I thought I might drive to the White Mountains, but last night I found it's 86 miles to Mount Washington from here in Lebanon, Maine, and I just felt a two-hour drive a bit much. Especially since oil change appointments before the trip failed. I did further map research and headed out this morning to Milton, New Hampshire nearby. I was looking for Highway 75, and having not found it, decided to drive further up Highway 125, just in case I might find something else.
After two or three miles, I found the stream photographed above, and after a little doing, some access. Tannic water didn't surprise me. Nor did the temperature, which felt cool, but was probably 68 or even higher. Here in the south of both of these states, the terrain isn't mountainous, though there are some hills around Milton. The stream resembled the larger Salmon Falls River, where we caught smallmouth bass two summers ago. I cast a little beadhead on my two-weight fly rod, catching a chub. I found that floppy sole of my left wading boot dangerous, because when I waded upstream, it bent under.
Putting on my hikers as if I would go back down and wet wade in them, I thought it over. Prospects weren't good, and I don't fish trout when water temps get above 68, so I decided to continue looking for the smaller stream I had seen on the map. I did find Highway 75, but never found a steam crossing, driving on to Framingham. When I drove over a hillcrest, I saw a hill some three miles distant with a vertical elevation of about 800 feet, but I didn't find a road leading it's way, though I did find a stream similar to the one I had fished in Framingham itself. Eventually, access, too. It had flow but was flat and shallow. Water temp felt the same. I decided to pass on fishing it.
Things got interesting after I made a U-turn a few hundred yards after turning onto the road leading into Lebanon. I had noticed a little bridge over a side road to the right. I went down to the water and spooked a fish I thought was a pickerel, since it had been hanging out against the bank and slow-poked its nose forward. So I rigged up with my largest beadhead, which has a red head. A nice pool there below the bridge. I caught a chub, and then minutes later, hooked something that gave more resistance. At first I thought I actually had a brookie, though here, too, the water wasn't cold, and the stream slower moving on even leveler ground. A moment later it became clear I had my first chain pickerel on a fly rod.
When my wife and I will be back up, no one knows. But I think if there's a next time, I'll head for the White Mountains. In 2009, Matt and I fished up there a gorgeous, cold, fast-flowing stream with deep pools--no tannic coloration, just gin clarity, full of brookies. I don't remember if we actually caught any and my fishing log is at home, so I can't check. Vaguely, I remember catching seven, though I would need to confirm that. Who knows what else I might find on the way there, and though I would pass on tannic streams like those I fished today, that was a real nice moment when I hooked the pickerel.
