Crouching [for] Brookies; hidden Squatches

An alternative to Ryan’s sweating your pits out on some crick smallies, is sweating your pits out along a blue line for brook trouts just after a morning rain.

I’ve caught this guy many times over the past 4 years, his name is Barry.

I thought I could “beat the heat” by heading to a little native stream about an hour from the house.  From a strict temperature reading I won, but the humdity after a morning or over night shower was about 220%.  Cooling off for the day, fail.  The brookies I caught easily could have survived hours out of the water in the soup that was hanging in the narrow valley.  It was a damn jungle.  A constant layer of fog hung about 4 feet off of the water nearly the entire time.  Anything that was glass and made for looking through fogged almost instantaneously when you crouched down toward the water or stood up straight.    That makes for wonderful picture taking and general seeing through eyeglasses kind of conditions.

With all of that, I still wouldn’t have traded that time walking and casting.  The beauty of blue lines is that you don’t just pull up to the side of the stream and start fishing.  A good 20-40 minute walk to the first hole is requisite of any proper blue line.  In that walk you go from hearing road traffic at the trail head, to the din of the forest, then you catch that first audible gurgles from the destination.

The heat and the potential for storms must have kept folks away from this otherwise popular hiking spot, I got to the trail head and was greeted by an empty parking lot.  I never encountered another person the entire time.  I usually love running into people there, they always look at me like I’m nuts and ask if there’s fish in the crick, of course, I give the correct blue lining response, “dunno, a buddy said there was, but I think he was shitting me.”

Unfortunately no signs of Squatch, the humidity must wreck havoc on his fur, but I did run into some forms of wild life:

I think he was a racing snail

I fished my way up to where two truly unnamed trickles formed the crick I was fishing.  It was pushing 4pm and had reality waiting for me back home in the form of laundry, and work I brought home to wrap up over the weekend.  Still, though, there is something inherently peaceful and something that sets you right about a good walk and cast.  It took nearly an hour to walk back to La Poderosa, but it was at a pace and attitude-I really didn’t want to leave.  At least I got to ride back to the burgh with the front tops off, grinning like a dumb-ass the whole way home in the sun.


I’ll go to bed with this place in my mind.  


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