Bucktails and Fishtails: From Northern Waters and Woods

By Dave Potter

Growing up at the end of the Great Depression, Dave Potter learned to appreciate the woods that surrounded his little town of Roxbury, Vermont. He was fly fishing by the time he was seven and lugging a camera with him at eleven. Intent on capturing all his great adventures, Dave was already well on his way to enjoying many fulfilling experiences in nature.

In a collection of personal essays and poems inspired by nature, Dave provides a glimpse into what it was like to hunt out of an old deer camp, fly fish in a mountain stream, trout fish in a beaver pond, and catch a monster trophy fish after winning a battle in the water. Peppered with true-to-life colorful characters, his stories transport others through Vermont, Alaska, Maine, New York, and Quebec. Photographs vividly capture memories of good times as Dave highlights his greatest adventures in the northern woods and waters over the course of a lifetime.

Bucktails and Fish Tails shares personal essays, poems, and photographs that track one man’s seven-decade journey through life, fishing adventures, and the joys of nature.

• Language: English
• Publisher: LifeRich Publishing
• Release date: Feb 11, 2019
• ISBN: 9781489721488

Dave Potter

Dave Potter spent forty years as a public school principal and superintendent in Vermont. He is a wildlife photographer who has been documenting his experiences in the water or in the woods since 1958. Now in his eighties, he is still passionate about fly fishing and nature photography. Dave lives in Columbia, South Carolina. Bucktails and Fish Tails is his second book.

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Copyright © 2019 Dave Potter.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Artist credit: Dave Potter, Linda Potter, Bryant

LifeRich Publishing is a registered trademark of The Reader’s Digest Association, Inc.

LifeRich Publishing

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-4897-2149-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4897-2147-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4897-2148-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019933040

LifeRich Publishing rev. date: 02/08/2019

CONTENTS

Foreword

In Memorium

Chapter 1 My Favorite Mountain Brook

Chapter 2 Vermont’s Rood Pond, The Last Seventy Plus Years

Chapter 3 What Is Your Trophy Catch?

Chapter 4 Miller Pond, A Jewel In Vermont’s Green Mountains

Chapter 5 Beaver Pond Trout

Chapter 6 Early Spring Fishing

Chapter 7 Mcintosh Pond

Chapter 8 It’s Hard To Drive By A Trout Pond

Chapter 9 Hidden In The Hills Of Hyde Park, Vt.

Chapter 10 My Lake Eden Notebook

Chapter 11 Spectacle Pond, Maine

Chapter 12 Maine’s Other Grand Lake

Chapter 13 Lake Carmi; A Vermont Success Story

Chapter 14 Fishing Norde Of The Border

Chapter 15 Like A Great Trout Stream;

Chapter 16 Alaska’s Incredible Landscape, And Of Course, Fishing

Chapter 17 The Lewis World

Chapter 18 Create Fond Memories With Your Kids And Grandkids

Chapter 19 A Family Camping Trip, Never To Be Forgotten

Chapter 20 Camping On Taylor Lake

Chapter 21 Back In The Forties, I Was Taught How To Deer Hunt

Chapter 22 Deer Hunting With Dad

Chapter 23 Hunting From The Old Cram Hill Deer Camp

Chapter 24 After The Smoke Clears

Chapter 25 Hunting Maine’s T-10, R-11, North Country Sectors

Chapter 26 Hunting Anticosti Island, Quebec

Conclusion

FOREWORD

I have fond memories of my Dad, Grandfathers, Uncles, and my Aunt, Rose Willey, spending countless hours with me on mountain brooks, or in a boat or canoe, on Vermont ponds and lakes. They also taught me to appreciate the woods that surrounded the little town of Roxbury, Vermont, where I grew up.

I was fly fishing by the time I was seven, and carrying a camera with me, by the time I was eleven. I was always trying to get a good photo of an animal, or some beautiful spot in the woods or along a brook or waterfall; Especially waterfalls. I have always been mesmerized by waterfalls, hence the poem, By The Foot Of The Falls, that is included after one of the chapters in the book.

When I was a kid, living with my grandparents, John and Betty Willey, on Roxbury Flats, I walked up the Ox Bow Road, to my cousin, Billy Ray’s house, on many hot summer days. Billy and I would then walk around the dam on Broad Brook, to the base of the falls where there were some deep and very cold pools. When it was too cold for swimming, Billy and I would often fish those same pools for brook trout or rainbows that lived in them.

Now, in my eighties, I am still passionate about fly fishing. I also, still carry cameras in my backpack, but they are digital cameras with telephoto lenses; A far cry from the old Kodak camera I used as a kid.

Getting around has gotten difficult, and I now use a walking stick to keep me upright. I rarely fish a stream these days. Thanks to my fishing buddies, who steady my boat, so I can get in and out of it, I can still fish most of the ponds and lakes in Vermont, as well as some in Maine.

I was fortunate to have many family members who fished with me when I was a kid. Today, there are fewer opportunities for most kids to fish. Parents are often too busy trying to make enough money to support their family, or simply haven’t fished themselves, so they don’t take their kids out fishing.

The State of Vermont, and other states, recognized that, and the Vt. Fish and Wildlife Department and Lake Champlain International, (L.C.I.) teamed up and secured a federal grant to teach kids how to fish. L.C.I. is no longer involved in the clinics, but the Vt. Fish & Wildlife Department offers many clinics. I have been a certified volunteer instructor, in their Let’s Go Fishing program, and a certified hunter safety instructor. I believe that all kids should have the opportunity to learn how to fish and how to understand and appreciate the environment that enables fish and wildlife to survive.

All of the poems in this book, reflect the experiences I have had in Vermont and Maine, most while fishing. I have tried to include tidbits of information in my poems about wildlife we share our environment with. The photos in the book were all taken in Vermont, Maine, Alaska, New York, and Quebec.

I have come to realize, that the modern world has left me behind. I think that happened about ten years ago, when the I Phone was introduced, and evolved into the centerpiece of our social world. I have never used an I Phone, but have given in, to the use of a Trac Phone, for safety reasons.

I am hoping, that the stories in this book will give today’s readers a look at the past that they never experienced themselves. Even if I can’t keep up with the modern world, I can pass on some true stories from the past, when I was enjoying the water and woods, in rural Vermont.

My mother, Pauline Potter, always said that I was born a hundred years too late. I always figured that she probably wished that I had been born by her Grandmother, or Great Grandmother.

Now, in my eighth decade of living in Vermont, I can put myself in a reflective mode, and actually agree with her.

Most books that interest me, have strong and interesting characters. I have not had to worry about that, when writing this book. I have hunted and fished with very interesting characters my whole life. All I had to do was to be observant, and keep good notes on what they did and said.

I always struggled with reading and math in school. I couldn’t remember over seventy percent of the spelling words each week, that the teacher gave us to study. Teachers in the forties and fifties didn’t recognize my inventive spelling, as anything other than laziness to learn the proper spelling.

When I was in schools in the forties and fifties, teachers didn’t understand much about learning disabilities. If I was a student in elementary school today, I would have an I.E.P. (Individual Education Plan), as I am Dyslexic.

Back in my grammar school days, in one room schools in Roxbury and Northfield, Vermont. The teachers thought I just wasn’t paying attention, or was not very smart. One teacher tried to pound some sense into me by grabbing me by the hair, and banging my head against the desk.

Maybe, that’s why I started cutting my hair short as soon as I started paying for my own haircuts.

I struggled in Northfield High School, as well as the graded schools, but life became better when I shot on the high school rifle team, played varsity baseball, and varsity soccer. I also was in the school’s Glee Club, Band, and acted in the Senior Three Act play.

Fortunately for me, the school hired their first part-time counselor; Elvira Suitor. She also taught math and became my mentor. She had me teach math lessons in her class. She understood that students learn better when they have to prepare to teach something to others. She also signed me up for remedial reading as a senior in high school.

The Principal and Assistant Principal, both said that I was not college material, (in writing), but my mentor wrote a letter of support for me, to attend Johnson State College. I was accepted because of her support.

I was also fortunate in college to make the varsity soccer and baseball teams, and to get to know three young professors who took a liking to me. Dan Leviton, Robert Cipos, and Bob Smith helped me become successful in their classes, and others. Bob Smith taught me to write down everything I wanted to remember in his Biology class, and make sense of it, later. I learned that I had missed out on directions and explanations for years, because I was trying to make sense of the first concept, when the teacher had already moved on to several more. I therefore, never made sense of all of the directions or concepts the teachers were presenting.

I feel fortunate to have survived all of the sand traps and water hazards that life has thrown in front of me. I also have been fortunate in making, and maintaining many friendships over the years. Those friendships have greatly helped me to endure the hard times, and to celebrate the successes. My greatest sense of success was in my last three, of my forty-four years in education, when I served as Superintendent of Schools in the same towns of Roxbury and Northfield, Vermont, where I struggled as a student in the forties and fifties.

Even though I was active in school activities, and sports, I never lost my love for the water and woods. Maybe those environments were my therapy and escape, from the pressures of real life. Today, however, I don’t really feel many pressures, but I still love to get out into the woods or on the water, as those environments are such a big part of who I am.

Many in today’s society, are quick to judge others, and criticize what they have done or are doing.

Some of you may judge me harshly if you read the chapters about hunting. All I ask is that you put it all in perspective. I experienced what rural life was like back then, and am trying to tell it like it was.

I grew up at the end of the Great Depression, when my Grandparents struggled to put food on the table. I learned how to survive those hard times, by hunting, fishing, trapping fur bearing animals, picking wild edibles, and bartering what I had, even as a kid. I especially liked to barter trout, berries, butternuts, and hard work, to get homemade salted butter, to top my Grandmother’s warm bread, rolls and biscuits, as well as maple syrup, to dip her homemade doughnuts in.

Growing up, I never heard of vegetarians, vegans, or localvores. Maybe they just didn’t visit the Roxbury woods. Of course, it is possible that I never left those woods long enough to get in touch with the rest of the world.

I am more reflective now than I used to be, and my days on the water and in the woods are even more important than ever. I think I’ll know when it’s time to give up my hunting and fishing pursuits. When I can’t lift my legs high enough to get in or out of the boat, it will be time to retire the boat. When I hit the trail during hunting season, (face first), or walk the trail, but can’t remember where I left my chair, near the trail, it will be time to give it up.

Maybe though, if I add a fifth day at the gym each week, I can make another ten years, (or more).

In closing, I want to emphasize the fact that I don’t claim to be an expert at anything. I have simply lived a long time, and have enjoyed hunting and fishing for over seventy years. I have kept good notes about my experiences, for the purpose of increasing my future successes. My deer hunting logs, date back to 1958.

I want to extend a special thanks to Chris Boone, of Bishop California, for all of his help with details about the spawning and hatching process that trout go through.

Special thanks also, to Brian Chipman, who is a Fisheries Biologist in Vermont. I learned information about walleyes from Brian, that I never knew, (even though I’ve been fishing for them since 1956).

There is always something new to be learned about our outdoor world.

IN MEMORIUM

FOR ALL THOSE NO LONGER HERE TO

FISH AND HUNT IN NORTHERN WATERS AND WOODS

As Bob Hope used to say: Thanks for the Memories.

CHAPTER ONE

MY FAVORITE MOUNTAIN BROOK

My Grandfather, John Willey, and I spent many days fishing mountain brooks in the Towns of Roxbury, Braintree, and Granville, Vermont. Most of those brooks had only brook trout in them, but a couple had a few rainbows as well. There were twelve brooks that we used to fish. We could usually take our limits on each of them, given enough time.

Gramp used a two, or three-piece, bamboo fly rod, his whole life.

After breaking a couple of bamboo rods, I bought a fiberglass rod as soon as they came out. I used an eight-foot Wonderglass fly rod on most of the brooks. I eventually added a 5’9 Lamiglass rod somewhere along the way. Eventually, I got into Fenwick rods and used both an 8 ½’ rod and a 7 ½’ rod. That 7 ½’ rod was a four-piece pack rod, and travelled with me to Alaska, Quebec, Montana, and other western states. I could make longer casts with the 8’ and 7 ½’ rods but I loved fishing with the 5’9 rod and four weight floating line, on mountain brooks. Even a six-inch brookie felt heavy on that rod.

In the 1940’s we didn’t have much meat, except for what we caught, shot, or bartered for. From May through August, trout were a big part of our diet.

When the trout season opened in May, we would dig dandelion greens to go with our meals of trout. My Grandmother, Betty Willey, would give the greens flavor by boiling pork belly, pork rind, or salt pork with them while they were cooking.

You had to dig the dandelions before their yellow blossoms opened up, or they would taste very bitter. I loved topping the warm greens with salty homemade butter and apple cider vinegar (still do). In late spring or early summer, I also cut cow slips for my grandmother to cook with fish as well. They were far less bitter than the dandelions.

Gramp always had a big garden and planted plenty of Swiss and beet chard that also made great greens to go with pan fried Brook Trout.

The last wild greens to come along in late summer were the milkweed greens. Those had to be picked when they were young. I often just picked off the top three or four sets of stalk and leaves. I hated the sticky, milky substance that came out when you broke off the stalk, but it did wash off. I guess that’s why there are called milkweed greens. I liked them best, when mixed with horseradish greens as the horseradish greens gave them a little more tangy flavor. Back then, in the 1940’s, most small farms, or homes with gardens, kept patches of horseradish. If you just broke or cut off some leaves, you didn’t damage the roots and the roots would still be available for grinding up and mixing with white vinegar for homemade horseradish. Caution; Homemade horseradish has a serious bite and very potent smell. The fumes are so potent that they can constrict your throat, especially when you are grinding it. My best advice, is to grind your horseradish outside.

Merle Dickinson and his wife, Ruth, had a home just a few houses south of my grand parents’ house on the Roxbury Flats. Merle got sick of dealing with the horseradish patch one year, and plowed it all under. He must have had the perfect spot for horseradish as it sprang up all over his garden, and instead of having one patch, he had a dozen. A good sized patch will last indefinitely if you don’t over cut or over dig.

Nearly thirty years ago, Merle’s son, Everett Dickinson, gave me some horseradish roots from his patch in Hyde Park that originated from that Roxbury patch, some fifty years ago.

It still grows at my house in Hyde Park, and I still make my own horseradish.

In June, the native strawberries ripened in many of the fields in Roxbury and we would spend half a day on Sunday, picking and hulling the tiny, wild berries. My grandmother made two big biscuits, or one huge one, and cut it in half, for the shortcake. The bottom layer would be covered with berries then covered with the top biscuit or layer, and it, too, would be covered in berries. If the biscuit was still warm when served as shortcake, I also added homemade butter on top of it before adding berries and homemade whipped cream.

My favorite meal was, and still is, freshly caught brook trout, rolled in corn meal and flour, and fried in a pan, in just enough oil to keep the trout from sticking. Back then, growing up, the trout were fried in bacon fat or lard. Today, I use canola oil. I still love warm, homemade bread, topped with butter (or my alternative, Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter), freshly boiled greens, topped with salt, butter, and cider vinegar. Add to that, a dessert of fresh northern strawberries, (not the tiny, wild ones) served over biscuits, topped with butter and real whipped cream.

Enough talk about the side dishes and condiments. Time to talk about the entrée, and how it makes its way to the dinner table. I enjoy eating most fish, but brook trout caught in a cold mountain brook are still my favorite. I refuse to buy rainbow trout that are sold in grocery stores.

My Grandfather Willey, my Dad, Harold Potter, my Uncle and Aunt, Paul and Rose Willey, my Uncle Allie Potter, and my cousin Billy Ray, all helped me learn the art and science of fly casting and fishing. My grandfather was the one who taught me how to read the pools and fish them in mountain brooks.

My Grandfather and I developed a system over the years, for fishing a brook together. Over time, I became better and better at making longer casts, and accurate casts, even along brush lined brooks. I would fish all the pools that required a long accurate cast, and Gramp fished those where he could sneak up behind a rock or stump or tree and make a short cast. We always fished upstream because the trout are usually facing upstream and don’t spot you as easily when you make your cast. It is also easier to hook a trout when you cast your fly above them and let it drift back. When you set your hook, you are pulling the hook into their jaw rather than pulling the fly away from them. When you fish downstream, you are pulling the fly away from the trout when they strike. Gramp usually made the call as to who would fish a pool. Sometimes, we would both fish a pool. I would make a cast to the shallow end of the pool and often pick up a trout there. Gramp would then sneak up to the fast water near the head of the pool and make his cast there.

We always checked the lower end of the pool carefully, as there were usually one or more fish holding there. If one looked to be at least six inches long, we would make our first cast to that trout. I always watched carefully to see what that trout had for a feeding area. I have watched many six to eight-inch trout dart to the surface and suck in an insect that was drifting by. I always pay attention to how far that trout would move to chase some food. I’ve watched some that wouldn’t move over a foot to either side of where they were holding. Some were very active and aggressive in chasing food, and would race clear across a pool to catch up with their meal.

Gramp and I fished brooks together for nearly forty years. Gramp knew his casting limitations and I think he enjoyed watching me make longer casts and take trout. I often took my limit before he did as he had me fish more pools. It didn’t matter. When I finished my limit, I would double check my trout in the basket to make sure I did have a limit. The limit, when I was a kid, was twenty trout per day. The counting process included moving all of the wet ferns that I used to keep the trout from drying out. Sometimes, a trout would stick to a fern, and not become part of the count. After I was sure that I had my limit, I broke my rod down so it was easier to carry and stayed behind Gramp as he finished his limit. After Gramp reached his eighties, I stayed beside him and helped him over the rough or slippery spots.

After Gramp caught his limit, we would look for a flat rock where we could lay our trout out and dress them.

Gramp and I fished many different brooks, because we didn’t want to overfish one or two brooks. We did have a favorite though. It was called Morse’s Brook. Gramp said the Morse family used to live on the brook back in the early 1900’s.

If we started fishing a brook and saw lots of boot tracks and few fish in the pools, we would either hike up the brook to get above where others had fished, or move to another brook. Back then, very few fishermen used flies. Earthworms were the normal bait. Many fishermen stopped fishing the brooks in the hot weather and lower water, as the trout became harder to catch. They would fish again after a rain had raised the water or made it roily. Trout would usually feed heavily at the beginning of a storm.

We made sure we didn’t fish the same brook too often so it could maintain a healthy population of wild trout.

When I was a kid, you couldn’t fish for trout after August in the fall.

The state wanted to make sure that the trout spawned and kept the small ponds and brooks stocked naturally. The state rarely stocked the mountain brooks unless it was to put fry in the tiny feeder streams. They did stock the rivers and larger streams, as well as some of the beaver ponds. Back then, in the 1940’s and 1950’s, there was a minimum length limit of six inches for trout in the brooks and streams. I cut a notch in the cork of my rod handle, that was six inches from the butt of the rod. That way, I would always have a six-inch ruler with me.

Four and five-inch trout spawn in those smaller brooks so nature kept the mountain brooks pretty well stocked unless the brooks had heavy fishing pressure or people didn’t observe the daily catch or size limits. Eventually, the state of Vt. took off the six-inch minimum length limit in brooks and unnamed ponds (like beaver ponds), and changed the daily limit to twelve trout. After a few years, they made a six fish limit for rainbows and/or browns. I was never enthused about that change in the minimum length of trout, because some people kept everything and some of the brooks were nearly cleaned out of trout.

The brook that runs by the Roxbury camp on Cram Hill, is one such brook. When I was a kid, I caught trout the whole length of that brook, but over time the trout disappeared. I decided to catch some small trout in mountain brooks and re-stock that brook with wild trout. My family also helped me with that project. It worked, and the trout began spawning as they used to when I was a kid.

Rich Kern, a biologist with Vermont Fish and Wildlife, said he checked the falls above the bridge on Cram Hill, in the fall and many trout were spawning there. He asked me if I knew anything about that.

I explained what we had done and said that I had fished that brook as a kid and caught trout the entire length of it.

The State of Vermont, eventually passed a law that made it illegal to transport live fish. They were trying to prevent the spread of disease from one water body, to another, as well as the introduction of different species that could really mess up the ecosystem in that waterbody. So, don’t try that now.

I am still a volunteer Let’s Go Fishing Instructor for Vt. Fish and Wildlife, and emphasize to students, how the laws are written to maintain good, healthy populations of fish for everyone. It is critical that each of us abides by those laws so we all can enjoy the great fishing that Vermont has to offer.

The State of Vermont eventually added fishing time in the spring and time in the fall. Spring fishing opened in April and closed at the end of September. I loved the addition of September because partridge season didn’t open until October and there wasn’t much to do in September. Now, Vermont has also added October to the trout fishing season. I love to put together a combination hunting and fishing trip in October. Depending on when they spawn, brookies may not hit well in October, but there are always partridges and even bear to hunt then, if you chose to.

Gramp and I used to line honeybees in September, as an excuse to spend time in the woods. We made a couple of Bee Boxes to catch honeybees and try to track them to their hive. The boxes had two ends with a partition in between. That partition could be opened or closed with a lever. We put honeycomb in one end and filled the comb with sugar and water, much like the syrup you make for hummingbird feeders. You kept the partition closed, and tried to catch a bee in the other end, when it was on a flower. Once the bee settled down after being trapped in the box, you would open up the partition and the bee would crawl into the end with honeycomb and start loading up its pouches with the sugary syrup.

In September, Goldenrod was the most prevalent flower in bloom, near the woods, so that is where we started. We used to carry a board, screwed into a stick that you could drive into the ground. You drove the stick into the ground so it was solid, and placed the bee box on the flat board. Once the bee was working the honeycomb, you could open the cover of the box, so the bee could fly out when it was ready. The bees would fly out, then fly in circles until they got their bearings. Once they had their bearings, they would fly straight toward their hive. That’s where the phrase, Make a beeline, came from.

We used to check our watch when the bee left and see how long it took to fly to its hive and back. That way, you would have an idea how from the bee tree you were.

It was never certain, as sometimes the hive was inside a tree where the bees had to travel a long way down a limb to reach the hive. Gramp and I always figured that when the flight time was under ten minutes, we weren’t too from from the tree. Once in a while, we trapped a bee that never came back. If that happened, we would simply trap another one. Once the bee returned two or three times, we would shut the cover as it was working the honeycomb, try to get it into the other end of the box, then close the partition and move the stick and box in the direction the bee had travelled. You then repeated the procedure you used in the beginning. If the bee wouldn’t go into the other end of the partition, you had to carry the box carefully, so the bee didn’t get all sticky from the syrup while you were moving it. Depending on the terrain I was walking in, I liked to move about a hundred yards at a time.

As you got closer to the hive, your bee brought back other bees that would work the box as well. We brought along some chalk and a little water so you could make up chalky water. You then used an eye dropper, to suck some out of the container, and mark a bee in the box by dropping chalky water on it while it was working the honeycomb. That way, you would know that you were timing the same bee each time.

Gramp and I found a few bee trees for our efforts, but it was really more about enjoying the hunt than getting the honey. Once you found the tree, you carved your name and address on the tree, and it was theoretically yours to cut when you were ready. I’m sure that has all changed today. In fact, in the northeast, each bee tree may now have its own attorney.

If you found a bee keeper that could collect the swarm, it would be a win, win situation. You could collect the honey, and a beekeeper could collect a new swarm of bees.

One tree that we found, was on the Big Ridge, near the top of Cram Hill, in Roxbury. We went up the ridge in December to cut the tree and collect the honey. Dad, Uncle Errol Potter, Carl Johnson, Gramp Willey, and I made the trip. Carl had head netting and beekeeping equipment that we brought along. When the tree dropped, the protective equipment did little to keep us from getting stung. The bees found their way down our necks, up our sleeves, and up our pant legs.

Today, I might not object to all the bee stings, as they would help my arthritis, but back then, I didn’t have arthritis.

Uncle Errol seemed the least affected by the bees. He collected pail after pail of the dark honeycomb for us to carry off the mountain. Honey from the deep woods, as compared to honey from fields of clover or flowers, was very dark and strong tasting. There was no pasteurizing of honey back then, so you had to watch what you were eating when you bit into the honeycomb. Honey is, as far as I know, the only food that will never spoil, so it was a real prize back then. I used to spread the honeycomb on toast or doughnuts, and didn’t mind the strong taste of the woods honey.

My Mother and Grandmother used the honey as a sweetener in many recipes. Gramp Willey liked it, as I did, on his toast and the homemade doughnuts, that my Grandmother made him. I remember Gramp teasing Nan to make more doughnuts sometimes, but she always replied. John, you know I only make them twice a week.

Now, Vermont has also added October to the trout fishing season, and I only think about the days of lining bees with Gramp. I haven’t searched for a bee tree since the forties and fifties. It just wouldn’t seem right without Gramp.

I do, however, like to put together an October hunting and fishing trip. Depending on when the brookies are getting ready to spawn, they don’t always hit well in October. But then, there are always partridges, and even bear to hunt then, if you choose to. I have also snapped thousands of fall foliage photos in October.

Even though you take thousands of fishing trips over the years, there are always a few that you never forget.

One such trip was a September fishing trip with Gramp. I called the weekend before and asked if he would like to go fishing on Wednesday or Thursday of the coming week. I added that the weather looked great for both days.

Gramp hesitated and said, I don’t know, my balance has been pretty bad.

I quickly replied, I’ll help you along the brook and we can take all day. Ask Nan if she could make a loaf of bread to go along with our fresh brook trout."

Gramp replied, I think she will. We haven’t had many brook trout this summer.

I said, Good, I’ll be there about ten o’clock on Wednesday and we’ll have the rest of the day. I’ll really look forward to a day on the brook, and my favorite meal.

When I pulled in on Wednesday, at his house on Roxbury Flats, Gramp was in his garage, picking up his old wicker fish basket. He already had his low hip boots on and had his three-piece bamboo fly rod that he always tied together with twine when he carried it. I looked at his fly rod and noticed that he had tied on one of the size #12 black gnat flies I had tied up for him. I had added a short leader to the fly with a loop at the end so he could easily slide that through the loop on the end of his long leader that I tied to his floating fly line. His eyes were getting pretty bad, so I tied a loop on the end of his long leader and all he had to do was slide the loops together and pull the fly through. He was in his late eighties then so I was amazed at what he could still do. I asked him if he had any spare flies with him.

He said, Yeah, I put a few spare ones in the tin in my basket. (He always used an old tobacco can to hold what little tackle he brought.)

I took his rod and basket and put them on the back seat of my SUV. I asked him if he was ready.

He just smiled and leaned back into the front seat.

I backed out and headed south on Route #12A. He didn’t even ask where we were headed. He knew it would be Morse’s, our favorite brook. We pulled onto the old logging road near the foot of the brook, by an old farmhouse that has been there as long as I can remember. I slipped the SUV into four-wheel drive and said, I hope the road is still passable up to the first bridge. I dropped it into low gear in anticipation of the boulders we would have to drive up and around to get there. I finally pulled up to where the road is washed out and got my vehicle turned around before we got out. I pulled as far to the side as I could to park, just in case someone else drove up.

When we got out, Gramp said, That was a lot better than walking all the way up.

I laughed and said, I wanted to make sure you had enough energy left to catch your limit. I added, Let’s walk up the logging road to the nice double pool below the first little falls.

He readily agreed as he could always take a couple of trout there.

I had thrown a walking stick in the back seat so I handed that to him and said, This should help you keep your balance but I will also take ahold your arm where the brook is steep or slippery. I took ahold of his arm as we headed down the steep old road and into the brook. When we made it to the road on the other side, I said, It’s a hot day and I’m going to hide two cans of beer we can have when we get back. I slid the beers out of sight under a big rock then put a couple of other rocks in front to keep them from washing down the current.

We walked up the road a hundred yards or so then cut down to the little falls where he would start fishing. I was pleased that there were no fresh boot tracks in the gravel. We stood back from the pool and put our rods together. I waited for Gramp to get ready then took his arm so he didn’t fall, sliding down the bank to the pool. We were below the pool but I could see several trout holding in the shallow end of the pool. As we watched, one of the best trout came to the surface and sucked in a small floating insect.

Gramp said, You cast to that one as he will spook easy in the shallow water.

I stepped to one side so my leader wouldn’t fall right over him and made a cast. The size #14 Royal Coachman landed lightly on the water about two feet above him. The trout immediately dashed ahead and sucked it in. I set the hook and worked the seven- inch brookie slowly down the pool so as not to spook all of the other trout in the pool. Once I had him below the pool, I dragged him up onto the shore, took the fly hook out of his mouth, and put him in my basket. He was a nicely colored brookie and I admired the seven-inch trout before I put him in my basket. I was using my four weight, 5’9" graphite rod and the trout played well as I worked him down the pool.

My eye caught a motion at the edge of the white water that went under a big rock. I said, Gramp, I just saw another keeper just to the left of that big rock at the head of the pool. I think you can sneak up there and make a cast without him seeing you. Throw your fly so it goes into the white water and the current takes it down under that rock. I didn’t really have to tell him, as he had done that thousands of times before.

I grabbed Gramp’s arm and helped him get into position to cast.

He crouched low and lobbed his fly perfectly into the white water and I watched the current take his wet fly under the rock. I watched Gramp set his hook as he had done thousands of times before, and the bamboo rod bent from the weight of the trout in the current. His rod really bent as he pulled the trout out from under the rock and worked it over to the gravel bank.

I marveled as to how black Gramp’s trout was when compared to the red and yellow colors on the one I had taken. My trout had apparently lived most of its time in shallow water where it got plenty of sunlight. Gramp’s trout lived under a rock and saw little sunlight. Brook trout color, is also affected by the food they eat, but in this case, I believe it was where they each spent their lives. Trout that live in deep water or under rocks, are usually much darker in color.

Gramp’s favorite flies were both wet flies as he let the current carry his flies along, as opposed to floating them. On this day, he had selected a Black Gnat, which has a black body, black hackle, and white wings. His other favorite fly, the McGinty, that is tied to resemble a honey bee or bumble bee. Gramp let his flies sink in dark, deeper water, so the darker colored flies showed up better than lighter colored flies. If you think about it, a trout is looking up toward the sky most of the time, so the dark bodied flies show up much better to the trout.

When I fished with Gramp, I used to fish most of the shallow water pools so I would use a smaller or lighter colored fly than Gramp did. I also wanted one that would land lightly on the water and not spook trout in the shallows. The Royal Coachman fly has always been one of my favorites. That fly has green and red on its body, hackle and tail hackle, and white wings. That is one of the best rainbow trout flies I’ve ever found. When fishing for ‘bows, I almost always use a fly with some red and/or orange in it.

If most of the water is swift water, I often fish brown or black and white bi-visible flies, because they float so well.

I watched Gramp put his trout in his basket and I searched around for some ferns I could break off and wet in the brook to keep our fish wet in the baskets. Gramp wanted to try the smaller pool below the falls on the far side of the brook. I helped him get to solid footing and watched him make another perfect cast into the white water and hooked into another keeper brook trout. He slid it up onto the gravel bank in front of us and I moved foreword to grab it. I removed the hook from the brookies mouth, and slid the trout into his basket.

Gramp said, it looked a little small.

I responded, It was six inches long, so even when we had to measure them, it would have been a keeper.

Gramp and I continued fishing slowly up the brook together, and having fun. We often took all day to fish a brook because we stayed together instead of splitting up and each taking a section. Now, it was critical that I stay with him and help him over any rough or slippery spots. When we came to pools that were difficult to get to or had slippery rocks, we went around them.

When Gramp was fishing a pool, I often cast into smaller pockets of water below us or deep pockets that had derbies all around them that other fisherman might avoid. I was amazed at how well I was doing. It was obvious to me that the brook hadn’t been fished too hard.

Gramp was very slow and it took a long time both to fish a pool and to travel to the next one.

Before we reached the second bridge, I counted my trout, and as I thought, I had my limit of twelve.

After I watched Gramp put a nice trout in his basket, I pulled my rod apart and walked up to him. I said, Let’s count your trout, you must be getting close to your limit.

Gramp looked at me and my two-piece rod and asked, Are you done fishing?

Yup, I replied, "I’ve been sneaking fish out of those little side pools while you’ve been fishing the