Enter the pump

I chose the first place on the list just upstream of the Nassington road bridge under the far bank where I was sure there had once been an initial spawning  area where I had noted fish in the past, cursing my lack of organisations to log and keep accurate records.  But who knows what curve balls life’s going to pitch your way!

As we readied in the stream someone on the bank filled up the fuel, primed the pump and started the noisy little beast up. It started good, but soon died with a splutter, a few went into expert mode about “more choke” or “less choke”, or “get it to start and take off the choke” or “No! run it on half choke once its started”. Two simple levers and it seemed this group of guys could defy mathematical probabilities and  find a dozen different options. And none of them worked.

A few more pulls resulted in a weak cough and splutter and then nothing but uncomfortable silence, I kept out of it and realized that the more that motor’s string was pulled the more chance that little carburetor would get flooded with fuel. The polite and helpful comments amongst relative strangers became slightly more pointed and direct and consequently defensive and offended. Normally by some form of social osmosis somebody steps in with the most knowledge and takes control of the situation and harmoniously gains the group’s trust and respect. When the question was asked are you sure you put fuel in, was answered with an indignant , “I just topped it right up”, our harmony was becoming discordant by the sweet waters of the babbling little Brook.

I decided I had better climb out on the bank and have a look. Engines are a dark art to me, but not completely, it was just a variation on a Honda motor I had used throughout my working life on Mowers, shredders and rotovators, often people get the fuel lever and the choke lever mixed up or don’t understand the symbols; or often, they don’t realise there’s on/off button on the other side, but as this had kicked over, it obviously wasn’t the issue.

The old secretary was stood a little way off and keeping out of it, which was unusually restrained for him, I wondered if he was thinking about the mechanical digger.. and that this problem wouldn’t have arisen. Itching to say something. I purposefully didn’t look in his direction, and I’m pretty sure he purposefully didn’t look at me.

The area stunk of petrol  I looked at the spare gas can, it was upright and the lid firmly on, the carburetor must be flooded. I checked the levers all was good and it was turned on. I didn’t want to show doubt in someone’s word and undermine them, but I opened the petrol tank to check … it was empty. “you filled this right up?”

“yeah I filled it up to the top”

“Look I’m not doubting you, I’m just trying to work this out. It’s empty, let’s just try putting some more in”

I knew I had one member of the team now feeling out of sorts. 

I didn’t need to refill it, I could see the petrol pouring out, a joint was cracked or a rubber seal rotted and the grass around the pump was wet with fuel. That Motor might be shiny and red and looking hardly used, but no one had checked or maintained the machine ready for the season. It had probably had old fuel sat in it for years that rotted the rubber leaked away and exapourated in some smelly stained garage. It looked like its only preparation was a quick dust off, or maybe a small slosh of fuel to see if it kicked over.

This was not going to get repaired by the banks, and thankfully now, no one was going to feel undermined or stupid in the present company, unless some smart arse decided to bring up the digger machine and make a point of it.

In the silence I waited, almost daring the old secretary to say it and get it off his chest, but true to form he did exactly opposite of what was expected.

I told them to take the pump back to the car and we would need to concentrate on doing what we could by hand. We didn’t need 6 to do a patch there wasn’t the space in our small stream, it was pointless sending people up ahead as the silt coming down stream just obscured the view; cleaning out the silt really does cloud up the water for a long way down stream.

The old secretary realized this too and suggested that as we had the men available, and we needed to reorganize our stock of Sweet Chestnut stakes and re-stack them. A job I’d been calling out for volunteers for after I’d just built a new shack to house them from the coming winter. Did he want me to send him and a few volunteers off to do that? I was so relieved, discord over and pulling together as a team again.

For this first patch the depth of water and pace of it was good and there was some areas of great hatchling habitat not far down stream on the near bank, but trying to get forks in was a challenge. It was a hard crust. Then when driving a steel bar down, after the surface resistance of the first few blows, it sunk down into sickeningly deep silt, nothing flowed back up. The surface it seemed was a few inches of stone heavily cemented together with fines and silt, useless for redds and breaking it open would unleash a deposit of locked up silt into the stream. Making that gravel nice for a Trout in a few weeks would be like inviting them onto a trap, as any flow we achieved in that gravel would soon silt up and choke any eggs laid there.

There was no silk purse to be made from this Sow’s ear and we moved on to try the next place..

This place was too shallow really, little over an ankle deep, but I know Trout will make ‘do’ if nowt else is handy. and we were desperate.

It was a classic rising hump shape in reverse that flowed down into a pool. In the wrong direction for Redds. A stream wide shingle bed on which you rise up and came out as you wade upstream, from waist deep quickly to barely ankle deep and under the cover of the shrubby trees here. Soon finding yourself crouching low as that floor comes up to meet the low canopies hanging green ceiling, drooping down towards you, and life with each step forward becomes increasingly claustrophobic. Then, as it reached its most shallow and densely shaded canopy, almost like opening the wardrobe door to a new land beyond, you pop straight out though the bushes, the sky opens up above and a deep channel by some reed beds appears, and soon, within a few strides, you’re having to wade tall to prevent the water getting over your wader tops. Such variety makes our lives rich, and creates many different habitats for the various ages of brown Trout

Over the years this area has changed, the effects and counterpoint, more exaggerated as more gravel seems to have been beached up, making the water shallower and then the weight of ivy and wild roses in the low Hawthorns above, have gradually pulled that canopy lower. What was, a few years back, a shoulder high cast from a semi crouched position, is now a horizontal side cast from kneeling, with a foot or two of snag free air to work in. But we love a challenge, don’t we?!

As the gravel has built up over time, the flow at the near edge has concentrated, the velocity increased as it slowly etches out a channel around this forming shingle bar. It has now become a race that wants to sweep your foot away downstream, before you can firmly plant it on the bed.

In the scheme of a natural stream this is good. Meanders opening up a variety of habitat and increasing the holding capacity of a water course. But, if it sweeps too wide for us at the Brook, this new route it threatens those high winter level banks and then the farm track. Our mission is to create meanders within the confines of the straight banks, and not break out beyond if we are to have a happy landowner granting us these freedoms.

I am considering playing god here (with a small g) and putting in some blockers to divert some of those fast waters back onto the gravel bar  and attempt to release some precious excess stone downstream.. not far away is an area I’ve been remodeling to create a spawning area and it could do with some of that gravel. I won’t be carrying it down in buckets, I need the stream to do the work. 

There also a new fallen tree trunk that’s swept down in the floods and is blocking the stream , scouring out the bed in an area of deep water just a few meters up stream of here. It almost seems sat in the loading bay ready to be called down to do its duty for this very task.

Back to our gravel cleaning party, we prodded and poked and imagined, but could find nothing to inspire and give any confidence and soon moved on to the next place.. and that’s how the day panned out. Gradually working upstream and exploring then rejecting as my list of options was fast running out.

One place ticked many boxes and had a twisted branch, a log, pinned across the brook plunging water down into the gravel behind in one area by the near bank , the majority of that flow spilled over  and washed away with maybe too much speed for my needs . But against the far bank a smaller gap allowed water round over the back and over the log, creating another escape of faster flow but with more gentle velocity. The gravel here looked good but it was all too thin and the water a little too deep. In desperation I got the guys to loosen up gravels from nearby areas and we spent an hour loosening, and raking back building a mound in front of this flow.  It’s a gamble, it can look great and hopefully soon the fines and grits in the water will help consolidate it, but if the winter floods get it too early or you have got it wrong… the stream just washes it away and makes a mockery of your efforts. Needs must when the devils been driving a digger machine (or at least booking it!).

When the Trout decided on November the 3rd to start making an appearance on the Redds that year, I spent what time I could down there watching them. Of the seven places we tried to clean up some gravel, six were used. The first place I rejected, not wishing to encourage the Trout to use, was worryingly selected. The shallow gravel bar ahead was ignored.

One place I put my boot down and wiggled it down to check the depth of gravel and rejected the idea was clearly visible still as a light clean patch of bright clean shingle, it was even more visible as for two consecutive days a hen Trout sat on it, her fins seemingly stuck to the floor, feeling the flow with just the occasional movement of her gill covers betraying any life. (I don’t have the eyes of a hawk.. I carry binoculars or use the camera on the iphone and zoom in very close), eventually when my back had turned and I was exploring upstream, she seems to have pulled at last. I never saw the lucky chap but a new scrape just ahead of the patch where her tail had loosed some gravel and covered over her Redd betrayed what had been going on.

The main area we worked on I was lucky to have the light right to kill some reflection and let me film two different females cutting redds in our mound, over the days I saw a few more use the area adjacent to it, I just prayed the winter floods wouldn’t wash our mound and the eggs away. I cut some branches of twiggs from some nearby thicket a few weeks later and gingerly approached the area from down stream. Careful not to tread on any gravel beds I got to the far bank a few yards downstream of the activity and under some overhanging scrub, pushed the branches of shoots into the shallow water of the bank-side, and secured them fast with some binding twine. Hopefully a bit more residence for nervy hatchlings, In the scheme of things it could well have been a futile waste of effort… but like all unwanted gifts on birthdays, it’s the thought that counts isn’t it?

All the best from this bit of old blighty —have a great week, what’s left of it.

Chris Avery