Awhile back I headed over to the Big Hole for a few days of fishing. We usually fish the stretch between Divide and Melrose, but it was late in a hot summer and the fishing was a little slow. To change our luck, we moved upstream to float near Wisdom.
That’s the part of the Big Hole that harbors the main population of native grayling, the last remnant of fish that were once found across the northern United States. Native grayling are still plentiful in Canada and Alaska, but those found in many lakes and streams in the lower 48 are usually of hatchery origin.
Big Hole grayling are different. These fish hung on despite dramatic changes in the upper Big Hole watershed, including livestock grazing, logging, the diversion of streams for irrigation to grow the building material for those iconic haystacks, and the introduction of non-native trout.
Habitat issues related to water diversions and global warming pose the biggest threat to long-term grayling survival, but the upper Big Hole is also full of brook trout. I’m not sure if brookies directly compete for food and habitat with grayling, and I’m almost always a catch-and-release dude, but on that August day as we set out from Fishtrap Creek, I vowed to kill any brook trout I brought to the boat.
I suppose I got what I deserved, making launch ramp declarations and all. The first fish I caught was of course a brookie, a classic 12-inch pan-sized trout designed to be dredged in corn meal and fried until golden brown and delicious. But did I club that fish over the head? Nope. After a moment of reflection, I slipped that brookie back in the stream.
I’m not one of those OCD catch-and-release types, horrified at the thought of ever harming a fish. Fly fishing is a blood sport. It’s just that in modern times many of us have removed the blood. I’m thankful for that, as fly fishing occupies a place in my soul others fill with activities such as yoga or transcendental meditation.
Killing the occasional fish won’t break the spell. But it is a hassle. You’ve got dead fish in the cooler and there’s the cleaning and cooking. For me, a perfect day on the water is capped by a burger and beer served up by a nice person at some riverside watering hole.
My brook trout moment wasn’t unique. There was a time when catching a trout meant one thing: dinner. Today it can turn into a kind of rabbit hole of existential brooding over the decision to kill or release a fish.
We’re guided by individual beliefs and values what we answer the question, “What do you do when you’re holding a brown trout?” said Mark Deleray, FWP regional fisheries manager in Kalispell. Deleray also said that angler’s decisions alone were unlikely to stop the spread of nonnative fish populations. Angler’s harvest just isn’t enough to slow a growing population.
On Flathead Lake the exception proves the rule. There anglers are reducing lake trout numbers, but the financial incentives promoting fishing through competitive events such as Mack Days are creating a kind of simulated commercial harvest.
Off the Big Lake, that put-everything-back mindset is deeply ingrained for many anglers. Most guides are loathe to kill a fish, viewing any catchable trout as more valuable in the river for clients rather than on the plate as a sacrificial offering to native fish restoration.
There’s also the question of how many fly fishers actually enjoy eating trout. Just as with game, the law does not allow for wasting your nonnative fish.
Brookies and rainbows have better culinary reputations than other trout. Big lake trout are derided as oily and inedible, but the smaller fish taken by jigging are delicious.
Maybe we could up nonnative harvest if trout tasted like walleye, but that’s not happening. So I’ll stick with my instinct to release most fish, except on those rare occasions when trout dinner is on the agenda.