Brook Trout and Uncle Willy

By James Woodsing

Hey Jim buddy, after we finish the farm chores today, what do you say we go down to the crick and see if we can catch some brook trout. Uncle Willy sensed that his 9 year old nephew, Jim, was ready to be introduced to brook trout fishing. Thus began a long-lasting nephew-uncle relationship that led to a strong bond for each and a mutual love for the brook trout. Their many fishing adventures, often including Jims buddies, are told and illustrated with genuine enthusiasm and realism, taking us to the stream, beaver pond, or lake, and providing a real feeling of participation. They catch, clean, fry, and eat brook trout on the crick bank. Together they build a log raft from which they catch brook trout in a beaver pond. To gain access to even more fishing sites, Jim helps Uncle Willy build a canvas-covered canoe. Jim and his buddies search out a secret beaver pond and are mesmerized by dozens of brook trout rising for flies. Weeks later they hear about a hidden lake and decide that it too must be teeming with large trout. So, they pack food and fishing gear, and after hours of trudging through brush and mud, find the lake and view its crystal clear water. These adventures bring the boys together in body and mind. Finally, Jim, now near retirement, brings his 86 year old Uncle Willy to the beautiful trout stream that flows cold and clear through his own property. They catch trout, enjoy each others company, and reminisce about their experiences 50 years earlier. Uncle Willy says, I remember when you caught your first trout from Crooked Crick. It wasnt so big but it sure was exciting. And Jim says, I remember when we built a log raft to fish that beaver pond. You caught that colorful 12 incher the first evening and it slipped between the logs back into the water. You laughed and said, Dont worry, well catch more, and we sure have.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 7, 2005
• ISBN: 9781463488192

James Woodsing

James M. Woodsing, an internationally published author, grew up on a small dairy farm in the north woods. In the absence of a father, who had died in an accident when he was an infant, Woodsing was fortunate to have his Uncle Willy as an outdoors companion and role model. Uncle Willy had the interest, patience, and enthusiasm to teach the young Woodsing about the outdoors, especially about grouse and deer. Woodsing was thus introduced to hunting as a twelve yr old and subsequently enjoyed many hunting adventures with his uncle during which his love for grouse and deer grew. He did not miss a hunting season until he began his career, when he took a long respite. In retirement, he has returned to the sport he always loved Woodsing recalls his early hunting experiences and vividly narrates them in a unique style with rich and realistic illustrations. Personality differences, Woodsing being impatient while the Uncle is laid back, add an interesting aspect to their close bond. Woodsing clearly treasures his youth and presents a captivating recollection of a young boy developing a strong love for hunting grouse and deer and an even stronger love for his uncle.

Book preview

This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author

and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the

information contained in this book and in some cases, names of people

and places have been altered to protect their privacy.

© 2005 James Woodsing. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 08/29/05

ISBN: 1-4208-6487-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-8819-2 (ebk)

Cover Image: Uncle Willy and Jim pole their newly built cedar log raft

out into the quiet and deep water of the beaver pond where Jim pulls up a

nice brook trout, the first of many.

Contents

Chapter 1: Fishing Crooked Crick With A Coffee Can

Chapter 2: Fishing Crooked Crick With A Government Pole

Chapter 3: My First Fishing Rod

Chapter 4: From The Crick Into The Frying Pan

Chapter 5: A Movie, Creepy Crawlers In The Cemetery, And Early Morning Fishing

Chapter 6: Weber’s Crick and Hay Swamp

Chapter 7: The Spring Hole: Chub Tails and Fly Fishing

Chapter 8: Troyer’s Crick: Introducing a Buddy to Trout Fishing

Chapter 9: The Log Raft And The Beaver Pond

Chapter 10: Lascola’s Crick

Chapter 11: The Homemade Canvas-Covered Canoe

Chapter 12: The Cedar Crick Beaver Pond: Going For Trophy Trout

Chapter 13: Clear Lake And Another Search for Trophy Trout

Chapter 14: Fly Fishing And My First Brook Trout On A Dry Fly

Chapter 15: My Own Brook Trout Stream

About the Author

To Uncle Willy:

fishing companion, mentor, and friend.

Special thanks to Joel for the cover picture and

the beautiful illustrations. Thanks to George

for valuable input on the book and for the

many conversations about trout fishing.

Chapter 1

Fishing Crooked Crick With A Coffee Can

It was the day my life-long interest in the brook trout began. My mother, 5 sisters and I lived on a small dairy farm owned by my grandparents and which was now run mostly by my youngest uncle. We had moved here from our even smaller dairy farm after my father died in an automobile accident. Our few milking cows became part of my grandparents herd. We had a team of work horses, Chubby and Mary, 12 milking cows in the combined herd, and a flock of chickens.

Uncle Willy had just gotten out of the army, having served in Europe with a mortar unit during WWII. He was living on the farm and helping out his younger brother (my uncle Karl) and his father (my grandfather) with hay making and other summer farm chores. I had just turned 9. It was an overcast day in July, about 70 degrees, and Uncle Willy was having a break from farm work. We had just finished lunch. Uncle Willy put his hand on my shoulder and said, Hey Jim Buddy, how about if we walk down to the crick and see if we can catch some trout? OK, I answered, beaming. I was quite introverted and it was rare that I spoke more than 2 words but Uncle Willy was one of the few people I felt comfortable talking to. Also, I sort of liked it when he called me Jim buddy. I knew what trout were, having watched my Uncle Karl bring some home now and then. My mother or grandmother would clean them and we all enjoyed eating them, sprinkled with flour, salted and peppered, and fried in real butter. As we left the house, Uncle Willy did not take a fishing pole but instead grabbed three empty 2 lb coffee cans off a shelf in the porch. We headed to the tool shed where Uncle Willy punched about 15 holes in the bottom of two of the cans with a hammer and a large nail. That seemed a little odd to me but I wasn’t going to say anything to Uncle Willy. In just the few days he had been on the farm, he had talked to me, helped me learn to ride a bike, taken me to a movie, taught me Canasta, a card game, and now he was going to take me fishing. Through the subsequent years he became my father figure and hero, fishing and hunting companion, and best adult friend.

I’m taking Jim down to the crick, Uncle Willy said to my mother. OK, be careful, my mother said, take a couple of donuts with you. We grabbed our jackets, grabbed a couple of my mother’s and grandmother’s home-made donuts, and we were off.

It took us about 15 minutes to walk to the hill over looking the crick valley. Long Crick, the main crick, ran through the low land on the north edge of the farm. Its route was very straight East to West, having been straightened by the WPA to encourage rapid draining. From the top of the hill where we stood, the snake-like meanders of the old crick bed were still evident. Uncle Willy told me some years later that he could regularly catch 10 nice brookies fishing all those deep corners and that the Works Progress Administration (WPA) all but ruined that crick. To this day I regret not improving the trout habitat along that straight stretch by adding rocks and logs in strategic locations to give back some of the meanders. But on this day, Uncle Willy had in mind to lead me to a tributary of Long Crick. This was a very small crick, named Crooked Crick, that flowed from the north and joined Long Crick on my grandparent’s property. It had not been worked on by the WPA and still had all its meanders. In almost every corner there was a hole where the current had dug under the bank. Wherever it flowed over or under fallen logs or under rocks, the current had again dug out a hole. These were cricks in the true sense of the word, I should say, in the words of writer Patrick McManus. Years later, while reading the McManus books, I came upon the story Crick or Creek and realized that McManus defined our farm cricks admirably. These were truly cricks and not creeks and I was fortunate to have the opportunity to catch many of their colorful brookies while growing up. But first, Uncle Willy had to teach me the ways of the brook trout and today I was going to receive my first lessons.

Before we walked onto the bridge of Long Crick, Uncle Willy cautioned me about being very quiet and said we were going to lie down and look under the bridge from the downstream side because, he said, trout always are pointed upstream and any trout under the bridge will see you and be gone before you see them if you look from the upstream side. It was a little dark under the bridge but sure enough, there were two trout sitting quietly in the current, occasionally drifting up and down but also sideways. Those trout are likely feeding on aquatic insects, said Uncle Willy. We watched them for several minutes. Now watch this, he whispered, and he lightly banged his boot down on the bridge planks. The trout were gone in an instant. You see how sensitive trout are to noise and vibrations, he said. It didn’t occur to me at the time but Uncle Willy had taught me 3 valuable lessons about trout right there on the bridge and most important, he stimulated my interest in this beautiful and wonderful fish.

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Uncle Willy and Jim peer under the bridge on Long Crick and see two brook trout feeding on aquatic insects. Jim learns several lessons about brook trout during his first visit to Long Crick with his Uncle Willy.

We then crossed the bridge and headed up Crooked Crick. A couple of dozen yards upstream Uncle Willy stopped, pointed, and said, Right up there in that grassy meadow, the stream narrows to only about a foot and half and the water is flowing slowly. Let’s sneak up to the bank real slowly. First he filled the can without nail holes about half full with stream water and placed it near the bank. Now he found two rocks and placed one into each of the cans with the nail holes. These are to hold the can in the current, he said. When we were close enough to peer over the bank, Uncle Willy held one of the coffee cans in the stream and when it had filled with water he reached down and placed it on the stream bottom with the open end of the can looking downstream. The stream was about 1 foot deep. We then carefully moved about 2 yards downstream and he placed the 2nd can on the bottom, again with the open end looking downstream. Then we each quietly got up off our belly and onto our hands and knees and crawled another few yards farther downstream. I wasn’t sure what was going on but I didn’t ask. Uncle Willy then found a stick that was about 3 feet long and he gently poked the stick under the bank along a 2 yd stretch of the crick. I could see some dirt stirred up by the prodding. There goes a trout, he said, there goes another one, look. They like to go upstream when they are disturbed.

OK, let’s check the cans, he said. The first can had nothing in it. But, the second can had a 7 inch brookie. Before all the water ran out of the nail holes, Uncle Willy dumped the trout into the can we had not punched holes in. He let me have a good look. OK, now wet your hands and hold them out, like this, he said. He then reached in and lifted the trout out and placed it in my hands. Immediately the trout leaped out of my hands and onto the grass. He then poured some of the water out onto the grass where the trout remained jumping up and down. He showed me how to gently trap the trout onto the wet grass. Holding it down by the head and the tail, he showed me the speckles and explained why some fisherman called it the speckled trout. I was fascinated. Well nephew, we have to put this trout back in the stream. It can’t breath air. It can only get oxygen when water runs over its gills, Uncle Willy explained. He gave me a look at its gills and then told me to gently put it back in the stream, which I did. It disappeared under the bank immediately.

Let’s try this again around that bend and see if we can catch another one. There are some more things I want to show you about the brook trout, he said, and we took the 3 cans and walked to the bend. He handed me the cans and said, Here, you place the cans in the stream. Right up there in that narrow stretch looks like a good place. I rolled up my sleeve as he had done and placed both cans in the stream, about a yard apart, again with