Trout Dreams

By Ryan Gorsche | Monday, May 28, 2001

Imagine standing knee deep in frigid water, soft pond muck squishing between your toes. An inch long leech hangs from your calf, and the mosquitoes are feasting on your blood. These things matter little to you. No, your goal is to swing a long rod back and forth on a four count rhythm, like a metronome, hoping that some wily fish will be fooled by your meticulously crafted lure made of feathers, string, and fur. This may sound like nonsense, but this is fly-fishing.

Fly-fishing is a time for showing off. Impressing others with your delicate cast, your knowledge of the hatch, and your ability to sense when the trout rise. It separates the boys who catch their fish with bobbers and worms from the men who bring their dinner home with artful imitation. It is for this reason that I tossed aside my finely crafted fly rod and found myself waist deep in Lake Fairlee with a bobber and a can of worms.

But first, let's start with the fly rods.

The trip had been conceived hastily over drinks. I shared my finest stories with the boys, filling their heads with fantasies of two-pound trout and managed to sell them on the idea. On Tuesday evening we would venture out to the waters and try our luck.

There is nothing finer in life than preparing for a trip into the outdoors. I went home that evening and, shirking my scholarly responsibilities, began sorting through my gear. The rest of the evening was spent at my desk busily testing leaders and sharpening hooks, dreaming of tomorrow's fish. Late into the night, I finished packing the gear including a fresh pack of Dunhill cigarettes and a tin of Skoal Spearmint dip. It was going to be a mighty fine trip.

Two spots had been recommended to us, the Boston Lot Pond and Lake Fairlee. Hoping to find the perfect hole close to home we headed down Route 10 towards West Lebanon and pulled off at the parking lot across from the dam. We were told the pond was uphill from the parking lot. Seeing no available trail we bushwhacked our way straight through thick foliage, no easy task while carrying two nine-foot fly rods. The brush was thick with various flora, but mostly poison ivy. Climbing the hill was difficult and I found my brown flip-flops inadequate to negotiate the terrain. Somehow between slipping backward down the hill and cutting our feet, we managed to break out into a clearing—filled with power lines. We paused for a moment to light a celebratory cigarette, filling our oxygen-deprived lungs with savory tobacco smoke. This was flavor country. We stood silently for a moment, admiring man's glorious steel structures that rivaled the nearby birches and oaks in beauty. We finished our cigarettes, rejoiced in our accomplishments, marched onward, and finally found the trail that leads from the parking lot to the pond. In our excitement to find fish we had overlooked it—odd, since it was wide enough to accommodate two vehicles.

Soon enough, we found our chosen body of water, and it was a welcoming sight. Boston Lot Pond is the quintessential northern pond with thick green trees, glassy smooth water reflecting the sky, and a lone loon diving for food. I took in the sight for a moment before preparing our gear and lightin another cigarette. After a winter cooped up inside, it was a wonderful feeling to be back on the water.

I walked about the periphery of the pond looking for the right spot. Nearing a
submerged birch tree, I made my first casts in months hoping to discover a few fish feeding off the swarming insects that hover above the water. No such luck.

Fly-casting is best described as a motion between ten and two o'clock, but more like twelve. Many will proclaim that casting is easy; those men are fools. If your line is not caught on the trees behind you, it ends up as a giant knot in front of you. Line, leader, and fly tangled together in a mess. If you manage to cast your line straight, you'll surely scare every fish in the water when you slap your line. Assuming there are even fish there. Once you have mastered the cast, you will understand why fly-fishing is more art than sport.

I moved further down the banks. Concerned that I might become tangled in the trees on my back cast, I decided to wade a bit into the pond. The water was cold to my Texas blood, but I braved the stinging chill anyway. Spotting a salamander, I caught him in my bare hands and showed my trophy to my companions. Their eyes indicated that salamanders were not what they came for, so I returned to fishing. Moving about in the water proved to be as challenging as fly-casting. The bottom was a muddy sinkhole fighting me for my flip-flops. I nearly relinquished them to the abyss, but in a last ditch effort I pulled my feet free and lunged for the shore, falling face down in the water.

By now the only thing biting were the bugs, the leeches having retired for the evening. Our can of 'Off' was not living up to its intended purpose. We realized our best hope was to smoke as many cigarettes as possible, as the second-hand smoke proved both a pleasurable and effective repellent.

My companions, who were unversed in the matters of fishing, demanded lessons, and so I obliged. Larry managed to hook himself on the first cast and me on the second. Everyone had a good laugh; then we started bleeding. Realizing the danger we were in, I removed the fly from the leader. He attempted the cast again tangling the line with so many knots I had to switch reels. Other than these mishaps he proved a natural.

Boston Lot Pond remained still; as night fell we realized our chances of hitting trout, or any fish, were decreasing rapidly. We reluctantly decided to call it quits and packed our gear.

As we reached the car I realized we had failed in our attempts to capture dinner. A quick trip to Shaw's Supermarket, though, offered us a remedy: salmon steaks. That night over dinner we discussed tomorrow's plans; Lake Fairlee would be our next target.

Wednesday afternoon, I brought along the fly rods but decided to pack some spinning rods as well. I hoped they would save us from another crushing defeat.

We jumped in the car, drove through beautiful green, rolling hills and northern farmland, and shared our opinions on the weighty matter of fishing strategies, debating the benefits of night crawlers versus red worms. We headed into Thetford, Vermont, where we stopped in a gas station to purchase licenses and perhaps talk fishing with the locals. I bought my license, but rather than finding anyone familiar with the waters, I instead found an obese sixteen year old girl who snapped her gum and pointed her chubby finger at the bait when I asked about secrets spots. Ah, Vermont.

Again we hit the road, our one-day licenses stuffed into our pockets and three cans of night crawlers resting on our laps. We passed some more interesting countryside and eventually found our turnoff to the water. Lake Fairlee is another beautiful locale, but this time, unlike Boston Lot Pond, we could see the fish jumping. The vast majority of the lake frontage is private property, and, being in Vermont, we opted against trespassing, instead finding a nice little spot designated 'public.'

I reached into the trunk of the car and opted to try my luck with some spinning rods and bait. The lake was rather wide open and we did not know how far or close the fish could be. The fly rods would have to wait. We rigged up the rods with slimy Canadian night crawlers, lit our obligatory fishing cigarettes, and headed for the water.

Success came early on Lake Fairlee. Within moments a fish had taken my line, and the fight was on. I reeled in quickly, and found myself holding a scrappy little bluegill nearly the size of my hand. The fish had inhaled the worm, and it took a fair bit of negotiating to remove the hook, but the job was accomplished. I released the little fellow back in the water.

Then it was handshakes all around. The bluegill was not much, but we knew there would be more to come. I baited my hook and cast once again. It was early evening now, somewhere around six, and the action began to heat up. I quickly reeled in bluegill after bluegill. It was nice to have my confidence back, but we wanted something more substantial, enough of these boring little sunfish.

The bluegills figured our tricks out soon enough, and now it was time for some of the other species. Lake Fairlee is stocked with trout, and it was these fish that we were determined to catch. The trout could be seen jumping for insects, but they always appeared just beyond where our line could reach. As we debated various tactics, another fisherman drove to the public area; we quickly set on him like hungry dogs, assuming that since he was elderly he must be knowledgeable.

Unfortunately, he gave us no worthwhile advice; instead he caused me to lose the only trout of the day. As he stood mumbling nonsense about his son and Lake Fairlee, something took my bait. I reeled furiously, but the man still continued jabbering at me, ruining my concentration. The fish finally was within two feet of the bank when it spit the hook. It was a beautiful trout, and I cursed loudly. The man quietly shuffled to his car, removed his rod, made two quick casts in the pond, and quit for the day, satisfied that the fish were not biting.

The action still continued for us as we reeled in a few perch and bluegills. We decided to switch baits, though the worms were working marvelously. I tied on a green jig head with a floating minnow body. It took only a few casts before we had a taker, a very small, but ferocious northern pike perhaps eight inches in length. At this time, fishing stories began spilling. One companion told us of the 8-ft. hammerhead shark he had caught off the Maldives. I assured him the hammerheads in the Gulf of Mexico are larger, as are all things in Texas. I was certainly impressed with the selection of fish at Lake Fairlee. Within minutes we had another pike on the line. It took the bait not more than four feet from the bank, and it struck with a crushing vengeance. It intended some serious harm to
our brave floating minnow.

However, our greed took over as we saw those trout dance just out of reach. Finally, I sucked up the courage and waded into the water for a second day in a row. I must admit khakis and flip-flops were not the ideal way to dress, but they would have to do. The thought of those Northern Pike biting a chunk from my leg disturbed me at first. My friends assured me it was an unnatural fear, and I told them that many fishermen lose countless fingers to these aquatic monsters. As I reeled my minnow in, I had some nibbles, but no strong bites. We finally decided to head home, dripping wet, and disappointed that we had no scored no trout.

The ride home was still as beautiful as it was on the way out. Stopping at another grocery store, we purchased more salmon steaks for a second night. Grilling our fish, we talked of going again.

I'd recommend Lake Fairlee to anyone interested in gaining some confidence before heading out to larger more challenging waters. It will certainly make for a fine day with plenty of action, but I must warn you be careful if you find yourself bushwhacking through the woods as we did.

Next week The Dartmouth Review goes wild turkey hunting.

Trout Dreams

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