The abundant and willing sunfish might well be the gateway species for almost all fishermen, but one could argue that stocked trout – “stockies” – hold that honor for the fly fisher. Just the thought of them ushers in memories of chilly mornings and swollen creeks colored up blue green with snow melt, and perhaps too, the aroma of bacon, eggs, and coffee before heading astream.
So many moons ago I shivered before flowing waters on the early morning eve of opening day, huddled under a coat too big for my teenish frame and in baggy waders, patch worn. At the crack of sunrise, I tossed a weighted nymph upstream and followed it with my rod tip as an older gentleman, a friend of my parents, suggested. He was upstream of me and watched me between his own casts, correcting me in an encouraging way. I endured his success, as he caught one stocked brown after another, while my own drifts carried untouched. But finally, on the verge of giving up in frustration, a 12″ brown’s take jolted my fly rod and clinched my love for these novitiates of the trout world…
I grew up from there, as most of us flyfishers do when we get serious about this sport. Once one fishes fabled waters and ties into bigger and wily wild fish, stockies fade away for some fly fishers, the looked down upon sand-lot players in the shadow of the big leagues. But not so much I, and I suspect a few others as well. Stockies are mostly pursued by spin anglers armed with panther martins, phoebes, salted minnows or worms, but dotted among these anglers will wade the occasional fly fisher, immersed in a veil of memories of long-gone opening days.
I’ve been driving the same hour-long commute to work for some 12 years now and while most would consider it a tiring slog, it’s made brighter in that a good portion of it takes me aside a pretty little flow that snakes its way on a journey south to the Susquehanna River from its marshy headwaters far north. It’s there all year for me, but in spring, it sings a siren’s song, beckoning me to fish. This spring was no different and knowing it would soon be stocked, I spent the part of a day pulling my gear together to have on hand in my truck when Mother Nature was in a good mood. That day came one weekday afternoon when the creek levels had mellowed. The skies were partly cloudy, the sun peeking out here and there enough to warm the afternoon into the low 50’s, though snow was still clinging to the brown earth. I snuck out of work a little earlier than normal that day like a school kid cutting class and soon arrived at this pretty little creek. To my delight, it was void of any fishermen.
I rigged up not my finer custom 4 weight with its dark green glossy blank and bright hardware, but my St Croix 7.5-foot 4/5 weight. This sturdy little 2 piece has always been perfect for plying stocked waters – a bit worn from use, but no worse from wear, the once-gleaming finish of its dark blue blank and wraps a dull blue, the Fenwick-style grip yellowed and pock-marked from years of use.
There was a jump in my step as I left the truck and followed a twisted path creek-side. The creek ran to the banks, still with the tinge of verdant green of snowmelt. The sun lit the water enough that little black stoneflies were about, flying, if you could call it that, and dappling the water with their clumsy flutter and just occasionally prompting a splashy rise.
I chose a streamer for my fly – a picket pin up-front and a white marabou streamer running tail-end Charlie. I pinched a small shot ahead of the lead fly and pitched the rig across and upstream, mending as it passed, giving the flies short crisp strips as they swung across and below me.
Stepping and swinging down the head of the run, I picked up a bunch of 1 year olds, striking and battling with the vigor all brown trout bring to the fore. And then, casting into a deeper roiled run, I felt a better take. The brown writhed snake-like in the depths, flashing a bit of butter brown, then dug down into the current putting a pretty bend in my 4-weight rod. I landed it and admired it, and continued on, collecting a few more of these two-year olds, amidst a bevy of their younger, slighter brothers, too numerous to count.
Stockies beckon us out in the uncertainty that is Upstate NY spring weather, well before softer May late mornings lure us astream. They put some urgency behind combing through our gear, long forgotten in winter’s doldrums. They hasten us to open fly boxes and get to the tying vise. They force the examination of our 3 and 4 weight rods and reels, our boots, waders and all other manner of the gear we pack, and usually this surfaces at least one issue needing attention.
Figure how many hours you work, attend to family, home, and life’s basics – sleeping, eating, exercising – and stockies prove a bargain in the world of fly fishing. We’re not talking a lot of prep – simple rigging, typically just a floating line and maybe an old leader that can get one more use with a bit more tippet. The put and take creeks are abundant too, and these days the added bonus is that us “artificial lures, catch and release only” fishermen can get out to a bit more solitude before the crowds appear on the traditional opening day.
Some of these small, stocked waters carry the lure of an occasional holdover, smart enough to evade the previous spring’s onslaught. One cold March morning I happily recall a wet fly I swept down into the dark depths of an undercut tree and the solid stop of the fly. My hookset was poorly timed, but good enough to light the darkness of the undercut with the flash of a bigger trout than this creek had ever produced. Short-lived though that hook-up was, it seemed a good way to end a nice morning of numerous 1- and 2-year-olds, brightly colored, ragged-finned, and ever ready to play and a perfect transition to warmer days and “better” trout.
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