Duluth News-Tribune outdoor writer Sam Cook came up for a day of brook trout fishing and he had some luck, as one can see in this picture. Cook was here to do a story about the declining interest in brook trout fishing. As he noted in his report, “There are no TV shows about this kind of fishing.” That and the fact that most streams are out of cell phone range and it’s awkward to carry a laptop downstream seem to be contributing to the demise of this sport.
Except for gray hair, Sam Cook looked much the same as he did 25 years ago when this writer interviewed him about a book he had written.
After a quick handshake and hello I had to get something straight.
“You realize we are going to walk, right? Probably a long way and not find any fish?” I said to Cook, a Duluth
News-Tribune
columnist who is considered by his peers and readers to be one of America’s top outdoor writers.
“Yes, that’s what you said. I’m ready. We can stay out as long as you want to,” Cook replied with a grin.
We piled into my van and headed a few miles up off County Road 7 towards “brook trout heaven.” Or, at least, what was once “brook trout heaven.”
“Back when I was logging for my father I would bring my fishing pole and chase brookies during my breaks. My dad used to make sure I worked and didn’t just fish. Well, that was his plan, anyway,” I said to Sam as we bumped along the winding gravel road.
“I haven’t been back here for years but it was a jewel at one time,” I told him, adding, “My buddy came in here last winter and found several beaver ponds that still have fish, so we might get lucky.”
We arrived at the parking lot and readied ourselves for the hike ahead. It was a long walk. But it was a nice day and the hill-and-dale trail we trekked was in great shape.
As we walked we talked: about people we know, about events of the day, about changes in journalism, about our families, about long distance running, about the great outdoors, about everything in general and nothing very specific.
Sam, age 61, is in good shape. He had no trouble hiking in and out of “brook trout heaven.” When we found the beaver pond it was ringed with sawgrass, cattails and deadfalls and it was mostly dry. After a few casts it was obvious there weren’t any fish, a few minnows and tadpoles, but no fish. This was once brook trout heaven but was now more of a graveyard for brook trout and an evening choir ground for frogs and singing mosquitoes. We turned to hike back.
After three good hours of walking, scrambling through the flora and fauna, we had no fish. We scared up lots of chipmunks and squirrels, ate raspberries fresh from the vine, and followed some interesting trails, but now it was time to find water and fish.
Plan B
“Just in case we couldn’t find decent water and fish, I have Plan B,” I told Sam. “Plan B includes fishing and catching, hopefully, some brook trout.”
“Sounds good,” said Cook, smiling. Clearly the day was going okay. For me, it was a perfect brook trout experience. Hike and hike. Battle through the brush and bugs and maybe, just maybe find fish. Or not. It’s all good.
And it was all good for Sam.
So we drove a few miles down the road and came to a beautiful brook trout stream. We noted that the trail along the river was mostly gone. Actually, after 100 yards, the trail was
gone.
“This is what I was talking about, Sam. No one fishes brook trout anymore. This stream always had a great trail system. And now the trail disappears into the brush and brambles.”
With that we walked into the river and waded through the caramel-colored water and fished our way through several pools before we started to get into trout.
“You fish ahead of me. I can stop and take pictures and take notes,” said Sam.
Cook had his camera around his neck and wore a well-used backpack and an even more comfortable cap. Occasionally he would stop and sit on a rock and take notes.
Because I was on deadline all I managed to grab were a couple of Styrofoam cups of night crawlers, an old fishing pole and several hooks. I was wearing my work clothes and an old pair of tennis shoes. No waders. No bug dope. No fancy gear.
That’s all I need to fishbrook trout. Flies are nice. Spinners and artificial minnows are great. But really, worms and a hook strung to four-pound test line on a pole—wooden branch or fiberglass—are all I need.
So I fished ahead for a while. I missed a few. They hit hard and then slipped off like butter from a hot knife. But then I picked up a couple and it was my turn to insist Sam fish ahead. I had my small camera and I wanted to get some pictures of him in action.
It wasn’t long before he caught a small brookie. I took a quick picture and he carefully released the fish, which wiggled slowly in the current, then with a quick twist, flash, and explosion of color it was gone.
That’s how fishing went. We both caught fish, putting them back. We both lost several more. No lunkers this day. Just a lot of smaller 6 – 8 inch beauties.
It was a warm evening. A light breeze kept the bugs off of us. The water was warm and ever changing. Its current slowly recharged our batteries as we fished from bank to bank, underneath the brush and in the pools and through the faster water. Sam and I slipped and slid over and around the boulders in the river like old ballet dancers on uneven stilts. But by some miracle neither of us fell in.
We quit at 7 p.m. just when the fishing was picking up. But we were out of crawlers. It had been a good day. A perfect way to end the newspaper deadline: let some line out and fish our way back to saneness.
We headed back to town to pick up something to eat. After supper Sam went to his hotel room, a quick sleep and then back to Duluth to work. I went home to my kids, my three cats and dog.
This writer was happier than I had been in a long time. I had reconnected with Sam after 25 years. I had reconnected to an old stream, a place where I had once caught 15-to 17-inch brook trout. A place where I had worked hard and built muscle and character. Too often I lose sight of simple things. Too often I get sucked into the vortex of electronic gibberish and the race each new day brings. It was good to get off of the treadmill.
Now it’s time to get my kids back to the creeks. Time for them to fashion their own “brook trout dreams.” Time for them to lose themselves in the current and eddies and swirl of caramelcolored water that explode with the spotted beauty of brook trout on the end of their line, dancing to the beat of the river and the joyous shout, “Daddy, daddy, I’ve got one!”
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