Issues → September/October 2007 → Interact → 10 Things to Do →

Trout Fishing in the Battenkill River

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(page 6 of 6)

Perhaps not. When they're hooked, large trout sometimes shoot directly upstream, or try to slog it out in midriver, or exhaust themselves by jumping repeatedly. I might get lucky.

I focused on the first challenge, which was to wade into position to make my cast. A careless step would send telltale ripples across the pool, and the trout would dart back to his hideout for the rest of the day. So I moved downstream and crossed in the quick water of the pool's tailout. Then I climbed the bank and pushed through the alder tangles to a spot directly across from the fish. I paused there until his nose showed again. Then I slipped down the bank and into the water.

The river spread 100 feet wide here, and my trout lay about ten feet from the far bank. To place an accurate cast over him, I'd need to wade to midstream. There was virtually no discernible current. I began to edge forward, shuffling my feet slowly, wary of making waves. He rose again. I was closer, now, and I saw the size of his nose more clearly and mentally compared it with those I had judged on other rivers. A 16-incher, at least. Maybe 18. Not a Battenkill five-pounder. But a most worthy trout.

I had to resist the impulse to cast. I was still too far from him. One careless presentation would spook him. So I waded forward cautiously. He showed his nose again. He had established a rhythm now, and I had learned it.

A hollow thunk echoed from somewhere upstream, but it barely registered. I was focused on my trout. I was almost there.

Then the man in the canoe materialized out of the mist. He paddled placidly down the middle of my pool, directly over the place where my trout had been rising.

"Any luck?" he asked cheerfully.

I shook my head. "Nope."

"Say," he said. "You got the time?"

I glanced at my watch. "Three-fifteen."

"Thanks." He waved. "Well, good luck, then."

I watched the canoe's bow waves roll toward the banks. The canoe became a shadow before the mist enveloped it. I waded to shore.

Three-fifteen. I had parked at the covered bridge at nine. In effect, I had been stalking that toad for over six hours.

I waded carelessly back to the car. There was no need to worry about my waves spooking fish. Every worthy trout in the river had been sent scurrying by that one man in his canoe.

I stopped at the diner on the state line for coffee. The guy behind the counter said, "Been fishin', huh?"

I nodded.

"Do any good?"

I smiled and shook my head.

"Listen," he said. "Out behind the field here they were jumpin' all over the place last night. Nice ones, too. Eight, ten inches, some of 'em. You oughta try it there."

"Thanks," I said. "I appreciate it."

He gave me a free refill, and when I stood to go, he said, "Just take that dirt road there and you can park beside the field."

I did. The river ran dark and deep along a granite ledge overhung by hemlocks. It was beautiful and peaceful in the mist, and I spotted the rings of a few rising trout and caught two of them. They weren't the "nice" ones the guy at the diner had seen, but they were five or six inches long, beautiful miniature Battenkill brown trout.

I fished until dark, casting rhythmically, no longer in search of a worthy trout, and finally the sediment of fishing sank to the bottom and my purpose became pure.

And so I made my peace with the Battenkill.