
Na a MOR cos 
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Speckled Trout of the Adirondacks 
Brandy Brook Stands out in Strange Contrast to the Conven- 
tional Idea of a Trout Stream, and the Square-tails that Inhabit 
its Waters are as Temperamental as Opera Stars—Conclusion 
for their indifference to the an- 
gler’s flies, bait or any other lures 
that may be presented to them. Brandy 
Brook trout fooled me for six weeks 
before I got wise to their ways. Even 
at the end of that time I would still 
have been unsuccessfully trying and 
trying to outwit the wily denizens of 
Brandy if it hadn’t been for Chan 
Westcott who took pity on me and 
taught me the ropes. This was a num- 
ber of years ago, and I have since 
learned much of these trout who are 
all cruisers from the main lake. 
July and August are the only two 
months to fish Brandy. This is due to 
the fact that at this time of the year 
the water in the lake begins to get 
warm and the trout seek the spring 
holes and run up the flows of all the 
brooks entering the lake. Before going 
any further I must describe Brandy 
to you in detail. It forms in a small 
pond, runs through springy, marshy 
and thickly wooded land until it reaches 
the “potato patch,” a clearing made 
by the lumbermen. Here it turns into 
a quiet, placid stream about thirty feet 
B ‘te tne BROOK trout are famed 
By RAY BERGMAN 
wide. This is the beginning of the 
flow, that is, where the lake water 
backs up into the bed of the stream 
and was caused by the damming of 
the lake. From the potato patch the 
flow gradually widens until it finally 
joins the lake, a distance of about three 
miles from the end of the running 
water. 
This brook is very much fished. 
Hardly a day goes by that the trout 
are not entertained by an array of 
flies, bait and whatnot, so that you can 
readily see that it requires a bit of 
finesse to tempt them to rise to your 
fly. They cannot be tempted, how- 
ever often, by the dry fly, but by the 
judicious and understanding use of the 
sunken fly. 
He’ deeply imbedded in my memory 
are the many tilts I have had with 
these super-educated trout. How te- 
naciously my mind clings to the scenes 
and impressions gathered while hav- 
ing these numerous experiences. 
There comes to my mind a day in 
late July. Evening was just  begin- 
ning to send its first warning shadows 
over the waters. We were just com- 
ing from a very successful trip from 
“Dog Pond” where the trout had been 
rising with a glorious abandon, and 
we were all set to conquer the trout of 
Brandy Brook. How vividly the trip 
up the “flow” comes to my memory, 
my pardner in the stern of the St. 
Lawrence skiff and myself at the oars. 
FF in the flooded stump lands to 
the left, a water wilderness that 
stretches almost to the base of Bear 
Mountain, a loon greeted us welcome, 
greeted us with the wild, wilderness 
cry that typifies above all other sounds 
in nature, the elemental forces of the 
universe. 
As we entered the narrow stretch 
near the “potato patch” a friendly old 
man hailed us. He was the most dis- 
appointed fellow one could imagine. 
He informed us that he had been fish- 
ing steadily ever since early morning, 
that the trout had been jumping 
around him in the most exasperating 
way all day long and still he had not 
connected with a single fish. He was 
about ready to give it up as a bad job, 
525 
