It’s a $1.8 million operation. Not a penny of the hatchery and stocking operation comes from the state’s general fund. A sign in big black block letters on the side of the fish truck makes sure the fishermen understand this: “YOUR FISHING, HUNTING AND BOATING DOLLARS AT WORK.”

Along the road we met up with Sgt. Chris Thomas, a state conservation police officer, who would be accompanying us all day as we stocked the fish. On this stream, each angler’s limit is six fish per day. Chris told me that some of these fishermen would have “no qualms” about taking more than their legal limit. Some would be fishing without licenses and trout fishing permits.

We followed Chris’s truck a little farther up the mountain to the uppermost stocking point. We now had seven vehicles trailing us.

We got to the site, a large deep hole surrounded by fishermen. Luther and L.E. went right to work. Luther climbed up onto the platform on the side of the truck, opened a tank and scooped out a big net full of fish. He handed it down to L.E. who immediately scrambled down the bank to the stream. L.E. stopped abruptly on a boulder at the edge of the pool and made a quick flipping motion with the net. The fishermen immediately began casting at the splash where the fish had hit the water. Within moments they were catching fish.

Hundreds will be caught before the day ends. The majority of the rest will be taken over the weekend when other anglers arrive with their families. And some of the fishermen out here today will be back again another day. Only a very few of these fish will live through the season.

It generally takes fish a day or so to become oriented to a new environment. The ones that survive the first day of fishing will scatter and set up feeding stations along the stream’s holes and runs and pools. They will begin feeding on natural foods — insects and crayfish, minnows, eggs, anything they can find. Over time, if they can survive the heavy fishing pressure, the stocked fish begin behaving like wild fish, their survival instincts kicking in. Some fish, not many, will never be caught and will live through a few seasons and even spawn with the wild resident population of brook trout. It’s common to find populations of “wild” brook trout with a genetic connection to some strain of hatchery fish. There are, of course, many remote streams, deep in the mountains, that have never been stocked. That’s where the purely wild native trout are likely to be found. But thousands of streams throughout the Appalachians have either been stocked or are connected to rivers that have been stocked, and there you will find evidence of non-local strains, even if the last stocking was a century ago.

The National Park Service, the U.S. Forest Service and an assortment of state fisheries agencies and universities are conducting genetics studies in several regions to determine where the truly wild and native trout are located. So far, it appears that relatively few waters are completely untouched by the long history of fish stocking. Some streams have no recorded history of stocking, but genetics tests reveal that at some point somebody put in some hatchery fish, even if it was just a small private stocking.

When we got back to the truck, Luther said to me, “I got you a ride with the warden.” I caught up with Chris and got into his vehicle. We drove a short distance and came to an open area in the forest where several roughlooking guys had made camp. A layer of blue smoke hung in the air from their fires. They looked to be the kind of guys who can’t stand to see a conservation officer.

Chris and an officer in another vehicle were bracketing the fish truck. And up on the hillsides, hidden in the woods, officers in camouflage with binoculars were keeping count of the number of fish people were taking. If anyone went over the limit — and there always are a few — a uniformed officer was called in.

Throughout the day we heard conservation officers on the radio identifying violators: “The guy in the denim jacket with the red bandana. He’s over.” Meaning he’s over the limit, and therefore, his fishing is about to be over too.

The officers also have a small cadre of informants on hand at most sites. These are the guys who fish legally, enjoy it, and get fed up with the ones who take too many.

“We’ve seen all kinds of things,” Chris said. He’s been a conservation police officer — formerly called a warden — for twenty years. Despite the long hours and sometimes grueling working conditions, he’s pleased with his career. “This job allows me to keep close to what I love: being outdoors,” he said.

Chris does a lot of volunteer work. He teaches kids hunting and fishing skills and about the need to respect and conserve the resource.

“I try to get kids to come outside and get away from the Xbox for a while,” he said. In 2006 the National Wild Turkey Federation named him their National Wildlife Officer of the Year.

Most of the fishermen we saw were appreciative. They smiled and waved when we showed up.

At the next hole I got my first chance to sling some fish. Luther scooped out a net full and handed it to me. I took a quick glance at the river and wasn’t sure exactly where to toss them.

“Where do you want them?” I asked.

“In the river.”

I scrambled down the bank toward a pool surrounded by fishermen. I flipped the net. The mass of fish flopped, still lodged in the net. I tried again but the fish stayed put. Then I simply held the net directly over the water and made a sort of loopy motion. The fish finally dropped out.

If the fishermen noticed I was a newlyhatched slinger, they didn’t spend much time thinking about it. They were already casting.

About the Author

Fariss Samarrai is a fly fisherman working on a book about brook trout (when he can get time away from the fishing). He and his wife Pok Cha form a freelance writer/ photographer team.