An Essay on Trout

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the Shepaug, a tributary of the Housatonic that runs through the small towns of Washington and Roxbury. It’s the very vision of a hemlock-shaded New England freestone stream, and the deeper pools hold trout capable of jolting your arm from its socket. And then, come Columbus Day weekend, the Housatonic itself: big streamers in the morning, tiny blue winged olives in the afternoon. But if you look at my stream calendar, you’ll see a great gap, from June through September. These are months when I try my fortunes elsewhere – in Maine perhaps, or the Adirondacks. I can tell the change is coming as I measure the declining water level on certain familiar rocks on the Shepaug.
For the better part of the last century, the Shepaug has descended into its own kind of river hell during the summer months. Water that flowed full and amber is reduced to a string of stagnant puddles between white-baked rocks; dead and dying trout float downstream to Roxbury Falls; and parents keep their kids away ...

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