High up in the Ocooch Mountains flows one of my favorite trout streams. Most of my favorite trout streams lie within this range, but this one holds a special place in my heart. The stream flows through a sandstone canyon, high up in the bluffs, before it begins its nearly 530-foot descent down into the ancient Wisconsin River Valley. Its history is nearly as captivating as its scenery.

The land was first admired by the Sauk Indians, but was later settled by Scottish immigrants in the year 1862. The Scots were artists and poets but tried their hand at farming. Their homestead included their home at the top of the knoll, two artist studios, and a chapel so that they wouldn’t have to walk to town for church. In the 1930s, the land was purchased by new owners, and a seminary was established. Their 75-foot-long stone and log novitiate still stands today, along with the Scottish immigrants’ artist studios.

It was the last day of September. The sun had just set over the bluffs, and the evening air was beginning to rapidly cool. I had about 30 minutes to catch some brook trout before it was completely dark. I parked my car and went around to the trunk to start digging out my waders and gear. As I was fumbling around, I heard a soft noise behind me. I paused to listen, but didn’t hear it again. I buried my head back into my trunk to grab my net, and heard the noise once more. This time I knew I wasn’t alone. I looked across the street just as a small animal emerged from the tall prairie grass. It was a gray cat, and he was headed straight for me.

I watched the cat’s body language. The soft, high-pitched meows and the tail held high told me it was approaching in a friendly manner. I paused and stood still, trying to refrain from startling it. The long-haired gray cat reached me and began to rub up against my legs. He went back and forth until I realized that he wanted me to start petting him, so I did. The cat began to nuzzle me with his forehead, so I gave him some head scratches as well. With my trunk still open, he jumped up onto my bumper and began to inspect my gear. I thought he might be hungry, so I crushed up some of the crackers that I was eating and placed them on the ground for him. He ate them right up as I slipped into my waders.

I closed the trunk of my car and began walking to the creek. I called back to the cat, “Come on, buddy. Let’s go catch some brook trout.” Just like that, the cat started trotting alongside me. He followed as though we’d been fishing together for years. As we approached the creek, there was some thick brush I needed to go around. We split up for a moment as I went downstream to enter the water. As I walked up the creek, I noticed the cat right on the bank, waiting for me. As I waded up the creek, the cat leaped from boulder to boulder right alongside me. I was amazed how quickly my new friend took a liking to me. I suppose it was mutual.

As I stopped to begin casting, the cat paused as well. I hooked into a brook trout on my first cast, and the cat’s green eyes locked in on the fish. I reeled in the brookie as it splashed on the surface and made a commotion. My furry new companion crept to the very edge of the creek, stretching his neck over the water to get a better look at the trout. I brought the trout over to him in my net and let him look. He examined the colorful brook trout and gave it a sniff. As it squirmed in my net, he tried to paw at it. I was curious if he wanted to eat it, but the trout seemed to be more of a source of entertainment. I let the fish swim away and gave the kitty some pats on the head. He was my new fishing buddy.

I pulled more brook trout out of the same hole, repeatedly showing them to the cat. As I watched the cat’s eyes light up each time he saw a new brook trout, I realized that I would have to give him a name. I waded up the brook to the next hole and my companion followed right along. He hopped from rock to rock and was sure not to let me get too far away. I pulled three more gorgeous brook trout from this hole and my partner approved of each one. Our shared love for brook trout had given me an idea for his name. Brooks.

As I climbed out of the stream and headed back to my car, Brooks stayed right beside me. While I packed away my gear, he hopped into the car and flopped onto his back, as if he’d already decided he was coming home with me. It was tempting, but he looked healthy and well-cared-for. I crushed up a few more crackers and left them beside the car before giving him one last scratch behind the ears.

I’d come to this creek hoping to catch a few brook trout before dark. Instead, I left with something even more memorable—a fishing partner I’d never expected to find, and one more reason to return to that little stream high in the Ocooch Mountains. Trout fishermen often remember streams by the fish they hold. I remember this one for a gray cat named Brooks.

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