Heritage Waters
My home state of Maine has a unique program for designating and protecting its wild native populations of brook trout and Arctic char called the Heritage Fish program. Heritage Waters, then, are defined as lakes and ponds containing these heritage fish that have either never been stocked, or haven’t been stocked within the last 25 years. The program is unique both in its nature (it’s actually a state law) and also in its magnitude and reach: Maine has a remarkable 575+ such waters! For more information, check out this comprehensive overview from the nonprofit Native Fish Coalition and click here to support the program.
While in Maine last week, I had the great pleasure to visit and fish four distinct Heritage Waters. These particular ponds are special to me not only for their populations of wild native brook trout and natural beauty but also because they are places that I have visited times (in some cases, many times) before. I have relationships with each of them and the older I get, the more special they are.
Names won’t be named here but, if you bought me a beer, I’d tell you.
Heritage Water #1: Camp Here
It takes considerable effort to get to this pond and the one camp that rests on its shores. From the nearest paved road, on which any civilization isn’t within sight, there are roughly eight miles of dirt roads and a half-dozen turns on unmarked roads; the final quarter-mile into camp requires four wheel drive, some patience, and probably a cold one. At the end of the track, the pond comes into sight — a quaint, quintessential northern Maine brook trout pond, spring fed in the deeper parts with a consistently-flowing outlet in the corner of the shallow end. From the end of the dock, which requires some sea legs to reach, the entire pond falls within a loose 180-degree view and carefully turning around in a semi-circle will give you a look at it all. You may see the rings of a rise dissipating in one of several general locations.
There’s an inverse correlation between the size of this pond and the size of its residents. Historical accounts and anecdotes reveal specimen of extraordinary size have been caught from this pond over the years. And, according to the original front door of the camp which holds the brief fishing reports of visitors dating back to the 1930’s, there were times when over a hundred fish were caught in a weekend. That such a place exists is a testament to the quality of brook trout habitat and populations that existed and remain in Maine. A single camp sits on this place and I just happen to know the owners of that camp.
Said owner knows this water very well and, should you find yourself sitting at the table with him, you might get a month-by-month rundown of activity in the pond — bait, bugs, and brookies alike. There’s a couple deep spring holes, some downed logs, a rock pile, a grassy shoreline, and there are times when the dock itself is as good as any other place on the pond.
Bring your own boat, or wait your turn.
Heritage Water #2: Find It
This one takes some effort to get to as well, albeit a few different kinds: you’ll need to drive, paddle, and hike to get to its shores and only then can you launch a canoe to start fishing. On the way there, you’ll pass over another Heritage Water (read on) and then through a dense forest carpeted in moss. Between the consistency in the size of the trees and the unending moss rolling over boulders and roots, depth perception and distance become difficult to judge once within. I wouldn’t want to be on this trail at night without a headlamp.
Don’t forget the key to unlock the canoes at this pond, either, else you’ll have a frustrating and time-consuming jaunt back to the campground to retrieve it. With the key, however, you truly unlock access to the pond and it’s yours for the day. Which direction you paddle in first is up to you, but I suggest the opposite end as the landing. There you’ll find the fish, though you can find them elsewhere too. On that far shore, piles of boulders the size of minivans, holes, and dropoffs that ooze structure and habitat await. You’ll see fish follow your fly, if you watch closely and if you’re lucky enough to be within casting range of a rise, a well-placed and well-timed cast is rewarded with a strike, more often than note.
Speaking of the landing, thankfully there’s a knot of orange tape wrapped around an overhanging tree to signify its location; it may not be found or possibly event exist without it. The whole pond feels this way — unknown unless you were there, looking at it. If you find yourself there, you may have found it yourself.
Take a layer off for the hike in, it’s longer and warmer than you think.
Heritage Water #3: The Big One
Overlooked, historically, from an angling perspective, I had the pleasure of getting to know this pond a lot more on this trip. Considerably larger than the others and more daunting for that fact, we cut it into bite-sized sections, patrolling for and chasing risers in a couple areas and then, when a breeze kicked up, set up for long, diagonal drifts across the pond, each on a slightly different course from the last. Overlaying all that we’d learned from those endeavors, we quickly tied an anchor using a stone we found on shore and planted ourselves in what we thought would be a good spot for the sinking lines. I couldn’t tell you how many we hooked after that.
The views from this pond trump all the others and the others’ are all tremendous. Five separate peaks rise above the treeline to the north and northeast and, depending on the weather, seated in your canoe, you can either wish that you were standing atop them or be glad you’re viewing them from a distance. From the pond, the peaks look close but, having hiked them all at one point or another in my life, I can assure you that they are not that close. I can’t recall standing on any of the peaks, looking at this pond, and wishing I was there but I suppose it’s possible.
The residents in this larger pond also hold an inverse relationship of size: they are, on average, smaller than the other ponds I fished. But they are beautiful, plentiful, and agreeable. While on anchor around midday, after my father and I had caught a handful and the lunch bell began to toll, we agreed that it was a fine time to move on, get some food, and begin to make ready for the evening’s fishing, which would require an afternoon nap beforehand. I reeled in, stashed my gear, and pulled the anchor but my father hooked another one, and then another one, and then another one. “I can’t get my damn fly out of the water!” he said. I guess he had his rig just right.
Keep moving to find the fish, and then they’ll find you.
Heritage Water #4: Known & Knowing
The one I know best. My earliest memories of camping and pond fishing are here, along with freeze-frames of incomparable hatches on top of perfectly-calm water. This pond is to credit for much of my interest in fly fishing at all, I suppose. So I give thanks.
This time, we arrived in mid-afternoon and our hope was to fish our way into an evening hatch, already being in the right place when the bugs started to show and then the brookies started to rise for them. But we all know how these things go. Instead of the evening hatch, we found a late-afternoon thunderstorm that dropped the heaviest rain thinkable on us for a good half-hour. Thunder growled nearby and we eyed the clouds warily but lightning never showed. So we just fished it out, holding faith that the perfectly-calm water and evening hatch would follow once the skies cleared a bit. And they almost did.
There aren’t many surprises on this pond but what you get, you enjoy and probably need. It’s small enough that I’ve known its holes and structure and waypoints and birthmarks but large enough that all of that can’t be known in one or two visits. We try this spot and then that spot and keep our eyes on that place, all the while scanning the entirety of the pond for risers. Every ten minutes or so one of the loons grabbed our attention by diving under the water or flapping its wings or making its distinct, shrieking, serenading call.
You can hear just about every rise in this pond and the fish like to cruise, leaving a trail of rings on the water like a skipped rock in ultra-slow motion. The most fun here is had, in my opinion, by chasing such risers in the canoe, one person paddling and one person at-the-ready, until you’re in range. And then you place your fly in what you think to be the right distance ahead of the previous rise, based on the prior ones. Sometimes they rise between the last one and your fly, sometimes beyond your fly, sometimes in another direction, and sometimes they take your fly. Tough to say which is more exciting.
The big mountain looms high above the treeline here, close enough to almost put a finger on, but don’t look too long because you might miss what’s happening on the water.
