By Bob Romano

Looking up at the hemlocks, you would never guess that they are dying. These trees, many over seventy feet tall, are plagued by the Hemlock Wooly Adelgid, an exotic pest infesting many stands throughout the northeast. I suppose one should be grateful that it has been a slow process, each season a few more trees falling to the forest floor, others losing their needles. The shade cast by this forest insures that the temperature of the little stream that runs through it remains cool.

The sound of the current grows louder as my wading boots leave indentations in the thick layer of moss that spreads across the bank of the brook. Even now, in early September, I can almost grab the humidity with my hand.

The last time these waters were stocked was in the nineteen-eighties. Since then, the descendants of those dull-witted, hatchery-bred fish have developed into a strain of cagey, wild brook trout, their sides a riot of blue-and-yellow circles, some with blood red dots in the center.

The fish of this little stream lack the lighter hues found in trout of other waters. Instead, their backs are uniformly black. I like to think that it is because they spend their hidden lives under the shadows of the hemlock forest. I know they are doomed to perish without the dense shade provided by the trees, that the stream will one day be unable to maintain the lower temperatures necessary for their survival. It’s just a matter of time.

Hemlock needles cushion my knee as I look down at a mayfly riding upon the current. The dun-colored insect holds its diaphanous wings upright, looking like a sailboat with translucent sails tacking against the breeze. A second mayfly hovers above the stream’s surface, momentarily hesitating before the delicate creature rises upward like a woodland faerie fluttering through the sun-streaked shadows.

The brook’s primary source is a small pond tucked into a ridge along the foothills of a minor range of mountains. The blueberry bushes that spread down to the water’s edge make it difficult to hike around the pond’s shoreline. Farther back, scrub oak, white pine and Norwegian spruce grow close together. Rumor has it that the snakes here are as big as your fear will allow, and although gnats, black flies and mosquitoes can be a bother, it’s the deer ticks that are the real worry.

Descending for a short distance from the pond, its depth no more than inches, the brook slides around boulders lush with lichen and moss until it passes under a single-lane macadam road. A few hundred yards downstream a second, smaller rill trickles down out of the east to join the main flow. A quarter-mile from the road, runoff from the hills that rise up along the brook’s western flank descends through a ravine, adding more volume whenever it rains. As the gradient increases, riffles are interspersed with plunge pools that are formed wherever the current slices around or over larger rocks, fallen limbs and other debris. The depth in some places is now two and even three feet. It is in this manner that the hidden brook falls for another seven miles until slipping unnoticed into a bigger river.

Standing here in the uncertain light, my calves resist the pull of the current. I flip a Gold-ribbed Hare’s Ear wet fly, its tinsel worn, body ragged, toward a small glide along the edge of the far bank. For a moment the fly bobs on the surface. A flash of jaw appears and I can feel hook bite sinew, but then the trout is gone, my line slack.

As an angler, a fly fisher to be more specific, I have a fondness for moving water, can’t help but look over each bridge, stop by every rivulet, gully or ditch. Most fishermen might not think to fling their lures at the secretive trout of this little stream, preferring the certainty of bigger fish in the many put-and-take rivers and lakes that are within a few minutes drive. But I have discovered a secret under the deep shade of the hemlocks, something more than bracken and bone. For it is here, in this dark forest, by this tiny brook that a man can lie suspended in place and time, however briefly, with yesterday forgotten, tomorrow of no concern. It is for this reason, that these woods, this water draws me back to present my flies to forgotten trout for as long as a dying forest will cast its shadows.

Climbing from the brook, I lean on a hemlock. The trunk is still strong although the tree’s needles have turned gray. A few feet downstream, a fingerling turns to capture a caddis larva dislodged by my wading boot.

Bob is the author of three books and numerous essays about fly fishing and the natural world. Shadows in the Stream, his book of essays about the Rangeley Lakes Region in Maine is in its third printing while his novel, North of Easie, was recently published. For more information check out Bob’s website: forgottentrout.com or go to his publisher’s website: birchbrookpress.info