There is, according to the musings of my middle-aged mind, an ontological distinction between the man who fishes for trout and the Trout Fisherman. It is the difference between what a person does- and who a person is. The man who merely angles for trout as a pastime, regardless of the level of interest and investment, may be considered a hobbyist. Trout fishing for him is a recreation; it is what he does. The Trout Fisherman, however, casts for trout as a way of life; he simply cannot do otherwise. The annual quest for browns, brookies and rainbows is nothing less than an outward manifestation of an inward reality- the inescapable extension of his personality- for he is, by nature, a Trout Fisherman. Fundamentally, the recreational fisherman pursues trout out of desire, whereas the Trout Fisherman does so out of necessity. I was hard wired to be a Trout Fisherman. From the earliest age, as my mother tells it, I would fish in mud puddles with a stick and a string. Apparently, the fact that I never caught anything was hardly a discouragement. As a kid I spent many hours sacrificing worms to bluegills. Then as I grew older I graduated from puddles and ponds to streams and rivers, from bluegills to brookies, and the glory of all other fish eventually paled in comparison to the majesty of the magnificent trout.

Tossing flies to trout brings sanity to my soul. I live in Springfield, Massachusetts where I am constantly surrounded by cars and concrete, suffocated by the stupidity of the city. Fortunately, western Mass is blessed by a number of small streams; some are called brooks and others are called rivers. There is a little brook twenty minutes from my apartment pretentiously designated as a river. The Scantic River is a suburban stream winding past stores, the VFW, a nursing home, and far too many back yards. Although the nursing home property borders an enticing hole, I have never seen any of the old men or women fishing it. Maybe they are unable, or worse, not allowed. If I am ever placed into an old folks home, especially one located on the banks of a trout stream, I had better get caught- on a regular basis- sneaking down to the water. Otherwise, it would mean I am catastrophically disabled or flat-out dead. The Scantic is largely a put-and-take situation, but sometimes I go there when my time and sanity are in short supply. Both the state and the VFW put in a small number of fish every year, and within a month after their respective stockings most of the trout have been caught- but not all of them. There are always the escapees, and the scattered native brookies. The wild brookies are my link to a better world: they represent the way things should be, not the way things are.

My twenty-fifth wedding anniversary was on May 3rd of last year. In celebration my wife and I spent a three day weekend in Maine. More than a few men might be jealous upon learning my wife never complained once about the time I spent looking at flies in a shop just outside of Ogunquit or pricing fly rods at L.L. Bean up in Freeport. After we got home from Maine, rain and high water kept me from fishing anywhere for close to a week. Finally, on Monday the 10th, the water and weather were nearly ideal. I stepped into the Scantic around five o'clock in the evening, cast a nymph into the headwater of a small pool, felt the tug- and missed.

Further downstream the beavers had started a dam with the aid of a fallen tree. Their handiwork resulted in a very inviting pool, the kind where a trout would surely reside. At first I saw no evidence of fish, but after several casts with a nymph I felt a slight tap. Maybe it was a trout, maybe it was just a weed. I changed flies and floated a big red Glo-Bug towards the beaver dam, attracting some definite attention. A trout of undetermined size hammered the thing. Not surprisingly, I missed again. I left the pool disappointed, but not discouraged. Immediately below the beaver dam is a short and shallow run, dumping into an occasionally productive pool. I tied on a stonefly nymph and worked the hole in a casual, sometimes careless, manner. My trifling was rewarded by a few chubs and one miniature, brightly colored, native brookie. Naturally, the beaver dam pool required a second attempt. The trout was rising close the dam, so I stepped into the water far enough upstream in order to avoid scaring it. I left the stonefly nymph on my leader, which made little sense considering the fish was feeding off the surface. Nevertheless, on the first or second cast I had a solid strike and after a strong fight I scooped up a stocked rainbow. The state of Massachusetts had given me a stockie and I was happy, but the Creator of heaven and earth had given me a native and I was thankful.

I live by one of the greatest shad fisheries on the whole East Coast, the Connecticut River. Every spring I announce I am going shad fishing, and every spring I am lured away by the siren call of small streams and the hope of big trout. Strangely, the Scantic River is one of those small streams. Often, it can be a terribly frustrating experience: the trout are scarce, private access is increasingly posted, solitude is elusive, and the cacophony of civilization constantly competes with the solace of nature. It is a suburban stream, period. Yet, when the oppression of the city threatens my equilibrium, the Scantic can become a respectable source of sanity, a place for the Trout Fisherman to be who he is.