Troutopia is a new sporting term that I recently coined. The definition should be self explanatory for anyone who has ever taken a rod and reel for a walk along a lonely trout stream.
I recently traveled upstream on a small mountain brook which flows from high up on a small mountain range in the Adirondacks. The exact location will remain nameless, however it was a stream that I had often wondered about before I took the time to travel to it.
Like most local streams, it gatherers it’s drainage from a variety of small mountain brooks, creeks, rivulets and springs. My only regret is that I did not take the time to explored the waters sooner.
In classic Adirondack fashion, it’s waters are a tumbling mass of cold mountain brooks, creeks, spring and bogs that begin from up-on-high before settling into a short valley of a slow moving, sinuous, flow surrounded by a tag-alder-strewn tangle of beaver meadows, small falls and several layers of beaver dams.
The beaver dams have created numerous small ponds, which are surrounded by a lot of standing dead wood. It is truly a fearsome looking sight at first glance.
My first impression upon stumbling upon the first tier of ponds was, “I guess I better turn back now. It sure would save me a lot of trouble!”
I had been paddling, pushing, dragging and hauling my little canoe over a series of tiered dams for nearly an hour. I was scratched, sore, sunburned and bug bit. The tangle of foliage, deep mud, tall swale grass and natural punji-sticks was nearly impenetrable.
The further I traveled up the main stream, the more divided the rivulets became.
A few of the rivulets were muddy and shallow, but one in particular was clear as blown glass, and it was cold, really cold, brain freezing cold.