Few fisherman will wax on about "the one that got away" when "the one" is an 8-inch brook trout that slapped at a grasshopper in a creek no wider than five feet. It's normally reserved for monstas: stripers...lake trout...megalodons.
Here in Vermont, we don't have the luxury of fishing high-alpine lakes, world-famous waters like the Big Hole, or Deschutes, or casting into the Atlantic.
Instead I seek out opportunities in my backyard, and fish obscure creeks next to Route 12, or behind the ball fields in town. These waterways are peppered with boulders and overgrown like the Amazon, making casting beyond tricky.
Medallion-shaped pools cascade down into even tinier pools between large boulders. It's here that the most beautiful trout live.
They don't grow to be 24-inch hogs but I'll tell you, they hit a dry fly with the speed of Apollo Creed and fight for dear life as you pull them from the comfort of their little pool. And they're as beautiful as any fish you'll ever see.
As the old proverb goes, Great Things Come in Small Packages. This is the Brook Trout's story. [words + photos] Justin Cash