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Trout Season Opens in Vermont: Make a Wish and Chop the Garlic

trout_fishing

Facebook recently took me for a stroll down Memory Lane. This one was originally published on http://www.greenmountaingarlic.com, April 21, 2011. I still like it.

To many in Vermont, the opening of trout season is a rite of spring. And for some anglers, fly fishing is the quintessence of the sport. For them “sport” is not quite the right word, “passion” and “obsession” come closer to describing the activity.

Some will travel to the far reaches of the freshwater kingdom to allay their hunger for the water dance, others find it right here in Vermont. Furnace Brook, Neshobe River, the Otter, the Winooski, the Metawee are all well-known trout streams. And then there are the smaller trout streams whose names are only whispered. Here, in these tiny streams, is perhaps where most of the magic happens.

Though stream fishers often catch smaller fish (according to any fish tale, the big fish are in the big lakes), they might enjoy greater peace and deeper adventure with Copper John, Nymph, Mickey Finn, and Prince.

But no matter where they fish or what fly they choose, anglers agree that nothing beats fresh trout cooked over the fire, with a little garlic of course. Most of you won’t need a recipe, but writing it down makes me feel closer to the water.

Garlic Stuffed Trout:

  • Clean and gut some small trout
  • Stuff them with rosemary, thyme, crushed garlic and a bit of lemon rind
  • Put the cast iron fry pan on the fire
  • Dollop some olive oil in the pan
  • Fry the fish a few minutes on each side
  • Sprinkle with Salt and Pepper
  • Thank your lucky stars

Dinner aside, fly fishing is not so much about the catching of a meal as it is about the reunion of man and something treasured but lost in the shadowy depths. Yeats’ The Song Of Wandering Aengus explains:
(taken from www.poetry-archive.com)

Went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

While none of us can promise your trout will turn into a shimmering girl, we can guarantee that your trout will shimmer on the grill with a bit more garlic…

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