Planting Time

On Saturday, May 4, the Upper Delaware Chapter of Trout Unlimited planted native willow slips along the banks of Hankins Brook. These slips had been cut in the bitter cold of December and then stored in Tom Brown’s basement. In the intervening months, these slips produced well-developed root systems. Digging a hole 14 inches deep in the gravelly banks of Hankins Brook is not for the faint hearted. At some point you hit a rock too big to dig out using a hoe or an entrenching tool. That is when a small pry bar is needed.

The most deeply embedded rock eventually yields to this tool. Once a big rock is removed from the hole, the excavation is often completed. The slips are placed into the hole, and the hole then filled in. The willows the chapter had planted last year survived the high-water events of last fall and early spring. They are sending their roots deep into the gravel, and will stabilize the creek bank. Thirteen members of the chapter participated in this work despite the cold, damp weather. The supervisor of this work was Frank Salt’s neat little dog, Clyde, who trotted from hole to hole checking that the depth was proper. We have another large number of willows that will be planted in the next few weeks.

The answer to the question in the last column, “Who was the author of an early book on mayfly entomology who insisted the Isonychia Bicolor nymph was the nymph of the Royal Coachman fly,” is Preston Jennings. “Split” Kane, the cousin of my Texas fishing buddy, Willy Tandem, suggested this high and tight, 95-mile-an-hour fastball: once upon a time, there existed a group known as “The Midtown Turf, Yachting and Polo Association.” What sports were the members interested in? There you go again, foot in the bucket. The first three answers to reach PO Box 103, Hankins, NY 12741, will receive a poorly tied fly. You get two poorly tied flies if you can tell me where this group originally held its meetings. I’m sorry, fella, but if you cannot hit the high fastball we will have to send you back down to Scranton.

This being, more or less, a column about fishing, the author does occasionally stumble over the slippery rocks of trout streams. My first outing failed miserably. Hundreds of flies in the air but not one trout rose. I tried fishing with a brace of wet flies but only succeeded in boring the trout. After the willow planting, the Graham brothers and I went forth, but all of our “secret spots” were occupied. We headed back to Trout Brook, where I had fished the other day, and were amazed to find no one there. Somewhat worn out from my planting exertions, at first I just sat on a streamside rock. Then I spotted a rising fish. In order to get close to my intended victim, I had to wade out fairly deep. It took several casts to get the #14 grayish caddis imitation tied Troth style, in front of the nose of the fish. Once I managed to do that, the fish ate the fly. This felt like a really nice trout. Now my problem was how to carefully back out of the deep water to the bank where I could coax the fish to strand itself. Not to worry. The trout solved my problem by causing the hook to loose its hold. I was left standing in the flow holding a line without a fish on the other end.