Long ago and far away

Just the other day, the latest newsletter arrived from the Croton Watershed Chapter of Trout Unlimited, based in White Plains, New York. It contained a short story on the recent work done by the redoubtable Rock Rollers of that chapter on Boyd Corners Outlet. My, my, Boyd Corners Outlet, what wonderful memories come to mind when I think of that little stream. Boyd Corners reservoir is formed by the uppermost dam on the West Branch of the Croton River. The outlet flows down into West Branch Reservoir, which is where the Catskill aqueduct enters the Croton reservoir system. At barely a quarter of a mile in length, Boyd Corners Outlet is one of the shortest trout streams in New York State.

It was on this little brook in 1949, that Barb and I had our first taste of fly-fishing. In the beginning, the only thing our flies caught were tree limbs that projected out over the water. The few fish that deigned to strike our flies were little rock bass, or red eyes as some called them. Definitely not the quarry that we sought. The trout either ignored our offerings or fled in terror at our approach.

At the start of the 1950 season, the trout continued to treat us as no more than occasional pests to be scorned or avoided. However, on the afternoon of May 21, 1950, on Boyd’s Outlet we witnessed our first sight of mayflies hatching. In a pretty pool, a short way down from the Old Route 301 bridge, we found flies in the air and on the water. Trout were feeding at the surface with wild abandon. I managed to convince a little trout to eat a small brown bivisible dry fly that I had tied myself. The fact that this fish was barely over the seven-inch size limit did not matter. I could now call myself a fly-fisherman. Thereafter Barb and I always referred to that spot as, “First Trout Pool.” We gradually came to learn that it was one of the most productive pools on the Outlet.

It was also on an early morning’s fishing at Boyd Corners Outlet, that I first wrestled with the idea of releasing a legal trout that I had caught. I had read an article by Ted Trueblood in Field and Stream magazine, urging fishers to return to the water most of the trout that they caught. I had been fishing a light tiger bucktail fly, down and across the currents of the aforementioned “First Trout Pool.” Towards the tail of the pool, I had a solid hit and shortly netted a pretty thirteen-inch brown trout. Wow! The best fish I had ever taken from this small stream. Barb and my Dad would really be impressed when I showed them this trout. Dad would be delighted to have it for breakfast.

The trout was now lying in the bag of my net, which was submerged at the edge of the stream. At this stage of my fly-fishing journey, this was a bragging fish. Why not kill it? I had caught it fair and square. Trueblood’s words came to mind. “It isn’t hard to turn a trout loose. You really don’t need them for food. Any trout is worth more in the water than in the creel.” Reaching down while keeping the trout and the net in the water, I removed the fly from the trout’s jaw. The net with the fish in it was put back in the water. Darn, I had forgotten my camera. I couldn’t release this fish with no picture to remember the catch, and there would be no fish to show Barb and Dad. What sense did it make to get up in the dark, to be fishing at first light, if I simply returned my prize to the water? And yet...

I knelt with my knees in the water, removed the trout from the net using both hands, and placed it in the water. The fish was cradled in my fingers, its mouth and gill covers opening and closing rhythmically, pumping water over the gills. For a moment, frozen in time, the question hung in the balance. Then the trout slipped from my hands and slowly swam across the stream towards the rock it had been lying next to when it had taken my fly. The trout disappeared. For a time I knelt in the water, staring at the spot where I had lost sight of the fish. I felt no regret, just a powerful feeling that I had done the right thing. Barb would just have to believe me. Dad would have to settle for bacon and eggs.

I was dead wrong about having no way to remember that trout. Even though it was nearly 50 years ago, in my mind’s eye I can see him now, pale spotted olive, in the water, heading back to where he belonged. A bright memory from long ago and far away on Boyd Corners Outlet.