In search of brown trout

With neither grace nor skill, the brown trout slid into my outstretched landing net.

I had flailed with uncoordinated hands, one with the net and one with the rod. My body rocked back and forth while standing on a stream-side log. From a distance it would have been quite the spectacle.

If the witness of the valley had an opinion it was not shared. The effort made up for the trout's size of 4 to 5 inches. I was pleased to be off the schneid, my journey was on its way to being justified.

South Pine Creek, northeast of Decorah, is a singular stream in Iowa. It was the last known place of naturally reproducing brook trout. Its refugees became a brood stock for the state’s repopulating efforts.

The remote location meant no one went there by accident. Given the scarcity of footprints, or trash, I wondered how often it gets any visits at all.

You can catch three types of salmonids in Iowa. The rainbow trout is native to the cold-water drainages of the north Pacific. James Prosek said the brown trout is native to a diversity of cool-water drainages from Iceland to Afghanistan, and from the northeast Arctic of Russia to the Atlas Mountains of North Africa. The brook trout is a survivor of the last ice age, a denizen of only the coldest and cleanest of waters. And for the fussy, the brook trout is actually a “char.”

I’ve long known about South Pine Creek and now I’ve finally added it to my list. It’s no wonder South Pine went unexploited, it has three strikes against it.

Strike one: The parking is miles down a bone shaking gravel road with steep pitches and sharp turns.

Strike two: From the parking prepare to walk about two kilometers, downhill. Truthfully, I rather enjoyed my walk. The trail was wide and mowed. Phalanxes of blackberry canes reached out, invitations to return on a date coinciding with ripe fruit.

Strike three: the South Pine is tiny. At grade, I could hardly tell a remarkable ribbon of cold water snaked the valley floor. But because of a map, I read subtle curves in the prairie where there was a creek. A giant cottonwood lorded over the area. Like the circling vultures, it was a witness of all that came and went.

With a little wandering, I found a wide spot with a pool of water. Trout were clearly visible, swimming at an idle pace to hold position as the water slowly conveyed morsels to anticipating mouths.

With only a couple of attempts, my tiny nymph hooked a respectable looking fish. The showy tussle was a brief thrill and then it was off the hook before I dragged it to hand. The brightness of my joy was matched by dazzling rays of sunshine overhead in the sky of blue.

With a little more effort and just enough patience I brought a small brown into the net. No doubt the fish here were all healthy, but also all browns. Where were the precious brookies?

A nickname for brook trout from old Maine was “Gutter Trout.” Gutter was an old word for a very small stream. I trod upstream in the gutter to find its original inhabitants.

Where the creek narrowed, I spooked small trout from hiding places along the bottom edge. The “bottom edge” is a cut back along the stream under which all sorts of critters ply their trade. Like under a long cantilever, the trout await food, the muskrats seek sheltered travel. And minks use the bottom edge to hunt them both.

Only the narrowest parts of the creek seemed to hold brook trout today, so tight that bankside prairie bent from one side to the next. It was impossible to fish by either fly or spinner. A cane pole, worm and split shot would be the prescription but that method was forbidden on this special water.

My nifty fly fisherman’s thermometer noted water of 56 degrees in this segment despite basking in the sun.

Maybe brook trout weren’t in the cards. Or, maybe I needed to explore a little more. Who among us can resist the temptation of a peak around a new corner or just one more cast?

I bushwhacked the south shore until I found a shaded pool. The water was far too deep for my hip waders. At any rate, I wanted to try from bank side and from the shadows. If I even could fish from the creek, the water was so smooth I’d drive off all the fish.

Two roll casts and then it was fish-on. The splash and tug said this was a prime specimen. I needed to get lower off the bank, maybe dangling in my legs to work the net.

The comedy show returned, me trying to coordinate two hands with competing tasks. I needed to get lower still. So I let myself slide thigh high into the creek. This was a seriously nice fish and it required seriously bold action.

With a little surprise footing, I stood. Then time accelerated and slowed simultaneously. I had stood on a silt shelf, in a moment I would sink through it to a depth that was over the top of my hip waders. As a modern man, baptism in ice water wasn’t to be feared. Rather, the iPhone in my pants pockets provoked terror.

With what felt like a slow motion scene from an action movie, I dug the phone out of my pocket and extended my arm to toss it on the bank. As it left the grip of my fingers, cold-cold water flooded me to the navel.

I grimmiced through the moment of shock and continued the fight. The brown made runs upstreams and dives for tangles at the banks. The dainty tippet of monofilament held and then it was in the net.

I was breathing hard. Yes, a little from the remarkably cold water that embraced me so thoroughly, but mostly from the excitement of the struggle.

I freed the hook and admired the rich colors of the trout that filled my net. We got back near the phone. The grip-n-grin selfie was foiled. I gripped, he slipped and then was left to inhabit my memory.

The walk out took double the time as walking in. Uphill and squishing with every step, I plodded out of the valley. I made another note of the blackberries, grinned at the deer I sprang from trailside rest, and promised myself I’d be back.

I knew this trip would leave me with an empty creel. But a lot of effort for a distinct experience was more than enough to fill my soul with joy.

Looking up, looking ahead and keeping my pencil sharp.

John Lawrence Hanson, Ed.D., of Marion teaches U.S. history with an emphasis on environmental issues at Linn-Mar High School and sits on the Linn County Conservation Board.