My steps took me across the wide, rolling hill tops near Clermont. The terrain was largely open fields, interspersed with clumps and groves of trees, predominantly aspen and black cherry. The soil in this area was very poor due to the tremendous fires at the turn of the century which were so hot they burned the top 2 feet of the original soil away.
I constantly checked the compass in my hand to make sure of my heading. There were no roads or trails to follow. After a mile’s hiking I recognized a lone, lopsided hemlock tree. Dad and I had been deer hunting in this area last fall and chanced upon this headwater stream and was amazed to see a native brook trout over 15-inches long in one of the slow deep pools. Today I hoped to land a big native.
The tiny head water meandered around lazily, creating deep, undercut pools on the sharp bends. Despite being as sneaky as possible, I didn’t have a single hit. Were the waters too warm, the trout only here during winter’s icy grip or simply ignoring me?
The valley began to grow narrower, the growing stream steeper, the open meadows replaced by thicker forest. The changing stream certainly looked more like traditional native brook trout waters now.
Continuing downstream, a beautiful sight came into view, the stream’s crystal waters pouring over a four-foot high, jagged, ledge of rock, creating a deep, swirling hole. I crawled up to the edge, waited a few minutes and dropped half a night crawler into the boil of white water. The line suddenly tightened, then shot under a large rock. I struck and felt the heavy resistance of a heavier fish. A spirited battle took place before I was able to lead the fish to the bottom of the pool and beach it.
It was a chunky, 11-inch, native brookie and beautiful beyond belief. It was the largest native I’d ever caught and looked about three feet long to me. I was one happy teenager for sure and even managed to navigate my way back to the car over terrain that looks so similar it’s scary.
Brookies, those wonderful, spunky and gorgeous fish are this area’s only native trout and once thrived in all northern Pennsylvania streams and rivers. The virgin forest stream levels were much higher and the water stayed cooler throughout the summer. Potato, Tuna, Willow, Marvin Creek and many others were primarily brook trout streams; having higher, faster, colder waters which were loaded with trout. Today, due to heavy timbering and oil/gas development, many smaller headwater streams that held brookies just 10 years ago commonly dry up now during the summer.
Brook trout, Salvelinus Fontinalis, are actually a char, along with lake trout, bull trout and Dolly Varden. A brookie’s lifespan is usually four to five years in the wilds, though some western subspecies have reached 15 years in age. The smallest of the common salmoniformes, the natives in our area average five to eight inches with a few rare instances, in isolated streams and beaver dams, of trout growing larger.
Personally, the biggest pure native I ever caught was a 15-inch brookie from a head waters beaver dam no one else knew had trout in it. Again, I stumbled on that honey hole while hunting. I have never heard of a bigger native being caught around here, but anyone catching a brook of that size would surely keep it top secret. Similar huge natives have been landed by other secretive anglers, though such a catch would indeed be a rarity, especially today.
The world record brook trout came from Canada and was an incredible 33-inches in length, weighing 14.5 pounds. That is one monster brook trout and huge even for Canadian waters. Stocked brookies around Bradford average 10 to 13-inches in length. Larger breeders, some over 20-inches, are also stocked. Brook trout get high, thick and wide once they hit 14-inches and I have seen some in the 16 to 18-inch bracket looking more like finned footballs than trout.
Though all trout are excellent eating, if caught in cold water and are properly cared for and prepared, brookies are by far the best tasting. They have a delicate, lighter, almost sweet flavor that I absolutely love. When mixed species of trout have been stocked, I always throw the browns and rainbows back if the brooks are hitting.
I cut my teeth fishing for native brookies before every tributary had a log road running up it. If one was willing to walk a mile or two upstream before beginning fishing you were almost guaranteed to catch your limit of these beautiful trout. Robbins Brook was one of my favorites; I almost always caught at least one nine-inch brook out of it, as was Nelse Run before the road was built. The sound of rushing waters, the aromatic, spicy smell of wet fern and moss, and the sparkle of the sun on the water combined with the solitude of these lovely little streams still brings a wistful smile to my face at what once had been and now is lost.
Brookies are one of the most beautiful fish in the world and we are lucky to have them, both native and stocked, in the numbers we do in this area. If you decide to pursue them, good luck, they’re worth the effort.
