Salvelinus fontinalis. That sort of rolls off the tongue, much as the water in a narrow, deep run slips quietly past on its way from riffle to pool to riffle. Even the name biologists use to designate the brook trout has a certain poetry about it.
The brook trout is the most colorful of fish-indeed, the most beautiful fish created. Henry David Thoreau used thirty-two colors in describing it. Thoreau was and remains one of the greatest nature writers in American history. His discourses on nature and his powers of description leave most outdoor writers breathless. Thirty-two colors!!! Why that's half of a box of sixty-four Crayolas! Anyone who has cradled a brookie in their hands for that brief moment before releasing it will agree that Salvelinus fontinalis is the champion of color.
Historically the brook trout enjoyed a much larger range than it currently does here in West Virginia. Now, reproducing populations are largely confined to the mountainous headwaters of drainages. It once naturally grew to twice its current average size in streams that now are largely reduced to put-and-take fisheries. Some of these larger waters still sport the occasional brook trout near the mouths of colder tributaries, but they are generally rare in the larger flows (hooking one in lower Dry Fork or lower Shavers is quite a prize). Yet they are found at times hugging the invisible colder flow issuing from a cold tributary that is likely their true home water.
The brook trout has a reputation among some for being easy to catch-gullible, stupid. It is often described as fragile. These ideas can be argued over many a campfire. I would be the one on the other side-defending my beloved brookie, discounting those claims until the fire was out, the wood depleted, and the ashes cold. History would be the card I would play, a card as wild as the brookies themselves.
I would agree that the brook trout, the only salmonid native to our waters, is easier to catch than its west coast and European cousins. But though there are places here where the rainbow and brown grow wild, they are not the products of these mountains. The brookie, forced into the headwaters by its biological requirements for cold, clear water, has become a product of that environment. The small creeks where the brook trout now lives are not as fertile as the slightly warmer waters of the lower valleys. Hence, brook trout have become opportunists. Yes, there are hatches, rough fishes, and other foods available to the brookie, but they are limited and in proportion to the size of their water. The brookie must make the most of its chances for food. Quite simply, it is predatory aggression, not stupidity. In the human world, perhaps those words are almost interchangeable, but in the case of the brook trout, aggression is and must be a trait of survival. This makes the brook t!
rout above all a survivor, which may be its finest trait of all in my book, surpassing even its colors.
Imagine your favorite trout stream. Imagine it two-hundred years ago. Chances are, if that stream holds rainbows of browns now, it held brookies then. Once the original forests were timbered, the larger streams, sometimes choked with log jams or ice jams, flooded constantly. Then the railroads snaked up every hollow, bringing out logs, removing the cover. Engines took water from the creeks and belched coal-fired soot into the naked air. Worse, the lines were usually built right next to the streams, back and forth up the mountain. The silt, soot, and grime inflicted on these streams was tremendous (you may want to throw in some early acid drainage from mines as well, to add to the environmental dangers). When all was said and done, the virgin forests were gone, and in many cases the land was burned and eroded down to bedrock. Whole counties were reduced to stumps. What wasn't burning was flooding. Boom towns tossed their rubbish and raw sewage directly into the streams. For a!
ll intents and purposes, the destruction was complete. A once untouched mountain wilderness was gone.
But somehow, the brook trout survived. He is now hunkered down in the highest and purest headwaters. Slowly recovering from the destruction, the wilderness is returning. The landscape is has regained some of its despoiled magnificence. And in the bottom of the deep, dark hollows, underneath the canopy of rhododendron and hemlock, dances and laughs the brook trout, still at home in the center of it all.
It is a great privilege to be able to visit the home of the brook trout. I am forever grateful and always deeply touched each time I walk along a brookie stream. Lipping a fish of thirty-two colors never leaves the eyes begging. Add a fishing chum and a campfire and there isn't much better. I suppose it's a church of sorts, gathered in praise of the brook trout.
The brook trout is the most colorful of fish-indeed, the most beautiful fish created. Henry David Thoreau used thirty-two colors in describing it. Thoreau was and remains one of the greatest nature writers in American history. His discourses on nature and his powers of description leave most outdoor writers breathless. Thirty-two colors!!! Why that's half of a box of sixty-four Crayolas! Anyone who has cradled a brookie in their hands for that brief moment before releasing it will agree that Salvelinus fontinalis is the champion of color.
Historically the brook trout enjoyed a much larger range than it currently does here in West Virginia. Now, reproducing populations are largely confined to the mountainous headwaters of drainages. It once naturally grew to twice its current average size in streams that now are largely reduced to put-and-take fisheries. Some of these larger waters still sport the occasional brook trout near the mouths of colder tributaries, but they are generally rare in the larger flows (hooking one in lower Dry Fork or lower Shavers is quite a prize). Yet they are found at times hugging the invisible colder flow issuing from a cold tributary that is likely their true home water.
The brook trout has a reputation among some for being easy to catch-gullible, stupid. It is often described as fragile. These ideas can be argued over many a campfire. I would be the one on the other side-defending my beloved brookie, discounting those claims until the fire was out, the wood depleted, and the ashes cold. History would be the card I would play, a card as wild as the brookies themselves.
I would agree that the brook trout, the only salmonid native to our waters, is easier to catch than its west coast and European cousins. But though there are places here where the rainbow and brown grow wild, they are not the products of these mountains. The brookie, forced into the headwaters by its biological requirements for cold, clear water, has become a product of that environment. The small creeks where the brook trout now lives are not as fertile as the slightly warmer waters of the lower valleys. Hence, brook trout have become opportunists. Yes, there are hatches, rough fishes, and other foods available to the brookie, but they are limited and in proportion to the size of their water. The brookie must make the most of its chances for food. Quite simply, it is predatory aggression, not stupidity. In the human world, perhaps those words are almost interchangeable, but in the case of the brook trout, aggression is and must be a trait of survival. This makes the brook t!
rout above all a survivor, which may be its finest trait of all in my book, surpassing even its colors.
Imagine your favorite trout stream. Imagine it two-hundred years ago. Chances are, if that stream holds rainbows of browns now, it held brookies then. Once the original forests were timbered, the larger streams, sometimes choked with log jams or ice jams, flooded constantly. Then the railroads snaked up every hollow, bringing out logs, removing the cover. Engines took water from the creeks and belched coal-fired soot into the naked air. Worse, the lines were usually built right next to the streams, back and forth up the mountain. The silt, soot, and grime inflicted on these streams was tremendous (you may want to throw in some early acid drainage from mines as well, to add to the environmental dangers). When all was said and done, the virgin forests were gone, and in many cases the land was burned and eroded down to bedrock. Whole counties were reduced to stumps. What wasn't burning was flooding. Boom towns tossed their rubbish and raw sewage directly into the streams. For a!
ll intents and purposes, the destruction was complete. A once untouched mountain wilderness was gone.
But somehow, the brook trout survived. He is now hunkered down in the highest and purest headwaters. Slowly recovering from the destruction, the wilderness is returning. The landscape is has regained some of its despoiled magnificence. And in the bottom of the deep, dark hollows, underneath the canopy of rhododendron and hemlock, dances and laughs the brook trout, still at home in the center of it all.
It is a great privilege to be able to visit the home of the brook trout. I am forever grateful and always deeply touched each time I walk along a brookie stream. Lipping a fish of thirty-two colors never leaves the eyes begging. Add a fishing chum and a campfire and there isn't much better. I suppose it's a church of sorts, gathered in praise of the brook trout.
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