Hunting For GA’s Native Brook Trout

The author with a Georgia brook trout that was caught, photographed and quickly released back into a small stream.

Springtime in Southern Appalachia is a special time of year, much like it is elsewhere in the United States. However, here it’s a little different. The bleak, blustery clutch of winter is gone and surely forgotten. The mountains turn lush shades of green from the bottom of the hollers, meandering slowly toward the top day by day. Eastern wild turkeys gobble, ruffed grouse drum and the native Southern Appalachian strain of brook trout bite.

There is quite a rich history and culture of fly fishermen chasing these wiry little gems that hail from this region. With hundreds of thousands of acres of public land to explore in search of them, I say it is rightfully so. The amount of adventure that one can be a part of in search of them is second to none. These spring-fed creeks are today, much like they were hundreds of years ago, bubbling out of the earth and pouring down the mountain. Most of these creeks you won’t find named on a map, just a small blue line that connects to another, and often even that one won’t be named, which is fine by me.

A key feature one must search for to find native brook trout is a waterfall or some other type of stream barrier. Brook trout get out-competed by rainbow and brown trout in this region. If the stocked trout can’t move upstream, then all that will remain above the barrier is the only native trout (technically a char) to this area, the brook trout.

Six or 7 inches is pretty much the maximum size that these fish will reach here, but don’t let the size fool you. They wriggle and fight like you wouldn’t believe. All that you need to catch one is a brightly colored fly, one that resembles an insect of sorts, to boil around in the brisk moving water, a lightweight fly rod and the gumption to go. These fish, small but mighty, are opportunistic feeders and will eat a fly much bigger than some might think.

My pursuit for these ancient relics begins in a place just like where I described previously, a small stream pouring down from the mountain above. A tangle of rhododendron limbs hanging low, completely engulfing the area above the creek in places.

With a size 14 yellow Stimulator tied a couple of feet below a small chubby on a cheap, 4-weight rod, I work upstream, hole to hole. I lean over and cast in places that I can and just dip the end of my rod to let my flies bounce around on the top of the water in places that I can’t. Suddenly, I see my chubby disappear from the top of the water faster than I could react. After several instances where I missed the set, I finally managed to sink a hook into the lip of one of these feisty fellas. All it takes is a raising of my rod tip to place the fish within reach. I manage to wrangle it up, snap a picture, and as quickly as it began, I place the fish back where it belongs. The same place its ancestors have inhabited for centuries.

I continue upstream and manage to hook a few more, and snap a few more photos, just before darkness overtakes the thicket that I am a guest in.

As I bushwhack my way back to my truck in the bluish-grey light, I can’t express the gratitude that I was overtaken with for the chance to experience such a thing. Growing up here, I took the opportunities that I was presented with, right outside my back door, for granted. If it weren’t for the conservation and forethought of the stewards of this land before us, none of this would be possible. One thing is clear, wild places do still exist, and sometimes we don’t have to go all that far to reach them.

“Wildness is the preservation of the world.” – Henry David Thoreau