormant. I would not be surprised if Mr. Wolf penned a few words, again, in his own defense. Dave's writing track record is substantial; all of us in the writing game welcome an opportunity to write about something "different." And you, the public, are the winner.