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The sun slid behind Mount Williard and as if a switch was turned on, trout began to rise all over Saco Lake. It looked like it was raining as the trout cruised the pond sipping in Red Quills, leaving small rise rings.

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There is a long history of dragging fishing flies behind watercraft. Indigenous peoples always had a bait dragging behind a canoe as they paddled from campsite to campsite. Any fish caught meant a change in dinner for that night’s meal.

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Believe it or not, another New Hampshire trout fishing season is coming to an end. Next Saturday, the sun will set on what has arguably been a very fun-filled time chasing salmonids.

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In this day and age of social media, information overload can become an issue. I take a cue from speed reading and quickly scan until my eye catches something that my brain has deemed should be of interest.

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Shorter days and cooler nights meant one thing — trout were going to get active with their pre-spawn aggression. This was the time of year when Troutman would give the Old Timer a call.For years, they would watch the weather and when their instinct told them the time was right it would be of…

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My first memory of the Willey House was as a young child. We would go there to escape the heat of the valley. We would picnic along the shore of the pond. We would go see the wildlife that was in rehab from being struck by automobiles or the resulting orphans from such accidents.

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One of the great debates that has been around for centuries is the so-called secret fishing hole. Anglers have searched for that nirvana where they were the first to fish a water and catch the most or the largest fish.

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We turned off Route 16 to the Morton Cutoff. The dirt road was in rough condition. The Frontier began to bounce and shake as the potholes and large stones challenged her suspension. It was going to be slow going as we made our way to Tim Pond.

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Since the 1800s, sports have found ways to reach the wilderness. As more and more sports came, the demand for civilized accommodations came with them. With the opportunity to profit, sporting camps began to sprout from the Connecticut Lakes region eastward into Maine’s vast wilderness.

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When Bill Thompson was writing the fishing column for The Conway Daily Sun, he would write about his annual fishing trip to Maine. He would stop at the Pontook Dam on the Androscoggin to fish, time permitting.

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One of the memories that remains firmly entrenched in my mind was my first loon encounter. It was as a young child standing out on a dock, at night, on the First Connecticut Lake. The loons were speaking to each other with that haunting yodel. A sure sign of wilderness, Dad said.

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Anglers are always chasing the magic fly or lure that will catch fish. Lots of fish. Or big fish. Or lots of big fish. The search for this magic fish attractor is as old as time.