WOODLAND TROUT FUND—2000
We have been stocking Woodland Brook’s fly fishing section for more than 30 years now (in fact this year is our 35th anniversary), and for nearly all that time we have bought our trout from a private hatchery in Sullivan County—The Beaverkill Trout Hatchery. The hatchery has thrived over the years due in no small measure to the tireless hard work and persistence of its founders and owners, the Shaver family. They have been challenged by a chain of natural and man made exigencies (marauding bears, drought, ravenous blue herons, the threat of fish diseases, flood, faulty generators, the rising price of fish food), and they continue to triumph over adversity.
Those of you who have helped stock the trout will remember Edwin Shaver--the tall taciturn old man with the droll sense of humor, and his son Gary—the boss of the operation, with his Ambrose Burnside mutton chops and steadfast philosophic outlook. Edwin, I am sorry to report, died of a sudden heart attack last spring; we will see him no more. Year after year, one or the other of them arrived at the appointed hour in our valley with a truck full of beautiful trout, and patiently put up with our exasperatingly tedious stocking routine. Rather than dump the fish into the stream wholesale at two or three sites, we insist on making many stops. And to accomplish this with at least the appearance of control, tradition requires that the Troutmeister must ride in the cab of the truck, alongside the driver, to advise where to stop for each transfer.
With this in mind, it was last July on a particularly hot, muggy stocking day, that I first met charming elements of the Beaverkill Hatchery’s fourth and fifth generation. At the wheel of the truck was Gary’s youngest daughter, Lisa, and in a baby seat situated on the passenger-side, sat her baby daughter, Ashlynne.
A bit dumbfounded, I explained that I usually rode in the cab. Lisa swiftly rearranged things to accommodate my bulk. I was never little as a boy, and I’m a lot bigger now. With the two fifty pound bags of trout pellets and other trout miscellany repositioned just so, and with me straddling the gearshift, we set out to get the job done. The usual caravan of helpers followed behind us in their vans and cars.
If I’d had any misgivings about Lisa’s ability, they quickly evaporated. She drove the twisting valley road with the assurance of a Teamster. She calmed her daughter, who was somewhat distressed by the arrival of this bulky bearded stranger, with a few sweet words. She told me of her love of fly fishing and of trout. And I saw that she was as adept at netting those slippery-slithery trout and plopping them into the stocking buckets as ever her Pa and Grandpa were.
Ashlynne and I soon became friends. Her mom had given her a little drawing pad and a pen to keep her busy. I pointed to her first scribble as we bumped along and asked, “What’s that, Ashlynne?” “BROWNIE !,” she exclaimed. And the next—“BROOKIE!” She sealed our friendship by grabbing hold of my suspenders and laughing impishly as she snapped them.
Can there be any doubt as to the commitment of the Shavers? I hope there’s no doubt about your commitment to the stocking of Ashlynne’s brownies, which I anticipate you will be fishing for in the year 2000. I ask you to provide us with the wherewithal. You can do this in the usual manner, by cutting a check made out to: THE WOODLAND TROUT FUND, and mailing it to Mike O’Neil, 101 Rambling Road, Vernon, CT 06066.
Thank you,
Mike O'Neil
