FISHING FOR NATIVE BROOK TROUT

Pell Run is one of many spring-fed tributaries of the Tionesta Creek. Others are Duck Eddy, Messenger Run, Mead Run, Thad Shanty Run, Minister Creek, South Branch, and Dodge Run. Pell Run entered the main stream on the opposite bank from our camp approximately a quarter mile upstream. As I have mentioned before a narrow gage railroad used to run beside the stream and the old grade could be used for an easy walk along its banks. There was so much our family enjoyed about this walk. The cool water and abundant shade made for a delightful hike on a hot summer day. The sound the water made as it babbled over the rocks and downed tree limbs was like listening to a relaxing symphony. In the summer when the main creek’s temperature rose, a cool water pool was formed at the confluence of the two streams. The trout in the creek would congregate in this area and frustrate us because they wouldn’t bite on any of our offerings. We tried just about everything. We would cast a delectable-looking night crawler right under the nose of a large trout and let it sit there for an hour to no avail.

Anytime there was no action on the Tionesta we might head up Pell Run to try our hand at catching a native brook trout. The term “native” refers to the fact that the fish was not stocked there. It occurs in the stream naturally. These were the most beautifully colored fish I had ever seen (see photo). They had a wide brilliant orange section along the bottom of their sides and bright white lines along their fins. The remainder of the fish was varying shades of green with small yellow and white spots. Because of the small size of the run the carrying capacity for fish was not great. A six-inch “brookie” would be sizeable in Pell Run and four inches was more of the norm. Between riffles and waterfalls there were small pools. Each was from about 8 to 18 inches deep. I don’t believe I ever found more than one trout per pool but you could normally figure there would be one in each. There was neither enough food nor cover to support more than one fish in a pool. Cover consisted of large rocks, downed tree limbs, or undercut stumps. Food was anything that washed in from upstream or fell in from above – insects (either adults or larvae), worms, salamanders, tadpoles, grubs, etc.

Fishing Pell Run meant everything had to be down-sized. Ultra-light tackle would have been preferred but we could only afford one rod and reel. You needed the smallest hook you could find and you baited it with just a piece of a worm or a small grub you might find under a rock. Because a trip up the run was normally impromptu, the bait usually consisted of whatever you could find around the stream-bank. The technique was pretty simple – keep as low a profile as possible when approaching the target pool. These fish spooked very easily. Next the cast had to be fairly accurate (sometimes you only got one chance). One needed to present the bait directly into the water flow from the riffle above. If you could do that the current would carry the bait right in front of the resident brookie. After a good cast you would immediately watch the water for a shadow or a disturbance that meant you were about to feel a strike. Due to the small size of these fish and their ability to pick the bait right off your hook, the strike wasn’t obvious. If you could set the hook you immediately tried to raise the fish out of the water. There was no room to “play” the fish and the longer they stayed in their natural habitat the less chance you had of landing them. On way too many occasions I would get the fish just clear of the water to see it shake itself violently off the hook. If you were lucky enough to bring one to your hand you needed to admire it quickly, wet your hand so as not to strip off any of the fish’s natural oil or scales, gently remove the hook and return it to its pool.

One hot August afternoon I was by myself on the Tionesta while my brother lazed on the screened porch with a book and my parents were out for a hike. Nothing was biting despite my use of just about every known bait and lure. I decided to head up Pell Run. As was my routine I began to turn over flat rocks on the way up looking for worms or grubs. It had been dry so I wasn’t having a lot of success. As I was bent over looking for bait I heard a voice behind me say, “Whatcha lookin for?” Startled, I turned to see a fellow in his early twenties who had obviously come from upstream on the run. He had a fly rod in his hand as well as all of the typical fly fisherman accouterments (cowboy hat, vest, and hip boots folded down around his knees). “Something to fish with,” I replied. “Not much available,” he continued. “Come with me and I’ll show you something.” Now in this day and age kids are trained to be wary of strangers they meet anywhere, let alone in the woods. I figured, what the heck. I could use a fly fishing lesson.

As we walked together toward the next pool worthy of testing I asked him where he was from. “Name’s Jeff,” he responded, offering his hand. “I’m from around Scranton and I just graduated from Penn State in June, I’m here for the week with my aunt and uncle. They have the fourth camp down below on the left bank.” I thought my parents knew his relatives. I had heard them mention that they were from Zelienople. I asked if he had a job and it turned out he would be going to work for the Hammermill Paper Company in Erie in a couple weeks. He was a forester and would be helping them to manage their timber holdings (I’m ashamed to admit it now but I recall wondering what trees had to do with paper). As we walked up Pell Run I asked him several questions about why he chose to attend Penn State in a field such as forestry. I also asked him all about fly fishing. He said that he loved the outdoors and his chosen career would enable him to spend his work life there. There was just something about this young man that caught my fancy. I appreciated that he had shown an interest in me and was willing to spend a little time with a youngster.

When we got to the first large pool Jeff described how he had briefly hooked a trout here on his way up and decided to let the pool rest for awhile and try again. His first encounter had been on a dry fly so he decided this time to try a “bead-headed nymph.” It was so tiny I could barely see it on the end of his leader. As I had learned to do, he flipped the nymph into the flow as it entered the pool and quickly responded to an almost instantaneous strike. He pulled out one of the nicest natives I had ever seen – my guess was about nine inches. I was a little surprised when Jeff said he was going to keep it – “for supper” he said. “I always put them back,” I responded. He said, “Didn’t you want some bait?” He pulled out his knife and quickly slit the fish open and pulled out the guts. “Here’s your bait,” Jeff said.

For the next hour or so we baited small hooks with pieces of trout entrails and proceeded to catch and release a brook trout from about 50% of the upstream pools. (I should note that this practice is illegal today.) When we got back to the main stream and went our separate ways I thanked Jeff for the lesson. “Sure thing,” he said, “I was young once too.” That sounded strange coming from someone only eight or so years my senior. I remembered Jeff when it came time to choose a career. Like him I took up forestry primarily because of my love of the outdoors. And like Jeff I also enjoy teaching fishing techniques to some younger folks whenever I can.