It was just before 5:30PM, sunlight was fading fast, but we were determined to make it to the fishing spot I rediscovered the weekend before. Only two of us were venturing to the roads of Beaver Brook this weekend. We drove a lot faster than we normally did, but we had a mission - to get to the river with enough time to catch a couple brook trout.
I had told my friends of the fish I had caught last weekend, and the fun I had wandering the brook that I had fished so many years ago. None of them particularly liked to fish, but they were interested to see the new spot on the Beaver Brook Road. Plus, they were interested in eating freshly caught brook trout, battered in cornmeal and flour, and fried in a cast iron skillet coated with an entire stick of butter over a roaring campfire.
We arrived in the gravel pit to begin our walk to the brook shortly after 6:00PM. As I shouldered my backpack and removed my waders from the trunk, I watched the sun slowly setting behind the trees and realized that there was a good chance that this would be the last warm day of the year. I had checked the weather for tonight earlier in the day. It predicted daytime temperatures in the high 60s, but nighttime temperatures in the low 30s and a crystal clear sky.
The walk through the woods was quick. When we arrived at the banks of Beaver Brook, I hastily unpacked my fly rod, flies, and slipped on my waders. As I stepped into the water, my friend told me he was going to sleep on the bank and become one with the wilderness until I returned. It sounded like a good idea to me.
I sloshed through the water at a fast pace with the intention of fishing the beaver pond that was several hundred yards down stream. As I walked, I cast aimlessly into small pools that looked like they might contain something that would strike my fly. Focusing my eyes downstream, I danced my fly beside me. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a ripple in the water and immediately yanked my rod to set the hook in a plump 9" trout. As I broke its neck and slid it into the front pocket of my waders, I heard a loud boom in the distance. "Beavers", I thought.
A little note about beavers. When they sense the danger of something intruding in their territory, they quickly dive into the water, and splash their giant tail behind them. It creates a loud boom, which is comparable to that of the noise firing shotgun would make. If they catch you offguard it can be quite startling.
As I rounded a bend, the water began to deepen. I knew that I was close to the beaver pond, but I hadn't seen any beavers yet - just the occasional boom from their tail in the distance. As I stood up to my waist in water, I cast my fly into a spot very deep spot in the river that I remembered from the weekend before.
As I began the articulate retrieval of my fly, a very large splash engulfed it. I tugged the line, but it was slack. I had missed. I cast again, and the same splash resulted in the same slack line - I had missed again. I cast again, concentrating on every movement around my fly and keeping my line as taught as I could. Again, the splash came, and I tugged my line, and felt a large pull at the end. I hooked him, but I wasn't sure how well.
I took my time pulling him in. He fought hard, so I wasn't surprised to see that he was a large trout - probably 13". As I placed him in my front pouch, out of the corner of my eye I saw something moving in the water. It was a beaver, not just one beaver, but three. As quickly as I noticed them, they noticed me, and disappeared under the water in a loud thunderous splash.
Beavers are rarely dangerous. They only attack when they are cornered and are only outwardly aggressive during mating season, which is during the winter - but attacks are very rare. However, when you're up to the bottom of your ribs in the water, and 3 relatively large mammals with teeth capable of felling trees dive into the water around you, it's sort of unnerving.
As I waded through the water, I'd occasionally see the beavers surface. Not in any general direction, sometimes in front, sometimes in back, sometimes to the side. They were definitely interested in why I was encroaching on their territory. I ignored them for the most part.
The rest of my fishing trip was filled with tangled fishing line and it ultimately ended with the loss of a fly in the top of tree on the edge of the brook. But, I had two fish in my pouch, which was enough for a campfire snack.
It was really dark by the time I made it back to the trail to the gravel pit. My friend was no where to be found, but I could hear some crackling in the woods, so I knew he wasn't far. I took my waders off, cleaned the fish in the brook, and readied my stuff for the walk back to the gravel pit. I found my friend nearby in the woods. He was making circles inside of circles by poking sticks into the ground. The no-seeums had waked him from his slumber, and he decided to venture into the woods in search of something fun to do. He finished his work of art and we walked back to the gravel pit.
On our walk back, I told him about the fish I caught and the beavers I saw. He said he could hear the beavers splashing their tales from time to time. It was starting to get really cold by the time we made it back to the gravel pit, since the sun had disappeared from the sky. As the stars sparkled above us, we collected enough twigs to start a small fire. Someone had cut some firewood and left it there for people to use, so we helped ourselves. In no time, we had a roaring fire and all thought of being cold had drifted from our minds.
After the fire burnt down enough, so there was a good base of coals, I took the cleaned fish out of my bag and began to roll them in my mixture of cornmeal and flour. I placed the pan off to the side of the coals, and tossed in the stick of butter. Once the butter was completely melted and the pan was thoroughly warm, I tossed in the fish. They crackled and popped in the boiling butter as their delicate aroma filled the air.
In no time they were done. I took them from the frying pan and dished them on to plates. The fish fell apart in our mouths as we devoured every last bite. I could say that the fish were cooked perfectly, but they probably weren't. But the fact was that we were starving, and anyone that has camped in the woods, or ate over a campfire after, a hike through the woods knows that just about anything tastes delicious. However, I had the feeling that they were cooked perfectly, and that they were really delicious, but since the end of fishing season is Sept 30, I doubt I'll have time to catch and cook some more for comparison.
The rest of the night was filled with talk about the "what ifs" of life and of course, much talk about the delicious brook trout we had eaten.
"Do you need a lot of what you've got to survive?" Isaac Brock - Modest Mouse
Our website: www.beaverbrookroad.net
