"T" Creek seemed the obvious choice. Sunday it had been overcast and chilly. The stream fished OK, but I could only take fish on a nymph. Logic suggested that the hot weather might allow fishing from the surface, and I did want to explore the lower-gradient, upper-stream. Also, since I couldn't steal away from home until after 11, the fact that it's one of the closest streams to Trenton sealed the deal.
Above: "T" Creek is a lovely, high-gradient stream that holds wild brook trout.
Arriving at the stream around 12:40, I parked my car halfway up the ravine, about where I stopped last time. Geared up, then walked downstream for a few hundred yards along the water that fished the best last time out. As I cut into the first pool, I noticed a light-colored mayfly ascending. This tipped me to tie on a #14 cahill.
In the event, two fat brookies rose to my dry fly on the first pool. No need to try anything else - I don't think I had a single refusal all day, and several fish nearly swallowed the fly - a sure indication you've got what they want. I managed to fish the entire afternoon with this one fly, which became progressively tattier with every fish. After the last fish, it found a place of honor in the sweatband of my hat.
Below: The first fish taken. For some reason the camera/flash has rendered the white fly and lower jaw a shocking pink.
The first run - which was perhaps a dozen feet long and calf deep - set the pattern for the day. Basically, any structure bathtub sized or larger, with moderate current and water mid-calf to knee-high, would provide a strike. Usually one fish. On occasion two. The first run actually contained two deepish pockets, one toward the front, the other half way back, which is why it offered up the two fish.
As is typical of this kind of stream, the larger the structure, the bigger the fish.
Because the fish were so responsive, the fishing soon found a lovely rhythm. Generally, the fish were holding in the deeper, riffled water, often close to, or just below the edge of a boulder. While they were somewhat skittish, the high gradient of the stream always meant that you were approaching the next pool from below, with at least some cover. So it wasn't too hard to get into position to cast. The tumbling waters also masked the splash of the line.
Really, the only difficult part about the fishing was to make sure you covered every angle. In the turbulent water, the fish themselves couldn't always see your fly. You needed to present it a few times before giving up... often the strike came of the fourth or fifth presentation through the same general area.
Above: Trout taken on large, slow pool, about mid-calf depth. These colors are rendered fairly true. Note the white cahill fly, by now a bit chewed up. Below: A typical pocket, which yielded one fish. Photo is a mosaic of 4 overlapping images, stitched together in photoshop
By about 4 o'clock I was beginning to tire of the chase. I had lost count at around a dozen brookies, and towards the end I must have been pushing 20+ fish. For me, unless there's some new challenge, it's a time when I often call it a day, even though the rate of catching hadn't really slowed at all.
I approached a gorgeous plunge pool with the idea that this might be the last. Five or six drifts across the pool, which looked the ideal depth to hold a fish, but no strike. Then as I extended the drift onto the rock, I saw a head pop out, just as I lifted the fly off the water. The problem was the fish was holding on the far side of the rock, and from where I was standing, I couldn't see the strike until it was too late. I approached as close as I dared (the rock was hiding me from the fish), but I still couldn't see much of what was going on behind the rock.
The next 5 minutes or so was one of the most frustrating in memory. Twice more the same fish struck, only to have me pull the fly out of its mouth each time. The funny thing is, that even though I felt tension on my line a few times, I never felt I'd pricked the fish with my hook, and so kept at it. The strikes came more infrequently, but still they came. Another, just missing my fly. Ultimately, I approached to a rod length from the rock, and dapped my fly into the current, holding it on a short line, and dancing it over the strike zone of this fish. Two more strikes, the second pretty solid, and this time I felt for sure I'd blown it. I swore out loud, which I almost never do when fishing.
But I tried again. Perhaps the fish was as frustrated as I was, because 20 seconds later, he finally came out into the center of the pocket, and I hooked him solid.
Below: The pocket of my frustration. The fish was holding behind the rock in the lower right corner, just behind the mossy bit. This photo was taken from a higher angle than I dared when fishing, so most of the strikes were hidden from view, behind the rock.
Below: The persistent fish. He's at least 10", maybe more.
I landed the fish, took the photo, and released him. Part of me wanted to quit, but another part of me didn't want to stop enjoying the stream. I compromised by simply sitting on a rock with the current rushing by, enjoying the dappled light, and the cool air rising off the water. After ten minutes or so, I picked myself up. It's an easy climb out of the stream bed onto the road, and short walk downhill to the car.
The spring of 2009 has to be one of the best NJ fishing seasons in memory. I'm just glad I have the time to treasure it.
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