Blog Post by: Karl Seckinger
- August 7, 2012 - 12:50 PM
I got the directions from a living Italian, he pointed, looked both ways, and then whispered, mentioned big exposed rocks, washed out road corners, one next to a dried up culvert that had been hit by the county grader far too many times, and why, I’m trying to find the newest holy grail of troutDom.
I’m pretty sure it would be easier to find the Elysian Fields, directions, supplied by none other than one long since deceased Greek, who went by the moniker of Homer.
How would you know when you were in the “E” fields, “simply located at the western edge of the earth”, well how could you miss that, besides standing next to the largest river ever, Oceanus. Oceanus, you know the river big enough to flow around the earth. Heck we’ve all fished it right?
I on the other mosquito bitten hand, am trying very hard to locate a rivulet that may turn into a creek under a canopy of alder brush that shrouds the flow I’ve been told that ends in two majestic ponds full of wild brook trout, the smallest, pushing a squaretail pound.
After vetting every ditch or puddle for just about a quarter of a mile I hit what seeped from the ground, worked itself into a moving silver flow that measured 59 degrees.
During moments of severe perspiration making what felt like small rivers run down my back seem bigger than what I’m following, hacking over, around, under, and sometimes just pushing through, I wanted this to turn into viable trout water.
After what truly felt like forever, I heard through the understory, what sounded like mini rapids.
I knelt, looked downstream, well maybe not stream, and there was a pool of water maybe twenty feet long, not more than 12 feet wide, laced along its edge’s with alder leaves. Just past that, rocky little ripples, and another pond of the same size.
I chose the west edge and after putting my rod together I impaled a night crawler. Then, with every fiber in my being, I hoped. 29 brook trout later, eleven that did go over a pound, I was so happy I kept a limit.
I took my boots off and soaked my feet until they were numb. I rinsed my shirt. I ate my lunch. I heard little birds chitin and chatnin.
I took out my compass and deadheaded my way out to the road. It took just a smidgeon over an hour. I took off my creel and tossed the trout, ferns and all, on ice in my cooler. I could have made a map right then and there, but I didn’t. The trout whisperer