ARLINGTON — Doug Lyons locked eyes with the river, searching for the splashy rise of brown trout.
The warm, late April day had brought out Hendricksons, a favorite mayfly of the Battenkill’s devoted anglers. No other fly, Lyons explained, gets the river’s large fish feeding with such reckless abandon. By 3 p.m., the reddish brown flies, less than an inch in length, arrived above the water.
“There’s a lot of bugs, no question about that,” Lyons said, naming the stage of the insects as they flew past. Duns, the initial winged phase of the bug’s life cycle, first leave the water, where they previously survived as larvae. The duns molt into spinners, the final stage in a mayfly’s life. The female Hendrickson spinners, soon to die, carry a bright yellow egg sac, returning to the water one last time.
Finally, Lyons spotted it. Maybe 50 yards downstream, tucked alongside a submerged log, the mouth of a trout breached the water. Once, then again, the fish rose to eat a mayfly from the water’s surface. The hunt was on.
‘The Battenkill is back’
Since 1977, when he was not yet able to drive, Lyons has ventured from Massachusetts to Vermont to fish the Battenkill. Now, weeks into retirement, he’s looking forward to spending more time on the water.
Few can speak about the river with Lyon’s authority. He recently penned “Fly Fishing Guide to the Battenkill” — out this summer — condensing his decades of knowledge into book form. Highlighting the river’s history, its bug hatches and its honey holes, Lyons, a first-time author, was in town to speak at the second annual Battenkill Fly Fishing Festival in Arlington.
The festival, put on by The Arlington Common — a nonprofit project promoting community through arts and wellness — brought hundreds of fly fishers from around the East to fish and celebrate the Battenkill.
“To have this gem flow through our town, it needs our care,” said Bill Bullock, one of the festival’s organizers.
The Battenkill is famous among anglers for its large, selective brown trout. Unlike most rivers in Vermont, which require the stocking of hatchery-grown fish to support their trout populations, the Battenkill contains only wild fish in its Vermont section.
The river’s fame is due in part to its proximity to Orvis, which, based in Manchester, sits within casting distance of the Battenkill. One of fly fishing’s most recognizable brands, the retailer has named products for the stream, and its employees have long slipped away to the river for lunch-break casts or after-hours fishing.
Part of the river’s strength is geological. Numerous springs supply the stream with chilly groundwater, providing the cold water trout love throughout the summer. The Taconic Mountains that rise above the river, containing different rocks than the Green Mountains, offer nutrients like calcium and magnesium, which further bolster the river’s life.
In these conditions, the river’s brown trout can live six or seven years, exceeding 20 inches in length along the way. But the fish grow wise with age, and the Battenkill’s reputation as an exceedingly challenging stream makes any fish caught a small victory.
Through the festival, Bullock hoped to promote the river’s conservation while also highlighting its flourishing fish.
“Our number one goal was to make awareness that the Battenkill is back,” he said of the weekend.
In the 1990s and early 2000s, the river’s trout dwindled in number, particularly its middle-aged fish. After a bit of trial and error, biologists hypothesized the river’s lack of cover — places for fish to hide from predators such as eagles, osprey and mergansers — was likely causing trout numbers to decline.
So with the help of almost $1 million from various funding sources, the river’s defenders began to install woody debris along the banks, Bullock said. As various natural materials get pushed down the river, the fallen trees placed by human hands accumulate more sticks and leaves and weeds, integrating into the streamside and creating ideal habitat for trout to evade predation.
The Battenkill’s trout have since rebounded, with about 600 or 700 fish over 6 inches per mile, according to biologists’ estimates.
The impetus behind the festival, though, was not just the fish, Bullock explained. It was also the town.
April is a slow season for the area’s tourism industry, Bullock heard from Arlington’s businesses.
“We need help in April — the shoulder season when nothing’s happening,” he said.
Last year, the event drew anglers from as far as North Carolina and Toronto to learn about the river’s history, receive fly casting instruction, work on streamside conservation, and mingle over music and beer, Bullock said.
This year proved much the same, with a weekend full of educational demonstrations, tree planting, Battenkill-related art exhibits and, of course, fishing.
Although fly fishing may be (rightly) associated with gray-haired white men, the festival drew a younger crowd, as well.
Steve Shaw of Essex Junction was enjoying his Saturday in Arlington with his wife, Sarah Casey, and 3-year-old daughter, Margot.
Shaw, a self-described “big fly fisherman,” and Casey wanted to turn fishing into a family activity, especially for their daughter.
“We’re interested in exposing her,” Casey said, “She’s fly fished a few times.”
“I always think of fishing as a good excuse to stand in nature,” Shaw said, describing the activity as “stress relief.” It’s that part of his life he hoped to share with his daughter.
Margot proudly owns a Paw Patrol fishing rod, she exclaimed — clearly a source of excitement.
Kit Clark of North Yarmouth, Maine, introduced fly fishing to his 7-year-old son, Caige, last year. For Clark, fishing is associated with intergenerational bonds.
“My dad taught me,” he said. “It’s magical.”
For younger anglers such as Caige, the challenges of casting a fly rod can prove a nuisance compared to the relative ease of other forms of fishing. “I’m trying to steer him more toward fly fishing,” Clark said. For now, Caige’s fishing with an old bamboo rod — the same one his father learned with.
‘Vermont’s a nice place to live’
For most of the four-day festival, attendees spread out across activities, some hitting the river, others practicing their casts on dry land, still more drinking beers and eating barbecue behind the Arlington Inn.
But one event packed all the anglers into close proximity.
Tom Rosenbauer, arguably the most recognizable face in fly fishing and the “chief enthusiast” at Orvis, filled out the festival’s auditorium for a keynote address on Saturday afternoon.
Rosenbauer, an author of more than a dozen books on fly fishing, lives along Vermont’s Mettawee River and has worked at Orvis for more than 40 years. Today, he serves as an ambassador for the brand and creates instructional videos, as well as the Orvis Fly-Fishing podcast.
“I’ve lived in this area for close to 50 years,” Rosenbauer told VTDigger before his talk on Saturday. For some of those years, he lived on the Battenkill. “I do consider it my home river. It’s love-hate.”
According to Rosenbauer, the stream’s reputation — big, challenging fish — is well-earned.
“It’s so annoyingly difficult,” he said. “If you want a decent fish, you really gotta hunt. (You) could spend a week looking for one good fish.”
Despite the river’s fame, Rosenbauer said fishing pressure on the Battenkill is light, and some stretches hardly receive any attention from anglers. And while some believe in keeping trout streams a secret, he argued the Battenkill needs the attention the festival brings to the river.
“Every trout stream needs fans, needs defenders,” he said. “The Battenkill still needs help in the way of structure and cover.”
Despite Montana’s larger trout and Florida’s desirable salt water fish, Rosenbauer has made Vermont his home.
“Vermont’s a nice place to live. We don’t have private water. People don’t tend to post land,” he said. Hiking, foraging, the quality of life all have kept Rosenbauer in the Green Mountain State, even if its fishing doesn’t tend to attract worldwide attention.
Some 200 people — mostly gray-haired and mostly male — gathered to hear Rosenbauer discuss the highlights of his new book, ‘The Orvis Guide to Finding Trout.” He broke down fishing in different-sized streams, fishing during different seasons, and how to observe a stream to learn where fish feed.
But no amount of expert advice would make the Battenkill’s brown trout straightforward.
‘It was always better 10 years ago’
For Doug Lyons, catching a Battenkill brown trout feeding on the surface is a matter of hunting, not fishing. So when he spied a rising brown 50 yards downstream, he began to devise a plan.
A current seam separated the fish, tucked along the bank, from the river’s main current. Wade toward the center of the river and the wader’s movements would be shielded from the fish. But an uneven river bottom, and springtime’s heavy runoff flows, made the path toward the fish tricky. Not to mention the fish had only shown itself three times. It was unclear how hungry it really was.
The trout never did rise for the fly.
“Generally speaking, the Hendricksons are the best chance at a big fish feeding on the surface,” Lyons said.
Unlike most hatches, which occur early in the morning or at the last light of day, Hendricksons hatch in the afternoon. The so-called “gentleman’s hatch” gets fish feeding at a reasonable hour. It also attracts the largest crowds to the Battenkill.
Back in the car, Lyons piloted along Route 313 in Arlington, naming the springs, fishing holes and anglers he passed along the way.
Once upon a time, elm trees lined the river, Lyons explained, but Dutch elm disease wiped out the massive old trees. Without riparian vegetation, more sediment enters the river, he said, which negatively affects bug life and fish populations.
But with all the habitat restoration efforts put into the river, spearheaded in part by Vermont fisheries biologist Rich Kirn, the fish populations rose quickly, Lyons explained. Now, the river has between 30 and 50 “trophy” fish per mile. But that doesn’t keep anglers from whining.
“It was always better 10 years ago,” he joked. “People have been complaining for decades.”
Since he was in high school, Lyons has found ways to travel three hours from his home in Massachusetts to the Battenkill. In the decades he’s fished the stream, he’s learned its history.
Lee Wulff, a famous angler, author and filmmxaker, who lived on the river, wrote about the Battenkill and its challenges, Lyons explained. John Atherton, an artist and peer of Norman Rockwell, moved near the river in the ’40s, using it as inspiration for his work.
“I definitely have a thing for history,” Lyons said. Originally, he’d wanted to write exclusively about the Battenkill’s history. But his book gradually morphed into something more comprehensive and didactic, he said, covering the information anglers would need to try to catch the stream’s trout.
Across the river, Lyons spotted a friend fishing.
“Any risers?” Lyons yelled across the river, asking about fish feeding on the surface.
“Yeah, actually. One,” the man yelled back.
“You get him?” Lyons wanted to know.
The man paused. “I did, actually.”
“On a dun?” Lyons shouted back, wanting to know what stage in a Hendrickson mayfly’s life cycle the man was imitating with his fly.
Another pause. “Something like that.”
At first, Lyons thought perhaps his friend didn’t recognize him, and that would explain his caginess. But that wasn’t it. Perhaps it was the reporter sitting in the passenger seat. Fly anglers can be a secretive bunch. But not Lyons.
“I’m pretty much an open book,” he laughed, driving off.
Correction: A previous version of this article misspelled Caige Clark’s name.