Cape Cod: Spring Creek Brook Trout Old Fashion Style

This post isn’t about sophisticated match the hatch size 22 fishing. This is about old style, blue jeans and a bucket of worms spring creek trout fishing on Cape Cod. 

When the daffodils begin to appear out of the ground, the sun is shining, the turkeys are gobbling, the brook trout find sunny spots in their streams to bask in the spring sun’s warmth. It’s April and the snow only melted two weeks ago, but summer is fast approaching. There are a few secret little trout streams that wind through brushy valleys that are rich with “brookies”. The stream I am fishing is six feet wide, and a deep hole in it is two feet deep. It’s ice cold all year long, just the way the trout like it. There are springs feeding this creek every hundred yards or so, and it never gets low. 

There is never any room to cast through the viburnum tangles, so I have to poke my rod through and swing a worm into the hole. Nine times out of ten, the worm doesn’t hit the bottom before a brookie attacks it. A monster in this stream might be 14 inches, and you only catch a couple that size per year. Most of them are in the six to eight inch category. They are so beautiful, I can never bring myself to keep one, despite their beautiful orange meat that goes so well with eggs and potatoes in the morning. 

I try to get out at least five times a year. There are few more pleasant ways to spend a spring or summer day than in the cool, shady glades on The Cape. 

   

A Cape Cod Brook Trout

   

Turkeys and Electric Fences

(NOTE: Please excuse the bad photo quality. It was taken with a flip phone.)

The sound of a turkey gobbling isn’t easily forgotten. It’s a sound unlike any other that can get even the most seasoned hunter’s blood rushing. My first solo trip turkey hunting with a bow was about as exciting as it can get. Everything went as planned, until it didn’t. Keep reading to find out why I love turkey season and hate electric fences.

One May morning my alarm went off and I jumped out of bed the way I always do before a hunting or fishing trip. I walked out of my room dressed in camo from head to toe holding my bow. I had shot my first turkey with a bow the weekend before, and I knew I wanted to harvest another the same way. Deciding I wasn’t hungry, I headed out the door, immediately greeted by the wonderful spring air, the smell of daffodils, the sound of the bell-buoy down at the harbor entrance,  and the chirping of crickets. Junebugs whizzed by me, rushing towards the porch lights and bats glided over in the gray light of dawn. I had ten minutes before it was legal to shoot, so I began calling in my prey. The first call out of my bag that morning (and nearly every morning) was my owl call. Turkeys often respond to those calls and loud noises, which is called shock gobbling. No response, only wind moving through the tree branches. I began to walk down the old clay-dirt path that I know so well, pausing every now and then to do a loud yelp call. The turkeys either weren’t around, or weren’t in the mood to respond, so I continued on my way.

Around an hour later, I entered an open field half a mile away from where I began. I took the back path, crossed a leaf-stained stream on a narrow log, nearly missing the far bank. Silently I crept through the briars and brush to the semi-open edge of the field, carefully placing my feet as to not snap any twigs or branches. Looking up, I realized there were twelve turkeys standing thirty yards in front of me in the field, unaware of my presence. I tried to stay calm, but I felt “turkey fever” coming on strong. With a few small trees between the turkeys and I, there was no chance of me sneaking up on them, or making a shot. I chose to stay put and wait for them to move first.  I’d then sneak up to the edge, get behind some brush and call them back towards me.

It turned out that these turkeys would take their sweet time in moving, and after an hour and a half of sitting there, my patience wearing thin, they began to walk away. Another half hour later, they were 50 yards from me, and I decided it was time to move. I set up behind the largest oak tree in the area.  It was covered in grape vines and made for a perfect hiding spot. I pulled out my trusty Kryptonite Custom Call, a beautiful slate call made by Kip DeLisio (check his calls out, http://www.ebay.com/usr/coonanfox01?_trksid=p2047675.l2559)  and began to cluck, immediately getting four eager responses. The show had begun.

We kept up a call and response, and they gingerly worked their way back towards me. At last they were only ten yards away, but blocked by my tree so I couldn’t see them. I drew my bow. First, a hen stepped into view, then another, then six more. The only part missing was the gobbler. My arm was beginning to shake from holding my bow at full draw for so long when the gobbler stepped into view. Unfortunately it was only a small jake, but I decided to take the shot anyway. I slowly moved the pin to the vital area of the bird, feeling confident about my shot. After all, I had nothing between us but one strand of electric fencing at ten yards, how could I not be sure of this shot? I squeezed my release trigger slowly…. PING! The arrow hit the wire, and the turkeys flew off in every direction. I sat there in disbelief. I had made an accurate shot, only to be rejected by a tiny strand of wire. Gathering up my call and bow, I began the long walk home with a new idea in mind.

I jumped up onto my porch, set my bow down and ran inside to grab my Remington 1100 12 gauge and a couple shells and raced right back out the door. Breathing hard, I made it back to the field once again. I saw one big red head poking out of the grass, and we made eye contact before it disappeared. I got down on my belly and army crawled thirty yards to a fallen log where he had recently stood. Two deep breaths later, I popped up over the log to the sight of twelve turkeys sitting in the dust. I flicked off the safety, and squeezed the trigger. This time there was no wire to save the turkey, and a load of #4 shot took him off his feet. Another shell flew into the chamber, and I made a second shot at another now flying jake. POW! He tumbled to the ground with a thud.
I checked my watch, it read 11:59. In the final minute of the day (you are only allowed to turkey hunt until 12 PM in MA) I had bagged two turkeys. They certainly weren’t huge birds, but they would make a delicious dinner. Slinging them over my shoulder, I began the long walk home, but this time with birds in hand.