Critter Of The Week

Brook Trout: Maine’s Magnificent Jewels

“More precious than diamonds, more precious than gold,” rings the chorus to an old country tune. The song echoes my sentiments regarding our native brook trout; to me, each and every one is a thing of beauty, a living jewel to be fondly cherished.

My fascination with wild brookies has not diminished over a lifetime of catching and sometimes, just watching them. From that first, 6-inch trout, derricked out of a tiny stream one April day so many years ago, to the black beauty with its white-edged fins and colorful spots and halos that waits for me today, native brookies have intrigued me.

Trout-watching is an alternative to catching, especially in the narrow, ice-cold streams that so interest me. Mostly, these brooks are so clear that it is impossible to cast to a trout without spooking it. The slightest ripple is more than ample to alarm an already edgy trout. Perhaps, living in such a small, contained environment poses greater risks from predators, especially mink, raccoon and herons and that is why the fish in the little streams are so spooky. Generally, trout here can only be taken after a summer rain, or in spring, when the water is roily.

One particular stream, with its nearly impenetrable brush and its exquisite trout, some running as large as 14 inches, continually beckons, and it is impossible for me to resist its call. Most of the time the water is low and the fish are maddeningly spooky. Then, it is enough to simply crouch in the shadows and watch, reassured the fish are still there.

Maine contains (this may be a subject of dispute because surely some streams and tiny brooks that hold trout are not included here) 2,365 brook trout ponds and 32,732 miles of streams that are considered brook trout habitat. That essentially makes Maine the last stronghold of the eastern brook trout, which is a wonderful thing on one hand and a modern tragedy on the other. It’s sad to realize that excepting Maine, much of the northeastern brook trout habitat is ruined or has been rendered inhospitable to its native inhabitants, but it’s good to know that our Maine waters and our native trout are still healthy.

Let’s consider the parenthetical disclaimer in the above paragraph. The accepted train of thought is that native brook trout are scarce in southern, central and mid-coast Maine. But that just isn’t so. Ask any country boy; he’ll affirm that the trout in his limited bailiwick are doing just fine. Of course most of us would never dream of fishing in the places the kids frequent. These may include tiny seasonal trickles that only hold fish in early spring, streams and brooks near towns and built-up areas and slow-moving, boggy streams that we see from the major highways as we zip along on our way to “more productive waters.” It is these less-than-idyllic locations that are the salvation of aboriginal brook trout in the built-up sections of Maine.

Most of us tend to view native brook trout as living symbols of a vanishing wilderness, and this mindset precludes us from sampling what more than likely are fertile, trout-filled streams, not far from our homes. Once we accept the fact that true wilderness has already vanished, it is easier to be thankful that at least the colorful, wild brook trout remain, and they haven’t changed a bit.

Another thing keeping many serious fishermen from probing the recesses of the tiny glens from which the little trout brooks spring, is that for the most part, it is impossible to cast. Brush, alders and various native shrubs line the banks, and just to reach the streamside is a major effort. Such conditions pretty much preclude fishing with artificials; the only thing for it is to poke a rod through the jungle and with great care, let a garden hackle plummet straight down. This requires much finesse, because the slightest error can mean the hook gets stuck on a springy limb, in the middle of the stream. Efforts to retrieve the hook only result in spooking every trout for a country mile and perhaps even a broken rod.

All the negatives aside, the trout in these inhospitable-sounding places are often the real McCoy, the original fish that have lived here since the last glacier retreated. Such trout, having never been genetically-mixed with lesser, introduced strains, have value beyond imagination.

Here’s another point regarding the trout in these tiny, often overlooked watersheds. Their coloration differs from place to place, depending upon the type of water and often, the time of year. For instance, in early spring, when the water is practically translucent, full of light-colored mud from the spring runoff, trout become silvery and light-colored and their spots less defined. Trout in the clear water of late spring and summer most often have bright, well-defined red and yellow spots, surrounded by sky-blue halos. And the white piping on the edge of the pelvic, pectoral and anal fins contrasts sharply with the dark, blue-black of the body.

That fish can change their shade according to conditions, has been demonstrated to me beyond doubt. For instance, even rough fish from the same water, in spring, take on a silvery appearance. This bright sheen soon fades as the water clears.

Perhaps the least understood of all are the native brook trout that go to sea. Well, not to sea, really, usually just the estuarine areas. But that’s enough to produce a marked change in the fish’s general appearance.

Before going much further on the subject of sea-run, or anadromous brook trout, it must be said that these fish are no different from fish that don’t take to the salt water. They are the same trout that live in other nearby streams, except that they take advantage of the chance to spend at least part of their time in a brackish-water environment. In fact, any trout, if given the opportunity to swim downstream to the salt water, will do so. It’s a natural instinct.

Here’s how it works. The fish spend the winter in the salt or brackish water and in late winter or early spring, ascend their natal river or stream to spend summer in the fresh water. In fall, they spawn and later return to the estuarine habitat. The springtime run is not a spawning run, only a return to fresh water.

Anyway, these trout are more numerous than might be imagined. Countless Maine rivers, streams and nameless brooks have populations of anadromous, native brook trout. And yet, few bother to fish for them. Perhaps it’s because people get disappointed when they fish for hours without a bite. That’s because the trout don’t all enter the stream at once; the spring run consists of only handfuls of trout at any one time running upstream. This piecemeal migration can be spread out over many weeks. Thus, it is possible to hit the lower reaches of a river or stream and not see a fish all day. And conversely, it is possible to go back to the same place the next day and be in brook-trout heaven. And that, my friends, is what makes sea-run brook trout fishing so intriguing.

As mentioned earlier, the trout take on a new appearance after spending a season in the river or bay. First, they put on weight all out of proportion to what they would gain if they had remained in the stream. Springtime sea-run brook trout have square-shouldered, chunky bodies, with heads that seem small by comparison. And the body takes on an iridescence that is quite indescribable. This iridescence soon fades when the fish is killed and strangely, the color reverts to the original darker tones. This phenomenon makes me sad, for some reason, every time I kill a few sea-runs for the frying pan. It’s like innocence lost, at my hand. But the guilt soon vanishes when the fish are cooked. They have the most sweet, mellow flavor of any trout that swims. A few meals of sea-run brookies each spring are easily justified.

Sea-run brookies are aggressive, striking any bait, lure or fly that passes their way. This may be due to the time spent in the estuary, where food is plentiful and feeding frenzies are the norm. For whatever reason, sea-run trout are not in the least bit spooky or leader-shy.

And, again as a result of time spent battling the tides, sea-run brook trout are stronger fighters than their more docile, inland brethren. Sometimes, anadromous brook trout jump when hooked. Brook trout, as we all know, never jump, although some will perform cartwheels on the surface. For whatever reason, the same forces that work to give Atlantic salmon their fierce pizzazz seem to have a marked effect upon seagoing brookies.

It is possible to follow the trout run upstream as the season progresses. This is one of my more pleasant pastimes. The runs begin at the river mouth in early April, move five or six miles inland in mid-May and end far inland in early June. After this, it is impossible to tell if a trout is sea-run or not, because the iridescence quickly fades after a few weeks in fresh water.

These near-mythical, sea-run brookies are treasures, seldom sought, except by a few and misunderstood by the majority. Perhaps that’s as it should be. Who knows what effect sustained pressure would have on the population?

In late spring, the brawny salmon and brown trout in our lakes and ponds provide topnotch sport. Somehow, though, fish size becomes less important to me with the passing years. It’s that first little sparkling brook trout of the season, usually taken early on the morning of April 1, that thrills me more than anything. And later on in the season, the search for new trout brooks, an ongoing procedure, by the way, keeps my interest at a high pitch. Life would be bleak without our magnificent native brookies.