For my morning reading today, I savored an old classic penned by the late Eugene V. Connett. The little book entitled “Magic Hours” held a pair of tales, the titled story and one called “Secret Waters”. He told of a Long Island meadow stream, spring fed, and briskly cold in August, and the wonderful wild brook trout he caught there.
Small streams fed by limestone springs have a magical allure, and I wandered along many of them during the years I lived in Southcentral Pennsylvania. There was always that hope of discovering something special!
Sadly, I never found a real pot-of-gold at the end of any of those limestone rainbows. Man’s talent for polluting, bulldozing, and generally destroying such treasures is no secret, and yet I strive to retain just a bit of hope in my heart.
There is another classic old volume on my bookshelf that tells of a forgotten region of limestone fed streams, and that leads me toward dreaming once more. The area is still farm country, and I cannot help but wonder if a few of those forgotten waters still run clear and cold, the homes of precious forgotten strains of wild trout. If man has not seen fit to bring the ruination he so often has, perhaps a tour with a light cane rod and a stream thermometer could reveal at least a hint of the magic revealed in the words of a gentle, long departed angler scribe.
Oh how I would love to find a secret gem, where an old man might cast a dry fly in January, February and March! Too much to ask in these times I am certain. Secret waters are a myth in these days of rabid information… or are they?
Bright Waters Catskill 