Fish, On: Seeking Vermont’s Mysterious Brook Trout

Everything is calm and quiet in the back wood mountain streams of Stowe, Vermont. The wind cannot reach inside the valley, so the only noise made is the sound of the brook flowing over the rocks, and small waterfalls. The forest is dense in trees, but limited to just a few different types of plant species. Mostly ferns and pine trees. The bright green of the ferns blends into the darker green of the moss on most of the pine trees and rocks. It looks like I am in British Colombia with all the green, and the moisture in the air. I feel far away.

I am searching for brook trout, one of Vermont’s native fish. Salvelinas fontalis. Brook trout are members of the Char family, the same family as Lake Trout, which are also native to Lake Champlain. The streams I fish for brook trout are just about as tiny as the fish that live there, but size is not what I came for. These fish are wild, meaning they have not been stocked by Vermont Fish and Wildlife, so they have been surviving there in the same streams long before any people called Vermont home. They are a gem, and an indication that Vermont still has land void from the destructive touch of civilization.

I sit on the bank watching. With only a few chances to cast into a pool before the fish are spooked, I plan my attack carefully and figure out where the best drift would produce a fish. I cast my dry-fly into the top of a deep pool, with clear water and a rushing waterfall in the front, the perfect habitat for fish. The churning of water from waterfalls creates more oxygen in the pool, while simultaneously keeping the water cooler. Aquatic insects live most of their life on the stream floor as tiny nymphs, clinging underneath rocks to hide from the current and predators. When the water gets warm enough, they make their clumsy ascent to the surface, where their wings break through the casings, and they fly away to mate. This is when they are most vulnerable. A dry-fly is a small imitation of the adult insect, that sits on top of the water to mimic a moth-like bug.

As my fly is drifting on the water’s surface, I wonder what the trout are seeing. I wonder if they can see the little “hot butt” I made on the fly, or the coloring of the dubbing that I used for its body. I wonder if they take this fly just to humor me for how much time I put into tying them. Perhaps the trout just sees the shape of a bug and a silhouette more than anything. Or maybe it’s the noise of the fly hitting the water that initiates the aggressive strike. If you are in the right spot, and present your fly in a natural way, you will get a take, and see the fish rise like a porpoise, and eat your fly. Something truly poetic. The way the dark green and slimy back filled with yellow and red spots comes arching out of the water, the way it takes your imitation without any hesitation, dahhhh, that’s it.

Fish live in rivers. Duh. But what people don’t think about often is what this means. Current. These fish spend every second of every day fighting this thing that changes constantly. Most of the time, the fish face the current because it is the easiest and most effective way to feed, without expending much energy. In a way, it controls them; every decision must be calculated and has to be based on how the current will affect them. It’s almost as if they are forever caught up in this current. Something that causes constant struggle, but provides vital qualities.

As a fish wiggles, stagnantly moving against the current, people act similarly, to a different kind of force. I see how the fish move along with the flow of the water, and draw some sort of fisherman-ly philosophical relation with how a lot of humans blindly face, and follow the powerful forces of money and capitalism. It seems like everyone is only worried about money; how much they make, how much they have, how much they spend, whatever. Trapped in the current of cash and credit. It’s consuming, both literally and figuratively.

The flow of the current provides a sense of direction for the fish. When they face the current, they know where they are. It grounds them. But sometimes the current is violent. Strong surges from storms send debris and murky water rushing through their world. And like the current, money does provide essentials for living, like shelter, food, water, and medicine, but it still has an entrapping and suffocating effect on those who are wealthy, as well as for those who are poor. At what cost does it become more of a problem?

As I am thinking about this question, I look around. I am in one of the most beautiful and unchanged places in the U.S. These fish are healthy and have been surviving here for centuries. Then I think about places close by, places that are not so lucky. Rivers poisoned by chemicals and fluids used for drilling, and extracting oil. The exploitation of nature’s beauty and well being just for money, profit, power, and oil, that is when the current becomes more violent, more of a problem. And this is just one small example, that effects all. The scariest part is, we live in a country that holds money over everything. A place where companies and people hold more of a value over profit than the water that runs through the ground. This is something that seems so wrong and backwards to me. Probably because I depend on the quality of the water to do what I love. Hanging out with the fish.

The irony is, as I am standing on the bank looking at my gear, I realize how much money I spend on this stuff. My rod, net, pack, fly boxes, flies. It’s hard to admit, but I’m still a part of it. As a 22-year-old college student on the verge of graduation, I am fully emerged in the current-cy. Trapped. Yet I also have to acknowledge how lucky I am to be in a situation that allows me to be on the river, in such a beautiful place. These conflicting ideas are confusing so I figure it’s a good time to get back in the water, and I cast my fly.

But what if everyone turned away from the current of currency? The question is persisting. If money became less of a guiding force in our world, what would happen? More art? More music? More Poetry? More fly rods? These are all things that have practically become obsolete today because the professions yield little money, but at one time were the pinnacle of a highly intellectual world (with the exception of fly-fishing, which is actually pretty intellectual, believe it or not). People’s minds would be free to pursue true passions, and excel in them. The world would without a doubt, become a better place. There would be less competition for power and superiority, because everybody would have their own niche that they were best at. Maybe money retards the brain of creativity and passion, and without this driving force, we will all become better connected to, not just each other, but with the ground we walk on, the water we drink, Mother Earth, and all the fish fighting her currents.

And now I have a fish on the end of my line, fighting that current, and also me. I feel the sporadic vibrations in the tip of my rod, the dips, dives, and jumps of the running fish. After a short fight, the fish is tired out, and I can at last inspect its glory. As I lift the fish out of the water, I imagine what it sees. The transition from water to air, the sudden change in the current, or lack-there-of above the surface. The fish is in a new world, being held by a new creature. Is this what alien abduction is like? Is this enlightenment? I wonder if it knows I mean no harm. I see the fish’s jaw clamping, and opening repeatedly, as if it had a twitch, gasping for water in the dry atmosphere. It looks like it is choking, but as long as the gills are moist, the fish can still breath. I then lower the fish back to the water slowly, and cup the fish in my hand and watch it swim around, reacquainting with its home. As the fish gains energy, I open my hands and release the small fish into the rush of the current, and watch as it lowers itself in the water column, aligning with the current as it finds shelter beneath an overhang of a rock. The fish disappears, and I move along to the next hole.

I can’t help thinking that one day this whole river could be gone. Perhaps dried up, or just vacant of all nutrients able to support life. I think about what a tragedy it is, and how, not everybody can see this in the same light as an angler. I can’t help but think it will get worse. Unless something changes in the way people bow to money as if it were a physical current in a river, I can only see further destruction. This is my job as an angler. To create change we must educate, and nobody can articulate the treasures of clean water better than a fly fisherman. Everyone should know about, and realize what we are doing, and at what costs the love for money can yield. We use to live off of our land, but now big time corporations and gas companies abuse it for profit.

I arrive at the next hole, gently cast my fly into the water, and watch. I stand there with hope. Hope that a hungry trout will take a break from the current and indulge me, and hope that eventually people will take a break from obsessing over wealth. As my fly reaches the end of the pool, a small trout strikes, fish on.

James Mugele is a student at University of Vermont, and an avid fly fisherman.