The Brook of My Youth

Not far from the house I grew up in, where my parents still live, is a small stream. It’s hardly a half-mile away, down the dirt road and slight hill that heads south out of the driveway. As a kid, I could race to the stream on my bike in a matter of moments, and be standing in front of, or in, the pool below the bridge a few seconds later. I’d love to know how many hours I’ve spent in, on, and around that stream, Jam Brook. Every time I see it, or hear it mentioned, or think of it, a flood of memories wash over me. In looking back on it all, I can now see how lucky I was to have such a ‘playground’ so close to home, just how formative the brook was for me, and how I’m still doing a lot of the same things now that I did in that stream as a boy.

Jam Brook is a small tributary to the St. George River, whose primary source is Lake St. George. Flowing roughly south for fifty-plus miles, the St. George passes through, or is turned into, several ponds and lakes on its way to the Atlantic near the town of Thomaston. One of those stillwaters is Seven Tree Pond, which serves as geographical center of Ben Ames Williams’ historical novel Come Spring, a story that details the settling of the area in the late-1700’s and early-1800’s, as told through a clan of Robbins that I’m directly related to. The St. George and Jam Brook hold a variety of targets from an angling perspective, including some remnant populations of wild brook trout. Historically, there were Atlantic salmon in both waterways though I’m not sure if any remain today.

I did a lot of fishing in Jam Brook, though not the kind you might think. Employing a collection of buckets, pieces of Tupperware, and a small fish tank net, as a boy I chased the various minnows that swam in the brook — mostly dace and sometimes a small creek chub. The brook flows over, around, and through large sections of bedrock, creating numerous small pools, channels, and ambush points from which I could net the baitfish. By stealth, surprise, and patience, I’d catch the baitfish in my little net and then would store them in a bucket or pail or, if water was low enough, in an escape-less pool. I think that my intention in holding the fish hostage was so that I could count how many I caught, likely so that I could share the figure with my parents. Fishing and keep track of the data and statistics has certainly been a theme for me as I’ve aged. I did, eventually, catch my first brook trout, on a worm, downstream in the main stem of the St. George, and a few years after that, following a Christmas gift of my first fly rod and reel, I caught my first brookie on a fly there.

It’s a wonder that I didn’t have a proper fish tank at home, for more than once, I carried a five-gallon bucket home from Jam Brook with some of those dace inside. With my parents help, I turned one of those circular, plastic kiddie pools into my own fish pond, filling it with river rocks and other structure I’d found. Using the garden hose, I added new, cold water to the pool and I’d feed them fish food that I got from the local pet store, but the whole operation never lasted very long. Similarly, I distinctly remember on one summer day, depositing my netted fish into a small pool of water held by the bedrock. I was unfamiliar with water temperatures and dissolved oxygen at the time, and eventually I looked back on my catches and they were all belly-up. I never intended to kill any of those fish but obviously did. I’m sure this is also true for some percentage of the trout that I catch nowadays and release, even if gently.

The brook was also an ideal venue for honing rock-hopping and wading skills. Skipping from one exposed rock to the next while running up- or downstream over the top of the water, zig-zagging as the boulders required, we would see who could accumulate the most consecutive steps without getting wet. Some of the rocks were stable and some weren’t, so while I don’t recall any significant falls or injuries from engaging in this practice, I’m sure that I tumbled more than a few times. Jam Brook is small enough that I, as a young kid, could easily wade its waters and typically cross it wherever and whenever I pleased — not during spring runoff, but generally. That’s all to say that whatever skills or expertise I have in wading swift or slick or uneven rivers today, I believe must be attributed, at least in part, to those days in or atop Jam Brook. Just last week, when home for Thanksgiving, I did some rock-hopping on the brook. I made it about three hops before I came to a very unstable boulder, which I was fortunately able to navigate and balance on while turning around for stable ground. Thankfully I didn’t soak myself in the frigid water before the walk home.

The large pools just downstream from the bridge were probably where I spent the majority of my time, but eventually I started exploring, both upstream and down. Heading downstream, the best path was on river left and, after a hard bend to the north, the brook straightens out again for a while. Once while on that path, I came upon a stone bench, some cairns, and a fire ring. This shocked me. At the time, I don’t think I’d even considered that other people, beyond myself, my friends, and my parents, might also venture along the brook. Exploring even further downstream, the brook turns back to the west and at that corner is another deep pool that was great for swimming and there were a few small brook trout that lived within its depths.

In between these bends and large, deep pools were countless pockets, riffles, and little rapids, and I spent time investigating these as well. During those years of my youth, there were two other, notable interests — the multi-day canoeing trips that I went on with my parents and other families, and my collection of G.I. Joes. So, at some point, I had the epiphany to merge all of these and began creating mini whitewater boats out of plastic milk jugs. I then loaded up the boats with my G.I. Joes and sent them downstream through, what must’ve been to them, the giant rapids of Jam Brook. There were numerous capsizes. And, I regret to say, there were even instances of death, as at least one of my G.I. Joes did not return home with me one day, lost forever to the depths and crevices of Jam Brook. So beloved were my G.I. Joes, that the experience haulted the milk jug boat whitewater running.

While exploring and creating those rough trails that followed the brook up- and down-river on both sides, I learned a hard lesson, repeatedly, by contracting extreme cases of poison ivy on an annual basis for some number of years. Despite my parents encouragement to learn to identify the plant, I was either incapable or uninterested in doing so, and I paid the price. I don’t know why the plant affected me in the way it did but for multiple summers, all of a sudden, I’d have poison ivy all over my hands and typically nowhere else on my body. Maybe I was rooting around for sticks and rocks to throw? Or just running my fingers along plants as I ran and walked along the brook? Once the ivy took hold, it wasn’t fun and it wasn’t pretty either. However, I’m happy to report that I haven’t had a case of poison ivy in decades and, despite living in Oregon now, I also seem to avoid poison oak. Whether the latter detail has to do with some sort of personal biological adaptation or is simply because I can easily ID the leaves, I’m not sure.

Of course, I did fly fish in Jam Brook, though I struggle to remember any specific catches. In the years that I frequented it, my fly fishing skills were minimal and I suspect that I would’ve had a very hard time keeping my flies out of the trees due to its small size. I do, however, distinctly remember seeing small brook trout — at that deep corner pool, some in the smaller pocket water pools while chasing minnows, and on one other time, before I left the States for New Zealand. In the days before that trip, I was staying with my parents, tying up loose logistics ends and packing four months’ worth of clothing and gear into three bags. One afternoon, my folks and I took a walk along Jam Brook and brought a fly rod or two. By that point, I’d done enough reading and research about fly fishing in New Zealand to know that I’d be sightfishing for most of my time. So, as my parents and I walked along the final stretch of the brook before it enters the St. George River, I backed off the river bank and slowed my steps, in hopes that I might spot a fish, as I would soon do in New Zealand. Sure enough, not long after I began, I saw a small brook trout holding in a riffle, on its way upstream. And, just like many of the trout I’d later spot in The Land of The Long White Cloud, a moment later, it spooked, and took off.

While that spotting was certainly memorable, impactful, and timely, there was another day, many years before, when I spotted, by far, the most fish I’d ever seen at one time in the brook. It was early fall, just after school started and the sucker spawning run was apparently at its peak. In the pool below the bridge was a giant school of large suckers, no fewer than fifty, ranging up to 15 inches or so. I’d never seen anything like it. I remember having a spinning rod with me and casting a red and white Daredevil through the school over and over and over again. Not one fish moved for it. When you’re a fish-crazy boy and you see a bunch of large fish in front of you and you can’t catch any of them, what do you do? You ‘catch’ them by snagging them. In my way of thinking today, snagging isn’t sporting or ethical or a very nice thing to do, but what fun it was that day!

The day following that sucker-snagging bonanza, I returned to the same pool with the same rod, Daredevil lure, and intentions. The entire school of suckers were gone — upstream on their spawning run. I was devastated, and cast the lure across the pool over and over, hoping a fish would find its way to the hook, but none did. Looking back, I suspect that the water had come up enough for the suckers to be able to leave the pool, get to the culverts under the bridge, and continue their migration. See, these culverts were positioned such that, at lower water levels, they were inches or even a foot higher than the water level of the pool below the bridge; an obvious fish passage barrier. This issue was later identified and amended, thanks to the Georges River Chapter of Trout Unlimited and today, a new, large, and properly-placed culvert sits where the old, ineffective ones did. You can learn more about this restoration project by watching this video about the project.

I suppose we all have a brook or a ‘brook’ of our youth, a place we went to tromp and romp and get dirty and wet, and maybe even catch a fish — a home water in the truest sense. Such places are a part of us. As we grow and change and move around, so do they, but nevertheless their — our — deep holes and big bends and stories and memories remain, and can be returned to.