Fishing for Brookies

Unedited and unpublished but plan to work on it.

by Michael Lee

He leapt out from behind a tree along the trail like cat pouncing on his prey. “Warden Walter Wishoneke” read the name badge on his soaking wet uniform. We were his prey - three very tired and very wet fishermen about a mile into the long three mile hike back to the road after our day of fishing in an isolated pristine pond in the North Woods of Maine.

“OK boys,” said Game Warden Wally, “open your creels and get out your fishing licenses!” The surprise on our faces surely showed and he grinned and added, “Kind of wet day to be fishing isn’t it?”

It surely was. It had started raining on our hike in early in the morning. I had been looking forward to this day. In my three years of fishing in this part of Maine the native brook trout had eluded me. I wasn’t a fly fisherman which limited the number of places I could legally fish for ‘brookies’. I had met Sam and Jeff some time back on a chat forum about fishing in Maine. They both used to live in a small town some 30 miles north of my place in Maine and were returning for a weekend of fishing. They planned to hike in to this remote pond that they used to successfully fish as kids and teenagers growing up in this wild and beautiful part of the state. Although the weather had somewhat dampened my spirits after we met at the gas station in their town, I was reinspired by Sam’s assurance that “This is great weather for catching brookies.”

By the time we got to the pond we were all very well soaked. Although we wore rain gear the rain was so heavy at times the water found its way in. Our boots were no match for the puddles and small streams we trudged through. With the rain came strong gusty winds and even with the temperature around seventy, our wet bodies braced for the chill of each gust. We made it to the pond, assembled our poles, baited our hooks and began to fish. I had a strike almost immediately and hauled in the first fish for the day – a six inch brookie. I was about to throw it back when Jeff reminded me that it was at the legal limit to keep and the small one’s tasted great. Into my creel he went but I hoped to land some bigger ones. We moved spots a few times over the next hour to try to find the bigger ones. Finally we hit the right spots – places along the lake shore where small streams fed by the morning rains were flowing in. With the flow of water came tasty grubs and insects that the brookies came looking for. Our worms must have been additionally attractive as we began to catch some beautiful eight to ten inch trout. We spread out a little so as not to cramp each other and so didn’t really know what each was catching other than we were all fully engaged in baiting worms, removing trout from hooks, and becoming oblivious to the persistent rain and chill winds blowing across the water. The hours passed and being more selective now, I released many smaller fish, keeping only those that came in at ten inches or more.

My mind wandered to the descriptions I had read of these beautiful fish we were catching. This particular variety of trout is a true native – not a stocked variety. This was its natural habitat and thanks to careful management and the remote location it has survived and even thrived to the extent that fishing with worms is permitted here. Most other ponds in the area allow fly fishing only. I wasn’t sure if it was the weather or the strenuous hike but we were the only ones here on this day. By early afternoon we gathered and decided we had enough fish, each with our bag limit of five. Sam remarked however that even if we had cheated and taken a few more who would be out here on a day like this to check on us? He imagined the game wardens would all be snug in their cabin playing cards on a day like this. As Sam and Jeff ate the last of their lunch before the hike out, I allowed myself one final cast. I immediately felt a strong strike and carefully played the fish to shore. It was a lunker and looked to be bigger than any I had caught so far. My mind kicked in as I thought to myself, “I’m going to keep this one. Who cares if I have six fish in my creel instead of the five limit. Besides the first one I caught was barely legal size”. I was fishing this time from a rock a few feet above the pond. I brought my prize fish to the surface and decided that rather than try to lean over the rock and risk a plunge into the lake, I would hoist the fish up on to the rock. As I lifted it, I was once again in awe of its beauty and size. “He’ll have to go on the grill,” I muttered to myself. “Too big for the frying pan”. Just then the fish gave a flip of his tail and released himself from the hook with a splash and disappeared from sight.

Now standing in front of Warden Wally with my open creel, I thought again about that fish. “Thank you, fish” I thought. “If I had landed you, I would be in big trouble right now.” Wally checked our creels and licenses one by one. He looked a little skeptically at my first fish and I thought he would probably bring out his measure to check him, but he didn’t. We all seemed to pass muster, each with the bag limit of five and current Maine fishing licenses. He decided to hike the last two miles out with us and became quite jovial about the miserable day and lack of fishermen for him to check. Even when we reached our truck he hung out for a bit to chat some more. Eventually he departed and we began to change into some dry clothes we had left in the truck.

Sam also took off his wet boots and pulled down his socks. Our eyes popped as four more brookies, two from each sock, fell to the ground. “Damn,” I laughed, “Seems I have a lot more to learn from you local guys about fishing for brookies.”