Western Pennsylvania, June, 2002. On a Wednesday morning, Brandon and I ditched the three-hour summer college course called “Oceans and Atmospheres” in favor of a more inspiring classroom.
Weather was perfect, cool and cloudy with that late-spring feeling of freedom — that tangible impression ingrained from years of anticipating summer vacation as a child. And it was too much temptation to resist. Brandon and I drove twenty miles north, into the hills, knowing that a local freestoner had received a second stocking of trout just a few days before.
Brandon barely cut the engine before I jumped out of the truck and into my waders, I strung up lines and laces in no time.
“I’m gonna head upstream past the second flat, into that woodsy section away from the road,” I said to Brandon. “When I pick off a few fish up there, I might circle back around to the lower end.”
“Okay, Dom. Those are big plans.” he replied flatly.
I stared at Brandon curiously for a moment, wondering what he meant by that. Then I waded quickly across a side channel and pushed my way through some new-green underbrush.
Walking hurriedly, with planned purpose and high hopes, I turned back to see Brandon casually walking down the dirt bank, into what we called the Road Hole.
I ducked and dodged around a maze of low-hanging limbs and briers, searching for anything like a deer trail but finding none. Within a few minutes, I realized I’d overdressed again. The effort to reach the road-less area surpassed any need for an extra layer of fleece. So I took the time to unravel from my vest, belt and waders. I removed the thick black shirt, stowed it away, and redressed.
Honestly, one less layer left me no cooler.
Two hours later, worn out and frustrated, I walked back to Brandon’s truck, much slower on my return downstream than was my hopeful and hurried journey upstream. I brought with me the tale of just one native brook trout, caught and released because it was too small to keep.
Brandon was still in the Road Hole.
“How’d you do?” I started to ask.
Brandon interrupted me with a tilted head and a high hand, open palm faced toward me and holding me off, demanding my silence and stillness.
I paused on the bank across from Brandon and stared while he finished the drift with his rod high. After another cast, he spoke.
“Caught my limit,” he said. And he motioned to the stringer on the bank.
“What the hell, man?” I protested.
Brandon spoke while staring at the water. “Dom, when fishing for stockies, sometimes it does not pay to be ambitious.”
In the next hour I fished directly across from my friend on the small creek. And I filled my own stringer with stocked rainbow trout.
We had a good fish fry that afternoon.
READ: Troutbitten | Eat a Trout Once in a While
— — — — —
I’ve kept this gem with me. Brandon’s wisdom went against everything I’d grown into as a trout fisherman, because I’d been taught early on to walk in, spread out and find your own water, to explore and get off the muddy, beaten path.
But Brandon was right — sometimes it doesn’t pay to be ambitious. Sometimes, fishing for stocked trout is just different. Maybe all the fish were dumped into the Road Hole because they didn’t have enough volunteers to float stock the creek this year. And even after the fish have had time to spread out, upstream and down, they may still group up in slower water. Also, freshly stocked fish may not respond to a “proper” dead drift presentation as much as something bright and swung against the current.
My Dad’s buddy ties and fishes an ace-in-the-hole pattern that he calls the Hardy’s Hand Grenade. It’s a grape-sized, fluorescent glow bug, and it kills on his favorite, stocked, Maryland streams.
Does stuff like that always work on stocked trout? Nope. But it’s worth the time to consider the trout. How freshly stocked are they? And what’s their life experience up to this point? Stocked trout can be pretty gullible for a while, so why not take advantage of that?
Fish hard, friends.
** Donate ** If you enjoy this article, please consider a donation. Your support is what keeps this Troutbitten project funded. Scroll below to find the Donate Button. And thank you.
Enjoy the day.
Domenick Swentosky
T R O U T B I T T E N
domenick@troutbitten.com
I used to fish the Sierra’s every summer with family. My dad came up one year which wasn’t the norm. I grew up being told by my uncles that the best fishing was far away from people. When the sun came up I was gone and away from camp as much as possible. I came back one afternoon and my dad said why don’t you fish the stream here next to the tent? I smiled and I’m sure gave a look like he didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. He said “I’ll bet you $10 there are fish right here. I wondered how could there be? This wasn’t even the main stream it was a small tributary. I went over to the bank where a small bridge crossed the water made a few casts. On my third cast I looked over at my dad and was about to say “told you so” when my rod doubled over and I had a fish on. A couple casts and fish later it was my dad saying told you so and me eating crow. I always fished the closest water to me after that. Especially if it’s stocked water.
Nice.
So, last Tuesday I got hall pass and went out fishing to the lower part of Muddy Creek, York county’s special regs section. Got there 11 am-ish, and was anxious to get on the creek. There was a pick up already parked and he was fishing a near-by usually productive venue and a guy (older than me) puled up and started getting his waders on. I decided to get a fast start and hike a mile up stream to avoid all contact and do my most productive winter spots. This is a rigorous jaunt and, therefore, see few casual folks up there. Fished hard in places where i knew there should have been(and probably were) fish and caught a little brownie, on, much to my last resort dismay, a squirmy worm, and had some close encounters with bigger fish on streamers. So, when it was time, I started down stream to my car and threw (somewhat casually- if not serendipitously- but probably more effectively due to the practice of the day, mind you) a #14 rainbow warrior and Michael Gardner wire ab prince nymph into new fully sun lit, but pretty significant green tea colored water flow places. Whammo! Caught 5 stocked rainbows on the way back in locations I’ve never caught fish. The flashy thing (Rainbow Warrior) seems to fit your old analysis.
Right on, Tom.
Does anyone have a picture of the Hardy’s Hand Grenade? I’m just curious as to what it looks like and what color it might be.
No pics. Sorry. But the point is, it doesn’t matter. It was just a big ball of glow bug yarn on a hook. Choose your color. Somehow don’t block the gape of the hook. I remember it was seriously the size of a small grape.