Death of a Trout Stream
http://www.riverandreef.com/articlelive/articles/113/1/Death-of-a-Trout-Stream/Page1.html
Brendan Mason
Brendan Mason is a Canadian born angler who now lives in the outer suburbs of Seattle. Brendan has fished all of his life and started a passion for fly in British Columbia where he grew up. His father a search and rescue expert and his mother a teacher Brendan has the brains and skills to both out think and survive longer than the average Joe Blow. Brendan has fished extensively for the trout and salmonoids but in recent years has attacked the saltwater with gusto. His travels have taken him to Australia, Mexico, Argentina and beyond. Brendan also has the distinction of catching a 600 lb Mako on fly while fishing San Diego in 2006.By Brendan Mason
Published on 10/14/2005
A first hand account of the effects of the drought that has been affecting the American West for the past several years, witnessed by the author firsthand in early 2005. Low precipitation equals more irrigation pumping, and many small isolated trout streams are unknown victims in the battle for water, lacking the protections provided to the larger salmon and steelhead-bearing streams.
I paused next to the fire pit near the stream, a charred log still lying between the rocks, remembering the nights spent there with friends, anticipating the day ahead or telling stories of the trout we had caught. It will be a long time, if ever, before we again share those good times at this creek. Feeling a lump forming in my throat, I walked to my truck and drove away.
This creek was a gem, tucked away between a maze of farms and primitive roads, receiving its flow from various springs along its length. In its clear spring waters lived a wild population of rainbow and brown trout, some quite large, that fed on the abundant insects, snails, crawfish, and minnows. It was the kind of place you didn’t talk about in public and certainly never mentioned by name. Small enough to jump across in most places; its large trout lived their days tucked away in undercut banks, occasionally revealing themselves when a fly was drifted past their fiercely guarded territory.
Two hours earlier, my biggest fear was that the creek might still be frozen and I would have driven all morning for nothing. In retrospect, I would have welcomed a frozen creek over what I was about to witness. Crossing the single lane bridge, I looked down in disbelief at a trace of snow in the dry creek bed. Where a few short months ago there had been a stream, there was now nothing but rock and dirt. Still, I tried to remain optimistic. Perhaps the trout had taken refuge in the few deep pools and maybe, just maybe, a few of them would survive the winter, despite the odds. After all, they had been surviving in spite of irrigation pumping and several years of drought for some time now.
Algae still clung to rocks in the creek bed, a reminder of how recently this had still been a trout stream. I made my way downstream, hoping to find a pool with some surviving trout. My fly rod stayed in the truck; if any trout were still alive, they didn’t deserve to be harassed.
A short distance downstream, I reached a spot where I had hooked a 24 inch brown the spring before. The lack of flow had caused the few inches of water that remained to freeze solid to the bottom. Half expecting to find a dead trout frozen in the ice, I scraped the snow away, but there was no trout. Perhaps the fish had moved to another pool when the water started dropping, or had simply been too easy a meal to pass up for a roaming predator.
There was a deep pool further downstream where I had observed many trout the past season, including a pair of 18 inch browns and two large rainbows, one pushing 7 or 8 pounds. Because this pool was about four feet deep, I thought this would be the most likely place for a few trout to remain, so I scrambled across the basalt hillside to take a look. What I saw was heartbreaking. The overhanging brush that the large rainbow had darted under when he spooked from a sloppy cast last year was now 3 feet in the air. A patch of ice the size of a bathtub lay in the bottom of the pool. I stomped through the ice with my shoe and found an inch of mucky water was all that was left. Crawfish shells littered the bottom of the former pool; most likely falling victim to a raccoon when there were no longer any trout for either of them to eat. Emotions raging, I climbed back up the bank.
The future is certainly bleak for this creek. A few seasons of good snowpack and precipitation may bring it back to its former level and flow. The trout, I fear, will not return without intervention, for even during better times this creek disappeared underground in many places, isolating the fish in short sections of stream, preventing fish from elsewhere in the watershed from repopulating this section. I could be wrong however, for there was one pool with some tiny fish darting about in the few inches of water under the ice. They could have been trout, but most likely they were chub. Either way, their odds of survival are slim in the coming summer.
I do feel fortunate that I was able to experience this creek before its demise. Most never knew of its existence or the trout that once thrived there, but it had a small following of anglers who gave the creek and its trout their reverence. We’re going to miss them both.
This creek was a gem, tucked away between a maze of farms and primitive roads, receiving its flow from various springs along its length. In its clear spring waters lived a wild population of rainbow and brown trout, some quite large, that fed on the abundant insects, snails, crawfish, and minnows. It was the kind of place you didn’t talk about in public and certainly never mentioned by name. Small enough to jump across in most places; its large trout lived their days tucked away in undercut banks, occasionally revealing themselves when a fly was drifted past their fiercely guarded territory.
Two hours earlier, my biggest fear was that the creek might still be frozen and I would have driven all morning for nothing. In retrospect, I would have welcomed a frozen creek over what I was about to witness. Crossing the single lane bridge, I looked down in disbelief at a trace of snow in the dry creek bed. Where a few short months ago there had been a stream, there was now nothing but rock and dirt. Still, I tried to remain optimistic. Perhaps the trout had taken refuge in the few deep pools and maybe, just maybe, a few of them would survive the winter, despite the odds. After all, they had been surviving in spite of irrigation pumping and several years of drought for some time now.
Algae still clung to rocks in the creek bed, a reminder of how recently this had still been a trout stream. I made my way downstream, hoping to find a pool with some surviving trout. My fly rod stayed in the truck; if any trout were still alive, they didn’t deserve to be harassed.
A short distance downstream, I reached a spot where I had hooked a 24 inch brown the spring before. The lack of flow had caused the few inches of water that remained to freeze solid to the bottom. Half expecting to find a dead trout frozen in the ice, I scraped the snow away, but there was no trout. Perhaps the fish had moved to another pool when the water started dropping, or had simply been too easy a meal to pass up for a roaming predator.
There was a deep pool further downstream where I had observed many trout the past season, including a pair of 18 inch browns and two large rainbows, one pushing 7 or 8 pounds. Because this pool was about four feet deep, I thought this would be the most likely place for a few trout to remain, so I scrambled across the basalt hillside to take a look. What I saw was heartbreaking. The overhanging brush that the large rainbow had darted under when he spooked from a sloppy cast last year was now 3 feet in the air. A patch of ice the size of a bathtub lay in the bottom of the pool. I stomped through the ice with my shoe and found an inch of mucky water was all that was left. Crawfish shells littered the bottom of the former pool; most likely falling victim to a raccoon when there were no longer any trout for either of them to eat. Emotions raging, I climbed back up the bank.
The future is certainly bleak for this creek. A few seasons of good snowpack and precipitation may bring it back to its former level and flow. The trout, I fear, will not return without intervention, for even during better times this creek disappeared underground in many places, isolating the fish in short sections of stream, preventing fish from elsewhere in the watershed from repopulating this section. I could be wrong however, for there was one pool with some tiny fish darting about in the few inches of water under the ice. They could have been trout, but most likely they were chub. Either way, their odds of survival are slim in the coming summer.
I do feel fortunate that I was able to experience this creek before its demise. Most never knew of its existence or the trout that once thrived there, but it had a small following of anglers who gave the creek and its trout their reverence. We’re going to miss them both.