Learning to Fly
The lower section of Quashnet where reclaimed cranberry bogs are slowly returning to a forested woodland. An artificially constructed rock and wood ledge can be seen in the foreground. The health of this trout fishery is thanks to the tireless efforts of the many volunteers that have worked to improve habitat along this section of river.
Fish. It is one of several four letter f-words that serves equally well as a noun or a verb. The verb only implies the pursuit of the noun - it says nothing of the result. If you spot me that definition, I can confidently say that I have fished. In almost every manner, I’ve fished. I’ve trawled, I’ve trolled, I’ve dipped, I’ve jigged, and I’ve casted. But that doesn’t mean I know how to fish. Believe you me, I am no fisherman.
I fished as a kid, stopping around the time I started to make a profession out of studying fish and fisherman. There are a lot of reasons why, but most likely because spending days at sea trawling up fish, or lashed to a computer crunching fish data provided all the fish-fix I needed. Now I spend my hours drawing fish, but I’m getting the itch to touch real fish again. Longing for the coldness, the smell, the slime, the shine, the smoothness, the shimmer, the form, and the raw beauty. It’s time to start fishing again.
For my fishing rebirth, I’ve set my sights on a very specific goal - I’m going to learn to fly fish. I spent hours as a kid casting a fly rod across a farm pond in northeast Massachusetts; but catching near-captive largemouth bass doesn’t qualify me as a fly fisherman. To join those ranks, I will need a more worthy goal. I will learn to catch trout. More specifically, I am going to attempt to learn the ways of the persnickety sea-run brook trout - the elusive ‘salter’ trout.
Sea-run, salter, brook trout drawing by Mike Palmer (2021). View the original artwork here.
Unlike landlocked brook trout, sea-run trout have stayed true to their anadromous char roots - once they’ve spawned in the fall they migrate to the estuaries to overwinter. There, the trout feed and grow in the relatively food-rich marine environment. They return to the rivers in spring before the seasonal arrival of ocean predators like bluefish and striped bass. The unique feeding ecology of salters make them larger compared to landlocked brook trout; this, combined with their skittish and finicky behavior, have made salters a sought-after recreational fish.
One of many freshwater springs that seep from the river valleys into the lower Quashnet. The presence of these springs lowers the water temperature from warm outflow from Johns Pond to a comfortable (for trout) 45 to 65 degrees Fahrenheit.
Cape Cod is home to two salter streams - the Quashnet and the Mashpee rivers. Colloquially, they’re called rivers, but truthfully they’re little more than streams. Some might even say brooks. The Quashnet, stretching from Johns Pond in the north to Waquoit Bay, runs through reclaimed cranberry bogs for much of its stretch. The Mashpee flows from the Mashpee-Wakeby Pond south, first through reclaimed cranberry bogs, and then into an old growth hardwood forest before emptying in Popponesset Bay. The presence of numerous spring seeps along the river valleys slowly lower the temperature of the streams as they wind towards the ocean. The cold waters and gravel river beds are prime habitat for sea-run brook trout. While these rivers may lack the mystique of famed trout streams like the Deerfield or the Androscoggin, for anyone who’s spent any time on them they each hold their own allure.
Over the past week I’ve walked these two rivers and made mental notes of the snags, overhangs, riffles, and pools. I’ve ordered supplies and prepped my gear. I’ve read blogs and books. I’m ready. I’m ready to fail. The probabilities are not in my favor. I know that more often than not, I will fail, (incidentally, fail is another one of those duplicitous 4-letter f-words). Sometimes I will fail miserably. But that’s okay. After all fishing isn’t about catching. It’s about having a reason to bushwhack through a thick stand of willows and prickers, to stand alone in a river listening the gurgling of a brook. Fishing is really about the zen that originates from the purposeful pursuit of a passion.
