When fishing isn’t dreamy and relaxing

Today we’ll talk about how to go quietly crazy while trying to catch native brook trout.Step One: Forget to bring a spool of 4X tippet.Step Two: Have somebody steal your shoelaces.Step Three: Drop your camera on some rocks and watch it bounce into a puddle.The stream in question is Wachocastinook, aka Riga Brook. It comes out of South Pond on Mount Riga and travels 3 miles and change through a steep gorge, with many deep holes and a nice waterfall along the way.In this cool, wet summer, the stream gets cooler as it goes along, for the water out of the lake is bass-fishing temperature, and way too warm for trout.But there are a lot of springs along the way, and between that and a thick tree canopy, the water temperatures dip decidedly the farther down you go.The state manages the stream as a catch-and-release wild trout stream, and the property owners allow access for that purpose only.So don’t bring a cooler and a boombox and have a party, in other words.It wouldn’t be much fun anyway, on account of the mosquitoes.I went in the other afternoon, parking at the falls and walking down the road about half a mile to an old logging road that provides an easy walk to the stream. From there to the falls is about three hours’ fishing time.Armed with a 7-foot four-weight rod, I promptly lost six flies in 15 minutes. I am out of practice in this squirrelly sort of setting and kept forgetting that the trees and bushes are, well, everywhere.After the third occasion, I did a slight dance of rage, which caused my little point-and-shoot camera to leave my shirt pocket and fall on some rocks. It bounced once and landed face-down in a puddle.Despite my snatching it right back up and trying to dry it on my shirttail, the valiant little gizmo just coughed a couple of times, sent an incoherent final message to the viewing screen, and passed away.This kind of fishing is both technical and crude.The technical part involves fashioning a leader that is short enough to use in spots where there isn’t much room — if any — for a back cast, yet long enough to allow a sinking fly to get down. You also have to use several casts: the Happy Accident, the Dipsy-Doodle, the Bow and Arrow, the Minor Fit and my personal favorite, Who is Sylvia? (named after a woman I took fishing once and who, decades later, still wakes up screaming).And you have to skulk and creep around the stream because the water is gin-clear and the little buggers can see a fisherman coming from miles away. Okay, yards away.The crude part is that brook trout, while spooky, are not smart, and will hit just about anything you throw in there — once.The insanity of this enterprise becomes apparent when one of these monsters of the deep is brought to the net.Actually, there is no need for a net. The trout would get lost in a net.A big one is 6 inches. A really good one is 8 inches. A leviathan is a foot long.Most are between 4 and 6 inches, brightly colored, feisty, and if killed and cleaned would yield enough meat to cover a soda cracker.Once I stopped losing flies, destroying cameras and dancing in utter fury, I began catching the little buggers, mostly on a size 12 Light Cahill.I also did my part for the ecosystem by providing myself as a large buffet meal for the mosquitoes of Riga.These mosquitoes regard me as a personal friend — practically a brother. They practice restraint in eating all day, knowing that in the late afternoon I will show up to spread joy among them.Nothing deters these mosquitoes — not liberal slatherings of DEET, not specially treated clothing, not fragrant clouds of cigar smoke.The only time they didn’t bite was during the terpsichorean interludes — probably too busy laughing.