Steve Culton

If there’s a better way to enjoy fly fishing at its most wondrous than on a small stream, I’ve yet to experience it. There’s something about a thin blue line hidden deep in the woods that invites you to touch fly fishing’s very soul. I consider my beloved small streams to be not so much fishing spots as cathedrals. The water is cold and clean, the air unspoiled, and the resident char wild. Their lineage dates back to the previous ice age.

Summer can be cruel to a devout trout fisherman. I found that out during the relentless drought of 2016. By July, flows on the Farmington River—my home water in Connecticut—were reduced to a pathetic 60 cubic feet per second. It looked more like a rock garden than a river, forcing its browns to huddle up in scattered cool-water refuges. I had no choice but to give them a rest. Still, it was summer and I wanted to fly fish. Luckily the nearby Housatonic was there to give me a fix.

_We may earn revenue from the products available on this page and participate in affiliate programs. Learn more › _ Carp are total jerks. Stalk them on the flats or in a clear river when they’re feeding on forage, like nymphs and crayfish, and they’ll snub your bugs, spook when you cast, and drive you to the brink of rod-­snapping madness. Or you can look for some under a mulberry tree, where they’ll feed with the same carefree vigor as a school of farm-pond bluegills.