The Joys and Oddities of Native Brook Trout

At an elevation of 2,000 feet in Crawford Notch, a gap in the Mahoosic Mountains of western Maine, a spring bubbles up from under a granite slab, forming a tiny rivulet a couple feet wide and equally shallow. This is a cold, stark place, frozen for seven months a year, with water temps only nudging the low 50s during warmer months. Aquatic life is sparse–a few midges, maybe. An ant might occasionally tumble in. Yet, wild brook trout survive here. These trout with disproportionally large heads and small bodies, reach full maturity and breed at 4 inches long, making do with the meager food available.

Near Acadia National Park, a rocky stream cascades down a steep hillside before leveling out as it reaches a rocky beach bordering the Atlantic Ocean–the Gulf of Maine. Strong storms have created a berm of sand and stone, so the stream doesn’t directly enter the ocean, its flow vanishes under the beach barrier to resurface at water’s edge. Looking into the final pool from a higher vantage point of piled sand, you can see brook trout finning here too.

During high tides or storm surges, these brook trout have access to the sea and take advantage. These trout are called “salters” and live part of the year in the ocean. Catch one and you will notice they have the expected vivid brook trout coloring, but it is overlain with a silvery sheen, reflecting their saltwater lifestyle. Who would have thought you could body-surf and hook brookies at the same time!

In late October, near a few rocky shorelines of Maine’s largest freshwater waterbody–Moosehead Lake–those “in the know” can spot the vivid silhouettes of male brook trout through the water surface. Their white-tipped fins, vermilion spots, and bright orange-red bellies are unmistakable. But these fish are monsters, reaching 4, 5, even 6 pounds. Growing large on smelt and other rich food sources, these lake-dwelling fish never leave Moosehead their entire lives, safely inhabiting the lakes’ deep-water refuges. Their shallow-water spawning sites are protected, but a few lucky anglers land these fish every year at other sites.

A native brook trout is a brook trout (Salvelinus fontinalis) that is naturally occurring in its historical, indigenous range since the last Ice Age 12,000 years ago and has not been introduced or stocked by humans. Bob Mallard, Executive Director, Native Fish Coalition, states: "Brook trout likely inhabit a notably broader range of habitat than any other salmonid. This includes sprawling Lake Superior, small ponds, large Canadian rivers, small high gradient freestone streams, low gradient meadow streams, limestone spring creeks, beaver ponds, and brackish water."

The largest of the species occupied the watersheds of the Rangeley Lakes area. In the late 1800s, anglers (including President Grover Cleveland) hooked brook trout weighing into the double digits and made the area, its guides, and fly tyers famous. What fly fisher hasn’t heard of the Gray Ghost streamer pattern tied by Carrie Stevens? Alas, the ten-pounders are gone because of overfishing and competition from introduced species, but a few lucky anglers catch four-pound fish every year.

As an angler and guide, the author has chased brook trout (also called brookies or squaretails) throughout their range for 40 years. To be successful requires a variety of approaches, techniques, and fly patterns. Each time I head out fishing, I ask myself: What kind of fly-fishing adventure do I want today? With so many options, I have more choices than fishing days on my calendar.

Hunting for little gemlike brookies in the headwater mountain streams across the eastern United States is 90 percent bushwhacking and 10 percent fishing. To reach remote plunge pools requires boulder scrambling, slogging through swamps and dense alder thickets, and getting eaten alive by mosquitoes, black flies, and no-see-ums. My tool of choice is a short 7-foot, 3-weight rod designed for fishing in tight quarters. Often you are not casting but dapping the fly by extending your rod between overhanging branches. Waders aren’t necessary.

These small-water trout need to be aggressive to find sufficient food, so almost any fly will do–some may never have seen an artificial. And the effort is worth it when you feel a tug and cradle in your hand a living iridescent jewel.

For larger streams, bogs, ponds, and lakes (on calm days), a standard canoe or kayak can’t be beaten for maneuverability and stability. Native Americans traveled these waters and fished in birchbark canoes, and similar vessels constructed of modern materials work well today.

“Look around if you're wondering if a remote pond has good brook trout fishing,” says angler and Old Town brand evangelist, Ryan Lilly. “If there is a pile of Old Town canoes chained to trees around the perimeter, chances are the trout fishing is stellar.”

Any watercraft that anglers can transport on a vehicle and hand launch, floats in a few inches of water, can easily be maneuvered backwards and forwards, and won’t tip if you kneel or sit, will suffice, including float tubes and stand-up paddle boards. Brookies move around depending on the season, food sources, water flow and water temperature. These trout might school in only a few spots on a 3-mile stream. A boat saves a lot of slogging around.

On larger waters, squaretails feed on a variety of foods. In the early spring, it might be spawning smelt and black-nosed dace, or sucker eggs. As the season progresses, mayflies and caddis emerge and brookies shift their attention. In the summer, they hunt terrestrials, midges, or stonefly nymphs. During the fall brook trout target young-of-the-year baitfish or defend spawning territories.

I often carry (or stow in the boat) three fly rods: One 5-weight 9-footer rigged for dry-fly fishing, one 10-foot nymphing rod with a tandem nymph arrangement, and one 6-weight with stout tippet for streamer fishing. You never know which technique or fly pattern will lead to more hook-ups until you are on the water.

Trophy brook trout often live in the largest lakes or nearby outlet or inlet rivers. They move in and out seeking the highest food sources and water temperatures to their liking. Larger boats equipped with outboards are best for traveling long distances and for safety when sudden winds create whitecaps. The classic wooden Rangeley and Grand Laker boats still have their fans (including me) but an aluminum Lund with a 20-horsepower outboard has become a popular choice.

I fish a 7-weight rod, often with a sinking line or leader and meaty marabou streamers up to 4 inches long at these kinds of fisheries. The fish will be found in shallow waters in the spring chasing smelt, while in the summer, an angler’s only option often is trolling or jigging with sinking line. But when fall arrives, mature brookies move back into shallower water to feed and run upriver to spawn, where anglers can easily cast to them. Mature squaretails are fish eaters and want their calories in large chunks. They are also notorious cannibals–a 20-inch brook trou will try to eat a 12-inch trout right off your line.

One crisp and misty morning last September, I took a morning hike up a rocky stream where the brookies were always eager but never grew beyond the span of my hand. Casting a size-16 Puterbaugh Caddis on my 3-weight, I hooked 6- to 8-inch brook trout who flashed hither and yon trying to throw the hook–all resplendent with their fall colors. In the afternoon, I drove a few miles to cast into a larger river that emptied into Mooselookmeguntic Lake (moose feeding place in the Abenaki language). This time of year, mature brook trout migrate up the river to find spawning gravel.

Bouncing a 3-inch, conehead, white and red, soft-hackled marabou streamer, I sensed a heaviness at the end of my line, then felt a sluggish but powerful shake of the head. The ensuing battle featured several bulldogging runs before I eventually subdued a 4-pound, hump-backed, red-bellied, male brook trout. It was probably a similar age to the diminutive trout I discovered in Crawford Notch and a few of the brookies I had hooked that morning. As I released him, I marveled at how trout of the same species could grow so differently, shaped not just by their nature but by the waters they call home.

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Lou Zambello spent 14 years working at LL Bean in a number of capacities and has been guiding for over 15 years. He has been fly fishing in New England for over 30 years and has traveled to Canada, Russia, and across the U.S. to pursue his passion. He learned fly tying from his friend Dick Talleur and writes a monthly column for The Maine Sportsman.

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