Trout Brook

Standing there that morning I could picture FDR sitting in a wheelchair (that the secret service agents painstakingly cut a hundred yard swath through high grass for) right near the water’s edge but behind a slight rise with tall grass shielding him from the view of numerous trout in the next pool up as It’s the place any serious angler would be while hoping to toss a terrestrial on target to a big brookie undoubtedly lurking there. Most likely his girlfriend/mistress was probably next to him too, with the war and everything associated with it not even a distant thought.
Placing as good a cast I could make the fly miraculously landed so perfect (just in the right place, the right way) it was one of those moments when one questions the supernatural for, if I’d practiced hours standing in the same place they’d be little chance of even getting close to the delivery made seconds before (it was that difficult a target). Just as the fly drifted inches from the deep undercut I saw a large shape casually swerve out from an invisible hidey hole and grab it. Setting the hook (not really, tension did it) I instinctively turned the rod left, away from his lair in order to bring the fight out into the open. As could be expected the brute then swam strait for the deepest place and bulldogged until growing weary and letting me steer him downstream and around the bend to my feet.
Waited a few minutes and amazingly repeated the performance. Unhooking the second fish I told my son “And THAT’s how it’s done” (yeah, right, pure luck but….it sure did feel good!). Had to bend down the grass so he could cast (with a cast on – broke his arm falling off a bike a few weeks earlier- luckily, he’s a lefty, in this situation). Incredibly right on target with another char struggling against a taught line backed by ‘boo. He played it by the book with me gladly being gillie.
On the way back my son asked “Did the President Roosevelt really meet his ‘friend’ here to fish?”. Oh yeah, you read the sign I told him adding “and he chewed on celery sticks and only drank spring water, too”. Heh, heh.
*Note – Trout brook is the real name of the stream and it’s a limestoner (populated mostly by Salvelinus) that never exceeds 64F even during the hottest, driest summers. BTW, all char were handled gingerly with wet hands and released unharmed. Flies used? That’s a secret.

Never better than with the offspring. Great post!

What a great way to spend the day with your son. Wish I could convince mine to go fishing with me.