Finding Troutzilla

The water was deep and dark colored here, and our lures disappeared almost as soon as they sank below the surface. The results were dramatic and instantaneous.

We started picking up fine, fat, deep-colored brookies with every other cast. On several occasions we even doubled on our retrieves. The fish were nice-sized trout, fifteen to sixteen inches in length. We had boated six fish when we decided to crimp the barbs on our hooks to make releasing the fish easier and less harmful to them. We knew this was going to be a banner day for fishing.

Arv paused before beginning to fish again. “Pinch me,” he said.

“What?” I asked.

“I said, pinch me. I am either asleep or dead and I’m not sure I care which. I have never had fishing like this,” he explained.

The whole experience did seem surreal. The sun was out and somewhat warming even though the air was cool. The only sounds were the whitethroats singing and the water lapping against the sides of the canoe. The grass around us was a golden brown, and it swept away towards the high ground on either side of the stream. There the hardwoods blazed in brilliant reds. The only thing brighter in color was the belly on those brook trout as they came out of that cold water. If age is a matter of mind and not years, two old men were suddenly boys again.

We had just begun fishing again when Arvo connected with Troutzilla. He had cast into the center of the widest part of the pool and was starting his retrieve when the trout hit. We were using ultralite spinning gear that amplified the strength of the run the trout made. We joked about it briefly, but then John became more serious. “It’s taking out line!” he said, “Get the net ready for this one!”

Arv had the drag set for as tight as he dared. The four-pound-test line was like spider web and he didn’t want to tax it any more than he had to. The line actually hissed as it sliced through the water alongside our canoe.

This was a good fish; there would be no horsing it in. Arvo played the trout for what seemed like hours. Time slows down when you’re in a situation like that. The end of Arvo’s pole would throb, and then arc as the fish raced away from the boat to deeper water. After four good, strong runs, Arv brought the fish to net and we boated the trout. We both sat speechless as we gazed at the beauty that lay on the canoe bottom.

There were six nice trout already in our creel, but here lying on the bottom of the canoe was a monster. This brookie was in full fall colors and measured twenty inches in length. It was the largest brook trout we had ever taken or seen in all our years of fishing this or any other area. My uncle had two moth-eaten old brookies mounted on plaques in his cabin. They were large, but not as big as this one. This was a mega trout. This was Troutzilla.

Brookies are supposed to grow at a rate of one inch per year. This trout had to be over fifteen years old. It was probably around before my children were born. Without a doubt, it was an amazing animal. It had survived predators, fishermen, and whatever else nature could throw at it longer than most other fish.

To keep such an amazing fish as a trophy didn’t seem right. But releasing a hard won treasure was a tough decision. Who would believe us when we told the story? I probably watched a greater struggle in Arv’s conflict between keep and release than the struggle he had bringing the fish to boat in the first place.

We fished the rest of the day and ended up with a nice stringer of trout to take home. The wind came up and switched directions, and just like a signal the fish stopped biting. A front must be moving through, we thought, and decided to pack it in for the day. We paddled back to the beaver pond and packed out to the truck. The canoe stayed behind as planned, safely hidden under the only spruce tree near the stream.

On the walk out we talked about the fishing we had just experienced. The size and number of the fish that we had caught were incredible.

“These are the kind of trout that all the old farts used to catch when we were kids,” I remarked to Arv. “You know, the ones we used to drool over when they showed them to us.”

He stopped short, turned to me, and replied, “Yeah. But Rudy, now we are the old farts.” That was true enough. We had been kids again as we shared the moment on the Houtaling. It was as if time had gone backwards for a little while. The excitement of those first fish you catch as a kid had surfaced in both of us. We had savored the glow and the rush of the day. Arv’s statement brought me back to the present, but I will never lose that memory.

The fall days of September have long since passed. Spring has arrived again and winter has started to loosen its grip on the land. Today as I sit here looking out at the brown grass and waiting for this year’s season to finally get here, I started to think about the canoe we left behind the scrub willows. Wonder if the canoe will still be there? Wonder if such an amazing day of fishing can happen a second time? Wonder if ol’ Troutzilla survived another winter? I plan to answer both questions just as soon as fishing season starts.

Rudy Senarighi began trout fishing as a youngster, often riding his bicycle eight miles in the dark to be able to be on the stream by sunrise. Trout fishing continues to be a passion with him today. He and his wife live in Door County, Wisconsin and have two grown daughters.