On this spring morning, with some rare, unscheduled hours before me, I walk to Chester, the next town over. There, I make my way down Water Street toward the Carini Preserve.
The world quiets as I leave the commercial hub behind, the vibe shifting from retail to reflection. I sigh, feeling my muscles start to relax. I lean over a wide metal railing and watch the stream gently gurgling below. The sun-warmed metal feels good against my belly. I round the corner past the railing and step into the preserve, walking the flat, grassy stretch toward the water at the end.
The walkable stretch at Carini is a modest, streetside parcel flanked on two sides by shallow waterways and on the other by a small, young woodland edged in a mishmash of brush. It sits at the confluence of Great Brook and Pattaconk Brook, which meet Chester Creek—the first gurgles that greeted me from below the bridge. Chester Creek runs the length of the land I am walking, and where the land ends, I come to Great Brook. The Pattaconk comes in from the right, burbling past its namesake Pattaconk 1850 Bar & Grille.
Overlooking Great Brook is a sizeable bench inscribed “In Memory of John.” I did not know him. To the right of his name is an artfully carved fish, its body arcing above an etched circle of water. It makes an apt memorial—John was a stone mason who would have appreciated this handsome granite, and an avid outdoorsman with a heightened passion for fly fishing. He’d served as president of Chester Land Trust, too—the group that developed, protects, and maintains this preserve. John died in 2013, when he was 63—just six years older than I am now.
Our local paper’s 2010 interview with John, named Person of the Week that June for his advocacy of open space, is topped with a photo of him sitting on some other bench, smiling in the sun. He sports what looks like blond hair fading to gray, and a button-down, short-sleeved shirt that hints at safaris. He is looking into the camera, squinting a bit and appearing mostly relaxed, if a bit self-conscious at having his picture taken. One arm stretches across the top of the bench; the other encircles its armrest.
Near the close of his interview, John muses about the experience of retirement, and he says something I can relate to wholly. I’m not yet retired, but what he says describes many phases of my own life; some days I might argue it describes my whole life: “I'm in transition, though I'm not sure of transition to what.” Fast forward four years, and a short article in the same publication marks the dedication of John’s memorial bench—the one I sit on now. His widow and brother are photographed standing behind it.
As I occupy John’s bench, I muse about what he might have noticed in these waters riffling by me. What I know about fly fishing is confined mostly to picturesque, sun-dappled scenes in movies, but I don’t get the sense that the waterways here would constitute a major fly fishing destination. I’ve never seen an angler here. But I am here and not at some mecca for the sport, so I try to imagine where John’s mind and spirit could have drifted, watching from this spot. Could he tell which fish species he was spotting through the murky ripples? Did he have a keen sense of the insects (and thus the lures) that would attract them? Did time on this small parcel have him daydreaming about grander rivers and streams that could yield prize fish?
As much as I write about nature, it’s mostly about terrestrial and aerial beings and their preferred locales. My initial time at Carini Preserve, perched on John’s bench and settling into the space, follows suit. I notice a catbird’s commentary, and a lone swallow zooming in blurs over the water. Maple trees on the bank rustle in the breeze. I notice narrow animal paths that trail off into the brush. I rise and follow one until tangles of greenery overtake the passage. The deeper in I venture, the more tenuous the distinction between dry land and water becomes. Gritty, wet earth threatens to ooze through the soles of my shoes.
Sparked by John’s avid attention to the water realm and his pursuit of its finned denizens, I turn my attention to the creek and brook. I find a waterside stump to sit on, feet dangling as I take in the light on the water and the talkative creek. What goes on below this quicksilver surface? I watch flying insects bob and weave above it, too fast and erratic for me to even guess at their identities.
Soon I notice a handful of grayish-blue fish, the biggest about the size of my hand. They swim above a mosaic of flat stones peppered with the occasional brick, sometimes tricking me into thinking their shadows are their twins. Later, my fisherman friend George suggests I was watching dace—one of several catchall terms for minnow species.
I poke around the website George recommended—Connecticut Department of Energy and Environmental Protection’s (DEEP’s) Fish Community Data for inland waters. Whoever was in charge of counting fish logged 10 American eels, 13 bluegill sunfish, 19 blacknose dace, and 1 lonely white sucker in Pattaconk Brook. Great Brook had a similar mix, but also a windfall of 39 fallfish.
Wanting to learn more about the brooks’ inhabitants, I start with fallfish because I like their name. I read that fallfish are our state’s largest minnows, and so named because they are often found at waterfall bases. Males build distinctive nests in streams—piles of stones in a roughly circular shape. They spend up to four days collecting their contributions to these mounds. If a male presents a pebble, the female may be enticed to deposit her eggs there. They are attracted to a range of temptations on the line and not too hard to catch.
But it seems most anglers pass them by. Spencer Belson at The Current Angler blog shares that many view them as “hideous creatures that litter the depths.” His blog entry, however, plays devil’s advocate, suggesting “A Little Love for Fallfish.” He argues that their scale coloration—purple, blue, and golden hues on silver bodies—is quite unique, as is their ferocity—both in what they will eat (crayfish, other fish, frogs, and even their own young and small rodents!) and how much they will fight when someone tries to reel them in. Although most anglers aren’t interested in them, fallfish are not spared the specter of sudden tragedy from above. Larger fish consume them, as do ospreys and gulls.
They seem to get caught by accident quite a lot, too. Matthew, at the Casting Across podcast, muses about how he certainly doesn’t set out to catch fallfish and yet, there they are, without fail: “Inexplicably, the universe brings us together. Trout stream? Fallfish. Bass river? Fallfish. Salmon tributary? Fallfish. I bet this next year I pull one out of the surf.”
As I dip my toe into fishing literature, I enjoy the equal parts of serendipity and humor that I find alongside the technical jargon. And, while my reading confirms that Carini Preserve likely was not a destination for John when he wanted a banner fishing day, trying on his enthusiasm for the pursuit gets me thinking.
It recalls a book called Lime Creek Odyssey, by Steven J. Meyers. A passage in this book gave me an appreciation of why many are drawn to fishing: “In the San Juans a person who likes to spend time alone is accepted, but seen as a bit strange. A person who likes to spend time alone in the woods appears a bit stranger and is seen, perhaps, as being a little weird. But a guy who is going fishing, even if he does little else and is always alone, is thought to be just fine. Fishing is a madness that is understood.”
John was a contributing writer to a book about fishing Housatonic River’s Trout Management area, roughly 13 river miles within an hour’s drive from Chester. I got a copy, which features a quote from Supreme Court Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes: “There’s no tonic like the Housatonic.” The authors took collective credit, so I didn’t gain a specific feel for John’s voice. Did he write about river locations like The Doctor’s Hole, Rainbow Run, and Two Car Hole, offering tips like, “. . .many of the best fish seem to prefer the front of the boulder as their feeding station.” Or did he wax more contemplative: “Besides, sitting in the middle of the river with a deep pool to either side ensures a certain amount of solitude.”
The book includes a Hatch Chart, courtesy of The Housatonic River Outfitters. Even with my meager store of beginner’s knowledge, I can see how handy it is. For example, if you want to mimic a mayfly during July into August, that calls for a Housatonic Quill, #14–#16. There are more rows with advised flies for mimicking caddisfly larvae, midges, and flying ants. I learn that trout devour these ants like kids devour Halloween candy.
My completely dry “fishing” experience thus far has left me with a burgeoning fascination about the sport and a new admiration for the entomology study that can greatly improve the casting-to-catching ratio. But my exploration sparked by John’s bench doesn’t compel me to embark on my own catch-and- release attempts. Rather, I develop a hankering to simply be in the water, to feel it flow around me, to register its temperature and have some close fish encounters.
This idea feels a smidge exotic and also leaves me self-conscious. I recall Meyer’s quote about fishing being “a madness that is understood,” but will the act of standing in these preserve waters, sans pole, attract concerned or critical stares from whoever happens upon me? Maybe, but I step into Chester Creek.
I immediately notice a bevy of small fish that seems to be watching me. They bob in a cloudier, greener span of the waterway. They watch me walk away, toward Great Brook, pulling large ripples with each step. As I undertake my slo-mo stroll, I am reminded how everything underwater is magnified, and how light hitting water illuminates in different way.
A muddy and metallic perfume kicks up as I move. I notice more fish swimming in the clearer water I navigate. They are level with the low rocks, almost perfectly matching them. I peer down at water-carved pebbles and stones punctuated by a sprinkling of some kind of green berries. Leaves that fell long ago are now jagged fragments mixed in with the silt. The creek flatters the stones, suggesting a cache of gems.
Simply standing here has its own kind of pull, so different from the same stance on dry land. At first, I shudder at the chill creeping up to my knees, and now my thighs, but then I give into it, feeling embraced in a way I can‘t entirely articulate. Is some recess of my brain recognizing its primordial source, the vestiges of evolution’s watery beginnings? Do my instincts find immediate solace in knowing that water is life, and I have stepped into a generous helping of it?
The more I move toward it, the muddier and stiller Great Brook looks. It doesn’t beckon like the creek burbles do. I double back toward the livelier, clearer water, accompanied by about 50 tiny fish. I wonder—could I catch one with my hands? They are clearly at one with the water, the same way I am at one with the air. In their territory, I am, yes, like a fish out of water. I feel pleasantly untethered.
I am savoring the peace of lazily walking the creek, gently rocked by the water and soothed by the dancing light. This helps me understand the immense appeal of a fishing day. The prevailing mystery of it must be a draw, too. What’s down there? How does it live its life? What catch might I end up with? Will I come home with a good story? Armed with a pole, I might muse for quite some time about these possibilities. If I caught nothing, I’d likely still enjoy the day’s floating potential.
I suspect the greener, murkier part of the creek, to which I have now returned, is deeper and might hold more fish—maybe big ones. I am right on the first count, as evidenced by the water tickling my hips. A large fish disappears into this shadowy zone as I jostle for balance on a pointy rock, its sleek course too fast for my eyes to register detail. It will remain forever nameless.
A pair of male voices pulls me out of my ponderings. Where are these men? It occurs to me that they may be walking the cemetery high above, the brooks and creek carrying their sound. Still, I scramble back up to the land, shaken from my reverie. I walk gingerly as the cool air hits me and I reacquaint with the soil surface. As I prepare to leave, I feel wistful. I want to hang on to how I felt in the creek.
Driving home, damp and carrying souvenir muddy smears on my feet and calves, I think about John’s awareness of being in transition and how very prescient his offhand remark about it turned out to be. I think about the aquatic larvae who feed the fish, and the lucky young insects who will ascend into the air having escaped predation. I think about the luckiest fallfish, those who emerge from their rocky nurseries and, evading capture, gravitate to swifter currents—happiest in the roiling waters below a drop. Like John and me, these creatures have not a clue as to how long they will be here.
Maybe the best we can all do is to wade in and go deeper, absorbing what we can—how the mud, stones, and leaves make a pleasing streambed; how the fish part ways and rejoin the flow in unison; how the warmer and then colder currents change us as we move through them. How we are mirror, mud, and mystery all at once.
Katherine Hauswirth writes about nature, often with a spiritual bent. She has been a writer in residence at Trail Wood in Connecticut, Acadia National Park in Maine, and with the Orchard Keeper Writers Residency in Tennessee. Her essay collection, The Book of Noticing: Collections and Connections on the Trail (Homebound Publications, 2017), won honorable mention for general nonfiction in ASJA’s 2018 contest. Her new book, The Morning Light, the Lily White: Daily Dips into Nature and Spirit, was published in 2023 with Shanti Arts.
The writing of this piece was supported by Connecticut Department of Economic and Community Development Office of the Arts
