As most anglers know, there’s losing fish, there’s losing fish and then there’s LOSING fish — each category defined by the relative cause or blame (i.e., fish acrobatics, angler ineptitude and the worst – poor knot-tying). Well, I would like to add a fourth version that I have only experienced once.
I was fishing the Contoocook River in Jaffrey on a cool June morning. There was an old, abandoned stone bridge, not far from a ball-bearing factory. I had been directed there by a very helpful biologist from the New Hampshire Fish and Game Department. (Refreshingly, nowadays anglers are often viewed as “customers” that deserve a satisfying angling experience.)
Bridges hold a place of great mysticism and opportunity for anglers. Typically accompanied by deep holes with sizable fish, these structures also happen to be easiest place for the hatchery truck to unload its cargo. From my earliest days, I’ve noticed fish under bridges, so this must be intuitive for most anglers.
I recall one childhood memory of being so mesmerized leaning over the railing of a bridge that I dropped my fishing rod into the river. This could have been a scarring event, but my mom, averting disaster, waded in up to her waist to retrieve the rod. Who could ever say mothers don’t walk on water?
Anyway, that morning on the Contoocook, I had staked out a position downstream of the bridge and began casting a caddis nymph imitation back upstream, into the dark shadows under the span. On only the second or third cast, I was rewarded with a solid strike. The fish fought well on my light and wispy, four-weight fly rod, and I let it play out its energy before gradually working it downstream out from under the darkness of the bridge.
It was a healthy 14-inch rainbow, but what I didn’t expect was the dark figure that followed it out of the river depths. Using the current as extra propulsion, a magnificent snapping turtle was closing quickly on the flailing rainbow, jaws agape, looking for an easy meal. It must have been at least 24 inches in diameter, with far more agility than I’d previously attributed to the species.
I found myself not merely trying to bring the trout to net, but also directing it away from a massive predator, like a kite on a tight string. The stream was only 20 to 30 feet wide at that juncture, and there was only so much room for the trout to scamper around. Ankle deep in the water, I slowly backed out onto the shore as I fought the fish. I just barely guided the trout to shore as the snapper made one last unsuccessful lunge. Upon seeing me gazing down through about a foot or two of clear water, the turtle receded down to the bottom of the run and sat motionless, staring up at me. Although I typically practice catch-and-release, something inside me did not want to disappoint one of nature’s wonders (and my wife occasionally asks me to bring home a fresh trout). So I gutted the rainbow right then and there, and tossed the innards and head into the river. The leviathan slowly approached and grabbed the guts before retreating back under the bridge.
Never before had I seen a snapping turtle in a trout stream, and I was amazed at its size and nimbleness, skillfully using the current to pursue its prey. It was quite a spectacle, with lessons learned all around – perhaps also for the turtle.
Peter Schmalz is a resident of Essex Junction, Vt., who has enjoyed many Contoocook River angling adventures over the years when visiting his grandparents summer camp in Greenfield. He works for the federal government, and enjoys writing fishing stories when not out wading rivers.