LOCALadk Magazine

Fall 2019 LOCALadk Magazine 45 LOCALadk From the ADK to Argentina In Search of Brook Trout The sign over the dining table read, "No news, No Pol- itics, No We're Not Kidding!!" I had just traveled 5,600 miles from upstate New York to Rio Pico, Argentina; those words helped to filter my thoughts for the next 10 days. I had finally arrived at a place where you can breathe out all the garbage of ever yday living, and breathe in the qui- et vibe of a simpler way of life. What brought me here? Brook trout. Salvalinus fontinalis—which are to me the most beau- tiful of all the trout species. I spend a lot of time in the Adirondack Mountains fishing for brook trout, mostly on remote ponds and lakes that I have selected by studying the New York State stocking lists. I started fishing for brook trout back in the '70s after being introduced to the Moose River Plains area through a chance meeting with a fellow camper/fisherman. I immediately fell in love with the beauty of the plains and the variety of fishing oppor- tunities there. For example, you can pull off a gravel road at a stream, and fish or hike a few miles to the more re- mote ponds that always produce nice-sized trout. Back then I usually kept the fish I caught and cooked them in camp, or took them home to share. In those days I usually fished with garden hackle (worms) and a Lake Clear Wob- bler trolled behind my canoe. I was fortunate to find my two lifetime fishing buddies, Don Dungey and Joel Comfort, somewhere along my travels. Don, Joel, and I have spent many years hiking to these ponds in search of new trout waters. Since Joel has moved on to other pursuits, such as golf, I don't have the pleasure of fishing with him as much as I would like these days. Back in the day, fly-fishing was intimidating to me, but Don kept urging me to tr y it. He tied his own flies, and I was amazed watching him cast and present one of his flies to a rising trout to hook and net it. So I bought a fly rod and reel to give it a tr y, but I always took along my spinning outfit to fall back on. Often, I would use the fly rod but still troll a worm. Quite often at the end of the day Don had out-fished me. But I kept at it, until one day I showed up with my fly rod, a box of flies, and no worms. Don was grinning from ear to ear. "Finally," he said, "no more dried-up worms in the bottom of my canoe." By Larry Trexler

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