The air is still, the temperature warmer than might be expected for October. While sipping tea from a favorite mug, my attention is drawn to a pair of cedar waxwings plucking dusty-blue berries from a red cedar tree beside our porch. The wooden deck feels cool under my bare feet, but not too cold. I remove a cushion from a redwood chair and lay it on the upper step to prevent moisture from seeping up from the floorboard. Taking a seat, I watch the day unfold like the last of summer’s morning glories.
A mist has dampened the lawn. Beads of moisture illuminate webs weaved by spiders. Daisies and Queen Anne’s lace growing along the edges of the lawn have withered, their simple beauty pressed into memory. It’s been a while since we’ve seen the silver-haired woodchuck waddle out from his den onto the earthen dam behind our pond.
The last few weeks have marked fall’s great hurrah. The biting wind and rain of November will inevitably give way to months of ice and snow, but not before the celebration of heartbreaking beauty proceeds to its conclusion.
Leaves need to be raked and stove wood stacked. Moss growing on the siding along the north-facing wall must be power-washed and the snowplow connected to our tractor, but I’m drawn, more than any other time of year, to Bonnie Brook. Perhaps there are still a few trout willing to play tag with a fly before giving themselves over to the icy shroud of winter.
It’s a few minutes past 10 when I park my pickup along the cracked macadam. I can hear the tick of leaves as they touch down between patches of summer grass turned the color of straw. Following a well-worn deer trail through a field, I cross under a grove of white pines. The previous week, remnants of a late-season hurricane disgorged 3 inches of rain.
The woodland surrounding this stretch of stream consists primarily of hemlock, spruce and white pine, with a lesser number of hardwood trees. Although the sun is strong, the temperature remains cool under the shade of the mature trees.
Suspended over the forest floor is an aromatic blend of damp bark, hemlock needles and fallen leaves that combines with the scent of decaying ferns and rotting mushrooms.
Bending on one knee, I scan the current for signs of fish. I’m looking for the flutter of a fin, the heave of a gill, a shifting shadow. The brown trout here are wild and have no use for me. Their backs bear dark green markings like sinuous worm trails that allow these secretive fish to blend in with a streambed dappled with sunken leaves over copper-and-flint-colored cobble.
Although the sides of each brown trout are covered with pumpkin-colored spots, their flanks are not visible. I have caught bigger trout in larger rivers, but none quite as comely as those that begin and end their secret lives in this little mountain brook.
There are no rises. Didn’t expect any. I knot a wet fly to my tippet. One I tied myself. Nothing special, a bit of hare’s ear dubbed along the shank of the hook, a few strands of brown hackle for a tail and a single turn of a grouse feather behind the eye for a collar.
Nothing on my first few casts, but then I come upon a familiar boulder. The soft-hackled fly ticks off its side and sinks before drifting down along the edge of the stream. And just like that, I’m into my first fish, a plump, not-so-pleased 9-inch brown trout.
I work upstream for at least a mile, maybe farther, while fooling a few more fish, spooking others. Clouds have rolled in, the wind picking up. There is good water above the bend, but my right knee has begun to ache. There’s always tomorrow, I tell myself, although at my age, that’s not nearly as certain as it might have once been.
Rain begins to spit down. With the sleeves of my flannel shirt lowered, the collar around my neck raised, I tramp back to the truck.
Through intermittent wipers, I spot a large black bear with three cubs rambling along the edge of the forest. The yearlings lope into the middle of the road. Their mother follows, advancing between her young and the truck. There’s a slight hitch in the bruin’s stride. I wonder if she, too, has a bum leg. The fur along her broad shoulders has a whisper of white, like the gray sweeping through my once-black beard.
The old sow watches the cubs shuffle up an embankment. Before lumbering into the forest, she turns to look in my direction. The only sound is that of the wipers as they sweep across the windshield. I notice the tan fur around her muzzle. Dignified, with a hint of a hump, her snout glistens with droplets of rain. Then my eyes catch hers, and I wonder what manner of brown trout might be found in those chestnut pools.