Brook Trout, the char that lives in the springs, the little salmon, a lovely North American original. The iconic fish of my youth, although I wouldn't catch one until I was in my thirties.
He is a reminder of distant ice ages. An Appalachian joy. Red as the blood of the Cherokee, speckled purple blue flanks, yellow spots that shine like midnight starts. He haunts rhododendron shrouded rivulets in the great Smokeys.
He haunts Rocky Mountain meadows in streams with names like Black-Tail. He is the quintessence of wild and pure places. When I think of him, I think of Fall. Aspen and Maple ablaze with color. About blue damsel flies hovering over burbling waters then disappearing , a hurdeling crimson arch feasts before the long winter.
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