Reminisces of a small stream at the end of the Trout Season.

It is late September, and the weekend of fishing started early on Saturday morning at the ‘it’s still dark’ time of 06:00. The Lady/Boss/Girlfriend was starting the first day of her new job, and so what else is a guy to do with a free Saturday? The weather was fantastic; the end of trout season was looming a hateful ten days away; and the decision to go fishing was made the previous week. After waving ‘the Boss’ off at the door, I grabbed my gear and headed for the upper river for a day’s lonesome fishing.

I had thought that my previous visit to the stream would have been my last for the season, and so I felt as if my life had been somewhat extended. As I parked the car and began tackling up, the view of the valley beneath me held an almost electric quality. Hell, I was so excited with this ‘bonus day’ of fishing that I’d picked up a couple of nice cigars the night before, but in my defence, I aimed to celebrate every second that I was able to spend on my favourite stream before the trout season ended. They weren’t expensive cigars, but they’d do nicely; this trout season was going out in style.

In my short time fishing this stream I have fallen both obsessively and jealously in love with it, and if anything, it has taken priority over all the other waters I fish. I already know it intimately, and selfishly, have stopped naming it publicly. I like fishing there alone as (realistically speaking) it is only a small stream where even a group of two can feel crowded in some places. I like to fish the stream at a gentle (almost lazy) pace, as of course, this type of small stream fishing dictates.

The thing I love most about fishing small streams, however, is the fact that you are fishing in solitude and off the ‘beaten track’. The fish here are generally smaller, faultlessly finned, and true images of how perfection should look.

It is 06:30 and the early autumn sun is still yet to rise, but the air has a tender warmth about it that allows shirt sleeves to be rolled up comfortably. After a ten minute walk to my normal starting spot (a small pool no more than 10’ long with small, but confident, white riffles creating its head and tail) I find myself once again awed by the majesty of this place. An innumerable array of sparkling light shafts glisten brightly as the morning’s sun bounces off the countless dew droplets which have formed over night on the grass, leaves and trees. The river glistens welcomingly, as if she knows that this will be the last time we will meet until next March, and holds a thin layer of mist above her. Standing in the early morning twilight, with only the sounds of the stream gurgling by and the morning song of the awakening birds as company, I smile as I tie on a #14 tan Klinkhamer; content with the situation I find myself in: my own personal ‘Heaven on Earth’.

All but the last of the ferns has turned a deep brown and the multitude of thick trees are all signalling the arrival of autumn with splashes of golden yellows, browns, and oranges. The stream, passing below a low ceilinged corridor of trees, offers shade and cover to a few rising trout that are rudely interrupted now and then by parachuting leaves, gently floating to the water’s surface. The shedding trees shattering the confidence of the rising trout for a small moment.

I am using my cheap 7′ #3 weight rod, and for all its inelegance and ‘budget level’ features, is the firm favourite of my rod collection; the smallest, but most adventurous and mischievous of my children if you will. Crouched low, and slowly working my way up to the head of the pool, I pick up three small trout that quite fancy a lunch of ‘Size #14 Tan Klinkhamer’ – no side salad please. All were as wild as the hills, small, but fin perfect, muscular, and immediately furious with me for interrupting their early morning feeding. All three fish were taken from my ‘starting pool’, and I smile sadly to myself as I realise that I won’t be passing this spot on the way home; those were my last wild trout of the season from that particular spot. It is like waving goodbye to a child on their first school away-trip. Take care until March.

Fishing my way through the steep banked corridors of trees, knee to waist high in wild stream water, the trees (all of which have now reverted to their autumn wardrobes) paint the valley and its stream in rich golds, yellows, and olive browns.

At one point, as I stand mid-stream lazily changing my fly, I hear a frantic rustle in the foliage on the far bank. Instinctively my head shoots up and as I focus on the area of the disturbance, all falls silent. My eyes locked onto the source; a collection of small undergrowth containing a sinister shadow moving with ancient malevolence within their shady cover. Just as I started to fear that a monster with three heads might pounce from within and devour me, out pops the black, furry, weasel-like, and roguish face of a rather inquisitive mink. Successful in ‘shoo’-ing the animal away, I make a mental note to log a call with the Environment Agency when I get home – we can’t have those things running about if we want a river with fish in.

As the day’s morning drew out and turned into mid afternoon, I had caught two dozen wild fish and covered more than two miles over rough terrain. I was tired, but carried on fishing, casting to a riffle at the head of a pool. At that point I heard my name called. At first my mind reasoned that I must be really tired; but no, it was Sam, and luckily not insanity grasping at me.

Sam had been fishing down-stream of me for the past few hours, and had successfully picked up around a dozen fish himself, and, standing on the opposite bank more than 7’ above me, he stood there with a knowing grin on his face, “How many you had? It’s fishing its head off”. With a grin and a wink, I replied “I’ve had one or two.” It is indeed a good day my friend.

The two of us fished together for the rest of the day, casually leap-frogging one another’s position up the course of the stream, both silently knowing that it would be our last visit for the 2008 trout season. We were but both determined to end the trout season in style, with plenty of fish, and by enjoying every second of it.

In order to appreciate the solitude of this magical place, we kept a respectable distance from one another; but still, the odd “Yes!” from one of us could still be heard, and would make the other’s head shoot up to see an angler complete with grinning face, a bent rod, and a wily but infuriated wild brown trout attached to the end of it.

Hatches of sedges, stoneflies, olives, and midges, were all seen in abundance throughout the day, although the hugely opportunistic nature of these small wild fish needed no more than a Klinkhamer or CDC & Elk to spark an interest and a confident rise.

At the end of the day, and in the warm, early evening sun, we both sat chatting about fish, flies, tactics for the next season, and enjoying a stream chilled beer in what seemed (and probably was) a very distant field in relation to where we had initially parked our cars. We had both caught more than two dozen glorious wild brown trout, and were both as happy as any fishermen can be after a tiresome, but very successful day at the end of the trout season.

At dusk, I had been on the stream for nearly fifteen hours, and was seriously tired. So, Sam and I started the three mile hike back to our cars, stopping now and again to either fish a section of stream that just screamed for one last cast, or to take a few seconds rest in the fading warmth of this early autumn day in September.

About the Author

To read more about Gareth Lewis, please see the About page by clicking here.