As twilight descended upon the tranquil Hemlock Pool, I carefully waded in, beginning my casts. My friend, Dick Fowler, illuminated by the intermittent beam of his flashlight, navigated the upstream ledges. I cast a White Wulff, its faint outline barely visible against the dimming light. This was a departure from our usual routine; typically, we'd conclude our fishing as dusk settled. However, this evening marked the beginning of a long-anticipated venture: night fishing for formidable brown trout. We had been inspired by tales from Michigan and New York streams, and a particular article by George B. Gordon in Outdoor Life had solidified our resolve to explore this nocturnal pursuit. Although night bass fishing was a personal favorite, finding time for this new experiment had proven challenging. Now, with the season drawing to a close, we finally set a date. Submerged to my hips in the Farmington River's deep, dark waters, I launched my fly into the encroaching shadows. After several casts, a subtle disturbance near my floating fly caught my attention. Reacting instinctively, I set the hook, feeling a solid resistance. My rod bowed sharply, and the sounds of splashing emanated from the darkness. The fish put up a spirited fight, but upon landing it, my initial excitement waned. The 13-inch brown trout, while respectable, was not the 'midnight monster' we sought. Experts suggested that true trophy brown trout were best caught at night, and we knew this river harbored such giants, though they rarely appeared after late April. This particular stream, heavily stocked and frequently visited, seemed to be depleted by late summer. Our experiment aimed to confirm if these larger fish remained and if they would bite after dark. Releasing my catch, I consulted with Dick, who had yet to get a bite, reinforcing my growing doubts about our nocturnal endeavor.

Returning to the now-pitch-black Hemlock Pool, my familiarity with its contours was a great advantage, as navigating unfamiliar waters at night can be perilous. I recalled its gently sloping gravel bottom transitioning into a steep drop-off, where the current swirled between two boulders, flowing under the tall hemlocks that gave the pool its name. The main current hugged the far bank, about 30 feet away, making precise casting in the dark a challenge. Attempting to gauge my line length, I inadvertently snagged a branch across the stream. My flashlight, used to assess the situation, proved to be a mistake, as I later learned that its beam can disrupt a pool for a considerable time. With the hook firmly lodged, I had no choice but to break off my leader. I replaced it with a sturdier one and swapped my White Wulff for a dark, heavy-bodied fly, drawing from my bass-fishing experience which taught me that dark lures are more visible against the night sky. Dick, a skilled fly tier, had crafted this bushy, bulky fly specifically for our trip. Releasing line with practiced false casts, I began to relax and appreciate my surroundings. The familiar landscape was transformed by the moonlight filtering through the hemlocks, the insect chorus replacing birdsong, and the river's murmur taking on a hushed, drowsy tone. After a half-hour of fruitless casting, Dick joined me, having caught a modest nine-inch trout. Our spirits dampened, we considered giving up, but Dick decided to try the Bend Pool downstream. As I resumed casting in the Hemlock Pool, convinced it still held large fish, I mused on the elusive nature of big brown trout. They are not easily caught, especially on bright days with numerous anglers present. Their nocturnal feeding habits, a natural defense mechanism, allow them to grow to significant sizes by feasting under the cover of darkness. They are opportunistic predators, favoring large insects over the tiny mayflies their smaller kin consume. Then, a series of splashes broke the silence, initially dismissed as a muskrat, but soon hinting at something far more exciting. My heart quickened, and with trembling hands, I reeled in and made my way downstream. Another splash, clearer this time, and I could see faint, silvery rings on the water. I knew this shallower pool well, its current sweeping past a granite ledge. Carefully positioning myself, I cast my fly, and with a sudden "WHAM!" the water exploded. A massive, dark form arced upwards, crashing back into the water, unlike any muskrat. My rod bent violently, line peeling from the reel, and I knew I had hooked the largest trout of my life.

Handling a large fish at night presents a unique challenge, relying solely on touch and the fish's movements. This particular trout was a master of evasion, cartwheeling out of the water at both ends of the pool, its powerful leaps rattling me. Immobilized, I could only yield line when it ran and retrieve when I could, each crashing leap echoing in the darkness. The trout fought with the tenacity of a salmon, but it was well-hooked. After a grueling 15 to 20 minutes, I anticipated netting it, but the battle took an unexpected turn. The fish made a final surge, diving for the roots beneath the bank. A savage tug, my rod snapped upright, and the line went slack. Though lost, the trout's immense size, which I briefly glimpsed and estimated at eight pounds, softened the blow of defeat. The experience was a revelation: big brown trout indeed inhabited this heavily fished stream and were receptive to lures at night, just as in the New York and Michigan waters. A new horizon for trout fishing had opened. Night fishing for trout had only recently become legal in Massachusetts, and despite its newfound legality, most anglers still retired at dusk. However, Dick and I were determined to change this tradition. Our new discovery filled us with confidence. We celebrated our insight with coffee, and I moved to the Dam Pool, opting for a stronger six-pound-test nylon leader, unwilling to take further risks with tapered ones. Suddenly, Dick's urgent shouts pierced the night. Fearing he had fallen, I rushed downstream, reaching him to find him braced in the middle of the pool, rod bent double. "Light!" he yelled, "Bring your light!" My beam revealed a massive, dark bulk rolling in the foam. Dick, having dropped his own flashlight, was battling a true 'whale.' I retrieved his light and redirected my attention to the struggling fish, which Dick slowly brought upstream. After several attempts, he finally netted the enormous trout, its head and tail extending beyond the mesh. "Welcome to the Midnight Monster Club," Dick proclaimed. His fish weighed 6 3/4 pounds and was 25 inches long, its stomach revealing a nine-inch brook trout and a handful of brown beetles. The most unusual aspect, Dick noted, was that the fish struck his deer-hair fly while it was dragging in the current. We realized our fishing strategy needed revision: heavy leaders, short lines, and dragging flies. Another coffee against the chill, and we resumed. I returned to the Hemlock Pool, certain a large trout awaited me. Night fishing had completely won me over, and every cast was filled with anticipation. Beyond the thrill of catching big trout, night fishing offered other benefits: cooler temperatures and the solitude of having the entire stream to ourselves, a stark contrast to the crowded daytime. While not all states permitted night fishing, Massachusetts's new regulations paved the way for this exciting new chapter. As the moon ascended, and the sounds of the nocturnal world filled the air, I prepared for my final casts. Then, with a sudden boil of water at the head of the pool, the current erupted. My fly landed amidst the churning water, danced for a second, and vanished in a geyser of spray. The sheer power of the trout's initial rush was breathtaking, bending my rod almost to its breaking point. The fish charged downstream, stripping line from my reel, and I followed, stumbling over rocks. After a fall, convinced I had lost it, the fish remained, clinging to the bottom. Reaching the pool, I braced myself as the trout leaped, somersaulting two feet into the air. Three more times it broke the surface, showering spray. I let it fight, applying pressure when it rested, until its rushes slowed. I tried to bring it towards the tail of the pool, hoping Dick would appear. Just as I managed to lift the massive fish in my net, Dick crashed through the brush. My brown trout was an inch longer than his and weighed just over seven pounds. Our night's fishing concluded with this triumphant catch. We had found our answers: big fish were present all season and could be caught at night. "I hate to think of the time I've wasted," Dick murmured, a sentiment I echoed. This spring, we would return, exploring other streams, convinced that night transforms heavily fished waters into pristine territory for magnificent brown trout. The embrace of the darkness reveals not only hidden depths but also the boundless potential for adventure and discovery.