Fishing Trout Brook

Trout Brook is a small river or brook that flows into Lake Ainslie. As a young person I had the privilege of travelling there with my father for fly fishing for trout and salmon. The fish came there in numbers to spawn and provide entertainment for the local fishermen. This small area had special rules for fishing. Being set aside for fly fishing no live bait or even worms were permitted.

My father was a good fly fisherman and tied his own flies and provided some for friends and family. Dad taught us to cast our lines in the back yard and showed us how to land the fly precisely where it was supposed to go.We used split bamboo rods, ten feet long and as light as a cork. The line we used in those days was a hollow, floating material and slipped easily through the Ferrel's of the rod. The fly was attached to the line at the end of a five or six foot transparent leader.

At Trout Brook the fishermen would stand shoulder to shoulder with very little room for error when casting. As a young person trying to impress dad and catch a fish we were considered a nuisance as we made many errant casts. On one occasion I let my line and fly sink below the surface and the warden standing on the bridge yelled at me. He was not too kind as his job was to enforce the rules. With fifty or more fishermen close together it became a circus when a fish would be hooked.

The proper thing to do was to pull in lines close to the Lucky person until he landed his fish. I was not quick enough and soon lines were tangled and tempers flared as this chap had a large trout running about and tangling more and more lines. As he finally dragged his fish ashore he had half a dozen lines as well. Everyone was anxious to get back into the business of fishing but try to untangle six fine lines. The man drew his knife and cut the lines and threw the mess on to the shore. I tried to retrieve my line but five sets of hands were doing the same thing.

With patience running out I was left with the whole pile of tangles and retired to the bridge to clear up the mess. I did and ended up with five beautiful flies and a bunch of leaders. Dad put my gear in order and managed to keep a nice fly which he used to catch a trout. In the evenings fishing was halted by a shout from the warden and we went to our camps.

Fires were lit and music played into the late night.It was a memory I will always cherish. Dad took us fishing as often as possible and taught us respect for the art of fly fishing. I never learned to tie flies but used dad's with some success. Times have changed and the Trout Brook ere is but a memory but the beauty of that part of the Island is firmly fixed in my mind. I endeavour to pass on such memories to my children and grand children.